by Wacht, Peter
Rodric never wondered why the Marchers would stand and fight now when they still had multiple options for escape. Instead, his jumbled mind focused on one thing only. Still having a vast advantage in soldiers, if the Marchers finally had stopped running like the cowards they were and fought, Armagh would conquer the Highlands this day, and as a result he would be one step closer to achieving his larger objective.
Calling for his servants in a harsh voice, the High King returned to his tent for almost an hour to prepare himself for battle. When he emerged, he appeared as the triumphant High King that he worked so desperately to project. Wearing his battle armor, the sun reflected blindingly off the well-polished steel plates. The gigantic, feathered ornament on his helmet continued to give him an appearance that resembled that of a preening peacock looking for a mate. His diminutive size compared to his war horse only compounded the effect of a man continually struggling to earn his own respect. He ignored the fact that his servants had to place a stool in front of him in order to mount his horse.
Finally, the Armaghian army having already formed ranks, Rodric trotted his horse to the vanguard to get a better look at his opponents. As he approached the first ranks of his infantry, he noticed a small group of riders a quarter mile in front of the Marchers. A white flag flew above them. Rodric snickered, thinking that the Marchers had finally come to their senses. Perhaps the whelp had concluded that surrender was his only option, the only way to save his people. That the Armaghian host was too much for him.
Calling for Killeran, Chertney and Chengiz, he urged his horse out between the armies. He would allow the Marchers to surrender and return to their homes, so long as they acknowledged him as ruler of the Highlands and accepted indentured service in the mines. The boy, on the other hand, would die.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Accountability
As he trotted his war horse out between the two armies, Rodric was shocked to see the Highland whelp sitting astride a unicorn, the massive animal dark as night, its horn twisting to a sharp point at least eight feet from the top of its head. Two others in the small group waiting for him rode unicorns, an older man with close-cropped dark hair and a short beard peppered with gray and a diminutive woman with flowing chestnut locks.
Perhaps Chertney had been right after all regarding the assistance the Marchers had been receiving to the north. But he found it difficult to take that thought in the most obvious direction. The sight of these mythical creatures so unnerved Rodric that he barely registered the fact that King Gregory of Fal Carrach, Chuma as a representative for the Desert Clans, and the rulers of Benewyn and Kenmare formed the rest of the party, their expressions determined and grim.
“So the Sylvana have returned to the world,” Rodric spat with contempt, trying to regain control of himself and keep his rising uncertainty and fear from his voice. “And now they’re so desperate that they must accept foolish brats within their ranks.”
Rodric caught the eyes of all those before him, flinching at the hard glints, sensing anger and resolve.
“Why are you here?” Rodric demanded, turning his gaze to the monarchs of Fal Carrach, Benewyn and Kenmare, ignoring the Desert Chief as unworthy of his attention. He was beginning to realize that he had stepped onto more dangerous ground than he had expected. Nevertheless, he hoped that he could bluster his way out of an already tenuous situation. “This is a matter between Armagh and the Highlands. As High King I must uphold the laws of all the Kingdoms. The Marchers have burned countless villages and farms in Dunmoor, slaughtering innocents. They have much to be held accountable for, and for you to oppose me in seeking justice for these crimes puts your own Kingdoms at risk.”
“You can’t hold a Kingdom accountable for something it didn’t do,” said Sarelle, Queen of Benewyn, sitting on her white stallion while wearing a battered breastplate.
Rynlin nudged his roan-colored unicorn, named Militus for its combative nature, forward. He handed a dry parchment to Rodric, who accepted it reluctantly.
“What’s this?”
“The order you signed, giving Killeran the task of murdering Talyn Kestrel and his family ten years ago.”
Rodric stared at Rynlin in shock, forgetting to even deny the claim. He had hoped to control this engagement from the start, but that desire dissipated in a flash.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded angrily.
“From your office in Eamhain Mhacha, along with several other documents that demonstrate your incapacity to serve as High King and as ruler of Armagh,” stated Rya.
