Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “What makes you think I would agree to such a thing?” Kestrel asked.

  The dragon’s grin was malevolent. “If you do not give me two souls, I shall take them all.”

  Chapter 32

  Darion took a spell in each hand, steadying his horse with his knees. “Come and try.”

  Shandashkaleth moved quickly.

  Darion launched the spell in his left hand. A massive plume of fire exploded between the dragon’s feet, engulfing the beast as it slithered toward them. Caidrannothar had been a youngling in comparison to Shandashkaleth, not even half its size. Darion knew this dragon, with the spirit of an ancient sorcerer, would not be nearly so easy to handle.

  The dragon’s head shot from the flame, bellowing in pain and anger. Its aged scales, dull and missing in large patches, offered less protection than they once did. Darion began casting again.

  Meanwhile, Kestrel threw his spell at the dragon just as his horse reared back in fear. The singer had good aim nonetheless, and the spell crashed into the dragon’s chest to turn skin and scale to crackling gray stone from neck to breast. The weight and stiffness of that stone made the dragon stumble, and when it lunged for Kestrel with glistening teeth, its jaws snapped shut around the singer’s horse instead.

  At the left, Triolyn and Axli were loosing their arrows at the dragon. Most bounced away harmlessly, but a few found tough skin and stuck, appearing to do no more harm than pins in a pillow. Darion shot the spell from his right hand; a roiling beam of thick black energy struck the dragon’s throat and seared down its neck.

  Shandashkaleth whipped her head back, tearing Kestrel’s horse in two at the shoulder and flinging the singer across Darion’s field of vision to land in the dirt with a sick cracking sound. Darion kept his hand extended, pouring the black spell into the dragon, who tossed away the horse’s severed body before picking itself up, wheezing against the weight of its stony chest.

  With no one to move his spells, Sir Jalleth was left with several useless spheres of mage-song floating at the edges of his ward. Then the old knight did something Darion hadn’t seen him do in years. He drew his sword and charged.

  The dragon’s breath hissed inward. A greenish glow rose in its throat as it lifted its head to rain down its corrosive inferno upon them. Sir Jalleth rode in, sword poised to puncture a weak spot in the dragon’s underbelly. Shandashkaleth saw him coming and spun back, swinging its tail to knock Triolyn and his horse into Axli and hers, sending them both tumbling across the dirt toward Darion.

  Darion felt his horse buck out from beneath him as they slammed into its legs. His spell wavered on his lips, the black beam in his hand extinguished, and the world spun away from him. Next he knew, he was face down in the dirt with his legs sprawled out behind him, cloak draped over his head, sword half out of its scabbard. He rolled over and looked up just in time to see Shandashkaleth thrust her head to snatch Sir Jalleth from his saddle.

  The dragon slammed the old knight hard against the ground, his legs flopping in a twisted sort of dance. Darion screamed, but no sound escaped him. He took another of the spells he’d cast earlier and tried to throw it at the dragon. A twinge in his back made him flinch, and the spell landed well short. Iron spikes jutted from the impact site, piercing the air and doing the dragon no harm whatsoever.

  Shandashkaleth laid Sir Jalleth’s broken body on the ground and began to cast. It was the same spell the dragon had used to devour the souls of Commander Elara and her soldiers. Alynor, the only member of the company still astride her horse, finished casting her own spell and flicked it at the dragon. A shower of sparks rained on its back and burned like embers in its flesh. The dragon shook itself, ignoring the irritation in favor of finishing its spell.

  When it was done, Shandashkaleth inhaled.

  The figure of light drifted up from Sir Jalleth’s motionless body.

  “No,” Alynor screamed. “Stop it. Take mine instead.”

  Shandashkaleth watched the light, ignoring Alynor’s plea altogether. But when the figure reached the edge of Sir Jalleth’s ward, it stopped, clinging like a wet leaf inside a crystal ball. The dragon’s head twitched back in surprise. “What? What is this foul magic you’ve wrought?”

  “Not magic,” Alynor said. “The absence of it. And so long as Sir Jalleth is protected from your spell, you shall never have his soul.”

  Just then there was a cry from the hills outside town. Shandashkaleth turned to look. Darion could see, even from that great distance, his son Draithon squirming in Jeebo’s saddle.

