LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “Yes, bleed for me, harlot.” Zerra spat. “Bleed like you bled into the crone’s leeches. Bleed like you bled under my fists. Bleed like you’ll bleed tonight as I bed you, as I toss you to my men. They will each take you in turn until you’re too hurt to scream.”

  Laira sneered and swung her blade. “No. No more.” She advanced, forcing him back. He was twice her size, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. She was small and weak, and ilbane ached in her muscles, but a fire burned inside her, and she attacked in a fury. She drove him another step back. “No more. Never again.” Her voice rose in strength, and she barely heard the slur of her crooked jaw. “You will nevermore hurt me, Zerra. I am no longer the little girl you beat, enslaved, tortured, starved.” She thrust her blade at him, and her voice rose to a great cry. “I am Vir Requis! For Requiem I slay you. For my people. For a dawn of dragons.”

  Her sword slammed into his, again and again, until she found an opening. Her blade sparked against his breastplate, denting the metal.

  He only laughed. “Vir Requis? Is that what you call your wretched kind? This is nothing but a colony for the diseased. I will cleanse the world of my brother and his children, and I will shatter your soul. You have grown impudent, and I will enjoy breaking your spark of defiance.” He thrust the blade. “When I’m done with you, you will eat dung and drink piss and thank me for it.”

  She tried to parry but he was too fast. His blade drove into her shoulder.

  Laira screamed.

  “Yes . . . scream for me.”

  He swung his sword again. She leaped sideways, hitting the wall. His blade nipped her thigh, and her blood flowed. She parried the next blow but wasn’t ready for his fist. His blade in his right hand, he slammed a left hook into her cheek.

  White light and stars exploded.

  She swung her blade blindly

  He grabbed her throat. She gasped, struggling to breathe. When she could see again, she found his face near hers, a smile twisting his halved lips. She tried to swing her blade, but he caught her wrist, pinning her arm to the wall. She struggled, kicking, but couldn’t free herself.

  “So deformed . . .” He thrust out his tongue and licked her crooked jaw—a long, languorous movement that left her dripping with his saliva. “So sweet. But not hurt enough. Not yet. Look at my wound, darling.” He turned the burnt side of his face toward her, forcing her to stare at the grooves and rivulets. “Soon your whole body will look like this.”

  Still clutching her throat, he sheathed his sword and lifted his torch, which had fallen during the duel. He brought the flame near her cheek. She winced and tried to turn her head away but could not. She sputtered and blackness spread across her. All she could see was the fire. All she could feel was the pain. She closed her eyes for fear of them melting.

  “We will begin with burning your face,” he said.

  She couldn’t move her right arm; he held it pinned to the wall. She kicked hard, hitting his knee. His leg crumpled. They fell together and she grabbed a fallen stone. She sprang up, slamming the rock into his temple.

  He grunted.

  His fingers released her, and Laira gasped for breath.

  She wanted to collapse. She wanted to simply breathe. Instead she lunged forward, swinging the rock again. A shard of granite the size of her fist, it drove into Zerra’s jaw. She heard the crack as the bone shattered. Two teeth flew. His chin drove sideways with a sickening crunch.

  He fell to his knees, clutching his face with one hand, and managed to lift and thrust his blade. She parried and swung her sword down. The bronze drove deep into his arm and thumped against bone. He screamed and dropped his sword. Laira kicked it aside.

  She placed the tip of her sword against his neck.

  “Beg me for your life,” she whispered.

  Suddenly she trembled. Her voice was hoarse. Her knees shook.

  “Beg me!” she shouted.

  He stared up at her, eyes baleful. He said nothing.

  “You will die here,” she said. “Beg for life.”

  He stared, silent, his jaw shattered. His arm hung loosely, slashed open; she saw the bone and tendons. He managed to slur, blood and saliva dripping down his chin.

  “What . . . do . . . you want?” He coughed out blood and teeth. “To be a huntress? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

  She shuddered. In the darkness of the tunnel, she saw her again. Her mother smiled at her, stroked her hair, and told her bedtime stories. Laira ran with her through the forests, collecting berries, laughing and speaking in Eteerian. She remembered joy. She remembered warm embraces, safety, love.

