Mad Mage_Claire-Agon Ranger

by Salvador Mercer

  Jakar seemed perplexed by her demeanor, and then waved his hand across his face in a fanning motion. “Enough, then, for now. I will have more questions later, but for now, I cannot abide the smell. See to it that this cell is properly cleaned and that this prisoner is taken for . . . well, also for cleaning. Can you handle that?” The wizard looked at Darker.

  “Of course, Master.”

  “Do you see any security concerns here?” Jakar asked Silis after swiveling his head to look at the Balarian.

  The man took a long time in answering as he closely surveyed the room, cell, and then Dareen. Finally, he responded. “I’ll handle it. For now, you can release her into Darker’s custody.”

  Jakar nodded and then looked back at Dareen. “You may or may not be a witch, though I highly doubt it sitting in your own filth for so long. At either rate, I will prepare a proper interrogation for you in order to ascertain why Alister brought you here. That is most abnormal, especially for a wizard.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer your questions for you when you’re ready,” Dareen said, wiping her hair back along the rear and side of her ears in an effort to appear more civil and calm despite her circumstances.

  The man nodded and then turned and left. Darker shut the cell and then said, “Damn, I don’t have the key.”

  Silis motioned to him as he followed Jakar out of the single door to the room. “I’ll handle it for you.”

  Darker nodded and brought up the rear, ensuring that the iron-clad door locked securely. None of them were there to witness Dareen as she finished off the flask of water in one last long fluid motion. Her will to live, even if for only another sunrise, returned with a vengeance. Dareen would see to it that she made the most of her time, the most of her imprisonment, even if it meant she would eventually die. She’d do so trying to take one of them with her.

  She laughed out loud and then said to the walls, “Just ask Grimer.”

  Chapter 3

  Ulathan Military

  Malik surveyed the marshlands below him. He had climbed to the southernmost hill of a spur of the Border Mountains that separated Ulatha from this forsaken land. He did not know it, but the land was once known a thousand years ago as the Pentost region. To his eyes, it was death incarnate.

  “Blast these demons,” he said out loud, though to no one in particular, as he watched another group of undead traverse the swampy field in front of him. They did not detect him . . . yet, though they were searching for him. It was as if they were mindless yet guided by a greater mind, a greater force of both will and intent. The will had brought them to life, and the intent, if he didn’t know better, was to prevent him from returning to Azor the Lich with the reward that would free the great undead mage and allow the creature to wreak havoc on Kesh and grant the young man his revenge.

  He put his hand on the tip of the staff that was swaddled in a thin but large blanket to prevent its metallic form from glinting any sunlight and aiding in his detection, not that there was much sunshine where he found himself. No, the air overhead was overcast, and the sun’s rays couldn’t penetrate all the way to the ground, leaving the entire region in a dim glow that simply indicated that it was daytime. The nighttime hours were pitch black and dangerous to move about, as the undead creatures seemed more animated and mobile during the darkness.

  Three times Malik had tried to reach the crumbling tower deep in the swamp that was now the abode of the Lich. Three times the Ulathan traitor had failed. He didn’t consider himself a traitor, though in his heart, he knew he had done everything in his power to see the so-called King of Korwell fall, toppled from power in revenge for having not protected the very citizens of Ulatha. Malik laid the blame for his father’s death over seven years ago squarely at the feet of the late King of Korwell. May the abyss take his soul.

  Besides the undead to the south, the Kesh had mounted new patrols around the spur that jutted out from the Border Mountains. He had already killed several brigands from more than a few patrols, but his luck and skill could not sustain him indefinitely, especially on this large exposed hillock that he currently found himself on.

  So it was that as he watched the undead below, he failed to hear the sound of a lone corpse who advanced on his very own hillock but from the north. By the time Malik noticed the sounds of its steps, it was already within a dozen yards of him. He drew his blade and turned to defend himself, surprised that there was only one walking corpse moving toward him. In his last three encounters, and the last one with Captain Moross, they had moved in a group and attacked all at once.

