Remove the Shroud: The King's Ranger Book 3

by AC Cobble

  Raif nodded.

  The giant berserker Borace appeared. The man paused, resting his weight on the head of his battle-axe. The haft sank into the turf, and his chest rose and fell with labored breathing. He rumbled, “I should go first.”

  “You’re still recovering,” argued Rew.

  The man opened his mouth to disagree, but the time for talk was over. The narjags were almost to the crest of the hill, so without bothering to discuss the matter further, Rew plunged down into the Dark Kind like a stabbing knife.

  Narjags, without a valaan to guide them, act almost entirely instinctually. When they see food, they try to eat it. When they’re afraid, they run. They were startled by Rew’s attack, and anything that startled them frightened them. They split in front of him, which was the first bit of their undoing.

  Rew, wielding his longsword in one hand and his hunting knife in the other, cleaved into the narjags that were too slow to avoid him, and as they were all scrambling away, he spared no effort for defense. He simply lashed out, raining blows on exposed flesh, killing some, wounding several. He passed between them like a scythe, and half a dozen narjags were down when he skidded to a halt on the hill and spun.

  Above him, Raif and Borace had not waited. Raif, twirling his greatsword above his head, unleashed a devastating attack on a narjag, hacking into the thing and sending it flying as he continued the stroke. The narjag pitched down the hillside, cartwheeling head over heels before it landed.

  Borace, bellowing a war cry, swung his battle-axe with everything he had behind it. The giant head of sharp steel smashed into a narjag, cleanly cutting the creature in two, and then it carried into another and parted that one as well. Borace, weakened from his ordeal the day and night before, spun off his feet and lost his balance. He fell to the turf, but the narjags around him were fleeing backward, evidently having no interest in the man or his giant axe any longer.

  To their dismay, when they turned to flee, they found Rew. With calculated thrusts, he slayed the remaining Dark Kind. It was over in the space of a few breaths, and twelve narjags were dead. Rew stood ready, scanning the early morning landscape around them, but he saw nothing. The fog wasn’t as thick as the day before. He didn’t think it could hide a large group nearby, and it hung motionless. Nothing moved in the gloom except their own party.

  Rew ascended to where Raif was helping Borace back to his feet. The big lad said breathlessly to the berserker, “I cannot believe you did that. Injured as you are, you still took down two of them. A well-swung blow, truly.”

  Borace grunted and put one of his big paws on Raif’s armored shoulder, nearly knocking the boy over. “We’re fighters, lad, and fighters fight until the day we rise no more.”

  Nodding vigorously, Raif helped the giant berserker up to the top of the hill, whispering admiration for the way the man had swung his axe, the way he’d attacked with no fear.

  Rew rolled his eyes and then glanced down at the narjags. No valaan this time, but he spied a narjag wearing a peculiar headdress. Rew moved back and squatted next to it, frowning at the dead narjag. It was small, unlike the creatures he’d suspected might be shamans near Falvar and in the wilderness, but its arms were covered in a network of scar tissue. Wounds it’d gotten fighting its kind for dominance, guessed Rew. It had no staff, but there were trinkets on its wrists and waist. Bangles it could have stolen off the body of a prostitute or actress, he thought. Worthless, just colorful stones and grimy tin. Enough to catch the eye of a narjag, evidently. In the fight, Rew hadn’t noticed the creature commanding the others, and it certainly hadn’t cast any spells. Were they shaman, or something else?

  Sighing, Rew stood. It was evidence enough that the narjags had some sort of hierarchical leadership. Months ago, he would have spent countless hours musing over the matter with his ranger mentor, Tate, but Tate was dead, and Rew had other concerns now. He gave one last look around the bodies of the narjags then went to join the others.

  At the top of the hill, Anne had risen from her bedroll and was prodding at Borace where his wounds had reopened from the vigor of the one swing he’d managed in the fight. The others were standing as well, looking nervous.

  The nameless woman had her sword out, but she didn’t appear eager to use it. Unlike Borace, she could probably guess the damage she would do to herself by joining the fight. “I suppose you don’t need us, then?”

