The Fight Against the Dark Read online

  The Shadow Lord’s blood-red eyes burned like a raging fire as his fury began to consume him. So much at stake, all of it at risk, because of a boy. And now the boy was growing stronger and more dangerous by the day. The boy needed to be eliminated, yet he was surrounded by fools and incompetents and nothing he had tried in the past had proven successful.

  As he drifted back into the chamber and came to a stop in its very center, the Shadow Lord struggled to control his temper as a tremor of unease flitted through his thoughts. Was he the boy of the prophecy? The one destined to stand before him on this very spot and engage him in a duel that would decide the fate of the Kingdoms? Maybe so. Maybe that was why the boy continued to escape the traps set for him. Maybe only he, the Shadow Lord, could kill the boy. If such was the case, then so be it. He would take great pleasure in sliding his blade into the boy’s heart, for the Shadow Lord had no doubt how the duel would end. He was too skilled, too powerful, too treacherous to lose.

  But it should never have come to this. It should have ended long ago. Needing to release his anger, the Shadow Lord shot a bolt of black energy through the gloom, shattering the skylight that enclosed the top of the circular chamber. The Shadow Lord watched without emotion as the broken glass rained down around him, the sparkling shards covering the disc set in the very center of the hall and surrounded by the alternating black and white tile. Unexpectedly and much to his annoyance, a beam of sunshine blasted through the hole at the top of the chamber and shined down on the glass-covered stone disc just seconds after he had destroyed the skylight, the light revealing the intricate design carved into it.

  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 finger’s breadth apart. The boy wore a look of determination, the man a grin of arrogance and sure victory. As the sun met the stone it grew warm, the light touching the broken glass and igniting a kaleidoscope of colors. A rumble began in the room, drifting out to the very edges of Blackstone, an occurrence that had become much more common in the Shadow Lord’s city over the last few months. An event that suggested change could be coming. A happening that still worried the Shadow Lord despite his confidence in the likely result of the prophesied duel.

  As the rumbling intensified so did the brightness of the beam of light, the dazzling colors dancing irregularly across the chamber’s halls. Gaining more and more strength with each passing second, the sunlight blasted away the scraps of darkness and gloom that inhabited the throne room until the Shadow Lord had no choice but to turn away, the glare of the blazing, white light too strong even for him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Another Demand

  The tall man walked silently along the mountain trail, cloak drawn tightly across his shoulders, cowl pulled down to cover his head in a failed attempt to ward off the biting cold. Although it appeared that he wasn’t paying attention, his senses were extended in all directions, attuned to everything around him. Dark creatures haunted the crevices, crags and shadows of these peaks, so his hand never strayed far from the short sword on his belt. Touches of darkness, of things terrifying and unnatural, of things better left in the jet-black of night, flitted across the extreme edge of his perception, but he knew that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. If he hurried, he could reach the grotto that would offer him some protection and peace of mind as he settled in for the night.

  Most people refused to enter the Charnel Mountains, and those who did rarely returned. Any who traveled within ten miles of the forbidding crests shrouded in ash could feel the evil lurking there, hidden away from the sight of man, but always present. Always watching, always lurking, always waiting for just the right moment to strike.

  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 they could not destroy the dark, they could only hold it back. So instead they imprisoned their enemies in the mountains, sealing them away for eternity, or so they thought. Before the Shadow Lord came to be, the Charnel Mountains looked very much like the Highlands, the landscape defined by hidden valleys and lakes, the wind-swept peaks, towering evergreens and other conifers, and brambles and thickets hiding innumerable glades. But when the Shadow Lord took up residence there and began creating his servants — the Ogren, Shades, Fearhounds, as well as other beasts that were even more frightening and deadly — the mountains slowly transformed into what they are today. Barren. Desolate. Dead. Dark grey stone formed the stone spires, the very tips of the monstrous peaks a sooty black. What trees that remained were stunted and twisted, struggling to survive with their roots in an earth covered by a thick layer of ash and cinder.

