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

by AC Cobble

  Nine ayres. Sixty narjags. Behind him was the rock-strewn slope that hid his companions. Ahead of him was the stout tower that the miners were defending. Everywhere else was the enemy.

  Rew darted to his left, arms and legs pumping in a full-out sprint toward the trees that bound the space around the old tower. In fifty paces, he would be in the cover, in his element. The ayres would be slowed, darting amongst the trees. The narjags unable to come at him in full force. Between him and the trees was the narjag shaman and two creatures that appeared to be its bodyguards.

  Guttural shouts of alarm were rising from the narjags and howls from the ayres. The shaman raised its staff and opened its mouth, its harsh voice bellowing. A spell or commands to its followers, Rew didn’t know. He didn’t plan to give the thing time to finish, whatever it was trying to say. On the run, he feinted at one of the narjag guards. The creature hissed and raised its spear in a defensive crouch.

  Rew dodged to the side, avoiding that narjag and slamming his shoulder into the second guard. It was surprised and flew backward from the impact, its smaller body bouncing like a rock off a wall as Rew smashed into it.

  The shaman’s cry stalled, and Rew thrust at it with his longsword, not pausing to ensure a clean blow, just making sure to wound the thing, to make it and its followers really mad. The tip of his steel dug into the shaman’s chest, piercing half-a-hand deep. Then, Rew was by, tearing the sword free, still running to the forest.

  He didn’t think he’d killed the shaman, but whatever he’d done prevented it from launching any spells after him. Not pausing to look over his shoulder, he made it to the trees and ducked into the forest, the barks of the ayres telling him he’d have moments at best before they were on his heels.

  Branches of thin pine whipped against him as he barreled through the forest, dodging the narrow trees, leaping over rocks and fallen tree trunks, striving to gain some distance between himself and his pursuers. He passed an older tree and darted to the far side of its wide trunk, pausing a beat.

  Seconds later, two ayres crashed past him, paws scrambling on the rocky soil, teeth bared at him. They growled from deep in their throats, but they’d been at a full run and stumbled, trying to make the turn back to him.

  Rew jumped after them, slashing two efficient strikes, taking one ayre in the throat, the other in the skull. The second beast fell back, whimpering, and Rew hoped he’d struck it a fatal blow. He didn’t have time to wait or to finish it, and he was on the run again before the first creature fell to the earth, kicking and squealing.

  Behind him, he heard the thrash of dozens of bodies storming through the forest. He clambered up the slope, getting elevation and a defensive advantage. He glanced over his shoulder as he hauled himself up onto a head-high boulder.

  The ayres were coming close, and the narjags were in bunches behind. The ayres would have little difficulty outpacing him, even in the forest, but he would be able to keep ahead of the narjags. Their squat legs were muscular, and they could propel themselves into impressive jumps and short sprints, but they had little stamina and weren’t as dexterous as he was moving over terrain.

  He had to cut down the ayres. After that, he could take his time moving ahead of the narjags, carving them off one by one as they got close. He would be exhausted once it was over, but as long as he didn’t let the entire group pin him down, he might survive.

  If he could cut the ayres down.

  One of the beasts came hurtling at him from above, evidently curving high on the hill to cut off his escape.

  Rew ducked as it sprang at him, thrusting up with his longsword, catching it in the gut, and disemboweling the ayre as it soared overhead. Its momentum carried it over the edge of the boulder and it crashed down into the brush beyond.

  He started up the hill as another ayre leapt at him from the bottom of the boulder, teeth snapping shut near his boot. Swinging a wild slash at it, he missed as it twisted away, but the strike slowed it, and Rew was running again, heading uphill and looking for a position he could hold for a moment to fend off the ayres.

  Already, his breath was coming in quick bursts, and he knew there was only so long he could charge straight up the side of the mountain before it would wear him out. If he got tired and sluggish, he didn’t like his odds against so many Dark Kind.

  He looked back again and saw three ayres pelting up the slope at him, the narjags a hundred paces behind. The other ayres seemed to have disappeared. Were they back at the tower? He grimaced then spun, running straight at the three blue-skinned creatures on his heels.

