Mad Mage: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 3 (Ranger Series)

by Salvador Mercer

“Yes.” Khan nodded and returned his gaze to the Kesh town far away. “Troop, company, brigade, and then army.”

  “I’ve never heard of an army commander.” Targon scoffed slightly, listening as the fire spread and pops of superheated oxygen escaped the dry wood as it burned.

  “It is a loose term,” Khan explained. “Hork, for example, was an army commander, leading more than one brigade.”

  “He didn’t lead the army in Rockton, though,” Targon said, feeling that his point had merit.

  “That would be a different army,” Khan said simply.

  “How many armies can one realm have?” Targon asked sarcastically.

  “I know you do not approve, but that is how Kesh is organized. If you have a better way to structure an army, then by all means, share it.” Khan continued to gaze at the Kesh town.

  Targon rubbed his chin, ran a hand through his hair to lay it back after the recent combat made it a bit unruly, and then put his hands on his hips. “No need to get testy. I simply noticed that I have dispatched quite a few commanders over the last year, and I’m trying to get my Kesh commanders straight. Besides, you seem preoccupied with Ulsthor, for some reason.”

  Khan didn’t move or speak, continuing to gaze southeast at the telltale signs of the westernmost Kesh establishment. Targon allowed him the time, and Core rooted around in search of dried berries in some nearby brushes that weren’t on fire. The entire scene seemed surreal as the pair stood in silence as part of the land burned behind them, creating its own telltale sign that something significant had occurred there this day.

  Slowly, Khan took his gaze away from the town to face Targon. “I was born and raised in Ulsthor.”

  Targon nodded. “Painful, then, for you?”

  Khan returned the nod. “You can say that.”

  “I did say that.”

  “Then yes,” Khan continued without offense taken, “I have mixed emotions about my former realm and especially about my hometown of Ulsthor. Do you know why it is called Ulsthor?”

  “It was once a part of Ulatha?” Targon speculated.

  “No,” Khan corrected him, “though that was a good guess. It was named that in honor of a once-lost relationship between Kesh and Ulatha, named in honor of the Ulathan by the High-Mage of Kesh long ago.”

  “How long ago?” Targon asked.

  “So long ago that it is now lost to time and history.”

  “I’ll bet Elister knows the answer to that question,” Targon said, invoking the name of the dead druid. “Let’s ask him when we return to the Blackthorn.”

  Khan simply nodded and then headed off away from the Kesh town back toward the Border Mountains looming to their west. Their business in Kesh had ended yet again, and they would return to report the results of their latest foray into the brigand realm of magic.

  “So you brought the Kesh magic boy back, after all,” Horace said, leaning on his makeshift hoe carved completely from a dead oak tree, including the part normally made from metal. He took his kerchief and wiped the small beads of perspiration from his brow as Targon and Khan returned to the homestead.

  Khan ignored the older Ulathan. He was usually cranky, and it could be worse. He could return to Agatha’s tongue lashing, but thankfully they had arrived when the old lady had gone to fetch water from the nearby stream that they called Bony Brook.

  “Good to be back,” Targon said, taking several long strides toward the cabin that served as their primary shelter.

  “She’s down by the Bony,” Monique said, pointing to the south, giving Targon a coy smile and eyeing him for a long time, long enough to make the large woodsman feel uncomfortable.

  Will walked over to them with a limp and stuck out a hand to greet Targon, who took it, and then Will leaned forward, whispering, “She ain’t talked a single day without mentioning you.”

  Horace was less tactful, saying in a loud voice, “If you turn any redder, Agatha will mistake you for one of her garden beets, pluck you, and put you in one of her Agon-forsaken stews.”

  “Don’t you mind him none,” Emelda said, coming around the cabin to greet the two triumphant warriors. “Ann is with Yolanda and Amy down by the stream. I’m sure your sister will be happy to see you again after such a long absence.”

