The Ranger (Book 1)

by E. A. Whitehead

  “Hey!”

  Startled, Vincent looked up. Thomas was walking toward him from the training field.

  “You forgot this,” he said, handing Vincent his second sword, which he had dropped during the fight with Mayberry.

  “Thank you,” Vincent said. “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, we should get to bed.”

  The two walked silently through the empty halls of the abbey to the dormitories. All the lights had been dimmed, casting odd shadows over everything. As they entered their room, Thomas broke the silence.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to survive Spacco,” he sighed. “Nothing exciting ever happens there. The Eresians do everything. I’ll never get noticed enough to become a Ranger. I’ll just sit there and get fat.” He sat down on his bed, thoroughly depressed.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something interesting to occupy your time,” Vincent said as he pulled off what was left of his tunic, “you always do. Besides, you’ve got an insider with the Rangers now who will be doing his best to get you in there as soon as he can.”

  “I appreciate that, but it still doesn’t help my situation for the time being.” Thomas gave a weak smile from his bed.

  “It’s a good thing they gave me a new tunic,” Vincent said, looking at the new black tunic, which lay folded neatly on his bed. “I think the old one has seen its last day.” He pointed at the pile of rags on the floor that used to be his tunic. Thomas laughed half-heartedly.

  Thomas sighed again before he got up and started disarming. He surveyed himself in the small mirror in the corner as he pulled his shirt off. His back and arms were riddled with small scars.

  “Mortensen was ruthless,” Thomas muttered as he looked at the bigger scars. “The healers weren’t even able to fully heal most of them. I guess even tokens have their limits.”

  “Who?” Vincent asked.

  “Oh, Mortensen was the lightning elemental,” Thomas replied. “I almost had him too; then he split into three and they all came at me at once.” He went back to inspecting his newly acquired collection of scars.

  Vincent finally had the melted remnant of his armour off and moved next to Thomas at the mirror to inspect the damage he had received. To his surprise, the only scar he could see was the large one on his shoulder. It was thick and stretched from the top of his shoulder to his armpit. However, most of the hair on his arms and chest had been signed away.

  Vincent shrugged and turned to his bed.

  “What is that?” Thomas exclaimed.

  “What?” Vincent turned quickly to see what Thomas was looking at.

  “On your back. Turn around.” Thomas grabbed Vincent by the shoulder and turned him.

  A giant black hand print had been burned into Vincent’s back around his token. The edge of the token just barely touched the edge of the hand.

  “After the final challenge, Mayberry congratulated me by digging his hand into my back,” Vincent replied, trying to see the hand in the mirror.

  “Wow,” Thomas muttered. “All the exciting things really do happen to you.”

  “Well, I’m going to bed now,” Vincent yawned, trying to ignore the obvious envy in his friend’s voice. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

  They both crawled into their beds and were soon fast asleep.

  Chapter 4: Things That May Be

  Vincent’s eyes shot open. Something had woken him, but he didn’t know what. He looked at the enchanted hourglass on the table between the two beds. It indicated that four hours had passed since sunrise. Thomas’ bed was empty. For some reason this seemed normal. There was a surreal feeling to what he was seeing.

  Springing from bed, Vincent pulled on his chainmail. He pulled his new tunic on and grabbed his swords before leaving the room. The halls of the dormitories were deserted. Normally by this hour the halls were bustling with activity as knights went about their business. Today there was nothing.

  He cautiously started moving toward the stairs leading up to the abbey, moving slowly at first but soon he was running.

  As he approached the stairs, a strange crackling sound started echoing through the halls, growing louder the closer he got to the stairs.

  He ran up the stairs and the sound intensified. Vincent threw open the door and froze in horror.

  Fire and smoke billowed out of the broken windows that lined the cloister. There were bodies everywhere, knights, priests, monks, children; some still moaning as they waited for death. None had been spared. What had happened?

