Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  Alynor was used to Sir Jalleth’s absent-mindedness; it often took him hours to recall his old spells so he could teach them to her. He’d been trying to remember this particular spell all day, and now the sun was low in the Tetheri plains.

  “Ah,” he said, inspiration dawning on his face. “Have you anything of Kestrel’s on your person?”

  Alynor lifted her arms to show him the extent of her worldly possessions: her roughspun robe and sandals. “I left my satchel in the clearing, remember? Not that there was anything of Kestrel’s in it, mind you. What you see is everything I’ve got.”

  “Right. That won’t do it, then. I suppose I’ll keep thinking.”

  “Haven’t you done enough thinking for one day? We can’t stay here. Night will fall soon, and we’d best be far from here when it does. Time to stop thinking and start walking.”

  “This old mind isn’t what it used to be. Have patience; it’ll come to me eventually.”

  “How eventual do you suppose that will be?”

  Sir Jalleth frowned. “Given the chance to think without interruption, perhaps sooner than later.”

  “Westenreach is infested with something Caelor and his men called brain eaters. As I see it, that leaves us two options. We can climb down into the Deep and start shouting Kestrel’s name, or we can make for Trebelow and hope to find them among the remains.”

  “There is a third option.”

  “Go on.”

  “To the west are leagues upon leagues of glorious Tetheri wildlands.”

  “Oh, yes, that sounds lovely. Draithon and I hadn’t yet taken our fill of walking this past week. We were very much looking forward to more of it. Weren’t we, darling?”

  No response.

  Alynor looked around. Draithon was nowhere to be seen. Her heart skipped a beat. “Draithon?”

  Then she heard a giggle from somewhere behind her. She turned to find Draithon huddled behind a slab of rock which was slightly too small for him. He ducked when he saw her looking.

  “Do you want to walk across those fields, Draithon?” she asked, pointing.

  Half his face popped up from behind the slab, big brown eyes and dark, curly hair.

  “Shall we walk all that way?”

  Draithon shook his head.

  “Come here, dearest. Stay where Mommy can see you. No hiding games right now.”

  Draithon raced to his mother and dove into her lap, where he flopped on his belly and lay like a limp sack.

  “Did you hear me?” Alynor gave him a playful pat on the bum. “No hiding games. Understand?”

  He nodded, still lying limply.

  “And would you like to walk all that way, as Poppy suggests?”

  Draithon gave a jouncing nod, as if his head were attached to an old spring.

  “He’s being silly,” Alynor said. “He doesn’t want to go west any more than I do.”

  “The Pathfinders will never catch us out there,” Sir Jalleth said. “They’ll have a harder time than they would on the road to Trebelow, anyway.”

  “They have dogs,” said Alynor. “Trained dogs. If the goblins hadn’t taken us undermountain, I am afraid to think what might’ve happened instead. I suppose those goblins saved us, in a way.”

  “I do not doubt the Pathfinders traced you to within inches of where you were last above ground. They might be in Trebelow, for all we know. Best not to risk going there. Come; let us strike out for the wilds.”

  “And what are we to eat along the way?”

  “I shall hunt for you. I’ll bring you fresh game every morning and night.”

  “Until you forget who you are and fly off again. What about drink?”

  “There are streams.”

  “We have one small waterskin between the three of us. Hardly sufficient to last more than a day. If we don’t cross a new stream every morning, or find one which happens to run in the direction we’re traveling, we’ll go thirsty. We ought at least to try Trebelow. To gather supplies, if nothing else.”

  Sir Jalleth sighed. “If we go to Trebelow, do you promise to humor me and entertain the idea of fleeing for Tetheril thereafter? I should like to visit the village where I was born one last time. If it’s still standing. I haven’t been back in many years. Hamlets and villages in Tetheril often come and go with the winds.”

  “I cannot make you that promise,” Alynor said. “Not yet. Not until we find Kestrel and the others. Once I’ve brought the periapt to Shandashkaleth, I’ll be free to go wherever I wish.”

