LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  His face was swollen and bloody, and his arm hung at an odd angle. Groaning, the man rose to his feet. Maev was tall and strong; she had inherited her father’s height and his powerful arms. She was no delicate gatherer of berries; she was a warrior, her muscles wide, her body lean and fierce. And yet Gorn towered above her, twice her width, and managed to grin. He spat out a tooth with a shower of blood and saliva.

  “I’m going to rip your guts out with my own hands,” he said. “And I’m going to feed them to you.”

  He swung.

  Maev ducked and his fist flew over her head. She kicked, hitting his belly. As he doubled over, Maev leaped, driving her fist upward. It connected with his chin, knocking his head back. A left hook drove into his temple, splitting open skin, and for an instant his face turned to wobbly jelly.

  He stood before her, teetering.

  She drove her fist forward again. Her knuckles slammed into his nose, shattering it. It hurt like punching a brick wall.

  It was enough to send him down like a sack of turnips.

  He crashed to the ground and did not rise.

  Maev placed her foot upon the fallen man, then raised her bloodied fists and shouted out hoarsely. “I am the Hammer! I pound flesh!”

  She could barely see through her swollen eyes. The unconscious man’s face was a fleshy mess, all lumps and cuts. Maev knew that she looked no better, and she spat out more blood. But she could see enough. She could see the crowd of villagers cheering.

  What was this village’s name? Maev didn’t even remember. Too many villages, too many fights. Gorn woke and began to moan; his friends dragged him out of the square, leaving a trail of blood. As Maev made her way through the crowd, villagers patted her on the back, offered her clay mugs of ale, and cried out her name.

  She wiped back strands of her yellow hair. It was slick with blood—a mix of hers and his.

  “Give me my prize,” she demanded, head spinning. She thrust out her bottom lip and raised her chin. “Give me what I earned or I’ll pound every last one of you.”

  The village elder approached her, clad in canvas, his belly ample and his cheeks rosy. He held forth the silver amulet. When he tried to place it around her neck, Maev grabbed the jewel, spat onto his feet, and stuffed it into her pocket.

  “I don’t wear no jewelry.” She glared at the elder through her one good eye; the other saw only blood. “I can barter this in the next village over. It would get me some good mutton—better than the shite you serve in this backwater.” She pushed her way through the crowd, following her nose. “I smell stew and ale! Feed me and give me enough booze to knock out a horse.”

  Ahead rose craggy tables of logs held together with nails. Other logs served as benches, and the villagers sat here, eating steaming barley bread, gnawing on legs of lamb, and washing down the food with frothy ale. Maev stumbled toward a table, desperate for a hot meal and cold drinks—free fare for the victor, and she was in no position to turn down free meals.

  Before she could reach the table, however, a familiar figure leaped forward, blocking her way.

  Maev groaned. “Get out of here, Tanin, or I’m going to knock your face into the back of your skull.” She raised a fist. The knuckles were raw and bleeding.

  Her brother gazed at her with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. A tall man of twenty-five years, he sported a head of shaggy brown hair. He had inherited his father’s bearlike hair, while she had the smooth, golden hair of their late mother. His eyes, like hers, were gray tinged with blue.

  “By the stars,” Tanin said. “Your face is as swollen and ugly as a troll’s swollen arse.” He winked. “Getting it beaten up doesn’t help either.”

  She grunted and pulled out her medallion. “A troll’s swollen arse with a silver prize.” She pushed past him. He was taller but Maev knew she was stronger. “Now don’t come between me and ale, or you’ll look the same.”

  She reached the tables. Men moved aside, patting her on the back, and she thumped into a seat. Ignoring the villagers, she reached across the table, grabbed a leg of mutton, and took a huge bite. The hot meat melted in her mouth, and juices dripped down her chin, stinging her cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.

  A drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.

  “How much longer do you think you can do this?” he said. “This is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for sure.”

  “Not counting.” She stared at the table, chewing her meat.

