The Makings of a Warrior Read online

  The Makings of a Warrior

  By Peter Wacht

  Book 4 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 2019 © by Peter Wacht

  Book 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: 978-1-950236-06-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-950236-07-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920372

  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 (forthcoming)

  The Lost Kestrel Found (forthcoming)

  The Claiming of the Highlands (forthcoming)

  The Fight Against the Dark (forthcoming)

  The Defender of the Light (forthcoming)

  Contents

  1. The Hunger

  2. The Prey

  3. A Visit

  4. Another Sighting

  5. Hoping to Meet

  6. A Game of Chess

  7. New Target

  8. Battle of Wills

  9. Two Suitors

  10. Daggers

  11. A Sighting

  12. Test of Character

  13. Realization

  14. Whispered Praise

  15. Formal Introduction

  16. Learning More

  17. An Opportunity

  18. Safe

  19. Plan Set in Motion

  20. Rendezvous

  21. Thrill of Something New

  22. Taken by Surprise

  23. Betrayal

  24. Foreshadowing

  25. Looking for Help

  26. Success

  27. Smug Satisfaction

  28. Competitors

  29. A Trap

  30. A Small Chance

  31. Frustrations

  32. A Test

  33. Recrimination

  34. Parting Gift

  35. The Labyrinth

  36. Getting Help

  37. New Acquaintance

  38. Filled With Worry

  39. Surprise

  40. Premonition

  41. A Swim

  42. New Danger

  43. Murmurs

  44. Almost at an End

  45. Faint Hope

  46. Freedom

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Hunger

  The hunger. It knew only the hunger. A desperate, unrelenting demand, one that could not be denied. As the years passed, the craving to complete its appointed task came and went, yet the hunger remained. To hunt. To kill. Then to hunt once more. It had never failed. It would not have survived for so long if it had. Created for a single purpose, if it failed, it died.

  It had been a long time, though, since its last kill. Its hunger had increased as the days, then months, then years passed, becoming almost unbearable. But its prey still eluded it. Until now.

  Flexing its arms and shoulders, leathery black wings opened and closed on its back. It had searched for a very long time, but to no avail. Now it could finally satisfy its hunger. Its prey, hidden for so many years, had finally shown itself. It was time to hunt. Time to kill.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Prey

  “Thank you,” said Thomas, patting the large black wolf on the back.

  Without Beluil’s assistance, Thomas very likely would have had his throat torn out by the last Fearhound. Only Beluil’s quick action saved him.

  Having tracked a pack of Fearhounds around the edge of the Burren, he and Beluil caught up to the beasts as they attacked a patrol from Fal Carrach, which also happened to include Fal Carrach’s king, Gregory, and his daughter. Gaining the high ground above the skirmish, Thomas turned the tide with his precise shooting, every arrow striking true to take down a creature. Beluil eliminated the final Fearhound, which had gotten a bit too close for comfort.

  Images flashed through Thomas’ mind as he and Beluil walked deeper into the eastern part of Burren, slowly making their way back to the Isle of Mist. Harnessing his Talent, Thomas translated the images as “brothers.” He understood. They had grown up together, he and Beluil. They were brothers. Other images followed.

  “I am not in love,” protested Thomas. Beluil relayed more scenes of the girl Thomas had saved during the struggle with the Fearhounds. “I barely even looked at her.”

  Thomas’ face turned beet red as he disavowed any interest in the raven-haired girl with penetrating blue eyes, much to Beluil’s pleasure. The wolf’s grin displayed all of his long, sharp teeth. Another image intruded on the others.

  “Yes, well, we just won’t tell her what happened, will we?”

  Thomas eyed the wolf with suspicion. His grandmother Rya, barely five feet tall but with the presence of a queen, knew how to find out things that were supposed to remain secret. If she learned that Thomas and Beluil had taken on an entire pack of Fearhounds so soon after recovering from his injuries, her fury would know no bounds. He knew exactly what she would say, too: “Did we not raise you better, Thomas? You continue to take too many risks. One of these days, one of your decisions will come back to haunt you. And we will not be there to help you.”

  He understood that Rya just worried about him, and this was how she expressed it, but he really didn’t want to sit through another lecture.

  “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Besides—”

  A tickle along the back of his neck made him stop, his words forgotten. Beluil halted as well, recognizing the look on Thomas’ face. The wolf scanned the forest around them, yet nothing seemed out of place. None of his acute senses warned him of danger. Thomas closed his eyes as the tickle increased in intensity, setting the hair on the back of his neck on end. His eyes would not help him now.

  Something stalked them, something deadly. The subtle taint of evil drifted along the edge of his senses, much like a breeze bringing the scent of the sea when you were still a few miles from the coast. Sometimes you could taste the salty tang, sometimes you couldn’t. The evil continued to flirt with his senses. It was getting closer, whatever it was, but he couldn’t pinpoint its location.