  “You’ll consider it, then?”

  “For now. This is too dangerous a place to overnight. Might we take our leave?”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve addressed me that way in a long time,” Alynor said. “Since we came to Briarcrest, in fact. We both know I’ve lost that distinction. And if you held any lands or castles, I should think Olyvard King has arranged to have them confiscated by now.”

  “Feldyrn the Wild-King of Tetheril does not cater to Olyvard’s wishes in the same way Tarber does. Had I any holdings in my birth kingdom, they would’ve passed to my next of kin when I was pronounced dead at the Seaspire.” Sir Jalleth gave a wistful sigh. “Would that I might return to Tetheril to live out my days. As a man, preferably. I would stay always on the move from place to place, so that each day I might wake to a new sunrise and sleep beneath a new blanket of stars. No king could ever take that away from me.”

  For a moment Alynor felt sad for him. The old man often frustrated her, but he was trapped in a life not his own, and for that he had her sympathy. “I’m sorry. I know this existence is difficult for you.”

  “It was this, or death,” said Sir Jalleth. “A conveyance of body and spirit, or the loss of both.”

  Alynor nodded, attempting compassion. She did not wish to press him further, but she was impatient to do something—to go somewhere. “How far is it from here to Trebelow?”

  “Ten leagues or so, I should think. Westenreach is closer; no more than seven.”

  “We cannot go to Westenreach. I’ve told you, it is infested.”

  “I could do some scouting from above. Perhaps I can locate Kestrel from the skies.”

  Alynor shook her head. “I won’t allow you to change back again.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Have you any idea the anguish you’ve put me through going off on your own for days at a time?”

  “You’ve made that clear often enough. Yet I would sooner make my observations from a safe distance than walk in blindly, whether to Westenreach or Trebelow. Dangers are probable in both places. Dangers we must anticipate.”

  “Can you assure me you won’t forget yourself if I let your ward wear off?”

  Sir Jalleth’s look was dour. “I only wish I could.”

  “Then you have my answer.”

  “Wait. I can try. Give me a chance. Even if the Pathfinders aren’t in Trebelow, they’ll have gotten word out to the local lords. We must be cautious.”

  Alynor had taken her fill of this unproductive bickering. “Fine.”

  Sir Jalleth was relieved. “Oh, good. Jolly good. Not that I enjoy being a bird, mind you. It’s just that I’m quite ravenous, and it’ll be good to go for a hunt without lugging that scroll or dragging a tether. Shall we make for Trebelow, then?”

  Alynor couldn’t decide between Westenreach and Trebelow. She knew they couldn’t stay here, but now she was second-guessing herself about leaving. What if Kestrel and the others were tripping through the dark beneath her feet at this very moment? “Trebelow,” she said. “It must be Trebelow. The Hightrade River runs beside the north road. Without it, we’ll go thirsty.”

  “We might as well walk through the night, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, though Draithon and I are dreadfully hungry as well. While we’re on our way, will you see if you can’t remember that finding spell of yours? I’d hate to leave if Kestrel is already here.”

  “Of course, my
lady. Though I must warn you, the finding spell is not infallible. That is to say, it will not tell you where to find what you seek.”

  Alynor scowled. “Then what bloody good is it?”

  “It will only confirm whether the intended subject is within range of you.”

  “That sounds like more of a wild guessing spell than a finding one.”

  “It is accurate, though only over a short distance. For instance, it could tell us whether Kestrel were here in Tenleague Deep or not.”

  “Do try to remember.”

  “I will. And as soon as the changing spell wears off, I’ll go for a short hunt and bring you something fat and delicious.”

  “My mouth waters at the thought.”

  “The Deep runs further north from here than it does south,” said Sir Jalleth. “With Trebelow our destination, we’ll be quicker going up the mountain than down.”

  “As you say. Lead on.” Alynor gave Draithon a tickle, then lifted him to his feet. “We’re going for a walk after all, as it turns out.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “We all must do things we don’t want to, pumpkin. I regret to tell you that’s the way of things, but it is. Shall we be off?”

