LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Arythan had backed against a wall, his hand having discovered some sort of stand. He glanced down to find it contained half a dozen swords, their hilts virtually at his fingertips.

  “There are an abundance of rats tonight,” the woman said. “We’ve already caught five. I assume you know them.”

  Jodann said nothing, but she was slowly backing toward the door.

  “Stop, or I’ll take your head from your shoulders,” the broad man threatened, drawing his blade.

  Before anyone could react, Arythan shoved Jodann aside. He stood before her, his own weapon poised to strike.

  The broad man took a swing at him, and he blocked the blow; the sound of metal hitting metal resonated in the small space. “Go!” the mage shouted, and Jodann needed no urging. She scrambled out the door, and Arythan was close behind her. They bolted from the site, Arythan allowing her to take the lead as they fled down the deserted streets to the Red-Handed’s hideaway. They ducked around a corner to catch their breath and to see if anyone had followed them.

  “Is it clear?” Jodann gasped.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?” she demanded.

  “See for y’self, then.”

  She did, and when she was satisfied that they had made a clean escape, she slammed her hand against the wall and swore. “How did this happen? How? They couldn’t’ve known.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Arythan said.

  “What? ‘Course it matters!”

  “Not if I get m’ knife,” he said, staring at his newly acquired sword.

  “Whaddoya mean?” Jodann’s dark eyes searched him.

  “M’ magic is in the knife. Tell me the names o’ the thieves, and I can cast a spell—make them forget ‘oo they work for.”

  “They won’t say nothing! They’re bound by the law—”

  “To what? ‘Old their tongues at the penalty of death?” Arythan asked. “Not like Red Glove can touch them now. Y’ know they’ll talk, an’ then everything falls apart.”

  Jodann bit her lip.

  “We’re wasting time,” Arythan said, his voice cold.

  “Alright, c’mon,” she replied, and they hurried to seek an audience with the guildmaster.

  Andreas the Red-Handed was waiting for them. One look at his trusted servant was all that he needed to decipher the situation. “What happened?” he asked before Jodann or Arythan could speak. His eyes were like splinters sliding beneath their skin.

  “They knew, sir,” Jodann blurted. “They took the others, and we barely got away.”

  “Was nothing gained from this venture?” the Red-Handed asked, his voice rising.

  Jodann squirmed. “There was nothing we could do.” Her eyes fell upon the mage, who stared back at her and mouthed, “the knife.” “Oh!”

  “Oh?” the guildmaster repeated, his patience as fleeting as sand slipping through a tightening fist.

  Her eyes darted back and forth between them. “Sorry, sir, but he needs his knife. He says he needs its magic to cast a spell on the others—make them forget about us before they bleed the truth.”

  The Red-Handed studied her, then turned his cold regard upon the mage. “A magic knife to make them forget,” he summarized without emotion. He began to pace before the fireplace. “I am amazed.”

  Jodann looked warily at Arythan.

  The Red-Handed abruptly stopped pacing. “I am amazed that you, Jodann, have failed me so completely.”

  She shrank beneath his words.

  “And I am amazed that you,” he looked at Arythan, “expect me to believe such a ludicrous claim!”

  Arythan did not know what “ludicrous” meant, but he could hear the distrust in the Red-Handed’s words. “I don’ care what y’ believe, sir.”

  The guildmaster’s mouth parted, then closed as his lips tightened in a thin line. His fair complexion reddened in anger. “You will care when I see you punished! You will scream and cry for my mercy, and all your magic tricks and spells will not save you.” He took a step toward them, his posture rigid.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” Jodann cried, stepping away from Arythan. “He don’t listen to me. I try but—”

  “Enough!” the Red-Handed snapped. “I’ll contend with you after I deal with him.” The obsidian blade suddenly appeared in his gloved hand. He held it up for Arythan to see. “You will never have your knife. You will never hold anything again.”

