The Legends of Vandor: Anthology Volume 1 (The Legends of Vandor Anthologies)

by DJ Morand

  From the sea he did come

  With dead men 'n bottle o' rum

  While he sang, Cortland broke up the chorus with a staccato clap. Once he had the crowd’s attention he returned to the verses again. Before his final chorus he bowed deeply and drew out his pan-flute to play a melody. It was upbeat and catchy. Cheers from the patrons and a roar from Captain Balefin was enough for Cortland to know he’d found himself again, if only for a moment. The melancholy pressed in again, but he held it at bay, tilting a mug to his lips.

  * * *

  Off the coast of Nirevla: Year 891 AB

  24 Zarfer: Toral - 4th Hour of Feralda

  The Oban’s Eye

  After a week aboard the Oban’s Eye, Cortland had grown to appreciate the raucous crew of the freebooter vessel. The men were gruff and unwashed, both in body and in spirit, but he found a certain kinship with them. Now, he sat on the upper deck of the ship, allowing himself to get lost in the ebb and flow of the sea’s current. The sails were drawn and let the night sky shine down upon him. This time of year the twin moons hung low in the sky, Eradri loomed so large he felt he could reach out and touch it. The lesser moon, Iendri sat as a dark spot in the light of the larger moon. He thought often of the moons and their correlation to his life, his recent life, at least. Eradri was forever chasing Iendri, never quite able to catch her. The melancholy had settled in heavy this night. He knew he should be sleeping, but he began to hum a tune deep and sorrowful.

  From mother I come

  From father I learn

  From teacher I grow

  From lover I'm torn

  This simple life

  Simple life

  T'is not enough

  Not enough

  From the road I travel

  From the cart I ride

  From the sea I sail

  From the storm I'm lost

  This simple life

  Simple life

  T'is not enough

  Not enough

  From--

  “Oi,” a throaty tight voice said. “Enough ‘o that matey, lest ye want t’feed t’fish.” The sailor grunted and turned a crooked eye on Cortland. ““I’m wantin’ t’hear somet’in’ wit’ some bounce,” he said. “Hop t’it bardy.”

  “Beg your pardon sir,” Cortland said, his voice taut. “I am not contracted for the time such as it is now. I will sing what I like whilst I am not being paid.”

  The sailor bowled over backward as if he’d been smacked in the face, for all of his bluster and cursing while he rose, one might have thought that was the case. The sailor’s face was flush. His fingers flexed in short bursts of activity, alternating from open hands to fists. Cortland looked unamused as the sailor flexed his considerably well-muscled arms. The bard caught sight of a winding tattoo of what, he assumed, was supposed to be a woman with a fish tail.

  Where do these men get their ideas? He thought.

  Calmly, the bard rose to his feet. Cortland was not a small man, his shoulders were broad and even. As he rose to his full six feet, he stood half a head taller than the disgruntled sailor. What he lacked in size, the sailor made up for in general girth. He was a barrel of a man, twice as wide as Cortland. The young bard was beginning to feel the anger rise up in him. The melancholy turning sinister. He imagined breaking the sailor’’s face with his bare hands. The image gave him pause. Cortland had never been a violent man, but what he felt was too familiar. Worry lines creased his brow as he struggled to contain the latent energies swelling in him. Whether the dark look in his eye or the look upon his face, Cortland scared the sailor. The man made an apologetic gesture.

  “Sing what’ye like t’en,” the sailor said, taking an uncertain step back.

  Cortland seemed to notice the other sailors for the first time; they had gathered around to see a fight. Cortland couldn’t blame them, life at sea could be quite uneventful when it wasn’t storming or wildlife was no where near. A fight or two had already broken out among others. No blood had been shed, but both men shared bruised faces. It was not the other sailors that concerned Cortland. It was the dark presence he had felt when his anger rose. That feeling had grown into a beast of supernatural proportions. He remembered what that beast had done before, to an entire city. It had killed everyone merely to satiate its selfish need for vengeance against one man. That dark power was frightening. A hand clasped him on the back and Cortland leaped into the air, half twisting as he landed.