  “Now don’t you go babying Master Targon here,” Horace chimed in, letting his hoe fall to the ground and walking up to the front porch near where Emelda, Will, and Targon stood. “He’s his own man now.”

  “Now you just take a seat there, Horace, and I’ll bring some berry water to you in due time,” Emelda said, giving her own orders to her husband. Returning her gaze to Targon, she lowered her voice. “Ah, Agatha is down there with them.”

  Targon nodded, not wanting to engage the older lady who seemed crankier with each passing month. “Perhaps I’ll wait for Ann to return. They do have an . . . escort with them?”

  “Of course,” Will said. “You don’t think I’d let any of our woman folk run around these parts without some security, do you?”

  “You won’t say that to Lady Salina,” Emelda said, her voice still low.

  “Well, the lady can more than fend for herself,” Will replied.

  “All right, so then who’s with my sister?” Targon asked. Seeing two scrutinizing looks from Emelda and Will, he quickly added, “And Yolanda, Amy, and . . . Agatha?”

  “The creepy dead guy,” Will said, making a warding sign to protect against the supernatural.

  “Master Elister is with them, and they are, well, were safer now that you’ve arrived, than we were here I’d venture with his woodland magic,” Emelda said more tactfully.

  “I see,” Targon said, not really seeing at all, but understanding that not all the Ulathan refugees seem to have completely accepted the dead druid’s presence among them.

  This included Horace, who, despite his age, seemed to have ears of magic as he commented on the situation at hand. “Not natural to have a statue of a dead man walking among us.”

  “I told you to hush that nonsense and have a seat, or do I need to ask Agatha for some assistance?” Emelda scolded her husband, though her smile belied the fact that she adored the old man.

  Horace graced her with a smile. “Your berry water is worth any wait. Why don’t you pull up a log and come take a spell with me, Master Targon?” Targon looked around the cabin as if looking for someone, and Horace explained for him. “The lady and her son are in their usual hidey-hole, looking for her husband, and that there Kesh fella is with them as their escort.” The use of Targon’s own term did not go unnoticed.

  Khan looked up from his towel at the mention of that there Kesh fella, which could only be Dorsun, Khan’s former brigand leader, and resumed drying his face and hands from where he had washed up at the cleaning bowl, after a most thoughtful Monique had poured some fresh water into it.

  Targon nodded and then said, “It’s important that I consult with Master Elister, so I’ll see you when I return.”

  Everyone nodded and waited for Targon to leave as he had arrived, with large steps and a quick pace. Once he had cleared the area and was out of earshot, Horace shook his head and said to no one in particular, “You know it’s bad when the lad chooses Agatha’s company over your own.”

  Targon crept up on the form of Elister standing at the edge of the woods where they met the small bank of the Bony Brook. Elister had his back to Targon but was watching several of the Ulathan refugees as they worked along the bank of the small waterway.

  Agatha was finishing her washing of some worn-out clothes, while Mary, the recently freed Kesh captive from Ulsthor, had laid several garments out on rocks to dry and was wiping her hands clean on her soiled apron that used to belong to Celeste before she passed. Yolanda was keeping a close eye on the younger children, including her daughter, Amy, who was chasing Karz up and down the bank. Ann was splashing water at them as they passed, and the sight couldn’t help but put a smile on Targon’s face.

  But then, his competitive w
arrior instincts grew, and he silently crept toward the dead druid, seeking to surprise the old man. As usual, he failed.

  “I heard you a good two stone throws out,” Elister said without moving.

  Targon paused and stopped his stealthy approach, simply walking over to the man as quickly as he could. “How in all of Agon could you hear me when I was as silent as a cat?”

  “Actually, cats are louder than you when you are focused,” Elister said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Targon said.

  “Well, don’t. You weren’t very focused this day.”

  “Fair enough.” Targon shrugged and stood next to the man who had become a sort of mentor to him, albeit an unorthodox one at that. “We returned from Kesh.”

  “I know,” Elister said simply.

