Reclaimer

By J.C. Staudt

A realm at war. A family torn apart.

In a world where magic exists in constant opposition to nature, a corrupt king plots the dawn of a new empire and the destruction of magic itself. Darion Ulther has been stripped of his titles and branded a traitor. In his self-imposed exile to the snowy wastes of Korengad, he aids an army of fierce northmen as they attempt to recapture their homeland from the clutches of the very kingdom he once served.

Meanwhile, Lady Alynor Mirrowell has not heard from her husband in years - four years, to be exact. Impoverished and hiding in the wake of Sir Darion's fall from grace, she awaits his return while raising their son, posing as a commoner in the tiny village of Briarcrest on the southern border of the Wildwood.

But eyes are watching her.

Eyes both protective and pernicious - and some are not what they seem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Staudt
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370989683

J.C. Staudt

J.C. Staudt was born in Oceanside, New York, and moved to Virginia at the age of four, where he has lived ever since. He is a graduate of George Mason University, with a B.A. in Integrative Multimedia Studies, and he works for an Engineering and Consulting firm as a New Media Designer. He lives with his beautiful wife in a house lacking pets and children in Manassas, Virginia.

Book preview

Reclaimer

Mage Song

Book Two

J.C. Staudt

Reclaimer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 J.C. Staudt

All rights reserved.

Edition 1.0

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Afterword

Prologue

The stump of the great silban tree at the center of the village square was Eldrek Lyrent’s favorite place to sit and tell stories to the children. The nobles called it the Pauper’s Throne, for it was more chair than stump, an ornament carved ages ago from the living wood, with a high regal back and two elegant armrests flowing into a web of thick roots which crept out along the ground like half-buried snakes.

Gather round, children. Gather round. That’s it… come, now. Sit. Eldrek grunted as he took his seat, his old bones creaking like hinges. Settle down, now. Everyone ready?

The children raised a cry of delight, everyone from the youngest toddler to the cluster of older boys playing at the fringes of the crowd with their stick swords and wooden helms and wicker crowns. There was even a tradesman’s apprentice or two who stopped work and stood by to hear the tale.

Today I shall tell you a story of a time not so long past, Eldrek began, when the world knew true heroism; when honor was won by the bravery of a scarce few. It was an age of adventure, and of the last known peace in the realms, before the kingdoms raised their banners to war in the north. It was during this time that the greatest hero of our age set out to travel distant lands and perform dangerous feats in the name of virtue and justice.

Was he a wizard? asked one of the children, a towheaded boy of no more than six.

He was a knight, you dummy, said an older girl.

And he was brave, and handsome, and fair… like father, said the girl’s sister. They giggled together.

You are all quite correct, said Eldrek. The hero of whom I speak is both knight and wizard; both warrior and spellcaster. Better still, this is not some ancient legend of old. He lives to this very day.

Who is he? asked the towheaded boy.

I know who he is, said a dark-haired older boy.

Speak up, said Eldrek, encouraging him with a wave.

 It’s Sir Darion of Ulther.

"That’s right. Very good. As you will soon see, Sir Ulther was not always so great a hero. He did not begin his life as a lord, or a knight, or a wizard, but as a regular fellow, much like you and me. Born the third son of a glass merchant in Linderton, Sir Ulther had four brothers. Two older. Two younger. It was said their mother’s grandfather had a giant’s blood in him, woven through his ancestry from the dawn ages. And on his father’s side, the blood of dwarves remained from generations of yore.

"Darion and his brothers were of fine hardy stock, husky and tall, which made them rather formidable in their youth. As they grew, Darion proved himself an above-average lad in every way. Though clumsy at times, he often exceeded his brothers at every chore laid before him. Even Padric and Teimar, the elder two, could seldom compete with Darion despite being taller and broader of arm.

Darion’s father was neither peasant nor prince; the glass trade had made him wealthy enough to avoid serfdom for himself and his family, but not so wealthy as to hold lordship over his own lands. When thieves stole into his home and murdered him one night, it was Darion’s older brothers who took his place in the glass trade. The family merchantry flourished, and their house has become well-respected in the kingdom.

Is that why there’s a big keep in the southlands called Ulther? asked one of the older boys.

Well, no, but I’ll get to that in a moment. Darion’s younger brothers, Myren and Evulon, were of the gregarious sort, sociable and rather droll fellows. The twins had more of their mother’s mirth than their father’s thrift, and always seemed to be at some scheme or mischief. They grew up to embark on their own venture, a tavern in Rivermont they call the Two Turtles.

