Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  Three mangled scorpion slugs lay strewn around them—two bearing tell-tale scorch marks while the third lay in tatters—the victim of an enraged dragon and several deep sword slashes.

  “Are you okay?” Reecah forced herself to speak coherently past the suffocating lump of grief in her throat.

  Swoop nodded; her usual happy face subdued.

  “I don’t know how to ask this.” Reecah gazed into Lurker’s tired eyes. “Tamra told me how you resurrected Raver. Do you think you can do the same for Fleabag?”

  Used to reading the dragon’s mannerisms, the shock registered on Lurker’s face was plain to see. “Is she…?”

  “Yes.” Such a simple word. So hard to say.

  Lurker stomped on top of the nearest scorpion slug’s head and stood over Devius and Fleabag. Nelly and Junior stepped backward to avoid being crushed.

  Reecah knelt at the wizard’s side and hugged his shoulders, speaking softly into his ear. “Devius. Lurker’s here. He might be able to help.”

  Devius’ bony frame stiffened. He shook his head. “She’s g-gone.”

  “It’s time you trusted me. Hurry. Fleabag doesn’t have much time if Lurker is to make a difference.” She leaned back and pulled at his arm.

  Devius turned and lifted his head, his eyes red. “But how?”

  Reecah smiled for his benefit. “Trust me.”

  Devius allowed her to haul him to his feet and escort him to the far side of his faithful companion’s body.

  Junior and Nelly joined them and together they held hands.

  Swoop limped over in obvious pain and observed quietly behind Lurker.

  Lurker lowered his head, sniffing at Fleabag’s body. His sad voice sounded in Reecah’s mind. “I don’t think I can do much for her.”

  Reecah’s face fell. Hoping Devius didn’t notice, she caught Lurker’s eye and silently urged him to try.

  “Fleabag’s spine is broken. Even if I can bring her back, she’ll never walk again.”

  Reecah knew Devius couldn’t hear Lurker so she tried to keep the context of her remarks from alarming him.

  “You healed Raver. Most of his bones were broken.”

  “Raver was different. He was smaller. There’s a strong poison in Fleabag’s system. I’ve never dealt with poison before.”

  “You won’t know unless you try.”

  Lurker’s gaze lingered on her.

  “He can’t save her, can he?”

  Devius’ pitiful voice threatened to tear her up all over again. She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “All he can do is try.”

  “Alright, but don’t blame me when I tell you I told you so.”

  “You can do it. Remember what you instilled in me. Belief. As long as you believe it in your heart, anything is possible.”

  “Fleabag was your friend?”

  Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the tears away. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  “Very well. You know I’d do anything for you.”

  Devius stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Lurker’s actions drew their attention. He lowered his head until their faces were almost touching.

  Time came to a standstill and yet it felt as if they watched Lurker linger over Fleabag’s body for an eternity.

  The air between Lurker and Fleabag shimmered—enough to be noticed by anyone paying attention.

  A green wisp curled from Lurker’s nostrils and hovered over Fleabag’s peaceful face. It swirled on the breeze and started to dissipate but it coalesced into something more substantial and slipped into Fleabag’s open mouth.

  Devius gasped, squeezing Reecah’s hand.

  Reecah squeezed back. “It’s time the Windwalker taught you something for a change. There’s more to dragon magic than even the high-wizard of the Great Kingdom knows.”

  Lurker pulled away. Not bothering to look at anyone, he turned and strolled past Swoop.

  Reecah stared after Lurker. “Well?”

  Lurker didn’t turn but he answered with a subdued tone. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever done it with Raver. I think I managed to fuse her spine, but with regard to the poison, I’m doubtful.”

  Swoop limped after Lurker. They made their way to the end of the canyon so that Lurker could address Swoop’s wounds. Fleabag excepted, Swoop had suffered more harm than anyone.

  Lurker’s words sunk in.

  Reecah stared at Fleabag. In the poor light, it was difficult to tell if the lioness was breathing. Dropping to her knees, Reecah lowered her ear to Fleabag’s nose and watched her flank.

