Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “Does it surprise you that I subsist on the essence of putrid goblin-kind? I admit I’m a bit surprised myself. Yet each of us must pay our own price for greatness. Mustn’t we, dear elf-thing?”

  Alynor gulped, steeling herself before she replied. “You leave the flesh untouched?”

  “I’ve lost my taste for flesh. Nor have I any desire to hunt. The very thought of eating repulses me. Still, I must partake from time to time. Like any other creature, as you were so apt to point out.”

  “Then you are no god.”

  The dragon’s head swooped in close. “I am a soul in search of its match. Aren’t we all?”

  “What makes you think I know where this soul is? What is it you’ve smelled on me? Are your senses sharp enough to grant me that much?”

  “Oil and gut. Wood and warp. Song and silence.”

  “Speak mysteries if you like; it won’t help. Nor will it bring to my mind an object I’ve never owned or seen.”

  “I want it. You are close to it; closer than you know, it would seem.”

  “If I swear to you it is nowhere on my person, will you let us go so I can retrieve it for you?”

  “Not without a taste of what will happen if you fail.” To Alynor’s surprise, the dragon cast a spell. A bleak, doleful feeling washed over her, as though the air itself were trying to pull her apart. She was light, yet burdened; timeless, yet constrained. Then she began to separate from herself. She saw her own reflection as if looking down upon the glassy surface of a clear lake. The lake rippled, and she tore like a stitch between layers of fabric. She screamed without sound.

  Quicker than it had come, the feeling was gone.

  “That was but a taste. For both of us,” Shandashkaleth said. “I have known your scent. Now, I know your flavor as well. You will nourish me far better than these pathetic souls I have been forced to survive on in recent days. I do not believe you want that.”

  Dazed, Alynor shook her head.

  The dragon regarded her with suspicion. “You are mine now. Retrieve the periapt. Bring it to me. Do this, and I will free you from my service. Fail, and your child’s soul shall be mine. As will yours.”

  “I thought you couldn’t leave this cavern.”

  “I can, and I will, if you give me good cause.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “I will give you all the time you need, so long as you do not stray from your errand. May fear slither in your steps and lurk over your shoulder the moment you do.”

  “I don’t know where to go,” Alynor blurted.

  “Think, elf-thing. Think hard, friend of the mage-song. Remember the vessel which contains this ancient soul. Within it lies a song powerful enough to bring the very realm to its knees.”

  “Mommy,” Draithon said in a meek voice.

  “Hush, darling. Be still, now.”

  “You have been near it,” said the dragon. “You have seen it. I know you have. Yet you say nothing.”

  “I know nothing,” Alynor said.

  “You know it,” the dragon hissed. “What you must do is remember.”

  “Mommy,” Draithon said again.

  “One moment, my dearest.” She turned to Shandashkaleth. “When was I near it? When did I see it?”

  “Years ago, when you came to the village of Briarcrest. And again a few days past. A strong soul is like a cookfire on a summer breeze. Unmistakable. Its scent lingers long after it is gone.”

  “Mommy?” Draithon said again.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “Remember when the man came to our house?”

  “What man?”

  “There was a man and a lady, and another man. He had funny ears.”

  “Do you mean Kestrel?”

  Draithon gave an uncertain nod.

  “Yes, I do remember, dearest. What about him?”

  Draithon cupped a hand over Alynor’s ear and craned his neck to whisper. “He played a song to me.”

  Alynor remembered.

  “What is it?” the dragon wanted to know. “Say it. Speak.”

  “The lute,” she breathed. “The Lute of Noralin.”

  “Noralin,” the dragon whispered.

  “You know that name?”

  Recognition flickered in the dragon’s eyes. “I once did. I am certain of it. It rings with such clarity. It must be… the name I have forgotten these long ages. Strange, though…”

  “What?”

  “Noralin, if I am to believe it, was once… my sister.”

  “Your sister. And this lute of hers contains a soul? The lute is the periapt?”