  The tallest of the mountains could not be seen completely, as fully a third of its mass rose up into the grey clouds. Known as Blackstone, that single peak had an even older name. Shadow’s Reach. On certain winter days, when the sun was in just the right position, the shadow of Blackstone reached out across much of the Northern Steppes, turning day into night and, for those travelers caught in that empty land, life into a horror.

  No one in their right mind scouted the Charnel Mountains on their own. Not if they wanted to live. Yet that was his task, so here he was, wandering the ravines and gullies, staying out of sight, tracking the dark creatures that sought to raid across the flat grassland to the south into the Highlands and perhaps into the Kingdoms beyond.

  Having reached a steeper part of the narrow trail, the tall man began to pick his way carefully, wary of the scrabble beneath his feet. He reached out to the rocks lining the path, pulling himself up the more difficult sections. As he finally attained the level part of the path, he stopped short, his hand whipping the short sword out in front of him.

  The blade glowed brightly as the scout infused it with the Talent. A mysterious man wrapped in black robes stood before him. Bald, his features sharp, he appeared almost skeletal. His sunken, dark eyes gave away no emotion. There was nothing in his eyes but a flinty hardness, a malevolent spark dancing within that sea of black and sending a shiver of fear through the scout.

  “There are easier ways to arrange a meeting, Malachias. You don’t need to play your games.”

  The Shadow Lord’s servant examined the man before him, noting that the sword remained within his grasp, its white light pulsing along the length of steel. He ignored the comment.

  “You dare to challenge me?” questioned Malachias with a smirk, his raspy voice sounding like metal sliding across stone.

  The tall man stared at Malachias a moment longer, then sighed, acknowledging the power that he faced. Releasing his hold on the Talent, he sheathed his short sword. He knew that he didn’t have the strength to defeat the Shadow Lord’s right hand, so there was no point in continuing the show.

  “I have another task for you.”

  The man shook his head in frustration. “I have done enough, more than enough. I have done everything that you have asked of me. This has to stop. No more tasks. No more assignments. I want to be free of this.”

  For the first time some little fragment of emotion drifted behind Malachias’ eyes. He appeared to be amused.

  “You believe that you can break the contract that you made with our master?” A scratchy laugh erupted from Malachias. “You knew full well the bargain you made, and what you were getting in return. Once you struck your bargain, the terms were set. Your fate was sealed. Your life was no longer your own. You belong to the Shadow Lord.”

  “I have done everything he’s asked!” shouted the tall man, Malachias’ words cutting to the very bone. He had been such a fool, thinking that he could find some way to escape the deal he had accepted. The compact that bore down on him like a ten-ton stone. “Everything. And many of the things I’ve done I’m despe
rate to forget, but I cannot. They stay with me, always there in the back of my mind. Please, I need to be free of this. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Malachias’ laughter died quickly, his eyes resembling granite once more. “Once you have committed yourself to the Shadow Lord, there is no turning back. There is no release, not even in death. You will do as commanded. Remember, there are always worse tasks that can be given to you. Tasks that will make the ones that plague your memory now seem pleasant in comparison.”

  The tall man closed his eyes in resignation, desperate to be free of the bindings on his soul, but acknowledging reluctantly that he had no power to remove them. Knowing that his one moment of weakness had turned his life into a waking nightmare.

  “What would you have of me?”

  Malachias stared at the man before him a bit longer, confirming for himself that the traitor understood the strength of the cage within which he had placed himself so long ago, a cage that would continue to hold him no matter what he tried to do to escape.

  “Multiple plans have been set in motion to remove a thorn from the side of the Shadow Lord. But this thorn has proven most resilient and continues to prick our master, as you well know. This thorn has prevented us from using the Highlands to enter the Kingdoms. That cannot continue. We must be able to avoid the Breaker. Yes, the Kingdoms are weak. We can surmount the barrier. But it would cost us time and resources. Better to make the Highlands our staging point. If the Dark Horde can march through the Highlands, the Kingdoms are doomed before the battle even begins.”

  “And my role?”

