Bringers of Doom Read online

  “Even when those orders come in direct contrast with the Ranger’s Oath?”

  She looks up at me sharply, her eyes narrowed. In an instant, her icy mask is back on. “Careful, apprentice. You’re treading a very fine line.”

  I bite my tongue. Stupid Owyn. Don’t antagonize one of the few allies you have in this place.

  “We will hold down the fort while you and the others are away,” she continues, eyes going back to the column. “Keep your wits about you. Our scouts report that the Nightingale base is a military encampment. You are sure to be met with much resistance when you make the assault.”

  I salute the First Warden and turn my horse about without saying another word, not trusting my tongue to say the right things. Even so, I can feel her gaze on my back like an auger boring deep into my soul, trying to make what she can of me.

  Unless she knows the truth, she will never understand.

  I fall into line easily enough, pulling my horse up behind a broad-shouldered ranger with a battle-axe strapped to his back. Nobody says a thing as we enter the twisting canopy of the Ashwood, the trees swallowing us up like some great, many-armed beast.

  It is already late afternoon by the time we enter the forest, but at a word from our commanders we ride through the night, guided by the light of torches held by several riders.

  The journey is long, and I find myself alienating myself further as I try unsuccessfully to convince the rangers around me that the Nightingales who attacked us were being manipulated by a demon. Expectedly, my claims are met by scorn and even hostility in some cases, but most of the rangers choose to ignore me as I attempt to talk them out of attacking.

  Eventually I decide to ride in sullen silence, contemplating what my next move should be.

  I learn from conversation that the man in front with the long face is Ranger Thacker, and that he is well respected among the rangers. I also learn that most of the rangers have a general distrust for Advisor Creed, but respect his authority more than anything because of his relationship with the Master Warden. Still, it is a hapless trip with few breaks, and I find that before long that the ache in my side is getting worse as time goes on.

  Maybe coming out here was a mistake after all. Damn this conscience of mine.

  We ride through the night, our way lit by torches provided to all of the rangers. The going is slow, and the hours pass by slowly as we delve deeper and deeper into the Ashwood. By noon the following day, we are finally given the order to stop. Quietly praising the Light, I dismount with everybody else, stretching my weary muscles with a groan.

  At the command of Advisor Creed, we tie up the horses in a wooded glen at the base of a rocky ridge, the sheer number of rangers making it no simple feat. Even so, the cloaked men and women manage to hitch their horses securely, then make it to a small gathering point near a trail leading up to the ridge.

  "The Nightingale camp is just on the other side of this ridge," says Ranger Thacker, his voice just loud enough to be heard by all fifty rangers in attendance. "From here, we will make our way to the top and prepare for our assault. Our scouts have managed to survey them without alerting any of their guards, so be as quiet as possible as we get into position."

  The host listens patiently as he organizes us into teams and sends us climbing up the ridge. My group, with nine others, is in the middle, and we begin the long and perilous climb up the stony surface.

  In the light of the sun, I can clearly see the path in front of me, but the path is still treacherous. Fortunately, I do not slip and stumble down to my death.

  Huffing, I finally crest the top of the ridge. Making sure to stay low, I manage to creep up to the rim of the ridge and look down, trying to survey the scene below.

  Most of the occupants of the little town are busy, going about the chores of feeding the animals and drawing water from the creek. It is not what Tamara had indicated, however, and even from this height I can see that the camp is made up mostly of civilians. There are women, children and elderly folk.

  Hells, I think to myself in horror, there doesn't seem to be any Nightingale warriors down there.

  A sickening knot forms in the pit of my stomach, and a brief look around shows that many of the other rangers apparently feel the same way. This isn't a war camp... this is village contains the Nightingales' families!

  Cursing under my breath, I back away from the crest of the ridge and find the location of the ranking rangers. They are just down the way, convening in a small stand of trees. Shouldering my bow, I make my way over to them as quickly as I can, trying desperately to form some sort of a plan in my head.

  The ranger leaders converse quietly with one another, breaking off and glancing up as I approach.

  "What seems to be the problem, apprentice?" Thacker asks in a low voice. His eyes are as hard as flint.

  "Those are civilians down there," I say accusingly. "Women and the elderly. Surely you can't still be thinking of attacking?"

  To my surprise, many of the other low-ranking rangers gather around me. They look displeased, as if every one of them has a bad taste lingering in their mouths.

  The leaders eye each other uncertainly, no one deigning to speak up and address my claims.

  "Not you again," says a nasally voice. I turn to find Advisor Creed materializing from the shadow of a tree. "This isn't up for you to decide, apprentice. Orders are orders, and they must be carried out to the letter."

  Thacker turns to regard Advisor Creed, looking troubled. "The boy has a point, Creed. We came to eliminate rebels, not slaughter innocent civilians."

  "Those civilians gave up their freedoms the minute they decided to align themselves with traitors and insurgents," Creed counters, his face twisting into a condescending sneer. "The Master Warden's orders were explicit, and I'll see every ranger who disobeys them court-martialed. Do I make myself clear?"

