Agatha took the time to change Will’s bandage, and Yolanda was walking nearby with her daughter, Amy, barefoot, enjoying the lush green grass around the cabin. That was so odd for Targon to comprehend, as he was so used to the ground being trampled by their many boots as well as Myrtle’s daily walks around the cabin, that the ground was always bare as he remembered it.
Horace had grabbed a crossbow and sat it on his lap as he and Emelda sat watching over Yolanda and her little girl. Celeste stood nervously near Targon by the door, and he half thought she was going to try to open it and run inside. Olga was sitting by herself near the Moross boys, wringing her hands and generally looking worried.
Finally, after some time, the door bolt swung to the side, and Targon stepped away from the door to see the old man Elister as he exited. He could hear Celeste gasp as she, too, viewed the old man. He looked aged beyond what they had just seen hours before. His peppered short cropped beard was now fully white, no longer grey, and his balding head seemed to have lost more of its hair. Wrinkles furrowed his brow, and he showed crow eyes near the edges of his eyelids. Targon looked inside and saw Lady Salina sleeping on the makeshift bed, breathing shallowly but firmly. He grabbed a chair, placing it next to the old man, and, taking his elbow, gently guided him to a seated position on the chair.
Word must have gone around as the younger refugees came back around the front of the cabin loaded with various foods from the garden. Yolanda and Amy ran over as well, and everyone perked up when Elister opened his mouth. “She will live,” he said with a sigh and some finality. Karz and Cedric almost shouted in glee at the news, but the older ladies just started to sob in relief. No one could feel more relief than Targon. He didn’t think he could bear the guilt if she had died. He felt as responsible for this group of his fellow countrymen as he did for his mother, Dareen, and his sister, Ann.
Finally, Celeste spoke. “Can we see her?”
“Yes, yes,” Elister replied, bending over but waving his hand in the air. The boys didn’t wait and ran into the room first, followed by Celeste and the others, everyone except Agatha and Will, who remained as she changed Will’s bandage.
“Well, go on, boy. See to the lady,” Will said, motioning with his good hand. Targon waved him off and knelt by Elister, ignoring the other two.
“Are you all right?” he asked tenderly.
Elister seemed to not hear him at first, but then finally, he lifted his head and looked Targon in the eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking, young master Terrel.” There was a pause as the old man looked around and then back to Targon again. “Let the weight go, son. You have done well for a Zashitor.”
Targon nodded, not saying anything nor protesting the title bestowed on him by the wizened old man. After a few moments, he stood, and, with a final touch to the old man’s shoulder, he walked into his home.
The makeshift bed had been moved nearer to the hearth, and Targon wondered if the old man did that or if his fellow companions had. Karz and Cedric were each holding one of their mother’s hands, and each knelt on opposite sides of the bed. The head of the bed was just against the wall nearer to the front door, and then the back door and the hearth was in the exact middle. Everyone stood around the cot and looked at Lady Salina in silence. She was still pale, but a tiny bit of pink stood out in her cheeks and brow. The last rays of sunset were peeking into the room, giving it the brightest glow he was used to seeing, and a warm reddish glow emanated from the fireplace. It was calm and peaceful for the moment, and Targon allowed the moment to fill him with hope. Hope not only for Lady Salina and her group of refugees, but for Marissa’s family and his family. He would never allow the Kesh to destroy that hope, and he locked away the memory to serve him at a later time.
“Well, son. This is your home, and we are your guests,” Horace said, standing with the crossbow perched on his right shoulder. “What would you have us do?”
Targon looked around and saw several of his companions nodding at him. Taking a deep breath, he motioned to the lone pot sitting near the hearth. “Take my mother’s kettle and fetch some water to boil. If Agatha lets us, then we use her pot to make a stew for everyone. Lord knows it’s large enough.” Several of his companions chuckled at that comment, as the pot was indeed large, and more than one brigand had been on the receiving end of it.
