Remove the Shroud: The King's Ranger Book 3

by AC Cobble

  Cinda blanched, and Raif growled under his breath.

  “I’ve made mistakes, just as your father did,” muttered Appleby. “I own that, but don’t think to question me unless you’ve a solution.”

  “Prince Valchon,” said Raif, shifting uncomfortably and glancing at Rew. “A thousand Dark Kind… The prince could handle that. Only he could handle that, right?”

  Appleby’s lips twisted. “I’m sure that he could, boy, but how to get ahold of him? My invoker, Duke Eeron… it seems that anyone who can open a portal east of Carff is dead. I told you, my last team of messengers turned up dead. Eaten, boy, they were found eaten! King’s Sake, I know that Valchon is our only hope, but what do I do with that?”

  “These adventurers who found your men, did they say how they were killed?” asked Rew.

  The wrinkles on the baron’s forehead bunched into even sharper ridges, and he nodded. “Narjags, of course. My men killed hundreds of the foul beasts before they were finished. My invoker, Blessed Mother watch over his soul, managed at least one hundred on his own, the adventurers claimed. I shudder to think how many of the Dark Kind they must have faced. It’s unprecedented, so many narjags working together, but my men are dead, and there’s no arguing with that. You’ve more experience with this than I, Ranger. How do so many narjags work together?”

  “Valaan,” hissed Rew. “The post driver said there were rumors, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. It’s the only way so many narjags would coordinate an attack like this.”

  “My family spent little time training me in the art of war, but I studied the histories,” said the baron. “I couldn’t tell you the first thing about facing a valaan, but I know what such creatures will reap if they assault the city.”

  “We have to do something,” insisted Cinda, looking imploringly at Rew.

  “A single valaan is one thing,” said the ranger, scratching his beard, “but valaan along with thousands of narjags? You need spellcasters, or you need an army. Both, really.”

  “W-What about—“ spluttered Cinda.

  “Thousands of narjags!” interrupted Rew. “All commanded by beings just as cunning as human commanders. If all Appleby has is a couple of hundred untested men and his own paltry skill…” Rew shook his head dolefully before turning to the baron. “Sorry, m’lord, I don’t mean to offend.”

  Appleby waved a hand dismissively. It was offensive, but he’d already admitted it was true.

  “You’ll want to arm the citizenry, of course,” continued Rew, “but most of them will break before the onslaught of so many Dark Kind. The valaan will know that and will use it. A war of attrition is your best bet. Spread your people out. Don’t get caught in the open. Fortify as many buildings in the city as you can. Hide the people and let them fight in pockets. It’s dangerous because no one will be able to run, and many of those pockets will collapse and the people will die, but if they take enough Dark Kind with them, some of your citizens may survive. It’s a better option that flight, I think. You’re already surrounded, and the narjags will be on your people every night if you’re in the open. Some could slip away, but there’s no help within one hundred leagues of here. If the valaan have ayres in their command, you’ll never outrun them. No, the buildings of Stanton, as insufficient as they are, are your only advantage.”

  “Aye, some of my advisors have suggested flight, but…” Baron Appleby shrugged. “I’m told even under the influence of valaan, narjags are difficult to control and prone to emotions. You don’t think if we armed the citizenry, put up a good show, we might frighten them off? At least disrupt their attack enough to give us a chance? Perhaps the women and children could slip off in the other direction…”

  “Without veterans and able commanders to put some iron in your lines, your men would crumple on the field,” said Rew, shaking his head. “Believe me, when they see thousands of narjags racing toward them, the people will run. When they do, you’d be finished. You can’t turn your back on Dark Kind. It will be a bloody mess but spreading the fight across the city and cutting them at every street and doorway is your only hope. Behind walls and barred doors, your people can give better than they get. And I hate to say it, but you’ll force them to fight to the end. It’s an awful truth, but there’s no quarter against Dark Kind. It’s better to die facing them with a weapon in hand than to be taken.”

  “But, Rew, y-you must…” stammered Cinda. “Can’t you do something?”