That’s a far ways to travel from the Hightrade for a couple of merchants’ sons, said the older boy.

Perhaps, said Eldrek, "but not nearly so much traveling as Darion himself has done. You see, Darion did not share his brothers’ interests in merchantry or hospitality. From the early days of his youth, he was possessed of a wandering heart. With his father gone and his brothers taking over the family trade, Darion sought a place as a page boy in the household of the Castellan of Barrowdale. Being the stout lad he was, he took to his new position with great aptitude. He was so large and so apt, in fact, that a visiting Knight of Tetheril, Sir Jalleth Highbridge, took him to squire at age eleven.

"Sir Highbridge soon found, as Darion’s father had, that far beyond any size or skill the boy possessed, he was most of all consumed by the will to succeed. He endeavored to become great at every task to which he set his hand, from the mundane to the supernatural.

"Sir Jalleth, meanwhile, was an adventurous man with the same sort of restless heart as his new squire. Born of the Tetheri wildlands and raised in the lifestyle of the wayfarer, he took the boy from Barrowdale and struck out into the wide world to seek his fortune. It was during this time of broad travel and high adventure that Darion came into his own as a man. Alongside Sir Jalleth’s training in warfare, Darion learned skills and trades aplenty, eventually becoming quite seasoned in the art of magic.

"By the time he was sixteen, Darion had sailed with the Sea Elves of Blacktide Bay, drank summer meade with the littlefolk of the Dailfeld, hammered steel and iron with the dwarven smiths of Korvane, held court in the halls of castellans and kings great and small, and won many victories in battle, defeating cruel wyverns on the plains of Dathrond, devilish imps in the dungeon depths of Tenleague Deep, and armies of snow-goblins in the highest icy peaks of the Cloudspears.

Sir Jalleth knighted Darion on his seventeenth name day, proving him once again worthy of high honor years before most men. Yet those are other tales, many of which you’ve heard before, and which I may yet share another day from this very seat. The tale I would tell you today is a rather unusual one.

I want to hear about Sir Ulther and the Goblin’s Nest, said the towheaded boy.

Yes, tell us that one, said another child. And tell us about Sir Darion’s dragons.

Eldrek smiled. Another day. Today, I would tell you of Sir Darion’s most monumental triumph of all, and of the great tragedy which followed. It is the very castle you mentioned before, Thomadus—Keep Ulther in the southlands—which Tarber King rewarded to Sir Darion for his deeds in battle. That castle belonged to Sir Darion for many a year, until at last it was taken from him.

How? asked Thomadus.

Lyrent cast a nervous glance at the parents standing at the edges of his audience. "Why, that is the very tale I’m going to tell you today. For in every hero’s time, there comes a day when he must face that choice for which there is no easy answer. Yet the great ones do right when all seems set against them. Yet as you will find, the right choice is not always easy to discern…

"Our story begins at the Dathiri Ford, the great walled fortress guarding the eastern bank of the Maergath River beyond the Eastgap plains, where Sir Ulther found himself besieged by Rudgar King and his army of savage Korengadi barbarians against impossible odds. The siege had dragged on for weeks, and the desperate Dathiri garrison was far outmanned and in dire peril of losing their key strategic position to the invaders. ‘My men tell me you mean to face Rudgar King and his armies alone,’ said the field commander when Sir Ulther arrived. ‘I would face any challenger Rudgar King pits against me,’ Sir Ulther replied. ‘Whether that be a single combatant or the whole of his host.’"

The voices. You forgot to do the voices, the towheaded boy interrupted.

Yes, you simply must do the voices, said the older girl.

Eldrek lifted his brow. We’ve become quite the demanding audience, haven’t we?

You always did the voices before, the boy complained.

Eldrek sighed. Very well. We shall do the voices.

The children gave a cheer and settled in.

Eldrek cleared his throat and began the tale once more.

Chapter 1

Snow fell across the rocky shore, trimming the dark stone of the distant Korengadi capital in white. Darion Ulther pulled his furs tighter about his shoulders and shivered against the chill, hunkering down in his longship as the oarsmen drove the fleet onward. The northmen’s boats were thin-keeled and quick, yet the coxswains at their rudders were no less wary of the juts of stone standing like spears along the shoreline, or the sucking waves which threatened to drag them in and dash them to splinters.

Rylar, deposed Prince of Korengad, gave Darion an appraising stare from the prow of his own longship, one of the fastest in the King’s fleet. The corner of the Prince’s mouth drew upward as he took stock of Darion’s discomfort.

