by Peter Wacht
Chertney desperately wanted to comply. He craved returning to the good graces of his master, but how he could do that positioned just a few miles north of Tinnakilly, across from the Pool, a small body of stagnant water that curled off the Inland Sea, he didn’t know. The Shadow Lord enjoyed the competition between him and Malachias, as they both strove for more power at the other’s expense, power that only the Shadow Lord could bestow. Yet, how was he to compete in this latest task with the Shadow Lord having given his nemesis all the advantages?
If that impudent boy still lived, and there was no reason to doubt his master, as doing so often led to a premature death, then the boy who had caused so many problems in recent years needed to get to the Council of the Kingdoms before the gathering came to an end. The boy clearly would assume that there were those seeking to keep him from Eamhain Mhacha. So his most likely route involved slipping out of the western Highlands and sticking to the forests that bordered both Dunmoor and the Clanwar Desert before following the Corazon River to the capital of Armagh. It was the easiest route and the fastest. And then, much to Chertney’s irritation, the boy would fall right into Malachias’ hands, who had been charged with patrolling the area north of the Corazon River.
Blasted fools! He surveyed the Ogren who stood dutifully behind him hidden among the trees, then he stalked away from the river and back to his small camp. He had done nothing wrong that he could tell, yet the Shadow Lord seemed to hold him responsible for Killeran’s failures in the Highlands and Rodric’s in Tinnakilly, when that fool High King actually had the boy in his grasp but allowed him to escape. Chertney had captured the boy during the Eastern Festival, serving him trussed up like a pig for the spit as his master had demanded. Rodric should have killed the boy then and there. But no. The half-witted High King had wanted to demonstrate his power in front of the other rulers, so Rodric had tried to make an example out of the boy. In the end, it had all gone terribly wrong. True, Chertney had witnessed much of it, but he was never in a position to do anything about the High King’s stupidity. All he could do was watch and grow more frustrated as his carefully laid trap achieved its purpose, yet proved to be wasted effort in the end.
And now because of his master he had no choice but to wait here, hoping that the boy would seek to avoid the dangers and traps set for him farther north. He had considered moving farther north himself to be closer to the southern bank of the Corazon River, but he feared disobeying the Shadow Lord. He had seen the price that others paid for taking the initiative and failing. Nevertheless, he was responsible for all the territory south of the Corazon River, so why not shift his forces a little closer? He would adhere to the charge his master had given him, even if that meant Malachias had the chance to seize the glory. But if for some reason the boy traveled too far south, he would be ready.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Danger Approaches
Thomas sat quietly by the bank of the Corazon River, watching the swiftly flowing water run to the east. The sun had just set, the sky still a pinkish red to the west. His Marchers rested among the small copse of trees lining the bank, caring for their horses, cleaning their gear, and preparing dinner. Coban already had set the pickets for the night, Oso readying his bow for some quick hunting.
At present, it seemed like it would be a peaceful evening. The Marchers had made good time, slipping out of the southwestern Highlands on their way to Eamhain Mhacha. After entering Dunmoor, they had taken the longer route around the northern shore of the Inland Sea, but then cut across the Corazon River to the southern bank.
Thomas expected Rodric would try to prevent him from reaching the Council of the Kingdoms. He just hadn’t expected the High King would make the trip so difficult. The Marchers had yet to engage in battle, slipping around or between various Ogren war parties on the northern side of the river, wanting to keep their presence hidden from those searching for them. But there had been too many close calls for his taste, and he had every expectation that before they reached Eamhain Mhacha it would come to a fight.
Munching on an apple, Thomas enjoyed the brief respite. The thirty Marchers had traveled hard since leaving the Highlands, the deadline pressing on them. Perhaps this evening they could gain some much-needed rest. Throwing the core into the bushes, Thomas used his Talent as he had every few hours during the day to extend his senses, reaching out in all directions to determine if any danger lurked. Thomas abruptly jumped to his feet.
“Coban! Get everyone on their horses. We have three Ogren war parties moving this way.”
The Marchers immediately went to work, stopping what they had been doing, and saddling their horses.
“Oso, take five of our best bowmen to the southwest. The three groups of Ogren will converge here. They’re trying to hem us in against the river. You’ll be free of them in a league. I’ll take the larger group to the west. Stay parallel with us but keep your distance. I have no doubt the Ogren will adjust once they realize their prey has escaped so do what you can to slow them down.”
“Consider it done, Thomas,” replied the big, shaggy haired Marcher. He strode off to select his men, quickly understanding his friend’s plan.
Thomas trotted off to prepare his own horse for travel, hoping he and his men would have time to slip the noose before it tightened around them.
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
Ambush
The Ogren raiding party led by a handful of Shades tromped across the grassland bordering the southern shore of the Corazon River. They paid little attention to the copses of trees that dotted the landscape, intent on their quarry just a few miles ahead.
Oso was thankful for that. He watched impatiently from just within the trees, staying hidden within the shadows to avoid being seen. He and his Marchers remained on their horses, bows at the ready. Just a few more seconds and he could put his plan into action.
