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

by Salvador Mercer

  “Quiet,” the commander ordered, looking down and to his side at his men behind him. The effect was immediate as the brigands stopped their laughter and stood silently. “You mock us?”

  Dareen returned the man’s gaze steadily before speaking calmly. “No, I just point out the silly comment made by this young girl. We have no bricks here; they are not allowed, and we are checked every day. The penalty for us carrying contraband is . . .”

  “Death,” the commander said, finishing her sentence for her. “So what is the meaning of this?”

  “I told you, that woman there hit Bricks on his head with a brick,” Vika said, pointing at Dareen.

  Dareen sighed, looking at Vika. “Then where’s the brick and why were you two inside with the man?”

  The two girls looked at each other and then back to Dareen. “You know where the brick is and you threw us in there with him.” Vika nodded, looking at the commander.

  “Nonsense,” Dareen said. “Look here, Commander, I have no brick. You may search me or my quarters, and if you don’t know, it is this young lass here who has been seducing your man for weeks now in order to lure him into a trap. I’m sure you and your men have seen them together, no?”

  Several brigands nodded, as did the commander who looked at Vika. “It is well known that our man took a liking to you. What is your name?”

  “My name is Vika, sir.”

  “Vika, you have been spending too much time with him the last few weeks. That, at least, is common knowledge. What do you say to that?”

  Vika stammered at first and then finally shot out, “I was telling him about an escape. These people were planning to escape and put all our lives at risk.”

  “Me?” Dareen asked.

  “Yes, especially you, wood-woman,” Vika said, pointing at her.

  “And how long has this been going on?” Dareen asked.

  The commander seemed content to let the two women argue as he gauged their words. Vika lowered her hand and resumed her hands-on-her-hips stance before replying. “For a month now, at least.”

  Dareen looked at the commander and took a step closer to him, speaking softer. “You see, sir, I’ve only been in camp for a few days, so how could I have been plotting an escape when I was locked away in your dungeon the last couple of months?”

  The commander seemed to understand and started to nod. “Yes, very well, we’ll see what our man has to say if he survives the attack. Guards, take these two to the dungeons and see to it that they are separated until one of our masters can interrogate them.”

  “No,” Vika protested while her friend shook her head violently in agreement.

  As was usual, the Kesh were swift, and the remaining guards, except for two, grabbed each girl by one arm and escorted them rather roughly toward the front of the complex. The commander waited until the yelling women were well out of earshot before speaking. “You, wood-witch, had better hope you’re telling me the truth or I’ll see to it that you’re burned alive in the ovens. We’ll not stand for any of your sorcery here.”

  “Understood, sir,” Dareen said, bowing her head and lowering her gaze to the ground in a sign of submission that the commander seemed to approve of before he turned and left with his last two remaining guards. Once gone, Dareen stood silently for a moment longer till she saw the bowmen on the wall resume their pacing.

  “Now that is some pickle you got us into,” Walter said. His hands were shaking, and indeed, both of the other Ulathan women were leaning over, breathing heavily.

  Marge sat on the ground with her back to the shack, putting her head in her hands. Walter sat next to her, and Estelle finally bent back up and looked at Dareen. “What are you going to do if that guard you knocked out comes around and tells them what really happened? You bought us a day or two, but now I fear our fates are sealed.”

  Dareen sat on the dirt, closed her eyes, and breathed heavily, not responding. She heard Estelle sitting next to her, and Walter started to shush Marge, who started to sob quietly. Falling back on her back, Dareen looked into the sky that was starting to darken as several stars twinkled overhead. The firelights from the walls were lit, and most of the slaves were finishing dinner and heading to their shacks.

  Inga arrived and stood over Dareen, looking at her. “Well, are you sure we did the right thing?”

  “No, not so sure,” Dareen confided truthfully, “but I couldn’t stand by while that little tart turned you all over to the Kesh.”

  “Well, it would have been just the three or four of us. Now I fear I brought Inga in to share our own fate. I am so sorry for that,” Estelle said, looking at Inga who sat between Dareen and Estelle, opposite of Walter and Marge.

