Into the Reach

Into the Reach

Alana Joli Abbott

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Original edition published by White Silver Publishing, 2006

New edition published by Virgil and Beatrice at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 by Alana Joli Abbott

Cover image and illustrations by Lindsay Archer http://lindsayarcher.com/

For news about other books by Alana Joli Abbott, visit http://www.virgilandbeatrice.com.

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The Black Death, Dalaghost Swamp

Tunir, Second Week of Eldune, 4624

A small point of light descended slowly from the ceiling, piercing the darkness of the vast cavern. The light moved erratically: down an inch, then stopping, then down another inch. After more than twenty minutes of fitful descent, the light finally stopped, still several feet off the ground. Then it flared, revealing a lantern at the waist of a grey-clad figure. Only the slightest tremor played through the rope emerging from a hole in the cavern’s ceiling. The rope descended from what had probably once been a mining shaft, long before the dragon claimed this area as its lair.

The flame within the lantern offered precious little light, brightening only a small area, but hints of golden statuettes and bejeweled furniture sparkled at the edge of the shadows. The cavern extended far beyond the pool of light, its rough earthen ceiling and walls lost in darkness. Below the dangling light sat a large cabinet, probably originally built by giants, made of the finest of lumber harvested from the Brightwood. The veins of the wood still glimmered with the lifeblood of the tree, giving the appearance that trails of gold ran throughout, heightening the splendor of its intricate carvings.

The grey-clad figure dangled with her feet inches above the ground, over the wires and caltrops surrounding the Brightwood cabinet. The informant, insane though he seemed, described the cabinet and warned of the traps too, waving his stump of an arm in front of him as he spoke to accentuate his point.

Tejarkn grunted from above as the rope stretched taut, and Nara glanced up with worry at her friend. Even in the meager light her lantern offered, she could see her dwarven friend’s squat form, corded muscles bunched with exertion, his face red beneath his bushy Kasmarkn beard, eyes hidden by the steel of his helmet. Despite the effort, Tejarkn offered a quick nod, and she turned her attention to the task at hand.

The carvings on the Brightwood panels depicted the exploits of a hero Nara didn’t recognize, and only a small lock decorated the cabinet, built into the door in a way that would make it difficult for a suspicious owner to trap. Difficult, she suspected, was not the same as impossible. She wouldn’t trust her life that odds were in her favor. She ran a gloved hand along the door and down to the handle, the light in her other hand following the path of her fingers. There, in the lock, she saw a brief glint, the tip of a needle.

She silently pulled a cloth from her tool belt, covering the bit of the lock where the needle would strike. With a flick of her wrist, her lock pick slid from its wrist-sheath into her hand. Working the lock pick under the cloth, she heard a tell-tale click: the lock was now broken. The pressure under the rag meant the needle had released. Removing the rag carefully, she slowly opened the door.

A gleaming helm rested in a place of honor on the highest shelf of the cabinet: the helmet of Rotur, which belonged to Tejarkn’s great-grandfather. The helm sat upon piles of Kasmarkn gold. Nara’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, and she reached forward, brushing her fingers along the shelf holding the helmet, careful to touch neither the gold nor the helmet itself. She immediately saw wires stretched beneath the helm and within the gold piles.

Nara pulled herself to the back of the cabinet, where she could see wires passing through the wood. She traced the thin metal wires until she could identify the pattern. It was more complicated than the last. She felt a drop of sweat form on her brow, then slide down the side of her face and onto her neck. A voice from above made her stomach twitch, although her practiced nerves allowed her to remain perfectly still.

Any… time… now… Tejarkn muttered. Nara focused again on the wire trap, repeating silent prayers over and over in her head, a mantra to keep her focused. Her lips moved silently as her fingers did their delicate work, never putting too much pressure on one wire but managing to find the weakest among them. She twisted the thin wire sharply.

The wires went lax. A bolt fell from its hiding place among the wires into her hand. Nara sighed a long and careful breath, then opened a bag hanging at her belt, tucking away the bolt. The helmet would go in first, followed by the gold, which would more than cover her expenses for this quest. She placed both hands on the helmet, sliding it ever so slowly from its resting place.

As it reached the edge of the shelf, the blaring of horns and the loud clanging of bells exploded around the cavern. The treasure room flooded with floating blue lights, reflecting off the mountains of treasures hidden in the shadows. Cursing, Nara grabbed the helmet quickly, sliding all the coin and gems on the shelf into her bag as Tejarkn strained to pull her up.

After quickly closing the bag and extinguishing the lantern, she hauled herself up as well, hand over hand, climbing the rope at nearly the same speed she walked. Reaching the tunnel above, she pulled herself up with the aid of Tejarkn’s thick, strong arm.

