The Legends of Vandor: Anthology Volume 1 (The Legends of Vandor Anthologies)

by DJ Morand

  “My name is not Crow!”

  Junthar looked down at the captain, then back to Crow. Seafang continued taunting the new pirate captain.

  “Little black birdie,” he said. “Just like t’color of your heart. Thalassa’s curse on ye and yours.”

  Crow scoffed. “Come, he’s as good as dead.” Seafang reached across his belly and drew his saber. The blade scraped across the deck. Crow stopped and turned around. “You have some fight left in you Captain?”

  “Always,” Seafang said, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Always enough t’kill a little black crow. Avast ye matey.” Captain Seafang slashed at Crow. The saber went wide, but Crow danced back anyway.

  Seafang pressed. He swung his saber in sweeping arcs. Starting with underhand and moving to overhand slashes. Crow backed up further, but the crew did not. Crow pressed against them, but they pushed him back toward Seafang.

  “Played with fire ye did.” Seafang taunted. “A mutiny is only so good as you can deliver on. Ye ought to know that Crow.”

  “Then I’ll deliver.”

  Crow launched at Seafang, his rapier striking for the captain’s heart. Seafang deflected the blows and nearly lost the duel to Crow’s dagger hand. He got his arm up in time to block the smaller man’s thrust. Seafang felt the pain in his back stretch. He knew he must have torn the wound further. Crow had stuck him good, but missed anything critical. With a half-twist of his wrist, Seafang drove his saber around Crow’s rapier and nicked the back of the pirate’s hand. Crow gasped and dropped his sword.

  “I’d call that a match Crow,” Seafang said.

  “No,” Crow replied and dove at Seafang with his dagger.

  The captain side-stepped and let his saber fall across the back of Crow’s neck. The blade cut deep and the wiry little pirate crashed to the deck. He writhed and cried out in pain. Seafang turned back to his crew.

  “Are ye done with mutiny today?”

  All of them answered him with a solemn nod. Seafang drove his saber through Crow’s back and the pirate stopped crying out.

  “Good.” Leaning down Captain Seafang cleaned his saber on Crow’s coat. Then he stood and faced Junthar. “Good of ye t’stay out of that. Now, where were we?”

  “We were discussing terms for surrender, Captain.”

  “Glad t’hear it.” Seafang gave each of the men standing behind Junthar a scrutinizing look. “Ye have a choice, stay on this Praetorian sow and sink with her. Or, ye can join me and t’crew aboard T’Sea Queen.”

  Captain Vargas Seafang was not surprised when they swore, to a man, to join the crew of The Sea Queen. “Grab what ye can, clear this ship of all her valuables then report to mister Junthar.”

  Junthar looked at Seafang, an eyebrow raised.

  “They know and trust ye, you trust me and I’ll have theirs. Talk to t’botswain, he’ll arrange bunking. Welcome aboard.” Seafang said with a bloody grin and a salute.

  Cole the Sevens

  Warden

  Winterweld: Year 1613 AO

  8 Aldfer: Rytal - 10th Hour of Eralda

  Kriskos

  The night sky billowed with deep black clouds rolling and crashing violently. The echoes of thunder shook the ground.

  “Sarding weather,” Cole said, drawing the hood of his cloak around his short sandy hair.

  Cole looked up expecting the rain to begin falling, but it delayed. He frowned at the sky. With a furrowed brow, he drew his hood. Cole was further north than he liked to be, for one; for second, he had not encountered any of Kriskos' scouts.

  “A sure sign that the folks of the town are in trouble,” he mumbled.

  Cole looked up, trying to make out the range of mountains just to the west. The dark clouds swirled and obscured the peaks the people called Obanholme. He pulled his cloak tighter, drawing the hood further around his head. The rains had started and he was trying desperately to wick away the moisture gathering on his leather armor and the hilts of his blades. The ancient weapons were relics of the elves. He had been renamed Cole the Sevens after his quest to become a Warden; men and women sworn to protect the common folk from demons and trained by the Bladesingers.

