Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2 (Ranger Series)

by Salvador Mercer

  “Report?” Zorcross asked, stopping unusually close to his apprentice and exchanging stares with the man. “How many of you survived?”

  “Well,” Hermes began, starting his mental calculations and feeling relieved that he was going to be able to answer his master’s question without undue stress. “Ten wagons, two guards, and a driver per wagon, one commander, one quartermaster, and myself, so four survivors . . . including myself and the quartermaster.”

  “Four of thirty-three?” the Kesh wizard asked, performing the same calculations as quickly as his apprentice had given them. “What of Saxon?”

  “Dead, Master. The evil Ulathan woodsman cleaved him in two as if he was a common cutthroat roaming the streets of Keshtor.” Hermes said, looking down and remembering the encounter in vivid detail. It would give the man nightmares for years to come, if he managed to live them first.

  “Saxon was one of the finest warriors that we could hire. I find it hard to believe the woodsman rebel dispatched him so easily.”

  “As did I, Master.” Hermes looked up and noted with more than a little concern that Zorcross now walked to the corner of the room and grabbed his staff, using it to walk back around the table in front of his apprentice. Hermes felt the spit dry up in his mouth, and he opened it a couple of times and then shut it without further word. He wondered if he would die at the hands of the Ulathans or his master.

  “We need to do something soon before Ke-Tor takes matters into his own hands.”

  “Has he been promoted yet?” Hermes asked, not intentionally changing the subject but wishfully hoping that Ke-Tor had ascended to the rank of Arch-Mage and would be called back to Kesh for further duties. Dealing with Zorcross was more than enough; Ke-Tor was insufferable.

  Zorcross shook his head, “No, the High-Mage has yet to announce Am-Ohkre’s replacement, though I can’t think of a better candidate than my old master.”

  Hermes nodded in agreement. Zorcross was an apprentice only months ago and now was elevated to the rank of wizard. There was much speculation that he would take over for Ke-Tor in Ulatha upon the elevation of the elder wizard to Arch-Mage and a return to Kesh. It was widely known that the High-Mage Am-Sultain didn’t trust nor like the senior wizard, and wanted to keep the man close where he could keep an eye on him.

  “What are you thinking about?” Zorcross asked, his tone more than annoyed.

  “Master?” Hermes asked, confused.

  “You seem lost in thought, not paying attention to the here and now.”

  “Ah,” Hermes said, understanding his master. “I was wondering if you would be taking over our Ulathan operations, and of course there is one other question . . .”

  Zorcross noted the way his apprentice trailed off, and raised a single eyebrow as a form of inquisition. “Go on.”

  Hermes cleared his throat and shuffled his feet nervously, a habit that annoyed his master, yet one that Hermes seemed unable to contain. “When will you use the proper Kesh title, Master?”

  Zorcross smiled and then started to laugh. Slowly at first, and then his laughter proceeded to get louder until his head tilted back and his voice permeated the stone room in the lone keep’s tower. Hermes started to laugh with his mentor and felt at ease until Zorcross’ laughter stopped suddenly, leaving Hermes laughing alone for a split second before gaining control of himself. “You find this question funny?”

  “No, Master,” Hermes said, feeling distraught and confused at his mentor’s strange behavior. “We . . . I mean, I want to know when it will be possible to show your position the ancient sign of respect.”

  “So you want to call me Ke-Zorcross?”

  “Yes, I mean, no, Master. What would you like to be called?”

  “Zorcross will do for now,” the wizard said, walking to a window and turning his back on his apprentice in a sign of contempt, power, or both. “When I am ready, I’ll have you address me as Kayzor.”

  The term once again smacked of arrogance, similar to Ke-Tor. The most ambitious Kesh wizards seemed to be the most megalomaniacal as well. “As you wish, Master.”

  “Come,” Zorcross said, wheeling suddenly and walking toward the doorway.

  “Where are we going?” Hermes asked, turning to follow his master through the doorway.

  “To see Hork. He has news and is just now returning.”

  “Hork is here?” Hermes asked, more than confused now. The leader of the Kesh troops had always been stationed in Kromwell, the Ulathan capital. What was the man doing way out here?

