LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Ladonna gave him a warm smile. “For those of you who did not witness his performance, Lord Sparrow is a member of the Crimson Dragon. He is a talented swordsman along with his partner, Medoriate Crow.”

  “’Tis a former vocation now,” Eraekryst said. “The Dragon is no more.”

  “I regret that such tragedy has prompted your return,” Ladonna said.

  A petite woman with a high black wig and a green dress spoke up. “How long will you be staying with us, milord? You should at least stay for Summerfall.” Her eyes were fixated upon him.

  “What is Summerfall?” he asked.

  “It is a celebration of the harvest, at the end of the warm season,” another answered.

  “There is a great feast, and the Telling of the White Bear. His Highness hosts a masquerade with music and dancing….”

  “I have never heard of a ‘masquerade,’” the Ilangien admitted.

  “It is splendid, Lord Sparrow. You arrive masked and in costume, and at the very end of the evening, one who has guessed your identity will unmask you.”

  Eraekryst’s eyes brightened. “I would enjoy such a diversion, though I do not know the identity of most of this castle’s inhabitants.”

  “Then we will have to introduce you to some of them,” Ladonna said.

  “I would be much obliged.” He gazed at her needle as it worked through the fabric. “May I try?”

  “I know you’re in there,” a soft voice murmured. “I can see your hat.”

  Arythan opened his eyes, but his vision remained dark. Something pulled away at the top of his head, and he grabbed for it. His hat, however, had been lifted. Confused more than alarmed, he tore away at the blanket that had somehow twisted its way around him. There was candlelight, and bathed in the candlelight was a beautiful woman in a sheer gown. She was smiling at him, her dark curls dancing as she leaned closer. “You had fallen asleep with your clothes on, Medoriate. You must have been tired.”

  “’Ello,” he said, and the room felt like a thousand candles were burning around them. “Er…’oo are y’?”

  “My name is Lorna,” she said, just loud enough that he had to watch her soft lips part over her name. “And I have brought your dinner.”

  Arythan gave a slight laugh. “Dinner.” Then he spotted a tray of food and drink on the nightstand. “Right.”

  Lorna bent over him and ran a hand through his hair. “Your hair is golden,” she said. “We don’t see many foreigners here.” She smoothed where his hair had started to curl around his ears.

  He said nothing, still wondering if he had not left his dreams behind him. He felt her fingers trace along his jaw, pulling away at the scarf. He wanted to stop her, but his body had ceased listening to him.

  When she had succeeded at revealing his face in totality, her eyes lit. “Why, Medoriate, you have no reason to hide. You’re—so young.” She tugged gently at the hair on his chin.

  “Not that young,” he whispered. His mind was torn between the shame of what he was and the desire to let her have her way with him. He knew she did not see him the way he saw himself, but maybe in the absence of mirrors, he could pretend that this form was truly his. If he closed his eyes, she would think it out of pleasure and not his determination to blind himself to his tinted flesh.

  “You have no need to worry,” she insisted. She peeled back the blanket, undid the strings of his cloak. All the while, her eyes never left his. “They say only the medori have such eyes—that you can see the light of their magic in them.”

  “Can y’?” he asked, noticing the shapes of her form.

  “I can,” Lorna said. She loosened his shirt and it, too, was pulled away. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see himself. Her touch ceased. “What sort of knife is this?” she asked.

  Arythan took a deep breath but still did not open his eyes. “A magic knife.” He could feel the pressure of her hand upon the weapon as she explored it upon his chest.

  “It’s so cold.” She started to lift it, and his eyes flicked open. Finally his hands obeyed him, and he stopped her.

  “I ‘ave to keep it on.”

  Lorna nodded, and her hands moved elsewhere. “You have been in many fights, haven’t you?”

  “Some.”

  “I’ll bet there is hidden strength within you.” She drew his attention to her body as she removed her gown and straddled him.

  Hidden strength. Sure, he thought, taking in the sight of her.

  She kissed his forehead, then his neck, her breasts grazing against his bare chest.

  The door opened.

