“Take this and do not spit it out,” Khan said rather hastily and crudely. “Get him some water. The . . . magic is rather chalky-like, and he must consume it all.”
Olga quickly grabbed a cup of water, and Khan inserted the orb into Cedric’s mouth. Cedric must have understood, as he chewed feebly and coughed once, trying hard to keep his mouth shut till Olga could bring the cup of water to his lips for him to drink. Confident he had consumed the Talaman, Khan stood and faced Salina.
“His fever will rage all night, but it won’t affect him nor hurt him. He will be fine by morning,” Khan said with some finality.
Salina’s words were soft but chilling. “I hope so for your sake, Sorcerer. If my son dies, so do you.”
Khan was grabbed rather harshly and led out of the room by Will. The fate of Khan now was tied to Cedric, and morning would tell whether the two men lived or died.
Ke-Tor stumbled yet again as he walked across the rocky fields of eastern Ulatha toward Korwell. He still had his staff and had retrieved his pack with his critir in it. He had tried to use it once to contact Am-Sultain, but his mastery wasn’t near the level of that of Am-Ohkre’s, and not only could he not communicate with the High-Mage of Kesh but he didn’t receive any communications, either. The orb would alert him if it was being accessed.
Curse that arrogant Mage, Ke-Tor thought to himself, remembering Am-Ohkre’s demise, which nearly killed him as well. He was fortunate he had his protective cloak, his most powerful magic item, on him. It had turned both blade and spell several times in the past. It was made of pure silver, hammered down to a thinness that made the material flexible, like a sort of foil the bakers used in their ovens when making food for the High-Mage. The metallic cloak was covered in arcane symbols and warding glyphs and then nicely disguised within a cloth cloak of blue fabric, hiding the odd metallic cloak from any visual inspection.
Ke-Tor spun around, grabbing a piece of his cloak and looking at it. The entire bottom end was burned and charred from the fireballs his ex-apprentice Khan had hurled at him, and he’d need a new covering for his arcane metallic cloak if he were to repair it back to its original condition.
Damn that Khan to Akun’s embrace as well, Ke-Tor thought again, almost speaking the words out loud. What in all the arcane arts was he doing alive and on the other side of the river, and who was that with him? It looked like Dorsun, if not Gund, as both were large brigands and adept with any weapon. So either Gund had failed him or he betrayed him. Either way, Gund was a dead man in Ke-Tor’s eyes. Failure was just as bad as betrayal. Didn’t Khan know when to stop fighting his fate and just accept his demise? He knew now that if the magical blast that emanated from Am-Ohkre in his death throes didn’t kill Khan, then he’d have to do it personally. The code and blood demanded it. If he did not kill Khan, then Khan would kill him, if Am-Sultain didn’t beat him to it.
Ke-Tor had rested most of the night huddled like a poor Kesh beggar in the streets of Keshtor, trying to keep the chill from him. Luckily, his cloak was still functioning and it radiated warmth throughout the night, and he had wrapped it around himself tightly, sleeping fitfully till dawn. Now he arose and continued walking . . . walking of all things! Him! The most experienced and skilled wizard in all of Kesh, destined to be an Arch-Mage himself, and he was reduced to the mere act of walking. Curse them. Curse them all.
There was no escort present. As far as he could tell, they had rallied around Am-Ohkre and were following him under the river when disaster struck, disintegrating them all. Even the few wounded and dead on the shoreline nearby were immediately transformed into a pile of ash and vapor. He was much closer to the Mage than those Ulathans, and curse him, Khan, across the river, all except the bane of Ohkre, the Arden.
There would be hell to pay if Am-Sultain found out an Arden had eluded detection by Ke-Tor himself. Perhaps it was for the best that there were no survivors in that epic battle between Mage and druid. Ancient avatars from an age of greatness and power reduced to some sort of mutual destruction, such a waste. Even the Arden had died, though he found it extremely odd that his body, which had transformed into a pile of ash, had somehow held its form. He saw the body standing there, ash a pale grey instead of black.
