LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “Stop! You cannot roam Mystland without us!” another wizard cried.

  Eraekryst did stop, but not of his free will. What looked like gossamer threads of spider silk emerged from the branches of the artificial trees and snared him. Like vines they curled around his limbs and torso, though they did so faster than a serpent strike. He smiled in delight, fascinated by his capture.

  A young woman appeared from the other side of the gate, emerging from the surrounding forest in robes of pale rose. Eraekryst did not struggle as he watched her come; in fact, he was amused by the surprise upon her face. Her wide blue eyes were fixated upon him, her full and painted lips were slightly parted. In her hand was a wand.

  “Would this obstacle have been avoided should I have ventured around the gate?” he asked.

  “N-no…there is an unseen barrier and a spell of diversion to guide your attention elsewhere,” she said, looking past the Ilangien to where the five wizards were rushing to meet them.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am Eraekryst of Celaedrion, your prisoner at present…until my unwanted company reclaims me.”

  She looked at him curiously, about to ask him another question, when the wizards made their intrusion. “Do not mind him, Medoriate,” Jagur said, breathless. “The young man is a stranger here. He is ignorant of the rules of the territory.”

  “Are you his sponsor?” the woman asked, her tone a little firmer.

  “Yes, of course. I am Medoriate Lelan Jagur, and my associates and I are returning from an expedition.” He frowned at the Ilangien.

  “What sort of expedition?”

  “My associates and I went to buy rare herbs from the Southern Kingdoms. We found this poor young man in the hands of the Torrgarrans, and so we rescued him.” Jagur puffed out his chest. “But as you can see, we were unable to remove the binding that the barbarians had placed on him.”

  The young woman moved closer to inspect the collar. She reached up and touched the metal. “What does it do?”

  “Well…” Jagur reddened. “We are not entirely certain. It may inhibit some magical talent the young man may have, or it may serve to make him compliant to those who had imprisoned him.”

  Eraekryst gave a nod in the wizards’ direction, and her brow furrowed.

  Oblivious to the subtle gestures, Jagur continued. “We have returned with him to help him, to have the collar removed.”

  “I never knew the Torrgarrans to take prisoners,” the woman murmured. “And you say they wrought this magic collar?”

  “Or traded for it,” Jagur said, rubbing his neck. “I…er…didn’t catch your name, Medoriate.”

  “Torea Falgrove,” she said, studying him and the other wizards. “I didn’t catch how you evaded the Torrgarrans. They are a fierce people.”

  “The truth about barbarians,” another wizard chimed in, “is that they are simple-minded. We were able to bedazzle them with magic—a brilliant display of illumination. While they were distracted, we were able to flee with the Il—”

  “With the young man,” Jagur interrupted loudly. He chuckled. “I’m not one to boast, but we left without a scratch!”

  Torea flashed them a brief smile. “Very impressive.” Her gaze moved to Eraekryst. “Where will you take him to have that awful collar removed?”

  Jagur hesitated. “Breccar, here, knows a skilled medoriate in Norkindara who will be able to remove the collar.”

  Torea nodded. “Well, I will not hinder you anymore. This poor man has waited long enough.” She tapped the webs with her wand, and they dissolved into the air.

  “Thank you, Medoriate Falgrove,” Jagur said, obvious relief upon his face. “You are a very compassionate woman.”

  She waved them through. “Good luck to you, Eraekryst,” she whispered as the Ilangien passed. Her hand grazed his. “May your fortune improve.”

  Confused, the Ilangien glanced at her as the wizards hurried him away, but Medoriate Torea Falgrove merely stood there and smiled.

  “Sir, I cannot determine your proper size if I cannot see you,” the tailor said, exasperated.

  “Take a guess. Y’ don’ bloody ‘ave to touch me to know ‘ow tall I am.”

  “It will help me to better fit your clothes if I can take some measurements.”

  The Demon glared at the man from beneath his hood. “Don’t y’ave something already made?”