  He held up his hands at a loss. “Fight a thousand narjags? No, lass, I’d just be one more sword on the line, and that’s not what Stanton needs.”

  “What about me?” asked the noblewoman. “I can stand against them, just like I did when Worgon’s camp was attacked.”

  Lord Fredrick turned to the girl in interest, but Rew didn’t wait for the nobleman to ask his question. Instead, Rew challenged Cinda. “Thousands of narjags, lass. They don’t have the same fear that men do, and they don’t have… They aren’t a source of power. You’d have to kill enough of them that it’d give Appleby’s soldiers a chance, and to do that would take enormous power, which would have to come from… you understand where this line of thinking goes? Others have thought the same, Cinda, but I don’t want to see you go down that path. You know where it leads.”

  Cinda’s eyes were burning, reflecting green in the bright light of Appleby’s throne room, but burning with what, Rew did not know. Fear? Hunger? But in a moment, that fire faded, and she nodded curtly. She understood. The power she’d cast in Worgon’s camp came from hundreds of souls departing. Baron Appleby didn’t have that many men to risk, so the alternative was to put the city’s citizens in front, as a sacrifice that Cinda could draw upon. The bitter calculus of necromancy meant gathering strength to fight required many to die.

  “If there’s a chance…” murmured Raif.

  Cinda drew herself up, but before she could speak, Rew said, “There is not.”

  The noblewoman deflated like a sail with no wind.

  “You need Valchon,” said the ranger, looking to Appleby. “Without him, I’m afraid barricading the citizens within their homes is your only choice.”

  “I know,” said the baron. He looked away. “I know, but we’ve sent our fastest riders. I’ve sent my guard captain in my own carriage, and none of them—“

  Shaking his head, the ranger said, “The noise of a carriage will draw narjags like bees to a flower, and if they block the road, it’s over. A fast man on a horse is a roll of the dice. If a lone horseman encounters a pack of narjags, or worse, ayres, they’d have no chance to fight them off. You need a group small enough they can adjust and move off the road to evade the narjags, but strong enough to prevail if they’re forced into a fight. A carriage or one man on a horse won’t do it.”

  Appleby crossed his arms over his chest and held the ranger’s gaze.

  Rew glanced around their party and then said, “With your leave, we’ll go fetch Valchon for you. Your men don’t have a chance out in the country against the narjags unless you send the bulk of them, but I do. I’m the King’s Ranger. Dancing with the Dark Kind is what I do.”

  “You really think Prince Valchon is Stanton’s only hope?” asked Anne quietly.

  Rew scowled and did not respond.

  They were walking arm in arm along the low battlement that surrounded Appleby’s keep. It wasn’t much of a barrier. A dexterous man could leap up and catch the top of it, and Rew or Zaine could scramble over it in the space of a breath. But it was a place of calm amidst the hustle and bustle in the rest of the keep, and it was an easy place for Rew and Anne to stroll, looking out over the city of Stanton.

  “Rew,” said Anne, drawing him tight against her side. “There has to be another way.”

  He kept walking.

  “You’re planning to kill him, aren’t you? I’ve seen the look in your eyes. It’s been a long time, Rew, but I still know what that look means.”

  Rew grunted and admitted. “I was planning to kill him. Alsay
er went to Carff, and we need to find him for answers, but this road leads to the king and his sons. If we want the madness of the Investiture to stop, then they are the ones we have to stop.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind, now that we’ve seen the threat out here?”

  “I don’t know, Anne.”

  They rounded a corner of the keep, nodding to the lone guard who was stationed there, and kept walking. When they were out of earshot, Anne pressed him, “Rew—“

  “I don’t know, Anne,” he repeated. He sighed. “A valaan with several thousand narjags at its command is a terrible threat. It’s something I can’t face alone. No man with a blade can stand against that. It’s not something Cinda can face, either, even if she’d been training for years. That’s an army, Anne, and it will take an army to stop them.”

  “Then we need Prince Valchon.”

