LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  That creature was my father, Tanin thought. He burned them after they tried to kill him, after they pierced him with ten arrows.

  But he could say nothing. How could he? He turned away, feeling ill.

  “I have to go.” He began to walk away, eyes stinging.

  I have to leave this village, he thought. I have to keep going, to keep traveling, to keep looking for others like me.

  His throat felt too tight and his eyes burned.

  Her voice rose behind him. “The juggler! He loves weredragons!” She laughed bitterly. “A weredragon lover among us!”

  Men began to grumble around Tanin. One cursed and spat at his feet. Tanin kept walking through the crowd.

  “Weredragon lover!” cried one woman, pointing at him.

  “Maybe he’s a weredragon himself!” shouted another man, an old farmer with white whiskers.

  Tanin increased his pace, but more people began to mob him, and one man grabbed his shoulders. At his side, Feyna was pointing at him, shouting that a weredragon had killed her uncle, that the juggler knew of weredragons and was protecting them, was maybe even a weredragon himself. The faces danced around Tanin, and he tried to worm his way through the crowd, but they grabbed him, and a woman shoved him, and—

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  The authoritative voice pierced the air. A man yowled and fell, clutching a bloodied nose. Another man grunted as a boot flew into his belly. Shoving her way through the crowd, sneering, came Tanin’s little sister.

  “Maev!” he said.

  Her one eye was swollen shut, and a bruise covered her opposite cheek. Blood stained her knuckles, and mud caked her body and long, golden hair. As she balled her fists, her dragon tattoos twitched upon her arms. She was a couple of years younger than Tanin, almost as tall, and ten times as fierce.

  When she reached him, Maev grabbed him and stared at the crowd, daring anyone to approach. The people stepped back, blanching. Tales of the Hammer, the traveling wrestler with the dragon tattoos, had spread to most towns across the Ranin River. Most of these folk had just seen Maev pummel her latest opponent—a burly wrestler with arms like tree trunks—in the mud pit.

  “Was my dolt of a brother blabbering about weredragons again?” Maev snorted and rolled her eyes. “The fool keeps going on about them. He’s got a doll of one at home—like a little girl—and doesn’t realize the damn creatures are monsters. Soft in the head, he is.” She tugged Tanin’s collar and sneered into his ear. “Isn’t that right, brother?”

  Tanin tried to shake himself free, but she wouldn’t release him. Abandoning any hope of saving his dignity today, Tanin nodded.

  “Uhm, yes. Sorry about that.” He nodded. “Damn weredragons. Horrible creatures.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

  The crowd dispersed slowly. Feyna gave him a disgusted glare before walking off to flirt with a tall baker’s boy.

  “You almost got us killed,” Maev said. She released Tanin’s collar and shoved him several paces back.

  “She . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She saw Grizzly. She called him a monster.”

  Maev groaned. “I call our big lummox of a father a monster too. So what?” She punched his chest. “You can’t go around getting us into trouble like this all the time. All right? What happened in Oldforge was bad enough. You and girls. Always you and girls . . . almost getting us killed.”

  Her words stabbed him.

  You are diseased! his old beloved had shouted.

  Father, kill him!

  Still those old voices echoed, that old pain.

  Tanin sighed. “Let’s leave this place. I want to go home.”

  His sister sighed and mussed his hair. “Oh, you stupid clump of a brother.” She showed him the purse of seashells she had earned—the prize from her fight. “We’ll barter these in the next village over. Just keep your mouth shut there, all right? Once we get the herbs Grandpapa wants, a new belt for me, and some new fur pelts for Grizzly, we’ll go home.”

  They left the village. They walked through fields of wild grass, geese honking above, until the sun began to set and the village disappeared in the distance. The stars stone above and distant mountains rose, deep black under the indigo sky.

  In darkness, Tanin and Maev—outcasts and wanderers—summoned their magic.

  Wings grew from their backs. Fire filled their bellies. With clanking scales, they rose into the sky, creatures, cursed ones, monsters . . . dragons. They flew in silence. They flew in darkness. Rain began to fall, and Tanin closed his eyes.

