by Peter Wacht
It was that feeling that made him turn from the window he stared out of, just a small slit between the drapes allowing his good eye to peek out on the world he no longer felt a part of. Ragin frowned, trying to make sense of what tugged at him. Today was the last afternoon of the Council of the Kingdoms. He had no desire to attend, not wanting to deal with the smirks of triumph or the looks of empathy for what had happened to him. He had wanted to stay here in this one place where he believed he could still exert some control over his life. But even that seemed to be slipping from his grasp. The tug grew stronger, becoming an insistent pull, almost a need that had to be fulfilled.
Taking hold of his sword and scabbard for the first time in months, Ragin pushed the door to his chambers open and stepped out into the deserted hall. He turned left, then left once more, allowing the pull to guide him. Several maids and servants stepped out of his way, bowing their heads as he passed, whether out of respect or not wanting to see his wound, he didn’t know and he didn’t care.
Ragin guessed at where the pull was leading him. The throne room of Eamhain Mhacha. He didn’t want to go there. But he couldn’t stop himself. The pull was too strong, too demanding. He continued on, at first trudging reluctantly, and then picking up the pace as the pull within him became a nagging need until he jogged through the halls. As he drew closer, the jog became a sprint until he burst into the throne room. The throng of participants in the Council apparently were in an uproar, all talking and moving at the same time, shouts of surprise and hurrahs echoing throughout the chamber.
He ignored the gasps around him, trying to figure out why he had been pulled here. And then he knew. On the other side of the chamber he caught a glimpse through a squad of Marchers of a boy in a green shirt and brown breeks making his way toward the doors that led to the entrance of the keep. The boy from the battlements. The boy who plagued his dreams night after night.
Ragin tried to push his way through the crowd, his frustration increasing as the various Kingdom representatives unknowingly blocked his path. With a snarl of rage Ragin grasped the hilt of his sword, but he was only able to pull a few inches of the blade free before a strong, skeletal hand enclosed his own, locking it into place. Struggle though he might, he could not dislodge the crushing grip.
“Release me, Malachias,” Ragin hissed. “I have business to complete.”
The tall man ignored Ragin’s demand, holding the Prince of Armagh firmly in place with his long, skeletal fingers. He leaned down so that his words could only be heard by Ragin, who attempted to move backwards when Malachias’ malevolent eyes caught his own. Yet the Prince of Armagh could do nothing but stand there, still as a mouse bewitched by a snake awaiting its fate.
“If you pull your blade and attack the new Lord of the Highlands, your life is forfeit.”
“The Lord of the Highlands? That whelp! I’ll …”
“Think, fool. You are the heir to Armagh. You have had the best in martial training. You failed to kill him in Tinnakilly when he was at his weakest. Why would you expect to defeat him now?”
“That was no more than luck,” Ragin hissed.
Malachias pulled Ragin closer, his foul breath resembling the decaying stench of an open grave, wafting over him and making his eyes water. “That was skill, you imbecile. Besides, he has a power, an ability, that is beyond you. To do what you want to do now would make your certain death meaningless.”
“I don’t care if I die,” Ragin snarled. “I want revenge. That’s all that matters to me.”
Malachias smiled, seemingly having heard exactly what he had expected. “I understand. And I can give you your revenge.”
“You? How?”
“In time, boy, I will show you. But not now. Now you must be patient. You must be willing to learn. You must be willing to risk all for you can only attain all by risking all.”
“I’ll do whatever’s necessary,” replied Ragin, finding Malachias’ choice of words strange. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“That’s good, my young prince. For you may very well die if you persist. But then again, Ragin, there are worse things to fear than death. Much worse.”
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Strong Words
Kaylie Carlomin stood behind her father’s chair, scarcely able to believe what had just occurred. Thomas was alive! And more than that, he was whom he originally seemed to be. As the kings, queens, and their many courtiers and servants burst into applause upon her father naming Thomas the Lord of the Highlands, she sought to push her way through the excited crowd and speak with Thomas, offering him an apology and perhaps … beyond that, she didn’t know. She only knew that she had to speak with him.
