Blood and Coin: The Ranger Archives Volume 2, page 1
Blood and Coin
THE RANGER ARCHIVES: VOLUME TWO
PHILIP C. QUAINTRELL
Also by Philip C. Quaintrell
THE ECHOES SAGA: (9 Book Series)
1. Rise of the Ranger
2. Empire of Dirt
3. Relic of the Gods
4. The Fall of Neverdark
5. Kingdom of Bones
6. Age of the King
7. The Knights of Erador
8. Last of the Dragorn
9. A Clash of Fates
THE RANGER ARCHIVES: (3 Book Series)
1. Court of Assassins
2. Blood and Coin
THE TERRAN CYCLE: (4 Book Series)
1. Intrinsic
2. Tempest
3. Heretic
4. Legacy
For Margot, my lion cub…
Touch to zoom/see www.philipcquaintrell.com for HD map
Dramatis Personae
Asher
Ranger
Baal
Gladiator
Borvyn Murell
Lord of Dunwich
Danagarr Stormshield
Dwarven smith
Darya Siad-Agnasi
Right hand of Viktor Varga
Deadora Stormshield
Child and daughter of Danagarr and Kilda
Doran Heavybelly
Ranger
Kad Gorson
Magistri
Kilda Stormshield
Dwarven Healer
Lucas Farney (The Fang)
Trigorn emissary
Malak
Chief henchman to Viktor Varga
Nasta Nal-Aket
Father of Nightfall
Rhaldor Kavarion
Mage
Salim Al-Anan
Gladiator
Tyvarnus
Previous arena champion
Undvig
Mage
Viktor Varga
Leader of Crime Guild
Contents
1. Between Worlds
2. Be Careful What You Bargain For
3. Proving a Point
4. Darkwell
5. The Stormshields
6. Joining the Hunt
7. Troll With a View
8. A Gift from the Gods
9. The Power of Silvyr
10. Old Blood
11. Unlikely Companions
12. A Day in the Life of a Ranger
13. Deadly Negotiation
14. A Storm is Coming
15. Into The Spiral
16. Here Be Monsters
17. Hell is an Island
18. Kill or be Killed
19. The Deal
20. Here to Die
21. Hard Ground
22. Home Sweet Home
23. Getting Out of Dodge
24. The Fall
25. Preparations
26. For All the World to See
27. A Royal Welcome
28. Intuition
29. One More War
30. The Champion of Dragorn
31. Loose Ends
32. A Menagerie of Nightmares
33. Crossing Paths
34. Null and Void
35. Wolves Among the Sheep
36. Uninvited Guests
37. Hope is For the Living
38. Here at the End
39. An Army of Four
40. One More Death
41. A Promise Kept
Author Page
Author Notes
Appendices
Chapter 1
Between Worlds
Howling Matron - What devil gave birth to such a creature I could not guess nor would I care to meet it, for this offspring of evil is wretch enough. It boasts a dozen pincer legs, giving this beast its scurrying speed. Its carapace, sizeably comparable to a horse, is plated like armour and capable of chipping our blades and keeping back our arrows.
And what hellish sight its monstrous jaws are. Upon attack, the largest of the Matron’s armoured plates retreats just enough to reveal the six blood-red tentacles that surround a razored beak. It will howl almost continuously, altering its pitch until it finds one that disorientates its prey. Once thoroughly dazed, those tentacles will have you; then there’s no getting away from that beak.
All that in mind, you’ll be wanting to tackle this monster with a spear—to give those tentacles something to do. Then push the beast back and lever it up to expose its soft underbelly. That said, I would advise bringing another ranger into the contract. If that’s not possible, you’re going to need more preparation time. First, hunt down a Narkul - you’re going to need the natural acid their mushrooms produce as it’s one of the few things capable of burning through the Matron’s carapace.
Just try not to die extracting the acid from the Narkul first.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 13.
Keldrik The Grey, Ranger.
The Iron Valley—a corridor of snow and ice that dissuaded even the bravest of men from crossing The Vengoran Mountains. To its south lay Illian, the sprawling realm of man and his many kingdoms. To the north, the dwarf lords ruled over the land of Dhenaheim in their halls of cold stone.
Halfway between the two, along the western edge of that wild valley, a ranger stood in the blasting winds, his green cloak swept aside. Piercing blue eyes roamed over a wall of ice through which an arched entrance had been carved. Beyond the surrounding barrier, set into the base of the mountains, dwelled a breed of man not idly met.
They called themselves The Jarat. North and south of the valley, however, they were known to both man and dwarf as barbarians.
Standing in the snow, Asher adjusted the white furs anchoring his cloak and gripped Hector’s reins a little tighter. He could feel the unease that ran through the horse, tempting it to bolt. “Steady,” he uttered, his gaze caught by the skulls mounted on pikes inside the entrance.
