Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  Her arming swords sat uselessly within their plain, black and dark brown sheaths. Until she found someone to train her in their proper use, they were nothing more than an annoyance hanging from her hips.

  She went through the contents of her ratty rucksack, pulling out the last scraps of bread and cheese from the Serpent’s Slip, and nibbled at the tasteless fare.

  Her thoughts drifted to her dragon friends. With the dark heir’s return, they should be safe. She doubted the dragon hunt from Fishmonger Bay would continue to bother them at Dragon Home. She grimaced at her short-sightedness. Just because Prince J’kwaad had left, that didn’t mean troops hadn’t remained behind.

  She wanted to scream at the helplessness gripping her. She knew what needed to be done, but had no idea how to make it happen.

  Scouring the darkening forest, she pulled a thin rope from the bottom of her rucksack and went about stringing it at ankle height around the trees surrounding her campfire. Anything to provide her with a sense of peace while she slept. If someone wanted to catch her unaware, she counted on them tripping on the rope first.

  Reecah lay awake long before the dawn, shivering on the cold ground beneath her small blanket and scratching at insect bites all over her body. Turning her nose up at how badly she smelled, she decided to find a hidden alcove along the shoreline of King’s Bay to wash, but that could wait until the sun rose high enough to warm the land.

  Midmorning found her on the shoreline of King’s Bay between two large rocks. Hidden by a row of thick pines, she shivered in her shift as she laid her clothes out to dry on a flat-topped boulder facing the east. Goosebumps riddled her skin but she didn’t mind. She was alive. With life came the opportunity to forge the future.

  The sun reached its zenith before she immersed herself into the frigid waters. Removing her shift, she used the fine sand under her feet to wash herself and the yellowed garment.

  She climbed from the water and covered herself with the wet cloth. Fairly certain there wasn’t a soul around for at least a league, she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She pulled her tunic on and waited for her undergarments to dry.

  Snugging her cummerbund sword belt, she donned the welcome warmth of her cloak and ascended a natural rock formation that rose from the tiny cove she had bathed in. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she searched northwest across King’s Bay.

  Far in the distance, the brooding hulk of Draakhall and the immense structure of Sea Gate were clearly visible. So close, and yet, so far away. Three, black brigs with furled sails sat in the middle of King’s Bay. Why the king’s ships were anchored in the middle was a mystery.

  The sun sat like a fiery ball on top of the Sea Gate Bridge, bathing the gently rolling waters of the bay in beautiful shades of orange and yellow. Living in Fishmonger Bay, stunning sunsets were commonplace, but she had never witnessed one with the added dimension of the high king’s castle and the cityscape between the keep’s dark mass and the gateway in relief.

  Enjoying the sun’s rays on her face, she held her head high and closed her eyes, taking in the magical moment before the sun disappeared behind the manmade stone walls standing between her and the future of dragonkind.

  A distant caw interrupted the bittersweet moment. A twinge of sadness replaced the euphoric serenity; a gentle reminder of what she may never experience again—the undemanding love of her best friend.

  Two caws in rapid succession snapped her eyes open—her breath catching in her throat. Not daring to believe the relevance of what the call meant, she scanned the sky and caught sight of a raven high above King’s Bay. To most people, one bird’s call was the same as another, but Reecah knew Raver’s caw. Two caws usually meant someone was close by, but she instinctively understood he searched for her—trying to alert her to his presence.

  She whistled, imitating a cardinal’s chirrup and jumping up and down. Tears blurred her vision as the black speck grew in size. She held a trembling arm out for him to land on.

  In typical Raver fashion, he tucked his wings in and dove headlong, plummeting from the sky like he was shot from a bow. He unfurled his wings at the last moment to arrest his descent but his speed was too great. His feet scratched along her vambrace as he impacted with her chest—driving her to her backside as she scrambled to hang onto him.

  “Raver, you crazy bird!” she cried. Straightening his wings, she squeezed him tight. “You truly are a gift from the gods.”