“Ready,” he called quietly. Six bows were pulled back, aiming for the back of the Ogren column. “Remember, two quick shots, a third on the string, then we circle around to the west.”
Oso waited just a few seconds longer, wanting a bit more distance in order to provide a larger buffer for the Marchers’ attempted escape.
“Release!”
Six arrows streaked through the air, followed by a second flight right behind. The steel-tipped bolts slammed into the backs of the Ogren, a few driving through their hearts from behind. Those dark creatures that didn’t fall dead in the grass roared in agony, reaching their huge claw-like hands behind them trying to pull the arrows free from their flesh. The Ogren closest to the unlucky beasts turned at the cries, only to feel the impact of the second wave of arrows, all finding their target, whether in the chest or the neck.
The Marchers didn’t wait to examine the results of their ambush, driving their horses from between the trees, their mounts quickly galloping beyond the raiding party. Several Ogren roaring with rage sprinted after them, gaining ground, able to reach speeds almost as fast as a horse over a short distance. But the extra seconds Oso had waited before attacking gave the Marchers the additional space they needed to avoid the dark creatures. It also gave them a final opportunity to strike.
The Marchers turned in their saddles as the pursuing Ogren closed on them, releasing their last arrows at no more than twenty paces in some cases. The proximity proved deadly as all the Marchers’ arrows struck their quarry. The dark creatures crumpled in the long grass, the long shafts sprouting from their necks or heads.
Oso smiled grimly. A good result for just a few minutes work. But it would be harder next time. The dark creatures would be expecting an ambush. And the Marchers were running dangerously low on arrows. He estimated that he and his fighters had one more good attack left in them before they had to return to Thomas and the main group of Marchers. So be it. Oso would make it count.
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
Poor Odds
The going had been difficult the last two days. The Marchers had gotten little sleep after escaping through a small
gap between two of the Ogren war parties that had tried to herd them against the Corazon River. Thomas had considered cutting south, away from the river, to gain more space to maneuver. But every time he searched with the Talent, he was always presented with the same picture. Several other Ogren war parties paralleled his own course. Therefore, he led the Marchers west at a steady clip, pushing hard for Eamhain Mhacha and trying to put some distance between them and their pursuers.
Eventually, their luck gave out. One of the war parties had picked up the scent, followed by two more. Now several hundred Ogren tracked the Marchers, and the dark creatures were gaining on them. Oso and his archers had eliminated several dozen from afar, poaching at the Ogren whenever they could. But when they had run out of arrows, Oso and his small band had rejoined Thomas and the other Marchers, knowing that their continued survival would depend on their ability to work together as a fighting unit.
Their odds of reaching Eamhain Mhacha continued to worsen as the Ogren drew closer. But Thomas still held out hope for an escape. Using the Talent, he realized that the Ogren had almost encircled them. He also identified something else that might prove useful, if he and his fighters could reach it before the trap closed. Letting go of the Talent, Thomas scanned the shoreline to the west, finding what he had seen using the Talent just a short distance farther down the river.
The Corazon River curled just ahead, forming a bight, before straightening out once again. He led his Marchers into that curl, allowing the river to protect them on three sides. Leaving the horses behind them, his Marchers formed a defensive line several ranks deep along the small opening of grass, no more than twenty feet across from one riverbank to the next. The Ogren could attack, but only a few at a time. The river was too deep and flowed too swiftly for the dark creatures to attempt an assault on their flanks or from behind.
Thomas would have preferred to keep running, but he had not seen a better defensible position within leagues. Now he would have to trust in the strength of his Marchers’ sword arms, and perhaps a few tricks he had up his sleeve.
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
Miscalculation
For almost an hour the Ogren stood a short distance from the Marchers, massing behind one another as the three war parties finally converged. The Marchers had observed in muted surprise. Based on their past experience with dark creatures, they had expected an immediate attack, the Ogrens’ hunger normally driving them on. But the Marchers didn’t mind the respite. The Highlanders stood calmly, watching the Ogren, ready for the assault they expected at any second, yet also knowing the defensibility of their position, having confidence in their own skills and experience, and believing in the Highland Lord.
“You have afflicted me for far too long, boy. No more. You die here and now.”
The scratchy voice carried over the sounds of the milling Ogren, the dark creatures parting to allow a tall figure dressed in black silk to step to the front. A shadow seemed to cover the man, despite the bright sunlight of the day.
Thomas stepped forward as well, finally understanding the reason for the Ogrens’ remarkable display of control and their ability to track the Marchers. Lord Chertney commanded these war parties, and he wanted to be there for the final kill.
“Tasked with finding me?” asked Thomas, the derision in his voice clear. “I would have expected that by now you were licking the feet of your master. No? Perhaps someone else has taken your place because of your many previous failures?”
Thomas’ goading had its desired effect. Chertney had wanted to savor this moment before releasing his Ogren to overwhelm the Marchers and eliminate the Highland whelp once and for all. But Thomas’ words hit too close to home.
“Words will do you little good, boy,” rasped Chertney. “Your short reign as Lord of the Highlands ends today.”
