Something did not feel right. It was dark but not pitch. There was enough light, even from the pearl band of milky white stars, to clearly see the area excepting a few shadowy areas of the front porch, and the twin moons were obscured from a few clouds in the night sky. Targon kept his bow on his back and his axe remained tucked in his belt, and he watched and waited. Dawn will soon approach, he thought, if I waste any more time here, and I still want to make it to the road several hours more to the north.
He crawled out of the bush backward and stood up, turning around, and nearly bumped into a dark, cloaked figure holding a staff. Targon was so surprised that he lost his footing and fell onto his backside, fumbling for his axe. His hand gripped the handle, and just as he was about to pull it out, the figure knelt, leaning toward him, and placed one finger up to his hooded but darkly shadowed face and said, “Shhh . . .”
“By all the passings of Akun!” Targon hissed in a loud whisper. “Who are you?” Targon found his footing again and slowly stood, eyeing the figure in the dark yet keeping his hand on his axe’s handle, not yet daring to pull it out but not willing to let it go, either. He could see only the staff in the other man’s hand and nothing else, no sign of a sword, mace, or dagger.
“Sorry to frighten you, Master Terrel, but I thought you needed to know you had visitors,” the man whispered while he slowly removed the hood of his brown cloak, revealing a white but short beard, bushy eyebrows, and blue, glinting eyes, old eyes but bright and alert. His skin appeared wrinkled, weathered, and old, tanned even, but old. The old man looked intently at Targon eye to eye, seeming to have suddenly become petrified, and didn’t move an inch.
Targon wasn’t quite sure what to say, much less how to respond. The old man just stood there looking at him. Finally, with the thought that perhaps he wasn’t about to get attacked, Targon relaxed his grip on his weapon but left his fingers wrapped around its hilt. “What visitors and how do you know my name?”
The words seemed to release the old man, and he brought his free hand up to his head and scratched it where Targon noticed there was a bald spot forming. “The kind of visitors that aren’t very polite and leave your place a mess after visiting,” he finally said, “and I’ve known the Terrel clan for many, many years. This is your place: you live here, so I assumed you were a Terrel.”
“Visitors? Clan?” Targon was completely confused. This old man must be from the city and was knocked hard on the head and had wandered out in the wild for a few days until he found himself here. There couldn’t be any other answer, except . . . The old, crazy, yes, crazy, man now had surprised Targon, and that wasn’t done easily. The stealth that was used was not . . . natural . . . and the glint in the old man’s eyes and, well . . . the worn, weathered skin didn’t fit in with his hypothesis, either. No matter, “crazy, old city man” it was, then. He’d worry about his observations later. “There is no one there . . . is there?” he asked, nodding back behind him at his home but not daring to take his eyes off the other man.
“There are five of them inside the cabin, two flanking the trackway, just a stone’s throw away to the north, and the other two are . . . shall we say sleeping, just behind that bush,” the old man said while pointing behind him to a larger alder bush that was sitting near the brook a hundred paces away.
Targon had not passed far from that bush when he arrived, but finally taking his gaze away from the old man, he looked past him at the bush very closely. He saw nothing. He then took a step to his left, trying to keep the man in his sight but had to take his eyes off of him for a second to look at the homestead. Somehow, he looked and felt comfortable letting his gaze leave the stranger for several seconds. Turning back to the old man, he leaned in, saying, “I don’t see anyone anywhere.”
The old man leaned closer to Targon and whispered back. “I didn’t know you were blind.”
“I’m not!” Targon retorted rather louder this time, and again, the old man’s finger rose to his mouth. “Don’t shush me, old man, and I can see just fine,” he said, but whispering again this time.
“Does your bow work?” the old man asked, arching his brows.
“Of course it does. Why?”
“Good, I’ll show your visitors to the door. Unless they are close friends of yours, I suggest you shoot anything wearing black that comes out your front door.” And with that, the old man turned and started to walk northeast around the back side of the cabin.
“Where are you going!” Targon asked in a highly raised whisper, wanting to yell at the crazy old man but fearing he may be telling the truth.
The old man leaned the staff between his arms and cupped his hands around his mouth and then made a hoo-hoo sound, imitating an owl. The call was so realistic that Targon reflexively looked around to see if he could spot the owl, even though he had just seen the old man making the call. Turning back to Targon, the old man arched his bushy eyebrows yet again and whispered, “Make sure when you shoot, its wearing black . . . NOT brown.” Then the old man started to circle the homestead, working his way around it to the right.
Soon, the old man was lost to sight as he rambled his way toward the other side of the cabin. Targon soon came to his senses and pulled his bow off his back and grabbed an arrow, nocking it and moving to the left of the brush where he could just see the front door.
Another hooting owl sound came lofting through the night, and suddenly, Targon saw a large dark shape on all fours charging the rear of the house. There was a loud cracking sound and then a boom, followed by the sudden yells and screams of men. The front door flew open, and a darkly clad man came flying out, running so fast that he fell in the dirt just off of the porch. He got up quickly and drew a knife from his belt. As he stood, Targon could clearly see his tall, slender figure. Dressed in black with the wicked-looking dagger in his hand, it could only be a thief from Kesh. He was quickly followed by two more brigands, one bleeding and limping, the other backing away from the door with a large sword in his hand.