  “Do not trouble yourselves,” Inga said calmly and quietly. “Death is a far better fate than living in fear of these cutthroats and killers. If my death will buy you all a day or two more of life, then I feel it is well given.”

  That just made Marge sob louder, and Walter hushed her more, trying to calm her as he held her in his arms.

  “We just need a miracle now,” Estelle said, sighing and putting her head into her lap.

  “Them miracles are hard to come by, few and far between, they are,” Walter said to the group, adding his despair to the women’s.

  “Where are you, my son?” Dareen whispered to herself. “Lady Agon, Master Druid, take mercy on our souls.”

  “What are you saying?” Estelle asked, looking up at Dareen.

  “Nothing,” Dareen replied. “I’m simply saying a small prayer to our lady.”

  “Ah,” Estelle responded, “I fear the lady abandoned Ulatha long ago.”

  The group sat in silence, and Dareen closed her eyes and placed her hands behind her head. She took in the night air and tried to ignore the stench coming from behind them. Finally she spoke. “Not to sound selfish, but I just want to see my daughter one more time before I die.”

  “Now, Miss Dareen, don’t you go sounding like that on us, especially at a time like this,” Walter said.

  “I’m forced to agree with old Wally there,” Estelle said. “If you give up hope, then all is indeed lost.”

  “What hope did we have in the first place?” Inga asked to no one in particular.

  Dareen opened her eyes. “Hope may have been lost long ago and we just didn’t know . . . Wait a second.” Dareen sat bolt upright, still looking at the darkening sky and wondering if it was her imagination. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What in Agon are you talking about?” Walter asked.

  Dareen stood, keeping her eyes trained on something far above, and it kept her neck and head trained at an awkward angle. “Do you all see what I see?”

  “What is that?” the others said in unison, and even Walter stood as Inga and Estelle stood looking into the purplish sky. Only Marge remained seated, her head in her hands, quietly sobbing.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Estelle asked, looking at something circling high overhead.

  “Wait a second, I think I see it too, and it looks like it’s getting closer,” Walter said, and now Marge did stop to look up from her seated vantage point.

  A small black speck in the purple sky circled overhead, becoming larger as it gracefully and silently floated toward the camp. The faint outline of a large northern falcon was barely perceptible to the group.

  “What is that?” Marge asked.

  “That,” Dareen responded, “is my prayer being answered. That is our hope.”

  Chapter 13

  Lies

  “I should kill you myself,” Zocross said, venom in his voice and anger in his eyes.

  The two men, wizard’s apprentice and northern barbarian, stood across from their angry leader, saying nothing in return. Kaz had his torso bandaged to protect his broken ribs, and indeed, it was a testament to his and his clan’s healthy constitutions that allowed the man to stand despite his injuries. Hermes stood but was pale by comparison considering he had only burned hands, nothing nearly as serious a
s the barbarian.

  “There were no other survivors,” the Kesh scout said from where he stood near the door, giving the two men a healthy distance between them, not eager to share in whatever fate was about to be meted out to them.

  “That will be all, Tracker,” Zorcross said, not looking at the scout but waiting for the man to bow silently and then leave. Once the door was closed behind him, Zorcross spoke again. “So you managed to lose an entire contingent of mercenaries on the same day you lost one of our wagon trains.”

  Hermes’s protest came immediately. “Master, you said the wagons were bait.”

  “Yes,” Zorcross replied coolly, “but the armed assassins were not.”

  Hermes turned slightly to Kaz. “Krik nish, al oko nash.”

  Kaz grunted and then said, “Ni krik lo.”

  Zorcross eyed them both, and Hermes put his hand to his chest in protest. “What is it, Master?”

  “What did you say to the northerner, and what did he say to you?” Zorcross asked.

  “I simply told him what you said, that you should kill us yourself—”

  Zorcross interrupted. “I said you, not him.”

