LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “This way, sir.” The private opened the cage and walked into the snow. “It’s in the women’s barracks.”

  Ridge strode after the private and found himself outpacing the man, then turning to crunch through the old snow in the courtyard rather than following the walkways—with fresh powder on the ground, they weren’t that cleared anymore anyway. He had found maps of the fortress and the mines before his tour and memorized them as well as he could. This was either a shortcut to the barracks or he was heading for the munitions building. Either way, the private noticed he had lost his C.O. and jogged across the snow after him.

  Fortunately, Ridge’s memory proved accurate. He pushed open the front door and gave the traditional, “Male on the floor,” warning call, though the private’s furrowed brow made him think nobody here bothered. Maybe female prisoners were supposed to be used to random men walking into their sleeping and bathing building. From what he had skimmed of the operations manual, courtesies to inmates weren’t important enough to be mentioned.

  “Third door, sir,” the private said.

  Ridge could have guessed that by the knot of women standing outside, staring in, gesturing and speaking. Most had removed their heavy outer clothing and appeared to be off-shift for the night. Sardelle wasn’t among them.

  “Sergeant Benok gave orders that the body not be disturbed,” the private said.

  “Good,” Ridge said, though he wasn’t any sort of forensics expert. He certainly wasn’t a witchcraft expert.

  “Move aside,” the private barked to the women, despite the fact that they had already been doing so.

  Ridge gave them a more cordial, “Thank you, ladies,” though all he wanted to do was charge into the room to check…

  It wasn’t Sardelle. He told himself that his relief was uncalled for—someone was still dead, choked to death by a rope made from torn and braided linens, dangling from a water pipe crossing the ceiling. The woman’s head drooped forward, her snarled brown hair falling into her lean face. It didn’t quite hide the swollen lip and lump on the side of her cheek. She wore the heavy wool dress common to the female prisoners, and it covered most of her skin, but tattoos of knots and anchors crossed her knuckles, and more sailing-related artwork disappeared under her sleeves. The tip of one of her pinky fingers had been cut off at some point in her life, leaving a shiny pink stump. Her feet almost touched the floor, and Ridge guessed her six feet tall. This woman he would have believed was a pirate before ending up here.

  “Her name?” he asked of the observers.

  “Six-ten.”

  “Her name?” Ridge repeated.

  “Oh. Uhm.” The women glanced at each other.

  “Big Bretta,” someone said from the back of the crowd.

  “Thank you. Private, what led you, or your sergeant, to believe this hanging was a result of witchcraft?”

  “The sergeant found some things in her bunk, a collection of people’s hair and some crude dolls carved from scraps of wood. It looked like she got caught trying to put hexes on someone.”

  “She was on the shift with us in the kitchens this morning,” someone said in the crowd. “Then she didn’t show up this afternoon.”

  “I’m the one who found her,” another woman said. “Came in to collect the towels for washing and ’bout screamed my head off. Then the soldiers came and took over.”

  “First one tried to say it was suicide,” came an indignant addition. “Big Bretta wasn’t that type. She used to defend us from the bas— those that thought they could walk in here and have their way.”

  “People don’t usually punch themselves in the face before committing suicide,” Ridge said. “Assuming nothing’s been moved, there’s no stool or ladder or anything she could have used to climb up there and drop either. Private, where’s the sergeant who sent you to find me? And who usually handles murder investigations?” Usually on an installation this small, Ridge wouldn’t expect there to be much crime—certainly not many murders—but given the background of his workforce, he supposed it was inevitable.

  “It was chow time so the sergeant went to dinner, sir. He said I could go too after I found you.” The private shrugged. “Nobody investigates murders of prisoners. Bodies just get put in the crematorium, same as those who die in mine accidents.”

  “How efficient.”

  “Yes, sir. We would have done that with this one, but the sergeant said I should ask you on account of her maybe being a witch and maybe having done some evils before someone got her. Maybe she was even the one who called out and let that enemy ship know where the mines are.”

  At some point in the conversation, Ridge’s fingers had curled into a fist. He didn’t want to punch the private—not exactly—but he felt like punching something. On the one hand, he understood that these people were just numbers to those in charge, numbers who had already been assigned a death sentence for their crimes, but on the other hand, they were here—they had chosen this miserable life and were helping their country find the resources it needed to fight a war. Didn’t they deserve some respect for that? More, without those crystals, he never would have had a career, never could have flown. He owed them something surely.

  Wind railed at the shutters of the small high windows on the outside wall, stirring Ridge from his thoughts. “I want an investigation.”

  “Of the witchcraft, sir?”

  “I want to know who killed this woman.” Ridge smiled without humor. “Maybe I’ll let you stuff him in the crematorium.”

  “Him? How do you know it’s a him?”

  “As strong and capable as these ladies are—” Ridge waved toward the crowd, “—I doubt one of them hefted a six-foot-tall woman up and hung her from that pipe.”

  The private sucked on his cheek as he considered the dead woman. “All right, but, uhm, what if she was a witch, sir? It wouldn’t be right to punish someone for getting rid of one of them.”

