The Legend of the Kestrel Page 6

  There was only one way to advance in the army of reivers that Chertney commanded, the Army of the Black Sword as it was called. You had to defeat your superior in a duel. That’s how Akala had achieved his rank, and he knew that Oclan wanted it. Before entering the Highlands, he thought Oclan might actually challenge him. But Oclan had chosen not to. Nevertheless, he had become more difficult to deal with. Many times Akala had wanted to kill the bastard and be done with it. That was the easiest way to eliminate this latest threat to his power. The two large axes of the Ogren, their blades shining wickedly in the waning afternoon light, brought Akala to a halt and his thoughts to more immediate concerns. The Ogren regarded him with what looked like hunger. He guessed that this was how a chicken felt, right before the farmer cut off its head.

  “Enter,” said a deep voice from within the tent. Instantly, the Ogren removed their axes from his path, though they continued to look at him and his men as if they were pieces of meat. He actually felt sorry for those Highlanders by the wall. He wouldn’t wish their fate on anyone. Stepping inside the tent, his men right behind him, they nearly walked right over him as he stopped just within the entrance so his eyes could adjust to the dim light.

  “You’ve failed, Akala.”

  A dark figure stepped forward from the other side of the tent. If Akala had not seen the movement, Lord Chertney would still be invisible. Chertney was a tall man, almost wraithlike in appearance, with long black hair and a mustache that curled at the edges. His intense black eyes were hypnotic. Akala had served Chertney for years, and he had never seen him dressed in anything but midnight black. His breeks and shirt were covered by worn black armor, the dents and scratches from the battle two, almost three days before, still visible. The sword at his side made Akala uneasy. Though it was sheathed, he had seen it many times before. Made from the blackest steel, a single scratch would kill a man, much like certain poisons, though death by poison would be less painful then a touch from that blade. Chertney moved like a snake as he came to stand before Akala. A very poisonous snake, Akala reminded himself.

  “No excuses, Akala?” asked Chertney, his voice menacing. “You’ve never failed me before.”

  “We tried, Lord Chertney,” said Akala, having a hard time getting the words out. His throat was as parched as the desert. “We truly did. But the boy was too quick for us.”

  “You let a boy escape,” said Chertney. An evil smile spread across his face as he walked toward the back of the tent, forcing Akala and his men to squint in order to pick him out from the black cloth. To Akala, it seemed as if he spoke to a floating head. “A very important boy, Akala. I cannot have a man bested by a boy leading my men.”

  Whipping around, Chertney extended his hand and mumbled a few words under his breath.

  Akala had no time to react as something invisible seized his throat. It felt like a hand, but there was nothing there that he could see. The grip grew tighter and tighter. Akala struggled to breathe, clutching at his throat. His men looked on in horror as their leader’s face slowly turned blue, yet no one stepped forward to help him. Akala’s futile efforts grew weaker. Gasping for air, his eyes bulged, until finally he slumped to the carpet.

  The reivers stared down at their former leader in horror. They had seen men die before, but never like this. Chertney’s voice immediately pulled their eyes from the corpse.

  “When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out. Do you understand the consequences if you fail?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they said, stumbling over one another in their fear. They’d do anything to avoid Akala’s fate.

  “Good,” said Chertney, casually stepping over Akala’s body. He smiled, seeing the beads of sweat running down their faces. He enjoyed making people afraid. “Oclan, you now lead the reivers. I want the lower Highlands cleared of Marchers. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Lord Chertney!” said Oclan, shouting out the words.

  “Then take your men and get to work. Or do you wish to share the fate of your former commander?”

  “No, my lord,” said Oclan, already pushing his men out through the flap, wanting nothing so much in life than to be out of that tent. After the reivers had gone, Chertney looked down at Akala, studying the man’s face in death.

  “As I expected,” he said absently. “It looks as if I will need some additional assistance with this small task. We can’t have the heir to the Highland throne running around free, now can we? A troublesome boy, this one. When I get my hands on him, he will have wished he died as he was supposed to in the Crag.”

  His master had made it very clear that the boy was to die in the attack. There were to be no mistakes in that respect. At the time, he had thought nothing of it. His master didn’t like his servants to think. He liked them to perform their tasks. But now he had to think. Why would his master want a boy dead more than Talyn Kestrel, the actual Lord of the Highlands? When asked what fate Kestrel was to have, his master had said that if he wasn’t killed in the attack, Chertney could do what he wanted with him. But not the boy. The boy was to die immediately. He would have liked to ponder it more, to see if there was something he was missing that he could turn to his advantage, but he was interrupted.

  “Have you completed your task, Lord Chertney?” asked Johin Killeran, the nasal quality of his voice becoming more evident as he followed his overlarge nose into the tent. “I would hate to report to the High King that you’ve failed. Have you gained control of the Highlands as ordered?”

