LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Being no good to his wife fretting by her side, Kreal finally took his old mother’s advice to go to the Samnadr. When he entered the long tent, he found his tribesmen in chaos. A few fights had broken out; men and women alike screamed and cursed each other, while others cried at the spectacle or clawed at their hair to announce their grief. Babies cried and children mimicked their parents. Teen boys full of wolf piss and fire pleaded to be sent to Agora on a quest for medicine; others promised they would bring back ships full of food, supplies, and medicine if only given a chance.

  The elders, however, knew the truth. No help was to be found from any of the nations of Agora, and should they seek to steal its resources, they would be met with devastating force. What trade agreements they did have with pirates and smugglers were tedious enough, and war with Agora—namely its most northerly nation, Shierdon—would break those trade ties. If Shierdon set embargoes on Volnoss, the kingdom would need only wait until the dead of winter, at which point the starved barbarians would be forced to return to the negotiating table. Once again they would sign an unfair treaty they must adhere to whilst Shierdon never did. Always the Agoran kingdoms broke treaty, and ever more the barbarians raged for war. No love for the barbarians was to be found within Agora; the wounds of the past were still too fresh.

  Kreal looked upon his once-strong people now gripped with fear and panic, and he pitied them and was ashamed.

  To gain the gathering’s attention, he grabbed the closest man and punched him in the face, sending him backward into the crowd. Charging across the tent screaming, he tackled two men who had begun fighting. He pummeled one unconscious, and as the other scrambled to get to his feet, Kreal pulled the man back down and beat him until his eyes rolled. With powerful arms and legs, he heaved them both into the crowd.

  Kreal gained the crowd’s attention.

  Most barbarians stood heads over any Agoran; even so, while the tallest of the mainlanders stood only to a barbarian’s shoulder, the tallest of the barbarians stood only to Kreal’s eyes. The man looked up to no one. His broad shoulders and thick arms were a testament to the might of Timber Wolf Tribe. Such was his size and strength that he could wrestle a snow bear to the ground and break its neck, as he had once done during a hunting trip in which two tribesmen had died. He wore the snow bear hide as a reminder to his kin and to other bears. Four long, deep scars ran the length of the left side of his face from brow to chin, as a reminder to him.

  The room became quiet and all eyes fell upon Kreal. There were nearly three hundred in attendance in the Sudroen Hall on this night. At the center of the large tent, logs burned, sending smoke twisting steadily up and out of holes in the peaks. Bones of ritual hung from the high ceiling, along with other herbs and enchantments of the shaman. Each of the tribes was represented within the Sudroen. The skulls of the snow cat, timber wolf, bear, fox, and dragon hung, respectively, above each tribe’s designated space, along with the beaks and feathers of both eagles and hawks.

  Kreal walked behind his chair at the circle of the seven tribes. Each tribe had seven seats at the circle, and in the center sat the seven chiefs. Each tribe’s people dictated to their seven members sitting in the outer circle, who in turn dictated to the chiefs. Men and women sat within the outer circle, though only men could be chiefs. Kreal eyed his chief, Winterthorn; as usual, the grizzled man wore no expression.

  Kreal addressed the crowd with a deep, snarling voice that demanded to be heard.

  “I too feel the pain of hunger; I too tend to dying kin; I too see no end to this winter of death. I feel as you feel, and I would feel it no more! Long have we sat waiting for this circle to decide upon a course that might lead us from our miseries, but neinn! More talk! We vote down measures that might bring us food and medicine. And why?”

  The pain of his sorrow showed on his face and in his voice; he was a man come undone. He glared at the seven chiefs and pointed a shaking finger. “I am done waiting; I leave tomorrow to search for a medicine that will save our people, and I will not be stopped.” He eyed the gathering slowly; many eyes found the floor, unable to match the intensity of his gaze. “Any who share my mind would do well to join me—any from all tribes.”

