Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, Anvil. I’ve always dreamed of training with weapons. I wanted to join the local dragon hunt in Fishmonger Bay, but they refused me. Said I wasn’t good enough.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. If anyone put it together that she was the one who had attempted to kill the baron of Thunderhead, and came from Fishmonger Bay, they might figure out her real identity. Training in the city immediately south of Sea Keep was a dangerous place for someone who had recently battled the king’s men.

  Anvil gave her an odd look, but didn’t press the matter. He grunted, “Seems I’ll have to work the lot of ye harder on the morrow.” He spat on the ground and walked away, mumbling to himself.

  Despite his teachings, no one made a move to attack his exposed backside.

  Reecah thought about it but doubted she could take three steps without collapsing. She put her back against the stone wall and slid down to her rump.

  The trainees waited until Anvil disappeared beyond the inner stables before climbing to their feet and throwing their crude wooden cups toward the rusty pail of water. Grumbling amongst themselves, they cast Reecah dirty looks, not bothering to help her back to her feet as they left the training ground.

  She caught the eye of a couple of the disgruntled trainees, not liking the look on their faces. She had been right to fret over Anvil calling her out. Even Flavian, the one person she had built up a friendship with, scowled at her.

  Catenya was the last person to leave. From day one, she had made no qualms about how she felt about the new girl with fancy weapons. Her cup hit Reecah in the shoulder. “Way to go, witch. You best watch your back. You hear?”

  Shocked at the nickname Catenya used, all Reecah could do was nod.

  As Cat dropped out of sight beyond the corner of the stable, she sighed. Finally on the verge of being accepted and she had gone and messed it up.

  Her waterskin lay empty beside her, its contents drained long ago. Using her quarterstaff for leverage, she rose to her feet—her protesting muscles aching and tight. She struggled to bend over the bucket as her cup scraped its bottom to gather a small sip of dirty water.

  Slipping into her cloak, she was thankful for its scant warmth as evening shadows sucked the heat from the air and cooled her sweat soaked clothing. The weight of her journal comforted her—the Dragon’s Eye gem, Great-Aunt Grimelda had beseeched her to find, nestled safely beneath the diary.

  Raver called from his usual resting place on the eave of the outer stable. Her only companion had learned her routine and waited for her each day as the sun sank behind the keep.

  “To me.”

  Raver jumped into the air and dropped onto her forearm.

  She regarded him through misty eyes and stroked his head. “What am I going to do? Everyone hates me…as usual.”

  Raver nodded. “As usual! As usual!”

  She spit out a wet laugh. “Thanks, buddy. You sure know how to cheer a girl up.”

  He nodded again and dropped to the edge of the bucket, his weight tipping it on its side and spilling the dregs onto the sand, but not before he lapped at the rivulet.

  The din of hundreds of boots stomping across the double drawbridges of the inner and outer baileys sent shivers through Reecah. She almost fainted seeing the black-bearded visage of the commander of the King’s Guard—the same man who had led the royal forces into Dragonfang Pass—led a well-drilled army past the gatehouses and onto the southwest road toward the duchy of Svelte.

  She had heard rumours of the high king’s next offensive. A late autumn assault on another of the Great Kingdom’s dragon colonies. Seeing it with her own eyes left her breathless. While she frittered away the days locking swords on a dusty training field, the plight of the dragons became more serious. If she didn’t find a way to get an audience with the king soon, there might not be any dragons left to save.

  By the time she made her way to the bunkhouse, the others had gone off to the common mess hall. She knew something was wrong as soon as she set foot in the dimly lit hut; the interior rank with body odour.

  Littered across the middle of the floor lay the tattered scraps of a thin, woollen mattress. Her eyes followed the scraps to her lower bunk in the back of the fusty room.

  The mattress was bad enough, but finding her old rucksack torn to shreds, broke her heart. Why would anyone fault her desire to train hard?

  She fell to her knees and collected the pieces of her rucksack, tears appearing as dark spots on the stained material. Even if she had listened during Grammy’s sewing lessons, there was no way to salvage the old pack.