  They were shocked at the sudden reversal and skidded on splayed paws to stop. One veered off its course, fouling the path of the second creature behind it. The third one launched itself at Rew. Its jaw was open wide, its paws raised to smash into him, to tear at him with its giant claws, and pin him on his back where it could work him with its powerful bite.

  Rew darted to the side and headed toward the ayre that had turned. It tried to run from him, but he caught its rear leg, severing its foot. The ayre collapsed, howling and gnashing its teeth.

  The one that had stopped attempted to come at him while his back was turned, but he spun to meet it, his free hand snatching his hunting knife from his belt, burying the blade in the ayre’s neck, twisting it, and yanking it free. The creature’s body fell into him, knocking him back, and he let himself collapse, rolling over his shoulder and back onto his feet.

  The last ayre was standing, growling, and trying to block his line of escape so the howling pack of narjags could catch up. Rew ran right at it. The ayre snarled, crouching to attack, but Rew lunged forward, thrusting his longsword down its throat. The ayre, surprised at the direct blow, stared at him stupidly as the steel rammed down its gullet.

  He was running again, the first of the narjags ten paces behind him. Jumping from boulder to boulder, scrambling up the slope, he tucked away his hunting knife and used his free hand to steady himself against the rocks and dirt as he recklessly climbed.

  Two hundred paces upslope, he found a dry creek bed. He turned and watched as the narjag swarm approached. If they were smart, they would wait and hold him in the narrow defile while others found a different path up the ridge and circled around him, pinning him in the confined space between two parties of several dozen. With that many on both sides of him and no room to maneuver, he would be in trouble, but narjags were aggressive and not known for their well-considered battle strategy.

  They came at him in a tight group, forcing themselves three abreast into the narrow shoot of rock he’d backed into. Holding their crude spears and rusty short swords, they stabbed and swung at him, fouling each other’s strikes and making it easy for him to lunge forward and use the length of his blade to strike and then retreat back to safety.

  The narjags elbowed and swiped at each other as they came, others tugging at the ones in front and throwing their companions off balance in their rush to come at him. Rew made them pay for it. His longsword, flicking like the tail of a scorpion, struck over and over. He held his hunting knife in his off hand, using it to turn the thrusts from the narjag’s weapons.

  With just a few at a time able to face him, their attacks were uncoordinated, wild, and easy to defend. He kept an ear open, extending his senses behind, worried the three remaining ayres would appear at his back. Against those beasts and with narjags in front, it would get ugly, but as he backed up the creek bed, nothing came from behind, and one by one, he cut the narjags down.

  Their bodies littered the defile like carpet, following him higher and higher. His arms burned from the exertion of absorbing their attacks and dealing his own, but in minutes, he’d felled dozens of the Dark Kind. Suddenly, behind the first rank, the others began to fall back, and then, they turned and ran.

  He stabbed one in the face, slinging its body aside. The last narjag charged him, and he casually brushed aside its spear and whipped his hunting knife forward, burying it in the Dark Kind’s chest.

  The n
arjag fell, desperate hands scrabbling at the rocks, quickly bleeding out. Several others twitched and wailed, but he saw it was only a matter of time before they expired. Their wounds were grievous, and if their companions returned, they wouldn’t offer assistance. They would come to consume the flesh of their fallen brethren. There was little love amongst a pack of narjags.

  Breathing heavily and letting his arms relax but not yet sheathing his weapons, Rew studied the forest. Thirty of the narjags lay piled in the creek bed like leaves fallen from the trees above. Beyond them, he could see the corpses of the ayres he’d felled and a few scattered narjags who darted down the slope, fleeing.

  With satisfaction, Rew noted that they were fleeing away from the tower, away from his party and the miners. He waited, listening, sensing for another attack, but after several minutes he decided that as a group, they had indeed all fled.

  Cleaning his longsword as best he was able, he sheathed it then moved back down the creek bed, stepping cautiously and pausing whenever he discovered a Dark Kind that still lived. He knelt, and he killed them. It gave him no pleasure, wading through the gore, but the creatures were evil. Should any of them survive their wounds, it was only a matter of time before they attacked someone. They were not of this world. They did not belong, and there was nothing to do but eliminate them.

