LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Dagger stared.

  By now another Desneran had noticed the encounter and was approaching the scene. He, in contrast to his companion, had the look of a warrior. He was taller and brawny; his blond beard was braided, his head was shaven except for a long strip that ran from his hairline to his nape. The bald regions of his scalp portrayed painted designs of dragons. He, too, had a weapon at his side.

  “I don’t want any trouble here,” the barkeeper warned, intent on the brewing storm.

  “No troubles,” Dagger said, “unless these foreigners start something.”

  “What’s this about, Keeper?” the dragon-warrior asked his friend.

  “This man persists in his insults,” Keeper said, his brown eyes locked on Dagger’s. “I find it intolerable, this disrespect for a royal escort.”

  The dragon-warrior sized up the offenders. “He’s nothing. Let it go.”

  “O-ho, royal escort, eh?” Dagger grinned. “That changes everything. Royal bastards think they’re better than us, deserve more respect.” He elbowed Arythan. “Well, we don’t serve your queen. You’re on Caspernian soil, which puts us above you.”

  “You’re naught but a Caspernian cur,” Keeper said, braver with his friend beside him.

  “Is that how you think of us?” Dagger asked, his voice growing in volume. “You think we’re all dogs to lick your feet?”

  Others had turned in their direction, and even the unhappy barkeeper was frowning at the Desnerans.

  “That’s right,” Dagger boomed. “He called us Caspernian curs!”

  At that point, Arythan decided to leave before the tension erupted. He started for the door, but a sudden obstacle tripped him to the floor. He lay there a moment, his face reddening.

  “You Desneran bastard! You shoved him!” Dagger cried.

  “His own clumsiness—” Keeper began, but Dagger planted a fist into his face. Before the Desneran could react, Dagger latched onto his head and slammed his agape mouth against the edge of the counter. Pieces of shattered teeth were imbedded into the splintered wood as Keeper slumped to the ground, unconscious.

  Arythan watched from the floor as the dragon warrior lunged at Dagger with murderous intent. He never reached his target, for a tankard soared overtop the mage’s head and caught the man in the jaw, covering him with ale. Arythan scrambled away as Hunter barreled past him and careened into the stunned Desneran. They collided with the bar so fiercely that it nearly caved from the impact.

  Arythan leapt to his feet, wondering if he was too late to escape. He turned to find that the room was a writhing mass of action, like ants that had gone to battle. The B.E.S.T. and the Desnerans were at the heart of the combat, but the locals were not shy with their support. Dagger was dragging the limp body of Keeper across the floor as though it was a sack of grain. Tigress was engaged with a nimble, black-haired, blue-eyed fighter who had gotten in a few licks of his own. Hunter wrestled his struggling foe toward the door. The fourth Desneran was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Spider sipped his ale and looked on in amusement. When he saw Arythan at the edge of the room, he motioned for him to join him. The mage wove through the calming fracas and slid into the chair across from the silver-haired ruffian.

  “Are you not enjoying yourself, Medoriate?”

  “Y’ blokes are mad,” Arythan said, shaking his head. He glanced back as Dagger passed behind him, Keeper in-tow. In his free hand was his victory drink. Thanks for tripping me, you bastard.

  “Not so,” Spider said, drawing a jack from his pocket. He offered one to Arythan, but the mage shook his head. “Take it. It calms the nerves,” he said, extending his arm closer.

  Arythan took it and watched Spider to see what he would do with it. It was a dark red stick of plant matter about the size of his little finger, and if it had an odor, he could not smell it. Spider lit the end from the burning lamp on the table and then placed the tip between his lips. He breathed in, then exhaled a ring of smoke. Arythan lowered his scarf and did the same, though he did not need the lamp to light it.

  “Nice trick,” Spider said, then laughed when Arythan breathed in and flew into a coughing fit.

  His eyes watered, and he wiped them on his sleeve. “Relaxing, right,” he choked, and flung the jack upon the table.

  “We call them the ‘Worst’,” Spider said.

  “That?” Arythan asked, nodding to the jack. “I would too.”