  Amid the howls and cheers of the people, Chief Winterthorn stood so quickly that the many necklaces of bone danced loudly against his barrel chest. Without gesture or word, he quieted the gathering. All eyes fixed themselves on him as he stared back at Kreal; there was no love upon his face.

  “This matter is settled, Kreal Windwalker of Timber Wolf Tribe. The circle has spoken.”

  “And the people have spoken! If the circle’s will were truly that of the people, we would not sit idle while we starve to death and die slowly from the Frjosa Mien!” Kreal yelled, and many of the barbarians nodded and cheered in agreement.

  Winterthorn walked slowly and purposefully until he stood before Kreal. He was not as tall; his shoulders, however, were as wide as a pony’s body was long. The large tent fell silent for many breaths as the two stared each other down. Kreal wanted nothing more than to challenge his chief for his title and once again bring honor to the tribes. But he could not. Barbarian custom dictated that only a man with a strong heir could challenge a chief. Kreal’s wife was pregnant with their first child. Kreal had not yet a son, while Winterthorn had two grown sons. Winterthorn knew this, as did everyone else within the tribes. Kreal could not challenge his chief—at least not openly.

  “You would defy the counsel of the circle and the will of the chiefs?”

  “I would defy any who stand in my path, for I will find a cure, or I will not return to this land,” he promised.

  Kreal left the gathering, followed by the cheers of the tribesmen. Those within the circle eyed each other. Few of them spoke; the people already had.

  The next morning Kreal kissed his dying wife’s forehead for what he knew may be the last time, gathered his things, and left for the docks. He said nothing to his old mother but accepted a kiss upon his cheek when she pulled him down to her.

  At the docks he was met by the cheers of nearly two hundred men and women. They boarded four icebreaker boats and headed south to the shores of Shierdon. Word had come from pirates to a man of Bear Tribe that a similar plague had devastated much of western Shierdon, and a cure had been found. Rumor held that the cure had been discovered by the distant Sun Elves of Elladrindellia; whether the rumors spoke the truth or not, Kreal hoped to find out.

  He and his men were gone for three tenday and returned by the next crescent moon. They had been successful in their quest and brought back the plant that was used to make the cure, forever after it grew along the coast of Volnoss and was incorporated into many new remedies.

  Kreal and his men had saved the tribes, yet he had not been quick enough to save Kvenna Windwalker. Just as he was returning to administer the elixir to his wife, she died. So close to seeing her alive was Kreal that he witnessed her extended hand fall to her deathbed even as he raced into the tent.

  A wailing cry escaped the big man as he ran to his wife and took up her frail, discolored body in his arms. He sobbed into her chest and screamed with fury, cursing the gods and the women who bore them children.

  A baby’s cry pierced the air, instantly silencing Kreal. He jerked his head and looked to his mother-in-law, Gretzen; in her arms she held a bundle wrapped in furs. From the top edge of the furs, a small, clenching fist shook with the baby’s wailing.

  “It’s a boy,” said Gretzen, her dark, leathery hands holding the bundle tight. “Kvenna name him before death. He is Talon; your son.”

  Kreal went to the infant's side quickly. The gods had taken his wife from him, but they had blessed him with a son, an heir who might stand beside him against Winterthorn and his sons. As Kreal looked upon his newborn son, the hope and awe on his face disappeared, and he was left horrified and quaking. Talon was born at only seven months and was small—too small. Kreal could have held him inside one palm.

  Kreal backed
away from the baby, shaking his head.

  “That’s no son of mine; he’s a Throwback, a Draugr, a Skomm! He’s small, weak. This Draugr will never bear my name; he must die. He must be cast to the stones as was the way in the past!”

  Searching around frantically, he finally found a skinning knife and turned back on Gretzen and her bundle.

  “I seen his stars,” she said, turning the baby behind her defensively. “He was forced into world on night of Dogstar Moon!” Gretzen screamed, furious at his words.

  Kreal began stalking toward them, staring at his dead wife. “Throw him into the ocean. We do not keep the weak.”