  Shaking the cool water from his shoulders, Cole pulled at the cloak again. The animal skin cloak wicked away the damp air. His shoulders ached from carrying the sodden skins, but it was a comfort not to be soaked through to the bone. Having come up from Lakes Bridge, Cole was beginning to grow uneasy. The sights and sounds of the northern Marshweld were not what they should be. Silence hung in the atmosphere, like a palpable thing. The Warden took a slow breath as he crossed the border into the Winterweld. He knew it was his imagination, but the air felt cooler as he crossed the border. A few miles to the west of his position, the base of the mountains jutted outside the forest. Cole couldn’t fathom why anyone would choose this particular location for a town.

  Kriskos was too close to the Riftlands and too far from civilization. However, the young Warden had sworn to guard the people of the Marshweld. A sad part of him decried his need to protect those in the small town as they were a little more than a league outside of the Marshweld.

  “If not I,” he said to himself. “Then whom?” Cole was the only Warden that would venture this far to the north.

  He knelt and felt the ground; it was cool and motionless. He knew better than to trust stillness in any part of the Welds. Wildlife, caribou and deer, made their home in these parts. Despite the presence of humans, Cole doubted the ground would be so still. Cole could feel a nagging at the back of his thoughts, something is not right.

  He drew a slender dagger from the top of his boot as he rose. A faint hum of ancient power coursed through him, banishing the chill around him. The magic was not powerful enough for him to dry his clothes, but the comfort was more than enough. From the small of his back, he drew another blade, a kukri. The blade was longer than the dagger and curved at a forward angle. The weapon was a tool of common folk. Cole figured that the Bladesinger who had adopted the knife had been from a common farm family. That was something Cole admired about the elves, they did not look down on a man’s heritage and instead focused on potential. The kukri did not give him warmth, but it emitted a low light that extended his vision in the waning hour of the day.

  The landscape grew more sparse as he neared the edge of Kriskos. He called the place a town, but it was more a village. The houses were made of stone and had thatched roofs, but they were not uniform and the winding roads did little to give the impression of an organized plan. Cole didn’t mind. He spent the majority of his time traveling through wilderness. That kind of life made it difficult to discount the comforts of a roof and a hearth. Within sight of the town, Cole gasped. Bodies lay strewn across the street. Their faces were drawn and dessicated. He saw among them women and children.

  * * *

  Winterweld: Year 1613 AO

  8 Aldfer: Rytal - 1st Hour of Feralda

  Kriskos

  Kriskos smelled of death. The decay of day’s old bodies permeated the streets. The first few bodies he had seen were piled in the middle of the road. He counted thirteen of them, including the women and children. The sight made his heart weep for them. They knew the risks they took, but Cole felt the cold sting of guilt. The feeling inched its way through him, spreading out steadily to his limbs. He lowered the dagger and the knife, bowing his head. He was too late. The storm continued to roll in the sky.

  That was close to me, Cole thought as the night illuminated with a flash of lightning. Dark things come with storms.

  Thunder shook the ground with its fury. Cole sheathed the dagger back into the top of his boot. The warmth of the magic flooded out of him as he released the blade. The chill of winter slammed into him like a wall. Collapsing to a single knee, Cole gasped for air. His breaths were measured, but filled with icy pain. He briefly considered drawing the dagger again, just to stave off the cold, but thought against it. What he needed was not warmth as much as strength to fight what may come.

>   Reaching across his waist, Cole drew a long thin blade with a basket hilt. The needle of a sword filled him with its song. The song of the kukri rose in response and gave off more light. Cole could almost feel the darkness writhe in the presence of his swords. He grinned, showing the white of his teeth. It was a short lived show of excitement as the air grew chillier. The sky flashed and thunder roared again. Then the skies opened and emptied themselves. The rain fell like rushing droplets of cold. Cole raised a hand to protect his eyes from the stinging rain. The sound of the water crashing into the mud and corpses was disconcerting.

