LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “Well, go ahead! Take a look,” Mollie said.

  He started to lift the mirror, saw a flash of color, and turned away.

  “Come now, boy, it’s not hideous, I promise.”

  Arythan took a deep breath and lifted the mirror again. He forced his eyes to regard the image in the glass, and his heart nearly stopped.

  His skin was tinted—more than tinted. It was warm-toned, slightly golden as his brother’s had been. Traces of fine blond hair atop his head were yielding to newer growth. A short field of deep gold had sprouted atop his scalp, and even his eyebrows had emerged in a slightly darker hue. His eyes were just as Miria had said: a deep, vibrant shade of blue, like the sky just before night shaded everything. All the shapes were the same: his nose, his lips… He opened his mouth to see his tongue and gums were also pink, and among them were his flawless new Human-like teeth. His eyes were sunken, as were his cheeks, but he had expected as much. But then… His fingers moved over his chin, along his jaw. He nearly dropped the mirror. It can’t be… Yet there was no denying the rough texture beneath his fingertips.

  “See, I told you you were handsome,” Mollie said with a grin.

  Arythan looked up at her, his eyes wide.

  The healer frowned. “Or maybe you don’t think so,” she said, hesitant. “I’ll…er…leave you alone. There are some new clothes for you on the chest.” She hurried out and shut the door behind her.

  Who am I? he thought, his gaze returning to the mirror. He found he did not want to look, but nor could he turn away. This stranger was reminiscent of someone he knew, but it was still a stranger—a stranger that mirrored every move and expression he made. When he blinked, so did the image. With his free hand, he felt the hair upon his head, soft and fuzzy. His fingers slid back to the area around his mouth and chin, the coarse texture there. He looked closer at the mirror to see small dots of facial hair where none had ever been before. And his eyes… It was all too much. Too, too much. He set the mirror face-down upon the bed and paced on weakened legs. This nightmare could not be real.

  He moved to the neatly folded stack of clothes, looking at them but not really seeing them. For a long while he stared, unable to latch onto a coherent thought. Finally, a force within him took over. Whether it was a prod of logic or the need to move, he did not know. He watched the stranger’s tinted hands unfold the clothes and lay them on the bed. The same stranger removed the rest of the bandages from someone else’s tinted body. He felt along his back to where his wings had been. Two large, raised scars remained, and that was all. He ran a hand through his hair, only to be reminded that it was not the hair he remembered. He took a deep breath and began to dress.

  The mirror remained ignored upon the bed, even as he prepared to step out and await the audience he knew would be there. He opened the door and stood in the hall, in the shadows.

  “There you are!” Miria exclaimed. “I was beginning to wonder if you had fallen asleep—” She stopped as he stepped into the light. “Oh, my…” Her eyes grew wide, and she approached him. She touched his hair, straightened the shirt upon his narrow shoulders, and regarded him again in astonishment. “Arythan…you’re beautiful,” she whispered.

  He could not meet her gaze, feeling like someone’s creation. His eyes, instead, found the Ilangien. For as often as Eraekryst was bereft of expression, Arythan wished this was one of those moments. As it was, the Ilangien gazed at him in sorrow—sorrow for what was lost forever. Arythan could read it clearly in the immortal’s eyes, and he had to turn away, lest he fall apart.

  “I…” He looked at Miria. “I need some time.” He quickly moved past her and out the door.

  “All right,” she whispered after him. “I’ll be here.”

  When Arythan did not return by dawn, Miria set out to look for him. She came across the Ilangien, who had a horned mouse perched on his shoulder and a trail of exotic waterfowl following him. He had been talking to himself, but he stopped where he stood when he saw her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

  “Gathering an audience,” he said, his attention already wavering. He started to walk again when Miria stopped him.

  “Eraekryst, have you seen Arythan?” she asked.

  “Nay, but the durmorth is yet asleep in the barn. Look beneath the blanket if you dare.” Then he was gone, lost in a world of his own.