  He started picking his way through the debris, carefully checking bodies as he went. Every motionless child he passed stung at him. The bodies of Jan and Mark were side by side among the fallen. Vincent paused at the bodies of his friends. A lump was growing in his throat as the grief started to well up. Many of the priests had been his friends.

  “Vincent,” a faint voice whimpered close by. He looked around, frantic to find the source. A few paces away, half covered by the body of one of the orphanage monks, was Jace, a large gash bleeding heavily on the side of his head. “I knew you’d come for me.”

  Vincent pulled the little five year-old free and held him in his arms.

  “Everything will be alright,” Vincent said, trying to comfort the child.

  “No, it won’t,” Jace whimpered, “nothing will be alright.” Jace was crying now, great sobs that shook his whole body.

  Vincent wanted to cry too. Everything he loved, his friends, the abbey, they were all gone.

  “Don’t leave me,” Jace cried, softly. “I don’t want to be alone. It’s so cold.” Jace was hardly breathing now, hardly moving.

  “I won’t leave you,” Vincent said, hugging the child tighter to him.

  “I’m so tired,” Jace said softly. He closed his eyes, and he was gone.

  Tears streamed down Vincent’s face as he laid the lifeless body on the ground; bitter tears, tears of anger, of rage. He didn’t know who, or what, had caused this, but he didn’t care. Revenge was all that occupied Vincent’s mind.

  An ear splitting roar sent chills down Vincent’s spine. He turned from the small body to see a great beast, half man, with the head and legs of a bull, burst through one of the burning windows to Vincent’s left.

  A minotaur. Vincent had heard of them, mostly in children’s stories, and until now he had never believed that they actually existed. The creature was huge, standing almost three spans taller than Vincent. The only clothing it wore was a ragged animal skin about its loins. It carried a huge mace.

  Vincent stood, transfixed, staring in disbelief at the monster. It charged at him suddenly, bellowing its fearsome roar once again and swinging its huge mace.

  Vincent ducked out of the way and barely managed not to get trampled. The beast turned quickly and charged again. This time it hit Vincent with its mace in his undefended chest, sending Vincent flying and knocking the swords from his hands.

  The minotaur advanced quickly to where Vincent laid gasping for breath and struggling to get to his feet. Several broken ribs impeded the process. The beast raised its mace high above its head and let it fall in a chopping motion.

  Vincent clumsily rolled out of the way, grabbing the sword of one of his fallen comrades, and slashing at the beast’s leg, cutting a large gash.

  The creature let out an angry cry as Vincent stumbled to his feet. It lashed out in rage, charging wildly as it swung its heavy mace. Vincent had to move quickly to avoid its deadly blow, but his broken ribs were slowing him down.

  They danced around the fountain, Vincent trying to keep it between the two of them. Suddenly the beast roared in rage again and crashed through the pool of water towards him. The mace swung, hitting the fountain in the center of the pool, shattering it.

  Vincent managed to dodge again, swinging his own weapon in response, hitting the beast in the side, cutting another deep gash. He quickly moved away from the thrashing creature.

  The beast roared and charged once more. It had slowed considerably due to its w
ounds. This time, Vincent stood his ground. He dodged the mace and stabbed at the beast’s throat.

  The roar died as the blade found its mark. The beast, however, continued its charge, plowing into Vincent; burying him beneath it as it fell.

  It took some time for Vincent to pull himself out from under the heavy body of his foe. The force of the minotaur falling on him had only worsened his difficulty breathing. Every breath was painful and felt like knives digging into his chest. He left the blade lodged in the creature’s throat and went in search of the swords he had lost when the minotaur had hit him the first time. He found the blades on the other side of the cloister; fortunately, they were undamaged.

  Adrenalin was pumping through his veins. His breathing was still tight, but the pain was less sharp. The thrill of battle was taking over. Vincent embraced his token. He pulled some fire from a burning window with his token and sent it flying at the corpse of the minotaur.

