LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  She thought about that, trying to understand.

  “I seek to be free,” she said. “I seek to be a warrior.”

  Slowly, he shook his head.

  “You forget something,” he said. “The most important thing of all. What is it that you seek?”

  Kyra stared back, confused.

  Finally, he took another step forward.

  “You seek your destiny.”

  Kyra wondered at his words.

  “And more,” he said, “you seek to know who you are.”

  He stepped forward again, standing so close, yet still obscured in shadow.

  “Who are you, Kyra?” he asked.

  She stared back blankly, wanting to answer, but in that moment she had no idea. She was no longer sure of anything.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice so loud, echoing off the walls, hurting her eardrums.

  Kyra raised her hands to her face, bracing herself as he came closer.

  Kyra opened her eyes again and she was shocked to see that no one was there. She couldn’t understand what was happening. She slowly lowered her hands, and as she did, she realized that this time, she was fully awake.

  Bright sunlight shone into the cave, light reflecting off the snow, off the cave walls, blinding. She squinted, disoriented, trying to collect herself. The raging wind was gone; the blinding snow was gone. Instead, there was snow partially blocking the entrance and beyond it a world with a crystal blue sky, birds singing. It was as if the world had been reborn.

  Kyra could hardly fathom it: she had survived the long night.

  Leo gently bit at her pants leg and prodded her, impatient.

  Disoriented, Kyra slowly stood and as she did, she immediately reeled from the pain. Not only was her entire body sore from the fighting, the blows she had received, but most of all, her cheek burned as if it were on fire. She recalled the dragon’s claw, and she reached up and felt it; although just a scratch, it was still mysteriously moist, caked with blood.

  As she stood she felt lightheaded , and she did not know if it was from her exhaustion, her hunger, or the dragon’s scratch. She walked on unsteady legs, feeling unlike herself, as she followed Leo, who led the way impatiently out of the cave and back into day, clawing at the snow to widen their exit.

  Kyra crouched down and stepped outside and as she stood, found herself immersed in a world of blinding white. She raised her hands to her eyes, her head splitting at the sight. It had warmed considerably, the wind was gone, birds chirped, and the sun filtered through trees in the forest clearing. She heard a whoosh and turned to see a huge clump of snow slide off a heavy pine and make its way to the forest floor. She looked down and saw she stood in snow up to her thighs.

  Leo led the way, bounding through the snow, back in the direction of Volis, she was sure. She followed him, struggling to keep up.

  Kyra, though, found herself struggling with each step she took. She licked her lips and felt more and more lightheaded. The blood pulsed in her cheek, and she began to wonder if the wound had infected her. She felt herself changing. She could not explain it, but she felt as if the dragon’s blood were pulsing through her.

  “Kyra!”

  There came a distant shout, sounding as if it were a world away. It was followed by several other voices, shouting her name, their cries absorbed by the snow and the pines. It took her a moment to realize, to recognize the voices: her father’s men. They were out here, searching for her.

  Kyra felt a surge of relief.

  “Here!” she called out, thinking she was shouting, but surprised to hear her own voice was barely above a whisper. At that moment, she realized just how weak she was. Her wound was doing something to her, something she did not understand.

  Suddenly, her knees buckled out from under her, and Kyra found herself falling into the snow, helpless to resist.

  Leo yelped, then turned and ran for the distant voices.

  She wanted to call to him, to call to all of them, but she was too weak now. She lay there, deep in the snow, and looked up at a world of white, at the blinding winter sun, and closed her eyes as a slumber she could no longer resist carried her away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ALEC HELD HIS HEAD IN his hands, trying to stop his headache, as the carriage, packed with boys, jolted roughly along the country road, as it had been doing all night long. The bumps and ditches never seemed to end, and this primitive wooden cart, with its iron bars and wooden wheels, seemed to have been constructed to inflict the maximum possible discomfort. With each bump, Alec’s head slammed into the wood behind him. After the first bump, he had been sure it could not go on like this for long, that the road must end sometime soon.

