LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Vesuvius smiled wide, his troll face grotesque, misshapen, twice the size of a human’s, with two long fangs, like tusks, that emerged from his mouth, and beady red eyes which enjoyed watching people suffer. He wanted them his people to toil, to work harder than they’d ever had, for he knew it was only through extreme toil that he would achieve what his fathers could not. Twice the size of a typical troll, and three times the size of a human, Vesuvius was all muscle and rage, and he knew he was different, knew he could achieve what none before him had. He had hatched a plan that even his ancestors could not conceive, a plan that would bring glory to his nation forever. It would be the greatest tunnel ever created, a tunnel to bring them beneath The Flames, all the way into Escalon—and with each fall of the hammer, the tunnel became just a little bit deeper.

  Not once, in centuries, had his people figured out how to cross The Flames en masse; individual trolls were able to pass through here and there, but most died on these suicide missions. What Vesuvius needed was an entire army of trolls to cross together, at once, to destroy Escalon once and for all. His fathers could not understand how to do it, and they had become complacent, resigned to a life here in the wilds of Marda. But not he. He, Vesuvius, was wiser than all his fathers, tougher, more determined—and more ruthless. One day, while brooding, he had thought, if he could not go through The Flames, or over them, then perhaps he could go under them. Captivated by the idea, he had set his plan into motion at once and had not stopped since, rallying thousands of his soldiers and slaves to build what would be the greatest creation of the troll kingdom: a tunnel beneath The Flames.

  Vesuvius watched with satisfaction as one of his taskmasters whipped a human slave, one they had captured from the West, chained to the hundreds of other slaves. The human cried out and fell, and he was lashed until he died. Vesuvius grinned, pleased to see the other humans work harder. His trolls were nearly twice the size of the humans, much more grotesque-looking, too, with bulging muscles and misshaped faces, filled with a bloodlust that was insatiable. The humans, he’d found, were a good way for his people to vent their violence.

  Yet as he watched, Vesuvius was still frustrated: no matter how many people he enslaved, how many of his soldiers he put to work, no matter how hard he lashed them, how much he tortured or killed his own people to motivate them, the progress remained too slow. The rock was too hard, the job too massive. At this rate, he knew, they would never complete this tunnel in his lifetime, and his dream of invading Escalon would remain but a dream.

  Of course, they had more than enough room here in Marda—but it was not room that Vesuvius wanted. He wanted to kill, to subjugate all humans, to take all that was theirs, just for the fun of it. He wanted it all. And he knew that if he was to get there, the time had come for more drastic measures.

  “My Lord and King?” came a voice.

  Vesuvius turned to see several of his soldiers standing there, wearing the distinctive green armor of the troll nation, their insignia—a roaring boar’s head with a dog in its mouth—emblazoned across the front. His men lowered their heads out of deference, looking to the ground, as they had been trained to do when in his presence.

  Vesuvius saw they were holding a troll soldier between them, wearing tattered armor, his face covered in dirt and ash and spotted with burn marks.

  “You may address me,” he commanded.

  Slowly, they raised their chins and looked him in the eye.

  “This one was captured inside Marda, in Southwood,” one reported. “He was caught returning from beyond The Flames.”

  Vesuvius looked over the captive soldier, shackled, and was filled with disgust. Every day he sent men west, across Marda, on a mission to charge through The Flames and emerge on the other side, in Escalon. If they survived the journey, they were ordered to wreak terror amongst as many humans as they could. If they survived that, their orders were to seek out the two Towers and steal the Sword of Fire, the mythical weapon that supposedly held up The Flames. Most of his trolls never returned from the journey—they were either killed by the passage through the Flames or eventually, by the humans in Escalon. It was a one-way mission: they were commanded never to return—unless they came back with the Sword of Fire in hand.

  But once in a while some of his trolls sneaked back, mostly disfigured from their journey through The Flames, unsuccessful in their mission but seeking to return anyway, for safe harbor back in Marda. Vesuvius had no stomach for these trolls, whom he considered to be deserters.

  “And what news do you bring from the West?” he asked. “Did you find the Sword?” he added, already knowing the answer.

  The soldier gulped, looking terrified.

  He slowly shook his head.

  “No, my Lord and King,” he said, his voice broken.

  Vesuvius raged in the silence.

  “Then why did you return to Marda?” he demanded.

  The troll kept his head lowered.

  “I was ambushed by a party of humans,” he said. “I was lucky to escape and make it back here.”

  “But why did you come back?” Vesuvius pressed.

  The soldier looked at him, puzzled and nervous.

  “Because my mission was over, my Lord and King.”

  Vesuvius fumed.

  “Your mission was to find the Sword—or die trying.”

  “But I made it through The Flames!” he pleaded. “I killed many humans! And I made it back!”

  “And tell me,” Vesuvius said kindly, stepping forward and laying a hand on the troll’s shoulder as he slowly walked with him toward the edge of the balcony. “Did you really think, upon coming back, that I would let you live?”

  Vesuvius suddenly grabbed the troll by the back of his shirt, stepped forward, and hurled him over the edge.