  The lean man gestured to the bloodied Desneran being heaved out the door by Dagger. “No, we are the B.E.S.T., and they—they are our antithesis, our rivals. It has been this way since the Garrikers were cast from the royal bloodline. Of course, we were formed first, and Queen Lucinda of Desnera was quick to steal the idea of an entourage of elite fighters.

  “Anyway, it is our obligation and duty to protect our king, whether in disguise or not. It would be intolerable to have the Desnerans share our place of lodging,” Spider said. He eased back in his chair and took another hit off the jack. “We were here first, after all.”

  Arythan only nodded, watching as Tigress hauled the limp body of her rival out the door. She returned to the table and took a drink from her tankard.

  “Why, Captain, you’re bleeding,” Spider said.

  “It’s not mine,” Tigress said, wiping the substance from her cheek. “I only worry that their wizard will interfere.”

  “Interfere? The excitement is at an end. He can do nothing but scowl and relocate the queen.”

  Tigress straightened her attire. “Don’t be so certain.”

  Dagger was next to return to the table. He had earned a swollen eye, but he was smiling when he sat. “’Twas too fast,” he complained, his accent returned. “I couldn’t fully enjoy it.”

  “Y’re welcome,” Arythan grumbled, but Dagger did not give him a second glance.

  Heads had turned toward the procession that entered the room. An unhappy group of nobles and their queen was preceded by the tall, grim-faced man. Only now the lines of his long face were tight with anger, and his dark eyes burned like coals as he searched the room with his gaze. Beside him, the fourth Desneran was quick to point out the offending B.E.S.T.. He stepped forward, his long gray hair moving behind him with a non-existent breeze, strands like cobwebs in the wind. “What is the meaning of this assault?” he demanded in a voice like the edge of a knife.

  No one moved or spoke one word. The fire snapped and popped in the hearth.

  The tall man took another step forward, toward the group in question. Arythan tensed and subconsciously began to draw energy around himself. The rest of the B.E.S.T. remained stone-faced and rigid.

  “Any threat to Her Majesty is punishable by death,” the man said, his voice calm but weighted like the lurking fog on an autumn night. Slowly he closed the distance between himself and his enemies.

  Then a voice rose from beside the mage, and Arythan saw Spider step forward, the jack still in his mouth. “No one threatened Her Majesty. Your upstarts spoke against Caspernyanne and proceeded to—”

  It did not take but a blink before the tall man gripped Spider by the shoulder, uttering some strange, dark words.

  Arythan reacted just as the others moved in. Midnight-colored flames flared between the Desneran wizard and Spider, and immediately the tall man drew back. Hunter, Tigress, and Dagger surrounded their stunned companion like a fortified wall, but the wizard’s eyes were locked upon Arythan.

  “Enough!” Queen Lucinda said, her words snapping like a branch. “It is clear we are unwelcome here. We will seek lodging elsewhere.”

  Only reluctantly did the wizard’s eyes turn from the mage as he bowed to heed his regent’s order. He assumed his position at the helm of the group, and the Desnerans left the tavern.

  “What ‘appened?” Dagger demanded, looking Spider in the eyes. “What’d that bloodrot bastard do to y’?”

  “Nothing, it seems,” Spider said, his voice quiet. He touched his shoulder as though he still felt the wizard’s grip upon him. “I think th
e medoriate stopped him.”

  Tigress frowned. “I will speak to His Majesty.” She nodded toward Dagger and Hunter. “Stay awhile to make certain there are no further incidents.” She looked at Spider. “You’re done for tonight.” She turned to leave the room.

  Spider started to follow her, then paused before Arythan. “Thank you for your intervention, Medoriate Crow.” His words were sincere, but he was clearly shaken from the experience.

  Arythan gave a slight nod and watched him leave, but he could not help but feel he had done nothing to avert the wizard’s actions.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  KITRIMAR

  THE SKY WAS RIPENING to golden-orange when a band of crows came to call at the walls of the fortress-city of Kitrimar. In their midst was their notorious king, the scoundrel of the Northern Kingdoms. The sentries at the gate warily allowed them passage, and a multitude of city escorts flanked them like bees in a hive. Those passersby still upon the streets stopped to stare at the black-clad newcomers, drawing back from the procession as though a pestilence had arrived in Human guise. And King Garriker II indulged in a smile.

