LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  The sword wasn’t Dradac’s best weapon, but we worked with those too. I had learned enough by then to know what it was to have a particular aptitude for a certain style of fighting, and it was easy to discern how much more comfortable the giant was with a staff or pair of knives than a long blade. Nevertheless, he was skilled enough to defend himself competently with one, which was more than I could say for myself in the beginning.

  I was surprised one afternoon to find Terrac skulking around the edges of our training ground as we practiced. Dradac let him watch us for a few minutes. Then, pausing from sparring with me, he wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow.

  “Terrac,” he called. “Why don’t you come and practice with Ilan for a bit? Just until I’ve caught my breath.”

  Terrac hesitated only a moment before nodding mutely and stepping forward. Dradac decided that with two inexperienced fighters it would be advisable to trade real blades for the bundled lathes we kept on hand but rarely used. He pressed one into Terrac’s hands, showing him how to grasp it properly, while I snagged another for myself. Then, standing back, he nodded for us to proceed.

  As the match began, I tried to go easy on Terrac, remembering how ashamed I’d been after Rideon had forced me to injure him. Pacing circles around the clearing, we parried and blocked one another’s thrusts for a short time. Then, seeing he was working up a sweat and that his hands were beginning to tremble from the unaccustomed weight of the lathe, I felt a stirring of sympathy. That was why I dropped my defense and allowed him to tap me across the chest. It was hard not to laugh because he did it so gently, like he was swatting a fly that had landed on me.

  “Killing stroke,” Dradac called out, and Terrac and I lowered our lathes. I thought Terrac would be pleased, but instead he was frowning as the giant stepped forward to reclaim his weapon.

  “Another round?” Dradac offered. “You were doing well.”

  Terrac shook his head. “Batting at one another with sticks like a pair of angry children holds little appeal for me.” He offered us a good afternoon and walked away.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded. “He looked at me like I was a piece of itchleaf in his pants.

  “The next time you fight, make an honest attempt,” Dradac said. “Nobody likes to win by default. Nobody worth beating, leastways.”

  After that, Terrac came regularly to our sessions. He wasn’t present every day, but he showed up often enough that he developed a fair skill at fighting with the lathes and, later, with real blades. Soon he was even besting me occasionally. I found myself enjoying those lessons.

  I grew both physically and in my capabilities during that time. Even Terrac was no longer the scrawny weakling I remembered from our first meeting. His shoulders broadened, and as he continued growing, it became obvious he would soon be taller than me, a fact that disturbed me to no end. All the same, he still relied on me for the protection of my sharp tongue, if not that of my fists.

  One afternoon, the two of us climbed together to the top of the highest rocks of Boulders Cradle where we looked down on the expanse of treetops spreading below. I had worked up a sweat on the climb, and now I was enjoying the feel of the cool wind drying the sweat on my skin. Lying on my belly near the edge, I looked down the way we had come. A small herd of deer was moving cautiously through the trees below. One moment I caught a glimpse of a tail or an antler through the leaves, and in the next the view was lost as the animal moved into the shadows. I said to Terrac, who was squatting silently beside me, “You know, if we had a bow handy and I was a fair shot…”

  Terrac snorted. “You’d have to be better than fair. The greatest marksman ever known couldn’t take one of them down at this distance. You’d just waste a lot of arrows and try to make me go and find them.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” I said, but I gave up watching the deer. Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the fat clouds drifting so low overhead I felt I could reach out and touch them. “The Hand says you never know what you have in you until you’re pushed to your limit.”

  “The Hand,” Terrac said and rolled his eyes. “I don’t need the likes of him for inspiration.” He stretched out on the stone beside me. “The rock’s hard,” he complained, squinting up at the sun. “And it’s too bright up here.”

  “You know, you’re going to have to toughen up if you’re planning on living in the woods the rest of your life. Otherwise, you’ve a long time ahead to be miserable.”

  “Who says I’m staying forever?” he mumbled, putting one arm up to shade his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten the priesthood.”

