Ranger's Oath

by Blake Arthur Peel

  His wounded leg buckles under the pressure and he goes down, landing hard on his knees. I raise my hatchet high for the killing blow, then bring it down in one swift motion.

  The last thing I see before burying my axe in his neck are those wild, battle-crazed eyes staring up at me, reminding me of a rabid animal as it waits to be put down. Something strange swirls in those eyes, like a milky film of some kind. His body goes rigid as I strike him, and then he limply slides to the floor.

  Grunting, I pull my father's hatchet from the man's neck, my ears ringing loudly in my skull. I feel sick, nausea twisting my stomach, and it seems like my chest has constricted, making it hard to breathe.

  I have just killed somebody, I think, horrified. His life is over because of me. Deep down, I know that I was merely defending myself – that it was done in self-defense. But the thought of having killed a living, breathing soul still clings to my soul like hot tar. His blood is on my hands.

  More attackers come in through the shattered doorway, and I do not have the luxury of mourning over the man I had just killed. Elias and the others are still engaged and on the verge of being overwhelmed.

  I realize that must intervene or they will all die.

  Seeing a gnarled old farmer fighting with a man with a mace, I come in from the side and hack at his exposed flank. He lets out a gasp, and the farmer manages to crack him over the head with his crude cudgel.

  Nodding at the old man, I turn just as an attacker with two daggers tries to stab me. I let out a shout of alarm and barely manage to block his attack with the shaft of my hatchet.

  He begins to press me, stabbing and slicing with such speed that I can hardly keep up. A brief look at his face shows me the same wild eyes that I had seen in the man with the sword. Are we fighting a coven of madmen, or something?

  I dodge, weaving and trying desperately to avoid being shredded by the man's wicked-looking knives, but I slip on something wet and one of his daggers slices me across the arm.

  White hot pain lances up to my shoulder and I gasp, throwing myself out of my attacker's reach so that I can regain my balance. It feels like the cut went down to the bone. Raising my hatchet in the other hand, I wait feebly for him to approach.

  He grins wickedly as he comes after me, his narrow face twisting into a snarl. He locks his blade against my hatchet and lifts his other knife for the killing blow.

  This is it, I think to myself, squeezing my eyes shut. This is how I die.

  But death doesn't come. I feel the tension on my locked weapon ease slightly, and I open one eye to investigate. The man's expression has turned into one of shock as the point of a knife sticks through his chest, puncturing his leather armor.

  His body slumps forward, and I see Elias standing behind him, pulling his knife free from his back.

  He gives me a quick nod, then turns around to jump back into the fight.

  I look around me, feeling numb, and take in the blood-soaked carnage of the inn's common room. Four of the six farmers are down, as well as about a dozen of the men in black. Their bodies litter the floor like passed out drunks, lying still as statues. Elias and the last two farmers are badly outnumbered, and still more of the men are pouring through the doorway, weapons in hand.

  "It's impossible," I find myself muttering, my hatchet hanging loosely from my nerveless fingers. "We cannot win."

  Another one of the farmers goes down, his head cleaved cleanly from forehead to chin by a battle-axe.

  Elias and the last remaining farmer fall back to my position, bloodied and breathing heavily from exertion. We watch as dozens of the mad-eyed attackers move toward us, eager expressions on their unkempt faces.

  "We are the watchers in the woods, the arrows in the darkness," Elias says quietly, quoting from the Ranger's Oath. "None shall pass by while we stand guard." He glances at me and gives me a solemn smile, bringing his knife up in a fighting position. "Until my dying breath."

  Just as the horde of wild men begins falling upon us, a blazing beam of azure light bursts through the doorway and the broken windows, bathing us all in its glow. The men all stumble and momentarily cease their attack, looking over their shoulders and trying to discern the source of the light.

  Then, they begin bursting into fire.

  One by one, blue flames erupt on the men in black, engulfing them as if they had been doused in oil. Within seconds, all of them are alight like human torches, their skin sizzling and popping though none of the men react to the pain in any way. Some try vainly to turn and strike out against the light with their swords, but all of them are sent sprawling back by unseen blasts of energy.

  It isn't long before the unstoppable army of mysterious warriors is reduced to ash and we are left alone, standing stunned in the middle of the ruined common room.

  When the light fades, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

  Then I blink, instantly recognizing men and women standing in the entryway of the inn. All of them wear blue robes and hold balls of magefyre in their hands.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zara

  "Nightingales attacked the inn?"

  Elva nods, gesturing soberly to a line of bodies laid out on the grass outside of the long wooden building. It is a grisly sight, but I force myself to look at them, to take in the scene and analyze it without emotion.

  That's what it means to be a true mage.

  I had awoken this morning to a great commotion, the entire town seemingly turned on its head. The governor and his staff were frantically trying to uncover the details of what had happened at the inn last night, and the mages were doing what they could to take control of the situation and calm everyone down.

  Apparently, from what I was able to glean from the bits of conversation I managed to overhear, a large group of men in black cloaks attacked the inn where the two rangers were staying, killing several patrons in the process. Luckily, a group of mages heard what was going on and managed to intervene, saving the rangers and a few others.

