LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Raem snarled and grabbed the old woman’s wrist, tugging her away from Issari. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.” He stepped back into the palace, dragging the crone with him. “Guards! Guards, where—“

  When they stepped into the chamber, both king and princess gasped. The guards lay on the floor, fast asleep, lips fluttering as they snored.

  Shedah cackled and spat upon one. “Weak worms. How did you folk ever build a kingdom of stone and metal? You are guarded by weak boys, their cheeks smoother than my backside.” The crone snorted. “Come north across the sea, oh king, and you will see the strength of true warriors.”

  Raem’s face flushed. He slid his khopesh from his belt and raised the curved blade. Issari had to race forward and stop him.

  “Father! Wait. She knows Mother. She knows Laira.”

  Looking back at the shaman, Issari trembled. Could it be? Could this crone be speaking truth? Issari’s eyes stung and her knees shook.

  My mother . . . my sister . . .

  Issari could not remember them, for they had fled too long ago. Father had smashed all paintings, statues, and engravings depicting Queen Anai and Princess Laira, but Issari had always dreamed of seeing them again. If this shaman had news, there was hope.

  “What do you know?” she said, turning toward Shedah. “Tell us. Tell us everything.”

  Shedah licked her lips. “My sweet child, your mother is dead. Burned at the stake. I watched her burn and I spat upon her charred corpse.”

  Issari stared, unable to breathe, and her eyes stung.

  Mother . . . no . . .

  Issari had been only a babe when Mother fled this city. She could not remember the woman, but she dreamed about her every night. In her dreams, Mother looked like her—her black hair braided, her eyes green and soft, her face kind. All her life that whisper, that warm vision, had comforted Issari, for she knew that even if Mother was far away, she still lived. She still cared for her daughter.

  Dead. Burned.

  Tears gathered in Issari’s eyes.

  “You are lying!” she shouted at the crone.

  Shedah reached into her pouch and produced a silver amulet. It bore an engraving of Taal—a man with his head lowered, his arms hanging at his sides, his palms facing outward—a sigil of purity and humility.

  “The amulet of Eteer’s queen—Anai’s last relic of her once royal past.” The shaman tossed the talisman toward Issari. “Keep it. And whenever you look at it, remember that your mother screamed like a butchered pig when the flames licked the flesh off her bones.”

  As Issari clutched the amulet, Raem grabbed the crone’s arms and leaned down, glaring at her.

  “What of Laira?” the king demanded. “What of my daughter?”

  Shedah licked her lips with her long, white tongue. “The maggot fled our tribe. She was heading north when we lost her scent, but I know where she was going.” Shedah pressed her withered hand against the king’s cheek. “I will reveal all to you, mighty king, in return for but one gift.”

  Raem clutched the woman’s arms so tightly they seemed ready to snap. “What do you desire?”

  “The same as you, my lord. The same as all who are wise. Power.” She sneered. “For years, I placed leeches upon the flesh of Laira, sucking up her blood for my potions. The blood of a princess is mighty, and my stores run low.” The shaman turned toward Issari and gave her a hungry, lustful look. “Give me your one daughter, and I will give you the other.”

  JEID

  HE FLEW.

  SOMETIMES HE JUST needed to fly.

  The night stretched around him, moonless, starless, a world without sight, a sea of wind and blackness and cold air. He did not know where he flew. Most nights he no longer cared.

  Jeid Blacksmith, men used to call him—a forger of bronze.

  Grizzly, his children called him—a shaggy, endearing old beast, lumbering and harmless.

  Diseased, said those who lived in wilderness and towns. A creature. Cursed.

  Flying here upon the wind, he no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew what to call himself.

  “Who am I, Keyla?” he asked, the wind all but drowning his voice.

  He saw her face in the night—his wife, her hair golden in the sun, her smile bright. A sad woman—her smile had always seemed sad to him—but one who clung to every sliver of joy, cradling and nourishing it, letting it grow even through pain.

