Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “The being we fight may not be a dragon,” said Sir Jalleth. “Nor is there any telling what hour or day our adversary will arrive. It could be tomorrow, or a year from now. If you come with us, you’ll be entering into a pact. Unless you’re prepared to lay down your life to defend anyone here from the dark powers which will come against us, you ought to reconsider.”

  Triolyn’s lips twisted into a cocky smirk. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t die for you; just that I don’t like you.”

  Sir Jalleth furrowed his brow. “As you will, Master Dorr. After the market, we make for the south gate. The west would have some trouble opening at the moment, I fear.”

  A short while later, as the sun rose high and hot behind them, eight travelers exited Trebelow’s south gate, turned west, and made their way into the Downs of Westenreach.

  Chapter 31

  For two days the company rose with the sun and plodded west. Things were certainly not the same between Darion and Alynor; they did not speak of their argument in Lord Goldane’s keep, and in fact were barely on speaking terms at all. Darion did his best to interact with Draithon around the campfire, but the boy was shy of him and proved reluctant to let this strange man through his defenses.

  At mid-morning on the third day, they came to the outskirts of Westenreach. They stopped on a grassy hillock overlooking the distant village, where ash swirled in the streets and the smells of smoke and death rose into the morning sky.

  “We ought search for the scroll while we’re here,” Sir Jalleth suggested.

  “The place is crawling with buggers,” said Triolyn. “Search for the bloody scroll if you like. I’ll go round.”

  “Me too,” said Axli. “Ain’t no scrap of parchment in the world worth risking your neck for.”

  “This one is,” said Sir Jalleth. “And Westenreach is no longer crawling with infected. There may be a few stragglers, but most were killed in Trebelow.”

  “I’m afraid I must side with Triolyn and Axli here,” said Darion. “The dangers outweigh the benefits. I’ll not bring Draithon into a village rife with disease.”

  “We’ve got Sir Jalleth’s cleansing spell, remember,” said Alynor, tapping her saddlebags wherein lay the copy the old knight had drafted for her. He’d made one for Darion as well. “This ought to make the going easier.”

  “You would risk our son’s life for this? You said yourself the scroll had been destroyed.”

  Alynor winced when Darion called the boy our son, though she thought better than to scold him for it. “I said the scroll had probably been destroyed. We won’t know for certain unless we can get to that watchtower. The scroll isn’t the only reason I want to enter that town. There may be survivors we can help.”

  “We’ve either a dragon or a very angry sorcerer after us. Helping survivors, while noble, is not our first concern.”

  Kestrel spoke up. “I, for one, am in favor of providing aid to the fine people of Westenreach. Whoever’s left, that is.”

  “I also am inclined to help where I may,” said Jeebo.

  “It looks as though you’re outnumbered, Darion,” said Sir Jalleth.

  Darion gave him a sour look. “Let’s leave it to a vote, then. All in favor of searching the town?”

  Sir Jalleth, Kestrel, Jeebo, and Alynor raised their hands.

  “Opposed?”

  Darion, Triolyn, and Axli raised theirs.

  “That settles it. We split up. Alynor, you and Draithon go with Triolyn and Axli. Circle round and meet us west of town.”

  Alynor shook her head. “I won’t stay back while the rest of you go in.”

  “And I won’t permit Draithon to enter Westenreach.”

  “No need to argue,” said Jeebo. “Hyrana and I will accompany the lad. We’ll serve better as lookouts.”

  “I’m not riding all that way round with the likes of him,” said Triolyn. “I’ll go in with the rest of you.”

  “If everyone else is going in, I might as well,” said Axli.

  “So everyone’s changed their mind, have they? Fine. Jeebo? Take the boy and circle north. Fly Hyrana if needs be, but only send her to us if there’s trouble.”

  “Worry not,” Jeebo said. “I will look after your lad and watch over you.”

