The Ranger's Sorrow: The King's Ranger Book 4 Page 3

  There was a curse, and a hurried discussion, then the other side of the door went quiet except for the clank and shuffle of steel as the soldiers tried to get comfortable in the narrow, spiral stairwell. Evidently, they were going to wait right there while the arcanist fetched the prince.

  Rew looked to Anne and Cinda, but the empath stayed focused, and the noblewoman hadn’t regained consciousness. It was hard to tell if her condition was improving or not, but her chest rose and fell with breath. She still lived.

  On the mantle above the arcanist’s fireplace there was a mechanical clock, and it ticked through the minutes with gleeful viciousness. Rew didn’t know how many soldiers might be crowding the stairs below, but it was enough. He peeked out a window. The tower was four stories above any of the rooftops below. He figured he and Zaine might be able to make the climb, if it wasn’t for his wounded shoulder. If they tied together some linens perhaps the others… He looked at Cinda and sighed. Trying to climb down was likely to kill the lass, and it might get the rest of them killed as well if the soldiers had bothered to station someone to watch the outside of the tower.

  They could split up, but what good would that do them? If Calb learned who Cinda was and what she was capable of, the adventure was over. The prince might attempt to use her, kill her, or gift her to the king along with warnings of what his brothers were attempting. Rew didn’t like the odds of a rescue in any scenario. If they were going to face capture, it was best to do it together and hope to the Mother an opportunity would arise.

  Rew waited impatiently. The guards might not know who they were, but they weren’t going to let the party walk out peacefully no matter what Rew told them. They’d killed Kallie, a soldier, and a pair of Calb’s imps. There wasn’t an explanation for all of that which anyone was going to believe. Attempting to fight their way out would be worse. He could only guess how many of Calb’s men were packed into the stairwell, but by the time he got through them the rest of the army and the prince’s spellcasters would have had time to arrive. Even uninjured, it was an impossible idea.

  He paced the room, his mind racing. The fact was they were trapped and there was no way out of it. He tried rolling his shoulder and then stopped. King’s Sake, he would have trouble feeding himself supper, much less effecting an escape from an isolated tower while Calb’s entire army surrounded it. All they could do was wait and hope that when Calb found them, he’d make a mistake and give them an opening.

  While Rew paced, Anne knelt beside Cinda, and Raif crouched next to them, his greatsword at his side, his face stone-still. Zaine moved from window to window, peering down fruitlessly, mumbling under her breath, evidently trying to calculate the odds of survival if they hit a rooftop at an angle or if they could somehow fashion a swing from the arcanist’s bedsheets. Periodically, she would glance at Cinda and change course to begin muttering about some new, even more outlandish plan.

  Then, the thief let out a startled shriek and stumbled backward.

  Rew spun. Sitting on one of the narrow windowsills was a small imp, no taller than the ranger’s knee. The tips of its stubby wings poked above its back, and when it saw him, the imp licked its teeth and chortled. “Rew. What are you doing here?”

  The ranger blinked back at the imp. Its voice was high-pitched and guttural, like breaking glass, but it was unmistakably the king’s tongue the imp was speaking. An imp that could talk? He swallowed. An imp that knew his name?

  It stretched, thin limbs extending, its pudgy belly jiggling with its mirth. Behind small, sharp teeth, it croaked, “You don’t recognize me?”

  “Calb?”

  The imp winked and then frowned. “Wait, what about this body makes you think of Prince Calb?”

  Shaking his head, Rew studied the imp nervously. “How are you doing this?”

  “I’ve been experimenting,” claimed the imp. Its fat head turned to survey the others in the room. The imp sniffed the air, eyeing Cinda and the blood pooled around her on the stretcher. “What happened to her?”

  “She had an accident.”

  “Her blood smells the same as Kallie Fedgley’s. Sisters?” The imp sniffed again.

  Rew struggled to move his right arm, bound in the makeshift sling, then gave up and rubbed the top of his head with his left hand.

  “You’re hiding something,” accused the imp. “You always do that when you’re hiding something.”

  “I do that when I’m thinking,” protested Rew, forcing his hand back down by his side.

