The King's Ranger: The King's Ranger Book 1

by AC Cobble

  Looking around the clearing he’d chosen as his campsite, Rew felt a surge of uneasy confusion. Narjags didn’t travel in large groups, and they didn’t run. They didn’t have shamans. At least, they hadn’t in his lifetime.

  Blessed Mother, what was going on?

  Chapter Two

  “Senior Ranger,” greeted a man, glancing up from where he was repairing a tear in a patchwork woolen cloak. “You think the commandant will free up some extra funds this year? I’ve been wearing the same cloak since I began this posting.”

  “Aye, and it’s kept you warm. Must be a nice cloak, too, if it’s almost as old as I am,” said Rew with a wink. “We do have some spares in the storage room, but I’m not sure they match your mature sense of style.”

  The ranger at the table snorted. “They don’t make them like they used to, you mean?”

  Rew shrugged. “You’re the best judge of that, though, I’ve heard that past a certain age the memory gets a little foggy. When I look at that thing, I see more patch than I do cloak. Could it be that in all of those years you’ve forgotten your old cloak isn’t any better crafted than my new one? Yours certainly seems to need repair often enough.”

  The other man grinned, placed one hand on his cloak and raised his needle and thread in the other. “Some things have aged well since this was first sewn, improved even. Maybe you’d like me to give you a little stitch, and see what I can do for you?”

  Rew rolled his eyes and walked to the other side of the table from the man. He laid out the amber-capped staff he’d taken from the narjag shaman, a crudely constructed pack he’d found dropped in the woods outside his campsite, and a necklace made of shriveled bits of flesh he’d taken from the shaman’s neck. “What do you make of these, Tate?”

  Tate pushed his cloak and needle aside and leaned over the items. “Unusual. These are from the narjag party, the one Farmer Bartrim reported?”

  “They are,” confirmed Rew.

  Tate stood, rubbing at the white stubble on his chin. “Quite strange to see narjags with something other than rudimentary weapons and clothing, unless they’ve been looted from their victims. Is that human or narjag flesh on the necklace?”

  “Narjag ears, I think,” answered Rew, “though, in their condition, they could be anything.”

  “I’ve never seen the like, and the only time I’ve heard of a narjag with artifacts like this it was a shaman,” said Tate, looking up to meet Rew’s gaze. “You chased down a narjag shaman? It’s been years since anyone has seen one. Before my time, even.”

  Rew shrugged. “I don’t know. It had the look of a shaman, but it didn’t cast a spell against me. I gave it the opportunity. It yelled at me a bit in the Dark Kind tongue, and then I killed it. I don’t know the nature of Dark Kind spellcasting, but a human would have had time to get a spell off.”

  Tate blinked at him, shaking his head.

  “I would have struck before it actually cast its spell,” assured Rew. “I had to wait to see if it had the capability.”

  The other ranger grunted. “But it did nothing except curse at you?”

  “Nothing,” agreed Rew.

  Tate brushed back a lock of silver-white hair then hesitantly opened the pack. He peered inside, shuffled through the contents, and brought out a half-empty gourd. He sniffed it and scowled, shoving the gourd back into the pack.

  He said, “Nothing remarkable in here. A container for that awful liquor they drink. Some tools they crafted themselves, a couple of rocks. No food, which isn’t surprising. Narjags feast or famine. A needle but no thread. Stolen, I imagine. Looks a bit rusty. Maybe it’s been some time since they took it. A whetstone, probably stolen too, along with this little hand mirror. Doesn’t look like they found that too long ago, but we’ve had no recent reports of attacks, have we? I suppose this is what a pack of narjags think is their valuables. It was in the woods, you said?”

  “They dropped it before attacking me,” said Rew.

  “Well, the pack doesn’t seem unusual, though it’s odd one of the party was able to hold onto this stuff without the rest of them fighting over it,” said Tate, fiddling with the items. “The necklace and the staff do sound like what the shamans were purported to carry, but if it was a true shaman, I agree it ought to have tried something on you. Maybe it’s a sign of leadership rather than magical might?”