  “Yes, Hork is here, and he’s preparing a trap for our Ulathan rebels,” Zorcross said, turning to grace his apprentice with a toothy grin.

  The news was unnerving.

  The trip back to the cabin was uneventful. Targon led the way after first staying behind to cover their tracks. As usual, the forest seemed to change slightly, trees, rocks, and other landmarks never in the exact same location even after only a few hours.

  It was nightfall when the wagon rolled into the large clearing around the Terrel homestead. Salina ran to her youngest son, Karz, and hugged him lovingly for a long moment. There was much chatter from the two groups as they reunited after a very long day, and most of the Ulathans who had sprung the ambush were exhausted and plopped down on the porch or any suitable resting place they could find.

  As was custom, they had a nice bonfire in the clearing near the cabin’s porch. Horace instantly took up a watch with his crossbow, as was usual, on the Kesh men, relieving Cedric after Jons and Thomas released their locks with the key that Horace kept tied around his neck.

  Will managed to get up into the wagon and drop a large barrel on the ground using one of Cedric’s dagger’s to open the lid. Reaching in, he started to take apples out and toss them around like candy to an eager audience. The sweet smell wafted across the clearing, making most of them hungrier at its aroma.

  A basin was set up on a tripod not far from the fire, and Agatha had filled it with warm water prior to them arriving. Targon walked over to it and removed most of his gear, setting his axe upright with the handle within easy reach. Scooping a double handful of water, he began to wash his face and hair from the dried blood that refused the rags earlier that day, noticing that Khan was approaching after rubbing his ankles, an act that always made Targon feel a tinge of guilt and pity.

  “You encountered my countrymen?” Khan asked, eying the axe for a moment before meeting Targon’s gaze as water dripped from the Ulathan’s hair and was sent flying with a shake of his head, getting Khan slightly wet, though the Kesh wizard stood stoically waiting for a reply.

  Targon took the dry towel, more a rag, and proceeded to dry his hair and face, offering it to Khan who refused with a shake of his head. “Suit yourself, Kesh. We did meet another one of your wagon trains, but this time we destroyed it completely.”

  Khan looked sideways at the wagon, raising a brow. “Completely?”

  Targon took a moment to look over his shoulder at the wagon. It was the only one unburned, and Yolanda and the boys were on top of it, tossing things out onto the ground and rummaging through it, looking for anything worthwhile. “Well, all save this one which we commandeered.”

  Khan nodded and then leaned forward, sniffing. “Did you see the white-haired wizard? The one you saw across the river in the spring?”

  “You mean your old master, Kaytor?” Targon asked, scooping more water onto his wrists and forearms, cleaning off yet more dried blood.

  Khan nodded again, sniffing and smelling the faint smell of ozone and burned hair. “Yes, from the look of things, you met him again, though I’m not sure how you lived through the encounter.”

  Targon snorted, not the first time that day either. “Hardly, Khan. I met some wizard, or assistant wizard, who singed the hair on my arms and head before he rode away leaving his troops to their fate. Hardly something to ‘live through’.”

  “Tall, hawkish nose, black hair, beady eyes?” Khan asked, leaning forward.

  �
��No,” Targon finished, cleaning himself, using the same rag to dry himself, and awarded Khan with his gaze. “Shorter, plump nose, brown hair, and you all have beady eyes.”

  Khan frowned, looking down and then realizing he couldn’t see his own eyes to assess the wild Ulathan’s observation. “So not Ke-Tor and obviously not Zorcross . . .”

  “He looked younger than Cedric there, if that helps,” Targon offered, tossing the towel down and crossing his arms.

  Agatha swept in, picking up the wet, bloody rag, muttering under her breath. “Like a piglet, I tell you, dirty and messy, never any manners . . .” Her voice trailed off as she entered the cabin, leaving the two men facing each other.

  “I do not know what Dorsun fears more, your axe or that woman’s tongue,” Khan said, shaking his head.

  “Not my axe.” Targon grinned.

