Bran looked around at the cheering brigands. He would not think of them as soldiers. They were thieves and raiders at best, at least in his mind, though he was wise enough to know that some of them were quite dangerous, especially their leadership. He looked at their commander known as Hork.
Hork watched intently but did not say or order anything else. Bran’s military training taught him to look for weaknesses in his opponents and to identify strengths to avoid in combat. The Kesh commander also didn’t rise to that position by being rash or reckless. Even now, he was taking measure of Bran in much the same way that Bran assessed him and his troops. This would need a certain level of coolness and precision that he was out of practice with the last couple of months, having been almost literally bedridden.
Bran looked around the area for a better view and started to assess his surroundings, ignoring the cheers and jeers of the Kesh troops who seemed most intent on carrying on for quite some time. He noticed that the main castle and keep were intact, with the exception of the main gate where construction was underway. Looking behind him, he noticed the main towers of the keep with the main building that linked them together—the king and queen’s towers. He could see no one else and wondered where his family was and if the Kesh wizard was close by. He also couldn’t see the Northern barbarian, though his senses alerted him to the man’s presence somewhere nearby.
With a measured walk to the shield table, Bran put his helmet on and adjusted it slightly. He took a shield that looked more battered than the others, a sure sign it had held up under stress, refraining from making the rookie mistake of grabbing the least-dented shield, one that had not truly been tested. He had already eyed his weapon of choice earlier, and he grabbed a short sword, as well, as he walked back to his position.
He stood and faced his opponent and then looked at Hork. “To the death?”
Hork shook his head. “You’ll be killed if you kill, same for Greaser. He is not allowed to kill you. This is for practice only, though I’m sure it’ll hurt.”
The other Kesh jeered at this, and more than one called for Greaser to kill Bran anyway and be damned their own rules. It wasn’t said, but Bran understood that this was most likely something the Kesh had to do to appease the Northman. Otherwise, they would have killed him already.
Bran had to walk a tight line with this first match. He knew he was being watched for two things—one, how well he fought, and two, how well his injuries had healed. They wanted to know if he was ready to fight. The other Kesh looked at Hork, and when Bran saw the commander nod slightly, he gripped his sword tighter and swung it twice to get a feel for it.
Greaser wasted no time, almost lurching at the Ulathan captain and trying to smack him upside his head. Bran noticed that had he not ducked the first swing, he would have been hit with the sharper edge of the sword. Their saving grace was that the weapons were purposely dull, though with enough strength behind any stroke, those blades could cut and pierce flesh easily enough.
Bran returned three blows, parrying the larger Kesh’s strikes, and he resisted the urge to score a blow of his own too early or too easily. He would do everything in his power to conceal his true strength, health, and fighting prowess from his captors. At least, until it mattered most.
The fourth blow Bran purposely allowed to strike his shoulder as he turned to take the brunt of it after missing his parry. The other Kesh cheered, and he almost forgot the nature of his adversary as the other man, seeing an advantage, followed up with a savage kick that barely missed his chest and would have rebroken a rib, for sure. Instead, Bran twisted to take the blow on his left hip, and he rolled backward, twirling his sword to keep a hold of it and releasing his shield to somersault and roll back up on his feet.
Dropping his shield was also a test. Bran wanted to see if they would stop or pause the fight in order for him to retrieve it. They did not. Bran had to duck, parry, and dodge several more blows, including a thrust of his opponent’s shield into his body, in order to protect himself from further injury. It was at this time that he realized there might be more of a challenge going on than just between him and the barbarian. Hork could be giving the Northman the so-called letter of their agreement while showing his own authority by allowing harm to come to the barbarian’s challenger.
Hork did not seem afraid of the Northman, so Bran decided that most likely there was something else holding him back. Either a wizard’s orders or political considerations that prevented him from outright desecrating the other man’s customs. Once that calculation had been factored in, the advantage turned to the Kesh, and Bran couldn’t allow that. It was too risky, and he could be seriously injured again or even killed outright, death duel or no.
Sidestepping in a semicircle, the Ulathan captain egged his opponent on by waving his sword toward him and, with the other hand, motioning a “come here” sign. The effect was immediate and encouraged from the brigands as they also urged their comrade into attacking. Greaser thrusted, and the dull edge of the blade scraped along the leather armor, making an almost inaudible sound of contact. Bran punched the brigand in his open face, giving him a bloody nose, and kept his momentum by rolling with his punch toward his shield where it lay on the ground close by.
Picking it up, he turned to face the other man, who was wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. Greaser’s eyes narrowed, and he swung his blade back and forth, advancing on Bran, determined to make the Ulathan pay for his injury. Bran parried two blows and then ducked a third to bring his own blade up and under, hitting the beleaguered brigand flat edge first in the groin. The poor man doubled over in pain, and Bran brought his shield down on top of the man’s head, smacking him to the ground.
Without losing momentum, the Ulathan captain showed why he was the leader of Korwell’s guard. He kicked Greaser’s arm, which disarmed the other man, and then stepped over his body to place a booted foot on his shield arm, pinning it. He brought his sword down, point tip lined with Greaser’s neck, and lunged till it was about to impale him. He stopped his thrust for a second to look at Hork.