  “There’s something I’m missing here,” replied Rew. “It was a large party. Nearly a dozen of them, counting the shaman, or whatever it was. That’s twice the size we were seeing two years ago when the Dark Kind last passed through the forest, and these narjags were going somewhere as if they were in a hurry. That’s the thing, Tate. They were in a hurry, but I still managed to catch up to them after getting Bartrim’s report two days ago. Why were they moving so quickly now, and where have they been the last two days?”

  “Narjags in a hurry?” asked Tate skeptically. “There have been rumors that the conjurers trained some of the Dark Kind as shamans years ago, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of narjags going somewhere in a hurry. Not unless there’s a bloody piece of meat at the end of the journey.”

  “I’ll walk you through from the beginning, from when I first found the tracks,” said Rew. “I want to hear what you think in case I missed something. You’ve been out in this wilderness three times as long as the rest of us. In over three decades of service, have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Narjags traveling in larger groups than usual, sure, I’ve seen that,” replied Tate, sitting back down at the table, his eyes still on the artifacts. “Narjags acting unusual or carrying odd items, of course. They pick up things, as you know, items from people they’ve encountered and killed, rubbish they’ve stumbled across. I’ve seen them adorned with plenty of strange trinkets. A shaman, though, nah, I’ve never seen one. Never heard of anyone else seeing one, either. Not even the old rangers when I first started had seen that. They spoke about it, though, like there had been shamans on the field during the last war against the Dark Kind. That’s, ah, fifty years back, Rew. The wilderness has been clean of such since then. I will say it appears that whatever these talismans are meant to be, the narjags made them themselves. The staff is crude like the weapons they use, and I can’t imagine any person going and collecting narjag ears.”

  Rew rubbed his chin while both men looked at the artifacts on the table. “Could it be, ah, narjag fashion? Some chieftain of theirs trying to set himself apart?”

  Tate shrugged. “Could be.”

  Sighing, Rew said, “Pack them up and put them in the post to Yarrow, will you? I’d like to see what the baron’s arcanist has to say about these. Maybe they’re junk, but…”

  “You never know,” finished Tate, nodding. “I agree, Senior Ranger, it’s best to get another opinion. If the Dark Kind have regained the ability to cast spells… I don’t suppose you followed their tracks back and saw what they’ve been up to between Bartrim’s farm and where you caught them?”

  “Not yet,” replied Rew. “With a larger party than normal, I figured I would bring someone with me in case we stumble across more of them. If it’s the beginning of another migration, we’ll need to start going out in pairs, me included. You fancy a quick jaunt into the wilderness tomorrow morning?”

  Tate shook his head. He put a hand on his half-repaired cloak. “I’ve got a bit of work to finish here.”

  Rew raised a hand, thinking of reaching across to the older man, but he dropped it. “Of course. You finish what you need to. Who else is in at the moment?”

  “Just you and me,” replied Tate. “Ang and Vurcell haven’t returned from Yarrow, but they should be back within a day or two unless Vurcell got lost in the taverns again. Blythe took the new kid out to the southern range, trying to teach him a few things, I suppose.”

  “Jon has been here a year,” remarked Rew dryly. “He’s not new any longer, and he’s two or three winters past twenty. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean everyone else is a kid.�
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  “When he stops acting new, I’ll stop calling him new,” responded Tate, grinning.

  “You could help train him,” suggested Rew.

  “Blythe’ll sort him out,” claimed Tate. “I trained her the best I can train anyone. What I know, she knows. Besides, you’re the man in charge. You oughta be the one holding the kid’s hand.”

  Rew snorted and rubbed his chin, feeling his beard and the rough stubble on his neck. “Time for me to see the barber, I think, and perhaps take a good long soak in the baths. You’ll get these artifacts posted? Put in a note for the arcanist about what we’re after. That daft bastard’ll never send a response if we don’t tell him we’re waiting on one. If you need me—"

  “I’ve sent a post before, Senior Ranger, and I know you’ll be at the baths and then the Oak & Ash Inn for an ale,” interrupted Tate. The older ranger stood, stretched, and stopped short of his full height, a grimace on his face. He held his side uncomfortably. “All this talk of narjag shamans got me distracted. Before you go, there’s something I need to show you.”

