Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2 (Ranger Series)

by Salvador Mercer

  “The quartermaster told me when we got him, years ago. His father was a scout in the elder Korwell’s army a long time ago. A good one too, he was, from what my father told me.”

  “You mean he’s one of them forest peasants?” Henry asked, his tone less than kind.

  “Call him what you want,” the captain continued, not bothering to look back as he marched forward, “but I wouldn’t say that to his face, not if you want to live.”

  “He’s just a kid with a large bow and a sharp eye,” Henry chimed in, as if diminishing the man’s skills somehow made him feel safer.

  “Sharp enough to spear your dense head.” Freddy chuckled, giving his prisoner yet another nudge and receiving a look of hate from the Kesh brigand.

  “Maybe you should find out?” Henry said, using his sword as a walking stick, breathing heavily from the steep climb.

  “Well, maybe you can ask him to show us?” Freddy responded, delighted at the tone of their conversation.

  “Show you what?” a deep voice from above asked.

  The group stopped suddenly with everyone looking up. Not more than a hundred feet away, on the other side of a very steep draw, stood a man dressed in warm clothes, brown leathers, and a brown cloak, spotted with a woodland green color. His large eyes were brown and peered intently as his long brown hair floated in the breeze around his head and neck. He had a bow with an arrow nocked and pointed at the group. The man had chosen his location perfectly, as the only way to reach him was to continue along the trail and then come back up using a switch back. The draw was impassible on foot.

  “Who in Agon is that?” Charles asked, and the group froze, staring at the figure and waiting to see what he did.

  “That,” Captain Moross said, “is Malik Terrel.”

  “You mean, that is the traitor?” Charles asked, awe in his voice.

  There was an awkward silence before Malik spoke. “Well, good captain, aren’t you going to answer your soldier?” The bow seemed to readjust slightly, pointing right at Bran Moross.

  “What for?” Bran answered the question with one of his own. “Are you going to kill us here or not?”

  “Let’s not be too hasty, my lordship,” Henry said, becoming most formal all of a sudden as he kept his sword planted point first into the ground. “Perhaps the young lad simply wishes to parlay with us?”

  Another long pause before Bran spoke. “Well, Malik? Do you wish to parlay or have you come here to finish your foul deeds?”

  Malik never lowered his bow and never flinched, just narrowed his aiming eye a tad and then replied, “I was already here, Captain Moross. You came to me. Now my question remains and I have another one. What brings you here?”

  The soldiers, and even the Kesh prisoner, all looked to their captain. No one had a missile weapon other than perhaps Freddy’s dagger, and that would be a mismatch of epic proportions. Captain Moross had his long sword. Henry had his sword as he walked behind his leader. Charles, the young lad, had an older rusty short sword, better suited to his smaller frame and stature. Frederick came next armed with his dagger and a sword hanging from his belt, and Owen came last, carrying a huge broadsword that only members of the elite king’s guard used. It took years to learn how to wield one of those properly.

  “If you must know,” Bran began, “we are trying to get to Rockton and see if we can secure reinforcements. As you can see, we are down to less than half a dozen troops, and for your first question, the boys back there were just having some fun thinking you could show them your skill with the bow. I have no need to see it, having witnessed your ability on more than one occasion.”

  “You are becoming wiser, Captain Moross,” Malik said, keeping his bow trained on the commander. “You were a fool, however, to place any trust in that king of yours.”

  “He was your king too,” Bran countered.

  “Never,” Malik answered. “The pompous man got what he deserved.”

  “And the rest of the inhabitants of Korwell? Did they also receive what they deserved?” Bran said, his eyes locked like steel on the younger man who held the higher ground.

  There was a pause, a slight hesitation in the young bowman’s face and posture as he pondered on the question for a moment. It was as if the captain had touched a nerve, a piece of humanity in the younger man before a steely, icy resolve reasserted itself, becoming apparent in the man’s answer. “For supporting the false king . . . yes, they got what they deserved.”