“Is this true?” demanded Chengiz, turning his sharp gaze to the High King. He knew Rodric Tessaril was conniving and often stretched the truth, but he never suspected that he would stoop to such depths to attain his objectives. The general served Rodric as High King, but his loyalty was to Armagh. If this claim proved valid, he could not in good conscience continue his service. More immediate action would be required to protect his own honor and that of his homeland.
Rodric ignored Chengiz, his eyes flickering between calm and concern. He began to feel ill, bile rising in his throat, as he sensed that his moment of victory might be slipping from his grasp.
“You are a traitor, Rodric,” said Rendael, King of Kenmare. “Surrender and your soldiers may return to Armagh unaccosted. You will be tried for regicide as well as the other crimes revealed in the documents that have been shared with us, as well as the murder of innocents that has occurred in Dunmoor at your command. For once, think of your Kingdom rather than yourself.”
“You can’t do this,” whined Rodric. “This document proves nothing! I am the High King.”
“High King or no, you have gone against a law of the Kingdoms that has been in place since the time of Ollav Fola,” said Gregory, his voice as hard as the steel of his blade. “No Kingdom may strike at another Kingdom’s ruler through stealth. An openly declared war is one thing, but assassination is another. Even more shameful and cowardly is to use the creatures of the Shadow Lord in your schemes, which goes beyond the pale. You are a traitor not only to Armagh, but also to all the Kingdoms.”
Chertney had maintained his silence during the entire exchange, hovering at the edge of the group. Circumstances were spiraling quickly out of control, and he realized that quick action was needed. Drawing on his Dark Magic, a portal of black, swirling mist opened in front of him with a thunderous flash. A towering demon, its body covered by red scales, leaped out in front of the assembled rulers. The creature bent at the waist and flexed its knees, preparing to pounce on its quarry, its misshapen hands twisted into sharp claws that sliced through the air.
The gathered horses danced back in fear, several rearing, but the unicorns stood their ground, lowering their heads to attack. Their horns glowed a bright white, their riders having infused them with the Talent. The demon leapt into the air, having picked out Sarelle of Benewyn as its first victim. The green-eyed monarch could only watch in horror, unable to pull her sword in time, the unnatural beast too fast for her to do anything but wait for the monstrosity’s sharp claws to carve through her armor and into her flesh. As the demon soared through the air, a bolt of white lightning blasted through the space just in front of Sarelle, striking the dark creature in the chest. The demon collapsed to the ground, a massive hole in its midsection, wisps of smoke rising from its burnt, slowly disintegrating carcass. Sarelle breathed a sigh of relief at her good fortune, giving Gregory a quick, knowing smile, as she realized that he had prepared himself to leap from his saddle to her defense.
Rynlin stared daggers at Chertney, who reeled under the backlash as his magical summoning disintegrated into black ash. The practitioner of Dark Magic clutched wildly at the horn of his saddle, just barely keeping himself from crashing to the ground.
“Selling yourself to the Shadow Lord was a mistake, Rodric,” said Rynlin, a deadly glint in his eye, though his attention remained focused on Chertney. “You don’t know what you are losing until it is too late.”
; “With all of you here, when you are all dead, your Kingdoms will be mine as well,” Rodric giggled, trying to hide his dismay and fear at how quickly this frightening man had defeated Chertney with a forced bravado. Rodric quickly realized that victory now was his only chance of escape. If he could win this battle, he could not only put his plan into motion, but also accelerate his timetable to conquer the eastern Kingdoms. And if not, all he had worked for would be lost and his death a foregone conclusion.
Rodric decided that the decade-long effort to maintain his subterfuge was no longer worth it. If this was the hand he had been dealt, he would play it to the hilt.
“You found me out after all these years,” he said with all the false confidence that he could muster. “Well, at least I no longer have to wear a mask. You’re right. I had Talyn Kestrel murdered. And very soon, you will be bowing down to me. If you refuse, if you choose to remain defiant, you’ll enjoy the same painful death that he did.”
