Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  The duke pulled out the chair on his right and motioned for her to sit.

  Once she had taken her seat, Duke Ryonin informed the chamber. “As leaders of the people, let us feast and rejoice in the knowledge that not all beauty has been stolen from the world. With the rise of the Windwalker, a tumultuous path has been revealed to you, the people of Zephyr. Defenders of the faith, I beseech you to go forth and muster our banners with the speed of the gods. But, not until we sup with Reecah Windwalker, Tamra Stoneheart of South March, and Aramyss Chizel of Sarsen Rest. Arise.”

  Reecah lowered her eyes to the fancy goblet set before her, filled with a crimson liquid that she imagined matched the colour of her cheeks. She inwardly cringed at the sight, the contents reminding her of Devius and Grimelda’s ritual bowls.

  The duke grabbed his goblet and held it out. “To the return of the dragon keepers!”

  The memory of her brief time in Baron Carroch’s great hall when the viscount had done much the same, causing her to spill their drinks, made her smile despite her nerves. She clutched her goblet by its intricately carved stem and clanked it with vigour against Duke Ryonin’s—its contents sloshing about.

  The hall thundered, “The dragon keepers!”

  The duke took a healthy swallow and waited on Reecah.

  She hesitated, catching herself at the last moment from turning her nose up in disgust. Poppa and Grammy had drunk wine when she was a wee child, but after Poppa’s death, Grammy hadn’t brought any more into their household. Taking a sip, she fought to keep her face from twisting in revulsion.

  The duke motioned for her to sit and waited until she had done so before sitting himself. The rest of the hall waited until they were both seated before taking their chairs and returning to their own conversations.

  Reecah caught Junior’s eye and shrugged. He winked back at her, but Duke Ryonin’s voice commanded her attention.

  “What do you think of our Ember Breath vintage?”

  Reecah frowned.

  “The wine. Ember Breath is renowned throughout the kingdom and beyond for its fine wines.” He raised his glass and drank heavily.

  Not wanting to be rude, Reecah did likewise; almost gagging on a mouthful.

  “Hah! Not to worry. It’ll grow on you. Probably not the best thing to consume before flying a dragon.”

  Reecah didn’t know what that meant so she smiled and sipped some more.

  Servants burst into the hall from a large, open doorway near the stairwell she had descended, their arms burdened with an array of meats and vegetables. The head table was personally served before the platters were set on the ends of the assembled tables to be passed around.

  A harpist strummed her large, golden instrument in the back corner of the dining hall beside a raging hearth, the dulcet tones a pleasant background to the din of boisterous voices and clanking cutlery.

  Reecah tried to catch Junior’s eye, but he and his two companions’ attention were commanded by those around them. She admonished herself for glaring at a buxom redhead leaning across their table to carry on an animated conversation with Junior. The woman’s breasts barely managed to remain constrained within her skimpy dress.

  A raised voice drew her back to the head table, the duke’s shrewd eyes taking note of where her attention lay.

  “I say, I had quite a discussion with Tamra and Aramyss while you were getting cleaned up and familiar with the castle. They tell me your next step is to visit the dragon queen.”

  Reecah had been so enthralled with Castle Svelte she hadn’t thought much about where they were going next. “Um, yes. That is the plan, but…” She paused, unsure on how much information she should divulge.

  The duke tilted his head, his expression urging her to go on.

  “I’m not sure if they told you of the high wizard?”

  “Yes, they did. Quite a story, that. Seems the dragons have friends in high places.”

  “Ya, well, not anymore. The last I saw of Devius, he was preparing to flee Headwater Sanctum.”

  “He and a lioness, according to Aramyss.”

  A warmth flushed her. She wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the hearth or her memory of Devius’ pet. Taking another sip, she nodded. “Yes. Fleabag.”

  “Fleabag, hmm? Curious name. Did they make it out?”

  Reecah’s smile faded. “I’m not sure. As far as I know, he was still there when we fled Headwater Castle. If the prince survived, I fear for Devius’ safety.”

