by Jason Parker
“Yes?” Dagan's voice called out from within.
“It's Nightlocke, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, please come in,” Dagan replied.
He pushed open the door and stepped into Dagan’s sitting room. The room was lit by two incandium wall lamps. It was sparsely furnished with a pair of matching comfortable leather chairs, a small table, a desk, and a bookshelf.
“Da—”
“Nightlocke, you—” Dagan said. He raised a hand gesturing him in the room.
Nightlocke stuttered. “I, I, I…”
They both stopped and stared at each other.
Dagan was seated in one of the chairs holding a tattered book Nightlocke did not recognize. The angle Dagan held it at obscured the title from Nightlocke’s vision.
Dagan smiled kindly and gestured toward him, again. “Please, you go first.”
“I just wanted to apologize for losing my temper earlier,” Nightlocke began. “You have been a gracious host and do not deserve to be the outlet for my personal frustrations.”
Dagan continued to smile. “Your actions are understandable, Nightlocke. I'm afraid I have been a lousy mentor. I have been too withdrawn. When I saw you were struggling, I should have intervened sooner, but I was hoping you would be able to find your way through it. It has been a long time since I’ve had an apprentice and my judgment on when to offer assistance and when not to has become clouded. You are quite remarkable, you know.”
He marked the page in his book, placed it on the small table next to his chair and motioned for Nightlocke to sit in the vacant chair positioned perpendicularly to the left of his own. As Nightlocke seated himself, he noticed the title of the book was The Rise and Fall of Vladrik by Jamis. He recognized the author. Jamis, along with and his brother Calvor, had founded the Tuvir Science Institute. They had also been great wizards in the Age of Magic and were instrumental in bringing about the defeat of Vladrik. Nightlocke had taken history classes at the Institute, but had not studied or seen texts or accounts written by any of the great wizards.
Taking a quick second glance at the worn book, he realized it looked more like a journal than a published work. Why did Dagan have it in his possession? Why was he reading about Vladrik? Suddenly, Nightlocke recalled the horrifying tale he had heard from the barkeep in Lyraton about the ranger woman whose village had been decimated. The name Vladrik scrawled in blood on the walls of dwellings. Strange coincidence.
“I apologize for criticizing your mechanical skills back in the lab,” Dagan said.
His comment distracted Nightlocke from thoughts of Vladrik. Nightlocke crossed his legs and put his hand to his chin. He pressed his hand to his stubble and unconsciously picked at it.
Dagan folded his hands. “Wexworth is very good at designing elaborate machinery and has produced some remarkable devices. Unfortunately, he often sacrifices function in favor of bold and ostentatious form. He is more concerned with how impressive something looks rather than how well it works. His force beam device, which you described to me, sounded like a good piece of showmanship—but highly impractical.”
Nightlocke nodded in agreement. “The machine looked complex and impressive, but it was also awkward and bulky. Useless for military purposes.”
“The point I was originally trying to make to you, albeit poorly,” Dagan continued, “was that you trying to replicate Wexworth's device was a mistake. You need to adapt it to something that is much more compact, portable, and less flashy. You struggle with mechanical design, but this is a strength of mine and an area where I can provide you guidance. I must apologize again.”
“It’s all water under the bridge,” Nightlocke said with a smile and a dismissive gesture. “My frustration got the better of me. I’m very anxious to hear your ideas about the force beam design.”
“By all means then,” Dagan said, rising from his chair. “Let’s get started.”
As he stood, Nightlocke was about to reply in the affirmative, then remembered, “I happened by the kitchen a while ago. Arletta is making her delicious beef stew and I am rather hungry. Starving, actually.”
Dagan clapped him on the shoulder and chuckled, “I’m sure the lab will still be there after dinner.”
