Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “A mystery of nature, to be sure,” said Alynor.

  “Or something else,” said Sir Jalleth. “This dual existence of mine is a most unnatural thing, and therefore occupies a position squarely within the dominion of magic.”

  “If only the dominion of magic could tell us what to do next.”

  Sir Jalleth smiled. “Perhaps it can.”

  Chapter 20

  When Darion and Jeebo entered the River’s Wend, the squalor of village life was plain on every grimy face that turned to stare at them. Darion knew there was a chance someone here might recognize him, but finding Alynor and their son was worth the risk. He’d never been the best at striking up conversations with strangers; more often than not, admirers approached him to assail him with the same volley of questions he’d answered a thousand times. Jeebo, on the other hand, was more than happy to instigate conversation. As it turned out, he was more than adept at making such conversation productive toward his desired ends.

  One table of patrons in the River’s Wend was not at all like the rest. Darion didn’t notice them until he and Jeebo were seated at the bar, where Jeebo began chatting with a woodcutter named Sann Hadreth and his friend Ithric Geiger, a cooper. “I imagine you two must find plenty of work in a village like this,” Jeebo was saying to them, while Darion peered across the room at the table of suspect individuals.

  One drew a short dagger and picked at something between his teeth. The other four slouched in their seats, sipping their ales and looking bored. It was obvious they were hard men, not farmers or fishermen. They were the sort who’d been places and seen things. Darion chided himself for not noticing them sooner.

  The River’s Wend was no stranger to bargemen and traveling merchants; Briarcrest was situated at a bend in the Hightrade Road between Laerlocke and Linderton where goods were often exchanged between land and river. The Hightrade’s shipping barges were said to transport more goods over longer distances than anyone in the realms, and do it faster to boot. From Linderton, the sea trade routes served as a conduit between the northern kingdoms and Deepsail, Orothwain’s capital at the mouth of the Bay of Stones.

  “Does Lord Einrich allow you to fell any tree you choose, or does he levy a great number of restrictions?” Jeebo was asking. He had given the cooper and the woodcutter the same story Darion had given Nara and Tanigar—Jeebo and Enon were in the service of Lord Mirrowell of the Greenkeep, who had sent them on a falconry-related errand of the utmost secrecy. Intrigued, the two tradesmen were looking at Jeebo the way a tax collector looks at a locked chest.

  The men at the table across the room were getting more restless all the time. One caught Darion staring and sat up a little. He said something to his companions. Darion averted his eyes, fully expecting the man to get up and cross the room. They made no such move, though. Darion turned his attention back to Jeebo and the two tradesmen.

  “This strikes me as a fine little hamlet, should one long for the simple life. Though I’m sure you see the odd bit of excitement from travelers and traders every now and then,” Jeebo said.

  Get to the point, Darion thought, but did not say.

  “We like it, mostly,” said Sann.

  Ithric nodded his agreement.

  “Anything exciting happen around here lately?”

  “Oh, this ‘n that. The merchants are always complaining of low prices and bad seasons, as merchants do. Even now, when poor seasons have raised prices, all they do is gripe about how the ship owners in Linderton are gouging them, doomsaying on the state of the kingdoms. As for the bargemen, it all depends on whether they’re going upstream or coming down. If it’s the latter, they’ll be carrying on louder than anyone. The former, and they sit staring at the four walls, drinking in silent dread of another day’s efforts.”

  “How very exciting,” Jeebo said, not insincerely. “What’s been the big news? You know, the goings on beneath all the usual fuss of traders and boatmen?”

  Ithric Geiger glanced side to side, then leaned in. “There’s a boy my children used to play with. His parents were strange folk, always asking my Rhilde to watch the child while they went off somewhere doing who knows what. A week or two past, Dathiri Pathfinders come riding into town on the east road. Next I knew, they was running the Lyrents right back out again.”

  “The Lyrents, you say.”

  “Aye, that’s right. New family. Took up residence across the bridge a few years past. Nice enough folk, I reckon. Never quite fit in, you ask me.”

  “Did they catch them?”