  “Little jumpy aren’t ye?” Captain Balefin said. “Not to worry lad. None of the crew wants to see ye dead. Take yer rest lad.”

  Cortland didn’t trust himself to speak, instead he nodded his head and found a comfortable spot to lay his head. He watched the moons in the sky for a time before he drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  Deep Sea: Year 890 AB

  10 Ienfer: Zaral - 6th Hour of Eralda

  The Oban’s Eye

  They had been at sea for some months. The first storms of winter had come and past. Captain Balefin had explained that until late winter they would stay close to shore. The first of the second month of the new year marked their expedition into the wild seas. The crew was lively and full of excited anticipation. Cortland enjoyed the feeling and led the crew in a raucous canticle meant only for the ears of the sailors, sun, and sea.

  Way up thar she blows

  Way up thar she blows

  T’maiden fair

  With glowing hair

  Way up thar she blows

  Way up thar she blows

  T’whale ‘n swell

  Sea’s hurling well

  Way up thar she blows

  Way up thar she blows

  T’stormin’ cloud

  Ship’s whipping sail

  Way up thar she blows

  Way up thar she blows

  The crew echoed his words, and Cortland smiled as the sea swelled beneath the ship.

  “Maelstrom off the port bow!” A call came down from the crow’s nest. “Westerly winds!”

  “Draw the mizzen and batten down the hatches ye scurvy scallywags!” Captain Balefin’s voice echoed in an orotund call. ““Avast, any man not heaving to ho will be hempen halter afore Eradri rears his head.”

  The Oban’s Eye lurched violently to the starboard side as the sea drew in on itself. The ocean dragged across the bottom of the ship as it lifted high and doused the deck of the vessel. Several men slid on the now slick deck. One of the sailors cried out as the mizzen line tore from his hands, taking much of the skin from his palms with it. Bloodied and screaming he was caught in the next watery onslaught. The sky flashed and a cacophony of thunder ripped through the air. Cortland watched as hell descended upon them.

  “Landlubber, get the fuck on that mizzen line or get the fuck below decks!” Cortland recognized the voice, but the order didn’t immediately register in his head.

  The chaos of motion around the bard was like nothing he had ever seen or experienced. Sails flapped noisily in the wind like the sound of a thousand hands clapping together. He found that surreal. The sail was clapping for his death and the death of the crew of the Oban’s Eye. Cortland realized that the captain was still barking an order and Cortland took heed. He dashed to his left and took hold of the writhing rope. It was wet with the sea and red with the blood of the sailor who had held it.

  “Tie it down, ye landlubbed son of a biscuit eater,” Captain Balefin said, cursing.

  Cortland did as he was told and pulled hard on the rope then tied it off on the nearest cleat. Another wave crashed onto the ship’s deck and the Oban’s Eye nearly capsized from the power of it. Cortland held tight to the mizzen line to keep from being flung from the deck. The sky opened and rain poured in sheets of violent, stinging, rain. As quickly as he had been thrust from his feet, he was standing again as the ship righted herself.

  “Cortland! Batten down that hatch!” Another sailor had appeared at his side to take hold of the line.

  The bard followed the man’s poin
ting finger to a wooden door on the top of the deck. It was slapping against the deck, folded entirely back on its hinges. The hole that the wooden hatch usually covered lay open to the elements. Cortland could see how the crashing waves could easily fill the lower decks with water if it were left open. He tried to reply, but the thunderous storm drowned out his words. The sailor yelled something and gestured to the hatch again. Cortland nodded and unsteadily made his way to the hole. The ship rocked and shook.

  “Look out below!” A cry came from somewhere on the wind.

  Cortland looked up to see a shower of debris falling from a flaming spire.

  That’s odd, he thought. How is anything burning in this rain?

  His question was not answered as he realized the debris would crush him if he did not move. The bard made a dive for the hatch and barely managed to grasp hold of the edge of the hole as he overshot it. He hit the deck on his check with a whoosh of air forced from his chest. Fire burned in his lungs as he gasped for the lost air. Moments later he was choking in a mouthful of sea water as another wave crashed against the ship’’s deck. A rough hand grasped the back of his soaked tunic and hefted him to his feet.