  Rew made his way back through the scrub pine forest, moving slowly and looking for signs of the Dark Kind, but he found none other than those he’d killed. When he reemerged near the fort, he saw his companions clustered on the old battlement, staring in a mixture of relief and horror. He glanced down at his clothing and winced. He was covered in dark, fetid blood and gore from the Dark Kind.

  Miners opened the sturdy tower door for him, watching in awe as he walked by them. No one spoke as he climbed the open stone stairs up to the battlement.

  “Is any of that yours?” asked Anne when he reached the top.

  He shook his head, looking over the group. “Not much of it. Everyone make it in safely?”

  They nodded.

  “Three of them remained near the, ah, the leader, but we took care of them. Most ran after you or fled,” stammered Jon. “You… Did you kill them all?”

  Rew shook his head. “Half of them. The rest disappeared down the slope of the mountain.”

  “Oh,” said Jon, eyes wide. He looked confused and scared, like his best friend had suddenly mentioned that he had wings and spent the occasional afternoon flying.

  “Where’s Alsayer?” asked Rew.

  “Inside,” answered Anne.

  Rew found the door to the interior and walked in. The first floor was one giant open room where the miners did their cooking and eating and had their entertainments. Alsayer was seated in a worn chair near the fire, his feet propped up in front of him, a mug of ale in his hands. He watched Rew as the ranger walked directly toward him.

  The spellcaster stood, glancing at the ranger’s bloodstained clothing. “Perhaps a change and a bath before we speak?”

  Rew strode forward and gripped the front of the man’s robe in his fist, shoving the spellcaster back and shaking him. “Why were you hiding behind the walls? Why didn’t you kill those things?”

  “Whoa, there,” said Alsayer, raising his mug of ale. “This is no good, but it’s all that they’ve got. Let’s not spill it.”

  Snarling, Rew shoved the man back, pushing him half a dozen paces until Alsayer’s back smacked against the stone wall of the tower. Rew stared into the spellcaster’s eyes, waiting for an answer.

  Alsayer raised his tankard as if to take a sip, and Rew hauled him forward and then slammed him back against the wall. Anger flashed in the spellcaster’s eyes, and ale spilled down the front of his silver-embroidered black robes.

  “Rew…” murmured Cinda.

  Around Alsayer’s free hand, blue lightning crackled, but the man left it by his side, fingers curled into a claw, the energy staying tightly clustered around his hand. The spellcaster stared back at Rew with murder in his eyes.

  “Rew, he’s—“ started Cinda.

  “He won’t do it,” growled Rew.

  “Don’t test me, Ranger,” snapped Alsayer.

  Rew hauled the man forward with one fist and smashed him back against the wall again.

  The spellcaster’s head bounced off the stone, and Rew could see the shock and pain in his eyes.

  “Rew!” cried Cinda.

  The ranger drew his hunting knife, still crusted in blood from the narjags, and held it in front of Alsayer’s eyes.

  Cinda moved a few steps behind them and warned, “Rew, he’s built power. He could unleash it in a blink.”

  “He won’t do it,” repeated Rew. “He knows what I’ll do to him if he does.”

  “It’s been a long time, Ranger,” hissed Alsayer. “Since we’ve last seen each other, I’ve—“

  Rew hauled the man forward and slammed him back against the wall again. He demanded, “What are you doing here, Alsayer?”

  A smirk twisting his lips, but pain in his eyes, the spellcaster raised his hand beside his head, his palm and fingers crackling with coruscating flashes of pale, blue lightning.

  “Talk now or I’m going to gut you like a fish,” said Rew. “Try any of your parlor tricks on me and I’m going to take my time doing it.”

  Alsayer paused, his hand still raised, the lightning still crackling. Then, suddenly, it blinked out. He told Rew, “Despite your ill treatment of me, I am not your enemy. We should talk in private, cousin.”

  “Private?” questioned Rew, wondering if it was a trick, or if the spellcaster truly had something he would tell only Rew.

