Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  The gates shook again. Something big was out there. Something greater than mere infected villagers from Westenreach. Alynor was curious, but not curious enough to go any closer. Nor could she think of a spell that might be of help in this situation. She was sure she knew at least one, but not well enough to cast it in the midst of the chaos.

  “Down, you accursed fiends,” Darion was shouting, his words slow and slurred. “Back. Back to the abyss from whence you came. We’ll not suffer you here in the world of the living.”

  Sir Jalleth cut his eyes at Alynor. “He speaks for us all, I think.”

  “Is he killing villagers, or something else?”

  Her question was answered in due course, when the gates strained and the heavy wooden bar across them splintered in two. The soldiers on the street backed a step and raised their shields as the doors swung wide. Alynor was startled by what she saw.

  A flood of twitching, braying creatures poured through the opening. Alongside the men and women of Westenreach—elf-kind and orc, dwarf-kind and littlefolk—seethed all manner of animal and monster native to the Tetheri wilds. There was a huge brown bear and a smaller black one, an entire sounder of wild boar, wolves and wildcats, three full-grown ogres, and a pair of two-legged ungulate creatures with hooves and fur beneath the waist but only skin and horns above. To Alynor’s horror, there were even three soldiers dressed in gray cloaks. Pathfinders, taken by the mites. Through the gaps between this larger menagerie scurried dozens of field mice, a handful of squirrels and raccoons, and what must’ve been hundreds fat brown rats.

  Unbeknownst to Alynor then, she was arriving at the same conclusion Darion had earlier that day: These creatures are not wandering; they’re being directed.

  Beside her, Sir Jalleth was casting.

  “Hold,” Jeebo shouted above the din. “Hold the line.”

  “Steady,” added Kestrel, twirling his blades.

  Axli clacked her bludgeons together and stamped her feet like a bull before a charge.

  Alynor doubted anyone had put Jeebo or Kestrel in command, but in the midst of a score of frightened soldiers, they were taking command anyway. The horde rushed in, spreading out across the cobblestones with jerking steps and murder in their eyes. Alynor felt sick seeing wild animals driven by such a near and evident hatred. She understood it, though. Caelor’s brain eaters were no random infestation. The burrowing mites were under someone’s control. Alynor had an idea she knew who that someone was.

  “Run,” shouted a Goldane soldier.

  “Don’t do that,” Kestrel demanded. “Stand your ground.”

  Alynor backed away, looking to Sir Jalleth. A white sphere was floating outside the bubble of his anti-magic ward.

  “Give it to me,” he said, reaching for it. “Use your movement spell.”

  Alynor cast the first and only spell Darion had ever taught her. She focused in on Sir Jalleth’s spell and pushed it toward him. “What does it do?”

  Sir Jalleth threw it toward the gate. The sphere struck the cobbled ground and shattered into a million pieces that glowed like sunlit crystal. The shards tinkled as they came to rest, covering an area the size of a small field.

  “What did that do?”

  “Wait for it.”

  The infected creatures entered the field of broken glass. Each one who did gave a cry of pain and stumbled over, hooves and feet and paws glowing with hot shards. The horde which had been about to fall upon the hapless soldiers fell apart.

  “It’ll slow them down, but it won’t stop them for long,” said Sir Jalleth. “Come. We must retreat to higher ground. There is more we can do to help them yet.” He bade Alynor follow him away from the soldiers and up the sloping road, summoning the mage-song as he went.

  Alynor began to cast as well.

  The wave of infected creatures rallied, picking up speed toward the line of soldiers with whom Kestrel and the others lay in wait. The rodents arrived first, scuttling into boots and climbing up trouser legs. Then the bats and birds dove in, biting and scratching and flapping in the faces of the bewildered soldiers to send them fleeing in every direction. Bears chased them down and mauled them; wildcats pounced; boars stabbed them with pearly tusks; ogres plucked them from the ground like flowers and dashed their skulls on the paving stones.