  Thacker regards Creed for a long moment before finally deflating like an empty water skin. Every ranger knows that the gallows awaits those who disobey orders, and apparently the man is not willing to take that risk.

  "We're not murderers," a ranger beside me growls. His fists are clenched angrily at his sides. I recognize him as one of the men I had tried to convince the day before – he had dismissed me easily as a petulant apprentice. Now, apparently, we find ourselves in agreement. "Our oath is to protect others," he continues, "not cut them down like a group of common thugs."

  Several of the other rangers around us murmur their agreement.

  "Silence!" Creed hisses, his face contorting in rage. "I'll see each and every one of you hanged for your insolence. Thacker, keep your rangers in line, or you'll be answering to the Master Warden personally."

  Thacker still looks troubled, and I am disappointed to see that some of the other high-ranking rangers are nodding in agreement with Creed.

  I cross my arms in front of me. "I won't do it," I declare, fixing the Advisor with a defiant expression. "I'll not take part in this butchery."

  Those around me, the large majority of the rangers, voice their discontent as well, clustering around me like an army and proclaiming their intentions to disobey.

  "To the Hells with all of you, then," Creed snarls, unslinging his bow and pulling out an arrow. "I have an exceptional memory. Your names will each be given to the Master Warden, and he'll bestow upon you the harshest of punishments, I assure you. Thacker, let's go." He departs with a swish of his cloak, slinking over to the edge of the ridge like a lynx going after its prey. The small group of loyal followers, which is still more than enough to completely annihilate the settlement, goes after him. Even ranger Thacker hangs his head in shame and follows, refusing to meet any of our eyes.

  This leaves me alone with the majority of the rangers standing beside the small stand of trees.

  "I've never been so ashamed to wear this cloak," the ranger beside me says, eying Creed's back and spitting into the dirt.

  Right now, I find myself in agreement with him.

&nb
sp; "Come on," I say, moving back down the ridge to where our horses are saddled. "We need to go and tell the First Warden of this treachery." Plus, I think to myself, feeling queasy, I have no desire to watch the bloodshed that is to come.

  The group follows me, leather armor creaking as we begin going once more down into the tree line. Behind us, Creed and the others descend on the little village like foxes in a chicken coup. One thought prevails as I navigate the treacherous rocks: The Master Warden is not fit to lead us.

  By the time we reach our horses, I can start to hear the screams.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Zara

  I can feel my pulse start to race as the hour of the meeting draws near. Thoughts of everything that can go wrong flit in and out of my mind, threatening to paralyze me with fear and prevent me from moving forward. Light, what have I gotten myself into? I could be walking into a death trap!

  Forcing my feet to move, I make my way through the night-darkened city streets, the winking lights of the city guiding me as I travel to the supposed meeting location – an abandoned tavern known as the Golden Barrel.

  Earlier in the day, I had gone and taken a look at the place in preparation for my infiltration. It was an old, dilapidated building in a run-down section of the city. In the daytime there were crowds enough to hide me while I investigated the building; those crowds were gone now, leaving me very much alone in the middle of the cobblestone road.

  Take a deep breath and focus, Zara, I think to myself, trying hard to calm my fraying nerves. It’s still a couple of hours until midnight, and nobody has any reason to suspect that you will be there. Your training will protect you.

  Despite my preparations, something still feels off about this night. I can’t quite figure out what it is, but I can sense a strange aura of foreboding as I approach the abandoned alehouse.

  Clutching my talisman, I step out of the street and into the shadow of another building, watching the tavern for a time to make sure that I am truly alone.

  Nothing moves in the darkness. No lights emanate from inside.

  I let out a breath that I did not know I was holding, then begin moving forward once more, creeping up to the Golden Barrel with all the stealth I can muster while trying to keep an eye on my surroundings at the same time.

  The gardens in front of the building are overgrown with weeds, the cobbles broken and most of the building in disrepair. Not wanting to go in through the front door, I sneak around the back and find a side door leading into what was once probably the kitchens. Channeling the faintest bit of source energy to see by, I push open the creaking door and step inside. The smell of dust and rotting wood nearly overwhelms me, and I bring a hand up to my nose to stifle a sneeze as I delve deeper into the old building.

  The entire place gives me an eerie feeling. It is as if the owner just up and left one day, leaving his possessions and the furniture inside to rot and fall apart.

  As I pick my way through the kitchen, I find that the main common room is mostly empty, leaving a dank, open space in the middle of the building that is filled only with cobwebs and motes of dust floating in the air.

  Something scratches the wood off to my right and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat as I raise my hand and prepare a ball of magefyre.

  The light of my magic illuminates a skittering rat in the gloom, clawing its way across the floor and disappearing into a hole in the wall.

  Heart still pounding, I release my source energy and let the shimmering flames dissipate.

  Idiot, I silently berate myself. This place is a tinderbox. If you use magefyre, this building will burn down on top of you. Now, stop being so jumpy!

  The flare of the magefyre left an image burning in my vision, and I have to wait for my eyes to adjust once more to the darkness. Breathing deeply through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I explore the tavern further, wincing every time a board creaks underfoot.

  Aside from the common room, the building is actually quite cramped, containing a back room full of empty casks and a handful of cramped closets for storage.