  “You killed my mother,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “You shattered my life. What do I want?” Her breath shook and she bared her teeth. “I want you to die, you bastard.”

  She screamed as she leaned forward, driving her blade into his neck.

  His blood dripped, and he gave her a last stare, then tilted over and lay still.

  Laira stared down at his body, and she no longer trembled. A peace descended upon her.

  “For my mother,” she whispered. “For Requiem. For me. It’s over.”

  She knelt, grabbed his hair, and lashed her blade again.

  Her footsteps were slow. Blood trailed behind her. She stepped out of the cave into a canyon of flame and blood, carrying Zerra’s severed head.

  “Goldtusk!” she shouted.

  She stood upon bloodied boulders. The dead lay around and beneath her. Arms thrust out from the debris, and gore painted the canyon walls. One rider lay whimpering, his organs dangling from his sliced belly. Dozens of rocs still flew above, and at least two dragons still lived. Maev writhed on a pile of boulders, blowing her last sparks onto a roc. Tanin lay slumped, lashing his claws, holding back a beast; arrows pierced his flesh. Laira had never seen these two dragons, but she knew them from Jeid’s stories—his children returned to battle. She did not see the others.

  “Goldtusk!” Laira shouted. She raised the severed head above her. “Goldtusk, hear me! I am Laira Seran. I was one of you. I carry the head of Zerra, your chieftain.”

  The rocs shrieked. All eyes turned toward her. The battle died down as they stared. Hunters hissed and tugged their reins, halting the rocs. The birds hovered, blasting Laira with foul air, billowing her hair.

  “I am a child of Goldtusk!” Laira cried, voice hoarse. “I slew the chieftain. By the law of our people, I lead this tribe now. I am chieftain! I am Laira of Goldtusk, a worshiper of Ka’altei. I command you—land, dismount your rocs, and kneel before your mistress.”

  For long moments—the ages of the stars and the world, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the endless mourning in her heart—they merely hovered, staring. She stared back. She knew how she looked—a scrawny thing, broken, scarred, covered in blood. A wisp of a person, a hint of who she could have been.

  But this is who I am, she thought. This is me. These years of pain, this fear, this broken body—they made me who I am. This person was hurt. And this person is strong.

  She raised the head higher, staring, silent. All others fell silent too. She could hear the wind in the trees and the crackle of fire.

  It was one rider—a gruff old man named Sha’al, a chunk of mammoth tusk still embedded in his chest from an old hunt—who landed his roc first. He dismounted, gave Laira a hard look, and then knelt before her.

  A second rider joined him, a young man who had once tossed Laira a few nuts on a cold winter night. He knelt before her, sword lowered.

  “Chieftain,” he said.

  A third rider joined him, then a fourth. Soon dozens of rocs landed in the canyon, cawing nervously. Their riders covered the boulders, kneeling before her, heads lowered.

  “Chieftain.

  “Chieftain Laira.”

  “Daughter of Ka’altei.”

  They spread across the canyon, kneeling in a great wave. Laira stood, staring upon them—her people. She looked to her side where Maev and Tanin struggled to their feet—her new f
amily.

  “Our war ends now,” Laira said softly. She lowered the severed head. “Goldtusk and Requiem will forge peace. We—“

  A grunt rose ahead, followed by a strangled cry.

  Laira raised her eyes and her heart nearly stopped.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Jeid stumbled forward across the boulders, back in human form. A young man—not a rider of Goldtusk but a foreigner in the robes of Eteer—walked behind, holding a blade to Jeid’s throat.

  SENA

  HE SHOVED THE GRUFF, BEARDED man forward, holding a knife to his throat. Everyone stared at him. Everyone judged him. Everyone thought him a villain. Sena trembled and felt tears stream down his cheeks, and he pushed the knife a hair’s width closer.

  “Stand back!” he shouted. “Stand back or I slit his throat!”

  This battle, like all of this autumn, had been a feverish dream. For so long Sena had languished in Aerhein Tower, chained, starving, mad with his thoughts, the demons flying outside his window to torment him. Since fleeing that place, he had found no solace.