  A rancid odor emanated came from Fleabag’s mouth. Reecah quelled her rising euphoria. Perhaps the smell was a result of the poison. She kept her eyes on Fleabag’s ribcage, willing it to show something—anything, but her sides never moved.

  Locking eyes with Devius, she swallowed heavily and put her head on Fleabag’s side, hoping against hope to hear a heartbeat.

  Nothing.

  She reached out a trembling hand for Devius, fleetingly noticing the cuts and bruises to his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  Nelly helped Devius lower his stiff frame to the ground; his body shaking uncontrollably.

  Reecah moved aside to let him place his head against Fleabag’s fur.

  As sad as it was knowing Fleabag wasn’t coming back, seeing the elderly wizard wracked with heart wrenching grief was too much to bear.

  Reecah nodded at Nelly and moved aside so that the witch could be with the inconsolable Devius.

  Taking Junior’s hand, Reecah led him away from the carnage. A short walk brought them to a slight bend in the canyon. She stopped and studied Junior’s face. The sweet man had been crying too.

  She grabbed hold of his face and pulled him into a long kiss. Breaking free she stared down the dimly lit canyon, the ravine’s path twisting out of sight several hundred paces farther along. “I thought we were done for. All of us.”

  Junior wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on the shoulder not bearing her staffs. “Aye. I don’t know what those were, but I hope we never come up against anything like that again.”

  Reecah nodded, leaning her head into his, doing her best to still the sobs threatening to take over. “Yes. They would be terrible creatures to die by. Unfortunately, something tells me this is only the beginning.”

  He kissed the side of her head and hugged her tighter.

  Commander

  Incredulous. The aroma of burning wood wouldn’t leave J’kwaad’s senses. Five days out of Arcanium and the dark memories of their stay in the wizard’s guild still haunted him. As if the spirits of all those who had perished as a result of his attempt to capture the traitorous high wizard had conspired to punish him for leaving them to burn alive. Curious. His conscience had never bothered him before.

  They had passed over a small, stone bridge a while back—the sought-after landmark alerted the informed traveller that South Fort wasn’t much farther away. Rounding a bend in the King’s Wood road, bright light permeated the edge of the forest like a beacon set upon the roadway.

  Calor rode ahead, the late afternoon sun glistening off his mount’s haunches as they left the forest and came to a sudden stop. He drew his sword.

  J’kwaad frowned. Urging his horse to a gallop, hooves thundering on the hard-packed loam, he burst from the forest’s edge and reined in beside Calor; a fireball roiling in an upturned palm. “Kraken’s whore.”

  Across the cleared field that prevented enemies from sneaking up to the castle walls, the charred remains of South Fort’s rooftops were blatantly apparent even from this distance. Of the keep itself, two of the higher spires that should have graced the skyline were absent.

  He searched the field for signs of an army’s passage. Aside from large, scorched areas of scrub grass, it was as if nothing untoward had come this way.

  J’kwaad looked to the skies. “Do you hear anything?”

  “No, my prince. If not for
the evidence before us, I wouldn’t think anything amiss.”

  The fireball dissipated in J’kwaad’s hand. Urging his mount to action, he heeled its flanks to gather speed.

  The extent of the damage to South Fort was shocking. Clopping along the outer moat, they approached the spot where two guard huts had stood at the end of the drawbridge. Scorch marks were all that remained. More appalling was the condition of the thick drawbridge lying half submerged in the brackish water—its great planks charred and broken.

  Shouts of, “The prince!” reached them from the walls and near the damaged towers housing the barbican.

  Two guards slipped down the bank beneath the raised portcullis to row a shallow hulled craft over to meet them.

  The taller of the two guards took a knee. “Prince J’kwaad. The high king searches frantically for you. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

  “Sir Batkin, correct?”

  “Aye, my liege. Captain of the guard.”

  “What happened here?”

