The Ascent (Book 2)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "Where?" Jax asked, shaking his head.

  "Any of the cities in the Northern Kingdom will welcome you," Garret replied. "Travel along the west coast, and avoid any of the cities in the south."

  Jax nodded, turning to Twyla to allow her to speak. She strode up to Garret, placing her arms around him and kissing him on the lips.

  "You are a true hero," she said. "A strange one, but a hero nonetheless. Thank you, and if ya ever find yourself around here again, be sure to find me. I'll take care of whatever ails ya."

  "Thank you, Twyla," Garret replied.

  Twyla turned away. Garret locked eyes with Hargis, who hiccupped and drooled a little through his somewhat toothy grin. "Yer a good one, ye are," he stammered. "Come back this way again, but don't be sneakin' up on me."

  "Take care, Hargis."

  Garret turned back to the path, taking the trail east once more. He hoped that one day he would see Twyla again. She was a joy to be around, and her presence brought back the feelings and freedom of his youth. She was a jewel in his eyes, and she was exactly why he was fighting this battle; for her and everyone like her.

  His next stop would be Faerbane, and his target; Queen Maebh. He shuddered at the thought of his mission, but took pride in the lives he had changed along the way. Despite its morbid ending, his mission had so far been productive, and his reputation as the deadliest assassin on the islands was still intact.

  He was back. He was free. He was Scorpion once again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meabh stood in the mist surrounded by her armed guards at the end of Faerbane's main pier. She was dressed in her red, formal gown, with black silk gloves, a black and red headdress, and a black sash sent to her by the Prophet. It was embroidered with the astral symbols of the Lifegiver, and her excitement at finally having the chance to wear it was obvious in her smirk.

  In the distance, a Jindala frigate was anchored at sea, and a smaller vessel had been dispatched. Onboard the large ship, a host of dark creatures was imprisoned, awaiting their release in various places around the island. Maebh smiled at the thought of the fear that the creatures would inspire. It was a fear that would ensure the strictest of obedience from her subjects.

  As she watched the bay, her smile grew more prominent as the skiff that carried the Prophet and her entourage neared the docks. It was black and ghostly, with golden trim, and red silk sails. Onboard, Maebh could see the large, covered sedia upon which the Prophet sat, shielded from the elements with layers of linen blinds. Standing on either side of her enclosure were the Ka'ha'di, the Prophet's disciples. They were six in number, and identical in appearance; bald, with pointed crowns of gold with attached lower face plates, red linen gowns with golden belts, and charms of lapis lazuli.

  The most prominent feature of the small vessel, however, was the presence of two hulking, dark figures that flanked either side of the Prophet's enclosure. They were the Enkhatar. They stood tall and menacingly behind each line of Ka'ha'di, their black plate armor seeming to absorb the dim sunlight around them. Maebh could almost feel the darkness that their very presence brought to her city. They were evil incarnate; darkness embodied and packed into black iron shells of dark matter. They were the resurrected and defiled remains of Khem's greatest warriors, brought back to unlife by the Lifegiver himself.

  "Stand fast," Maebh commanded her soldiers. "The Prophet arrives."

  The soldiers stood motionless, frozen by fear of the unknown menace that approached the docks. Even the skiff itself was frightening to them. The Jindala guards, however, were familiar with the Prophet and her minions. But there were those among them that still felt the negative aura of her presence. These were the unworthy; those that the Prophet could sense. Those that the Enkhatar would feed upon.

  Maebh took a deep breath as the skiff finally neared. Her dock masters tossed lines into the boat as it dropped anchor. They pulled it closer to provide the smallest possible gap so as to not inconvenience the Prophet or her company. When the boat was secure, they stepped back, gladly ducking away from the Prophet's presence.

  The Enkhatar walked forward around the Ka'ha'di, moving to the front of the enclosure to draw aside the curtains. From out of the shaded interior, the Prophet stepped into the sunlight. She was dressed in a black gown, with a macabre designed headdress that resembled the blackened skull of some long dead reptilian species. Its spine became her neck piece, which was wrapped around her shoulders, and went straight down between breasts to her golden belt. She was bald like her priestesses, and the makeup around her eyes was drawn in the shape of the all seeing Eye of Absu.

