Ranger's Oath

by Blake Arthur Peel

  My stomach lurches and I turn away, retching my meager lunch into the grass. I continue to gag long after my stomach is emptied, the smell seemingly stuck my nostrils. It permeates my entire body, worming its way into my clothes and skin and making my eyes water.

  When I finally finish, the nausea somewhat fading, I turn back to face the horrible sight, shivering and pale. Elias is still looking at the tree with his jaw set, a touch of fury in his grey eyes.

  "We need to cut them down," he growls, shouldering his bow and unsheathing his belt knife.

  The thought of touching the rotten bodies makes me want to vomit again, but I do not argue. These people were under Elias' protection, and somebody came here and murdered them all.

  There would be no convincing him otherwise.

  "Go and get the spades from my horse," he commands, walking determinedly toward the elder tree. "We are going to give these people a proper burial."

  Making my way through the ghostly village, I approach the horses and retrieve the miniature spades from Elias' saddlebags. Usually we use the tools for digging trenches in camp.

  Today, it seems we will be using them to dig graves.

  I return to find that Elias has climbed into the tree and is in the process of cutting down the bodies, slicing the ropes and lowering them to the ground one at a time. Steeling myself, I plunge the spades into the soil and go to help him, catching the bodies as he lowers them and laying them down on the grass.

  It is a long and grisly process, one that I will likely never forget. Their flesh is pale and blotchy, their bodies bloated with fluids, and I have to stop three times so that I can turn away and gag into the grass. I want nothing more than to jump into a bathtub and scrub my skin raw, but I continue working, trying hard to keep my emotions in check.

  Once we are finished, we take a step back to take a look at our handiwork.

  The sight of so many people butchered and laid out like cattle makes my skin crawl. One little girl, who looks like she is no more than nine years old, looks both innocent and gruesome lying on the ground. Her frame is so small and frail, the way all of the village girls look back at Forest Hill, and yet her neck is bent at an odd angle and maggots have begun nesting in her mouth and eyes.

  I begin to quietly weep, tears falling freely down my cheeks. For the first time I am not ashamed to show my weakness in front of Elias.

  For the first time he does not seem to mind.

  Elias shows emotion much differently than I do. He handles the process of moving the bodies with cold professionalism, his face a careful mask of detachment. However, when I look at his eyes I can see a storm. It rages beneath the surface, violent and intense, and I realize that my master is more furious than I have ever seen him before.

  Whoever is responsible for this massacre is going to pay for it dearly.

  Once the corpses are all clear from the tree we begin to dig, silently shoveling a mass grave in the middle of the field. The soil is soft and easy to turn, but it is not long before we are both sweating from exertion.

  As I dig the same thought keeps running through my head. What in the Hells could have done such a horrible thing? Surely the beast I saw a few days ago cannot be to blame. This was the work of an army, not the attack of some mindless monster.

  For a moment I think that this must have been the work of the Nightingales, the so-called freedom fighters who make their home in the mountains, but I quickly discount the thought. Elias was right. No matter how much I hate them, this sort of thing is too extreme.

  This is nothing short of cold-hearted butchery.

  The fog makes it difficult to tell the time, but I estimate that it is about midday by the time we finish digging the grave. I take a step back and gaze into the gaping pit in the center of the village green. Even with all our efforts it is a shallow thing, a poor resting place for these unfortunate villagers.

  Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I turn and look to my master for further direction.

  He gestures to the line of bodies, and we begin picking them up one by one and gently lowering them into the pit. We handle the ordeal with reverence, neither one of us speaking, until each and every one of the villagers is laying at the bottom of the grave, eyes staring blindly into Heaven.

  Picking up our shovels, we begin the long process of filling in it in. My hands scream in protest from the blisters that have formed, but I ignore them. It would be obscene for me to complain about my pain when standing over the remains of an entire village.

  After countless shovelfuls of dirt, the pit is eventually filled in, covering the pale faces and, thankfully, the smell with a layer of freshly turned earth.

  We wearily return to our horses, sweaty and filthy, and pack away the spades in Elias' saddlebags. Mounting up, we turn our backs on the gravesite and ride away from Haven with heavy hearts.

  The fog continues into the evening, even as we stop to set up camp. The woods feel much more foreboding then they ever have before.

  We tether our horses where they can drink from a small brook, then we light a small fire to ward away the chill. Sitting on a rock, I warm my hands by the flickering flames. All I can think about is the burning farmhouses and the tree full of dead villagers.

  Finally, Elias breaks the silence with his typical gruffness. "Come morning we will need to ride with all haste for Forest Hill. The governor needs to be notified as soon as possible."

  "If we push ourselves, we should be able to arrive before nightfall," I remark off-handedly.

  He nods and another silence follows, the only sounds being the babbling of the brook and the crackling of the fire.

  After a few minutes, though, I look back up at Elias. "What was that back there, master? I've never heard of such a thing happening before." I shudder as memories of the little girl with the broken neck come unbidden to my mind. "It was more than an attack. It was as if whoever did that was trying to send a message."

