The Ranger: Apollo's Story (Tales of Welkinia Book 2)

by J. M. Ivie

  THE RANGER

  J.M. Ivie

  TALES OF WELKINIA BOOK

  II

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email below.

  jmauthoress@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 J.M. Ivie

  All rights reserved.

  This book is dedicated to my siblings to whom I owe so much.

  PART ONE

  O N E

  “Is he dead yet?”

  Their voices bounced off the clay-brown walls as I tried to stand back up. The room turned upside down. My stomach churned, threatening to empty my breakfast onto the wet flagstones. Pain surged through my skull from where they struck me, and all I saw were shadows.

  My throat tightened, and my muscles tensed. I needed to recover quickly. Blindly, I did what I could: listen. The only sounds I heard were the indistinct clattering of footsteps around me. Despite my bleary vision, I charged.

  I plunged my dagger into the chest of the nearest man and wrapped my arm around his neck. Splitting pain pounded against my head, and I released my hold on him. Pressing my hand against the injury, I nearly flinched at the warm, sticky wetness of blood coating my fingertips.

  I heard the crack of metal against my skull before I felt anything. A headache at first—then immense pain. I don’t know how I remained conscious. Stumbling backward, I lurched for my weapon. My heart hammered in my chest. Time stilled as my fingers wrapped around the rough leather handle of my knife.

  I thrust my blade into my assailant’s heart then spun to slay the last man. He barreled my direction, charging at me; his eyes lit with insanity. I pivoted my body around, evading his strike while landing a blow on the back of his neck.

  I turned again. A shadow crossed my vision, and I froze. My reflexes told me to stand at attention—my instincts told me to finish the job.

  Faint clapping resounded from the other side of the chamber. “Nicely done, Apollo. You have improved.”

  Reflexes it was, then.

  I rotated, straightening my aching back to stand at attention for my commanding officer, Jensen. His fierce, black eyes bored holes into my soul. He wasn’t only commanding in stature, standing near seven feet, but he was also commanding in voice. Gravelly, booming—the type that sends shivers down your spine.

  “Why is it you spared the life of this urchin?” he grabbed the man I struck seconds prior.

  I lifted my head. “I was about to kill him, Commander.”

  “Good answer.” The wrinkles about Jensen’s eyes deepened as he smiled. Soul-tethers glinted around his fingers. My soul was bound to one of those gold rings. “Kill him then. He will just take up space in the holding cell.”

  ___

  The drumming of my heart kept me up most of the night. I lay in the barracks with my comrade, the Hound, Chigaru-Baraka. After our first meeting, I said I’d call him Barak. Fiermontians only address each other using their full names, so I expected his annoyance. Eventually, my shortening his name became normal, and then even preferred. Barak was a towering six-foot, two-inch northern Fiermontian with bronze skin and steely gaze. He was a man who blended in with a crowd, yet, if you spoke to him, he would be difficult to forget.

  Barak had a silvery accent which demanded the full attention of his listeners. It was a soothing, smokey-like voice, with pointed consonances and lilting vowels. He would often talk me to sleep at night as he lay on his bunk just above mine, rambling on about his latest session with Ryanne, ‘the self-entitled prig.’ I wouldn’t need the silver potion to relax—Barak did that with his constant chattering.

  It was on this particular night, after I had slain the men in the training room, that Barak was uncharacteristically quiet. I knew he was awake since I heard faint rustling. I assumed he was kneading his shoulder. It often gave him trouble, yet, none of us knew why.

  I glanced up at the ceiling, tracing all the cracks and crevices that etched into the eroded chamber. It smelt horrible… like old sweat and body odor that had built up over the millennia. How could it not? We were all stuffed into the barracks and stayed there, sometimes for seasons, till Jensen assigned us a mission. “Barak.” I kicked the top bunk with the heel of my boot.

  He groaned and shifted his position, but other than that, he remained silent.

  “You’re not usually this quiet.”

  “Long day.”

  His curt reply did nothing to settle my nerves. I released a long breath, trying to quell the fear that my night would drop into absolute misery. I tried to not let the damp cold and smell of mold bother me. The stench reminded me of the holding cell. The blood that seeped into the cracks of the stone floors from the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women that were killed in that chamber crawled back into my memory.

  “Care to talk about it?”

  “No.” Barak tossed a wet rag onto the floor.

  Several moments passed before I noticed the rag was stained with an unholy amount of blood.

  “Barak, the cloth—”

  “Do not touch it.” His sharp tone cut into my nerves.

  “What the Lapp happened?” I sprang to my feet and peered over the top bunk. Barak was laying down with a deep gash in his leg. He had apparently sewn it up; the unskilled crisscrossing of the stitches looked far more vile than the actual wound.

  He spat the words out as anger surfaced in his black eyes, “Training.”

  “Did Jensen do anything about this?”

  Barak nodded. He leaned on his elbow, a vein bulging from his neck, “He gave me the needle and thread to sew it up.”