  The two rangers peered at three youths locked on the other side of a wall of thick, iron bars.

  “Theft?” asked Rew.

  “Aye,” said Tate. “Down at the Oak & Ash. Anne found them behind the bar dipping their fingers into her coin jars. She started shouting and the patrons at the inn rushed these three and held them until Blythe and I got there. We locked them up yesterday, and they’re still not talking. They’re not saying anything I want to hear about, at least. I haven’t been able to figure out who they are or where they came from.”

  Frowning, Rew studied the three younglings. A boy and two girls. They looked back sullenly as the senior ranger observed them. It went without saying that they weren’t local. Both Rew and Tate knew every man, woman, and child in the territory. It wasn’t often that Eastwatch, on the far fringe of the kingdom, drew strangers. No one passed through Eastwatch. There was nowhere to go, only wilderness behind the boundaries of the village. When someone came to Eastwatch, they had a reason for doing so.

  “When are we going to be let out of here?” demanded the boy.

  Or a man, supposed Rew. The boy certainly had the size of a man, though the ranger guessed the boy only had seventeen or eighteen winters under his belt. The two girls had one or two less, he figured.

  “Are you both deaf?” asked the boy, rising to his feet, unconsciously dusting a bit of straw from his trousers. He stared directly at Rew, taking an aggressive stance. “I’ll tell you like I told the other. On the authority of Baron Fedgley, release us immediately!”

  “We report to the king, lad, not the baron,” replied Rew, watching the boy. “Besides, it’s Yarrow, Baron Worgon’s town, that is closest to us. Not even peddlers make their way to the territory from Fedgley’s Falvar. Where are you from, lad? How did you get here?”

  “Contact Baron Fedgley,” said the youth, stepping toward the bars. “He’ll explain all, and he’ll demand our release. Eastwatch may not fall under his jurisdiction, but he’s a nobleman—a baron.”

  The boy was a big lad, eleven, twelve stone of what looked to be solid muscle and bone. He had a shock of shoulder-length, dark brown hair that he brushed from his eyes when he saw Rew studying him. His arms were thick, like that of a laborer, but he held himself with a confidence unusual for one on the wrong side of the bars of a jail cell. A soldier, perhaps, but the boy’s hands bore no scars that would have been earned in work or battle. Rew couldn’t see well enough in the low light of the jail to tell if there were callouses from the hilt of a sword on the boy’s palms.

  “Why should I ask Baron Fedgley about you when I’ve got you right here?” questioned Rew. “This is no time to be stubborn, lad. Answer our questions, and we can get this sorted.”

  The youth shifted, and one of the girls moved to stand beside him. She was dark haired as well. The boy’s sister, suspected Rew. She was pretty and wearing a dress cut for travel that certainly wasn’t bought with a mean laborer’s wage. Were they nobles? They had the look and the attitude, but Rew couldn’t fathom what they would be doing in Eastwatch alone. A noble in the eastern territory without an escort was even more unusual than a party of narjags led by a shaman. Rew drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glancing at Tate out of the corner of his eye. The white-haired ranger nodded understanding. The younglings were hiding something.

  “We’re in the employ of Baron Fedgley,” murmured the brown-haired girl. “Allow us to write him a letter, and I’m certain he’ll send a man to explain all. It is true, we… we were attempting to secure some funds from the inn, but restitution can be made. Baron Fedgley will pay whatever is owed. We just need to reach him. It’s important. There are… We have a mission, and we cannot be delayed.”

  “It would take two weeks to get a letter to Fedgley,” drawled Rew, leaning forward against the bars of the cell. “That’s two weeks to get it there and two weeks to get a response back. If you cannot be delayed, then let’s clear this up right now. Who are you, and what are you doing in Eastwatch?”

  “Two weeks…” muttered the dark-haired girl. She shot a look behind her at the second girl, a slender blonde who glanced away uncomfortably. “We thought… we thought we were closer to Falvar. You are certain it is two weeks?”

