Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1) (12 page)

To this day, Devlin still didn’t know how or why the president had gotten away from his guards or why he was near a wolf’s den without a weapon, but Devlin had been quick to take out the beasts, saving the president from a most gruesome fate.

Others who had been searching for the president quickly found out about what Devlin had done. Then word spread throughout all of Galamore. Devlin had been happy just to leave his good deed at that, but the people wanted him to be rewarded for his act. So, one day the Rangers tracked him down and offered (more so demanded) for him to join their ranks.

So, here he was, untrained and tied to a tree. Thankfully not dead. Devlin earning his way into the Rangers had been for the president’s publicity more than anything and, the other Rangers knew it. However, it wasn’t like they could just get rid of him. He was there until he dropped dead or was too old and feeble to be of any use. It simply was not an option to be given the honor of Ranger and then step down because he wasn’t any good at it. First, it would be an insult to the Rangers. Second, it would be an embarrassment if they had recruited someone who wasn’t cut out for the job.
 

Devlin was tough. He was skilled. But he wasn’t a Ranger. Rangers mostly dealt with people. They were battle worn and weren’t afraid to jump into a firefight. But that had never been Devlin’s way. He liked to hunt, because he was going after something that couldn’t shoot back. Animals were often smart, but they were never as smart as a man unless, of course, it was a bright animal, but those were illegal to kill anyway.

There were two kinds of animals in Galamore. Bright animals and dull animals. Bright ones could think for themselves and acted on logical thought rather than purely on instinct. They could also talk and communicate with people just as Devlin might. He wasn’t entirely sure on the history of bright animals, but he thought it had something to do with a spell cast by some Sentinel hundreds of years ago. But he knew that all brights were descendants of those caught up in that spell.
 

Now, there were far more dull or regular-minded animals than there were bright ones. It was actually quite a treasure to find a bright animal, though they could be just as dangerous as any other animal if they had a mind to be so.
 

Devlin was reminded of the time he had been tracking a stag through the woods just north of Fasvosus. He had come up on it from behind and had the perfect shot. His only error was failing to make sure it was a dull animal. His bullet had sailed true and through the breast of the great stag. He walked up to it, admiring its magnificent rack of antlers as he neared. He held his skinning knife in his hand, ready to cut its throat, knowing that the struggling animal wasn’t dead yet. That was when their eyes met. The stag stared at Devlin, eyes wide with blue irises. This was the mark of a bright animal. All of the brights had blue eyes, the color of a clear sky. His heart started to beat faster and he looked all around him to see if anyone had seen what he had done. The stag had said its final words of accusation, calling Devlin a murderer. Devlin quickly silenced it with his knife.

He was sure that if the president had heard about this act, Devlin would never have been offered a spot among the Rangers of Tel Haven. Killing a bright animal was just as illegal as killing a person unless it was in self defense.
 

Devlin had known his error and he honored the stag as best he could. He did not eat the meat. He did not scorch the body. Instead, he gave the bright animal a proper burial. It had all been so quick and he was finished within a few hours. But he thought about this secret almost every day. He knew that he was a murderer.
 

Sometimes the stag would haunt his dreams. He could see the pool of blood all around it, the bullet hole spouting blood from its chest. Sometimes the stag would be cursing Devlin, shouting that he was a murderer, demanding that the hunter be brought to justice.
 

Justice for Devlin would be grim indeed. But as far as he knew, he was the only one in all of Galamore who knew it had happened.

This all came as a great shame to him as a hunter. It was an unwritten creed that hunters didn’t go after brights. To do so made a man a rogue hunter, and rogue hunters were always strung up if caught. There had been plenty of accidents throughout the years by other hunters. Devlin never really knew what became of those accidents, but he imagined it wasn’t good.

Devlin’s current predicament wasn’t the worst situation he’d ever been in by a long shot. He wasn’t particularly upset but for the fact that the outlaw had taken his rifle. What that man didn’t know was that he’d stolen one of the nicest rifles ever made. This was Devlin’s opinion, of course, but his opinion mattered in this case. If there was a man who knew rifles, it was Devlin.
 