  He surveyed the cloister once more. The doorway to the reception hall had collapsed. The only remaining entrance to the abbey was through the sanctuary. There, the door had been knocked down and flames poured through the opening. Vincent ran into the burning abbey, batting flames aside as he went.

  The sanctuary too stood desecrated with the bodies of minotaurs, knights, and other creatures Vincent didn’t recognize. He ran for the door connecting the sanctuary to the reception chamber. The reception chamber showed obvious signs of battle, with bodies of both men and beasts littering the floor. The room was wreathed in flames.

  He rushed on to the entry hall where he found a few knights and Valkyrie battling a group of minotaurs. The knights and Valkyrie were sorely outnumbered and were being pushed back quickly. Vincent entered the fray, hacking with all his remaining strength. Minotaurs fell left and right under his blade.

  More kept flowing through the open main door. The knights were falling fast. Vincent pulled the flames from the reception hall with his token and sent them flying at the wave of minotaurs charging through the door. The blast sent them rocketing back out, temporarily stopping the flow.

  He gathered what little strength he had left and continued through the main door. Outside, the battle raged on. The remaining forces from the abbey were fighting a losing battle against what seemed like an endless stream of minotaurs and other creatures that kept pouring through the gates. Vincent couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Just minutes earlier he had thought the minotaur a myth. Now, he was faced with tens of thousands of them, destroying all that he held dear.

  The anger started mounting in Vincent again and he raised his sword once more, preparing to fight. Suddenly, he noticed two people fighting at the very centre of the chaos. Master Auna was battling a giant cloaked figure.

  Vincent forgot everything else. He ran through the fighting, narrowly avoiding several swings from both knight and monster as he recklessly pushed his way through, trying to come to the aid of his teacher and friend.

  As Vincent approached, Auna noticed him and paused a moment to shout something that Vincent couldn’t make out over the noise of the battle. His foe quickly took advantage of his lowered defenses and struck, stabbing him through the heart.

  Anger boiled inside Vincent as he watched his beloved teacher’s lifeless body crumple to the ground.

  Vincent ran on, filled with rage. The cloaked figure turned to face Vincent, freezing him in his tracks. The figure’s face was shadowed by a drawn hood. Vincent fought his fear and charged again, sword raised. Before he could strike, a hand wearing a heavy gauntlet shot from the figure, faster than Vincent could see, knocking the sword aside, shattering the blade.

  The figure moved again, punching Vincent in the stomach, knocking him flat on his back. He stomped his foot down hard on Vincent’s chest and raised his sword high into the air, ready to strike.

  “And so dies the hope of Sandora,” the voice echoed like the growl of a wolf from the shadow of the hood. The voice did more to terrify Vincent than anything else he has seen; he knew that voice.

  The blade started to fall. Vincent stared up at the cloaked figure. The hood of the cloak was suddenly blown back.

  Vincent woke with a start. A stone ceiling was above him. He sat upright and looked around, not daring to believe what he was seeing.

  He was in his room, comfortably sitting in his own bed. Thomas was still in his bed, snoring softly. Vincent quickly checked himself over: no cuts, no burns, and no bruises. Nothing. He was fine.

  He fell back into his bed and let out a sigh. It had all been a dream. Vincent closed his eyes once again, but sleep didn’t come. The face from under the hood haunted him. It was Thomas’ face.

  Chapter 5: The Journey Begins

  “Vincent!” Master Auna’s voice called. He knocked hard on the door. “Vincent, are you awake yet?” Master Auna’s voice again, slightly more irritated this time.

  “Vincent!” Auna called once more. This time the door opened and he stuck his head into the room. He shook his head disapprovingly at Vincent lying in his bed. “Hurry up and get ready. Master Silva wishes to leave as soon as possible.”

  “Alright,” Vincent said, not really hearing Auna’s voice as he thought about what he had dreamed. He had been up most of the night, reliving it in his head. It had all seemed so real, all of it: the smells, the monsters, the pain, everything.