Bran wasn’t sure if Hork would honor his word and kill Bran if he in turn killed his Kesh sparring partner. He looked intently at the Kesh commander. The other Kesh had gone into a sudden silence at the unexpected turn of events for their champion, and there was little to hear but the sound of a gentle fall breeze blowing through a few trees that clung to their leaves. Even the construction gang on the main gate had stopped to take in the spectacle, and no work was being performed.
Hork did not move nor did he seem surprised or flustered in any way. In fact, if Bran didn’t know better, he had a sudden sickening feeling that this was what the Kesh commander had wanted all along. Bran almost missed it, but he caught Hork taking a quick glimpse up and behind him, and having lived and commanded in this very complex his entire life, he knew instinctively where Hork was looking at—the king’s tower located directly behind him now.
With the urge to kill his opponent under control, Bran understood the political implications to this sparring match. He took the flat side of his blade and whacked Greaser, but good on his temple, knocking the man out. He threw his blade down, dropped his shield, and took his helmet off with both hands as sweat fell across his face despite the cooler weather. He walked to the table and dropped the helmet on it where it had first lay. He looked at Hork and then said, “I’m thirsty.”
Hork stood silently for a moment and then scoffed, before saying, “Get the Ulathan water.” The Kesh commander turned and walked away toward the main gate.
Bran quickly turned to face the king’s tower and looked up at its top. At the last second, he saw the edges of two figures—one in a blueish robe and pointed hat with tassels that swayed around it in the breeze, and the other was cloaked and not visible. Bran knew now that he was being watched and assessed by more than the barbarian. The Kesh wizard had seen the entire match, as well, and Bran could only think of how many different factions had now marked him for dea
th.
“Did you see enough?” Hermes asked the barbarian as they walked away from the edge of the tower.
“Ik nu tot hauk neuw,” the large man said, pulling his large fur-lined cloak around him for protection against the cold wind that blew from the northwest.
“I don’t think he did,” Hermes said, looking over at the pair of guards flanking the stairwell. The pair stopped before reaching it and looked back north toward the far Border Mountains, and beyond that, the barbarian’s home that lay somewhere far away.
With great effort, Kaz the barbarian spoke in the common tongue. “He not try.”
“It looked to me as if the Ulathan fought for his life. I can’t believe you think the man held back. Besides, he is all banged up and still smarting from his wounds. He’d be an easy kill for someone of your stature, or Commander Hork, for that matter.”
Kaz shrugged. “You no fighter, you stupid.”
“Excuse me,” Hermes said, the tone of his voice lifting as he turned to face the barbarian. “I think you have much to learn of our common tongue, though I am grateful you have made an effort the last few months.”
“Krik eh houn, go te nakrid,” Kaz said, reverting to his native language.
“Well, untrained would be the better use of the word in the common tongue, and yes, I admit that I am untrained in combat with weapons, but I am more than lethal with the staff.” Hermes picked his staff up and banged it hard on the ground to emphasis his words.
“Ka eel go na zid,” Kaz said.
“What do you mean when I can keep a staff? The loss of my last staff was purely accidental, and I would not have lost my second one if you had protected me better from those bloodthirsty Ulathans. Besides, Master Zorcross and the great Ke-Tor saw fit to grace me with another staff.”
“Three staff too many,” Kaz stated.
“You shouldn’t keep count. It is rude,” Hermes said, absentmindedly putting his free hand to his shoulder where the wound of the arrow that he had taken still itched from time to time.
“You lucky you live.” Kaz glared at Hermes.
“So are you, considering you let the Ulathan rebel get away with Kesh property. Why should we pay you and your clan for your services when they are so lacking?” Hermes criticized.
“Ko an noon, krik ah hoon,” Kaz said.
“But I am a member of the order, and a Kesh to boot. It is my duty to fight and protect as a member of the Kesh ruling class.”
“No tytan po ka sil nak.”
“Tell that to the Kesh traitor?” Hermes translated the barbarian’s words in disbelief. “I’ll have you know that I am more than a match for that apprentice. Have you not heard that I will be made wizard soon?”
“No,” Kaz said simply.
“Well, it is true. Zorcross has been summoned to Keshtor to advance as the new Arch-Mage, and I will take his place officially as a wizard.”
“He say you?” Kaz asked.
“Yes,” Hermes said, “he say me.”
Kaz looked intently at the young man and then said, “You stupid.”
Hermes narrowed his eyes at the large barbarian, though they were the same height, as Hermes was tall and lean in stature. “You Northmen should know your place around a Kesh wizard.”
The threat seemed feckless as Kaz stood there like a stone statue, assessing the young Kesh wizard, seemingly anything but afraid of the man. It depressed Hermes to see himself disrespected, but he held his ground, before Kaz finally said, “You do job, I do job.”
Hermes took a moment to process the barbarian’s words. “Fine.” He decided to let it go. “Make your duel preparations, and I will see to it that your Ulathan opponent is ready.”
Kaz grunted, turning to leave. When he reached the stairwell, he turned for one last word, pointing downward over the parapet of the tower’s walls. “You keep dog on leash.”
