The Fight Against the Dark Read online

  The Fight Against the Dark

  By

  Peter Wacht

  Book 8 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: 978-1-950236-14-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-950236-15-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 9781950236145

  Also by Peter Wacht

  THE SYLVAN CHRONICLES

  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 (forthcoming 2021)

  THE RISE OF THE SYLVAN WARRIORS

  Through the Knife’s Edge (short story)

  THE TALES OF CALEDONIA

  The Protector (forthcoming 2021)

  CONTENTS

  Also by Peter Wacht

  1. Dream or Reality?

  2. Rumbling Dissatisfaction

  3. Another Demand

  4. Taking Flight

  5. Council

  6. Decisions

  7. Decision Made

  8. Welcomed Gift

  9. Anger and Fear

  10. Bloody Business

  11. Simple Task

  12. The Caves

  13. Oblivious

  14. Mongrels

  15. Ultimate Goal

  16. Gentle Rebuke

  17. Dragas

  18. A Debt Owed

  19. Into the Gloom

  20. Dark Creatures

  21. Sounds of Steel

  22. Hunting Shadows

  23. Revenge

  24. Hall Skirmish

  25. Tables Turned

  26. Served Cold

  27. Black Glass

  28. Renewed Purpose

  29. Wildcard

  30. True Colors

  31. Deep Cold

  32. New Threat

  33. New Story

  34. Assured Victory

  35. Calculated Risk

  36. Strengthening Confidence

  37. Change in Direction

  38. Charging Forward

  39. Honorable Disobedience

  40. Free

  41. Morning Light

  42. Next Task

  43. Surprise

  44. Unwanted Accolade

  45. Hard Conversation

  46. Search Begins

  47. Followed

  48. Moving Places

  49. Discovered

  50. Stalked

  51. Paying the Price

  52. Lesson

  53. Perfect Vessel

  54. Following Darkness

  55. Small Chance

  56. Chicken

  57. Twin Daggers

  58. Cause for Concern

  59. Desert Meeting

  60. Old Friend

  61. Competition

  62. Lack of Understanding

  63. Wrapped Around

  64. The Pits

  65. Sand and Glass

  66. Mine

  67. Mountain Man

  68. Leap of Faith

  69. Over the Gap

  70. Different Path

  71. Taking a Risk

  72. Trailing Shadow

  73. Wraith

  74. A Feeling

  75. Growing Closer

  76. Strange Behavior

  77. Shark Attack

  78. Taken to Task

  79. Prick of Pain

  Your Free Short Story Is Waiting

  Through the Knife’s Edge

  The Shadow Lord’s Dark Horde is descending upon the Kingdoms. Two Sylvan Warriors charged as scouts form a reluctant alliance in order to survive. Not only must they learn to work together to stay alive, but they also must confront Malachias, the warlock tasked with killing them.

  On the run from hunting Ogren and avoiding the Dragas that are scouring the skies, Rya Westgard and Rynlin Keldragan race to escape the Charnel Mountains to reach the leader of the Sylvana and warn her of the approaching army about to flood the Kingdoms with dark creatures – before it’s too late.

  Note to Readers

  This short story, a prelude to the events in The Sylvan Chronicles, is free to readers who receive my newsletter. Sign up and get your free copy here: www.kestrelmg.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dream or Reality?

  The tendrils of black mist snaked their way around Thomas Kestrel, whipping about as if each one had a mind of its own. The inky cords probed, testing for a weakness, twisting around one another as they sought to latch onto his body, then rearing back rapidly as the Dark Magic tried to escape the killing stroke of the Sword of the Highlands. Each time Thomas’ brightly glowing blade, infused with the Talent, slashed through a strand of corrupted sorcery, the formless dark creature that towered above the Sylvan Warrior howled in pain, its tentacle dissolving as it was cut free from the beast. Yet even with the suffering that its quarry inflicted upon it, the churning mass of darkness continued its assault, a dozen new tendrils taking the place of each tentacle sliced off much like the mythical Hydra. Thomas fought with a will, his movement economical and lightning fast as he cleaved and cut through the threads of black that shot toward him time after time and gave him no chance to take a breath. But even he, his actions so quick that they seemed to blur, couldn’t keep up with the speed and ferocity of the dark creature’s attack.

  Dozens and dozens of tendrils flailed and snapped around him, seeking a path through the shield that he wove with his brilliantly shining steel. Sadly, despite his best efforts, he was doomed to fail, and he knew it. The Shadow Lord’s servant was too much for him. First a cable of black slipped past his blade and wrapped itself around his right leg, holding him in place. He tried to cut it off, his fear growing as the cord became darker and more solid, anchoring him to the ground. Each time he slashed down with his blade more and more strands of Dark Magic got in the way, blocking his attempts and allowing that single thickening cable to maintain its tight grip. While he was distracted, another inky cord found purchase, winding its way around his waist. Before that thread could tighten its grip, Thomas cut it off. But that obstruction permitted two more black threads to curl around his left arm. He tried to slash down with his steel, but he couldn’t. His sword arm wouldn’t move, held tightly by another thick strand of black that had threaded its way past his defenses. He strained against the solidifying cords, desperate to free himself, but the strands only tightened their hold, constricting around him as if he were caught within the coils of a giant snake. His alarm grew. Unable to move, his rising terror threatened to engulf him.

