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

by Salvador Mercer

  Despite the truce, Bran had to give Malik his sword in order to use both hands on the wall, fearful that its weight would pull him over if it was simply sheathed at his belt. Now, once inside the cramped quarters, the sword was placed leaning against the rear wall across the fire from Bran and out of reach. The twin knives that stuck from Malik’s belt demonstrated his ease and comfort of being in such close quarters with the master swordsman. The sword would do scant little in these close confines, and Malik was taller and stronger than Bran to boot, not to mention much younger. Again, Bran had to admit, every tactic and strategic advantage went to the rebel scout.

  Bran took another bite and then chewed slowly, savoring the food. It had been days since he had eaten anything substantial, and for the first time in a decade, he could count the ribs beneath his skin as he lost weight from the harsh environment of hunger and brigand.

  “Fine, forget what I said and I’ll accept that you only wanted to depose of our king.” Bran nodded.

  “Your king,” Malik said, eyeing Bran closely from across the fire and biting another mouthful of succulent, roasted coney.

  “My king, your king, what does it matter?” Bran started, and then stopped when he saw the scowl on Malik’s face. Changing gears, he continued on. “Let’s say that you accomplished your deed and that there was no invasion. No conquest of Ulatha. Then what? Who did you think would succeed to the throne?”

  “It mattered not, only that the pompous, arrogant fool who sat on it was removed.” Malik stared at Bran, hatred in his eyes.

  “And if another pompous, arrogant fool arose to take his place? Then what, Master Terrel?” Bran spoke, using both the traitor’s own words against him as well as formalizing his question by using a title for Malik.

  “Then we remove that fool as well, if need be.” Malik reached down to cut another piece of meat off the cooking coney.

  “You’d be removing a lot of fools, then,” Bran responded, nodding as Malik offered him a piece as well.

  “Maybe,” Malik said, shrugging and looking at Bran intently.

  “So what now?” Bran asked, taking a small piece between his fingers and popping it into his mouth.

  Malik finished his mouthful before responding. “You tell me. You’re the captain. Don’t you have a plan?”

  The question bit at Bran’s pride and honor. Whether or not the younger man intended to do that or not was up for debate, but the feeling of rebuke and perhaps even a hint of sarcasm was hurtful for the king’s guard commander. “I had a plan, at least I did when I had a unit to command. Hell, I even had a plan when I was down to less than a half-dozen troops. Now? I find myself alone with no troops at my disposal, a raging army of Kesh brigands led by some rather nasty magic-users, and being provided for by a rebellious, traitorous scout. Agon, help me.”

  “You don’t sound like the man I know.” Malik looked up.

  “What would you know of me?” Bran asked, returning the gaze.

  “I know that you are loyal to Ulatha and loyal to your subjects as a nobleman. I know that you are dedicated to its protection and that you would die in order to protect the weak and the innocent. Am I wrong?”

  “No, Malik,” Bran said softly. “Those things would be true, well, are true about me, but we’ve made a mistake and now we are paying for that mistake. We weren’t prepared and now we have been utterly defeated. What is there left to do?”

  Malik leaned forward, his voice dripping with venom, reminding Bran of the worst of the Kesh brigands, one of those who were part of the Bloody Hand brigade. “Make the Kesh pay for their mistake.”

  Bran leaned closer to Malik and the fire. “What mistake would that be?”

  Malik’s eyes flared, his lips stretched open to reveal his teeth tightly pressed together in a feral grin, a grin that gave a shudder through the veteran warrior’s spine. Then, just as quickly as the look came, it left, and Malik hissed, “Double-crossing a Terrel.”

  Bran felt the cold fingers of fear clench at his soul, and he suddenly felt pity for the Kesh and for what they were about to suffer, something that was unleashed by their own doing. The Kesh would pay, and it would be a high price, indeed.

  Chapter 9

  Complications

  “Over here!” the brigand exclaimed, motioning for the others who trailed him along the narrow path. He was the scout of the brigand squad and was the first to come across the bodies.