  He caught motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned, illuminating the place where the motion had been. He saw nothing, but an old building. The sign hanging out front was off center. Across its face was scrawled the image of a man and woman engaged in dance.

  The Dancing Couple, Cole thought. A tavern? Maybe a brothel, though I doubt that.

  He approached the building warily. The light stretched out before him shadows stretching and twisting with each step, save when they were banished entirely by the flashes of lightning. Cole still held the kukri in his left hand raised above his head to block the rain. The light played against his own features, drawing harsh lines in the contours of his face. His brow was furrowed as he squinted; partly to see better and partly to preserve what little night vision he still had. He approached the stone building; the windows were framed with wood and had been broken out. The rain crashed noisily over the thatched roof and he was sure he could hear several leaks coming from the room inside.

  Cole pressed against the door with the tip of his rapier. It swung open easily. The loud creaking moan the door let out could have been mistaken for a protest were the door living. The rank stench of death assaulted his senses as the door opened fully. It was so overpowering that the Warden had to take a step back. He felt his gorge rise and he struggled to keep it down.

  Time for sicking up later, he admonished himself.

  Despite his scolding, his stomach was not in agreement, and he still felt sick. He lowered his kukri hand to cover his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The sleeve had already become soaked through from shielding his eyes so it smelled like a wet dog.

  I suppose I should wash more often, he lamented as he stepped forward again.

  The smell struck him again, but this time it was mostly dissipated by his sleeve. It created a sort of dead-wet-dog smell that surprisingly was less repugnant than pure death. He pushed the door with his rapier again and allowed the light from the kukri to illuminate his right.

  Seconds later he was on the street again, retching. Inside he had seen more bodies, but these had been eviscerated from throat to groin. Their insides had been spilled and spread across the floor. Cole had seen the like once before, and the memory gave him pause. Drawing himself together, Cole began to recite the Wardens’ song.

  By and by the Warden blade sings,

  Rend and tear against enemy rings,

  Bright the Warden's blade,

  Blight is enemy made

  Cole took comfort in the words. His voice rose and was joined by the song of the blades. Each lending its unique power to him as he sang. Warmth from the dagger, light from the kukri, strength from the rapier. He stood again, lifting his face to the rain. It bit only slightly as he repeated the Wardens’ song. A second kukri at his back, still in its sheath, began to hum. It burned away the hunger that had settled into his belly. Cole reached out to each of the blades. The hunting knife at his right side sang and he found his breath easier. His lungs opened to take in fresh air. The katana at his back flared to life, the most vibrant of all the blades. It banished his despair and renewed his resolve. The seventh blade, a single throwing knife hidden up the sleeve of his shirt joined the song, but gave no comforts, its magic was different.

  Cole’s eyes burned. The dark brown orbs flickered as his brow narrowed and his nostrils flared. He could sense them now. The Dark were here. Demons of pure shadow that feasted on the suffering and agony of their victims. He could see the flitting shadows all around him. They had nearly defeated him in spirit. Had they done so, he would have been finished. Cole took a fighting stance and angled the rapier in the direction of one of the shadows.

  “By and by, the Warden blade sings,” he said. “Let’s end this.”

  * * *

  Winterweld: Year 1613 AO

  8 Aldfer: Rytal - 2nd Hour of Feralda

  Kriskos

  The demon lunged. Cole danced to the side and thrust his rapier into its neck. The Darkth howled and swept back. Its motion was fluid and wholly unnatural. One second it was there and the next it had receded as if the light creating its shadow had moved. With a quick flick of his wrist, Cole sent the throwing dagger into the Darkth that had withdrawn. The small blade whipped out with surprising speed and struck the demon in the eye. With another flick, the dagger returned to its sheath up his sleeve. The demon fell, clutching at its ruined eye. The others moved in.

  Cole danced left and right, avoiding being touched by the creatures. It was difficult, and only the light from the kukri kept them from gaining purchase on him. The ground was slick with the rain and Cole was tiring quickly. He had used up the majority of the rapier’s magic to recover from his ill stomach; he was not certain it would sustain him through this fight. Cole dodged to the left, just as one of the demons’ hands reached for him.

