by J. C. Staudt
Reclaimer
Mage Song
Book Two
J.C. Staudt
Reclaimer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 J.C. Staudt
All rights reserved.
Edition 1.0
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Afterword
Prologue
The stump of the great silban tree at the center of the village square was Eldrek Lyrent’s favorite place to sit and tell stories to the children. The nobles called it the Pauper’s Throne, for it was more chair than stump, an ornament carved ages ago from the living wood, with a high regal back and two elegant armrests flowing into a web of thick roots which crept out along the ground like half-buried snakes.
“Gather round, children. Gather round. That’s it… come, now. Sit.” Eldrek grunted as he took his seat, his old bones creaking like hinges. “Settle down, now. Everyone ready?”
The children raised a cry of delight, everyone from the youngest toddler to the cluster of older boys playing at the fringes of the crowd with their stick swords and wooden helms and wicker crowns. There was even a tradesman’s apprentice or two who stopped work and stood by to hear the tale.
“Today I shall tell you a story of a time not so long past,” Eldrek began, “when the world knew true heroism; when honor was won by the bravery of a scarce few. It was an age of adventure, and of the last known peace in the realms, before the kingdoms raised their banners to war in the north. It was during this time that the greatest hero of our age set out to travel distant lands and perform dangerous feats in the name of virtue and justice.”
“Was he a wizard?” asked one of the children, a towheaded boy of no more than six.
“He was a knight, you dummy,” said an older girl.
“And he was brave, and handsome, and fair… like father,” said the girl’s sister. They giggled together.
“You are all quite correct,” said Eldrek. “The hero of whom I speak is both knight and wizard; both warrior and spellcaster. Better still, this is not some ancient legend of old. He lives to this very day.”
“Who is he?” asked the towheaded boy.
“I know who he is,” said a dark-haired older boy.
“Speak up,” said Eldrek, encouraging him with a wave.
“It’s Sir Darion of Ulther.”
“That’s right. Very good. As you will soon see, Sir Ulther was not always so great a hero. He did not begin his life as a lord, or a knight, or a wizard, but as a regular fellow, much like you and me. Born the third son of a glass merchant in Linderton, Sir Ulther had four brothers. Two older. Two younger. It was said their mother’s grandfather had a giant’s blood in him, woven through his ancestry from the dawn ages. And on his father’s side, the blood of dwarves remained from generations of yore.
“Darion and his brothers were of fine hardy stock, husky and tall, which made them rather formidable in their youth. As they grew, Darion proved himself an above-average lad in every way. Though clumsy at times, he often exceeded his brothers at every chore laid before him. Even Padric and Teimar, the elder two, could seldom compete with Darion despite being taller and broader of arm.
“Darion’s father was neither peasant nor prince; the glass trade had made him wealthy enough to avoid serfdom for himself and his family, but not so wealthy as to hold lordship over his own lands. When thieves stole into his home and murdered him one night, it was Darion’s older brothers who took his place in the glass trade. The family merchantry flourished, and their house has become well-respected in the kingdom.”
“Is that why there’s a big keep in the southlands called Ulther?” asked one of the older boys.
“Well, no, but I’ll get to that in a moment. Darion’s younger brothers, Myren and Evulon, were of the gregarious sort, sociable and rather droll fellows. The twins had more of their mother’s mirth than their father’s thrift, and always seemed to be at some scheme or mischief. They grew up to embark on their own venture, a tavern in Rivermont they call the Two Turtles.”
“That’s a far ways to travel from the Hightrade for a couple of merchants’ sons,” said the older boy.
“Perhaps,” said Eldrek, “but not nearly so much traveling as Darion himself has done. You see, Darion did not share his brothers’ interests in merchantry or hospitality. From the early days of his youth, he was possessed of a wandering heart. With his father gone and his brothers taking over the family trade, Darion sought a place as a page boy in the household of the Castellan of Barrowdale. Being the stout lad he was, he took to his new position with great aptitude. He was so large and so apt, in fact, that a visiting Knight of Tetheril, Sir Jalleth Highbridge, took him to squire at age eleven.
“Sir Highbridge soon found, as Darion’s father had, that far beyond any size or skill the boy possessed, he was most of all consumed by the will to succeed. He endeavored to become great at every task to which he set his hand, from the mundane to the supernatural.
“Sir Jalleth, meanwhile, was an adventurous man with the same sort of restless heart as his new squire. Born of the Tetheri wildlands and raised in the lifestyle of the wayfarer, he took the boy from Barrowdale and struck out into the wide world to seek his fortune. It was during this time of broad travel and high adventure that Darion came into his own as a man. Alongside Sir Jalleth’s training in warfare, Darion learned skills and trades aplenty, eventually becoming quite seasoned in the art of magic.
