The Ranger's Sorrow: The King's Ranger Book 4

by AC Cobble

  “We can’t leave here without stopping them,” declared Raif.

  Rew clapped the fighter on the shoulder. “We’ll do our best.”

  He thought Raif probably meant that as the sort of honorable and foolish declaration young fighters like him made when they were trying very hard to be brave, but whether or not he meant to be, Raif was right. They couldn’t leave without dealing with the hunters. The passageways down to the bottom of the city were blocked. There was no way out of Olsoth without going through Valchon’s dogs. Whether they wanted to or not, they would have to face the things.

  “Let me know if anything changes,” Rew instructed Cinda. Then, he moved back to where Baron Barnaus was ordering freshly arrived men into his defensive position.

  Raif, realizing now what his sister was doing, placed his greatsword tip-down in front of him and stood on guard, ready to attack anyone who interfered. Anne and Zaine looked worried as Rew explained what the necromancer had said.

  “If their souls are diminished, Rew…” hissed Anne. She looked horrified. “If their souls are diminished, then they may be beyond the care of even the Blessed Mother. This is an abomination. It’s worse than the king’s most despicable acts. At least in time, the king’s minions leave his clutches to the Mother’s comfort.”

  “You’re sure it’s worse than stockpiling crypts—cities—full of corpses to fuel his own immortality?” questioned Zaine. “Because that’s pretty awful.”

  “The king may trap a person’s soul, but with these things… the soul is consumed. Who you are ends when you die, who you could be ends when you have no soul. That dead man in the village, the dehydrated one, that’s why he died. They drained him. There was nothing left of him to fight. He couldn’t even bring himself to stand and stumble a few hundred paces for water to save his life.”

  Sighing, Rew looked down the hallway, waiting for the arrival of the hunters. He rubbed his hands over the wooden hilt of his longsword, feeling the grains worn smooth from use, distracting himself from what was coming, what he worried he would have to do if they were going to prevail. If these hunters had the strength and speed of hundreds… he wasn’t sure he could face them. Not without help.

  A scared-looking, blood-stained squad of soldiers came staggering around the bend. They lurched toward their peers, and the halberds rose out of the way to let them past.

  “Report,” barked Baron Barnaus.

  “Overrun, m’lord,” gasped one of the soldiers. “We only managed to escape because they were draining the others. I-I know we were supposed to hold, but there was nothing we could do. If we’d stayed, they would have just… taken us.”

  The baron, his eyes flashing with anger, merely nodded curtly. He glanced at the sixty soldiers holding the hallway. “We cannot fall back again. If they make it past us, they’ll reach the juncture outside of the throne room. From there, they can reach most of Olsoth with nowhere we can pin them down. This is it, the last line. Those of you who have families… fall, and your families will pay the price.”

  The men, grim-faced, nodded and reset their line of halberds. Sixty soldiers, who clearly did not believe they would be enough.

  Behind them, Rew grimaced. How many had the hunters cut through below? Now, they would be even stronger. In Barnaus’ eyes, Rew could see the man’s fear. The baron thought his entire city was going to fall. Tens of thousands of people. If Valchon’s new spellcasters drained their victims for power, then they weren’t going to let those people survive. Valchon had proven who he was in Stanton. His minions would follow his footsteps.

  “Baron—“ said Rew, turning to face the man.

  He stopped then lunged forward, thrusting his longsword at one of the bloody soldiers who’d just walked through the line of the baron’s men. The soldier seemed to bend like wind-blown grass, curving out of the way of Rew’s attack then whipping back, swinging a fist at the ranger’s head. Rew caught the blow on his bracer and was sent staggering to the side, stunned at the force behind the strike.

  The soldier—the hunter—turned toward Baron Barnaus but then paused and spun back to Rew.

  “Recognize me, do you?” growled the ranger. He charged again.

  This time, the hunter, attired in the stolen gear of one of Baron Barnaus’ soldiers, drew its blade and slashed at Rew’s face before the ranger could move his longsword to defend.

