Myths and Magic: An Epic Fantasy and Speculative Fiction Boxed Set

by K.N. Lee

  Ma' shrugged before continuing to mutter and wave her fingers over my body.

  “Why are you whispering?” I asked, wincing as my face started aching.

  “Mage talent runs in families. If you ever exhibit any skills yourself, I don't want you to know how to do this. It's too dangerous and there's too much of my father in you . . . which bodes well for this madcap venture.”

  “But this was your plan,” I protested.

  “Well, my father makes up a part of me, too, dear. Just not the magic part.”

  I screamed as my back arched. It felt like someone dragging hot knives alone my spine. My entire body burned. My breasts began to melt and shrink. All the fat squeezed into my belly and my hips surged into my shoulders. And down below? Hard to describe. You know how when you make sausage and the loose meat solidifies and extrudes out a hollow cavity with a delicate casing wrapped around it? And there was a leather pouch with two grapes in it attached to tiny strings so they bobbed and jiggled when I moved. After that first flush, the sausage just drooped. How can men stand all this? How do they walk?

  Sweating, Ma' turned away to slide the lid back onto the stasis box. “Your jerkin's in the bag with the armor. Get dressed,” she said, head downcast, refusing to look me in the eyes. Pulling the shirt over my head didn't tug my hair as it ought. I reached up and patted the top of my head. My dark blonde, butt length tresses had become pale, shoulder length corn silk.

  I looked down at my mother and smiled as I wrapped one of my wavy curls around a trembling finger. For the first time in my life, our hair finally matched. I wanted to cry and embrace her. I suppressed it. I've never felt closer to her than in that moment, but I said nothing. That was a sentiment from Kelsa, but now I must become Sir Corbin.

  “Yes, Ma',” I replied, startling at my hoarse, deep voice even as I mentally berated myself. You're Sir Corbin. Not Kelsa, Corbin.

  “It's too strange,” she cried, throwing the rest of G'fa's clothes at me. “Don't say such things. Not with that face, not with that voice. You are Corbin Destrus, Hero of Jerkum Pass . . . and my old man. We both need to act accordingly. It's like a play. Pretend we're in a play.” Ma' . . . no, Miranda . . . shook her head and started unhooking Krag from the cart's yolk. Her lips crooked as she smiled, mocking me . . . him with that familiar grin. “Well? What do you want me to do with your horse, you old fart?”

  I struggled with the pants. They smelled like horse hair and dust and they sealed my suddenly ungainly private parts behind a wall of stiff, sweaty leather. “Tie him to a tree. Can your,” how would G'fa phrase it, “your poor, little pony take the strain of pulling that great big cart? I've told you time and time again that you need a bigger horse, Miranda.”

  “Yes, sir! You think every horse should be a damn cavalry charger.” Ma' winked at me. “Doing great, Sweety. I almost want to punch you . . . him.”

  I gave her G'fa's best crooked smile as I shook the wrinkles from his treasured velvet crimson cloak, folding it carefully, and stowing it away. “But of course! Who would want to ride a wimpy little palfrey when they can feel a proper charger thundering between their legs?”

  “The only thundering old Krag's done these last ten years is out his ass,” Ma' snorted. “And he's not the only one. Forgotten how to put on that armor, old man?”

  Putting the saddle and tack on Krag and tying Jena to the cart were both long practiced activities. Except my fingers were too large and less nimble. And my hands kept shaking. And there was a persistent itch on the small of my back that would not go away. I glanced at the stasis box and forgave G'fa his eternal litany of little aches and pains, which until now I had only experienced vicariously.

  “You should choose a sapling in the woods and cut a pennon,” Ma' . . . no, Miranda nodded towards the forest. “Give those old muscles a chance to ease into things before you try riding. When was the last time you clambered up on that bag of bones with hooves? The saw is in . . .”

  I waved her away, like G'fa used to do. “The day I need you to tell me where to find my own saw is the day they stick me in the . . . ground.” My face froze.

  Miranda paled and she stared into my eyes. “You have a long, happy life ahead of you,” she said, patting my hand. “Never forget that in the days ahead.”

  “Not even death cannot stand against the great, the mighty Sir Corbin.”