  Draithon protested when he was transferred from Alynor’s saddle to Jeebo’s, but when Poppy challenged the boy to be brave and keep careful watch over the town for him, he was up to the task. Jeebo and Draithon swung north and took a position on a high hill in the downs overlooking the settlement. The others entered the town together, prepared to split off into two groups of three if necessary to draw off any crowds of infecteds they might encounter.

  Rays of sunlight shone through midday clouds to illuminate their way. The most active of the infected were gone, leaving only the slow, limping shamblers in such advanced stages of the burrowing mites’ defilement as to have been rendered simple-minded, their screams gone to apathetic groans. Everywhere the company went, its three casters launched handfuls of colorful bouncing globes to every side, filling the air with a cloying, fragrant dust that clung to everything it touched like pollen. Sir Jalleth was only able to cast with Kestrel’s help, but the singer was happy to oblige.

  Alynor steered them toward the watchtower where Giya Elara and her Pathfinders had taken refuge, now more than half a week ago. The tower was still standing, but the ground beneath it told a story. Dozens of bodies lay festering at its base, horses and dogs and villagers and gray-cloaked Pathfinders riddled with flies.

  More telling was the number of soldiers Alynor counted among the dead. Six. When everyone else stopped, she continued toward the tower until Darion called out.

  “Go no closer. Those bodies will be teeming with mites looking for new hosts.”

  “There are only six bodies here,” Alynor said. “Six Pathfinders. Twice that number took me captive.”

  “Maybe the others found a way out,” said Triolyn. “Escaped in your footsteps.”

  “I doubt it. I heard no one behind me.”

  As if in answer, a head popped up from within the turret. Dark, oily hair and eyes wild with hunger were all Alynor could see. “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Alynor Mirrowell.”

  “Huh? What’s that you say?”

  “Your Commander Elara took my son and me prisoner several days ago. Are you alright? What’s happened here?”

  “Elara? Elara.”

  The man’s head disappeared. In the sky above, the puffy white clouds began to go gray, swirling inward to blot out the sun as if to herald an imminent storm.

  A moment later, a woman stood up, preening her disheveled hair and clearing her throat. “Mistress Mirrowell? Is that you?”

  “It is,” said Alynor. “I’m surprised.”

  “Surprised I’m still alive? Well, you’ll think better than to count me out next time, won’t you?”

  “Do you require assistance?”

  “Assistance?” She laughed. “Not from you, no.”

  “Are you sure? It appears as though you’re stranded.”

  “I am nothing of the sort. We’ve sent riders to Trebelow to fetch help.”

  “Really?” said Darion. “How many, and how long ago?”

  “Three. The very night we were trapped here.”

  Darion gave Alynor a look. “We saw them. They arrived in Trebelow not two days past.”

  “Ah. There, you see? Lord Goldane will have us out of here in no time. I am certain of it.”

  “Your messengers did not arrive in the condition you might’ve preferred.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They were infected with mites, and perished shortly after their arrival, along with scores of others.”

  “That cannot be,” Giya Elara said. “They were of sound mind when they left here.”

  “These mites work quickly. Quicker than any I’ve seen before. No doubt they contracted them from their horses, or from some other source on their way out of Westenreac
h.”

  “Then how is it that you’ve failed to contract such an infection?”

  “Magic,” said Sir Jalleth, chuckling. “We have magic.”

  “The old man’s going half-mad in front of us,” said the soldier in the tower beside Elara.

  “This old man is the white falcon who eluded us in the Wildwood, and who attempted to snatch this very scroll from my clutches on the tower in which we stand. You’d do well not to count him mad, but a worthy adversary instead.”

  “Let us help you down,” said Alynor.

  “I do not accept help from traitors,” said Commander Elara, and spat.

  “No one is coming to rescue you,” Darion said. “Seven of your number are all who remain in Westenreach. Three are grievously wounded, and the other four could not be persuaded to leave until they are well.”

  “They would be persuaded if it meant rescuing their commander,” said Elara.

  “We told them you were dead.”

  “Liars. Traitors, all.”

  “I thought you were, at the time. Surely you cannot fault me for thinking it.”

  “For thinking I would be defeated so easily?”