The barbarian disappeared down the stairs, and Hermes snorted, not sure how to react to the Northman calling the Kesh commander a dog, if he understood the statement correctly. Hermes didn’t think this boded well for their diplomatic relations with the North if these two men couldn’t get along together.
Turning, he walked back toward the crenelated walls of the tower that had been recently repaired, though not to the same standard as the prior engineers. It would suffice for now. He looked back down in time to see the Ulathan captain being led back to his room that served as his prison cell. Entirely too much comfort and space wasted on one such as him, but Kaz had his customs, and he had prior orders from Zorcross to accommodate them, though it would bring him some measure of satisfaction if Hork put the barbarian in his place. The Northman was entirely too cheeky for the young Kesh magic-user.
One last look at the opposite end of the castle, past the tower known in Korwell as the queen’s tower, and he saw the Balarian scouting party preparing to leave at dusk. They had finally received word from Master Ke-Tor as to the whereabouts of some of the Ulathan rebels, and Balarian reinforcements had arrived in order to help hold and secure Ulatha from their partisan activities.
The Balarian scout was not known to Hermes personally, but his demeanor and appearance gave the man a deadly sinister aura that commanded respect. The Kesh magic-user took some satisfaction in knowing that, once unleashed on them, the Ulathan peasants’ days were numbered. Soon, they would be hunted and would pay the price for their rebellion. That price would be death.
Chapter 4
Targon
“Kill him,” the brigand troop leader yelled to his men surrounding the tall woodsman. It fell upon the troop leader, as their commander had already fallen to the other man’s axe.
Targon stepped over the body of the dead Kesh leader and swung his axe backhanded at another brigand trying to flank him. The man used a shield to stop the blow, and it worked; however, it also shattered, sending the man flying backward and landing rather stiffly on his back. The entire ordeal seemed too easy for the large Ulathan fighter who continued to advance almost nonchalantly on a half dozen of the best-armed Kesh troops in their realm.
Two blades stabbed forward, as well as one spear, and all three met the huge axe that was sweeping back across a horizontal plane at the Ulathan’s waist level. The parry appeared much to reflect the inadequacies of the Kesh fighters. It was like grass facing a machete.
“Archers, fire now!” the troop leader ordered, presumably at the men a dozen yards behind them. They were fighting in a narrow ravine not far from Ulsthor, which had recently become a dangerous place in Kesh.
Sounds of bowstrings being nocked and pulled was clear despite the noise coming from the battle. The relative silence was suddenly punctuated with screams of terror and death as a large brown bear leaped from a rock outcropping and barreled into the line of archers, also six in number. The men screamed and scattered, dropping their bows and fleeing the area, though two were caught by the large bear and rendered unconscious.
The sight of the great beast almost broke the line of swordsmen and spearmen till the sight of a Kesh wizard appeared at their rear, giving them hope. “Rally to the mage,” the troop leader said.
The melee fighters backpedaled, putting as much distance as they could between themselves, the crazed woodsman, and the huge beast that looked like a bear. Even the archers veered to head toward the magic-user in his black cloak and metallic staff that emanated the familiar and comforting blue aura of a Kesh wizard.
Once they had grouped together, the leader turned to see how their magic-user would challenge the rebel Ulathan and his great beast. Much to his consternation the wizard pointed his metallic staff at them and uttered the words of the arcane incantation, sending a ball of fire into the group and igniting most of their capes, cloaks, and clothes. The dozen or so Kesh soldiers scattered into the dry scrubland, igniting bushes, grasses, and even some small trees in their attempt to flee the triple attack that had caught them off guard.
Targon didn’t bother to give chase, walking in a measured pace t
oward Khan, who stood at the top of one of the rear knolls that gave a good view of the surrounding area. Core also lumbered after them after sniffing at two Kesh. Both appeared to be deceased, though the bear didn’t bother to confirm that fact.
“You took your time,” Targon said, reaching the top of the knoll and looking around at the quickly igniting fires of the small scrub forest. Most of the brigands had disappeared, some still flaming, others reaching small puddles of water that had fallen recently from the last rain, but it did little to quench the dry parch of the Kesh foothills.
Khan nodded. “This was too easy.”
“Normally I’d say it was never easy, but after the last few months, I’d have to agree with you. Something is amiss with your former countrymen.”
Khan looked away from the ravine where most of his former comrades had fled, and faced in the direction of Ulsthor. He could see the faint wisps of smoke from some fires that burned in the furnaces of the brick production plant. “That commander, I knew him.”
“How so?” Targon asked.
“He was a trooper being considered for a promotion to troop leader.”
“And?”
“No more than half a year later, and he was promoted to the rank of commander?” The tone of Khan’s voice sounded incredulous.
“Your use of the term commander is confusing to me,” Targon said, wiping his axe clean with his utility cloth and securing it to his large belt to free up both his hands.
Khan took his gaze away from Ulsthor and turned to Targon. “It seems more than clear to me. Commander is used in many cases, but it is the size of the unit that is commanded that results in the scope of the command.”
“So he was a troop commander?” Targon asked.
Mad Mage: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 3 (Ranger Series) Page 5