  When Alynor and Sir Jalleth reached the top of the rise and turned around, the creatures felled by the old knight’s spell were recovering, the glowing glass shards dissipating from their feet and the ground around them. Darion stood fast on the battlement, casting spells in slurred speech and laughing as he lobbed handfuls of mage-song onto the invaders below in bursts of sound and color. Kestrel, Jeebo, and Axli were backing up the slope as they fought alongside the remaining Goldane soldiers, wiggling and cursing at the rodents tunneling in their clothes.

  Alynor waited until they were close, then tossed her spell down the sloping cobblestone street to land between her friends and the advancing herd of infected. With a splash, a slick of grimy black oil oozed down the hill. Another obstacle for the invaders, though not a permanent one.

  “Again,” said Sir Jalleth as a new spell woke before him. “Bring it here.”

  Alynor used her movement spell to push Sir Jalleth’s mage-song toward him. He took it in hand, an orb of crackling energy shot through with swirls of bright blue and green and orange. Kestrel and the others were losing ground even as their foes slipped and slid down the patch of oily cobblestones Alynor had set in their path. The delay gave Kestrel time to assemble the Goldane soldiers and organize a retreat. “To the keep,” he shouted. “Fall back to the keep.”

  Jeebo and Axli stayed while the soldiers withdrew, taking their final swings before turning to trudge up the hill behind them. Sir Jalleth held his ground as the mass of bodies rushed past them, prompting Alynor to do the same. Kestrel gave her a haggard smile as he darted past. Sir Jalleth waited until everyone was behind her, then slung forward with his spell.

  Multicolored globes sprayed from his outstretched hands and bounced off the cobblestones like marbles, coursing down the hill toward the oncoming horde. Yet another spell to slow them down, Alynor guessed. But she was wrong.

  These globes were not marbles. They began to collide with the infected creatures, popping into clouds of colorful dust that made the people and animals and monsters cough and sneeze and sputter and clamp shut their watery eyes. That did slow them down, to a degree. The spell’s true purpose lay in store.

  Before Alynor’s very eyes, the twitching, hobbling infected began to slacken toward the steady, normal movements of the creatures they’d been before. The rage died from their red-veined eyes; the fanged snarls and mad screams faded from their lips. Animals which had, only moments ago, torn living flesh from the bones of their perceived enemies, now slowed to a halt and looked about as if noticing their surroundings for the first time.

  Among the races of mankind, many stood dumbfounded. A few fell to their knees or collapsed, or simply sat down in the street. The animals scattered, darting into alleys and side streets, retreating from view as they might were Trebelow a forest rather than a city of wood and stone and thatch. Even the more aggressive creatures—the bears, the ogres, the wildcats—slinked away as if embarrassed.

  That was when Alynor heard the cheering.

  Hoofbeats rumbled behind her. She whirled to see Kestrel and the others standing beside the road, shouting and waving as a cavalry of armored soldiers thundered down the slope toward her and Sir Jalleth. Their regalia confused her, for among the bright yellow uniforms of Goldane were mixed nearly a dozen plain gray cloaks with close-cropped hoods. Pathfinders, she realized. She stood there, as stunned as the infected, watching them rush toward her, until Sir Jalleth grabbed her with rough hands and yanked her aside at the last second.

  They’re riding into battle, Alynor thought with alarm. They’re going to kill everything in their path. “No,” she tried to shout. “Stop. They’ve been cured.”

  The riders didn’t
listen. Or they couldn’t hear. Alynor was helpless to watch as they raised longspears like lances just before crashing into a mob of stunned Westenreachers. She shut her eyes and turned away, but the sounds were unmistakable. When the victims cried out, it was no longer in madness, but in pain, pure and lucid.

  “Come,” said Sir Jalleth. “These are not the last of the infected. More are coming.”

  “That spell,” Alynor breathed. “How did you know it?”

  “I must confess to you, I have not slept today as I claimed. I visited Lord Goldane’s library and spent the day in study. That spell was a fortunate find; though I learned it years ago, I had forgotten about it until today.”

  “How did you know it would work?” Kestrel asked, suddenly beside them.

  “I didn’t. I’ll explain later. Now, we must go.”

  “What about Darion?” Alynor asked.

  “Darion will manage on his own.”