  Elias is silent for a moment before making his reply. "I cannot say for sure," he says, pulling his cloak more tightly around him. "There were no notable tracks, and the bodies did not bear any obvious wounds. It seems like they went to be hung willingly, not putting up any fight at all."

  "I found some blood near the inn," I offer, trying to aid in any way I can to solve this mystery. "Lots of it, in fact. Perhaps those who weren't hung were taken away captive?" The thought causes me to shiver.

  "It is possible," he says, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire. Then, after a few heartbeats, he looks up at me. "I want you to know that I do not think that the Nightingales were involved."

  I nod, though his mention of them still stirs up anger within me.

  "They rarely travel in the sort of numbers that would be required to wipe out an entire village," he continues, oblivious to my discomfort, "and I do not think they would be motivated by killing farmers. Most of the Nightingales are farmers. It does not make any sense."

  "I came to similar conclusion," I reply bitterly.

  Elias fixes me with an intense look. "Whoever – or whatever – attacked Haven threatens the entire Emberwood, maybe even all of Tarsynium. They need to be hunted down and brought to justice at once. We should get an early night tonight. Tomorrow we will leave before dawn and ride hard for Forest Hill."

  ELIAS TAKES THE FIRST watch while I sleep.

  Despite my physical and emotional exhaustion, I find it difficult to drift off. Every time I close my eyes I see that accursed tree and feel the sightless eyes of that little girl looking at me. When I finally do manage to fall asleep, my mind is riddled with nightmares.

  By the time Elias wakes me up for my shift, I feel even more tired than before I had laid down.

  The second half of the night passes slowly, and I find myself mindlessly sharpening my hatchet with a whetstone. My thoughts are dark, drifting from demons to rebels and to dead villagers hanging in a tree.

  I wonder about what it is we are up against, and how in the Light we are going to s
urvive.

  An hour before dawn I wake Elias up and we begin preparing to depart. By the time we start riding, there is just enough light for us to see as we make our way into the woods.

  Guided by Elias' uncanny ability to find clear paths through the forest, we push our horses to the limit, heading back to Forest Hill as fast as we can make it. We eat our meals on the go and only stop when one of us has to relieve ourselves.

  For anybody else it would have been a perilous journey, but we are rangers.

  The wilderness is our home.

  It is still an hour or two before sunset by the time we make it back to the Emberwood's capital. Everything appears as it had when we left it, a town untouched by the nightmare we had just lived through. Our horses are lathered from the journey but we push them onward, making our way to the top of the hill where the governor's mansion is perched.

  When we arrive we dismount, quickly tying off the reins to the hitching post and rushing up to the front door.

  The door opens before we can reach it to knock, revealing a very flustered-looking Governor Prior standing in the entryway. The hall behind him is bustling with activity. He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief as he looks at us with anxious eyes.

  "You've returned," he states breathlessly.

  "Yes," Elias replies stoically. "The reports are true. Haven has been attacked, and everyone in the village has been killed. Owyn and I buried the ones we managed to find."

  Prior swears under his breath. "I feared as much," he says, folding the handkerchief and putting it in his pocket. "However, we now have bigger problems to deal with. I've just been informed that a delegation of mages is on its way here from Tarsys. They will be arriving here in the morning."

  Elias and I look at each other, both of us equally surprised by the revelation.

  "Mages?" I ask, at the same time Elias growls, "What do they want?"

  Prior shakes his head. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it has come down from the Conclave itself." He compulsively pulls out the handkerchief again and wipes off his face.

  "Light help us all."

  Chapter Ten

  Zara

  It is mid-morning by the time we reach Forest Hill.

  Another sleepless night of carriage travel has left me feeling tired, but my exhaustion is overshadowed by the sense of excitement I feel traveling through the overgrown Emberwood.

  My back aches from the constant jostle of the carriage, but I hardly pay attention to it, gazing out of the window at the trees.

  The incident with the bandits has caused me to view Elva in a new light, one that is much more intimidating than before. Since then, whenever Elva has attempted to tutor me, I cannot help but cringe inwardly, remembering the horror of watching that man burn alive.

  At the beginning of the trip I could hardly wait to learn at the feet of the Arch-magister, to glean everything I could from the legendary woman. Now, however, my stomach churns when she instructs me, and I can't help but wonder what might happen if I get on her bad side. The fear that clutches my heart and makes it difficult to focus, but I can’t show Elva that weakness, after all she’s done in bringing me here.

  It leaves me feeling homesick for my dormitory and my classes.

  Fortunately, those anxious feelings depart as I watch the mound that has given Forest Hill its name come into view. It is a great, forested hillock covered in buildings and trees, an idyllic blending of nature and civilization. Smoke curls from the many chimneys like wisps of cotton, and the overgrown plant life seems to make the town have a life of its own.

  Wanting to get some fresh air, I decide to exit the bumpy carriage and walk alongside the horses, taking in all of the sights and sounds like a flower taking in sunlight. The driver gives me a displeased glance but I ignore him, instead looking out at the woods around me. I've never been to the Emberwood, but I have heard stories about its vast frontier.

  There are more trees than I have ever seen in my life, making me, a city dweller, feel more than a bit claustrophobic. That being said, I cannot deny the natural charm of the land surrounding me. Everything from the gnarled trees to the spongy moss underfoot seems to be alive, filling me with a sense of wild, untamed beauty unseen in the crowded streets of Tarsys.