I am not afraid, Darion wanted to say. Only cold.

Cronarmark, the Prince said, lifting his voice to be heard above the waves and raising a finger toward the city, as if Darion could’ve missed it.

This is where it ends, Darion replied. All the hard-fought years will be worth it when the city falls.

The Prince frowned, either unable to hear him or unable to understand. Rylar had made some effort to learn the tongue of the realms these past years, and could string together a coherent sentence when he needed to. His father was another matter. Rudgar King kept to his traditions, and had spent these years fixated on the goal of reclaiming his homeland. The king’s gaze was now fixed on the city, where the black-and-white checkered flags of the occupying Dathiri host wavered on the offshore winds.

Go you to front, the Prince called across the distance between their boats. I for you make path.

Darion shook his head. This is your moment, Rylar. I will clear the way so you and your father may be the first to set foot inside the city gates. Your home awaits you.

Rylar Prince smiled and looked to his father, whose gaze had not broken from the city. Fewer than a hundred boats, two-score men to a boat, were all that remained of Rudgar King’s army. Weeks overland to Belgard, months at sea, and years spent trudging across the tundras of Korengad, laying siege to city after city in efforts to drive out the Dathiri, had taken their toll. So entrenched was the Dathiri army that hundreds of its soldiers had taken Korengadi wives and got them with child by the time Darion and the royals returned to liberate them. He was sure they would find more of the same when they sacked Cronarmark. This was the last Dathiri stronghold in all of Korengad, though. Here they would dethrone Olyvard King’s Regent and restore the realm to its rightful rulers.

Ahead of the fleet, the impenetrable phalanx of stone along the shoreline gave way to a stretch of sandy beach. Darion remembered Rudgar King’s finger, cracked and bloody from cold and battle, tapping the parchment map on the table in his tent to denote his intended landing point on the beach of Daro Kolir, leaving a bloody print behind. Once the army made landfall, what lay beyond was a long and treacherous slog through sand and stone and tall seagrass under surveillance of the archers and warmachines upon the city walls.

Pinpricks of blue light began to awaken on the spires and parapets of Cronarmark. Darion felt the mage-song stir around him and knew at once what this meant. The first of the longships had yet to clear the rocks, and a great distance remained between the bulk of the fleet and the patch of sandy shore ahead.

They’ve been waiting for us, Darion said, almost to himself. And they have Warpriests.

Rylar Prince knew it too. Did not I tell they bring priest of wild-song? he called.

You did, my friend, Darion muttered, not bothering to shout back. You certainly did.

Rudgar’s armies had encountered a handful of Dathiri Warpriests dispersed throughout Korengad during their conquest, but never more than two at a time. Darion tried to tally the blue lights in the city and lost count. The pinpricks streaked into the sky, forming graceful arcs against the night. They might’ve been beautiful, had Darion not known what they were bringing with them. Rylar was already casting his own spell, as were several of the other mages scattered among the longships. Darion’s first instinct was to order the men to raise their shields, but boiled animal hides would do little to protect them now.

Coldfire crashed down amidst the fleet in a series of piercing blasts. Billows of biting air frosted the waves and turned the decks to ice. Blue flame rushed out behind to blacken the men’s skin and tear the planks asunder.

The sound of cracking wood was the last thing Darion heard before the deck of his longship disintegrated beneath his feet. He did not remember the moment between standing and sinking; only the sudden sensation of frigid ocean water flooding his armor, dragging him down, and a wave rolling in to cover his head with a slap. He stretched his toes for hope of sand or stone beneath him, but none came.

The leather straps of Darion’s plate armor and the fingers of his mailed fists froze solid in an instant. Flailing his arms did nothing but pull him down. All above him was bright blue, a sheet of fire slithering across the surface of the waves. Men were drowning all around him. Some struggled; others drifted motionless toward the bottom, frostbitten faces purple and blistered like spoiled grapes. If this is how I am to die, Darion thought, then let it be with the hope that I have done some good in this world.

Darion’s breath ran out. Seawater flooded his lungs. In those final moments, he thought of Alynor; of the child who had been in her belly when he left, but who would’ve surpassed three years of age by now. I will never know the name of my own child. I will never know my son or daughter.

Then his feet touched down. It was sand, not stone, but it was something. He let the weight of his armor push him down until his knees were bent at the sea floor, then sprang off his toes and swam for the surface. The heavy cold stunted his progress, and he surfaced only long enough to spew out a mouthful of seawater. He was sinking again before he could inhale half a breath. Eyes bleary with salt, lungs empty of air, he wondered if it was the last breath he would ever take.