  “I did not think your predicament easy in any way, no,” Alynor said. “Come, let us help you down from there.”

  “Do what you like,” Giya said. “But know this. Whether you assist me or not makes no difference as to your guilt. You will earn no reprieve from me, nor cause me to forget your treachery. I will continue my mission to bring you and the scroll to Olyvard King.”

  “Leave her to rot, then,” said Triolyn. “She can take what’s coming to her.”

  Alynor shook her head. “Had I known the cleansing spell back then, I wouldn’t have left them here like this. Their service to Olyvard King does not make them his equal.”

  “That is one thing we can agree on,” said Darion. “Yet they still have the scroll.” He looked up into the tower. “We will help you down. Give us the scroll and you’re free to go.”

  Giya Elara snorted. “Never. This scroll does not belong to you. It belongs to the king.”

  Darion looked at Alynor. “How can you bear sympathy for these people?”

  She wrinkled her mouth. “We need that scroll, don’t we…?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “My husband will make you the same promise he made your underlings in Trebelow,” Alynor called up. “You may return to Maergath with your lives and tell Olyvard King that Darion Ulther will not be intimidated by his like, or you may continue in your stubborn adherence to duty, and die. He will tear this tower apart for that scroll, and there’s little I can do to stop him. Toss it down and you are free to go. Refuse, and I leave you in his hands.”

  Darion was astonished. And impressed, truth be told. He hadn’t thought his wife capable of such ruthlessness. “You know I won’t kill them,” he whispered. “I’ll only make them hurt until they wish they’d never come after you.”

  “I know,” Alynor said with a smile. “Give them a good scare, will you?”

  “What is your decision, Commander Elara?”

  “Be damned, Warcaster. If you want this scroll you’ll have to tear it from my cold dead hands.”

  Darion shrugged. “As you wish.”

  He cast a wind spell and slammed the tower with a gust. He gave them two more, shaking the tower on its foundations and cracking beams as thick as tree trunks before giving them another chance.

  “I could do this all day,” he said. “The tower will fall long before I tire. What is your answer?”

  Elara spat. That was answer enough.

  Darion sent the wind stronger this time.

  When one of the tower’s support posts snapped and made the whole structure lean over, Commander Elara decided she’d had enough. “No more,” she said. “We surrender.”

  “Throw it down.”

  She did.

  Darion caught the scroll, opening the case to ensure it was still inside. “You’ve made the sensible choice. Now prepare yourselves. We are about to cast a spell on this festering heap around you. When we do, climb down, and be quick about it. Get clear as soon as you can, and your chances of drawing mites will be low.”

  “Low?”

  “As low as can be expected. Lower than they would be, were you to be rescued by anyone else.”

  Elara gave a sigh. She disappeared below the turret wall, reappearing a few seconds later with her pack and saddlebags slung over her shoulders. The two soldiers in the tower beside her did the same. “We are ready when you are, Master Ulther.”

  Darion gestured for Alynor and Sir Jalleth to circle round to the other sides of the tower. They fell into place and began to cast.

  Overhead, the clouds were still swirling, and a cold wind had begun to blow. The casters completed their spells and rained colored globes down upon the heaps of dead, Sir Jalleth enlisting Kestrel’s help with the release. Commander Elara and her two soldiers climbed down and picked their way through the refuse, covering their mouths and noses with the sleeves of their tunics. When everyone had moved to a safe distance, the three Pathfinders coughed up the dust in their lungs and regained their composure.

  “I regret that we cannot provide you with horses for your way back to Trebelow,” Alynor said. “The walk will take two days, at best, and it looks as though it’s about to rain.”

  “I would accept no further charity from you,” said Elara. She hoisted her gear and drew her sword, motioning for her two men to follow.

  “Thank you,” one of them mouthed before following her.

  “Strange woman,” said Kestrel. “Zealous, if nothing else.”

  “Stubborn, you mean,” said Triolyn.

  “Zeal for any cause requires stubbornness,” said Sir Jalleth.

  Triolyn picked his teeth. “That’s why I refrain from zeal altogether.”

