LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “That’s the spirit, good fellow,” said the giant. “Now empty your pockets into this little bag, and be quick. My companions and I are wet, weary, and not our usual, patient selves today.”

  He produced a worn sack, which he extended with a little flourish, but Wim ignored the offering.

  “The Praetor has no use for thieves in his province,” he warned the big stranger. “Steal from an honest peddler today if it pleases you. But I warn you, soon enough you’ll all be hunted down and hung.”

  “I won’t argue with you, old man. I’ve advised you to pay the toll. If you lack sufficient coin, we won’t mind helping ourselves to the goods in your wagon. No need to make a fuss. No one will be hurt so long as you cooperate, and I feel sure you’ll have the wisdom to do just that.”

  But Wim, no longer cowed, said, “You vermin will see no coin from me, and you’ll keep your filthy hands off my wagon. I’ll report you to the Praetor when I reach Selbius and see the lot of you arrested. I see many of you already bear a thief’s brand, so the second offense means death.”

  He smiled grimly, as if already witnessing the lot of them swinging from a gallows.

  One of the listening outlaws, a wiry man with a cudgel, showed his teeth. “Maybe we’re too desperate to care,” he said. “Maybe we’re hungry enough to eat skinny old peddlers before they go running to the Praetor.”

  Wim licked his lips as if realizing he may have spoken too vehemently, and his hand disappeared inside his cloak.

  The giant broke in with, “Enough talk. Let’s see some coin.”

  “Never,” said Wim.

  The big man shrugged and stepped back, saying, “Very well then. I fear we won’t part on kindly terms.” He nodded to his companions. “Fellows, see what you can do to persuade this old fool to change his mind without killing him. Murders only make the way patrol more vigilant.”

  He settled himself on a nearby tree stump, as if preparing to watch some form of entertainment, while his companions closed in. In a flash, a burly man with a beard and shaved head seized me roughly by the neck of my cloak and tried to remove me from his way. Instinctively, I sank my teeth into his arm and, as the brigand thrashed, attempting to shake me loose, I was dragged out of the wagon and hit the ground headfirst. The pain stunned me, and a fuzzy blackness ringed the edge of my vision. Dizzily I tried to summon the inner flame of magic I had touched so effortlessly once before, but I couldn’t find it.

  When the world stopped turning and the pain and darkness receded, I remembered Wim. One brigand had grabbed the old man and was attempting to drag him down from his perch on the wagon seat. The peddler struggled, and I saw the glint of steel as he retrieved a short knife from inside his cloak. He was about to plunge it into his attacker when the other man stabbed him first. I stared, horrified, as the old man’s lifeless body fell forward, landing heavily near me. A pool of crimson blood quickly pooled around him.

  If I was frozen with shock, no one else was. The red-haired giant swooped in and struck the face of the man who had done the killing, shouting at him about disobeying orders, while the other brigands ignored the arguing men and swarmed over the wagon, quickly emptying it of anything of value. Although I was distantly aware of these activities, my mind scarcely took them in. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Wim’s wide eyes, staring unseeing toward the treetops.

  Someone came to stand over me. He was speaking, but I didn’t respond, and when he waved a hand before my face, I ignored that as well, keeping my gaze fixed on Wim. Had my Mama’s eyes stared blankly like that when she was dead? Had Da’s?

  “What have you there, Brig?” asked the redheaded giant, joining the man beside me.

  “I don’t know,” the first one said. “A vicious little cur, I think. Bites like one, at least.” He knelt and with surprisingly gentle hands turned my face away from Wim’s corpse, asking, “Where are you from, child? Do you live nearby?” I recognized him as the man with the shaved head, whom I had bitten.

  When I held my tongue, he tried again. “Do you have a name? What’s your father’s name?”

  Again I refused to answer, and the bald man frowned, saying to the giant, “I don’t know about this one, Dradac. What are we to do with it?”

  The giant shrugged. “I think it is female—a little girl, to be exact. As to what’s to be done with her, I suggest we leave her right here. She’s no concern of ours.”