  Shandashkaleth turned back. “Ah, so you’ve brought your whelp, have you? Tell me, then, elf-thing. How may I penetrate this absence of magic? Tell me now, or I swear by all the gods, I will rob your son of his soul while he yet lives.”

  Alynor pulled her reins to steady the skittish horse beneath her. Tears flooded her eyes. She hesitated a long moment.

  “Tell me,” the dragon roared. “Give me the Warcaster’s soul.”

  Darion, still lying on his belly in the dirt, began to sing under his breath.

  Alynor said nothing.

  “Very well,” Shandashkaleth said, drawing up on its hind legs to spread its wings. “You’ve made your choice.”

  Flapping them with force enough to topple the surrounding ruins and send blasts of ash-laden wind swirling around them, the dragon lifted itself from the ground and rose toward the hill where Jeebo and Draithon sat ahorse. Alynor cried out, but the dragon was not swayed.

  Darion cast the spell at his horse’s feet, mounted, and felt the air around him slip into something blurred and liquid. He wove through the village as the mage-song cleared a course for him, arriving beside Jeebo while the dragon was still on its way.

  When Shandashkaleth spun in the air to land on the hill behind them, Jeebo’s horse reared back. The sudden movement would’ve shook Draithon from the saddle, but Jeebo wrapped an arm around the boy’s chest and held him close until the horse settled.

  “Out of my way, Warcaster,” said the dragon, its eyes narrowing on the spells in Darion’s closed fists. “You may be the most practiced among your peers, but you are little more than a stump in my path.”

  “Spare him,” Darion said. “I’ll tell you how to take Sir Jalleth’s soul. And mine, as well.”

  “The boy,” said the dragon, a whisper of sudden understanding. “He is your spawn.”

  “My son,” said Darion. “Take my soul, and Sir Jalleth’s. Leave his and the others be, as you promised.”

  Shandashkaleth lifted its lip in a sneer, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth. “Tell me the secret of this protection and I shall consider it.”

  “As you say. When your sister came to Trebelow, she told us your true name was once Celayn. Shandashkaleth is the name of the elder dragon you woke from death so you could steal its body.”

  “What relevance has this to the old man’s secret?”

  “Every relevance in the world, if you’ll be silent and let me get to the point.”

  “Go on,” the dragon hissed.

  “Your soul is bound to this body by magic, and magic alone. This is where the crux of Sir Jalleth’s secret lies. What I hold in my hand is the answer to the very secret itself.”

  The dragon turned its head to take a closer look through one golden yellow eye. “What is it? Show it to me.”

  “Come closer, and I will.”

  Shandashkaleth leaned in.

  The sword in Darion’s scabbard was a simple short blade with no notable properties. It was a normal sword, created in a normal forge by a normal blacksmith. Like most weapons without enchantments or ensorcelled runes worked into the process, the weapon might hold a single spell for a few seconds before being destroyed. As it happened, Darion needed less than a few seconds.

  He yanked the blade and pressed his palm to the steel, transferring his spell. In the same motion he swung out, a wide slash which made the dragon recoil with a gasp. When it blinked, blood washed across its pupil from the thin
slash Darion’s sword had left there.

  “Now you know the secret,” Darion said.

  “What? Why did you do that? What secret? Wha—”

  The dragon’s words caught in its throat and stuck there. It convulsed; the muscles in its head, its neck, and its limbs spasmed. Squelching sounds came from its gut. Then the whole creature began to shed its scales and shrink into itself, wrinkling like an empty waterskin. Its scales smoothed to flesh, their color fading from black to gray to cream. A piercing implosion ruptured the air, and the dragon was gone.

  Not entirely, though.

  On a carpet of thin green grass at the top of the hill lay a woman. She was naked and pale, with pointed ears and the slender, wizened face of one possessed of an elf’s blood and little else. Darion dismounted and trudged up the hill toward her as Jeebo kept watch over Draithon in the saddle.

  At first Darion thought the woman was dead. She sucked in a sudden breath, her eyes opening in a dull glimmer. When he knelt beside her, she looked up at him and tried to lift a hand, but couldn’t. He recognized in her, from the pictures in old books he’d studied as a youngster, the face of one of the ancient queens of the elves. “It is an honor to meet you,” he said in spite of himself.