  “Stanton does,” admitted Rew, “but it’s not so simple. The prince, if left to his own devices, will retaliate against Calb for releasing the Dark Kind here. He’ll burn Jabaan and the surrounding territory to the ground. If Calb has spent himself commanding the Dark Kind, his people will be in danger from Valchon’s counterattack. Do we help Stanton knowing it will hurt Jabaan?”

  “What do we do, then?” asked Anne. “We can’t let these people die.”

  “I know,” responded Rew. He paused, pulling her arm so she stopped beside him. “I can’t turn my back knowing these people will die, but I can’t let Prince Valchon continue, knowing how many he’ll kill in his pursuit of the throne. I… I think we need to go to him, tell him of what is happening here, and encourage him to do something about it. Then after…”

  “You’ll kill him,” said Anne, her voice cold.

  “You disapprove?”

  The empath turned and looked out over Stanton. It was late at night, and the city was quiet, but it wasn’t dead. Tens of thousands of people were down there, lying in their beds or in the beds of others. Some of them were still in the taverns. A few of them were working, cleaning the streets of refuse before morning or getting the ovens started in the city’s bakeries. Most of the people in Stanton would be good, honest people. None of them deserved to fall to a legion of Dark Kind.

  “These people need Prince Valchon,” said Anne after a long moment, “but only because his brother conjured evil. In Jabaan, maybe they need Prince Calb, but only because of the threat Valchon poses. I… I’ve never thought a man deserved to die, but Rew, I don’t know what else there is to do. This cannot be allowed to continue generation after generation. And it will, won’t it, until someone stops it?”

  The ranger nodded, though he wasn’t sure if she saw the motion, and then they continued to walk. They were quiet, simply taking comfort in each other’s company. They made another circuit of the battlement and paused at the top of the stairwell that led down into the keep.

  “There’s a missing piece in all of this, Anne. That slippery bastard, Alsayer. He’s playing a grander game than any of us, bigger even than the princes, I think. Every time we see him, he hints at something, but I cannot grasp it. I think he’s the key to figuring a way out of this maze.”

  “Do you think he’ll talk?”

  Rew wrapped an arm around the empath and said, “He’d better, for his own sake.”

  “Alsayer went to Carff. Valchon is in Carff. Kallie Fedgley is in Carff,” said Anne. “There’s much we don’t know, too much, but we know one thing for certain. We need to go to Carff.”

  “That’s simple enough, at least.”

  “If you ignore the thousands of Dark Kind that might be standing in our way,” she retorted sharply. Then, despite the grim topic and the incredible danger they faced, she looked up at him and asked, “That’s no problem for the King’s Ranger, is it?”

  He laughed, and together, they walked back down into the keep.

  12

  The company of adventurers readily agreed to accompany Rew and his party south to Carff where they would deliver a message to Prince Valchon about the threat facing Stanton. Baron Appleby promised the men and women a fat purse to go, and an even fatter one if they returned with word from Prince Valchon.

  Rew had the distinct impression that the adventurers had needed little encouragement to flee Stanton. They’d been outside of the walls. They’d seen what had happened to Appleby’s spellcaster and one hundred of his soldiers. It’d be unfair to call men and women in their profession cowards, but they weren’t fools, either. No mercenary made a long career of it by facing impossible odds. So the moment Appleby broached the subject, there hadn’t even been a negotiation on price. The adventurers had fallen over themselves agreeing to an honorable path to safety and enough coin they could take several months off in Carff recovering from what they’d seen outside of Stanton.

  The plan to flee south with their tails between their legs did not stop the ten men and women from strutting about Appleby’s courtyard like heroes returned from an epic battle. They preened like mating quail, and when they weren’t stalking back and forth as if performers on a stage, they were barking unsolicited advice at everyone who was staying behind.

  The ranger gritted his teeth and tried to ignore them. He, very quickly, and Appleby, after some hurried convincing, had decided it’d be best if the adventurers knew little about the party they would be escorting. Men and women like them knew the value of a noble, and with two young ones alone on the road, it wasn’t unheard of to deviate from the planned mission and turn to one of kidnapping instead. And if they didn’t relay the news to Prince Valchon of what was happening around Stanton, it was quite likely that Baron Appleby wouldn’t be around long to inquire about the missing Fedgleys.

