Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Read online

  Contents

  Map: Claire-Agon

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by Salvador Mercer

  Book Description

  For: Masha

  Chapter 1: Terrels

  Chapter 2: Kesh

  Chapter 3: Family

  Chapter 4: Captured

  Chapter 5: Escape

  Chapter 6: Marissa

  Chapter 7: Refugees

  Chapter 8: Battle

  Chapter 9: Flight

  Chapter 10: Sanctuary

  Chapter 11: Ambush

  Chapter 12: Despair

  Chapter 13: Hunt

  Chapter 14: Woods

  Chapter 15: Rafts

  Chapter 16: Crossing

  Chapter 17: Sorrow

  Chapter 18: Healing

  Chapter 19: Enemy

  Chapter 20: Gathering

  Chapter 21: Regroup

  Chapter 22: Titans

  Chapter 23: Aftermath

  Chapter 24: Discovery

  Epilogue: Scheming

  Contact the Author

  About the Author

  Appendix A: The "Science" of Claire Agon

  Appendix B: Ranger Rising Glossary

  Read Now: The Dead Druid

  RANGER RISING;

  Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1

  Copyright © 2015 by Diamond Star Publishing SP.

  All rights reserved

  Second Electronic Edition

  For information contact; [email protected]

  Visit Salvador Mercer’s website at; www.salvadormercer.com

  Edited by: Courtney Umphress; courtneyumphress.com

  Book and Cover design by: Christine Savoie aka ‘Cagnes’ c2015

  Art and Stock Photo Credits: Rodrigo Gonzalez Toledo

  Interior Icons: Svetlana Shirokova | Dreamstime.comLLC

  Print Interior Design by: Write Dream Repeat Book Design LLC

  Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Claire-Agon Ranger Series:

  Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2

  Claire-Agon Dragon Series:

  The Black Dragon: A Claire-Agon Dragon Book 1

  The Blue Dragon: A Claire-Agon Dragon Book 2

  The Green Dragon: A Claire-Agon Dragon Book 3

  Sci-Fi-Technothriller:

  Lunar Discovery

  Book Description

  A thousand years ago, on the world of Claire-Agon, a war raged between men and dragons, destroying both the creatures and the land’s many civilizations.

  When his family is enslaved, Targon Terrel must battle the sinister Kesh wizards to save them, but a desperate group of refugees from his home country of Ulatha needs his help, too.

  With the unexpected aid of a Druid of the Arnen, Targon discovers his destiny as a Ranger, but far from solving his problems, this discovery reveals a personal betrayal. Targon’s fate brings him closer to long-buried truths about the ancient war between wizards and dragons -- truths that could plunge his world into darkness forever.

  “Run, Targon, run!” his grandfather yelled at him.

  Targon Terrel was running, and had been, for the past few hours, but the snorting of horses behind him and his family, as well as the barking of dogs, caused him to stop and turn to see what was chasing them.

  “Keep up with Father,” his brother, Malik, said, as a hand propelled Targon forward from the middle of his back.

  “This way, quick!” his father said, leading the family back into the woods from the nearby river, which was now crawling with Kesh brigands, intent on plundering, pillaging, and killing this night.

  Targon felt his bow chafing across his back as he ran. He could just see his father ahead, leading his family into the Blackthorn Forest again as they sought escape from the death that pursued them.

  His mother was carrying his baby sister, Ann, in a sling across her chest, and he saw the hem of her dress sway rhythmically as she ran across the rough ground. His grandmother was helping her keep up with his father while his grandfather and brother brought up the rear.

  The shouts of pursuit became louder, and the braying of dogs continued to permeate the cool air of this fall night. The family’s path was sure, despite the darkness. This was the forest near their home, and they knew the area well. Tira and Sara were high overhead, peeking through the canopy of trees and casting a slight illumination upon the ground where their rays could penetrate the leaves of the forest.

  “We will never make it,” his grandmother, Julia, said.

  “Go on now, my love, keep your wits and your bearings and stay with Dareen,” his grandfather replied from behind.

  Targon slowed, allowing his grandpa to catch up to him. “Will we die tonight?” Targon asked, his tone serious as he breathed heavily from the run.

  “Not tonight, Tar,” his grandfather said, a rare smile now crossing his face. “Your father is the best woodsman in all of Ulatha. Those Kesh scum won’t stand a chance, but keep running. Go on, keep up with your mother. Malik and I will bring up the rear.”

  Despite the smile and calm words, Targon felt uneasy. The tenseness in his mother’s voice when she woke him that night and the stern look he saw on his grandparents’ faces were enough to fill him with a sense of urgency.

  They ran on in silence now. The ground they covered was smooth with no tree roots or half buried rocks to slow them, despite the forest being so close to the Border Mountains. After some time, their path veered back to the west, and Targon caught sight of the old game trail and heard the roar of the Rapid River as it became louder.