  No sooner had Sir Jalleth uttered the words than a great fiery blast shook the west wall and threw Darion from the battlement. He landed in the street before the gatehouse and lay still, sprawled upon a heap of bodies. Alynor screamed and made a run for him, but Sir Jalleth and Kestrel grabbed her before she could get far.

  Time seemed to slow as the cavalry crashed through the remaining Westenreachers, heading toward the open gate where Darion lay. The blast did not deter them; they thundered onward as if to pass through the gatehouse and face whatever awaited them beyond. Alynor struggled against grasping hands, but they would not let her go. She found a moment of reprieve when Darion lifted his head, but lost her nerve again when it fell.

  “Are those Dathiri Pathfinders?” Jeebo asked.

  “They are indeed,” said a soldier. “They arrived on the south road late this afternoon. Shortly before we were called to the west gate.”

  “I thought they were dead.”

  “Half of them are,” said Sir Jalleth. “How did they get in? Who let them inside the city?”

  “They bore a royal decree from Olyvard King of Dathrond. Captain Shadda had no choice but to grant them entry.”

  “Bollocks to that,” said Kestrel. “They don’t belong here.”

  “No need to worry,” said Sir Jalleth. “Lord Goldane says we are safe, and I believe him.”

  Alynor stopped struggling and stood to watch as the riders neared the gate, hooves roaring on the cobblestones. Darion lay motionless.

  A hooded figure in a cloak of deepest red stepped into the frame of the open gate, wreathed in the fire of sunset. Alynor saw the mage-song awaken, saw the figure’s arm swipe the air in a high salute. A shimmering wave, pink like the gathering dusk, rippled through the gatehouse to blast the riders with a percussive slap, blowing the massive doors off their hinges and flinging bodies across the cobbles like dead leaves.

  The brave charge ended with horses stumbling on broken legs, their riders lying in mangled dismay. The hooded figure strode through the open gate and started up the hill. Alynor was about to ask if anyone knew who it was when Kestrel let out a gasp.

  “Gods. It cannot be…”

  “It is,” Axli said. “It’s him.”

  Chapter 28

  Darion felt himself lifted by a wave of mage-song and tossed away like refuse. He landed behind the corpse of a gray wolf with a spearpoint sprouting from the back of its skull. Men and horses tumbled down around him, whickering and screaming, bodies twisted at impossible angles. His back swarmed with red pain, his head still foggy with drink. He’d spotted the man in the dark red cloak long before he arrived at the gates, but had assumed he was only an infected Westenreacher. Whoever was beneath that cape and cowl wielded a power greater than Darion had encountered in many a year.

  The spell had flipped him over, at least. Darion had landed on his back when the red mage threw him from the battlement, and he was lying on his stomach now. Yet even that was not enough to elicit function from wobbly limbs and a spine that seared with pain every time he moved. All he could do was watch as the red-cloaked caster strode past him.

  “Well done, Master Rothlan,” said Kestrel from further up the rise. “It would appear you are much too crafty to be stymied for long by our tricks. Where are your accomplices?”

  When the red caster spoke, it was in the disembodied timbre of a woman speaking through a man’s throat. The voice was unsteady and wavering; unsure of its capability, yet certain of its meaning. “I have devoured their souls. Now I will devour yours.”

  “You’ve grown a deal more formidable since last we met,” said Kestrel, twirling his short blades.

  “I have grown in your hands, and nearly died there,” said the red mage.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You have saved me,” said the mage, in that tone of deep softness, “and for that I am ever grateful.”

  Kestrel’s brow knitted together, his hands stiffening around his sword hilts. “I only repaid your treachery in kind, for the sake of saving my own life. There is no need to hold this town and its people responsible for what has passed between us. Is it a share of the treasure you want? You shall have it. Spare these innocents your wrath. Wreak your vengeance on me.” He stepped forward, as if to put himself between the red mage and the entire town of Trebelow.

  “Long have I watched you, Kestrel Wadget. Long have I listened. You have spread my song far and wide; the song of the ancient skies, the song of the birth of the world; of empyreal ecstasy and preeminent despair. You knew it from the moment you awoke my spirit from the depths. I am not here for you. I am come for the one you love.” The red mage lifted its arm and pointed a long, bony finger at Alynor.