  The soldier flailed, shrieking through the air as much as his shackles would allow. All the workers down below stopped and looked up, watching as he fell. He tumbled a hundred feet then finally landed with a splat on the hard rock below.

  The workers all looked up at Vesuvius, and he glared back down at them, knowing this would be a good reminder to all who failed him.

  They quickly went back to work.

  Vesuvius, still in a rage and needing to let it out on someone, turned from the balcony and strutted down the winding stone steps carved into the canyon wall, followed by his men. He wanted to see their progress himself, up close—and while he was down there, he figured he could find a pathetic slave to beat to a pulp.

  Vesuvius wound his way down the stairs, carved into the black rock, descending flight after flight, all the way down to the base of this vast cave, which became hotter the lower he went. Dozens of his soldiers fell in behind him as he strutted across the cave floor, weaving his way between the streams of lava, between hordes of workers. As he went, thousands of soldiers and slaves stopped working and parted ways for him, bowing their heads differentially.

  It was hot down here, the base heated not only from the sweat of men, but from the streaks of lava that crisscrossed the room and oozed from the walls, from the sparks flying off the rocks as men struck them everywhere with axes and picks. Vesuvius marched across the vast cave floor, until finally he reached the entrance of the tunnel. He stood before it and stared: a hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, the tunnel was being dug so that it sloped down gradually, deeper and deeper beneath the earth, deep enough to be able to support an army when the time came to burrow under The Flames. One day they would penetrate Escalon, rise above the surface, and take thousands of human slaves. It would, he knew, be the greatest day of his life.

  Vesuvius marched forward, snatched a whip from a soldier’s hands, reached high, and began lashing soldiers left and right. They all went back to work, striking the rock twice as fast, smashing the hard black rock until clouds of dust filled the air. He then made his way to the human slaves, men and women they had abducted from Escalon and had managed to bring back. Those were the missions he relished most of all, missions solely
for the sake of terrorizing the West. Most humans died on the passage back, but enough survived, even if badly burnt and maimed—and these he worked to the bone in his tunnels.

  Vesuvius zeroed in on them. He thrust the whip into a human’s hand and pointed at a woman.

  “Kill her!” he commanded.

  The human stood there, shaking, and merely shook his head.

  Vesuvius snatched the whip back from his hand and instead lashed the man, again and again, until he finally stopped resisting, dead.

  The others went back to work, averting his gaze, while Vesuvius threw down the whip, breathing hard, and stared back into the mouth of the cave. It was like staring at his nemesis. It was a half-formed creation, going nowhere. It was all happening too slowly.

  “My Lord and King,” came a voice behind him.

  Vesuvius turned slowly to see several soldiers from the Mantra, his elite division of trolls, dressed in the black and green armor reserved for his best troops. They stood their proudly, holding halberds at their sides. These were the few trolls Vesuvius respected, and seeing them made his heart quicken. It could only mean one thing: they had brought news.

  Vesuvius had dispatched the Mantra on a mission many moons ago: to find the giant that lurked in Great Wood, rumored to have killed thousands of trolls. His dream was to capture this giant, bring it back, and use its brawn to complete his tunnel. Vesuvius had sent mission after mission, and none had come back. All had been discovered dead, killed by the giant.

  As Vesuvius stared at these men, his heart beat faster with hope.

  “Speak,” he commanded.

  “My Lord and King, we have found the giant,” one reported. “We have cornered him. Our men await your command.”

  Vesuvius grinned slowly, pleased for the first time in as along as he could recall. His smile grew wider as a plan hardened in his mind. Finally, he realized, it would all be possible; finally, he would have a chance to breach The Flames.

  He stared back at his commander, filled with resolve, ready to do what he had to.

  “Lead me to him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  KYRA STUMBLED THROUGH THE SNOW, now past her knees, trekking her way through the Wood of Thorns as she leaned on her staff, trying to fight her way through what had become a full-fledged blizzard. The storm raged so strongly now, it had even penetrated the thick branches of the wood, blowing back these huge trees, gusts of wind so strong that they nearly bent them in half. Gusts of wind and snow whipped her face, making it hard to see again—hard to even keep her footing. As the wind continually picked up, it took all her might just to walk a few steps.

  The blood-red moon was long gone, as if it had been swallowed up by the storm, and now she had no light left to navigate by. Even if she had, she could barely see a thing. All she had left to ground her was Leo, walking slowly, wounded, leaning against her, his presence her only solace. With each step her feet seemed to sink deeper and she wondered if she were even making any progress. She felt an urgency to get back to her people, to warn them, making each step all the more frustrating.

  Kyra tried to look up, squinting into the wind, hoping to find some distant landmark—anything—trying to see if she was even going the right way. But she was lost in a world of white. Her cheek burned from the dragon’s scratch, feeling as if it were on fire. She reached up and touched it, and her hand was dotted with blood, the only warm thing left in the universe. Her cheek throbbed, nonetheless, as if the dragon had infected her.

  As a particularly strong gust of wind knocked her backwards, Kyra finally realized she could not go on; they had to find shelter. She was desperate to reach Volis before the Lord’s Men, but she knew that if she continued hiking like this, she knew she would die out here. Her only comfort was the fact that the Lord’s Men would not be able to attack in this weather—if the squire even made it home.

