LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “Given what I’ve seen, heard, and been propositioned with today, I’d guess they would think I was sleeping with you rather than spying for you.”

  This time, Zirkander made the strangled-distressed noise in his throat. She held back a smirk, though she was somewhat pleased to have broken his equanimity for once.

  “That would also be less than ideal.” He glanced toward the furnaces, probably wondering if the other two women had heard, but they had disappeared into the building somewhere or perhaps left for the day. The lanterns in their work area were out now.

  “I’m not your type, eh?” Sardelle wasn’t sure why she asked it, or why she was making light when the notion had disturbed him.

  Jaxi smirked into her mind. Because you want to know.

  “Oh, you’re nice, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for an officer—or, as I am now, a glorified prison guard—to take advantage of a prisoner, and whether that was happening or not, the appearance… ” Ridge snorted. “You don’t know how ironic this is, coming from me, with my record full of demerits, but they were always honorable demerits. I mean, I could argue that way. Ignoring the rules for the greater good. Or to irk annoying senior officers who deserved irking. I—oh, hells. Never mind. I guess it doesn’t matter that much what these idiots think.”

  Well, you’ve succeeded in flustering him.

  So I see.

  Not quite sure whether “you’re nice” answers your question though.

  Sardelle sighed inwardly. Me either.

  “So, just to be clear, I am or am not having coffee with you in your office tomorrow morning?”

  Zirkander blinked and looked at her—he had been avoiding her eyes for most of the towel folding session. “Does that mean you’ll share what you hear?”

  “I will, but I feel it would be fair for me to receive a small favor from you as well. Since I will be making your job easier for you.” Sardelle smiled.

  He smiled too. It was warm and friendly as usual, but there was a keen intensity in his eyes, too, and she almost had the feeling that she had walked into a trap.

  He wants an opportunity to observe you and figure out who and what you are. You’ve just agreed to see him every day. And you’re also about to tell him something you want, something that might give him another puzzle piece.

  You sound like you don’t approve. I’m angling to get you out of here.

  I know, but be careful. He’s not dumb.

  No, I’ve figured that out.

  “Yes?” Zirkander prompted and went back to folding towels. Maybe he realized his eyes had given away too much.

  “I would like to see a map of your mines.”

  “Would you?” He said it more like a statement than a question.

  I’ve seen the map. If you’re thinking you could find a spot to dig me out on your own, I’m nowhere near any of their tunnels.

  I still want to see it for myself. I have an idea.

  Yeah? It better be good. He’s going to be suspicious of why you want to see the map.

  “Yes, I’ve studied the civilization that used to live here, inside this mountain. I might have some insight into where you should be digging to find that which you seek.” She almost laughed. Beyond a vague notion of “crystals,” she had no idea what they were mining for—more than ore, she was certain of that now, because an enemy vessel wouldn’t need to spy on a silver mine. But she suspected it had something to do with what her people had left behind.

  Maybe he wants your magical laundry machine.

  Funny.

  Sardelle mentally pushed Jaxi away, wanting her full concentration, for he was studying her again.

  “A half truth this time, I think,” Zirkander said.

  She gave him her best I’m-too-mature-for-these-games single eyebrow raise, though she doubted he bought it. “I won’t answer that other than to say I’m beginning to think you’re the telepath around here.”

  Sardelle smiled, but his eyes widened in surprise—no, anger. He grabbed her arm and stepped close, his chest brushing hers as he leaned down and whispered harshly, “Do not say such things.”

  He glanced about the facility again.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, stung by his anger. Even more, she was irritated with herself for turning their playful chat—their cat-and-mouse game—into something darker. “I meant it as a joke. That’s all.”

  He stared down at her, and she could feel his deep breaths, the hardness of his chest beneath his shirt. She didn’t ready any defenses, didn’t think she would need to, but she was aware of the strength of his grip—of him. His dark eyes bored into hers, no longer playful or speculative, but intense, as if he were trying to read her every thought, as if by sheer will he could do so. She looked into his eyes, trying to show him that she hadn’t been lying, not this time.

