LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Some of her awe diminished by his attitude, she tried again. “Then what are you?”

  The Ilangien straightened his collar and bound his cascade of hair behind him. “I would think you would know, Lady of Mystland.”

  “How did you know I was from—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “I know a great many things.” When he was satisfied with his appearance, he closed the doors and faced her. “I am an immortal.”

  Diana shook her head and laughed. “You jest! They exist only in children’s tales.”

  “From what you have seen, you know this to be true,” he said. He glanced at the nightstand. “Have they found the one who poisoned me? Rather, the one who attempted to poison my companion. The durmorth owes me for my agony.”

  “N-no,” Diana said, still deciding what she should believe. “In fact, I know next to nothing about what happened, and in the time I have been here, no one has felt the need to enlighten me.”

  Eraekryst froze, his stare suddenly penetrating. “How long have you been here, Lady?”

  “A couple days now,” she said, averting her gaze to her medical bag.

  “I have been incapacitated for more than a night’s span?” he asked, incredulous.

  “You were poisoned, Lord Sparrow. You should be dead and buried, if you don’t mind me speaking frankly.”

  “I recall the wine,” Eraekryst said, gesturing to the nightstand. “I recall the durmorth here.” He nodded toward the bed. “Then I recall…” He hurried to Diana’s side of the bed, sliding past her to lay upon the floor. “Aye, this was the very perspective!” He flipped from his side to his back and folded his arms behind his head. “’Twas fascinating, the pain. Unlike when….”

  Diana watched him and waited, but the Ilangien’s gaze had grown distant, as though he was sleeping with his eyes open. “Lord Sparrow?”

  She quit the bed and knelt beside him. “Lord Sparrow!” She shook his shoulder, then clapped her hands before his vacant eyes. “Jedinom’s grace,” she muttered. She reached for the bowl of lavender water she had placed on the nightstand and cast the contents upon his face.

  “Lady Sherralin!” he cried, bolting upright. “What has come over you?”

  “Over me?” she asked. “You were unresponsive. I thought to—”

  “No thought or consideration,” he said with disgust, his eyes narrowed upon her. “’Twould be decent of you to grant me a clean linen.”

  The healer handed him a towel, but he merely set it upon his shoulder. Then he spoke again as though he had never been interrupted.

  “The durmorth was there, and he had told me both in earnest and in sympathy that he would hear my tale over a sexual diversion.”

  Diana blushed.

  “Are you feverish, Lady? Here.” He handed her the towel. “Say nothing of it to him, but his confession was worth the effects of the wine.” Eraekryst stood and worked his way around the room, his eyes rapt upon the broken chair.

  “Who do you think poisoned the wine?” Diana asked.

  “I cannot say.” Eraekryst gathered the broken fragments of the chair and stacked them so that they balanced in a tower. “’Twas not, I think, the lady sent to entertain the durmorth. There was another, the one who prepared the drink.” He glanced at Diana. “A support spindle is missing. ‘Twould fit the diminutive stature of my companion, should he desire to hobble around on one leg.” He looked toward the door. “Where is he, incidentally?”

  “You mean Medoriate Crow. I can’t say. I have not seen him since I have been here.”

  “Two days, verily?” Eraekryst was already striding toward the door.

  “Where are you going? You shouldn’t be up and—wait!” Diana followed him outside.

  “You need not linger at my heels, Lady. You have expressed the extent of your knowledge to me,” Eraekryst said, walking briskly to what would have been his room and peeking inside.

  “Medoriate Crow is also my patient,” she asserted. “He should not be hobbling around at all, and if you find him, I should like to—”

  “To what?” the Ilangien asked, rounding on her. His eyes were alive with curiosity.

  “To reassert my advice,” Diana returned.

  Eraekryst flashed her a brief, amused smile, then walked past her on the way to the stairwell. It was all she could do to keep up with him.

  He paused a moment, trying to decide what direction to take.

  “How do you know where to—”

  “The wine cellar, of course,” he said. “Where might I find it?”