  “Blimey, if that ain’t the juice,” one of his companions said, arriving and observing the scene along the trail. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, and blood had colored the stubby green grass and hard grey rocks a sickly crimson-black color. Lifeless eyes stared at them from all except a young Ulathan soldier who seemed to be at rest.

  Several brigands were arriving in a long, steady stream. The first two looked around with the scout, motioning to the youngest Ulathan. “Poke him once, just to be sure.”

  “Poke him yourself, Beamer,” the second brigand said, giving his companion a scowl.

  The brigand called Beamer scowled back and then pulled his short sword and none too gently poked the body, and his blade slid into the young man’s abdomen. “He be dead for sure.”

  “That’s just disgusting, it is,” the second brigand said, shaking his head and noticing the body of the Balarian assassin. “Oh no.”

  “What?” a third brigand said, arriving with three others, all just now assessing the scene.

  “I think that’s Craylyn,” the second brigand said.

  The group of five brigands looked at the dead body of a man with an arrow sticking from his heart. His torso was covered in blood, and he had a dagger in one hand with a sword lying nearby. The scene looked sullied as if a skirmish had occurred there.

  “Kendral won’t be happy,” one of the other brigands said, looking one to another.

  “I’ll be damn if I’m the one to tell ’em,” another chimed in.

  “Tell him what?” a tall brigand asked, arriving last, his black cloak swirling around his legs. He had a helm on his head, unlike the others, and conducted himself in a more confident manner.

  “We found the Ulathans, Cases. They are over here with Craylyn,” one brigand answered, moving back to allow their leader to view the bodies.

  Cases stopped in front of three bodies, looking intently at the one with the arrow. Kneeling, he touched the arrow tip gently, stroking the fine feathers at the tip of the arrow. “This came from the traitor,” he said with a degree of finality, standing to look at his troops.

  “Aw, blimey, if that ain’t the juice,” the second brigand said, shaking his head and then looking around the barren mountainside.

  “What’s up with you and your juice?” Beamer said, giving his companion an odd look.

  “Quiet, both of you,” their leader said, scanning the area. “Where’s Freddy?”

  The brigands looked up and down the trail and into the steep draw near the mountainside. “Don’t know, Cases,” Beamer said, unusually contemplative for Kesh. “Their captain ain’t here either. Maybe Freddy’s chasing him further along the trail?”

  “Yeah,” the second brigand chimed in, sounding more hopeful than confident. “Maybe we’ll find them further up.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cases, their leader, said, looking around suspiciously at the terrain along the mountain.

  “Why nots?” Beamer asked, and almost all of the other brigands, including the last four stragglers who arrived, breathing heavily from their exertions, looked expectantly at their commander.

  “Because there is no way that Craylyn died here without everyone else dying as well. Craylyn would be the last one alive in any situation,” Cases said matter-of-factly. “Spread out; search the grounds.”

  The brigands started searching along the trail, both up and down and looking over each side after a few sighs, but it didn’t take long, only seconds, before one of them spotted something. “Found them, boss. They done walked off the cliff, they did.”

  Th
e group gathered round the northern edge of the trail and looked down. There, a few dozen feet below, was a huge armored Ulathan and a shorter, stockier one, both lying dead, face up. Dried blood was everywhere.

  “That be Freddy, there,” one brigand said, pointing to the shorter man.

  “What happened here, boss?” another asked.

  Their leader took a final look and then walked back to the bodies, stopping twice to scan the ground and look at either prints or blood marks. He ended at the top of the trail past the three bodies and gave the ground a final once over before looking at Beamer. “You see what I see?”

  Beamer crouched next to his leader, scanning the ground. “Prints, boss. Two sets at least, one heavy booted, the other not so much. The heavy stepped over the lighter.”

  The men stood, looking at one another. “So the heavy boots passed by here last.” Cases looked at Beamer.