  Rew turned and let his momentum carry him into the hunter, smashing into it with his shoulder then yanking his hunting knife from his belt and dragging the edge across the hunter’s hip.

  The hunter swung its head forward, catching Rew on the cheekbone, splitting his skin, and exploding a field of stars across his vision.

  Instinctively, he ducked and felt the breath of a broadsword cleaving the air a finger-width above his bare scalp. Reeling backward, Rew swung at the hunter, just trying to keep it off of him, but it drifted out of the way and kept pressing him toward the wall. Rew knew once his back hit that stone, he would have nowhere to maneuver.

  Around the pair, Baron Barnaus, his men, and Rew’s companions stood stunned at the ferocity of the fight and the speed at which it had unfolded.

  The hunter moved with the grace and strength of a valaan, but with the knowledge of a man. It’d been trained in combat and knew the use of its sword as well as any elite soldier. Trained by Valchon’s armsmen, no doubt, or even by Vyar Grund. Is this what the ranger commandant had been doing for the prince?

  Rew’s heel hit the stone wall, and the hunter seemed to pause a breath before flowing in and trying to finish him. Lunging forward, Rew feinted to the side with his hunting knife. The hunter wasn’t fooled and moved to defend against a strike from Rew’s longsword. Dropping the blade, Rew snaked behind the hunter’s guard and grappled with it, stabbing a finger toward its eye then twisting out of the way as it recoiled and swung at him.

  He grasped the hunter’s arm and hauled it close, coming in behind his opponent and wrapping his arm around the spellcaster’s neck.

  The hunter struggled for a moment, thrown off guard by his attack. Then, it flung itself and Rew toward the wall. The ranger felt his back smack against the stone. Breath exploded from his mouth, and his ribcage threatened to crack from the force, but he held on and wrapped his legs around the hunter’s waist, locking himself into the choke.

  The hunter spun and tried to stab behind its back with its broadsword, but clearly, it’d never fought like this, and none of the training it had received had prepared it for the brutality of hand-to-hand combat to the death. Eye pokes and chokes weren’t the methods of nobility. Rew fought like he’d learned after Mordenhold, in the streets and taverns. He fought ruthlessly, dirty.

  The ranger arched his back, tugging his arm tight, and then Zaine was in front of the hunter, plunging both of her daggers into its sides and ripping them away. The hunter staggered, its airway cut off, its lungs filling with blood. Hoping whatever high magic granted it increased speed and strength didn’t somehow keep it alive, Rew held on.

  The hunter stumbled half a dozen more steps, and then it fell face first onto the floor.

  Rew laid on top of it, his arm still wrapped tight around its neck. He didn’t let go for a long time, not trusting the thing was actually dead, until he felt its blood under his boots, making the stone floor slick as it trickled down the sloped passageway.

  Rolling free, Rew staggered to his feet.

  “Blessed Mother,” breathed Barnaus.

  Putting a toe beneath the hunter, Rew kicked it over onto its back. He pointed to its face, the face of a young Prince Valchon, and demanded, “If anyone sees another man who looks like that, kill him immediately.”

  “Everyone get a good look,” ordered Barnaus, shaken.

  Rew met the baron’s gaze and understood the nobleman knew what they were looking at. A young Valchon, maybe seventeen winters. For Rew, it was like looking at his brother, when they were still younger, bonded by the common experiences no one else in the kingdom could share
. Rew had abdicated his role as a prince by that age but hadn’t yet left the creche. It would be years later before he left Mordenhold entirely. He hadn’t become Valchon’s friend during that time, but he’d become the closest thing the prince ever had to one. There’d been difficult moments but good ones as well. Rew shuddered and looked away from the body. What had Valchon done?

  It was as if he’d created simulacra of himself, younger versions, who aped him in looks and ability. The hunter had fought just like Valchon—skilled, confident, but trained in the practice yard instead of the real world. Rew was certain the hunter had never faced, and never expected to face, someone who was better with a blade than they were. The young man—if it could be called a man—had been trained by Vyar or someone just like him. Maybe even the prince himself.