CHAPTER 16
Whitestorm knelt next to Tari in the thicket they were using for cover near the perimeter of the ranger encampment. More accurately, it was a collection of tall bushes. The bushes provided little overhead concealment and the early afternoon sun shone down upon them. Whitestorm carefully parted some branches to gain a better view of the encampment. Her perspective was obscured. She spied about twenty tents and some other structures. The sight of it caused uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. Stillness. Nothing. The usually bustling encampment appeared to be deserted. Aside from the twittering of birds and scurrying of squirrels and other small wildlife, she heard no sounds of activity.
The garrison was a popular way station for traveling rangers and was situated about a mile from the crossing of the two main trails that traversed Marn. One of several such stations spread throughout Marn, it was intended as a refuge for rangers seeking respite and news. By and large, the rangers had been at peace with the rest of the world for many years, however, they were a cautious people by nature and few outside of the ranger circle knew of the existence of the encampments.
It was a cleverly constructed site that took full advantage of the surrounding brush and woodland to adequately conceal it from passersby. Those unaware of its presence would likely walk right by it, however, they would definitely be seen by those on the lookout inside.
Despite the partial cover provided by the bushes and the apparent abandonment of the encampment, Whitestorm felt exposed and sensed watchful eyes. She knew they could be observed from strategic vantage points within the perimeter. Despite knowing where they were located, they were hidden from her view. She could not determine if they were occupied.
Blaze wanted to march the entire party into the encampment but she recommended a cautious approach. Rangers did not take kindly to their encampments being violated by outsiders. It was sacred space. Surprisingly, Tari had agreed with her.
Their ninety-mile trek along the north-south trail through Marn from the Delon border had been initially uneventful, but turned disquieting. The first forty miles of borderland was laden by small farming communities of people who desired freedom and independence from the politics and government of the southern kingdoms. If supplies or aid was needed, Egenton was not far.
Beyond this band of communities was an array of scattered, sparsely populated settlements. Handfuls of poorly constructed shacks and lay people who walked in tattered clothes among goats and sheep were commonplace. The air smelled of poverty like a harbinger of dust and decay. It was not uncommon to find some settlements abandoned, but the further they traveled from Delon the desolation spawned itself into nothingness.
Whitestorm was disconcerted by the barrenness but not completely surprised by it. Recalling the horror of her own village, she suspected the unfortunate settlers were either dead or wallowing among the mindless savages. Her traveling companions knew nothing of this. She had contemplated telling the others how much the area had morphed and changed, but she held her tongue. Despite Blaze’s frequent discourses about teamwork and trust, Whitestorm knew they only half-believed her. She was uncertain about what to say, so she decided to remain quiet and let them discover the truth for themselves. It was easier than answering the questions they would undoubtedly ask. Maybe her reticence had been a mistake.
Now, as she looked at the seemingly deserted encampment, she was hesitant about what to do. With the unexpected help of Tari, she had convinced Blaze that he and Reneac should wait out of sight while she scouted the encampment. Two large men, one almost gigantic, trying to hide behind bushes would ruin any chance at stealth. Blaze had insisted, however, that Tari accompany her. Tari would just slow her down, but she consented to avoid argument.
Whitestorm glanc
ed at Tari who made an open palm gesture. She was plainly waiting for her to initiate the next move. They had lingered long enough that under normal circumstances, sentries would have seen them and approached. Nothing here was normal. Unsure of what action to take, she finally decided upon a perimeter sweep. She motioned for Tari to circle to the right while she moved to the left with the intent of meeting up on the opposite side of the camp.
“Separating is a poor strategic choice,” Tari whispered. “In the event of trouble, two together stand a much better chance than one alone. Plus, I’m completely unfamiliar with the surroundings.”
Whitestorm glanced side to side for a moment. “You should have good visibility,” she whispered back. “Just go slow and if you see anything suspicious, retreat to this position and wait for me.”
“Did you not hear a word I just said?” Tari asked quietly, but emphatically.
Whitestorm scrambled away to the left without responding. She heard Tari hiss her name and she quickened her pace. She knew Tari couldn’t keep up with her and she didn’t want to be slowed down by her.