  “This should be easy enough,” he said, preparing to swing his blade and lop the head from the corpse’s body. He held back for a moment when he realized that this was the body of one of the Kesh brigands who had attacked him weeks ago. Also, its eyes weren’t the usual red-tinged glow that emanated from almost every undead in the entire region. Oh, it had a red tinge to it, but the center of the eyes glowed a tinge of blue, as well, the color of magic.

  Malik’s hesitation turned to surprise when the corpse did something no other undead had done before—it spoke to him in a harsh, barely audible voice. “Stay your sword, Malik.”

  Malik did as the undead requested, but not from fear or an urge to comply. Instead, he held his blade out of curiosity. How did this brigand know his name? Was the Kesh already onto who he was and why he had hunted them? He did the only thing he could think to do. He asked, “How do you know my name?”

  The undead creature answered immediately. “Do you not know who I am?”

  “Some filthy Kesh brigand who doesn’t have the sense to stay down when he’s been killed. What kind of a stupid question is that?” Malik answered testily.

  The dead man tilted his head back and laughed, if one could call the gurgling, hissing, bubbling sounds that the decaying vocal chords made a laugh. With a tilt of the head back down to level its discombobulated, glowing eye sockets at the Ulathan rebel, it said, “Your anger and hate has not diminished over the last few weeks. Very good. However, I have tried to communicate with you twice before this, and both times, you have struck my mouthpiece down before I could talk to you.”

  Understanding now that Azor the Lich was using this corpse as a way to communicate with him, Malik shrugged, not sure if the Lich could understand the gesture or not. “I care not for these demon dogs, and if you tried to use one, then I wouldn’t have let it get close enough to find out it was you. Speaking of which, how are you doing this? Actually, I should ask if you are truly Azor, or is this some sort of sick Kesh trap?”

  The corpse nodded in understanding and ignored a tooth that fell from its jaw in front of Malik. “We first met when you were chasing a thief from your lands. You entered my abode in search of the man, but I had already killed him for trespassing. I was about to kill you when you pled for your life—”

  “I did no such thing,” Malik protested, remembering their first meeting differently and interrupting the undead mage’s avatar in mid-sentence.

  The corpse tilted its head to the side, as if thinking before it responded. “Well, perhaps pleading is not the correct word to use in this situation, but you were defiant when facing death.”

  “Death would have been preferable to what the Kesh had planned.”

  “Perhaps,” the corpse said, its voice still wheezing and hard to hear, though the dead silence all around them helped to isolate the sounds of the decaying throat, “though you did offer your assistance . . .”

  “For a price,” Malik finished for the Lich.

  “Yes, for a price.” The corpse nearly fell as its knees buckled, and a flare of red in its eyes indicated something was going on with the link between the Lich and the dead brigand. The corpse spoke a bit quicker now. “I am running out of time. The she-witch is not keeping as close a watch on the Black Queen as she should be, so the queen is meddling. I must have that staff you carry.”

  “I know,” Malik answered quickly, not sure what this queen was, how it was
meddling, and who, or what, this she-witch was. He only cared for his revenge, as he had already paid a high price for his decisions. “Do you want to come get it?”

  The corpse seemed to stammer, mutter, and then even cough as it attempted to say something that didn’t sound very pleasant or civil. With great effort, it put its hands to its bloated head and attempted to speak again. “Do not cross me, human. You will pay a price beyond imagination if you do.”

  “I’m being serious,” Malik continued. “The way is blocked, unless you can clear these undead creatures from between you and me.”

  There was a pause, and the undead creature seemed to stand still for a long time. Only the slight pulsating of its glowing eyes gave any indication that it was still animated. With finality, as if making a hard decision, it said, “Very well. To fulfill your mission and reap your reward, you must reach me soon. However, this cannot be done with my assistance alone. You will need to go to Balaria and retrieve something that will allow you to pass the minions of the Dark Queen. Go to the temple of Akun north of Balax, and stand at the altar. I will send you a message when you arrive in the city with what you must retrieve and do to deliver the staff to me. Do not leave the city before you have my message, or the staff could be lost.”