  “I’ve right to keep him if you refuse him. Until he stands for his Miotvidr,” Gretzen proclaimed. “His life be legend one day; I foreseen it. It in the bones and in the stars; he will do glorious things. Songs will be sung of man he becomes; mark my words, Kreal. Talon will make legend the name Windwalker!”

  “Give him to me,” Kreal growled.

  “Kvenna kiss him before she die; she smile on him, she loved him,” said Gretzen, circling around the tent away from him.

  “Shut your mouth!” Kreal flipped over the small table in his way, stalking her.

  “Would you kill child your wife loved?” she pleaded, reaching down quickly to scoop up the iron fire poker.

  The fury died in Kreal and he hunched, defeated. To Gretzen he seemed small.

  “Do what you will, old lady; I will not have him. He will not live to see the summer,” he said in a low, faraway voice and left the tent.

  Gretzen wiped her grandson Talon with a soft cloth and sang the very song she had sung to his mother; she cried as she sang, yet she smiled as she cried.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A COLD WORLD

  FROZEN PLAGUE, bringer of death and woe, creator of legend.

  —Gretzen Spiritbone, 4975

  Volnoss 4995

  Gretzen nursed Talon to health using all of her vast resources. She had been one of the tribe’s most skilled healers and mystics for decades; the chiefs themselves sought her many talents. She spoke with spirits, conversed with nature, and read the stars and bones alike. The tribes respected and feared her gifts; therefore Talon was not killed the night of his birth. To be a barbarian of Volnoss, one needed be hard and strong; they did not tolerate weakness, nor was anyone coddled. Being a Volnoss barbarian meant that one worked hard, fought hard, and had no soft side. The northern cold demanded such an attitude. Anyone who grew weak on the unforgivingly frigid island would die.

  Talon slowly grew stronger, and when everyone thought he would die in a day, he lived a week. When everyone thought he would die in a week, he lived a month and then another, and when one year had passed, his fellow tribespeople all said he wouldn’t live two winters. By the time Talon turned five years old, people finally stopped predicting his imminent death and began threatening to kill him instead.

  He remained in the care of Amma Gretzen, and though she was strict and severe in her punishment, she cared for the boy as she had for her daughter. She taught him everything he needed to learn and all the skills he would need for survival. Though Gretzen tried to teach him the craft of her trade, the spirits did not speak to Talon, nature remained silent, and the stars told him no secrets. She did not share his disappointment, however, and ensured him it was because he was destined to become a mighty warrior. This only convinced him further that she was crazy.

  He knew of his mother’s death and his father’s abandonment; Amma Gretzen held back nothing from Talon. He happened upon Kreal every now and again around the village, but his father never looked at him and never even acknowledged his existence.

  Talon had been born many months premature, and though he remained relatively healthy, he grew small for his age. From his birth he had been short, weak, and too skinny, and he never caught up to children his age. He was teased daily, with only his grandmother and few others calling him by his name; instead others called him Runt or Plagueborn. Some even preemptively called him Skomm, Draugr, and Throwback. Almost daily, the other children punched, tripped, kicked, shoved, bumped, and beat up on him. The beatings were never broken up by the adults, and other children never came to his defense. He had learned early on that fighting back was useless; the one time he had tried, his tormenters nearly killed him.

  By the time Talon turned thirteen years old, he stood only to his peers’ chests, having not even put on half the mass of the smallest of the other children. His amma told him to quit expecting to grow and to make do with what the gods had given him. But Talon could not give up hope that one day he would awaken eight feet tall and muscled, and beat down every last one of the bullies who had made his life miserable.

  As he got older, the differences between himself and every other barbarian became more obvious. At times he hated himself for being the runt; he hated his father for abandoning him, and he hated his amma for saving him. His early years were hard; had it not been for Chief, Talon may have turned out quite different.

  On his fifteenth birthday, his amma gave him a timber wolf pup she had found in the forest to the east of the village. The pup’s mother had been killed by hunters, and though its brothers and sisters had been taken to be used as sled wolves, the pup had not. Gretzen had barely stopped a hunter’s killing hand and taken the pup as her own. It was the runt of the litter and was no good as a future sled wolf. Gretzen found it fitting that Talon should raise the runt, and when she presented the pup to him, the boy had smiled for the first time in a season.