  Duke Ryonin’s face became serious. “Unfortunately, my sources report that the dark heir has recovered from the wound he received. Battling the weapon master, if what they say is true.”

  Recalling Anvil’s heroic death filled Reecah with a bittersweet memory. He had been such a boor of a man, but in the end, he had sacrificed himself to save his brother and Scarletclaws from certain death.

  Tyrant or not, Anvil had taught her so much in such a little period of time. Of swordsmanship for sure, but it was the hard life lessons he instilled in her that struck her as far more valuable. Keep your enemy in sight and remain ever vigilant if you wish to survive. Because of his training, she felt confident to draw her sword and defend herself, but she wasn’t naïve. There was no way she would trouble a seasoned fighter.

  A servant came by bearing a large decanter and filled her goblet before she had time to protest.

  Duke Ryonin raised a hand in toast. “To Devius’ escape.”

  The last thing Reecah wanted was more wine, but she couldn’t deny toasting the wizard who had risked everything to release her dragon magic. As she swallowed, the duke raised his goblet again.

  “To the lioness.”

  “The lioness.” Reecah regarded her goblet with wide eyes. She couldn’t say no to Fleabag’s health either.

  A blonde-haired woman, wearing less than the redhead, crouched between Junior and Tamra, listening intently to whatever Junior was saying—leaning her body into him. Reecah subconsciously willed Tamra to throttle the woman.

  The platters were cleared away and a minstrel joined the harpist, raising the level of the music. Tumblers performed outlandish dances across the back wall—the servants hard-pressed to avoid being hit—while jesters in their comical outfits made a pleasant nuisance of themselves at several tables.

  Reecah took it all in, the noise and heat and wine blending to leave her mind whirling. The duke asked her questions about her past, to which she found herself uninhibitedly laying her entire life out before the leader of the duchy of Zephyr; nodding several times when the jaws of those seated at the head of the table dropped open.

  To her relief, Duchess Momme had the wherewithal to realize how taxing the day had been on Reecah. “I think our guest might want to retire for the evening. We can pick up where we left off in the morn.” She gave her husband a tolerant smile. “With clearer heads, hmm?”

  The duke’s face dropped. “Of course! Where are my manners.” He stood and swayed momentarily before grabbing the table. He motioned to the ever-vigilant Stryk. “Stryk Baskyrm will see you to your room.”

  Stryk strode briskly up and nodded curtly to the duke. “M’lord.”

  “See the Windwalker to her room. Don’t allow anyone to waylay her.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Oh, and Stryk.”

  “M’lord?”

  “Be sure to post a guard on either end of the wing.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” He gestured with an outstretched hand for Reecah to precede him. “M’lady.”

  Reecah was thankful for his steadying arm as the room pitched beneath her feet. She clasped his thick arm with both hands. “I beg your strykdon, Park.” She blinked and frowned, then spit out a laugh. “I beg your…pardon…Stryk! I think the wine has affected me.”

  Stryk patted her hand. “It happens, m’lady.”

  His gentle but firm assistance helped her navigate the podium steps and through the crowd. Several people tried to stop them and speak with her, but a stern look from Str
yk was all it took for them to back off.

  Reecah stumbled trying to catch a glimpse of Junior.

  Aramyss had made his way to a group of tough-looking fighters, swaying back and forth, arm in arm, singing horribly out of tune.

  Tamra was nowhere to be seen. The redhead had assumed Tamra’s chair, her womanly features all but spilling into Junior’s hands.

  Reecah tried to pull free of Stryk’s grasp to confront the women, but the man’s iron grip kept her feet moving toward the steps leading to the princess wing of Castle Svelte.

  The bed spun beneath her as she stared at the gossamer fabric draped across the top of the four-poster bed. Or was it the room spinning? She couldn’t tell. She did know that it wasn’t doing her stomach any good.

  She vaguely recalled Brynhild coming in to check on her. The girl had turned down her sheets and got her fire roaring. She had offered to help disrobe her before she laid down, but Reecah adamantly refused.