  “You have… shown me your secret,” she said, barely forming the words. “Tell me… where did you find it?”

  “The man who found it is dead,” said Darion, referring to Geddle the Wise. “We are simply its new bearers.”

  “Something so powerful ought not be taken lightly. But what would I know of taking great power lightly?” She gave a stifled grunt, which Darion interpreted as laughter. “Long have I sought the world’s lost magics. The secrets of the arcane. Never have I stumbled upon a spell capable of destroying magic itself.”

  “It is itself a great mystery,” Darion admitted. “As are its origins. You will only remain in this form for a day or so. After that, you’ll become a dragon again.”

  “I won’t last that long,” Celayn said. “Merchants will harvest my scales. Sculptors will hack out my ivory. Tanners will carve my leather. Flies will lay their eggs in my flesh.”

  “And so they ought. Shandashkaleth should’ve been dead a long time ago.”

  Celayn nodded. “Forgive me. I have been blinded by power. Crippled with enmity.”

  “It does not matter who you have been. You’re about to find out what lies beyond. The one power your long life could never grant you. Take heart, and do not despair.”

  “End me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I suffer. This body is far older than any has the right to be.”

  “I—I don’t know if I can. How would you wish me to do it?”

  “Quick. To the throat.”

  Darion lifted his twisted, mangled short blade. “This won’t do the job, I fear. Not quickly, anyway.”

  “Then leave me to suffer,” Celayn said. “My heart has turned blacker than the skin of the dragon whose body I have inhabited these long ages. I deserve it.”

  Darion looked down the hill at Jeebo. “Cover his eyes.”

  Jeebo did better—he wheeled his horse and put himself between Draithon and the spectacle.

  Darion drew a knife from his belt, a small affair with a broad blade for cutting food at table. “This is the best I can do. I will pay you the honor.”

  Celayn said nothing, only craned her neck to look up into the sky, now bright and blue and cloudless once more.

  When Darion was done, he hurried down the hill and mounted his horse. “The others are wounded. Ride with me.”

  They made haste to the place where they’d done battle with the dragon. Darion was pleased to find Triolyn and Axli on their feet, tending to a moaning Kestrel while Alynor knelt beside Sir Jalleth. Darion’s old master was by far the worst off; a row of deep puncture wounds dotted his midsection, like a seam sewn with too large a needle.

  When Darion knelt on the other side of him, Sir Jalleth lifted the ivory pendant around his neck. “Take it,” he said. “Set me free.”

  “I will not. I’ve lost you once. It won’t happen again. Hold still, I’ll tear you off a bandage—”

  “Stop.” Sir Jalleth put his hand on Darion’s. He looked up through a face scratched and spattered with blood, and gave Darion a soft smile. “No need. This time I really am going.”

  Tears blurred Darion’s vision. “You are not.”

  “Many years ago, I told you you were the son I never had. Draithon is the one you do. Do not waste it. Teach him. Guide him. Most of all, be kind. And you, my dear Alynor. We know each other better than either of us ever wanted to.”

  She laughed, tears in her eyes. “Sir Jalleth… It’s good to call you that again.”

  “I shall require no names or titles where I’m going. Only, lay me to rest in the land of my fathers, where the sun is warm and the fields spread for miles before man and bird. Ristocule has given me a second life. Set me free, so that we may leave it together.”

  Darion shook his head. “I won’t.”

  “Darion. Promise me you’ll destroy it. The scroll. Every copy in existence. Magic’s void has been our savior today, but the mage-song must never leave this world. We need it. In the sound of a babbling brook; in a newborn baby’s cry. In everything. Now, let me be a bird again. Let me fly.”

  Darion lifted the ivory pendant. He could not bring himself to slide the leather thong over Sir Jalleth’s head, so Alynor put her hand over his. They sat there, holding it, neither wanting to lift it further. Their eyes met, and it was as though everything that had passed between them was only shadow and memory. “Be free, Jalleth Highbridge. Be free, Ristocule, wisest and most distinguished of all falcons.”

