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

by Salvador Mercer

  The city folk looked at her in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say. The idea that others were affected hadn’t really crossed their minds yet, and seeing this young girl, also muddied from head to foot standing there with a sad countenance on her face, was a bit much for most of them. “Come here, child,” Agatha said, walking over to Marissa. Agatha took off her cloak and wrapped it around Marissa and started to guide her back to the crevice. “Are you hungry, my dear?”

  “Oh yes, it’s late, but apples and jerky aren’t very filling,” she replied, looking hopeful.

  “Well, we have some stew on a pot in the back,” Agatha said as they walked past the blanket and out of sight.

  “Is that your sister?” asked Will, looking from Marissa as she disappeared from sight back to Targon.

  “No, I found her hiding near her home on the old trade road near the Rapid River,” he said, motioning north. “Her family had either been killed or taken prisoner.” He looked Will up and down and thought him to be a soldier of Korwell, but without any uniform or emblems to speak of, not the way he remembered his brother, Malik, dressed a year earlier when they met in the city. “Are you from Korwell?”

  “Yes, Chief Sergeant of the main gate,” he said, standing a bit taller and with a bit of better posture.

  “And my husband is captain of the king’s guard,” replied Lady Salina. “We were overrun by brigands from Kesh.” A look of sadness crossing her face. “Will Carvel here and I gathered what few people we found trying to hide and fled the city before they could kill us or take us prisoner. What happened to you?”

  “The same. They took my mother and my sister prisoner, and I managed to escape,” he said, leaving out the part about his mother’s magic. Surely she wasn’t a wizard, but he still had no idea how she had opened that locked gate on the lock cart, and he didn’t want them to confuse her as some sort of sorceress. “My brother is a member of the guard in Korwell. Any news on how the guard fared in the attack?” Concern now showed across Targon’s face.

  Lady Salina looked down and then over at Will, who was now shuffling his feet and not appearing comfortable, either. Finally, Salina looked back to Targon. “The guard was slaughtered,” she said, almost whispering the last word. “Only a few of the king’s personal guards and knights escaped on horseback before the city was surrounded. Any soldier was put to the sword, while women and children and some men who were not soldiers were all locked away in large carts and taken,” she finished.

  Targon felt as if he was punched in the stomach. It felt hard to breath, and he started to feel tears well up in his eyes. Surely, he thought, when this ordeal began, he thought he could warn his brother in time of the danger to come. Even when it was obvious Korwell was attacked, he still had hoped the worst fate his brother would face would be being taken as a prisoner or slave, much as his mother and sister were. He didn’t think the Kesh would commit wholesale murder on any soldier, much less his own brother. Strong men like his brother would be prized and valued as slaves for the labor they could perform. Something didn’t make sense, and Targon was determined to find out what. “I have to go see for myself,” he said finally, looking at both Will and Lady Salina, as Cedric rose to his feet.

  “It’s too dangerous,” said Will. “They might mistake you for a soldier too, dressed like you are in all black, or an assassin and kill you first and ask questions later.” Lady Salina nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll be back by tomorrow evening. Get some rest,” he stated simply, a look of determination on his face, “and look after Marissa for me as well . . . please,” he added, as he felt a twang of guilt for just dumping her on these people.

  “You may not like what you find,” Lady Salina offered, “but go and we will look after your friend, and we will wait a second day here for you.” She smiled at him. “Fact of the matter is that we aren’t sure what to do either. Go and tell us of what you find.”

  Targon cinched up his belt and took one last look at Will, Cedric, and Lady Salina. “I should be back by tomorrow evening, but if I’m not back by sunrise of the following day, it means the area isn’t safe and best if you all head south. The north is crawling with brigands.”

  Targon did not look back. He walked a bit south, and then, finding another draw in the west bank, he climbed up and over the edge and continued his journey for a few more hours.