  As she stepped toward the edge of the boat, the Enkhatar took her hands to support her as the crossed onto the dock. They followed close behind her, even closer than her priestesses, and their chilling presence could be felt in the entire marina.

  "Welcome back, Mother," Maebh greeted her. The Prophet stepped forward, offering Maebh her hand to grasp and kiss. Maebh did so with zeal, tasting her mother's sweetly defiled skin on her eager lips.

  "Maebh, my darling," the Prophet replied. "It has been so long since I laid eyes upon you. My own eyes."

  The Prophet stepped closer, raising her hand to touch Maebh's face, tracing her finger around her uncorrupted skin. "You have been keeping up with your magic, I see," she said. "You look not a day older than twenty."

  Maebh smiled, grateful for the compliment. Indeed, her mother had kept her youthful appearance as well, having practiced her dark magic for hundreds of years before meeting the King.

  "And you as well," Maebh said.

  The Ka'ha'di accompanied the Prophet now, standing up close on either side of her. They did not seem to be bothered by the Enkhatar. Strangely, they seemed to feed off of their presence, breathing deeply and seemingly in ecstasy. Maebh eyed them approvingly, feeling a kinship with them that she had never felt with her own peers.

  "Where is this son of yours," the Prophet asked.

  "Eogan is hunting," Maebh replied. "You will meet him when he returns. He wanted to give you a special gift when you arrived."

  The Prophet smiled with delight. "Very well," she said, approvingly. "Let us retire to the castle. My priestesses and I dislike this weather, and it's been a long journey."

  "Of course," Maebh replied, motioning for the Prophet to follow.

  The procession began its march down the long pier, with a host of armed Jindala guards in front, Maebh following, and the Prophet's own entourage trailing. The passing of the Enkhatar caused a wave of discomfort in all who observed, including the armed guards and many citizens who looked on in curiosity. Most of them looked away, not wanting to bear the burden of beholding such vile and revolting creatures. Their very presence was a dark ripple of fear that spread over the entire city, and even those that were several hundred yards away could feel their malevolence.

  The creaking and grinding of their armor accentuated their disturbing demeanor. The disparaging sound echoed loudly as the town grew silent. The Prophet smiled with the feeling of dominance the Enkhatar gave her. They were at her command, and under their protection she was invincible and terrifying. With these utterly vile tools the Lifegiver had provided, the island would fall under her reign, with Maebh being her puppet.

  Her smile grew into a sneer. She would be Queen of Eirenoch once again. The Dark Queen of Absu.

  Kuros and his Rangers moved quickly through the forest near Faillaigh. The tracks they followed led toward Faerbane, and indicated a large force that seemed to be moving in a manner similar to Kuros' own troops. They were not footsoldiers, nor commoners or pilgrims. These were men of purpose, who followed the same routes that Kuros himself would have followed. His thoughts were on the missing company of Rangers that had disappeared with the coming of the Jindala to the north. Perhaps these tracks belonged to them.

  It would be good to see Falgrin again. His counterpart was an old friend, and a skilled Ranger, and it had been several months since the two had last seen each other.


  "Hold," Kuros whispered. The men behind him stopped, melting into the underbrush and remaining still and silent. Kuros eyed the tracks before him curiously. Something did not seem right. The number of tracks seemed to have grown from a group of a dozen men or so to nearly twenty.

  The group they were following had met up with another, smaller group, and had continued on as one. Falgrin's company numbered fifty. This company, even with the addition of the new tracks, was far too small. Shaking his head, Kuros turned to his new lieutenant, Balgor. The young man came to crouch next to him, his face showing concern at Kuros' expression.

  "What is it, Captain?" Balgor asked.

  Kuros pointed to the strange grouping of tracks that seemed to gather in one area. "The group we are following met up with another group from the east," he said. "There was a brief exchange, and the two groups continued east."

  "Perhaps Falgrin's group had previously split into three or more groups," Balgor suggested, "and two of them met up again here."

  "I don't think so," Kuros said. "Falgrin is not likely to divide his forces. I thought perhaps his company had met with a powerful enemy and he had lost several Rangers. But meeting with another group altogether tells me that this is not Falgrin's company."

