The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles Read online

  The Defender of the Light

  Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

  Peter Wacht

  The Defender of the Light

  By Peter Wacht

  Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2021 © by Peter Wacht

  Cover design by Ebooklaunch.com

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  Published in the United States by Kestrel Media Group LLC.

  ISBN: 978-1-950236-16-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-950236-17-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 9781950236169

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by Peter Wacht

  Your Free Short Story Is Waiting

  1. A Beginning

  2. Danger From Above

  3. Two Competitors

  4. Recovered

  5. Black or Red

  6. An Opportunity

  7. Regrets

  8. Help Rewarded

  9. Letting Go

  10. Unwilling Ally

  11. Game Piece

  12. The Char

  13. Blade at Her Throat

  14. Another Friend

  15. False Bravery

  16. Entrance

  17. Miscalculation

  18. Compelled

  19. Predator

  20. Best Laid Plans

  21. Chipping Away

  22. Arrogance

  23. Price for Failure

  24. Blazing Anger

  25. Queen

  26. Thinking of Others

  27. Agony and Hate

  28. Deeper Meaning

  29. Glowing Domes

  30. Well Met

  31. Dark Magic

  32. The Pull

  33. Nervous Energy

  34. Invisible Sword

  35. The Sentinel

  36. Guard of Honor

  37. Dragas

  38. Good News

  39. Unexpected Visitor

  40. Combat

  41. Taken

  42. Imprisoned

  43. Drawing Poison

  44. Pawn

  45. Vengeance

  46. Watching Eyes

  47. The Horde Marches

  48. Defiance

  49. Ambush

  50. Broken Traditions

  51. Breaking In

  52. Final Task

  53. An Open Path

  54. Crossed Blades

  55. As You Command

  56. Cruel Hope

  57. Blazing White Light

  58. Atop the Wall

  59. A Brave Girl

  60. Descending Disc

  61. Attack From Above

  62. Well of the Souls

  63. Stone and Light

  64. Call for Help

  65. Answering the Call

  66. Bolt of Fear

  67. Three Notes

  68. Thunder and Lightning

  69. Lull

  70. Path of Destruction

  71. From the Flanks

  72. Tightening Vise

  73. Focus

  74. Nasty Surprise

  75. Rodric’s End

  76. Thunderclap

  77. Final Charge

  78. Decisions

  79. Wedding

  Bonus Material

  The Protector

  Setting the Stage

  Chapter 1. In the Pit

  Chapter 2. Demands

  Chapter 3. A Deal

  Looking for More …

  Also by Peter Wacht

  THE REALMS OF THE TALENT AND THE CURSE

  THE SYLVAN CHRONICLES

  (Complete Series available at Amazon)

  The Legend of the Kestrel

  The Call of the Sylvana

  The Raptor of the Highlands

  The Makings of a Warrior

  The Lord of the Highlands

  The Lost Kestrel Found

  The Claiming of the Highlands

  The Fight Against the Dark

  The Defender of the Light

  THE RISE OF THE SYLVAN WARRIORS

  Through the Knife’s Edge (short story)*

  THE TALES OF CALEDONIA

  Blood on the White Sand (short story)*

  The Protector (Forthcoming 2021)

  The Protector’s Quest (Forthcoming 2022)

  The Protector’s Vengeance (Forthcoming 2022)

  The Protector’s Sacrifice (Forthcoming 2022)

  * Free short stories can be downloaded from my author website at www.kestrelmg.com

  Your Free Short Story Is Waiting

  Blood on the White Sand by Peter Wacht

  This short story is a prelude to the events in my new series The Tales of Caledonia and is free to readers who receive my newsletter.

  Join Pete’s Newsletter

  1

  A Beginning

  It was only early morning, but it already appeared to be dusk. The brightly shining sun didn’t have the power to force its way through the murk that had draped itself over the desolate land. Most people refused to enter the Charnel Mountains, and those foolhardy enough to do so rarely returned. Any who traveled within ten miles of the forbidding peaks could sense the evil lurking there, the wickedness hidden away from the sight of man, but always there, always watching, always waiting for the unsuspecting to come just a little bit closer. To push their luck just a bit too far, until it was too late. Because darkness lurked in the Charnel Mountains, a darkness that had transformed what had once been the vibrant and green landscape of the Northern Peaks into a cinder-covered wilderness that was home to a terrifying swarm of dark creatures. A darkness that was preparing to break free from its bonds and consume the Kingdoms in one fell swoop.