  “The five gods must have salt-cured you, oh mighty ham,” she chuckled weakly. “Not even the grave can keep you down. Well, you don't need a fretful daughter standing here holding your hand. I'll be on my way after I've finished with Jena. I know it's been a few years since you've seen the old gang and you're excited to get back to them. I'm sure they're just like their stories . . . even the exaggerated ones.”

  “Worry not! Even my little nudist granddaughter could wrangle the truth from those wild tales. What little there is of it.” I waved my hand with a haughty flair. “Mere facts should never trump a good story.”

  “Goodbye, old man. I will miss you.” She hugged me. I wrapped G'fa's arms around her and nuzzled her cheek with his grizzled face. “Maybe tone down the gusto just a bit,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Goodbye, Miranda. Anyone hassles you over that witchery business, you spit in their eye, ya hear? Never forget that I, Sir Corbin, am bursting with . . .” No, too much. “I'm proud of you and will always be a part of you, my daughter.”

  Miranda smiled and nodded. As I hacked through the trees to find a straight sapling, I reminded myself it was vital that I act like Sir Corbin Destrus, not a twisted minstrel version of some girl's G'fa. For all his . . . my swagger, I had a sweet, quiet core beneath all that bombast. One without the other was just an empty shell.

  I did not look at the casket as Miranda carted it away. And it was a casket. Corbin Destrus faced the truth, even when it struck like a lance. That was just a body, now. The heart of Sir Corbin Destrus beat within my own chest and Sir Corbin needed a pennon for his helmet. The story explaining the regimental tradition of tying the helmet to the top of the pennon came unbidden, another tale an old man told a little girl, and I squashed it. What need had I to remember an old man telling stories? I had lived through it.

  I absently scratched the birthmark on my butt. Scratching the big, hairy mole was an easy, practiced motion. My fingers moved by themselves to that precise spot. They were Corbin's fingers, but Kelsa's mark and Kelsa's itch. I withdrew my hand. I didn't need Kelsa interfering with the mission. I'm Sir Corbin Destrus. Sir Corbin. Forget Kelsa. Forget you ever heard the name G'fa. Miranda is your daughter, not your mother. I took a deep breath. Focus on finding a pennon. One step at a time, you old warrior.

  3

  CORBIN, YEAR 198

  I trotted my faithful steed along the forest trail, every ounce of my eighty-six year old body weighed on my twenty year old brain. The familiar aches and pains were settling in for the ride as Krag's lopsided gait sent jarring pulses into my thighs and straight up my spine. My armor shuttered and clattered with every hoof beat. Krag was bred for the thunderous, gambling charge of a proper warhorse, not a leisurely, ambling stroll through the woods. I would never admit it to her face, but Miranda's sweet-tempered palfrey was much more suited to traveling long distances in the saddle. The wussy little nag.

  As my butt readjusted to the familiar curves and hollows of the saddle, and my armor nestled into old dents in the padding, my thoughts also ventured down well-worn grooves. Procrastination is the only enemy I never defeated. I gave the speech to poor Kelsa to 'proofread' when we both knew I meant 'finish it.' Sometimes, that girl knows me better than I know myself. A branch dipped across the path and I absently smacked it with a flick of my gauntlet. Alas, some obstacles were not so easily brushed aside.

  I reviewed the speech in my mind: rough, short, and riding off a cliff. Maybe seeing my old companions would inspire me. Maybe after I bought the first round of ale, I could persuade some half-drunk comrade to help me finish writing the damn thing. Now that's thin
king like Corbin Destrus. I twisted my fresh-cut pennon in its holster beneath the saddle and angled the helmet, laughing as my steel face smashed through the trees. Birds scattered in all directions, screeching and flapping. Fly, my tiny, feathered heralds. Fly! Tell the world Sir Corbin Destrus rides again.

  Krag and I emerged from the forest into a wide, sunny field. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass as I spurred him to a canter. The horses rough gait transformed into a rolling, undulating motion and his hooves tore the sod as we sped through the field. What a day to be alive. We would reach the capitol and all the old regiment would be there to greet me. The necklace jangled against my cuirass like a tiny bell, a reminder of a past I could not quite remember. Ah Corbin, you're getting senile in your old age. The bright sunshine soaked up all worries. I closed my eyes as the ring kept rattling, pulling the reins as Krag approached the end of the field and the next stretch of woods. The tiny bell eased and then silenced. There's another story here, I thought, smiling, and I can't wait to hear it. One of my friends will remember the story of the ring, but I must be subtle.

