LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Sardelle had been hoping for the kiss but not truly expecting it. That close, with nothing but a cocoon of rock and snow around them, she had sensed his emotions even when she had tried not to, and she had felt his response to her touch. She had also sensed that moment when he decided to act upon his response. His lips were warm, his taste even warmer. She leaned into him, happy to spend the night kissing, though it already saddened her to know how his feelings would change when he learned the truth.

  A problem for tomorrow. Or maybe the snow would bury them, and this would be all they had. Might as well enjoy it.

  She slipped her arms around his waist and under his shirt, enjoying the warmth of his skin, the hard ridges of muscle over his ribs. She had been identified as a gifted one young and had grown to adulthood within the Circle, wearing the robes of a sorceress. The only men who had ever dared approach her were other magic users, those who found her perfectly normal, not some strange being to be worshipped—or feared—and those men had rarely had the muscular frames of soldiers. Some of her sisters in the arts had donned costumes and gone out to find their lovers, but Sardelle had never had a taste for that, not for relationships that had no hope for a future.

  So, what was different this time?

  With his easy-going nature and quick smile, and the serious passion to his duty that lay beneath it all, Zirkander—Ridge—had made her care, made her want to protect him and to be protected by him. To be a team. Also, he kissed like a god, and she melted into his arms, the heat from his lips flowing through her nerves like wildfire.

  He leaned back, drawing her down with him. Their lips parted for a moment, and Sardelle whispered, “Colonel—Ridge—are you trying to get convivial with me?”

  “When I said I wouldn’t?” His breath warmed her cheek; his dark eyes gleamed with humor. “Of course not. I just want to show my appreciation for your fine bandaging job.”

  She was lying on those bandages now. She wouldn’t think it would be comfortable for him, but he was the one pulling her down. “I see. Very thoughtful.”

  His warm hand slid beneath her parka, massaging her back. “Can we go back to kissing now?”

  “Yes.” Sardelle wished she weren’t wearing the thick wool dress, that his hands were tracing bare skin. But their breaths fogged the air, and cold air whispered in through the entrance. Taking off clothing didn’t seem wise.

  Perhaps Ridge sensed her problem, for he shifted onto his side, laid her on her back, and leaned in, protecting her from the draft. Her thick parka took the edge off the rocks, and, as his hands drifted across her body and his kisses deepened, she grew less and less aware of the cold. Everywhere he touched aroused heat, and by the time his hand found bare skin, she was breathing hard, charged with passion, cognizant of nothing but his lips, his tongue, his fingers, his hard body pressed against hers.

  Sardelle had thought they might simply spend the evening kissing, whiling away the time while the storm raged, but she knew as soon as they started that she wanted more. His roaming hands and his deft tongue made her want… everything. Very little air separated them now, and she was certain he wanted everything too.

  She slid one hand from his back, down to his lean waist, enjoying the sensations as she stroked the rippling muscles of his abdomen, the dusting of hair tickling her fingers. She lowered her hand to his belt, but his lips pulled away from hers, and he whispered, “Don’t.”

  A surge of disappointment filled her—had she read him wrong?

  “Not yet,” Ridge added and gave her a lazy smile. He kissed her again, leaving her breathless before his lips moved to her throat, then collarbone. She curled her fingers into his thick, short hair as he drifted lower, nipping and teasing her through the dress.

  “Ridge,” she whispered, having some notion of telling him there needed to be less clothing involved, winter be damned, but her thoughts tangled, and she couldn’t get out more. All she knew was she didn’t want him to stop.

  His hand slid up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her dress up to her waist. Cold air nipped at her legs, but the contrast of the heat of his hand only made her shudder with pleasure. His mouth drifted lower, and his idea of showing his appreciation made her eyes roll back in her head. She was soon panting, digging her fists into the parka’s fur lining, and calling his name. He refused to rush, though she urged him to when she could find the breath. That only made him grin up at her, his eyes crinkling, though the intensity infusing their depths never faded. He watched her as the stubble on his jaw rasped against her inner thigh, wanting to make sure she was enjoying his caresses. She wasn’t sure why he cared, but knew he did, and she arched toward him, the knowledge and his touch filling her with waves of fiery euphoria.