  Diana looked at him skeptically. “I understand what you’re thinking, but just because Medoriate Crow did not come here does not mean he is missing. I merely said I haven’t seen him. In all fairness, I’ve been at your bedside since I’ve arrived. Crag’s Crown is a large castle—”

  Eraekryst stopped her, raising a hand. “Where is the cellar?” he repeated flatly.

  She shook her head and started to lead him there. “Besides, if he is missing, I would think they would have already searched the cellar and the entire castle.”

  “‘Crag’s Crown is a large castle,’” he tossed her words back at her. They continued in silence until she stopped at a door not far from the kitchen.

  “This is the buttery, and the butler would have access to the wine cellar below,” she explained.

  Eraekryst shook his head. “Nay. He is not here.”

  “But you haven’t even opened the door.”

  “He is not here,” Eraekryst repeated, irritated. He began to pace.

  “Well, where to now?” Diana asked, her own irritation on the rise with his attitude.

  “I know he is missing because he would have returned to the room to assess my status.”

  “Pardon?”

  Eraekryst ceased pacing to look at her. “He believed I was dying, and he knew the wine had been meant for him. Whether spurred by guilt or some noble intention, he sought to discover for himself the malefactor behind my poisoning. Yet he did not come here. Why?”

  “He became lost,” Diana said with a shrug. “Or interrupted. Or maybe Prince Michael has sought to distract him from his grief by boarding him elsewhere.”

  Eraekryst had ceased listening. “Interrupted or malevolently diverted,” he murmured. “Is there some other location that resembles the cellar?”

  “The dungeon,” Diana said, half in jest.

  “Show me,” the Ilangien insisted.

  With a shrug she led him outside the keep and to the gatehouse. “Prisoners are seldom kept here,” Diana said. “Villages manage their own criminals unless they commit an offense against the Crown.” She showed him to another door at the end of a hall.

  He touched the handle with his hand, then drew back with a frown. “Alas, no!” Eraekryst cried, frustrated. “He is not within!”

  “I can think of nowhere else, Lord Sparrow. I’m sorry.”

  “We must go back,” he said. “Remarkably I have missed something.”

  They returned to the keep, where Eraekryst turned in circles around the great hall.

  Diana watched him with growing unease. “Allow me to find Prince Michael. He might have an idea—”

  “Shh,” he said gently, pivoting on his heel. His brow furrowed, and he took two steps forward, then one backward. He dipped to the ground and tapped his fingers upon it.

  “What are you doing?” Diana whispered, feeling foolish as she watched him.

  He lifted his fingers. “Do you see it?”

  “Dirt, you mean.”

  Eraekryst looked at her, disappointed, though he said nothing. “To my senses, it feels like trickery.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the debris between his fingers. “The man in red.” Diana said nothing, causing him to open his eyes. “Who is the man in red, Lady?”

  “You have not met him, Lord Sparrow. You are better not to meet him,” she said in a low voice. “He is Cyrul Frostmeyer, the royal medoriate.”

  “Perhaps he has met me,” Er
aekryst mused. “I have no doubt he has met the durmorth. Where might I find him?”

  “Lord Sparrow, I think you best not—”

  “Out of respect for your other patient,” Eraekryst insisted.

  Diana sighed and led him through the keep to a nondescript door in an empty hall. “It will be locked,” she said before he even reached for the handle.

  The Ilangien gave her a knowing nod and traced the top of the door with his fingers. Then he grasped the handle and gently pushed the barrier inward.

  Diana gawked at him and backed away.

  “You are free to depart,” Eraekryst said casually. “I will locate the durmorth without the encumbrance of your fears.” Without turning back, he strolled inside the chamber of the royal wizard.