  “Put yourself in a position to remove this thorn, as you’ve done in the past. You should have no trouble getting close to him if circumstances demand it. But this time do what’s required of you. Remove this thorn. Otherwise, the consequences will be severe.”

  “Who am I supposed to kill?” the tall man sighed with weariness, knowing the answer already but still needing to ask the question. A bolt of fear sent a shiver up his spine and jolted him from his growing melancholy. He had tried once before and failed, barely escaping with his life. His hand unconsciously moved to his chest, touching the silver amulet hanging around his neck, the silver amulet carved into the shape of the curled horn of a unicorn. It felt like an icicle against his body.

  “The Highland Lord.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Taking Flight

  Thomas Kestrel stood atop the Breaker wrapped in a thick, dark green cloak, ignoring the harsh, cold wind that buffeted him, seemingly trying to knock him from his perch on the battlements. Carved from massive blocks of granite, the Breaker rose well over three hundred feet in height and was one hundred feet wide, extending from the western Highlands to the coast and the Winter Sea. Its broad expanse gave the soldiers of the Kingdoms the space they needed to repel an attack by the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures. But there were no defenders standing atop the parapet now, and there hadn’t been for centuries. Because the Shadow Lord had faded from reality to myth in the minds of most in the Kingdoms, the Breaker was no longer viewed as a barrier, but rather just as an obstacle.

  The first time the Shadow Lord had tried to conquer the Kingdoms, one thousand years in the past, the rulers of the different lands didn't perceive his evil as a serious threat then either, since he was far to the north and the Northern Steppes stood in the way. Consequently, only a small contingent of troops from the eastern Kingdoms went into the Northern Peaks to fight. They did all that they could, not knowing what they truly faced until it was too late, as they were heavily outnumbered by the Ogren, Shades, Fearhounds and other hideous beasts that formed the Dark Horde that sought to invade the Kingdoms. The soldiers fought valiantly, yet could only disrupt the Shadow Lord’s inevitable advance and hope that help would come.

  The other Kingdoms finally realized the great threat presented by this new danger, that hard-earned wisdom built on the lives lost because of that initial ill-conceived stratagem, but it would take weeks for those Kingdoms to call together their armies and march to the north. At that time, druids still held sway over the land, and often served as advisors in the courts of the different monarchs. The chief druid, a woman named Athala, suggested that the Kingdoms send their best warriors to her, and under her leadership they would fight the Dark Horde until the massed armies of the Kingdoms could take the field … or her small fighting force was destroyed.

  The unprepared and rattled rulers balked at first, but several unexpected events finally convinced them to move forward with the proposal, and the greatest warriors of that time met Athala on the Northern Steppes in order to counter the Dark Horde, which was pushing hard for the south and would soon break out of the Northern Peaks onto the grasslands. When that happened, the Kingdoms would have little chance of stopping the dark creatures from flooding the Kingdoms. Athala called those who made up her small host of only several hundred Sylvan Warriors, naming these courageous fighters after a mythical band of soldiers who, the stories told, appeared in times of need and fought for those who had been wronged or protected the land when danger threatened.

  The Sylvan Warriors met the Dark Horde at the southern border of the Northern Peaks, and there at a place called the Knife’s Edge they battled for three days and three nights. The Sylvana fought desperately to hold back the Shadow Lord's advance. In the end, after untold sacrifices and a bravery rarely seen on the battlefield, they succeeded. The small band of warriors forced the Dark Horde to retreat to the north. Before the Shadow Lord could recover and send his dark creatures south once more, the armies of the Kingdoms arrived and pushed him and his minions even deeper into what was then already being described as the Charnel Mountains.

  But despite their best efforts the Sylvan Warriors and the combined might of the Kingdoms couldn't destroy the Shadow Lord. They could only defeat him. So the rulers of the Kingdoms again followed the advice of Athala and proclaimed the Sylvan Warriors a permanent fighting force with no ties of allegiance to any Kingdom. The sole purpose of this elite company was to fight the Shadow Lord and his servants, and they had done so ever since.