  Bran stood motionless for a moment, assessing the situation. The younger scout had taken a strategically unassailable position. He had the high ground, he was armed with a ranged weapon, and more importantly, he had chosen the timing and terms of their confrontation. Despite being outnumbered five to one, the Ulathan renegade scout had the upper hand and the commander had to grant that to the younger man.

  “So, Master Terrel, I have answered your questions, now answer mine. What do you plan to do with us?”

  “What?” Henry said none too silently. “Don’t let him decide what to do with us.”

  “Too late for that, Henry, now shut up and let me speak,” Bran said, lowering his voice and hoping only Henry and perhaps Charles could hear him. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Terrels had superior hearing as well, based on the younger man’s facial expression.

  Malik smiled and then spoke. “You correctly assessed the situation, Commander. I can see now why the fool king appointed you to lead his royal guard.” Malik put such emphasis on the word “fool” and such mockery on the word “royal.” His disgust with King Korwell was obvious.

  “So?” Bran asked again, this time tilting his head slightly. “What are you going to do?”

  Owen stirred in the back, gripping his sword in vain, and the others seemed to look around, desperately seeking some sort of escape should the young scout decide to start shooting.

  “I haven’t decided yet, though you should know the pass above is held against you,” Malik answered, in turn looking way too calm and cool for the tense situation. This unnerved the soldiers greatly.

  “Held by whom?” Bran asked, finally releasing Malik from his gaze and looking far away at the low point between the high, rocky mountains where the pass lay miles distant.

  “Who do you think? The Kesh, of course. They managed to build and fortify every pass out of Ulatha and into the neighboring realms save, of course, for the southern road.”

  Everyone knew, even if they hadn’t traveled far from home, that the mountains became hills to the south and west, and so the immense valley was hemmed in on three sides, not four.

  There were murmurs amongst the soldiers as the news was revealed to them, and they understood they were walking into a trap.

  “Do the Kesh know we are coming?” Bran asked, forgetting the immediate moment and trying to glean some keen information from the rebel scout.

  “They do, and they are waiting for you,” Malik said.

  “Then we return below,” Henry said, panic in his voice. “We go back to Fornz and head west and then south. We may be able to catch up to the others if we hurry.”

  “Yes, let’s do that, Commander,” Charles said, sounding hopeful.

  “I’m afraid you won’t like that decision either,” Malik said, his voice sounding almost gleeful at the panic and tension that he was causing.

  Bran took a moment to look around before resuming his gaze on Malik. “What lies below us? We lost Talbot down there at the crossing; he sacrificed himself so we could escape.”

  “I saw the battle,” Malik began. “He died, but it was no sacrifice. The Kesh were herding you this way. They want to corner you and kill you, once and for all.”

  “Nonsense,” Bran said, narrowing his eyes. “The decision to head for Rockton was mine. How could the Kesh know what I was planning, or interfere with my plans to begin with?”

  Malik no longer smiled. He took aim and adjusted his bow toward the center of the group. “Were they your plans, or was there someone advocating
for them, eh?”

  All eyes turned from the captain to Frederick, and Owen interjected, “You wanted us to take this path, Freddy.”

  Frederick looked around, his eyes wide. “Not so, Sergeant. You heard the captain. He said that he alone wanted to go to Rockton and secure reinforcements.”

  Captain Moross turned slowly, gripping his sword tightly. “Yes, Frederick, I did want to go to Rockton, but it was your idea to take this road and this pass and . . . you were the one who captured the Kesh during our last battle and pleaded for his life.”

  “I said he could give us good information is all, Captain. You could have killed him then and there if you had wanted,” Frederick countered, looking around desperately.

  “Yes, I could have, but you knew my code of honor and you knew I wouldn’t and that I wouldn’t allow any of you to kill him in cold blood either. Exactly where were you during the battle at the river crossing?”

  A look passed between the Kesh prisoner and Frederick. Quicker than lighting, Freddy tossed the prisoner his dagger and drew his sword, turning and swinging it at Owen as he let go of the rope that hung around the prisoner’s neck.

