The Ranger's Path: The King's Ranger Book 2

by AC Cobble

  “He claims his son, Fredrick, is conscripting more men from the countryside,” replied Rew. “I’m not sure why you’d want untrained louts instead of the element of surprise, but Worgon seems convinced it’s the better path. He thinks the duke’s men will spend days in Falvar looking for the children, and if so, there’s still time.”

  Anne frowned and Rew could only shrug. He wasn’t an experienced tactician either, but Worgon’s son had whispered in the baron’s ear, and the man wouldn’t listen to any suggestions otherwise.

  “How can he be so confident?” questioned Anne.

  “Worgon is waiting for Prince Valchon to arrive,” said Rew. “He has to be. It’s the only explanation of his confidence.”

  “What will the prince do when he comes?” asked Anne, looking sharply at the ranger. “What does he want with the children?”

  “I don’t know, Anne,” replied Rew. It was true. He only suspected. “The moment we walked into Yarrow’s keep and asked to see Worgon, we set a course for a meeting with Valchon. It’s the only reason Worgon’s interested in us and the only reason he’s putting his army in the field. If it wasn’t for Prince Valchon’s support, Worgon would never even consider this mad plan of his. Instead, I imagine he’d be hiding behind his walls and offering his allegiance to the duke.”

  “What do we do?” murmured Anne, leaning forward to put her arms on the balustrade, staring into the darkness and the campfires below.

  “I don’t know,” replied Rew. “I’ve explained this until my tongue’s gone numb, sagging like a dog’s in summer. The children say they believe me, but they don’t understand. To them, Prince Valchon represents the height of nobility. His lineage, his power, it’s what their family—all of the noble families—is working for. They don’t know the man or how empty his heart is. They can’t fathom that this hierarchy they’re a part of, nobility’s rule of Vaeldon, is such an—ah, it doesn’t matter. They don’t know because they can’t know. For them to understand, they’d have to confront their role in all of it. They’d have to acknowledge the blood and gore that paved the highway their ancestors walked to earn the title.”

  “Tell me of Prince Valchon,” said Anne.

  Rew rolled his shoulders, taking a moment to consider how to explain the man. He scratched his beard and then said, “Valchon is the oldest of the brothers, though only by a few years. If you met him, I suspect you’d like him. He’s gregarious, attractive, long of body, and dark of hair. He likes to jest and loves his entertainments. His court is filled with music, art, and women. It’s well known that Valchon employs the best cooks in the kingdom. To a favored visitor, there are few places in Vaeldon more pleasant that Valchon’s keep in Carff.”

  Anne remained quiet beside him.

  Rew continued, “His strength is not that of arms or even magic, though he is talented. His true strength is his charisma. He draws people to him, and they trust him. Each of the princes will collect allies, both true and false, but those who follow Valchon will do so because they want to. He’s an easy man to like.”

  “It sounds like you know him well,” remarked Anne.

  “I do,” agreed Rew. “I did, at least. Prince Valchon thrives on being around people, and it was common to see him in Mordenhold. Later, I visited him several times when I was in Carff for, ah, on the king’s business. There’s a way about Valchon, where he draws you in and makes you promises. Shockingly, for one in his position, he actually follows through and does what he said he would do, but no one ever considers what will come due from that, what they owe him in return. Now that the Investiture has begun, Valchon will be calling in favors, assembling those he thinks he can rely upon. When Valchon moves against his younger brothers, he’ll do so with scores of allies at his side.”

  “Allies like the two barons and Alsayer?” scoffed Anne. “Every time I’ve heard Prince Valchon’s name, it’s because someone is betraying him.”

  “True allies,” said Rew with a shake of his head. “No, I’m afraid the Baron Fedgley and Cinda are not meant to march beside Prince Valchon. They’re for… they’re for later, when some of the pieces have been removed from the board. I cannot say more.”

  “Rew…”

  “I cannot say, Anne,” he told her. “Rest assured, he means to use the Fedgleys, not to help them. It’s best if we keep Cinda from that man’s grasp. Best if she never sees him.”