  She grasped him with both hands and held him before her, kissing the top of his head a couple of times while avoiding his attempts to peck at her. “Where’s Lurker? Did you do as I asked? Is he coming?”

  He squirmed out of her grasp and hopped onto the boulder beside her, opening his beak wide. “Coming! Coming!”

  A lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t allowed herself to believe her friends would actually appear. “Who’s coming? Lurker, Swoop and Silence?”

  “Coming! Coming!”

  Did he mean her dragon friends were on there way? Looking up, she frowned. If that was the case, why hadn’t they accompanied Raver?

  She rolled into a crouch and stared through the trees. “I don’t see anyone. Are they close?”

  Raver blinked and tilted his head.

  Communicating with her best friend used to be a simple affair. She had learned early on that she could command him to perform certain actions. He had proven an invaluable scout—able to pick out things leagues away and warn her of their presence long before they were aware of hers.

  The ability to dragonspeak had taught her a lot more about Raver. The raven spoke simple ideas through her dragonling friends—not enough to carry on a conversation, but enough to communicate on a more intelligent level. Without the dragonlings, their communications were limited to Raver speaking a few words at a time; usually a cryptic response to her questions.

  Still, she knew enough to take anything Raver said seriously. Anyone else would think the bird spoke gibberish, but she had come to realize that he never said anything unless he meant it. Many times, his words came across as comical.

  Stringing her bow, she listened to the sounds around her. If anyone was sneaking up on her, they were good at hiding themselves. She contemplated sending Raver into the air to scout, but the thick wood lining the shoreline wasn’t conducive to aerial observation. She held a forearm in front of his mangled feet and clucked.

  Raver pecked at the leather sleeve a couple of times, but she held it firm. “Come on, before I pluck you.”

  Raver blinked twice and hopped onto her forearm. She had planned to skirt around South Fort and start up the road to Sea Keep today, but washing her belongings and drying them had taken longer than anticipated. Raver’s appearance removed her sense of urgency to travel to Draakhall. Scanning the forest edge, she headed back to her little campsite.

  The sun had sunk to the horizon by the time she recognized the immediate area around her campsite.

  Raver had ridden on one arm or another all the way back and now clung to her shoulder as they approached the edge of the King’s Wood, where the roadway passed through.

  She read into Raver’s attentiveness that something wasn’t right in the deathly still forest.

  Slipping an arrow free, she nocked it and stepped from behind a line of trees; the sun at her back. She drew the arrow tight, her sights on the back of a tall man with broad shoulders and long, brown hair, crouching to inspect her firepit.

  Raver cawed and took to wing, the sudden noise making the man jump to his feet and spin around.

  “Flavian? What are you doing here?”

  Flavian, the young man Anvil had pitted her against in the training yard, smiled sheepishly, his face red. “Ah! There you are. I’m afraid you caught me with my back turned.”

  Raver cawed twice from the branches above.

  Reecah released the tension from the bow. “It’s a good thing the bald-headed freak isn’t here to chastise you for being human.”

  Flavian’s prominent Adam’s
apple moved up and down with a heavy swallow. He flashed her a nervous smile; his green eyes directing her to turn around.

  A cold feeling flushed her skin.

  An arm thicker than her thigh wrapped around her chest, driving her bow to the ground and dislodging her arrow.

  A voice like two slabs of stone grating together sneered in her ear, her captor’s breath rank with ale, “Lesson one. Never leave your back exposed. Especially when I’m around.”

  The Ivory Throne

  Prince J’kwaad paced the throne room, impatiently awaiting his father’s audience. How dare the impetuous man summon him away from his wizard’s chamber atop Draakhall’s highest tower, Draakhorn. Had he not feared the king’s punishment, he would have thrown the shaking messenger who had delivered the order from the spiked balcony for daring to enter his domain without being bidden. He made a point to speak with the guards at the base of Draakhorn as soon as this business was done.