Fingers closed around the armhole in his breastplate and tugged him toward the surface. A second pair of arms joined the first. Darion spilled over the side of the Prince’s longship to lay gasping and coughing on deck. Rylar was standing tall at the prow, speaking the sigils of a spell even as he manipulated the mage-song in front of him. When he flicked a hand out over the water, warm orange flames spread across the waves to devour the coldfire in a gout of steam.

Die you not today, the Prince shouted over his shoulder.

Darion rolled onto his side and coughed until he vomited.

Try you on that, said the Prince.

What?

Try you on that.

I don’t understand, said Darion.

I believe he wants you to stay there until you feel better, said Vaeron Shask, the King’s interpreter.

What are you doing on this boat? Darion asked, breaking into another fit of coughing.

The King had no more room aboard his vessel, and little need for my services without you there.

Darion removed a gauntlet to sweep his long hair from his eyes with a frigid hand. Dozens of Rudgar’s longships were still afloat and speeding toward the beach while his mages conjured protective spells to shield the fleet’s advance. Rylar was doing more than that; he had covered several of the boats in flickering fields of warm yellow mage-song and was tossing spells toward the city walls.

It’s good you’re here, Darion told Vaeron. Tell the Prince I will be back on my feet as soon as I can feel my legs.

Rylar laughed when Vaeron spoke the translation. That you do, the Prince said. I for you take Cronarmark.

He says stay there while he—

I heard him. Darion staggered to his feet. His knees wobbled and his head swam, but he clutched the boat’s gunnel to steady himself beside the Prince. I haven’t come all this way to quit now. Move over and keep your voice down. You’re not the only one on this boat with spells to cast.

Darion and Rylar stood side by side at the longship’s prow, awakening mage-song with the decisive fervency the war had often required of them. Had there been debate before the war as to who was the greater Warcaster, that debate would’ve grown only the fiercer since Darion and the Prince began fighting together. Though they came from different lands and spoke separate tongues, the language of magic and its song were their common bond. The two Warcasters had learned from one another, growing all the more powerful in tandem.

There was no time to stop the longships, and no area clear of debris in which to weigh anchor and let the men wade ashore. Instead Rudgar ordered the remaining boats run aground and evacuated in haste. Darion nearly toppled over the prow when the prince’s ship scraped to a halt on the beach. He flung himself overboard and landed on a gentle slope of coarse, rocky sand. He stood beside the boat to expend the last of the spells he had cast, shielding himself with protective mage-song and sending a blaze of green darts across the sky toward the city.

Then the Prince was beside him, tackling him to the sand as a wave of coldfire crackled over the longship and blasted it to splinters. Rylar pulled Darion to his feet as frozen chunks of wood rained down around them. He shoved Darion up the beach, spouting a string of Korengadi curses to get him moving.

Together they trudged across the open expanse, stumbling over black rocks and seaweed toward the tall dune grasses and the solid ground beyond. Darion was still unsteady on his legs; the padding beneath his armor was soaked and twice as heavy as normal. When he looked around, he was startled by how few of the men were with them.

The beach was clogged with longships. Behind them, a tangle of boats floated on the waves with nowhere to make a landing. Some of the men were attempting to wade ashore in the freezing waist-deep water while others thrashed their oars, vying for position.

Rylar dove behind a stand of grass to wait for the army, motioning for Darion to join him. We make run. Have more men.

Darion came down beside him, shivering and numb. He nodded. Straight ahead. That’s the only way.

Between the mainland and the high rocky plateau on which Cronarmark was built, there lay a long wide bridge of natural stone. This bridge was the only way in or out by land; the walled city was otherwise surrounded by the sea on all sides.

Rylar frowned. He touched a finger to his lips. Mouth blue.

Yes, I’m very cold, Darion said.

No move. Rylar put a hand to Darion’s breastplate and spoke the sigils of a spell.

Warmth flooded him, subduing the chill for a few precious moments. When the tundra winds blew over him afresh, though, Darion was still wearing the same soggy gambeson and frozen armor. He and Rylar helped each other to their feet as a meager host of soldiers clambered over the dune, many as wet and cold as he was. The King stood among them, silent and determined.

Rudgar gathered his men around him and gave a brief but impassioned speech, most of which Darion did not understand. When the men gave a shout and began to move, he knew it was time.

They advanced up the beach until the sand turned to hard permafrost beneath their feet. A fresh layer of snow blanketed the expanse of tundra between themselves and the bridge to Cronarmark. All fell silent as Rudgar’s army drew into position, stamping to shake off their nerves as much as the cold. Dathiri archers stood vigilant on the city walls, preparing to thwart the charge they knew was coming.