  Further down the slope, Darion struggled to rise, grunting with the effort. He managed to get to his knees, though every second made the muscles in his back scream for relief. Finally he staggered to his feet.

  The red-cloaked mage turned to look at him. “Ah. So the Warcaster yet lives. A valiant defense, Darion Ulther. One I shall not soon forget. A mighty man you are, carrying a mighty soul. I have hungered after it since first you came near. Since first you heard my song.”

  “If you would take something from me, come and take it. If you go near my wife, I vow there is no song in all the realms of this world or the next that will save you.”

  The red mage laughed, long and loud. “You are bold for one so woefully mortal.”

  “We are all mortal, Noralin,” said Sir Jalleth. “Your soul bears no exception.”

  “And you, Jalleth Highbridge, in your pathetic attempt to defy death, will soon find yourself unequal to the task.”

  “This is Noralin?” Kestrel said, abashed.

  “Who did you believe I was?” said the red wizard. “Rothlan? The pathetic fool who lifted me to his bosom even as the shell of my former vessel receded? Rothlan will trouble you no longer.”

  “That’s why you chose a lute,” Kestrel said, his face stark with sudden understanding. “A proper hiding place, to be sure. But one held close to the breast, time and again.”

  “So that when the time arrives and my periapt is consumed, I may shift without interference.”

  “Thank the gods I got rid of you before you took me.”

  “I will take you nonetheless,” said Noralin. “I would have preferred a younger body, though this one will suffice for the nonce.” The red mage turned. “Alynor Mirrowell. You know my sister, Celayn.”

  “I met someone who made that claim,” Alynor stammered. “Though she called herself by another name.”

  “She also claims I have hidden myself from her these long centuries. She is not wrong. Yet she, too, is hiding. Why else assume the name of a bodily vessel when one’s power far exceeds it? Why else cower underground when one has… wings?”

  Alynor looked to Darion. To Sir Jalleth. “You have the right of it.”

  Noralin chuckled in that timbre which was both male and female. “Tell me her name.”

  Alynor hesitated.

  “Her name, Mistress Mirrowe
ll.”

  “Shandashkaleth.”

  Noralin smiled. “The elder dragon rises again. Through the mists of time; a potent shell for a potent soul.”

  “That shell is not so potent anymore,” Alynor said. “She is a dragon, yes. But she is weak. Crumbling. Just as you were, in the lute.”

  “Hence the hour of my return. I am strong again, and will crush her in that ancient body.”

  “Why does she not shift into a new body?” Kestrel asked.

  “A dragon is a fine thing to wield power over,” Darion said. He glanced at Jeebo, and they shared a smile.

  “Your sister wishes to remain a dragon,” Alynor said. “She believes consuming your soul will restore her.”

  “It is true,” Noralin said. “Yet the same is true for me.”

  “How has it come to pass that you two wish to destroy each other?” asked Kestrel.

  The red caster lowered its hood. Rothlan’s face was the same as when Kestrel had hired him in Galmeston, but the eyes staring out at him from that face were altogether different. They were Noralin’s eyes, ancient and powerful. “We were born twins, our souls forever entwined. We have coexisted these long centuries to our mutual detriment. One of us must die, for we both shall suffer until such a reprieve comes to pass. That is why I must end her. That is why I have returned. Alynor Mirrowell, I would know where my sister hides.”

  “If I tell you,” Alynor said, “you must promise you will leave us here in peace and never come back. Your brain eaters have done enough damage, searching where there’s nothing to be found. You’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

  Sir Jalleth lifted a hand. “Alynor, no. You mustn’t tell her.”

  Noralin smiled. “You think the burrowing mites were my doing? You suppose I summoned them from within the body of a wooden instrument? You know little and less of magic, and you are a fool if you believe you have been Celayn’s only servant.”

  “The mites were hers?”

  “Were, and are,” Noralin said. “Thereby I know she is close. Tell me where.”

  “Don’t tell her,” Sir Jalleth cautioned.