  Though the streets were old and worn, the lanterns that lined them burned fresh and bright. Buildings and structures that could have been erected the day before were anchored by stone foundations that told a different story of ages past. Though the shops were closing, the activity had merely retreated inside the taverns and inns, to where the glow of blazing hearths welcomed the company. The din of laughter and singing drew Cerborath’s crows like the promise of a meal yet to come.

  The Northern Kingdoms occupied an inn of their own, and though superficial camaraderie kept conversation pleasant, political motives and rivalry lurked with shadows beneath the firelight. Some shadows, however, were a presence of their own, and heads turned and silence fell when Cerborath’s regent made his appearance. Garriker merely guarded his smile as the city escorts quickly showed them to their rooms. He and his entourage inspected their lodging as the head escort rattled information.

  “The kitchen will be serving meals for another hour yet. The dining room will remain open after dinner is over. Tomorrow’s gathering will be—”

  “Are we the last to arrive?” Garriker asked.

  With his speech disrupted, the escort stumbled. “Er, I…that may well be true, Your Majesty.”

  “Is that your answer?” He stared at the man expectantly.

  “I can certainly check to see—”

  “Do not bother,” Garriker said, waving him away.

  “We…ah…expect no trouble, Your Majesty. This is neutral territory, as you well know….”

  Garriker spun on him. “Do you imply my intentions are to disrupt this conference?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty. I merely—”

  “Then good night to you,” he said, and Tigress closed the door to the room. Garriker faced his fellow travelers. “We are expected to have an uneventful dinner. Be polite. Smile. Represent our kingdom well, but do not suffer any indignation.” He gave a nod toward the royal medoriate. “Cyrul, Captain, if you would accompany me…the rest of you may dine at your leisure.” He gave a meaningful glance at Michael, and the prince dipped his head.

  Once they had gone, the remaining members of the B.E.S.T. retreated to the adjoining room, leaving Michael alone with Arythan. “Well, Crow,” the prince began. “What do you think of all this?”

  Arythan shrugged and sat on his cot. “I can’t say.”

  Michael blinked. “Truly? No opinion whatsoever?”

  “I don’t know why I’m ‘ere or what this is all about,” Arythan admitted. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, only to have it fall back into his eyes.

  “No, I suppose you do not.” The prince sat across from the mage and smiled. “This is an idealist’s conference. While it is said that there is hope of unifying Secramore, I can promise that every regent here has only his own ambitions in mind. They will talk of making the Traders’ Ring safe for travel, developing a common currency, treating all races equally… None of it will come to pass, I can promise. No one truly believes Secramore can be unified. We are all here to see what we can gain from this ‘noble cause.’ Alliances, bargaining, a little boasting—that is what this entails, Crow.”

  Arythan said nothing. He did not care about the conference at all. He wanted the truth behind his presence there.

  Michael smoothed his wig and continued. “My father wants what is best for Cerborath. He has alliances of his own that he intends to meet with during our stay here. Unfortunately, some of these alliances may not be entirely trustworthy. As I have told you, Cerborath and the Merchants’ Guild have been working cooperatively to produce the Enhancement, the Black Ice. It is an uneasy alliance. My father trusts no one; he relies upon others but grudgingly.

  “Cyrul is our connection to the Enhancement. He knows the process behind its creation, he works alongside the Guild’s wizards to ensure business is honest. He is an integral piece to Cerborath’s success.” Michael lowered his voice. “The Guild, they know our reliance upon him. If anything should happen to Cyrul, we would be at the mercy of their wizards.” He studied the unreadable mage before him. “You see what I aim to communicate, do you not?”

  What sort of fool do you take me for? Arythan wondered. He knew exactly what the prince was implying, and it was insulting. He wrestled with his temper in order to feign ignorance. “’S why y’ brought the blokes in black, right? To protect ‘im, y’r father, an’ y’.”