Once she was out of Tari’s sight, Whitestorm paused and scanned the encampment interior from her new vantage. Seeing nothing and hearing no sound of pursuit from Tari, she continued moving quickly around the perimeter. After a few minutes she sensed movement. It was behind her. There was no way Tari could have caught up to her. Despite her speed and quickness she was unable to react before a calloused hand covered her mouth and a strong arm grasped her around the midsection and pinned both her arms to her sides.
As she struggled to break free, a voice whispered in her ear, “Stop squirming, don’t speak, and I will let you go.”
Recognizing the accent of a ranger, she exhaled in relief. The hand dropped from her mouth to her shoulder and twisted her toward him as the grip around her arms relaxed. Facing her assailant, Whitestorm’s eyes flashed with recognition. Before she could speak he raised an index finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow. She did. He quietly forged away from the garrison. After a couple of hundred yards, he stopped and turned toward her. “What are you doing here?”
“Kulitak,” Whitestorm said quietly and embraced him. Her embrace was returned but not warmly. She released him and took a step back. Aside from badly torn leather pants and worn boots he wore no other clothing. His long, dark brown hair was wildly disheveled. He looked weary and ragged. The hair on his bare chest was matted with blood from a long diagonal cut. His arms were flecked with red and purple—dried blood and contusions. None of the wounds appeared to be life threatening.
“It is good to see you,” she said continuing to keep her voice low. “I had assumed you were dead or…changed.”
Kulitak’s sienna eyes narrowed and turned black as he glared at her. She involuntarily shivered at the palpable coldness emanating from them.
“Do you even care?” he asked in an angry whisper. “Maniitok, Anana, and I were away from the village when whatever it was happened. We returned to find the village burned to the ground with a smoldering funeral pyre in the middle. I guess that was your work?”
“Yes, but certainly by now you understand why I did what I did,” she replied defensively, surprised by his venomous tone. She silently chastised herself for reacting meekly. She did not need to justify her actions to anyone, especially Kulitak.
Kulitak was of her own age and extremely handsome. He was athletic, well-built, and his muscles thick and striated. He was well aware of his physical prowess and used it to seduce the young women of the tribe. She was certain he coerced Anana into doing something suitably degrading with him and his favorite sidekick Maniitok. They were away from the village. It saved them. Ironic good fortune Whitestorm supposed.
Prior to meeting her beloved Onartok, Kulitak had turned his considerable charisma toward her. Swept away by his charm and good looks, she eventually became caught in his web. It was an unpleasant experience. She politely refused him afterward. Undaunted, his efforts became more persistent and harassing. Finally fed up, she snatched a hand he was sliding toward her breast and twisted it behind his back. She forced him to his knees and made him shout a very public apology. After the humiliating incident, he despised her, but kept his distance.
Kulitak leaned forward getting close to her face. “Yes, I understand the need for your actions and appreciate the respect you paid to our dead,” Kulitak said, his voice still full of contempt despite his words. “Since returning to our village my life has been a living hell. Maniitok and Anana are both dead. I look and feel like shit, but look at you.” He gazed at her from head to toe. “You look pretty damn good. The remaining normal rangers I have encountered say they owe you a debt for providing them ample warning to prepare—but where the hell did you go after that? As much as I hate to admit it, we needed you. You were the only one successful in fighting the infected. We have been getting our asses kicked.” He paused and audibly exhaled. “Maybe it would have been different with you leading us.”
Overwhelmed, Whitestorm felt the deaths of her people slam into her like a thundering herd. Oh, sweet Onartok, I need you! She just stared blankly at Kulitak unable to utter a word.
“Still the ice maiden I see,” he sneered, misinterpreting her taciturn behavior. “Have you been trying to warm your soul by enjoying a nice summer at the beach while the rest of us have been fighting for our lives every day?” He spat on the ground.