Did you get it? Tejarkn asked, as Nara came to her feet.

Nara nodded and turned toward their point of entry. The legendary traps that kept adventurous souls away from the Black Death’s infamous lair would soon spring to life, and she didn’t want to be here when they did. She repeated a different prayer with each graceful footfall of escape.

Unfortunately, the Alari were not listening to Nara’s prayers. The tunnel shook, pitching Nara into a wall. Tejarkn’s stout dwarven frame kept him upright, and he pulled her ahead; she leaned on her friend as they stumbled forward. She found her footing as she adjusted to the new tempo of the ground. When they came to an intersection, Tejarkn started to the left. Nara pulled him down the right tunnel as the spikes she noticed earlier shot from the ground. Tejarkn paled.

Nara bit her lip in frustration as they ran. Success was so close, but again her inexperience with magic led to failure. This time, she had no one to come to her rescue. She prayed this time Tejarkn would not suffer the consequences of her flaws.

Tejarkn seemed to sense this as he hurried behind her. Not your fault, he grunted between short breaths. My quest. Not yours.

His words of comfort fell short of their goal. Nara nearly slipped as the floor moved under her again, but she sidestepped onto solid ground, rushing through the maze their informant mapped for them many months before. So much planning, so many months of preparation—all would be wasted if they didn’t escape. She took a quick right, then another left, finally seeing the long stretch that led to the exit. The path was uphill but straight, and she quickened her pace to a panicked sprint. They might make it after all.

She stopped running when she heard the tunnel collapse behind her. Her labored breathing was nearly as loud as Tejarkn’s agonized cry. Though time seemed to move at normal speed, her mind seemed slow, unable to comprehend what happened. Ignoring the danger of another collapse, she rushed back to his side. His small form was half-buried under the weight of a pile of heavy rocks, and small holes opened to the sunlight in the ceiling above him. She knelt beside her friend, unwilling to allow this to have happened, praying to the Alari to rewrite history, to put her under the rock instead of her dwarven friend.

She took his hand, and he rolled his head toward her, loosening his helmet enough so that it popped off and clanked to the side. A large gash split his forehead, red and wet in the dim light surrounding them. Stay with me, my friend, she said, releasing his hand to pry at the rubble, but he grabbed her arm, his fingers tighter and stronger than they should have been.

Go, he commanded, the same strength in his voice that she felt in his hand. His eyes were clear, and his voice brooked no argument. The dragon will be back soon, and I’ll not have us both caught. Take my grandfather’s helmet. Take it back to my daughter.

She shook her head and appraised the collapse, refusing to admit her friend was already doomed. I will not abandon you. It is not my way.

His fingers stayed clenched around her wrist. By Hur, girl, make it your way! I am already gone.

When she looked into his eyes again, her resolve shattered. He embraced this death, and the earth would take him back to his god. She nodded as he released her. Solemnly, she bowed to the dwarf from her kneeling position, touching her forehead to the ground before him, her hands together in prayer that his god would find him.

Nara, go, Tejarkn commanded again. She took a quick moment to kiss his forehead in farewell, feeling the warmth of his blood on her lips. The light of the surface welcomed Nara, but mocked her as well. As she fled, she heard Tejarkn’s death song rise from his throat and echo, resonating in the stone. It pierced her heart with a coldness and sharpness no steel could have.

The Black Death, Dalaghost Swamp

Velyay, Second Week of Eldune, 4624

Zychariss watched patiently, waiting for the large magentura dragon’s fury to subside as the creature raged throughout the swamp. Having passed beyond the weaknesses of living flesh, Zychariss long ago learned the value of patience. Patience alone allowed him to pursue his magic and surpass both life and death. His bony fingers interlaced in front of him, tapping against knobby knuckles, betraying no hint of exasperation at his companion’s behavior.

The dragon did not notice. Dark black claws tore the damp earth outside of the lair known as the Black Death. Every few moments, short spurts of flame shot from the dragon’s maw, joining the infuriated roars the dragon repeated over and over. The outbursts did nothing to sap the dragon’s rage, and so, with some distaste, Zychariss found an old stump dry enough to sit on and merely watched.

When the sun set in the mists of swamps, Zychariss decided he had showed enough patience. Sardraxan, he said quietly. The dragon turned to look at Zychariss, his large nose nearly the size of Zychariss’s entire body. Flame and smoke belched from Sardraxan’s nostrils, flowing harmlessly around Zychariss as the lich waved his fingers. The time has come to end this tantrum and reveal what has happened, said Zychariss, his voice barely more than a whisper. Your vengeance is inevitable, my pet.

