Remove the Shroud: The King's Ranger Book 3

by AC Cobble

  “That’s not what I’m asking. Tell me where she’s from, what was she doing with the group? She’s no more a professional adventurer than you are. Why was she with Borace and the others?”

  “I don’t know,” said the necromancer with an unconvincing shrug. “She’s not quiet, but she is secretive. She didn’t tell me anything about her past, where she came from, or why she had joined the others. I wasn’t with them long, you know. She joined sometime before me but perhaps only by a week or two. In Spinesend, I think. Really, Ranger, I know almost nothing.”

  “What do you suspect, then?” pressed Rew.

  Ambrose pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I feel like we got off to a poor start,” said Rew. “We’re not really understanding each other, are we?”

  Before Ambrose could respond, Rew reached out, grabbed the front of the man’s scarlet robes, and then tossed him down the hill.

  The necromancer uttered something halfway between a cry of surprise and a curse on the soul of Rew’s mother before the rolling fall pounded the breath from his lungs, and all they could hear were grunts and thumps as the man tumbled out of sight into the thick mist.

  Zaine stared after him, openmouthed.

  “Let’s hope that when he climbs back up here, he’s more forthcoming,” said Rew.

  “I’m glad we weren’t standing on a hill when you first met us,” said Zaine. She turned to Rew. “You really have a thing about throwing people down hills, don’t you?”

  Rew grinned at her. “Just spellcasters, usually. You’re lucky you’re a good deal younger than Ambrose or Worgon, and you had no idea who I was. They know who I am and ought to have known better. I suppose you’re also lucky none of you were necromancers, except Cinda, and that only Raif was a prick.”

  Zaine laughed, and between her mirth and the approaching sound of Ambrose’s curses as he climbed back up the hill, the others started to stir awake.

  That day, they didn’t travel. Both Borace and the nameless woman had been on the cusp of death, and while Anne had given what empathy she could, it wasn’t enough to bring them back so quickly. Anne herself lay on the turf wrapped in her blankets, sleeping more often than she was awake during the day. She insisted she was fit to travel, but not a person in the party took her at her word. Rew and the children sat apart from the wounded and Anne, on the opposite side of the crown of the hill, so their conversation did not disturb the others.

  “Feels good to not be the one lying there injured,” muttered Raif.

  “For once,” said his sister with a grin.

  He winked at her and patted his greatsword. “I’m learning the use of it.”

  “Don’t be overconfident,” warned Cinda.

  Raif rolled his eyes at her, but before he could voice a response, Rew remarked, “She’s right. Don’t be overconfident and overextend. You did well, Raif, and you should be proud of it, but surviving a scrap like that isn’t just about swinging your sword. It’s about knowing how far you can push yourself into the fray and when to retreat. Against the narjags, you struck when you had the opportunity, but you didn’t rush into any trouble you couldn’t get away from. That’s just as important as how you use your blade.” The ranger gestured toward where the berserker Borace was lying. “A lesson on what happens when you push too hard, if you need one.”

  Raif nodded, looking thoughtful. He grinned, and said, “He was impressive, though, wasn’t he? I counted fifteen, sixteen of the creatures that he felled. Imagine telling that story in a tavern, eh?”

  Rew grunted and did not respond. Instead, he turned to Zaine. “And you did well also. You selected targets where you had a clean shot and refrained from firing too close to the rest of us. You didn’t panic, and best of all, you hit what you were shooting at.”

  “Most of the time,” said Raif, brushing a hand over his head as if to make sure an arrow wasn’t there, stuck in his hair.

  Zaine reached over and punched him in the arm. “I may have missed that narjag, but I didn’t hit you either. Stop complaining.”

  Rew grinned. “The shots I saw were well-aimed.”

  “Next time,” assured Cinda, “I’ll do better. I won’t hesitate, like I did yesterday.”

