Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series)

by Salvador Mercer

  Craylyn sheathed his dagger, feeling his back to make sure his sword had not shifted, and then quickly patted his inner tunic pockets to make sure his darts and poison vials were still there. He noted his companion had done the same, and the other assassin signaled him with his fingers to his eyes and then pointed to the door. Craylyn nodded his head, and his colleague took up a lookout position at the stairwell, guarding against anyone coming from above.

  His wizard clients paid well but were harsh and strict in their expectations. Although the Balarian had never been to Ulatha before, he had a crudely drawn map and information from his leader, Kendral, who had met them at a tavern below earlier that evening, providing the necessary information to complete their mission. When the twin sisters rose on the horizon, they would move into the castle and start looking for the distinct red book.

  Our second mission is going to be most delightful, he thought, looking forward to taking care of yet another pompous man who had set himself up to be king. There are far too many fools in Agon, he thought to himself, pleased at the idea of meting out some Balarian justice. The foolish king probably had no idea of the traitor in his midst. They would find the wizard’s book, meet with the traitor, and then kill the king. Now it was just a matter of time.

  Targon felt the icy cold water hit him and take his breath away. He was not sure if the lack of ability to breath was from the twenty-foot fall or the icy coldness of the Rapid River. At either rate, he jumped to the north side of the bridge and the water flowed from north to south, so the icy, fast moving water instantly swept him under the bridge and out past some rocks and a rather nasty five-foot fall into deeper water.

  With a powerful lunge of his arms, Targon stroked hard to break the surface of the water. All he could hear were rather profane expressions of where the “little rat” disappeared to. The water of the Rapid River swept Targon quickly downstream, and the yelling and profanity soon faded into the distance. He did not know it, but his head had just missed a large boulder under the water during his fall that would have killed him. He was lucky in that regard.

  With his mind reeling from the shock of the cold water, it was all he could do to keep his head above the river’s surface as his entire focus right now was on just breathing. He couldn’t say for just how long he struggled to maintain his ability to breath, but after some time, the river finally relented its powerful grip on his body, and he could finally start to swim toward the east riverbank, the side his family home was on. Targon pulled himself out onto a large, flat rock that jutted out into a bend of the river, and just laid there, taking in deep breaths of air to replenish his stock of oxygen.

  After a short period of time, he felt the urge to move before some of the brigands decided to run downstream after him. He was still shivering from the cold of the water. He wasn’t sure which way to run at first, but then the thought of his house burning was enough to anger him, and he set out toward his homestead. The cold water had started to kill him, and his limbs ached and burned as he tried to run along the shore’s bank. He veered cross country toward his homestead.

  It took a few hours before he arrived, sore and half frozen, wet clothes dripping still from his body. He was close enough to sense danger, so he crept around the back of the shed that doubled for a barn, looking for cover to see if there was anyone about. He saw no one and was just about to leave toward the old oak tree where his bow and small axe were at when he could hear noises coming from along the trackway. Quickly, he ducked back behind the old shed and peered around the corner.

  “Look, lively mates,” said a brigand, entering the area from the trackway.

  “What’z all dis aboutz?” asked the brigand called Traps.

  “Seems dat one of dem damn rats has slipped the cage, he has,” said the just arriving brigand as he looked around the homestead. “Have you seen him?”

  “Notz at all,” replied Traps. “Oi, Skinner, you hearz anything about dis little ratz?”

  The brigand Skinner appeared from the cabin doorway shadow and looked about. Targon feared he would be spotted as for one moment the brigand appeared to look directly at the shed. “Ain’t seen nothing at all, but if the little bugger comes home, I’ll give him a rightful greeting indeed.” The brigand guffawed, taking a swill of drink from a flask at his side.

  This seemed to relax the first brigand who brought the news, and he chuckled slightly as he headed back along the trackway. “The chief seems to think he will head back here, so stay alert, mates,” he replied, sauntering back up the trackway.

