LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  When the summons hit her, Angel hissed and raised her dripping maw.

  A summons? After so long?

  She screamed.

  She sprayed lava from her mouth, and she pulled herself off the beast that mounted her, and she beat her wings.

  “A summons! I am called!”

  She flapped her wings, scattering the stench of the pit, churning smoke and fire. Flames burst across her, and the calling burned her. She shut her eyes, opened her arms, uncurled her claws.

  “Speak, sack of flesh! Speak, creature overground!”

  Astral arms pulled her, sucking her up into the stone, tugging her through tunnels. She laughed, wind shrieking around her, rock cracking against her. It had been so many years, so long since the creatures above had summoned her, weak and small and tempting, so beautiful, so warm.

  Inferno blazed, and the world cracked, and when she opened her eyes again, Angel stood in a new place, an old chamber, the hall of the kings aboveground.

  She laughed, spreading her wings wide, scattering her fire. The sparks landed upon tapestries, burning them, filling this place with her heat. Here was the Hall of Eteer, the throne room of the kings who ruled above her own rotted kingdom. Many times they had called her here in days of old, ancient lords of sunlight, and she had spoken with them, treated with them, and sometimes snatched them into the depths to sew into her sacks of blood.

  A new king sat before her upon the throne, younger than the last one, tall and broad. His head was bald, his skin bronzed from sunlight, and true bronze—that metal she had taught the smiths of Eteer to forge—covered him as armor.

  Angel hissed at him, sending out her tongue to taste him, licking, exploring. She cackled, drool spilling from her, burning holes into the mosaic beneath her claws.

  “You are new,” she said, smoke seeping between her fangs.

  The mortal stared, face grim, and she saw herself reflected in his eyes: a woman carved of volcanic rock, cracked and red and black, flames engulfing her, her leathern wings wide, her four arms long and tipped with claws, a queen, a barren thing, a goddess of lust and hunger and emptiness.

  “I am Raem Seran, son of the fallen Nir-Ur, King of Eteer.” Even in her heat, and even as she hissed and spat embers upon him, he did not cower, and he did not avert his eyes. “I now sit upon the kingdom’s throne. As is my right, I summon you to my service, Queen of the Abyss.”

  Angel cackled.

  Her laughter blasted back his cloak, seared his skin, and splattered him with her steaming saliva. She beat her wings and rose higher, leaving a wake of fire. She stretched out her arms, letting him admire her nakedness, her loins like burning embers, her pulsing womb that ached for his seed.

  “Serve you, King?” She spat out the last word as an insult. “Perhaps you would serve me in my pit. I will take you, copulate with you, and give you to my demons, so they might thrust into you, and you will feed us with your blood, and we will—“

  “Silence!” he said, rising from his throne. “You are a queen of banishment, ruler of a prison cell. My forebears bound you to my dynasty. As is my right, I command you. You will rise. You will fight for me.”

  Angel beat her wings, drew near, and placed her claws upon his chest. They dug grooves through his armor and into his skin, and his blood spilled, and she licked his cheek and hissed into his ear.

  “Your forebears never dared free me. If I fight, King, I will burn the world.”

  He reached into her flames. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back, not flinching even from her heat.

  “You will burn only those I command you to. Weredragons infest my kingdom, diseased humans who can take dragon forms. They will be yours to slay. Raise your horde! Bring forth the creatures of the underworld. The demons of the Abyss will rise. You will live in the world once more, as you did in ancient days, and you will hunt weredragons.”

  Angel shrieked. Her cry cracked a column to her left. The tapestries burned all around, falling to the floor.

  “For ten thousand years, we lingered in the darkness. You will free us?”

  Raem shook his head. “No. I grant you no freedom. I grant you servitude in sunlight. Fight for me, Angel. You will feel the sunlight upon you. You will fly in open sky, covering my kingdom. But still you will be bound to me.”

  She tilted her head, snapped her teeth, and clawed at him. “I demand more! I demand . . .” She grinned, and smoke rose between her teeth to blind her. “I demand human wombs. Let my demons choose brides among your women. Let them breed with them. Let the seed of the Abyss infect mortal bellies, so that the daughters of Eteer may bear us children. Agree to this, mortal man, and I will slay your weredragons.”