  Hermes looked to Kaz, who shrugged. “All right, me, then . . .”

  “What did he say in return?” Zorcross asked.

  “He said either, ‘so what’ or ‘we are dead already,’” Hermes stated, looking sideways at Kaz.

  “How in Agon could he say that? They are not even closely related to one another,” Zorcross asked.

  “Well, my barbarian clannish is lacking, but the words for what I think he said are rather closely sounding, at least to my ear,” Hermes explained.

  Zorcross narrowed his eyes, looking intently at his apprentice for any sign of mockery or jest. “We do not have any barbarian translators available right now. Do you think you can act as one till we obtain someone from Keshtor?”

  Hermes looked pensive as he pondered his master’s request. “Yes, I believe I can speak and understand enough to get by, but do not blame me for any misunderstandings.”

  “No, taking blame is something you are good at avoiding,” Zorcross said, walking back around to his desk, “especially after losing so many of our troops in one day . . . Do not bother with the excuses.”

  Hermes had opened his mouth to protest, but his master had shut him down preemptively. Hermes had to settle for a simple question. “What will you have us do, then?”

  “That is a very good question, apprentice,” Zorcross stated, setting his staff in the corner and sitting on his chair behind his desk. The senior wizard leaned back, closing his eyes and putting his hands behind his head in a most un-Kesh-like manner. Hermes wondered if his master would put his feet up on the desk as well.

  Kaz stood silently, seemingly indifferent to their plight, and Hermes wondered at the man’s clan. It wasn’t as if Hermes didn’t know of the northern barbarian customs and culture, but rather this particular barbarian seemed to go against much of what the Kesh had experienced. A quick look at his master and Hermes started to wonder if the man was sleeping or thinking.

  Also, Hermes wasn’t sure he could translate sufficiently, but his multiday ordeal, and escape with the wounded man, had forced them to communicate in order to survive. Between what little Hermes knew of the northern dialect, coupled with hand motions, nods, and astute guessing, the two had managed to exchange information and ideas sufficiently enough to achieve their primary objective—to stay alive.

  The pair had nearly run all the way from that accursed Ulathan homestead, chased by the crazed woodsman. More than once they heard the Ulathan chasing them. This was unusual as what few reports that did come in from ambushed troops indicated that the man was extremely silent and hard to detect. It must have been the battle and the killing of the Ulathan woman and the brat. Hermes had seen the other man’s eyes in battle before and remembered fleeing the scene on horseback in terror. The idea of the Ulathan woodsman catching him alone in the wild with his axe was too much to contemplate for the young wizard’s apprentice.

  Oh, having Kaz nearby as a bodyguard would normally alleviate such fears, but the bear attack had injured the barbarian severely. The only good to come out of the entire encounter was that the crazed animal was most likely dead and would not interfere in Kesh affairs any longer, not that the Kesh should fear a simple bear, but this particular animal was anything but simple. Hermes noticed that his master had opened his eyes and was looking at him.

  “Yes?” Hermes asked.

  “What are you thinking about?” Zorcross asked almost leisurely.

  Hermes was glad to have an opportunity to discuss, perhaps, the only positive development for the Kesh and his role in recent days. “I was thinking that having the Ulathan-trained bear dead was a good omen for our future caravans.”

  “Yes, that was pleasant to hear, though I would feel much better if the Ulathan-trained woodsman was dead, perhaps his head set upon a pike outside our keep here. That would have been better, but we will take what little measure of success we can find in your ineptitude.”

  Hermes didn’t bother to complain, moving straight to other matters. “You said you had plans for us? Might I inquire what they involve?”

  Zorcross leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk and peering intently at Hermes. “You have a penchant for self-preservation. That is why I selected you from the academy. Let us just say that my plans should meet with your approval, but for now, I want you to tell me again of your escape.”

  Hermes thought the word academy was rather pompous, considering the fact that it was thought of more as a boarding school for talented orphans. Still, Hermes was glad to have had this opportunity and feared squandering it. “Well, Master, what more is there to tell?”

