“I will,” replied Ke-Tor.
“Good. Take the Iron Hand Company and the Red Throat Company and finish Korwell. Track down those riders who escaped and meet me at the eastern edge of Cree in three days,” Am-Ohkre said in a stern voice, referring to a village near Korwell. “Oh, and see to it that the Bloody Hand Company finishes its business on the near side of these mountains. I won’t stand for some sort of peasant uprising behind our lines. In fact, see to it that Khan deals with it personally.” He chortled, quite pleased with himself, as he knew Khan was not a cold-blooded killer, and that was exactly what the duty called for. It would be a form of punishment to put the young apprentice in his place.
“Yes, as you command.” And with that, Ke-Tor walked over to an open crack in the parapet and stepped out from the top of the keep, falling at first but then gliding as his cloak opened and he murmured the spell of floating, gliding down to the ground where the waiting brigand captains were, and then he barked orders. “Time to kill!” he commanded, and then the wizard and brigands departed the keep along the ancient trade road toward Korwell.
“Indeed,” gloated the Arch-Mage Am-Ohkre as he watched Ke-Tor depart for Korwell. So far the move down into Ulatha had remained uneventful. The mountain pass was now fortified and guarded. Several companies of brigands were marched into Ulatha and had taken up strategic locations, ready to attack when he gave the command. Kesh did not have enough soldiers to hit Ulatha everywhere at once, and that was why Am-Ohkre was so upset. The plan called for hitting the North first and taking out the “king” and his ilk so the rest of the wretched realm would be leaderless. Am-Ohkre was worried the news from Hork would bode ill for Kesh, but it was too late to change anything. They were committed.
Am-Ohkre stood alone on the top of the tower, resisting the call from the Cretir located in his tent in a field behind the old keep. He knew Am-Sultain was calling for him, and the urge to respond was growing in a part of Am-Ohkre’s mind. How insulting, to be forced to act like a lap dog to a lesser mage. Yes, lesser, he thought. Sultain did not deserve the position of High-Mage, sitting safe in the Onyx Tower while he directed others . . . No! Not others, himself, too, the mightiest Arch-Mage to reveal himself since the last passing of Akun.
No, he would clear those thoughts from his mind. No telling what kind of mindreading sorcery Sultain commanded, or perhaps he simply exercised astute powers of observation. Either way, sooner or later, he knew he would be dragged back to the Cretir, back to the orb to answer Sultain’s summoning, so he would do so with a clear mind. As soon as he finished that thought, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt as if he was being watched, alone though that he was on the top of the ancient ruined tower. He took one look up before heading back to his tent.
Even the mages didn’t notice the falcon flying high above them, circling and watching. There were stranger things than mages and dragons on Agon, and arrogance often blinded even the smartest living creatures to the natural world. After sometime, when the many troops had left and the wizards as well, the lone remaining Arch-Mage finally looked up and thought he saw the vanishing form of a bird flying south, but he couldn’t tell for sure if what he saw was real or part of his imagination.
Many miles later, and just before sunup, the falcon glided slowly, circling above Blackthorn Forest. Barely noticeable was a large rock, a hilltop actually with an enormous rock capped on top of it, and standing there was an old man in a brown robe, also with a wooden staff but dressed much differently from those from Kesh. It was too dark for anyone or almost anything, except the hawk or maybe an eagle, to see the man, but slowly, the falcon landed on the outstretched arm of the brown-robed man, and the pair quickly vanished into the forest just before the dawn.
The chill night air was always coldest before dawn. Dawn was still a couple of hours away, and despite his anger, Targon was starting to feel not only tired but stiff and sore from all of his exertions. Despite his attempt to run quickly and silently, it appeared he could do neither. He squished with every step in his wet boots and the weight of them kept his legs from making long strides, so he struggled to maintain any speed or momentum. Only the thought of his family kept him going.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light from the northeast. In fact, Targon was sure it came from the old keep that was abandoned not far from his homestead. So suddenly was Targon illuminated that he simply dropped to the ground and held his breath. It was impossible for someone to miss seeing him with that much light, but just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished into darkness, and the entire area was bathed back into shadows and darkness. Then a sudden boom rolled over him, much like thunder on a stormy night. He could only shiver at the thought of whom or what was powerful enough to make a flash and roar as if from the gods above. Finally, after several moments of silence, he found the courage to stand back up and resume his journey.
“I’m not moving fast enough,” Targon muttered to himself in desperation. After dispatching the two brigands who threatened his home, he had traveled all the way back to the ancient trade road and looked west toward the bridge he saw in the far distance, indeed the very same from wince he had jumped. He didn’t like the looks of the road now: it was set much higher on an embankment to either side, unlike his homestead’s trackway, which was nearly invisible if one wasn’t looking for it. In fact, it was mostly blocked on either side: brushes on the riverside and tall grass and weeds on the other side. Was there a brigand guard on the bridge? It looked empty, but he couldn’t be sure of the far side as the old stone bridge arched somewhat from the east bank, peaking over the river and descending on the western side. That side he could not see for sure. He had to get closer, so he ran along the edge of the road over half a league before hiding on the southern side of the road, and just in time.