  “Yes. Ye-e-e-e-s.” The word boomed from the dragon’s throat with a sudden power. “I remember now.”

  “Whose soul does it contain?”

  The dragon blinked. “Isn’t it obvious? Hers.”

  “You would devour the soul of your own sister?”

  “Her soul, and her song. I need them both.”

  Alynor thought of Kestrel’s attempt at a song the night he’d come to Briarcrest, discordant notes played on a twisted, tortured instrument. “That lute was never mine to begin with. I haven’t been hiding it from you. You sensed it years ago because its owner came with me to Briarcrest; you sensed it again a few days ago because he visited.”

  “Then you must retrieve it from him.”

  “I’m sorry, but that lute will soon be lost to us all. My friends intend to return the instrument to Noralin’s grave in Tenleague Deep.”

  “Tenleague Deep. Is that where she’s been hiding from me?”

  “Until a few years ago, when her grave was robbed.”

  The dragon lifted its head, eyes widening in sudden revelation. “I must give that grave-robber my proper thanks. Bring him with you when you return.”

  “He is not the grave-robber. He stole it from them. I do not know who stole the lute from your sister’s tomb.”

  “No matter, then. I am renewed; this shell of blood and bone will fall unto the ages. I will capture the periapt and use it to pass into a new form. A better form. Her strength is failing. I have felt the strings growing feeble, her body shriveled and knotted. Now is the time to find her and take my rightful place among the gods.”

  “Kestr—its owner says the lute is cursed.”

  “For a fool mortal, perhaps. That curse is nothing but a sign of age; a deterrent to the weak-willed. The finest-wrought vessel can contain a living soul for only so long before it weakens. I must have that lute. Bring it to me, or I swear by all the powers of this world I shall consume you, body and soul, and scatter across the mountains the bones of everyone you have ever loved.”

  Alynor backed away. A shiver of fear ran through her. “Have I no choice in the matter?”

  “You have every choice,” the dragon said. “Refuse me and die now; betray me and die later; or do as I command… and live.”

  “I am no dragon’s thrall.”

  “Along the wall to your left is a thin shelf of rock. Follow it into the darkness. It will lead you through a steep trough of stone, wherein you will arrive at the mouth of a tunnel. Follow the tunnel to the second waterfall. In a nook beside the waterfall lies a set of stairs. Should you ascend these stairs, you will emerge on the western side of the Towershield Mountains. Go north through the Tetheri wilderness and you will reach Tenleague Deep in a matter of days. Deg and his goblin-kind do not use this passage. They will do you no harm, should you take it.”

  “Did you not hear me?” Alynor asked, defiant. “I said I am no thrall to dragons.”

  Shandashkaleth lowered her head until her eyes were level with Alynor’s. Alynor could hear the breath rattling through the dragon’s nostrils, see the sheen of its golden yellow eyes in the dark. It spoke four soft words that shook Alynor to the core of her being. Four words that convinced her it was time to go now, and that there was no alternative to the beast’s will.

  “I,” said Shandashkaleth, “am no dragon.”

  Alynor backed to the left-hand wall. Drai
thon was heavier than ever in her arms. When her spine touched the stone, she slid down the rocky shelf until the platform fell away. All that remained was a narrow ledge no wider than her two feet side by side. The light above her head dimmed a little.

  It wasn’t until she’d descended into darkness and reached the mouth of the tunnel that Alynor stopped to catch her breath. Her chest shuddered with relief, even as the last of her light dispersed with a sigh. She wanted to be anywhere else; anywhere but in a dragon’s lair. Or the lair of… whatever Shandashkaleth was.

  “It’s dark,” Draithon said.

  “I know, pumpkin. One moment.”

  “I can’t see.”

  Alynor crouched to put him down. “Stay close to me now.”

  The boy clung to her leg and whined.

  “Patience, son. I’ll give us some light.”

  When she began to cast, Draithon interrupted her. “What are you doing, Mommy?”

  “Hush, now. Let Mommy finish.”