  But hour after hour had passed, and if anything, the road only seemed to worsen. He had been awake all night long, with no hope of sleep, if not from the bumps then from the stink of the other boys, from their elbowing and jostling him awake. All night long the cart made stops in villages, picking up more and more boys, cramming them all in here in the blackness. Alec could feel them looking him over, summing him up, a sea of dejected faces staring back at him, their eyes filled with wrath. They were all older, miserable, and looking for a victim.

  Alec had at first assumed that, since they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he’d learned quickly that was not the case. Each boy was his own island, and if Alec received any sort of communication, it was only hostility. They were rough faces, unshaven, scars across them, noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights, and it was beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached his eighteenth year—some were older, more broken down by life, looking like criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others, all of them being sent to keep The Flames.

  Alec, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were on a journey to hell, was certain it could not get any worse; but the carriage stops never ended, and to his amazement, they crammed more and more boys in here. When he had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but now, with over two dozen and counting, Alec could barely breathe. The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto the ceiling, to anything, but mostly slipping and falling onto each other with each bump of the cart. More than one angry boy shoved back, and endless scuffles broke out, all night long, boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as one boy bit another’s ear off. The only saving grace was that they had no room to maneuver, to even bring their shoulders back to throw a punch, so the fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, with vows to continue at a later time.

  Alec heard birds chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn creeping through the iron bars. He marveled that day had broke, that he had survived this, the longest night of his life.

  As the sun lit the carriage, Alec began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by far the youngest of the lot—and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed, looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from the long night, and Alec felt the carriage was ripe for an explosion.

  “You look too young to be here,” came a deep voice.

  Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night long, a boy with broad shoulders, strong muscles and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec sensed in him a kindred soul.

  “I took my brother’s slot,” Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him.

  “He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.

  Alec shook his head.

  “Lame,” Alec corrected.

  Th
e boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.

  They fell into silence, and Alec looked the boy over.

  “And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear to be eighteen, either.”

  “Seventeen,” the boy said.

  Alec wondered.

  “Then why are you here?” he asked.

  “I volunteered.”

  Alec was stunned.

  “Volunteered? But why?”

  The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.

  “I wanted to get away.”

  “To get away from what?” Alec asked, baffled.

  The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloom pass over his face. He fell silent and he did not think he would respond—but finally, the boy mumbled: “Home.”

  Alec saw the sadness in his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger, Alec could only guess.

  “I am sorry,” Alec replied.

  The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart. Suddenly, he extended a hand.

  “Marco,” he said.

  “Alec.”

  They shook hands, the boy’s twice as large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him.

  “I suspect you are the only one who volunteered,” Alec said.

  Marco looked around and shrugged.

  “I suspect you’re right. Most of these were drafted or imprisoned.”

  “Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.

  Marco nodded.

  “The Keepers are comprised not only of draftees, but a good amount of criminals, too.”

  “Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came a savage voice.

  They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He squatted down low, and stared into Marco’s face.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco replied, defiant.

  “Well, now you are,” the boy seethed, clearly looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”

  Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.

  “If the shoe fits,” Marco said.

  The other boy flushed with rage, and Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness. The boy lunged at Marco, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing with all his might.

  It all happened so fast, Marco was clearly caught off guard—and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not loosen his grip.

  “FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called out.

  The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.

  Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose. There came a cracking noise and blood gushed from the boy’s nose.

  Marco tried to stand to get better leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized, shocked, it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.

  The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco’s heart.

  Alec reacted. He lunged forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from the deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.

  Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of his other attacker, snapping it with a crack.

  Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first boy’s long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected with the boy’s jaw.

  The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.

  Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, managed somehow to jump to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from above. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.

  Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, instead of looking away he met them back, realizing he needed to project confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to give him a look, something like respect, and then they looked away.

  Marco looked down, examining the tear in his shirt where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with gratitude.

  “You have a friend for life,” Marco said sincerely.