  Raem stared at her in silence, eyes hard, lips tight.

  He nodded.

  Angel laughed.

  She tossed back her head, stretched out her four arms, beat her wings, spread her flame, and her laughter rang and the ceiling rained dust.

  “It will be so!”

  She stamped down her feet, and cracks raced across the floor. Claws rose between them, widening the gaps, and mouths gaped, and tongues explored, and eyes peered, and smoke wafted. The mosaic shattered and they emerged: crawling, flying, slithering, seeping, dragging, scuttling, creatures of ooze, of fat, of scales, of horns, of dried flesh, of weeping sores. Large and small, they emerged into the hall of Eteer’s king, freed, famished—the demons of the Abyss.

  “We will hunt weredragons!” Angel shouted through her laughter, and they filled the hall around her. “We will mate with mortal flesh! Spread across the city, children of rot. Choose brides among the women. Sniff out reptiles and slay them. Kill and breed! Crush and bring forth life!”

  They stormed through the hall, a geyser of rot, cracking the columns, crashing through doors, shattering windows, flowing into the city and the searing sunlight that had been forbidden for so long. Their howls shook the world, almost drowning the screams of the mortals.

  They left the hall singed, globs of rot dripping from the charred tapestries, the floor shattered, the mosaic stones scattered like dragon scales. Still he stood before her, this new king, this human of hot skin and blood.

  She placed her arms around him.

  “I need no bride,” she whispered and licked his face, tearing his skin with the hooks of her tongue. “You will be mine.”

  She tugged and they fell upon the shattered floor, limbs dangling across the open pit’s ledge, and there she copulated with him, a sticky dance of stone and skin, of blood and fire, and she screamed as they merged, and she laughed and clawed the floor.

  She had found freedom. She had found release for her fire. And soon . . . soon she would find dragons to burn.

  JEID

  “GRIZZLY, I AM LEAVING.” MAEV crossed her arms, thrust out her bottom lip, and raised her chin. “I’m flying across the sea and into a bronze kingdom, and you can’t stop me.”

  Standing in the canyon, Jeid Blacksmith stared at his daughter, rage and fear mingling inside him. He clutched his axe so tightly he thought he might snap the shaft. His arms shook. A growl rose in his throat. Finally he could not contain it; he tossed back his shaggy, bearded head and shouted wordlessly. His cry echoed within the mossy walls of the canyon, shaking the stones. This was an ancient crack in the world—boulders perched precariously atop pillars of stone, trees clinging to craggy walls, natural cairns of sharp rocks, and caves running into the depths of the earth. This natural fortress of walls, tunnels, and towers had stood here since the dawn of time. Now Jeid howled so loudly he thought the sound could shatter the old stones, burying him and his daughter forever.

  Finally his wordless cry morphed into words. “No! I forbid it. You will stay here in this canyon, in safety, with me.”

  Maev tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. She placed her fists on her hips and snorted, blowing back a strand of her long, dark blond hair.

  “You cannot stop me. I am twenty-three years old, Grizzly. When you were my age, you w
ere already a father.” She gestured at the canyon around her. Vines and moss covered the craggy walls, and boulders lay piled up around her. “I’m a Vir Requis. I can shift into a dragon. I’m not meant to hide among stone.” Her eyes gleamed and she hopped to another boulder, moving closer to him. “Grizzly, there is another. I know it. Let me find him.”

  Jeid sighed.

  She looks like her mother, but she is stubborn like me.

  Jeid—tall, burly, and shaggy—sported a mane of wild brown hair, a bushy beard, and brown eyes that stared from under tufted brows. Clad in furs, he looked like something of a bear, earning him his nickname; even his own children now used the moniker.

  Maev looked like her late mother. Her hair was golden, her eyes gray tinged with blue, her skin pale. But Jeid saw himself in her too—the stubborn gaze, the strong arms, the way she raised her chin, stuck out her bottom lip, and dared anyone to challenge her. He had given her those.

  I never wanted this life for you, Maev, he thought. He had imagined her growing up a fair woman, perhaps a gatherer of berries or a weaver of cloth. Instead she had become a fighter, traveling from town to town to punch and kick and bite for prizes. Today a black eye marred her countenance, and her lip was still swollen, the remnants of the fights he forbade and she kept getting into. Like him, she obeyed no rules, respected no leaders, and valued stubbornness over prudence.