  “I mean, we have finished our patrol. Don’t you want to hear my report?” Targon said, feeling a bit abashed by the fact that he had stated the obvious and Elister had picked up on it.

  Elister stood silently for a moment, either sleeping again or contemplating his response. Targon had become accustomed to the “napping” spells that the druid took from time to time, which unnerved several of the Ulathan city folks, as the man would simply stand still without moving, talking, or even blinking. The sight of the dead druid like a statue took some getting used to, and his skin, or indeed his entire body, being petrified and turned to stone didn’t help.

  With some effort, the old man responded. “We are not like the Kesh, and you can’t be held responsible for customs and rituals that were never properly taught to you.”

  Targon nodded, not wanting to interrupt but also not wanting to have the druid go into one of his napping spells, so he said simply, “Understood. Do go on.”

  Elister nodded slightly to reassure his Zashitor companion that he was alert, and then continued. “Our order is a unique one founded on principles of individual freedom, though we do have our own duties and responsibilities, and we most certainly are, or have been, given orders and obligations, or even rules, to abide by in the course of our tenures.”

  Elister took a moment to turn ever so slightly so that his good eye, the one that didn’t flare red occasionally, could see the young Ulathan woodsman. “Perhaps it is time we discuss your role in Agon.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Targon could hardly refuse the old man, considering all that he had done for him and his family. Still, there were many questions that Targon had and never asked. He cared little for the politics of the world and only wanted to restore his family before that option was taken from him. He nodded and said, “I’m listening.”

  Elister had seemed more serious of late, and his tone and choice of words reflected this. “There have been new developments of late that could turn fate upside down once Father Death arrives.” The reference to the planet Dor Akun was obvious. “There is a new High-Mage in Kesh.”

  Targon almost gasped, but kept his breathing under control. “How can you know this, and are you sure?”

  Despite being dead, the druid lost none of his human traits and habits, so his nod was both expected and normal. “Argyll informed me first, but then the new High-Mage paid me a visit and confirmed the transition of leadership within Kesh.”

  “What do you mean by saying that he ‘paid you a visit’?” Targon asked.

  “It appears that the man repaired the Kesh high critir within the Chamber of Seeing in their Onyx Tower.”

  “So he came to you in a vision?”

  “Something like that,” Elister explained, “if you wish to call their crystal balls visions.”

  “Is this dangerous?”

  “Yes and no. I wouldn’t allow the Kesh to peek into our domain here in the Earlstyne, so he remains unaware of who and what is here, but the mere fact that he was able to repair one of their ancient artifacts confirms what I suspected already.”

  Targon sighed. “Now what would that be?”

  “This may take a while,” Elister began. “Long ago, when I was but a young member of the order, the world was different than it is now. When I had first arrived here in the Earlstyne, I assisted a company of mercenaries seeking to uncover the initiating events that had become known as The Dragon War. There was a famous historian, one whose name you are familiar with, who told me a tale that was nigh unto unbelievable, except for the fact that I had already experienced something similar.”

  “Diamedes,” Targon said, feeling good at knowing the name of the man.

  “Correct,” Elister said. “The tale was from a different band of mercenaries who had found something that once belonged to the ancients. It was an artifact of evil that gave the wielder immense power. The historian hid the artifact with the Duchess of Ulatha long ago, and its whereabouts were never known, nor was the item ever discussed. It was lost to time . . . until now.”

  Targon spat on the ground and cursed under his breath. “Why do I get this feeling that you’re telling me something that’s going to make matters worse?”

  “Because you are correct and things are worse now.”

  “That’s just great. So are we in danger again?” Targon asked, reaching to his belt to feel the reassuring presence of his axe.

  “We have never been out of danger,” Elister corrected him. “You see, history is like the tide. It ebbs and flows, and some periods are more dangerous than other periods, but there is always danger.”

  “What is a tide?”