  Khan allowed his frown to fade and almost smiled back. “It takes years to train in the arcane. I’d say you encountered an apprentice, a new one at that, based on your encounter.”

  “Like you?”

  “No, not like me. I was at the end of my training. In fact, I had finished my training last year.” Khan crossed his arms, though he took one hand and stroked his chin as if in deep thought and looked down at the basin. “This must be a new apprentice.”

  “Yes,” Targon said, “new and inexperienced. I could smell his fear from across the forest.” Targon noticed Dorsun leaning forward from the porch, not far from where Horace had his bow trained on the Kesh brigand. The Kesh warrior looked ready to run to his master’s aid, and Targon saw no fear in the other man’s eyes as they locked one on another.

  Khan seemed to notice, looking back and then returning his gaze to Targon. “You still do not trust us.”

  It was a statement, but Targon answered it as if it was a question. “Would you trust one of us?”

  “Probably not,” Khan said, “but then again, we will never know, now will we?”

  “I guess not, though that one there is a killer,” Targon said, picking up his axe and using it to point at Dorsun. The Kesh warrior tensed but did not move nor take his eyes off of Targon.

  Khan ignored his companion for a moment and then started to pace back and forth near the basin, only taking a few steps before returning and talking to himself under his breath. “Not Zorcross, not a full wizard . . .”

  “What are you saying?” Targon asked.

  Khan stopped his pacing back in front of the Ulathan woodsman. “I am thinking out loud. Do you ever think?”

  Targon narrowed his eyes before responding. “Not out loud.”

  “How many wagons were there?” Khan asked.

  “Ten,” Targon answered.

  “Soldiers per wagon?”

  “Three.”

  “And only the one apprentice?”

  “No, there was an armored warrior with them as well, though not Kesh, and he was mounted.” Targon set his axe back down and crossed his arms again.

  “Could you tell where the warrior was from?”

  “He looked like one of those Balarian killers, though larger, more muscular.”

  “Not as big as you, though?”

  Targon laughed. “No, not many are as big as me. He was not as tall as one of you, but he was much more . . . stockier, I guess.”

  “Hmm . . .” Khan rubbed his chin more and allowed his gaze to fall to the ground.

  “Targon, you need to try one of these apples,” Will said, taking a big bite from a red apple in his hand. “Here, try one of these.” The large Ulathan officer rummaged into the barrel and pulled out a large red apple, smelling it first and then tossing it through the air.

  Targon caught the fruit and offered it to Khan, who nodded, taking it. Will reached in for another and tossed it to Targon again, this time, Targon almost dropped it as the light from the fire flickered for a moment, causing him to miscalculate its flight in the night air.

  Pressing the apple across his tunic, Targon polished it clean, readying a place to bite into the sweet-smelling fruit. Khan had brought his apple to his nose and smelled it, inhaling deeply and then suddenly dropping it on the ground.

  Targon was about to bite when the Kesh wizard reached over and slapped the apple from his hand, causing it to land on the ground and roll away. In one fell swoop, Khan ran over to the barrel and snatched Will’s half-eaten apple away from him.

  “Hey!” Will exclaimed, giving the man a nasty look.

  Dorsun stood and ran over to the barrel as well, standing protectively near his master, and Targon held up a hand at Horace, following the men to the barrel. “Don’t shoot, Horace, wait a second.”

  Khan smelled the half-eaten apple and then tossed it to the ground and rummaged through the barrel, pulling apples out and smelling them and then tossing those on the ground as well before his attention was drawn to Marissa standing next to Will. “Give me that apple,” Khan said, reaching for it.

  Marissa jumped back, quick as lightning, and pulled back her arm, bringing the apple up to her mouth. “You have to be faster than that, Kesh,” she said, biting into the fruit.

  Several of the Ulathans had gathered around them, watching the spectacle unfold before Khan spoke again to Marissa. “Stop eating the apple. They are poisoned.”

  Marissa’s face turned pale, and she spit the half-chewed bits and pieces of her fruit all over the Kesh wizard.

  “Is the camp finished?” Zorcross asked, pulling his mount to a stop as a handler grabbed the reins of his mount on the road.