It wasn’t the most welcoming of sights but, then again, it wasn’t supposed to be. Skulls on display were always a warning and only the most foolish would proceed without a second thought. Giving this particular job that second thought, the ranger had to wonder if the coin was worth it—barbarians weren’t exactly known for making deals with outsiders, let alone honouring them.
To his left, beyond the curtain of hair that blew in the wind, Asher heard the snow crunching under boots and hooves alike. It was the first time he had heard the approaching stranger, though he had caught glimpses of him during his journey through the valley. Instead of a dark figure on the horizon now, the stranger was standing a little more than ten feet away, his destination apparently the same.
Asher took a breath, wondering if violence was to occur much earlier in the day than he had anticipated. Keeping one hand on Hector’s reins, the ranger turned to regard the potential foe, wondering if he was the stranger’s target. It wouldn’t be the first time he was someone else’s quarry.
A flicker of surprise flashed across Asher’s face, cutting through his usual expression of stoicism. As his eyes roamed over the figure and his strange mount, the ranger’s fingers slowly clasped the hilt of the broadsword on his hip. Had the figure been any man of Illian, Asher would likely have maintained a casual demeanour or, perhaps, gripped the concealed dagger at the base of his back. But the stranger who had followed him into the valley from the south was no man.
“What’s the matter?” came the stranger’s growling voice. “Ye look like ye’ve never seen a dwarf before.”
Asher required an extra moment to grasp the events that had led to this unusual meeting. “You don’t hail from Dhenaheim,” he remarked by way of a reply, his head nodding to Illian, behind the dwarf.
“I suppose I don’,” he said cryptically, before taking a long swig from a flask. The belch that escaped his lips was loud enough to inform the inhabitants of the entire valley that there were intruders in their land. It was also strong enough to carry the aroma of ale all the way to Asher’s nose.
After wiping his thick beard, the dwarf swept back his hood to reveal a mane of blond hair pulled tight into a ponytail. His skin was weathered and marred by deep lines that exaggerated his features. Small dark eyes peered out from his prominent brow and puffy cheeks, though they possessed a lack of focus that suggested the dwarf was suffering the influences of whatever was inside his flask.
Nightfall’s training, a way of thinking Asher could never escape, pressed upon the ranger to assess the potential threats that accompanied the dwarf. There were many.
His armour, bulky and mismatched as it was, covered a good portion of his body, including one particular pauldron adorned with three bony spikes, likely taken from a beast of some description. The hilt of a sword poked over his right shoulder, its length and blade type hidden from view. In one gloved hand there rested a single-bladed axe, its size perfect for both throwing and close combat. Then there was the mount standing beside the dwarf. To call it a hog was an insult, for the animal was twice that size if not more, its hardened tusks ringed with armoured bands. The saddle and supplies strapped around its barrel of a body appeared cumbersome and heavy, yet the beast bore it all on strong legs with no sign of fatigue. Then there were the scars that decorated its hide, a tapestry that spoke of a lifetime of violence.
The dwarf’s ragged cloak blew in the wind, revealing a pair of small daggers on his belt and a modest axe, a toy compared to t he one in his hand. Much like his mount, everything about this dwarf told a tale of violence.
Asher gripped his broadsword a little tighter.
“’ave ye taken the measure o’ me then?” the dwarf asked after the flask left his lips for a second time. “Perhaps ye’d like to take a look inside me saddlebags as well.”
Asher caught himself and focused on the dwarf’s face again. “You’re a hunter,” he concluded.
“Aye,” the dwarf agreed. “What gave me away?” he laughed.
“Might I ask of your intended prey?” By Asher’s last syllable, his knuckles had now whitened around the hilt of his broadsword.
The dwarf made a face. “My intended prey?” he echoed mockingly. “Careful, laddy, ye’re giving too much away. Now I know two things abou’ ye.” A stubby finger ran up and down the ranger’s attire. “Ye’re a hunter too. I’d also say ye’re well-educated. I would then deduce,” he emphasised with that same mocking expression, “that ye’ve received enough trainin’ to know what ye’re doin’ with all that hardware ye’re carryin’.”
It was an impressive speech and even more impressive deduction for someone so inebriated. “I’m inclined to say the same about yourself,” Asher told him.
The dwarf drained the last of his flask and gave Asher another look up and down, his lips tight. “Ye got a name, hunter?”
“I do,” the ranger answered.
The dwarf chuckled lightly. “I’m not ’ere to hunt any man. At least not today,” he added, stuffing his empty flask into one of his saddlebags. “Though it’s a curious thing that ye’d suspect I’m ’ere for yerself, eh?”
Asher knew well enough that if he kept his mouth shut, more information would come spilling out of the dwarf, some of his inhibitions dampened by the alcohol.