  “And how many more fists can you take to the face?” Tanin leaned forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. “You can’t keep doing this.”

  She shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her forehead into the drink. “Somebody’s got to support this family. If it’s not smith work, it’ll be fist work.” She thrust out her bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. “I was a good smith when Grizzly still had his shop. But I’m a better fighter.”

  His voice softened. “There are other ways. My juggling earns us some food.”

  She snorted. “Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our kind. Not for people with our curs—“

  “Hush!” He paled. “Not here.”

  She looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.

  “Nobody’s listening. Nobody cares.” Maev reached for a turnip and chewed lustily. “This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us a living.”

  The truth she kept to herself. Because fighting like this eases the pain, she thought, her eyes stinging. Because fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment, of a lost younger sister, of who I am. And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds inside her.

  Tanin sighed, head lowered. “We weren’t meant to fight like this—with fists, with kicks.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and held her shoulder. “We were meant to fight as dragons.” His face lit up. “To fly. To blow fire. To bite with fangs and lash with claws.”

  Maev glanced around again, but if anyone heard, they gave no notice. “Well, last I checked, dragons are hunted with arrows, rocs, and poison.” She shrugged. “Maybe I can’t fly. Not if I want to live.” She pounded the table. “But my fists are still strong. Now let me be. I’m eating. Go find some pretty shepherd’s daughter to try to charm.”

  She turned her back on Tanin and tried to concentrate on her food. Yet her thoughts kept returning to the fight—to all her fights. Whenever she lay bloodied, fists raining down upon her, she wanted to shift into a dragon. Whenever she paced her canyon hideout, her brother and father and grandfather always nearby, she wanted to shift into a dragon. When she slept, she dreamed of flying. It was the magic of her family—some said the curse. All bore the dragon blood, the blood the world thought diseased.

  Weredragons, they call us, Maev thought. Monsters to hunt.

  She bit deep into a leg of lamb stewed in mint leaves, then chewed vigorously as if she could eat away the pain. Years ago, dragon hunters had killed her sister; they had poisoned sweet little Requiem in the fields. Everyone in the family dealt with that pain privately, desperately. Her father, Jeid Blacksmith, that huge grizzly bear of a man, had named their canyon home Requiem. He called it a new tribe, a safe haven for their kind, as if others existed in the world. Her grandfather, kindly old Eranor, dedicated himself to his gardens of herbs. Her brother cracked jokes, mocked her, mocked everyone; she knew it masked his pain.

  And I, well . . . I fight. Maev looked at her torn knuckles. I hurt myself to
drown the pain inside me. She sighed, looking around at the drinking villagers. If anyone here knew my true nature, they wouldn’t just fight me with fists. They’d try to kill me.

  A snippet of conversation tore through her thoughts. She tensed, narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head.

  “. . . a real weredragon!” somebody was saying—a villager with red cheeks and a bulbous nose. “Shapeshifter. Cursed with the reptilian disease.”

  Maev growled and made ready to leap to her feet. At her side, she saw Tanin grimace and reach toward his boot where he kept a hidden dagger.

  They know, Maev thought, heart pounding. They heard us talk. She rose to her feet, expecting the poisoned arrows to fly, and sucked in her magic.

  “Ah, Old Wag, you’re drunk!” said another villager, an elderly man with bristly white muttonchops.

  “I ain’t!” replied the bulbous-nosed man. “I heard the tales, all the way from Eteer across the sea. They say the prince of Eteer himself, a lad named Sena, is a weredragon. His father, the king, locked him up in a tower, he did.” Old Wag roared out laughter, spraying crumbs. “Like a princess from a story.”

  Maev slowly sat down again, loosening her fists. At her side, she saw Tanin ease too. He slipped his dagger back into his boot.

  “The Prince of Eteer?” Maev said, letting her voice carry across the table. “Eteer’s just a myth.” She snorted. “A land of stone towers, of men bedecked all in bronze, of thousands of souls living in a town the size of a forest?” She spat. “Ain’t no such place in the world.”

