“Should I wake the Kesh?” Targon asked.
“I think that would be appropriate,” Salina said, moving toward the front door.
“No need for that. We are awake,” Khan said, stepping from the shadows of the small barn door, stretching his hands over his head and shaking some loose straw from his hair. He ran his fingers through his hair, clearing it, and then he placed his wide-brimmed, tasseled hat on top his head, adjusting it for comfort.
“Thought you might have run away,” Targon said nonchalantly.
“Hardly, woodsman,” Khan said, walking over toward the cabin and nodding to Salina, who nodded back and left the two men alone. “I saw you stand watch all night, and to be honest, I am too tired to run anywhere and Dorsun there is too cut up for any serious exertion right now.”
Indeed, Targon noticed that the Kesh chieftain sat in the doorway and bowed his head as if ready to sleep some more but wanting to keep an eye on his master. His body was bloodied as well, though not nearly as bad as poor Will. It would take a while for them both to heal properly.
“Perhaps,” Targon said, motioning to the seat Salina just vacated. “How much did you hear?”
Khan smiled, a rare thing for the young wizard this summer. “I heard everything.”
“Even from across the clearing?”
“Especially from across the clearing. I could hear you easily, even over the old man’s snores.”
“So?” Targon peered intently at the Kesh wizard.
“I do not think you are crazy,” Khan said, sitting and rubbing his hands on his robe as small flakes of old straw fell off of it.
Targon chuckled. “So you believe me when I say dragons are real?”
“Of course.” Khan looked across the field at the old oak tree and its many alder brushes.
Targon snorted, eliciting a look from Khan. “I never would have thought that a Kesh would be agreeing with me while an Ulathan disagreed.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Khan said, looking at Targon. “We have known about the existence of the Draconus for centuries. It is common knowledge, though I daresay we find it interesting that your culture seems to have forgotten them.”
“Not forgotten,” Targon responded, “more like . . . faded. Yes, that is the word I’m looking for. The stories became legends and the legends became myths. Isn’t that the way things work?”
“Maybe in your civilization, but we have always known the facts and they have remained the same for centuries.”
“So you know what resides at the heart of this forest?” Targon asked, his voice intense as he looked to Khan for some sort of reassurance.
Khan looked back, his voice serious. “No, I do not know. I do, however, suspect after what you have said, and my suspicions would make much more sense now, if what you say is true.”
Targon grabbed Khan’s shoulder, forcing the other man to look at him more intensely. “Tell me of your suspicions and tell me now. We may not have much time.”
Khan slowly removed Targon’s large hand from his shoulder. “Calm down. No need to be rough.”
“Sorry, I just have been dealing with this all summer and it’s been killing me, not being able to talk to anyone about this. Tell me of your suspicions.”
“Well,” Khan began, looking into the deep blue sky, “we knew something resided in the Earlstyne Forest—”
“You mean the Blackthorn?”
“Yes, you refer to the Earlstyne as the Blackthorn. Well, the Earlstyne has always had a reputation for centuries, and we did not know for sure what evil lurked within it—”
“Evil?” Targon’s voice sounded annoyed.
“It will be a long conversation if you are going to interrupt me every few seconds,” Khan said.
“Sorry.” Targon shrugged sheepishly.
Khan cleared his throat, resuming his discourse. “We did not know what dwelled within the forest.” Khan looked sideways at Targon, expectation of another interruption in his gaze, but when none was forthcoming, he continued. “The battle this spring at the river showed us what the secret of the forest really was. It was one of the Arnen, and not just anyone, one of the oldest and most powerful. That explains why my order was so feckless when dealing with this guardian.”
“Yes, Elister was his name, and he was the guardian of this forest,” Targon said matter-of-factly and pleased with his observation.
Khan suppressed a frown and continued. “The Arnen had protectors—”
“Zashitors!” Targon said, triumph in his voice.