  “Exactly,” declared the imp. “Why don’t you join me downstairs? We can talk, catch up. Face to face. Ha. Not this face, my real face. It’s been awhile, Rew. You can tell me I’ve gotten fat, and I’ll tell you that you’ve lost your hair.”

  “We, ah, we have to be leaving,” muttered Rew, recoiling at the casual words squeaking from the imp’s foul mouth. Its yellow eyes glittered, as if it knew the effect it was having on him.

  “Come now, let’s not pretend. We found Kallie Fedgley’s body. My soldiers saw you fight my imps—the bigger ones. There’s another body down at the bottom of this tower with an arrow in its neck. Surely you don’t think I’ll let you just walk away? I have more soldiers, and I can summon more imps, but I needed Kallie Fedgley. She… was going to tell me something. I have to know why you killed her. Why you came to Jabaan. Come downstairs and let’s talk like old times, Brother.”

  “Brother?” hissed Zaine.

  Ignoring her, Rew glanced at Anne.

  The empath, without looking up, stated, “I need at least two more hours.”

  Turning back to the imp, Rew said, “Two hours. You can give us that, can’t you? We’re not going anywhere, and after two hours, we’ll come and talk.”

  The imp, its large, gleaming eyes on Anne and Cinda, shrugged. Then, it sat down on the windowsill to wait.

  Scowling, Rew began rummaging around the arcanist’s rooms, looking for something to drink, trying to distract himself from the feel of the imp’s gaze on his every move.

  Two hours later, a veritable army of Prince Calb’s men marched them down from the arcanist’s tower. Rew noted as they went that it was largely armsmen who escorted them and not the spellcasters that clustered in the royal palaces like flies around offal. Had Calb committed all of his high magicians to the attack on Prince Valchon? Had they been lost, or were they merely exhausted? Rew had seen at least two of Calb’s conjurers alive, but he hoped he’d punched the one hard enough the man was going to need a few days recovering.

  The ranger had little time to consider the implications of the missing spellcasters. In moments, they were escorted to a bare-walled room beneath the base of the tower. It wasn’t exactly a dungeon, but it wasn’t exactly not a dungeon, either. It had no windows, for one, and the only door was a hand-width thick steel barrier that it took three guards to shove closed once they were inside. On the outside of the door, Rew had seen massive bolts that could be slid across to lock it and then a imposing portcullis which could be lowered from the ceiling. On the inside of the door, he saw evidence of the futility of trying to break out. Long, deep grooves had been clawed into the steel, presumably from imps who were unexcited about confinement in the depths of Calb’s keep.

  Prince Calb was there to greet them, along with two score armed guards and a pair of young-looking invokers. Rew smirked. So the prince had lost spellcasters during the assault on Valchon. If he had more talented high magicians available, he would have them with him. Even if they were too exhausted to cast, Calb would have wanted to make a show of it for Rew.

  Calb saw the ranger’s look and grimaced. He was a short, portly man, and his bald head gleamed in the light of the torches hanging from the walls. Rew glared at him. Calb had accused the ranger of losing his hair? The prince’s cheeks were bright red from years of drink and hours of the exertion he would have put into attacking Carff and then fleeing. He wore rich green velvet robes, signifying his talent as a conjurer. Like Valchon, he did not wear any other luxury ac
cessories his station and wealth could have bought him. Both princes, all of the royal family, did not care for visible expressions of power. They wanted power itself.

  “I use this chamber for experimentation,” remarked Calb, gesturing around the empty space. “It’s secure enough to keep even the angriest imp inside of it and will serve just as well as your home until I’m satisfied with the explanations you give. I’ll have some beds and chairs brought down.”

  “You’re too kind,” grumbled Rew.

  Calb tilted his head, studying the ranger. He asked, “Why are you here, Rew?”

  Rew did not answer, and Calb shrugged. He left without speaking, and his men filed out after him, swinging the giant steel door shut and locking it from the outside.

  For a moment, the crackling of the torches was the only sound. Then, Zaine asked, “What did he mean by brother?”

  “It’s complicated,” muttered Rew, turning away from where Zaine, Raif, and Anne were all looking at him curiously. “Very complicated.”

