by Peter Wacht
Duel
Leaving the black-clad soldiers to Gregory and his men, Rya dropped down from her horse and strode purposefully toward Malachias, the growing skirmish around her seemingly forgotten.
“It has been a long time, Lady Keldragan.”
The gaunt man’s scratchy whisper carried across the sculpted garden despite the rising noise of steel striking steel and the screams and shouts of fighting men.
“Not long enough, Malachias.”
“I trust your husband is well. I am surprised that he is not here with you.”
“He had other matters to attend to,” replied Rya, who continued to advance on her adversary.
“A convenient excuse,” said Malachias. “So I have no choice but to duel a woman. That hardly seems sporting.”
“Yes, I know,” said Rya. “I was hoping for a stronger opponent, but you’ll have to do.”
Rya’s jibe struck home, Malachias spitting out his next words in a rage. “You believe you can challenge me? I stood at my master’s side during the Great War. No one could defeat me then. No one can defeat me now.”
“As I recall,” said Rya, “you did indeed stand at your master’s side, though the last time we met on the field of battle the last I saw of you was your backside as you fled with your master back into the Charnel Mountains.”
“You disrespect me, woman!” hissed Malachias.
“I do indeed, Malachias. Now enough of this. It’s time for you to be reminded of what a woman can do with the Talent.”
Having no desire to engage in wasted conversation any longer, Rya grasped hold of the Talent, then released a stream of blinding white energy toward Malachias.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Anger and Hate
At hearing the sharp trill of the bagpipes behind him, Killeran wheeled his horse around, drawn by the haunting notes that smothered the small valley. The sight chilled him to the bone. The Marchers streaming quietly down into the Highland hollow would terrify any smart man. But even more frightening was the flag he had not seen for almost a decade and the boy who stood before it. The boy who had escaped his grasp in Tinnakilly. The boy who stood on the crest of the valley, eyes closed, hands raised to the sky. The wind whipped around him like a tornado, bolts of white energy twisting and turning, illuminating the source of all of Killeran’s troubles of the last few years in a blinding glare.
A cheer rang out from the Highlanders defending the village, having seen the Marchers coming to their aid. Killeran violently turned his mount back toward the Highland village, not wanting to believe what he saw. Focused on their efforts, the half dozen warlocks attempting to burn through the gates failed to notice the Marchers approaching from behind. So intent on their task, they continued to hurl balls of black fire that began to eat deeply at the stout timbers, patiently waiting for their Dark Magic to burn through.
Yet the last three fireballs failed to reach the gates, stopped well short of the walls as if grasped by an invisible hand. Instead, the balls of black fire hung still for several seconds, then blinked out, much like a person putting out a candle flame between their thumb and forefinger. The warlocks stared dumbly at the smoldering gates. Black flames that had begun to burn suddenly winked out, scorch marks on the gates the only evidence of the warlocks’ efforts. Stunned by what had just happened and not understanding the cause, they looked at one another in disbelief.
“Behind you, you fools!” screeched Killeran. “At the edge of the wood!”
The warlocks turned as one, quickly reclaiming the power of their Dark Magic, drawing on the gift given to them by the Shadow Lord as they found the source of their confusion. They released a burst of energy that darkened everything around it, the shadow streaking across the valley and striking the cause of their failure, covering the boy and the Highland flag in a swirling mass of biting blackness.
For a moment, an inky darkness reigned on the crest. Killeran cackled in glee, thinking the boy consumed, the root of his many failures finally eliminated. The Marchers even stopped their advance, fearful that their new Lord had not survived the attack. That their one chance to overthrow Killeran and his reivers had been taken from them in a single stroke.
Yet Killeran’s pleasure was short-lived. Rays of pure white light began to spear through the blackness, more and more blinding rays blasting through like long, silver arrows tearing through the raging dark, until the boy appeared once more standing on the crest surrounded by a blazing pure white light. Consuming the last of the warlocks’ Dark Magic, Thomas opened his eyes, feeling the Talent flow within him. He took a moment to survey the battlefield, then turned his gaze to the warlocks who had attacked him.