  Rew put his hands on his hips. “Look, I’ve been out on patrol the last few days and I want nothing more than a hot bath and a cold ale. Yes, I am certain it is a two-week journey to Falvar. We can talk now, or we can talk in the morning. It’s up to you, but if we’re to talk now, you’d best get started.”

  “If it’s… if it’s two weeks to Falvar, then let us serve our punishment,” said the boy. “We didn’t actually take anything, and it’s foolish to hold us here any longer than necessary. Petty theft is what, a single lash? I’ll take it for the group, and I swear to you, we’ll leave Eastwatch the moment you allow us. We wanted funds for our travel, but we can make do without them. We will not cause any further trouble for you or the people of Eastwatch. Let us go, Ranger, and you’ll never see us again.”

  Rew shook his head. “You’re on the king’s land, lad. Punishment for petty theft is a finger, and you’re lucky you didn’t get much of that coin, or we’d be talking about taking off a hand.”

  The boy blanched, and his sister clutched his arm. She stammered, “But-but we didn’t even take anything!”

  “You tried, lass, and the king’s law is based on intent,” explained Rew.

  “Punishment is a finger or restitution,” said the blonde from where she was still sitting in the corner. “A letter to Baron Fedgley, and he’ll make it square. What is required, two, three times the value of the items we attempted to steal? There is no need to start chopping fingers off. Look, maybe you can send us to the baron and one of your rangers can accompany us so you’re assured we won’t slip away. I’m certain the baron will compensate you for the trouble, and it’d make you look good in the eyes of a prominent nobleman. I imagine that’d be nice, being owed a favor by such a man. I’ve no doubt that he’ll grant you any boon you ask of him.”

  The blonde glanced at the backs of the brother and sister, if unsure whether what she said was true, but the siblings nodded emphatically.

  Rew shrugged. “We’re not releasing you that easy, I’m afraid. We can send Fedgley a note and see what he says. Restitution will include the bill for keeping you here, you understand? A month’s worth of room and board isn’t in my budget.”

  “He’ll pay,” said the boy.

  At the same time his sister insisted, “We cannot wait a month.”

  The boy’s fists clenched, and Rew saw a tremor in the young man’s jaw, but the youth didn’t argue.

  “We cannot wait a month,” repeated the girl. “It is imperative you release us tomorrow, if not today. We have critical information the baron needs to hear. Lives are at stake, Ranger.”

  “You’ve already admitted to the attempted theft,” remarked Rew. “There’s no
doubt you’re guilty. You want to me to take a finger and let you go? If you don’t want to talk, that’s the quickest way to resolve this.”

  The girl swallowed uncomfortably, but she didn’t say no. She met Rew’s gaze, her hands clasped at her waist, fidgeting, as if she was counting her fingers. Beside Rew, Tate’s breathing quickened.

  In the back corner, the blonde spoke up again, “We’ll ask the innkeeper for leniency. That’s allowed under the law, is it not?”

  Rew leaned to the side to look around the other two at the girl in the back. “No, lass. There’s no provision under the king’s law for leniency to be granted by a victim.”

  “But you are the King’s Ranger, yes?” she asked.

  Rew nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Then it is your law that applies in Eastwatch,” she argued. “Rangers are empowered to adjust to the circumstances, are they not? I was told that the King’s Rangers were a law unto themselves.”

  “There’s a little truth to that, but the allowance only exists because we’re so remote,” Rew told the younglings. “The king understands there are times rangers must act to protect the realm, and sometimes those decisions must be made rapidly. The allowance is in place for emergencies, not to avoid enforcing the established law.”

  “The allowance may be in place for other circumstances, but it is in place,” insisted the blonde. “We shall ask the innkeeper for leniency, unless you refuse to show that small bit of mercy for an attempted petty theft. Ranger, we have no more desire to stay in the territory than you have for us to be here. You don’t seem a cruel man, and I can’t imagine you relish the idea of chopping a young girl’s finger off. The easiest way for all parties to be satisfied is to ask the innkeeper for leniency. If she requires more than our words, the baron will pay whatever she asks.”