  Lorna instinctually drew back with the blanket, but her weight had shifted to the mage’s legs.

  Arythan let out a cry that nearly tumbled her from the bed. She struggled to get off him, twisting and turning while his eyes watered, and his heart nearly stopped.

  “I’m sorry, Medoriate,” she apologized again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “An unlikely circumstance,” Eraekryst said from the doorway. “I had thought I would find you sleeping, Durmorth.”

  Arythan reached for the tray, snared an apple, and threw it at him.

  Eraekryst caught it and took a bite. “I have done something wrong,” he inferred.

  “Go away,” the mage said, and he started closing his shirt.

  “I have just returned from ‘away,’” Eraekryst said stubbornly.

  By now Lorna had replaced her gown. “Perhaps I can return another time, Medoriate,” she said, suddenly shy. She moved toward the door, though her eyes lingered upon the newcomer, and her fingers grazed his arm as she passed.

  “No,” Arythan insisted. “Don’ leave.”

  Eraekryst’s eyes widened, and he let the apple fall. “She meant to—”

  “Oqrantos le-rarq spija,” Arythan growled. “That was the bloody idear.” He tugged the hat back atop his head.

  “It truly might be best if I leave,” Lorna slipped in. Now her eyes were only upon the door.

  “Don’ leave,” the mage repeated.

  “Intercourse as a diversion?” The Ilangien was mystified.

  “Not anymore,” the mage mumbled.

  “Could it be so pleasurable? Entertaining, even?”

  Arythan stared at him.

  “Have you…have you had intercourse before?”

  “Medoriate—” Lorna tried again.

  Arythan continued to stare at him, though his face was a shade redder. “Erik ‘as ‘is own room,” he said in a low, tense voice. “’E’s ‘eaded there now.”

  Eraekryst closed the door and sat down in the chair, still contemplating his discovery.

  “Y’ were leaving,” Arythan repeated a little louder.

  “I am not. My room is not yet ready.” He returned the mage’s stare defiantly. “You make the lady uncomfortable by your anger.”

  “I’ll be ‘appy when y’ leave.”

  Eraekryst stood, approached the nightstand, and poured a cup of wine. Arythan’s eyes followed him the entire way. “You had no intention of sharing, did you?”

  “She brought it for me,” Arythan said through clenched teeth.

  “Did she?” Deliberately the Ilangien held his gaze and took a long drink. “To think ’twas you I kept in mind in my exploration,” he said. “I have a mind not to share what I have learned.”

  “’S fine. Keep y’r mind to y’self.” He nodded toward the door, where Lorna lingered unhappily.

  Eraekryst took another drink. “Is that truly what you wish of me? You prefer your entertainment?”

  Arythan was starting to wonder if he would even enjoy himself after the Ilangien had gone. They could both leave, and he could stew in solitude. It seemed no matter what the result, he would be restless and irritated. His anger on the rise, he flung the scarf back around his face and pushed himself to the side of the bed. He swung his legs over the side, trying not to wince as the blood pumped down into his foot. “I don’ bloody care.”

  “Medoriate, you shouldn’t—
” Lorna said, startled.

  “I’m going to ‘is room,” the mage muttered.

  Eraekryst emitted a strange sound, and Arythan turned to gape at the unlikely sight that was his friend. Paler than a moth beneath the moon, the Ilangien toppled forward, braced against the bedpost by the tight grip of his hands. His silvery eyes were wide with panic, and they seemed to dim and flicker with the light surrounding him.

  “What—” Before Arythan could even finish the question, Eraekryst’s hold weakened, and he collapsed to the floor.

  Lorna gasped, her response wakening the mage from his stupor. Arythan pushed himself to the floor, only to have his ankle buckle beneath him. “Sieqa!” he gritted. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In that moment of desired silence, all he could hear was the woman babbling something about Jedinom. He opened his eyes to glare at her. “Get ‘elp!”

  Arythan did not watch her flee the room. He took another breath and scooted himself along the floor with his good leg, rounding the bed to see Eraekryst on his side, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy. “Erik.”

