Fog Lifted Read online

  “He was,” Collus started, “a mere legend. Sure, I knew that some semblance of the man had to have existed at some time. But I thought he was dead. That's the thing about dying; there’s not much fanfare when your life finally plays out.”

  Collus took a sip of ale—just enough to wet his lips.

  “The Great Ranger was the one who killed the dragon Anyoung in the second century. He led the army of the Banded Kingdoms against the Orc King. He defeated the troll Tenzing on the High Mountain. And severed the empire of King Tearinie, breaking it into the kingdoms we know.”

  “I’ve heard those stories,” Wellspoken said. “But I don’t remember mention of a Great Ranger. In those stories , it was always a nameless Ranger. Just one of your kin.”

  “Right,” Collus nodded, “it’s only known among Rangers that those stories are about one man. As talk of his triumphs died away, so we assumed did the man.”

  “And he’s been heres the whole time?” Two-finger asked. “Wouldn’t that make him ‘bout four hundred years old?”

  “Maybe older,” Collus said. “Rangers, first men, live a bit longer than average.”

  “That’s more than a bit,” Wellspoken argued.

  “But how’s ya sure it’s him?” Billy asked. If there was residual pain from losing the eye, he didn’t show it.

  “You saw what he did,” Wellspoken said.

  “Nope, I didn’t,” Billy said.

  “I’m sure it’s him,” Collus said. “I’m just not sure why he’s here. What’s he’s after. Rangers are meant to protect the people.”

  “Aye, but who protects the Rangers?”

  Two-finger finished his ale then filled another.

  “And why is he taken in with changelings?” Wellspoken asked.

  “That beast,” Two-finger said, “that was changelings too?”

  Collus stood and paced the bar.

  “It was, I’ve never seen them so organized. I’ve seen so many. They usually splinter off into small groups of two or three—at most. And even then, they don’t usually merge together. To make that beast there had to be at least ten.”

  Wellspoken jumped down from the high barstool and went to the window of the bar. He looked out as the first ray of golden sun peeked out over the trees. On this side of the world, the water was the last to see the sun.

  “So, um, what are we doing while you go fight this Great Ranger?”

  Collus shrugged.

  “Stay here. Try not to get killed if there are any more changelings.”

  Billy lifted his head.

  “That don’t seem right,” he said. “Least we can do is wait it out. Never really thought much of Rangers. But I don’t mind you and Rotrick. And I doubt this great one will be much against a trio of dwarves.” He may have winked, but Collus was unsure.

  As more sunshine made its way into the bar, Collus stood. He donned his jerkin, fastened his belt and scabbard over it. Then the Ranger tipped his hat, wide-brimmed and black, over his brow. He looked the part but didn’t feel it.

  Not yet.

  His insides squirmed with questions and doubt. But he reminded that part of him, that he was a Ranger too. That this was just a man—one like him. And men could be beaten.

  Coe regained a bit of composure. He grinned.

  “Well, I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Aye,” Two-finger said, “it’s been a bit of a chore doing most yer fightin’ for ya. Suspect we’ll be better off without ya here draggin’ us down.”

  He gave the Ranger a three fingered salute, nodding solemnly. The dwarf’s eyes gave everything away. He was afraid of what may happen to his friend.

  “Break his legs,” Wellspoken said.

  “That’s not the—“

  “I know the expression,” Wellspoken groused. “I just want you to break his legs.”

  “Aye,” Billy laughed, “what they said.”

  They really were the worst travel companions, but he liked them. Collus strode out into the dawn.

  7

  The morning fog was lighter than the previous day’s; its tendrils felt like wet kisses against his face and neck. Each breath Coe inhaled deeply, sifting out the air required to move forward. His feet pressed hard into the cold and sandy ground. Every few steps a jagged rock would attempt to dig and cut at the calloused flesh on the sole of each foot. Coe wished he’d taken boots from one of the changelings they’d left along the beach.