  “How will you do that?” Malik asked, skepticism in his voice.

  “I have my critir,” the Lich said through its avatar. “Go southeast to a port near Lunde in the realm known as Tallist and secure passage to Balaria. Go now and hurry. The forces of darkness move quickly, and I must be released in order to protect Agon and affect your vengeance.”

  The mention of obtaining his revenge was enough for Malik. “Fine, I’ll go, but you best have a way to communicate with me. Otherwise, I’ll have no idea what I’m looking for.”

  The creature made a gurgling noise that Malik took for an attempt at a chuckle, before it spoke for the last time. “You will know everything by the time I am done with you, Ulathan. Go now.”

  Malik didn’t like the way that sounded, but the bluish light of the undead brigand’s eyes dimmed and then went out, leaving only the usual reddish imprints he was accustomed to. It also attacked him with its claw-like digits, its fingertips having been worn away and replaced with sharp-tipped bones.

  With a stab of his sword, Malik impaled the creature before remembering how ineffective that was. He was surprised, he justified to himself, and then pulled the blade out from the corpse’s body and swung it in a horizontal motion that resulted in decapitation and the end of its animated life. His movements were faster than a human was capable of, and much stronger, as he was wearing the bracers that the Lich had given him long ago.

  The Ulathan warrior used his last rag to clean his blade, and then sheathed it again. Pulling his cloak tighter and noticing that it would be dark soon, Malik trundled off down the hill to the southeast toward the far realm of Tallist and the Great Ocean that lay there.

  Malik was going to Balaria, land of thieves and assassins. In a way, Malik was going home, though he had only been to that faraway land once before, long ago.

  The most painful part for Bran was not knowing the fate of his wife and sons. He could barely believe his eyes when he saw them—at least, his oldest son and wife, though he had to hope his youngest was alive and well somewhere. He knew that Salina would never leave Kars, their youngest, in any kind of danger, so either the young boy had perished in the earlier battles or he was somewhere safe. Bran chose to believe in the latter.

  His healing was difficult at best. His broken ribs were stinted up as best as the Kesh could muster, and they didn’t seem to try very hard. The horrible cut into his collarbone had healed, though the nasty scar would remain for the rest of his life. His bed rest was welcome, and he drank as much water as he could to stay hydrated as the summer ended and the first signs of fall came to Ulatha. Food was fair and nutritious, if not delicious.

  Occasionally, the huge brutish barbarian would come to his room to check on his progress. He couldn’t understand the man’s speech, but it appeared he was fed better and looked after with a bit more dignity immediately following the man’s visit. The Kesh brigands who guarded him seemed to regard the barbarian with a healthy dose of both respect and fear. Only the wicked-looking brigand leader called Hork seemed to have some measure of composure, and indeed, a lack of fear, for the large barbarian.

  Hork would also visit, but at contrasting times, and his speech Bran could understand. The brigand leader spoke in the common tongue well, and without the usual grammar atrocities committed by his troops who managed to mangle at least a couple of words in each sentence. At least, when they spoke in complete sentences.

  The room where Bran was recuperating was a simple wooden building that had been hastily constructed against the inner wall of the stone castle that was the main complex for Korwell. From his vantage point on his straw bed, when the door to his room was open, he could see the brigands’ activity as they hopelessly attempted to rebuild the main gates that some crazed Kesh wizard had thrown down, if he understood the man’s garb and actions correctly.

  What in Agon was his wife and son doing by accompanying a Kesh wizard? This didn’t make sense for Bran, except for the fact that the Kesh wizard with them seemed at odds with the Kesh who occupied Korwell. The old Ulathan saying that the friend of an enemy’s friend who was an enemy of another enemy seemed apt for this situation. Actually, as he pondered the saying, he was quite certain he had it wrong. Perhaps he should have listened to Agatha’s ramblings with more attentiveness when she blabbed on about Ulatha, Kesh, and Rockton. Perhaps it was the friend of his enemy’s friend?

