Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  When he came to the confluence of the Greenshore’s two tributaries, the water was deep and fast-moving, with no fit place to be forded on horseback or by swimming. He followed the river south until at last his destination appeared. On the opposite shore, shrouded in fog beneath the eaves of the Breezewood, stood the Greenkeep. Its ancient pinnacles glowed in the moonlight, its moss-covered stone walls both valiant and macabre. Long had it remained a last bastion of defense against invaders from the south. Tarber King of Orothwain had entrusted Lord Mirrowell, Alynor’s father, with its upkeep for a generation.

  Had Hallard Mirrowell sired a son, the keep may have one day passed to him. Instead, his wife had borne him four daughters and gone barren after losing a fifth. There was no provision in the realms for passing property to a daughter. Besides that, no lord truly owned his castle or his lands. Every patch of dust from the Whitebranch to the Fens of Dathrond was the sovereign property of one of the five kings, and all was given and taken away at their discretion.

  Darion wondered what had become of his own keep in the years since his departure. He supposed it would depend on how harshly Olyvard King had enforced his judgment. Perhaps the king had evicted Alynor and left Keep Ulther vacant for the next young lord who earned a gift of allegiance. At worst, Olyvard had given the keep to a new lord already, along with all the priceless treasures and artifacts Darion had accumulated during his adventures as a young man. There were items stowed away in Darion’s tower room so dark and powerful as to be dangerous to any who did not respect them properly.

  The only thing Darion cared about now was getting back to Alynor. Like Rudgar King at the sight of Cronarmark, Darion found his gaze fixed on the Greenkeep. He knew Alynor was inside, and he could scarce wait a moment longer to see her face. There were so many things he had to tell her; so many regrets he needed to atone for. Were he able to stay on his feet in her presence, he would consider it miraculous.

  Then there was the child. The child, who would be old enough to walk and talk by now, and who did not know Darion from any other man who might walk into his life and claim to be his father. That was the part that excited and scared him the most. How could he form a father’s bond with a child who did not know him? What if he wasn’t good at it? What if the child took one look at the big strange bearded man and ran away screaming?

  Darion couldn’t bear to think of such an outcome. He needed to get across the river. There was a ferry which ran from bank to bank in certain seasons. It should be running now, if there were ever a time for it. Yet as he peered first upriver, then down, he saw nothing but the starry shimmer of the tide coursing its way toward the Aeldalos.

  He built a small fire and camped along the bank, letting Posey graze as widely as she liked in the fields behind him. Just before dawn, a herd of centaurs emerged from the Breezewood and gathered on the opposite bank to drink deeply of its waters. Moonlit faces shone bright across the distance. Their strapping flanks and pale muscled torsos glistened with the sweat of their canter. They knew Darion was there, but they paid him no heed.

  After filling their skins, they raced off again into the wild meadows of that vast night. They were free, and they ran with abandon. Darion wished he could say the same for himself. He’d been awake half the night, afraid of his dreams again. He had only been conscious to spot the centaurs by chance, but he was glad of it. There was nothing more inspiring in all the world, he decided, than to witness the vigor of life unhindered.

  When the sun cast its sparkling light upon the river, and the faded white stone of the Greenkeep turned a golden yellow under its rays, the ferry bobbed into view from the north. Darion hailed the ferrymen with a shout and a wave, and for the price of a jingle of silver, the man bore him across to the other side.

  Chapter 8

  Alynor walked until the hard leather pads of her sandals began to crack. She held Draithon’s hand and carried him for short periods whenever he began to gripe. Hours before, she had decided she was no longer Stoya Lyrent. She was tired of that name; tired of the falseness it required of her. Now the sun was setting, taking with it her sense of direction. On the muted forest floor, where so little light could reach, the furious tangles of the Wildwood pulled at her like hands grasping in the dark.