“This is much bigger than just our people,” she retorted, as anger cut through her guilt. She clenched her fists and snarled. “This infection, or whatever it is, has the potential to spread to all of Gandany, not just the Northern Territory. I went south seeking aid from the kingdoms. We need military strength to contain and defeat this.”
“So you are gone for three months and bring back one woman with you?” Kulitak asked, his voice filled with scornful disbelief.
“Oh, shit! Tari!” she exclaimed and started running back toward the encampment.
She heard Kulitak yell at her to wait, but she ignored him and continued running. She thought she heard the sound of him starting to chase after her, but there was no way he could catch her. Fool to forget! She chastised herself. She fervently hoped as she sprinted that Tari had encountered nothing untoward.
She reached the perimeter of the encampment and looked to the left, then to the right. Her heart sank as a bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence of the afternoon.
CHAPTER 17
Blaze fidgeted and kicked the toe of his boot in the dirt. Patience was not his virtue. He rubbed his eyes. Waiting was killing him. Tari and Whitestorm were only a quarter mile away scouting the ranger encampment, but he should be there with them. They were his responsibility on this mission. Damn them both for convincing him to wait.
Blaze glanced at Reneac. He was sitting on a rock sharpening a knife. He was doing a shitty job. Blaze shook his head. He knew Reneac was as anxious as he was. Patience was not his virtue, either.
Blaze sighed and ran his hands through his close cropped, dark blonde hair as he aimlessly paced to the rhythmic scrip scrip of Reneac’s knife moving up and down the sharpening stone. Whitestorm was the only one of their group familiar with the area and ranger customs. He had to grant her a measure of trust. She had earned it. When they got off the train in Egenton, she obtained horses from a black market trader who would keep quiet about their presence. Then she had led them out of the city along back roads where those who saw them appeared to care little or ignored them altogether. She demonstrated reliability.
Scrip, scrip. The knife to stone continued to set his cadence. He put his hands behind his back as he walked. On their trek from Egenton, he suspected something was amiss as they progressed up the trail from the Delon border. The rampant desolation was unnatural. He could tell Whitestorm was apprehensive, but she offered no explanation. This reticence concerned him. But, he had elected not to press her. Inciting an argument would jeopardize the progress they had made since she was more at ease with the team
. Again, he had to trust her and believe she would be forthcoming if the matter was truly important. He cracked a wry smile. Perhaps patience was his virtue after all.
A frenetic scream from the direction of the encampment interrupted his thoughts and halted his pacing. “That’s Tari!” he yelled at Reneac.
“Mount up and let’s ride,” he commanded as he sprinted toward his own horse. Reneac sought his horse and broke into a run. The scream came again.
At a rapid gallop, the dirt pounded under the hooves and Blaze gripped the mane and leather. They quickly traveled the short distance to the encampment. Just as they were about to charge in, Blaze heard a desperate sounding “wait” emanate from a thicket on his left. He reined in and motioned for Reneac to do the same.
Out of the brush stepped a bedraggled bronze-skinned man whose crusted cuts, bruises and tattered clothes spoke volumes. Based on his skin tone and features, Blaze quickly ascertained he was a ranger. He was holding a well-worn sword, but didn’t appear to be hostile. Nonetheless, Blaze drew his own sword and heard the familiar scrape of steel on leather as Reneac did the same.
“Are you with Whitestorm and the other woman?” the man asked shifting his eyes between the two of them suspiciously.
“Yes,” Blaze replied. “What do you know of them? We heard a scream…”
“They have been taken by the infected ones and their leader,” the man studied his worn boots and spoke quietly, sounding defeated.
“You mean the mindless savages?” Blaze turned his horse around. “Whitestorm told us of them. By taken do you mean dead, captured, or something else?” he asked.
“I don’t know what Whitestorm has told you, but I would guess we are talking about the same thing. They’ve been captured. They’re alive. At least for now…” the man responded.