Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  It felt good to be free of the restrictive clothing—her bare skin riddled with goosebumps. She grabbed a towel the old woman had left on the bed and hurriedly dried herself before donning the welcome comfort of her own clothes.

  Wasting no time, she buckled her leather cummerbund sword belt around her abdomen. Fitting her vambraces on her forearms, she strung her bow and shrugged it over her shoulder along with her quiver, and snatched up her quarterstaff. She couldn’t help thinking that her speed would be compromised burdened with her gear, but there was no way she was leaving it behind. She considered her old boots. She could run faster in bare feet, but it would be foolish to leave them behind. She required their protection once she was free of the city.

  If she had time, she planned on finding Tarrek and taking her sword back—by force if necessary. The boy deserved to pay for what he had put her through. As far as she was concerned, they were even.

  “Come on, little chum.” She tried to grab Raver but he skittered to the far side of the bed. Rolling her eyes, she walked around the large piece of furniture but when she got there, Raver waddled away from her.

  “Really?” She glared at the bird who watched her with beady, black eyes—blinking twice.

  She opened the bay window, careful not to get wet. “Raver, to me. We have to go. Meet me in the street.”

  The obstinate bird tilted his head but didn’t move.

  Groaning, Reecah ran around the bed, flapping her arms. “Come on. Out. Shoo.”

  Raver scurried across the thick bedding toward the window.

  Reecah dove headfirst at him, prompting him into the air. He landed on the windowsill and stared at her.

  “Go on, you crazy bird. We gotta go.”

  Raver cawed at her, took two steps and disappeared into the storm.

  Reecah stared at the window sill, shaking her head. At least he was out.

  Tying the flap of her rucksack shut, she threw it over her other shoulder and left the room, not bothering to close the door.

  Descending the stairs between the upper floors, it dawned on her that the music in the common room was suspiciously absent. She reached the head of the stairway leading to the main floor; immediately aware of loud voices. Voices that didn’t speak to the pleasures of the flesh. Angered tones—accompanied by the chinking of chainmail and creaking of leather armour.

  Men clad in the baron’s colours scoured the common room looking for her.

  Better off Dead

  Lying on a pallet on the edge of death seemed a better fate to Junior than being under the scrutiny of that damned blue-eyed stare of his father. The pain of his broken nose paled in comparison to the burning ache beside his right shoulder blade. According to the Father Cloth’s wife, if the arrow had taken him anywhere other than where it did, he would never have survived the tortuous trip out of Dragonfang Pass.

  As it was, the stooped woman couldn’t assure him that full mobility would ever return to his sword arm. Only time could speak to that. Knowing his father, Jonas Junior didn’t think he had much time left to him. Not if Jonas Senior had anything to say about it.

  Junior lay under a thin blanket—his lower back aching as much as the injury suffered at the Dragon Temple. Many good men had died that day, but the king’s objective had been carried out. Led by High King J’kaar’s second son, Prince J’kwaad, the campaign to eradicate the Draakclaw Colony had gone off better than the dark heir had anticipated.

  Junior might have welcomed that information if not for the fact that the prince gave most of the credit to Jaxon Waverunner—Junior’s younger brother.

  He winced. Of all the people he would like to see honoured by the royal house of the Great Kingdom, his brother would be the last one he would choose. There was no denying he harboured more than a little resentment, and certainly a spark of jealousy, toward his brother. His only consolation was hearing the news that Reecah Draakvriend had broken Jaxon’s nose, and by doing so, had escaped. He wished he could have seen the look on his brother’s face when she smashed it.

  A warm feeling washed over him. Reecah Draakvriend. The hill witch. If he never rose from this pallet, he would still be thankful for that twilit evening at the base of the waterfall. The image of her pale skin contrasting with the backdrop of the rough stone wall rising behind the cascade had etched itself forever in his mind. If only they had been able to meet under different circumstances.

  Being a Waverunner had doomed any chance of him entertaining a meaningful relationship with the enchanting girl. His family had done the Draakvriend’s so much harm he was ashamed to call himself a Waverunner.