  Overnight she huddled beneath a tree, cradling Draithon as he slept, shivering in the cold. When morning came she tried to get her bearings, but found only that the rising sun gave her no indication of how far she’d gone or how long she had yet to travel. Ristocule was nowhere to be seen, so Alynor coaxed her son awake without breakfast and set off in an uncertain direction.

  A few hours past midday, she came to a river. She could not tell whether it was the Laerlocke running west, or the Hightrade running south, though she hoped it was the former. She would sooner enter the Dailfeld, with its friendly provinces and welcoming littlefolk, than wander into the Tetheri hinterlands and find herself in unwitting danger.

  I should have followed the river to begin with, she thought with despair. That would’ve been too risky, with Dathiri Pathfinders everywhere and loose-lipped villagers of dubious principle out to do their washing.

  The open sky brooded above her as she bent at the riverbank to take a drink, cupping the fast-moving water in her hands and slurping until her belly was full. Draithon had some trouble at first, but he’d soon taken his fill as well.

  As Alynor drowned her sandals in the cold tingling waters, there came a stinging chorale to the soles of her feet. She hadn’t realized how many cuts and scrapes she’d received from all those branches and brambles, but now they were letting her know. She couldn’t imagine walking the long leagues to the nearest township when every step was such a chore. Draithon was cranky and restless, and she did not relish the thought of taking him further into the wilderness. Yet neither could she stay in one place. That would only make it easier for the Dathiri Pathfinders to track her down.

  With luck, Ristocule would find her first. If there was anyone who would know what to do right now, it was Eldrek. Sir Jalleth, she corrected herself. His name is Sir Jalleth. I am no longer Stoya, and I can certainly forego the same formality with the old man. Our true names are no secret now. He gave us away with his storytelling. I warned him, and he refused to stop.

  Alynor found herself becoming angrier at the old knight with every step. It was Sir Jalleth’s fault the Dathiri had found them; she was sure of it. He had abandoned her to this bitter wilderness. While she fled her pursuers, Ristocule might very well fly free until the end of his days.

  She could not stay angry at him for long, though. Her heart softened at the thought of the old man running for her satchel at the edge of the clearing. The spell she’d put on him yesterday was worn off by now. He was a falcon again, and there was little chance he possessed the strength to carry such a heavy bag all this way. That he had not rejoined Alynor and Draithon by now was cause for alarm.

  Soon her anger began to melt into worry. Her worry turned to fear. She dreaded the worst. What if Ristocule had been slain by a Pathfinder’s arrow? Trapped in a hunter’s snare? These were thoughts best not entertained, she decided.

  When she came to the far bank of the river, she could hear sounds from the forest beyond. Draithon was fussing, so she knelt in a stand of shrubbery and tried to quiet him. The sounds grew nearer. Footsteps, and rough, tiny voices coming from every direction.

  A soft rain began among the trees, prompting Alynor to lift her hood and spread the folds of her cloak around her son. She dare not move for fear of revealing herself. The underbrush was thick, and she’d find no better place to hide. If she ran, she wouldn’t get far before exhaustion got the best of her.

  Someone barked an unfamiliar word, and the noises stopped. Alynor thought she heard whispering, but it was hard to tell above the patter of rain on dry leaves. She held her breath and pulled Draithon close, afraid to let the smallest sound escape him.

  A moment passed. Then another.

  Just when she was about to
exhale, a stunted little creature with pointed features and mossy skin burst through the leaves, tripped over its own two feet, and fell in a heap before her. It hopped to a stand and fumbled for the blade on its hip. Alynor backed against the tree and used it to push herself up, clutching her son close. When the creature bared its rows of serrated teeth and gave a hiss, Draithon buried his face in Alynor’s breast and shrieked.

  The creature slashed at her robes, tearing them just below the knee. Alynor planted a foot in the creature’s face to send it sprawling backward into the brush. Other creatures like the first barreled through the leaves around her, speaking in barks and grunts.