  Can't have the scuttlebutt going around that old Corbin is losing his mind. Names and faces, I muttered, massaging my brain with metal fingers. I may have forgotten a few of the old stories, but I will never dishonor their names nor forget their faces. But despite the mantra, I could not escape the feeling more and more of my memories were slipping into an abyss. Hmmm, give my speech. Sit and drink with my friends. Wasn't there something else I was meant to do in the capitol? Money. My penniless son-in-law is worried about money again. Heroes don't worry about money. They just save damsels in distress and damn the expense. Now why does Miranda's sweet face come to mind when I think that? Ah, the coming mage pogrom. I will die before I let those bastards lay a finger on my little girl. We just need more money to escape this blasted country. By the gods, I'm turning into my damn son-in-law.

  I tried to scrimp when I found an inn for the night. I handed the innkeep a few coppers and leaned over the polished, wooden counter. A large brass edifice sat on one end of the counter with its odd-shaped singular backwards spiraling dial pointing up. I leaned forward to examine my reflection in the mirror surface. The ring clanged against my curiass and the brass box hummed at me and the dial dropped. A magic-detector, then, which I had assumed presented no danger of detecting me. Miranda had explained the machines responded best and absorbed fresh cast, direct attack spells. Passive magic wrapped in a talisman in close contact with the spell's recipient should not trigger much of an effect. Still, the damn thing hummed. Did the innkeeper look nervous? I rapped my knuckles on the brass and moved the dial to its original position. “Old model here,” I said. “Seems in want of some repair.”

  “They're heavy to move, sir, and repair costs dear.”

  An old story flashed through my mind. In the days of my youth, I had strapped one of these infernal contraptions to my back once. Then I lugged the thing into battle and saved the day. I reached over and patted the brass edifice, keeping the ring at a distance. “Heavy indeed. I know from personal experience.”

  The innkeeper nodded and turned to select a key of the rack behind the counter. He offered it to me.

  “No need to ready a room.” I waved him away and flashed a smile that was unfortunately more gums than teeth. “I'll bunk down with my horse. Done it often enough on past campaigns.”

  “Past campaigns, sir?” He placed a disturbing emphasis on the word 'past.' The little man dusted the wood with the corner of his apron as his eyes flickered past my tin dress armor and ornate cape. I could see the obvious thoughts march through his skull. I was dressed more for a ball than a battle. “Surely, you cannot expect us to house a gentlemen of your mature years and advanced . . .”

  Just what was he implying? I propped my elbows on the counter and glared at the innkeeper. It was the dark, cloudy expression I borrowed from my son in law. The skinny, little miser always looked like a storm was about to break across his face when he caught someone in the family daring to spend coins instead of earning them. I had certainly seen that glare often enough to mimic it: those hooded eyes, that angry, slanted brow, and a forehead you could use as a washboard.

  “ . . . stature,” the man coughed, “with the horses? The Hero of Jerkum Pass cannot sleep in a barn.”

  The sheer nerve of this man. Did he think that older heroes were somehow too delicate for straw beds?

  The innkeeper turned and clapped his hands. “Marie! The finest silken sheets for our guest. And a bath. Don't spare the aromatic salts. And heat up the finest sweet porridge . . .” His voice dropped off when he turned back and saw my face glowering a flyspeck away from his sweaty brow.

  “Porridge?” I drummed my fingers on the counter. “Do you serve such filth to every soldier of the empire who walks through your doors? Or just the heroes?”

  “Marie,” the man squealed. “Only the finest cuts of the pork haunch roasting on the spit for our illustrious guest.”

  I nodded and turned towards the door. My hand froze in the act of gathering my kit when I heard the man whispering.

  “Well-roasted and tender, mind you. Be sure to trim the blackened, gristly bits. And maybe some soft peas and mashed potatoes on the side?” As I whipped around, the man smiled. “We shall prepare a feast fit for a . . . hero. Now, if you head up the stairs to your room, sir, I believe Marie has drawn you a nice, hot bath.”