  Rew shook his head. “No, lass, you did the right thing. Your power is still new to you, and it’s no shame to admit you’ve difficulty controlling it. That’s understandable. Necromancy is a dangerous art, and while I expect you’ll come into it, you haven’t yet. It’s better to hold back, to wait until you’re certain of what you can do or certain there’s no other choice. Also, yesterday, when you sent that pulse into the narjag, you risked showing the others in our party what you’re capable of. Remember, lass, the king believes it is your sister who has talent. It’s worth all of our lives to keep that secret from him.”

  Tight-lipped, Cinda nodded.

  “That reminds me,” muttered Rew. He stood and gestured to Ambrose.

  The necromancer was sitting with Lord Fredrick, halfway between the wounded and Rew and the children, as if the two men weren’t sure of their welcome in either group. Fredrick was sitting stiff as new paper, attempting to ignore everyone else, and Ambrose was pouting. Apparently, the necromancer was still put out from when Rew threw him down the hill. Ever since he’d gotten to the top, and Rew had shaken some information out of him about the nameless woman, the necromancer had been sulking by himself or in the company of Lord Fredrick, which, given how much the two of them conversed, was still essentially by himself. No one bothered to try and comfort Ambrose, as even the simplest of friendly comments were met with icy regard. The necromancer had not been pleasant to be around that morning, although when Rew considered it, he conceded that very few necromancers were pleasant to be around ever.

  Rew waved Ambrose over. He told the necromancer, “Today, while the others are resting, you’ll begin teaching the lass.”

  Ambrose bared his teeth at Rew. The ranger glanced meaningfully down the hill.

  “You don’t earn loyalty through violence and intimidation,” muttered Ambrose.

  “Did Borace have your loyalty? You didn’t lift a finger to assist him when he was swarmed by narjags. From what I’ve seen, I’m not missing much.”

  “Yet you ask for my help.” Ambrose looked away and sneered toward the resting berserker. “The man ought to have known what would happen when he charged out alone. I cannot protect everyone.”

  “You didn’t protect anyone,” reminded Rew.

  “I help those who deserve it.”

  “Did Baron Fedgley deserve your help?”

  Ambrose didn’t respond.

  “Twice, I witnessed Fedgley call wraiths,” said Rew. “Five of them the first time. Then, I believe it was three, the second time. The first time, they were captured by a powerful spellcaster using an enchanted box he’d prepared for them. The second time, the lass banished them. She banished three wraiths from the barrowlands.”

  Ambrose’s eyes popped open wide, and his jaw dropped.

  “With the right breeding, the child is always stronger than the parent,” said Rew. “The lass is capable of more than her father, but she’s untrained. I don’t care if you think she deserves your help or not. She needs it, and you’re going to teach her what you can, just as we discussed.”

  “She banished three wraiths? You’re certain?”

  Rew nodded.

  “How?” demanded Ambrose, staring into Rew’s face, as if afraid to look at Cinda. “The wraiths Fedgley summoned from the barrowlands are ancient apparitions, terribly powerful. Managing a creature like that…”

  “It was instinctual. She has the talent, but she needs it refined. I hate to say this, but she needs your help.”

  “Has she cast spells other than the funeral fire that I saw?”

  “Death’s flame.”

  “An early one, typically,” said Ambrose, reaching up and scratching his bald head. “One of the most common for an untrained caster to fling. I,
myself, began using it when—”

  “She killed another necromancer with it,” interrupted Rew, “one in Duke Eeron’s service. There were three of them. Did you know them?”

  Ambrose opened his mouth and closed it. “I, ah, I was familiar with Eeron’s minions, yes. She… truly, she killed one of them with death’s flame? I tried to contact them in Spinesend, but I learned they hadn’t survived the battle with Worgon…”

  “She killed one,” Rew confirmed. He leaned close and whispered, “I killed the other two.” He waited a breath and asked, “You’ll help her, then?”

  Ambrose swallowed. “I will do as you ask, but you should know, with strength like hers, she will quickly exceed my own ability. There are things, spells, that are beyond me, which she will become capable of. Necromancy is a dangerous art, Ranger, and we have few of the tools and reference material that is necessary for study. Someone like her, working like this… There is much damage that she could do.”