  “But she’s only a wee one, isn’t she? What if she dies or comes to some hurt?”

  The giant said, “Don’t care if she does. Children are a cursed plague. But I imagine someone will pass this way and find her in a day or so. If you’re concerned, put her up on the mare and send her back the way she came.”

  It’s a long ride to the nearest village,” the bald man pointed out. “Do you think she’s big enough to stay on the horse and keep it to the road?”

  “How should I know? I’m not the one with children. Maybe we could tie her onto the horse?” As he spoke, the giant stooped to examine me more closely and winced, evidently unimpressed with what he saw. “Ugly little critter, isn’t she? If we do save her, I don’t think any future sweethearts will be thanking us. What’s she got on her mouth?”

  “My blood. She took a chunk out of my hand earlier. Look at it.”

  “A revolting sight. Let’s leave the little biter to fend for herself.”

  “I don’t feel I can do that.”

  “Then she’s your problem,” the giant said. “The rest of us are moving out. But a word of advice. If you’re considering doing anything stupid, like bringing her back to camp, think again. Rideon would have both our hides.”

  The bald man was silent a moment before apparently coming to the same conclusion. He rose and turned away, following the other brigands as they tramped off into the underbrush.

  After they were gone, I stirred enough to wrap my arms around myself as shivers wracked my body, not all of them from the cold. Even with my head averted, I couldn’t get the memory of Wim’s corpse out of my mind. I had seen many deaths lately.

  I became aware of the sound of something large crashing through the underbrush. The noise grew nearer, and then the returning brigand broke out onto the road.

  Scooping me up in strong arms, the bald man said, “Come along then, little dog. I’ve been thinking on it, and I cannot abandon you here.”

  At last I found my tongue. “I’m not a dog; I’m a girl. Dogs don’t talk.”

  “And girls don’t bite.”

  He lifted me up onto his broad shoulders, and we moved off after the others, leaving the road, horse and wagon, and dead peddler behind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP while the man carried me, for I remember nothing of the trek to the outlaw camp. Awaking sometime later, I found myself lying amid an itchy pile of leaves heaped over a hard stone floor. The sound of voices had stirred me from my sleep. Looking into the surrounding darkness, I could see no one. I had no idea where I was but felt too weary to be afraid. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, I was warm and, dry and that was enough to content me.

  Nearby, I could hear a continuous roaring sound like the rushing of water, but it was impossible to identify what direction it came from. The darkness was deep, and the noise echoed loudly around me, bouncing off the surrounding walls. It was strangely lulling, and I lay still, eyes closed once more, listening to that mighty roar and feeling the fogginess of sleep rising up to claim me again. I no longer remembered what had awakened me.

  Then a second noise filtered through my consciousness—a nagging buzz, a faint murmur at the edge of my hearing. Drowsily, I tried to ignore it, but the sound was persistent and grew louder, soon resolving itself into the low cadence of approaching voices. Men’s voices, frightening and unfamiliar. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and burrowed down into the mold-scented leaves as they drew nearer. I began to distinguish snatches of their conversation.

  “Your little hound is snug enough
in her leafy bed. Wish I could say the same for myself, but I’ll not sleep a wink, wondering what he’ll do when he hears about her. And he will hear. The Hand knows everything that happens in this forest.”

  A second, deeper voice answered. “We’ve a reprieve until morning. Surely by then we’ll figure the best way of explaining everything.”

  The gaps in the conversation grew fewer the nearer they came, until the voices were hovering directly over me. I kept as still as a mouse beneath the shadow of a hawk. I was very aware of the little bits of dry leaves that had worked their way into my clothing and were itching against my skin now, but I dared not twitch so much as a muscle to relieve my discomfort.

  “Easy for you to say, Brig,” the first voice argued. “You’re not the one he’ll blame. I had charge of you all, so it’s me that’ll be taken to account for what went wrong.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility on myself,” his companion rumbled. “Bringing the child here was my idea, and I’ll own up to it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be in your place when you do. And don’t forget there’s the dead man to account for as well. The Hand orders us to lie low for a bit, and what do we do? We go and kill an old peddler and steal a child, either of which could call the Praetor’s attention down on us.”