  “We are almost there,” he heard his father say as he ran by him. His mother and grandmother now knew the way and they ran on, south along the trail near the river, with his mother still clutching his baby sister tightly. Either by luck or chance, they were fortunate that she did not cry nor utter a word. Targon could see her big blue eyes open, looking back over his mother’s shoulder as she bobbed up and down with her mother’s gait.

  Malik quickly overtook them and ran in front, now leading the way. There seemed to be some sort of argument between his father and his grandfather behind him as they ran, but they spoke in such hushed tones, Targon couldn’t hear them clearly.

  Finally they reached their goal: the roped ford. The Rapid River ran from north to south, cutting across the realm of Ulatha as it was fed from the cold, icy waters of the Border Mountains that enclosed half the valley. The river was all but impassable except for a bridge to their north a half day’s journey or more. Only here, where the Terrels had put up two large braided ropes from bank to bank, could they cross safely, and only then when the river was at its lowest.

  The ropes hung somewhat tautly, one at waist level and the other at shoulder level set slightly off on one side. Where the ropes crossed the river, there was a series of boulders and rocks that lay strewn across the water as it fell into a series of rapids dropping over thirty feet in a very short span. Falling into the river meant almost certain death in the rocks below.

  “Watch out!” he heard his gr
andfather yell. A black bolt suddenly appeared in a small tree near the riverbank, just missing his mother’s head.

  Quickly, an arrow from his brother returned back along the game trail and hit a shadowy figure that was kneeling near a bush in an attempt to minimize its silhouette. It didn’t matter against the expert eyes of a Terrel. The man uttered some sort of death cry before dropping silently onto the moist ground.

  “They have crossbows,” his grandmother said with a tone of defeat in her voice.

  “It doesn’t matter. Cross now!” his father commanded, unslinging his own bow and nocking an arrow.

  “They will kill us while we cross,” his grandfather said. There was a moment of silence as his parents looked at each other, and then Targon saw a frown come across his mother’s face.

  “No, Baldric. You can’t do this alone,” his mother said, approaching his father and grabbing his arms.

  “You must trust me, Dareen. Take the children and get to Korwell. Alert the town. Now go, before it’s too late.” There was a second more of hesitation before his father turned to his grandfather. “Take them, Luc, get them across now!”

  Luc turned to the family. “You heard him. Let’s go . . . now!”

  Malik grabbed Targon by the arm and tugged him into the icy cold water, which nearly swept Targon off his feet till he could grab the top-most rope and then sling his own bow in order to use both hands for the crossing.

  His grandfather led the way, followed by his grandmother, Julia, and then his own mother with his sister, Ann, strapped to her chest so she could use both hands to cross. His older brother, Malik, brought up the rear, and as Targon crossed, he could see his father still standing guard at the large rock along the river’s edge with his bow nocked with a large arrow.

  A couple of crossbow bolts whizzed by their heads, and Targon could hear the zipping of the air as they passed despite the rushing noise of the water around his legs. The crossbowmen were quickly silenced by his father’s bow as it answered in return but with a more accurate aim.

  “Are we going to die?” Targon asked again, practically shouting to be heard above the rushing water.

  “Maybe,” his brother answered, perhaps a bit too honestly for Targon’s taste, “but not while Father stands guard.”

  The crossing was just over one hundred and fifty feet, and with great relief, the Terrel family reached the western bank of the shore just in time to hear the barking of dogs and the shouts of brigands on the opposite bank.

  “Why isn’t he crossing?” Targon asked.

  “Draw your bow, little brother,” Malik said, unslinging his own bow, nocking an arrow, and then aiming it across the river.

  There was a scuffle behind him as Targon unslung his bow, mimicking the same moves his brother had just done. He could see his father move toward the ropes at the river’s edge when several dogs jumped over an old log and down the riverbank to attack him.

  “No!” he heard his mother scream from behind.

  “Shoot, little brother!” Malik said, unleashing his first arrow into a leaping dog that appeared more like a wolf than one of Ulatha’s domesticated species. The arrow ran true, and its impact hurled the dog down onto the ground as the force of the arrow arrested the dog’s momentum in midair.

  Targon saw another wolf-like dog coming up from farther down the river, and he shot, leading the animal a good few feet to account for its speed as well as the distance involved, just as his father had taught him. The arrow struck home, and the animal fell dead instantly.

  Targon saw his mother, but without his sister, slosh back into the river as she grabbed the ropes and tried to return to the east bank. He looked back as he removed another arrow from his quiver and saw his grandmother holding Ann, who was hidden beneath a small blanket. Only her feet stuck out to indicate she was even there.

  His grandfather, Luc, lunged after his mother and grabbed her before she could get more than a few feet, wrapping his large arms around her small waist and holding her tightly. He heard the familiar twang of his brother’s bow as another arrow was dispatched to the far bank of the river. “Again, brother, protect Father!” Malik yelled as he reached for another arrow, never taking his eyes off his father, either oblivious to or simply disregarding their mother’s own actions.

  Targon nocked another arrow and watched fascinated as his father dropped his own bow and removed his large axe from his belt.