  “You are Jeid.” She spoke in his mind and touched his cheek. “You are my husband. You are a father to our children.”

  He lowered his head. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell his wife that their youngest daughter was dead, that the people of the plains—perhaps Zerra’s wandering tribe, perhaps the people of Oldforge or another town—had poisoned her.

  But Keyla already knew. He saw that knowledge in her eyes.

  “You’re together now,” Jeid whispered. “And I want to join you.”

  The pain constricted his throat. How easy it would be—to shift into human form, to plummet down through this darkness, to hit the ground and feel no pain, only a relief from pain, only the rise of his soul to the stars. And he would be with Keyla and Requiem again. He could hold his wife, kiss his daughter, nevermore feel hurt, nevermore feel alone and afraid and torn.

  “You must be strong,” Keyla said, and he barely saw her now. His wife was but a wisp, a fading memory, a voice of starlight. “For the others.”

  Rage filled Jeid. The fire crackled through his body. He released it with a great, showering blaze, a beacon that any roc for marks could see. But Jeid no longer cared.

  “Why must this be my task?” His wings shook, and his claws dug into his soles. “Why must I lead this new tribe? I am tired. I want to sleep. I want to be with you again.”

  He looked up to the sky. The clouds parted and he saw three stars—the tail of the dragon, the new constellation that shone in the skies. And there he saw a silver countenance, no longer his wife but his daughter. Young Requiem shone above, wise and sad like her mother had been.

  And Jeid knew the answer.

  “Because I vowed to you, Requiem.” His eyes stung. “I vowed to build a home in your name—so no others would die like you died.” He shook, scales rattling. “But I wish you were here with me. I wish you could live in this home too, my daughter.”

  The clouds gathered again, the light faded, and she was gone.

  Jeid blasted out more fire. He sucked in air, ground his teeth, and kept flying.

  He flew in blackness.

  He flew throughout the night—to remember and to forget.

  A hint of dawn gilded the east, and landforms emerged below, charcoal beneath the black sky—the whisper of hills, valleys, and fields of grass. Jeid turned and flew back north until he saw it, a great shelf of stone that split the world. The escarpment spread across the horizon, the cliffs gleaming bronze as the sun rose. He flew across the river, rose above the mountainside, and saw the canyon there—a den, a hideaway, a seed of a home. He opened his wings wide, catching air, and glided down into the gorge.

  As soon as he touched the ground, he saw it.

  Blood on the stones.

  His nostrils flared. The place stank of injury. Jeid moved his head from side to side, clinging to his dragon form.

  “Father!” he called out.

  His heart pounded. Had the rocs finally dared attack the escarpment, overcoming their fear of the place? Had the townsfolk invaded?

  “Father!” he shouted.

  Finally the old man’s voice rose in answer. “I’m here. It’s all right, Jeid. Come into the cave.”

  Exhaling in relief, Jeid released his magic. He hopped between boulders in human form, entered the eastern cave, and crawled through a short tunnel and into a chamber.

  He straightened and lost his breath.

  “Stars above.”

  His father sat on the floor, clad in his blue druid robes, blood staining his long white beard. Before him, a shivering young man lay upon a
rug. The stranger’s foot was missing. The stump was raw and red, still gushing blood, the shattered bones exposed.

  “Hold him down, Jeid,” Eranor said calmly. “Quickly. I need you to hold him down.”

  “Who—“ Jeid began.

  “Now.”

  Jeid nodded, stepped forward, and knelt behind the injured man. The stranger was shivering, his skin gray, his eyes sunken. Jeid held onto his arms.

  When Eranor reached into the wound, the man bucked and screamed.

  “Hold him firmly!” Eranor said.

  Jeid nodded and tightened his grip, pinning the young man down. Eyes grim, Eranor fished out the sputtering vein. Fingers red, he tied the vein shut.

  “Keep him still.” Eranor swiped his beard across his shoulder. “This will hurt him.”

  “Who is he?” Jeid asked. The young man relaxed in his grip; he shivered upon the rug, his skin the color of the cave walls.