  “Someday,” he whispered into the wind, “I’ll find others. Someday I’ll know that we’re not alone. Someday the world will know that we’re not beasts to hunt.”

  At his side, his sister—a green dragon, her scales gleaming in the moonlight—looked at him, her eyes sad. She gave him a playful tap of her tail and blasted a little fire his way, just enough to singe his scales. He groaned and they flew onward into the shadows.

  ISSARI

  ISSARI SERAN, PRINCESS OF ETEER, tightened her ragged cloak around her shoulders and entered the seediest, smelliest part of her city.

  Back in the palace, Issari had gazed from balconies upon the port of Eteer, the great city-state, center of her family’s civilization. From there, in safety and luxury, it had seemed a magical place. The canal thrust in from the sea, ending with a ring of water like the handle of a key. Ships sailed here every day, bringing in wares from distant lands: furs from the northern barbarians, spices from the desert tribes in the west, and even silk from the east. Issari had always imagined that walking along the port would reveal a landscape of wonder: merchants in priceless purple fabrics, jesters and buskers, and many tales and songs from distant lands.

  Now, walking for the first time along this port she had seen so often from her balcony, she found a realm of grime, sweat, and stench.

  Issari saw no merchants bedecked in plenty, only sailors with craggy bare chests, scowling faces, and hard eyes that seemed to undress her. She saw no jesters and musicians like those in the palace, only ratty men offering games of chance played with cups and peas, a chained bear battling rabid dogs, and topless women selling their bodies for copper coins.

  My own face is engraved on some of those coins, Issari thought, shivering as she watched a sailor toss a few coppers toward a plump prostitute whose three children clutched her legs.

  “How much for a trick?” one sailor called out, trundling toward Issari. He stank of cheap spirits, and yellow stains coated his breeches. He grabbed his groin. “I got me two coppers. I say you ain’t worth one.”

  His smell—a miasma of urine, vomit, and fish—assailed Issari. Her head spun and she took a step back. “I . . . I’m not . . .”

  . . . a prostitute, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t bring the word to her lips. She had heard of such loose women, but she had thought them only tales to stop rebellious daughters from running away.

  “Come on!” The drunken sailor stumbled toward her, reaching out talon-like fingers. “Let’s see what’s under your robes.”

  “Stand back, sir!” Issari said, trying to keep her voice steady, but she heard it tremble.

  She took another step back, and she hit somebody. Something clattered and curses rose behind her.

  Issari spun around to see a stout woman standing over a fallen tin dish. Live crabs were fleeing the vessel to run along the boardwalk.

  “I’m sorry!” Issari said, kneeling to lift the animals. “Let me help—“

  The woman scowled, spat out a curse so vile Issari blushed to hear it, and smacked Issari on the head.

  “Watch where you’re going, princess!” the woman said and slapped her again.

  Princess? Issari gulped and trembled. Was her cover blown? She had disguised herself, donning a ragged old robe, hiding her raven braid under a shawl, and even caking her face with dirt. How did this woman—

  “Go on, get lost, you whore!” the woman shouted and tried to
smack her again.

  Some relief filled Issari to realize that “princess” here was an insult, much like the others the stocky woman was now hurling her way. Issari fled, racing away from the woman, the scurrying crabs, and the drunken sailor who was busy tugging his groin while ogling the two women.

  Tears budded in Issari’s eyes as she moved through the crowd. She had never imagined any place like this could exist in her kingdom, let alone so close to her home. When she craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, she could even see that home—the blue and gold palace with its rooftop gardens—rising upon a distant hill. Issari had been away for only a couple of hours, but already she missed that home so badly she wanted to weep.

  Making her way closer to the water, she steeled herself, rubbing her eyes and tightening her jaw.

  I must be strong, she told herself. My brother needs me. I came here to save him, and I can’t do that by crying or whimpering at a few smacks or taunts.