  The mage had ceased listening. He saw only his knife, his Shadow, in the hands of an advancing stranger. He trembled and clamped his fingers around the hilt of his sword—the weapon concealed at his side.

  “Bloodrot vermin!” The guildmaster lunged at him.

  There was a flash of metal in the firelight, a spatter of scarlet. The gloved hand hit the floor without its master, the obsidian knife still tucked beneath its curled fingers.

  The Red-Handed staggered forward with a sound between a gasp and a howl. Arythan shoved him, sending him to the ground. The mage moved to reclaim his knife, started to pry at his weapon, when there was a scream.

  Jodann stood stupidly, dark eyes bulging at the sight of her master, his blood, and his detached hand. When her eyes turned to Arythan, she screamed again.

  The Red-Handed’s goons had been alerted; Arythan could hear shouts and heavy footfalls in the hall outside. He snatched up the bloody hand and barreled into Jodann, slamming his elbow into her face. Arythan did not see her hit the ground; he was already bursting through the doors. He fled past the surprised thieves on the other side, racing for his freedom before anyone knew the wiser.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A NOTEWORTHY PERFORMANCE

  FIRELIGHT TRACED the contours of a myriad of faces, each with a story as rich as the shadows where the light could not reach. This was a strange sort of family, but not so unlike the Prophet’s clan of desert thieves. The Crimson Dragon’s performers, however, were not disposed to looting travelers’ valuables. Rather, their skills and talents earned them wealth, as well as a role in this troupe of entertainers. There were forty in all: jugglers, acrobats, animal trainers, fools, a blacksmith, a minstrel, musicians, and Miranda—the blonde singer who had made Arythan blush at a glance. Others worked behind the scenes to erect the tent, the seating, and other tasks unacknowledged by the public. There were not, however, fancy ladies. Those, Arythan was told, happened to make their appearance when the crowd gathered for the show, and they snatched a few of the weak-willed men. Then there were the masterminds behind the Crimson Dragon: Rosalynda and Lyssana.

  Rosalynda—rather, “Rosie”, was the charming and vivacious mistress of ceremonies. She was quick-witted and a weaver of words. Her partner—who also happened to be her lover in a not-so-secret romance—was Lyssana, the Dragon’s manager. She was quiet and eloquent and every bit as clever as her companion. Where Rosie was dynamic as a tempest, Lyssana was as calm and even as the ocean’s horizon. Their differences met in a harmonious and eccentric relationship that existed between them personally but also contributed to a successful business as entertainers.

  Arythan had only been traveling with them for a couple days. It seemed the troupe never lingered anywhere for too long, and that was fine by him given his circumstances. Though his circumstances had forged a bit of tension amongst the entertainers. Rosie and Lyssana had welcomed him into their “family” readily enough after he had warned them about the thieves’ intentions, but he was still a thief himself, and what was more, he was certain he was being tracked. He was not the only one with such suspicions.

  While most of the troupe laughed, drank, ate, and told stories around the fire, there were a notable few who remained silent, their wary eyes upon the mage. Arythan did not look at them. He felt like an intruder, hiding behind these people while inevitable trouble lurked behind them. He did not want to bring them any of his misfortune, and he had told the women as much. Yet they had insisted he stay with them a while, seemingly unconcerned about his occupation or whoever Andreas the Red-Handed might have sen
t after him.

  Arythan kept his eyes on the sword’s blade as he cleaned it. It was a nice weapon—good balance, a sharp blade. Too nice a gift for me. And already I soiled it. In his mind it was all a blur, the severing of the guildmaster’s hand, the blood, his knife. He had never maimed anyone before, and it almost felt as though someone else was responsible. I shouldn’t feel guilty. He had my knife. He beat and branded me. He would’ve taken my hand had I not taken his first.

  He had disposed of the glove and the hand inside of it—a gruesome token of his rage. There was also the burn between his neck and shoulder. This recent injury was self-inflicted, a painful but necessary act to erase all traces of the guild’s brand. If it healed properly, it would only be a nasty scar—one of the many he already possessed.