  None of the attackers had survived.

  Most of their bodies had been reduced to ash by the magefyre, but those who had fallen before the mages arrived have been laid outside for proper examination.

  As Elva and I walk down the hill toward the inn, she fills me in on the rest of the details.

  "It is fortunate that we arrived when we did," she says as we walk. "It appears that the Emberwood has a full rebellion on its hands. Who knows what would have happened if we were not here to help them."

  I am still completely flabbergasted by the whole situation. A rebellion? Here? I have heard of riots breaking out in Tarsys and some of the more populous areas of the kingdom, but they were few and far between. Why start a rebellion here, on the very borders of society? This area is, after all, widely considered to be one of the most peaceful parts of Tarsynium.

  As we approach the dead bodies I can feel my stomach begin to writhe. Dead things have always made me feel queasy, especially when those things are human. Anatomy lessons at the Academy scarred me when I was fifteen, the cadavers haunting my dreams even to this day.

  Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and follow Elva to the first corpse in the row.

  It is a bearded man with long tangled hair, lying prone on his back with his arms by his sides. There is a horrendous wound in the side of his neck, and his eyes stare sightlessly up at the morning sky.

  "There," Elva says, gesturing to an insignia sewn into the fabric of his black cloak. It is the stylized depiction of a small bird, its beak open and its wings spread wide in the image of flight.

  A Nightingale.

  "These men are scouts of the Nightingale expeditionary force," she explains, folding her arms behind her perfectly straight back. "Our reports tell us that their purpose is to come down from the mountains to scout out our defenses and establish base camps. Why they are here at all is still subject to debate."

  Grimacing, I gaze down the row of bodies. Every single one of them has the same insignia se
wn onto their cloaks. "I'm curious about why they even attacked the inn at all," I say, looking back at the Arch-magister. "Aren't scouts typically non-combatants? Besides, I would think that the governor's manor would have presented a better target."

  Elva gives me a curt nod. "My thoughts exactly. The circumstances of this attack are... strange, to say the least." She glances over to the inn, where people are gathered both inside and outside the common room. "My guess is that it has something to do with those rangers. They are currently the only two occupants staying at the inn."

  I follow her gaze and see that the tall one, Elias, is talking to a weeping woman standing next to a group of forlorn-looking children. I had forgotten that the Nightingales were not the only ones who suffered casualties last night.

  "I have some matters that require my attention," she continues, her tone sounding completely neutral. "Your lessons are canceled for the morning. Take some time here. Learn what you can. If you uncover anything noteworthy, seek me out at the governor's house."

  She takes her leave, disappearing up the road and leaving me standing alone in the middle of the field.

  I shudder, turning my back on the corpses as I begin making my way toward the inn. There are strange things happening in the Emberwood, and I want to get to the bottom of it.

  And that ranger's apprentice seems to be at the center of it all.

  Elias shakes his head sadly as the weeping woman shepherds her children away from the inn, telling them through her tears that everything is going to be alright. As I approach, he turns his slate grey eyes on me, lips drawn in a tight grimace on his scruffy face.

  "Magus," he says dryly, nodding his head as I step up to the threshold.

  "I am not yet a full mage," I correct gently. "I am just an initiate. My name is Zara Dennel."

  He blinks but does not immediately respond, his face an emotionless mask. Then, after eying me for a moment, he asks, "What can I help you with, Miss Dennel?"

  I clear my throat. "I was wondering if I might have a moment to speak with your apprentice, Owyn? I'd like to ask him some questions about what transpired last night."

  His expression darkens as he regards me, shifting slightly to stand in front of the broken door of the inn. In that moment, he reminds me of a wolf protecting its cubs. "I do not think that is a good idea," he growls, further emphasizing his wolfish appearance. "The attack is still fresh in all of our minds, and the dead have yet to be buried. Surely your questions can wait until tomorrow."

  "Please," I insist, gently but firmly. "I do not wish to trouble him. But I feel that the insight he can offer may prove invaluable to our investigation."

  Elias simply stares at me. He does not look swayed.

  "I only wish to speak with him," I press, trying not to waver before that gaze, "and I promise to be kind. Sometimes it helps to talk with somebody after a tragedy. It helps with the coping process."

  This seems to have an effect on the grizzled ranger, as he appears to consider my words. Finally, he concedes, though he does not look particularly happy about it. "Five minutes," he says curtly, stepping out of the way. "But know that I will be watching you."

  "Thank you," I say, stepping past him and through the shattered door frame. As my eyes adjust to the gloom inside, I behold a truly depressing sight.

  The common room has been torn to pieces, with splinters of wood, broken furniture, and shards of glass scattered everywhere. Many sticky puddles of blood cover the floorboards, as well as greasy black stains from the magefyre, and in the middle of the room I see five still forms laying on the floor, their bodies draped with white sheets.

  Several people are picking through the wreckage, including the mournful innkeeper, trying to clean up after what had apparently been a terrible fight.

  I spot the apprentice in the far corner of the room, sitting down on a low stool while a portly woman leans over him, doing something to his arm. Picking my way through the scene carefully, I make my way to their position.