  “We handled it,” barked Borace, stepping away from Anne, even though the empath was tugging at him, evidently not done patching him back up again. “You can lay down and get a bit more rest, if you like. Mayhap in a bit, I’ll lay down with you?”

  The woman snorted and looked around. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to bring coffee? If I must listen to this jackass braying all day, I’m going to need something to keep me awake.”

  “The offer stands,” cackled Borace.

  Rew shook his head at the two of them. “No time for a fire, no time for coffee, no time for… anything else. We’ve killed two packs of narjags within a couple of hundred paces of here. Fredrick’s glamour clearly didn’t work against them, and they can smell their own dead. The smell is probably what brought this last batch to us, and it will be more pungent now. If a breeze picks up, they’ll find us again in no time. We’ve got to get moving, get to the highway. Our only hope is to get some distance between ourselves and here. If we stick around, sooner or later one of these groups is going to be too big to handle.”

  The children moved quickly to begin packing their gear, used to following Rew’s orders. Ambrose and Fredrick started packing their kit as well, though not as quickly as the children, and the nameless woman and Borace moved as slow as cold honey. Sighing, Rew gestured for Raif and Zaine to help the two injured mercenaries.

  “That’s quite a talent you have,” the nameless woman said to Anne. She collected a pair of fresh trousers from Zaine and, without modesty, began to change. Rew looked away then hissed at Zaine so that she did as well. Raif hadn’t noticed. Cinda seemed uninterested, and the other men watched while pretending they were not. Continuing to Anne, the woman nodded to her thigh. “An impressive scar for my future lovers to find. A bit of a conversation piece, eh? May have been smooth skin there if the ranger hadn’t gotten to it with that knife of his. I could tell the lads that—the King’s Ranger left his mark on me. What do you think, Ranger? You marked your territory, eh? When are you going to claim it?”

  Rew tried to ignore her while across the camp Borace fumed.

  “It’s not completely healed,” warned Anne. “It should hold for a hike along a flat road, but that leg won’t do you much good in a fight. Won’t hold up well under any vigorous activity, you understand?”

  The nameless woman’s grin split her dark face, revealing gleaming white teeth and a twinkle in her eyes that Rew hadn’t seen before. “Aye, I hear you. What do I owe you for the healing?”

  “Nothing,” said Anne, glancing at Rew.

  The nameless woman followed the look then boomed, “If he’s yours, then you oughta claim him. It’s not often a man gets between my legs and doesn’t want to come back. You’ve my respect, empath, and whatever you ask, I owe you, but I’ve needs…”

  “He’s not my man,” said Anne, flushing.

  “No?” asked the woman, turning toward Rew. “Well, then.”

  “Woman,” snapped Borace, his meaty hands clutching his giant battle-axe.

  Her eyebrow arched, and she stuck out one hip in a saucy pose. “We ain’t married, Borace.”

  “Aye, but…”

  “You want my company? You need to earn it,” snapped the nameless woman. “You’re not our leader anymore, and I’m not falling for any of your lies. Look here, the lass is packing my bedroll. Maybe she’s the one who oughta share it.”

  Zaine, stuffing a roll of blankets into the woman’s pack, nearly fell over.

  Rew rubbed his head, feeling the prickly hair there standing on end like the hackles of a dog. King’s Sake, these mercena
ries were worse than the children. Couldn’t anything be simple? Anne paused beside him on the way to her own gear, brushing his shoulder with hers, and then, they both prepared to leave.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully except for the discovery of the ravaged bodies of the seven mercenaries who’d run away. The mercenaries had made it within fifty yards of the highway and had been set upon there by a pack of narjags. They hadn’t gone easily. There were twenty of their foes who’d joined them in death, but once they’d fallen, they’d paid a horrific price for defeat.

  Evidently, there wasn’t a valaan in the party of their attackers, so there’d been nothing to stay the hunger of the narjags. They’d feasted messily. The Dark Kind had ripped the mercenaries apart, tearing off their clothing and sinking teeth and sharp-nailed hands into their flesh. They’d torn it away and consumed it, taking the meaty bits of muscle and certain organs which presumably they thought were delicacies. All of the mercenaries’ skulls were cracked open and hollowed out. Their big bones were shattered as well, and the marrow sucked from them. It was a horrific sight.