  With its prey locked in place, the billowing cloud of evil sent tendril after tendril shooting toward Thomas, curling around him tighter and tighter, compressing his sword arm against his chest and encircling his body. The seething mass of sable tentacles then began to pulse a deep black. Thomas continued to struggle against the threads that were as strong as steel, but as the cords darkened in color, he began to weaken, his strength slo
wly ebbing away. He imagined that what he experienced now was similar to having his life drained from him by a Shade’s kiss. That thought only served to increase his panic all the more. Unable to break free, his head held tightly in place, Thomas could only stare into the two pinpricks of blood red that burned brightly in the center of the swirling mass of black. As the darkness closed around him, his body growing heavy, his thoughts drifting away, his vision blurring, all he could focus on were those points of red blazing in the encroaching shadows as his consciousness faded away …

  Thomas didn’t know how long he floated through this world of inky black, but slowly, ever so slowly, a new image began to form in front of him. As his senses and memories returned to him, he recalled being in the Highlands, fighting on a plain of long grass that stretched off into the distance, imposing, snow-capped peaks surrounding him. But no more. That had all disappeared. Somehow, he had traveled to a place where the bright sunlight of the day had been replaced by a thick, grey gloom. Thankful that he could move once again, he turned around slowly. He could make out very little in the murk, seeing nothing but a wispy grey except for the two blood-red eyes that still burned brightly in front of him. He should have felt shock, surprise, terror, but he didn’t. Rather, he felt whole, as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. As Thomas’ bright green eyes adjusted to the darkness, he picked out more of the cowled figure standing in front of him, still black robes hanging in the air, not even rippling at the touch of the wind.

  The seconds stretched into minutes as Thomas studied the figure before him, the silence deafening, the stillness arresting. A faint disturbance in the air was the only sign that gave away the fact that something had changed. Thomas raised his sword above his head, not realizing that he still held it in his hand. His brightly shining steel caught the black sword before it cleaved him in two. Not done, his shrouded adversary flipped his blade around in a backhanded swing that targeted Thomas’ midsection, but again he countered, sword sliding down to push the strike away from his body. And so it went for the next few minutes, the light-eating sword of black slicing through the gloom while Thomas danced around his attacker, deflecting each lunge, cut and slash. Each time the two swords met, sparks illuminated the blackness with a flash as the Talent and Dark Magic repelled one another. Thomas wanted to attack, to seek the advantage, to change the trajectory of the duel somehow, but it was all that he could do to defend himself, the black steel weaving around him often no more than a whisker away from slicing into his flesh.

  Then just as abruptly as the cowled figure’s attack began, it came to an end. The shadowy figure glided backward, the black steel disappearing. Thomas took a few steps back as well, sword still held warily in front of him, not convinced that the fight was truly over. For some strange reason, he suspected that it actually had just started.

  “You fight well, boy,” rasped the robed man who faded in and out of the gloom, the only constant his blood-red eyes. “But not well enough.”

  “Well enough to hold you off.” Thomas said the words with a confidence that he didn’t feel. Although he had defended himself from each of his opponent’s attacks, it had been more of a struggle than he had anticipated. His adversary filled him with a fear that almost paralyzed him, slowing his ability to react.

  “Believe that if you want, boy. But you know the truth.”

  Thomas stared into those blood-red eyes, doubt seeping into him as the two orbs burned brightly, flaring in the murk. The shadowy figure was right, though he didn’t want to admit it to himself. The duel had felt more like a test rather than a fight.

  “What do you want?” Thomas was pleased that his voice was steady, strong, and didn’t reveal what he was actually experiencing as his emotions roiled within him.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” asked the cowled figure. “I want you.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t play the fool, boy. It doesn’t become you. You know why.”

  Thomas’ eyes hardened, the rebuke angering him. His hand flexed on the hilt of his sword. For just a moment, he considered lunging for his opponent, his brightly glowing blade pulsing in response to his emotions. But he tamped down the impulse, knowing that it would lead to little good.

  “I’ll never serve you.”

  “We’ll see, boy,” replied the cowled figure, the quiet sibilance of his voice reminding Thomas of a bloodsnake. “We’ll see very soon.” The blood-red eyes sparked, giving the dark gloom a red haze. “Be ready, boy. I’m coming for you.”

  “Not if I come for you first.”

  Then in a blink of the eye the figure was gone, and darkness settled over Thomas once again.