  “That’s the strange part. They chased the husband into the Wildwood that morning and came back empty-handed that same night. Not like a band of Pathfinders to come up empty.”

  “You know what I heard,” said Sann, leaning in beside his friend. “I heard they was right on Eldrek’s heels, only the hounds lost his scent. Found a pile of his clothes, still damp with his sweat.”

  “Whatever they found or didn’t find,” Ithric said, “they split up the next morning. Commander Elara took half her strength up the north road to Trebelow and sent the other half south. No one in town’s seen a one of them since. Not the Pathfinders, and not the Lyrents.”

  Sann lowered his voice to a whisper. “My theory is… Eldrek shed his tunic and hopped in the river. Bet you the Commander thought so too. That’s why she sent half her strength south—to catch the old man before he wound up in Linderton and took ship for Galyria.”

  “That’s a long way to swim,” Darion said.

  Sann and Ithric looked at Darion as if they’d just noticed him.

  “Eldrek was in no shape for such a jaunt, neither,” said Sann. “Very old, by his look.”

  Ithric nodded. “I’ll wager he didn’t make it far.”

  That was one wager Darion wouldn’t take. He’d counted Sir Jalleth out once, and made the biggest mistake of his life shortly thereafter. There was only one reason Sir Jalleth would’ve left his clothes behind, and it wasn’t to swim. “What about the woman and the child? You say they were pursued as well?”

  “They fled before the husband did,” said Sann. “Or at least before the Pathfinders caught wind of them. They spent so long trying to pick up the old man’s scent it gave the woman and her cub time to get away. Vanished into the Wildwood, they did.”

  Darion slowed the shuddering breath of relief that rose in his chest. “Vanished, is it? I suppose the Pathfinders discovered a pile of their clothes as well.”

  “No clothes, I hear,” said Sann. “Gone without a trace. Though I reckon since the Pathfinders haven’t come back, perhaps their dogs did pick up a trace. Might be they’ve chased them halfway across the Dailfeld by now.”

  Darion didn’t like the sound of that. If the Dathiri were still pursuing Alynor, they might catch her any day now—if they hadn’t caught her already. He and Jeebo needed to find a pair of horses and go after them.

  The tavern door opened, and a well-dressed fellow strolled in with the easy swagger of a moneyed man. He wore a broad mustache and carried a thin sword at his hip, hung from a wide belt beneath billowing green shirtsleeves laced with gold inlays and a matching velvet cloak. Behind him trailed three men, broad-shouldered and clad in simple leathers beneath dark green doublets. A hush fell over the room.

  “Who’s he?” Jeebo asked.

  “That’s Brock Einrich, son of Lord Jorick Einrich of the Briarkeep,” whispered Ithric.

  “Our liege lord,” Sann added. “The others with him are part of his household.”

  Darion knew who the young man was. He hadn’t seen Brock in years, but there was a chance the lordling would remember Darion’s face. “Does he frequent the River’s Wend?”

  “I wouldn’t say he frequents. Seldoms, more like.” Sann chuckled. “Yet he does make it a point to mix with the locals from time to time.”

  “We ought to be going,” Darion said. “Come on, Jeebo. Pleased to have met you both.” When he stood, his barstool scraped the wooden floor, abrading the room’s quiet
. He froze.

  “I say… is that you, Darion?”

  Darion turned, scanning the room for exits, adversaries, weapons on belts. “Brock,” he said, attempting mirth.

  “What a pleasant, pleasant surprise,” said Brock, crossing the room with his guardsmen in a wave of brawn which parted all in its path.

  Darion braced himself.

  Brock came to a halt several feet away. “What brings the great Sir Ulther back to our humble township?”

  Around the room, patrons whispered.

  “A drink; nothing more. I was just leaving.”

  Brock spoke in a loud voice, aware of his captivated audience. “Were you? Now that’s a shame. Because you see, I heard you’d pledged your sword to the barbarian king. They say you abandoned Olyvard at the gates of Maergath. That you took leave of your senses and joined the Korengadi hordes.”

  A chorus of hisses and jeers.