  “Indeed, Crow, but there is one vital asset the B.E.S.T. lack. To protect a wizard, one should have a knowledge of magic. None of our elite possess this knowledge, and in fact, they are averse to it.” He looked the mage directly in the eyes. “You have accompanied us as Cyrul’s assistant. You must stay with him at all times, even when he insists he needs his privacy.”

  Arythan’s expression hardened, and he stood. He fished the coin purse from his coat and tossed it on the cot beside Michael, watching as the prince stared at it, bewildered.

  “What is this?” Michael asked.

  “’M sorry,” Arythan said, his voice cold, “but I respectfully decline y’r offer. The money’s all there—even what I lost to y’r blokes.” He reclaimed his hat and headed for the door.

  Michael’s eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet. “Wait—where are you going?”

  “Wherever I want.” Arythan tipped his hat.

  “You intend to leave? Now?” The growing volume in the prince’s voice caused Hunter and Spider to move to the doorway to their room. “You cannot be serious,” Michael insisted, the first sound of agitation in his tone.

  Arythan turned to him with a blank face. “I thought the same of y’ a moment ago. Y’ want me to protect the bastard ‘oo tried to kill m’ mate an’ me. I’d sooner poison ‘im m’self.” He glimpsed a flash of a smile upon Spider’s face.

  “You have come as Cyrul’s assistant,” Michael said, finally standing.

  “’S what y’r father said. I ‘aven’t agreed to anything, an’ I don’ work for y’r kingdom. ‘E’s a bloody wizard; ‘e can defend ‘imself.”

  Michael held out a hand in desperation. “I know I must have offended you, but we can discuss this further—”

  Arythan shook his head. “I’m through with lies an’ ‘alf stories. I make my own decisions, an’ ’tis time for me to go.”

  “Think about what it is that you are doing,” Michael impressed upon him.

  “I ‘ave.” And with that, the door was shut, and the mage was gone.

  Slipping outside the inn without Garriker’s party’s notice had been easy; deciding what to do now was the true question at hand. Arythan stepped into the street and started walking. The air was sharp with cold, burning his nose despite the barrier of his scarf. Here and there he would see Kitrimaran guards, and they would watch him warily until he was beyond their sight. After all, he was not the only one on the street; scattered patrons lingered outside their inns or t
averns, some alone, some in the company of another.

  Did I do the right thing? He had walked away from a decided opportunity. What did it mean to be employed by a king? To always have money in his pocket, be respected, have a place to live, have beautiful women at his side, indulge in grand, warm meals that would satiate his hunger….

  Arythan’s stomach growled, and he took a long breath. Under Garriker’s Crown, he would also be restricted: where he went, what he did, how he presented himself. He would have duties, obligations, and responsibilities to attend to. He would have to listen to and obey the king. Being subordinate had ever been a challenge for him, but in a world of Humans it seemed everyone had to heed some sort of authority. In the end, the choice was this: would he submit to being a part of Human society, or would he choose the life of an outcast? One option would result in survival, the other was undoubtedly questionable.

  They all lie to me, Em’ri. They all have something they are hiding. Who am I to trust? Murderers? Ruffians? Or scoundrel kings? Even Erik…why did he want to leave so suddenly? The truest companion I have is Trouble, and it follows me everywhere. Arythan subconsciously touched the place where the knife rested against his chest. Its warmth was reassuring, constant. You would have approved, Em’ri. I did the right thing. I walked away. I can still make good decisions.

  Except now he had to decide where he would stay; he was not ready to leave Kitrimar yet. He was not ready to face the open road and all its hardships. The thought of sleeping outside in the cold, wondering when he would be able to eat again, walking until his feet bled—those thoughts were the reality that faced him once he quit the city. Here I am, back where I started. The price of a good decision.

  Arythan glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye, then heard the soft approach of footsteps—more than one person. He nearly smiled at his misfortune, but he had no energy for an encounter. All he wanted was a meal and a bed. There was another inn up ahead; he could see the glow from inside, almost hear the voices. A shadowy form stepped into the road several yards ahead of him, and the footsteps slowed behind him. What now?