  “The barn?” Miria followed the Ilangien’s directions, and sure enough, the mage was curled in a corner of the barn, one of his bare feet protruding from the blanket. “Arythan?” She reached to touch him, but then he spoke, his eyes still closed.

  “Sleeping.”

  “It’s almost midday. You must be hungry. I thought we could discuss the plan over lunch.”

  He mumbled something in another language, then muttered, “Not ‘ungry.”

  “Are you unwell?” Miria tried again. “What possessed you to sleep in the barn?”

  “Dark.”

  She frowned. “You know, I—”

  “I’m coming,” he said. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket over his head like a hood, then stood and dusted off the straw.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see you will be very cooperative today.” Miria sighed and led the way out of the barn.

  “I want an ‘at.”

  “A what?”

  “An ‘at. For m’ ‘ead. And one o’ the things y’ wrap around y’r neck.”

  “A noose?” she jested.

  “No.”

  “A scarf, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not unless you’re disfigured, which you are not.”

  He followed her to the house, where she had set several items upon the table. “Have a seat,” she said, some of her enthusiasm returning. “I’ll show what I came up with.”

  “When did y’ do this?” the blanket asked.

  “Last night, after you left. Why?”

  “’Twas late.”

  “I wasn’t tired.” She sat down and stared at the hidden form. “Can you do me just one favor? Let me talk to Arythan.”

  His face emerged from the blanket. Miria did her best to keep her smile hidden, knowing he would only grow more obstinate should he see it. “That’s better. You’re not drunk, are you?”

  “No,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “Jus’ tired.”

  Miria nodded. “Well, take a look at this.” She pushed a hand-written document toward him, watching as several fingers appeared to pull it closer. “You, uh, do know how to read, right?”

  He glanced at her with a humorless expression and proceeded to look over the contents of the paper.

  “To summarize,” she began anyway, “it states that you are of the Mystland Medori. I’m afraid I can’t lie and say that you are certified in your studies, but simply by being a citizen of—”

  “What does it do?” Arythan asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do I need it?”

  “Well, to get a job, of course. I would think someone should be looking for a good wizard or mage to hire—especially in the wealthier regions of Secramore. You just have to be careful to avoid the House of Jedinom.”

  Arythan was lost at the word “job.” “I need a paper to get an ‘Uman job?”

  “Well, no, but it should help, I would think.” Miria chewed on her thumb as she watched him. “There’s also this.” She slid a map his way. “It’s all of Northern Secramore. I tried to jot notes about which territories are safe for medori and which are not. I confess I don’t know much about the land outside Mystland. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “What’s that?” Arythan asked warily, nodding toward a small bag and a length of thin cord.

  “This,” Miria said, holding up the cord, “is strengthened by magic, guaranteed not to snap. You can tie it to your knife to wear it around your neck. You have already guessed at the coin purse. What’s inside isn’t much, but it will help you
start your journey.” She added it to his collection. “Mollie and I will also give you some provisions for the road. She is at the market as we speak.”

  “’S too much,” he said, pushing the purse back to her.

  “No, it’s not. It’s a gift. I want you to take it.” Miria slid it back. “I can see you to the Southern Gate, but then you will be on your own…unless Eraekryst decides to join you.” She looked at her hands. “Part of me was hoping you might stay in Mystland, but my heart tells me you won’t.”

  He shook his head.

  “So that’s it,” Miria said with a sigh. “I only wish I could be more helpful. I would have liked—”

  Arythan reached out and touched her hand. “Thanks.”

  “You can go back to sleep if you want, blanket-boy,” she said, blushing. “I won’t interrupt you this time—except for dinner, perhaps.”

  He gave her a slight smile and stood. “One day I’ll repay y’,” he promised.

  “Just survive, Arythan. I want you to succeed and be happy.”

  He gave her a nod and vanished outside.