  “We should tell her.”

  “Tell her what?” asked Rew. “That Valchon has plans for her which I cannot reveal? That he means to use her and her father? Raif and Cinda know all of these things, Anne, and unlike some of what we’ve told them, I think they believe it. They want Valchon to need them because that is their leverage. It goes both ways. They need him, they think, so in turn they must be useful to the man. It’s the sort of arrangement nobility thrives upon, though they do not understand that the Investiture is different, that the royal family is different. I don’t know how to explain that to them, Anne. I’ve tried.”

  Frowning, Anne didn’t respond.

  “I’ve been warning everyone about this,” reminded Rew.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I thought that Worgon… I expected him to… Ah, I don’t know. I expected him to help, I guess. He fostered these children for three years, yet he treats them as no more than pawns on a game board. They are no more important to him than Graewald, or Graewald’s horse, for that matter.”

  Rew remained quiet. It was true, but he’d said as much before. He’d said it often enough he knew the words had lost their meaning.

  “Do you think we should get the children away from here?”

  “I didn’t want us to come in the first place,” replied Rew sardonically. “If you recall, I said presenting ourselves to Worgon was a terrible idea.”

  “That’s not helpful, Ranger. If we want to leave, how would we?”

  “The same way Zaine took the younglings out last time, I suppose. If it worked before, then it could work again. The bigger challenge will be convincing the younglings.”

  “I’m not sure,” argued Anne. “We’ve been sitting in this tower for three days now. Another day or two, and the waiting will teach them more of Worgon’s intentions than your words ever could, than your words have, I suppose I should say. I think after several days sitting here watching the baron squander the element of surprise, they’ll be willing to change course and leave. Sometimes, all it takes is time to think things over.”

  Rew grunted.

  “Will you talk to them?” asked Anne.

  “I think it best if it comes from you,” he told her.

  “I don’t like interfering in these matters.”

  Rew laughed.

  Anne sighed. “Very well. I’ll talk to them.”

  The next morning at breakfast, Anne spoke to the younglings, and to Rew’s surprise, they began making plans.

  “I’m not ready to scamper out of here today,” Raif had said, “but after three days locked in this tower, it’s worth thinking about, isn’t it? We should at least discuss our options, in case…”

  The big fighter had stuffed a mouthful of food into his mouth and had not finished his statement. He hadn’t needed to; they all understood.

  Over platters of sausages, breads, beans, and roasted tomatoes, they reviewed how Zaine had snuck the younglings from the keep and out of Yarrow the last time. From the keep, the trio had worn disguises and joined a traveling minstrel group that had played at a banquet for Baron Worgon earlier in the evening. The guards’ eyes had been on the group’s dancers as they’d walked out, and besides, no one had been expecting the Fedgleys to leave. They’d escaped before anyone would have been watching them. Once in the city, they’d left the minstrels with a purse full of silver and instructions to travel quickly the first few days out of Yarrow. Then, they’d changed into plain attire that Zaine had procured in the city and had secreted themselves in the empty bottom of a yam farmer’s wagon underneath a pile of burlap sacks. The man had sold h
is wares in the market and was leaving Yarrow back to his farm. He’d paid his duties when he’d entered, and the guards at the gates hadn’t given a second look at his empty wagon.

  Sneaking out in a yam wagon had been effective, though not particularly inspired, thought Rew. The minstrels with the dancing girls sounded more titillating, but in the midst of Yarrow preparing for war, there were no entertainers in the keep, and he doubted many in the city at all. Rew frowned, shaking his head. Yams?

  “I figured it was a bit more… ah, creative,” said Rew after hearing of the plan for the first time. “Perhaps a secret passage or an explosive distraction? Maybe the girls with the minstrels could have put on an impromptu performance near the gates to draw the guards away? I think that would have been more effective.”

  Zaine shrugged. “My plan worked.”

  “It did,” said Cinda. “Ranger, you heard Worgon. He said it was like we vanished into air.”