  “Just give me the details on how you avoided the fate of your colleagues.”

  “I told you, Master, we lost most of our raiders at their homestead, including the Balarian assassin.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the story of the battle. You detailed that more than sufficiently. Get on with the part where you and . . . and . . . Kaz there fled their camp,” Zorcross said.

  “It was a cabin, Master,” Hermes corrected.

  “Go on.” Zorcross leaned back, waving at his apprentice to continue. “I know all about your heroic battle with Ke-Tor’s former apprentice. Explain your escape.”

  Hermes rubbed his burned hands, ignoring the pain, relieved that his battle story wasn’t being questioned. “Well, after fighting off the mad wizard—”

  “Apprentice,” Zorcross corrected, flipping the tables on Hermes.

  “Ah, yes, apprentice, then. Well, after disarming him”—Hermes shot a quick glance at Kaz to see if the man would react, but apparently he wasn’t understanding their conversation and stood silently, his breathing barely perceptible—“and Kaz here killing the bear, we ran toward the Gregus to escape—”

  “If you were winning the encounter, why flee at all?” Zorcross interrupted.

  “Ah, Master, I informed you already, the crazed Ulathan woodsman showed up with his bear right as we were about to be triumphant in our attack.” Hermes knew that the bear and woodsman showed up at separate times, but it sounded more formidable when he linked the arrival of the two together, and he was somewhat justified in the fact that they did arrive rather quickly, if not at the same time.

  “So after Kaz here”—the barbarian did glance over now at Hermes at the mention of his name, though he seemed to have ignored prior mentions—“killed the wild animal, the woodsman killed our raiders and we ran wounded toward the great river.”

  “Just the two of you?” Zorcross asked.

  “Yes, I think the others died, and we barely escaped ourselves,” Hermes replied.

  “How was it again that you escaped the Ulathan brute?”

  Hermes chuckled at the disparaging descriptor of the woodsman but quickly regained his composure when he saw his master staring back at him, unamused. “Kaz here led us into the river, a
nd we found a place to hide under a hollowed-out tree that had become entangled in several large boulders along with many other branches and debris.”

  “I find it hard to believe the woodsman would be so easily duped,” Zorcross said.

  “I too thought the same thing, but in hindsight, I think the woodsman was more concerned about the Ulathan survivors and really was not truly intent on tracking us down,” Hermes said.

  “Now that sounds more plausible,” Zorcross said, turning to look out the lone window at his troops below. New wagons with freshly made bricks had arrived, and the masons were even now shoring up several weak points in the old keep’s defenses. Zorcross nodded in approval and then turned back to face his apprentice. “So you found your way back to the keep.”

  Hermes nodded, realizing he was gambling with his own life by lying and continuing to lie about the encounter. He looked again at Kaz, who was now noticing the extra scrutiny that Hermes was giving him. Hoping the barbarian was indeed not fluent in their common tongue, Hermes lied again. “We tried to find the homestead again, searching in vain for another chance to ambush those filthy Ulathans, but the evil forest mist confused and hindered our efforts. Without the assassin and his magic sand, it was impossible to find their hideout again.”

  “Yes, I am sure you made the effort.” Zorcross looked anything but reassured. “Tell me again about . . . him.”

  “You mean Khan?” Hermes asked.

  “Speak not his name. Ke-Tor is livid and more than a little bit jumpy when it comes to sensitive subjects. Unless you want to find out how to be turned to ash, I would suggest not speaking his name out loud again,” Zorcross said matter-of-factly.

  “Well, then what should I call him?” Hermes was confused.

  “Traitor will do nicely,” Zorcross said, leaning back again in his chair.

  “Well, as you know, the bear charged me at first.” Hermes moved only his eyes to see if Kaz would so much as flinch. Not seeing any reaction from the large northerner, Hermes pressed his tale further. “I prepared to burn the beast alive, but Kha—I mean, the traitor, attacked me from behind, ruining my concentration and allowing the wild beast to almost kill me.”