  Auna turned his attention on Thomas’ motionless form. “That goes for you too, Sir Thomas.” Auna closed the door hard. Thomas jolted awake with a grunt at the sound.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear,” he said, disoriented as he woke.

  Vincent got up and stretched, while Thomas moaned and rolled over. Vincent shook his head with amusement as he watched his friend groggily pull himself out of bed. He went about methodically packing the few remaining things in his room into his travel pack. Only a few shirts and a small, worn, wooden sword remained. Vincent paused before he gently placed the sword in the pack. His father had given it to him for his fifth birthday, just hours before he had been killed. A fine pattern of rolling flames was carved on the blade.

  He grabbed the new tunic and looked at it, admiring how new it felt. It was stiff, black-tanned leather with a handprint embossed over the heart. It also had no sleeves.

  “I guess it’s meant to be worn with chainmail under it,” Vincent said, looking mournfully at the pile of mail on the floor. He picked it up; it was melted and distorted beyond use.

  “Then use your new shirt of mail,” Thomas said, pulling on his own mail. “It’s there on your chair.”

  Vincent wasn’t going to question this fortunate turn of events and went on dressing. He tied his swords around his waist, so they both sat on his left hip. Lastly, he threw on his new black travel cloak, and surveyed himself in the mirror.

  “Vincent,” Master Auna’s voice again, sounding even more irritated, “are you ready yet? Master Silva is not a patient man.”

  “I’m coming,” Vincent responded as he opened the door, tossing his pack onto his shoulder as he went. As he stepped into the hallway, he stopped and turned to look at Thomas, who was still in the room.

  “This is it,” Vincent said quietly, “We’re not a team anymore.”

  “For now,” Thomas replied. “I’ll be joining you soon, and we’ll be a team again; you’ll see.”

  “If I get the chance, I’ll come visit you in Spacco,” Vincent said with a smile. “You can tell me about all the adventures you’re sure to have there.” Vincent dropped his bag, returned to the room and hugged his friend. “Thank you for everything. I don’t think I would have made it through without you. May the Goddess watch over you.”

  “You’ll need the Goddess’ protection more than I will,” Thomas answered, obviously trying hard to fight his bitterness. He clapped Vincent on the shoulder. “You’ll be a great Ranger.”

  “Vincent!” Auna’s voice echoed down the hall.

  “I’ve got to go now,” Vincent said, rushing out of the room and picking up his pack. “I�
��ll see you around.” Vincent turned and rushed down the hall to catch up with Auna.

  When Vincent finally caught up with Auna, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the abbey, arms crossed and a look of severe disapproval painted on his face. “If you’re quite ready, Master Silva would like to leave,” he said sarcastically.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Well it certainly doesn’t look it,” Auna remarked. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Not as much as I should have,” Vincent admitted. “I had… a troubling dream.”

  The disapproval vanished from Auna face and was replaced by a look of concern. “What kind of dream?”

  Vincent recounted the dream as Auna listened intently. When Vincent finished, Auna was silent for some time. At length he spoke, obviously choosing his words carefully. “Vincent, you must be mindful of your dreams. It is not uncommon for those with the token of fire to have visions. They see things that were, that are and sometimes, things that may yet be. Dreams can be warnings, and often there is something to be learned from them. Then again, sometimes they are just dreams. It takes a great deal of practice to tell the difference, so if you ever have a dream like this again I want you to tell Master Silva.”

  “I will,” Vincent replied. “But this dream… it was just a dream wasn’t it?”

  “That will take some time to discern,” a voice said from behind. Vincent turned to see Master Silva standing behind him. Vincent was startled as he hadn’t heard him coming. “But either way, we need to get moving. We’ve got a long way to travel today. The earlier we start the better.” He walked past Vincent and continued up the stairs.

  Vincent started to follow, but Master Auna stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “You take care of yourself out there,” he said, concern evident in his voice. “So much depends on you.”

  “I will,” Vincent whispered in reply. “Thanks for everything.”