  Searching the area around her pallet she found her wooden bowl cracked in half and her thin blanket torn into strips. Sorting through the mess, she couldn’t find her flint stone. Whoever had done this, must’ve taken it.

  More disturbing than anything else was finding her rope hanging from the rafters on the far side of her cot. Tied into a noose, it bore the shoddy pillow supplied by the fort—a face childishly drawn on its white surface in what appeared to be blood.

  She jumped as the door slammed against the jamb. Dagger in hand, she spun to face it, expecting to see her new friends coming for her, but no one else had entered the bunkhouse. She released her breath. Perhaps the wind had grabbed it.

  Consciously calming her breathing, she balanced on the edge of her bunk and the one next to it, in order to unloop the rope from the log rafter. Coiling the rope and throwing it over her shoulder, she looked around the bunkhouse. A deep sadness settled over her. It was time to move on.

  The scraps of her rucksack held her faraway gaze. She needed to find a new place to sleep, but if the others thought they could intimidate her into leaving the training sessions, they were in for a big surprise come morning. Reecah vowed to push herself harder than ever before.

  She sighed and shuffled to the door. Pushing it open, her heart caught in her throat. Catenya and her little clique barred the exit.

  Reecah threw her hands up and stepped back, her eyes on the curved dagger in Catenya’s hand, pointed at her face.

  “You ain’t so tough now, are you, GG?”

  Instinct kicked in. Reecah’s left forearm shot up, catching Cat’s right wrist and driving the hand holding the dagger out wide. Her hand curled over Cat’s forearm, forcing it toward the ground—throwing her attacker off balance.

  Cat’s eyes followed the movement. Her mouth opened to shout something, but Reecah’s right fist smashed her nose against her face, knocking the surprised woman into a scruffy-faced, brown-haired male from their training group. Reecah had grappled with Edo and bested him earlier in the day.

  Edo reached out, halting Cat’s backward momentum, which allowed Reecah to complete her move. Trapping Cat’s arm, she rendered the dagger harmless.

  Reecah pulled her own dagger free of its belt sheath and jabbed it under Cat’s chin, the sharp point drawing a thin line of blood. Eye to eye, Reecah growled, “Care to find out how tough I am?”

  Cat shook her head, blood streaming from her nose; fear evident in her green eyes.

  Reecah shoved Cat into the wall beside the door and stood over her as she slid to the dirt floor. Brandishing her dagger, Reecah’s intense glare took in Edo and the remaining four trainees who watched wide-eyed from outside the bunkhouse. “You made your point. I’m not welcome here. I get it, but hear me when I tell you; if I ever catch you touching my stuff again, I’ll slice you wide open. You won’t be the first person I’ve cut.”

  Not waiting for a response, Reecah shouldered past Edo and through the gaping bystanders. No one made a move to stop her.

  She searched the immediate area of the inner courtyard wall. Shrouded in evening shadows, many barracks larger than the bunkhouse met her eye, but they were for the king’s standing army. She doubted anyone would welcome her in, nor was she keen to brush elbows with someone who might recognize her.

  The tell-tale clanking of the inner barbican descending for the night
got her feet moving.

  “Wait!” she called out and ran to the inner gatehouse.

  The two guards manning the crank stopped turning the large handle long enough to allow her to duck beneath the iron-spiked edge.

  “Ye just made it lassie!” one of the guards called after her.

  She waved back at them but kept jogging toward the outer wall—the massive portcullis thankfully still up. As she ran past the guards, she noticed they, too, were preparing to shut out the night. She briefly considered sleeping beside the stump in the training yard, but continued across the drawbridge. She needed food. The galley that fed the troops lay inside the inner wall that was now closed off to her.

  The road leading north to Sea Keep stretched away to her left. In the distance on her right, the edge of the King’s Wood caught the last rays of the sun. If she hurried, she could reach the campsite she had made over a fortnight ago

  She shivered, exposed to gusts blowing in from the distant sea. Her mind turned to the missing flintstone, filling her with a sinking feeling. Slump shouldered, she shuffled toward the forest. Holding her right hand in her left, she grimaced at the pain caused by punching Catenya’s face. It promised to be a long night.