Rylar raised his sword, shouted a command, and began to cast. The Korengadi army broke into a sprint toward the city gates while Darion and the other casters followed at a slower pace, flinging spells at the waiting defenders. If they stood any chance at victory against these odds, Darion did not see it.

Chapter 2

Eldrek Lyrent possessed no dearth of stories to tell, yet he had grown ever wearier of telling them. Whenever his tales made the children praise Sir Darion Ulther’s heroic exploits, their parents would whisk them away from the crowd with sharp words and swift punishment. Those same parents would come to Eldrek’s hut from time to time, determined to impart their advice about what would become of him if he continued to spread falsehoods about known traitors.

There was one problem with entertaining visitors at his home, though.

Most of the time, he wasn’t there.

At least not in the way they expected him to be.

Eldrek checked over his shoulder as he hobbled down Briarcrest’s north road this late afternoon, supporting himself on the gnarled walking stick he carried without fail. His wife Stoya was pinning clothes out to dry, fresh from a washing in the river, while their young son sat playing in the grass beside her. She looked up when she heard him coming, as did the boy. When they saw it was only him, each returned to their respective activities. Eldrek passed them by to enter the hut without a word or touch in greeting.

Closing the door behind him, Eldrek crossed the tiny room and bent to his wicker chair with a grunt. He was still out of breath when Stoya came in carrying an empty basket in one hand and leading the child with the other. She lowered the basket and studied the old man with a sympathetic scowl.

It’s wearing thin, Eldrek said.

Run outside and play for a few more minutes while Mommy starts dinner, she told the boy.

Will Poppy play with me?

Not right now, dear. Poppy must go away for a while.

Again?

I’m afraid so, she said, kneeling to face him. Don’t you fret. He’ll be back just as quick as you can snap your fingers.

The child gave it his best attempt, but couldn’t quite manage.

Run along, Stoya said with a laugh and a pat. I’ll be out to get you.

To get me? he asked, eyes widening.

She made her hands into claws. Yes. Mommy’s coming to get you.

He gave a little scream and scampered out the door.

Don’t run too far, she called. She left the door cracked, then turned to Eldrek. Sometimes I wonder how long we can keep this up.

For as long as we need to, Eldrek said. Until he returns.

If he ever—

That’s enough of that.

Draithon is getting older now. He’s starting to suspect. If he were to say something to the wrong person…

This is the best we can do, Stoya.

You don’t have to call me that while we’re alone.

Eldrek raised his voice. Never assume we’re alone. That would be the gravest mistake.

I feel as if I can’t stop making mistakes these days. I’m so afraid of what might happen.

"It isn’t a matter of what; only when. Nevertheless, we must be careful, not cowardly."

Stoya set her jaw. You’re right. I’m sorry. Are you ready? Give it here.

I grow older each time, he said, removing the ivory pendant from around his neck.

I’ll wait as long as I can before I bring you back, Stoya said.

Eldrek shook his head. You mustn’t. We must continue what we’ve begun so that when the day comes, you will be ready.

I feel I nearly am, thanks to you. I wish there were something more I could do to alleviate your pains.

Worry not for me, my lady. I have seen worse. Farewell. Eldrek tossed the ivory pendant across the room.

Stoya caught it, then looked up to find a regal white bird perched on the wicker chair where Eldrek had been sitting. Fly, Ristocule. Range far, and hunt wide, and let your worries not follow you into that realm.

Ristocule gave a screech and took flight through the open window. She watched him soar toward the mist-laden Wildwood, the vast forest which began along the northern border of their tiny village. At times when she watched him fly, Stoya wished she herself had the means to experience such freedom. Apart from time spent on the river with her father as a child, she had never ventured into trackless wilderness like the lands which spread from the fork in the Hightrade River for miles into the southern Dailfeld. Never, except the once. But that was long ago, in another life…

When Stoya peeked outside to check on her son, there were three men standing in the yard before him. She knew the men as Kent Norch, Bertram Ward, and Pater Ackmard, and she liked not a one of them. Kent Norch bent at the waist and held out a hand to little Draithon. There was something on his palm, but when Draithon went to take it, Kent yanked his hand away and wagged a finger in the boy’s face. Stoya pushed open the door and marched outside.

Mistress Lyrent, said Kent, a gangly youth with black hair and a wisp of beard on his chin. Ain’t we a picture.

Stay away from my son,