  Yet even with the formation of the Sylvana and trusting in their skills and power, at the conclusion of the Great War the Kingdoms still feared the Shadow Lord’s return, knowing that if their armies had not appeared when they did to aid Athala and her intrepid troop, the Dark Horde would have overrun the Kingdoms. Therefore, the monarchs of the Kingdoms banded together and built the Breaker and formed the First Guard, soldiers from the different Kingdoms charged with serving a year on the massive wall, watching, waiting, and preparing for the next attack so that when the Shadow Lord once more tried to conquer the Kingdoms, and all assumed that he would, the Kingdoms would be better prepared to defend themselves. But as time passed no attack had come, and the Kingdoms began sending fewer and fewer soldiers to serve in the First Guard until eventually no one stood atop the Breaker, leaving only the Sylvana to guard against the return of the Dark Horde.

  Now, in a replay of events a millennium gone, many of the Kingdoms failed to recognize the danger or willingly ignored it, more worried about the happenings in their own Kingdom thanks to the machinations of the High King rather than, at least to their own eyes, a yet to be confirmed threat to the Kingdoms as a whole that appeared to remain more story than substance. Such short-sightedness could prove costly, Thomas knew, as it had in the past. Not very tall, the Lord of the Highlands still radiated a power and presence that few could project. Deep in thought, his green eyes flashed brightly as he stared to the north at the dark smudge of the Charnel Mountains that rose above the flat expanse of the Northern Steppes. He had needed to clear his mind, to get away, if only for the afternoon, from the crush of business that had fallen upon him now that the Marchers had expelled the High King and his army from the Highlands. Finally, after a decade of terror and anguish, of servitude and misery, his homeland was free. But for how long?

  Attacks by the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures continued in the northern Highlan
ds. At first the raiding parties had predominantly been Ogren led by Shades, but now packs of Fearhounds and Mongrels also were attempting to carve a path through the peaks of his mountain homeland. The increased pace of these incursions could mean only one thing. Time was growing short. The Shadow Lord was stirring, and the Dark Horde would come again. But Thomas couldn’t focus on that task just yet with the High King still running free.

  Rodric Tessaril seemed to be able to slither out of closing traps with ease. Every time Thomas thought that he had the man responsible for his grandfather’s murder within his grasp, he slipped away. Admittedly, the last time, just a few days before, Rodric’s hidden ally had come to the fore and helped him, allowing the High King to flee back to Eamhain Mhacha, capital of Armagh, with his tail between his legs. Thomas couldn’t let the High King enjoy his freedom for much longer. Rodric would only create more problems and intrigue, which would distract from what needed to be the primary focus – defending the Breaker and defeating the Shadow Lord. No, before anything else, the issue of the High King had to be addressed, once and for all. Rodric Tessaril needed to be removed from the playing board. Permanently.

  Thomas turned to the northeast, facing Blackstone. Although he couldn’t see the dead city situated among the Charnel Mountains, he could feel its pull. It was growing more insistent, more demanding. He knew that the prophesied time that he feared the most approached faster than he would have preferred. Just not yet, but soon. Very soon. Unable to take his mind away from that fact, his grandmother’s favorite saying ran through his mind: You must do what you must do. Even if doing what you must came at a cost you didn’t want to pay. Forcing that depressing thought from his mind, he turned to the west. He felt another pull, a fainter pull, very faint, but with each passing hour it was becoming more irritating, like an itch between his shoulder blades that he couldn’t reach. This very vague tug reminded him of the time before he joined the Sylvan Warriors, when the pull of the Pinnacle had grown increasingly stronger as time went by. The same thing was happening now, this strengthening need for him to travel to the western coast of the Kingdoms. He wasn’t certain, but he suspected that this new sensation was connected to the task that he dreaded. Should he follow it? Would whatever he discovered at the end of this nagging feeling give him a chance, however slim, of surviving his encounter with the Shadow Lord? He could think about it all he wanted, but there was only one way to find out.