  She stepped toward the edge of the canal. Many boats moored here at piers, and others sailed back and forth, entering and leaving the port. Some were the simple reed boats of fishermen, their single sails barely larger than her cloak. Others were proud, oared merchant vessels, built of sturdy wood, their hulls bedecked with paintings of the winged bull—Kur-Paz, the god of plenty. Slaves sat in them, chained to the oars, their skin bronzed in the sun. Not all were Eteerian ships; Issari saw vessels of foreign lands too. The northern barbarians sailed wide, oared cogs engraved with animal totems. Issari shivered to see these foreigners—they were gruff folk, clad in fur and leather, their beards bushy.

  These men will sail back north, Issari thought, looking at the foreigners. They will return to the open, cold wilderness . . . where Laira hides.

  Issari’s eyes moistened.

  “Laira,” she whispered.

  She could not remember her older sister. Laira had been only three when she fled with Mother into exile, escaping Father’s wrath. Issari had been only a babe.

  “But if you’re out there, Laira, you’re twenty now,” Issari whispered. “You’re tall and strong, and you can become a dragon, and you can save our brother. I know you can.”

  Issari lowered her head to remember visiting Aerhein Tower. She had climbed the winding staircases, approached the door, and peered through the keyhole. Sena had knelt in chains, his face so bruised and swollen Issari had barely recognized him. Issari had begged the guards—towering men all in bronze—to enter the cell, to comfort her older brother, but they had shoved her back. When the guards had told her father of her visit, the king had struck her.

  Issari raised her hand to her swollen cheek, still feeling the blow. “I cannot save you from the tower, brother,” she whispered as she watched the ships sail by. “But a dragon can. Mother can. Laira can.”

  For the first time in her life, Issari wished she too were cursed. Why couldn’t she have inherited Mother’s disease? So many times these past few days, Issari had tried to shift, focusing all her energy on the task. She had screwed her eyes shut, leaped into the air, and willed herself to become a dragon. A dragon could fly to the tower top, smash the window’s bars, and fly away with Sena to freedom. Yet try as she might, Issari was pure of body, a blessing unto Taal, the god of beauty and the human form. She carried not the reptilian blood like her mother and siblings, and so Sena languished.

  A blow hit the back of her head.

  Issari winced and scurried a few paces away, half-expecting to see Father here. If he caught her in this port, he would imprison her too.

  But it was only a towering, gruff sailor. The man had a leathery face, one eye, and a chest tattooed with leaping fish. Upon his shoulder, he carried a basket of squid and shrimp.

  “Stop standing here, gaping like a fool,” he said and raised his hand to smack her again. “Men are working here. Get back to whatever brothel you fled from.”

  As Issari stepped back, the man walked by her, moving along the boardwalk. Several other sailors walked behind him, spitting and snorting. One glob of spit landed right on Issari’s foot, and she winced and gulped down her disgust.

  “I . . . I heard a tale!” she said, speaking in a high, hesitant voice. “I heard that the prince could become a dragon, that he’s imprisoned in a tower. Will you be sailing north? They like stories in the north, and—“

  But the men only trundled by, carrying hooks, ropes, and baskets, ignoring her.

  Issari tightened her lips. She knew her task. She had to spread the news. She had to make sure all the northern barbarians across the sea knew of Sena. She had to let Laira know.

  Because you’ll come for him, Issari knew. You’ll fly back home, strong and brave, a great golden dragon. Maybe you’ll have an army of dragons with you. And you’ll save our brother.

  She walked farther down the boardwalk, moving between fishermen sorting their catches, a legless child begging for coins, and a leper begging for prayers. She approached a few sailors, trying to tell them the news, but they were too busy hauling supplies, mending nets, or even drinking booze to notice. After a few more slaps, kicks, and spits, Issari’s spirits sank.

  Maybe it was hopeless. She had been a fool to come here. Surely her father had noticed her absence by now. Would he beat her? Would he chain her too?

  Her wandering brought her to the root of the canal. Here before her stretched the open sea. Dozens of ships sailed in the water—merchants, fishermen, and military vessels with proud banners. The smell of salt, fresh fish, and dates hanging from a nearby tree filled her nostrils. Seagulls flew overhead, their cries sounding like mocking laughter. Issari stepped onto the stone wall that separated her from the coast, leaned across the battlements, and stared at the sand, the seashells, and the water that spread into the horizon.

  “You’re somewhere over that horizon, Mother and Laira,” she whispered. “How can I deliver you this news?”