  Her condemnation of him at the Dragon Temple couldn’t have hurt more if she had driven her sword through his heart. The horrific scene played out in his mind as if it happened in the room before him.

  He had caught up to his brother and the prince’s elite guard outside of the Dragon Temple. The black knights were engaged in what first appeared as a futile battle against an enraged dragon of immense size, but it soon became apparent that the dark heir was an adept practitioner of the arcane arts.

  Junior had spotted Reecah in the throat of the marble dragon and foolishly tried to warn her—drawing the attention of the prince. As soon as the black dragon had succumbed to the horrific punishment inflicted on it, the prince’s men turned their attention on him. Before he had a chance to run, three men pummeled him into unconsciousness. He had no idea how long he had lain beneath the stone archway, but the chinking of chainmail had awakened him.

  He had spotted Reecah weeping beside the dragon’s lifeless head. He wanted to go to her but a squad of king’s men had entered the outer courtyard and marched toward him. Flooding through the ivy-covered wall, they were about to stumble upon Reecah. In a panic, he entertained fighting them, but there had been too many.

  Stepping from the shadows of the archway, he tried to warn her of her peril. Her subsequent reaction haunted his thoughts ever since. The image of the beautiful woman casting hateful eyes his way crushed him. There hadn’t been time to explain.

  Her words gutted him as she ran at him with her sword in hand. “You traitorous bastard! Look what you’ve done! You’ve stolen the beauty from the world!”

  Her reaction had taken the beauty from his world.

  Lying on the pallet, Junior didn’t think he’d ever smile again. His father wanted to disown him, his brother hated him, and the rest of his family wondered what was wrong with him. How come he couldn’t be like Jonas and Jaxon? He half-heartedly wished they’d left him in the pass to die. If only he could lay his eyes on Reecah one more time.

  Propping himself on his elbows, he searched the room. A dozen makeshift pallets had been set up to house those seriously injured at Dragon Home. Besides himself, only three pallets contained a warm body. Over the last several days, four men had received their last rites. Late last night, four of the king’s men were assisted from the room and hadn’t returned.

  A deep voice resonated from somewhere outside of the Fishmonger Bay temple.

  Junior cringed. His father. The last time Jonas had checked in, Junior had pretended to be out of it—wanting nothing to do with the man. He sighed. Listening to the old woman’s glowing report of his return to health, there would be no putting him off this time.

  The door banged open, marking Jonas’ entrance. True to form, the hulk of a grizzled man sauntered to where he lay—his father’s great, blonde-bearded face creased in a perpetual scowl.

  The hunchbacked woman shuffled in behind him and tended a bed on the opposite side of the room.

  Junior returned his scowl. What more could the brute do to him?

  “Ach. There you are. Lazing about like a pampered maiden.” Jonas surveyed him, not a hint of relief or happiness in his blue eyes. “Shoulda left ya up the pass to fend for yourself to see if you possess the fortitude befitting a Waverunner.”

  Though he wasn’t concerned about what his father would do in the presence of the Father Cloth’s wife, Ju
nior knew better than to speak his mind.

  “With your brother gone, I’m needing you out of here. There’s much work left undone with half me crew dead thanks to those nasty beasts.”

  “Gone? What happened to him?” He almost dared to hope.

  “Bah! That damned prince took a shine to him. Said he could use a good man like Jaxon.” Jonas puffed out his chest. “Seems the royal heir can’t do without a Waverunner in his service.”

  Junior frowned, trying to understand what that implied.

  Jonas must have noted his consternation. “Prince J’kwaad asked for Jaxon’s assistance with his dragon campaign. They sailed off at sunrise. Imagine that. Jaxon on his way to Draakhall to meet the high king. Finally, a son to do his family proud.”

  Junior winced.

  “It’s a shame Janor wasn’t around to keep the business viable.”

  Junior couldn’t keep the hurt from his eyes. Janor was his younger brother who had been carried away by a dragon years ago.