The one the outlaw now carried had been made of the finest materials, and was calibrated perfectly. It had been made by Devlin’s grandfather, and time had only made the rifle better. Devlin cared for that thing like it was his child. He couldn’t count the number of bears and elk he had taken down with that rifle, and from distances that Devlin kept to himself for fear of being labeled a fibber. It was all right to him that he knew the truth. Devlin was a good shot, but he wouldn’t have made those shots with a lesser gun.
 

If there was anything motivating him to go after the outlaw, it was getting that weapon back. Even still, Devlin figured it was as good as gone now. He may have loved the rifle, but he supposed it wasn’t worth dying over. Few things were.

Eventually, he tugged and pulled at the reins, and worked the knot until he was free of his bonds, then tossed the reins under a nearby bush. He reached down and picked up his saber, sheathed it, and started his walk to the road and toward Tel Haven. He stopped suddenly when he realized how all this would look. He was clean as a whistle, but he had no horse, and no gun. It was as if he’d just given his stuff away to the enemies without a fight—which was what happened, he guessed.

There needed to be sign of a struggle. He needed to look like he had fought vigorously and had barely come away with his life. Devlin didn’t fear pain, but that didn’t mean he wished it upon himself. He took a deep breath as he looked at the ground, spotting a fist-sized rock near a creek bank. He walked to it and took note of its jagged edges that would do exactly as he needed.
 

His heart pounded as he readied himself. He sat his bottom on the ground and rested his back against the trunk of a large tree. He didn’t know why, but he figured that sitting would make this whole process easier. He stared at the rock in his right hand as if it was his enemy. It was an object that wished him harm. Devlin’s breathing became more rapid as he tried to steady himself for the blow to come. He then gritted his teeth and gripped the rock even tighter, and finally, he held his hand up in the air and brought the rock down on his cheek.
 

The hit stunned him for a moment, but he knew it wasn’t enough. It had to look like a real fight. He reached for his cheek and cursed when he realized the stone hadn’t even broken his skin. There was something about doing this to himself that made it difficult. He felt like he could take the pain if it had been dealt by someone else, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
 

He shook his head. There was no one else. It wasn’t like he could go to Marum or her friend and ask them to beat him to a bloody pulp. Besides, they were too far away now.
 

Devlin stood to his feet, knowing that sitting only made him too comfortable. He stood in a crouching position, staring at the rock in his right hand.
 

“I can do this…I can do this…” He chanted this to himself over and over until he slammed the rock into the side of his cheek, this time with a much harder force. Devlin fell to his knees, stunned by the blow. He yelled, letting his chest fall to the ground. He smacked his palm against the dirt, feeling like he was unable to continue. But a Ranger would have to be more severely beaten to make the scenario believable. He sat himself back onto his knees and he swung the rock into his nose. A loud crack reverberated through the trees and Devlin could taste blood pouring into his mouth.
 

He fell to the ground again, only this time he rolled onto his back. All Devlin could feel was a numb pain and the wetness of blood covering him. For a moment, even he might have truly believed that the fugitives were on top of him, beating him mercilessly, but in his heart, he knew this wasn’t enough. He grabbed his knife from his boot, and pressed the sharp tip against the wool at his shoulder. He sucked in as much air into his lungs as possible and let it out slowly.
 

I can do this…I can do this…,
he thought to himself over and over.

With a forceful push, the blade slipped cleanly past his skin and through his shoulder, the tip protruding through his back.

Devlin’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed into a grimace as the pain seared through him. He let out a loud gasp that transformed into a scream that echoed through the entire forest. He jerked the knife out quickly and raised himself up to all fours, staring into the dirt as the blood trickled from his wounds, pooling in front of his eyes. The pain in his own shoulder and back were almost unbearable. Why had he gone so far? The beating might have been enough, but now he looked like the criminals had barely let him escape with his life.
 