  “I know it’s dangerous, but it’s what must be done. Teach her what you can and advise her of what is beyond you. That’s all I ask.” Rew crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the other man. “You didn’t actually collect any wraiths for Baron Fedgley, did you? I’m guessing you didn't even breach a barrow. That’s how you survived? You lived because you did nothing?”

  Ambrose shifted uncomfortably. “Those spirits are ancient. They’re beyond me, beyond all of us. Only Fedgley himself could control them, and even he…“ Ambrose glanced at Cinda and shuddered. He looked back to Rew. “The others were fools, and they did not understand their own limitations. Fedgley did not employ us to control those monsters. He employed us simply to open the doors and set off the traps. I think he was surprised every time one of us survived what came out of those barrows.”

  “Teach her,” said Rew, nodding to acknowledge Ambrose’s honesty, “and I’ll trade you no more barbs about loyalty. As long as you’re teaching her, I’ll treat you as one of us, and I will do what I can to protect you.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ambrose. He turned, shaking out his bright red robes, looking ethereal in the morning sun as the mist billowed away from him.

  Rew figured the man would have been quite pleased with the image, though he certainly did not intend it to look that way.

  The necromancer drew himself up, tilted his chin toward the sky, gathered his robes high, and gave Cinda an oily smile. “Shall we, then?”

  Rew offered Cinda an apologetic squeeze on her shoulder and said, “Raif, take the watch while the two of them talk. Zaine, you’re with me. We’re going scouting.”

  “Scouting for what?” asked the thief.

  “Anything,” said Rew, putting a hand on the hilt of his hunting knife. “Anything at all.”

  Rew led Zaine down into the mist that clung between the hills, the early morning sun merely warming the air above, doing nothing to cut through the pervasive moisture. Most of the day, Rew suspected, the white shroud would hang between the hills around them. They had no choice but to stay put because of their wounded, which meant they were sitting there waiting for Dark Kind to come by and smell them. Lord Fredrick claimed his glamour would do nothing to hide their scent, and Rew figured the nobleman was likely correct. Low magic worked on the caster’s connection, and Fredrick would have no connection to the Dark Kind. They were foreign to the world, and it made them resistant to magic. It helped some that the mist and the still breeze would prevent the party’s scent from carrying far, but all the same, Rew would feel better after doing a bit of scouting, looking for tracks and seeing what else was around them.

  They went first to the site of the battle they’d had against the valaan and the narjags. They found the creatures still there and, unsurprisingly, still dead. Rew’s visibility was cut because of the mist, but the wet grass was impossible to move across without leaving some sign. It meant he could see what had come in the night, and there were fresh tracks there.

  Zaine grunted as they circled the scene of the fight. Rew didn’t need to tell her what the trampled emerald green blades meant. Others had come and surveyed what occurred and then left. Narjags, Rew could tell, and he guessed that Zaine suspected as much. The Dark Kind had left, though, and that was unusual. Narjags wouldn’t hesitate to eat their own dead, and these bodies were undisturbed.

  “Another valaan,” surmised Rew. “Leading another patrol, I’d guess, and it kept them moving when they found the bodies. Narjags have poor eyesight, and it’s possible they missed our tracks, or that they decided to follow the mercenaries instead. We got lucky, their nostrils would have been filled with the scent of… this, and they didn’t detect us nearby. Valaan… I don’t know. It’s rare to see them at all and even rarer for someone to survive the encounter. It could be they didn’t see where we left either, or maybe Fredrick’s magic is actually working on them.”

  “You can see the valaan’s tracks?”

  He shook his head. “They pass nearly as lightly as I do, but narjags will eat their own if there are no other food sources, and with several thousand of them in the region, they will have already stripped most of the wild animals from the area. The only reason they wouldn’t feast on their fallen brethren is if the valaan wouldn’t allow it. If we had better light, perhaps I could find where the valaan walked, but there’s no need. I’d rather keep moving than waste our time here. We’ve seen what we need to.”

