Ranger's Oath

by Blake Arthur Peel

  That boy's testimony had stuck with me for some reason, igniting my curiosity like a match in the darkness. He seemed so earnest, like he truly believed that he had seen a demon.

  He did not deserve to be mocked the way he was.

  I feel a twinge of guilt as I turn the page, empathizing for a moment with the haunted-looking ranger's apprentice. I should have said something, I think to myself glumly. I should have stood up for him in some way.

  Shaking my head at the thought, I touch my talisman and channel more source energy in order to make the magefyre brighter. Intervening during the interrogation would have been very stupid. It would have turned the entire group of mages against me, and likely have drawn the ire of the Arch-magister herself.

  You can't be raised to full mage if you go against the will of the Conclave, Zara.

  The chapter before me describes the different species of demons that had been identified in ancient times, with detailed information about their appearances, temperament and abilities. It amazes me just how diverse and terrifying the R'Laar armada was, the garish illustrations of demons leering up at me from the book and causing my imagination to run wild.

  I scan the pages for anything matching the description the boy had given during his testimony. The one constant among the demons are the fiery red eyes. Other than that, they all vary wildly in appearance. Some are gargantuan horned monsters wreathed in flame and bedecked with heavy armor. Others are spindly beasts with wings and barbed tails. Page after page depicts a different monstrosity that looks as if it had come straight out of a nightmare, but none of them match the description I am looking for.

  Then, when I am about to give up and close the book, an image catches my eye and my breath catches in my throat.

  I turn back and see a picture of a beast that looks lupine in nature. Its fur is sleek and black, and it has the long snout of a wolf, complete with jagged and uneven teeth. The most striking feature of all, however, are the blade-like claws adorning each of its four feet. Underneath the image is a brief description:

  Genus: Shadowling

  Species: Darkhound

  My eyes glance over to the full description on the opposite page, and I read the words aloud as I decipher the ancient script. "Of all the predators used by the R'Laar, the Darkhound is widely believed to be the fiercest. The greater demons often kept them as pets and used them to run down refugees fleeing before the main army. With keen senses and otherworldly strength, the Darkhound is an apex hunter, and will often kill just for the sake of killing, for the thrill of the hunt. Despite their great size, they blend incredibly well with shadows. During the Doom, the R'Laar would send forth their Darkhounds as scouts eliminate human sentries and make the way clear for their armies to advance."

  Beneath that paragraph there is a smaller description written in a hastily scrawled hand. I read on as a shiver runs down my spine. "Though Shadowlings are considered by historians to be the lesser of the demonic races, the Darkhound displays an intelligence that sets it apart from its more bestial cousins. The Light should be praised that man no longer need fear this terrible monstrosity."

  A knock at my door causes me to jump, and I let out a pathetic-sounding squeak. Closing the book with a snap, I shove it under my pillow and ask for them to enter.

  Torrie, the mousy mage who has been kinder to me than most, pokes her head into the room. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I did not mean to frighten you, child. I just wanted to let you know that supper is being served downstairs in the kitchen."

  I give her a wan smile. "Thank you, Magus. I will be down shortly."

  She nods and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone once more in my bedroom.

  Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath and exhale through my nose. Coming on this trip has certainly made me much jumpier. I glance over at my pillow and cannot help but shiver again. That creature, that darkhound, seems awfully similar to what the boy Owyn had described earlier today. Could it be that his words were true?

  Troubled by the thought, I hop off my bed and make my way to the door, letting my little ball of magefyre dissipate behind me.

  The wooden stairs creak beneath my footsteps as I descend to the first floor, using the smells of cooked meats and freshly-baked bread to guide me to the kitchen. When I arrive, I find that the room is completely is full. Mages, servants and the governor's family all gather around the tables of food, chatting and eating, reminding me of every awkward party I have ever attended in my life.

  Looking down, I also realize that I have come to the gathering a little underdressed.