  The tailor scratched his beard. “Of course, but you would still have to try your selection.” He frowned as he considered the situation. “Say, you’re not some felon, are you?”

  “Why would a felon come to buy clothes? I’m jus’ ugly, ’s all.”

  The tailor shrugged. “Look over there at that rack. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something that suits you. Let me know if you need assistance.”

  The Demon went to sift through the gentlemen’s attire, unsure what to expect. He frowned at the frilly chemises and silken robes. Hoods aren’t in fashion in Norkindara, he thought, wondering if he would find anything to his liking. He heard the door to the shop open and close and instinctually tensed. There were those in Norkindara who knew him, but his reputation was not favorable.

  “Milady, what has happened?” came the concerned voice of the tailor.

  “I was attacked,” responded the humorless female voice. “Someone had their foxcat off leash.”

  Curiosity overcame caution, and the Demon peered around the rack to glimpse the patron. She had a youthful face—probably no older than her early thirties. She had round, green eyes, pert lips, and frizzy brown hair bound in a bun. The Demon thought it looked like a small, furry animal had taken refuge behind her head. Aside from her muddied and ragged clothes, he thought she was rather comely.

  “Are you all right?” the tailor asked.

  “I am uninjured, thanks. But I will need something to wear that doesn’t have tears or holes or mud.” She gave him a wry smile.

  “I can customize a new dress, if you would like….”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I think I will look to see what you already have.”

  The Demon immediately disappeared behind the rack again. Despite her soiled attire, he had noticed the official emblem of the Mystland Governing Council. This was not a woman with whom he should spark casual conversation. He heard her quick but delicate steps approaching the opposite side of the rack. Then she began peeling through the fabric as though she was shucking corn. He hesitated to move, then quietly resumed his own search, attentive to her every sound and motion.

  Then she stopped. There was a bout of silence where the Demon held his breath.

  “Um, sir?”

  Is she talking to the tailor?

  “Sir, I can’t help but notice you are without any shoes.”

  Sieqa.

  “Your poor feet…are white? Did you step in something? I can’t imagine anyone walking barefoot when there’s still such a chill in the air.”

  “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Buying a new pair.”

  “But your feet are so dirty. You must have been without decent footwear for some time.”

  “I said I’m—” Before he could move, she had rounded the corner.

  “Oh! You’re a slight thing, you are.” She tried to see under the hood, but then her eyes fell to his clothes. “I didn’t think it possible, but you are in worse wear than I am. Don’t tell me you were attacked by the same foxcat.”

  “No,” he said, frozen.

  “Then you must be a weary traveler. From the look of you, you’ve probably walked all of Mystland.” She took a step closer to him, and he took a step back. “Shy, too,” she murmured to herself. Her gaze wandered to the rack in front of him. “Those would certainly not fit you, unless you can grow another foot or so.”

  “’S for a friend,” the Demon said. Tensely, he watched her move some of the pieces on the rack.

  “Strange to be browsing for someone else.” She plucked a brilliant blue shirt from the rack and held it up to him. “This
may be a titch large, but it would be much better than…pardon, but you are wearing rags.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “Really, I can find what I need.”

  She lowered the shirt. “You’re a southerner!” she exclaimed, as though this somehow excited her. “The Amber Coast? Or the Firethorne Shore?”

  “Neither.”

  “How rude of me,” she said, her fair cheeks brightening. She draped the shirt over one arm and extended her free hand. “I am Miria Woolens.”

  He hesitated before accepting.

  She held onto his hand. “Your hands are white, too!” she exclaimed. “And they’re trembling.” She looked up at him as he jerked his hand away. “Are you ill?”

  “I change color when I’m nervous,” he muttered, ready to forget the clothing he needed.

  “That’s a strange trait,” she said, unsure whether or not he was serious. “You said your name was—”

  “I didn’t,” the Demon responded. “Sorry, luv, but I’m in a bit of an ‘urry. I ‘ave to ‘elp a mate o’ mine.”

  “Ah, that explains the clothes,” Miria nodded. “Sorry to keep you. I may seem nosy, but it’s my job to ask questions.” She looked down at the shirt, embarrassed.