  Draithon plopped to a seat and crossed his arms. “No.”

  “Ah, so that’s what we’ve come to, is it?” she asked.

  Sir Jalleth bent and scooped Draithon into his arms. He hoisted the lad over his head and set him on his shoulders. Draithon giggled and swayed, wrapping his arms around Sir Jalleth’s forehead for balance. “Not so tight, now,” Sir Jalleth said. “A little higher. I can’t see.”

  Still strong for an old man, Alynor thought to herself. Lithe, too. Sir Jalleth was indeed past his prime, but he was no string bean. He still possessed a knight’s solid build and broad shoulders. He’d fought in wars; had carried plate armor on those shoulders. A child weighing less than three stone was nothing in comparison.

  By the time the sun went down, the three weary travelers had circumvented the outer edge of the Deep and begun their long march down the other side of the mountain. It would be another league before they came to the north road, but that distance would have to wait for the morrow. They slept on the hard ground behind a stand of scrub without blankets or a fire to warm them. Alynor was getting used to that. She would never get used to going to bed hungry, though. Her stomach grumbled, keeping her awake.

  Draithon began to fuss before the sun came up, so they rose and set off while it was still dark. Alynor wanted to join the road so they could escape the tall wild grasses, but Sir Jalleth insisted it would be best to stay in the lowlands and approach Trebelow from the southwest, despite the harder going.

  His ward began to wear off just before noon, nearly a full day after Alynor had cast it. Adamant about changing back into Ristocule so he could hunt, Sir Jalleth committed himself to suffering the slow agony of the spell’s final moments. He lay in a small ring of trampled grass, moaning and thrashing about like one in a waking nightmare as the sun ascended toward its pinnacle.

  “What’s the matter with Poppy?” Draithon wanted to know, his face writ with concern.

  “He’s going to be fine, darling. Do you remember the bird? He’s becoming the bird again, and it hurts him, but it’s going to stop hurting him soon.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Don’t you worry over me, Draithon, my boy,” Sir Jalleth grunted, attempting a smile beneath a brow damp with perspiration. “It is as your mother says. The pain will cease soon enough.”

  Draithon was unconvinced. “Why does it hurt?”

  “It doesn’t always,” Alynor said. “Just right now. While he’s changing. We used to use his necklace. You know the necklace Poppy used to wear?”

  The boy nodded.

  “We don’t have it anymore, so—well, it’s difficult to explain, really. Let’s leave Poppy by himself for now. Come over here and play a game with Mommy.”

  Draithon’s gaze remained fixed on Sir Jalleth. Alynor turned the boy away and led him through the grass until the old knight was concealed from view. The grass didn’t conceal his groans of pain, though.

  They sat down to play a game of hands. Alynor tried to distract Draithon from the noises, though she found it an effort to ignore them herself. Draithon was getting better at hands; it was a simple game, but out here their choices were limited. Draithon’s reflexes were still developing, so Alynor let him win every few attempts to keep him invested in the activity.

  Soon Sir Jalleth’s groans ceased, and there came a squawk from the small ring of trampled grass in which he’d lain. With a flapping of wings, Ristocule launched himself into the sky, bearing northwest toward Trebelow.

  Alynor watched him until he was no more than a speck in the distance. She folded up the scraps of cloth which had served as his clothing and set them on the ground beside the scroll case.

  “Where did Poppy the bird go?” Draithon asked.

  “He’s finding us something good to eat. Would you like that?”

  Draithon nodded. “Hungry.”

  “Me too. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. Ready for another go?”

  “Yes.” Draithon sat down cross-legged and held out his hands.

  Alynor sat facing him and laid her hands over his. Before the game could resume, a new sound arose in the distance. It was a sound Alynor had not heard in a long time; not since Darion’s last fox hunt. It was the sound of baying hounds.