Time! Ke-Tor needed time to think, plan, and regroup after yet another fiasco in Ulatha. The Kesh didn’t need any enemies. They were doing a fine job of failure on their own without much need for any interference. Yes, time was what Ke-Tor needed. He would return to Korwell and regroup, forming an impenetrable fortress of defense that would fortify their gains until his new apprentice, Zorcross, arrived and until Am-Sultain or Am-Shee contacted him. He’d find an excuse, and the blame and debt would be laid at Ohkre’s feet. No need for respect and formalities now when referring to the former Mage. Ohkre had met his match and doom in Ulatha, and Ke-Tor would fill the vacuum and void created by it.
Perhaps indeed this was the most successful outcome for Ke-Tor personally, if not Kesh in general. Ke-Tor smiled to himself and picked up his pace. He wanted to be safely behind the high walls of the ancient Korwell castle before nightfall, if he could manage it.
Targon had relieved Will on watch. The Kesh were put in the barn, and the door was blocked with a thick plank of wood across two metal latches with Core sleeping just outside the doors keeping watch. Despite the massive guard, the Ulathans decided to take turns keeping watch, with Horace and his crossbow taking first shift, followed by Will. Now the sky in the east started that all too familiar glow as the twin sisters had ran from the dragon’s fire and set in the west and the birds starting singing their songs of morning and lightness from nearby.
“Good morning, Targon!” Marissa said as she quietly came out the front door of the cabin.
“Morning, Marissa. You’re up early today,” Targon responded.
“Too much snoring between Horace and Will. Hard to sleep, you know?”
Targon stood and stretched as he looked back at the cabin while Marissa came and stood next to him. “I thought Horace and Emelda were in that back bedroom next to the ladies?”
“They are, along with Yolanda and Amy, but I can hear the old man snoring from the next room, and Agatha curses in her sleep.”
“She does what?” Targon asked, wiping his eyes and having a good stretch.
“She mumbles in her sleep, mostly bad words, ones my papa never approved of, and sometimes she cries, too.”
“I had no idea,” Targon said, surprised.
“Well, don’t tell her. She’ll scold me for sure if you do. Did you want to talk to Lady Salina?”
“What now? Isn’t she still asleep?” Targon asked, stretching his arms out and moving wildly about, trying to get the sleep out and the circulation up.
“No, silly, she’s been at Cedric’s bedside near the hearth all night. You’d have known that if you didn’t insist on sleeping on the porch, especially since this is your own house. You know some of the older ladies think you’re upset that we’re here. ‘A burden’ I think they said we were to you.”
“Nonsense,” Targon replied, stifling a yawn and moving about in a circle. “You are all most welcome here. ’Tis only my preference being a woodsman to enjoy the fresh night air is all,” he finished with his most convincing voice that he could muster for such a time in the morning.
“If you say so, Targon.”
Targon looked at her sideways and then back to the barn and then back to her again. “Do me a favor for five minutes and keep a watch on the barn. Holler if anything is amiss.”
Marissa nodded and sat down on the log seat he had just vacated, so he turned and entered the cabin. Sure enough, Will was lying against the far wall on a bed of spare cloths and a blanket, snoring loud enough to fill the room. Cedric was on Targon’s old makeshift bed near the hearth, and Lady Salina had kept the fire stoked well all night, as the common room was unusually warm for so early in the morning. He walked o
ver to where Salina sat and pulled up one of the chairs to sit across from her, Cedric between them on the bed. “How is he doing?” Targon asked.
“The Kesh man saved his life,” Salina responded without looking up as she gazed at her son intently.
“Really?” he asked, surprised but pleased. “Will you not rest now?”
“Not yet. His fever burns but not as bright as his entire body is warm, so I am keeping him cool with cloth and water,” she said softly.
“Very well. I’ll inform the sorcerer that he has avoided your wrath for now.”
Salina then did look up at him and smiled. “He will be happy to hear that, though there is much to pay for what they have done.”
“Agreed, my lady. Care for your son and I will return shortly.”