  Zirkander glanced down, seemed to realize that he had a lock on her arm, and loosened his grip. He lifted his hand, fingers spread, and stepped back. “I overreacted.” He faced the towel table again, though he grasped the edge, his hands still tense and tight. “I apologize. It’s just that I’ve seen careers ruined because of such accusations.”

  Not his, or he wouldn’t be here, but some close friend perhaps.

  “Once they’ve been made, no matter how dubious the source, well, you can’t prove a negative, as they say.”

  Sardelle should have felt mad or at least disgruntled at being manhandled, but the haunted expression on his face made her want to give him a hug instead. “I understand.” Before she could think better of it, she laid a hand on his, wanting to ease the tension there. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Zirkander eyed her hand, his face inscrutable. Sardelle withdrew it, a little disappointed by his reaction, but she shouldn’t have been so presumptuous.

  He grabbed his parka and put it on. “I should go. I hope my small assistance with these towels has lightened your load somewhat.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and bowed slightly.

  When he turned away, Sardelle asked, “Are we still—uhm, am I reporting to you in the morning?”

  He hesitated for a long moment, and she expected a, “Never mind” out of his mouth. He glanced toward a dark window. “If you find something to report, I’ll be in the office until nine.”

  As he walked away, she was certain he presumed she wouldn’t find anything tonight, that he wouldn’t have to see her again soon. He didn’t want to see her. She didn’t need telepathy to sense that in the stiff way he took his departure. Her stupid comment had changed something.

  Too bad.

  She wanted to see that map. She would find something to report.

  He had almost kissed her. The memory from the night before still burned in his thoughts. What in all of the hells had he been thinking? She had made that joke, and after his initial reaction—overreaction—he had recognized the humor for what it was, but then he had been standing so close to her, staring into her eyes… and it had been as if he were some sexually starved inmate who couldn’t control himself.

  “I have not been out here nearly long enough to be that desperate to get with a woman.” Ridge blew on his mug of steaming coffee, fresh from the little stove in the break room downstairs. “Though apparently I’ve been here long enough to start talking to myself.”

  At least his door was closed this time. None of his men should hear his solitary conversations.

  Ridge took a sip and picked up his pen again. He had the operations manual and the personnel rosters out and was working on a list of things he hoped would improve efficiency and free up more men for defenses. At nine, he was heading to the mine entrances again, this time with an engineer. While he would like to think those people down there wouldn’t take advantage of an enemy attack, not when they seemed to respect him for his exploits in the skies, he couldn’t assume that. He wanted some heavy iron doors built over the tram shafts, doors that could be locked from the outside while his soldiers had to defend the fort. He had been up early
and had sketched what he wanted for the engineer.

  Actually, he had been up early—and late—thinking those sexually starved inmate thoughts. Though he forced himself to get his work done, his gaze drifted often toward the rolled up map leaning against the end of his desk. He had fished it out as soon as he’d gotten to his office, several hours before dawn, just in case. If she truly wanted to see it, she would come. He would have to make sure she wasn’t lying, telling him some made-up fibs about Bretta’s death, so she could gain access to the information. She wasn’t a good liar, at least she didn’t seem to be. He had to accept that she could be there, trying to gain access to his information by playing inept, or by playing him.

  Agreeing to show her the map… even as he had done it, he had known he was bordering on treason. The map didn’t mention anything about the crystals or where they had been found—he had another map that did that, which he would not show her—but it might give her something. Something she needed. What, he didn’t know. That was why he had agreed to it. So he could watch her, see how she reacted, and try to make some guesses.

