LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “I understand. I’ll never go ‘ome again.” Arythan studied the knife. “Though I don’ know where I’ll go now.”

  The Ilangien’s face had brightened again. “We will wander where we might. There is nothing to hinder us, nothing to fear with which we cannot contend.”

  “Oi, wait there, mate. Y’ don’ ‘ave to eat, y’ don’ seem to get cold or tired… I ‘ave plenty to worry about.”

  “Such needs can be met through the workings of a clever mind,” Eraekryst said, unconcerned.

  “What? Y’r mind? Tha’s what worries me.” Arythan spied Rosie and Lyssana heading toward them with the remains of a sword in their possession. “An’ that,” he added. He quickly replaced his hat and wrapped the scarf around the lower half of his face.

  “How is he?” Lyssana asked Eraekryst.

  “He is recovering and recovering,” Eraekryst said, his disapproving regard upon the hat and scarf.

  “We are sorry we never learned your name,” Lyssana said, looking him over with a slight smile. “I am Lyssana, and this is Rosie. We are the founders of the Crimson Dragon.”

  Eraekryst stood and bowed. “You may call me Erik.” He ignored the strange look from the mage. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you.”

  The women smiled, then turned to Arythan with concern. Rosie spoke to him first. “You have much explaining to do, Medoriate.” She placed the ruined sword in his hands.

  Arythan looked up at her, miserable. “I’m sorry. Sorry about the sword, sorry about the performance….”

  “Sorry?” Rosie exchanged a glance with Lyssana. “The only matter we’re sorry about is that you had not included your friend earlier.”

  The mage blinked. “What?”

  “It was brilliant, Arythan,” Lyssana said. “To have Erik as part of the audience, the challenge, the duel, the magic… And you did not seem the slightest bit nervous!”

  “Which makes us wonder just how long have you been planning this?” Rosie asked.

  “I didn’t plan anything,” Arythan protested. “‘E wasn’t invited. An’ I wasn’t nervous, because I was spitting fury.”

  “But we were under the impression you both are friends,” Lyssana said.

  Arythan and Eraekryst met gazes; the Ilangien’s was expectant, hopeful.

  “I said I knew ‘im,” the mage admitted. “But we did travel together for a while.”

  “’Twould have been a faster friendship if not for certain differences in personality,” Eraekryst explained.

  “Regardless, what happened tonight was amazing,” Rosie said. “His Majesty demanded our audience again just so he could tell us so. We have earned his favor to travel the rest of the kingdom without restrictions.”

  Lyssana looked at them both. “Which brings us to ask: you do intend to repeat these performances, don’t you? We insist that Erik join us, that the two of you refine your act so that this tale of good versus evil continues.”

  “Why’m I evil?” Arythan asked.

  “Because villains are always dark and mysterious,” Rosie said. “Heroes have nothing to hide.”

  “Meaning I ‘ave to lose every time,” Arythan said dryly.

  “Not necessarily, but that is a twist we can discuss.” Lyssana pointed to the sword. “And we can easily have that replaced.”

  Eraekryst looked at Arythan smugly, though his question was for the women. “To clarify, then…I did not condemn the medoriate as an outcast from your troupe, nor did I spoil the entertainment.”

  “Of course not!” Rosie exclaimed.

  Arythan narrowed his eyes at the Ilangien.

  “My companion, in his blind fury, did, however, see to it that my clothing was beyond repair.” Eraekryst held up his arm to obviate one of the cuts in his shirt.

  Lyssana bent forward to inspect it. “Our tailor can supply you with something new. More appropriate costumes, even.” She glanced at the Ilangien in surprise. “I can’t imagine how you escaped injury, Erik. There’s not a mark on you.”

  “Especially since I was trying to kill ‘im,” Arythan mumbled.

  “Making you the villain,” Eraekryst finalized, smiling sweetly at the mage.

  “Even ‘eros are arse’oles.”

  Eraekryst made a face. “I have discovered the meaning of your insult.”

  “’Ere I thought y’ always knew. Next time I’ll simplify it for y’,” Arythan said easily.