  That was a crack Rew could exploit, having sparred with both men throughout the years, but it would do the baron and his soldiers no good. These men wouldn’t have Rew’s knowledge or his experience. One on one, they’d be helpless against the hunters. King’s Sake, even sixty to two, the baron’s men didn’t have a chance. The hunter had been blazingly fast and as strong as a dozen men. Even with practice-yard skills, it would be enough to slice through Baron Barnaus’ men like they were warm butter.

  “Ranger,” called Cinda. “I don’t know how much strength these things can gather from several hundred people, but get ready. They’re coming now.”

  “Do you have any men with ranged weapons?” Rew called to the baron.

  Barnaus shook his head, “I do, but….” He waved up the curving corridor. “Wherever they are right now, they’re no use to us.”

  Rew grunted and strode toward the line. “Your spellcasters need to hit them quickly before they can engage your soldiers.”

  “Of course,” responded the baron.

  His invoker was already standing at the backs of the soldiers, flexing his fingers, waiting to unleash against the hunters. The baron’s enchanter was lurking ten paces behind and babbled a protest, but beneath her liege’s stern gaze, she went to join the invoker. It wasn’t clear what use the woman would be, but when it came to fighting magic, the spellcasters of the court couldn’t be allowed to hide from conflict.

  “Do you have any high magic of your own?” Rew asked the baron.

  “None that will do us any good.”

  There was the sound of frantic scrambling, and then around the corner, a lone soldier appeared lumbering toward them. Blood covered half his face, and his mouth was open as if frozen mid-scream. The other soldiers tensed, prepared for a hunter in disguise, but one of them called the approaching man’s name.

  The halberds parted to give the man space to slip through, but in a blink, two purple-robed figures streaked up the passageway. King’s Sake, they were even faster than the one who’d been in disguise! Before anyone realized what was happening, one of the hunters grasped the fleeing soldier by the head and ripped off his helmet. With one hand, it held the man by his forehead, and the hunter’s hand seemed to glow.

  “Blessed Mother,” whispered Anne as they watched the hunter drain the soldier’s soul. “Rew, we have to…”

  The hunter tossed the soldier aside. The limp man slapped against the wall and slid down it listlessly. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t much alive, either.

  The baron’s men shifted, pointing their halberds toward the two hunters. The pair of purple-robed men, with the same cold eyes as Prince Valchon, studied the opposition. Then, their gaze landed beyond the ranks of soldiers on Rew. They studied him and looked past to Cinda.

  She’d taken Rew’s side. The young necromancer whispered, “I can’t hit them without catching most of the baron’s troops in the blast. I think I can completely fill this passage with death’s breath, but none of these soldiers will survive it. Should I…“

  The baron’s invoker lobbed a pathetic, bubbling ball of liquid fire down the hallway.

  One of the hunters laughed and sidestepped the ill-aimed attack. Grinning broadly, the hunter juggled the helmet it’d torn off the soldier’s head. Then, it hurled the helmet up the hallway. The invoker didn’t have time to squeak with surprise before the steel armor struck him in the face. The man’s skull crumpled from the blow, the muffled crack of shattering bone the only sound in the passageway. The invoker reeled backward, blood spraying from his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Baron Barnaus’ enchanter turned and ran.

  Cinda raised her hands, and ephemeral vapor began to collect around her fists.

  “I’ll handle it. If I fail, you know what to do,” said Rew, putting a hand on her arm and then stepping forward. With his off hand, he tapped the shoulder of one of the soldiers. “Let me through, will you?”

  The hunters’ expressions did not change at Rew’s approach, but they waited for him as he slipped through the line of soldiers. Once he was past the tips of the soldiers’ halberds, the hunters sprang at him.

  The hunters were like flashes of lightning, streaking toward him faster than his vision could follow. They’d been draining hundreds of souls down below, far more than their companion who Rew had faced earlier. They were… brothers, or perhaps something closer? They acted in perfect harmony, as if sharing the same thoughts, both taking optimal angles to prevent Rew from dodging out of the way. Whichever one of them he faced, the second could come at his side. The pair of them were too fast to defend against.