  Sir Batkin dared lift his gaze from the ground. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Of course, I haven’t heard, you twit. I wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had.”

  “I beg your pardon, my liege. We were set upon by dragons a few days ago.”

  J’kwaad exchanged a worried glance with Calor. He had suspected as much while observing the damage. His apprentice sheathed his sword and readied his horse, anticipating J’kwaad’s course of action.

  “Dragons? How many?” He had put the attack down as a result of the four small dragons that had been spotted last month—the same ones that had spirited Reecah and Jonas Junior Waverunner away from Headwater Castle along with Aramyss and the Maiden of the Wood. He had a hard time believing they had done this much damage. If he wasn’t mistaken, except for the red dragon, the beasts he saw in Headwater weren’t old enough to breathe fire.

  “The sky was black with them, my liege. Rumour has it there were no less than a hundred. In my estimation, there were likely two hundred or more.”

  Stunned, J’kwaad fought to still his racing thoughts. Before asking the question, he already knew the answer. “And Draakhall?”

  Sir Batkin lowered his eyes. “Worse.”

  Calor’s horse stamped.

  J’kwaad’s breathing grew long and heavy. “And what of the Windwalker?”

  Sir Batkin lifted a bewildered face. “My liege?”

  The man had no idea about the bigger forces at play. The prince raised an eyebrow at Calor and chased his apprentice up the well-travelled roadway connecting South Fort to Sea Keep as the last of the day’s light slipped into the sea.

  The relentless crashing of steely waves heralded their arrival at what remained of Sea Keep’s outer gates. Makeshift torches driven into the ground allowed the city guards to see that the dark heir had returned.

  Dismounting and leaving their horses in the hands of the watch, J’kwaad and Calor strolled through the outskirts of the city, mesmerized by the extensive damage the capital had suffered.

  Calor carried a large satchel containing the scrying bowl. J’kwaad had informed him that under no circumstances was he to leave it unattended or his life would be forfeit.

  A contingent of mounted knights joined them before the high walls of Draakhall.

  One of the knights, manning a makeshift guard hut fronting the obliterated main gatehouse, escorted the prince and Calor to Draakhall keep. Brass horns announced their arrival long before they mounted the sweeping marble steps and entered the annex leading to Draakhall’s receiving chamber.

  A fast walk brought them to a short flight of steps and a set of double doors—the smell of burnt wood rife in the open-arched hallway. J’kwaad absently noted many of the priceless tapestries no longer hung between the arches.

  Four guards as big as Calor stood outside the receiving hall’s entrance. They stepped forward as a unit to challenge the oddly dressed apprentice. Their eyes fell on the imposing figure in his wake. Snapping to attention, they fell back to open the doors; eyes straight ahead.

  J’kwaad expected his father to be holding court with the higher nobles but the receiving hall stood empty. All except for the ever-present servants and guards stationed inconspicuously amongst the pillars.

  “You!” J’kwaad indicated an attentive knight standing near the podium bearing J’kaar’s high-backed chair. “Where’s the king?”

  The knight never blinked. “Awaiting your arrival in the throne room, my prince.”

  J’kwaad liked that. Curt and to the point. A well-informed guard was a long-lived guard.

  The brawny man took the lead, escorting J’kwaad and Calor across the expansive hall to a pair of tall, oak doors.

  Their boots echoed down the corridor connecting the receiving hall to the throne room. Without looking at Calor, J’kwaad said, “Be ready.”

  Calor never responded, nor did J’kwaad expect him to in the company of the escort. Calor’s loyalty was without rebuke.

  Two guards at the end of the hallway snapped to attention and opened another set of oak doors; the knights’ polished plate armour refracting the sconce light.

  The guard escorting them stepped across the threshold into the ill-lit throne room. “His royal highness, Prince J’kwaad!”

  Several guards and a solitary servant stiffened at the announcement, but the king wasn’t present. Movement beside an ornate table behind the Ivory Throne drew J’kwaad’s attention.