  She tried to remember a spell—any spell. Casting under duress was an altogether different experience than she was used to; for the past few years, she’d been able to take her time in that quiet, secluded clearing on the outskirts of Briarcrest, and she’d had a seasoned Warcaster to guide her. She spoke a few sigils, but they got jumbled up in her head, and the notes came out more like worried squeals than the tones of the mage-song.

  Alynor kicked at another one of the creatures, but it slashed at her sandal with its crude short blade and cut the insole of her foot on its way through the leather. She cried out, nearly losing her balance. With no other option but surrender, she backed around the tree and stumbled through the underbrush away from her assailants.

  She could hear them tearing after her, hacking at the foliage and grumbling in some foul tongue as they gave chase. The split sandal flopped and bowed, making progress difficult. For every stride Alynor took, it sounded as if the little creatures managed half a dozen. It wouldn’t be long before they caught up.

  Draithon was heavy in her arms. Branches caught her clothing; roots tripped her up. Alynor kept her gaze on the forest ahead and pushed out all the sounds around her, drowning them in thoughts of the mage-song. Which spell could she cast? How could she save herself and her son? Her mind swam with the memory of Sir Jalleth’s lessons, the most important of which was the very first.

  You’ll never find the mage-song if you don’t know the tones, he’d told her that cold mid-winter morning. Panpipes are a fine tool for learning. Any caster worth his salt keeps panpipes for the occasions when he requires time and precision, or for when he’s too exhausted to find the tones himself. But the best any caster can do for himself is to learn the tone closest to his own heart. There’s a natural resonance—a pitch we all have, toward which our voices naturally move. Your pitch may be different than mine, but it’s no less helpful to either of us. If you can find your way to one of the tones, you’ll soon find the others.

  Alynor’s heart-tone was the sixth. She’d never thought herself so high-pitched before Sir Jalleth’s lessons, but the sixth tone was closest to where her voice naturally fell. She began to hum, letting her pitch rise and sink until it reached a note which felt like equilibrium—a challenging feat to perform while running. She dare not look back, though she could hear the creatures ducking and leaping obstacles in relentless pursuit, gaining ground. She had just found what she believed to be the correct note when the first of the creatures dove and wrapped itself around her leg.

  She stumbled, caught herself, and limped on, dragging the thing behind her. The forest floor was growing damp as the rain intensified, and her damaged sandal still clung to her foot by the straps, dredging leaves in her wake. When a searing pain shot up her calf, Alynor looked down to find the creature biting through her robe, its claws digging deep. She tried to shake the little monster off, but it refused to let go.

  Draithon was getting so big Alynor often needed both hands to support him properly on her hip. At the risk of dropping him, she freed a hand and tried to remove the creature. No amount of swatting or pounding or pulling seemed to stave off its aggression, and the very effort slowed her down enough to let the others catch up. They converged on her in an instant. Next she knew they were climbing her legs, leaping onto her back, and trying to tear her away from the terrified child she held in her arms.

  The creatures dragged Alynor to the ground, scratching and biting and yanking at her hair. She tucked Draithon beneath her and shielded him with her body. The creatures weren’t much larger than he was, and they squirmed easily beneath her. All the while, she kept the sixth tone of the mage-song deep in her chest. Sir Jalleth’s many lessons flipped by like the pages of a book as Alynor tried to recall a spell that might protect them.

  Only when she’d gotten a good look at the creatures did she realize they were goblins. These were a different sort than she was used to; those she’d known growing up were taller, paler of skin, and a deal less ugly. That was not to say the goblins who inhabited the Breezewood near Alynor’s childhood home were fair of face. Merely that these goblins who assailed her now were a more wretched, depraved form of their race. Wild scamps of the west, spawned in Nimgol and spread like a sickness through the Tetheri hinterlands.

  Alynor did recall a spell as the goblins bound her and Draithon both, hands and feet. Draithon cried and screamed until he was purple in the face, consumed by the unbridled disbelief of a child who does not understand how the world could contain such frightful things. Alynor’s heart broke for her son, but she concentrated on the spell instead, knowing it was their only chance.