  The Ivory Throne, built out of polished dragon horns, refracted the flames from four large hearths lining the throne room; the light glinting off polished, black marble pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Ivory serpents spiralled up the height of the pillars, their great heads intermingling with swooping krakens carved into the dark granite roof.

  J’kwaad detested this room. Disliked any room offering homage to the deplorable beasts. At least that was one thing he and his father had in common. They resented anything more powerful than themselves.

  For J’kwaad, his loathing didn’t stop at his older brother. It ended with High King J’kaar.

  If J’kwaad were ever to rule the Great Kingdom as it was meant to be ruled, he would have to outlive not only his father, but his flamboyant brother, J’kye, as well. There was also the high wizard who inhabited an abandoned fortress above Headwater Castle. The wizard’s sanctum sat high atop a rocky tor overlooking the end of the Dragon Rush—a great river tumbling out of the eastern wilderness from its origin within the lofty mountain known as Dragon’s Tooth. A mountain so high, superstition claimed even dragons couldn’t reach its summit.

  The high wizard had been his mentor growing up—the only one who understood him for who he really was, but the old dodderer may prove a liability when the time came.

  “Still no sign of the bastard?”

  A female voice caught him by surprise. J’kwaad hated surprises. Especially ones at his expense. He prided himself in knowing the movements of all the major players in the noble hierarchy—his drunken sister, J’kyra, included.

  Suppressing his rage, he restrained himself from unleashing a disfiguring spell. J’kye’s twin sister was harmless enough in her wine sloshing, whore-mongering way. In fact, if she wasn’t so fond of J’kye’s claim to their father’s throne, J’kwaad might even have cared for his eclectic sister. He had to admit that when they were alone together, he quite enjoyed her sarcastic, abrasive outlook on life. She provided a refreshing alternative to the highbrow snobbery rampant in the rest of the royal household and its blood-sucking courtiers.

  He gave J’kyra a forced smile. “Not unless he’s playing hide your hide.”

  J’kyra studied him for a moment, digesting his remark. She blurted out a quick laugh before her attention fell on one of the unfortunate serving staff standing demurely in the shadows. “Wench! Two goblets of the king’s wine. Now!”

  The serving girl nodded once and scrambled to an ornate, black marble table behind the Ivory Throne. She returned almost as quickly, curtsying and proffering both intricately etched, golden chalices to J’kyra. How she did all this without spilling a drop, J’kwaad had no idea. A useless skill, but a talent nonetheless.

  “I don’t need two, you twit! You take me for a sot?” the princess berated the servant. “I’ll have your head, you insolent trollop!”

  J’kwaad smiled at the helplessness on the girl’s stricken face. Barely old enough to breed and here she was quivering before a rabid lioness. Oh well. Such was her lot in life. He inwardly hoped the dolt would answer his sister with a yes, but the girl stared dumbly at J’kyra, afraid to move. An action that probably saved her from an unpleasant consequence.

  He experienced an unusual empathy for the young lass. Not caring for the softness leeching into his psyche, he strolled over and relieved her of the second chalice. Faking a smile, he nodded for her to leave them.

  The servant forgotten, his sister turned on him. “What’s this all about? I’ve got important things to do. Hanging about this drafty rock pile isn’t something I care to waste my time on.”

  He shrugged, not doubting her for a moment. She probably had a date with a bottomless stein somewhere along King’s Stagger.

  “Well, if old blowhard doesn’t show his pasty face soon, I’m out of here.”

  J’kwaad raised his eyebrows. His sister was all talk. Not even he dared disobey their father. The moment the king graced them with his presence, J’kyra would be all over him, batting her eyelashes, pouting her thick lower lip and playing the poor victim. He had to admit, nobody controlled their father nearly as well as J’kyra. Not even J’kye.

  The only thing that made these useless audiences bearable was the knowledge that the king’s days were numbered. J’kwaad had seen to it. But that time was still a while off. There was the matter of the succession to deal with first.

  He searched the many shadows in the ill-lit chamber, wondering if he had missed seeing their codpiece licking brother amongst the multiple servants.