  They said the north would be safe, Sena thought, the blade trembling in his hand. They said this would be a home.

  But here too people hunted his kind. Here great vultures, each larger than ten demons, slew dragons.

  “I can’t live like this,” Sena whispered, voice shuddering, as they stared at him. “I’m a prince. I’m a prince!” His tears flowed. “I can’t live in the wilderness, hiding in caves, hunted, hurt. Look. Look at the blood. Oh Taal . . .”

  The dead spread around him. He saw scattered limbs blackened with fire, white bones thrusting from the torn flesh. A severed head lay before him. Globs of flesh and puddles of blood lay everywhere. A dragon claw had disemboweled a roc, and pink entrails spilled across the ground, wet and stinking.

  A home? This was a morgue. This was a nightmare.

  The burly, bearded man grunted in his grip. Sena held the brute tightly, pushing his blade closer against the skin.

  “Be still!” Sena said. “Be silent! I will cut you.”

  Upon the boulders, Maev leaped up and glared. “Sena! You pathetic little snake. You foul piece of pig shite. I saved your backside from that tower. You hold my father now!” She hopped across a boulder, moving closer. “Drop your knife or I’ll smash your head against the canyon wall.”

  “You will stand back!” Sena said, staring back at her. Tears burned in his eyes, and his legs trembled. He pushed the blade a little deeper, nicking the man’s skin, and Maev froze. Blood dripped down Jeid’s neck. “Stand back, Maev, or your father dies.”

  Ahead, a short young woman was holding a severed head. She had been shouting something earlier. Crouched in the forest among the dead, Sena had been unable to make out her words. The woman looked about his age, maybe older, but haggard and small, frail as if after a long illness. Her black hair was cut short, and her mouth was slanted, her chin thrust to the side. She stared at him, tilted her head, and approached slowly.

  “Why do you do this?” she said. Her voice was vaguely slurred, perhaps due to her crooked jaw.

  Sena glared at her, clutching Jeid. “I am a prince of Eteer! I don’t belong here. I can’t live in this place. I have to go home.” A sob fled his throat. “If I kill a weredragon, my father will forgive me. If I bring him this man’s body, his demons will sniff the weredragon curse. They will know I killed one. And my father, the king, will forgive my own curse. He will let me return to my palace. Maybe not as heir, but a prince again.” His chest shook and he cursed himself for weeping. “I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh Taal . . .”

  The young woman with the short, black hair stepped closer to him. She raised her emptied palms in a gesture of peace.

  “You are . . . the Prince of Eteer?” Her voice was soft, and she tilted her head. “You are Sena Seran, son of Raem.”

  He nodded, peering around Jeid’s shoulder, keeping the knife in place. The bearded man was silent save for his gruff breath.

  “And who are you?” Sena demanded. “Another one of this man’s daughters who wants to crack my head?”

  The young woman shook her head, and a tear streamed down her cheek. “My name is Laira.”

  Sena snorted. “I had a sister named Laira once. It’s a name of Eteer, not this forsaken place. She was exiled years ago and—“

  He froze.

  Laira stared at him, eyes soft, and moved closer. She reached out her hands. “It’s me, Sena,” she whispered, tears falling. “It’s me. Your sister. I’m here.”

  Sena lowered his head and closed his eyes. Sobs wracked his body.

  My sister . . .

  “Oh Taal. Oh righteous god of purity. What have they done to you, sister?” He looked at her through his tears. “We have to go home. Both of us. We have to kill the others so Father forgives us. I want to go home.”

  Laira smiled tremulously. She stepped across the boulders toward him, reached out, and gently touched his arm.

  “We are home, brother. We are home.”

  A clank sounded below, and Sena realized he had dropped his knife. With a grunt, the bearded man moved aside, and somehow Sena was embracing his sister, crying into her hair. She was so short—the top of her head barely reached his shoulders—and he held her slim body, nearly crushing her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Laira, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him, smiling, tears spiking her lashes. She touched his cheek. “Hello again, dear brother. After so many years, hello again. I love you.”

  He embraced her tightly and they stood for a long time, holding each other upon the boulder, a sea of blood around them.