“By the time he was sixteen, Darion had sailed with the Sea Elves of Blacktide Bay, drank summer meade with the littlefolk of the Dailfeld, hammered steel and iron with the dwarven smiths of Korvane, held court in the halls of castellans and kings great and small, and won many victories in battle, defeating cruel wyverns on the plains of Dathrond, devilish imps in the dungeon depths of Tenleague Deep, and armies of snow-goblins in the highest icy peaks of the Cloudspears.
“Sir Jalleth knighted Darion on his seventeenth name day, proving him once again worthy of high honor years before most men. Yet those are other tales, many of which you’ve heard before, and which I may yet share another day from this very seat. The tale I would tell you today is a rather unusual one.”
“I want to hear about Sir Ulther and the Goblin’s Nest,” said the towheaded boy.
“Yes, tell us that one,” said another child. “And tell us about Sir Darion’s dragons.”
Eldrek smiled. “Another day. Today, I would tell you of Sir Darion’s most monumental triumph of all, and of the great tragedy which followed. It is the very castle you mentioned before, Thomadus—Keep Ulther in the southlands—which Tarber King rewarded to Sir
Darion for his deeds in battle. That castle belonged to Sir Darion for many a year, until at last it was taken from him.”
“How?” asked Thomadus.
Lyrent cast a nervous glance at the parents standing at the edges of his audience. “Why, that is the very tale I’m going to tell you today. For in every hero’s time, there comes a day when he must face that choice for which there is no easy answer. Yet the great ones do right when all seems set against them. Yet as you will find, the right choice is not always easy to discern…
“Our story begins at the Dathiri Ford, the great walled fortress guarding the eastern bank of the Maergath River beyond the Eastgap plains, where Sir Ulther found himself besieged by Rudgar King and his army of savage Korengadi barbarians against impossible odds. The siege had dragged on for weeks, and the desperate Dathiri garrison was far outmanned and in dire peril of losing their key strategic position to the invaders. ‘My men tell me you mean to face Rudgar King and his armies alone,’ said the field commander when Sir Ulther arrived. ‘I would face any challenger Rudgar King pits against me,’ Sir Ulther replied. ‘Whether that be a single combatant or the whole of his host.’”
“The voices. You forgot to do the voices,” the towheaded boy interrupted.
“Yes, you simply must do the voices,” said the older girl.
Eldrek lifted his brow. “We’ve become quite the demanding audience, haven’t we?”
“You always did the voices before,” the boy complained.
Eldrek sighed. “Very well. We shall do the voices.”
The children gave a cheer and settled in.
Eldrek cleared his throat and began the tale once more.
Chapter 1
Snow fell across the rocky shore, trimming the dark stone of the distant Korengadi capital in white. Darion Ulther pulled his furs tighter about his shoulders and shivered against the chill, hunkering down in his longship as the oarsmen drove the fleet onward. The northmen’s boats were thin-keeled and quick, yet the coxswains at their rudders were no less wary of the juts of stone standing like spears along the shoreline, or the sucking waves which threatened to drag them in and dash them to splinters.
Rylar, deposed Prince of Korengad, gave Darion an appraising stare from the prow of his own longship, one of the fastest in the King’s fleet. The corner of the Prince’s mouth drew upward as he took stock of Darion’s discomfort.
I am not afraid, Darion wanted to say. Only cold.
“Cronarmark,” the Prince said, lifting his voice to be heard above the waves and raising a finger toward the city, as if Darion could’ve missed it.
“This is where it ends,” Darion replied. “All the hard-fought years will be worth it when the city falls.”
The Prince frowned, either unable to hear him or unable to understand. Rylar had made some effort to learn the tongue of the realms these past years, and could string together a coherent sentence when he needed to. His father was another matter. Rudgar King kept to his traditions, and had spent these years fixated on the goal of reclaiming his homeland. The king’s gaze was now fixed on the city, where the black-and-white checkered flags of the occupying Dathiri host wavered on the offshore winds.
“Go you to front,” the Prince called across the distance between their boats. “I for you make path.”
Darion shook his head. “This is your moment, Rylar. I will clear the way so you and your father may be the first to set foot inside the city gates. Your home awaits you.”
Rylar Prince smiled and looked to his father, whose gaze had not broken from the city. Fewer than a hundred boats, two-score men to a boat, were all that remained of Rudgar King’s army. Weeks overland to Belgard, months at sea, and years spent trudging across the tundras of Korengad, laying siege to city after city in efforts to drive out the Dathiri, had taken their toll. So entrenched was the Dathiri army that hundreds of its soldiers had taken Korengadi wives and got them with child by the time Darion and the royals returned to liberate them. He was sure they would find more of the same when they sacked Cronarmark. This was the last Dathiri stronghold in all of Korengad, though. Here they would dethrone Olyvard King’s Regent and restore the realm to its rightful rulers.