  If she insisted on having a nap in a meadow, Jeid thought, an approaching stampede of mammoths would not convince her to move.

  “The Prince of Eteer, a dragon?” Jeid said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s only a legend, daughter. The kingdom of Eteer itself is probably only a legend. A town the size of a forest? Houses built of stone and armies of thousands, each man bearing bronze? Towers taller than totem poles?” He hefted the shield that hung across his back. “No such place exists. These are only stories told around campfires.”

  Maev growled and bared her teeth. She leaped onto another boulder; she now stood only a foot away from the rock he stood on. She gave his chest a shove so hard Jeid nearly toppled over.

  “A legend!” Her eyes flashed. “You know what else some claim is a legend? Dragons. And look.”

  With a roar, she leaped into the air and shifted.

  Green scales rose across her. Her tail flailed. She flapped her wings, bending the trees that clung to the canyon walls. Rocks rolled and rearranged themselves, and even a boulder creaked upon the jutting stone pillar it perched upon. Maev ascended, rising above the canyon walls until she flew in open sky. She blasted out fire, a pillar of heat and light that filled the sky and rained down sparks.

  “Maev, you fool!”

  With his own roar, Jeid shifted too, becoming a burly copper dragon. He beat his wings, rose to the top of the canyon, and grabbed Maev’s tail. He tugged her down into safety like a man pulling down a flapping bird. Their wings slapped against the canyon walls. Maev was a strong, slim dragon, fast as wildfire, but Jeid was twice her size, a massive beast of horns like spears, claws like swords, and scales like shields. When he pulled her back to the canyon floor, they shifted back into human forms. She stood before him, clad in fur and leather again. She panted, her cheeks flushed.

  “Did you see the legend?” She spat. “Dragons are real. I’m real. You’re real. Our family is real. And there are others. In the villages and tribes they speak of it—the kingdom of Eteer. Young Prince Sena is held captive by his cruel father, a father almost as cruel as you. He’s locked in a tower, Grizzly! Not even a canyon where you can see the sky, but a tiny cell, chained so he can’t shift.” She raised her chin. “I have to save him. I have to believe there are others, not just our family. I have to fly south and save him.” Her voice softened and she sighed. “You must learn to—just sometimes—let me go.”

  But he could not let her go. He had lost one daughter already. He had lost his sweet Requiem. How could he lose Maev too?

  He pulled her into his arms. Maev was a tall woman, taller than many men, and yet Jeid towered above her; she nearly disappeared into his embrace. She laid her head against his shoulder, and her tears dampened his fur tunic.

  “My daughter,” he said, voice choked. “I already lost your mother to the arrows of those who hate us. I already lost your sister to their poison. I cannot bear to lose you too. What if you fly into a trap, like . . . like the trap that killed Requiem? Like the trap that almost killed me?”

  “No trap can stop me.” She touched his beard, and her eyes softened. “Grizzly, I am strong, fast, a warrior. You will not lose me. I will free the prince, and I will bring him back here. You’ve always dreamed of finding others, of building a new tribe here, a tribe of Vir Requis. And yet we’ve found no others. Let me find one. Let me prove to you that we are not alone.”

  A loud voice, speaking in falsetto, came from above them. “Oh Grizzly! I am a heroine from a tale. I rescue princes from towers, inspire bards with my bravery, and slay ogres with my bad breath.”

  Jeid looked up and sighed again. Upon the canyon’s edge, looking down upon them, stood his son.

  Two years older than his sister, Tanin sported a head of shaggy brown hair, and stubble covered his cheeks. While his father was beefy, Tanin was slender and quick. He wore leather breeches and a fur tunic, and he carried a bronze apa sword at his belt, the leaf-shaped blade as long as his thigh. A bow and quiver hung across his back, and a mocking smile tugged at his lips. A prankster, his only joy seemed to be tormenting his younger sister—stuffing frogs into her blankets, painting her face while she slept, and once even slicing off a strand of her hair, which Maev had avenged by giving him a fat lip.

  Maev spun around and glared up at him. “I do not sound like that.”