Suddenly, the swinging front door crashed off its hinges and lay flat on the ground. The dark shape in the doorway suddenly stood, taller even than the tallest Kesh, huge, stocky, and completely covered in brown fur. The bear roared a challenge and then started to move forward. The Kesh with the sword took a swing with his blade and then lunged at the large bear. The bear seemed to understand and fell to all fours, backing away enough to avoid the lunge. A huge paw tried to swat the large sword, but the Kesh bandit pulled it back quickly and then readied it for another strike.
Targon realized the bear could be killed. Despite the surprise attack, the sword was sharp and the brigand using it was no novice. Pulling the bow back as far as he could, he loosed his first arrow, aiming for the sword-wielding bandit. It struck in the man’s sword-wielding arm as the bandit stood facing the bear. The sword tip dropped, but the bandit held onto it and backed away, looking around for the new attacker.
Targon nocked his second arrow and loosed it just as the knife-wielding bandit spotted him. His second arrow caught the sword-wielding bandit squarely in the chest as the man had turned looking for his attacker. He fell to his knees and gasped his last breath. The third bandit pulled a sling from his belt and fished for a rock in his pocket while glancing sideways at the bear. The knife-wielding bandit charged Targon’s location, knife in hand. Targon pulled another arrow, nocking it, but the bandit was close now. Before he could release his arrow, the bandit threw his dagger as hard as he could, forcing Targon to duck and roll for cover.
“Notz so fast, youz little rat!” the charging brigand yelled as he kept coming. “This is all youz fault!”
Targon had dropped his bow and dove behind the bush but somersaulted back up and drew his axe from his belt. The brigand came around the bush, and to Targon’s surprise, he found he was armed with another knife. The axe landed right in the brigand’s chest where his heart was. The brigand stood facing Targon in the starligh
t, silent now but staring him in the face. His eyes held hatred, and for a second, Targon pitied the man, to hate so strongly and to not know why. The light quickly left the brigand’s eyes, and the body fell to the ground lifeless.
Targon looked at the body but no longer saw the knife. He had only seen it flash briefly in the starlight, and then it was gone. Targon felt something then and moved his hand down to his stomach. There on the very left side of his abdomen, his hand and fingers curled around a hilt. It was buried in his side, and Targon started to feel lightheaded. He was just about to pull it out when he saw the old man come around the bush.
“Oh, dear,” the old man said, looking Targon up and down. “This won’t do at all.”
Just then, the brigand with the sling let loose his missile, and a rock flew across and hit Targon square on his forehead before the bear pounced on him, ending the fight.
Targon slid into the old man’s arms as he lost consciousness and darkness took him.
The light filtered into the room, and as his eyelids fluttered, Targon saw a reassuring sight. He saw the dark rafters of his home. He was in his makeshift bed, lying on his back, looking straight up at the rafters. He half expected to hear Ann’s voice or see his mother’s face as she leaned over to greet him. Instead, he was shocked back from his wonderful dream when the old man’s weathered face appeared.
“Hmm, yes, coming around, I see.”
“What happened?” Targon asked, trying to sit up and look around. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. The room was a mess. There was a large hole in the back wall where the large bear had broken down the door and smashed timbers scattered across the floor. Dried blood was everywhere, but he saw no bodies, and what was left of any furnishings, the table they used to set for dinners, his mother’s bed, a small chest, and shelving for cupboards were all destroyed. Only his bed, made with dry straw and wooden framing, and one lone chair the old man sat on seemed to survive.
“It seemed your friend poked you. You didn’t lose much blood, but I think the events of the morning, coupled with the sight of the knife sticking out of your belly, must have been too much for you, that and the rock that hit you on your forehead. You simply fainted,” said the old man.
Targon looked around and saw it was evening. The sun had already set and light was still in the air but quickly fading. “Well, then, how did I sleep all day if I only fainted?” he asked, looking the old man in the eye.
“Humph, well . . .” And with a bit of squirming in his seat, “I took some liberties with you and gave you some grog.” He smiled.
“What is grog and who are you?” Targon said, gingerly touching his wound with his right hand and realizing he was shirtless. He then felt his head and could feel a bump just to the right of the center, and he had a terrible headache.
“Ah, indeed yes, you are right. Pleasantries first. I almost forgot in all the excitement. My name is Elister. We are neighbors.”
There was a moment of silence followed by that same awkward pause he experienced just before the attack. The old man, Elister, he had said, just stood there smiling, frozen with that grin on his face. Targon cleared his throat. “We don’t have any neighbors. At least, not on this side of the river.”
“Why, dear me! All these years and I thought for sure we were neighbors,” Elister replied, looking rather flummoxed at the new revelation.
“Well, where do you live, old man?”
“Right here in the Earlstyne Forest,” he said, motioning with his arm toward the forest.