  “Would seem so, boss,” Beamer said, returning his gaze to the ground, scanning the trail and the ground just to the side of the trail.

  “So can we go back now?” one of the last brigands to arrive asked, obviously not eager to continue the climb up the mountainside.

  “I thought we just needed to trail ’em or herd ’em to the pass?” another asked.

  Cases nodded, looking at his troops. “That was the plan, at least to follow and make sure ol’ Freddy there got Craylyn within striking distance.”

  “So what happened?” the second brigand asked, the one who kept using the word “juice.”

  “It appears they never had a chance to make camp and allow Craylyn to do his nasty work. They must have been ratted out by someone?”

  “Not Freddy, he’s one to be trusted,” the second brigand said.

  “Shut your mouth, Juice,” Beamer said, and several others laughed, as the name just might stick over Leaner. “None of us are trusty, just a bunch of scallywags trying to make a living.”

  “Who you calling a scallywag?” Leaner asked, giving Beamer another scowl.

  “Enough,” Cases said forcefully. “It’s getting dark, and we best find a place to make camp soon. You have all forgotten that the body of the Ulathan officer isn’t here.”

  The other brigands murmured as the reputation of the Ulathan captain had preceded them. They had heard the stories of the man’s battles and the many Kesh brigands who had perished under his sword. No one liked the idea of facing the Ulathan leader, especially alone, at night in the wilds, at least not without some sort of preparation.

  “Right you are, boss,” Beamer said. “You heard the man, let’s get moving. Take point. Juice,” Beamer ordered his companion.

  “It’s Leaner, Beamer, and you’re the one who’s going to get juiced.” Leaner moved out first, heading up the trail and switchback as the group filed past their commander and their scout.

  “You’re holding something back, boss. What is it?” Beamer asked.

  “Do you really want to know?” Cases asked Beamer.

  Beamer nodded. “What is it?”

  “You’re too new here to know, but the traitor, the one who killed Craylyn . . .” Cases said, trailing off and allowing too much silence for Beamer to handle.

  “Go on, what is it?” Beamer asked, walking right into it.

  “He’s killed our last three scouts,” Cases said, watching Beamer intently for a reaction.

  The squad leader could see Beamer working it all out in his mind and wondered what the new scout would say. Finally, with a nod as if comprehension dawned on him, Beamer came up with an idea. “Right you are, boss. I’ll have Juice lead from here on out.”

  “A wise idea,” Cases said, and started off after his men, followed closely by Beamer.

  After several moments when their voices faded and there was no further sign of the Kesh, the brush around a large boulder moved slightly and two men stepped out onto the mountain trail.

  “Is it wise to allow them the higher ground?” Bran asked, looking warily up the trail.

  “We won’t be around for them to know better,” Malik began. “I left a trail all the way to the pass itself. They’ll reach it late tomorrow. In the meantime, you’ll need to raise a new army if you’re ever going to fight the Kesh.”

  “Pray tell how that will happen? I’ve lost every soldier that I’ve ever commanded now, and you could say that I’m an army of one. I doubt that will get me very far.” Bran sighed, putting his hands on his hips and staring at the young rebel.

  “Well, it won’t happen if you’re going to act like you’ve been beaten. Defeated once and for all by the Kesh. Yes, with talk like that, I can see how you’ve given up,” Malik said.

  Bran Moross took his sword and unsheathed it as Malik took a step backward, and then in one fluid motion, the Ulathan captain sunk the sword into the ground, hitting a rock not far underneath, but it stood upright all the same. “There,” Bran stated, looking at the sword and then back to Malik. “One sword, one man, one army.”

  The men stood facing each other for a few seconds, and Malik nodded, pulling his own sword from its sheath at his belt, and he plunged the sword into the ground next to Captain Moross’ sword. It swayed rhythmically back and forth slightly, slowing to a standstill. “Two swords, two men, one army,” Malik said.

  Bran nodded. “Well, it’s a start, though I daresay it would have been easier to have not gotten in this situation in the first place.”