“Yes,” Khan said coolly, ignoring the interruption. “Rangers, in the common tongue. My order thought the Arnen had all died out during the Great War—”
“The Great Dragon War!” Targon said, snapping two fingers together to boot.
Khan sighed, resigned to his tale. “This was a millennia ago—”
“What’s a millennia?” Targon asked.
“A thousand years,” Khan explained. “Don’t they teach you this stuff in school?”
“We don’t have school,” Targon said.
“I see . . . well, no matter. The important thing is that obviously one of the Arnen survived the war—”
“Aha! Elister was the Arnen who survived. Told me himself that he is over a thousand years old.” Targon smiled.
“Yes . . .” Khan said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Any chance of me finishing my story?”
“Oh right, sorry, do go on,” Targon said, giving Khan a shrug of his shoulders.
“Well, the Arnen were supposed to be all dead. This Arnen, however, was not. He must have been here in the Earlstyne all this time. Something else, must have been here with him. We had raiding parties here, off and on, of course, and what few survivors returned oftentimes spoke of something large, vicious, and wicked. That would not describe one of the Arnen. It would, describe one of the Draconus, and that was the suspicion that was confirmed when you discussed with the noblewoman what you saw.”
“So you believe me!” Targon sounded pleased.
“Yes, but the real question is how and, perhaps, why?” Khan said, putting his chin in his hand and his elbows on his knees.
“What do you mean?” Targon asked.
“How could one of the Arnen associate with a Draconus and, even if that was to be possible, why would an Arnen do such a thing?” Khan appeared most contemplative.
“I read a letter for the Arnen, ahh, from Elister. He referred to the dragon as a she and that it was sleeping and would do so for some time. He said I had to find a special shield and some rod or something like that. It is . . . complicated.” Targon’s voice faltered as he tried to remember what he had read months earlier and what it all meant.
“Where is this letter?” Khan asked intently, grabbing Targon’s shoulder and pulling it toward him.
Targon looked at the Kesh wizard for a moment before answering as he removed the man’s hand from his shoulder. “The letter is still in Elister’s home on the table where I found it. Oh, I also left the book there as well. It has notes in it that describe where the dragon rod is located, but I didn’t really understand it. I think it also referred to that red leather-bound book that Cedric is always reading.”
“What did you say?” Khan seemed in shock at his words.
“You heard me,” Targon responded. “I said he left me a book of notes on where to find this dragon rod thing, and he said in his letter that the dragon shield, or whatever it was that the old duke of Ulatha used, would be in another red book.”
“No, did you say something about a red book?” Khan stood and grabbed Targon by his shoulders and practically shook him.
Targon stood up, standing taller than Khan by half a head and much more massive at his shoulders. Targon grabbed Khan’s arms and lowered them again. “Now you calm yourself,” Targon said. “Yes, I did say something about a red book and I said that Cedric reads it and it is supposed to have information in it about a shield.”
Khan’s mouth dropped. “How di
d I not see this book?”
“Well,” Targon began, “we are busy during the day, and at night, you two weren’t allowed inside the cabin. That’s when Cedric usually pulled the book out to read it by the light of the fire.”
“Is this book kept in that dark rag that he sometimes carries around with him?” Khan asked.
“Yes, it is,” Targon answered.
“I must see it right away,” Khan said.
“Why? What’s so important about that book?” Targon’s eyes narrowed, and he noticed Dorsun rouse from the barn and stand, watching them intently.
Khan spoke in a hushed voice, fearful as if something dangerous would hear him. “It contains the histories of Agon’s greatest civilizations, but that is not what concerns me the most,” Khan said, his demeanor now serious as he rubbed his chin with his burned hand.
“What is it?” Targon asked.
“I have kept a secret from you too.” Khan looked at Targon, perhaps it was a look of sadness that crossed the young wizard’s face.
“Secret? What secret?” Targon asked.
Khan shuffled his feet, obviously not feeling comfortable and second-guessing his decision to reveal this news. “I, ah . . .”
