When searching for a relic, be sure there isn’t a ghost attached to it…
Reluctance has got nothin’ on Allira Maplestaff. She has no interest in participating in the Festival of the Relic, the annual assault on the Dreadstone Tombs to claim the treasure of the Dreadstone King. No one has ever found the relic, won the treasure…or even come back whole. The few who came back alive are tormented shadows of themselves. But to save her grandmothers’ farm, she agrees to be the lucky thirteenth warrior to round out the crew.
Josten Ironheart has been dead for over seven decades, but he still detests the annual ritual of sanctioned violence against the residents of the Dreadstone Tombs. He’s the Dreadstone King, or at least the ghost of him, and he does his best to drive insane or kill the knights who invade his realm and slaughter his people. When he discovers Allira watching the invaders’ horses, he intends to scare her off, but he ends up talking to her…and liking her.
Their friendship continues to grow as the other twelve knights slowly succumb to either their fear or their wounds. But the maniacal leader of the invaders will stop at nothing to claim the relic and the treasure of the Dreadstone Tombs. Josten must protect his home and the woman he loves, but to do that, he must show her his true self. The question is, will Allira be able to see the man beyond the ghost in the skeletal shell?
It took twenty minutes to grab all the horses and calm them down after Allira ascertained there wasn’t a threat. To be honest, her own heart had shot out of her chest when the howl ripped through the forest, and it had taken her several seconds to figure out what had happened. Then she swore and rushed to try to untangle the horses as their tack had slipped off their backs and made a mess.
She’d finally calmed them all and got them tacked up just as the men ran out of the entrance to the Tombs. Though she had never been there before, she could tell it was a freaky place that probably should be left alone. Only three of the four men who’d gone in came bolting for the horses. Their faces were whiter than a burial shroud, and none of them were joking anymore.
“What happened? Where’s Danville?” Allira released the tether rope holding the horses’ leads. She caught her mount and Danville’s, but no one answered her as they kicked their mounts into a gallop.
Allira paused, holding the horses still as she turned back to the Tombs, scanning for the last knight to come out. His horse tugged at the reins, trying to follow the others, but she forced it to wait.
Come on, Danville. Where are you?
But after ten minutes, he still hadn’t appeared, and she realized he wouldn’t be coming. The Tombs had claimed its first hero of the year. A combination of anger and disgust settled into her belly as she swung up into the saddle and turned from the Tombs, tugging Danville’s horse behind her. What a stupid, fucking waste. The only thing the Tombs brought was death and despair for families.
Allira rode back to camp and tried to find something good about the day.
Make a list, minhra. Her Mima’s voice echoed in her thoughts. List all the good things so you may count your blessings, even in times of strife.
She ground her teeth as she rode into camp, trying to ignore the men who were picking over Danville’s possessions like vultures at a corpse. She claimed his horse and figured it would provide a relief mount for her own. She paused at her tent and slid off Javalina, her gray roan. The horse eyed Danville’s bay mare, but settled down as soon as Allira took their tack off and fed them.
“Hey, Allira. What makes you think you can keep Danville’s horse?” Markus sneered as he carried off Danville’s extra weapons.
“Let me think.” She tilted her head like a coquette as she ticked off her fingers. “I took care of it all day. I waited for him at the entrance to the Tombs. I took it with me when I left the Tombs. Sounds like ownership to me.” She gave him a patently false smile. “The horse and her tack are mine.” She rested one hand on her dagger. “Got a problem with that?”
He scowled but said nothing as he continued on to his tent.
“I thought not.” She turned back to the horses and brushed them down before settling in to piece together a meal of dried meat and corn cakes. She didn’t trust these men any farther than she could throw them, so she ate facing the community fire without joining them.
Most of the men boasted about how many creatures they’d killed in the Tombs, never admitting to those who hadn’t been there how they’d run out with their faces white and their tails between their buttocks. Allira snorted. She wasn’t going to give away their secrets, but she knew the truth. They’d been terrified, running for their lives.
At least they didn’t run screaming.
She didn’t blame them for running—apparently, they’d invaded someone’s home and that someone defended themselves with prejudice. She hadn’t expected the Tombs to be occupied, but it sounded as if there were Orcs and Goblins living in the Tombs.
And these jackasses are boasting about killing them.
Of course, she wasn’t much different. She was there, to ‘win the treasure of the Tombs’ because they’d needed a thirteenth member.
I should’ve said no.
But it was too late to back out now and she had to see it through. But I’m not going inside those damn Tombs. No, she’d be content to stay outside with the horses who were far better company than the men who rode them. And she could meditate and listen to the birds in the trees.
“On the morrow, we start going in as teams of two so no one’s left behind.” Swindell was blathering on about the next day’s excursion. “It’s safer to use the buddy-system.”
Allira snorted. As if he didn’t leave Danville in the dust the moment he could get away.
Other Fantasy Tales