Ahead of the fleet, the impenetrable phalanx of stone along the shoreline gave way to a stretch of sandy beach. Darion remembered Rudgar King’s finger, cracked and bloody from cold and battle, tapping the parchment map on the table in his tent to denote his intended landing point on the beach of Daro Kolir, leaving a bloody print behind. Once the army made landfall, what lay beyond was a long and treacherous slog through sand and stone and tall seagrass under surveillance of the archers and warmachines upon the city walls.
Pinpricks of blue light began to awaken on the spires and parapets of Cronarmark. Darion felt the mage-song stir around him and knew at once what this meant. The first of the longships had yet to clear the rocks, and a great distance remained between the bulk of the fleet and the patch of sandy shore ahead.
“They’ve been waiting for us,” Darion said, almost to himself. “And they have Warpriests.”
Rylar Prince knew it too. “Did not I tell they bring priest of wild-song?” he called.
“You did, my friend,” Darion muttered, not bothering to shout back. “You certainly did.”
Rudgar’s armies had encountered a handful of Dathiri Warpriests dispersed throughout Korengad during their conquest, but never more than two at a time. Darion tried to tally the blue lights in the city and lost count. The pinpricks streaked into the sky, forming graceful arcs against the night. They might’ve been beautiful, had Darion not known what they were bringing with them. Rylar was already casting his own spell, as were several of the other mages scattered among the longships. Darion’s first instinct was to order the men to raise their shields, but boiled animal hides would do little to protect them now.
Coldfire crashed down amidst the fleet in a series of piercing blasts. Billows of biting air frosted the waves and turned the decks to ice. Blue flame rushed out behind to blacken the men’s skin and tear the planks asunder.
The sound of cracking wood was the last thing Darion heard before the deck of his longship disintegrated beneath his feet. He did not remember the moment between standing and sinking; only the sudden sensation of frigid ocean water flooding his armor, dragging him down, and a wave rolling in to cover his head with a slap. He stretched his toes for hope of sand or stone beneath him, but none came.
The leather straps of Darion’s plate armor and the fingers of his mailed fists froze solid in an instant. Flailing his arms did nothing but pull him down. All above him was bright blue, a sheet of fire slithering across the surface of the waves. Men were drowning all around him. Some struggled; others drifted motionless toward the bottom, frostbitten faces purple and blistered like spoiled grapes. If this is how I am to die, Darion thought, then let it be with the hope that I have done some good in this world.
Darion’s breath ran out. Seawater flooded his lungs. In those final moments, he thought of Alynor; of the child who had been in her belly when he left, but who would’ve surpassed three years of age by now. I will never know the name of my own child. I will never know my son or daughter.
Then his feet touched down. It was sand, not stone, but it was something. He let the weight of his armor push him down until his knees were bent at the sea floor, then sprang off his toes and swam for the surface. The heavy cold stunted his progress, and he surfaced only long enough to spew out a mouthful of seawater. He was sinking again before he could inhale half a breath. Eyes bleary with salt, lungs empty of air, he wondered if it was the last breath he would ever take.
Fingers closed around the armhole in his breastplate and tugged him toward the surface. A second pair of arms joined the first. Darion spilled over the side of the Prince’s longship to lay gasping and coughing on deck. Rylar was standing tall at the prow, speaking the sigils of a spell even as he manipulated the mage-song in front of him. When he flicked a hand out over the water,
warm orange flames spread across the waves to devour the coldfire in a gout of steam.
“Die you not today,” the Prince shouted over his shoulder.
Darion rolled onto his side and coughed until he vomited.
“Try you on that,” said the Prince.
“What?”
“Try you on that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Darion.
“I believe he wants you to stay there until you feel better,” said Vaeron Shask, the King’s interpreter.
“What are you doing on this boat?” Darion asked, breaking into another fit of coughing.
“The King had no more room aboard his vessel, and little need for my services without you there.”
Darion removed a gauntlet to sweep his long hair from his eyes with a frigid hand. Dozens of Rudgar’s longships were still afloat and speeding toward the beach while his mages conjured protective spells to shield the fleet’s advance. Rylar was doing more than that; he had covered several of the boats in flickering fields of warm yellow mage-song and was tossing spells toward the city walls.
“It’s good you’re here,” Darion told Vaeron. “Tell the Prince I will be back on my feet as soon as I can feel my legs.”
Rylar laughed when Vaeron spoke the translation. “That you do,” the Prince said. “I for you take Cronarmark.”
“He says stay there while he—”
“I heard him.” Darion staggered to his feet. His knees wobbled and his head swam, but he clutched the boat’s gunnel to steady himself beside the Prince. “I haven’t come all this way to quit now. Move over and keep your voice down. You’re not the only one on this boat with spells to cast.”
Darion and Rylar stood side by side at the longship’s prow, awakening mage-song with the decisive fervency the war had often required of them. Had there been debate before the war as to who was the greater Warcaster, that debate would’ve grown only the fiercer since Darion and the Prince began fighting together. Though they came from different lands and spoke separate tongues, the language of magic and its song were their common bond. The two Warcasters had learned from one another, growing all the more powerful in tandem.