  “Did you not fight against the armies of Dathrond on the northern continent, spilling the blood of the king’s soldiers?”

  “Olyvard is not my king,” said Darion. “Nor ought he be yours if you profess to love the realms.”

  More heckling from the patrons.

  Brock quieted them. “You are right. Tarber is my king. Yet Dathrond is our ally, and a more powerful ally we shall never find.”

  “Dathrond’s alliances are as sincere as a viper before the strike. Olyvard would conquer the world, had he the resources to do it. Korengad was first. Orothwain will be next.”

  “Dathrond lacks the strength to take our capital. Kings before Olyvard have tried and failed. The mages of Deepsail would blunt any attack the Dathiri might make against us.”

  “Which is precisely why Olyvard King seeks to rid the world of magic.”

  A cackle of laughter went up.

  Brock scoffed. “Rid the world of magic? That’s the most preposterous notion I’ve heard in all my life.”

  “Yet it is possible,” Darion said, “and Olyvard King has found a way.”

  “Then I presume your spells shall be of no help to you when we lock you in the Briarkeep’s dungeons and summon the Pathfinders to bear you west.”

  “I’ve no doubt you are learned with a blade,” said Darion, “but do not do this to yourself. You won’t win.”

  “How quickly can you cast a spell, Sir Darion? Because I find it a wonder no one has cut you down before you could finish.”

  Darion pulled aside the folds of his cloak, revealing the sword on his belt. “That’s what this is for.”

  “Now, gentlemen,” said the barkeep, a ruddy-skinned man with long gray hair tied back into a tail. “If you’ve a disagreement to settle, do it outside. I’ll not have a melee disturbing the quietude of my tavern.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Brock asked. “Or who he is, for that matter? I am the son of your Lord Einrich, and this is Sir Darion Ulther, traitor to the realms.”

  “I know who you are, and I’m glad to raise a complaint with your father if needs be. I’m trying to run a business, and I said get out.”

  Brock cast the barkeep a steely gaze, then turned to Darion and smiled. “Shall we?”

  “I’ve nothing to settle with you,” Darion said.

  “You are an outlaw, and that puts us at odds whether you prefer it or not. Let us honor the proprietor’s wishes and step outside.”

  Darion could see no way out of this. “After you,” he said with a gesture.

  As they exited the tavern and turned to face one another in the village square, the patrons of the River’s Wend rushed to the windows and poured outside. Jeebo took his place beside Darion, shoulder to shoulder.

  “You needn’t involve yourself in this,” Darion told him.

  “Time and again I’ve watched you face these trials alone,” Jeebo said. “No longer.”

  “If you kill any of these men, you will be outlawed as I am.”

  Jeebo’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “You’ve said as much before. We’ll have to try our best not to kill them, won’t we?”

  “Good Sir Ulther,” said Brock Einrich. “I hesitate to imagine how you’ve gotten this far south without being arrested, but I intend to let you go no further. All these kindly folk are waiting to see what sort of man you truly are. Will you come with me to face the consequences of your crimes and absolve yourself in the king’s name?”

  “Absolution does not number among the king’s plans for me,” Darion said.

  Brock shrugged. “Be that as it may, you have a choice to make.”

  “I have been a friend to your father these many years,” said Darion. “I would not make myself an enemy now.”

  “An enemy of the realms is an enemy of my household.”

  “What a sad future for that household if you value the favor of a foreign king above the bonds of brotherhood.”

  “Is that a threat, Sir Ulther? I believe he’s just threatened the future of my house. You all heard him. The traitor speaks his true nature.”

  The crowd jeered, prompting a haughty smile from Brock.

  “I value the honor of my father’s name,” the lordling continued. “What good is the brotherhood of a wandering vagabond? For that is all you are, or ever have been. Anyone who elevates you to a higher place in the history of the realms has failed to recognize your true vocation. A mercenary, sold to the king whose coin shines brightest. How else did you come into the service of Olyvard’s father, Orynn King, in the days of your youth, if not for want of a heady bribe for your illustrious services? Why else did you cross the Forscythe to fight alongside the very savages who marched on our shores and laid low our harvest pastures?”