  Zaine, feeling no need to prove her masculinity, staggered several steps away and lost her breakfast. Cinda and Anne both turned away. Rew, Borace, the nameless woman, and Ambrose looked over the tableau of broken, torn flesh in disgust.

  There wasn’t much to see once it’d been determined what had happened. Any items of use had been stripped from the bodies by the narjags, and when the Dark Kind had departed following their feast, they left a clear, bloody trail the direction they’d gone back into the hills.

  “Well,” said Ambrose, breaking the silence, “I’m glad I didn’t go with them.”

  Rew snorted then led the group past the dead mercenaries. The ranger did not need to ask if anyone wanted to try and scoop the mauled bits of flesh together and bury it. The mercenaries hadn’t lifted a finger when they’d all faced the first pack of narjags together, so after Borace searched through the remains collecting the coins and other valuables the narjags had left behind, the dead were given the level of respect they’d earned.

  Once the party reached the road, they cut through the moors south of Stanton at a much quicker clip. The highway curved sinuously between the hills, but it was hard-packed, and there’d been little rain in the days before. It was easy hiking, but even then, they stopped well before sunset. The nameless woman, some hours before, had begun limping terribly, and Rew had offered her the support of his shoulder. She’d gritted her teeth and accepted his aid. When the giant fighter Borace started dragging his feet as well, Rew called a halt. Borace was several stones heavier than even Raif, and with his armor and over-sized battle-axe, none of them would make it far supporting the huge man.

  They camped like before, atop one of the hills beside the road, and no one bothered to look for firewood. They had no idea how far out from Stanton the Dark Kind might be roving, and no one wanted to give away their position to the sharp-nosed creatures.

  Lord Fredrick, after arguing sulkily with Rew about it, cast his glamour over the hill again. The man had a point. His magic had not prevented the Dark Kind from finding them, but narjags were not the only danger so far from civilization. Besides, the nobleman’s petulant objections were irritating, and they only served to make Rew more insistent the man cast his spell.

  Once the glamour was in place, it was still just late afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. Rew encouraged Raif and Zaine to practice their sparring. The two were unevenly matched, but they were comfortable enough to give each other direct feedback and advice. They worked through their movements, their words just as pointed as their blades. It wasn’t long before the berserker Borace hobbled over to them and settled against a rock that had thrust from the side of the hill. He began giving his own brusque instructions. Particularly with Raif, Borace offered firm corrections coupled with incredible stories of how he’d used each move in deadly combat.

  The berserker’s tales were peppered with other claims of conquests, and Anne’s face soured at the lewd descriptions the big man gave. Both Raif and Zaine hung on every word.

  At one point when Borace offered a recommendation, Raif glanced at Rew, and the ranger shrugged. He hadn’t seen Borace following any of his own advice during the battle with the narjags, and he doubted any of the man’s stories about his own prowess were true, but from what he could hear, the mercenary captain’s advice was a good fit for the way Raif fought, and instruction from another point of view could be valuable. Any instruction was worth something.

  Rew frowned then leaned back and pointed a finger at Ambrose. “You too.”

  Grumbling under his breath, the necromancer shuffled closer to Cinda and began speaking to her in low tones, as if sharing secrets the rest of them shouldn’t hear. As if anyone would want to overhear the vile things necromancers discussed. Rew cocked his ear enough, though, to ensure what the necromancer was telling Cinda was accurate. Rew knew little of necromancy, but he knew more than nothing. At the very least, Ambrose was using the correct terminology and seemed to be explaining real techniques. Rew had been worried the man was a complete fraud, but it seemed he did know something of the art.

  Between scowling at Borace’s back and muttering at the man’s more colorful tales, Anne started supper, and the nameless woman scooted toward Rew. With a furtive glance in Lord Fredrick’s direction, she asked Rew, “The lord thinks he leads this party, but you’ve got them all working for you, haven’t you? Been that way since Baron Appleby sent us on our way, hasn’t it?”