  Rew frowned and scratched at his beard. “Unfortunately, security is a lot tighter now. It’s no great guess to think that while Yarrow is marshaling for war, the guards at the gates will be searching everyone who comes and goes looking for spies. We can see from the balcony that they’ve already stopped all traffic heading west. Disguised or not, no one is going to let us travel that way openly.”

  “The soldiers are going that way,” said Zaine. “I’ve watched them while you and Raif spar. Scouts, maybe, heading off down the road. Perhaps we could join them?”

  Rew glanced between Cinda and Zaine. “I don’t think we’ll have much luck draping a chainmail shirt on you two and convincing the soldiers you’re in the army.”

  Cinda flexed her arm with a wink.

  Zaine suggested, “We could get fake beards and stuff extra clothing beneath the chainmail to look bulkier. If we stay behind you and Raif, then maybe it could work.”

  Rew frowned at her. “Do you have a fake beard?”

  Zaine shrugged.

  “What about…” started Raif, but he trailed off, shaking his head as if quickly realizing his idea wasn’t going to work.

  “Where soldiers go, so do ladies of the night,” offered Anne. “The girls would have no problems passing in the right attire. You and Raif could serve as our guards or, perhaps even better, customers taking them out into the town. I—“

  “You could pass,” said Rew, nodding sagely. “Hike those skirts up a little, undo a few laces of your blouse…”

  Anne frowned at him. “I was going to say I could leave separately, posing as a healer.”

  Rew shrugged. “You could, but where’s the fun in that?”

  “I could pretend I was distributing herbs to all of the diseased men and women in the keep. Maybe even give the guards a little education about the consequences of pulling down their trousers every chance they get,” said Anne. “That might be fun, eh?”

  “There are female guards, too,” said Rew with a wink. “Don’t blame it all on the men.”

  Anne snorted.

  “It wouldn’t be my first idea,” said Cinda, “but if you think it could work, I’m willing to try. I, ah, I don’t have much experience with such women, so maybe if you…”

  Rew, still grinning, shook his head. “No, I don’t think it will work. We’re trying to avoid notice. Parading a pair of scantily clad young women in front of a group of bored guards is going to get us the opposite.”

  Anne pursed her lips. “I suppose that’s true.”

  They sat around the table, picking at the remains of their meal, thinking. No one had come up with a suitable solution when a heavy fist pounded on the door. Rew opened it and found Captain Graewald standing outside.

  The captain glanced in and saw them at the table. “Bit of a slow morning?”

  Rew shrugged. “We have nothing to do and nowhere to go, Captain. Perhaps if you allowed us out of this room…”

  The big blond man grinned. “You’re in luck, Ranger. Baron Worgon has instructed the army to march. It will take them some time to get organized, but by mid-morning, they’ll be on the road. The baron has requested you accompany his cohort. Take an hour, say, and I’ll be back to collect you?”

  “Certainly,” said Rew.

  Graewald looked around to Raif and Cinda. “Cheer up, you two. We’re going to rescue your father.”

  With the army on the march and headed the same direction they wanted to go, Captain Graewald coming back in an hour, and broad daylight outside, they all agreed they’d lost their opportunity to escape. There were no plans they could conceive of that might get them out of the keep and out of the city before Worgon realized something was wrong and locked the place down. That left them with only one choice, to accompany the baron and his army to Spinesend, though the younglings’ faith in the man had been shaken by the delay getting his men started.

  “Well, at least we’re headed in the right direction,” said Raif. “I didn’t intend to sit in Yarrow for so long, and I can’t help wonder what the man has been up to, but maybe it’s for the best. We’ve got an army with us now.”

  Rew grunted but did not respond. They had an army and had completely blown any element of surprise. There’d be no sneaking into Spinesend with Worgon’s men camped outside of the walls. Not to mention, getting away from the baron, away from all nobility, would have been the best. That was hard to explain to a noble.