  Draithon’s cries did not go unnoticed by the goblins, however. When the one in charge gave a sharp order in its jagged tongue, one of the little creatures laid a clawed slap across the boy’s face. The blow at first stunned Draithon to silence, then sparked his wailing anew.

  Alynor could not ignore this offense. She sat up, spun around, and plunged both feet into the offending goblin’s face. The creature sprawled backward and tumbled down a shallow embankment.

  “Don’t you dare lay a finger on my son,” she shouted.

  A few of the other goblins covered their mouths and snickered at their comrade’s misfortune. Most of them did not. Alynor accepted their abuses, albeit with building hatred. As long as it stopped them hurting Draithon, she would gladly bear their maltreatment.

  When they’d taken their fill of denigrating her, they gathered round and lifted her like pallbearers hoisting a coffin. It took nearly a dozen goblins to carry her and only four to carry Draithon, whose cries reached a new intensity when they picked him up. Alynor watched those four goblins closely. Once she was free, any one of them who harmed her son could expect to be repaid in kind.

  The rain strengthened. Alynor had to close her eyes against the downpour leaking through the gaps in the canopy above. The goblins’ hands were rough and oily, the smell in their midst a nauseating blend of soured-milk breath and rotting-onion perspiration. She arranged the final sigils of the spell in her mind, pushing back the dread clawing at her insides. All she had to do now was cast the spell.

  She began to sing. When the goblins didn’t react, Alynor’s voice quavered with a desperate hope. She steadied herself and spoke each sigil in accordance with the mage-song’s haunting scale. She was nearly done when one of the goblins snarled at her and rammed an elbow into her midriff. The shock of pain caught her unawares and shattered her concentration. She felt the mage-song dissipate. “Curse you, you tiny devils. Curse you all. We’ve done nothing to you to deserve such treatment.”

  Darion had once been dubbed Goblin’s Bane of the Cloudspears. Alynor wondered what her husband had done to deserve such a name. She had only seen him interact with goblins once, outside Fenria Town while they were on their way to Maergath in answer of Olyvard King’s summons. When Alynor had urged Darion to eradicate the goblin hunting party they’d seen returning home with a fresh kill, he had let them walk away unharmed. They’ll not bother us if we leave them be, he’d told her.

  Alynor wondered whether goblins possessed any capacity for reason. If they could be reasoned with, they could be bought. Not that I have much to buy them with, she thought. How might a primitive band of murderous thieves be dissuaded from killing and stealing, anyhow?

  My husband spared the lives of seve
ral of your kinfolk a few years ago, she might’ve said. She didn’t suppose that would earn her any goodwill, even if she knew how to say it in their language. Sir Jalleth had told her there were spells that could let a person understand other languages for a time, but he had never taught her one. No, all of Sir Jalleth’s training had focused on preparing her for the day when she would have to face dangers on her own. Days like this one. Some student I’ve proved myself to be, she thought, and a swell of bitter laughter died in her throat.

  We’ve all got to share the realms with creatures we deem less than savory, Darion had said to her that day so long ago. Apparently these goblins didn’t live by the same rules. The thought made Alynor forget her anger toward Sir Jalleth in favor of her resentment toward Darion. Had he not left her here with a child to raise by herself, she would never have been forced to flee alone into the woods, and these terrible creatures would never have found her. It was too late for blame, though; too late for regret. Whatever happened to Alynor and her son from now on was hers to handle on her own.

  Chapter 9

  “You,” bellowed Lord Hallard Mirrowell from his pedestaled armchair, frowning beneath a cliff of bushy white brow. “Alive and well, I see. I did not think it true, though news of your arrival came from trusted tongues.”

  Darion bent to one knee despite the cold greeting, the flagstones hard beneath the thin green carpet in the high hall. “You heard I was coming?”

  “The Greenkeep has not stood against threat these long years by being blind to its surroundings.”

  “I do not doubt the skill of your spies,” said Darion, “but I am no threat.”