  “You’ve doubled the size of your army in less than a minute,” Malik said. “Time for you to see who I’ve been working with.”

  “You have a master who you serve?” Bran asked, his eyes intent.

  “I didn’t say that I served a master; I said that there is someone who I work with,” Malik said, grabbing his sword, pulling it and wiping it clean before sheathing it again. “You have a slight scattering of grey in your hair, Captain.”

  “I do,” Bran said, pulling his own blade and repeating the cleaning and sheathing actions of his companion.

  “I hope you like the grey,” Malik said.

  Bran finished and placed his hands back on his hips. “It will do. Why do you say that?”

  “Because”—Malik smiled, a wicked smile—“it may go all grey after you meet what I’m working with.”

  “What or who?” Bran asked. “And why would my hair go grey?”

  “You can answer that question for yourself,” Malik said, staring intently at the older man, “when you meet the Lich.”

  The rest of the day had been uneventful. Targon went to sleep early when Salina tired of watching him yawn all afternoon. He pulled his bedding onto the porch and lay with his weapons by his side, and he wasn’t alone.

  Khan and Dorsun both made simple beds for themselves by the bonfire, which burned much lower than the night before. Targon had gone to the barn and retrieved the bedrolls of both men, along with what few meager possessions they had there.

  He had informed the group that Core would be all right, but that the animal would need to rest for some time and that Marissa refused to leave its side. When night fell, Targon had taken her a small bowl of soup and a small head of cabbage and a half-eaten fish for Core, should he arise. The sickly white fog once again circled the barn, and more than one Ulathan warded themselves and kept indoors.

  Will took a fever rather quickly and shivered inside where he lay by the hearth, a small fire roaring away there as well. Agatha tended to him, and the others kept to themselves, most still grieving their losses. All except Horace, who stood watch on the porch as he often did, and Cedric, who ended up spending most of the evening in deep discussion with Khan about the contents of the book.

  The entire group was too tired to set a watch, and quickly fell asleep. The dragon’s fire rose early that morning, and Targon found himself down at Bony Brook washing his face and torso, practically kneeling in the water, as it had slowed to a very small flow in the late summer, unlike the rigorous melting flow that occurred during the early spring.

  Returning to the cabin, he f
ound the Kesh had also awakened and gathered their meager belongings. Neither had a weapon, and both stood by the fire, warming their hands in the slightly brisk air of morning. It would be warm, of course, during the day, but just before dawn there was always a chill in the air.

  Horace sat with his crossbow across his lap, feet out flat along the porch and his back and head against the cabin wall. His snoring was clearly audible almost as far as the brook, and Targon understood why Emelda didn’t complain when her husband slept on the porch. Cedric had gone inside for the night, and Targon found Salina, fully dressed, standing on the porch, watching as he approached.

  “So you still mean to arm the Kesh?” she asked, her arms crossed, assisting her in holding in a bit of warmth against her petite body.

  “I do,” Targon said, nodding to her and looking at the Kesh.

  Salina sighed, lowering her voice so only Targon could hear her. “I guess you’re right. We must forgive first before we can heal, though I can tell you it’s plenty difficult to forgive a Kesh, even after several months and even after what they did for us last night.”

  Targon nodded again, looking at the two former prisoners. “Perhaps it would be easier if we don’t look at them as if they were still Kesh.”

  Salina followed Targon’s gaze and graced the two men near the fire with a probing eye. “I think I understand what you mean. I hope they mean what they said and that their pledge is worth more than a drop of blood.”

  “I’m with you there,” Targon said, looking at Salina. “You still insist on going with us?”

  “Yes, you said you saw something and I don’t believe it. I need to see it with my own eyes,” Salina said.

  “I said I saw a sleeping dragon, not a something, and you’ll see it too, unless it woke up and flew off somehow,” Targon said.

  Salina motioned to the Kesh, and the men came over. “You two ready?” Salina asked.