  A few lights were on in the homes around the village. There was even a lamp bobbing down the stone steps toward the docks. He wondered what would happen when the others found them, hoping the dwarves were ready. If somehow he made it out of this alive, then they’d have to figure out what to do with the changelings left in the village.

  Could they be trusted to leave well enough alone?

  The three towers stood, each as solid as the other. A narrow walkway led up to the light at the top of each. He started up the middle tower; its pale blue light was fainter now with the sun climbing above the trees and hills to the east. Even the fog began to show its frailty. Coe noticed walking up that it seemed to climb with him. Below the tower, the town was almost free of mist.

  At the top, there was a platform, a bit of walkway around the light. In the center, there was nothing more than a large bulb, no bigger than Collus’ head. Held in a frame about Coe’s height, the glass was as pale a blue as a clear winter morning’s sky.

  “You figured it out then?” the old man said.

  He stepped around the light from the other side. When Collus went to approach the old man, he noticed Rotrick slumped over in a chair close to the edge. There was no railing to catch him should the old man shove him down. The open wound bled from Rotrick shoulder, drenching his sleeve garnet.

  There was nothing more than a bit of space for the light. Flat, the platform was roughly six feet across.

  “Figured what out?” Collus asked. He knew what.

  “How to beat me,” the Great Ranger said. “Why I came here. Any of it? I doubt you have. Us Rangers tend to be a bit dense when it comes to matters of logic.”

  “True,” Collus shrugged, “I can’t say that I’ve pieced together any of it.”

  But he knew how these things went. Collus drew his sword. The familiar weight of it was like a warm embrace. He eased a long sigh from his mouth and nose. The familiar tingles of nervousness ran down his leg. His quads quaked in spasms. But a bit of nervousness was a good thing.

  Coe pointed his sword toward the old man; the Great Ranger made no move toward him.

  It was times like this when Coe wished he had a named sword. Something special. But his father’s old sword would have to do. The best Rangers—hell, even the decent ones—and the Great Ranger, in particular, all had blades with names like Rapier and Oathbreaker and War Admiral.

  Finally, the Great Ranger drew his sword. If Coe remembered correctly, its name was Silence. Up on the top of that tower, there was little of it.

  The fight started, as most do, with words. Only the occasional glint of sword on sword interrupted them.

  “I could tell you the story,” the Great Ranger said. “It’s quite the long one.”

  Collus struggled to find a mark. It seemed the old man was toying with him, parrying his blows. The old man’s attempts were not aimed at Coe’s flesh. No, he playfully found where Coe’s sword would be next.

  “Perhaps the highlights?” the old man said.

  “Sword first; ask questions later,” Collus retorted. “Wasn’t that your motto?”

  “One of them. I had many. You see, I was cursed by a witch. Cursed to be the greatest Ranger ever to live. To ever walk the realm.”

  Collus brought his sword in a sweeping blow from shoulder to midriff. Silence was there waiting.

  “How is such a thing a curse?” he asked.

  “To be the greatest? Surely, you have some inkling of understanding. I’ve seen you fight. Twice you defeated the changelings. You did it easily—th
e first to accomplish that task. Do you know how many I went through to find you?”

  Collus shrugged and then lunged to the side as the Great Ranger jabbed Silence swiftly to his side.

  “Close to fifty.”

  Coe’s chest tightened as his heart shuttered with the thought of fifty of his fellow Ranger’s lives snuffed out. In preparing this quest, he knew there were many. Some of their names crossed his mind. But fifty?

  “I still don’t understand,” Coe said. “How can being the greatest be a curse?”

  “Maybe I should mark you. Let you see the undefeatable beasts that you’ll be asked to defeat. For free, mind you. Because when your name is famous, you must have earned enough coin to live the rest of your life without worry. And that’s the easy bit.”

  “Undefeatable?” Collus said. “But I know you were able to best such beasts—the dragon, the Orc King…” He trailed off. As the Great Ranger came toward him, Coe slipped out a leg. He unsheathed a knife he had hidden in an ankle holster. Quickly, he jabbed at the old man’s thigh.

  The Great Ranger slid under the blow.