  Targon pondered this for a moment as a plan formulated in his mind. Behind the shed, he had laid in some old dry straw that was used for their cow, Myrtle. This helped Targon warm up a bit, and he took off his wet cloak and tunic and grabbed a dry burlap sack that he wrapped around himself to try to get warm.

  It was two on one for now, and, despite what his mother told him, he was not going to let them be sold as slaves anywhere if he could help it. Targon was younger but just as tall and much heavier than these Kesh brigands. He had been raised his entire life on the frontier in and around the Blackthorn Forest. He was smart enough to know he could do scant little unarmed against these ruffians, and so he slowly crept back behind the shed until he was out of sight and sound of his home, and then he headed to the old oak tree.

  The tree had stood for half a century before dying and then later succumbing to Targon’s axe the day before, but it silently stood guard over Targon’s bow and axe tonight. Targon let out a sigh of relief as he secretly worried that someone, or something, had taken his weapons. Weapons, indeed, now, though before he always thought of them as tools to chop wood and hunt for food in and around the forest.

  Tonight, however, as he hefted both items, he realized the severity of what had happened, and he thought not only of his family, his mother and sister being held in a dirty cart cage and his brother unwarned and vulnerable somewhere on a parapet wall or manning a murder hole in the capital, but he thought fondly of his deceased father and how he sacrificed himself seven years ago to save the family from these same brigands. An emotional fire of feelings, could he call it hate, welled up within him, and he quickly headed back to the homestead, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes.

  “Doz you thinks the little rat willz return here?” asked Traps, looking north along the trackway near the homestead as if expecting the little “rat” to come strolling along merrily on his way.

  “Nah, I don’t think he is that stupid even if he thinks as young as he looks,” replied the other brigand.

  “What didz you—” But the rest of the sentence was cut off midstream as instantly the shaft of an arrow appeared, protruding from the brigand’s throat where his vocal cords were. The other brigand gasped for a moment, half spitting out the wine he had just started to swallow and dropping his flask as he ducked and pulled a wicked-looking curved blade from its sheath, but the action proved to be too slow.

  Targon was miffed his first shot fell short. He wasn’t used to shooting from such a distance and was actually aiming for the first brigand’s head, but the arrow lost some altitude in the cool night air and hit the man’s neck instead. Probably a good thing, as the arrow would have hit a hard skull, and from that range, there was no telling if it would penetrate or just make the brigand angry. Targon didn’t have to worry, though. The bow was made by his father using the finest and strongest oak wood and a slight but strong string his mother had crafted especially for it.

  The second arrow ended that debate as Targon was now aiming for dead center mass and hoping to hit the gut of his enemy. The enemy, however, ducked just as the arrow arrived, and the shaft buried itself into the brigand’s skull with such force that it pinned the brigand’s head to the doorjamb as the curved blade dropped to the ground.

  Targon took a moment to assimilate what he had just done. His entire life, he had only been in a situation once, seven years ago, th
at required him to take the life of another human being. He trained for it as any frontiersman did, but usually wolves, bears, deer, and, of course, rabbits were the most he ever expected to have to slay. Today, however, he understood the meaning of family, freedom, and honor. He did what he had to do. They started this, and by all the gods of Agon, he was going to finish it . . . again.

  Well, first a change of clothes, he thought as he shivered and let fall the loosely tied burlap sack. He was a hunter, after all, and knew that running off after the Kesh was a bad idea with his skin shining in the sister’s moonlight and his teeth clattering from the cold. Normally, he had a nice dark brown leather tunic and a lighter brown cloak, but those were soaking wet, as were his trousers.

  He ran over to the front porch where the brigands were and, taking a quick look to make sure they were indeed deceased, he entered the cabin and began to change his clothes. He took his old black cloak that was tattered, as his newer, cleaner one was stolen by those filthy thieves. He grabbed the darkest trousers he could find as well as a black tunic left behind, as it was too large to fit any brigand, and besides, as their leader had said, they were mainly there to rob and steal provisions. Targon was pretty sure they had cleaned out the shed and barn area, as it was too quiet on the homestead. He could not hear any animals making any kind of noise at all.