  Yet that reek of evil, so prevalent and overpowering, did not prevent the flight of five kestrels from soaring across the Northern Steppes, their strong wings pushing them higher into the sky in search of the warmer drafts that were so difficult to find in the north. For here, where the blackened, imposing fangs of the Charnel Mountains rose above the always present clouds and gloom, a cold had begun to seep down toward the south, a cold that brought to mind the days of old when an army of Ogren, Shades and other monstrous creatures had marched from these terrifying peaks and had threatened to conquer the Kingdoms, held back only by the valiant efforts of the men and women who had risked their lives so long ago. Despite their best efforts to find an easier route, the kestrels found little to aid them at the higher elevation they achieved as cold gusts blasted down from the mountains and across the grass-covered lea to slam against the northern Highlands.

  The shrill squawk of the lead kestrel broke the unnatural silence that lay heavy upon the flat land below. There was no movement within the long stalks. Not even a hare. There was only dry, brown, sickly grass that flowed according to the whims of the unceasing wind. Long lines of black ash and soot that had given the Charnel Mountains its name crisscrossed the plateau and ran from the Highlands to the passes that led north toward the Shadow Lord’s lair. The raptors tracked those blackened trails, some hundreds of yards wide, across the grasslands, understanding that these paths of befouled and dead grass had formed because of the dark creatures that favored the
se routes as they sought to cross the Northern Steppes and then invade the Highlands, attempting to build up their numbers in that mountainous Kingdom so that they could make it their own and thereby avoid the Breaker when it came time to descend once more upon the Kingdoms. An understandable strategy, although the Marchers certainly had something to say about it. The Highland Lord had set three of his chiefs and a very determined young woman the task of preventing the Ogren and other dark creatures from entering the Kingdom, knowing that if the beasts gained a foothold the marauders might never be dislodged. Nevertheless, even though the Marchers had proven successful in keeping the dark creatures from obtaining purchase in their homeland, there was still a price to pay. Dark creatures, the spawn of the Shadow Lord, destroyed nature. Not immediately, but over time. The corruption of these beasts, even just their steps crushing the grass, slowly ate away at the vitality of the world. The first Ogren, Shades and other beasts so important to the Shadow Lord’s designs that had stomped through the chest-high grass had created their own paths across the grasslands with the bands of dark creatures that followed benefiting from their efforts. As had happened in the Charnel Mountains, the once verdant and vital steppe had begun to suffer, the green grass becoming brittle as it turned a dried-out brown before settling for a blackened, burnt crisp that would eventually wither away into a flaky soot.

  The large raptors followed those sterile trails for a time, as the peaks of the Charnel Mountains gained in clarity and size. Some said that 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 the cost for their effort had been almost too much to bear. Because even then they could not destroy the dark, instead imprisoning their enemies in the mountains and sealing them away for eternity, or so they thought. Dark grey stone formed the jagged spires, the very tips of the monstrous peaks a sooty black to match that of the tracks used so often by the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures seeking access to the Highlands.

  The kestrels’ powerful wings spanned seven feet, and the white feathers speckled with grey on the bird’s underside blended perfectly with the sky. When visible, the raptor was a dangerous predator. When hidden, it was deadly, shooting down through the thin air like an arrow, its sharp claws outstretched for the kill. The Highlands was the raptor’s domain, now its only home. Once, not too many years before, kestrels lived in every Kingdom from the Western Ocean to the Sea of Mist. But no more. Nobles and wealthy merchants paid dearly for the feathers of the mighty bird. Rumors of their magical powers abounded. Some believed the feathers, when ground down and mixed with a few select ingredients, served as an aphrodisiac. Others insisted that drinking the strange brew gave wisdom. Still others thought that it brought riches. Though no one had ever proven the truth of these myths, the old beliefs died hard. As the years passed, so did these majestic birds, until none remained except those in the Highlands, protected by the harsh weather, the rough landscape and the Highlanders themselves, for the raptors had a special place in their hearts. The kestrel was the symbol of the Highland Lord, and for the new Highland Lord perhaps something more.

