Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series)

by Salvador Mercer

  Another brigand, but with a plumed helm on his head and some sort of wooden stick in his right hand, pointed at the family. “Check them for weapons and especially that she-wood witch. Gag her mouth so she can’t utter a spell, and check the bindings on their hands.” With quick motions, they tested and tightened their hand bindings and Targon’s mother was gagged, an old rag stuffed into her mouth with an oily knotted rope tied about her head to hold it in. His mother looked over at him and shook her head, warning him not to do anything foolish . . . yet.

  “Blimy, I don’t see nothing shiny in dis damn rat house,” said a brigand, exiting the cabin with two handfuls of cheap crockery, wool linen, and wooden tableware, dropping the lot onto the ground where it made a large noise. “Not even two pieces to clink between me fingers.” The brigand was dismayed.

  “Shut your trap, Cutter. There ain’t to be any nice clinkers about these parts. Wez here to procure us a bit of nourishments is all.” And with that, the plumed and helmeted brigand looked over at the small shed the Terrels used as a barn, pointing with his wooden stick, and five brigands immediately ran toward the shed hooting and hollering and pushing one another as they went. “Get us our goods and let’s be off. We must meet the others by the old keep before daybreak or there will be hell to pay.”

  “And what’z we to do with these here rats?” asked the larger of the brigands. “They don’t hardly look worth slaving even.”

  “Puts them in the cage and off with you, and keep an eye on that wood-witch I tell you!”

  The larger brigand put his fingers to his mouth, shrieking a shrill whistle, and in the distance, barely audible, Targon could make out the click clack of a horse’s hooves and the creaking of wooden wheels. Just then, a large commotion came from the shed area as several chickens were being chased and bagged while Myrtle, their trusty old dairy cow, was being led to the trackway. “And what’s we to do with the rest of this filth?” he asked yet again.

  “You and Traps stay here till dawn. When you hear the signal, burn the place to the ground and meet us at the crossroads.”

  “What!” Targon cried. “You can’t destroy our home. What have we done to you? Leave us alone and let my family free!” Targon was angry now but forgetful of his circumstances.

  The lead brigand walked over, grabbing a dagger from his belt, tucking the wooden stick in its place as he swapped the two. Placing the blade against his mother’s throat, he gave a stern look at Targon. “Or what, you oversized man-child?” The look in his mother’s eyes was pleading. Fear, yes, but not fear for herself: he could see that. In fact, he could see the courage in her eyes, and yet they compelled him to be calm. He could almost hear her voice whispering to him in his head. Not yet, little one, not yet.

  Targon said nothing. In a sign of contrition, he bowed his head, shut his mouth, and stared at the ground. “That is what I thought, little man,” the lead brigand said, sheathing his dagger and walking over to meet the driver of the cart that was just arriving at the homestead. The irony of the brigand’s words were obvious as Targon out-massed even the largest cutthroat by a large margin.

  “Puts them chickens and other supplies on the back cart and stuff thems into the lock cell and duz its now. Cutter, gets your damn arse up here and square them aways!”

  Targon felt strong arms grabbing him from under his shoulders, and several brigands half carried, half dragged him to the wagon, where the back half was enclosed in iron rods with a large locked gate on the back. Targon hit his head on the top of the gate as it only stood about three feet high. When he finally looked up, he saw his mother and sister also in the cell with him. Poor Myrtle was tied to the rear of the cart, and he could see several small burlap bags moving with, most likely, their chickens stuffed inside of them. This is so wrong, he thought. Why could he not have done something?

  “Did you check ’em?” he heard the lead brigand ask.

  “Yeah, they’re clean,” responded a tall, skinny-brigand, with blackish teeth and a gleaming sword in his hand as he jumped onto the back of the cart, slamming the small door shut. “She was only armed with a pan and a kitchen knife.” He guffawed.

  “Well, what was that racket?” asked the driver. “I could hear a damn banshee witch screaming from where I waited way back yonder.”