Coban, Oso and the other Marchers let out a roar that echoed through the valley, exultant that the warlocks’ assault had failed. Turning as one they began their advance once again, going from walk to trot to sprint in seconds. Brandishing their weapons, expressing their pent-up rage in screams of anger and hate, a decade of terror, loss and pain pushed them forward. And behind them stood the Highland Lord, their Highland Lord, looking up into the sky once more, hands upraised, white energy spinning faster and faster around him. The charging Marchers felt a prickle along the back of their necks as the air within the small valley became charged much as it did before a thunderstorm.
Drawing in as much of the Talent as he could, Thomas focused on the warlocks first. Pointing his right hand at the cluster of men who had sold their souls to the Shadow Lord for the power bestowed upon them, bolts of pure white light burst from his fingertips. The warlocks had no time to defend themselves. Sizzling through the air, the bolts struck true, blasting into them and turning their bodies to a grey ash.
Thomas fought to maintain his control, the tremendous power surging within him both exhilarating and seductive. He took a long moment to settle himself once again. Satisfied that he exercised control over the Talent once more, Thomas next focused on the Ogren and Shades. With flicks of his wrist he flung bolts of pure white light indiscriminately into the massed dark creatures. Bunched so tightly together, Thomas couldn’t miss. Every bolt of energy struck home, killing Ogren and Shade instantly, their bodies burned beyond recognition, consumed by a heat that resembled that of the sun.
The reivers faltered as they saw the devastation occurring around them, not expecting such an immediate turn of events. Their initial confidence quickly turned to fear as the Marchers slammed into their wavering line, the Highlanders finally having the opportunity after almost a decade to unleash their repressed fury.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Driving Anger
“You cannot defeat me, woman. No matter what you try, I am too powerful for you.”
Rya ignored Malachias’ scratchy words. She continued to walk steadily toward him, halving the distance between them, then halving it again. A swirl of white energy surrounded her, and with each step she sent another bolt of white fire at her opponent. The inexorable assault forced the increasingly worried servant of the Shadow Lord to focus solely on defending himself.
“You shall feel my wrath, woman. You will beg for mercy before I kill you!”
Malachias’ taunts barely registered with Rya. She knew that they were evenly matched. She didn’t know if she had the strength to defeat Malachias, but she didn’t care. He had taken her pupil, a young woman she had grown fond of, and likely someone important to her grandson. Normally controlled in her use of the Talent, for the first time in a very long time she allowed her anger to drive her. Narrowing her rage into a cold determination, she continued her advance.
As Rya drew ever closer to her opponent, Malachias began to give ground and step back toward the mansion. He used a shield of black energy to block or deflect the bolts that sped toward him. He promised himself that she would pay the price for attacking her better, for having the gall to actually stand against him. Yet a quick glance to the side made him realize that having to concentrate on this insufferable woman had cost him in other ways. The bodies of
his black-clad soldiers littered the battlefield. The Fal Carrachians had killed almost all of his men. Only a few continued to fight, forced to adhere to Malachias’ compunction even with their lives at risk.
Malachias growled in frustration. Knowing that the tables had turned, Malachias reluctantly shifted his strategy. Pulling in more Dark Magic, he increased the size and density of his shield. When the next bolt struck, a massive explosion rocked the estate, the shield of black energy disintegrating as shards of black and white energy shot in all directions. Most disappeared harmlessly, though a few struck the mansion, shattering windows and blasting large holes in the brick walls and masonry.
Quiet settled over the grounds of the manor. When the dust and dirt finally cleared, Malachias had disappeared. Rya released her hold of the Talent. A crater several feet deep and wide around as a small house, blackened with ash, remained where Malachias had last stood. Scowling, Rya realized that to hope that the Shadow Lord’s servant had died in that final explosion likely was a vain dream. She needed to see a body. She had defeated Malachias, but she didn’t think that she had destroyed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
New Front
“They barely defend the front, Swordmaster. They still haven’t thought to close the gate.”