  Zaine turned, holding an arrow nocked on her bow, looking into the mist, clearly worried the valaan and the narjags were going to leap out at any moment. “Why wouldn’t a valaan allow them to eat?”

  “Because it wanted to keep them hungry and eager.”

  “Stanton.”

  “Aye, that’d be my guess.”

  “You’re right. We don’t have much time, then.”

  Rew led Zaine away from the dead Dark Kind. There was nothing else to see there. They traveled in a broad circle around the hill where the rest of the party was encamped. A quarter-league north, parallel to the highway, they saw more tracks of the Dark Kind, far enough away that they wouldn’t elicit any notice from people traveling the road, but it was enough of a sign that Rew was certain everything they’d heard from Appleby and what they’d suspected was true. It wasn’t a handful of randomly scattered groups. This was planned, and they weren’t just waiting to come in through the portal stones. They were already there. The Dark Kind were still traveling in small groups, though, several dozen of them together. He suspected that was how they’d arrived, trickling in wherever the portal stones were located, allaying suspicion that it was a mass gathering. That they were still in smaller groups meant they weren’t ready to move on Stanton yet. Waiting for more of them, maybe, or something else?

  By mid-afternoon, Rew had spotted signs that could be from hundreds of Dark Kind, all roving in packs of one to two dozen.

  “There are more valaan but not many,” he mused. “They can’t be worried about attack from the men in Stanton, so they’ve split up the narjags so they don’t fall upon each other. They’ll wait until it’s time then assemble all of these groups into an army. When they do…”

  “Then Stanton will have no chance,” finished Zaine.

  Rew nodded. “We, on the other hand, do have a chance because of this. We could face two dozen narjags and have a hope that most of our party would survive.”

  “Most of us? Well, that’s good to know,” replied Zaine dryly.

  Rew winked, and they kept moving. It wasn’t until later that he realized there was another reason the valaan might be keeping the narjags spread out. It’d make it harder for Valchon, or any other spellcaster, to deal with them. It didn’t change anything for Rew’s companions, or for the people in Stanton, but it demonstrated a level of coordination and planning that was horrifying.

  As they moved along, they found more tracks from the narjags, but they did not find any of the creatures themselves. Most of the tracks were a day or two old, with just a few places they could have been l
eft the night before. Toward the highway, Rew spotted the tracks of the other mercenaries.

  “Looks like more than just seven men,” remarked Zaine, pointing to the trampled grass.

  Rew knelt and showed the thief where the boots of humans had pressed the soil and then where the bare feet of the narjags had followed. “Those mercenaries are in for a rough night, if they still live. Not much we can do about that, unfortunately. They’ll be a full day ahead of us by now. No ayres, though. That’s one bit of good news.”

  They finished their scouting and returned to the hill.

  15

  The next morning began with a shout. Ambrose, who Rew had put on watch because the man needed only a few hours of sleep, screeched a shrill warning.

  Rew kicked off his blanket, scrambling out of the tangled fabric, and rose with his longsword. The camp was cold, his companions barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom, the stars and moon already having faded away. Ambrose was standing on the edge of the hill, his hands smoking as he frantically tried to draw power.

  “Watch the backside,” Rew growled to Zaine, who’d sprung to her feet almost as quickly as he. The rest of the party was struggling upright, blinking sleep from eyes and, in the case of the wounded, moving as if they’d aged fifty years since the days before.

  Rew took Ambrose’s side and saw that a dozen narjags were charging up the hill. The creatures’ bestial features were twisted in glee, thinking they’d stumbled across an easy meal. In the gloom, Rew saw nothing beyond the first wave, so he raised his longsword.

  “Backside is clear!” shouted Zaine.

  “Stay there,” Rew called back in response.

  Raif joined them, and Ambrose retreated, the vapor of death’s breath still curling around his fists, but there was little of it. Was the man that useless, or was he merely pretending to be?

  “I’ll break them up. You finish any that keep coming,” instructed Rew, shaking his head and shoving thoughts about Ambrose away.