  “Watch out, Captain!” Owen yelled, drawing his sword a half second too late. The blade bit into Owen’s torso, cleaving him open and spilling blood and bowels along the rocky trail. With inhuman strength, Owen gripped Freddy’s sword with his free hand and drew his own massive blade that usually required two hands.

  In a heroic act, Owen pulled the other man’s blade deeper into his body while swinging his large blade overhead and planting it firmly in Frederick’s skull. The two men toppled over the edge of the trail and started to roll down the mountainside.

  The Kesh brigand plunged the dagger into Charles’ chest and then placed his booted foot against his body and pulled the dagger free, knocking Charles to the ground. He swirled his dagger at Henry who jumped back to dodge the knife but found the Kesh prisoner to be quicker than he had thought. Only the fact that the veteran warrior had his weapon already drawn saved his life for a moment as he brought the larger sword up to parry a darting lunge by the wicked-looking knife.

  Henry tripped over a rock, and the Kesh brigand jumped on him, trying to land a killing blow with the blade. In such close quarters, it was difficult to wield the sword against the much smaller dagger. A struggle ensued, and Bran drew his metal and swung it at the brigand.

  The brigand was no ordinary cutthroat. He was a professional Balarian assassin, and, while any man armed with a dagger against a sword should be at a disadvantage, this man had years of fighting experience with the small blade. In a near acrobatic move, the killer put all his weight on Henry’s arm and slipped the blade under it, changing hands, and plunged it into the man’s chest while at the same time pulling back and grabbing Henry’s sword.

  Without losing a beat, the killer brought his sword up and parried the commander’s blow. A series of attacks ensued, and each blow was parried by the other. It was obvious that the killer had more than enough skill with his blade, and without pause or concern, the Balarian assassin used his sword to knock Malik’s arrow out of the way before it could hit him.

  Seeing that the Ulathan traitor had made his choice, the assassin brought his blade down in a calculated move, knowing that the captain would parry it easily. The blow, however, was a feint, and the real action occurred when he used his leg to trip the captain, who fell to the ground at the assassin’s feet.

  The action cost the killer his blade, but he knelt and in one fluid motion drew another nasty-looking dagger from inside his boot. With a quick heft in his hand, turning the blade round and pointing it at the captain, the killer plunged the blade downward for the killing stroke, and then he would deal with the Ulathan scout.

  The blade never made it. Malik’s next arrow was sent faster than anything the assassin had ever witnessed before. The first projectile was simply to measure the man’s speed and mark the target for the killing one. As if by magic, the arrow suddenly appeared in the Balarian’s chest, protruding from the other man’s heart, mocking his speed and taunting the cold-blooded killer’s actions.

  The man slowly fell lifeless on top of Bran, who struggled to keep hold of his blade and keep the other man’s dagger away from his own neck. With great effort, Bran pushed the Balarian assassin off of him and struggled to stand, still holding his sword.

  A quick look up the mountainside revealed Malik, standing with another arrow nocked, but unmoving. A quick gasp from behind him alerted the commander to the plight of young Charles. Bran quickly moved to the young man who was trying to speak and breathe.

  “Don’t speak, son,” Bran said, kneeling by his side and laying his sword down, grabbing the young lad’s hand in both of his.

  “I . . . don’t . . . want to . . . die . . .” Charles struggled with the words, and with every heave of his chest, the sucking of air from his punctured lung defied his words.

  “No, young warrior,” Bran said softly, looking at the lad and brushing the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “Rest, don’t speak. It is too early for that. You’ll live a long life, son,” Bran lied, and it made him sick.

  “He’s dead,” Malik said, no tone of remorse nor any sign of empathy in the scout’s voice.

  “Not yet,” Bran said, looking at Malik and then returning his gaze to Charles, who seemed to nod, coughing up blood, and Bran watched as the young man’s tunic soaked a deep crimson black color with blood. “Rest now, soldier. Rest now.”