  “Now, now, boys,” Rosie interrupted. “Before we leave you to your banter, we must know: are you willing? Can we count on ‘The Dark Wizard Arythan Crow’ and Erik… ‘Erik whose-name-is-yet-to-be-decided’?

  “Sparrow,” Eraekryst said immediately. “Crow and Sparrow.”

  “Um, all right,” Rosie said. “‘Crow and Sparrow.’”

  “Rather, ‘Sparrow and Crow,’” Eraekryst amended.

  Arythan kicked him in the leg, though the Ilangien ignored him.

  “I don’ know if I can do it again,” the mage said honestly.

  “He can,” Eraekryst assured them. “We will practice for hours every day.” Arythan frowned, but all eyes were upon the Ilangien.

  “Then we have an agreement,” Lyssana said, just as excited as her partner. “Once Arythan has recovered, we can try it among the cities and villages in this kingdom.”

  “My ladies, my ideas are already boundless,” Eraekryst said. “Thank you humbly for welcoming me into your troupe, and thank you for the opportunity to indulge in such a remarkable vocation.”

  “You are quite the charmer, Erik,” Rosie said. “We will have much to discuss and much to work on.”

  “I look forward to it eagerly,” the Ilangien said with another bow, and the two women left with joyous blushes.

  “Tha’s right. I’m still ‘ere,” Arythan said, irritated, when Eraekryst finally turned to him.

  “You had said you wanted to remain in this troupe,” Eraekryst said. “I have solidified the future you had been certain I had destroyed.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Arythan sighed and sank further into the cot.

  “Later you will say that with much more sincerity,” Eraekryst assured him. “For now, I will leave you with another sip of water.” He handed the mage the cup. “Take advantage of this time to rest. We have much work ahead of us.”

  Arythan’s glare followed the Ilangien long after he had left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SPARROW AND CROW

  THE WEIGHT of the morning air promised a hot and sticky day. Already there was a lingering haze, and sweat beaded on noses and brows like dew upon the grass. Arythan did not mind the heat; he had grown up in a warm climate. It was the cold he could not tolerate. So while most of the troupe chose to linger lazily in the shade, the mage gathered his new sword and went in search of his opponent.

  Arythan had been enjoying his recovery. Rosie and Lyssana had suggested he take some time to regain his strength, though they did not protest when he insisted upon training. He enjoyed the physical nature of mock combat, remembering the skills and maneuvers that had been ingrained in him since his childhood. Best of all, he was free of the pressure of performing…at least for a little while longer. The Crimson Dragon had been in Caspernyanne nearly a week, and soon they would proceed to their next destination.

  He heard the Ilangien’s voice coming from the other side of a wagon. Then he heard a second voice, a woman’s. Arythan slowed and crept around the structure. Eraekryst reclined against the wheel. Seated next to him and rapt to his every word was Miranda. Her eyes were affixed to him, though his gaze was elsewhere.

  It would be her, Arythan thought, crestfallen. Of course, we never had anything between us anyway. And she had run away from him. He stifled a sigh and stepped fully into view, pointing his sword at the Ilangien. “Time to die.”

  “So soon, Cloaked Crow?” Eraekryst asked, a hint of reluctance in his voice. Miranda turned away with rosy cheeks.

  Arythan said nothing but waited expectantly.

  “
Oh very well,” Eraekryst said. He stood and bowed to the singer. “This one is most insistent. I do apologize,” he said to her. To the mage, he added, “You assume this role with the utmost diligence. I sometimes find it annoying.”

  “Y’re jus’ sour because y’ can’t be fantastic at everything y’ do,” Arythan said.

  “Petty violence,” Eraekryst scoffed, retrieving his own sword from the wagon. “I prefer intellect as my weapon.”

  “Bonzer. Think all y’ want when I run y’ through.” Arythan gave Miranda a final look from over his shoulder. I’ll bring you back his head to remember him by. He tipped his hat, and they disappeared from sight, into an adjacent field.

  “You should consider being more social,” Eraekryst said, studying his adversary. “You will earn more friends.”

  Arythan removed his hat and scarf. “I was doing fine ’til y’ came ‘round.” He cast his cloak upon the ground. “S’alright, though. Y’ can ‘ave ‘er.”