  Upon arriving, I notice that she is stitching up a nasty-looking gash on his left arm, threading a needle through his skin with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to needlework.

  And I see that he is shirtless.

  I quickly look away, examining my shoes with feigned interest, but not before I notice his lean figure and muscled stomach. "I'm sorry," I say, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. "I did not mean to intrude."

  "That's quite alright, dear," the woman says, pulling the string tight on the wound. This causes Owyn to grunt in pain. "We are just about done here."

  I watch as she produces a tiny pair of scissors and snips the thread. "Remember to keep that cut dry and clean," she lectures sternly while putting away her instruments with bloodstained fingers. "We would not want it getting infected now, would we?"

  "No," Owyn replies through gritted teeth. "Thank you, Mrs. Ellis."

  "You're very welcome dear." She tucks her sewing kit beneath her arm as she backs away from him, allowing him to grab his shirt from off the bar. "In truth I should be thanking you for helping fight off those horrible men. The damage can be repaired, but we would have lost much more if you had not intervened."

  With that she gives us both a warm smile and walks away, leaving us relatively alone in the quiet corner of the common room.

  Owyn puts on his shirt, wincing as he tenderly feeds his arm through the sleeve. He looks up at me with tired green eyes, his face drawn and pale. "You're the mage that was sitting in on my interrogation," he observes wearily.

  "Yes, though I am not a full mage," I reply softly, suddenly feeling very awkward. "My name is Zara Dennel."

  "Hello, Zara," he says, offering a forced smile. "I'm Owyn."

  His teeth are white against his suntanned skin, and I can't help but notice the bulging muscles of shoulders and arms. I can feel my cheeks growing even hotter. This is not one of the scrawny mages of the Academy.

  This boy is attractive.

  "I... uh, have a few questions I wanted to ask you," I say, trying to find the right words to say. Light, I sound like a complete idiot.

  He nods, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks at me expectantly, waiting.

  "I was wondering about that story you told my colleagues," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. "About the creature you saw. Do you really think that it was a demon?"

  Owyn blows out a breath, sounding exasperated. "Not this again," he mutters under his breath. "Listen, I don't want to talk about it, okay? Your friends made it abundantly clear that I was not in my right mind. What I saw that day was clearly a trick of the light, or a just bear or something. I was wrong."

  I make a placating gesture with my hand. "No, no, you misunderstand me," I say, taking a step forward and lowering my voice. "Those mages treated you unfairly, and I'm sorry about that. But I am honestly interested in what you saw in the forest."

  He narrows his eyes at me, probably considering whether or not he should believe me.

  "Look," I say, feeling a little frustrated myself, "I don't know why, but my heart tells me that there is more to this story than what we are seeing on the surface. I have reason to believe that maybe you did see a demon. And if you did, I want to know exactly what it looked like so that we can have a better idea of what we are dealing with here."

  His eyes widen at my little outburst, but they quickly go back to looking suspicious. "You said that you have reason to believe me. Why is that?"

  I let out a small sigh. "I have this old book that I... borrowed from the Academy in Tarsys. It is a book on demonology that was written just after the Doom of old Byhalya. The creature you described seems to resemble a type of demon called a darkhound."

  Owyn leans forward, suddenly alert and very interested in our conversation. "A darkhound? Are you sure?"

  "I think so," I say uncertainly. "It is a pretty ancient drawing. But that is why I want you to go into detail about what looked like, so I can be sure."

  "Give m
e a second," he says, closing his eyes and frowning. He appears to be concentrating on remembering what he saw. "It was big, and walked on all fours like a grizzly, or a cougar or something. Though its head resembled that of a great wolf. It was black, and it had really long claws that reminded me of pruning shears, or scythes. And its eyes... they glowed red like burning coals." He opens his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. "That's all I remember."

  My stomach starts to feel sick again. His description matches the book perfectly. “That’s... interesting,” I mutter, my mind starting to race.

  A grim silence passes between us, the noise from the others in the common room filling the void. Then, a new thought crosses my mind.

  "Was there anything unusual about what happened last night?" I ask, trying to connect all the dots.

  "Unusual?" Owyn asks incredulously. "You mean, beside the fact that we were attacked by Nightingales?"

  "Yes," I reply seriously. "Is there anything that stood out to you?"

  His frown returns, transforming his face into a look of concentration. "It all happened so fast," he murmurs. "One moment I was asleep in my bed, the next we were being assaulted. They broke down the door and poured in. We shouldn’t have stood a chance." He looks up at me, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red. "If those mages hadn't have come to save us, we would all be dead."

  I decide to give him a minute. He is obviously working through something difficult inside of him. Then he perks up, as though he just remembered a new detail. "There was something," he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Something strange about the men who attacked us. They all had a glassy look in their eyes, like their pupils has been covered in a film. They behaved like wild animals, completely oblivious to pain or death."

  He shivers visibly, though by this point I barely notice. "Was it a milky color in their eyes," I ask, unable to keep the urgency out of my voice. "The way a blind person's look?"