  Charles’ eyes glazed over and his body shook once before he stopped breathing. Bran felt the younger man’s hand go limp in his own, and he stopped caressing the lad’s forehead, bringing that hand down and closing Charles’ eyes.

  Bran ignored Malik and took a couple of steps to the far side of the trail and looked down. There, about fifty feet away on a ledge of grassy ground, lay Owen and Frederick, locked in an embrace of death, lifeless and unmoving. The ground was too steep and treacherous for Bran to even consider going down to check on them. Their current positions indicated that they were dead, and Bran had seen too much of that not to know the difference.

  Turning, the proud Ulathan captain faced his rebel scout and locked eyes with him. Malik lowered his bow and in a fluid motion put the arrow back in its quiver and slung the bow across his back as well.

  “How did you know?” Bran asked.

  “I’ve been following you for days, and it wasn’t hard to keep track of that one fellow. I spotted him sneaking off more than once, so I suspected but couldn’t be sure until now.”

  “You mean Frederick?” Bran asked.

  “If that’s his name, the one who guarded the Kesh,” Malik said.

  “Yes, that would be him.”

  “And I bet he asked for that duty.”

  “He did,” Bran said, looking pensive. “So the Ulathan traitor kills another Ulathan traitor. This is getting complicated.”

  “The king should of thought of that years ago when he allowed the Kesh to murder my father.”

  “So now you’re blaming your father’s death on the king too?”

  “I hold the man accountable and now, well . . . he’s paid for his crimes.”

  Bran looked down, a look of sadness crossing his face. “And so have many other innocent people.”

  “Perhaps,” Malik countered, looking intently at the older man, “you are not the only one to have lost.”

  “There you are correct, but who’s to blame for that?”

  “Pick; it makes no difference. You can stand here and argue about this all you want, but it won’t change the past and neither will it change what’s happened to our loved ones.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Bran asked the young scout.

  “You tell me, Captain.”

  “Truce?” Bran asked, looking intently at the younger man.

  Malik nodded for the moment and then looked far down the trail before returning his gaze to the Ulathan commander and speaking. “Agreed. Time to
go. The Kesh are coming.”

  Chapter 7

  Ulsthor

  “Get back to work, you lazy slugs!” the Kesh guard said, giving his whip a good crack above the slaves’ heads.

  The slaves increased the pace at which they lay the wet mud into wooden casting forms to create bricks. A long line of them repeated the task of taking the prepared mixture, scooping it with a wooden tool, and dumping it into the form and then using their other hand to smooth the top off taking off any excess mud to create a symmetrical rectangle.

  Pushing the brick forms forward on the tables, other slaves moved along and grabbed the prepared constructs and took them to the ovens for baking. Behind these tables were more slaves who brought the mud mixture in wheelbarrows, depositing the barrows next to each table worker and grabbing an empty barrow from the other side. The Kesh made sure there was always a barrel full of the muddy mixture on either side so as to keep the slaves busy.

  A man at one table turned to Dareen. “Lucky he’s the lazy one.”

  “Shush, Theobald, before you get him to use that whip,” an older lady said, walking up to Dareen’s table and grabbing a pair of forms, turning and taking them to the nearby ovens.

  Theobald gave her a nasty look before looking over his shoulder at the Kesh guard who was walking behind the tables down the line. Sure that the guard was a good distance away, Theobald turned to Dareen. “They only crack the whip when they’re bored. You’ll know they mean business when they actually use it on you.”

  Dareen turned to the man, showing him the left side of her face. “Oh, I know . . .”

  Theobald grimaced, a pained look, and then replied, “They roughed you up real good, didn’t they?”

  Dareen could only nod and resumed her work. She took a moment between mud swipes to wipe her hand on her raggedy dress and then touch the side of her face that she had shown to the old man. The scar was a nasty bump that went from the top of her temple near her forehead all the way down to her jaw below her left ear.