  “Ah, that was only the she-brat,” answered another brigand. “I wager she’s more a threat than the man-child there, louder to be sure,” he mocked.

  Targon could only glare at him, but a glance from his mother told him to remain silent. With a lurch, the wagon started to circle the front of the cabin and return along the old trackway toward the ancient trade road. One brigand jumped up next to the driver and started drinking from a leather canteen. The lead brigand jumped onto a horse that was brought up with the cart, and he took off, followed by at least a half dozen, if not more, brigands on foot running back north.

  The Terrel homestead was off of a small, narrow, overgrown track that acted as a crude road from the ancient trade road, which was in places lined by rocks and stones. The old trackway ran parallel to the Rapid River a few miles to the west from the homestead, north several miles to the ancient trade road. The large Rapid River convened with several other smaller rivers that ran from the Border Mountains down through the Blackthorn Forest and farther down into the Ulatha Valley and began its long journey to the sea. A very old stone bridge along the ancient trade road allowed people to cross the violent river.

  After several hours on the cart, Targon could see his mother was moving her chin from side to side, trying to dislodge the gag from her mouth. After about a minute of inching it this way and that, it dropped free just below her bottom lip.

  “Tar, are you hurt?” his mother whispered.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “Maybe just my pride. And you, Mother?” He looked saddened as he asked.

  “Nothing too serious,” his mother replied. “Listen carefully to me now, my son. You must find your brother, Malik, and have him warn the Lord and the people of our villages, do you understand?” she asked. Targon nodded but was still frowning. “I don’t think they will hurt us. We seem too valuable to them alive. They most likely will want to sell us as slaves. That is what the Kesh do, and by their talk and look about them, I’d say they crossed the Border Mountains not long ago and are headed to the valley to pillage and plunder. The people must be warned. Someone must tell Lord Korwell before it’s too late.”

  “Shut your traps down there!” bellowed the rider brigand next to the driver. “You’ll have plenty to talk about soon enough,” he said with a wicked grin, and then turned his attention back to the dark track ahead of them, seemingly either too drunk or too inattentive to notice that the “she-wood-witch” was no longer gagged.

  Dareen sat motionless for a few minutes and then, turning to Ann, softly asked, “Can you free your hands?”

  “I don’t know,” whispered Ann.

  “Listen to me, Ann. Just try to wiggle one of your hands free. Can you do that for me?” Ann nodded and then started to wiggle her arms and shoulders ever so slightly. While she was doing this, Dareen leaned forward toward Targon and, in an almost inaudible whisper, said, “When I tell you to, I want you to push the cage gate open. Jump into the river once we reach the old bridge, but jump on my side, not yours, or the rocks will kill you. Then swim back south and don’t look back. Can you do that for me, my son?”

  Targon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He nodded his head and looked up at the guard riding at the rear of the cart, who was standing and peering around, looking at the dark reeds near the small creek along the track road. The other two brigands were engaged in some sort of nasty conversation about strangling or cutting throats, which was better or quieter when trying to dispatch some poor, unwary victim in his sleep. But what did his mother have planned? Then Ann smiled and showed her mother her free hands.

  “Very good, my
dear,” Dareen whispered. The clackity clack of the horse’s hooves and the squeaking of the cart provided just enough cover for them to whisper. It was more than likely the brigands heard them but didn’t care so long as they weren’t interrupting their jolly conversation about throat cutting and strangling. In fact, the cart was old enough and made enough noise that Targon understood why it had to be brought up last at his homestead. It would have wakened and alerted us, for sure, he thought.

  Ann pulled her mother’s cords free, and Dareen motioned down into the straw for Targon to present his hands. Without talking, Targon leaned forward with his bound hands, and Dareen quickly freed him. “We won’t have much time,” she told him. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, but again, what about you and Ann?” he asked. He couldn’t just leave while they stayed behind. By this time, the cart had finally reached the old trade road and they were traveling west toward Korwell. Soon, they would cross the only bridge that spanned the Rapid River.