Salina nodded in agreement and continued with her care of wiping her son’s body down with a cloth dampened with cool stream water from Bony Brook. Targon looked around and then left his home, relieving Marissa, who ran around back to start collecting some potatoes for breakfast. Targon walked over to his small shed that acted as a barn and unbolted the door, lifting the wood plank from the two latches secured on either side of the door. Core stood on all fours with a grunt and moved away from the door. Targon realized he was starting to get too comfortable around this wild animal, but the feeling just came naturally to him.
“Rise and shine, gentlemen,” Targon said politely, viewing the two men who were just now stirring from the noise made by his efforts to open the door. “It appears, Mister Khan from Kesh, that your life has been spared today by Lady Salina. Her son lives.”
Khan brushed some straw from his cloak and clothing and gingerly brushed his burned hand that had yet to receive any kind of treatment. “That is good to hear. I trust we have some kind of understanding, then?” he asked.
“We do have an understanding, but trust we do not. That would have to be earned, though I can say I never thought a brigand from Kesh would use magic to heal an Ulathan.”
“Normally, you would be correct in your assumption, Master Targon, but I am no brigand and helping the young man seemed the right thing to do knowing he would die if I didn’t. Don’t mistake my actions for too much altruism, however, as things would have gone worse for my companion and I had the young man died. Saving him assisted my cause.”
Targon eyed the young sorcerer carefully. He was pale and almost seemed fragile, if not actually harmless, but with his own eyes he had seen fire magically called forth from the man’s staff, so he knew better. “What exactly is your cause now if not to imprison me and my fellow Ulathans?”
“I have no desire to subjugate your fellow citizens,” Khan replied. “That is for another, sorcerer, as you call one of us. I was doing my duty to my own realm and order: however, the equation has changed since we first met on the river and you almost killed me with one of your arrows. Do you remember?”
“Hard not to. You almost killed me with one of your magical fire orbs. I just ducked in the nick of time.”
“May we step out into the fresh air?” Khan asked, motioning past the door.
Targon stepped outside. “Carrot, let them outside. If they try to run, kill them.”
“That is most reassuring in the most disturbed way you could imagine,” Khan replied as he and Dorsun stepped outside and took deep breaths of morning air while looking to the east, awaiting the sunrise that was soon to come.
“You need to take care of your hand, Master,” Dorsun said, looking down at Khan’s hand where it was burned almost black from wrist to knuckles across the backside.
“Well, for this burn the Arella leaf would help, if our benevolent captor will allow for it,” Khan said, lifting his hand for inspection, turning it to and fro, frowning at the color of the skin.
“You seem well spoken and educated for a Kesh. Not what I was used to seeing from a brigand,” Targon said warily.
Khan put his hand down. “I have mentioned this before. I am no brigand. I am of the wizard caste, rulers of Kesh and defenders of the order. Dorsun here, is a Kesh chieftain, a leader of a Kesh tribe and commander of troops. Indeed, some of our fellow Kesh are . . . shall we say . . . less than educated and less in stature, but we tolerate them for expediency sake, if not morally.”
“You lost me there, Mister Khan, but I get your gist.” Khan frowned at this but remained silent, if not a tad indignant. “There still remains the matter of what to do with you and your chieftain. In Ulatha, it is not considered wise to allow a brigand to sleep near you. One may never awake after having his throat cut.”
“A wise philosophy to follow, but I would prefer something more genial from those whom I helped to save a friend’s life,” Khan countered.
“We’ll see. Have a seat on the porch and I’ll try to get you both something to drink and eat and some salve made from Arella.” Targon motioned to the porch, and Core followed them over.
Soon, the group arose early, and Horace came out to resume his guard with Emelda by his side, while Agatha complained of having to eat potatoes and cabbage all the time. Most of the others couldn’t understand her distaste, but Salina explained that Agatha was the court cook and prepared meals for King Korwell and his family, retainers, and courtiers, and she was used to having a much broader range of produce to choose from. “Let her eat dirt,” Horace had remarked once upon overhearing this, and the others chuckled at the grumpy old man.