  Kyra looked around, this time for shelter—but even finding that proved elusive. Seeing nothing but white, the wind howling so loudly she could barely think, Kyra began to panic, to have visions of herself and Leo being found frozen out here in the snow, never discovered at all. She knew if she did not find something soon, they would certainly be dead by morning. This situation had crept up on her, and now it had become desperate. Of all nights to leave Volis, she realized now, she had picked the worst one.

  As if sensing her new intention, Leo began to whine and he suddenly turned and ran away from her. He crossed a clearing and as he reached the other side, began to dig fiercely at a mound of snow.

  Kyra watched curiously as Leo howled, scratching wildly, digging deeper and deeper in the snow, wondering what he had found. Finally, it gave way, and she was surprised to see he had unearthed a small cave, carved into the side of a huge boulder. Heart pounding with hope, she hurried over and crouched down and saw it was just wide enough to shelter them. It was also, she was thrilled to see, dry—and protected from the wind.

  She leaned down and kissed his head.

  “You did it, boy.”

  He licked her back.

  She knelt down and crawled into the cave, Leo beside her, and as she entered, she had an immediate sensation of relief. Finally, it was quiet; the wind’s noise was muted and for the first time it was not stinging her face, her ears; for the first time, she was dry. She felt like she could breathe again.

  Kyra crawled on pine needles, deeper and deeper into the cave, wondering how deep it went, until finally she reached the back wall. She sat and leaned against it and looked out. Occasional bursts of snow came in here, but the cave remained mostly dry, none reaching as deep as she. For the first time, she could truly relax.

  Leo crawled up beside her, snuggling his head in her lap, and she hugged him to her chest as she leaned back against the stone, shivering, trying to keep warm. She brushed the snowflakes off of her furs and off his coat, trying to get them dry, and she examined his wound. Luckily, it wasn’t deep.

  Kyra used the snow to clean it out and he whined as she touched it.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  She reached into her pocket and gave him her last piece of dried meat; he ate it greedily.

  As she leaned back and sat there in the dark, listening to the raging wind, watching the snow begin to pile up again, blocking her view, Kyra felt as if it were the end of the world. She tried to close her eyes, feeling bone weary, frozen, desperately needing to rest, but the scratch on her cheek kept her awake, throbbing.

  Eventually, her eyes grew heavy and began to shut on her. The pine beneath her felt oddly comfortable, and as her body morphed into the rock, she soon found herself, despite her best efforts, succumbing to the embrace of sweet sleep.

  Kyra flew on the back of a dragon, hanging on for dear life, moving faster than she knew was possible, as it screeched and flapped its wings. They were so wide and magnificent, and they grew wider as she watched them, seeming as if they would stretch over the world.

  She looked down and her stomach dropped as she saw, far below, the rolling hills of Volis. She had never seen it from this angle, so high up. They flew over a lush countryside, with rolling green hills, stretches of woods, gushing rivers, and fertile vineyards. It was familiar terrain, and soon Kyra recognized her father’s fort, rambling, its ancient stone walls blanketing the countryside, sheep roaming outside of it.

  But as the dragon dove down, Kyra sensed immediately that something was wrong. She saw smoke rising—not the smoke of chimneys, but black, thick smoke. As she looked closer, she was horrified to see it was her father’s fort aflame, waves of flame engulfing everything. She saw an army of the Lord’s Men, stretching to the horizon, surrounding the fort, torching it, and as she heard the screams, she knew that everyone she knew and loved in the world was being slaughtered.

  “NO!” she tried to shout.

  But the words, stuck in her throat, would not come out.

  The dragon craned its neck, turned it all the way back and looked her in the eye—and Kyra was surprised to see i
t was the same dragon she had saved, its piercing yellow eyes staring right back at her. Theos.

  You saved me, she heard it say in her mind’s eye. Now I shall save you. We are one now, Kyra. We are one.

  Suddenly, Theos turned sharply, and Kyra lost her balance and fell.

  She shrieked as she plummeted through the air, the ground coming for her fast.

  “NO!” Kyra shrieked.

  Kyra sat up shrieking in the blackness, unsure of where she was. Breathing hard, she looked all around, until she finally realized: she was in the cave.

  Leo whined beside her, his head in her lap, licking her hand. She breathed deep, trying to remember where she was. It was still dark out, and outside the storm still raged, the winds howled, and the snow piled up. The throbbing in her cheek was worse, and she reached up and looked at her fingers and saw fresh blood. She wondered if it would ever stop bleeding.

  “Kyra!” called out a mystical voice, sounding almost like a whisper.

  Kyra, startled, wondering who could be in this cave with her, peered into the blackness, on alert. She looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing over her in the cave. He wore a long, black robe and cloak and he held a staff; he appeared to be an older man, with white hair peeking out of his hood. His staff glowed, emitting a soft light in the blackness.

  “Who are you?” she asked, sitting up straight, on guard. “How did you get in here?”

  He took a step forward, and she wanted to see his face, but he was still obscured in shadow.

  “What is it that you seek?” he asked, his ancient voice somehow putting her at ease.