  He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he needed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KYRA OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY, disoriented, wondering where she was. She saw a stone ceiling high above her, torchlight bouncing off its walls, and she felt herself lying in a bed of luxurious furs. She couldn’t understand; last she remembered, she had been falling in the snow, sure she was going to die.

  Kyra lifted her head and looked all around, expecting to see the snowy forest all around her. But instead, she was shocked to see a group of familiar faces crowding around her—her father, her brothers Brandon and Braxton and Aidan, Anvin, Arthfael, Vidar, and a dozen of her father’s best warriors. She was back in the fort, in her chamber, in her bed, and they all looked down at her with concern. Kyra felt pressure on her arm, and she looked over to see Lyra, the court healer, with her large hazel eyes and long, silver hair, standing over her, examining her pulse.

  Kyra opened her eyes fully, realizing she was not in the wood anymore. Somehow, she had made it back. She heard a whining beside her, felt Leo’s nose on her hand, and she realized: he must have led them to her.

  “What has happened?” she asked, still confused, trying to piece it all together.

  The crowd seemed vastly relieved to see her awake, speaking, and her father stepped closer, his face filled with remorse and relief as he held her hand firmly. Aidan rushed forward and grabbed her other hand, and she smiled to see her younger brother at her side.

  “Kyra,” her father said, his voice filled with compassion. “You are home now. Safe.”

  Kyra saw the guilt in her father’s face, and it all came back to her: their argument the night before. She realized he must have felt responsible. It was his words, after all, that had driven her away.

  Kyra felt a sting and she cried out in pain as Lyra reached up and touched a cool cloth to her cheek; it had some sort of ointment in it, and her wound burned and then cooled.

  “Water of the Lily,” Lyra explained soothingly. “It took me six ointments to figure out what would cure this wound. You are lucky we can treat it—the infection was bad already.”

  Her father looked down at her cheek with an expression of concern.

  “Tell us what happened,” he said. “Who did this to you?”

  Kyra propped herself up on one elbow, her head spinning as she did, feeling all the eyes on her, all the men riveted, waiting in silence. She tried to remember, to piece it all together.

  “I remember…” she began, her voice hoarse.
“The storm….The Flames…the Wood of Thorns.”

  Her father’s brow furrowed in concern.

  “Why did you venture there?” he asked. “Why did you hike so far on such a night?”

  She tried to remember.

  “I wanted to see The Flames for myself,” she said. “And then…I needed shelter. I remember…the Lake of Dreams...and then…a woman.”

  “A woman?” he asked. “In the Wood of Thorns?”

  “She was…ancient…the snow did not reach her.”

  “A witch,” gasped Vidar.

  “Such things venture out on Winter Moon,” added Arthfael.

  “And what did she say?” her father demanded, on edge.

  Kyra could see the confusion and concern in all the faces, and she decided to refrain, not to tell them of the prophecy, of her future. She was still trying to process it all herself, and she feared that if they heard it, they might she think was crazy.

  “I….can’t remember,” she said.

  “Did she do this to you?” her father asked, looking at her cheek.

  Kyra shook her head and swallowed, her throat dry, and Lyra rushed forward and gave her water from a sack. She drank it, realizing how parched she was.

  “There was a cry,” Kyra continued. “Unlike any I had heard.”

  She sat up, feeling more lucid as it all rushed back to her. She looked her father directly in the eye, wondering how he would react.

  “A dragon’s cry,” she said flatly, bracing herself for their reaction, wondering if they would even believe her.

  The room broke into an audible gasp of disbelief, all the men gaping at her. An intense silence fell over the men, all of them looking more stunned than she had ever seen.

  No one spoke for what felt like an eternity.

  Finally, her father shook his head.

  “Dragons have not visited Escalon for a thousand years,” he said. “You must have heard something else. Perhaps your ears played tricks on you.”

  Thonos, the old king’s historian and philosopher and now a resident of Volis, stepped forward, with his long gray beard, leaning on his cane. He spoke rarely, and when he did, he always commanded great respect, a vault of forgotten knowledge and wisdom.