  When his lips returned to hers, they were hot and hungry, incensed with his own delayed need. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, wanting to please him as much as he had her. She ran her hand across his stomach, finding his belt again. He didn’t stop her this time.

  “Are you comfortable enough?” Ridge whispered between kisses.

  She nodded. A thousand rocks could have been gouging her in the back, and she wouldn’t have responded differently. He pulled her over anyway, putting his back to the rough ground. Part of her wanted to object—he had already suffered enough wounds for the day—but his hands found her hips, stroking her bare skin as he guided her onto him, and all conscious thought fled her mind. She gasped as he filled her, her hands finding his shoulders, fingers digging in, holding on as they rocked into each other. She wanted the moment to last forever, but passion built, sweeping through her, demanding release like an avalanche poised on a mountainside. The urgency of his kisses, the fire in his eyes, she knew he felt it too. They crashed together a final time, and ecstasy burst from within, coursing through her veins.

  Shuddering, Sardelle dropped against his chest. She buried her face in the inviting warmth of his neck, inhaling the masculine scent of him, sweat and gun smoke, and the forest.

  He nuzzled the side of her face and murmured, “You’re amazing.”

  Her? What had she done? He had been everything. She wasn’t sure she was ready to confess that, so she chose the lighter option. “Does that mean your wounds didn’t bother you overmuch?”

  “Didn’t even notice ’em.” His voice was muzzy. His hands still stroked her absently, but he seemed on the verge of sleep. “You must be a good doctor.”

  Sardelle had infused that awful tincture with a little magic to ensure the gouges would heal well, so she accepted this praise more easily. “I’ll agree with that.”

  Ridge chuckled softly. She laid her head on his shoulder. The lantern had gone out at some point, and she was glad, for tears pricked her eyes. The night had been more than she expected. More than a way to while away the time. For both of them. Even if she hadn’t sensed his feelings, his touch had shown that he cared. Her tears were because at some point, she either had to hurt him with the truth or walk away before he found out. Taking either action felt insurmountable.

  Sardelle told herself to go to sleep, that she was ruining the moment by worrying. Best to enjoy this while she could. She kissed him one last time and snuggled into his drowsy embrace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE OWL WAS GONE IN the morning. Ridge probably would have discovered this himself eventually, but he was still snuggled under the parkas with Sardelle when the shout came from outside. He sat up and shivered at the cold air that blasted him. His poor soldiers had doubtlessly had a less enjoyable night than he, so he wouldn’t complain.

  “Morning?” Sardelle murmured, her tousled locks flopped over her face.

  “Yes.” He pushed her hair back and kissed her.

  She smiled and returned it, lifting a tender hand to stroke the side of his face. His heart danced at this simple gesture, trusting it meant that she was in no rush to rise, in no rush to forget their night together.

  Reluctantly, he extricated himself. As much as he would have enjoyed spending more ti
me with her, time he knew they wouldn’t—shouldn’t—have together once they returned to the fort, his duty compelled him to return as quickly as possible. The storm had passed, and a clear blue sky was brightening in the east. His men would be worried about him, just as he worried that the airship had swooped back in that direction after leaving that damned owl behind.

  Ridge fastened his clothing, shivering. He didn’t remember being cold last night, but maybe that was understandable. Body heat, indeed.

  “I suppose no one will bring us coffee,” Sardelle murmured, her clothing rustling as she, too, got ready.

  “Not until we get back. Though I don’t know if you’d like the stuff Lieutenant Kaosh makes. It’s sludgy.”

  “Then I won’t feel jealous that I’ll not likely be invited to breakfast.”