  “We have no choice, Tar. Ann and I will survive. Find Malik, warn the people, and then find us!” Targon could see the old bridge of the ancient trade road looming in the near distance. They would reach the bridge and cross it shortly.

  With a pained but understanding look, Targon nodded and felt a tear crowding one of his eyes. He quickly brushed it away and moved to his feet in a squatting position. “How are you going to open the gate?” he asked. His mother paused, looking forward, waiting until the cart reached the edge of the bridge and began to cross it.

  “With a bit of magic.” His mother smiled and winked at him. He thought for sure she had lost her mind, but he braced himself and looked at the brigand standing at the edge of the cart blocking the cage gate. His mother reached into her hair and pulled out what he thought was something to hold her hair in a ponytail. It was a small piece of polished wood. He had seen it before but never thought much of it as it was small and not sharp and usually hidden by her golden hair looped around it.

  With a fluid motion, his mother reached over to the lock and, very loudly, said, “Otkroi,” touching the gate lock with the end of her hairpin. With a searing bright flash, the gate flew open, but only a foot or so to hit the standing brigand square on his knees. “Now!” she exclaimed. “Run, Tar!” Almost shocked into paralysis, Targon felt his helplessness turn to anger, and he ran, stooped over at the waist, at the gate, hitting it with all his might with his broad shoulder.

  “What the . . . ?” was all the brigand could say before Targon hit the gate full force, knocking the brigand clear off the cart and onto the old bridge where he landed on his back. Targon jumped out and down across to his mother’s side, pausing at the edge of the bridge. He paused and, with a last look back, he could see the driver trying to calm the startled horses while the other brigand seated next to him sat still with a dumbfounded look on this face. Lastly, he saw Ann smiling and his mother with a serious but fleeting look on her face, reminding him of her last words: “Run!” With that, Targon leaped over the north side of the bridge and fell nearly twenty feet into the icy cold waters of the Rapid River.

  The sky was getting dark, and Lady Salina looked out from atop one of the castle’s crenellated towers in Korwell. She missed her husband, who was the captain of the king’s guard. He had been gone a week on a personally led patrol far to the southeast in search of raiders. There had been rumors of bandits from Kesh that had crossed into Ulatha and headed south to pillage and plunder, and her husband had decided to lead the mounted patrol.

  This left her with her two sons: Karz, who was three and soundly asleep at the moment, and her eighteen-year-old son, Cedric, who she was sure was in the library burning yet another candle as he perused yet another old scroll or tattered book. She closed her shawl around her even more as the cool air chilled her soft skin. Winter was gone, but summer had not yet arrived. The air was still cool in the spring night.

  She looked at the small town of Korwell surrounding the ancient castle. Lord Korwell had claimed it for his own, and it served as the capital for the small villages and towns dotting the realm of Ulatha. She placed her hand down atop one of the large pieces of mountain granite the castle was composed of. No doubt it was carted here from some quarry in the Border Mountains many years ago, but the ability of the Ulathans to replicate the feat was nonexistent. Perhaps much smaller blocks of stone could be pulled at great cost and effort, but not the ones that were used to construct this castle. They were massive and beyond the scale of anything currently capable. So much lost, she thought, feeling the rounded edge beneath her hand. So many centuries of weathering and use had the huge slab feel almost smooth to her touch.

  “Missing your man, my lady?” an older woman asked, approaching from the stairwell onto the tower top.

  “Ah, Agatha, you startled me. I didn’t hear you approaching. Is Karz still sleeping?” Salina asked, turning to face the newcomer.

  “Yes, been asleep ever since you put him in bed, and yes, before you ask me again as you do most every night, Cedric is burning a candle in the old library as usual.”

  “Well, he doesn’t seem to be following in his father’s footsteps. That’s for sure,” Salina said.

  “You know the rumor in the court is your husband wants a second son to take up his sword when he is no longer capable.”