  “I hope you’ve moved beyond your tough patch. Perhaps that arrow in the back was the best thing to happen to you. Maybe now you see the folly of your ways. That hill witch is nothing but trouble. Had I known she’d be the nettlesome little whore she turned out to be, I’d have taken care of her long ago. Mark my words, she’ll rue the day she crossed me. Imagine, escaping on the back of a dragon!”

  That was the best news Junior had heard. It confirmed what he had overheard the prince’s men saying. Reecah had jumped on a dragonling’s shoulders and disappeared into the night sky. He couldn’t fathom how she had pulled it off.

  Jonas grabbed Junior’s broken nose and squeezed.

  “Ow!” Junior pulled his head away.

  “Your face looks better like that. Gives you a bit of character. Who knows? There may be hope for you yet.”

  Junior glared, not daring to speak what was on his mind.

  Jonas hocked and spat on the floorboards.

  The old woman looked up, shaking her head, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll let you be to recover but I expect you back in the boats afore long, else I’ll be forced to replace you with someone worth their salt.” Jonas turned and stomped away.

  Junior watched him go, loathing every moment his father’s back remained visible.

  His nose felt like it was on fire, he couldn’t move his right shoulder without screaming, and his lower back pained him so much he didn’t think he’d ever walk straight again.

  Tears welled in his eyes. He’d never be the man his father wanted him to be. With the prospect of returning to the merciless rule of his father, he truly felt he’d be better off dead.

  Scoundrels

  Trapped! Reecah backed away from the head of the stairs and ducked low, edging her way along the railing overlooking the common room.

  Half a dozen armed men milled about the main floor, speaking with patrons who were hastily covering themselves with whatever was close at hand.

  A thin woman clutched a tunic to her chest and pointed up the stairs. “She went that way! She threatened to fight us all!”

  Heavy footfalls pounded the steps, shaking the floor beneath Reecah’s feet. She dropped to her hands and knees and scooted to the farthest end of the landing, her eyes rivetted upon the opening at the top of the stairs.

  A man in livery matching the baron’s guards rushed onto the landing followed by another and then another, each one running toward a room door. Three more charged past and started up the next set of stairs, but stopped as the first man caught sight of Reecah. “There she is!”

  Reecah sprang to her feet, grabbed the top of the rail and threw herself feet first over the barrier, pushing off the railing to clear the barstools below and aiming for a plush couch. The bottom of her bow caught on the railing before lifting off her back and sliding over—the subtle resistance throwing her trajectory off.

  The couch’s occupants cried out in alarm and threw themselves off its front.

  Reecah landed heavily behind the couch and dropped into a side roll—the act complicated by her quarterstaff and sword as she attempted to hang onto her bow.

  Boots thundered down the staircase. “Stop her!”

  She rose to her feet, not bothering to inspect her pained ankle. She didn’t have time. Her intense gaze took in everyone at once, her wild look deterring anyone who might have thought of intercepting a bizarre woman bristling with weapons—one crazy enough to leap from the second story landing.

  Sprinting down the hallway to the exit, Reecah extended her quarterstaff to meet the doorman blocking the inside of the door. “Out of the way!”

  She wasn’t sure who the doorman thought he was trying to prevent from leaving, but as she barreled headlong at him, shock registered on his face.

  He threw himself flat against the wall, his hands shaking in the air to fend off Reecah’s quarterstaff.

  Ignoring the man, she lowered her staff and pushed through the heavy door, her attention on the first armed man entering the far end of the hallway. Hastily laying her quarterstaff in the street, she shrugged her bow free, notched an arrow and let it fly—purposely missing.

  The armoured man stopped and tried to retreat but was impeded by another guard rounding the corner. “Get down!”

  Both men dropped to the floor.

  Reecah slammed the door and squinted through the relentless downpour, wondering which way to go. Along the oceanside, back the way she had entered Thunderhead, made the most sense. If she made it to the slums, she might be able to lose herself north of the city.