  The Ilangien did not stir, though a weakened voice left his colorless lips. “’Twould seem…” He took a breath and swallowed. “I have been poisoned.”

  Arythan’s eyes darted to the nightstand, where the ewer of wine sat beside Eraekryst’s cup. Or was it the apple? The half-eaten fruit lay on the floor where the Ilangien had discarded it. “What do I do?” he muttered, not expecting an answer.

  “I have…never been poisoned…in quite this way,” Eraekryst whispered.

  “In what way? What should I do?” Arythan demanded, frustrated by his helplessness.

  “Listen. I cannot believe….”

  When the Ilangien did not finish, Arythan almost reached over to shake him. “What? Erik, talk. Tell me what y’ can’t believe.”

  A faint smile graced Eraekryst’s lips. “You would have…chosen a…sexual diversion…over my discovery.”

  The mage smacked his hand across his brow. “Y’ nit! Y’re dying, an’ all y’ can think about—” He stopped when the reality of his words struck him. “But y’ can’t. Y’ can’t die. Y’re immortal.”

  “I am not…invincible…Durmorth.” Eraekryst opened his eyes a hair to gaze at his friend. “This truly…is quite…painful.” He shuddered and lay still.

  “Erik.”

  Eraekryst did not stir.

  “Erik! Damn y’!” Arythan desperately pushed his shoulder, bracing himself for the burn. Nothing happened. Not another. I won’t lose another. But there was nothing he could do. He clenched his fists and stared at the ashen Ilangien and the barely perceptible light around him. Nigqora! Hurry, woman!

  Arythan ignored the fact that there was probably nothing anyone else could do either. His thoughts ran in tangled strands. Panic: Eraekryst would die, and he would be alone in this cold, isolated kingdom. Alone amongst murderers. Fury: he would find those responsible and have his revenge. Despair: to wander alone again in this miserable Human form.

  “No,” he murmured. “I would’ve listened to y’r discovery.” Arythan turned away and sighed.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” came an old man’s high, scratchy announcement from the doorway.

  Heavy footfalls rounded the corner into view, and Arythan was surprised to be beneath the looming shape of a balding, tall, broad-shouldered man with a large, protruding belly—a characteristic obviated by the ridiculous scarlet robes that were a bit too small for him. None-the-less, the excessiveness of his rich and brocaded attire nearly overpowered the lined and sallow face atop the scarlet mountain…except for two traits. The man carried himself with a confidence that reeked with every movement he made, and the yellow-green hue of his narrow eyes betrayed him as more than a castle attendant.

  “The young lady alerted me to your dire situation,” the man said, stroking the coarse gray hair that hung from his chin like a stalactite.

  Arythan had nearly overlooked Lorna, who was but a shadow behind the massive stranger. “‘Oo are y’?”

  The question was ignored as the man lumbered past him and, with a bit of effort, knelt beside Eraekryst. He placed a thick-fingered hand upon the Ilangien’s forehead, then lifted his arm by the wrist as though he was picking up a dead fish.

  Arythan inched closer defensively. “Y’re ‘ere to ‘elp ‘im.”

  The man turned toward him, irritated. “I am sorry. I cannot understand you. As it is, silence would be helpful as I work.”

  Arythan colored and bit his tongue; if this man—whoever he was—was here to help, he would have to stave his temper.

  “Most peculiar,” the man mumbled. “Very strange, indeed.” He smoothed the top of his head as though there was hair still upon it. His tone changed from intrigued to grave, and he shook his head. “I am afraid there is not much to be done for him.”

  “Don’ y’ want to know what ‘appened?” Arythan asked, humorless.

  “Do I—” The man’s brow furrowed as he deciphered the mage’s words. He drew himself upright. “I am not a dullard. It is clear that he suffers from the effects of a toxin.”

  Arythan had never heard the word “toxin,” but he was not about to betray his ignorance. “Y’ can’t ‘elp ‘im?” His irritation was quickly succumbing to desperation.