  Thomas took hold of the Talent, relishing the power of nature as it flowed within his blood. The trees and bushes around him suddenly buzzed with a new life that was hidden from those unable to harness the natural magic of the world. He extended his senses and searched the surrounding area again. Nothing. Thomas frowned. It had to be there. But where? He tried again, taking in more of the Talent. Yes, there it was. Off to his left. But he still could barely sense it, even though it inched toward him.

  Thomas searched his memory as the feeling of evil teased him. Finally he had it. He recognized the source now. He and Beluil could try to escape — the thought of running passed through his mind, and it certainly was enticing — but it would do little good. The evil would continue the hunt until it found its prey; until it found him. The hunter was an assassin, the best the Kingdoms had ever known. At least now Thomas knew what he was up against and could use that to his advantage.

  Beluil growled softly. Now he, too, sensed the approaching evil. Thomas reached for more of the Talent. There! He had the creature no
w. Off to his left for certain, no more than twenty feet away. Thomas relayed the information to Beluil, then opened his eyes and looked to the left with his peripheral vision. Still nothing. It was close to midday now, but the bright sun failed to penetrate the dense canopy of the Burren. The resulting shadows benefited their stalker.

  Glad that he still held his sword, Thomas tried to calm his nerves as the evil moved steadily closer. It was a difficult thing to do. Since he couldn’t see his enemy he’d have to wait until the creature made its move. That thought frightened him. All of his training urged him to attack. Standing still gave the assassin a potential edge. Now was the time. Strike! Strike now! Thomas managed to rein in his emotions. Patience. Against this foe, it was the only thing that would allow him to survive.

  The seconds passed slowly. Beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead. The evil continued its slow approach, unaware that Thomas tracked its movements. Eighteen feet. Fifteen feet. Thomas’ mouth went dry. He resisted the urge to swallow. Soon. Very soon. He looked to his left again with his peripheral vision and this time picked out a shadow darker than the rest. A shadow that moved.

  As the evil grew stronger, it felt as if a blacksmith were pounding out a horseshoe inside of Thomas’ head. His mind cried out for action. To run or fight. Anything but just stand there. That was suicide. Fight, run, run, fight. Do something! Anything! Thomas ignored the pleas and watched the shadow as it glided toward him. Twelve feet. Ten feet.

  Beluil could bear the wait no longer. Finally seeing their attacker clearly, he bared his teeth and leapt into the air, its claws extended. Much to the wolf’s surprise, he failed to reach its target. Beluil was frozen in the air, unable to move a muscle. He couldn’t even close his jaws to howl in anger. Dark Magic! Thomas made use of his friend’s valiant effort, charging forward and swinging his blade with all his might.

  Thomas’ attack surprised the shadow, as it was not used to any response but fear. It quickly recovered, catching Thomas’ sword on an armored forearm and turning it aside.

  Just as Thomas had thought — a Nightstalker! That explained the futility of Beluil’s attack. He had met one before when traveling with Rynlin. His grandfather had told him never to forget the feeling of evil from that experience, and he hadn’t, much to his relief. Otherwise, he would already be dead. Using his Talent, Thomas created a ball of light that hung above his head, illuminating the forest and allowing him to see the assassin clearly.

  The Nightstalker towered over Thomas, standing eight feet tall with its skin the color of black granite. The ball of light hovering in the air prevented the creature from blending into the darkness as was its wont. Shaped like a man, its blood red eyes stared at Thomas. Its hunger was obvious. Thomas understood why his attack had not fazed the Nightstalker. Its body, covered in hard scales, served the same purpose as a soldier’s armor.

  Before Thomas could make use of the Talent once again, the Nightstalker attacked, swinging its scythe-like claws at his face. Thomas parried the blows with his sword, their ferocity sending shivers down his arms. He unsuccessfully tried to break away from the attack. The Nightstalker followed after him, searching for a hole in Thomas’ defenses.

  Thankfully, the ball of light moved with them, preventing the assassin from slipping back into the shadows. Now out in the open, the Nightstalker pressed forward, its claws coming closer and closer each time to their intended target. If Thomas allowed this to continue, it wouldn’t be long before his guts spilled out onto the forest floor.

  Catching one of the Nightstalker’s claws on his blade, Thomas ducked behind his attacker and ran back toward Beluil, who remained suspended in the air. Finally having some room to operate. Thomas gathered his will. A ball of fire shot from his palm, sizzling through the air toward the Nightstalker. The flames struck the Nightstalker full force, licking all over its body.

  But just as quickly as they consumed the assassin, they died out. Thomas’ momentary relief turned to worry. That’s how Rynlin had killed the other Nightstalker. Why did it fail this time? Nightstalkers often had some skill in Dark Magic, which explained this one’s ability to stop Beluil’s attack, but he had never expected a Nightstalker to be so powerful.

  Thomas had little time to ponder the possible reasons, as the Nightstalker again surged forward in search of blood. The evil grin on its face, exposing its sharp white teeth, almost unnerved Thomas. How was he supposed to defend himself against this creature if neither the sword nor the Talent worked? Thomas met the Nightstalker’s attack and allowed the creature to force him backwards. He needed to find a solution. And fast.