  The bath in the large copper tub was relaxing. After locking the door, more to hide my unrestrained squeals of delight than my naked body, I slipped a few more handfuls of salts and suds into the water than was properly masculine. I soaked in the privacy of my room and let the mask slip for a while. Everything below my neckline vanished under the bubbles, senses smothered by the warm, tingling embrace of the hot water. I wiggled my hairy toes, which poked above the surface. Maybe not everything.

  The dinner was tasty. I insisted on a hard crust of bread to sop the juices from the meat. My teeth may be missing, but my pride was intact. Time was a soldier of the empire could doss in a barn with his steed for two coppers and no questions asked. Fame is an awful burden to bear. The inn laid out its finest spread for the Hero of Jerkum pass. The next morning, they knew better than to offer me porridge again, but a toasted crust of bread and dried fruit made very welcome breakfast. Then they presented me with the hero's bill.

  I staggered out the door with a woefully half empty purse. Maybe I should have swallowed my pride . . . and the damn porridge.

  Another day in the saddle did not help the pork from last night settle in my stomach and the capitol was a happy sight the afternoon of the second day. Glass and steel spires commingled alongside ancient stone walls. The capitol is both an everchanging testament to mechanized progress and a timeless artifact of history the empire's history. The iron gates opened wide to welcome all visitors and as I rode through them, saluting the guards.

  One of them whipped off a classic barracks salute. The other one flubbed it miserably and I clucked and shook my finger at him. “In my day, we knew how to salute, by the five gods. Take example from your friend here, son.” I glanced at his uniform, looking for some redeeming qualities. His red surcoat was fresh pressed and the chain mail underneath had not a speck of rust. “Your salute is awful, but your uniform is quite acceptable.”

  “Welcome back, Sir Corbin,” the guard with the crisp salute said while his partner reddened and stared straight ahead. “Here to attend the annual meeting and awards ceremony?”

  “Well, somebody's got to consume all that alcohol and force down all that rich food. Would that I had another reason for visiting, son, but yes. Duty calls.” I cupped a hand to my ear. “Can you hear her ringing?”

  “ . . . like a dinner bell, sir," the guard replied, waving me forward. “Enjoy your stay in the capitol.”

  I turned to bow in my seat to the flag draped on the distant castle walls, noticing for the first time the black pennon overlaying the imperial crest. “Who has died?” I a
sked the guard quietly.

  “Have you not heard, Sir Corbin?” the guard replied. “The emperor was struck down by a mysterious illness. They say it was the final blow from those cowardly rebel mages. Damn traitors don't know when they've been thrashed.”

  “And who rules in his stead?”

  “Empress Cordelia I. Long may she reign.” He raised his fist in the air. “Death to the mages!”

  “Such horrible news,” I murmured. “May our new empress find the strength to close the affair quickly and justly.” I nodded to the guards before riding past the gates and proceeding to the outer city while my eyes remained fixed on the castle dominating the inner city.

  The inner city is a fortress on a hill in the northwest corner of a valley: a walled town complete with an imposing castle that serves as the emperor's . . . empresses's mansion, a large temple that retains its original use, and old houses long since converted to bureaucratic offices and little shops. The streets are too narrow for modern machines and the roads tend to meander, so the only vehicle allowed is the empresses's palanquin. Walking through the old town evokes visiting a museum more than anything else and the bureaucrats often dress the part, wearing rich brocades and ruffled sleeves that harken to a distant past, often taking time from their busy days to act as guides for bewildered tourists. The quaint stone and wattle charm of the inner city is maintained by the will of the emperor . . . empress and the historical preservation society.

  Over the years, the inner city has been swallowed by the more modern, steam-powered capitol thrusting an ordered array of towering buildings all around it. While the quaint walled town remained the off center epicenter of imperial government, a new city spread to fill the rest of the valley. If the inner city was dedicated to showcasing our past, the outer city flaunted the empire's role in building the future. Where the inner city retained the coarse, blunt lines of the corrupt monarchy from whom the empire appropriated it, the outer city displayed the expansive steel and glass grace that is the modern stamp of the Iron Empire.