  Eraekryst gazed across the landscape lit by the amber rays of a descending sun. I know you are out there. What is it that you want? Is it me or is it him who you follow? He threw another handful of seed from his pocket to the birds that had gathered below him and gave the horned mouse on his shoulder a morsel to chew. Its whiskers brushed against his cheek as its tiny mouth processed the food. “Why is it that you have horns? Do you battle?” he asked the creature. The mouse paused, then resumed its merry munching.

  “Eraekryst!” Miria’s voice rose to the branch upon which he was seated with his back against the trunk. She had not yet spotted him, despite the bare feet that hung down from the tree. The Ilangien looked down at her and decided to cast another portion of seeds to the birds. Like rain the pieces fell, and the birds swarmed around her feet to greedily feast on all they could.

  “Oh!” she cried, then looked up at the source of the mischief. “You’re in a tree!”

  “And you are upon the ground,” he said.

  “Eraekryst, I have news. Important news.”

  “Will you not join me?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. Eraekryst, this is serious. The Larini…” She placed her hands on her hips and sighed. “The Larini were found dead. Mollie heard the news at the market today.”

  “I am not responsible,” the Ilangien said indignantly.

  “I didn’t say you were,” Miria countered. “But they were murdered—brutally murdered.” She shuddered, and looked away.

  “The culprit has not been identified,” Eraekryst inferred, more intrigued than alarmed.

  “No. And there are no leads. Whoever did it…that person would have to be powerful or extremely clever.”

  “Verily,” he said, his thoughts drifting.

  “Arythan wants to leave tomorrow. He will not stay another day, even if their death can’t be pinned to our encounter with them. I will lead him as far as the Southern Gate.” She looked back up at him. “Will you be joining us?”

  “’Tis the announcement for which I have waited patiently,” he said, the irritation gone from his tone. He stood on the branch and made a graceful leap to the ground, the birds scattering, then returning. The horned mouse appeared from where it had hidden in his pocket, and Eraekryst set it at base of the tree. He turned to Miria. “Is the durmorth yet cross with me?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know how to read him right now. Why would he be upset with you?”

  “I asked to read his mind.”

  “Oh. I don’t know, Eraekryst. The idea that you can read someone’s mind is a little disturbing. No one wants their private thoughts invaded.”

  He frowned at her. “’Twas why I asked.”

  “If the two of you will be traveling together, you might want to smooth your terms with him, or it will be a very quiet journey,” she suggested.

  Eraekryst regarded her warily. “Yea, I will speak with him.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, dinner is ready. Thank you for not inviting the mouse inside.”

  The following morning was burdened by steady rain, though it did not hinder Arythan’s determination to set out for the Southern Gate. Mollie allowed Miria to borrow her cart, and they rolled along steadily and in thoughtful silence, which made Eraekryst fidgety and ornery. Twice they stopped to rest or eat, but such breaks were brief, as their goal was to reach the gate by sunset. They arrived a little later than they had hoped, and Miria left the driver’s seat to speak with the medoriate on watch. Arythan and Eraekryst waited expectantly until she returned.

  “This is it,” she said, pushing a damp lock from her forehead. “Everything you need to start you on your way is in your bags.” She gestured to the small shoulder bags in the wagon bed. “Eraekryst, I wish you a warm welcome in Veloria. I’m sure your people will be grateful, if not a little puzzled, by your return.”

  “Thank you, Lady Miria, for your company and your assistance,” he said with a bow.

  She turned to Arythan, glad for the rain that hid her tears. “Be strong,” she said, struggling to convey the feelings she wanted to express. She drew near to him, and looked into his eyes. “Arythan, I…” Without knowing why and unable to stop herself, she leaned in and kissed him. He did not resist, and so the moment lingered, though not long enough for her. When she pulled away, she could feel the rush of heat to her cheeks. “I’ll probably never see you again, will I?”