  Chertney turned slowly toward the entrance, once again cursing his luck at having to deal with this man. This man who played at lord. Killeran supposedly served the King of Dunmoor, the kingdom that bordered the Inland Sea and Fal Carrach. But he had no illusions that Killeran served only himself, which explained why he was now in league with the High King. Chertney had the sudden urge to kill the man, to wipe that condescending smile from his ratlike face with a single slice of his blade across the throat. The arrogance and condescension apparent in Killeran’s every movement set his temper boiling. Instead, he took a long breath before answering.

  “The Crag has fallen, and most of the Marchers garrisoned there are dead,” replied Chertney in a calm voice, struggling to rein in his anger. His voice became colder as he thought of slicing that large nose off of Killeran’s face. Perhaps another time. “Some of the Marchers escaped, and there were already several large squads of Marchers out scouring the countryside for us in the last few weeks. I’ve gotten reports that they’re heading to the higher passes. Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources to go after them all.”

  Killeran’s face darkened as he listened to Chertney’s report. “The High King will not be happy, Chertney.”

  “We will eliminate as many Marchers as we can. You will have to deal with whatever scraps remain,” said Chertney, ignoring Killeran’s glare.

  The urge to kill the sniveling lord grew stronger. His master had ordered him to help the High King take the Crag. He had not told him to conquer the Highlands. Killeran had done little but complain and question Chertney’s orders since he had started to secretly move groups of reivers and Ogren into the Highlands to prepare for the attack. And Lord Nose had been noticeably absent during the assault. Killeran wore the same armor as he had when the battle began, a gleaming silver breastplate and thigh guards with a long billowy white cloak running down his back. If not for his nose and his cold eyes, with his broad shoulders and curly brown hair, Lord Johin Killeran might have been considered a dashing figure. Yet, the vanity and arrogance stripped that away. Chertney was certain that Killeran had never removed his sword from its sheath since the attack on the Crag began. Killeran had worked years to develop his reputation as a deadly swordsman. Chertney thought it was just that — a reputation.

  “Do I need to explain it to you again?” asked Killeran in mocking disbelief. “The High King not only wanted the Crag destroyed, but he wanted the Marchers eliminated as well. This is the perfect opportunity to get rid of them. T
hey may be considered the greatest warriors in the Kingdoms, but there aren’t that many of them. By destroying the Marchers, we destroy any resistance. That means the High King can begin mining this horrid land in peace. If the Marchers remain, even just a small group, it will make my task that much harder. How is the High King supposed to advance his plans if he doesn’t have the financial resources to support them?”

  Chertney stood calmly through Killeran’s lecture, but his insides churned angrily. He realized that he was massaging the hilt of his sword, so he took his hand away. He’d have to bear with this insolent worm just a little longer. If he was lucky, sometime in the future his master would allow him to kill Killeran. He’d do it now, but he knew the consequences of going against his master’s wishes. He’d seen it many times before. You would think that after a time you would become desensitized to something like that. Chertney definitely enjoyed suffering, or rather, making other people suffer. But thinking about what his master did to those who did not obey his orders almost made him ill. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, reminding himself that for now his master was allied to the High King. However, alliances with his master did not last forever. Soon things would change. Then Killeran would be fair game.

  “Why are you smiling?” demanded Killeran, taking a step back from Chertney and almost tripping over something on the floor. He jumped back in surprise, not having seen the body of the dead reiver when he walked in. The man’s eyes stared straight up in shock, his face blue, yet there was no discernible mark on him.

  Killeran had heard rumors that Chertney was a warlock, a master of Dark Magic. The body and Chertney’s smile, cold and harsh, confirmed it. Killeran quickly surmised that Chertney was more powerful than he. Instead of frightening him as it should, it infuriated him. He hated anyone who had more power than he did.

  “And your other task?” asked Killeran. “Have you at least completed that?” The stony look on Chertney’s face did not faze him, though he did take a few more steps backwards, so he would be closer to the tent flap.

  Chertney thought of letting the Ogren take care of Killeran. Perhaps he could even make it look like an accident. There was not much you could do when Ogren were hungry, except stay out of the way. Chertney told himself to stop wishing. The sooner he finished this meeting, the sooner he would be rid of Killeran.

  “The Lord of the Highlands is dead,” replied Chertney, pointing to a table in the back of the room, “As is Benlorin Kestrel.”

  Killeran stepped toward the back of the tent, unable to make out the objects sitting on the table from where he was. He immediately leapt back, swallowing several times as gorge rose in his throat. Chertney had placed the heads of Talyn and Benlorin Kestrel on spikes stuck into the wood. Pools of congealed blood had formed beneath each one. But there was a third spike, and it was empty.

  “And the grandson?” asked Killeran, unable to tear his eyes from the grisly sight.

  “He’s still missing.”

  “Missing,” whispered Killeran. Things were not working out as he had planned. Having squads of Marchers roaming the Highlands was bad enough, but they could be dealt with. Yes, the High King wanted the riches of the Highlands, but he also wanted the Highlands for himself. Then he could turn his attention to the other kingdoms. But the Highlands was the first step. The most important step. If that boy remained free, the High King would have a hard time making a legitimate claim. “How could he be missing?”

  “He escaped through a tunnel beneath the Hall of the Highland Lord,” replied Chertney.