Sardraxan snorted again. Then he turned away from the lich and crawled down the damp tunnel leading to the heart of his lair. The lich followed silently, flowing more than walking as he moved behind the huge dragon. Instead of taking his normal route—laden with fire traps incapable of penetrating the dragon’s thick scales but incinerating any mortal who dared try that path—the dragon took a smaller passage, squeezing to a point where he could no longer proceed. He jutted his nose toward a collapse in the tunnel’s ceiling: moisture already seeped in, covering a limp figure with a sheen of brackish water. Zychariss waited as the dragon shifted back, allowing him to move past Sardraxan’s dark scales. The lich saw the rubble piled atop the corpse of a Kasmarkn dwarf.

Interesting, said the lich, mustering a small amount of enthusiasm for the events of the living. A Kasmarkn? Hardly their regular line of work. He looked at Sardraxan, who let out another roar. Ah, that’s right. You had some trinket from one of their clans. A helmet? Fairly gained because, I believe, you ate the dwarf wearing it.

This last comment quelled Sardraxan’s rage, allowing the dragon a dark chuckle of pleasure at the memory. Zychariss muttered a simple spell, freeing the dwarf’s body from the rubble. Seeing a symbol of Hur hanging from the dwarf’s neck, Zychariss smiled and murmured a second spell, using the dwarf’s own holy symbol to pause his spirit’s return to the earth.

I believe, said Zychariss, crouching next to the dwarf’s body, this one should come back to my castle. A wicked grin crossed the lich’s skeletal face, and even the dragon was unable to suppress a momentary shudder. He and I have some chatting to do.

The Brightwood, Northeast of Seramis

Pondir, Second Week of Minta, 4625

The morning sun crested the horizon, its early red rays sparkling off the leaves of the Brightwood, sending rainbows cascading across the glen where Lydia packed her camp. The glimmers of light mixed with the vapors of her breath, hanging in the air full seconds after she exhaled. She doused the fire, packed the pan and plate she used for her pre-dawn breakfast, and watched the seven bandits creeping toward her camp.

She monitored them casually, giving every appearance of an oblivious, solitary, female traveler. Her riding skirts swished, as did her heavy cloak, concealing the sheath of her sword. Her long auburn hair hung in her face, hiding her eyes that darted from one bandit to the next. Stowing her plate and pan beside the mug and silverware, she carried the gear to her horse, hitched to a low branch at the west edge of the glen. The shadows in the west made her wonder if more lurked somewhere, but she suspected from the positions of the seven that they had no reinforcements from the west. She packed the sack into a saddle bag, still half-empty on the ground.

Her mare pawed the ground in anticipation. Don’t worry, Sheen, Lydia murmured. She patted the mare’s neck. You’ll be getting plenty of exercise soon. She snuck a glance at the approaching bandits and smiled grimly. She wasn’t a lunatic who lived for battle, she mused. She’d have never made it through her training with that attitude. But it had been a long, lonely trip thus far, plagued with questions she didn’t want to answer. She wished more than anything to just go home. Going home, unfortunately, stopped being an option the moment she left. Perhaps even before that. She felt the frustration rise.

Taking out a little of that frustration on people trying to rob her seemed like a perfectly good idea. Not that she’d fight them all, of course. No fool would plan to survive seven-to-one odds unscathed, regardless of combat training or a foe’s poor equipment. Even if they were all new to the life of bandits, it wouldn’t go well for her if she stayed around too long. But from Sheen’s back, she could make them think twice about robbing innocent-looking travelers before she vanished into the distance.

The first bandit reached the edge of the glade and readied his crossbow, half-concealed behind the trunk of one of the Brightwood’s shining trees. Lydia smirked. Two could play at that game. She crouched again, reaching under the saddlebags as though preparing to load them onto Sheen, and slid out her crossbow. She was taught to start with ranged combat first. Damaging enemies before they reached you made them easier to defeat up close. She loaded a quarrel, drew back the string, keeping her back carefully hunched to conceal her actions, and watched the bandit step out from behind the tree and take aim.

Lydia whirled and fired just as a large horse burst into her camp from the shadows of the west. The sudden noise startled her and sent her shot wide, but neither the horse nor its rider seemed to notice her. The horse stood twenty-four hands tall at the head, as black as obsidian. Its rider wore midnight black armor, a dark cape flowing behind as his charge continued toward Lydia’s foe. The knight’s lance hung low, and the bandit, previously intent on shooting Lydia, darted behind the tree and turned his aim to the knight. The shot went wide, and the other bandits scattered.

Oh, no you don’t, Lydia said with a curse. She reloaded and shot at one of the bandit’s backs, pegging him solidly in the shoulder. By the time she loaded again, the knight turned for another pass at a retreating bandit. He charged into the woods at full tilt, looking more like he was performing a quintain than chasing down an outlaw.