  “I cannot remedy the workings of an unknown toxin,” the man said, narrowing his eyes at the mage. “Only a miracle from Jedinom himself will save him.” He started to rise, but was having great difficulty doing so.

  Arythan merely stared at him.

  The man froze when he realized he was being watched. “It would be courteous to offer your assistance to one’s elder.”

  “Sorry,” Arythan said, his temper sizzling. “I’m indisposed.” He nodded toward his leg. Eraekryst had taught him that word, and it seemed the right time to use it.

  Now it was the man’s turn to stare, dumbly, at Arythan’s wrapped foot. “I did not catch your name,” he said, his high voice softened.

  “Y’ wouldn’t understand it if I told it to y’,” the mage said.

  Their eyes locked, and then the man turned away, using the bedpost to help him rise. “I am sorry for the medoriate. This is a tragic loss after he had survived the attack of the Warriors.”

  Arythan did not respond, watching as the man gingerly stepped over him. “I will send the attendants to help move him to the bed,” he said at the door. “And I will see to it that stock of wine is disposed of.”

  “Thanks,” Arythan muttered, but the man had already gone. He felt someone’s gaze upon him and looked up to see Lorna still hovering near the door.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, and he could see her eyes were red with tears.

  All he could do was nod, unsure what to feel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MURDERERS

  ARYTHAN HAD KNOWN MANY long nights. Nights when he waited, terrified, in his bedroom—waited for his father to come and deliver his punishment. Nights when he was plagued by visions of the past—too many to allow him a restful sleep. Nights, like this one, but in the company of his brother, when he waited for an ending. With his brother, however, the ending had been less determinate. If Eraekryst had been poisoned, the end would come quickly…would it not?

  He had been nearly certain the Ilangien would have been dead within the hour he had taken the wine. Then he had been almost certain that his life would pass within the shortening span of time until daybreak. The sun rose, and Eraekryst was not dead. Nor had his comatose condition changed. He lay in the bed like an alabaster statue, stone-still, perfect, and pale.

  If anything had changed, it was Arythan’s disposition. His anxiety wore thin as the night progressed, relenting to a tense and pensive period of silence in the early hours before dawn. He roused himself with bouts of anger as he drew his conclusions, and by sunrise his irritation was a veneer over the building momentum of his resolve.

  He had given Eraekryst a last assessment before he made his de
cision to leave. If the Ilangien would die, his presence would matter little. Sitting in the chair all night with his leg propped on a footstool, Arythan was stiff, sore, and eager to move around. No degree of pain would deter him from his new mission, and so he smashed the chair. Two of the legs had also been part of the back rest, carved from a single, long piece of wood. Sufficiently long, in fact, for a crutch.

  Quietly he had closed the door behind him, and then he began his search. At this hour of the morning, the castle was abounding with servants tending to the morning chores. He stopped the first one he saw, a young girl who seemed rather nervous to be in his company.

  “Could y’ tell me where Prince Michael is?”

  “Prince Michael? Oh, I…I think he has the village court today. I haven’t seen him, though.”

  She scurried off, and he roamed a short distance until he found another.

  “Where can I find Prince Michael?”

  “I can’t say, sir. I haven’t seen him.”

  A third attempt.

  “Where’s the prince?” Arythan asked, losing patience.

  “Which one, sir?”

  “Michael.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Forget it.”

  How could such an important figure disappear? Arythan wondered. Unless he is avoiding me. This thought propelled him onward. Slowly he eased himself down each step until he found himself in the Great Hall. Where to now? Before he could decide on a direction, a voice reached from behind him. High and scratchy, it pried at his ears like fingers with overgrown nails.

  “Ah, Medoriate. I was hoping I would see you.”

  Arythan spun to face the mysterious man in red.

  “I wanted to apologize for last night’s encounter. It was rude of me not to introduce myself, and it was rude of me not to distinguish you from your companion.” The man gave a neat and entirely contrived smile.

  Ah, you’ve figured it out, then, Arythan thought, fighting the urge to slug him in the jaw. I’ve figured it out, too, you bastard.