  She didn’t sound stung, but the words made him wince nonetheless. Yes, as far as the rest of the fort knew, she was a prisoner, someone he definitely shouldn’t be sleeping with, and even if she wasn’t truly a prisoner, he probably still shouldn’t be sleeping with her. Last night, he had been too busy launching campaigns from his trousers to remember that fact. If she would just tell him who she was and what she wanted…

  But no, if she could, she would have. He had sensed that a few times, when she had been gazing at him, almost saying something.

  “We’ll figure something out,” he mumbled, though he couldn’t imagine what.

  Shifting rock outside of their cave let him escape from the moment without further promises.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Rav. We’re fine.”

  Ridge was glad he and Sardelle were fully clothed—she even had her pack on already—when the soldier peered inside, though he had a feeling the fact that he had spent the night in a cave alone with her would be all around the fort within an hour of their return. At which point all sorts of speculation would occur. Oh, well. He had more important things to worry about than fort gossip. Besides, it wasn’t until the news made its way back to his commanding officer that he truly had to worry.

  “Owl’s gone,” Rav said.

  “Yes, time to get back.” Ridge grabbed his pack and rifle, but hesitated before trooping out. Rav had climbed down out of view, so he paused to give Sardelle a one-armed hug and murmur, “I’ll find a way to get some coffee to you. Any other breakfast requests?”

  She kissed him on the cheek—it couldn’t feel that nice with a day’s beard growth poking out of it, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Those mango pastries sound good.”

  “I’m afraid I would have to take you back to civilization to find one of those. A basic pastry might be doable.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Ridge squeezed her one more time, knowing it would be the last for a while, then climbed out of the hole. The soldiers were all waiting at the bottom, their packs and snowshoes on. Belatedly, it occurred to him to wonder if he had any lipstick smears across his face or bite marks on his neck. No, Sardelle hadn’t been wearing any makeup—where would she get it in that pit of a fortress?—and she had been enthusiastic, but still on the refined side, and worried about putting weight on his wounds. As if he would have noticed. She probably wouldn’t bite him until their second night in a cave.

  That thought had Ridge grinning, but he managed to rein it in by the time he reached the bottom. The first question he got was whether they should try to dig Nakkithor’s body out of the snow, and that sobered him right up. He and Sardelle helped retrieve the dead soldier and build a travois, then Ridge led the way out of the canyon. The snow had blurred their trail but not swallowed it whole, though he could have found his way regardless. He might not have all the combat assets these infantrymen did, but he didn’t get lost, not even when he was upside down, streaking away from an airship with cannonballs flying by on either side.

  It doubtlessly marked him as crazy, but the memory of that battle filled him with nostalgia and a longing for home. He wondered if Sardelle would like his little cabin on the lake. Not that she would ever visit it… She would finish whatever she had come here for and then disappear, sneaking out past the guards as easily as she had the last time. And if she took something from the mines, it would be treason if he let her go without trying to stop her. At the least, it would be ineptitude. He had never thought his record was in danger of being stamped with either label. A first time for everything. Unless he locked her up until she talked. That would be a lovely reward for last night.

  The fortress came into view more quickly than he expected, or maybe his thoughts had kept him busy and he hadn’t noticed the trek. Men had been working to clear the east wall, so one couldn’t simply run down the hill of snow and into the courtyard, but it would be some time before evidence of the avalanche was completely gone.

  The gate opened before they arrived, and Ridge found Captain Heriton waiting in the courtyard, along with a couple of burly soldiers and a scruffy prisoner with shifty eyes.

  “Uh oh,” Sardelle murmured behind him.

  Before Ridge could ask for clarification, the prisoner thrust his arm toward her. “She’s the one.”

  Captain Heriton nodded slowly, as if he had known all along. Ridge met Sardelle’s eyes and found concern there. Was her secret about to come out?

  “What is this, Captain?” Ridge asked, his palms suddenly damp inside his mittens. If her secret turned her from an uncertainty to a known enemy, what would he do?