  Whistling for Raver’s benefit, she retrieved her quarterstaff; struggling momentarily to secure it to the side of her quiver. It wasn’t until her boots splashed off the end of the uneven cobblestones and onto the muddy road beyond before the first sound of pursuit clattered onto the street behind her.

  Several people draped in heavy cloaks stood in the street ahead, scanning the flickering lights of Thunderhead’s ritzier district atop the hill, their demeanour one of curiosity as to what had set off the alarms.

  Reecah skirted to the far side of the street to avoid them, but as she drew closer, the tallest man drew her attention. Tarrek’s tight curls protruded beneath a floppy brimmed, leather cap.

  Tarrek noticed her at the same time. Stepping free of the others he stared. “GG?”

  Reecah slowed to a walk, limping and breathing hard. Her intense gaze took in the scoundrels responsible for her recent misfortunes. She didn’t trust herself to answer Tarrek—knowing her bitter words were better left unspoken.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He peered closer. “Where’s your outfit?”

  Axe and two male youths came up behind him.

  Reecah shrugged free of her bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at a large, muddy puddle between them. “I want my sword back.”

  “Did the viscount pay you?”

  “No. He disappeared and left me with the baron.”

  Axe exchanged looks with the two young men Reecah remembered from earlier in the day. Each of them produced long blades from the folds of their cloaks.

  Tarrek’s sword hand rested on the sword hilt at his waist while his other hand doffed his cap and wiped at the water on his brow. Skirting around the edge of the puddle, his hair appeared unaffected by the rain. “Or, he paid you and now you are trying to flee the city with his money.”

  Reecah raised the bow, the arrowhead aimed at his chest. Drawing back on the string, her eyes narrowed.

  Tarrek held his hands up, his wet cap dangling between them. “Whoa, GG. What’re you doing? There’s four of us. By the time you get one arrow off the rest of us will cut you to shreds. Look at you. You can barely walk.” He gazed at the dark warehouse behind him. “Let’s get out of the rain and discuss this.”

  Booted feet charged down the uneven cobbles. A voice rang out, “There she is! Hey! You there! Hold her!”

  The look of surprise on Tarrek’s face transformed into one of comprehension,
his gaze taking in the city as a whole. “What did you do?”

  Ignoring him, Reecah said with menace in her voice, “My sword. Now.”

  Tarrek took one more step.

  Reecah drew the bowstring taut, and let fly. The arrow snatched the leather cap from his fingers.

  Before anyone had a chance to react, she had a second arrow nocked. “The next one finds your heart.”

  Her angered response sounded distant to her, as if someone else spoke.

  Axe and his henchmen lifted their hands in mock surrender, their concentration flicking between Reecah and the armed men running toward them.

  “Now!” Reecah ordered, pulling the bowstring tighter.

  “Okay, okay.” Tarrek fumbled with the buckle.

  Reecah fumed. Tarrek wasn’t moving fast enough. The armed men were closing on her. Her bowstring creaked as it stretched to full pull—the action prompting Tarrek into action. The belt slid through the buckle.

  She eased off on the bow and lowered her aim. “Toss it to me.”

  Tarrek’s eyes flicked to the approaching men.

  “Now!” She pulled the bowstring taut again.

  Tarrek threw the sword at her.

  Reecah let go of the bow with one hand and caught the scabbard in her arms, the arrow falling to the mud.

  The Watch splashed through the mire, weapons in hand—one warehouse away. “Seize her!”

  Axe and the two silent youths rushed around the far side of the puddle while Tarrek charged at her from the opposite end.

  Snatching the arrow from the muck, Reecah sprung halfway across the puddle, landing with a splash and sprinted toward the alley between the warehouses.

  Axe grabbed at her, but pulled up short, barely avoiding the arrow tip she jabbed at him.

  Slipping down the dark alley, trying hard to keep all of her gear in order, she paused briefly at the far end, her boots sinking into soft sand. A campfire crackled and sputtered in the downpour on the beach to her right. Several miserable faces glanced up—none of them friendly.