  He named the pup Chief, and they became fast friends. His amma refused to feed Chief, and so Talon was forced to hunt for food with him. The wolf pup went everywhere with him; be it hunting, lessons, exploring, or to market, the two were inseparable. Chief became a light in Talon’s dark world and warmth through the cold. Having a wolf also gave Talon a bit of a reprieve from the daily beatings.

  Talon had dreaded his fifteenth birthday because he was one year closer to sixteen, when he would become a man, and stand for Miotvidr. All barbarians stood for measure at the age of sixteen; if by then their heads did not reach the Miotvidr stick, they were cast away to live the life of a Skomm.

  Skomm, sometimes called Draugr and Throwbacks, had been the barbarian slave class for centuries, ever since the barbarians’ banishment from Agora. The Skomm were shunned at birth for their deformities, size, or sickness, and sent to live with the other Throwbacks, far away from the villages. They were not permitted to marry or have children upon pain of death, nor could they ever use their family names. The dominant Vald never called a Skomm by name, unless it was one of a derogatory nature. In the days before the barbarians were cast from northern Agora by the hated Agorans and Ky’Dren Dwarves, the Skomm would have been cast over a sacred cliff to be judged by the barbarian god of strength, Styrkr; if their spirits were deemed worthy, they would be born again into a stronger body. When the barbarians were driven from Agora to the frozen island of Volnoss, their numbers had been dangerously thinned, and they began to allow the Skomm to live.

  Many of the Skomm females were sold to the Agoran slavers, along with the larger of the men. Otherwise they lived a life of servitude to the Vald, and their masters were far from kind. Many of the Skomm they worked to death by the age of thirty.

  Talon’s father had insisted he be cast away at birth, knowing that he would never grow to be a Vald. But Gretzen insisted that he live as a Vald until the day of his Miotvidr. Talon learned this at an early age, and to his disappointment it became clearer every year that he would never grow to be the size of a Vald. The measure for men of age sixteen was eight feet tall. He had only one year to grow over two feet, and he knew as well as everyone else that he would not. The older he got and the more apparent it became, the more the taunting and teasing increased.

  Talon often went out with Chief late at night and snuck to the western outskirts of Skomm Village. The village was located far from the Vald, and much of it was built on barren, rocky land. The Skomm
walked to the Vald villages every day to tend the crops, though they could grow no crops of their own. At night most of them returned home hungry.

  Talon had been sneaking out and watching them since he was ten years old. He was surprised to discover that they acted so lively around one another, almost normal. In the Vald villages, the Skomm walked with eyes always on the ground and a slight hunch to their backs, as if they expected to be throttled any moment for everything they did. And rightly so: a Vald could beat or kill any Skomm they wanted with no repercussions. But in Skomm Village, Talon found a cheerful, quick-to-smile people who told stories around the fires and sang strange songs full of harmony, unlike the Valds’ grizzly voices and sharp pronunciations. Softness of voice and song was not received well in the Vald villages, but here melody filled the nights and rose up into the heavens with the glowing ashes of many fires. The Skomm were not permitted to get married or have children, but what Talon saw of their villages was closer to family than he had ever seen.

  One night, a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday, Talon sat huddled low, watching Skomm Village as he often did.

  “Maybe being a Throwback won’t be so bad,” he said. Chief looked at him the way curious puppies do.

  A cry echoed from the village and Chief gave a yip.

  “Shh, pup,” Talon warned him, and he ducked down lower behind the bushy patch of frozen, brown grass that concealed him on the ridge. Two Vald dragged a Skomm woman from her mud and grass hut by the ankles. She clung to a crying infant in her arms and kicked helplessly against the towering Vald. One carried a heavy club in his hand, and the other a whip. The Vald with the club grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the bonfire at the outskirts of the village.