  Everyone seems to be wearing their finest apparel, the mages in their traditional robes and the others in neatly pressed tunics and dresses. My comfortable night clothes, both shapeless and unflatteringly plain, make me feel like a fish out of water as I timidly walk into the wide room.

  Luckily, nobody seems to notice my presence, and I decide to use that fact to my advantage. To the mages I am a lowly initiate, no more than a child in their eyes. To the servants and the governor's family I am part of the magical delegation, and thus above reproach.

  This puts my mind at ease as I approach one of the tables and pick up a plate. Nobody says a word as I fill it with beef, potatoes, bread, and more sweets than have ever been available to me at the Academy.

  Once finished, I gaze hungrily down at the mountain of food piled on my plate.

  Not wanting to engage in any conversation, I quickly exit the kitchen and begin making my way back up the stairs to my room. As I walk through the hall, however, I see light shining through a door that stands ajar. Peeking inside, I catch a glimpse of Arch-magister Tyrande sitting behind a desk, looking intently down at something.

  Against my better judgment, I set my dinner down on an empty shelf and knock gently on the door frame.

  "Enter," Elva answers tersely.

  I slip inside and close the door behind me.

  "Good evening, Elva," I say, giving her a slight curtsey.

  She looks up from a sheaf of papers, eyes slightly narrowing in annoyance. "Good evening, Zara. Are you on your way to dinner?" Though her words are cordial, I can sense a layer of ice beneath them. Then, she seems to notice the clothes that I am wearing, and her lips draw into a thin, disapproving line.

  I try not to let my discomfort show. "I’m actually going back up to my room. However, I wanted to ask you a question – if you have a moment."

  Elva sighs and sets down her papers, leaning back in her chair. "Of course," she replies, her annoyance becoming even more apparent.

  "Why did you tell that boy to never mention the demon he saw in the woods? I understand that we do not want to incite a panic among the general population – that would be terrible – but what if he was telling the truth? What if he really did see a demon on this side of the Arc? Wouldn't it be wise for us to at least investigate the situation further before we pass judgment on him?"

  The words, spoken slowly at first, end up coming out in a breathless rush. I wince, feeling my cheeks redden, and silently curse myself for even coming in here in the first place. Light, I'm making it seem like I think she was wrong.

  Elva regards me for a long minute in silence, which causes me to squirm even more. Then, thankfully, she begins speaking, her voice measured but surprisingly patient.

  "Your interest in this matter is surprising to me, initiate, though I suppose that it is not unwarranted. I did, after all, choose to bring you along on this mission because of your inquisitive nature. That being said, it is important for you to understand that the Arc of Radiance is the greatest magical achievement that has ever been built by mortal hands."

  I give her a confused look. "Magus?"

  "The Arc," she says, speaking slowly like one would speak to an ignorant child, "is perfect. There is no artifice that exists in Tarsynium today that even comes close to being its equal. Additionally, the energy output by the Heart of Light is constantly being monitored by the best and brightest mages in the Conc
lave. If a demon managed to get through the Arc, we would know immediately, I assure you."

  I can feel my cheeks begin to flush, and her expression softens somewhat. "There is still much that you do not understand about this world, Zara. And that ranger boy is no different. Imagine the horrors he has been subject to over the past few days. Isn't it more likely that the monster he claimed to see was conjured up by his own imagination?"

  Then how did he manage to perfectly describe the shadowling in my book? I do not voice the thought, merely nod and say, "Yes, Magus."

  "Call me Elva, dear," she urges gently, compassion softening the hard edges of her voice. "Please, let us put this unpleasant matter behind us. You would be better served focusing your efforts elsewhere. Try learning what you can from the other mages here with us. Every single one of them is extremely talented, and may be receptive to teaching you if you make the effort."

  "Of course, Elva. Thank you for listening."

  Placated, she leans forward and picks her papers back up. "Questions are never bad, child. Only the ones that you have to ask twice."

  I say goodbye and close the door behind me, almost forgetting to pick up my plate of food before heading upstairs.