  There were enough curiosities that he was almost distracted. Books, luminous rocks, orbs, maps, skulls, vials with liquid, jars with powder, assorted robes of silk and satin in various hues, tinted spectacles, leather purses, knives of differing shapes and sizes, cups, bowls, a caged dove, a writing desk complete with quill and inkwell, paintings, and so much more. Eraekryst marveled that so small a room could contain so much. “A cluttered catastrophe,” he murmured. He opened the door to the dove’s cage, and it walked from his hand to his shoulder. He tried on a pair of spectacles and one of the wizard’s pointed blue hats. “Of all the trinkets and worthless objects, the wizard has not a mirror to be found. In this he is most like the durmorth,” Eraekryst mused.

  He held up his fingers and blew the residue into the air. The dust hung suspended for a moment before it drifted to an old leather bag upon a shelf. As a cloud it swirled and filtered its way inside, and Eraekryst lifted the vessel to examine it. “Greetings, Medoriate Frostmeyer,” he said without turning toward the door.

  The speechless wizard stared at him in disbelief. “How did you get past—how did you get in here?”

  “That is not the question.”

  Cyrul took a moment to compose himself. “Only one with knowledge of magic could gain entry to my study.”

  Eraekryst ignored the comment. “You have had the pleasure of meeting my companion.” At last he turned around, the leather bag in plain view.

  Cyrul’s eyes moved from the Ilangien to the bag. “I…I have met Medoriate Crow, yes. He was quite concerned about your welfare… Does he know of your recovery?”

  “You know that he does not.” The dove on Eraekryst’s shoulder ruffled its feathers. “Again, that is not the question.”

  Cyrul entered the room casually and began sifting through his papers. “I do not understand you…Lord Sparrow, is it? What question should I ask?”

  “’Tis not your question. ’Tis the question. You possess the answer, and that is why I am here.”

  “As I said, sir, I do not know—”

  “Do not feign ignorance in my presence,” Eraekryst said, his voice chilling the air. The royal wizard froze. “’Tis a serious insult, compounding the offenses you have already committed.” He tossed the bag to the floor and stomped on it. The bag burst, and a cloud of black powder settled all over the floor. The startled dove took off, though just as it flew through the doorway, there was a flash of light, and its ashes fell to the ground.

  Slowly Cyrul turned around, his yellow-green eyes wide. “You speak of insult?” His face reddened as his temper finally broke his superficial calm. “You have trespassed into my private chamber, flinging vague accusations at one you have not met!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “I do not know the nature of your magic, but you tread precariously for a mere sword-slinging fool who has impressed our king with his petty tricks.” He took a threatening step toward the Ilangien, pointing a wand at him as though it was his finger. “You are a most audacious man, and if you do not leave now, I promise you will regret this encounter.”

  Eraekryst stood his ground, tall, straight, and impassive. “If you are finished, I should like the answer to my question now.”

  Cyrul, red as the robes he wore, stopped in his tracks, the wand still poised in the air. Like a statue he did not budge, and Eraekryst moved the wand aside with one finger. “Your anger betrays your guilt,” he said calmly. He bent to look into the wizard’s eyes. “Because of you, I must break a vow. Now. What thoughts arise when I say the name, ‘Medoriate Crow’?”

  Eraekryst stared a moment longer, then drew back. “Wicked man. Your own malevolence will be your end.” He approached the door, glanced sadly at the dove’s ashes, then stepped through. Only when he was gone did the royal wizard collapse to the floor, pale and shaken.

  There was no one in the castle who could have matched the quick and lengthy strides of the Ilangien as he hurried through the keep. Diana and Michael met him in the courtyard, but he did not so much as pause to acknowledge them. He entered the gatehouse as before, but this time, he took a different turn down an obscure passage.

  “What is this place, Your Highness?” Diana asked the prince.

  Michael hesitated to respond. “It is a second dungeon—one that has not been used for many years. My father said it was in terrible disrepair, and he had it sealed, forbidding anyone to venture near it.”

  “Then it is impossible that Medoriate Crow would be inside,” she reasoned.

  Michael nodded, but Eraekryst continued lengths ahead of them until he reached the door.

  “It will be lock—”

  The Ilangien wrenched it open, and a fragile form spilled onto the floor.