  “‘Have her’?” Eraekryst looked at him, puzzled.

  “Be ‘er lover. Father ‘er children,” Arythan clarified. He took a stance to signal he was ready.

  Eraekryst took the same stance, though he remained distracted. “You imply I should mate with her? To what avail? She cannot bear my offspring.”

  “I wasn’t serious.” Arythan initiated the bout with a thrust of his sword. He narrowly missed the Ilangien’s ribs, and Eraekryst looked at him with wide eyes.

  “You are difficult to anticipate,” he admitted.

  “Don’ talk,” the mage said. “Fight.”

  Even after a week of practice, the duel was awkward. Eraekryst was a quick learner, but Arythan was a quicker fighter by experience. Eraekryst never seemed to tire, but his patience was shortened by repetitive failure. At last he cast his weapon aside, folded his arms, and stared at the mage. “There is a better way,” he said.

  Arythan smoothed the damp hair from his face and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Y’only get better by practice.”

  “Not so. Consider our objective. ’Tis not to earn victory in battle; ’tis to provide a convincing form of entertainment for our audience,” the Ilangien reasoned. He extended his hand, and the hilt of his sword leapt to his waiting palm. “Consider also that you are the antagonist—the villain,” he amended when he saw the confusion upon Arythan’s face. “Victory is most often awarded to the hero, for such an outcome is more satisfying and morally righteous to the common folk.”

  “Yeah, I’m not supposed to win. I know.”

  “Yet I cannot defeat you…at least, I cannot learn to defeat you in the brief span of time before our next performance.”

  Arythan awaited the inevitable proposal.

  “Allow me to anticipate your actions.”

  “What?”

  “Attack me, Durmorth.”

  Uncertain, Arythan came at him. He realized immediately, however, that something was not right. The move he had intended to make—the move that had been so clear and determined in his mind that it had bordered instinct—that move suddenly seemed so awkward and forced. A strange sort of pressure in his head dazed him, though he followed through with the action anyway. What would have been a hit to the right side of the Ilangien’s chest was foiled by a strong parry.

  Arythan stopped and blinked. “What just ‘appened?”

  Eraekryst smiled triumphantly. “You will grow accustomed to the disorientation.”

  “I would’ve ‘it y’,” the mage said, his brow furrowed.

  “Aye, but I anticipated your move.”

  Arythan’s regard darkened. “Y’ sawr my thoughts. Y’ were in my ‘ead.”

  “Not truly. I merely extended my awareness to sense your next action.” Eraekryst’s smile faded to an expression of confusion. “I did no harm by it. I only meant to illustrate my idea—”

  “Don’t!” the mage said in a cold whisper. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “I did not pry at your thoughts, Durmorth,” Eraekryst insisted.

  Arythan could feel the heat rising to his face. Even his eyes burned. “I don’ care. I’m warning y’ to never do it again. Not to me, not to anyone.”

  “You exaggerate the circumstance. I—”

  The mage took a step toward him, the sword tight in his grip. “’Tis wrong, what y’ do. If I want y’ to know something, I’ll tell y’.”

  Eraekryst retreated a step. “I promise not to violate your mind. I only meant to even the advantage in our combat.”

  The sincerity upon the Ilangien’s face made Arythan pause. He took a breath and closed his eyes. “So y’ meant no ‘arm by it. ‘Tisn’t right, though, an’ I don’ like it.” He opened his eyes to meet Eraekryst’s gaze. “No one should be able to read a mind.”

  “Yet ’tis an ability I possess, unworthy of judgment as right or wrong. It simply is. Why is it you are so troubled by this?” Eraekryst asked in earnest.

  “Because they’re my thoughts,” the mage said. “Mine. Not y’rs. Understand?”

  Eraekryst said nothing but continued to watch him, processing Arythan’s words. “I respect your fears, Durmorth, but I, in turn, ask you for leniency.”

  “What do y’ mean?” Arythan had finally relaxed, sheathing his sword and easing his stance.

  “You have taught me nothing by the ferocity of your attacks. I cannot keep pace with actions dictated by your oppressed emotions.”

