Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  Demonic dragged his frozen head across the platform, banging it off the entrance walls. Chips of ice and chunks of scales and horn shattered with each earth trembling hit, but the berserk dragon didn’t appear to feel any pain.

  J’kwaad searched his immediate surroundings. His escape route had fallen to the platform below with the flailing dragon. His only way off the ledge was down the trail of debris to the feet of the rampaging beast.

  Getting shakily to his feet, he cleared his head, summoning the strength he required to hurl another ice blast. He wished he had taken Devius’ advice about employing a staff when performing magic, but being young and headstrong at the time, he had believed he didn’t need to rely on a crutch.

  The effect of his first spell faded from Demonic’s shoulders—a visible line from the freezing spell receded up the dragon’s neck.

  Not waiting for the beast to get its senses back, J’kwaad chanted again; drawing deeper from his gift and augmenting that power with his trinkets.

  The colour of Demonic’s eyes returned as the freezing lost its hold. Shaking his head, ridding himself of the last remnants of the spell, he located J’kwaad. A mighty roar rumbled the area as he prepared to leap again.

  J’kwaad released his ice ball—the brunt of the spell taking Demonic between the eyes.

  The dragon stumbled backward and fell to his side. His legs kicked and scrabbled but they lacked any sense of coordination.

  J’kwaad searched for the best way to scale down the landslide without dying in the process. His attention was drawn to the shadows beneath the entranceway where Calor had fallen.

  Much to his surprise, Calor limped over to stand beside Demonic’s head. He struggled to pull his serrated scimitar free of the thong binding it to his belt. Hoisting the curved blade over his head, he drove it into Demonic’s unblinking eye.

  The dragon’s frozen head deflected the blow, showering Calor with ice chips and knocking him onto his backside. Demonic’s body convulsed, but no apparent damage had been done.

  J’kwaad contemplated hitting the dragon with another ice blast, but the expenditure of releasing a spell big enough to stun such a large dragon left him reeling.

  Shouts echoed up and down the valley as more of the dragon hunt encroached upon the scene. There were no more screeches from overhead, nor did there seem to be any life left within the colony itself, but they had their hands full with the colony leader.

  A mobile ballista team approached the platform from the far side. They constructed their smaller machine and loaded a bolt capped with a barbed, metal tip—pushing the contraption as close to the writhing dragon as they dared.

  Conjuring three, smaller ice-balls, J’kwaad launched them at the struggling beast, hoping to keep it off balance.

  The ballista throws ratcheted back and the mechanism was triggered without delay.

  The heavy bolt hammered into the top of Demonic’s head, shattering his frozen skull into dozens of gory chunks. His wings collapsed upon themselves and the mighty dragon lay still.

  J’kwaad silently gave thanks to his well-drilled troops. Without their total devotion, the king’s campaign would never have survived Dragon Home, let alone their subsequent encounter with the Draakval Colony. It had been obvious right from the start of their offensive three days ago that someone had tipped off Demonic’s colony.

  Picking his way down the rockfall, slipping many times until he reached the entrance platform, the prince nodded his thanks to the mobile ballista crew and made his way to Calor’s side.

  He offered him a hand up, and without taking the time to ask if he was okay, looked to the line of wyverns staring at them from the eastern ridge of the crater. “See to it they’re destroyed before you lead the army home.”

  Calor nodded, pain evident on his face. “Aye my prince. Are you not accompanying us?”

  J’kwaad stared at Calor, but his mind was elsewhere. Back in the wizard’s sanctum, high above Headwater Castle. Devius Misenthorpe was up to something. He sensed it. There was no doubting the old wizard had identified the ripple in the magic—had probably done so long ago.

  “Dispatch our best runner to fetch me three of our best horses. Have them ready by the time I reach Cliff Face. I plan on being home before the sun rises three days hence.”

  Calor nodded, the slightest surprise reflected on his face. “You’ll kill them, my prince.”

  The prince smiled. Something he wasn’t prone to doing. “That’s exactly my intention.”