  “Nice move,” he said. “I like when people fight as God intended. Use everything you have at your mercy.”

  The old man punched Collus in the chest. It sent him flying backward and into the blue glass. Shards stuck there, static even as he twisted away.

  “What I was saying,” the Great Ranger said, “was I was able to defeat such beast. But not without losing a part of my soul in the process. That was the witch’s price. There’s always a price, you know. I would either let myself die, or I would fight, losing a piece of sanity—of humanity—each time. Sure, it brought fame and glory.” The old man side-stepped; he threw his sword into his left hand, his weaker hand, and defended each of Coe’s attempts with ease. “To a young man, that price didn’t seem much to bare. To an old man, and especially an old man, the young one seems foolish. Reckless.”

  “Then why not just die,” Coe growled, “and get it over with?”

  He brought his sword into an uppercut, narrowly missing the Great Ranger’s jaw.

  “Because I’ve lost the part of myself willing to die. My soul is gone. It either already lies in the other realm, or more likely, it never will.”

  Then the Great Ranger landed a mark, proving this wasn’t a game anymore. His sword sliced through Coe’s jerkin and shirt. His chest joined his back and began to burn with pain. Each movement, as the muscle expanded and contracted seemed to open the wound further. A drop of sweat made his chest sting like he’d squeezed a lemon over his chest.

  The Great Ranger went on. This was just a taste of what he could do.

  “I assume you are familiar with curses?” he said, questioning.

  “A bit,” Collus said through clenched teeth.

  “Well, there’s always a catch isn’t there? This one states that only if a worthy opponent defeats me will my soul rest in peace.”

  “So,” Collus started, “you wanted me to fight you? And you want me to win?”

  “I do,” the old man said. “I want you to beat me. But I can’t let you. You understand? You have to be worthy.”

  “Then I will be,” Collus said.

  The Great Ranger smiled smugly.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “And because you are the first to make it this far, and as far as I know, the only one who ever will. I’m giving you three attempts to kill me—before I kill you. They could all three be today or,” he paused, twisting Coe’s sword, engaging them both together, the nameless thing almost flung out of the Ranger’s grip. He regained his hold on it just in time. “Or perhaps we continue this sometime in the future. I’ll leave that up to you.This will count as your first attempt. And it is almost over.”

  Next, the Great Ranger lunged. Collus wasn’t able to parry in any other direction than back. He wanted to twist, to circle the platform of the high tower, but all the Great Ranger allowed was for him to step backward and back. Backward and back. Finally, his feet found the last bit of grip before the open air of the ledge. And the two swords locked just above the cut along Collus’ chest.

  “If you follow me out of this town,” the Great Ranger locked his arms, “or make any attempt to, then that will count as your second attempt. You understand?”

  Collus nodded.

  There was pain, and the weakness of his shoulders after the night’s climb up the cliff left most of his arm shaking. He reached for another knife, this one along his belt—a last ditch effort to save himself. But the Great Ranger was ready. He kicked the blade as it was unsheathed. It fell unceremoniously down from the tower.

  “It won’t be that easy,” the Great Ranger said.

  He pushed Collus a little harder. And now it was the Ranger’s legs that wanted to betray him.

  In this instant, the thoughts of his family finally manifested. Blocked out all morning, like a fog, now lifted. He had so much to fight for.

  But the vision of Brock and D’arreck, of Tristan, and an unborn babe, didn’t send any adrenaline. It didn’t do what it was supposed to do. Instead, it had almost the opposite effect. The Great Ranger’s blade closed in, forcing his own to meet the cut. He felt another sting as the steel sliced through him.

  Then the pressure lifted. But Collus had no strength to give any more fight. He fell to the ground, panting.

  He watched as the Great Ranger casually walked away.

  8

  The dwarves stood down at the bottom of the towers. They held their weapons but not in any menacing way.

  “We um saw the old man go just now,” Two-finger said.

  “And you just let him?” Coe said, surprised. He eased Rotrick down from his shoulders. The other Ranger was showing a bit of life. He wheezed as he was dropped to the ground.