  There was a moment of silence before the mage spoke. “I’ve been too ‘ard on y’.”

  “Verily.”

  Arythan gave a nod. “Then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “Maybe in a way I did. I won’t be so rough anymore.”

  “’Twould be my preference to bloodshed.”

  “At least y’re quick to recover,” Arythan said, half-joking.

  “I may heal quickly, but I assure you that I am not impervious to pain.”

  “Right,” came the regretful response. “So we should try this again?”

  Eraekryst studied his blade before poising it before the mage with a smile. “I’ve no choice but to practice.”

  King Michael Garriker II of Cerborath sat at the head of the table, waiting for his tankard to be refilled. He stared at the remaining bones on his plate and drummed his fingers upon the table. He heard only the sounds of quiet chewing, the grating of knives, and the thunk of a cup upon the wood. Irritated by the silence, he finally lost his patience. “Is the damn boy asleep?”

  All sounds ceased as the occupants turned their attention toward him. An attendant rushed to his side, ewer in hand. “Pardon, Your Majesty,” he stuttered. “The lad is ill.”

  “You would think him the only one capable of such a menial task.” Garriker reclaimed his tankard and took a grand swig. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t go far,” he said, and waved the attendant away.

  “Is something the matter, Sire?”

  Garriker raised his eyes to the beautiful young woman who was his daughter-in-law. Ladonna was always prompt in polite response, compensating for what his son often lacked. “Where is Michael?” he asked forthright.

  There was a pause before she replied. “Forgive me, Sire, but I cannot say. I had thought him out late on the hunt.”

  “The party returned an hour ago,” came the flat response from Garriker’s younger son, Banen. He did not look up from his plate. “He is entertaining a messenger.”

  “What sort of messenger?” the king asked, his stare resting upon the prince.

  “I do not know.”

  Garriker took another swig. “Fetch my son!” he ordered, addressing any nearby servant.

  At that moment, the doors to the great hall opened. “No need, Father.” The elder prince strode toward the table and bowed to its occupants. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

  “Where have you been, Michael?” Garriker demanded.

  “Banen did not tell you?”

  “I am not your servant,” Banen sneered at his brother.

&nb
sp; Garriker motioned for his son to sit down. He waited until the prince had settled next to his wife before he got to business. “Who was this messenger you saw?”

  Michael flashed his brother a quick smile that read, “You did tell him.” He turned to the king. “It was a herald from the Crimson Dragon.”

  Garriker waited for him to continue, his expression blank.

  “Have you not heard of them, Father?” Michael asked, rubbing his chin. “They are a troupe of entertainers that travel the Ring. They have never been to Cerborath, and they ask for safe passage through the kingdom.”

  “This is what kept you from dinner?” Garriker asked, not amused.

  Michael sipped his untouched wine. “Again, I apologize, though I was considering you, Father.”

  “What care have I for a wandering band of fools?”

  “Ah!” Michael apportioned himself a piece of pheasant. “They are not any band of fools. They are renowned throughout Secramore for their talents. I am surprised you have not heard of them.” He chewed and swallowed a morsel. “I thought you could use some entertainment, so I invited them to perform for us.”

  “I have no need for frivolity,” Garriker said. “Send them on their way.”

  Michael smiled. “I knew you might say as much. You should know that this troupe boasts interesting talents. There are dancing dogs, tumblers, a sword-eater—”

  Banen interrupted his brother with a yawn.

  “You would have to do better than that, brother, to swallow a sword,” Michael jested.

  “And speaking of swords,” Garriker said, “is there a point to this?”

  “Fantastic pun, Father!” Michael was undaunted by their lack of response. “What I thought most interesting was their newest act. There is a dueling pair: ‘Sparrow and Crow.’”

  “Father can have prisoners combat if he so desires,” Banen said.

  “Yes, but none of our prisoners are medori.”

  The king lifted his head from his hand.

  “Word of Sparrow the Bold and Crow the Dark Wizard is everywhere. I am told the troupe draws crowds from nobility and peasantry alike—thrice the attendance they are accustomed to entertaining. Apparently they fill their seats, and others stand so close together that one cannot lift a hand to pick one’s nose.”