“The only ruler dying today will be you,” said Gregory, his voice tight with a cold anger.
Rodric surveyed the Marcher army standing in formation less than a quarter mile in front of him and laughed. “I think not. By choosing to fight today you lost the battle before it even began.”
Having no more to say, Rodric galloped away, Chertney and Killeran following quickly after. Chengiz was more hesitant to do so, nodding to each of the monarchs in a sign of respect before slowly turning his horse back toward the Armaghian line.
Chuma and Oso made to go after Rodric, but Thomas called them back.
“No, let him go. Rodric is mine. After we defeat his army, his head belongs to me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE
Change in Command
“My lord, I must protest,” said General Chengiz, his anger visible. “I am a soldier of Armagh. I fight for Armagh. I do not fight for those willing to ignore the laws of the Kingdoms. I do not fight for a man with ties to the Shadow Lord.”
Chengiz’s hand rested lightly on the sword at his hip. It was a casual gesture, but Rodric knew Chengiz, knew him for the fighter that he was. He had no illusions about what the Armaghian general could and would do if he pulled that blade.
“Chengiz, you seem to be living in a fantasy world. Have you no idea of the complexities involved in serving as High King? The decisions that must be made for Armagh to prosper?”
Rodric stared at his general as if he were a simpleton, as someone unable to comprehend the challenges and demands of ruling the Kingdom. With a glance over Chengiz’s shoulder, he saw the two warlocks he had summoned step silently between the flaps of the tent. Covered in black robes, they were difficult to pick out in the gloom. Their faces held no expression, though their black eyes gleamed with an unsettling fervor.
“I live in the real world, Rodric,” replied Chengiz coolly, having sensed the movement behind him. “I understand the challenges, believe me. I’ve had to deal with you for more than a decade, haven’t I? The difference, though, is that I choose to put my Kingdom first. My Kingdom, not myself! You put yourself first.”
Rodric laughed softly, shaking his head in amusement. “Who knew that a man of war could be so eloquent, so principled,” said the High King. “And so soft.”
Rodric motioned to the two warlocks. “Take him away. Chengiz has served his purpose. His usefulness has come to an end.”
The warlocks grabbed Chengiz’s arms roughly before the general could pull his sword, using their Dark Magic to knock him unconscious. As the warlocks pulled the general out of the tent, his feet dragging across the carpets, Killeran and Chertney entered.
“A problem, Rodric?” asked Chertney, his voice cold and scathing. Yet his eyes spoke of something else. The Sylvan Warrior having defeated his summoning so quickly had unnerved the servant of the Shadow Lord in a way that he had never experienced before.
“No, a solution,” returned the High King. “We have struggled with Chengiz leading the army. That will no longer be the case. The warlocks can have their fun with him.”
“But, my lord, who will lead?” asked Killeran.
“I will, you fool! You question my abilities?” Rodric’s eyes burned brightly, the signs of madness growing more distinct.
“No, my lord, it’s just that …”
“Enough, Killeran. I rule Armagh, and soon I shall rule the Highlands. This army answers to me. And now it is time to put it to use.”
“Yes, my lord,” answered Killeran meekly, bowing his head in subservience.
“Chertney, any sign of threats beyond the Marchers we face?”
“No, Rodric. Nothing for leagues around.”
“Good. Killeran, send the command to the troops. First rank to advance and engage, the others to follow. We end this now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO
Playing Her Role
Kaylie pushed her anger to the side, focusing on the task at hand. Standing well behind the Marcher ranks, Kael beside her, as she had done so for so many days, she used the Talent to communicate with the Highland chiefs so that Thomas could focus on other tasks, though she had extended her reach to a few other key players now that the dynamics of the battle for the Highlands had changed. For the last hour, the Armaghian host had battered hopelessly against the Marcher ranks, which had not moved an inch since the start of the battle.