  The crowd was with him now, their anger surging alongside his. Darion had no hope of vindicating himself from these charges, he knew. His past, and the deeds for which he was now paying, were beyond explanation to those unwilling to listen.

  “I will stand before Olyvard King someday,” said Darion. “Allow me to do it in my own time. Right now, I am on an errand of far greater importance.”

  “There is no such errand, Sir Darion. You will leave here with me, or not at all.”

  “I urge you to reconsider.”

  The lordling’s blade flashed from his scabbard.

  Darion barely had time to draw his own sword and knock away the first blow. “This is not for you to decide. Let justice determine my fate.”

  “You have met with justice,” said Lord Einrich’s son. “I am he.”

  Darion would’ve rolled his eyes, had he a moment to spare them from Brock’s reckless advance. Jeebo drew his scimitar and met Brock’s three henchmen head-on. Swords clashed beneath the waxing moon. The crowd fell to a dead hush. The only sounds were the ring of steel, the shuffle of boots in the dirt, and the rhythmic notes of Darion’s voice.

  “Cast your spell… coward. Hide behind your magic, as you always have.”

  Though Jeebo was outnumbered three to one, he fought as though the odds were in his favor. An Einrich soldier circled round behind him and landed a heavy slash across his back. Darion nearly cried out and lost his spell when he saw Jeebo convulse and stumble forward. A second soldier lunged toward Jeebo’s front, but the falconer spun his scimitar and turned away the blade. He steadied himself with a backward step and fought on.

  Darion flicked his hand to release half a dozen spiraling purple trails from his fingertips. They arced through the air and settled to rest on the foreheads of Brock and his men.

  Nothing happened at first.

  Then Lord Einrich’s son began to slow. His swings grew dull and sluggish, until at last he could no longer lift his sword at all. He dropped to his knees, then fell flat on his face. The Einrich soldiers were swaying on their feet as well. Jeebo knocked the sword from a guardsman’s hand and drove his forehead into the man’s nose, sending him off his feet in a shower of blood. Darion plunged a boot into the knees of a second soldier, who crumpled like a skeleton. The third Einrich soldier lost his strength and fell of his own accord.<
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  Darion rushed over and threw an arm around Jeebo just before he collapsed. “Are you alright?”

  Jeebo tried to stand, gasping at the pain in his back. “I’m fine.”

  “He’s killed them,” someone shouted. “He’s killed Lord Einrich’s son.”

  “They’re sleeping,” Darion said, but the noise of the crowd drowned him out. “The spell will only preserve their sleep for a few moments,” he told Jeebo, “though these people are likely to tear us apart before then. We must leave. Now. Can you ride?”

  Jeebo took a step and grunted. “I can try.”

  Darion helped him across the square toward the stables. The crowd followed them, shouting curses and insults in their wake, though no one dared block their way. When Darion opened the stable doors, horses of every age and kind filled the stalls within. He considered asking the crowd whether anyone there owned one or more of these horses, but no one would’ve heard him above the din.

  He selected two animals, a bay mare with a white blaze and pasterns, and a spotted gray gelding, and dressed them in saddle and bridle. He tossed a pouch of gold into each stall before leading them into the narrow aisle, where he helped Jeebo mount the gelding and lifted himself astride the mare. The crowd shouted and cursed when they emerged from the stables and turned toward the north road, but still none of the rabble were brave enough to lift a hand against them.

  “We ride for Trebelow,” Darion told Jeebo. “I’ll take a look at your wounds when we’re a ways outside the village. Tell me if you need to stop.”

  Jeebo turned his gelding. Winced. Nodded.

  Darion and Jeebo galloped north from Briarcrest with defamatory cries ringing in their ears, even as Brock Einrich and his household guards regained consciousness behind the crowds in the village square. As with every town and castle Darion had visited since his return to the realms, he did not picture himself returning to Briarcrest for a very long time.

  Chapter 21

  “There is a finding spell I once knew,” Sir Jalleth explained. “If only I could remember it.”