  “Rideon says so,” I reminded him. “He’ll never release you from your oath.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I sensed his unhappiness. “Look,” I offered in a rare moment of sympathy, “I think you make things harder on yourself than they have to be. The men would get used to you in time if you’d just try to belong. Prove your abilities to them, and they’ll respect you.”

  “Just what I’ve always yearned for,” he said. “The respect of a filthy band of thieves and murderers. There’s deep ambition.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “Rideon’s no mere thief—” I started to argue.

  “Why does everything have to be about Rideon with you?” he asked. “The Hand says this; the Hand thinks that. I suppose if Rideon threw himself down from this rock like a madman, you’d follow him?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. “Of course.”

  “Have I mentioned before how pathetic your devotion is?” he asked.

  “A couple of times. Mention it again, and it’ll be you testing the fall from here.”

  He frowned. “I can tell you something about Rideon,” he said. “He didn’t get to where he is by trotting blindly along at another fellow’s heels. If you dream of ever being anything more than his shadow—”

  “I don’t.”

  “—you should begin separating yourself from Rideon and making your own way. Pursue your own goals.”

  “Shut up, priest boy, and worry about your dreams, not mine. It seems you aren’t in such a hurry to catch up to them.” That effectively ended the conversation.

  But all his talk of unattained goals had me thinking. That evening, back in Red Rock Cave, I slipped a lantern down from the wall and carried it back to my sleeping nook behind the waterfall. Beneath the dim glow of the light, I probed my fingers into a deep niche in the wall, dusting aside the dirt and pebbles concealing the hiding place. I wiggled my fingers into the tight space until I managed to gain hold of a thin, flat object and drew it out into the light. Hands trembling in eagerness, I unwrapped the leather-bound packet and the brooch fell out onto the dusty floor.

  Its hammered metal surface gleamed beneath the fitful flicker of the lantern, and the copper and amber inlays reflected the light in warm reds and browns. The pin was almost large enough to fill my palm when I picked it up, and because of its size I suspected it wasn’t a woman’s ornament but intended for a male wearer.

  Flipping it over to examine the writing etched into the back, I knew a brief moment of panic where all my newfound knowledge of letters flew from my mind and I felt I was looking again at meaningless squiggles. Then the tiny letters lined up in my vision and suddenly made sense. They spelled out two words. FIDELITY and SERVICE, the famed motto of the house of Tarius. The house of the Praetor.

  I mused long over my discovery before eventually rewrapping the brooch and returning it to its hiding place. What I couldn’t understand was how my humble mother had ever come to own a trinket once belonging to the Praetor or to someone in his family. Was it stolen? Given? Bought? Was the possession of it a danger to me, suggesting I had an affiliation with the widely hated Praetor Tarius? Or was it a form of protection from the Fists, as my mother appeared to have believed, an indication anyone harming the bearer harmed the house of Tarius? I suspected the answer depended on what company I found myself in.

  Viewed in that light, I decided I would be wise to keep the br
ooch and its original owner a secret for the foreseeable future, even from Brig and Terrac. I returned the lantern to its place on the wall and curled up on my sleeping pallet, where I lay awake for a time, staring into the darkness. When at last I slept, I dreamed of being pursued through the night, chased by a darkness I sensed closing in around me but could never see.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SEASONS TURNED, AND BEFORE I knew it, I was another year older. Little else changed in my life except my relationship with Brig. That was unpredictable these days, at times thawing briefly but always growing cold again. I had no desire to mend the rift, deciding I hardly needed the bearded outlaw now I was grown enough to care for myself. I broke his rules, flaunting my newfound freedom, and slipped calculated slights into our conversations for the amusement of onlookers. Brig’s response was to avoid me and, when he could not do that, to eye me warily, like a strange dog that might bite.