  Shivers wracked Reecah’s body as she sat dejectedly on the drawbridge leading into South Fort. Ignoring the quizzical looks of the four guardsmen manning the tiny huts warding the wooden causeway, she dangled her legs over the brackish water of the foul-smelling moat, waiting for the sun to lighten the eastern horizon. She had gotten little sleep lying on the cold, damp, forest floor trying to exchange body heat with Raver. Nor had she eaten. If not for a small rill trickling through the woods, she didn’t know what she would have done.

  The rhythmic clanking of gears operating the heavy chains employed to raise the portcullis filled her with mixed emotions. Tasteless gruel would be available in the mess hall of the barracks district, but that meant she’d have to face Catenya and her crew.

  She rose to her feet, breath visible in the early morning chill, and swallowed her inhibitions. If she wished to have any chance of joining the king’s army and find her way into Draakhall, she needed to keep training with Anvil. As much as she tried to convince herself that Catenya deserved what she got, guilt consumed her.

  Four guards she hadn’t met before stood across the threshold as the great iron-latticed gate lodged into its upper holding position. Two others swung the massive wooden doors outward—thumping them loudly against the stone wall, before locking them into place.

  Reecah approached the leery watchmen.

  One of the guards stepped forward, giving her a once over. “Little early to be hawking your wares.”

  Reecah frowned. “Huh?”

  “Ain’t been seeing the likes of you around here. You fall out of favour with the…” He held his nose up high and said with an air of disgust, “…the high-born?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The guard rocked back and forth on his feet and winked. “I bet you don’t.”

  One of the guards she knew on the roadway at the end of the drawbridge started toward them but stopped, his attention on a new man that appeared beneath the portcullis.

  “What’s going on here?” The sound of rocks grating together made all six inner gate guards jump to attention.

  Anvil appeared from around the corner of the inner gatehouse, hands on his hips—his chest bare. How the cold didn’t affect him, Reecah had no idea.

  “Nothing to concern you, Anvil. Just turning the riffraff from the gates,” the guard questioning Reecah said smugly.

  Anvil stepped up to the guard. “You mean GG?”

  The guard swallowed, alarm on his face. “You know her?”

  Anvil’s dark glare could have melted stone. “Know her? You twit! It’s a good thing she didn’t whip the lot of ye. She wouldn’t have broken a sweat.”

  Motioning for Reecah to enter, Anvil shook his head. “It shan’t be long before yer answerin’ to her, if I have anythin’ to say about it.”

  “Yes, Anvil. Sorry, Anvil.”

  Reecah waited inside the gate for the weapon master. “Thank you, Anvil.”

  Not sparing her a second glance, Anvil walked by her, muttering to himself.

  She watched his bulk saunter past the stables toward the training ground. She entertained going after him, but her stomach cramps reminded her she needed to eat if she wished to make it through today’s lessons.

  The inner gates rose as she approached—one of the guards who had stopped her on a previous occasion let her pass without incident. She knew most of them by now.

  The mess hall lay beyond the regular soldiers’ barracks; the dirt street leading to it, empty. Most people were just beginning to stir this early in the morning.

  Rows of squat, empty tables lined either side of the ramshackle hall’s interior. A lone cook stirred the steaming contents of an iron vat hanging from a set of wrought-iron hooks above an open fire.

  Reecah sidled up to the fire, rubbing her hands together.

  The rotund cook nodded at a leaning stack of wooden bowls. “Morning miss. It should be ready. Grab yourself a bowl.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. Um…” Looking around, she grabbed a bowl and wooden spoon. “Can I have two?”

  “Sorry, miss. One serving each. Got lots of mouths to feed.”

  “Please, sir. I haven’t eaten since midday, yesterday.”

  The middle-aged man stared at her for a moment and looked over her shoulder.