  Dragon Breath

  Tamra had learned all about dragon magic under the watchful eye of Ouderling Wys, but that knowledge did little to prepare her for what unfolded before her pain-laced eyes.

  Fleeing the group that had purposely led them astray, the dragons had landed on a small sprit of sandy beach uncovered by the receding tide, far from the mainland.

  She had no idea how long she had lost consciousness, but the cold sea water washing over her legs revived her to a dull sense of awareness. It couldn’t have been too long as the sun hadn’t changed position in the sky.

  A coldness that had nothing to do with the water seeped into her back and shoulders, numbing the excruciating pain of her wounds. Shock was setting in. If her wounds weren’t dealt with soon, they would turn mortal, but she lacked the wherewithal to deal with them.

  Silence had left her in the sand and stood with Swoop and Lurker around a lump of black feathers. One of the dragons had taken it upon themselves to bring the raven’s body along.

  Raver lay dead at their feet, the poor bird’s mangled toes the least of his worries now. Judging from what Lurker and Swoop had told her, Reecah would be devasted if she were to find out. Had Swoop not dispatched the one responsible, Tamra would have dragged herself off the sandy shoal and gone after him, even though she would have drowned in the choppy surf. Once someone became her friend, she valued their life over her own.

  A darkness took hold of her. She wasn’t prone to tears but seeing the lump of feathers lying on the sand between the dragons bothered her. A lot of good her friendship had done Raver. She had stood within reach of his captor but hadn’t been strong enough to rescue him. Worse, had she not confronted the group, Raver might still be alive.

  She wiped at the unwanted tears threatening to escape her bloodshot eyes. Never show weakness.

  “You really think you can do it?” Swoop’s voice sounded far away; her words not directed at Tamra.

  “I don’t know,” Lurker answered. “What harm can it do?”

  “Have you ever tried it before?”

  “No, but something inside me tells me I know what to do.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if it hurts you, instead?” Genuine concern reflected in Swoop’s voice.

  Lurker didn’t respond at first, but when he did, compassion filled his voice. “I have to try. He was our friend too. I don’t think my heart could bear Reecah’s hurt. I’d rather die myself.”

  Blinking to clear her vision, she held her breath as Lurker dipped his head and held his nostrils a hair’s breadth from Raver’s beak.

  It was difficult to see from where she lay, but she thought she saw a translucent, green vapour drift from Lurker’s nostrils. It swirled around Raver’s head momentarily before slipping into the slits on his beak.

  Lurker pulled his head back to where Swoop and Silence hovered over the raven.

  “Nothing’s happening.”

  Lurker’s sadness choked Tamra further. She wiped at her eyes again, angry she couldn’t control the tears spilling down her face.

  A strong wind buffeted the thin sprit of reclaimed sand, blowing her tangled locks around her face. Raver’s feathers ruffled. She thought nothing of his wings curling up and dropping back to the sand, but her heart almost stopped when Silence burst out with excitement.

  “Raver! You’re alive!”

  Raver flapped his wings and craned his neck to climb to his feet. His beady black eyes searched the scaly faces leaning over him. “Al
ive! Alive!”

  The dragons laughed; one of the strangest noises Tamra had ever heard. She likened it to tree boughs rubbing together in the breeze.

  Tamra’s senses heightened. Voices carried above the surf. With difficulty, she turned her head toward the shore. A dozen or so blurred forms shouted and pointed in their direction. The imposters.

  “Dragon friends,” she croaked, her throat dry. “We need to find out where they took Reecah. Fly me to them. I’ll make them tell us where Reecah and Junior are. Trust me, I can make people talk.”

  She wasn’t sure she had spoken at all, but as one, the dragons turned their heads her way.

  “Do you think you can heal her, or must we wait until she dies?” Swoop asked.

  “Hard to say.” Lurker started toward Tamra. “Worst thing that will happen is I expedite her death.”

  The dragons spoke as if she wasn’t there.

  “Bringing back a human might prove different. They’re complicated creatures.”