  “He escaped,” repeated Killeran, shaking his head in disbelief. How could a boy, no more than ten years old, escape? “Is there anything else that you have failed to do that you have not yet told me?”

  Chertney again struggled to control his anger. This worm should be stepped on. He promised himself that Killeran would die, and he would feel a great deal more pain than the reiver lying at his feet.

  “The boy will be found and killed,” said Chertney simply. “You need not worry about that.”

  “Not worry. Not worry! And why should I not worry about that?” asked Killeran, letting out a nervous laugh. You have failed to accomplish your simple tasks, but I’m not supposed to worry about the heir to the Highland throne running free?”

  “He will be dead soon enough,” said Chertney. This time it was his turn to smile. “I’ve got a surprise for him. He may have escaped my reivers, but his luck will soon run out.”

  “And just what exactly is this—” Killeran’s words died in his mouth. Chertney motioned to the very back corner of the tent. A figure coalesced out of the darkness, a figure that made Killeran’s entire body turn cold. He had heard of creatures like this before, but he had never seen one. He had never wanted to see one. Now he was certain the stories about Chertney were true, as well as the rumors as to just who his master was. It was dangerous enough to have a secret alliance with the High King. That paled in comparison to this. He would have to be much more careful in the future now that he knew where he truly stood in the scheme of things.

  “No one can escape from a Nightstalker,” said Chertney. The creature stepped into the dim light. A silent battle ensued as the torches struggled to light the space around the creature. It was well over eight feet tall, its body the color of black granite. Raven-black scales covered its body. The only way to see it was to look at its head. Unless it was caught in the sunlight, the Nightstalker was invisible, its body automatically adapting to the darkness around it. But you could never miss the eyes. The blood-red eyes that glowed in the dark.

  Chertney was having a hard time seeing the powerfully built beast himself, except for the bright red eyes and the sharp white teeth that protruded from its jaws. Something large stuck up over the head of the creature, and then Killeran realized what it was. Wings. Large, black leathery wings that were now folded together. He looked down at the creature’s hands and took an involuntary step backward. He was now almost completely outside the tent. Instead of hands, the creature had claws that could easily tear a man apart. The Nightstalker was created for one purpose, and one purpose only — to kill.

  “As you can see,” said Chertney, “the boy will not be alive much longer. Do you remember your history, Killeran? Do you know what a Nightstalker can do?” Chertney continued before Killeran could reply. “My master created these creatures to be his assassins. They’re very good at what they do. They can cover great distances quickly. They fade in and out of darkness. Tremendous strength. Best of all, when a Nightstalker is given prey, it will hunt until its task is complete, no matter how long it takes. It never takes very long, though. So, as you can see, Lord Killeran, you have nothing to worry about regarding the boy. He will not be with us much longer.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  New Beginning

  It took Thomas several hours to build the grave, so it was not until midafternoon that he and his new friend started their journey. Night was almost upon them. Thomas walked under the trees, cradling the small pup in his arms. The wolf had followed him for a good distance, but eventually it had become too much of a struggle for him. Thomas felt the warmth of the pup against his chest. At least tonight, if there weren’t any surprises, he might actually get some sleep. Even better, his clothes had dried during the day and his walking had driven the chill from his body. Nevertheless, the events of the last few days had taken their toll on Thomas. The exhaustion that was slowly gaining control of his body dampened his desire to continue. As the sun sank in the west, he knew that he would have to stop soon and catch a rabbit. He could survive on berries and nuts if he had to, but his little friend could not, and by the look of him the pup had not eaten in several days.

  Finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, Thomas walked into a large glade with a small stream running through it, drawn by the sound of rushing water. He was halfway to the stream when he realized he was not alone. Thomas immediately backed away. The wolf pup, sensing his worry, came awake.


  Two people stood before him. They had already started a small fire by the stream. The wonderful smells coming from the pot that hung over the flames made his stomach growl in protest. He heard the same noise coming from the pup. Thomas licked his lips as the breeze blew another whiff of the stew past him.

  He studied the two people for several long moments, thankful that neither had yet approached him. They seemed content to study him. Thomas sensed that they had measured him from head to toe, inside and out, in seconds. A tall man stood behind the fire, having risen from where he was tasting the stew with a wooden spoon. He had dark hair and a short black beard salted with grey. His green eyes held an intensity that Thomas found frightening, as if he could see things about Thomas that Thomas didn’t even know about himself. The dark man also wore a cloak that blended in perfectly with his surroundings. It seemed to Thomas as if he was only looking at a head. The man appeared dangerous. It was the woman, though, who knocked him off balance. Standing next to the man, she appeared short, though her presence made up for her lack of stature. Her long, chestnut hair flowed halfway down her back, the curls hanging over her eyes for her to habitually brush away. He was taken by her blue eyes. They held a natural warmth that Thomas had never seen before in anyone else.

  She was a beautiful woman, but that’s not what unsettled him. It was his memories. His grandfather had told him stories about his mother, about her chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes. He had never met her, so he had created an image of what he thought she looked like in his mind. The image now stood before him.