  “Ye want to hop in Thalassa’s Void? Do it on yer own time! Batten down that fucking hatch,” Captain Balefin said, snarling.

  Cortland was too stunned to respond; he simply nodded his head and knelt down to pull at the wooden door. The wind was strong and he had to pull hard against the hatch, but it lifted in his hands. Once he had it half-way shut, the hatch slammed down under the force of another gale wind. Cortland snapped the latch into place. He looked up at the crow’s nest, where he had seen the pillar of fire and realized it was the crow’s nest that had been burning. He still struggled to wrap his mind around what could have caused it.

  “Oi,” a familiar gravelly voice said. “I said ye would feed t’fishes.”

  Cortland didn’t have time to turn around before a burning pain ignited in his spine. He had not been stabbed before, but he knew what it felt like to be cut. This was worse. Fire blazed in his back side as the sailor withdrew the weapon and drove it home again and several more times in rapid succession.

  “Ne’er take a landlubber out t’sea,” the sailor said. “Always brings t’storms.”

  The young bard felt the pain arc through him like a bolt of lightning. The heat of it scoured his back and seared his soul. With a heavy thud he fell to his knees. Cortland looked up, hoping to see the moons, but all he could see was blackness highlighted occasionally by flashes of light in the storm-ridden sky. He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Deep Sea: Year 890 AB

  10 Ienfer: Zaral - 7th Hour of Eralda

  The Oban’s Eye

  Cortland blinked. He was not dead; he was not even dying. However, he could feel the cold rage swell in him. As terrifying as the tempest from without was, it was nothing compared to the storm raging within him. He had no strength left to fight the influence and a beam of purple light burst from his fingertips. He turned the beam on the sailor who had stabbed him. The man’s form dessicated and collapsed in on itself. Cortland didn’t stop there; he couldn’t. The bard drank in the power as it flooded into him. He tasted it as the sailor’s soul was ripped from his body and became sustenance for the light pouring out of him. Despite the storm, he could feel the tears on his face, they glowed too - purple, fiery, and bright. Men still bellowed above the sound of the storm. Their voices sounded distant and strained or it was simply that Cortland could not hear them. A song of pure unbridled hatred sang through him as he turned the beams of light on the other sailors.

  A man climbing the mainmast burst into motes of bloody carcass as the light touched him. His soul whipped violently towards Cortland and struck the bard. The impact drove him a step back as he absorbed the spirit. The light sighed in satisfaction.

  Yes, a smoky voice purred in Cortland’s mind. It drew out the last consonant making it sound like a hiss. More, it demanded.

  Cortland was powerless to fight it now. He turned his gaze to another sailor, tying off a line. Cortland struck with precise movements, allowing the power to surge through him and into the sailor. The man arched his back, letting his arms flail out to either side and he screamed. The sound of his scream was like a melody to the entity within the bard. It trilled with pure delight. The sailor disintegrated, and the light intensified.

  The sky roared. A flash illuminated the deck as the wood exploded from the impact of lightning. The storm boomed again.

  Cortland wanted to weep; he wanted to stop.

  MORE, the voice in his head commanded.

  The bard lifted his other hand, the light blazing from it now as well. Two thick beams of energy streaked from his palms striking two more sailors. Their cries were lost in the wind. With each death, Cortland felt younger, stronger, and more powerful. The beams grew in their intensity until they become one man-sized blast of energy eking out from every inch of his being. He could no more stop the onslaught of energy than he could the storm raging around the ship. As he consumed the souls of the sailors, the same wicked song from Barvvowind entered his thoughts. He tried to hold it back, but it sprang from his lips in a merry dirge.