  And Light, who knew that the world could be so green?

  As we enter the town proper, I begin to catch glimpses of the locals going about their daily lives. The people seem to be a reflection of the wilderness in which they live, their demeanor soft-spoken and quaint. Their clothing is simple, homespun cotton or linen worn in fashions that haven't been seen in the Heartlands for decades. The men are bearded and the women wear bonnets, and all of them regard the black lacquered carriages with narrow-eyed suspicion.

  These are simple folk, farmers and lumber harvesters, and they live in simple dwellings of mud brick and raw timber. They are far removed from the affairs of mages and bureaucrats, carving out an existence on the very fringes of society.

  This is a completely different world, I think to myself in amazement as I walk.

  The road leads us past townsfolk toiling in their fields, over an arching wooden bridge, and eventually slopes upward to snake around the more densely populated hillside. I glance at a group of barefoot children who look up at us with wonder. They whisper excitedly to each other, pointing at the carriages as they pass.

  Regarding the children nonchalantly, I touch the crystal talisman around my neck and pull in a touch of source energy, then use my other hand to throw a burst of blue flames into the sky.

  The children jump in surprise, huge grins splitting their adorable little faces. They immediately begin cheering and exclaiming, elated by my simple display of magic.

  I smile back, unable to maintain a serious, professional demeanor. Kids have always been a soft spot for me. Waving goodbye, I continue my long march up the hill, the carriages rolling relentlessly onward.

  It feels good to stretch my legs. After being cooped up in that tiny box, the uphill climb is a welcome change. The warmth of the sunlight on my skin reminds me of summer days spent as a child on the shores of Loch Morloch, dipping my toes in the icy cold water.

  Eventually the caravan pulls to a stop in front of a beautiful manor at the top of the hill, the first modern-looking building I have seen since arriving in the Emberwood. There is a delegation of people waiting outside, wearing what I suppose to be their finest apparel and standing at respectful attention.

  This must be the governor and his fellow administrators.

  Breathing heavily from my climb, I step up to where the other mages are disembarking and brush loose strands of hair out of my face.

  It is windy up here on the hilltop, and as my fellow mages exit their carriages I can see their robes whipping around them. Despite the late summer weather, the wind is actually quite chilly up here.

  We all gather around Arch-magister Tyrande, eleven mages and a few armored soldiers, forming a semicircle and doing our best to look impressive. That was one of the things Elva had impressed upon us. First impressions can mean everything when it comes to diplomacy.

  A rotund man with a bald head steps forward. He is dressed in fine clothing, with an expertly embroidered coat that bulges around his midsection, threatening to pop the hand-carved ivory buttons running down the front.

  That's probably the governor, I think to myself, observing from my place at Elva's side.

  "Arch-magister," he says over the wind, bowing his shining head in deference. "Welcome to Forest Hill." Judging by his accent, it seems that he is from Tarsys. His silky voice sounds cultured and refined. "We are so very grateful that you have chosen to visit our home."

  Elva looks at him imperiously and extends her hand, which he proceeds to kiss reverently.

  Lifting his head up to regard her, he shuffles back to a respectful distance and continues. "I am Governor Timothy Prior, Lord Regent of the province of Emberwood. These," he says, gesturing to the people gathered behind him, "are my closest as
sociates and colleagues. We would like to formally invite you and your fellow mages to sample our hospitality. Our home and hearth are yours."

  Elva gazes on at the group and then nods after a brief pause. "Thank you, Governor Prior," she states with courtly elegance. "We are honored by your generosity. This is a beautiful part of the country, and we accept your invitation wholeheartedly."

  Governor Prior bobs his head, beaming.

  There is an awkward silence, which Elva breaks by clearing her throat. "Shall we go inside to discuss the purpose of our coming here?"

  "Yes, yes of course," Governor Prior says, his face growing bright red. Turning, he gestures at the group and they spring into action, opening the front door and approaching the drivers to help move our things into the house.

  As I follow the mages in, I steal several glances at the governor's people, trying to absorb as much information about them as I can. There are a few servants among them, and they are the ones doing most of the heavy lifting, with a few advisor-looking people thrown in the mix. Two individuals stand out from the rest, though. They watch us from the side without moving to help us in any way.

  The first one is tall and broad shouldered, with a square jaw and salt and pepper hair that has been cropped short. Stubble covers his weathered features in a way that makes him look decidedly rugged.

  The second one is a little shorter and much younger than the first, with a tousled mess of brown hair atop his head. He looks as if he is trying a little too hard to mirror the man standing next to him, but isn't doing a very good job of it. He is lean and lanky, with a sturdy jaw and dark, forest green eyes. If he didn't look so dour, I would even say he looks handsome, in a quaint, boyish sort of way.

  Both of them are armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, as well as an assortment of weapons on their belts. What catches my attention, however, are the grey-green cloaks that both of them are wearing, which seem to blend in with the woods around us.

  Those must be rangers, I think, tearing my eyes away as I enter the house. They look much more... human than the stories make them seem.