  Shaking himself, Raif began prowling around the edge of the room, looking at indentions and scars on the walls and peering up narrow shafts in the stone which must have been built for ventilation. The openings were covered with metal grates, but even if they weren’t, none were wide enough that a person could crawl up. Not even the small imp they’d seen in the tower would fit into the narrow chutes. The room was long, wide, and completely empty. The door was as sturdy as any Rew had seen, and all Rew had were his fists.

  Calb’s soldiers had searched them and removed their weapons before taking them from the arcanist’s chambers. There hadn’t been anything to do about it, except to fight, and he’d decided that was suicide. Maybe that would have been better than captivity.

  Down below the tower, there was an entire palace of stone surrounding them, now. Force wasn’t going to get them out, and Rew couldn’t think of a plan at the moment, so he decided to lay down and rest.

  “What are you doing?” asked Raif.

  “Taking a nap,” replied Rew. He could feel the boy staring at him, unsatisfied with his answer, so he added, “It’s been a long day, Raif, and if we do find a way out of this, the days will only get longer. Get some sleep while you can.”

  “Should we, ah, keep a watch?” wondered Zaine.

  “We’ll hear them opening that door, don’t you think?”

  With that, Rew rolled onto his good side, his injured shoulder throbbing in agony, and ignored the sounds of the others as they clustered by Anne. The empath checked them over, granting some small healing, then told them to rest.

  There was little she could do after putting so much energy into Cinda, but Rew didn’t ask for even that.

  Brother.

  They’d all heard it. His secrets were spilling out like ale from a tumped-over mug. Most of his secrets, that was. He still had a few. Rew still had his reasons to refuse Anne’s help.

  As he lay on the stone floor, he worried the pain in his shoulder would keep him awake, but he was wrong. Within minutes, he fell asleep, but true to his prediction, the clank and scrape of the steel door woke him when they arrived.

  Most of Prince Calb’s spellcasters might have perished, but it seemed he still had a pocketful of arcanists at his disposal. Ten of them came to visit, accompanied by four times as many guards and three imps, including the small one Calb had made his familiar. They all crowded into the room, and then the door was shut and locked behind them. Rew felt some satisfaction, that even visibly injured and unarmed, he still drew such caution, but his satisfaction was doing little to get them out of Calb’s basement, and it seemed the prince himself was avoiding them.

  The arcanists were led by a man who was slender and tall, and who spoke with a crisp lilt that sounded more of Iyre than Jabaan. Arcanists traveled in pursuit of knowledge and power, so that was little surprise, but Rew noted it all the same. Anything might help. And if they found nothing…

  “What happened to the lass?” asked the thin arcanist, peering down at Cinda.

  “She was stabbed.”

  “I know that,” muttered the man.

  Before the arcanist could add another comment, Rew retorted, “Then why did you ask?”

  The arcanist clasped his hands in front of his chest and remarked, “I see you are intent on making this difficult.”

  “You’ve locked us in a dungeon with no food, no chairs, and no beds. Not even a proper drink. This is uncivilized, which is to say it’s not us who is making it difficult. You want to talk, I understand, but let’s do it upstairs after we’ve eaten and had a dram to settle our nerves and lubricate our voices. We can explain everything, but not while we’re being treated like this.”

  “You know very well why the prince has sequestered you here,” snapped the arcanist. “You are dangerous. Dangerous to the prince and to his people. That’s why he’s locked you up, and you’ll stay locked up until we understand why you’re here. You want to leave, to feast and drink from the prince’s larder, then answer my questions.”

  “Dangerous to one of the most powerful spellcasters in Vaeldon?” scoffed Rew, peering around the arcanist at the silent form of Calb’s tiny imp familiar. “I hardly think that’s true.”

  The arcanist released a slow, frustrated breath. “I heard it from the prince, and if you’ll pardon me, I’ll trust his word and not yours.”

  Rew crossed his arms over his chest. “What else did he say? Did he tell you who I am?”

  “The King’s Ranger of the Eastern Territory, which begs the question, why are you here in the west?”

  Rew pursed his lips. So Calb hadn’t told his men everything. Was there a way to exploit that?