  “Thank the gods, you’re back.” J’kyra stepped from the shadows, her gait influenced by drink. Two goblets in hand, she had been forewarned of her brother’s arrival. “Father has been beside himself.”

  Calor nodded to the princess and respectfully faded into the background; bulky satchel in hand.

  J’kyra ignored him. “If I have to remain cooped up in this rat-infested serpent’s nest, I’ll be forced to take out my frustrations on the servants.”

  Judging by the chagrined expression on the lone servant girl, that had already happened. J’kwaad didn’t doubt more than once. He waited until the servant dared look their way and ushered her from the throne room with a flick of his eyes.

  J’kyra turned to watch her leave. “Pfft. You always had a soft spot for the vermin.”

  Only when they’re subjected to your tyranny, J’kwaad thought but let it rest. He had more important things to consider. With the acquisition of Devius’ magical vessel, it was time to set into motion their brother’s demise. With proper planning, perhaps the king would fall along with the golden heir.

  Once the Ivory Throne rested beneath him, he would rid the realm of the last Windwalker—her whereabouts would no longer be hard to find with the aid of the scrying bowl. He smiled. It wouldn’t be long now.

  J’kyra gave him an odd look. “You’re pleased with yourself.”

  J’kwaad let his smile fall and sipped at his wine. “Mm.”

  “Do you know how many men we lost in the attack?”

  Not liking her tone, he resisted the biting remark on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  J’kyra glared. “Sometimes I think the old bastard is right about you. Your head is never in the here and now. He claims one of your spells backfired years ago and addled your brain.”

  The prince couldn’t help but take pleasure in her nickname for the king. He had dreaded the day J’kyra might say something so egregious that he would be forced to save her from J’kaar’s wrath at the detriment to himself. Remarkably, she hadn’t let her loose lips slip in their father’s company yet.

  He shrugged. He wouldn’t have to worry about her welfare much longer.

  He had made a point of never becoming too close to anyone. Friendships were notorious for creating difficult situations when least expected—saddling those involved with the dilemma of whether to do the right thing, or swallow their pride to maintain the peace. He learned that lesson at an early age. Over the years since then, his decisions had led
to many deaths—ones that moved his plans forward. Had he valued friendship; those decisions would have exacted a hefty price.

  Listening to his inebriated letch of a sister, he was fully aware that even he wasn’t immune to the weighty responsibility of caring for someone else. He couldn’t escape the fact that there were three people who could upset his plan to ascend the Ivory Throne. His two sisters and Calor were liabilities that he might be better off disposing of.

  He glanced at Calor standing in the shadows of a serpent-wrapped pillar, dutifully protecting the key to the kingdom. The man was both a godsend and a burden.

  “Are you even listening?” J’kyra swatted his arm, causing his wine to slop onto the black marble floor.

  He steadied his goblet—trickles of fire limning the fingers of his opposite hand. The petulant woman knew how to push his limits.

  J’kyra staggered backward, eyes on his fiery hand.

  Dismissing the instinctive defensive reaction, he said with as much decorum as he could muster. “Yes, yes. Many of the home guard were killed in the attack, and many more of our citizens. I get it. The king undoubtedly blames me.”

  J’kyra’s stern gaze twisted her usual pretty face into a hideous scowl. “Had the main army been here like they were supposed to, we might have defeated the dragon horde.”

  The insinuation wasn’t lost on him. “When did the army return?”

  “Day before last.”

  The king was sure to throw that in his face.

  “Where have you been? He’s been going insane.”

  J’kwaad’s mood darkened further. “He knew I searched for that damned wizard of his.”

  “Well, I hope you found him.”

  He glared at her.

  “You didn’t? You’ve been gone all this time and you couldn’t apprehend an old man?”

  “He’s hardly an old man.”

  J’kyra gaped. “You don’t consider a hundred and fifty old? He’s not a tree.”

  J’kwaad seethed but kept his outward temper in check. It wouldn’t do to incinerate his sister before their father showed his angry face. Afterwards, however…