  “Well,” Wellspoken started, “he was the Great Ranger. And it looked a lot like he outclassed you.”

  “He did,” Collus admitted. “But I thought Rangers weren’t much compared to a trio of dwarves?”

  “Aye, that’s true,” Billy said.

  “But,” Two-finger spoke up. “We figured you two might like a proper burial. Had we known you was still alive. We may of—”

  Rotrick coughed. He hadn’t said anything that Collus was able to discern.

  “May of run away like little girls,” Rotrick said, sputtering.

  “I has a little girl,” Billy said. “And she don’t run away from nothin’.”

  “Mine too,” Two-finger said. “She’s much meaner than the boys.”

  Rotrick laughed, but it was pained.

  Wellspoken quickly began to tend to the man’s shoulder.

  “We found some medicine in the back room of the bar.”

  “What do we do about this town?” Two-finger asked.

  It was a good question. Fifty Rangers, Collus thought.

  He didn’t let the dwarves touch his chest, choosing instead to stitch it up himself. They stayed at the bar one more night. And none of the remaining townspeople bothered them or tried to go inside.

  Rotrick gained a bit of strength. He began talking, joking again, and Coe knew that it was okay to set out on the hundred fifty day journey back to Dune All-En.

  Rotrick said that the Great Ranger did nothing to him after the fight on the beach. They had sat up in the tower. The cut the old man had inflicted pierced him in such a way that Rotrick only lost enough blood to lose strength and fall asleep but nothing more.

  As the Company readied to leave the next morning, Collus saw that same group of children run off to begin their play in the wood.

  “You there,” he called. One of the children turned back. The boy stood, and he waited as the others tramped off into the wood. He had a long crop of brown hair, chin length.

  “I know that it seems what we did was wrong,” Collus started. “And maybe you’ll never really understand. But what your kin were doing was wrong too.”

  The boy nodded slightly, just a jerk of the head.

  “If I hear
of anything like it again, I’ll be back.”

  Another nod.

  “It’s your choice now,” Collus said. “You do what you think is right, and I’ll do the same.”

  The boy ran back into the wood.

  Then Collus lost him to the brush.

  But as they left town, a stag sauntered out to the boundary of the forest. It stared down the Company with cold eyes.

  Months passed before they saw the sight of the Wall. They had made good time, not stopping for another quest along the way. Dune All-En beckoned.

  Home.

  As Coe stopped at the door of his house, he stood a moment, sighing a breath of relief. Then he heard the wailing cries of a baby, agitated and irate as if waking hungry was the worst thing in the entire world.

  Maybe the babe had a point.

  Coe opened the door.

  He was greeted by his wife who almost immediately shoved the crying baby into his arms. Then she locked herself in the washroom for hours.

  The Ranger cradled his child. He stroked its cheek as his boys raced in from outside. The baby cooed, knowing some secret—Coe was laying eyes on the prettiest girl that he would ever know.

  Hero in a Halfling Preview

  Epik Fantasy Book 1

  William Tyler Davis

  Every ten years a new King rises.

  Every ten years the old King falls.

  And in the years between, the Kingdom prospers.

  - Dune All-En proverb

  There and Never Coming Back Again

  Epik thought he’d found what he was looking for: a kingdom. He tried to take it all in, the city now overtaking the horizon, sprawling out in tendrils behind its wall. But even at this distance, the smell of dung and body odor overwhelmed him, making him cough and sputter.

  It looked enough like a kingdom. A stone wall surrounded the front of it, except a smashed-in bit on its east side, complete with battlements and ramparts. Beyond the wall, a river cut through the city, running west to east into a foggy bay. The city was cluttered. Hovels and street shops, all manner of businesses, sloped upward to a castle that stood ominously on a cliff at the northern tip of the peninsula. Tall, and foreboding, yet the castle was unremarkable in any way except its size and protuberance above the city. Still, all of it was breathtaking to, well, Epik’s breath, though that was largely due to the smell.