  She did. The light flashed into renewed brilliance, forcing Draithon to toss an arm over his eyes.

  “Can you walk, baby?”

  “I think.”

  “Mommy’s arms are getting tired.”

  “Are we going where it’s light?”

  “Yes. Outside. Where it’s light.”

  “Then I want to run.”

  Alynor smiled. “So do I. Come then, my darling. Let’s run.”

  They ran together for a long time, Alynor holding herself to a slow jog so Draithon could keep up. The first waterfall sprinkled them with a cool, pleasant mist. The stairs beside the second took them out of the depths and onto a steep western mountainside beneath a sky thick with stars. Alynor was so tired she considered finding a flat spot beside the waterfall and lying down to sleep. But she did not want to risk staying where the goblins—or something more troublesome—might find them, so she led Draithon down the damp slopes until the rocky terrain turned to grass.

  In every direction save the mountains behind them, the Tetheri hinterlands fled through the night toward the interminable horizon. Alynor could just make out a lane of muddy ground, less a road than a track carved through the grass from overuse, snaking through the wide valley below. If she could find some hidden place from which to observe this track from afar, perhaps she might see help coming before it saw her. Just now, she was willing to stop almost anyone so long as they appeared friendly.

  And so, in a muddy cavity beneath a stand of boulders, Alynor and Draithon waited, bruised and wet and hungry, for the first sign of travelers to appear down the valley road.

  Chapter 14

  When the rains ended, a cloudless summer day swelled with the songs of birds and insects and wild things, ushering Darion, Jeebo, and their Galyrian companions into the warm southern plains of Orothwain. Their stay in Fenria Town had been a brief one, both because Darion’s face was well-known in those parts and because he did not want anyone to start trouble with the orc-kind who were with him. They had cut a quick path through the market district so Darion could purchase food and supplies to see himself and all eight of his companions the rest of the way to Keep Ulther.

  “You surprise me,” Jeebo told him when their two horses had taken a commanding lead over the others on foot. “You are a different man than when we met a few years ago. Had Nara and her group accosted us in the mountain pass back then, you would’ve given them a taste of your steel long before you offered them clemency.”

  Darion scanned the horizon, ever vigilant over the Breezewood to the south and the Orothi grasslands around them. “I only meant to save us from a fight.”

  “You have faced armies. Avoiding a fight with half a dozen hungry Galyrians was an act of goodwill, not cowardice. I believe you could’ve won that fight without me lifting a finger.”

  Darion was not weary of fighting; only of taking offense at every challenge and slight that came his way. When he was young, tavern brawls and woodland skirmishes had suited his fancy. He’d seen a great many atrocities since then, and these days it felt needless to cause yet another when one could be avoided. “Call me soft, if you will. Perhaps I’ve grown cautious, wanted traitor that I am.”

  “I believe you neither soft nor cautious. Only kind. Kinder than you care to admit.”

  Darion glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Galyrians were still out of earshot. “I’ve no problem admitting my kindness. It’s admitting my wealth that’s always been the problem. Try achieving fame sometime and see if every beggar and baron in the kingdom doesn’t seek you out with an open palm.”

  “Fortunately for you, your wealth is gone now.”

  “For better or worse, aye. Not my fame, though.”

  “Nor your kindness. No king can ever seize that. Nara and her companions came to the realms for opportunity, not to become bandits. You were keen to see it.”

  “You’ve got some wise adage to go with that, I’ll wager. ‘Every thief has his reasons for stealing,’ or ‘One never knows a man’s story until he asks.’”

  “Those are your wisdoms, not mine,” Jeebo said.

  “They’re things I can picture you saying.”

  “Perhaps you ought to picture yourself saying them instead.”

  “You always know how to expose my shortcomings, Jeebo.”

  “One must know his weaknesses before he can turn them to strengths.”

  “See? There. That’s something you would say.”

  “I suppose it’s fitting I’ve said it, then.” Jeebo smiled, lifted the flap of his feed pouch, and thumbed a scrap of jerky into Hyrana’s mouth. “That’s a good girl. It’s nearly time for supper. Shall I fly her?”