“Well, you heard the man,” Olga chimed in. “Come on, children, show us what you gathered from the young man’s garden.”
Monique and Thomas ran to the front porch where they had deposited their armful of vegetables and brought them inside. They had gathered some cabbages, not the wild bitter kind but the large, round sweeter domestic ones that were commonly farmed in the valley, as well as a few potatoes and some carrots. Marissa had a better understanding of gardening and recognized more of the leaf tops, managing to collect some sage and thyme for seasoning, as well as two beets. The older ladies used the table to organize the produce, and Emelda took the Terrel pot down to the nearby brook, followed protectively by Horace with his crossbow.
“Do you have any other seasonings?” Olga asked, now excited to contribute to the group’s provisions. Targon gathered by the small talk during the many marches and time at the blind, that Olga was one of the cooks at the Pickled Pig Tavern and knew how to cook, along with Agatha, who was the master of the royal kitchen.
“Let me look,” Targon said, moving over to the crude shelving standing next to the wooden basin that acted as a kitchen along the side wall of the cabin. There had been a burlap bag of salt, but when the brigands took it, some of it spilled on the shelf second from the top, and there was a small handful there. “Just a little salt is all,” Targon said, frowning.
“Bless you, my boy, a little salt will do!” Olga said gleefully, scuttling around the table and over to the shelf, grabbing a small, crudely made wooden plate deftly as she passed. The others took note to get out of her way, and Targon did the same, watching as she swept each grain of salt onto the small plate. Targon wasn’t sure what else was being swept along with the salt, but Olga seemed eager to gather every grain. Content that she had all the salt that she could gather, she returned to the table, grabbing the knife Jons had tucked into his belt and holding her hand up to silence him.
Shortly, all the cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and both beets were added to the pot Emelda had brought back, half full of water, and grabbing a nearby rag that was discarded by the brigands, Olga hefted the pot onto the cooking bar hanging above the hearth and then hung the Terrel pot also with water next to it.
Thomas and Jons were already in the loft, having climbed the crude horizontal ladder alongside the west wall of the cabin with Monique admonishing them to be careful and telling them the loft was not a play place. Whatever that means, thought Targon. Soon, everyone joined them inside. It was cramped, but not nearly so much as the blind. Elister remained outside, and no one disturbed him for over an hour.
Targon directed the ladies to the rooms in the back while he and Cedric moved Lady Salina, bed and all, to a back room. Agatha knelt by the lady’s bedside and stroked Salina’s hair as he had watched her do earlier. Targon left the two in the back room that had belonged to his mother and Ann and returned to the common room of his cabin. Olga tended to the cooking, the children were playing, and there was small talk amongst the adults. Will used a chair to lean his good arm on the table and rested near the fire. Content that his “guests” were comfortable, and, indeed, they made themselves at home in short order, Targon exited and sat next to Elister on the front porch.
The sun had just set, darkening the dragon’s fire till morning, and Targon sat in silence next to the old man for several moments, watching the western sky fade from bright oranges and light reddish hues to the deeper, darker violet blues and purples that marked the onset of night. “What did you do to her to save her?” Targon asked sincerely.
The old man didn’t hesitate this time and t
urned his neck to look at Targon in the eye. “Another hour more and she would have been beyond healing. It’s a good thing you arrived when you did. To answer your question, Master Terrel, I simply tended to her in Agon’s way.”
“So you’re a healer, too?” asked Targon in mild surprise.
“Too? What else would I be?” the old man asked, slightly amused.
“Well, it’s obvious you’re a wizard,” Targon replied, shrugging his shoulders and looking west at the fading sunset. “You command powerful magic to be able to move trees and make grass grow in a day.”
“Nonsense,” Elister replied with a chuckle as he, too, admired the fading glow of the dragon’s fire. “I simply channeled the power of our mother, Clair Agon, into the young lady and allowed nature to take its course.”