  Ridge had yet to meet anyone with magical powers, witchy or otherwise, and had always suspected most of the people killed for that were innocent, but if this Big Bretta had been casting spells on people… He shrugged. “Maybe not, but that’s the point of an investigation. To determine the circumstances and to facilitate judging right and wrong.”

  “All right, but who, sir? Nobody here handles investigations, unless they’re about machines or mining accidents.”

  Ridge was tempted to lead it himself, but running the fort and mitigating the threats from without had to be a priority for him. He wasn’t qualified anyway. “We’ve got a doctor or at least a medic here, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Orsom.”

  “Start with him. I want an examination and to know what happened before she was strung up there. He can report his findings to me, and I’ll decide who to assign from there.”

  The private was scratching his head, wearing an I-don’t-see-the-point expression, but he said, “Yes, sir.” He trooped out of the building.

  For all that Ridge had rebelled against the rules imposed by his own superiors during his life, he had to admit there were times when it was nice to simply give orders, knowing they would be obeyed, rather than discussed in a committee.

  Ridge headed for the door as well. “We’ll leave her until the doctor has a look,” he told the women watching him, “then hold the funeral in the morning, if any of you want to say something before… ” He trailed off, in part because he didn’t know a euphemism for a cremation—burials, either at sea or in cemeteries, were more standard in the country—and in part because he spotted a new face at the back of the crowd.

  Sardelle. She was carrying a half-filled laundry basket, so she hadn’t been let off shift yet, but she must have stumbled onto the crowd and taken a look into the washroom. Her expression… Maybe because she was new here or less jaded than the others, she appeared stunned. No, horrified. And scared too.

  Ridge thought to say something, offer some reassurance, but she was already backing away, her knuckles white where she grippe
d the laundry basket. She spun and raced out of the building.

  Ridge didn’t race after her—the private and all these female onlookers would find that odd or wonder if he suspected her of something—but he had been leaving anyway, so he strode down the hall at a good pace. He opened the door in time to get a blast of cold snow in his face, but also to see her dart into the laundry facility, a few buildings down. He had work to do, but he also felt this urge to go after her and comfort her somehow. Not that he had offered any hugs of condolence to the other women, women who had clearly known the victim. They hadn’t seemed to need it though. They had been indignant but not scared or horrified. Most likely, they had seen all too much of this type of situation before. Sardelle was different.

  “Yeah, and that’s another problem you have, isn’t it?” Ridge muttered.

  The private walked out after him, giving him another curious look. Yes, your new commanding officer talks to himself. Move along, kid. Move along.

  The private shuffled off. Maybe Ridge was too eccentric for this job. At least he didn’t have to answer to anyone higher than him. As he considered everything that had happened in the few hours he had been here, everything that was now his responsibility, he wasn’t sure if that was the boon he might have once thought it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SARDELLE DUMPED HER LOAD OF laundry in the big steam-powered washing machine—yet another contraption that hadn’t existed in her time—and grabbed a pile of towels to fold. Dhasi, the woman in charge of the facility, had told Sardelle she had to stay late since she had started late. After seeing that poor woman strung up in the barracks, she was almost relieved. She would rather be working and have a distraction, rather than lying in her bunk and struggling to get the image out of her head.

  Are you upset by the loss of the prisoner or the realization that it could be you?

  Both, Jaxi. Sardelle resented the insinuation that she didn’t care.

  Sorry, I just wasn’t sure which tack I should take with my comforting condolences.

  I don’t need comforting. Didn’t she? She had been upset by the grisly death, but also by hearing the colonel say, “Maybe so” when his man had suggested that someone who killed a witch didn’t deserve punishment. It hadn’t exactly been a heartfelt judgment, but it was a reminder that she dare not let him or anyone else know about her power. And she feared this prison was a microcosm of the world as a whole these days. Would she find Jaxi and escape, only to learn that she would be hunted at every turn if she revealed her powers? Could she hide them forever? Her first training had been as a healer. How could she encounter sickness and injury and not step forward to help if she could? And if she did, would the one she saved then turn around and attack her for using magic? All right, maybe I need a little comforting.

  He’s coming.

  What?

  But Jaxi didn’t answer.

  A cold draft swept into the laundry facility. Sardelle peered past the vats of soapy water and drying racks toward the front door. Zirkander had walked in. Complete darkness had fallen beyond the windows, and there were only two other women left in the building, both staying warm over near the furnaces. Zirkander asked a question of one of them and was directed toward Sardelle’s corner.

  Uh oh. Jaxi, was I being suspicious when he saw me? He wouldn’t think I had something to do with the death, would he? I hadn’t even seen that woman before.

  If anything, your mouth-hanging-open, caught-in-the-avalanche expression should suggest innocence.

  Thanks. I think.

  You’re welcome. Don’t forget to ask him to unbury me from this rubble.

  As soon as I figure out how to do that without incriminating myself, I will.