  They'll probably meet in the common room, I realize, returning back to the place where I had seen the rat. I'll need to find a hiding place nearby so I can observe what they do.

  A quick inspection reveals a small hatch behind the bar. I give it a tug, and it grinds open with rusty squeak, revealing a pitch-black hole leading down. Summoning a little source energy, I stick my hand down below to illuminate the opening.

  It appears that beneath the floorboards of the alehouse is a small crawlspace, which was no doubt once used for smugglers to hide their wares. Unbidden visions of spiders and suffocating dark holes fills my mind, and I have to quickly force them away to avoid becoming paralyzed by the sense of dread that suddenly grips me.

  "This is important," I whisper to myself, squeezing my eyes shut and wiping my now-slick hands on my robe. "What are you more afraid of, assassins or spiders?"

  Right now, the answer is spiders, but I cast away the thought and force myself into the crawlspace, feeling the oppressive darkness press down upon me like a weight.

  Taking quick, frantic breaths, I half walk, half crawl under the floorboards, making my way to the position directly under the common room where I think they are most likely to meet. The ground dirt which is littered with refuse and rat droppings, and I cringe at the idea of having to be down here for an extended period of time.

  Finding a place on the ground that is relatively clear, I sit down, folding my legs beneath me as I settle in to wait for the meeting.

  I must be insane or have a death wish, coming down here. Eavesdropping on cultists beneath an abandoned tavern is hardly what I signed up for when I became a mage!

  And yet, I know that I am doing the right thing in being here.

  I attempt to distract myself by going over in my head the spells I had memorized today, contemplating the possible uses for them and ways that I can defend myself if I am discovered. As I ponder I glance around the crawlspace, looking at the old boxes and crates containing contraband that has long since expired. Thick cobwebs hang all around me, and the smell of rot and decay tickles my nostrils, threatening to make me sneeze.

  Time passes slowly, and I find that before long my back is starting to ache from being hunched in the same position. I shift, trying to stretch my protesting muscles without hitting my head on the low wooden planks above my head.

  I begin to wonder if somehow the assassin had found a way around my spell, tricking me into coming here and wasting my time. What time is it anyway? I wonder, shifting again to get comfortable. It feels like I've been sitting here for hours.

  Something outside the tavern catches my attention, faint voices conversing in the night.

  I swiftly release my grip on the talisman, letting the source energy drain out of me, leaving me for a time in complete and utter darkness.

  The front door creaks open, and I can hear footsteps walking on the floorboards above me.

  Light, I think to myself, my pulse picking back up again. They're here! They're actually here!

  Two men, from what I can tell, enter the common room and begin talking to each other in low voices. Firelight flares as they ignite a torch and begin busying themselves above, blocking out the windows with blankets and setting up candles all around. The floorboards groan as they walk on them, causing dust to shower down on top of me, but through the slits I have a good view of them.

  Both men wear long dark cloaks with the hoods pulled up, dark, expressionless masks obscuring their faces and muffling their speech. As they methodically light dozens of candles, they talk about disappointingly ordinary things – the weather, the Nightingale rebellion, even the pretty girls they had seen at the brothel the other night.

  Their crude language causes me to blush at times, but none of it is particularly incriminating.

  Soon, the common room is alight with candles and glowing with a warm, flickering light. The cloaked men sit down and continue cha
tting, apparently waiting for the rest of their group to arrive.

  It isn't long, however, before the door creaks open again, admitting a handful of other figures into the room. The air becomes more somber as the cultists gather in the candlelit common room, their hushed voices falling silent as one of them speaks up above the rest.

  "Before we begin, there are some matters for us to discuss." The man's voice is deep and commanding, and for an instant I think that it is familiar to me. But the thought slips away as I listen more intently on the conversation above.

  "Where is the prophet?" Another voice demands, this one high-pitched and whiney.

  "He will not be coming to this meeting," the first replies, and I can see through a slit in the floor that he is making a placating gesture with his black-gloved hands. "He has important business to attend to, and we as a brotherhood need to go over some things."

  When no one else interjects, he continues. "The prophet has been successful in making initial contact. Right now, he is preparing a proper response befitting the Chosen."

  The cultists talk excitedly with one another, their voices low, hissing whispers.

  "This is not to inspire speculation among us," he says in a scolding tone. "It is to prepare us for what is to come. It is only a matter of time before our plans are fully realized – each and every one of us needs to be ready."

  "But what does this mean?" Says one of the cultists impatiently, a woman by the sound of her voice. "Has the prophecy been fulfilled?"

  After a moment's hesitation, the main speaker nods his hooded head. "Yes."

  More excited whispering.

  "Please, brothers and sisters," he goes on, raising his hand in an attempt to get them to quiet down. "There is still another matter we need to discuss. There has been a... complication."

  The whispers die out, and one of the cultists, a man, asks, "What kind of complication?"

  "The cutthroats we hired to guard the tombs have been killed. Someone powerful is investigating our organization, prying into matters they hardly understand. We need to be extra vigilant in the days ahead. Especially when it comes to the Conclave."