  “Er, look, since y’ found it, I’ll take it.”

  She reclaimed a smile as she handed the shirt to him. “Good luck with your friend.”

  “Thanks,” the Demon said, hastily stuffing a few other articles in the crook of his arm. He started for the tailor, but could not help but pause. “I like y’r ‘air,” he said over his shoulder.

  Miria smiled, and her blush deepened. “Thank you.” Her eyes lingered on the pale stranger until he disappeared out the door.

  Tonight he was actually in a good mood. Not only would he have his vengeance upon those who had cheated him of his fair pay, but he could clear his conscience with a good deed. And, of course, he was doing what he did best: slinking in the shadows. His brother had often commented on his chaotic nature, perhaps as a reminder to curb his thirst for disorder, but the Demon viewed his personality quirk with a sense of pride.

  He strolled down the darkened hall of I.M.A.G.I.N.E.’s meeting quarters. He had waited for the dinner hour to pass, and now it was late enough that no one would be respectably roaming the building. Not only did the large construct support the radical wizards’ meetings, but it also housed many of the faction’s members.

  The size and complexity of the building had intimidated the Demon at first. How would he find the Ilangien without opening every door and peering into each room? Fortunately, his solution became apparent when he had set foot in the atrium, just inside the main entrance. He suspected the Ilangien had purposely left behind an olfactory trail, the trace scents of forest leaves and mossy earth he detected. That, of course, meant that the arrogant prisoner expected a rescue. Far be it for me to disappoint him, then.

  The Demon rounded a corner, then another, following the scent. The pale moonlight streaming through the sky windows illuminated the painted portraits upon the walls. They all looked like snooty wizards and witches with funny hats and gaudy colored robes, and each had a quote. The hue of the silk represented something of the medori’s magical field of study, he knew, though the more he studied the portraits, the more he was glad he did not pursue his own studies in Mystland. As a mage, he was too different from them—too specialized. And he doubted the wizards would have humored his attempt at academics anyway. More importantly, he would have had to wear some humiliating combination like pink and lemon, complete with a floppy hat that looked like a sleeve attached to his head. He even thought of his title: Medoriate No-name.

  He paused before a familiar face, unable to resist closer inspection. Hello, Lelan. Somehow the wizard managed to look like a goof even in his posed portrait. He wondered how the artist got away with the depiction, though perhaps Jagur was too oblivious to notice. Not unlike the Stone of Prophecy. You see what you want to see, the Demon thought. He read the quote beneath Jagur’s portrait: The words of the past are the keys to unlocking the promise of the future. The Demon smiled wryly. Spoken like a true archaic translator. I’ll unlock your prophet, and you can determine your own future, I promise.

  Jagur’s beady eyes gawked at him from behind his glasses in the portrait. The Demon suppressed a shudder and continued on his way, amazed that even a lifeless painting of the wizard could irritate him. He considered the Ilangien’s abduction by the wizards and wondered who annoyed who more. In that respect, he thought they deserved each other. The Ilangien, however, did not deserve to be locked away.

  He came upon a door with a symbol on it, and though he could not interpret what the symbol meant, his nausea might well have been an arrow pointing him inside. He gave a slight tug at the handle. Not only was the door locked, but there was no visible keyhole or mechanism he could pick to unlock it. For a minute he stared at the handle, his mind sifting through ideas of how he could gain passage. To pass through in Shadow without knowing what was on the other side could prove disastrous. There were no options for him; the door was sealed with a spell. The Demon swore and slumped down against the opposite wall.

  He did not know how long he sat there, thinking about how he had come to this point in his life. He seemed no closer to his personal goal. In fact, he had wasted much time and energy only to end up impoverished and stuck outside a locked door. His good mood started to ebb until he was distracted by the sound of voices.

  The two men were out of view, but when they rounded the corner to head down his hall, his first instinct was to mask his own visibility. One figure was tall and lanky, and the other was shorter, thicker. Both wore hats and robes, but the shorter one carried a lantern lit with blue Wizard’s Fire.