  Just when the sun was about to come up, he came across a ridge line he thought he recognized. Lying on the ground and crawling slowly to its edge near some brushes and a large tree, he peered over the ridge top and down into the Korwell Valley, where he could see smoke and ruin. It was soon to be dawn, and there was no sign of activity. With his keen eyesight, he could make out the castle walls, but no guards were seen moving there. Finally, he saw some motion and looked closely, straining to make out the two figures that moved near the main gate. Bandits from Kesh! Then, slowly but steadily, a long procession of lock carts left the castle courtyard and headed northeast along the old road Targon knew so well.

  He could make out what looked like a driver and a rider sitting up front and a guard on the back of each cart. After counting thirty carts, he noticed a smaller group of riders approaching the castle from the opposite direction. The two groups passed each other and then, with a sad heart and hope being replaced by despair, Targon reluctantly started to crawl back from the ridge top.

  Good-bye, Malik, he thought to himself as he felt sad and at the same time his will hardened into a steely resolve. The brigands of Kesh would pay for this. Indeed they would, but first he started to formulate a plan. Maybe, just maybe, if his family was in one of those carts, he could find a way to free them. Not much he could do against ninety brigands, but against three, when it was dark, all he needed was a few seconds to free them. So, as the sun started to rise, Targon headed back, a plan formulating quickly in his mind.

  The taking and torching of Korwell was a success, thought Khan as he looked at the smoldering ruins of the castle and town surrounding it. Of course, they hadn’t burned everything to the ground, but most of the town was, and the few bandits left in the city were in the castle while the rest were scouring the countryside for prisoners. Despite the many successes of the initial raid two days earlier, there were reports that far too many Ulathans escaped into the wilds around Korwell.

  Khan himself had just returned from overseeing the burning of most of the homesteads to the east and the capture of various refugees trying to flee the area. They would fetch a hefty price in the slave markets far from here. The homes were burned to prevent any type of uprising or guerrilla warfare by the Ulathans. The Arch-Mage came up with this idea to deny sanctuary and sustenance to the inhabitants of Ulatha. So far it seemed to be working, as most of their prisoners were eventually caught near the roads and burned homesteads looking for food and/or provisions.

  Having done his duty, though he really loathed it, he was returning to Korwell to meet with his mentor in charge of the offensive and report on his successes. Hork was riding alongside him, none too happy to have missed the sacking of the capital city, and no doubt as punishment for some of his prior failures. Kritor had paid the price for that, he thought sourly to himself. The column of brigand riders passed a long line of lock carts filled with mostly women and children and a few men who were, most likely, talented in one of several trades Kesh found lacking.

  After some time, they passed through the burned city and through the main gate of the castle. Khan dismounted and headed to the top of the tallest tower, certain he would find his mentor there gloating at their dirty deeds. Khan wasn’t sure why, but he often found his comrades at the top of towers, overlooking, always overlooking, but never really seeing what they had just stepped on. The sun was about to rise, and Khan was looking forward to its warmth.

  “Greetings, Khan,” said Ke-Tor, turning from the tower top and facing Khan, who had just climbed the three hundred and thirty-three
stairs to reach the top. “How were the farming raids?”

  Trying hard not to breathe too deeply and let his old mentor see his exhaustion at the long climb, Khan composed himself first before replying. “We finished the job. Took plenty of provisions and made sure there were no places of refuge for any Ulathans in the entire area.”

  “Good, Am-Ohkre will be pleased at the news,” Ke-Tor responded, a smile crossing his middle-aged face. “I have to meet with him near the southern village of Cree.” He turned back to look down at the remains of the capital city.

  Khan walked over to the edge and also looked down. The sun was just rising, and the smell of death and burned flesh wafted over him despite how high he was standing above the mess. “So does Am-Ohkre intend to complete the raid on the entire realm?” he asked, swatting his hand at a fly buzzing near his nose.

  “Indeed, I think he will. In fact, he will most likely move on Cree next and then finish with the outlying towns and villages to the south, including Forns,” he said.

