The trio ran on far into the night, trying to keep pace with the other group. As Dorsun had explained earlier, it was too convenient that the Balarians had a small lantern lit with only one side un-shuttered. It appeared to give scant light for them to travel by, but enough for Salina to track their progress.
Finally, with a sigh of relief, Salina crouched behind a much smaller berm since the landscape had flattened out somewhat as they journeyed north. The road itself had to go north first in order to bend and travel around the Blackthorn Forest, as well as use the only bridge suitable to cross the Rapid River with any sort of safety or baggage.
“What is it, Mother?” Cedric asked, trying hard to talk softly and breathe at the same time.
“They stopped a few stone throws away on the other side of the old trade road,” Salina said, motioning in front of her toward the location where the other group had made camp. They couldn’t hear or see the camp, but the light twinkling of the lone lantern was unmistakable.
“Do we attack now or wait till dawn?” her son asked.
Salina looked east to see if the twin sisters had risen yet. A faint hint of light shone over the Border Mountains hinting at their approach, but until they rose, the night was dark and lit only by the many twinkling stars overhead. She looked at Dorsun once and then said, “If they indeed made camp, then we should wait till dawn and see if we can catch them sleeping . . .” A dubious look crossed the ex-brigand’s face, and Salina quickly added, “Or at least drowsy and less alert.”
At this, the fighter nodded and took up a position to oversee the Balarian camp. “You two get some rest. I’ll wake you both once the sisters sleep again.” The reference to the twin moons setting was obvious.
Salina understood that this would be her only chance to refresh herself before the possibility of facing a dangerous encounter. She hadn’t allowed anyone other than her, or her son Cedric, keep watch on the town, but now they were risking everything on the assumption that the Kesh were trying to spirit her husband away from Ulatha and into their realm without being noticed. Both Dorsun and Khan had acted with honor and were at least trustworthy since being captured, and then freed, by Targon.
Quickly, the fatigue of the chase hit her, and she saw that despite waking not long ago, her poor son wasn’t as used to the rigors of the physical activity since he spent most of his time reading or conversing with the old druid. He wiped his brow with a rag, and Salina took pity on him. “All right, Dorsun. You wake one of us at the first sign that you feel tired, and we’ll take turns keeping the watch. Rouse us if they move an inch.”
So serious were her tone and words that Dorsun replied, “Half an inch it will be.”
Seeming to have made her point, Salina found a spot nearby under a tree that was losing its leaves. She pulled out her small blanket and laid it out, cringing slightly at the sound the dryer leaves made as they were compacted under her weight. The Balarian camp was still a good ways away, so she doubted they could hear her noise, but it sounded too loud for the woman who had picked up more than a few tips and pointers on stealth by Targon during their time together.
Cedric did the same, and soon both of the Morosses were fast asleep under the careful watch of a former Kesh brigand commander. The irony seemed to go unnoticed in the wild except by the man keeping watch. It had taken months, but now he felt that if ever he was going to secure his freedom, then he had to do something now.
The twin sisters rose, and Targon waited yet again for Khan as they changed their position to head due west. Once the Kesh magic-user approached within earshot again, Targon asked, “Are you sure they’re over there?” He pointed at where the trade road was closest instead of southwest where Korwell lay.
Khan caught up to the Ranger and bent over, breathing heavily. He was not built for physical exertion, and the constant runs with Targon had helped his constitution and fitness, but had also taken a toll on his energy. He felt a sort of constant fatigue, yet he tried his best to answer. “They have been moving steadily north as if on the road until an hour ago, and then they stopped.”
“Why would they leave their position?” Targon asked rhetorically.
Khan answered anyway, never seeming to understand the nuances of Ulathan culture. “We do not know for sure, though I suspect it had to be something urgent since they had spent the last few months watching Korwell.”
“Well, Elister said to go to the ridge camp first and then have Argyll search for them if you couldn’t locate them. Speaking of which, how are you tracking them? I mean, obviously by magic, but how exactly?”