  “I’m on a mission, cousin,” explained Alsayer, “and my words are for the ears of Baron Fedgley alone. For the King’s Ranger, though, perhaps I can make an exception.”

  “Fedgley?” asked Rew. He nodded back toward Cinda. “That’s his daughter. The big lad is his son.”

  Alsayer, suddenly curious, leaned around Rew to stare at the young nobles. “Now, what are you two doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? I expected you would be in Falvar by now.”

  Rew twisted his fist, gathering another turn of the spellcaster’s robe, and snarled, “I asked you the same thing, Alsayer, and I’m done waiting for a response.”

  Sighing, the spellcaster said, “Very well. Let me go, and I will tell you.”

  Backing up, Rew released the man’s robes but kept his hunting knife in hand. If it came to it, he thought he could defeat the spellcaster, but Alsayer had not lied when he’d said it had been a long time. The spellcaster had always been dangerous, and over the years, he would have gotten more so.

  “There’s a plot afoot, and Baron Fedgley is at risk,” confessed the spellcaster, brushing his black, silk robes where Rew had wrinkled them, frowning at the wet spot of ale that had been spilled. He looked around the room, noting the collection of strangers, and said, “It’s been twenty-five years, you know. Even out here, on the fringe of the realm, you must still keep track of the years.” Alsayer eyed Cinda and Raif again. “Of course, what am I saying? You know, Rew. You know what’s coming. You can feel it. Traveling with the Fedgley children, though, I did not expect that. I thought you’d come to the eastern province to stay out of our family entanglements.”

  “I did,” muttered Rew.

  Alsayer looked to the miners. “Give us a moment, will you?”

  The gruff-looking men, faced with a spellcaster and a ranger who’d slaughtered three-dozen Dark Kind, moved outside without complaint. Rew’s party stayed, and Alsayer frowned at them.

  “They’re trustworthy,” assured Rew.

  “I’m sure they are,” said Alsayer, walking around the ranger and heading toward the ale barrel.

  Rew, looking at the man’s back, reminded himself that while his companions may be trustworthy, Alsayer most certainly was not. Cousins, yes, but both bastards. More outcasts from their family than a part of it, which suited Rew perfectly well. Alsayer had chosen a
different life, one that Rew had spent the last twenty years trying to avoid.

  His ale refilled, Alsayer turned. “There’s a plot against Duke Eeron and Baron Fedgley. I was sent to warn the baron. The roads between Falvar and Spinesend are dotted with spies, and there’s a ward cast across this land that dampens the efficacy of high magic. I didn’t know how far it extended, so I couldn’t risk portaling in too close without risk to myself. So, I’ve been bouncing around the wilderness on my way here, where I’ve found I can go no farther.”

  Rew grunted, shaking his head. “A barrier against high magic that covers such a distance?”

  Alsayer nodded. He flashed an arrogant smile but then admitted, “Yes, a barrier that covers such a distance that I cannot pierce. Believe me, cousin, I was as surprised as you are.”

  “I haven’t felt any ward against magic,” murmured Cinda.

  Alsayer eyed her, pursed his lips, and then suggested, “Try casting something right now.”

  The young noblewoman looked back at him uncertainly. Rew wasn’t actually sure if she could cast a spell. So far, she hadn’t in his presence, and it seemed she wouldn’t now.

  Rew turned to Alsayer and suggested, “There’s no spellcaster in the eastern province with the skill to lay such a ward.”

  “That’s my assessment as well,” lilted Alsayer, “but all the same, the ward is there.”

  “How many casters are there in the kingdom who could do such a thing?” questioned Rew.

  Alsayer shrugged. “Not many. None of them would be happy to see you.”

  Rew began to pace back and forth across the room. Alsayer’s and the others’ eyes followed him as he walked. He could hear Cinda and Raif whispering to each other, speculating on what Alsayer’s message could be.

  “An artifact?” Rew asked Alsayer. “Could an artifact power a barrier like that?”

  Alsayer nodded. “Sure, though I’ve never heard of such an artifact.”