  “Forns is south of the great Ulatha river. It will be difficult to cross it,” replied Khan, again swatting at the annoying fly buzzing around his head. How in all of Agon does a fly get to the top of this tall tower? Khan thought to himself, momentarily distracted by the small insect.

  “Am-Ohkre will see to that. Do not doubt, Khan, the power of the Arch-Mage,” Ke-Tor responded, a stern look to his eyes.

  “I’m sure he will,” was all Khan said in return, finally just allowing the fly to land on his nose as he absentmindedly fondled his magical necklace.

  “You will stay here and oversee the capture of any survivors from the initial raid. I must meet Am-Ohkre in one day’s time outside of Cree. I’ll inform Hork he is back in command of the army, and take him with me. We will leave you with the Bloody Hand Company as well as part of the Black Dagger Company to secure the area. We will take the other companies with us,” Ke-Tor said.

  As long as I don’t have to deal with the Bloody Throat Company, thought Khan. They lived up to their name and were, in his opinion, the worst of the worst, killers through and through. “Fine,” he said. “Do we use the balls or the birds?” he asked, referring to the preferred forms of communication in Kesh. Every wizard had a crystal ball called a critir, though not every wizard was adept at using it, and messages often got misread or not read at all, and while many were sure this had less to do with the ball and more to do with the wizard, they also had a backup system for the brigands to use: homing birds. Birds bred and used to find their mates. They always used them in pairs, one locked, and the other as the messenger bird, instinctually returning to its mate.

  “Birds for now,” replied Ke-Tor. “I doubt Am-Ohkre would trust you to use your critir effectively,” he said mockingly but with a faint smile on his face as he teased his young apprentice. “And stop your compulsive fiddling with your little healing trinket. Those Talamans are a waste of time and gold,” Ke-Tor finished, referring to Khan’s magical necklace. Striding away and jumping onto the parapet of the tall tower facing the northern courtyard, Ke-Tor jumped off the tower.

  Normally it was a sight to see, as the wizard plummeted most of the way to the ground, and despite his desire not to look, Khan leaned over in time to see his mentor, pointy hat still on his head, staff in his left hand but his cloak flapping wildly, plummet almost all the way to the ground. The man’s cloak ceased is flapping and, almost like a feather, Ke-Tor floated the rest of the way, landing on his feet, with several brigands wide-mouthed, looking at him in awe.

  Khan tucked his necklace into his tunic. One day, thought Khan, he will not say the spell correctly and his little fall will have a different result, and then with one fluid stroke, he swatted the fly from his nose, and it, too, began the long fall to the ground.

  Targon suddenly woke up, almost hitting his head on a small tree branch. He had stumbled wearily back toward the small brook and crevice where the refugees and Marissa were hiding. About halfway back, he found a nice little place in a hollow with dried pine leaves and low-hanging branches. He only intended to lie there for an hour or so, just rest himself enough to return, but he must have slept longer, much longer. He couldn’t see any shadows nor could he see the sun. He peered out, and from what he could tell, the sun was getting close to the western horizon. Damn, he thought to himself, how many hours did I sleep?

  He oriented himself and just started east again when not far from where he had slept he came across a group of large tracks. Not tracks from the refugees he had found earlier, and not his own, but deep, booted tracks and at least one horse track. Targon kneeled and took a close look. While he was only used to tracking wild game, it wasn’t much different to track a human. Targon shuddered: he thought he counted at least a dozen tracks. “No, no, no . . .” he muttered to himself as he started off east at a much quicker pace.

  After what seemed to be hours, Targon heard the running water of the brook. His heart chilled as he heard faintly some sort of cruel laughter and something else. Sobbing cries? he thought to himself. Slowly, he pulled out his bow and nocked an arrow. He only had nine arrows and worried what he would do if there were more than nine Kesh here. Creeping low, he found a small draw and started down into it and approached the running brook.