  “I don’t know that the others would approve of this, Arden. He has not yet been questioned by Darmorin,” the familiar voice of the shorter wizard protested.

  “As I see it, you headed the expedition, and you have not been relieved of your responsibility. Darmorin can save his breath; we can ask our questions first,” Arden said.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are you not a wizard of the First Rank?” the tall man taunted.

  The shorter man sighed, and as he drew the lantern toward the door, the Demon was delighted to discover that this was indeed Lelan Jagur. He waited as Jagur uttered a foreign word and tugged on the door. Nothing happened.

  The taller wizard sighed. “You’re a master linguist. You should know you must ennunciate these spells.”

  Jagur flashed his companion a look of irritation before repeating himself. This time, the handle clicked, and the door opened. The two medori disappeared inside, and the Demon rushed to catch the door before it closed completely. They were oblivious to the delay before the door shut behind them. The Demon, however, had noticed that upon closing, the door vanished completely. I hate wizards.

  He skirted along the shadows of the wall. A blazing hearth in the center of the room cast everything in blue-white light. There was a table adjacent to the fire, arranged with an inkwell, quill, blank sheets of paper, a platter with meat and gravy, and a cup. Two empty chairs stood on opposite sides of the table. Potted plants of all sizes were scattered about the room like guests mingling at a party. The Demon wondered if the wizards did not intend to coax some sort of confession from the Ilangien by means of sedentary vegetation.

  He crept behind a large, leafy shrub and shed his Shadow. That was when he spied the Ilangien.

  Eraekryst’s pale glow emanated from a corner of the room where he stood barefoot, an entire carrot in his hand. The carrot was blackened with ink, and the wall he faced had been redecorated with his organic paintbrush. He raised the carrot directly in front of him, turned it, then spun to face the flabbergasted medori. “I am satisfied with its completion,” he said and tossed the carrot at their feet with a splatter.

  His creation was a ceiling-to-floor depiction of a creature with feral, foxlike eyes, long and tapered ears, and large, leathery wi
ngs. It was crouched as though it would pounce upon its viewers with its claws. The likeness to a certain demon was undeniable.

  “Wh-what is this?” Jagur stammered, taking a step away from the rendering.

  “It is art,” Eraekryst said flatly. “Humans are supposed to appreciate art.”

  “It’s horrifying.” Arden kicked the carrot away. “Explain yourself.”

  “’Tis the future, verily.” The Ilangien glanced at his creation and smiled. “The variance in tones one can achieve by diluting the ink is impressive.”

  “Do you know how long it will take to scrub that from the wall?” Arden asked, his voice rising with his temper.

  “There is but one manner in which you will discover the answer, but I see you did not come equipped with more water. Later, perhaps, when you have changed your attire. I am certain the ink will stain, though I was mindful enough to remain unscathed.” Save for his hands, there was not even the smallest drop or smear upon Eraekryst’s clothes.

  The tall wizard looked as though he might lunge at the Ilangien, but Jagur gripped his arm and whispered, “Humor him, or he will not answer any of our questions. We have not yet found a way to utilize the collar.”

  Grudgingly, Arden sat down at the table, though his glare remained steadfast upon the prisoner.

  Jagur approached Eraekryst with open hands. “Please, young man,” he began gently, “tell us more about your plight so that we might help you.”

  Eraekryst looked down at him with his piercing eyes. “As I am perhaps two hundred years your senior, you would thus be the infant, and my plight is the greed-tinted glasses through which you now view me, your prisoner.” He plucked Jagur’s glasses from his nose and wiped them clean with his sleeve.

  Jagur reached for them, but Eraekryst held them out of reach. “I do not understand you,” the wizard said, flustered by his actions.

  “For you I will simplify the obvious. You desire my help, but you do not know what it is you are asking.” He passed the glasses to his other hand as Jagur made a pathetic jump at them. “I can illuminate the future for you, but what will you do when ’tis not what you wish to see?”