  The approaching sounds of more than one set of cheap leather boots interrupted his thoughts. Brigands, Bran thought to himself. How quaint. I wonder how many this time?

  He didn’t have long to wait as the door opened and Hork stood in the doorway without entering. This was unusual, as the brigand commander would usually enter and stand near the head of Bran’s bed. Without ceremony, the man barked, “Get him up and dressed.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Commander Hork.” Bran grimaced as two guards grabbed him gruffly by his arms and yanked him upright.

  Bran quickly set his feet beneath him to steady himself, and the guards released their hold on him. This wasn’t the first time he had stood in the room, but it was the first time he was ordered to stand. Things appeared to be different this day.

  “Take this,” a younger guard said, offering a pair of trousers and a new burlap tunic. He had on an old but clean pair of undergarments, so at least he felt that part of his dignity was intact.

  Without looking at his captors, Bran gingerly put the tunic on first, followed by the trousers, and tucked the tunic in, cinching the drawstring to keep them tight. A pair of socks with a hole in one of them was tossed onto the bed, so Bran sat and put them on, as well. His old pair of high-top leather boots were in the corner the entire time that he was on bed rest, and despite the half-dozen guards in the room, there was no more aid forthcoming, so Bran walked over, picked the boots up from the far corner, and returned to the bed to put them on and lace the tops.

  Feeling rather good to finally be dressed again after so long in his semi-isolated state of imprisonment, Bran stood and tested the feel of his clothes. He made sure he had room to move in the tunic, pulling a bit of it out of his waistband, and rocked a bit in his boots to loosen up the leather that had stiffened considerably. With one look at Hork, he said, “Ready.”

  Hork simply grunted and then turned and departed the doorway, followed by two guards, Bran, and then the remaining four. Bran had to shield his eyes at first from the sunlight, as it was late morning or just past noon, per his reckoning. He blinked a couple times before walking out to an open space not far from his lodgings. He noticed the weapon racks there with pretty much all the basics, though they were of low quality. Short, rusty swords, stubby spears, a few axes, dagger blades that looked as if they had seen better days, and a lone
whip next to a wicked-looking mace, which was a spiked iron ball on a chain attached to a stick.

  Next to it was a table with old, beat-up leather armor and helmets on it, as well as a far rack where several wooden shields hung. Many were chipped and dented, and most barely looked capable of turning away a dagger thrust, much less a sword swing.

  What alarmed Bran the most was the sight of the elite Kesh mercenary guards he had not seen since sustaining his injuries. They looked a tad shorter and had a lighter complexion than the Kesh brigands. Most importantly, their armor, weapons, and even demeanor showed them to be a notch above the typical brigand fighter. It appeared that the Kesh had called on specialty reinforcements in the form of these mercenaries, and Bran’s military experience instantly told him that this tilted things more in favor of the Kesh.

  “Give him the sparring leathers,” Hork commanded.

  Two guards retrieved a leather breastplate and a helmet from a nearby table, and then one guard placed the armor on Bran, putting it over his shoulders, covering him from his neck to his groin. Bran grimaced as the armor stressed his still-healing ribcage as the guard put the gear on none too gently. The second guard simply handed him the thick and malleable leather helmet. It had an open face, but it swung down around the back of the neck, protecting all but the face and throat. Brad held on to it, tucking it under his arm, and looked to see what the Kesh commander would order next.

  “Greaser, gear up,” Hork ordered.

  A tall, muscular Kesh brigand walked over to the table and grabbed his own leather armor, putting both the breastplate and helmet on quickly. He then moved to one of the two weapon stands and grabbed a short sword, and finally walked a short couple of steps to grab the best shield he could, returning to the center of the clearing and facing his Ulathan opponent. The other Kesh cheered at the sight of their tall, strong companion and the expectation that the Ulathan captain would get what was coming to him.