  “Poke him good,” Targon heard as he slid around a bush near a small tree and could now see clearly several brigands dressed in their usual black standing in a semicircle around the crevice where he had left his fellow Ulathans the night before. Targon couldn’t see into the crevice, which while deep was very narrow, and it appeared the brigands could not enter it or wouldn’t enter it.

  “Use a pike and loose some bolts,” shouted the lead brigand from atop his horse behind the others as he pointed toward the crevice with the same type wooden stick Targon had seen at his homestead the night he and his family were taken. Targon was sure it was some sort of leadership symbol or device the Kesh used.

  Two brigands stepped toward the center of the group but back from the opening. Targon could see two wicked-looking crossbows in their hands as they aimed them into the crevice and let loose. Two crossbow bolts went flying out of Targon’s sight, but he could hear screams as at least one of them found a mark. The crossbows changed things as any farmer, peasant, child, or even an idiot, could be transformed into a lethal soldier when a crossbow was present. It took little skill to fire and only some modest strength to reload, and that was exactly what the two brigands were just now doing.

  “Die, you vermin!” yelled a voice Targon recognized as coming from Will Carvel, and then he saw Will leap forward from out of the crevice, a huge broadsword in both his hands. With a lunge and thrust, it buried itself deeply into the closest brigand, and, just as quickly, Will had pulled it out and gave a slashing cut to his right, barely missing the next brigand, who ducked and fell back at the same time the dead brigand fell.

  Rocks started flying from the crevice, hitting several brigands, including one of the crossbowmen, knocking him off his feet. This is the refugees’ counterattack, Targon thought. They can’t just stand around waiting for the crossbow bolts to slaughter them, yet stepping out into the open is almost as suicidal.

  With a quick stand, and closing his right eye, Targon drew the bow as far as he could with his first arrow ready to strike, but where? “Ulatha!” yelled Targon, not knowing for sure where the emotion came from as he loosed his first arrow and it buried itself deeply into the side of the horseback brigand. The rider toppled over and fell lifeless to the ground, his command stick still stuck to his hand as the horse neighed wildly, suddenly bolting over the brook.

  Targon reached back and grabbed another arrow, nocking it in one fluid motion. The many years of practice of missing his target and having by necessity to draw and nock a second arrow now served him well. He saw the one remaining crossbowman as well as a tall, seedy-looking brigand with a long pike he had in both his hands near the crevice entrance. W
ith a quick bead, Targon chose the crossbowman, leaving the pikeman for Will. This was in part due to the danger of the weapon, but when the crossbowman turned and raised the freshly loaded crossbow, leveling it at Targon, he decided he wasn’t about to find out just how much faster a bolt flew than an arrow.

  With a whoosh, his second arrow found its mark squarely between the surprised brigand’s eyes and planted itself in the brigand’s head. The brigand toppled backward from the arrow’s impact at the same time the brigand loosed his bolt. The crossbow bolt flew up into the air well clear of Targon, like a missile to land who in Agon knew where. Targon was about to nock his third arrow when he heard another scream.

  “Targon, watch out!” cried somebody from near the crevice entrance. Targon lowered his bow just enough to see a brigand from up on the bank trying to get above the refugees. He had not seen this brigand before, but the man threw a large spear right at him. He had little choice with his positioning but to roll forward and downward, closer to the group of brigands. With one fluid motion, Targon completed his somersault and knelt with his bow now facing more to his left and above the bank of the brook and let loose his third arrow. He could just make out the brigand either ducking or falling, and Targon was not sure if he had hit the man or not, so he nocked yet another arrow.

  By now, Will had managed to down two more brigands, but one had cut him on his left arm and the heavy sword was now almost down to the ground as Will struggled to defend himself, but Will was not alone. Whether planned or simply desperate, the refugees charged single file from the brook’s crevice right into the middle of the fight. Even Agatha was there charging with a large cast iron pot. The entire image was surreal to Targon.