“Go on,” Targon commanded.
Khan looked him in the eye. “The reason we took Korwell so easily is that there was a traitor in your midst. Someone who allowed for us to launch a surprise attack on your little kingdom. The traitor of Korwell, and the reason why we succeeded, was . . . it was your brother, Malik.”
“No!” was all Targon could say.
Chapter 6
Traitor
“Are we heading in the right direction?” the tall guardsman said as they struggled into the mountain pass, leaving the Ulathan valley far below.
“I’m pretty sure the scout had us going in this direction,” Bran Moross said, pointing to the trail above and following it out of sight not far from a few snowcapped peaks.
“Yeah, well the scout is dead and that damn traitor is out here somewhere, likely to shoot and kill us as much as the Kesh would,” a strong man, broad of build and stocky with brown hair and a wicked-looking sword in his hand, said as he motioned across the wild terrain.
“The scout died at the hands of the Kesh,” their commander said, continuing his climb along the steep trail. “Don’t forget that and don’t allow our guest to get any ideas.”
A smaller man with a dagger in one hand and a rope tied around the neck of a Kesh brigand in the other responded, “Don’t you worry none about this cutthroat, Captain. He’ll be just fine for now.”
The Kesh brigand was a captive of the small band of soldiers. The five armed men and one prisoner marched single file along the narrow trail far to the southeast of Korwell. They were bloodied, tired, and grumpy.
“How far do you reckon we have to travel?” the stocky soldier asked.
“If Karl was correct, then we would reach the summit sometime tomorrow,” the captain answered.
“That means we’ll be needing to make camp again,” the guard said, giving the silent brigand prisoner a shove in his back.
“No need for that,” came a soft reply from the trailing soldier, a giant of a man, armed in scale mail that he carried easily as compared to the chainmail shirts that the others wore which was lighter and easier to wear.
“Gettin’ soft on the Kesh, are we?” the guard mocked the soft-spoken man.
Bran Moross stopped and looked back. “This is not the time nor the place for petty squabbles. The fight is out there.” The captain motioned far into the valley. “We need to stay focused and maintain our cool.”
“What for?” the fifth member of the party spoke. He was a younger lad, barely into his adulting and wearied of the combat and death that he had seen the last few months. “It seems all for naught. Every time we counterattack, they seem either prepared for us or they counter our counter. We’re down to half a dozen men now. It can’t get much worse, can it?”
“Quit your bellyaching, you big crybaby,” the large, stocky man said, giving a scowl to his comrade. “You’d think you’d be over your mama’s teat by now.”
“Enough, Henry.” Captain Moross ordered the stocky man to be silent. “We must find a way to Rockton and see if we can obtain any assistance there.”
“They could all be dead there too, for all we know,” Henry said, shrugging his shoulders and giving Charles, the youngest soldier, a mean look.
“Maybe we can go to Rockton and stay there?” Charles asked, a tad of hope and expectation in his voice.
“No,” the captain responded, “we have a duty here, despite what the Kesh have done. We know they took many of our families and murdered many others. They must pay for what they have done.”
“Not quite ready to give up your lordship now, are you?” Henry said, giving a narrow-eyed look at his captain.
The huge warrior in the rear walked past the others, shoving them aside, none too gently either.
“Hey, watch where you put them big meat hooks, you dumb oaf,” the guard said, catching his balance and keeping a tight tug on the prisoner’s rope as the Kesh man also nearly fell to one knee. The large man reached Henry and grabbed him, twirling him around roughly to face him despite the sword in the other man’s hands.
“Watch what you do, Owen,” Henry hissed at the larger man. Both were large and stocky, but Owen out-massed Henry by a good margin.
“You watch how you speak to our captain,” Owen said, his voice stern, the military discipline obvious in the man’s speech and actions.
“No need for that, Sergeant,” Bran said, motioning with one hand for calm.