  The villagers looked at her, scratching chins and stroking beards.

  “Eteer’s real enough,” said the old man with the muttonchops. “My cousin, in the next town over, he’s been there himself. Trades there, he does. He ships in furs and brings back jewels and spices and metal tools. Aye, a land of stone towers it is, of walls taller than trees.” He gestured around at the village; a few scraggly huts rose around the muddy square. “There’s more to the world than the north. We here, we’re a mole on the arse of the world. But Eteer now—that there’s a golden crown.”

  Old Wag leaped onto the tabletop, spraying mud from his boots across plates and knocking over a mug of ale. “And there’s a weredragon there! It’s true, it is. Traders talking all about it. My old nan swears she heard it from one who saw the beast. A blue dragon flying over the sea. Locked in the tower now, he is, chained in his human form. Can’t hurt no decent souls like that. His own father put him there.” Wag nodded emphatically. “If my son were a weredragon, I’d lock him up too.”

  Men roared with laughter. “Your son can’t even work a grinding stone, let alone become a dragon!” one woman called out. “Head of mush, that one has.”

  Maev looked at her brother. He stared back at her, eyes somber.

  “Maev,” Tanin whispered. “Tell me you’re not thinking of . . .”

  She grabbed his hand and tugged him up. She pulled him away from the table. Ignoring calls from the villagers, she walked around the well, between two huts, and into open fields.

  The stars shone above, crickets chirped, and an owl hooted. Fireflies danced above the tall grass. After the heat and noise and smells of the village, it felt good to walk here in darkness. They moved through the grasslands, heading deeper into shadows, for they were Vir Requis, creatures of the night.

  “There is another,” Maev whispered, eyes watering.

  In the darkness, she heard Tanin groan.

  “The drunken talk of fools,” he said. He shoved aside the tall, wild grass, moving through the darkness. “People also say dragons eat babies, drink the blood of virgins, and piss molten gold. So they say a prince in a far-off land is a dragon.” He barked a laugh. “What are you going to do, fly all the way across the sea, find this mythical land of Eteer, and look for a tower?”

  Maev sighed and looked up at the stars. The Draco constellation shone there, comforting her, easing the pain of her wounds.

  “Fifty years ago, these stars began to shine,” Maev said softly. “Grandfather was among the first in the world to become a dragon. The stars gave him this magic.” She smiled to remember his stories. “And he gave it to our father. And that great grizzly bear passed it on to us. If the stars blessed our family, perhaps they blessed another family too. Perhaps they blessed Prince Sena of Eteer. And if it’s true . . . if he’s imprisoned . . . we have to save him.” She clutched her brother’s hand. “We have to bring him home.”

  They kept walking in silence, listening to the crickets and rustling grass. When they were far enough from the town, Maev closed her eyes and summoned her magic. It flowed through her, warmer than mulled wine, easing the pain of her wounds. She beat her wings, rising into the air, a green dragon in the night. At her side, more wings thudded, and she saw her brother soar too, a red dragon with long white horns.

  Silent, keeping their fire low, they rose and caught an air current. They glided through the night, heading away from the villages that hunted their kind . . . heading toward that distant mountain, that new home, that place of safety and warmth in a cold world.

  ANGEL

  SHE CROUCHED IN THE DARKNESS, a queen of rock and fire, and licked the blood off her long, clawed fingers, savoring the coppery heat, shuddering as the hooks upon her tongue lapped the goodness, and she unfurled that tongue, stretching out a dripping serpent, and Angel howled in the depths in her hunger and lust.

  “It is sweet, my children, my terrors,” she hissed. Saliva dripped down her maw to steam against the stone floor. The cracks upon her body widened, leaking smoke and fire. “The blood nourishes. The blood is darkness.”