  Once inside my room, I summon another globe of magefyre to give me light as I begin eating, sitting quietly on my bed as I sort through my jumbled thoughts.

  Demons and conspiracies prevent me from enjoying the meal that I had been so excited to eat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Owyn

  I wake up to the sounds of fighting.

  Metal clashes against metal, and cries of alarm carry up to my room from outside, shaking me from the depths of sleep and forcing me to suddenly awake.

  My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright, bleary eyes adjusting to the torchlight filtering in through my bedroom window. Muffled shouts and curses rise from the first floor, and judging by the darkness that surrounds me, I guess that dawn is still several hours away.

  A pounding at my door shakes me from my sleepy stupor, and I half jump, half fall out of the bed, grabbing for my hatchet on my bedside table. I hold it warily in front of me, creeping up to the door.

  Cautiously undoing the latch, I open the door a crack and peek into the hall.

  Elias stands in the shadowed hallway like a phantom, wearing his ranger cloak and brandishing his long belt knife. He glances at my shirtless body, then barks at me to get moving. "The inn is under attack," he bellows urgently. "Get dressed. Now!"

  I spring into action, all sleepiness leaving me in an instant. Rummaging through my clothes, I pull a shirt over my head then begin lacing up my boots, fingers fumbling in the dark. As I listen to the shouting coming from outside and below, I can't help but wonder what in the Hells is going on.

  Who is attacking the inn? I think to myself, pulling on my other boot. Is it the same people who destroyed Haven?

  Could they be coming after me?

  Throwing my cloak around my shoulders, I go out into the hall and follow Elias down the stairs. In the common room we find the innkeeper, James Ellis, standing nervously by the bar, a frying pan clutched in his meaty hands. A handful of farmers, rough men with suntanned skin, are in the process of overturning tables, apparently trying to barricade the door and windows.

  "What's going on?" Elias asks harshly, striding up to one of the windows and peaking outside. Over his shoulder, I can see movement on the road in front of the inn.

  "I don't know, Ranger Keen," James replies, voice quavering. He looks pale and shaken, as if he is on the verge of fainting. "One of the lads who helps me tend the bar came in from taking a piss with an arrow sticking in his gut. He said something about strange folk before collapsing on the floor."

  That's when I notice the blood smeared on the floorboards near the entryway.

  "Whoever they are, they shoot at anyone who goes outside," he explains. "And it looks like now they are trying to force their way in!"

  Just then, one of the glass windows shatters, a fist-sized rock thudding noisily into the common room. A second later, one of the farmers cries out in pain, falling to his knees and clutching his shoulder where the feathered shaft of an arrow is sticking out.

  "Stay away from the windows!" Elias orders, sheathing his belt knife and unslinging his bow from his shoulder. "Keep focused on barricading the doors!" He turns to James and lowers his voice. "Make sure nobody gets in through the back."

  The innkeeper nods and scampers off, keeping his head down as more arrows fly in through the window.

  I silently berate myself for not coming downstairs more prepared. My own bow is up in my bedroom, unstrung and useless, so I decide to make myself useful by helping a burly man with a mustache push a table up in front of the front door, preventing anyone from getting in.

  Elias moves with the speed of a viper and crouches beneath the windowsill, pulling out an arrow and knocking it with one fluid motion. He pauses for a brief moment before standing up, then quickly draws, sights, and looses before crouching back down.

  There is a sound like an arrow striking flesh – though, oddly, it is not accompanied by a cry of pain.

  Did he miss and accidently shoot a corpse?

  "Arm yourselves with anything you can find," he says to the handful of farmers hiding behind cover in the common room. "It looks like they have some sort of battering ram. Prepare for a fight."

  Grumbling and cursing, the folk from Forest Hill, more accustomed to using a plow than a sword, begin searching for anything they can use as a weapon. Cutlery from the kitchen, a broken leg from a chair, I even see one man arm himself with a partially-broken bottle.