  Just as the Highland Lord had begun to flex the muscles of the Marchers after almost a decade of fighting to free their homeland from the enslavement that the reivers sought to impose, the kestrels had begun to expand their territory as well, once more flying from their roosts in the Highland peaks to stake their claim to the territories bordering their mountain home. They were aggressive birds to begin with and savage when they came upon dark creatures.

  As the begrimed smudges of the Charnel Mountains solidified into rocky, soot-covered peaks, the five kestrels as one squawked a challenge, spying two Dragas gliding above the closest summit. Almost four times the size of the raptor, the Dragas were a significant threat. The flying dark creatures enjoyed a clear advantage over the raptors, their scaled hides offering them additional protection, although that benefit did cost the beasts the speed that the raptors put to good use during their aerial combats. The kestrels understood the dangers presented by the dark creatures’ long, spike-like claws and sharp teeth, but they also knew the weaknesses of the Dragas, their leathery wings and soft underbellies the raptors’ preferred targets when engaged in a skirmish.

  Startled by the challenge, the Dragas at first sought to respond violently. The two dark creatures roared in anger at the temerity of the kestrels for encroaching on their domain. But then, strangely, rather than attacking, the two dark creatures tilted their sinewy wings and quickly caught a downdraft that pushed them around the mountaintop and deeper among the towering peaks.

  At first the kestrels thought to pursue, having little fear of the two Dragas because of their superior numbers, but then they considered the danger of taking such a risk. Perhaps the two Dragas did fear the five kestrels, acknowledging how deadly the large raptors could be when their sharp claws tore into unprotected wing or gut. Or maybe there was more going on than what the naked eye could see. Perhaps the two Dragas served as bait with more of the deadly dark creatures waiting among the lofty spires for any raptor foolish enough to follow.

  Ignoring their instinct to attack, though not without expending some effort in doing so, the kestrels instead settled into a lazy patrol. They drifted along the border of the Northern Steppes and the Charnel Mountains, sharp eyes constantly searching for movement, for any sign of the next Ogren raiding party seeking to make its way across the grassland and then into the lower Highlands.

  The tallest of the mountains in the northern range could not be seen completely, as fully a third of its mass reached up 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 unlucky travelers caught in that desolate land, life into a nightmare.

  As the kestrels maintained their patrol, they couldn’t help but watch an event that would have been unheard of just a few years before. But today’s occurrence was becoming more commonplace. A single ray of sunshine had fought its way through the thick clouds, shining down on Blackstone, illuminating the abandoned city named for the peak on which it had been built. The sunlight flickered, struggling against the leaden gloom. The shadow fought hard, but the light refused to yield, increasing in intensity with each passing second. And then surprisingly another ray of light broke through the pall, and then another, and another, until the bright sunlight burned through the fog that normally hid the ash-covered and broken down buildings and towers, most no more than ruins, the bricks and stones having collapsed long ago.

  As the streams of sunshine blasted through the thick overcast, several rays of light shone down through a hole where a glass dome had once resided on top of the largest building in the city that still stood, a monstrous castle with gargoyles and other hideous beasts in gruesome poses standing guard atop the crenellations. As the darkness reluctantly dissipated, the room revealed its secrets. Gigantic 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 that prowled at the distant edges of the chamber.

  The beams of blazing light settled on the room’s most unique characteristic, a stone disc 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 the breadth of a finger 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 fringes of Blackstone, and from there it traveled through the Charnel Mountains and across the Norther
n Steppes. It was not an earthquake, for that was something of an end. Instead, it was a beginning.

  As the earth began to heave to and fro violently, in some places the sides of entire mountains sheared off and tumbled into the stunted, twisted forests far below. The kestrels observed from far above, unaffected by the rumbling ground that ignited the rockslides among the peaks. But only for a few seconds, because the kestrels’ attention remained focused on the northern skies, watching, waiting, hoping that their blood enemies, the Dragas, would reappear. These raptors wanted to hunt, and there was no better prey than the servants of the Shadow Lord.