  Her meal writhed before her, all but drained, a gray husk of a thing. Once it had been three; she had molded them together, cutting and sewing, stitching twins like dolls, bloating the beast with embers and meat and sweet drippings of fat, letting it fester, letting it grow. Now she drank from her twisted creation, her living wineskin of meat and marrow. She drove her head down, thrusting her hollowed teeth through its skin, and sucked, sucked, lapped the sweetness, the red and black, the heat and stickiness. Its many arms twitched, and its mouths, sewn together, whimpered and begged, and its eyes blinked and wept where she had placed them, and still Angel drank, leaving it an empty shell, a shriveled thing, only skin over bones.

  “Yes, my dears.” She licked the creature, her conjoined twins, her meals in the darkness. “You will live. I will fatten you again, and you will grow, and more will join you. I will sew you into a great feast.”

  It begged her for death, tears pouring. She laughed. She shoved it aside, leaped, and scuttled through the depths. Her leather wings beat, wafting smoke and stench, and her four arms flailed, ending with claws, cutting into the stone. Around her they lay, the creatures she had sewn together. The largest was a hundred strong, bodies morphed into a writhing hill, sacks of blood and rot, meals to last through her long, ancient banishment.

  Upon their anguished faces she ran, cutting into them, digging, spurting, scattering flesh, until she scampered up the craggy cavern wall. Her wings stretched wide, and the blood coursed through her, heating her, and flames blasted from her cracked body of stone. She let out a howl of lust, a cry that echoed through the chamber, for blood was not enough, and filling her belly could never sate her, for her loins burned with the greatest heat, crying for release, begging to feast like her maw had feasted.

  She left her chamber of blood, her hall of husks, her place of feeding, and she scuttled through the tunnel, a creature of fire, until she burst into a new hall, fell, spread her wings, rose, crackled in an inferno. Her flames blasted out, and she shrieked until her voice echoed, and the fire rose from her loins to crawl across her cracked belly, her stony breasts, her four arms of rock and her claws of metal.

  Before her they knelt, shuddered, sang, cowered, begged, shrieked, mocked, prayed—her soldiers of the Abyss, her endless twisted things to praise her, to worship her, to thrust into her in a vain attempt to satisfy her lust, for on
ly human flesh could silence her craving. She gazed upon them. Creatures of oozing flesh, their skin peeled away, their muscles dripping, their bones white and wet. Creatures of stone like her, their bodies cracked and dry and leaking smoke. Creatures of fat, slithering, sliding, seeping, leaving their wet trails, stuffing their folds of fat with worms and maggots and snakes and all things that crawled and burrowed. Creatures hooded. Creatures naked. Creatures inside out, organs glistening. Creatures of smoke, of horn, of scale, of rot. All filled the chamber before her, from beasts thrice her size to rotting, clattering centipedes that crawled around her legs, their segments formed of human heads.

  All praised her.

  She was Angel.

  She was fire and light and a beacon of darkness.

  “Kneel before me!” she cried, voice slamming against the stone walls, this place far under the world, this trap, this prison. “Worship me and fill me. Send one forth.”

  They rustled, clattered, squealed, and groaned beneath her feet. Angel screamed, her cry shattering flesh below, breaking bones, snapping eardrums, scattering blood. She pointed a dripping claw, selecting one, a mummified thing, its head long and topped with a disk of bone, its mouth rustling with maggots, it belly sliced open to reveal nests of snakes. It moved toward her on hooves, and Angel lowered herself on her four elbows, and she howled when the creature thrust into her with its barbed tool, and she dug into the stone, and she spewed flame from her maw as he took her. Around her in the cave, smelling her sex, the other creatures of the Abyss clawed and grabbed one another, copulating in pools of drool and rot, howling to the stone ceiling, filling the chamber with stench and whimpers and groans.

  Yet it was all for naught. Even as her paramour took her, she knew no filling of her craving, and she knew no life would quicken within her, for thus was her curse. Thus was her banishment, her prison, to forever crave a child, to forever feel the emptiness in her womb, for only the seed of living men—of the flesh that moved above the rock—could fill her with life, with a rotting, pulsing spawn.