  “This is the man you had us detain, the one who supposedly killed the woman in the washroom.”

  “He denies it?”

  “No, he admits it since he claims she was a witch and had put a curse on him, on his loins specifically. He’s had a rash ever since. He assumed she had done it because he’d tried to coerce her into a sexual relationship. She threatened him apparently.” Heriton wriggled his fingers, as if these details were dismissible, but his eyes sharpened as he launched into the rest of his explanation. “In interviewing him, I discovered that your… friend—” the captain extended a hand toward Sardelle, “—was also a suspect, albeit one this prisoner couldn’t reach to interrogate since she’s so often been with you. But it seems she was also present when this man developed his rash. He had just found her down in a mine shaft.”

  “Not a shaft,” the shifty-eyed prisoner said. “She was in the rocks. It was odder than a three-legged parrot. We had to dig her out. Rescued her. She wasn’t grateful like you’d expect though. Crazy woman ran past us while we were bent over.”

  “Because of… a rash?” Ridge asked.

  The man nodded, crossed his legs, and dropped his hands protectively over his crotch. “Most painful itchy thing I’ve ever had.”

  Ridge gave Sardelle a curious look, but her face had gone expressionless. She didn’t even offer a these-people-are-obviously-crazy eyebrow raise.

  “It’s odd enough that a woman would have made it down into the mines,” Heriton said, “when the trams are operated by soldiers, and they’re the only way in and out.”

  Possibly. Someone could slip down into the mines without using one of the cages. The diagonal shafts were steep, but not that steep. Sardelle was obviously gifted at sneaking in and out of places. Ridge reminded himself to question the gate guards later. For now, he remained silent and nodded for the captain to continue.

  “It’s even odder that she would be all the way down at the end of a new tunnel, in the rock itself, if this man can be believed.”

  “This self-confessed murderer?” Ridge couldn’t keep from asking. How reliable a witness should they consider him?

  “I got no reason to lie about this,” the shifty man said. “I know what I seen.”

  “It’s hardly the only unusual thing that’s happened revolving around this woman,” Heriton said. “I’ve been wondering if it’s a coincidence that the Cofah showed up on the same day she did.”

  “They showed up on the same day I did as well,” Ridge said.

  “You’re a national hero. She’s… ” Herit
on groped in the air, as if he couldn’t get a grasp on Sardelle. At least Ridge wasn’t the only one. “I’ll be blunt, sir,” the captain went on. “It makes me uneasy having her walk around here at your side, like she’s your trusted aide. I… I’d like to discuss this further with you in private.”

  “Yup, I figured you would.” Ridge sighed. Inviting Sardelle up for coffee was going to be every bit as unlikely as he had feared. “I have a funeral service to arrange and five thousand other things to do, but I’ll talk to you this afternoon.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Now, go find work. All of you.” He shooed the captain and the rest of the soldiers away, until only Sardelle remained, her hands clasped behind her back as she gazed up at the mountains. Ridge would have paid a lot to know her thoughts. “You’d better go back to work and stay out of trouble for a few days, at least until something else distracts Heriton.” He smiled at her, though he felt guilty for sending her back to the laundry and those crowded barracks rather than finding her a nice room. His room, perhaps? The problem was, he shared all of the captain’s concerns. Whatever she had been looking for down in the mines when she had been discovered, Ridge doubted very much that his superiors would want him to give it to her.

  “Work?” Sardelle asked. “I thought I had the day off. Eight days off, wasn’t it?”

  The book reports. Right. He almost told her that the days off wouldn’t start right away, but curiosity changed the lay of his tongue. “What would you do if those days off started today?”

  “Research in the prison library. I thought I’d try to find your flier for you.”

  “My what?”

  “The flier you were talking about yesterday, the one that crashed ten years ago.” Sardelle spread a hand. “Maybe you could drag it back here and fix it up so you would have a way to defend against further incursions from the airship.”