  As they shuffle around the common room, I can hear a loud crashing sound coming from the front door. It sounds like someone is taking a battering ram to it, hitting it hard with a bang... bang... bang.

  Every so often, Elias pops up from his cover and fires off an arrow, though none of his shots elicit screams of pain.

  I grip the handle of my hatchet tightly, waiting behind an upturned table not far from the door. I can see long cracks starting to form in the wood with each successive bang.

  It will not hold for much longer.

  Cold sweat begins to gather on my forehead as butterflies dance in my stomach. This is what I have been training for, I tell myself, even as doubts whisper in the back of my mind: Hitting practice dummies is one thing... using my hatchet to hurt another person is something else entirely. Do you have what it takes to kill, apprentice?

  The farmers, five in total, begin to gather around me, their makeshift weapons in hand as the door begins to buckle.

  Elias sets down his bow and draws his belt knife, coming to stand with the rest of us.

  "Spread out when the door comes down," he growls. "I don't want any of us getting hurt by accident. Choose your target and take them down. Then move on to the next one."

  Time seems to stand still for a moment as I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. To my right and left the farmers, who had just come to the inn to relax after a long day's work, look just as nervous as I do. Some of them are muttering silent prayers while others are drenched in nervous sweat.

  These are no warriors. This is going to be a slaughter.

  As the door bursts open, time speeds up. Splinters shower the floor, and wavering torchlight floods the common room. We hear the shouts of many men on the other side.

  "Spread out!" Elias shouts, brandishing his knife. "Hold your ground! Do not let them past the threshold!"

  I suck in a breath as the first of the attackers rush inside. They come one, two, then three at a time, clamoring over the broken door and scrambling towards us like a horde of blade-wielding shadows.

  They all wear midnight-colored cloaks that cover banded armor of leather and mail, and they charge at us with reckless abandon, carrying swords, clubs, and axes. What's worse, each of the mysterious warriors looks as if they know how to use the weapons.

  A man wielding a wide sword that looks like a meat cl
eaver rushes at Elias, his blade raised high. He slashes down with a vicious chop, but Elias is able to sidestep easily. As the man's attack swishes past him, he lashes out with his knife, slicing the man across the throat and sending him tumbling to the ground. He then moves on coolly to his next opponent, blood dripping from his blade.

  A heavy-shouldered brute wearing a leather cap runs his sword through the farmer to my right, and two of the farmers to my left gang up on a man carrying club that has been punctured by several nails, pushing him back on his heels.

  I brace myself as one of the attackers spots me and begins running towards me, a longsword gripped in both of his hands.

  Raising my hatchet to defend, I stand with my feet shoulder-width apart and wait for the attacks to come. As he draws near I get a good look at his face, and again time seems to stand still. He is unshaven and wild-looking, with long greasy hair framing his face in tangled locks. His eyes, strangely glassy, lock onto mine as he charges, filling me with fear. Those are not the eyes of a man in control.

  Those are the eyes of a madman.

  I duck as he takes a swing at me with his sword, the gleaming blade whistling as it passes over my head. I quickly spot an opening as his twisting motion throws him off-balance, and I instinctively move in to exploit it. Using my hatchet like a hammer, I strike him above the knee and feel the blade bite deeply into his leg.

  He doesn’t react to the pain. Instead, he kicks at me, pushing away and spraying me with warm blood as I yank the hatchet from his flesh. He looks down at the wound, then back up at me, his face a grim, blank mask.

  The wound doesn’t even seem to impede his movements.

  Lifting his sword, he comes at me again, this time more slowly because of his leg, swinging like a lumberjack felling a tree.

  I jump backward, the blade narrowly missing my chest. All around me there are sounds of combat and people screaming, however I am too engrossed in my own fight to pay too close attention to my allies.

  The man swipes again, then tries to stab me with a clumsy thrust. I manage to bat his sword away with the flat of my hatchet and then rush in, grabbing the collar of his leather armor and yanking downward as hard as I can.