After spoiling the air with a cloud of hot vapour, the dwarf announced, “Doran Heavybelly’s the name!”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “Heavybelly?” he repeated incredulously.
The dwarf looked to be taking the ranger’s insulting tone in his stride. “Aye. Doran, son o’ Dorain, o’ clan Heavybelly. Ye ’ave a problem with me name, laddy?”
Asher relaxed his muscles a notch. “I meant no offence, Doran, son of Dorain. I am unaccustomed to the ways of your people.”
“Good for ye,” Doran said with another, quieter burp. “Would ye prefer I simply call yerself hunter?”
Asher paused, wondering how many weeks, or even months, it had been since he introduced himself to someone by name. “I’m not a hunter,” he corrected. “I’m a ranger. And my name is Asher.”
“Asher,” the dwarf echoed aloud, his head nodding along. “Well met, I suppose. An’ what in the name o’ Grarfath is a ranger?”
Asher opened his mouth to describe his profession when he realised he had never been required to do so before. He stumbled over what would be the best explanation before succinctly replying, “I hunt monsters.”
The dwarf’s bushy eyebrows creased his forehead. “So… Ye’re a hunter then.”
Asher wanted to argue the differences but that would only lead to more talking, and he had already said more in the last few minutes than he had in the last few weeks. “Something like that,” he said instead.
Doran shoved a thumb into his armoured breastplate. “Me too. Monsters, people, whatever needs trackin’ down really.”
That sounded more like a bounty hunter to Asher, but he wasn’t about to get into it with the dwarf. “So you heard about the job?” he reasoned, tilting his head towards the icy archway.
“Aye. Came straight from Dunwich. Me axe has felt naught but the soft touch o’ snow for too long.”
Asher didn’t hide his confusion. “You mean Namdhor?”
Reaching for a pocket-sized flask hanging from his belt, a single guttural noise blurted from the dwarf. “Eh?”
“The job,” Asher continued, somewhat exasperated now. “It came from Namdhor, not Dunwich.”
“Namdhor?” Doran licked his lips after a mouthful from his flask. “I’ve come from Dunwich, laddy.”
Asher’s exasperation was quickly turning into frustration. “The people of this tribe only reached out to Namdhor. You must have come from the city.”
Doran chewed it all over. “Big hill on a lake. Grim to the eye.”
Asher nodded along. “That’s Namdhor.”
“It’s Dunwich, ain’ it?”
“It’s the capital in the north. Hard to mistake,” the ranger added with some condescension.
Doran shrugged. “All yer towns an’ cities look the same to me.”
Asher shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here for the job they’re offering—The Jarat?”
“That I am,” the dwarven hunter stated. “From memory—which I’ll admit, isn’ what it normally is—the coin they’re offerin’ ain’ nearly enough to be shared.”
“On that,” Asher replied determinedly, “we agree, son of Dorain.”
Doran chewed his lips and looked upon the ranger with narrow eyes, his axe tapping the ground beneath the snow. “What are we to do then, laddy?”
Asher’s heart rate increased a few beats and the tension in his muscles returned. His answer, he knew, would manifest itself in the form of action, as it so often did, but a flicker of movement caught his eye and turned him to the archway. There, standing between the skulls was a small boy, his wiry frame hidden beneath grey furs.
“Ye can see ’im too?” Doran asked, blinking his eyes. “Praise Yamnomora,” he muttered.
Asher attempted to soften his features, though his hand refused to let go of the resting broadsword. “Well met,” he said to the boy. The child’s only response was to turn on his heel and flee, disappearing into the narrow entrance that cut through the ice. “Wait!” Asher called after him.
To his left, the dwarf was clambering onto his saddle and making ready to follow the boy. Asher, his limbs unaffected by alcohol, was able to climb onto his own saddle in half the time and spur Hector into the opening.
The route beyond the archway proved to be a winding maze through the piled snow and sheer walls of ice. It eventually offered more than one path though, thanks to the fresh snow that blanketed the ground, the ranger had no trouble tracking the child’s footprints.
By the time he had found his way past the surrounding fortification of ice and into the barbarians’ camp, Doran and his strident mount had caught up.
Remaining in their saddles, the two hunters scrutinised the living conditions of The Jarat. Two dozen huts, most with smoke rising from their makeshift chimneys, were dotted from left to right and all connected by ropes decorated with natural chimes and feathers.
Dogs ran between the homes, some of which diverted to the intruders and barked their distinct alarm. The response from the human inhabitants was slower than Asher had expected but, when they did finally confront the strangers in their midst, they were all wielding weapons of some fashion. It didn’t take the ranger long, however, to see the truth of those who formed a jagged line between them and the rest of the tribe. They were mostly teenagers, if not children. The slowest, and therefore last, to arrive were the elders amongst the tribe, though they too held themselves well and with weapons in hand.