It was not long before Monique came out and asked for Targon and Salina. She had found a crude letter folded and sealed with what looked like a dab of candle wax. It was a letter, all right, and they opened it, as it was addressed to Targon Terrel. Salina read the letter aloud.
Master Terrel,
If you are in receipt of my missive, then I fear grave danger awaits you and your companions in the near future. I cannot describe in a mere few words what you must imbed into your soul in order to prevail against the forces that have arrayed themselves against you, your companions, and our beloved mother, Claire Agon. I have done what I could over the centuries and have prepared recently to the best of my limited abilities in order to assist you, but I fear it will be too little too late.
The most important mission for you, my young Zashitor, is to keep the guardian of the forest asleep, at least until the time of arrival of our father, Dor Akun. I have left a scroll with instructions for you in my humble abode. I know you will have the urge to satisfy your curiosity in this matter, but it may be for the best if you restrain yourself from looking upon the guardian, at least until such time, as you have the necessary tools to assist you in this matter. Time is short, despite the many centuries that have marked its passage, and I bid you luck and success in protecting our Agon.
Yours in friendship despite the brevity,
Elister
P.S. Core will be able to guide you.
Several others had gathered around Targon and Salina as they read the letter, and stared at one another in silence for a long moment before Will spoke aloud. “What does it mean guardian of the forest?”
Targon took the letter, looking at it intently again before handing it back to Salina. “He spoke of this before, but I thought him a bit senile if not mad and just assumed he was referring to himself. Certainly he was the guardian, no?” Targon asked, looking around for reassurance.
Several others nodded or shrugged their shoulders in ignorance. “He was certainly our savior with what he did and all at the river yesterday,” Horace finally said.
“I’ll need to take the bear with me, so we’ll have to double the guard on our Kesh guests,” Targon said, motioning to the barn where the two men stood.
“Why do you keep calling them guests?” Marissa asked innocently.
Targon chuckled for a second. “It’s something the old man Elister always said when referring to them. No matter that now. Elister is gone and these men are our guests, for better or for
worse. I saw that sickly evil-looking fellow over there hurl a ball of magic at his Kesh companion across the river. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“He also saved my son’s life, did he not?” Salina said.
“Aye, he did, my lady, cutthroat that he is,” Horace responded. “Don’t you worry, lad, we’ll take care of them for you. Who will you choose to go with you to Master Elister’s abode?”
Targon thought for a moment before responding. “I think it best if I go alone with the bear.” He was thinking, however, that the warning about whatever lurked in Elister’s home was best encountered without the frailer and easily frightened city folk.
No one protested, and soon, the group was preparing for the day with the additional responsibility of guard duty being thrown into the mix. Targon prepared his pack and weapons and was ready to leave after having a bit of morning potatoes fried over his hearth by Olga. When he looked for the Kesh and didn’t see them, he asked Marissa, who was walking with him, “Where are our guests?”
“Around back. Want to see them?” she said, a smile on her face.
Targon nodded and went around to the back of the cabin and found Horace with his feet kicked up on a rock as he sat leaned back against the cabin wall, crossbow in hand aimed rather closely at the garden patch where he saw both the sorcerer Khan, and his bodyguard, Dorsun, tilling and weeding the ground. “What’s this?”
“We gots to eat, so Agatha put them to work the same as the rest of us,” Horace said.
Targon nodded in agreement, not envying the Kesh their time with Agatha overseeing their job duties, and walked up to Khan, who seemed to be doing a mediocre job at creating a furrow in the ground for seed planting. “Hoi, Khan of Kesh. I have to leave for a day and will be taking our protector with us, but don’t underestimate these people. They will kill you if either of you try to leave or harm them.” And he looked sideways at Dorsun, who had stood from his kneeling position where he was putting pumpkin seeds into the ground. “And if for any reason you are successful in harming my companions or escaping, the bear and I will track you down personally and see to it that your miserable lives are terminated and your bodies left to rot on top of Agon’s bosom.”
Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Page 33