  Dance, dance with the dark

  Steal, steal, the song of the lark

  Dance, dance with the dark

  Steal, steal, the song of the lark

  Drink, drink in its soul

  Breathe, breathe, VVontar’s Sheoul

  Drink, drink in its soul

  Breathe, breathe, VVontar’s Sheoul

  Touch, touch to the skull

  Eat, eat, your belly to full

  Touch, touch to the skull

  Eat, eat, your belly to full

  Cortland nearly screamed the words. They were an anathema to his being, but it felt like sweet nectar to the power spilling out from him. He began to laugh. It was a hysterical maniacal laughter that was as dark as the night sky. The energy swirled around him like a whirlwind, the power lancing out and striking sailors as they tried to flee from him. A crossbow bolt slammed into his chest, and Cortland staggered back a single step. He locked eyes with Captain Balefin. He could see the anger, fear, and hate in his eyes. Cortland’s heart broke. He had never wanted others to suffer because of him. He had not asked for this fate. Captain Balefin pulled back on the crossbow, resetting the string. Leveling it at Cortland, the Captain laid a new bolt on top of the weapon. The purple energy coalesced and flared to life. The dark magic burst in an aura that blinded the bard.

  He had the sensation of flying just before he was submerged in icy ocean waves. Cortland struggled for breath as he forced himself aright. For what felt like several minutes he scrambled toward the surface of the sea. Gasping for breath he crested and took in a mouthful of chill air. He drank down the air like life itself. Several more waves crashed down on him and he repeated the act several more times. By the time he was able to steady himself, he was exhausted. He stared at the Oban’s Eye as it sank beneath the raging sea. Cortland coughed and gasped, but his will could no longer keep him above the surface.

  It is better this way, he thought as he let himself drift into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  Belsinfjord: Year 1425 AO

  7 Frafer: Sepal - 6th Hour of Feralda

  Outside Bestion’s Inn and Tavern

  “I awoke,” Cortland said to Surbin. “Three days later on the shores of an island. I bore no wounds, but those on my soul.””

  The ancient bard bowed his head. Cortland looked drawn; his face was slack, and his eyes reflected the darkness inside. Surbin seemed to believe Cortland had spoken truly, revealing a story like no other. For a long moment Surbin was silent. He simply watched Cortland as the bard moved to lean against the wall of the alley.

  “Why stay a bard?” Surbin asked.

  “Why am I a bard?” Cortland repeated the question. “I think the answer would fill the mouths of a thousand generations and more, like rivers in the streams of time
.” He paused, considering his words. “It is the only constant of who I am. It keeps me who I am. It allows me to remember her.”

  Surbin was quiet for a long moment as he considered Cortland’s words. “Did any other survive the shipwreck.”

  Cortland was quiet for a moment, then he said, “None, but I and the devil that possessed me.”

  “Like from the Rift?”

  “I think,” Cortland said wearily. “It is something far more ancient and sinister.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Surbin said. “For the great master.”

  “For whom?”

  Cortland started to ask when Surbin drew a long slender blade, it was about the average length of a man’s forearm and rounded to have no edges. The weapon came to a sharp point, which Surbin was now thrusting the slender blade towards Cortland’s eye. Cortland had been caught off guard, but Surbin had tipped his hand. The simple phrasing struck a chord in Cortland’s memory of a place nearly as old as the Rift itself.

  “Assassin,” Cortland hissed as he leapt backward.

  He did not have a fear that he would die, in truth he welcomed an adventure such as death. However, it was not a fear of death that caused the bard to avoid the assassin’s blade. He feared what might happen should the spirit inside him be truly unleashed.

  For all I know my death will be its death, he thought. Shaking his head, Cortland chastised that part of his mind; the part that he called melancholy.

  “Yes,” Surbin said, his voice a shallow hiss. “The Brotherhood wishes your end.”

  “Sorry,” Cortland said. “I’ve things to attend to - living, singing, drinking, and such. I am afraid I will have to decline the offer.”

  The assassin’s response was another thrust at Cortland. The bard shook his head. In a smooth motion he spun allowing his flowing cloak to billow out behind him. Surbin’s strike struck the cloth and tangled in it. With a swift motion, Cortland brought his hand down hard on the man’s wrist. The assassin cried out and dropped the blade. Cortland spun again and drove an elbow towards the other’s temple. Surbin was quicker than the bard had anticipated and dove out of the way.