“Blackthorn Forest?” Targon asked, looking confused and grimacing in some pain.
“Well, yes, that is what some call it here abouts, though a pitiful name it is for such a fine wood.”
“Fine wood? The place is practically haunted. I’m surprised we lived so close to it for so long,” Targon replied, now sitting up and putting his feet on the floor, testing his reflexes. “And the grog?”
“Yes, well, a simple concoction of my own making, if I may say so. A bit of honey, warm milk, dab of rum, well, maybe a lot of rum, and, of course, some fennel seeds. It makes for a wonderful healing effect, but alas, it will make you sleepy. Don’t you remember drinking it?”
“Well, no, I don’t.”
“It seems to be a common problem amongst grog drinkers. You had almost two cups worth: nearly my entire flask is gone. You drank it right after I brought you here to lie down, and then you slept.”
“Fine, I don’t remember, but if you say I drank your grog, then I guess I drank your grog.” Targon looked around again for a moment, noticing the front door was also broken and lying down outside. A pleasant wind was blowing through the house. “Are all the cutthroats dead?”
“Well, the ones you and Core killed, yes,” Elister said, standing and walking over to the hole in the back wall and then looking out.
“Who is Core?” Targon asked, looking around again, wondering if he could mean the bear, but bears don’t have names.
“This bear does have a name and it’s Corrack, but he prefers Core,” Elister said, literally reading Targon’s mind. “And your other visitors are, well . . . sleeping.”
“And just what do you mean by the word sleeping,” Targon asked, this time arching his own brows.
“Hehe, well, I’m not much for taking life these days. Too violent it is, and life is too precious. Then there are times when we must do what we must do, such as you and Core had to do earlier today. I decided instead to just put the other visitors to sleep.”
Targon looked at him closely, trying to see if the old man was serious or not. “And how long will they sleep for?”
“Well, I would think for a decade or two unless someone wakes them before that.” Elister walked back and sat down to look at Targon’s wound as he gently lifted a small piece of clean cloth where the dagger had entered.
Targon looked down and saw the wound was nearly shut already with no sign of blood or infection. Looking back to Elister, he thought for a second more. “Are we safe with half the brigands sleeping?”
“Oh yes, quite safe. It would take a wizard to wake them, and there aren’t but a couple of them in the whole valley and they are quite far away right now.”
“There have been no wizards for a hundred years, old man! Make some sense, will you?”
“My, my, a bit testy we are after the grog and all, somewhat dimwitted, too, by most of your comments. Didn’t your parents teach you any history? The legend says it was a thousand years, not a hundred, but the legends can be wrong from time to time. I should know.” Elister dabbed at the wound a bit and then pulled the cloth away and left the wound open. “Let it breath now a bit, and I’ll get your tunic for you, though it has a hole in it. Oh, and again, my name is Elister. E-L-I-S-T-E-R, not old man,” he said, walking over to the ruined shelving and grabbing Targon’s tunic from where it had been hung to dry.
Targon took the tunic and gently dressed himself, but he hadn’t needed to worry. There was no pain when he stretched his arms, just a stiffness in his left side and a slight throbbing of his head. He had to admit he was being much too petulant with the old man, since as far as he could tell, the old man hadn’t referred to him as son or lad or any one of a number of condescending titles. “Thank you, Elister,” Targon said, finishing his task of putting his tunic on. “I guess I should also thank you for saving my life. I’m sure that was a trap for me. How many did you say were waiting for me here?”
“Nine guests,” Elister replied as he held up his fingers and started counting. “Two near the trackway, two near the forest, and five inside waiting for you to show up.”
“I saw only three here.” Targon motioned at his broken interior.
“Well, Core took care of two of them inside and one outside, you took care of the other two outside, and I put four of your guests to sleep, so, yes, nine,” Elister finished, delighted to have one extra thumb free
from counting.
Targon stepped over some broken timbers and exited the cabin out the front entrance, Elister following. He looked closely and saw some dried blood and drag marks on the ground. He followed them around the north side of the cabin and to the edge of the cabin’s cleared ground. There he found five small dirt mounds. “You buried them?”
“Indeed.” Elister nodded.
“Where are my weapons?”
“Next to the front door on the porch.”
Targon headed back to the west side of the house and noticed the sky getting darker there. Red hews still radiated out from the dragon’s setting fire, and a look east showed him the first twinkles of stars coming out to play in the cooling night air. He quickly found his bow and axe and counted nine of his arrows back in their quill. It seemed the old man was not one to waste either. “When was the last time you talked to anyone, Elister?”
“Why, right now. We are talking.”
“No, I mean, when was the last time you talked to someone other than me?”
“Not more than an hour ago, I talked to Argyll,” Elister responded, cocking his head sideways, apparently not understanding where the conversation was going.
“Where is Argyll now?” Targon asked, looking around to see if anyone else was hiding near his home.
“He flew to your blind to keep an eye on your friends,” Elister said, a sincere smile coming to the old man’s face.
“Flew?”
“Yes, that is what birds do,” Elister retorted matter-of-factly.
“So you talked to a bird?”
Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Page 14