  The squawk of a kestrel flying high above the Marcher encampment broke through the fog that surrounded Thomas, waking him. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. The sun still a distant thought in the early morning, Thomas rolled out of his blankets and followed the large shadow of the raptor with his eyes as it soared above him. The kestrel shrieked again, and Thomas smiled in return. He had been dreaming. He was still in the Highlands. The dark creature that had almost emptied the life from him was dead. Only a bad memory. Thomas closed his eyes and breathed deeply, enjoying the crispness of the air. A bolt of fear ran through him. His eyes popped open, and he looked down at his right hand, the Sword of the Highlands firmly in his grip. He didn’t remember pulling the blade free from its scabbard when he woke. Had he done so in his sleep? An unnerving realization shot through him as he stared at the inscription that ran down the length of the steel: “Strength and courage lead to freedom.” The fight against the dark creature had been a dream, of that he was certain, but what of the duel against the cowled figure? Had that been a dream as well? Or had it been real?

  Thomas turned his gaze toward the north and the Charnel Mountains, which were only a smudge far off in the distance. Within those ash-covered peaks lay the Shadow Lord’s lair. Blackstone. The seat of his adversary’s power. He could feel the pull. It was growing stronger by the day, more insistent. He would need to go there one day soon. But not yet. Thankfully not yet. He needed to do something else first. If his plan worked as he hoped it would, he could do as he said when he spoke to the shadow with the blood-red eyes. Something that his enemy wouldn’t expect.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rumbling Dissatisfaction

  A tall figure covered in misty, pitch-black robes stood in the center of his throne room lost in thought. If not for his fiercely burning blood-red eyes, he would have blended in perfectly with the natural gloom of the chamber. The symmetry of the alternating black and white tiles, all as large as a man’s stride, usually pleased him, giving him a feeling of control. That everything could be put in its proper place. But not now. Not in this moment. Not when his mind drifted elsewhere. At first, fixated on the future, on what was yet to come, then just as much on the past, on what had come to pass. Finally, it was the present that drew him back from his mental wanderings.

  The Shadow Lord listened to the roars that drifted into the circular room through the open doors. Normally the sound would have filled him with a sense of his own power, of what he could achieve when the time was right. Now it only reminded him of his failures. He glided out onto the balcony and looked down upon the immense courtyard below. Ogren raiding parties formed into ranks on the square, destined for the Highlands with the goal of creating an avenue into the Kingdoms that would allow his dark creatures to avoid the Breaker. The Shadow Lord was certain that, if necessary, his Dark Horde could break through the Kingdoms’ primary defense, scaling the massive wall built to keep him and his servants in the Charnel Mountains after the devastating conclusion of the Great War. But why take an unnecessary risk? Why not circumvent the inevitable delay that breaching such a barrier would create? Why not put in place a better strategy that would allow him to gain his objectives more quickly and easily?

  With all that in mind, he had done so, cultivating and corrupting the
current High King. The Shadow Lord had aided Rodric Tessaril during his rise to the throne of Armagh and the honorific of High King that went with the title. He had helped that inept scoundrel remove the uncle and cousin, giving that insipid yet temporarily useful fool a clear path to power. And with Rodric as High King, the Shadow Lord could use him to weaken the other Kingdoms, bringing to his side those willing to sell themselves for the riches and power he offered, and isolating or eliminating those foolish enough to ignore his entreaties. At first, the move had proved effective. Yet in the last few years, despite the time and effort that went into every single detail of his plans, the strategy, so long in the making, had begun to unravel.

  As a result of the defeat of the Armaghian army in the Highlands, the High King Rodric Tessaril was on the run, risked losing his Kingdom, and had threatened the Shadow Lord’s plans with collapse. With Rodric no longer a threat, the Marchers could turn their attention to protecting their northern border, making it harder for his Ogren raiding parties to gain control of the territory that he needed that would allow his Dark Horde, when the time was right, to avoid the Breaker and sweep into the Kingdoms unopposed. All his planning and scheming appeared to have been for nothing, his plan decades in the making now laying in tatters, thanks to an incompetent High King and an upstart boy. A boy who should have died a decade ago, but didn’t, escaping the assassin’s blade. A boy who should have died multiple times since then, but still lived.

  Rodric, Killeran and Chertney all had been in a position to stick a knife between the boy’s ribs, but failed to do so. Every Nightstalker and Shade sent against him had been defeated as well. Even Malachias had been found lacking in his efforts to eliminate the boy, and he was the most powerful of the Shadow Lord’s servants. The one who had served him the longest and with the greatest success. Even the Wraith, the most dangerous of his assassins, had fallen short, at least initially. Perhaps the Wraith would succeed in time, only bested by the boy but not destroyed. But was it wise to count on the dark creature to complete its task having already failed once? Time and time again the boy had made a fool of him and his minions. That seemed to be the only constant.