  I dared open my eyes into narrow slits just wide enough to peer up at the two shadowy figures standing over me. I recognized the giant named Dradac and the bald, bearded outlaw he called Brig.

  Brig said, “I doubt there’ll be much fuss over an old man found dead in a forest lane. The Praetor has bigger things on his mind.”

  “I hope you’re right. But I reckon there’ll be time enough to deal with our problems in the morning, after we’ve had a bit of rest,” Dradac said.

  His footsteps rang hollowly as he moved away, calling out, “What about you? Aren’t you sleeping tonight? Kinsley says you’ve got the midnight watch.”

  “Right. Think I’ll stay here until then and keep an eye on the little one.”

  The retreating footsteps hesitated. “Brig, you know the child’s not yours to keep, right? You understand she can’t stay long in Dimmingwood? The Hand would never allow it. Your sons are gone and Netta with them. There’s no bringing your family back or replacing them with this girl.”

  “What do you know of my family?” Brig asked sharply. “What have you heard? Do the others joke about my story around the campfire?”

  Dradac sounded placating. “Of course not. I don’t think most people even remember what happened. You know there’s no place in the band for any man’s past or future. The here and now keeps us busy enough.”

  Satisfied I was in no immediate danger, my eyelids were growing heavy. The men’s voices droned on, but I ceased to listen to the words. Drowsiness stole over me again, and I dismissed the strange men and the itchy leaves against my skin. My bed was warm and soft, and I slipped easily into a deep slumber.

  It seemed like only a short time before I was awakened by a rough shaking.

  “Wake up, little dog. You want to sleep the morning away?” a voice asked.

  Strong hands took me beneath the arms, lifting me to my feet. Bleary eyed and confused, I tried in vain to find something familiar in my surroundings. I stood in a nook at the back of an immense cave, a thick pile of leaves heaped at my feet.

  The muscular, bearded man with the shaved head loomed over me again, and I remembered his name. Brig. Rather than feeling frightened, I was strangely comforted by his presence. I was being looked after. There was nothing to fear.

  He took my small hand in his large, callused one and wordlessly led me through a maze of dark warrens, a network of tunnels formed in stone. Dimly glowing lanterns hung at irregular intervals along the walls, providing a faint flickering light that illumined our steps. I was glad of the firm hand gripping mine because alone I would have felt lost and frightened in this place. But with the big man beside me, it was an adventure.

  One of the areas we passed was filled with crates and wooden barrels. Canvas sacks lined the walls, and out of the open mouths of these peeked potatoes and dried beans. Cooking pots and overturned copper tubs were stored here also, and a stack of split kindling was piled in one corner. From the walls hung an assortment of various tools I didn’t recognize. A polished silver tray-and-bowl set, incongruous in these surroundings, rested atop one barrel. Bundles of colorful silk were leaned carelessly against a wall, and from a wide-mouthed sack shoved forgotten into a corner, a collection of glittering jewelry spilled onto the floor. I had no opportunity to stare for Brig quickly led me past this alcove and into a larger low-ceilinged cavern.

  Here I glimpsed tattered blankets and bed stuffs heaped around the floor and a scattering of personal belongings set atop wooden boxes or hung from the walls. Images and symbols had been painstakingly etched into the stone of ceiling and walls. There was a snarling bear’s head, a leaping deer, and various other woodland creatures. In the center of the wall, one particular carving stood out, taking precedence over the others, a large impression of a man’s hand, colored in red. I would have looked at that longer, but Brig never slowed, tugging me along at his side, and we left this area behind us.

  The rushing, roaring sound I had been vaguely aware of since waking became louder now. We passed a small opening through which a faint glow of daylight penetrated, and I had a brief glimpse of a foaming waterfall sheeting down over this window to the outside. Brig allowed me no opportunity to gape, and the waterfall slipped out of my sight as quickly as it had appeared, its roar fading as we distanced ourselves from it.