  JEID

  ANOTHER VIR REQUIS HAD JOINED them. His twin brother was dead. The Goldtusk tribe was Laira’s to command. The world shook around Jeid, but he no longer cared.

  He cared for only one thing now.

  Back in dragon form, he dug through the rubble, tossing boulders aside. His eyes burned. He worked in a fury, unearthing dead tribesmen, a crushed roc, and puddles of blood. Boulders rolled around him.

  “Help me!” he said. “Tanin, Maev!”

  His children rushed forth, shifted into dragons, and dug with him. Their eyes were narrowed, their mouths shut tight. They were thinking the same thought as him, Jeid knew.

  Eranor was missing.

  Jeid ground his teeth. Last he’d seen his father, the elderly druid had been blowing fire from the pantry, the rough cave that was now buried under rubble. With a grunt, Jeid grabbed a great boulder—it was as large as a man. Tanin and Maev had to help, shoving against it, before it creaked and crashed down.

  The entrance to the pantry, once a narrow cave barely large enough for a man to crawl into, lay shattered. Jeid tugged back stones, widening the opening, revealing the shadowy chamber.

  “Father!” he called. No answer came.

  His arms shook as Jeid shifted back into human form. He raced into the cave and felt his heart shatter.

  Eranor lay in the cavern, in human form again, rubble upon him. The ceiling had collapsed, and a boulder buried the old man’s legs. Blood stained his long, once-white beard.

  “Father!”

  Jeid rushed forward and knelt by the old druid. Eranor was still alive, his breath ragged. The old man managed to focus his eyes on Jeid and clasp his hand.

  “My son . . .” His voice was a mere whisper.

  Maev and Tanin rushed into the cave too and knelt by their grandfather. Tears filled their eyes.

  “Tell me what to do.” Jeid clutched his father’s hand. “Tell me how to heal you.”

  Eranor smiled—an almost wistful smile. “This body cannot be healed. Do not weep for me. I am old and I’ve lived longer than most. I lived to see Requiem rise.” He closed his eyes. “In my mind I can see it—a great kingdom of dragons. You will lead them, Jeid. Lead them to hope, to light.”

  “No.” Jeid shook his head. “No, Father. You will lead us. Don’t leave. N
ow is not your time.”

  “I fly now to the stars, my son.” Eranor’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Tanin. Maev. Come closer. Be with me.”

  They all crowded around him, holding on to the old man, tears in their eyes.

  Eranor gave a last smile. “I fly now to the Draco constellation. I fly to those we lost. I—“

  His eyes closed.

  His breath died.

  Jeid lowered his head, pulled his father to his chest, and held him close for a long time.

  The last leaves of autumn scuttled across the hills, and the first snow began to fall, when Jeid buried his father. Wind fluttered his fur cloak as he stood above the grave. A third boulder rose here, a third tombstone coated in moss. By it lay the two other graves—the young Vir Requis who had lost his leg, a stranger and yet one of their family, and an older grave overrun with ivy, the grave of his daughter. Of Requiem.

  “I don’t know how many more will die for our tribe,” Jeid said, throat tight. He clenched his fists at his sides. “But I will fight on.”

  He looked at the others who stood around him, faces pale, eyes cold. His people. His tribe. The ones he loved.

  Maev had refused a cloak of fur. She stood in a simple tunic, her arms bare, displaying her coiling dragon tattoos. Snow frosted her golden hair. No tears filled her eyes, and as always, her bottom lip was thrust out in defiance. As always, bruises and scratches covered her. Yet Jeid knew that beneath that stony exterior lay pain, love, and hope. The young woman stared down at the grave, chin raised, a well of tears hiding behind stone walls.

  Tanin stood at her side, his eyes red, snow filling his shock of brown hair. The tall young man wrapped his fur cloak more tightly around himself. His lips whispered silent prayers or perhaps goodbyes. The juggler turned warrior—now a man grieving.

  I never wanted this life for you, my children, Jeid thought. I wanted you to grow up in safety, a true roof over your heads, a life without fear, without pain.

  Perhaps this day he grieved for his children—for their life of exile and bloodshed—as much as for his fallen father.