Finally having slipped through the throng, she was about to sprint down the long hallway, glimpsing the backs of the Marchers as they made their way out of the palace. But before she could, a figure stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Quite exciting, was it not, Kaylie? Certainly unexpected.”
Corelia Tessaril, daughter of the High King, stood before her.
“I don’t have time for this, Corelia,” replied Kaylie, an angry glint in her eyes.
Kaylie stepped to the side, seeking to get past the High King’s daughter. But Corelia moved with her, preventing her from pursuing Thomas.
“After all that has happened between you two, do you really believe that the dashing Lord of the Highlands will want to speak with you?”
Corelia’s words struck Kaylie to the core. Kaylie pondered the question as she watched the backs of the Marchers disappear from view. Could she be right? Kaylie shook off Corelia’s comments, knowing that her words could just as easily ensnare someone as her looks.
“This has nothing to do with you, Corelia. Thomas will or will not speak to me. That is his choice. But I will speak to him.”
Corelia chuckled, clearly amused. “Strong words, Kaylie. But do you really believe them?” Corelia began to walk around Kaylie, the Princess of Fal Carrach finding herself rooted in place as every one of Corelia’s words hit home. “Tell me, Kaylie. Why would the new Lord of the Highlands be interested in you? Were you not the cause for all he was forced to endure in Tinnakilly?”
Corelia continued her pacing, circling round and round, much like a shark before it launched itself at its prey. “I would think that of all the people who have wronged the new Lord of the Highlands, you have hurt him the most.”
“I had no idea …”
Corelia stopped in front of Kaylie, her voice hard as she cut her off. “You had no idea what? That such harm would befall him? That he would almost die? Do you think that really matters? I would think that the young Lord of the Highlands would not forget the cause of all that he suffered. I would think that as a result his eye could be turned by someone else.”
“What are you suggesting, Corelia?” asked Kaylie, her anger rising. The words of the Armaghian Princess had played on her guilt, hitting home in a way that she refused to reveal. But that challenge she noted in Corelia’s last comment had pulled her out of her rapidly growing remorse and given her a renewed focus.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Kaylie. I’m stating a fact. With the weight of all that has occurred between you and the Lord of the Highlands, I doubt he’ll have any desire to see you again. But he is a young man, and you know where the thoughts of young men tend to wander. If you could catch his eye so easily, I have no doubt that someone else could.”
Kaylie’s eyes narrowed as she struggled to control her growing fury. “You? You think that the Lord of the Highlands will be interested in you?”
Corelia’s knowing smile disappeared, replaced by a predatory smirk. “I’m absolutely certain. I have much to offer him, Kaylie. Much indeed. More, in fact, than you.”
The knowing smile returned as Corelia stepped away from Kaylie and lost herself among the assemblage. Kaylie remained where she was, her gaze fixed on the now empty hallway, wondering if the Princess of Armagh was right.
CHAPT
ER SIXTY FIVE
Challenges
It was late afternoon, but it appeared to be dusk. Most men refused to enter the Charnel Mountains, and those who did rarely returned. Any who traveled within three leagues of the forbidding peaks could sense the evil lurking there, hidden away from the sight of man, but always there. Watching, waiting, until it was too late.
Some said the Charnel Mountains were an abomination, caused by a tremendous magical battle between the forces of good and evil. Those who followed the light had won, but they could not destroy the dark. It was too strong, too powerful, too sinister. So instead they imprisoned their enemies in the mountains, sealing them away for eternity, or so they thought. Dark grey stone formed the mountains, the very tips of the monstrous peaks a sooty black.