Somehow, Devlin was able to manage a slight grin at the thought. Maybe it was the crazy coming through, his maniacal thoughts clouding his mind. That’s what he wanted the others to think. They would quickly look past the escape if the gray elf had barely left Devlin alive. They would be more worried about his health, wouldn’t they?
 

After a few agonizing moments, Devlin stood to his feet and began making his way down the road toward Tel Haven. He managed to tie some fabric around his shoulder, though the location of the wound made it very difficult to stop the bleeding. His head felt like it was going to burst. The cold air bit at his cuts and he could barely walk in a straight line. He couldn’t help but think about the creatures in the woods that might be drawn to the smell of his blood. A new fear gripped him that he had not anticipated before trying this tactic.

As he wandered down the road, he thought that he probably should have tried to fight Marum and her helper. Only a coward would have let her go like he had. But Devlin was no Ranger and he knew it. He had been forced into the position. He had never asked for it. He never wanted it. Being a Ranger meant fighting a battle eventually. Battle was the last thing Devlin wanted or even understood. He couldn’t figure why people wanted to kill each other. The only thing Devlin understood was surviving in the forests and tracking game. It was what he used to live for. But knowledge of the hunt made him acutely aware of the beasts that might be tracking him now.
 

Hours passed.
 

He trudged forward, but he knew he had lost too much blood. He knew the self-made tourniquet to stop the bleeding was not good enough. He cursed himself several times for stabbing his shoulder. He had planned for authenticity, but it seemed instead that he might have just killed himself slowly. He must have hit a vein or an artery.
 

The moonlight shined through the trees but the path remained a blurred sight as he knew the loss of blood would soon claim him. And as soon as the thought entered his mind, his knees gave way. He tried to hold himself up with his arms, but they had no strength. Before he lost consciousness, he cursed himself again. He might have had a better chance against the gray elf than stabbing himself through the shoulder.
 

He felt his face smack against the cold dirt on the road. The pain was not nearly as intense as it had been when the rock slammed against his cheeks and nose, but perhaps that was because he was a goner. Within a single breath’s moment, he closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

Autumn, 898 A.O.M.

The party was small with twelve men, but they were enough to keep Joe in line. He rode ahead of the group on a horse between Clive and the Warlord. The other men rode with weapons held close to them, surrounding five carts meant for carrying all the weapons Joe had promised the Renegades. Joe was obviously allowed no weapons and the rope around his wrists was digging into his skin. He had thought a few times that he might try to kick his pony and outrun the others, but he didn’t know the terrain like the Renegades did. They lived off this land, far from the confines of civilization. They undoubtedly knew every path and every shortcut through these woods. The battle, Joe had learned, had taken place just last night in a field south of the Sunset Woods. A caravan of Crimson Army soldiers had taken the notion to attack the temporary Renegade camp. It was believed among the Renegades that it hadn’t been an ordered attack by the president, nor had it been strategically planned by the commanders. The two parties just happened to cross each other, and being natural enemies, they fought. This had apparently been against the wishes of the Warlord, who hadn’t wanted a fight with the Crimson Army. At least, not then. But Joe didn’t pretend to understand the differences between the two groups, or why they were against each other at all. He just needed to figure out a way to escape.
 

Now, they traveled northward toward a city called Vandikhan. According to Clive, they would be at Joe’s location by afternoon of the next day.
 

Few words were spoken as they traveled. Clive kept a close watch on Joe at all times while the Warlord tended to ride away from the group, sometimes scouting ahead, other times stopping to study a deformed tree or a strange rock. Despite the Warlord’s seemingly random halts, the group would continue forward as though this was normal. On occasion, Joe would have to be on his guard. The Warlord found Joe very interesting which resulted in a plethora of questions, forcing Joe to think up answers that wouldn’t get him killed. One question in particular sent a jolt through Joe’s chest when the Warlord asked.