She had forced the sounds of the fight from her mind, the screams of injured and dying soldiers, the clang and screech of steel on steel, the curses and oaths that flowed across the field. Yet the recent encounter with her father had stayed with her.
Yes, she had slipped away from her father’s troops when they first headed toward the Highlands. Yes, she had ignored his request to stay out of danger. But why did he worry so much with Kael next to her? Besides, she could defend herself with a blade or the Talent. She’d already demonstrated that several times. She wasn’t a child, after all.
Shaking her head in frustration, she sought the calm that was so critical to her effective use of the Talent. Focused once again, she relayed new instructions from Thomas to his chiefs. She was where she needed to be, where she wanted to be. That’s all she cared about at the moment. She would deal with her father later. And if an opportunity to become more engaged in the fight presented itself, she’d take it.
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE
Final Maneuver
Despite constant, furious assaults by Rodric’s troops for several hours, the Marcher line held strong. Wave after wave of Armaghian soldiers were forced back, the Marchers refusing to yield even a step. The compressed nature of the battlefield with the trees lining the sides forced the attackers into a tight space much like at the Crag, not allowing them to throw the full weight of their larger force against the outnumbered Marchers. Moreover, it kept Rodric’s troops from biting at the Marcher flanks. If the Armaghians were to take the field, they would have to break the Marcher line.
Thomas fought in the middle of the Marcher defense, Gregory and Rendael with him. Every once in a while, an Armaghian soldier would get within arm’s reach, but there was little to do most of the time. The Marcher shield wall, peppered with spears and archers just behind, kept the Armaghians at bay. Pikes to the front, swords to fill the gaps, archers in support. Thomas had used the same tactic many times before, and he would continue to do so until Rodric and his soldiers demonstrated that they could negate its success. With the first part of his plan working to perfection, it was now time to take the next step.
“What say you, my lords?”
“Yes, let’s put an end to this,” responded Gregory, chomping at the bit to become more engaged in the fighting. Rendael nodded his agreement.
Following the instructions relayed by Thomas through Kaylie, his chiefs, Renn, Seneca, Nestor, Coban and Oso, began the same maneuver they had practiced weeks before and to such great effect in front of the Crag, the maneuver that had begun the weeklong merry chase through the Highlands that had led them here. Over the next few minutes, the center of the Marcher li
ne began to bend, the Highlanders finally yielding ground step by slow step, though it appeared that they were doing so reluctantly rather than as part of a larger strategy. That’s what was intended, as Thomas hoped that as the Marcher line took the shape of an inverted wedge, the opportunity to exploit such an obvious weakness would prove irresistible to Rodric.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR
Last Order
“There, Killeran, do you see it?”
Rodric was ecstatic, pointing at the backward bulge that had appeared in the Marcher defense. After only a few hours of struggle the Marchers faced catastrophe, the center of their line unable to withstand the constant attacks. Rodric had expected no less, believing that the unrelenting pressure applied by his men would crack the cowards in the end.
“I do, my lord. Your strategy is working. The Marchers can’t hold for much longer.”
“Chertney, now is the time. Make use of your Dark Magic and create the breakthrough we need.”
For the first time in his reluctant partnership with Rodric, Chertney felt the lesser ally, though he tried to avoid admitting it, even to himself. His disastrous encounter with the Sylvan Warrior, and his resulting defeat and repercussions, continued to haunt him.
“You don’t need me now, Rodric. Allow me to rest a bit more, then I can deliver the final blow if necessary.”
Rodric stared at Chertney for a moment, surprised by his response, his lips curling into a sneer as understanding dawned. The High King took Chertney’s reluctance as a sign of weakness, something that he could exploit later. He didn’t know that the lightning-fast skirmish with the older Sylvan Warrior had weakened the dark sorcerer to such an extent that he could barely make use of the Dark Magic his master had imbued in him. It would be days before Chertney finally felt whole again, and his weakened state frightened him. He felt dangerously vulnerable. To come up against that same Sylvan Warrior or someone equally adept in the Talent now would mean his death.