Chertney seized his Dark Magic, releasing a blast of darkness that surged toward Thomas.
The Marchers gasped in shock at the demonstration of power, ducking involuntarily as the Dark Magic sped toward them. They were even more surprised when Thomas simply reached out a hand and grasped the Dark Magic, holding the spinning mass of pitch black in his palm. Even Chertney was taken aback by the Highland Lord’s action, a lump of fear settling in his stomach.
Thomas focused his attention on the inky black, staring into the churning mass, studying it for a few long seconds. Then he placed his other palm above it. Bolts of white light began to spin with the dark, fighting it, consuming it, changing it, until the swirling mass of black became a swirling mass of white light that spun faster and faster, gradually expanding between Thomas’ hands.
“The last time we met, Chertney, I didn’t have the strength to do what I wanted to do,” said Thomas calmly, pedantically, referring to his unpleasant experience in Tinnakilly with the High King seeking to parade him in front of the attending potentates and nobles. “But circumstances have changed. For as you can see I have the strength now.”
Chertney’s face, normally a mask of contempt, became one of horror as he realized he had seriously underestimated his prey. He had never considered the possibility that this boy had control of the Talent, but now he sensed the power within him. Even worse, Chertney understood much too late that he didn’t have the strength to fight the boy and win. The Shadow Lord’s servant began to inch backward, seeking some means to escape. But the solid mass of Ogren that had formed up behind him prevented it.
Lord Chertney watched in horrified fascination as Thomas opened up his palms, the ball of swirling white energy spinning in a blur before him. With a flick of his wrist, the ball of energy surged towards Chertney and the Ogren, the surging white light breaking into smaller balls of energy that slammed into the first few rows of dark creatures. The fiery energy Thomas had released burned through the chests of the massive beasts, leaving nothing but charred and smoking husks in its wake.
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
New Friend
Kael Bellilil sat on his horse easily, spending as much time in the saddle as on his own two feet. His men and the Marchers wandered slowly among the corpses, making sure that no Ogren or Shades survived. When necessary, they helped the beasts that had not yet expired along the way.
“So what are Highlanders doing in the middle of Dunmoor?” he asked.
Kael had stayed behind in Fal Carrach for a few extra days, promising Gregory that he would catch up to him in Eamhain Mhacha before the Council of the Kingdoms began. There were rumors of dark creatures near Fal Carrach’s southern border that he wanted to confirm. After verifying the reports and eliminating some of the dark creatures, he and his soldiers followed the Ogren war parties to the west into Dunmoor. Having connected with the Highlanders at the tail end of the battle, the mystery of why these bands of dark creatures had emerged from the Highlands and into the open had been solved.
Thomas had sensed the Fal Carrachians following behind them. Thus, his decision to form the Marchers in line for battle, hoping to buy some time for his potential allies to catch up before the skirmish became too much for his Marchers. When Chertney stepped forward, though, Thomas had found it too difficult to contain himself, unable to resist the challenge and not caring if his use of the Talent marked him for every dark creature from there to Eamhain Mhacha. Nevertheless, despite his best efforts, the Shadow Lord’s minion had escaped. Somehow the bastard who had tortured him in Tinnakilly had managed to slither free again. That fact continued to nag at him. Next time, Thomas would pay Chertney what he was owed.
Thomas stepped forward, sword still in his hand. He bent down, using the dirty garments worn by one of the Ogren to wipe the blood off the blade.
“I doubt I could come up with a lie that you would believe,” answered Thomas with a smile. “Thank you for your help.”
“Aye, thank you, Kael. Who knows how it would have played out if you had not arrived.”
Kael turned at the voice, remembering it from his youth in the Highlands.
“Coban?”
“
It’s been a long time, Kael. You’ve moved up in the world.”
Kael hopped off his horse and clasped hands with Coban, who had trained him as a Marcher before he had journeyed to Fal Carrach and decided to stay there as Swordmaster.
“Coban, it’s good to see you. But that doesn’t explain why Marchers travel well outside the Highlands.”
“We make for Eamhain Mhacha and the Council of the Kingdoms,” said Thomas.
Kael stared at Thomas for a moment, the stories of his homeland coming back to him. This was the boy who had defied the High King in Tinnakilly. Who had wounded Ragin. Who had leapt from the battlements of the keep before Rodric could kill him. His body had never been found broken against the rocks below or floating in the Pool, and now he stood before him. This was the boy around which many rumors and insinuations revolved. Upon taking in the dark creatures that littered the long grass, and realizing how they had died, Kael concluded quickly that the majority of those rumors and insinuations likely were true.
“And you came this way to avoid dark creatures and perhaps others wishing you harm. Yet it didn’t work.”
“No, it didn’t,” confirmed Coban.
“Tell me, Swordmaster.” Thomas stepped closer to Kael, his brightly glowing green eyes capturing the soldier’s gaze. “Though you’re loyal to Gregory of Fal Carrach, you’re obviously of the Highlands, and you’ve had the pleasure of Coban’s teachings.”