  A gentle knock disturbed her scattered thoughts.

  She frowned. It was strange that the lady-in-waiting wouldn’t let herself in like she usually did. “Come in!”

  A second knock made her spinning thoughts come to a crashing halt. It probably wasn’t Brynhild. She swallowed. Who could it be then? Perhaps if she lay there, whoever it was would go away.

  The knock repeated itself.

  Reecah’s short temper cut through her muddled thinking. Whoever it was, they best have a good reason for disturbing her at such a late hour.

  She slid from the plush duvet and caught herself on the footboard post to keep from falling. She hadn’t worn off as much wine as she thought. Staggering forward, she managed to make it to the marble wall by the door.

  “Who is it?”

  Instead of answering, the knock sounded again.

  Irritated, she grasped the thick handle and pulled the door inward. “I thought I asked you who—?”

  Thankful for the door’s support, she kept herself upright as the worried face of Junior Waverunner stared back at her.

  He reached out and grabbed her elbow to help steady her. “Are you okay? I saw you leave the hall and thought you had taken ill.”

  She was touched by his concern but the vision of the two women fawning over him turned her face into a scowl. “I’m surprised you saw anything with your eyes buried in the floozies’ cleavage.”

  Junior frowned. “Huh? Oh, those two.” He rolled his eyes. “I thought they’d never shut up. Thankfully they both decided to visit the privy together. I waited until they were out of sight and got the heck out of there. I thought they were going to eat me.”

  Reecah nodded. “I bet you would’ve liked that.”

  “Huh?” He searched her eyes and smelled her breath. “Ah, I see. Too much wine. I bet you’re not used to it. You’ll be fine in the morning. Well, perhaps after the headache wears off.”

  She lost her grip on the door and would have fallen had he not held her up.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She stared into his green eyes, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I’ll leave you then. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sick. Can you make it back to bed on your own?”

  She nodded and giggled.

  He seemed hesitant to leave—his cheeks an unusual shade of red. Releasing her, he turned to go, but stopped with his back to her as if he had something else to say. His shoulders slumped. Sighing, he started to walk away, but Reecah put a hand on his shoulder.

  His body stiffened beneath her touch.

  “Actually, I don’t think I can make it back.”

  Junior swallowed as he turned to look at her, his face filled with wonder and fear.

  To Reecah, it felt as if the world stood still. Doing something she should have done a long time ago, she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted and open-mouthed kiss over his closed lips; pausing to smile at his wild-eyed stare.

  Dragging him after her into the bedroom, she kicked out with her boot, slamming the door shut behind them.

  Dragon Scourge

  Flea couldn’t believe he was leading a ragtag group of wyverns across the arid lands of the Wilds, hundreds of leagues southeast of his shattered home on Mount Gloom. What was even more surprising was that his sister, Cricket, had convinced the survivors of the Dragon Scourge’s attack to assist three dragons who had escaped the rout on the Draakval Colony. Why anyone would want to help a dragon, especially from Demonic’s horde, was a mystery. He doubted the remaining dragons were long for this world. As far as he was concerned, the white, black and red dragons’ death couldn’t happen fast enough.

  Flea craned his neck. Cricket and her friend, Butterfly Soul, were hanging back to ensure the ailing dragons didn’t come to further harm. Cricket had brought their flight to a halt more times than Flea could count in order to tend to the dragons’ hurt. That’s what bugged him the most about his sister. She cared too much for the creatures that had been nothing but trouble for centuries—creatures that wouldn’t think twice about knocking a wyvern from the sky. It was that same trait that made him love her all the more.

  Judging by the dragons’ laboured flight, it wouldn’t be long before Cricket or Butterfly Soul beseeched him to bring their flight to another halt. At this rate they might never find the dragon queen.

  He shook his head and turned his attention to the rugged terrain ahead. Burning beneath an incessant sun, yellow sand stretched for as far as he could see, with no end in sight. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was doing the right thing. Flying toward the largest dragon colony in the land—now the only colony—didn’t strike him as a sane idea but he didn’t know where else to turn. The Wyrm Colony was the only collection of wyverns that he knew of in the Great Kingdom. Since the high king had seen fit to wage war on both the dragons and the wyverns, it made sense to seek out the most powerful dragon in the land. Hopefully that decision wouldn’t spell the end of them.