  She stopped to listen, pushed herself up and poked her head above the grass for a look. Far away on the sunlit plain, a dozen mounted soldiers in hooded gray cloaks galloped south down the Hightrade Road, hard on the heels of a throng of barking dogs. Even at this distance, Alynor could tell the dogs were following a trace; their mournful cries spoke of a lust for blood. Beyond them the river gleamed in the afternoon, a snake with diamond scales.

  “It’s the Pathfinders,” Alynor said to herself.

  “What is it, Mommy?” Draithon was standing beside her, though he was too short to see over the grass.

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Best get moving.”

  But in which direction? If she retreated toward the mountains, the Pathfinders would see them when they took higher ground. If she continued toward Trebelow, any dogs with her or Draithon’s scent would pick them up in an instant. That left only west, the singular direction in which she did not wish to go—could not go, for fear of Shandashkaleth’s wrath.

  “A dying black dragon might scare the Dathiri off,” she muttered, half in jest.

  “What did you say?”

  “Mommy is only thinking aloud, darling,” she said, picking up the scroll and Sir Jalleth’s clothing scraps. “Hush, now. Come with me.”

  They went west.

  After leading Draithon through the grass at a crouch for a short distance, Alynor was startled by what she heard. The dogs were coming closer.

  She turned back.

  The Dathiri Pathfinders were veering off the dusty road to follow the hounds into the fields. A dozen riders spread into a neat line and cut a wide swath through the grass.

  Ristocule screed, his call breaking across the sky like shrill thunder. If he’d meant to warn her, it was far too late. They were hopelessly outmatched in numbers, speed, and strength. There was nowhere they could run where the Pathfinders wouldn’t follow, except perhaps to the canyon of Tenleague Deep. That was too far behind them now.

  Alynor hunkered down in a stand of thick rushes. She took Draithon in her arms and sat still, hushing him when he began to speak. Their only chance at avoiding the Pathfinders was to pray the dogs lost the scent—or hope they were after something else to begin with. She slowed her breathing, though every breath felt louder than a crashing wave. There was a soft brushing sound to her left, something moving through the grass. Something that wasn’t the Dathiri Pathfinders… or their dogs.

  Had she been less concerned with making noise, Alynor would’ve cast a spe
ll. Instead she buried her face in Draithon’s tunic, inhaled to soothe her burning lungs, and prayed to the gods that whatever was coming toward her would pass without noticing, just as she hoped the Pathfinders would. The dogs were drawing nearer, though. There were shouts, so close she could pick out the words. They were cursing at the dogs, driving them toward the scent.

  There was a rustling. Close. Alynor opened her eyes and peered through the sun-dappled thicket of thin yellow stalks, scanning for movement.

  A head burst through the vegetation, insect-like, with pincers for jaws and two spindly antennae fidgeting like fingers. The body behind it was long and segmented, with hairy legs and a hard carapace that shone in the sunlight. Alynor screamed.

  The creature hissed, then darted forward.

  Alynor braced herself for the end.

  An arrow sprouted from the creature’s eye, pinning its head to the ground. Two more arrows joined the first, striking it in the neck and thorax. The creature hissed again, body twitching, legs scrabbling in the dirt. Alynor scrambled backward with Draithon as the creature carried out its death throes.

  She backed right into a crowd of yipping dogs, flaps of face and ears wet with slobber. Their handlers pulled them away before any harm could be done. Alynor found herself surrounded by stamping horses and knew her flight was over.

  “Stand up, woman. Let me have a look at you.”

  Alynor was surprised to find it was a woman’s voice which beckoned her. She did as instructed, rising from that low commotion and lifting Draithon onto her hip. She glanced back at the dead insect creature, shuddering when she saw black fluid pooling in the dirt. “Thank you,” was all she could think to say.

  “Think nothing of it,” said one of the riders as he put away his bow.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Commander Giya Elara of the King’s Pathfinders,” said the woman who’d spoken before, dipping her head in a half-hearted bow. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  Commander Elara gave a patient sigh. “The scroll in your possession belongs to Olyvard King.”

  “What scroll?”