  “Seven gods, Ridge, if she were a man, you would just interrogate her.” He rubbed his temple, annoyed because he knew he was right, and more annoyed because he couldn’t imagine doing it. He had only known her a day. How had she insinuated herself into his thoughts so? Maybe she was some master seductress. Except she had seemed surprised last night when he had gotten close, startled. If she had sensed when his anger vanished and other feelings arose, she hadn’t shown it. That touch on his hand—the one that had sent an incendiary jolt of electricity through him—had been the purest innocence, an expression of concern. Surely a skilled seductress would have slid a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him down for a kiss, and—

  He grunted. “I need an ice bath, not coffee.”

  A knock came at his door, and he cursed himself. He had been so busy thinking about other things that he hadn’t heard anyone walking up. “Yeah?” he called, wondering if his visitor had heard him talking to himself. Wondering, too, if his visitor was she.

  Captain Heriton poked his head in. “Sir, I’m never quite sure if that’s an invitation to enter.”

  “I’m rarely doing anything in here that’s so scintillating that I can’t be interrupted.”

  “Yes, sir.” Heriton pushed the door open wider, but paused again. “I’m not sure that was an invitation, either.”

  Ridge winked. “Maybe you’ll have it figured out by the time I leave.”

  “I’m hoping I get to leave sooner, sir. Six months left on my orders.” Heriton gazed wistfully out the window.

  Understandable. “Come in, Captain. What do you have for me?”

  Heriton glanced over his shoulder, shrugged, and came in with a stack of papers. “It’s actually what you have for me, sir. Did I understand your memo correctly? You want these… reading lists to go out to the guards to be posted for… the miners?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh. I thought you might mean it for the soldiers.”

  “I trust you all have a good education already.” Ridge waved toward the papers. “I’m trying to improve morale, offer some incentives for them to better themselves.”

  “Better themselves, sir? To what ends?”

  “To work more efficiently for us.”

  “And, uh, reading the classics will cause that?”

  “Call it the crazy colonel’s experiment.” Ridge was certain the gaming tables would be more popular, but if some of the prisoners did start reading… “Those who show an interest might prove themselves worthy of more responsibility. What I’m hoping these changes will ultimately do is give us some trustworthy individuals who might help us—or at least keep others from stabbing us in the back—should we need to funnel all of our resources into defending the fort.” And if that didn’t work, Ridge had his backup plan. The doors.

  “Ah, I see, sir.” Heriton did sound a tad less perplexed now. Or at least he had decided to go along with his eccentric C.O. He pointed to the bottom of a page. “And you want to give them a day off if they finish a book?”

  “If they can summarize it sufficiently and answer questions that prove they read it. Those are hefty tomes, and those men don’t have a lot of free time. There has to be some sort of incentive.”

  “I think I understand, sir. But, uhm, who’s going to quiz the miners?”

  “What’s the matter, Captain? Haven’t you read those? They’re classics.”

  “I, uh, a couple.”

  Ridge grinned.

  “I’ll familiarize myself with them,” Heriton said, though not without a daunted look in his eyes.

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir. Oh, I almost forgot. You have another visitor.” Heriton pushed open the door, revealing Sardelle standing in the hallway, her lush hair loose about her shoulders, her mouth curving into a tentative smile.

  Last night, Ridge had been certain it would be better for his sanity if she didn’t come today, but seeing her there made his soul soar. It also made his cheeks flush as his thoughts from the night before reared to the forefront of his mind again. Thank the gods that matronly prison dress didn’t do anything to distract him further. Aware of the captain’s eyes, Ridge managed to keep his face neutral.

  “She assures me she’s expected.” Heriton raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, she’s my insider on the magic investigation.” Ridge chose the word magic instead of murder, understanding that nobody here seemed concerned about the deaths of miners. Magic, on the other hand, was surely something they could all understand investigating.

  Heriton’s brows rose higher. “Oh, really? Does that mean you don’t need her report anymore?”

  “No, I’m still waiting for you to produce it.” Ridge smiled and waved the man out of his office.

  Sardelle walked in, her own eyebrows raised. “Have you read all the books on that list?”