Khan appreciated the moment he was being given to rest, and replied, “It is complicated. I placed a charm on an item that Dorsun carries, so I am actually tracking the item, not the man himself. My staff pulls me in the direction of the charmed item. I go where my staff is pulling me.”
“So how far away are they right now?”
“That is a good question and a limitation of my magic. The force of the pull varies only a little, so it is difficult to judge distance with the charm. It could be only a league or it could be several days’ journey. I do not know for sure, though I can extrapolate based on prior knowledge.”
Targon tilted his head. “What does extrapolate mean?”
Khan repressed a smile. “It means I can figure it out.”
“Sorry to make you dumb it down for me,” Targon said sheepishly.
“I am used to doing this with the brigand caste,” Khan noted. “However, recently I have spent much time with the young Cedric and your Master Elister, so my vocabulary was modified.”
“You spent the last fortnight with me,” Targon said to correct the Kesh.
Khan nodded. “Yes, but I meant before that. The time I spent with you was not very . . . shall I say, conversational.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You don’t speak much.”
Targon looked down for a minute and then up at the twin moons as they approached their apex. “Time to go.”
Without another word, the pair ran off in a straight line toward the old trade road. They had crossed the rope bridge right before sunset and kept moving through the entire day and evening. Now, they would continue to give chase deep into the night.
Targon noted that the Kesh magic-user did not complain, nor did he refuse any requests to either rest or speed up as Targon tried to keep a fast pace while still respecting the limitations of the frailer young man. Before the twin sisters were ready to set, Khan stopped and jerked upright, looking far off as if seeing a vision. “No,” was all he said, and then he blinked twice and looked at Targon.
“That didn’t look good,” the Ranger said.
“I do not know what Dorsun is up to, but my charm allows me to feel faint emotions from time to time. Up till now, I only felt a tinge of excitement and stress. Now I was overwhelmed with a single pulse of emotion that conveyed danger.”
“How much danger?”
“Much.” Khan blinked rapidly again. “Imminent danger.”
“How long do we have?” Targon started to walk again, grabbing Khan by his arm and moving him along.
“No,” Khan protested for the first time to Targon . . . ever. Khan leveled his staff due west and asked, “Can you keep a straight path?”
“Positive,” Targon said, moving behind the magic-user and eyeing the direction of the Great Wolf Constellation.
“Then run as fast as you can until you find them in that direction. I will follow as best I can. I fear we have run out of time.”
Targon looked at Khan and noted the alarm the man demonstrated. Then it hit him that this Kesh wizard actually cared for the former brigand chieftain, and knowing that Dorsun was in danger left Khan stunned, almost as if in shock.
Without a word, Targon sprinted toward the western horizon as the ground gently sloped upward from the slight basin that the Rapid River had etched into the land over many eons. It didn’t take long before Targon knew he was out of sight of the K
esh magic-user.
He ran long after the twin sisters had set, and he raced along the rough ground with a sure-footed pace that only a Zashitor, a protector and guardian of Arnen, could do. He didn’t need to see the ground; he could feel it as it flowed below his long strides, and the young woodsman valiantly raced against the impending dawn as the far Border Mountains showed their silhouette and the eastern black sky gave way to a velvety purple.
He raced until he heard the sounds of dread, the sounds of death. He was too late.
“Everything in order?” the Kesh conspirator asked.
“Yes, Cortiz,” the Balarian assassin said. “The trap has been set.”
The Kesh leader nodded and then moved over to their bait, another man who sat on an old log with Ulathan clothing on. He was the same build as the Ulathan captain, and he had studied the mannerisms of the man during his sparring matches and when he interacted with others. It didn’t matter, really, as a cloak covered the man’s features from anything but a close visual inspection. Still, it was best to be ready. Failure was frowned on, especially by the magic-user caste. “You ready to fight?”
The man impersonating the Ulathan was from Balaria, and he was a true professional. He nodded, not willing to speak and give away a voice that was different, one that he had not yet mastered. The Kesh leader didn’t understand all the reasoning behind the deceit, only the intended result.