  Eranor replied calmly. “A Vir Requis.”

  Jeid lost his breath. He stared down at the injured man. “You are . . . you can become a dragon.”

  The young man looked up at him. He managed to nod wanly. “I’ve heard of you.” His voice was weak and hoarse. “You are Jeid Blacksmith of Oldforge. The whole north is speaking of you.” He coughed, licked his lips, and managed to keep talking, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m from the Redbone tribe. When they discovered my curse, they chained my ankle to our totem. I shifted into a dragon. When my body grew, the chain dug through me. I rose as a dragon.” He managed a wry smile. “My human foot remained behind. I—“ Coughs overcame his words, and it was a moment before he could speak again. “I heard of the escarpment. I had to find you. I had to . . .”

  His eyes rolled back, his body became limp, and he fell silent.

  “Keep him down,” Eranor said. He reached for a bronze saw and a bowl of boiling water. “He’s unconscious, not dead, and he might wake. It’s best if he sleeps through this part.”

  When Eranor raised the saw, Jeid felt himself pale. “By the stars, what . . .”

  “It’s not a clean cut.” Eranor squinted at the wound. “The bone is jagged. If I sew shut the stump, the bone would only cut through it. I must file it down.”

  Jeid grimaced as his father worked, sawing through bone, filing the edges down, and cutting out infected flesh. The young man woke once and screamed, and Jeid held him pinned down. When the man fainted again, Eranor pulled skin over the wound and stitched it shut.

  “Will he live?” Jeid asked, kneeling above the stranger.

  Eranor wiped his hands on a rug. “I pray to our stars that he does.”

  Jeid’s fingers trembled. He stared down at the pale young man, and strangely, despite the blood and horror, joy kindled in him. His eyes stung.

  We are not alone.

  He was about to speak again when he felt warm wetness against his knee. He looked down to see blood seeping from under the young man’s back. When he raised the man to a sitting position, he saw it there—a broken arrow beneath his shoulder blade, sunken deep into his torso.

  Dawn spilled into the cave when the young man died.

  Jeid held him in his arms, remembering the night Requiem had died in his embrace, and here he was a father again; all these cursed, lost souls were his children now.

  “Rise, friend,” he whispered and kissed the man’s forehead. “Rise to the Draco stars. Their light will guide you home.”

  That evening, Jeid buried the young man in the valley beside his daughter, and he placed a boulder above his grave. Eranor stood beside him, his beard flowing in the wind, and prayed the old prayers of druids.

  Two fallen Vir Requis, Jeid thought, staring at the twin graves. Two more burdens to bear. He looked up at the sunset. The first stars emerged, and the dragon constellation glowed above. Two more souls to guide me.

  “Who am I, Father?” he asked softly.

  Eranor placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a son. You are a father. And you are not alone.” The old man stared south across the plains of swaying grass. “Others are blessed. Others need you. You will build them the tribe that you dream of. They will find you, or we will find them, and we—the Vir Requis—will gather here. We will have a home.”

  That night Jeid did not fly again. He sat in the cave by his father, and he stared at the embers in their brazier, and he thought of Tanin and Maev who were flying south, and he thought of those who had died.

  I will fly on, he thought. But I will no longer fly lost in darkness. Our lights shine across the world. I will be a beacon to them until we shine together.

  LAIRA

  “SO THIS IS HOW I end my first hunt,” Laira muttered to herself as she crawled through the forest. “Bruised, bound, and covered in mammoth shite.”

  She sighed, then winced with pain; even sighing hurt now. She supposed it could have been worse. If those rocs caught her, it would be worse.

  Laira could still hear the birds above. It had been a full day and night since she had escaped the pyre, and the sun was rising again, yet still they hunted her, scanning the skies in pairs. Every few moments, she heard the fetid vultures fly above the canopy, and the oil they secreted fell like foul rain. Thankfully the trees were thick and autumn leaves still covered the branches, shielding her from view. Even in areas where the canopy broke, Laira—covered in mud, dung, and dry leaves—appeared like nothing but a clump of dirt.