  Ahead I caught sight of another small pinpoint of daylight. This grew larger as we approached until it proved to be a man-sized hole through which I could see trees and greenery. Brig pushed me out this exit ahead of him, and I stepped into the soft glow of early morning.

  I stood in a large clearing ringed on two sides by pines and giant elder trees and backed by the great formation of red rock behind me. A deep, clear stream ran along one side of the clearing, fed by the waterfall tumbling from the rocks over the cave. A fire pit marked the center of the camp, and a number of men sat around the flames, resting on overturned logs or on bare earth. There were about a dozen outlaws in the camp, some of them eating or busying themselves with chores, others sitting back at their ease. One carried an armload of fresh kindling. A pair of others tended the campfire and the kettle bubbling over it.

  The scent emanating from that stewpot made my stomach rumble, but my companion dragged me past it. I was led straight across the clearing and into the shadow of the trees. Here a man wearing nothing but his breeches sat on an overturned keg. His back was toward us, and he leaned forward to study his reflection on the surface of a polished copper plate that had been nailed onto the tree before him. At our approach, he didn’t pause from the task of scraping stubble from his chin with a sharpened blade.

  I studied the back of his head with less interest than I would have felt for a taste of whatever had been cooking in that stewpot. His black hair was cropped so close you could see the shape of his skull. His arms and back were well muscled, but I thought if standing he would probably be the shortest man present. I found him less impressive than the red-haired giant, Dradac, or even Brig at my side.

  “So. This is the source of all the trouble, is it?” the stranger asked, finally turning to look me over.

  I was startled by the intensity of his deeply set jewel-green eyes, which stood out starkly against tanned skin. Such bright eyes were rare in magickless people. His face was long and narrow, his cheekbones prominent above a sharply crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken many times. Several small scars decorated his face, and a number of larger ones were visible across his chest.

  Even newly awakened to my magic as I was, I sensed there was something dangerous about this man, that he had the power to make people think and do as he chose. Under his penetrating gaze, I forsook my attempt to stare him down and ducked behind Brig’s leg to hi
de. It was a reaction so natural in the face of this stranger and his cold eyes that I was scarcely even aware of doing it.

  The motion did not escape notice. The jewel-eyed man laughed—a harsh barking sound that held no warmth. “You see that, men?” He raised his voice to the nearest outlaws. “The runt is frightened of me. Am I such a terrible sight, then? Brig, a fine pet you’ve taken in. I’ve seen dead fish with more backbone.” Then, “Look me in the eye, child!” he demanded sternly of me. “Do you know who I am?”

  I stared at him, silent.

  He seemed not to mind. If anything, I thought he enjoyed my nervousness as he said, “I am the outlaw leader they call Rideon the Red Hand. Or simply the Hand to my more intimate friends and enemies. And how did I come by that name, you must be asking yourself?”

  He leaned in close, as if about to impart a secret, and answered his own question. “I’ll tell you how. I earned it by hard deeds and rebellion against the Praetor’s laws. Look here at these hands, child.”

  I stared at the hands he extended palms upward and saw nothing remarkable. They were dirty, work-roughened hands with short, uneven nails.

  “There’s blood on them!” he barked suddenly so that I flinched.

  I didn’t see any blood but thought it might make him angry if I said so. He leaned back and regarded me as if disappointed by my lack of reaction. I had no notion what he expected of me, and we simply stared at one another until he seemed to tire of it, asking abruptly, “What name does your family call you by, girl?”

  I was too uneasy to speak, but an observer behind us put in with a laugh, “Brig calls her Little Dog.”

  We had become the center of attention in the camp, and the other outlaws stopped their tasks to observe our encounter. The outlaw named Rideon appeared to enjoy having an audience.

  “Dog, eh? I think I would call her a little rabbit. She has all the pluck of one.”

  A round of amused laughter followed this statement, and when it died, Rideon addressed Brig. “And what exactly do you plan on doing with this child? I’m given to understand it was your notion to bring her here.”