  “It is. Let me show you,” Hork said, dismounting as well and waiting for the wizards to clear their steeds and step around to the north side of the road. “This way.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to set up a camp in the open?” Hermes asked, following his master and the commander of the troops into a field that had green tents set up low across the grassland around various bushes not far from the ambush site.

  Hork motioned toward a fortified position where two tents were set up side by side. A ring of armed guards stood facing outward along a moat-like trench that had spikes set in it. “Watch your step.”

  The men left the apprentice’s question unanswered as they navigated across a large wooden plank that acted as a small bridge onto the flat ground beyond. Once across, two guards pulled the plank back from either side, effectively trapping the men on the small grassy plain encircled by the large spiked trench.

  “These aren’t all Kesh,” Hermes said, noting the various guards and their attire. The crossbowmen were Kesh, but the spearmen, pikemen, and swordsmen were both Kesh and mercenaries from various realms.

  “Most observant of you, apprentice,” Zorcross said, not bothering to even address his pupil by his proper name.

  “Do you wish to review the raiding party?” Hork asked, ignoring Hermes yet again and addressing the elder wizard who was all of thirty years old.

  Zorcross looked up into the night sky overhead, seeing both Sara and Tira in their half-crescent phase, before focusing his gaze to Hork in the dark. “No, but I am interested in meeting your bear killer.”

  “You mean the barbarian?” Hork asked.

  “Yes, the northerner. Is he available?” Zorcross asked, looking around in the inky night for the large warrior.

  Hork called a guard over and whispered to the man before returning his attention to Zorcross. “He’ll be here soon.”

  Hermes felt the frustration rising, and he took his staff and banged it several times on a flat granite rock that was just under his feet, making a loud thumping sound with the metal end ringing off the stone. The reaction was immediate.

  “What is it, Hermes?” Zorcross asked, looking at his apprentice with a frown, eyes narrowing considerably in the dim light. Hork just stared at the young apprentice.

  Hermes took a deep breath. “What is going on, Master? We just lost a wagon train and now I find myself in the middle of the night, almost back to the same place where we were ambushed. There is this . . . this . . . place h
ere, new troops, and some kind of northern warrior, and I’ve been told nothing of all this. I demand an answer.”

  “Demand?” Zorcross asked coolly.

  Hermes stood his ground, taking only a moment to glance at Hork and decide that the brigand chieftain wasn’t going to draw steel and kill him outright. “Yes, my master. I almost died out there earlier today, and I have the right to know why.” Hermes had no need to fear Hork. Hork was a veteran Kesh military commander and as such knew better than to intervene or interfere with wizards.

  Zorcross appeared to know this already and never bothered with so much as a glance in Hork’s direction before speaking. “You were bait, Hermes.”

  The senior magic-user stood, assessing his apprentice for a reaction. The Kesh wizards never did things simply, nor were the things they did ever without purpose. Hermes, despite his young years and lack of experience in the arcane, knew this and knew that he was being tested. “Bait for the Ulathans?”

  “Yes.” Zorcross seemed pleased at his apprentice’s calmer reaction, though the veins in the younger man’s neck were pulsing visibly. “That is why we sent only ten wagons, a third of one of our brigades.”

  The picture was much clearer now for Hermes. The group he led wasn’t part of a formal unit; instead, it was populated with rejects, losers, and outcasts that had problems even in the somewhat chaotic formations of the Kesh military units. That explained the idiots he had to deal with on their journey and, more importantly, why and how they were defeated so easily by the Ulathans.

  “Surely, we wasted a great warrior,” Hermes finally ventured, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “It had to be believable and Saxon was . . . shall we say, expendable?” Zorcross said calmly.

  “Expendable?” Hermes asked, thinking the loss of the mighty mercenary no small cost.

  “Yes, expendable,” Zorcross said. “The warrior was due soon for his blood payment, and he had failed the High-Mage more than once in Rockton. If we were fortunate, then perhaps he could have killed the Ulathan rebel leader. As it stands now, we no longer have to pay his blood price and can use those funds on other resources.”