  Rew did not respond.

  Lord Fredrick, across from where Anne was working, pulled a skin of wine from his pack and began to drink it. He didn’t offer to share. His gaze was fixed somewhere halfway between the arms practice and the discussion of necromantic theory. It wasn’t clear if he’d heard the nameless woman or not.

  “What did Ambrose tell you about me?” asked the nameless woman, lowering her voice so there was no chance the necromancer could hear her.

  “Nothing,” replied the ranger, more or less telling the truth.

  “If you’re curious, why don’t you just ask me yourself?”

  He blinked at her. “I, ah, I did. You wouldn’t even tell me your name.”

  “Fair enough,” she acknowledged, granting him one of her cat-like smiles. “A lady is entitled to some secrets, don’t you think?”

  “If a lady wants to keep her secrets, she shouldn’t be so obviously hiding something,” muttered Rew. “Everyone is attracted to a good mystery, after all.”

  “You’re attracted to me? I’m blushing, Ranger,” she said, not blushing at all. “What is this alluring mystery you think I’m surrounding myself with?”

  “You weren’t part of Borace’s band for more than a month or so, were you? Joined them in Spinesend, I bet, and when they sensed things were getting heated, you left with them toward Carff. But you all got stuck for few weeks in Stanton, working for the baron. Why? Why not keep going south on your own when it became obvious Stanton was in trouble? What were you doing with Borace and his minions in the first place? You’re not like them, that's obvious, and while he’s commenting often enough on your history with him, I get the impression that’s not it either.”

  “I’ve expensive tastes,” claimed the woman, “and a girl needs coin to support herself.”

  Rew pursed his lips and shook his head. “You’ve enchanted armor and an enchanted sword. Your kit is worth more than what Borace’s entire band would earn in a decade, two decades maybe, depending on the properties of your gear. You could travel to Carff and sell your armor in the market and never have to work again, if that was your goal. Pfah! What was Borace even paying you to join him? Certainly not what you could command from a nobleman or a proper mercenary company.”

  The woman plucked at the delicate chainmail beneath her brass breastplates. “I told you, expensive tastes. Not much good this armor did me, though. That valaan was a hair away from taking my life.”

  Rew wat
ched Raif and Zaine spar, Borace now circling them, barking tips and tricks as he did. The young fighter listened intently, but unless he was telling one of his ribald stories, the thief ignored every word from the berserker’s mouth.

  “What of you, Ranger?” asked the woman. “The King’s Ranger of the Eastern Territory, I hear, yet we’re not in the Eastern Territory. You’re not walking this way to Mordenhold, so why are you headed to Carff? I was told your kind report directly to the king, that not even the princes have authority over the rangers. Is that true?”

  “There’s more than one way to get to Mordenhold.”

  The woman frowned at him. “A portal stone?”

  Rew quieted and did not answer. Knowledge of portal stones was not common, but she was right. There was a portal stone in Carff that led directly to Mordenhold. He’d meant merely to distract her, but with the portal stone… No, not yet. Cinda wasn’t ready yet, not to see the king. But was it foolish to waste the chance to get there? Valchon wouldn’t stand in the way of him going to Mordenhold. If anything, the prince would help. Rew turned to Cinda, where she and Ambrose were still in close discussion. Would she ever be ready to face the king? What would they do if she wasn’t?

  “What are you thinking about, Ranger?” asked the nameless woman.

  He let his head roll on his neck so that he was looking at her again. “I’m wondering where you came from.”

  “Spinesend.”

  “Iyre?” he guessed.

  The woman was silent.

  “There’s a group of warrior-priests who serve the Cursed Father in Iyre,” he continued, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on his leg. “They’ve dark skin, like yours. Membership is hereditary, I believe. Marriages are arranged within the community, and while they serve the Cursed Father and those who are joining his embrace, they keep to themselves. All are men, though. Odd they’d have armor wrought like that for a woman, but they must have. Enchanted armor, crafted just for you. Do those warrior-priests sound familiar to you? What role do you serve in the priesthood to earn such a gift?”