  He brought up the kukri and sliced open the Darkth’s forearm. Black ichor oozed from the wound and the demon howled in pain. Before the demon could withdraw, Cole drove the rapier into its face. The sword sizzled as it burned demon flesh. The creature howled for several quick moments, before exploding into little motes of darkness. Cole dove to the ground, losing his grip on the kukri, and rolled away from the shower of motes. The dark particles popped and sizzled as they hit the ground.

  Cole released the rapier and flicked out with his wrist again. The knife took out the demon’s other eye as it recovered from the first strike. It howled again and felt back holding its damaged face. Four of the Darkth still surrounded the Warden. Cole rolled back through the mud. As he came up, he flicked his wrist again, drawing the throwing knife back to him.

  “Vanwo erive!” Cole said, intoning the ancient tongue of the elves. The language was full of magic.

  He had learned a few spells from his mentor, aloof as Parcival Apara had been. Cole assumed it was due to the elf’s general dislike of humans, but Parcival was a Bladesinger which meant he had a duty. Part of that duty including training Wardens. Cole had been attentive and garnered the elf’s respect.

  As he spoke the words the blades he had dropped returned to his sheathes.

  The Darkth advanced on him, warily circling him like predators. Cole reached over his should and drew the katana in a fluid motion. The blade rang with pure ecstasy as he whipped it in front of him. The blade thrummed with power. The Darkth took a frightened step back.

  “By and by,” Cole said, singing. “The Warden blade sings.”

  * * *

  The katana became an extension of Cole’s arm, a true part of his anatomy as he danced with the demons. Black sprays of inky blood sizzled as they intersected the torrential downpour of rain. The mud beneath Cole’s feet slipped and sucked at him alternating. The Darkth moved in closer and were cut down. Cole was down to one knee, his ankles to his calves were covered in slick mud. The stench of death hung about threatening to swallow him whole. Cole gasped for air, but his lungs burned.

  He choked and coughed more, red and black specks began to dance in his eyes. He felt the movement shift inside of him. He knew one of the Darkth had made contact. Turning his head, Cole could see the blackened shadow of an arm protruding from his back. Cole started to step forward, but the demon held fast and Cole could feel the pull on his spine. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt. A crawling bitter cold inched its way up and down his back.

  “You are mine,” the demon said, hissing in Cole’s ear.

&
nbsp; The Warden wasn’t so sure the demon was incorrect. The Darkth tightened his grip and Cole felt the cold arc through him like a bolt of lightning - cold, frozen, lightning. He gasped for breath again and coughed. Blood, bitter and metallic, spat from his mouth. He tried to sing the Wardens’’ battle cry, but it came out in a gurgling exhale of air and blood. He could feel the life and warmth slowly draining from him, but he couldn’t get away.

  With a desperate cry, Cole drew upon all the magic from the katana that he could. The sword flared to life in a brilliant flash of energy. The creeping cold vanished instantly. Cole stepped forward and spun in a semi-circle, bringing the sword’s edge against the Darkth’s form. The demon burst into dark motes of negative light, sucking at the light of the Warden’s blade. Cole could feel the drawing motion as it reached him, but he steeled himself against it, relying on the sword’s power.

  “By and by, the Warden’s blade sings,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The demon’s presence howled an unearthly sound. Cole leaned on his knee, his mind reeling from the echoing despair. Then, as quickly as it had come, the sound ceased; all sound ceased. The dark motes vanished, disappearing into the nether. Slowly, the Warden rose from the ground. The mud made a squishing sucking sound as it released his knee and shin. Cole breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling with abandon. He kept the sword raised and ready to fight, but no other demons approached.

  The smell of death still hung in the air. Cole could feel his fury rise at the carnage wrought by the Darkth. With a frustrated growl he sheathed his sword. It made a metallic clink as it rested firmly in the scabbard. He stared over the streets of the town, his heart sinking.