  Perhaps she should smuggle herself onto a ship, sail north, and walk through the wilderness, asking of her family in every village and tribe. And yet how could one girl find two souls? The north was vast, they said, its people scattered. There were no kingdoms there, no roads, no writing, no civilization—only endless, empty spaces and patches of life.

  Issari turned away from the sea. She was prepared to head back home when she heard laughter to her left.

  She turned her head and saw a small stone building. At first she had not noticed it; it nestled between a few olive trees, tucked away a little distance from the canal. Laughter rose from within, and she even heard a man singing. Hope kindled in Issari.

  “A tavern,” she whispered.

  She tightened her robe around her, fixed the shawl that hid her hair, and entered the building.

  A crowded room greeted her. Sailors, merchants, and soldiers sat at a dozen wooden tables, drinking and eating. The smells of ale, fried fish and garlic, and stewed figs filled Issari’s nostrils, intoxicating and delicious. Tin engravings of fish, ships, and even a dragon hung upon the walls, and candles burned in sconces. A stone tablet stood near the bar, engraved with the slim, cuneiform characters of Eteer—a wine menu. Stone jugs of the wines—each large enough for Issari to have hidden inside—stood along the walls, painted with scenes of racing chariots, men hunting deer, and the wars of gods.

  “And the sea serpent had three heads!” one sailor was saying, standing on a table. “Three—I counted them. And when I chopped one off, it grew two more.”

  Other sailors roared in laughter. “You’re drunk, you are. Sea serpents with growing heads?”

  Across the room, standing over a table topped with scattered mancala pieces, a merchant was patting his ample belly and telling his own tale. “And they say the Queen of Tiranor is so fair, a thousand ships sailed to fetch her the Jewel of Alari, but no jewel is as bright as her eyes.”

  A dozen more stories were being told around the room. This was the place Issari had sought—a hub of songs, tall tales, and gossip of distant lands.

  She approach
ed the bar, handed over a copper coin—it showed her father on one side, the winged bull on the other—and purchased a mug of wine. She winced, expecting a foul drink, but the wine was surprisingly good, as fine as the wine Father sometimes let her drink in the palace. After a few sips to steel her resolve, she turned toward the crowd and spoke in a high, clear voice.

  “I have a story!”

  Nobody seemed to hear her. The sailor kept speaking of the sprouting heads, the merchant kept extolling the distant queen’s beauty, and others gossiped of King Nir-Ur’s recent death and the rise of Raem Seran to power.

  “They say Raem stabbed his father right in the gut, they do,” said one soldier, his cheeks flushed and his eyes watery. “Killed the old man in the gardens, they say. They fought over how to deal with them dragons been cropping up.”

  The man’s friends glowered. “Lower your voice! That’s no proper talk.” Soon the group was arguing.

  Issari stood on tiptoes and raised her voice. “I have a tale of dragons! They say Prince Sena Seran, son of King Raem, is cursed with dragon blood.”

  At once the tavern silenced.

  All eyes turned toward her.

  Issari gulped, dizzy at the sudden attention. Praying nobody recognized her—the city folk had only seen her high upon her balcony, clad in finery—she spoke again.

  “Prince Sena himself turned into a dragon! King Raem imprisoned him in Aerhein Tower, they say. He’s keeping his own son in chains, so the prince can never shapeshift again.”

  As quickly as the tavern had grown silent, it erupted with new sound. Men pounded on the tables and demanded to know her name, to know where she had heard the news. Others nodded vigorously, saying they had indeed heard whimpers from the tower. Some claimed they had even seen Sena as a blue dragon, flying in the night; they swore they could recognize the prince even in dragon form.

  Issari smiled tremulously. The seed was planted.

  When she walked along the boardwalk, heading back toward the palace, she already heard the rumor spreading. Sailors, loading their ships, laughed about the Dragon Prince in his tower, awaiting rescue like a damsel. Fisherman whispered to one another, pointing at the distant palace, speaking of the creature the king kept hidden away. Ships sailed out into the open water, carrying the news, a story too scandalous, too horrible, too dangerous not to spread like wildfire.