  “She’ll be hunting ‘til sundown if you mean to feed everyone,” Darion said, nodding over his shoulder. “I bought food. We’ll hunt once we’ve shed the extra weight.”

  “As you say. Hyrana is a fine huntress. You’ll see. She’ll keep us fed from here to Briarcrest… if we travel there by land, that is.”

  Darion bounced his eyebrows. “We shall see about that, shan’t we?”

  Jeebo grimaced and fed Hyrana another morsel.

  That night around the campfire, Nara and Tanigar told stories of the mother country, enlightening Darion and Jeebo to a side of Galyrian culture they’d never heard before. In days of old, when the world was still young and new, a great rift swallowed the seas and leeched the dry land until every living creature withered away. All but the orcs, who had until then lived so deep underground that they knew only one another, and no one else knew of them.

  When the first orc emerged into the dayside world, his skin was as pale as milk, having never before been touched by the sun’s rays. He was called Crothuul, and when the sun touched his face he became like the grass of the field and the trees of the forest, green as the life-giving reaches of the earth. Yet all around him lay death, and the world was dry, and the orcs were without equal. Crothuul was saddened by this, and he resolved to bring life back to the world.

  And so, armed with his mighty spear, Crothuul climbed to the highest heights, the tallest rock in Galyria, the Mountain of Medunald. And when he reached the peak of that great mountain, he pierced it with his spear in a single strike, and in so doing released the water repressed within the depths of the earth. His people came out to witness the deluge, and they too were changed by the sun. The water spouted across the land, making clouds and snow and clear streams that flowed from the peak of every tall mountain, and life sprang up all around them. But when the people looked for Crothuul, he was nowhere to be found. For in that moment, when the world burst open, Crothuul had been engulfed, and had become one with the ages.

  As the centuries passed, life begat life. The orcs sired the lesser races, breathing breath into the lungs of men, elves, dwarves, and all the rest. The corruption of their ways caused their skin to pale or darken, fading from purest green to the dismal tones of earth and mud and sand. Never since has there emerged a race so dignified or exemplary as the orcs.


  “And that is why,” Tanigar finished, “the orcs are the eldest and noblest of all the peoples of this world.”

  “Where did the orcs come from?” Darion asked.

  Tanigar smiled. “That is a question for the gods.”

  “You shall have to ask them for me.”

  “Were the mysteries of nature so easily solved,” said Tanigar, “we would have much less to wonder about.”

  “We would, at that.”

  “Will you tell us a tale of your histories here in the realms, Enon?” asked Nara. “I must confess, we know very little of your customs.”

  “Oh, I’m not much of a storyteller,” Darion lied, catching Jeebo’s amused look.

  “I will tell you one,” said Jeebo. “It is the story of my family, and how we came to be the falconers we are today.”

  “That would be lovely,” Nara said.

  “Very well. Now… where to begin? The furthest recorded chronicle of the Aklund family tells of the meeting of two tribes in the Knave’s Knuckles, a small island chain located in the stormy seas southeast of Galyria. As a boy, I recall there having been much speculation and disagreement among the older members of my family about who exactly these two ‘tribes’ were composed of.”

  Jeebo went on to describe the two tribes and their meeting; a fleet of seafaring elves who made landfall on the islands and there encountered a clan of orcs. Battle was joined, but when the orcs destroyed the elven ships they were forced to make peace. The elves brought with them all manner of bird and beast from their travels to foreign lands.

  When a number of falcons were released from their cages during the burning, it turned out they possessed the ability to cross-breed with the island’s only native species. The result was a sort of super-species, possessing the best traits of both breeds.

  And so, as the naturally cross-bred falcons were recaptured and trained by the islandfolk, who had by then also naturally bred across species, there began a long succession of proven falconers. The birds were ideal for hunting on the rocky island terrain and out over the sea, where fish swam in great numbers, too far from shore to be otherwise catchable without longboats and woven nets.