Just before he could think of making a run for it, he started to hear the hooves of horses rapidly approaching from the east. Quickly, Targon ducked for cover in a particularly large group of rushes near the bridge and road and waited for the riders. Not long thereafter, a large group of brigands led by an older rider with a cape and a strange pointy but crooked hat and a staff set over his saddle rode past the trackway along the road and quickly were lost to sight after crossing the bridge.
Targon suddenly realized the futility of his situation. Yes, the cart traveled down the trackway at walking speed, but once on the road and across the bridge, there was no reason for it to travel so slowly. In fact, the brigands that had left his homestead took off in a run after their brigand leader, who was horsed. He was going to have to pick up the pace. With one last listen and a deep breath, Targon stood, though still in somewhat of a crouched stance, and darted off to his left toward the bridge. He didn’t hear anything, and he crossed the bridge and dove into another grouping of weeds and brushes while looking in either direction. It was too dark to really see anything, but he fancied he could just make out the receding galloping noises of the riders as they moved off west. With another surge of courage and determination, Targon stood up and headed west, staying just off the road in case more riders approached, or worse, there was a guard or sentry along the road.
After what seemed an eternity, Targon noticed the growing light in the east. Dawn would soon arrive, and he would have to make a decision then. He had traveled a couple of leagues when he noticed there was a trackway again to the south. He was familiar with it, as it headed to some other homesteads of some woodsmen and their families as well as farmers. The problem was while there were horse tracks heading down this trackway and the road, there were also several cart tracks heading in both directions as well.
He desperately wanted to continue, but which way had they gone? Despair started to set in so he took a deep breath and composed himself. He was a woodsman, and he would think this through. Targon stepped back from the old road along the little trackway, careful not to disturb the cart and horse tracks, and began to look at the tracks slowly
and carefully.
Kesh was to the east, so that was the way from which they came. Those tracks were arriving ones. Targon started to think about the cart. It had uneven wheels, barely perceptible but uneven, he knew because he rode in it. Yes, the left wheel was larger, meaning it bit into the ground more when it turned. He turned his attention back to the tracks heading west. In the pale moonlight, but with his excellent eyesight, he could just make out the left track appearing deeper than the right one. Of course! he thought to himself, somewhat elated to have accomplished such an important task. They arrived from Kesh but continued westward toward the capital Korwell. Other cart tracks did turn down the small trackway, but not with the same bite the left wheel of his cart had. They had for certain continued west and did not go to the South. He was just about to move out yet again when he heard a loud horn sound from the east.
Ah-Roooommm. The horn sounded, both loud and deep. It was in turn answered by several other horns sounding in the distance. One horn sounded, and it was a smaller horn but much closer and much sharper, coming from down the rutted trackway. Targon turned and again darted into some bushes and weeds and gripped his axe. He thought he could hear in the distance shouts and screams and the sound of metal on metal, but he couldn’t be sure. This must be the signal, he thought, and indeed, not long after the first sounds of the horns began, there appeared many spots of lights throughout the valley. Targon recognized them as burning homes, cabins, and hutches. This was the fate that had awaited his own cabin had he not gotten rid of those foul brigands.
Targon was torn between wanting to run down the trackway and assist his neighbors—though they lived quite some distance from him he knew many of them by name—or to continue on his quest to free his family. It took a long while before he finally decided to head west along the road. He was not sure what, if anything, he could do for his far flung neighbors, and he had promised his mother he would find and alert his brother and it appeared he had been too late to keep his promise. Even if he had a horse, it would have taken him much longer than this to at least arrive in Korwell. Perhaps his mother did not think the Kesh had gone so far so quickly? At any rate, he took off west toward a small fire in the distance.
Targon approached the small hamlet, which was burning brightly. He could feel the heat coming from it. The roar of the flames was loud and intermingled with the occasional popping of gas pockets within the wood of the structure as it burned. It was set off the main road by only a stone’s throw. He remembered seeing the farm when he had to use the road between his home and the capital. There were no signs of brigands, though they had to be close at hand, as the fire had started not long ago. He saw no signs of life. Most likely they cleared this roadside home out earlier, much the same as they had done to his own.
He was about to continue when he noticed a set of gleaming eyes riveted upon him from a pile of old stale hay just to the side of the burning building. Targon gripped his axe tightly, leaving his bow strung across his back, and faced the set of eyes. He did not think it a brigand, as the eyes were much too low and the Kesh tended to be taller and lankier than what he was looking at. He crossed over slowly and quietly to where the eyes were, and they suddenly blinked and disappeared into the haystack. With a quick lunge, however, Targon managed to get ahold of the edge of a dress and pull on the little girl who had dove headfirst into the haystack. Pulling back and clearing the child’s head from the straw, he was quick to shush the child, motioning for her to remain quiet.
“Shhh, what’s your name, little one?” he asked, brushing some straw from her matted hair. When the child didn’t answer, he prompted yet again. “Your name? Can you speak, girl?” He smiled.