  Arythan angled the flat surface of the blade away from himself so that it reflected the fire and not his image. I will leave tonight and confront my tail. If I survive, maybe I can find the troupe again. It’s him or me; I’ll have to kill him if I’m to leave this mess behind me. Maiming was one thing; killing was another. He had never killed anyone, and the thought left him sick. It was the one desperate action he never wanted to commit, the one quality that, in his mind, kept him apart from the violent nature of his people.

  It’s self-defense. I have to do it. Unless, of course, I’m the one who’s killed. The sword was perfect; he was rusty. He had not wielded such a weapon since he had left the Blackdust Islands at the age of twelve. It was entirely likely that all his childhood training would fail him along with his memory of what he had learned of combat.

  I’ve had a great start at this new life, he thought with a wry smile and set down the weapon.

  “So, Arythan….”

  It took him a moment to realize Rosie was addressing him. Yeah, that’s me, right? He looked up to find her eyes intent upon him, along with the rest of the troupe. He knew what was coming; it was unavoidable.

  “We devised a tale about you.”

  Arythan blinked. A tale? He had expected an interrogation, not a story.

  Rosie smiled at his obvious bewilderment. “Would you expect any less from a group of entertainers?” She waved her hand, and one of the musicians strummed his lute. “We had to embellish what little we knew of you, and then there are some creative additions…” She gave a nod to Ned the minstrel, and he began his story.

  “In a land too far to be near

  Where mountains prod the sky

  And dragons sleep ‘neath cloudy drear

  Where songbirds dare not fly

  A son was born to a wealthy lord

  But no ordinary child, he

  No one could breathe or speak a word

  For in his eyes they did see

  The bluest of ocean deep

  The color of the pending night

  A power no mere man could keep

  A magic that burned bright

  The lord did see this as a curse

  To raise a medoriate son

  He gave the child to the nurse

  And said what must be done

  The babe was abandoned to the wood

  Where crows had gathered ‘round

  They raised the child as crows would

  But kept him on the ground

  The child grew into a man

  A thief upon the streets

  Who bore the name of Arythan

  And frightened all he’d meet

  Through skirmishes and knife-drawn fights

  He built his legend true

  The scars he bore he kept from sight

  And hid his face from view

  Now he wanders, a landless lord

  But do not cross his path

  For by magic or by sword

  He’ll cut you clean in half

  He is Arythan of the Crows

  Shrouded in dark mystery

  He brings an end to all his foes

  So he can wander free.”

  Ned’s voice fell silent, and all awaited the mage’s response.

  “Really, ’twas only ‘is ‘and,” Arythan protested. “I never cut anyone in ‘alf.” Beneath his scarf his mouth shaped into a rare grin, and the whole troupe applauded and cheered.

  “It could use a little work,” Lyssana said, “but we thought you would enjoy it.”

  “I did,” he admitted, more than a little touched that they had shaped such a story without knowing anything about him.

  “Aside from the obvious mythology,” Rosie said, “we did acknowledge certain truths.” She pointed at her eyes. “You are a medoriate, aren’t you?”

  Arythan nodded.

  She and Lyssana exchanged a glance, and he was immediately suspicious.

  “What sort of magic do you do, Arythan?” Lyssana asked.

  “I’m a mage. I work with fire, water, air, and the like.”

  “Could you give us a demonstration?”

  Arythan blushed. How could he refuse them after his story? He focused upon the fire, and it flared blue with his control. He ignored their gasps and held out his hand, palm-up before the flames. A tongue of fire leapt onto his thumb, then danced atop his fingers before it disappeared into the air. The flames turned amber again, and the troupe applauded him.

  “You know, we’ve never employed a medoriate before,” Lyssana said. “The Warriors of the Sword scare them all into hiding. You are the first we’ve seen outside of Mystland.”