Just like a man, she muttered, feeling old anger rise from her stomach. She pulled her crossbow string taut on a new quarrel. Always rescuing the damsel in distress. Lydia gritted her teeth, aiming carefully. The bolt struck her target only an instant before she herself was hit, the bolt sprouting from her left upper arm, narrowly missing her shoulder.

The shot came from a bandit’s hiding place. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, allowing her to ignore the pain. She dropped her crossbow and charged across the glen, weaving slightly to keep herself from being struck again. Her hand found its home in the basket of her rapier, and with a cry, she rousted the bandit from his hiding place. Before she could engage him, he turned to flee, only to find himself impaled on the end of the knight’s lance.

The rush of blood faded from Lydia’s ears, and in the disappointing moment that followed, she wondered if perhaps she was becoming one of those idiots who lived for battle. The black knight’s stallion slowed to a halt, his bloody lance pointing at her. For the first time, she considered that he might not be there to rescue her after all.

She backed her left leg into fighting stance, her wounded arm hanging limply from her shoulder, the muscles still in too much shock to register pain. She struggled to raise her sword into an on-guard position. Her best chance would be to dodge out of the way, and then—

Who was she kidding? A lone knight on the ground couldn’t face down a lone knight on a very large horse, especially not when he was in full plate armor. Her best armor was the beat-up leather jerkin she wore. She had to run and hope she could find a thick enough part of the woods that the horse would be forced to slow down.

The knight’s lance dropped, and he struggled to remove his helmet. They are finished, my lady, he said, his voice sounding thick and metallic inside the helmet. Lydia realized her arm was throbbing, though she still held her rapier at the ready. Those who did not meet their end have fled into the woods. He made another effort to remove the helmet, and Lydia felt her eyebrow raise of its own accord. I doubt they will trouble us again, the knight continued, somewhat awkwardly. She thought she heard a curse from inside the metal suit.

Would you like some help? she asked finally, interrupting the knight’s muttering.

The knight stopped fumbling, his head hanging slightly. Would you think less of me if I said yes?

Lydia sheathed her rapier and approached the horse as the knight dismounted. You just skewered two bandits without breaking a sweat, she said. I don’t think I’m in a position to judge.

You exaggerate, and I swear by my life, I mean you no harm, said the knight, who sounded vaguely amused. Your faith in my skill, however, is a kindness I greatly appreciate. He watched her approach, and she heard a gasp echo in his helmet. My lady, you are wounded!

Just a scratch, she shrugged. The once-silent pain suddenly seared up her arm, making her head buzz with such ferocity that she lost her balance. Her grimace revealed the suffering clearly, and he moved toward her.

She shook her head, steeling herself. And I’m not a ‘my lady.’ She crossed the remaining gap between them, and her fingers deftly loosened the clasps holding his helmet in place. One, however, was bent beyond repair.

It is something of a job requiring two hands, the knight said casually. Perhaps if I bound your wound—

I’m fine, Lydia said through her teeth, trying to pry the helmet loose.

But you are bleeding, said the knight. The bolt may be moving further into your—

The helmet clasp popped with a jerk. I told you, I’m fine, Lydia said, turning from the knight and walking swiftly toward her own horse. I appreciate your efforts in coming to my rescue, but I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Using one hand, she dug through her saddlebags, looking for a root that would dull the pain. I’ve had plenty worse.

Quite capable of caring for yourself? The knight’s voice sounded incredulous now that it was free of the hollow echo. She heard his armor clanking as he followed her. Do you know how many bandits were surrounding your camp?

Lydia bit into the root angrily. Seven, she said as she chewed. She continued searching through her bag for bandages. She at least thought to pack those before she left Genthail all those months ago, taking them from her sister’s pantry as Marla watched over her, making sure that no one interrupted. She shook off the memory. She had the bandages now, when she needed them. Thoughts of home were better left behind.

Seven! said the knight, as though he hadn’t heard her. "I don’t know what sort of training you’ve had that makes you think you can easily face seven bandits, but I certainly would be glad for aid against such odds. He clomped behind her, and she tried to ignore his reprimands. And look at you! Arrow in the arm and no more protection than a stout winter cloak and a leather vest."

A jerkin, she corrected.

And an arrow in your arm!

His exasperation drew her full attention, and for the first time in months, her thoughts of home actually dispersed when she dismissed them. Without meaning to, she smirked. Quarrel, she said. From a crossbow. She pulled out the roll of bandages. Since you’re so keen to help, here, she said.

When she handed him the roll of bandages, she was genuinely surprised to see concern etched on the knight’s face. Not the look of pity she so often saw at the courts where men were the only warriors,