  Inconspicuous guardsmen in black, plate armour piped with crimson—the king’s personal guard—hand-picked from the best of the elite guard, stood motionless at strategic places around the throne room; armed with ranged weapons and polearms. Many courtiers had overstepped their boundary over the years, airing their grievances to the crown only to spill their lifeblood on the polished, black marble floor at the base of the Ivory Throne.

  A muffled click brought everyone in the chamber to attention—all eyes on the granite wall, several paces behind the throne—to the place they knew a secret door would open.

  A granite slab grated into the wall and slid to one side, exposing a sconce flickering on the dark wall within.

  J’kwaad rolled his eyes at his sister as J’kye emerged from the secret passageway and stopped to bow low to their father; even though the boot licker was already in his company. There was no one J’kwaad despised more than his brother.

  J’kyra returned his disgusted look, but on cue, her eyes lit up and she bustled over to grab the high king’s hand, dropping to a knee and kissing the back of it.

  J’kwaad swallowed the bile in his throat. The only affection J’kyra had for their father was his riches. He didn’t doubt for a moment the sole reason she kissed the king’s hand was to get closer to the priceless jewels twinkling from his every finger.

  Unless the items were enchanted, J’kwaad had no use for baubles—though his father’s wealth certainly appealed to his sensibilities. Magical artefacts were acquired for a hefty price in the Arcanium marketplace. Items that weren’t easily taken by force.

  When the time came for him to rule the Great Kingdom, he would put his family’s riches to good use. The wizard guild would open their doors wide for his pleasure, or discover to their peril that their arcane sanctuary wasn’t as well-warded as they believed.

  “Arise, J’kyra. You’re slobbering drunk again,” King J’kaar growled, his perpetual scowl darkening his hard features. “It’s high time I found you a suitor.”

  J’kwaad almost laughed at the sour look twisting his sister’s face.

  “No, Father, please. You know my feelings when it comes to men.”

  The king glared. “Unfortunately, I do. So does half my kingdom. There isn’t a man alive capable of satisfying your carnal desires.”

  J’kyra clasped her hands together, pouting, giving their father her wide-eyed, hurt look.

  J’kwaad shook his head as the king’s face softened. What a sap. Taking a steadying breath, more to restrain him
self from voicing his disgust, he approached the high king and nodded reverently.

  “Ah, J’kwaad. Just the one I’ve been looking for.”

  “Your Grace,” J’kwaad inclined his head and followed his father to the magnificently carved throne. It was rumoured that the unique dragon etched on each horn was the image of the actual dragon the horn was taken from.

  Seating himself, the king waited for a male servant to take an obligatory sip from his royal goblet, before handing him his wine and prostrating at his feet.

  Ignoring the servant who slipped away as unobtrusively as possible, High King J’kaar’s fleshy lips split his bushy, black, facial hair. “It’s come to my attention that a certain miscreant arrived in Sea Hold. Stowed away aboard a merchant ship out of Thunderhead.”

  Just like their father. No pleasantries. No small talk. No asking how they were doing or wondering how they were getting on. Straight to whatever was on his mind.

  The news registered in J’kwaad’s mind but his focus was on the king’s black hair, greying at the temples. He glanced at the twins. J’kye and J’kyra had strikingly beautiful, blonde locks and soft faces. Neither looked the least bit like their father.

  From what people had told him of their mother, she also had black hair. Where his siblings came by their looks intrigued J’kwaad, but he never had the gall to ask.

  Growing up, J’kye would have beaten him into a pulp if he had so much as intimated such an idea. And J’kyra…well, she never possessed the capacity to fathom such an inference.

  Only little J’kaeda, their youngest sibling, had the same traits as himself and their father. He envied the cheeky little princess her youth. At eleven years old, his favourite sibling wasn’t required to attend these official functions. Her exposure would commence on her next birth anniversary. He would have to watch out for that one. For some reason, the high king despised her most of all.