  I wanted to ask how, or why that had happened, but the look on his face had me on edge. Barak rarely ever lost a fight, and even rarer, injured while training.

  I plopped back down on my bunk. Hard wooden planks kept the thin mattress up, making my rest far less enjoyable than it should have been. “Are you going to be all right?”

  I heard Barak’s shoulders brush against his sheet as if he shrugged.

  “He won’t let anything happen to you, Barak. You’re too important.”

  “I doubt.” He clicked his tongue. “He can train another Hound, but only rarely does he get a Ghost… or Destroyer.”

  “What about Niall?”

  “He can train anyone to hack away the limbs of their victims, or make their insides their outsides. The Butcher would be easy to replace. But, Ryanne, he arrives and leaves like a specter. And you? You are the one Jensen sends to destroy families, knocking one pawn from the board at a time. The Destroyer of Hope. That should be your true title.”

  Destroyer. The word alone made my insides twist. My back felt as if it were on fire between my shirt and the bed. “He can’t replace any of us, Barak. We are special, unique, trained to perfection—”

  “Trained to stupidity. We are dogs, and he is our master.” Barak sat up, causing the planks above my head to creak. “But, we will always obey our master, right, pup?”

  The thought of being a dog repulsed
me.

  “That is why he keeps us locked up here in Siege Veil. We are his things… We do not know where we are or what time of day it is. We are sedated to be sent on missions, and they put us in the middle of nowhere to find our way.” He drummed on the post with his fingers.

  I shook my head. “You understand why he won’t let us know where we are. It’s for our protection. Think of it! What if someone captured Niall and tortured him to give up the whereabouts of our base?” The thought churned my stomach. “What limits can we be pushed too, Barak? I’m thankful we don’t know where we are.”

  Barak huffed. I barely made out his biting response… “Or perhaps Jensen does not trust us, Apollo. Do you not think it strange?”

  “It is a little strange…” I yawned, trying to ignore the thoughts creeping into my mind. “But, it’s nothing worth brooding over.” I threw off my boots and stripped off my shirt, hoping the chill in the air would ease my body’s temperature. I stilled and listened to the persistent and rhythmic pounding of Barak’s fingers against the post.

  T W O

  I JUMPED OUT OF BED. My chest rose and fell as cold sweat trickled down my torso. My heart pounded, and my stomach tightened. The face of the man flooded back into my mind. His eyes, like two luminous gray orbs, glued to mine. I watched the life drain from him as he died.

  I peered around, the pale flicker of the buzzing lantern cast little light, but, it was enough. I slipped off my bunk, looking to the doorway. A large brown curtain was all that separated the room from the hall. Jensen had stated it would ‘build trust.’ It only kept us all awake and vigilant. We never trusted each other completely. It took long enough for me to trust Barak.

  It wasn’t till Barak had come to my aid did I finally trust him. It was just a few seasons after I had arrived when it happened. Ryanne and Niall had banded together and came to either show me my place or simply amuse themselves. Barak was the only one on my side. We all suffered blows. But, in the end, we all knew where the lines were—lines they would not cross.

  I pulled on my black jerkin and adjusted the straps that buckled across my chest. I slipped through the doorway and out into the hall. My heart drummed, and I tried my best to calm down. I leaned against the wall, looking at the flameless lanterns which lit up the stone passageway. They were lit by a mechanical marvel which Jensen procured from Fiermont. Each of the halls had a lever with a wooden handle which turned the lights on and off, depending on the direction of the control.

  I began my walk down the travertine walkway, edging into the main hall. The room was larger than the other rooms in Siege Veil. The ceiling stretched over twenty feet; however, the darkness that engulfed the roof made it seem like an unending abyss. A fire-pit which always burned with a gentle flame rested in the room’s center, surrounded by red sofas. The clock which hung over the east wing hall struck three. The atmosphere rang with its eerie chime. I wasn’t sure if it was three in the morning or three in the afternoon. Siege Veil had no windows… nothing to mark the hours of the day aside from the ticking clock. It would have been nice to have one window to allow some natural light in.

  After I checked Ryanne’s calendar to see if Jensen updated it, I walked over to the fire-pit and made myself comfortable on a sofa. A single book sat next to me on the round table, and by impulse, I picked it up.

  The history of Welkinia and the lineage of the Priest line.

  The droll title made me yawn. There’s no use keeping up with society… not in here. I plopped it back down and stood. I knew the library would at least provide a good distraction from the nightmare which jarred me awake.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked out of the room toward the east wing. The corridor was just like all the others—dimly lit by mechanical lights which hummed slightly and smelt of burning oil. The library was the farthest door at the end. I threw open the cloth barrier and slipped inside.

  There were ten shelves crammed together, and books pressed even closer. If I were to grab one without care, a dozen others would come toppling out.

  I brushed my fingers against the worn leather and cloth-bound documents. They felt like age confined in the pages of worn-out volumes. First, I grabbed a book on geography. I studied the images of the six floating islands, trying my best to find where Siege Veil would be located. I had narrowed down the island itself: Bouldarcaven. But, amid the hundreds of miles of land, my gut said I wouldn’t find it.