  She followed his eyes to the entrance. “I won’t tell anyone. I’ll eat here until someone comes, and then you can top me off.”

  She could tell he was contemplating her words so she gave him her best pout. The one that had always won over Poppa.

  “Och, lady. Make it quick.” He slopped a scoop of grey paste into her bowl.

  The term, lady, made her bristle, but she dared not snap at the man who was kind enough to break the rules for her. She patted his hand. “Thank you. You’re a kind soul.”

  “Ain’t nothing, me lady.” The man blushed. “I wish I could do more.”

  “You’ve done more than enough. I shan’t forget this,” she said around a mouthful of gruel.

  The front door squealed open as she stood by the fire, finishing her second bowl. She instinctively cringed, thinking to see Catenya and her henchmen entering. The sight of Flavian Silvertongue filled her with relief. A familiar face who, other than Anvil and a few of the guards, had been the only person she felt comfortable speaking with since coming to South Fort.

  A sudden slop weighed down her hands. The cook had plopped in a healthy, third portion into her bowl. She looked at the bowl in surprise.

  The cook winked. “Be off with you, before you land me in the pot.”

  A huge smile dimpled her cheeks. She returned his wink and smiled at Flavian.

  “You’re back?” Flavian retrieved a bowl and spoon and held the bowl out to the cook. Not bothering to thank him, he walked with Reecah to a pair of chairs in the back corner of the drafty building near the exit. “I was worried I wouldn’t see you again after what happened last night.”

  Reecah seated herself. Conscious of her cheeks turning red, she asked, “Really. You were worried about me?”

  Flavian sat down beside her. He blinked twice and coughed. “Um, well…Ya, kind of.”

  She gave him a bashful look and broke eye contact, trying hard to concentrate on her breakfast. A warm feeling flushed her insides. One she hadn’t known since Junior held her in her hut. That seemed so long ago now.

  “Where did you sleep last night?” Flavian interrupted her thoughts. “The city guards don’t take kindly to people sleeping in the streets.”

  Swallowing a mouthful, she said, “I went back to the King’s Wood.”

  “The King’s Wood? Weren’t you cold?”

  “Freezing. It would’ve been nice to have a fire.”

  “No fire either? I wish I would’ve known.”<
br />
  She gave him a genuine smile. Flavian had come across as a cocky and arrogant young man at first, but now that she had gotten to know him, he wasn’t a bad sort.

  Flavian finished his bowl before Reecah. “We should tell Anvil what happened. He won’t be pleased.”

  Reecah shook her head, fearing the weapon master’s involvement would only make matters worse. “No! It’s okay. Just let it go.”

  “What that cow did to you is unforgivable.” He threw his hands up between them. “Trust me, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I believe you. And no, it wasn’t a nice thing to do to anyone. I wish I knew what I’ve done to upset her so.”

  “She’s just jealous. Being high-born, she ain’t used to a lowly commoner upstaging her…” His eyes filled with dread. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I, um—”

  Reecah laughed and patted his forearm. “Don’t worry. I know what you mean. So, the Cat is high-born, is she?”

  The words no sooner left her mouth, than the thin door squealed open and in walked Catenya and her followers—deep purple circles surrounded Catenya’s bleary eyes. She paused to lock her bloodshot gaze on Reecah.

  Reecah tensed. She didn’t relish fighting inside the mess hall. Not after the cook had been so kind to her.

  Catenya’s stare promised malice, but the woman threw back her shoulders with haughty arrogance and proceeded to the front of the mess hall.

  Reecah turned wide eyes on Flavian.

  “Be careful of that one. Her father is none other than the Viscount of Draakhall.”

  “Vullis Opsigter the Third?”

  “The one and only. If he gets word of this, your training days are over.”

  Her recollection of the viscount was one of a just and honourable man. Though, given the context of their meeting in Thunderhead, his graciousness may have been a false portrayal. The ramifications of the viscount becoming involved in her confrontation with Catenya slammed into her. Vullis Opsigter was the one person who could positively identify her as the baron’s attacker.