Targon smiled as he thought of Lady Salina, who was twice his age with a grown boy for a son, being referred to as a young lady. Only someone such as Elister could say such a thing. It made him fonder of the old man, strange though he was. “I can’t say I understand, but my mother often referred to Agon as the mother of all of us. Besides, I don’t care what you say, I think you’re a powerful wizard just the same.”
Elister chuckled, seeming to regain some of his strength the last hour he had sat in silence and solitude. “Then you would really be surprised to see a real wizard. Quite a site when you catch one at work. Mostly death and destruction they wreak on those near them, but at times, the actions they perform are quite spectacular. They, however, draw their power from Akun and the dragon’s fire, not from our mother, Claire Agon.”
Targon turned from his seat to cross his legs and face the old man, who remained seated on the rickety chair he had brought to him earlier. There weren’t enough chairs inside for everyone, so Targon made due with his rear. “I wouldn’t have believed you until today . . .” he began, and then recounted the battle that occurred, ending with the huge fireball he saw the oddly dressed man with the brigands hurl at them.
“Then you have witnessed a wizard of Kesh in person and lived to tell the tale. Impressive, indeed,” Elister said, and then smiled.
“Well, he was so frail looking, almost sickly and thin as well, but tall like the brigands, but dressed differently. We took him at first to be a leader or chieftain of the Kesh until he hurled that ball of fire at us. I swear it came from the tip of his staff,” Targon concluded.
“Well, he was a chieftain. Didn’t you know the wizards rule the Kesh? This is part of their society.”
“Before today, I had no idea they even existed . . . The wizards, I mean, not the brigands.”
Elister chuckled again, smiling at Targon, amused but fond of the young man. “That is part of their plan to lull what’s left of Agon’s realms into a false sense of security. They have been weakened, however, since the Wizard-Dragon War more than a millennium ago, but it now appears their chief wizard has been slowly rebuilding their ranks, and now they have made their move at last.”
“Move for what?” Targon asked with a quizzical look on his face. Wizards were, after all, just a tale to scare the children of a magical age that was lost long ago . . . or so he thought.
“Why, for the one thing most men crave, Master Terrel. Power. Men do terrible things to obtain it, and even worse things to maintain it. It is addicting. It makes men drunk in the head, so to speak. Always remember this, my young Zashitor. Never succumb to its enticing enchantments. Seek to use what power you have wisely, and share what you do not need with others. Empowering others with free will is the key to true power. Never forget.”
“Drunk like what your grog does?” Targon asked intently, shifting his cross-legged stance to lean closer to the old man.
Elister let loose with a large, hearty laugh and slapped his knees with his hands. “Oh my,” he started, barely controlling himself, “grog simply heals, though I can’t deny some certain intoxicating properties of the beverage,” he said, leaning forward now and lowering his voice to a whisper, “but there is nothing quite like honey ale. Sweet and invigorating it is in moderate doses, though I prefer my own ‘beaver brew’ that I make from time to time. That one will put hair on your chest, young man!” Elister smiled a broad, toothy grin.
“Agon knows I don’t need any more hair on my chest, but I didn’t know you imbibed,” Targon countered with a conspiratorial whisper and a look at the door to make sure no one could hear him from inside the cabin.
“More so in my younger days.” Elister leaned back now, looking out at the night sky, and then sat back upright again, speaking louder but softly. “These days I don’t have the time for making a good brew, and I spent far too long sleeping and not enough time drinking. Ah, if only I was a few centuries younger . . .” he finished, letting the thought linger between them.
“So what do we do now?” Targon asked, liking the old man even more now that he seemed more like an Ulathan and not a powerful wizard from the deep past.
“Tonight, you and your guests rest. You must let Lady Salina sleep and regain her strength.”
“What will you do? Will you stay with us?”