Kael Bellilil nodded as he took in his scout’s report. Not surprising. Dinnegan’s men were not soldiers. Mercenaries and ruffians at best, and the events occurring at the back of the estate clearly had captured their attention. That was certainly something he could use to his advantage.
He trotted his horse forward a few paces, then spoke to the dozens of soldiers lined up behind him.
“Kill anyone who gets in our way. We ride to the princess.”
Satisfied by the grim, expectant expressions of his men, he spun his horse back toward the mansion. He started at a walk, then moved quickly to a trot until he broke through the trees that surrounded the estate. Directing his mount toward the gate, he urged his horse to a gallop, his men streaming behind him in silence, intent on their mission.
No shouts. No screams. Just the sound of pounding hooves as the gate to Dinnegan’s property drew closer by the second, the guards charged with defending it still distracted by what occurred behind them. By the time they realized the approaching danger, their fates had been sealed.
CHAPTER FORTY
To the Precipice
Led by Coban, the Marchers drove into the Army of the Black Sword and pushed quickly through the center of Killeran’s line. The reivers parted much like a ship’s bow slicing through the water. More Marchers streamed forward to widen the gap, keeping the reivers between them and the Ogren and Shades on the flanks so that the dark creatures could not advance unless they charged through their reluctant allies.
Following Thomas’ instructions, Oso kept his fighters in check. He maintained a slow, steady advance, guaranteeing that his Marchers kept their shape and the left flank remained a solid, unbroken line. Anara stood next to the large Highlander, dagger in one hand, sword in the other, lunging and slashing at the reivers seeking to break through, a determined glint in her eye.
Now pressed on two sides, Killeran tried to turn his forces as best he could. Yet he struggled to bring his Ogren and Shades to bear. He knew that these dark creatures were his only chance to shift the tide of battle now that the boy had incinerated his warlocks. Screeching at the top of his lungs, he strove desperately to regain control, ordering his men to reform their lines. But the Marchers would have none of it, inexorably pressing forward, compressing Killeran’s reivers into a tighter and tighter space, pushing what was left of Killeran’s Army of the Black Sword closer to the walls of the fortress and the left flank protected by Oso and his Marchers.
Soon the Marchers’ efforts brought them into contact with the remaining dark creatures. The Marchers had a harder time against the Ogren and Shades, but they knew how to fight the minions of the Shadow Lord. For them, their strategy came down to basic math. Knowing that a single Marcher stood little chance against either adversary, they always sought to have three or four Marchers fight against one Ogren or Shade, using their superior numbers to overwhelm their foes.
Thomas joined the fight after destroying the warlocks and continuing his attack on the Ogren and Shades until his Marchers began to engage the dark creatures, forcing him to stop his assault with the Talent so that he did not inadvertently harm his own fighters. Energized and focused, barely hearing the clash of steel on steel, the cries of agony and the other sounds of battle swirling around him, he had eyes only for Killeran. He ran down the crest into the valley and entered the melee. Infusing the Sword of the Highlands with the Talent, the blade gifted to him by his grandfather glowed brightly, energy sparking along the steel. Leaving the reivers to his Marchers, he cut through the Ogren and Shades with ease. With the Ogren, he targeted their legs, slicing hamstrings or thighs to get them to the ground, knowing that the Marchers following after him would dispatch the dark creatures quickly. With the Shades, he was more precise, striking for the neck or head with a killing blow, not wanting to risk an injured Shade still killing one of his Marchers.
The Highland Lord was almost through the mass of dark creatures, no more than thirty feet from Killeran, when the Dunmoorian lord finally saw him. Killeran pulled his horse back in fear, terrified of the burning anger he recognized in the boy’s blazing green eyes. With a final slash with his sword, Thomas took the leg off an Ogren at the knee and stepped clear of the dark creatures, his Marchers pouncing on the injured beast.