  As he retreated, parrying the teeth-jarring blows of the Nightstalker, an idea finally came to him. Mastering his will, Thomas drew on the Talent, allowing the power of nature to flow into his sword. He drew more and more of the power until the ancient steel blazed a deep blue.

  This time, when the Nightstalker swung its claws toward Thomas’ face, the creature danced back in pain. Its dark skin sizzled where it touched the blade. Sensing a shift in the momentum of the duel, Thomas lunged forward, swinging his blade high and low, each time forcing the Nightstalker to defend with an arm or wing. The hunter had become the prey.

  The creature’s skin burned horribly wherever Thomas’ blade touched it. For the first time in its life, the Nightstalker entertained thoughts of escape. The blue flame of the blade blinded the creature, giving Thomas free rein to attack. As the assassin backed away, Thomas followed after relentlessly. Raising his blade above his head, Thomas swung it down with all his might. The Nightstalker moved to defend itself, raising its claws to meet the attack.

  The deception worked. In midmotion, Thomas changed the direction of the blade and brought it in from the side, catching the creature below the shoulder. The pulsating blue blade easily sliced into its skin, digging halfway into its body. The Nightstalker’s scream of pain sent chills through Thomas. Tearing the blade out of the creature’s body, he jumped back. The Nightstalker fell to its knees, the horrible wound pouring dark red blood onto the forest floor. The look of surprise on the creature’s face disintegrated as it collapsed in the grass.

  Thomas lowered his blade, a wave of exhaustion rolling over him. He released the Talent and the blue blade winked out, becoming steel once more. Relief spread through him. For the first time in his life he realized just how close he had come to dying. Thomas felt a warm nose on his hand. Beluil stood by his side once more. With the Nightstalker’s death, the wolf had gained his freedom from the spell.

  “It looks like we’re even,” said Thomas, patting the wolf affectionately on the head.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Visit

  Killeran sat gloomily in his travel tent, his feet propped up on a footrest. It was all that remained of his fort. Once a symbol of his power in the Highlands, it was now nothing more than a burned out wreck. More than half of his men were dead or deserted, and his center of power, his primary tool for holding sway in the foothills of the Highlands, was destroyed. Even the massive steel cages that once held his Highland slaves were now simply twisted masses of steel.

  He took another gulp from his wine bottle, hoping it would help him think. He had to do something quickly. But what? He barely had enough men to protect himself now, even with his warlocks. Some of his surviving reivers who had gone after the escaped Highlanders spoke of the use of Dark Magic. He drained down a quarter of the wine in his bottle. That was absolutely preposterous! No Highlander had displayed such a skill for hundreds of years, much less would have any control over Dark Magic.

  Killeran turned his thoughts back to his current dilemma. He had determined that his men had latched on to an excuse, needing some way to explain their incompetence. Killeran didn’t care for excuses. He smiled as he remembered the shock on their faces when he ordered them drawn and quartered. He didn’t want excuses; he wanted results.

  Even worse, he now had no supplies. How was he supposed to rebuild his fort and begin mining again without any wood,
or steel, or even more important, workers? Since the destruction of the Black Hole the Highlanders had gone to ground, and he didn’t have the ability to pursue them in the higher passes now. As a result, his reivers now had to do the mining themselves. Though they weren’t happy about it, the error of their ways had quickly been shown to them by some of the warlocks. However, these two concerns were inconsequential compared to the third. Somehow Rodric had learned of the escape.

  Taking another drink from the bottle, he glanced off to the right where he had thrown the crumpled missive from the High King. I will not tolerate such incompetence, the bastard had written. Only a fool would allow two boys to cause such problems. If you cannot handle your affairs properly, then perhaps a new Regent of the Highlands would be in order. And as you know, much like a king or queen, there is only one way to remove a regent from his throne.

  Killeran cursed himself for the thousandth time in the past six weeks. He knew he should have killed those two. He knew it! But he had ignored the warnings that had gone off in his head. And because of it, he huddled in a stinking tent, drinking wine that had almost turned to vinegar and digging out precious little gold and minerals for a High King he despised.

  Killeran threw the bottle of wine to the ground in disgust, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. He wanted to lash out, but at what? He had already punished the few remaining men who had failed to recapture the Highlanders, but the pleasure from that experience had not lasted long enough.

  Slouching back in his chair, he ran a hand under his dripping nose. This damn Kingdom! It seemed that this cold had plagued him ever since he entered this cursed wilderness. He had to think. He had to find someone to blame. Otherwise, he would have more to worry about than just a snot-nosed, whiny High King. He’d have to worry about someone who could snuff out his life in—

  “Another Nightstalker is dead.”

  Killeran jumped up from his chair, spinning around. The voice sounded like a hiss, similar to wind escaping through a barely open window. It set Killeran’s teeth on edge, yet he could not locate the source. It couldn’t be. How could he know so soon? How could he be here?