  Salina’s face frowned. “You should know better than to listen to idle gossip in the kitchens. Karz was a gift. He just happened, and I am happy for it.”

  Agatha approached the tower’s edge and looked down at the town, dimly lit with sooty oil lamps and glows from crude windows showing candle and fire light coming from within the simple dwellings of Korwell. “I meant you no offense, my lady. You know as well as I do I am fond of both your boys, though your older boy spends far too much time in his books and not enough time in the training yard. You know Lord Moross sees it the same way as I do,” Agatha stated.

  Salina noticed her use of the formal title for her husband. “Bran loves both his sons equally. Cedric is just . . . different, and if he doesn’t fancy using a sword, then I’ll be happy for him to learn something of the ancient ways. We’ve forgotten far too much, and few enough of us can even read. Let him find his own way, Agatha.”

  “Well, the way you baby them boys . . . it’s no wonder Cedric turned to the book instead of the sword like his father. Karz will be different. You mark my words, my lady.”

  Salina looked away and gazed far to the north where she could just make out the line of mountains that practically encircled the realm, from the north over to the east and back again to the west. Ulatha is one immense valley, and not so much a realm, she thought to herself. The women stood in silence for a few moments more. “You may be right, Agatha, but either way, I support Cedric’s work.”

  “Well, it’s mighty strange with us common folk to see him this way, especially considering his lineage. It’s been a while since you wielded the metal, but with warrior parents, it is confounding to understand how you have a bookworm for a child.”

  Salina thought deeply at Agatha’s remarks. She and her husband had met when she was a warrior as well, and she could wield a sword still. Agatha did not take note of the yard sessions Salina partook of with the weapon’s master. “Well, thank you for looking in on the boys for me before you retired for the night. You’ve been a good friend, Agatha.”

  Agatha shook her head, returning to the stairwell. “Good night, my lady, I look forward to seeing you happy again.”

  With Agatha gone, Salina focused her attention back to the town. It was getting late and she would retire soon, but she had a feeling of dread coming over her. The feeling wasn’t overwhelming, nor did it happen upon her suddenly, but more it felt like it grew slowly this last day as if something bad was going to happen to her. She tried to shake the feeling off. She would head to the kitchen and pack a few provisions for a picnic, and first thing in the morning, she would take her boys out to t
heir favorite spot near a small stream west of the town. It would do them good to get some fresh air, and for her to get her mind off of her husband’s absence and the feeling of dread that pervaded her mind.

  She walked away from the inner edge of the huge granite blocks that crenelated the tower, oblivious to the darkly dressed figures sprayed out in a three-point hold onto the tower wall with wicked looking daggers in their hands.

  Craylyn breathed a sigh of relief as the Ulathans left the tower. He and his companion were Balarian assassins and had spent the better part of two hours laboriously free-climbing the northernmost tower of the king’s castle. Just when they were about to finish their climb, the damn Ulathan woman appeared and interrupted their ascent. They had both pulled their daggers and were ready to kill her instantly if she looked over the outer edge of the crenelated tower, but the cold wind and stone must have kept her away from the edge. Then that chatty old hag had showed up, complicating things further, before, finally, they both left.

  Normally, he would have preferred to make the ascent during the middle of the night, but they had orders to find the library and look for a specific book. Their instructions indicated it would be easy to find by its color, blood red. So they needed to make the ascent and find the time to look for the book first and then proceed with the primary mission when the signal sounded.

  Both climbers stayed motionless for several minutes, listening to any sounds coming from above, but there were none. The security of this place is a joke, Craylyn thought to himself. Not even a sentry posted here. Most likely, the lord of this place thought the castle unassailable. Eventually, he placed the dagger in between his teeth, careful to keep the edge away from his lips, and with a quick motion of his fingers, signaled to his companion to finish the climb. Within moments, they had made it to the top and crouched low near the open stairwell entrance, which had no door. It looked like there was once a large wooden one there, a few small rotten timbers visible on three massive, rusty hinges.