  If they’d been in nature, in the wilderness, or some other place where he could tap into the surging life around him, Rew might have had a chance. He could have thrown glamours in front of the attacking hunters, or he could have obscured his form, making them guess where he really was and where he was going. He might have drawn on a deeper well, if they were far enough from civilization, and called upon the ancient magic that lay in such hidden places. That strength would aide him, grant him senses and ability beyond normal men, but they were in a city, and the hunters he faced had pulled the energy from hundreds of normal men.

  Olsoth was a monolith, far above the empty plain around them. It had been occupied for centuries. The plants in the place were trained and manicured by the citizens, and they didn’t pulse with the life of the wilderness. Rew had no magic within this place.

  So instead, he released the magic trapped within his enchanted longsword. It flared alight, a soft white glow along the edge of the steel. He felt the surge of magic fill his limbs immediately, and he felt the surging connection to his attackers, as well.

  They were truly of Valchon’s blood. Rew knew that now. They were of the same blood as him, the same as the king, and the king’s father, whose soul had been entombed in the longsword hundreds of years before.

  The soul within the blade hungered for its own blood, and Rew let the weapon drift ahead of him as he lunged. He spun, supernatural energy burning through him as he whipped the longsword around. He felt resistance twice as the blade passed through each of the hunters, and then, he was past, and the cleaved bodies of Valchon’s simulacra slapped wetly against the stone floor.

  Rew stopped, motionless. He struggled to control the weapon. It keened, though he did not know if anyone else could hear it, and on its own volition the weapon twisted in his hands, the smooth wood of the hilt sliding against the calluses on his palms and fingers. The blade sought its own blood. His blood.

  Silently, for a long time or short, he struggled with the blade, whispering to it, to his ancestor. Whether or not Erasmus Morden could hear his words, imprisoned somewhere within that steel tomb, Rew did not know, but the words helped him focus, helped him pacify the grand magician, and then helped him seal the breach that had opened when Rew had activated the magic within the blade. The glow winked out, but he waited, making sure it would not reappear, and only then did he turn.

  Sixty soldiers of Baron Barnaus’ guard stood stock still, staring at Rew as if they were looking at their own mother after she turned into one of the land wyrms of the plains. The younglings looked much the same. Ann
e’s eyes were knowing, as if she’d just confirmed something she’d already known.

  She’d healed him. She’d felt what resided within that blade.

  Baron Barnaus was the first to speak. “King’s Sake, man.”

  “I wouldn’t mind an ale,” said Rew quietly, gripping the longsword tight to hide the trembling in his hands. “Then, we need to talk.”

  The baron, speechless, nodded, and led them higher into Olsoth. Anne and the others fell in behind Rew, while the baron’s men fanned out through the bottom of the city, making sure there were no more intruders and that the gates to the city were resealed. Not even Anne voiced a complaint about drawing an ale before they broke their fast that morning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Is that how you defeated Prince Calb?” wondered Baron Barnaus. “I’ve heard the man could conjure nightmarish creatures that are far beyond my own meagre abilities. The way you moved…”

  “No, that’s not how I faced Prince Calb,” responded Rew. He shifted in his chair, looking morosely at a half-empty ale mug, his second, and the platter of sausages and biscuits beside it.

  He’d forced himself to eat, but the food had no taste. He could barely concentrate on the baron’s unsubtle prodding, so he let Anne field most of the questions. Raif had spoken up as well, but the fighter seemed humbled by what Rew had done and barely squeaked out responses to the baron’s inquiries. Cinda had withdrawn into herself, perhaps pulling more of the ambient power that lay within Olsoth after the attack, or perhaps her thoughts were simply elsewhere.

  Zaine devoured the food on her plate, and then the food on Cinda’s. The thief was taking advantage of the hot meal, evidently foreseeing another long journey with travel rations. She took the sausages from Raif’s plate when the fighter wasn’t looking and then went back for a roasted tomato he’d been pushing around unconsciously with his fork. Rew smiled and tucked back into his own meal.