  I was thinking of this one chilly morning in early spring as I crouched in the boughs of a thick elder tree, watching a small collection of men, wagons, and packhorses parade their way slowly down the Selbius Road. Undeterred by the temperature or the state of the thawing roads, travelers streamed through Dimming again on their way to Selbius or Kampshire, and we were glad to see them on the move for it had been a long winter. The coming of spring made the Praetor’s Fists and their way patrol more active too, but they troubled us less of late as they were caught up feuding with the savage Skeltai tribes along the provincial borders.

  There was a soft rustle in the branches beside me as my companion, a youth named Kipp, shifted his position. He drew an arrow from his quiver but didn’t nock it to his bowstring yet. A careful examination of the woods around us belied the impression we were alone. There were nearly a dozen others of us strung out along the tree line, ducking behind stumps and lying low beneath piles of brush and bracken. We didn’t have the travelers outnumbered, but the better part of their party were children and old folk, and we calculated we had more than enough men to quell any resistance they might offer. We’d been lurking here in the shadows for an hour, since Ladley had first brought us word which road our prey followed, and I had long ago grown impatient.

  Now I shifted my weight, flexing the muscles in my cramped calves as I counted heads in the train winding slowly into sight. Two wagons led the way, the first an open cart, the second a larger conveyance with a wooden frame arching over the top and a thin strip of canvas stretched over it. Several small heads ducked from beneath the roof of this wagon, and a skinny dog trotted along in its wake. I summed up the two drivers, both old men, and the trailing handful of travelers on foot. Half of them were women or youngsters. Bringing up the rear of the procession, a broad man in the now-familiar gray robes of a priest of the Light pulled along behind him a line of weary-looking pack animals laden with bundles. Seeing the Honored One among them, I breathed a sigh of relief Terrac wasn’t here to see us persecuting a priest. I could well imagine what he would say to that.

  It appeared to me as I looked down on them that these miserable travelers could scarcely have anything worth robbing. Perhaps in our more desperate years this would have been a worthwhile catch, but these days, we rarely extended a hand toward such slender pickings. I observed as much to Kipp, who grinned.

  “If Ladley says they’re worth our while, that’s good enough for me. He’s got a woman in Coldstream who tipped him off these travelers would be passing through. Information from the woods villagers is usually good.”

  It was true. We had long ago formed an uneasy truce with a number of the surrounding woods villages, whose inhabitants weren’t averse to passing us useful bits of information. We occasionally ventured into their settlements for supplies, and as long as we didn’t steal anything or stir up trouble, most villagers turned a blind eye toward stealthy strangers in deerskin.

  Kipp continued. “You hear what Ladley says about this caravan? He’s insisting some wealthy nobleman travels with them under the guise of a commoner to protect himself from that wicked band of thieves led by Rideon the Red Hand. Ladley claims this party comes from Black Cliffs in Cros. You imagine folk have heard of us all the way up there?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not so far from here. Terrac says his old village is only a couple weeks distant. Merchants and peddlers travel a lot between Selbius and the Cros cities, and I guess they’d warn others, wouldn’t they?”

  Kipp emitted a low whistle. “Infamous in two provinces. How much longer do you suppose it’ll be before the Praetor decides to take us seriously?”

  I shushed him even though the caravan was too far away to hear his noise. “I don’t know.” I pointedly kept my voice low. “But Rideon will know how to handle it if trouble comes our way. His wits are a match for any Fist’s.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ve got a bad feeling about all this attention.”

  “I’ll be keeping my mouth shut and leaving those things to the Hand,” I said shortly. “You can start telling him how to run things if you want, but don’t expect me to back you up.”

  “That’s the last thing I’d expect, the way you lick his boots these days.” He grinned as he said it, to show he only half meant the words.

  He had a roguishly attractive smile. Funny, I was just starting to notice things like that. Even the once scrawny Terrac could be a pleasure to look at with his tunic off during sword practice.

  I shook these distracting thoughts from my mind and returned my attention to the approaching party. I scanned their faces and dress as they drew near, but if any of them was a wealthy noblemen in disguise, none showed it. Soon they were passing beneath us. Kinsley whistled the signal, and we abandoned our hiding places to descend on the startled party. A woman screamed in fright, and many of the male travelers started and looked close to crying out themselves as our band dropped suddenly into their midst.