  Together they removed the pendant. When Alynor took her hand away, Darion lobbed it far across the village, where it disappeared behind the ruins. He looked down again. Ristocule lay with his eyes closed and his wings spread, a perfect, uninjured gyrfalcon.

  Jeebo helped Draithon to the ground and scooped Ristocule into his arms, sobbing.

  Alynor stood as the others approached. “Kestrel,” she said, running over to him. “Are you alright?”

  “Careful, careful,” said the singer, limping between Axli and Triolyn.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Name something.”

  “Oh, dear. It’s that bad, is it?”

  “A few broken bones. Some cuts and bruises. The usual ordeal. I’ll be fine in a few months, you wait and see. I may not be in singing shape for a while, though.”

  “That pleases me greatly to hear,” said Darion.

  “Can’t say the same for my horse, poor thing.”

  “No, I fear most of our horses are in bad shape. We may need to find a few unburnt timbers and fashion you a sled.”

  “Where are we off to now?” asked Triolyn.

  “If you’re still with us,” said Darion, “our destination hasn’t changed. The Pathfinders in Trebelow will report to Olyvard King, I’m sure of it. Who knows what he’ll try next. So we’ll head into the Tetheri wilds and make ourselves scarce. We’ll bring Sir Jalleth home, and make a new life for ourselves. You’re all more than welcome to come, but I would understand if you would rather pursue a life elsewhere.”

  “Will there be soft sheets and fine fabrics for garment-making?” Kestrel asked. “I do have a lot of gold I’d like to spend.”

  “If we get as far as the western cities, you should have all the garment-makers you like.”

  “Then I’m in. If you don’t mind me slowing you down for several weeks.”

  “I’d better come along too, for the hunt,” said Triolyn. “You can’t all survive on rabbits alone.” He tossed Jeebo a look.

  “Rabbits are perfectly suitable,” said Jeebo, scowling back.

  “And you, Axli?”

  “Where this cripple goes, I go,” she said, elbowing Kestrel in the ribs.

  He winced. “Apparently so.”

  “It’s settled then,” said
Darion. “Before we leave, there’s one thing that needs doing.”

  He produced the ritual scroll in its bone case, released the clasp, and unfurled the parchment. In his other hand he held Alynor’s green-and-blue knitting panel.

  “These are the only copies of that quarter of the ritual in existence?” asked Kestrel.

  “As far as I know.”

  “Let’s see it done, then,” Jeebo said.

  Darion cast a spell. He moved both copies of the ritual to one hand and took the mage-song in the other.

  A flame burst from his palm.

  He touched it to the dry parchment.

  Epilogue

  In the days ahead, as travelers passed Westenreach among the downs, news of the village’s destruction spread across the Tetheri hinterlands and up and down the Hightrade. Rumors spoke not of an elf maiden lying in gentle repose upon a hill, but of a massive black dragon laid out across the bluff north of the village, its decaying remains swollen with maggots. Collectors came to salvage what was left, as Celayn had foreseen.

  The company journeyed deep into the untamed lands of Tetheril, leaving kingdoms and people behind. Jeebo and Triolyn hunted with hawk and bow. They were an odd pair, but an efficient one. Axli nursed Kestrel and helped him regain his strength. Darion and his small family came to know one another.

  One day the company came upon a wooded knoll overlooking a secluded glen in which a deep pond lay covered in water lilies. Frogs croaked and crickets chirruped in the summer heat. A stream ran through the pond, bringing fish and deer and raccoons to its bounty. There on the knoll, in the shade of the trees, they built homes of rough-hewn timber, and dug fire pits for cooking, and washed clothes in the stream and hung them to dry. They buried Ristocule on a high meadow above the knoll, where he might feel the wind when it blew across the grasses above his grave.

  Darion resumed Alynor’s training where Sir Jalleth had left off. When the time came, they brought their son into the fold and opened his eyes to the ways of magic. Draithon’s parents also brought him up to know the land and its creatures. Their friends taught him to hunt and fish and trap game. In time the boy grew tall and strong, with thick brown hair and a strong jaw like his father’s, and fierce blue eyes and a slender nose like his mother’s. Over the years he became an older sibling to two sisters and one brother, and while he was not always nice to them, he was always good.