He was bored with these Balarians. They spoke little, never drank anything but water, and had no good jokes to tell. No wonder—they lived on a large island, isolated from the greater realms of Agon. Still, if they would not share more of their mission with him, then he would not share with them what he knew.
He secretly grabbed a flask that had a special homemade concoction inside and took a swig, wiping his mouth and secreting the container back into an inner fold of his cloak. It wasn’t cold yet, but definitely cooler, and the nights could get chilly, so the cloak was more than necessary this time of year.
Smiling, he thought of the brigand Red Throat Company hidden nearby. They entered Ulatha three days ago via the old northern road that was blocked centuries ago and only recently opened by the High-Mage when the rebels made traveling on the main trade road too dangerous and, more importantly, too costly for the Kesh to do business. The Red Throats were the most ruthless of the Kesh military brigades. They were recently back from Rockton, where they had subdued the local citizenry by murdering most of them.
They would give not only the Ulathan rebels a surprise but these Balarians as well if they didn’t do as they were told, or if they didn’t succeed in their mission to capture or kill the peasant refugees harassing the Kesh commerce and military logistics here in Ulatha. Not even the Balarians knew of this backup plan to have over a hundred seasoned veterans ready to spring a second trap. Hehe, this will be fun, Cortiz thought to himself.
“Who goes there?” one of the guards asked as another Kesh came from the north road, walking into the camp as if he owned it.
“Shut yer trap, Balarian,” the man said, giving the guard a murderous look and walking up to the small lantern as if to inspect it, but standing in front of it with a menacing look and his hands on his hips. The Kesh was dressed as a commander, even carrying their short wooden baton symbolizing leadership, as it was clearly visible in the man’s belt. “Where’s the fire?”
“Who in the abyss are you?” the Balarian assassin asked, standing and walking a few steps toward the Kesh visitor. The Balarian gently laid a hand on his short sword, and the other hand disappeared under his own cloak, most likely fingering a dagger or other knife.
“I should ask the same of you, killer,” the man said. “Who’s in charge here?”
The Kesh leader was alone, but he stood and faced his countryman. “I am. The name’s Cortiz,” the leader said, upset by the other man’s presence. “Ain’t you been told not to show yourselves till the fightin’ been started, Commander Drako?”
“Looks to be no fightin’ here. Only a bunch of losers who can’t sets a trap straight, you bunch of dolts,” the Kesh visitor said. “Who told dem sea-lovin’ idiots to set camp with a candle stick?”
“Who you calling an idiot?” the Balarian said, his voice soft and his tone menacing.
Cortiz was thinking slightly differently. “They are sea lovers. They live on an island, so who’z the idiot now, huh?”
The Kesh commander turned to a nearby Balarian who looked more like a trooper than a thief or assassin. “Start a fire there,” the man said.
“Belay that order,” the Balarian assassin said. Then, turning to Cortiz, he asked, “Were you expecting company?”
Cortiz looked at the Balarian and realized he was never given a proper introduction to the man. In fact, it always seemed that “he” and “him” were used to refer to the Balarian leader, and Cortiz felt a bit stupid at this fact, but it was no time to ask. “Not till the fightin’ started,” the Kesh leader said. “Then, the Red Throats were supposed to come calling, but not now.”
“You have an entire Kesh company nearby?” the Balarian leader asked, suspicion in his voice. The other Balarians instantly stood and placed their hands on their weapons without actually drawing any of them.
“Ah . . .” Cortiz wasn’t expecting this turn of events. The Balarians were so secretive that the topic never came up, and Hermes, the Kesh wizard back in Korwell, assured him that all plans were set. All Cortiz needed to do was represent Kesh and ensure that the Balarians didn’t double-cross them. He wasn’t expecting to be placed in personal danger himself.
“Ah, what?” the Balarian asked.
“Start the damn fire,” the intruding Kesh commander said in a loud voice.