  Zerra always said I was nothing but filth, she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips.

  The latest roc vanished overhead, leaving his stench—like moldy meat—to waft down upon her, mingling with her own smell, which was no more appealing. Laira crawled under a tilted oak, rummaged in a pile of fallen leaves, and finally found a stone the right size. She smashed it against another stone, chipping it into a blade. She sat upright, her head dizzy, and worked for a while, rubbing the sharp stone against her bonds. Finally the rope tore, and she brought her arms back forward and examined her wrists.

  They were a bloody, muddy mess, and her hands blazed as fresh blood pumped into them. She cut the ropes around her ankles next and winced. Her feet were in even worse shape. Not only had the ropes chafed her ankles, the fire had burned her soles; ugly welts now rose there. She didn’t know what was worse: her burns, bruises, cuts, or the foul paste coating her, but she thought it was the burns. She needed speed now more than anything, and with burnt feet, how could she walk or run? Even with her ropes cut, was she still bound to crawl to whatever safety she could find?

  Laira sighed. Was there even safety in this world for her? Even if she did escape the Goldtusk tribe—the only home she’d ever known—would she starve in the wilderness or freeze once the snows began to fall? As a babe, she had lived in a distant land, a sunny kingdom named Eteer, but they had banished her. Eteer too hated and hunted weredragons. Even if she could find her way back, no home awaited her across the sea.

  A roc’s cry sounded above, and Laira flattened herself down. When it had passed, she winced and bit her lip, spat out the foul taste, and attempted to stand.

  Her soles blazed as if new fires burned them. She fell into the dry leaves, moaning and dizzy.

  “Maybe I’ll just crawl for a while longer.”

  She crawled until she reached a stream, the shallow water gurgling over smooth, mossy stones. She ached to wash off the dung, which had dried into a flaky paste, but dared not; the rocs could return anytime, and without the stench to mask her scent, they could sniff her out. She couldn’t resist washing her feet, however. Dipping them into the stream shot a bolt through her, but soon the cold water soothed her. They had tied her barefooted to the pyre, and so she ripped off squares from her fur cloak, washed them in the stream, then tied them around her feet with vines.

  When she stood up gingerly on the riverbank, she did not fall. She took one step, wobbled, and then another. She held a tree for support and limped a few more steps. It hurt and her head still swam, but she could walk.

  Probab
ly looking like some evil spirit from a fireside tale, covered in filth and leaves, she wobbled onward. There was only one place she could go now.

  “The escarpment,” she whispered.

  For years, she had dreamed of traveling there. Her mother had claimed it was just a legend, yet it had to be true. The rocs dared not fly near the cliffs. Even Zerra never dared hunt in its shadow. Why else would they fear the place if not because . . .

  “Dragons live there,” Laira whispered, and tears stung her eyes. “Others with my disease. Other banished, cursed souls. I can find a home there.”

  Her head felt full of fog, and she struggled to remember the last movements of her tribe. Goldtusk had been traveling south throughout the fall, planning to spend the winter in the warm, southern coast. That meant the escarpment would be northwest from here—many days away.

  “I can walk,” she whispered, shivering. “I can survive the journey. I can drink from streams and I can gather berries and mushrooms. I can make it.”

  A roc dived overhead, and Laira pressed herself against a tree and remained still until it passed. Then she moved again, limping but trudging on. Using the rising sun’s location, she could determine north easily enough. The moss grew on only one side of the trees, another marker to guide her.

  “Step by step, Laira,” she told herself. “Just keep going and you’ll find the others.”

  A small voice inside her whispered that she was mad, that she could never find a humble escarpment in the endless world. In the vastness of the wilderness, even creatures as large as dragons were small. But walking—even limping—was better than curling up and dying, and so she kept going.

  “I will always keep going,” she promised herself. “If I die, I die moving.”