  A few folk were stupid enough to put up a fight—two had walking sticks and one a short dagger—but our men quelled their resistance in a matter of moments with little bloodshed. Rideon preferred we not injure our victims if we could avoid it. This wasn’t sentimentality on his part; it just made sense to antagonize the Praetor as little as possible. I was glad of this rule, in view of the wailing little heads I saw poking out of the canvas-covered wagon.

  We rounded up all our prisoners and ordered them to sit cross-legged on the ground. Brig and another man, Dannon, stood guard over them, clubs in hand and threatening to dash the brains out of anyone foolish enough to attempt escape. The remaining outlaws began sorting through the wagons, seizing anything of value, but I didn’t join them.

  From the first, I had dashed up to hold the line on the packhorses before they could spook at the confusion and gallop off down the road. Now with one hand I loosed the knots holding the packs on the back of the first mare and began lowering the bundles to the ground. She was a cantankerous animal and made her mistrust of me obvious by sidestepping and tugging sharply to the full reach of her rope. I extended a hand to stroke her nose, but she drew back her lips and snapped dangerous yellow teeth at my fingers.

  “Whoa. Easy there, lady.” I flattered soothingly. She seemed unaffected by my wheedling and stamped her feet, rolling a wild eyeball at me.

  “She’s no lady. She’s a wicked old tart, that one.”

  I jumped at the unexpected voice behind my ear. I tried to spin around but found myself suddenly snatched from behind, my arms pinned behind me. I kicked and wriggled desperately, cursing myself for my carelessness, but no amount of squirming could free me. My assailant’s arm may as well have been a band of iron around my chest.

  “Kindly cease struggling, child, or I will be obliged to poke you in the back with this dagger, little as such a brutish act would appeal to me.”

  I stiffened and ceased my struggles, feeling the sharp point digging into my back.

  “That’s a good fellow,” the stranger said. “No need for violence, is there?”

  I had no chance to respond. He raised hi
s voice to shout at my comrades, who remained oblivious to my predicament. “Hold there, you thieving wretches. Stop what you are doing and take your greedy hands off those wagons. Let these good folk up, help them reload their possessions, and speed them on their way. Ignore my orders, and I’ll have no choice but to resort to force.”

  My comrades paused, looking around incredulously to see who issued such outrageous orders. Then the voice of Rideon’s right-hand man, Kinsley, rose over the lull. “What is this now, Honored? I don’t know how we missed you, but settle down. You’re upsetting folk. No one’s going to suffer harm so long as they cooperate, and that includes you. Now why don’t you release our little hound there? Looks a bit white in the face.”

  “No harm?” my captor demanded. “I doubt any of these people being robbed would agree with you, but we’ll not debate that. Just free them, together with their belongings, or you will find yourselves short one of your number.”

  Kinsley frowned, turning to confer with Brig and a few others. The remainder of the men resumed their work, as if there had never been any interruption.

  “You may as well know this is no good,” I warned my captor. “With the exception of one or two of my friends, my life wouldn’t buy you a pork pie from most of these men, let alone your freedom.”

  “Not to worry, young man. I am prepared to adapt to the situation as necessary. I have fought giants and Skeltai in my time, and I think I’m a match for a ragtag band of thieves.”

  Despite the confident words, he planted his blade a little more deeply into my back and tightened his hold around my chest. Then, startled, he glanced down to see exactly what his grip encircled.

  “Upon my ashes,” he exclaimed. “You’re a woman. Or a girl, at least.”

  “A low rumor invented by my friends to plague me,” I said.

  “Is that right?” He surprised me by laughing. “Well, whether you call yourself one or not, you’re still a young woman, and as a priest of the robe, I should ordinarily release you and apologize for the manhandling. Unfortunately, since my companions are in danger at the moment—or at least their goods are—you can see I’m in no position to do anything of the kind.”