  He swung the heavy weapon effortlessly and dispatched the last of the two wolf dogs that attacked him. Several brigands suddenly appeared at the top of the small bank silhouetted against the pale dark sky. They would not make that mistake again as two of the brigands dropped dead from arrows by the Terrel brothers.

  Several more suddenly ran down the small embankment and, with weapons drawn, engaged Targon’s father. “Let me go, Father,” his mother exclaimed as she struggled to cross the river.

  His baby sister must have decided that this was enough as she started to cry a high-pitched squeal that could be heard above the sounds of combat and death and the roaring of the water. “Come back, Dareen,” his grandmother pleaded.

  His mother started to cry, not a loud cry of self pity but a softer sound of oncoming despair as his father, Baldric, engaged the brigands. Instantly three of them fell along the bank as two died from arrows and the third was almost cleaved in half from the large wood axe that his father wielded as if it were a light branch.

  Several more brigands breached the bank top and streamed down to the shore while a few more aimed crossbows across the river. Soon the air was filled with the whizzing of missiles as arrows flew from the west and bolts flew from the east. One such bolt struck his grandfather in the leg as he turned to use his body to protect Dareen, his own daughter. Luckily the bolt dropped in flight due to the distance it had traveled, but Targon was sure they would adjust their aim higher for their next volley.

  The attack lulled for just a second when the crossbow-wielding bandits turned their attention to Baldric instead of his family across the riverbank. Baldric had lightning-quick reflexes as he knocked two bolts down from midair, but the third and fourth struck home. One bolt hit him in his left arm, and the other penetrated his leather tunic, embedding itself deep into his chest.

  Dareen screamed as she and her father shook the ropes. “Cross now, Baldric, cross now!” Targon heard his mother yelling.

  There was a renewed attack when the brigands saw that the ferocious woodsman was seriously wounded. This was a serious mistake. Three more fell to his axe, and Malik was relentless as he nocked another arrow and took a crossbowman out that was standing on top of the bank aiming down at his father. The bolt released errantly and wounded an attacking brigand down at the river’s shore.

  “Throw me an arrow, quick!” Malik ordered, apparently out of his own arrows as he nocked his last missile.

  Before Targon could comply, there was an eerie silence. Only the roaring of the river and the muffled cry of his little sister could be heard. Targon looked for another target but then focused on his father. What was he doing?

  Baldric had stepped back into the water, still facing the brigands, who had also paused when their last attack failed. With a slow determination, Targon watched as his father turned his back on them and faced his family across the river. Targon locked eyes with his father for only a split second before his gaze was released, and he knew his parents were looking at each other.

  His axe came up high overhead and, swinging a full half circle, Baldric brought the metal weapon down with such force upon the stanchions that were lodged into the large boulder holding the ropes taut. The blow was so fierce that not only did it sever the ropes at their base but the axe lodged into the large boulder as sparks flew in all directions.

  Several bolts tore into Baldric’s body as a couple of brigands also lunged forward, stabbing him in his chest. With powerful arms, Baldric yanked
both brigands clean off their feet and pulled back as all three of them fell into the dark, raging river.

  Targon attempted to scream in horror, but he couldn’t hear himself over the piercing cry of his mother as he slowly watched his father’s body, accompanied by two flailing brigands, plunge down the rapids and out of sight.

  Then a pale green mist like an eerie fog floated from the forest and down to the river’s edge as the brigands suddenly started to scream in terror and pain. The sound of trees falling and leaves being pulled from their branches by the thousands permeated the air above the roar of the water and the scream of Targon’s mother.

  Soon the entire eastern bank was enveloped in a sickly green fog and nothing could be seen, but the cries of terror from the brigands were replaced by screams of death and pain from the far shore. Targon stood in both fascination and shock as he listened to the breaking of tree trunks, the sounds of death, and an ungodly roar before he felt a strong arm grasp him by his collar.

  “Time to go, little brother,” Malik said.

  “But Father . . .” Targon said.

  “Father is gone. He saved us from the Kesh brigands, but we can’t stay here. Time to go,” Malik said.

  Targon loosened his iron grip on his bow and slung it across his back again, re-quivering his arrow. Pulled by his brother, he saw his mother sobbing as his grandfather limped at her side, supporting her despite having a crossbow bolt sticking from his leg. His grandmother led the way with Ann along the small river trail they rarely used. They crested the bank, and with one last look, Targon saw the fog across the river dissipating in the moonlight. He turned his back, and as the river was lost from sight, he heard one last roar of defiance come from the forest across the river, a roar he would never forget.

  Seven Years Later

  The air was crisp in the morning as dawn slowly approached at their backs. The three men stood on the edge of a cliff in the Felsic Mountains, which the locals simply referred to as the Border Mountains. They were aptly named as they cut across two realms of Agon. To the east was Kesh, a semiarid, chaotic land of lawlessness and danger. It was once a land of a great civilization based on a highly intelligent and functioning but benevolent Magocracy, or “rule by the wisest wizard.”