  "Then who have we been following?"

  Kuros shook his head, resting his forearms on his knees and looking off into the forest. "I don't know, Balgor," he sighed. "We will continue on."

  Balgor signaled the rest of the men to follow, and the company continued their silent infiltration deeper into the forest. The tracks continued as before, taking a route away from the trails, and becoming more and more disguised. Whoever this group was, they were skilled. Even Kuros, who was an experienced and renowned tracker, had trouble following their trail. If these were not Rangers, then they were woodland folk the likes of which Kuros had never known.

  After winding through an endless series of crags, knolls, and clumps of twisted trees, the Rangers came upon a dark clearing. It was approximately ten yards in diameter, with a bare dirt floor covered in dried leaves, sticks, and littered with tracks. Strangely, there appeared to be blood crusted among the roots of the surrounding trees, and half-dried pools in various places in the dirt.

  From behind him, Kuros heard a silent gasp. He turned to look at Balgor and several other Rangers who were transfixed by something above. Kuros looked up into the canopy of trees, squinting in the dim light to see what had shocked his men. His eyes widened at what he saw.

  Several dozen men hung from the bare branches, their bodies twisted and grotesquely bent and mutilated, their necks tightly wound with rope and bent oddly to the side. They all wore dark green cloaks, and woodland patterned tunics. Their boots had been removed, and they were weaponless.

  "Falgrin's company," Kuros hissed. "All dead. Hanged like criminals."

  Kuros stood, walking into the empty clearing, scanning the ground for any sign of a battle. Balgor joined him, commanding the Rangers to spread out and search for any clues.

  "They fought here," Balgor reasoned, seeing the signs of battle in the tracks. "There are no signs of any men with armored boots, and no horse tracks to be seen. Whatever happened here was a battle between similar groups."

  Kuros nodded. "This is disturbing," he said. "The enemy was a much smaller force than Falgrin's company. Yet they triumphed. What sort of force are we dealing with?"

  Kuros question went unanswered. Balgor groaned as an arrow buried itself in his chest. He looked to Kuros for help as the old Ranger gasped and grabbed the dying man's shoulders. "Balgor!" he hissed.

  The remaining Rangers immediately went on the defensive, drawing their swords and bows. Kuros crouched on one knee, gently guiding Balgor to the ground as he drew his last breath. Enraged, Kuros cursed the forest, standing to challenge the attacker.

  "Show yourself!" he called into the shadowy trees. "Show yourself now!"

  From the depths of the dark forest, laughter suddenly erupted. It was the laughter of an older child, it seemed. Fear began to creep into Kuros' bones as the obscene cacophony echoed in his ears.

  "Come out now, boy!" Kuros yelled.

  The laughter sounded again, this time followed by the sounds of something moving through the brush. The taller weeds swayed at the opposite end of the clearing, parting to the side as a single figure stepped through. It was a young man, dressed in black robes that were in the style of a Ranger. He wore a dark mask over the lower portion of his face, and his tunic was emblazoned with the symbol of a jackal; the sigil of Queen Maebh.

  "Who are you?" Kuros demanded.

  The boy laughed again, pulling back his hood. His hair was blonde and medium length. As he combed it back with his hand, Kuros could see something familiar in his eyes. That familiarity was compounded when the boy removed his mask. His face was almost recognizable, but Kuros could not place it. It was as if he had met this boy somewhere before. But that was impossible. He was much too young.

  "Who are you?" Kuros asked again.

  "Allow me to introduce myself," the boy said. "I am Eogan, Prince of the Southern Kingdom, and future King of Eirenoch."

  Kuros scowled, watching as the boy calmly walked closer, seemingly unconcerned by the many Rangers that surrounded him.

  "Queen Maebh has no son," Kuros said.

  Eogan laughed. "On the contrary," he replied. "I was born fifteen years ago, unbeknownst to anyone in your so-called kingdom. For reasons I am not sure of I was kept a secret."

  "Then you are a man of Eirenoch," Kuros said. "And despite being the son of the Bitch Queen, you should be standing with us against this Lifegiver and his minions."