  Lord Fredrick had loftily declared that he would join them as well. The way he put it, he had business with Prince Valchon. Appleby agreed it was a good decision, and Rew found himself unable to come up with an excuse to ditch the nobleman. He wondered if that’s why Appleby had been enthusiastic about Fredrick accompanying them, if it was merely a way of getting rid of the man.

  Regardless, after a conference with Appleby, Rew had pressed Fredrick strongly about the need for secrecy, and Lord Fredrick had somehow twisted it into a concession that he, as the highest ranking noble, would be the one to lead the party. It seemed he thought that maintaining secrecy around Raif’s and Cinda’s noble heritage was the easiest way to ensure he retained the position. Rew supposed that if the children’s identities were known, they could outvote the older man or something like that. Nobles had strange beliefs about how things should be done, but as long as they were headed to Carff and the adventurers did not know who he was, Rew was willing to let it lay. Besides, Rew was still worried about the adventurers betraying them, so presenting Lord Fredrick as an obvious target to distract from the children seemed prudent.

  The next morning as they prepared to depart, Lord Fredrick immediately began commanding the adventurers, who with patronizing smiles, saluted sharply and then kept on doing what they were doing already. Such men and women were used to bowing and scraping to nobles to collect their bread, and as long as Lord Fredrick was directing them on the path they wanted to walk, there would be no complaints. Rew, for his part, hoped to ignore all of them, though that was easier said than done.

  The leader of the adventurers was a brute of a man named Borace. He had a thick, black beard, a massive battle-axe slung across his back, and two swords strapped to his side. His booming voice and expansive gestures were just as large as the rest of him. It was impossible not to hear the man if one was anywhere near him. Like all of his band, he wore a motley collection of armor that might have provided a bit of protection, but more likely, it was meant for intimidation. The man had seen action, and he’d survived. Rew granted him that due, but Borace could have just as easily found a second career in the theater. Mercenaries knew that how they appeared before potential clients was just as important as what they actually did once they were hired, and in that part, Borace was a master.

 
; Borace was seconded by a svelte woman of dark hair and complexion, who wore a slender, curved scimitar and armor made of gleaming bronze discs and delicate chain. At first, Rew had thought the woman’s armor to be even more impractical than the brute’s, but then he began to wonder. By the time he’d decided her kit could be enchanted, he’d also concluded that while Borace was the supposed head of the group, the woman was the one who commanded fear from her peers.

  The third man of note in the mercenary band was adorned with the bright red robes of a necromancer. He had sharp features and a head entirely devoid of hair. Even the man’s eyebrows were missing. Rew peered at him, wondering if he had eyelashes, but the necromancer had painted kohl around his eyes to give himself a dangerous mien, so it was difficult to tell.

  It was largely the same attire Cinda had worn when they fled Spinesend and Rew had insisted she pack away while sheltering at Bressan’s Inn. Spellcasters in Vaeldon were a haughty bunch, and they wore their colors broadly. It proclaimed their power and their heritage. Their abilities flowed from blood that their families had been breeding since the start of Vaeldon. Asking them to hide that heritage was akin to asking them to… Rew frowned. He couldn’t think of what it was akin to. Even when it was dangerous and likely to get them killed, the nobles wore the colors of their house and of their magic. It was who they were—the core of their identity—and not a one of them ever considered how shallow a thing that must be if they had to wear clothing to prove it.

  This particular necromancer did not look familiar to Rew, which meant he was not a member of the primary houses in the Eastern Province. Instead of tracing back centuries, his bloodline more likely traced back to some country inn thirty years before when a passing noble rutted with a tavern wench. The man had no signet to proclaim membership in a house, but he had enough talent to get away with wearing the robes. A skilled bastard. His place in a mercenary company was no surprise, as outside of royal lineage and the creche in Mordenhold, such men and women were considered disgraces. The necromancer had Rew’s sympathies for that, if nothing else.