  Lurker nodded. “She won’t last much longer. Look at her blood loss. Be doing her a favour to put her out of her misery before her people figure out a way to reach us.”

  Tamra wanted to scream they weren’t her people, but lacked the strength. She turned her sand-covered head to observe Lurker’s approach. Something about the way the dragon looked at her filled her with a dread she hadn’t known in a long time.

  She swallowed at the lump in her throat—one not formed of compassion. She lay vulnerable, helpless to prevent herself from becoming the experiment of a dragon.

  The wooden shafts protruding from her body prevented her from dragging herself away.

  Revelation

  Reecah groggily realized it was early morning. Filled with exhaustion from the previous day’s training, she was vaguely aware of a soft warmth snuggled into her.

  Not wanting to open her eyes just yet, she knew instinctively what the softness was. Fleabag had flopped down beside her on the giant pillow at the base of the window like she had done everyday since returning to the chamber after Devius’ unbinding ritual. How she had gotten from the sacrificial table to the top of the tower that day was a mystery. Judging by Devius’ appearance, it was all the old wizard could do to bear his own weight.

  Opening her eyes, the lioness’ thick neck lay right in front of her. She smiled and scratched Fleabag behind the ears.

  The cat groaned in satisfaction, craning her head back to snuggle into her.

  Over a fortnight had passed since the unbinding and it still unnerved her to be this close to a four hundred pound killing machine. The notion seemed silly after flying a dragon, but she had never felt in danger while in Lurker’s company. Quite the opposite. Lurker’s presence filled her with a sense of safety she hadn’t experienced since before Grammy had died.

  Careful not to startle Fleabag, she got to her feet and looked around. The chamber basked in early morning twilight—the period of enlightening between darkness and the appearance of the sun on the eastern horizon.

  A gentle snore filled the octagonal room. She didn’t have to search out the cause. Devius always slept beneath the northern window, claiming it was the direction of purity. She hadn’t bothered to ask him why. He had filled her head with so much information over the last couple of weeks that she had more important questions to concern herself with.

  She approached the scrying bowl—the one artifact in the magical room that intrigued her more than anything else. It reminded her of her great-aunt. How different her life might have been had she been afforded the opportunity to learn from Grimelda.

  She fingered her diary beneath her cloak to ensure it was secure. Devius had enacted a spell to fuse the gemstone Poppa had given her back into the cover of her journal.

  The second Dragon’s Eye—the dark eye according to the high wizard, lay at the base of the scrying bowl beneath the northern edge of the eight-sided, brass bowl.

  To his credit, Devius had asked permission before he performed further experiments with the stone. Who was she to tell a wizard of his standing what he could and could not do? Besides, unlocking her link to her dragon magic had indebted her to him.

  Her gift’s presence had come as a shock to her after recovering from the ritual—a gentle pressure inside her head that never went away. Not quite a headache, but an annoyance nonetheless.

  Devius had assured her the unpleasantness would dissipate over time. Her body and soul would learn to adapt. Being a natural part of who she was, the gift was a sensation she had been deprived of feeling since before her earliest memories, so naturally, it would take time to adjust.

  Already, the gift had slipped into the background of her consciousness. She detected it easily enough when Devius asked her to perform the simplest of magical spells. It was an extension of herself. Magic tricks like lighting candles and the fire in the hearth were performed with little more than a thought. Awed by her newfound ability, she quickly learned to welcome the comforting warmth it instilled in her.

  Standing before the scrying bowl, she studied her hands and contemplated what she was about to do. Devius had warned her not to on more than one occasion, but she couldn’t see the harm.

  Her fingernails were nowhere near as long as the wizard’s—nor Aunt Grimelda’s if memory served her. Being an outdoorsy person, she had never been able to grow nails to match those of the ladies in Fishmonger Bay. That made her smile. Perhaps they were all witches.

  Holding her pointer finger over the opaque liquid in the scrying bowl, she considered the runes written along its surface. She had already known most of the symbols, but over the last few days, Devius had expanded her knowledge to include the magical runes that had eluded her.