  Finally, he grabbed his pack that he always used to carry provisions in and a large coil of rope that was stored in the upper rafters where he would normally sleep and where the brigands had luckily overlooked during their thievery. There were only a few apples and some jerky in the small pantry underneath the basin they used as a sink, and again, he was glad for the inattentiveness of his enemies. He made sure he took everything he could and placed the rope, apples, and jerky in his pack and hoisted it onto his back.

  He was about to leave when he spotted his carving of the Clairton bird he had gifted to his mother. It was knocked off the pinecone where he had set it, and it was just near the hearth, lying in the corner. It was hard to see, but Targon had excellent eyesight, especially at night. With a quick reach, he grabbed the carving and stuffed it into his right tunic pocket, determined to return this gift when he freed his mother. Newly dried from head to toe . . . well, at least down to his knees, as his socks were dry but the boots still squished when he walked, wet with cold water. He only had one pair of boots, anyway, and wet or dry, that was what he had to wear. With a squishing sound of each step, Targon took off, leaving his homestead, and headed north along the trackway after his mother and sister.

  Hork was not happy. He could see the old, partially destroyed keep tower from the road as he approached it on horseback, riding quickly with his lieutenants. Amazing, he thought when he had crossed the only bridge north over the Gregus River, that the large but old structure remained intact after so many centuries, and yet, the old keep is crumbling and half destroyed. It did not appear that the same builders had built the two. The differences were obvious.

  Hork didn’t have time to dwell much on the finer points of ancient engineering and architecture as he approached, and could just barely make out the figures of his three Kesh masters. They weren’t as forgiving as he would have liked them to be, and Kesh brigand captains had fairly short lifespans, so when he was “promoted” to lead this raid on Ulatha, he pretty much felt as if he had received a death sentence.

  There were successes and the entire Kesh army, if one could call a loose consortium of brigand bands an army, was ready to strike, and he was about to report that news to his masters. The other news wasn’t so good. He had talked to one of their spies who had reported a fully mounted patrol had left the capital and rode south in search of raiders and pillagers. No doubt one or more of their Kesh patrols had disobeyed orders and started to have a little early fun. This could jeopardize the entire mission. The wizards wanted to trap the entire armed contingent inside the capital and not have an armed patrol running around the realm at will. Hork understood this, and that was most likely one of the main reasons for his “promotion.”

  Hork arrived at the base of the keep and saw the sentries at the base of the ruined tower stairs. He handed the reins of his horse to a handler and started for the broken stairs to ascend to the top, mindful not to step on a crack or gash in the staircase and break a leg or sprain an ankle. Informing them that several peasants and children had also escaped from the many farms and homesteads that dotted the surrounding countryside didn’t look good. It made him look incompetent.

  Hork arrived at the top of the tower followed by his two lieutenants, Arkhale and Kritor. He saw the group of mages standing silently, looking out from the ruined tower west toward the heart of Ulatha. This was just the opening of a grand offensive the Kesh wizards had planned for many years. There were not supposed to be wizards left in Agon after the great Dragon-Wizard war a millennium ago, so the sight of the three wizards was indeed out of place in Ulatha. Hork approached them. “All good so far, Masters.” He bowed his head a tad in deference to them, yet peeked out with his left eye to see their reaction.

  “Good,” said the tallest of the mages, Am-Ohkre, as he turned from the parapet to face Hork and his henchmen. Though it pained the wizards to admit it, the brigands were Kesh just the same as they were, though they clearly thought themselves the superior class, as their fellow countrymen had devolved into lowly thieves and cutthroats, uneducated and uncultured. “Has the main army reached Korwell yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master, the city will soon be under siege, and the outlying farms and villages have been cleared of all resistance,” Hork replied as he swept his arms open, demonstrating the sweeping actions he just described, yet a tinge of hesitancy was apparent in his voice.