  Tanin smirked and gave a little pirouette, balancing on the edge of the canyon. He kept speaking in falsetto. “I’m so lonely here, Grizzly, and I’m as homely as the south side of a northbound mule. The only way I’ll ever find a mate is to travel to the edge of the world—where they haven’t heard of my foul temper—and snatch one up—“

  “Tanin!” Smoke looked ready to plume from Maev’s ears. She leaped, shifted again, and flew up toward her brother. She landed atop the canyon, shifted back into human form, and barreled into him, knocking him down.

  Jeid grunted and flew after them. When he reached the canyon’s edge, he resumed human form and stomped toward the wrestling siblings. Birches, oaks, and elms grew around them, hiding them from any rocs that might dare fly above. The escarpment sloped down to the south, leading to forested hills, valleys, and finally the river where they fished for bass and trout. Beyond that river lay the towns and villages of those who hunted them—a forbidden realm.

  “Enough!” Jeid bellowed. He grabbed each of his children by the collar and lifted them up. They dangled in his grip, still trying to punch one another. “Stop your bickering, children, or I’ll bang your heads together like melons.”

  “Ow!” said Tanin, struggling in his father’s grip. “What did I do?” The young man was twenty-five and tall and strong, yet in his father’s grip he seemed like a bear cub.

  “You will stop tormenting your sister!” Jeid said. “And you will sway her away from this nonsense.”

  He tossed both his children down in disgust. They fell into a pile of fallen leaves, rose to their feet, and brushed their woolen clothes and fur cloaks.

  “Well . . .” Tanin stared at his feet and kicked around a pine cone. “I sort of . . . agreed to go with her.”

  Jeid’s eyes widened. “You what?” he bellowed. “I expect some nonsense from Maev.” He ignored her protests. “But you, Tanin? I thought you were better than this.”

  Tanin finally dared raise his eyes. “You taught me to be a smith, Grizzly. You taught me to forge copper, tin, and bronze.” He gestured at the wide, bronze sword that hung on his hip. “And then you shifted into a dragon. You let the town see you. And we had to flee here. Now I roam around from town to town, juggling raven skulls and dancing like a trained be
ar—a blind, clumsy bear with gammy legs.” Tanin sighed, took his bronzed raven skulls out of his pockets, and tossed them as far as they’d go. “You spoke of creating a tribe—a tribe of weredragons, a tribe called Requiem after my sister. You even gave us a fancy name—Vir Requis.” Tanin gestured around him. “Well, I don’t see a tribe. I see a gruff, hairy grizzly bear . . . and I see my father.” He winked at Maev.

  With a growl, Maev leaped onto her brother again, wrestling him down and punching. This time Jeid did not try to stop them. He clenched his fists, lowered his head, and the pain cut through him.

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice so soft he barely heard himself.

  The siblings, however, paused from wrestling. They stared up at him, eyes wide.

  Pain clutched at Jeid’s chest to remember that day, that horrible day Zerra, his own twin, had seen him shift into a dragon. Zerra had shouted the news across their town of Oldforge, raging that his brother was diseased. Jeid had fled into the wilderness that day. Zerra had left Oldforge too—he joined a roaming tribe of roc riders and dedicated himself to hunting weredragons.

  To hunting me, Jeid thought.

  “You’re right,” he repeated, voice soft. “This is my fault. I’m the one who was caught. I’m the one who doomed us to banishment. I’m the reason you live in a canyon, that you roam from town to town for food and supplies, when you should be smiths in Oldforge, a true roof over your head, starting your own families.” His voice choked. “I failed you. I know this, and it hurts me every day, and—“

  “Grizzly!” Maev said. She leaped to her feet and embraced him. Tanin joined her a moment later, awkwardly placing an arm around them.

  “But I ask you, my children.” Jeid’s eyes burned. “I ask you to stay. Stay with me.”

  Tears streamed down Maev’s cheeks. She hugged him tightly . . . but then she stepped away.

  “I cannot,” she whispered. “I must find others. I must. If we’re banished, let us build this new tribe.” She leaped into the air and shifted. Her wings scattered dry leaves and bent saplings. She took flight with clattering scales, crashed through the canopy, and hovered above. “Goodbye, Father! Goodbye!”