  Retiring the atlas back to its spot, I gently tugged at a faded blue book, keeping the others held back with the palm of my other hand. Satisfied with my new find, I took it to the other side of the library where a dust-covered sofa sat. The pages had turned yellow, whether from age or Niall constantly smoking in the library, I couldn’t be sure.

  I sat there for a long hour reading about Lily Rose Briar, the first Ranger, and her quest to save the islands from destruction. She and her companion, Ryea, a woman described to be a giant with white hair and piercing amethyst eyes, single-handedly stopped a war. The great Talismen War. There were still Talismen today; their power had flickered to a dying flame. A flame which the Rangers tried to snuff out completely.

  Lily Rose Briar reminded me of the girl I once knew when I was fifteen. I remembered awkwardly stumbling about around her. I would have pursued her if the time came. Now, I doubted I could feel anything for anyone anymore. Even her memory seemed stilted by the bitter taste of blood in my mouth. The curtains to the library opened. My muscles tensed, and I looked up from my book. In the dim, flickering light of the room I saw a figure standing at the far end of the library.

  The voice was serpentine in its notes, fluctuating between sharp and sinuous as he spoke my name, “Apollo?”

  “What are you doing here, Ryanne?”

  “Just looking for a book.” Ryanne’s pale figure emerged from the shadows, facing me with a curve-lipped grin.

  “Really?” I stood from the sofa and straightened the straps on my jerkin.

  Ryanne laughed as he walked around, thumbing at the shelf. He was a man fit for the title, Ghost. His white tunic clung to his thin frame—a frame which deceived many. No one knew the sheer power that lurked below the surface of his skin. He would have been rather handsome, yet, his deformities, as Jensen put it, left him looking more of a specter than man. He had lips that curved inward, bones which jutted out like a precipice, and skin and hair as white as snow. There was no color to him… even his blue eyes seemed almost gray.

  Barak and Niall claimed his colorlessness was because of some long-forgotten ritual, curse, or spell, put on him. Of course, neither Barak or Niall would have been reliable sources since their superstitious nature often led them down various paths of speculations.

  “So, when did you get back?” I asked, remembering Jensen had sent him on a mission.

  A slight shrug from him, “I’m not sure…” He looked listlessly toward the fireplace. “What day is it?”

  My ears roared as I clenched my jaw. Despite understanding why Jensen kept us all locked away, with only him and the Villain knowing the entrance and exit, it irked me. Barak’s words finally sunk in. He doesn’t trust us… “Not too sure. Jensen hasn’t updated the calendar."

  Ryanne slowly picked at his fingernails, half acknowledging me.

  “What was the mission?”

  His gray eyes found mine. “Classified… but, my gut says it will bring you a mission.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded, “I’ll say this much. There has been word of Peculiars popping up everywhere. The new epidemic.”

  “Peculiars?”

  Ryanne’s icy gaze flicked to me, “Yes. People… enhanced by magic. They are dangerous… unnatural.”

  “Are they really dangerous?”

  “The Talismen seem to think so.” The word Talismen bit into my nerves. “They are just people.”

  “But, as you said, they are people with an unnatural mutation.”

  He shrugged, “We have a list of a few people in speculation a
bout whether they are Peculiars. Some are prominent members of society. The Talismen… they want to recruit them.”

  “So, how would this bring me a mission?” I reiterated. Not that I would mind a chance to get out.

  Ryanne shrugged again. His favorite thing to do other than threaten to torment us all.

  “How long do you think it will take for me to be assigned?” My heart pounded. Hope. Hope begun to simmer in my chest.

  “Judging from your condition—” Ryanne motioned to my head—to the dried-up blood over my brow. “That wound… it’s absolutely beautiful! Is there more?”

  A shiver crawled across my skin. Ryanne possessed an unhealthy obsession with the macabre… one that unsettled everyone.

  He circled me, looking at the rest of the injury. After admiring the scab and blood, he shrugged, “A few weeks at least. It depends on the attention Jensen gives the wound.”

  “And until then?”

  Ryanne grinned. “Until then…” He pressed his thumb against a nail that protruded from the shelf. Dark crimson liquid dripped from the cut he inflicted on himself. He watched it trickle down his palm and forearm, as if fascinated with how it flowed so slowly down his white skin. “I suppose we must amuse ourselves any way we can.”

  T H R E E

  FROM THE DISMAL CALENDAR on the wall which Jensen kept updated it appeared three weeks passed since Ryanne’s return. My head injury had healed up completely, yet, the days in the dark cave were perfect misery. Nerves were high, as expected, and it seemed just a matter of time before one of us snapped.

  “I won’t be captive like a monster!” Niall thundered. I guess it was today, and it was Niall who was the first to lose his head.

  “What if you are a monster, Niall? Ever think of that?” Ryanne snickered.