  “By Jedinom,” Michael breathed, and he and Diana raced to Eraekryst’s side. They stared in horror at the trembling mage, whose face remained concealed beneath his hat and scarf. Diana bent down to examine him, glimpsing what little she could see of his ashen, dirty visage. His eyes were wide, haunted, and when she reached out to touch him, he flung himself away, scrambling backwards to avoid her.

  “Medoriate, it’s me, Diana Sherralin,” she said, but Arythan remained with his back against the wall. “It will be all right now,” she coaxed, as if talking to a child.

  While she slowly approached him, Michael turned to find Eraekryst was staring at him. The prince shifted uncomfortably. “I cannot explain it, Lord Sparrow. None of it. He spoke to me of his concerns, and I promised to give him my attention as soon as I was able. But I did not imagine that—”

  “He came to you, and you did nothing,” Eraekryst said.

  Michael was speechless.

  “He knew who was responsible for the poison, yet this man was allowed a second opportunity to take his life. That is unacceptable.”

  The prince squirmed. “I am truly sorry for all of this,” Michael said. “I should have responded immediately. I accept the responsibility of my failure, but I beg you—I beg you, Lord Sparrow, do not leave. There will be no more threats to you or Medoriate Crow.”

  “What is this desperation?” Eraekryst said in a low voice. “What need have you of us?”

  Michael did not answer.

  By now Arythan had calmed slightly, but he withdrew at the healer’s touch. His eyes kept returning to the open door to the dungeon.

  Eraekryst waved his hand, and it quickly shut itself. “He will decide our course of action, if we remain as your guests or not.”

  Michael nodded.

  “I can tell you right now that should you decide to leave, you will not be doing so immediately.” Diana gestured to Arythan’s ankle. “Now if you gentlemen do not mind, we need to take the medoriate back to his room.”

  “’Tis best I not touch him,” Eraekryst said, moving ahead.

  “A true friend,” Diana muttered. “Your Highness?”

  “Of course.” Michael shouldered most of Arythan’s minimal weight, and they began the tedious journey to the guest room.

  The water in the wooden tub had been warm at best. Arythan modified the temperature on his own, and then he had pointed everyone out of the room. Even without a voice, he found there was little he wished to say. He was embarrassed of his deception and the state in which he was found, but he wa
s also more than shaken by his two days of solitude in the dungeon. He did not want to be touched or seen by anyone, and yet he felt a vague need for company after his horrific ordeal.

  He thought of his brother, wishing more than anything he was there. He tried to imagine what he would say, what wise advice he would impart. I’m still trapped. Trapped until I can walk again. Trapped in a castle with a murdering wizard. He sank deep into the water and closed his eyes.

  The sound of the chains echoed in his ears, and his eyelids flicked open. The workings of his haunted mind…except that the experience had been real, and it would likely follow him into his dreams. If only he could leave all of this behind him; if only he could escape to a better time—a time in the past. A time when he was still himself, when his brother was alive, when he could roam Secramore without a care. Even when he was able to leave this kingdom, where would he go? He had no vocation, no money, nothing to sustain himself. How would he survive?

  Arythan slicked the wet hair back from his face and propped his arms on the edge of the tub. He gazed absently at the door and was not surprised when there was a light knock upon it. Why knock at all? I can’t tell you if I want you here or not.

  Eraekryst entered with a tray of food, and Arythan cast him a perplexed expression. “Why did I announce myself?” the Ilangien asked. “So as not to startle you in your delicate mindset. This meal,” he said, raising the tray, “has not been poisoned.” He brought it to the bed, where he sat and selected some grapes.

  Arythan motioned for him to turn around while he quit the tub. As awkward as it was to maneuver with his injury, he insisted in a silent display of stubbornness that he would manage on his own. At present, food was a great motivation. After two days of nothing, he would eat just about anything anyone put on a trencher.

  “This silence,” Eraekryst said, his back still turned, “is most annoying. Not that you had ever exhausted your tongue, but it is an obstacle to communicate with you.” He held the cup behind him. “Hence, the remedy.”