“Tell that to the corporal,” Owen responded sternly, never taking his eyes from Henry.
“We’ve all been through a lot, gentlemen. We can dispense with the formalities and work on staying alive and finding our loved ones,” Bran said.
“All too easy if you have loved ones to find,” the guard said, ensuring his grip on the rope and dagger was firm after the sergeant’s shove.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charles asked, his voice sarcastic.
“It means that some of us don’t have loved ones, and perhaps Henry is right. Maybe we don’t need to be looking for our fellow Ulathans when perhaps they may all be dead already,” the guard said.
“Listen, Frederick,” Bran responded, “as long as I breathe, then I am captain of the Ulathan guards, and as long as you are an Ulathan guard, you’ll take your orders from me. Do you understand that, soldier?”
There was an awkward silence, and the Kesh prisoner looked back at Frederick and gave a slight grin, seemingly to approve of his captor’s rebuke and the turn of fortunes for a change, brief however it may be.
“What you looking at, Kesh scum?” Frederick gripped his dagger tighter and gave a mild tug on the rope, causing the Kesh a bit of discomfort.
“Enough, Freddy,” Owen said, finally taking his eyes off of Henry and looking intently at the guard.
It was obvious that as long as Owen’s loyalty lay with the captain, then the captain would be in charge. Captain Bran Moross was the best swordsman in all of Ulatha, but against several other hardened veterans, he’d be sorely pressed to maintain discipline without the stern presence of Owen. Owen wasn’t the best swordsman, but he was the strongest man in any fight and he would pull a soldier aside and give him a good once over if ever they crossed the brass.
This the others knew, and Bran Moross sighed at his luck, or lack thereof. His best men had died, and other than Owen, he was left with several misfits who either complained or, for lack of a better word, were literally rejects from his militia. How they got into the uniform he had no idea, as most of them were in the contingent based out of Fornz near the town of Cree. His own unit was literally routed save for himself and Owen.
The summer had been brutal, and the counterattack in the days following the initial Kesh invasion was a disaster. They had almost retaken their capital, but those damn w
izards returned and quashed what should have been the liberation of Korwell, their capital. An unintended side effect was that it drew their magic-users away from the south and many refugees were able to flee toward Safron, a realm far to the south of Ulatha.
Most were women and children and a few old men. Every man of fighting age was conscripted and ordered to fight the Kesh. That was how Captain Moross found himself with such a discrepant lot of losers and rejects. What he wouldn’t give for a score of the king’s guard right now.
“Let’s move a bit further until we can find a place to make camp, and then I suggest we get some rest so we can reach the summit by tomorrow evening,” Bran said, motioning forward. “I’d like to be well down from the pass before it gets dark tomorrow evening.”
“Why, Captain? What’s to fear?” Henry asked innocently enough. Being the youngest of the soldiers, he had the least experience, not only in combat, but in the geography of their realm and other nearby realms, so he had a tendency to ask the most questions, which annoyed a few of the others.
“The Kesh scum for one,” Frederick said, giving his prisoner a shake with the rope, indicating his desire for the man to start walking as the group started off behind their captain again.
“Don’t forget that damn traitor is out here too somewhere, and he’s probably just itching to put an arrow in your bloody eye socket,” Henry said to Charles, chuckling softly and giving Frederick a wink at causing the young lad some discomfort.
“He’s liable to put that arrow of his in your skull, Henry Foxton,” the sergeant said, reversing the play on words and causing the stocky soldier a bit of stress as they looked around at the rocky terrain, wondering if the traitor was indeed nearby with his bow and arrow.
“How’d he get so damn good with that shooter of his?” Charles asked to no one in particular.
Captain Moross answered without looking back. “He was one of the outliers, he was. Came from the Blackthorn, born and raised there they said.”
“Who said?” Charles asked, watching his step as he almost fell over a large rock sticking out from the ground right in the middle of their trail.
Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2 (Ranger Series) Page 8