The tallest of the mountains could not be seen completely, as fully a third of its mass stretched into the clouds. Known as Blackstone, that single peak had an even older name. Shadow’s Reach. On certain winter days, when the sun was just right, the shadow of Blackstone reached out across much of the Northern Steppes, turning day into night and, for those lone travelers caught in that desolate land, life into a nightmare.
But today was different. A strange event was occurring once more. An incident that had only begun to happen during the last few years but with increasing frequency. A single ray of sunshine had fought its way through the thick clouds, shining down on Blackstone, illuminating the abandoned city. The sunlight flickered, struggling against the murky shadow. But it was getting easier now, the light forcing its way through the gloom and murk. The shadow fought hard, but the light refused to yield, building in intensity with each passing second. The ray of light shone down through a glass dome situated on top of the largest building in the city, a massive structure that resembled a castle, yet in the place of crenellations stood gargoyles and other hideous creatures in gruesome poses. As the darkness dissipated in response to the growing strength of the light, the room revealed its secrets. Massive marble columns stationed around its perimeter appeared. Black and white tiles as wide as a tall man covered the floor. If there were any doors, they remained hidden in the darkness.
The beam of sunshine settled on the room’s most unique characteristic, a stone disk with an intricate design set in the very center of the floor. Two figures emerged from the cuts in the block, done with such excellent workmanship that they appeared lifelike. The first resembled a young man with a blazing sword of light. Opposing him was a tall man with a cruel face wielding a sword that swallowed the light. They were locked blade to blade, their faces no more than a fingerbreadth apart. The boy wore a look of determination, the man a grin of arrogance and sure victory. As the sun touched the stone it grew warm. A rumble began in the room, drifting out to the very edges of Blackstone. It was not an earthquake, for that was something of an end. Instead, it was a beginning. An awakening, perhaps?
The Shadow Lord stood on a large black tile, avoiding the sunlight, his gaze fixed on the disk. The rumbling grew louder as the ray of sunlight blazed with increasing intensity, illuminating more and more of the chamber.
“Enough!”
The Shadow Lord’s shout reverberated throughout the room. His hands, twisted and scarred, slipped from his robes as he raised them toward the dome of glass above him. A black mist began to form, coalescing into a circular shape. With a flick of his wrist, the swirling black mist sped to the top of the chamber, seeking to block out the sunlight. But the sunlight fought back, pushing against the circular shield of inky blackness, trying to fight its way through.
With a growl of anger, the Shadow Lord increased the vigor of his effort until the disk moved slowly but relentlessly to the top of the chamber, finally settling in place on the glass dome and blocking out the blazing ray of light.
Much to the Shadow Lord’s relief, the chamber returned to its normal murky grey. He remained standing in place, staring at the disk before him, having no trouble picking out the intricate carvings as his blood-red eyes blazed brightly.
He had thought that with his carefully laid plans he could have avoided the prophecy, nipped it in the bud. Eliminating the boy as a child should have been an easy task, yet his minions had failed. Since then many more attempts had been made yet they all had failed. Time and time again the boy escaped.
The Shadow Lord felt a tinge of worry. The boy was proving more resilient, more of a challenge, than expected. He had a knack for creating problems. For getting in the way without even knowing it. In an instant, his rage rose within him like a long smoldering fire reigniting. Why was it so difficult to kill a boy?
This time the Shadow Lord allowed his anger to surge through him, relishing the experience, enjoying the rage as it energized him. Perhaps this was the way it was supposed to be, he thought, his burning eyes still fixed on the disk before him, taking in every detail of the carving. Perhaps no matter his best efforts the terms of the prophecy would need to be met.
So be it. His plans would continue as they should. And if this boy continued to be a thorn in his side, no matter. Eventually he would have the opportunity to remove that thorn once and for all.
This new Lord of the Highlands could savor his victory for now. He would meet the same fate as his father and his grandfather. It was simply a matter of time. One way or another, whether by his hand when the final combat came or by the hand of one of his minions before that, the boy would die.
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