  Sardelle kept folding towels as Zirkander headed toward her, weaving past the vats and ducking rows of laundry drying before a fan. She didn’t know whether she should pretend she hadn’t noticed him or smile and invite him to take a seat on the wicker laundry hamper next to her. She ended up meeting his eyes and giving him a solemn nod.

  “Good evening.” He waved toward the towels. “Need a hand?”

  “I don’t know,” Sardelle said, surprised by the offer. “Are you experienced?”

  “Not at all. Back home, there’s a place where I can drop off my entire duffle full of dirty drawers, and they’ll have them ready the next day for a mere two nucros. By morning if I promise to bring Ms. Mortenstock mango turnovers from the Palm Flats run.” Nothing in Zirkander’s smile or tone said he found her suspicious, at least any more so than usual. That was one relief anyway. “I do think I could manage the geometric complexities of making those towel squares though.”

  Sardelle knew he had more important things to do—for that matter, she had more important things to do—but she stepped aside, so there would be room for him beside her at the table. “If you’re up to the challenge. Just know I’ll be judging you.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  She blushed. She shouldn’t be so familiar with him. It was his fault, she decided, for setting that tone.

  “Not harshly. It’s my first day, too, after all.” Naturally she couldn’t mention the magical contraption she had once delivered her own dirty drawers to, one that had washed, dried, and folded, without requiring turnovers or any other kind of compensation.

  “You’re kind,” he murmured, then removed his cap and parka, draping them over a rack, and picked up a towel.

  Zirkander, with his friendly tone and smile, had to be there to comfort her, though she couldn’t guess why he would bother.

  He’s attracted to you, genius.

  I doubt that. If anything, I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve, which is not a good thing for either of us. I shouldn’t be encouraging him.

  Right, and that’s why you just shifted over to stand closer to him.

  I was reaching for that towel, and have I mentioned how amazing it is that you can spy so effectively from under a mile of solid rock?

  No, you don’t mention how amazing I am nearly often enough. Listen, just because he’s couth enough to look into your eyes instead of at your boobs doesn’t mean he doesn’t find you attractive. I’d use that if I were you. Make him like you so that if he does discover your little secret…

  He’ll feel particularly bad about shooting me?

  “You seemed distraught about Bretta’s death,” Zirkander said. “Understandably so. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I was just surprised by the scene.” He knew the woman’s name? Sardelle hadn’t. She felt like a fraud. “And thought of the pain she must have suffered before that ignoble end. There was a time when I trained to be a healer—a doctor—” she glanced at him when she made the correction, not sure if the word “healer” would still have a magical association in this time.

  He gazed thoughtfully at her, but she didn’t read any suspicion. “I think that might be one of the first true things you’ve told me.”

  She blushed again and grew quite focused on the towels. “I’m certain your captain will find my report and verify that I… ”

  “Belong here?”

  Did she want to fight for that? To belong with all these cutthroats and rapists? “That there’s nothing unusual about me or the circumstances that led me to come here.”

  Well, that was vague. No wonder he finds you an enigma.

  Hush.

  His eyebrows twitched. “I see.” After a moment of silent folding, he spoke again. “I was thinking… This stack is getting high. Where do these go next?”

  Sardelle pointed. “In that cart.”

  Huh. He was actually folding, not simply poking around while he spoke to her.

  “I was thinking that since you’re also concerned about the welfare of these people,” Zirkander said, “that maybe you could keep your ears open and help with the investigation of Bretta’s death. Nothing risky, but you could let me know if you hear anything that might not otherwise be said when I’m around. I’ve never considered myself
overly gruff and intimidating, but soldiers tend to make like clams when officers wander past. I’m suspecting miners are the same way.”

  Sardelle watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was he trying to give her some small task so she wouldn’t dwell on the woman’s death? Or did he truly want this favor from her? Jaxi’s advice aside, she ought to stay away from him—he saw all too clearly through her fibs. Just because she found him handsome—especially with his cap off and his hair tousled in such a way that made her wonder what it, and the rest of him, might look like when he climbed out of bed in the morning…—didn’t mean he wasn’t the most dangerous person here.

  Despite that acknowledgment, she found herself asking, “So, you would want me to report in to you every morning with the latest gossip?”

  “Well, the gossip related to this investigation. Or if you were to see or hear something that suggested someone or some persons within these walls were using witchcraft.”

  Sardelle’s heart forgot to beat. He wanted her to let him know if anyone was using magic? She coughed to cover the strangled sound her throat wanted to make.

  It must have sounded strangled—or distressed—anyway, for he put a gentle hand on her back and asked, “Are you all right?”

  She managed a nod, though his touch flustered her further.

  That’s what you get for imagining him in bed.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just—”

  Zirkander withdrew his hand and waved it dismissively. “Never mind on the witchcraft. I wouldn’t want you to get yourself in trouble on my account. They say that back in the old days, those people could read minds.”

  “Yeah,” Sardelle managed, her voice hoarse.

  “The last thing I would want is for you to be hurt because someone thought you were a spy.” He considered the towel he was folding. “Perhaps this was a bad idea. Even the average prisoner here might get suspicious if you’re always wandering up to my office.”