  “Best we continue on,” said Darion. “I think we’ve found all the survivors we can hope to. It’s time we summoned Jeebo to meet us west of town.”

  They had just turned their horses down the west road when there came a shout from behind them. Giya Elara and her two soldiers stumbled onto the street from an alley between two buildings, heads turned to look over their shoulders as they ran. Alynor felt raindrops on her skin. Wind gusted, sending a chill through her so dark and ominous it made her shiver. It wasn’t until the Dathiri Pathfinders reached their position and fled past them that Alynor saw why they were running.

  From within the swirling mass of clouds far above, there appeared a dark shadow. A black silhouette, long and slender, its great barbed wings outstretched. It was circling the town, stirring the maelstrom. Alynor heard her companions gasp, heard the futile jingling of the soldiers’ chainmail as they ran.

  “Could it be?” said Sir Jalleth. “Already?”

  Alynor nodded. “I don’t see how, but… it is.”

  The great wings folded; the massive beast pierced the clouds and dove, a black spear bound for the earth. A moment before it hit the ground, it spread its tattered wings and swung forward to snatch Elara’s men in its hind claws. Alynor heard wet snapping sounds, saw the bodies spin away through the air as the dragon settled to rest behind Commander Elara.

  She ran, but not fast enough.

  Striking like a snake on its long serpentine neck, the dragon clamped its jaws around Giya Elara. She screamed. Yellow-green liquid splashed from the dragon’s mouth, bathing her in its steaming corrosion.

  Alynor heard singing, and looked round to find Darion and Sir Jalleth casting spells, lining up colored bundles of mage-song in front of themselves like snowballs before a fight. Triolyn’s bow was drawn, an arrow nocked. Axli held a crossbow at the ready.

  That was not the only singing she heard. The dragon, too, was casting. When the beast inhaled, a diffused figure of light drifted from Giya Elara’s corpse and wafted in through its nostrils. A lively glimmer spread across the dragon’s dull scales and was gone in an instant.

  The beast repeate
d the process with Elara’s two soldiers before whipping round to face Alynor and her company, its barbed tail crashing through the charred remains of several buildings along the way. When Shandashkaleth rose on its powerful hind legs, Alynor could not believe the sheer size of the beast. Larger still than it had seemed in its mountain lair, the dragon was thrice the height of the watchtower and then some.

  Perhaps more astonishing than its size was the dragon’s apparent return to health. Where decay had robbed its body before, now there were signs of healing. The stubs of new scales coming in; wing membranes regrowing; teeth and claws brighter and shinier.

  “I regret to disappoint you, elf-thing,” said the dragon, “but your attempt on my life was a failure. I see you have brought tribute in recompense for your deceptions.”

  Kestrel pushed one of Sir Jalleth’s spells to him and guided his horse forward, carrying a spell of his own. The animal fretted and stirred beneath him, but he held the reins tight in one hand and met the dragon’s gaze defiantly. “Leave her alone,” he shouted. “Alynor has done you no wrong. She searched for the periapt as you commanded. It was I who gave the lute into the hands of another. Noralin would’ve taken me, had I delayed returning her to her tomb; instead she took Rothlan, a companion of mine for a brief time. There is no quarrel between you. Tell me how I may compensate you for my mistake. If you feel I owe you a debt, I will do everything in my power to see it repaid.”

  The dragon’s voice rasped from its throat and rumbled across the distance. “How noble a gesture. You must be Kestrel, the singer who spread my sister’s song like a plague through the realms. I am disgusted to look upon you, singer, though you do impress me. You must bear Mistress Mirrowell a great deal of love to claim guilt on her behalf. Were I a fool, I might be swayed to lenience by such chivalry. Indeed, you’ve swayed me, but not in that way. Noralin’s soul belongs to me now; her strength was no match for mine. With her, I am grown twice as strong. I will live a thousand years on her essence alone. Give me the souls of these two Warcasters and I shall forget the slight you’ve inflicted upon me. That is how you may pay your debt.”