  Following the course set by the white dragon, they flew toward the queen’s colony. Flea felt as if he instinctively knew where to fly—like a homing response had been ingrained into his very being, but listening to the others, he wasn’t sold on the notion that every member of dragonkind knew their way home.

  He snorted, balking at the presumption that dragonkind included wyverns, krakens and serpents. No dragon he had ever met would admit to being lumped in with the others.

  His bitter musings were interrupted by a lightening at the end of the rocky corridor they had been following. The deep canyon pass opened on an expansive sand and rock valley. Had the wind currents not kept him aloft, he would have dropped from the sky.

  Draakvuur rose stark against the southern sky. Colossal stone edifices rising from the valley floor to scrape the clouds. Across the valley, a smaller tower had been built—connected to the high cliffs on their left by a great, stone archway. Likely an accessway for the mythical Windwalkers to attend the Summoning Stone that projected over the valley floor near the top of the tower.

  “You did it!” Cricket had flown up to him. “I told you, you could. You’ve saved us.”

  Flea wasn’t so sure. “Or led us to our death.”

  “Don’t be silly. Once the queen realizes what happened to the other colonies, she’ll have to take us in. The dragons and that human from Dragon Home were right. We must unite if we wish to survive the Dragon Scourge.”

  If the queen doesn’t order our execution outright, Flea thought but kept it to himself.

  The tower housing the Summoning Stone passed by on their left. Across the desert floor, Draakvuur dominated the southern horizon like a solitary mountain rearing up from the desolate plains.

  “We’ve been spotted,” Flea said, slowing his advance.

  Eight wyverns, including Cricket and Butterfly Soul, flew behind him—all that remained of the Wyrm Colony. Had they taken the opportunity to attack the king’s forces like that blonde-haired human had suggested the day he and Cricket had been attacked by
a red dragon in the mountains west of Mount Cinder, they may have turned the tide of battle.

  Unfortunately, Crookedfang hadn’t seen it that way. Their leader had been content to oversee the Draakval Colony’s demise; relishing Demonic’s spectacular death. The irony had been that the great dragon’s fall had marked the beginning of the end for Crookedfang.

  Their short-sighted leader had been one of the first to meet his death on the point of one of those nasty death slingers the Dragon Scourge’s army employed. It hadn’t mattered how many of the king’s men they burned, the well-drilled troops had swarmed over Wyrm Colony like a nest of ants. It didn’t take long for the few wyverns left alive to realize that attacking the king’s army for the sake of revenge invited death. Flea and his sister had gathered the stragglers and spirited them away with the promise of fighting another day.

  Searching the skies and spotting dozens of winged leviathans floating on the air currents blowing down the valley, that day of reckoning might have arrived.

  Great gouts of fire filled the air from the Draakvuur heights to the Summoning Stone; the display a prophetic sign the wyverns weren’t welcome.

  Butterfly Soul winged past his lead position with the injured dragons in tow.

  “Fly! No!” Flea started after his sister’s friend, but he wasn’t going to reach her before the Draakvuur dragons.

  Butterfly Soul backed off as she approached the lead dragon—a colossal, rare golden; almost as big as the infamous Demonic.

  The injured dragons from Draakval settled on the ground between the Summoning Stone and the Draakvuur Colony. From Flea’s vantage point, it appeared as if they were placing themselves between the golden dragon and Butterfly Soul.

  Flea and Cricket landed on either side of Butterfly Soul as the rest of the wyverns touched down in a flurry of flapping wings—a great dust cloud billowing in their wake.

  Confronted by eight wyverns and three full-sized Draakval dragons, the golden dragon didn’t appear the least bit concerned. The multitude of dragons circling overhead may have had something to do with his fortitude, but Flea doubted the imposing dragon feared much.