  Ridge lifted his chin. “I’ve read many of them.”

  “Many? More than three?”

  “No less than five, I assure you.”

  She snorted, then a speculative expression bloomed on her face. “A day off for anyone who can summarize a book? For each book?”

  “That’s the deal I put out, yes.”

  “When’s the test?”

  “After a day of laundry duty, you’re ready to take off?”

  “Oh, more than ready.” Sardelle rubbed her hands together. “Do you have a copy of the list? I’m ready now. I’ll even constrain myself to the ones you’ve read.”

  “How do you know you’ve read the ones I’ve read? There are more than a hundred books on that list.” All the classics they had in the meager prison library had gone onto the list. Some of them were as dusty and old as the mountain itself. “I don’t believe you’ve read them all.”

  “I’ve read enough for a day off. Or five.”

  “Fine.” Ridge pulled his master copy of the sheet out of a file in the bottom desk drawer. “How about Denhoft’s Theories on Aerodynamic and Aerostatic Flight?”

  Sardelle clasped her hands behind her back. “Written approximately four hundred years ago, the text dealt largely with theory rather than proven scientific experiment. Denhoft theorized that there were two types of flying machines that could allow for lift to overcome gravity… ”

  Ridge had to consciously keep his mouth from falling open in surprise as she continued on, offering a precise and accurate summary of the book. He asked a few questions in the end, and she answered them satisfactorily, though with a few hesitations.

  “History is more my specialty,” she said before he could compliment her. “I read a lot of the ones in that left row in school.”

  Ridge had only read two of them. He started with the ones he knew. She was more animated and confident in her summaries of those books, adding opinions and gesturing with her hands as she described the rise and fall of the imperial dynasties that had claimed this continent before the o
riginal tribes had rebelled, declaring themselves an independent sovereign nation and fighting off any aggressors who sought to impose upon them again.

  After summarizing the books he knew—and five others he didn’t—she leaned forward again. “Oh, Dusmovan. Have you read his book? It’s a fictional tale, but it’s incredibly detailed, showing the archaeologist’s journey to discover what came of the dragons. He hunted all over the world for fossils that would help explain their sudden passing from our world.”

  Ridge lifted a hand. It did sound interesting, and he would put it on his own reading list—on the off chance this job gave him any free time—but… “You’ve already earned eight days off, and I believe you came here this morning on another matter?”

  “Oh.” Sardelle flushed, the red of her cheeks bringing out her blue eyes.

  Ridge wouldn’t have minded letting her continue on, but he had that meeting to get to. It had been a surprisingly enlightening interlude though. His earlier theory, that she might be some rogue professor here to hunt for crystals, or even other artifacts, returned to the front of his mind. Would a military spy be that versed in the classics? The classics of his continent? Not only that, but she was clearly passionate about history.

  “By the way,” Ridge said, “this school where you read these books… was it before or after you left your family’s shepherd ways to become a pirate?”

  Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, a shy caught-me smile. “Before.”

  “I never knew a rural education to be so thorough. Your teacher should be commended.”

  The smile drooped, and something flashed in her eyes. Pain?

  “Yes,” Sardelle said more somberly. “She was inspiring.”

  Ridge debated whether to apologize for chancing across some painful past memory, but she spoke again first.

  “The murder. It doesn’t seem to have had anything to do with magic.” Sardelle glanced at his eyes. “Or I should say, the woman, Bretta, had nothing to do with magic. I investigated the so-called magical tools that were, I believe, planted under the blanket in her bunk. According to Braytok’s Compendium of Sorcerers and Sorcerous Artifacts, a book that isn’t on your list but should be, since it could clear up confusion due to ignorance, tools for holding energy, souls, or for performing tasks or enhancing powers must be made from a sturdy enough material to contain energy, generally a metal alloy or diamond or other such gem. Hard rocks occasionally, but not wood. The book says it would combust at the first pouring of energy into it.”