The smile must have done the trick, and the girl looked over once at the burning building and then back to Targon. “My name is Marissa. Are you one of those thieves?” she asked nervously.
“Of course not. My name is Targon, and you can see from the manner of my dress that I am no ruffian from Kesh, and neither do I hurt innocent people. Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?” he asked while looking her over from head to toe, relieved not to see any signs of blood or injury.
“I am not hurt,” she replied, “but my family . . .” Then she broke off and started to cry silently, small tears starting to stream down her cheeks.
“Shhh, I understand . . . Marissa it is, right?” he asked while holding the young girl and allowing her to cry into his tunic.
“Yes.” She sobbed a bit, gaining control.
“Were they in the building?” he asked tentatively.
“Just my papi, who they killed first,” she replied, new tears forming in her eyes. “But they took my mother and my brother. I ran out the back and hid in the haystack. I saw them in a cage, do you know where they are? Will they come back?”
“I don’t know, but we will do what we can to reunite you with them. My family was taken as well,” Targon explained, pained emotion evident across his face.
This is getting out of control, Targon thought to himself. How could so much go so wrong so fast? First, his family, then, this family, and most likely every family in the entire valley was affected. Targon felt spent. The adrenaline from earlier in the night was fading, and he was still cold and tired and now he had a little girl to deal with of all things, though in all fairness, the girl appeared to be in her younger teens and much older than his sister, Ann, was. He was just about to suggest they go and search for her family when he heard yet again the sound of approaching hooves.
“Quick, into the haystack,” he said, pushing Marissa on the small of her back, shoving her deep into the base of the small haystack, following alongside of her as best he could. He wiggled near the edge so he could peek out and see who was arriving. He didn’t have long to wait before two horses arrived with tall, lean brigands atop of them.
“Hoi, Crates, where are you?” the taller of the two brigands called out. Much to Targon’s shock and dismay, two more brigands appeared from around the other side of the burning building. He felt so stupid this whole time talking to the girl and not more than one hundred feet away were two ruffians ready to kill them both or worse.
“Waz looking for dat girl dat ran away,” Crates responded with a forlorn look into the fields north of the burning house. “She’d fetch a pretty penny on da market, for sure.” He chuckled, and his companion nodded his head in agreement.
“Well, don’t waste your time on just one slaver when we have plenty more around that are easier pickings than running through the brush all day. Now, gets going to the rendezvous point before dawn or there’ll be hell to pay,” he said sternly.
The two brigands on foot headed west just out of sight of where Targon could see, but very quickly, they were mounted on horses that must have been tied up just out of sight. Also, over the roar of the flames and fire and the cackle of wood embers and trapped gasses blowing and popping every so often, it was hard to hear anything unless one was near another or as was the case of the brigands. They were practically yelling at each other to be heard over the roar of the fire. Soon, the galloping receded into the distance as the four riders took off west and out of sight and sound.
Targon thought for a moment and felt Marissa squirming beside him. He hoped she could breathe adequately enough, and since the hay was coarse, there was room for that and more. He pulled her to the edge of the stack and made a decision. “Marissa, we need to stay here for now, all right?” he asked. “We need to stay off the road during the day, and I think we both could use some rest, eh?” He nodded his head, encouraging her to agree with him.
“All right,” she said, stifling a yawn, “but wake me if my family returns?”
“Of course,” he said, pulling some stray hay to cover up their heads and feet. His adrenaline had finally left him, and the near shock from meeting Marissa, followed by almost getting caught by what he felt was his sheer stupidity, left him utterly exhausted. He had no idea what
to do with this young girl, and looking after someone else wasn’t part of his plan, either. He couldn’t just leave her here to the fate of one of those leering Kesh brigands, but neither could he just take her with him, could he?
He saw through the random straws of hay, as much as he felt it, the growing light in the east. It would be dawn soon, and he would be more vulnerable if caught out in the open. He needed time to think. Having been up all day and most of the night, he started feeling tired, though he was more confident they were not visible to any passerby on the road, and so he closed his eyes and sleep took him quickly.
This is all wrong, thought Khan as he rode down a small trackway toward the closest hut to Kesh in this valley. Slavery, rape, pillaging, and plundering were the way of the Kesh ever since the Dragon War, but Khan never took a liking to it. He found it hard to believe even the remnants of a once proud people and race had succumbed to this as he looked around at the brigands around him. A lonely group of degenerates if ever I saw one, Khan thought to himself as they arrived at a clearing and a small hut where the trackway ended. He wasn’t sure he would have even seen the trackway if one of the brigand trackers hadn’t pointed it out to him.
The hut hardly deserves notice, he thought as he looked at such a sad structure. “And what exactly was here?” he asked Hork.
Hork motioned for one of the riders to move forward. “Tell the young master what transpired here, Bolt,” he said.
“We took a wood-witch and her two children,” Bolt started. “No problems at first, and we put them in the lock cart . . .”
Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Page 7