  "I care nothing for the Jindala," Eogan explained, still approaching Kuros confidently. "My only concern is ascending to the throne, and bringing the weaklings of this island to their knees in worship."

  Kuros looked down at Balgor, then up to the Rangers hanging above. "Who is responsible for this?" he demanded.

  Eogan smiled. "My company of dark Rangers," he answered stiffly. "They are much more powerful than the Rangers of the North, as they embrace the true darkness and shadow. Not like your men, who keep their heads in the world of light."

  Kuros scowled again, his hatred for the boy growing and threatening to let loose. "You will pay for your treachery." he hissed, drawing his sword.

  Eogan snapped his fingers. The sound of hundreds of arrows filled the clearing. Suddenly Kuros' men dropped to the ground, having been pierced by arrows or skewered with knives through the back. The dark Rangers had been hidden around the clearing and had thrown their cloaks back to reveal themselves. Kuros watched in agony as his men were killed without warning, none of them even having a chance to fight back. Within seconds, his entire company lay dead and bleeding on the forest floor. The Ranger's heart pounded in fear and sorrow. His friends were gone, and he now stood alone before this bastard son of Queen Maebh, who sneered at his despair.

  "A pity," Prince Eogan mused. "That was too easy. I was expecting more of a fight from men with such a reputation for battle and subterfuge. Falgrin's men were much more difficult to kill."

  Kuros charged Eogan, growling in madness and fury. He struck, arcing his sword in a fierce strike that caught the young prince off guard. Eogan blocked at the last second, sweeping his sword in a two-handed parry. He pushed back, throwing the Ranger back a few feet before countering. He slashed violently from side to side, inching ever closer as Kuros jumped back to avoid each strike. When Eogan spun to gain more striking power, Kuros attacked again with an overhead slash.

  Eogan blocked the attack, kicking Kuros in the groin and countering with another back hand slash. Kuros dodged, ducking to deliver an underhand, upward arc attack. His sword caught Eogan's gauntlet, knocking the boy's sword out of his hand. Kuros wasted no time with a follow up strike, slashing downward toward the boy's shoulder.

  Kuros’ vision suddenly slowed to a crawl. He heard the telltale swooshing sound of an arrow bee lining straight to
ward him. He saw the streak of the wood shaft as it sped at him and impacted him below his left shoulder. The stinging impact jarred him, and he dropped his sword in mid strike. He cried out in pain, falling to his knees as Eogan stepped toward him in slow motion, reaching down to retrieve his sword. He watched as the prince raised his weapon to finish him off. As an afterthought, Kuros reached behind him to draw his dagger from its hidden sheath. As the prince's sword came down, Kuros reached up to grab his attacker's arm and stop the attack at the bottom of its arc. The pain of the arrow strike shot through his body as his hand impacted with the prince's forearm.

  With his dagger, he growled in rage and plunged upward into the prince's sword arm. It buried itself deep in the boy's flesh, and Kuros could feel it striking the bone. Eogan howled in pain, dropping his sword and stepping back to grasp the dagger. Arrows streaked at Kuros again, this time several of them burying themselves deep in his chest. One pierced his heart. He could feel it. Breathless and in agony, Kuros fell into a kneeling position, the pain of the arrow grinding his very soul with each heartbeat. He could only look up weakly as Eogan pulled the dagger from his arm and stepped toward him again. In his pain, Kuros mumbled a silent prayer.

  "Hear me, Dragon, as I come to thee," he whispered. "I die for you...and your glory."

  Eogan grasped Kuros by the hair, pulling his head back and looking into his dying eyes. He placed the dagger against the Ranger's throat, and sneered as he drew it across. Kuros coughed and choked, his blood gushing from the gaping wound. Eogan stared into his eyes as the life slowly drained from them, oblivious of the streams of blood that splashed against his tunic.

  "Your head," he hissed before Kuros fell into death's arms, "will make a wonderful gift for my Grandmother."

  Khalid sat upon the Dragon's throne in Tel Drakkar. His six newly anointed priests, who had undergone the same ritual he had previously gone through, stood before him. They were in full regalia, prepared to live their new lives as the Priests of Drakkar. They were all master stoneworkers, having spent their entire lives working the mines and building the underground structures with master skill.