The old man looked over his shoulder at the door, and the sound of children playing and voices talking intermixed with light laughter could just be heard. “No, I think your guests can finally spend a night in relative peace, comfort, and security. No need for a stranger to add to their anxiety. Besides, I have work to attend to. I sense there are more of them magical types about. They keep poking and prodding me here in the forest, and I am forced to repel their intrusions. It would not do for them to find you and your friends so soon after what has transpired. I need to discuss this with the guardian of the forest.”
Targon furrowed his brow as he took in what the old man was saying. “Guardian? I thought you were the guardian of the Blackthorn.”
“Earlstyne!” Elister shot back, but he was smiling, not in the least offended by the use of the old forest’s common moniker. “I am not exactly the forest’s guardian. I abhor fighting, don’t you know? No, I am more like a caretaker. Call me a gardener, if you will. I care for the forest and its inhabitants. Of course, I can defend the creatures that live here if need be, but the real guardian I am not.”
Targon nodded his head but spoke the opposite. “I don’t understand. Are there two of you? Two “Arnen,” I think you called yourself, no?”
“Well, yes, two of us, but Arnen, no. The guardian of the forest sleeps, as do I, most of the time, but I do digress. I am the only Arnen here: however, there are many inhabitants and they, too, protect the forest. You met one of them, don’t you remember? Large furry brown fellow with a nasty temper from time to time?” Elister asked with a nod and a wink.
It was Targon’s turn to chuckle now. “Yes, I do remember the bear, though I have no idea where he is. The last I saw of him, he had taken out an entire raft of brigands and was chasing more of them, I think. We left too quickly and never saw the bear again.”
“Well, I am worried for my old grumpy friend, as he is long overdue. I was hoping to see him before sunset, but I’ll have to wait till morning now. If he doesn’t return by then, I’ll send Argyll to look for him.”
“You mean that bird you told me about when we first met?”
“I mean falcon, young man. Argyll will eat a bird for dinner,” Elister said, motioning to the carving of the Clairton bird that hung on a leather strap around Targon’s neck.
“Back to the talking animals?” Targon sighed.
“All creatures talk, young master Terrel. The problem is most folks don’t stop to listen or bother to hear what is being said.”
“Well, I couldn’t hear a word that bear said, though I must concede it seemed to understand me well enough, though I don’t know how.”
“Of course he understood you. He is from the Earlstyne. He is not a wild bear from the barbarian-infested wastelands of the North, nor is he a cute and cuddly b
ear from the far south jungles of Lunde. He is one of Agon’s own children, and that makes him special unlike his cousins in the wild.”
“Is Argyll also one of Agon’s own?” Targon asked.
“Yes,” Elister responded.
“So he is like your pet?” Targon tilted his head inquiringly.
Elister sighed, lowering his shoulders, hands on his knees as he leaned forward. “Argyll is his own master. He helps me because I asked and he agreed to. He is no pet and is not caged. Did you not hear a word I said about power and its abuses, Master Terrel?”
“I did. I was just confused about how you interact with these . . . creatures,” Targon concluded humbly, lowering his voice as he spoke.
The old man placed a hand on Targon’s shoulder. “You have been through much and in such a short period of time. You have experienced loss, and I need to be a bit more patient with you. Just remember what I said about power and understand that the world is much more than you have imagined and you will do fine.”
Targon smiled at the old man and then suddenly remembered what he wanted to ask him. “I almost forgot, what did you mean by ‘magical types’ and something about them ‘poking and prodding’ you here in the forest.”
“Ah, yes, the intrusions . . .” Elister began, lowering his voice and looking around again as if he was being watched. “Most suspicious these magical types are, always poking and prodding and peering around where they are not welcome. They use blasphemous orbs of glass to peer into faraway places and some places not so far away.”
“You mean that young wizard I saw today was trying to find us using magic?” Targon asked in a loud whisper, eyes wide open in astonishment.
“Well, yes, though he is just a sapling. The real test came from the mighty oak deep in Kesh. I can’t be certain all was hidden from them. We must prepare for the worst, just in case. I fear my time on Agon is coming to an end.”
Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Page 24