  Spell casting by chanting in the ancient language still tripped her up more often than not, but with each passing day, her confidence grew.

  Devius had intoned a simple vision spell on several occasions while she had watched on—the spell showing them various places around King’s Bay. The shorelines. The harbour. The Sea Gate Bridge.

  To take the vision spell to the next level had sat in the back of her mind for days. If she could see into Sea Keep, she would be able to track High King J’kaar’s movements. It would also enable her to keep an eye on the dark heir. She had offhandedly mentioned this to Devius but his angry response that they weren’t to meddle in the affairs of individual people on pain of serious repercussion had put an end to the conversation.

  She looked to the north window. Devius lay crunched up in the fetal position, snoring softly. The only time since they had met that he ever left her alone was when she needed to relieve herself. She would have to speak softly if she wished to utilize the scrying bowl to serve her ultimate purpose.

  The words flowed past her lips like she had spoken them from childhood. At the appropriate time, she dipped her fingernail in the viscous liquid inside the western lip. Ripples formed a wedge shape, radiating from her fingertip and moving slowly into a point at the centre of the bowl where they disappeared.

  She turned her mind to envision Prince J’kwaad. His angular nose. His well-trimmed, black goatee. His thin lips. His shining black plate armour inlaid with golden piping that denoted him as a member of the royal family.

  At first, nothing happened, but as she stared, the reflection of the ceiling transformed into a scene of trees speeding by on both sides of a black-clad man. Hunched over the neck of a profusely sweating horse, his shrewd eyes were focused on the trail ahead. A second, riderless horse galloped along behind him—man and beasts charging up a well-trodden roadway. One that looked unnervingly familiar.

  Prince J’kwaad suddenly slowed his horse to a canter in front of a crude path that appeared to have been roughly hewn from the thick undergrowth. He looked up with a questioning scowl, searching for something.

  J’kwaad’s head jerked—his eyes appearing to lock onto her own.

  “What have you done, child?”

  Devius’ voice sent sparks of terror coursing th
rough her veins. She hadn’t heard the old wizard approach.

  The scene in the bowl turned opaque, but she knew Devius had seen what she had.

  His face turned purple beneath his white beard and bushy eyebrows. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  She shook her head, afraid to speak.

  “You’ve alerted the dark heir to your presence as surely as if you stood in front of him and proclaimed yourself a Windwalker.”

  “I-I-I didn’t think—”

  “You’re damned right you didn’t think! Have you not learned anything I’ve been teaching you?”

  “Why, yes, but—”

  “But nothing! He’ll be coming for you. He’ll have sensed you spying on him. J’kwaad is no ordinary wizard.” Devius trembled with rage. “What do you think he’ll do when he discovers I’m the one who is instructing the last Windwalker on her gift?”

  “But you’re the high wizard. Surely you—”

  “I’m not immortal! How long do you think the king will back me when he hears of this? Let me tell you! As long as it takes to stick my head on a pig pole.”

  Reecah bowed her head in shame. “I’m sorry.”

  Devius’ chest falls came fast and heavy. He tilted his head and pointed a bony finger at her face, but bit back whatever he had planned on saying. He stormed over to the western facing window as if expecting to see the prince riding along King’s Bay Road.

  Even Fleabag sensed she had done something terrible. She looked at the cat on the cushion, beseeching a friendly face, but Fleabag grunted and turned her head away.

  Reecah remained beside the scrying bowl until the sun rose high enough to gleam off the brass surface. She grasped the dark Eye and made her way to Devius’ side.

  “So, what now?”

  Devius tensed. When he finally spoke, she had to lean in to hear him.

  “We need to get you far away from here. I’m talking really far, or else he’ll track your magical presence.”

  “How can he do that?”

  Devius spun on her, anger in his light blue eyes, but he kept his tone in check. “What does it matter how? It’s too late for such questions. You’ve seen to that. What matters now is preserving the dragons’ last chance at salvation.”