  Nervous but eager to be leaving the tower chamber that had been their prison for the last three days, they walked down the stone stairwell to the courtyard where the baron’s elite troops were assembling. Worgon himself was standing outside, overseeing the preparations and furiously flapping a paper fan in front of his face. The day was cool, but in the bright sun, the rotund baron’s face was red as an apple. Rew thought he might have been well served to stuff a little less lace into his collar, but the fashions of the nobility weren’t any more sensible than anything else that they did.

  “Overseeing the preparations,” boomed Baron Worgon, gesturing around the courtyard at the scurrying servants, none of whom seemed to be paying him a bit of attention. “It’s dreadful out here, but a leader must show their face in times of war. That’s what I’ve always said.”

  “Of course, m’lord,” murmured Raif, looking skeptically at the baron.

  “Father,” purred a slender man. His face was narrow and sharp, like he’d been drawn on a blacksmith’s anvil. His clothing was fine, but it was dark and embroidery- and lace-free. His hands were bereft of jewels, and at first glance, he couldn’t have been more different than the baron. At second glance, it was obvious that without the extra weight and years on the baron, this man was his son. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Cousin Appleby is still here, and we owe him our attention.”

  Snorting, the baron nodded.

  “Appleby has inquired about—"

  Worgon waved his son away, his jowls wobbling like a drunk’s legs.

  “Should you have need of my council, I can be there in—“

  “If I have need of your council, lad, I’ll ask for it,” snapped Baron Worgon. He rubbed two pudgy fingers at his head, mussing his wispy, white hair. The baron turned from his son to stare at a squad of veterans who had no need of the baron’s scrutiny.

  The younger man glared at Baron Worgon’s back and then shoved his long hands into his coat pockets. “Best of luck on the campaign, Father. Do try to listen to your commander, won’t you? His council could keep you out of trouble, if you accept it.”

  The baron did not turn to face his son, and with a wicked smirk on his lips, the younger man turned on his heel and strode back into the keep.

  “My son,” explained the baron, “he fancies himself a grand general.”

  “Is he not?” asked Rew.

  Baron Worgon snorted. “Don’t jest with me, Ranger. My son hasn’t lifted a sword in years, and he’s tragically poor at invoking. His contribution to my court is snide japes, lecherous behavior which scandalized his poor mother until her final days, and simpering intrigue. Believ
e me when I tell you, that boy would like nothing more than seeing me fall on the field of battle. It’s why he wanted to accompany us. I’m sure of it.”

  “The baron and Fredrick don’t get along,” whispered Cinda into Rew’s ear. “They can’t be in the same room for more than a quarter hour without a fight breaking out.”

  Rew raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, and Cinda rolled her eyes at him.

  “Pfah,” coughed Worgon, “I can guess what you’re saying, lass. My son’s proclivities are well-known in the Eastern Territory. He’d prefer us to manage the barony with the tip of a quill rather than the tip of a sword, but before he’d do either, he’d sit a serving girl on his lap and show her the tip of his—You don’t have much of the type in the wilderness, Ranger, but the courts in the cities are full of them. My son is a craven, and worse, he conspires behind my back. Fortunately, his cowardice runs so deep that I haven’t been bothered to do anything about it. It’s the Investiture, a time for war, and the boy spends his days filling the post’s carriages with his letters. For days, he counseled me to wait, to gather more forces before we marched. I did, though not because he advised it. I think that’s what has emboldened him today. What, does he think Duke Eeron wants—to conference with us? No, it’s a time to fight, and it’s men like us who were made for times like these.”

  “Not everyone can enjoy your vast experience in battle, m’lord,” responded Rew.

  “Your jests are as transparent as the finest glass,” chided the portly Baron Worgon. “I’m no swordsman, Ranger, not like you, but I’ve seen my share of violence. I’ve done what I needed to do to keep this barony in order.”

  “He’s an invoker,” whispered Cinda as the baron turned his back, peering at the carriage his servants were packing. She leaned in closer. “Though one of small talent and no control. I suppose it doesn’t matter when one has no care for what damage one causes. A clenched fist swung by a blind man. At least, that’s what Father said of him.”