  Arythan had not found his voice. Employed?

  “In other words,” Rosie said, “we would be interested in having you join our troupe. That is, if you’re not opposed to the idea.”

  If the Red-Handed doesn’t have me murdered tonight, he thought. But there was something even more unnerving than a would-be assassin. “Y’ mean I’d ‘ave to stand in front o’ people?”

  “Well, we would help you—acclimatize you to performing,” Lyssana said.

  I don’t know what that means, Arythan thought, though already his palms were sweating.

  “Consider it: a masked magician whom even the flames obey,” Rosie said in her ringmaster’s voice. “The crowds would adore you.”

  “Crowds,” Arythan mouthed to himself. All those eyes upon him.

  “Medoriate Arythan of the Crows!” Rosie announced. “What a fantastic title!”

  Someone passed him a drink. “Down that before you give an answer. Poor man.”

  “Think about it, Arythan,” Lyssana coaxed, and the lutenist started up again. In another moment, there was singing and dancing and laughing—as though the offer had never been extended.

  Dizzy with the prospects before him, Arythan excused himself and headed for the wagon. He clutched the hilt of his sword. There was no sense in waiting. Unseen, he slipped away from the campsite and headed down the road in the direction they had come.

  The grass alongside the road was taller than him, and it rustled in the night breeze like the whispers of some quiet conversation. The moon was half-full, lining the path ahead of him like a silver-blue ribbon. The shadows were fuzzy, the shapes indistinct as he walked along the edge of the road. He mourned the loss of his night vision, of the many senses that would have given him the advantage to finding his tracker.

  Something four-legged and cat-sized darted across the path, and Arythan froze. He listened to the wind in hope of distinguishing some unnatural sound. His eyes pried desperately in the darkness but found nothing telling. Only his instincts held any sway over his thoughts, and they warned him that something was amiss. He backed into the shallows of the grasses, wary that whatever was hunting him could be approaching from behind. He kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles white around the hilt of the sword. He tried to slow his breathing, though his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Then he heard it: the soft crunching of dirt beneath heavy boots. The sound grew louder and then stopped.

  The grass rustled, and Arythan spun around to face—nothing. Nothing behind him. Quickly he turned again and saw a dark shape across from him on the road. Was it faci
ng him? Did it see him? It took a step in his direction, then another. A sword was poised in its hand—a hand that was lifted towards him as the tall shadow advanced.

  Wait, Arythan told himself. Wait ’til he’s closer….

  What happened next, he did not know. There was another sound from behind him, then one from the figure. The grass stirred and hissed, the figure grunted and fell upon the road. Nothing but grass swayed behind him, but the figure on the road did not move. Arythan did not know if he should move or hold still. Sweat ran into his eyes and burned as a second passed, then another. Was this a trap?

  He took a deep breath and broke free of the grass, stepping onto the road. Still the figure did not move. He slowly walked toward it, his eyes finally sighting the long, thin shaft of an arrow protruding from the figure’s chest.

  The man was dead, and his sword was still gripped within his hand. He was lean and dirty, and Arythan could only assume that this would have been his opponent. Except that someone had killed him first. He looked around, but there was no one, nothing.

  Cautiously Arythan knelt beside the man and touched the shaft of the arrow. It nearly resonated with magic, causing his skin to tingle. He took his hand away and drew a deep breath to calm his nerves. If his rescuer was still out there, why did his senses still cry to him of danger?

  Without any hope of an answer, he rose and hurried back toward the encampment. Either his troubles were over, or they had only just begun.

  By dawn Arythan had changed his outlook, choosing to ignore the mystery he could not solve. The cook served breakfast early, and the mage had been the first in line. Despite a restless night, he was enlivened by a renewed sense of optimism. He had been offered work—even if the task asked of him made his knees weak and his heart pound. Someone wanted him for his talents, and just maybe he had found his place. Was there truly any choice but to accept? He would be a fool to walk away.