  Suddenly, one of the other arcanists stumbled backward. “Is-Is she a necromancer?”

  Rew turned and saw the man backing away from Cinda. The girl was still lying on her back, blinking her eyes sluggishly. In the torchlight, those eyes had a distinct green sheen. The ranger cursed to himself.

  “But we were told only one of the girls had a talent for necromancy,” babbled the lead arcanist. “She was… the one you killed! Kallie Fedgley. She was to meet with Calb and explain… But she wasn’t the necromancer. That one is!”

  Rew’s shoulder ached from where it’d been dislocated and then wrenched again. Cinda lay on her back, barely alive after being stabbed by her sister. Raif and Zaine were banged up and tired. Anne wasn’t much of a fighter in any circumstance. None of them had any weapons. The things Calb would want from them weren’t things they would be willing to give. In short, they had no good options, so it was time for some strategic recklessness.

  Rew glanced at the small imp that was standing at the back of the crowd. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, she’s the necromancer. Kallie Fledgley had no talent for it. Heindaw wanted the Fedgleys because he’s plotting against the king. He and Alsayer are working together, and they believe the lass has the power to overthrow Vaisius Morden. Valchon is working with Alsayer as well and knows all about it. Everyone knows about this but you, Calb.”

  The room was silent. Then, the arcanist cackled. “Plotting against the king? What kind of fool would plot against—“

  The rest of his statement was broken off when the imps in the room suddenly turned against the men, and all around Rew and the others, Calb’s soldiers and his summonings churned in a vicious, bloody brawl. With only three imps, including the small one, it could have been an even fight, but the men were unprepared, and half of them were dead before they realized what was happening. When they did figure the situation out, to their credit, they felled one of the larger imps, but it wasn’t enough, and in short time, they were all dead.

  The arcanist and four others were the sole survivors. Most of them cowered in the corner like frightened kittens, but the leader still stood in the middle of the room. He hadn’t moved at all during the fight. He was a tall man, though now his shoulders were hunched like he carried a great burden, and he trembled like a newly born bird. Was he braver
than the others, or simply too scared or stupid to have moved?

  His voice was plaintive and hesitant. He babbled, “But no one could face…”

  “I need to think,” declared the small imp, its thin, grating voice sharing Calb’s thoughts, interrupting the arcanist.

  The imp hopped up beside the arcanist for a moment, studying Rew and the others, then it turned and retreated to the wall. The terrified arcanist slowly followed it, cringing when the larger of the surviving imps turned to look at him.

  “I didn’t see that coming,” quipped Zaine in a low voice, watching the two imps as the small one sat against the wall and the larger one prowled in front of it. The arcanist collapsed a dozen paces down the wall from them, his face blank, his eyes glistening. The other esteemed scholars had mostly closed their eyes, and were whispering prayers to a goddess that moments before they would have scoffed at.

  Zaine stepped forward and toed one of the broadswords Calb’s men had dropped in the process of getting killed by the imps. She shot a glance at the arcanist and then raised an eyebrow toward Rew.

  The ranger nodded to the locked door and shrugged. Even armed, they weren’t getting out of there. He told Zaine, “I would rather have not shared that information, but it didn’t seem we were getting anywhere otherwise, did it? We should be quiet while the imp thinks.”

  The thief snorted, but the party fell silent, watching the imps and the arcanist. Rew considered laying back down to finish his nap, but he knew it would only be a show. The larger imp had been blooded, and while he guessed Calb’s control over his summonings was superb, one never knew. Just in case the conjurer decided the easiest way out of the potential predicament of learning about a plot against the king was to kill everyone involved, Rew stayed awake, watching the imps warily and waiting.

  Chapter Three

  It took one day, which was how long Rew estimated Calb’s spellcasters needed to recover from their assault on Carff. During that time, the party was kept in the dungeon, fed regularly, and the torches were replaced, but the promised beds and seating never arrived. Worse, there was no ale. They tried to rest, but they’d left their packs and most of their supplies in Valchon’s palace. They had their cloaks and clothing, and that was all. It made for uncomfortable sleeping conditions, though Rew made the small protest of putting out several of the torches when he estimated it was night.