Nothing stood between Thomas and his prey as he stalked forward with a determined stride. He raised his sword to strike, Killeran simply sitting his horse dumbly, frozen by the sight of this relentless boy advancing toward him, when two Shades stepped in Thomas’ way.
The two dark creatures moved sinuously, like snakes gliding around him, always ready to attack once a weakness was found. Swords at the ready, they jabbed, trying to catch Thomas off balance. Thomas brought his sword up quickly, defending against a strike from the front, then twisting inhumanly fast to block the expected stab to his back from the second Shade. Under normal circumstances, Thomas would have approached this fight cautiously, knowing that a single touch by the poisoned blade of a Shade would lead to a terrible death. But he didn’t have the time, seeing that his main quarry was slinking back through his reivers in search of a path to escape.
Not wanting to lose his target, Thomas drove forward in a furious attack, forcing both Shades back in a whirlwind assault of slashes and stabs that left the two servants of the Shadow Lord dripping black blood from a half dozen wounds each. Moving forward lightning fast, Thomas lunged for one Shade’s stomach, knowing his opponent would escape the blow and the second Shade would swing down for his exposed neck.
Thomas stopped the lunge midway through, then sliced upward, taking off the head of the Shade bringing his sword down. The Shade collapsed, his head dropping to the bloody grass. Thomas continued the movement of his blade, turning it at an angle to bring it down on the back of the other Shade’s neck as the dark creature lunged forward in an attempt to catch Thomas in the gut. The Highlander proved faster, as the second Shade’s head fell to the ground to rest next to that of its companion.
Thomas surveyed the battlefield, Killeran no longer in sight. His enemies were finding their mettle as the action became more desperate for them. Driven back by the Marcher attack but not broken, Thomas sensed that it was time to strike the decisive blow.
“Marchers!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the valley through the aid of the Talent. “To me! For the Highlands!”
The cry stiffened the resolve of the already engaged Marchers. And it finally released those Marchers who had waited impatiently for their chance to fight for their homeland. Renn, Seneca and Nestor led their men out of the forest on the eastern side of the valley. Sprinting across the long grass, their rage driving them on, they slammed into Killeran’s left flank. The Marchers’ surprise com
plete, the reivers and remaining dark creatures almost broke as the Marchers pushed them inexorably to the edge of the precipice.
Taking the attack of the Marchers on the west as their cue, Oso and Coban exhorted their fighters to push forward as well, catching the reivers, Ogren and Shades in a vice that continued to tighten slowly but surely. It was then that an unexpected gift was given to the Highland Lord.
With the reivers’ attention focused on the Marchers they had already engaged, Crendall opened the smoking gates of Anselm. A phalanx of Marchers sallied forth, driving the reivers who had been attacking the walls before them and cursing with every step they took. Crendall had recognized Thomas’ plan immediately and fully approved, exhorting his Highlanders to link up with the Marchers that had come to their aid and continue to push their opponents toward the cusp of the escarpment.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
A New Skill
“Take her,” commanded Dinnegan. “We must go!”
A guard from the front of the manor had sprinted into Dinnegan’s office with the dire news that Fal Carrachian soldiers had broken through the gate with barely any resistance. They had almost reached the mansion. Dinnegan looked out the window to the back of the property and saw that Gregory himself stood there leading his men against Malachias’ soldiers.
At first he thought it an even fight, but the black-clad men faltered when their master engaged the woman who now stood calmly while surrounded by a swirling mass of white energy, releasing bolt after bolt at Malachias. She walked toward him step by step, gradually closing the distance between them, seemingly unperturbed as Malachias did all he could to fend off her constant attack. He knew it! It was the same woman who had visited with the Princess, the one who had unnerved him. He had discerned that there was something about her that wasn’t quite right, and now he knew why.