  “Ah, yes, you have yet to see an ocean,” Elister noted, allowing a grin to come across his rocky face as a puff of dust came from the effort.

  “I know of large bodies of water. You can dispense with another long teaching lesson.”

  “Yes, though your penchant for being rude hasn’t improved much this summer. Simply goes to show that I am a poor teacher. Now, where were we?”

  “Tides,” Targon said.

  “Yes, well, the twin sisters pull on Agon as she pulls on them, a force of nature and fairly harmless. It keeps your feet on the ground, so it’s useful, but the . . . large bodies of water, well, they pull up and down the coasts as the sisters run around their mother.”

  “You’re giving me a headache,” Targon complained.

  “Let’s move beyond nature, shall we?” Elister asked in a kind voice.

  “Agreed.”

  “So this new High-Mage of Kesh is known to us. He is none other than your companion’s old mentor.”

  “Khan?” Targon asked.

  “Indeed,” Elister said. “What’s more disturbing is the fact that the new High-Mage knows my condition and understands with more than enough detail how the transit of Father Death will happen and what he can do in order to rule Agon as it now stands.”

  “So another power-hungry, would-be king. The usual story,” Targon said.

  “It would be bad enough if he was limited to only one artifact, but if he obtains the major one, the one that all the High-Mages, in one century or another, have been seeking for eons, then life on Agon will end as we know it.”

  “Ah, I was afraid you’d say something like this. How could something so simple make him so powerful? I mean, even Khan sent him scurrying with a few balls of fire from his staff, and he said he was only an apprentice.” Targon shuffled the dirt back and forth with his booted foot and looked longingly at the young refugee children still playing a game on the banks of the small brook.

  Elister nodded in agreement. “It would appear so, and I daresay the man didn’t have the talent that his own mentor, Arch-Mage Ohkre, had, but Khan is very much an accomplished wizard, despite what you have heard to the contrary, and this Ke-Tor fellow, well, with something as powerful as an ancient artifact imbued from the very essence of dragon kind, there is little to doubt regarding his abilities.”

  “What will Khan’s mentor do with unlimited power?” Targon asked.

  “I suspect he would enslave Agon, as much of it as he could, and those he could not enslave, he would destroy,” Elister said.


  The pair stood in silence at the druid’s assessment and listened to the sound of the children with an occasional retort by Agatha, warning them not to get the recently dried clothes wet again or there would be consequences. Despite standing together for as long as they did, the women and children did not notice them. They seldom took stock of the druid, and Targon was silent in his approach. They were visible, of course, but they were a good forty yards away too.

  Finally, Targon took a deep breath and asked the druid what was on his mind the entire time. “What do I need to do, then?”

  Elister cocked his head slightly and gave Targon a sideways glance, a faint smile crossing his face. “You don’t need to act alone. In fact, in order to have any chance of heading off disaster, we’ll have to ensure you have help, lots of help.”

  “This leads me to a question I’ve had all summer, though I am loath to ask it,” Targon said, looking at the ground.

  “I think I know your question, but to be sure, state it anyway,” Elister said rather formally now.

  Targon stood straighter and altered his stance slightly in order to face Elister directly. “Why won’t you join me and go to Kesh to free my mother?”

  “A fair question,” Elister began. “You know, if I could leave this forest, I would.” There was a long pause as the druid dredged up long-forgotten memories. “I am not the Arnen you think I am.”

  This statement surprised Targon. “Don’t speak like that.”

  Elister turned to face the new Ranger. “It is true. I made a vow to be one of the Arnen long ago, but then right after, I made another vow . . . one that haunts me to this day. One that initially locked me to this forest in much the same way a cell locked your mother, though of course, the forest is much larger and I was free to leave it.”

  “How can you be imprisoned in a forest and at the same time be free to leave it?” Targon asked, confusion and even a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

  Elister nodded, though he never breathed, and that took some getting used to. “I could leave, but my powers as an Arnen would be stripped from me. Do you understand?”