  “And . . .” the tall wizard said with an arching of his white bushy eyebrows.

  With a look at either side to his lieutenants, and seeing no help or aid forthcoming there, he stood erect from his bow, declaring, “Our spies reported a few horsemen from the city rode to the south about a week ago . . . and tonight there is the possibility that a farmer or two, children really, nothing to concern ourselves with, may have escaped our locks.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause until, finally, the elder wizard exploded. “The insolence!” he exclaimed. “Not to mention your incompetence. Those riders will alert those in the South before we can implement our plan. I ordered no raiding before the attack.” The wizard starting shouting, and his face turned a bright shade of red. “There can be no failure, Hork!” And with that, the wizard lifted his staff from his right hand and a light began to glow at the end of it.

  Hork was sure he was dead. There was no standing up to the power of a wizard. Hork grimaced as he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. There was a large, blinding flash of white and the crackle of a sonic boom as the sky was lit for several leagues, and the lieutenant standing to his right suddenly vanished in a puff of light and the only thing remaining was a quickly dissipating cloud of ash.

  “That was excessive, no?” said the youngest-looking wizard as he stepped over to wave his hand around the ash cloud, stifling a cough with the sleeve of his other arm.

  “Mind your tongue, Khan,” replied the second wizard as he, too, stepped over to see the Arch-Mage’s handiwork.

  “Oh, please, Ke-Tor,” Khan replied as he rolled his eyes. “Any secrecy probably just went out the window with Am-Ohkre’s fireworks display. Most likely they could see this from Korwell.”

  Hork froze in place, not wanting in the least to get in between squabbling wizards, and somewhat elated he was not a pile of ash right now, but Kritor was a good lieutenant and Hork would miss him as they had much work to do. Am-Ohkre was not in the mood to deal with a wizard apprentice, much less this one. Khan was notorious for his insolent mouth, and Am-Ohkre was just as suited to allow his one-time apprentice, Ke-Tor, to handle the situation.

  “Khan, take Hork and track down any survivors from arou
nd the countryside. I will personally take care of the contingent of riders from Korwell. Do you understand me . . . wizard?” Ke-Tor asked with a mocking emphasis on his last word. Khan understood clearly the sarcasm sent his way as he himself didn’t even warrant nor deserve the prefix title any Kesh wizard would add to his name. Once a true wizard, Khan would take the Kesh prefix for a standard wizard and add Ke to his name, becoming “Ke-Khan,” but not yet and not today. Today, he would simply remain Khan, the wizard apprentice, though Hork and any other brigand didn’t really distinguish between them, as even an apprentice was more dangerous than most brigands, and any true wizard would wreak havoc with an entire company of Kesh fighters.

  “Fine, I’ll start now, then,” Khan replied, looking over at the tall wizard Am-Ohkre as he gathered his personal belongings and headed to the top of the partially destroyed stairwell. “Come on, Hork, show me where these dangerous peasants were last seen so I can take care of what you should have done already,” he said mockingly, and with a motion of his hand, Khan gestured for Hork to lead him down the broken staircase.

  After they had left, the wizards returned to the south-facing parapet, and Ke-Tor cleared his throat. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Maybe,” replied the tall wizard. “The filthy thieves are plentiful enough, and besides, that should motivate old Hork properly.” Then the tall wizard chuckled a bit, seeming to enjoy the events that had recently transpired.

  “Understood, Am-Ohkre, but Kritor was a capable leader even for a thief.”

  “Yes,” replied the tall wizard, “but Hork is the most capable, and, despite his failure, I was not ready to lose him yet. Had I taken any of the other brigands, they would have lost respect for our order and thought the whole incident amusing, no doubt. No, an example was set, and the right example it was. Now just keep that insolent dabbler of the black arts on his leash or I will set yet another example,” Am-Ohkre replied, referring to Khan.