  Arythan shrugged and squeezed her hand. He did not say a word but gave her a lasting look before he slipped away from her. She watched them leave, two mysterious strangers who had entered her life as suddenly as they were parting from it. “Goodbye,” she whispered, “and good luck.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE REAL PROBLEM

  TELL ME about the labyrinth. The thought was a mere suggestion, nothing more than an idea planted in the mind. Eraekryst had reasoned that sleep would be the best time to search for answers, though he would not pry at Arythan’s mind. He would wait for the memories to surface, and then he would learn what he wanted to know. Of course, Eraekryst admittedly knew little about the workings of a mortal’s subconscious. He thought that dreams were pleasant images to help the body rest and refresh; he himself was incapable of true sleep, much less dreams. So it was that the Ilangien was about to find himself in the midst of one of Arythan’s nightmares.

  Eraekryst saw through Arythan’s eyes, finding himself laying flat on the cold surface of a stone table. Darkness surrounded him except for flashes of red light that enabled him to barely see his own—rather, the Demon’s—immobile body. There were whispers which the Ilangien thought belonged to his own mind until he saw the glint of teeth, a glimpse of the witches’ black eyes. They merged together as though they were one being—a spider with four eyes and spindly arms that reached toward him with sharp nails. The fingers dove toward him, penetrating his flesh like breaking the surface of water. They tore at him, peeling away layers of white skin, opening him up like a piece of fruit. Blood spattered like black rain as the fingers sought their treasure, and then they emerged triumphant, holding the Demon’s beating heart.

  He saw the glint of teeth again—just before they sank into the pulsing organ, black fluid oozing everywhere and dripping on his own ravaged carcass. Eraekryst was revolted by the sight, sickened even more because he knew this vision to be based on reality. He had touched the altar. He had seen it.

  He could feel Arythan’s consciousness shift; it was time for him to leave. Eraekryst’s mind returned to his own body just as the mage woke with a cry. Gasping, Arythan ran a hand through his short hair and tried to calm himself. His gaze fell upon the Ilangien.

  “You had been sleeping,” Eraekryst said, using a long stick to prod the smoking embers of the fire. “I would assume your mortal dreams had soured, given your thrashing and writhing.”

  Arythan shook his head. He closed his eyes and sighed.

 
“What is it that you dream, Durmorth?”

  “I don’t care to recall,” he muttered, his eyes still closed.

  “Would it not ease you to share your fears?” Eraekryst reclined back against the log, though his gaze never left the mage.

  “Yeah, y’d like that, wouldn’t y’? No, it wouldn’t ‘elp to talk.”

  “I know that your state of mind has been questionable given your wrongful transformation. I would like to help you regain a positive outlook,” Eraekryst said.

  “Y’ want to chase away my rain clouds, eh?” Arythan finally looked at him. “Sorry, Sunshine, but the storm follows me. I’ve got nowhere to go an’ nothing to do, so let it bloody rain.”

  Eraekryst was undaunted. “See how the sky lightens? The night is over, Durmorth. And…” He moved a pan from the embers. “I have prepared a meal for you.”

  Arythan’s lips parted, then closed again.

  “Lady Miria has generously given us the tools and the nourishment we require. I made use of them so that you will have a suitable commencement to your day.” Eraekryst emptied some of the contents into a wooden bowl and passed it to the mage.

  “I thought I’d ‘ave smelled it,” he murmured, then frowned. “Erik, this is black. What is it?”

  “’Tis a conglomeration. Magic fish, magic muffins, and magic butter, courtesy of Mystland’s preservation magic.” Eraekryst watched him closely. “Do try some.”

  “Did y’ try it first?”

  “As you know, I have no need to eat when it does not suit me.”

  “This might not suit anyone,” Arythan muttered. He looked at the Ilangien. “Muffins an’ fish?”

  “And butter. Magic butter.”

  Arythan bit his lip, then picked up a black and crispy chunk. “Did y’ set it in the fire or just set it afire?”

  Eraekryst looked hurt.

  “Alright.” The mage took a deep breath and set the piece in his mouth.

  The Ilangien watched him chew, waiting for any hint of expression. When the mage betrayed nothing, he asked, “Does it satisfy you?”