The Balarian took his attention off Cortiz for a moment and faced the new arrival. “There won’t be a fire tonight, Kesh Commander, and unless you start explaining yourself real quick-like, there will be a vacancy in your company that will need filling.”
An awkward silence hung over the group of a dozen men, and even the man impersonating the Ulathan fell out of character and stood with the other men, all with weapons ready to be drawn. The Kesh commander looked menacingly at the Balarian, with no fear in his posture or any indication that he was afraid of the assassin despite being alone in an armed camp full of Balarians.
Before another word could be spoken, the outer guards gave hoots of alarm, and then there was a scuffling until one guard ran into the faint light and spoke. “More Kesh.”
All the men’s attention turned to the north along the road. Not far off was an approach of nearly half-a-dozen men. All were dressed as Kesh brigands, and they had red gashes painted across their leather breastplates as if they were bloody lacerations. They were all in battle gear and heavily armed, at least by Kesh standards, and the lead man stood nearly a full head taller than the tallest Balarian, and he, too, carried a baton of power. This man spoke first. “Where is Cortiz?”
Cortiz couldn’t contain his shock. “I’m here. Who are you?”
The man next to him, a lieutenant by his uniform, spoke. “This is Commander Drakos, leader of the Red Throat Company, and you will all address him by his proper rank.” It was obvious the Red Throats kept a more disciplined military structure than the other Kesh companies.
Cortiz looked confused, glancing over to the first Kesh commander, who had arrived alone and now walked slowly toward their Ulathan impersonator. “If that”—Cortiz pointed to the Red Throat commander—“is Commander Drakos, then who’z are you?”
The solo Kesh commander walked right up to the cloaked figure and ripped it off the man. “The gloves are from Rockton, not Ulatha, and his hair is cut in the style of the southern realms, not a very good impersonation of the Ulathan captain.”
“His hair wasn’t even visible under his cloak till you’z took it off o’ him,” Cortiz protested.
“He hasn’t answered the question,” the Balarian assassin noted, his stance remaining one of alertness and ready for combat.
The older Kesh commander took three steps forward, bringing himself more into the light. “You look familiar,” the man said.
“I should, Commander Drakos, since I’m the newly appointed adjutant to Commander Hork and second in command to all Kesh forces.”
“By who’s order?” Drakos asked, a tinge of suspicion in his voice.
“High-Mage Sultain,” the lone Kesh commander stated firmly.
Drakos walked over to his counterpart and stood facing him, tilting his head slightly. There was barely a rustle from the gathered troops as they waited tensely for what was to come next. They didn’t have to wait long. Drakos reached at the man’s belt and pulled out the wooden baton, holding it for all to see.
The Kesh soldiers gasped, but the Balarians were at a loss for words. Their leader spoke. “What in the abyss are you doing?”
Drakos pulled his own baton out. It appeared much like the first one, but with a noticeable difference. The end was tipped with a decorative silver cap with a special Kesh mark on it. The commander stood with a triumphant stance and proclaimed, “The High-Mage Sultain is no more. Kesh has a new High-Mage, and your baton of power is outdated. We haven’t used that style since high summer. You are a fraud.”
There were murmurs as the news broke, and even whispers of the impending punishment that would be imposed on the Kesh imposter, though he really did appear to be a Kesh chieftain. Cortiz couldn’t contain himself. “You mean he’s only a soldier, not a commander?”
Drakos nodded and said, “Probably a spy from the old order sent to sow dissent amongst our ranks.” Then the man squinted, and comprehension dawned as the imposter lowered his own hood so he could be clearly seen. “By Father Death himself, it’s the traitor.”
The Kesh commander Drakos couldn’t bring himself to speak the man’s name, but Cortiz did. “You mean Dorsun?”
Dorsun nodded and then drew his short sword almost quicker than the eye could see. “None other,” the rebel Kesh commander said, and then he hacked down his counterpart, the Kesh commander of the Red Throat Company, who was caught off guard, as both his hands held wooden batons.
Mad Mage Page 8