LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  With each passing step Vesuvius heard the roar of the captured giant, growing louder, making the ground beneath them tremble. He noted the fear in the faces of his fellow trolls—and it made him smile. That fear was what he had been hoping to see for years—it meant that finally, after all the rumors, the giant had been found.

  He chopped through the last of the brush and crested the ridge, and as he did, the forest opened up into a vast clearing before him. Vesuvius stopped in his tracks, caught off guard by the sight. At the far side of the clearing lay a huge cave, its arched opening a hundred feet high, and chained to its rock, by chains fifty feet long and three feet thick, one to each ankle and wrist, was the most immense, hideous creature he had ever laid eyes upon. It was a true giant, a nasty piece of creation, standing at least a hundred feet high and thirty feet wide, with a body built like a man but with four eyes, no nose, and a mouth that was all jaw and teeth. It opened its mouth in a roar, an awful sound, and Vesuvius, who feared nothing, who had faced the most gruesome creatures alive, had to admit that even he was afraid. It opened its mouth wider and wider, its teeth sharpened to a point five feet long, and looked as if it were ready to swallow the world.

  It also looked enraged. It roared again and again, stomping its feet, fighting at the chains that bound it, and the ground shook, the cave shook, the entire mountainside shook. It was as if this beast, with all its power, was moving the entire mountain by itself, as if it had so much energy that it could not be contained. Vesuvius grinned; this was exactly what he needed. A creature like this could blast through the tunnel, could do what an army of trolls could not.

  Vesuvius stepped forward and entered the clearing, noticing the dozens of dead soldiers, their corpses littering the ground, and as he did, his hundreds of waiting soldiers lined up at attention. He could see the fear in all their faces, as if they had no idea what to do with the giant now that they had captured him.

  Vesuvius stopped at the edge of the clearing, just out of range of the giant’s chains, not wanting to end up like the corpses, and as he did, it turned and charged for him, swiping at him with its long claws and missing by only a few feet.

  Vesuvius stood there, staring back at it, while his commander came running up beside him, keeping his distance along the perimeter so as to be out of the giant’s range.

  “My Lord and King,” the commander said, bowing deferentially. “The giant has been captured. It is yours to bring back. But we cannot bind it. We have lost many soldiers trying. We are at a loss for what to do.”

  Vesuvius stood there, hands on his hips, feeling the eyes of all his trolls on him as he surveyed the beast. It was an awesome specimen of creation, and as it glared down and snarled at him, anxious to tear him apart, Vesuvius could see what the problem was. He realized at once, as he usually did, how to fix it.

  Vesuvius lay a hand on his commander’s shoulder and leaned in close.

  “You are trying to approach it,” he said softly. “You must let it come to you. You must catch it off guard, and only then can you bind it. You must give it what it wants.”

  His commander looked back, confused.

  “And what is it that it wants, my Lord and King?”

  Vesuvius began to walk, leading his commander forward as they stepped deeper into the clearing, toward the giant.

  “Why, you,” Vesuvius finally replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—and then shoved his commander with all his might, sending the unsuspecting soldier stumbling forward into the clearing.

  Vesuvius backed up, safely out of range, and watched as the giant blinked down, surprised. The soldier leapt to his feet, trying to run, but the giant reacted immediately, swooping down with its claws, scooping him up and squeezing his hands around his waist as he raised him to eye level. He pulled him close and bit off the troll’s head, swallowing his screams.

  Vesuvius smiled, pleased to be rid of an inept commander.

  “If I need to teach you what to do,” he said to the corpse that was once his commander, “then why bother having a commander?”

  Vesuvius turned and looked over the rest of his soldiers, and they all stood there, petrified, staring back in shock. He pointed to a soldier standing nearby.

  “You,” he said.

  The troll stared back nervously.

  “Yes, my Lord and King?”

  “You are next.”

  The troll’s eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands out before him.

  “I cannot, my Lord and King!” he wept. “I beg you! Not me! Choose someone else!”

  Vesuvius stepped forward and nodded amicably.

  “Okay,” he replied. He stepped forward and sliced the troll’s throat with his dagger, and the troll fell face-first, dead, at his feet. “I will.”

  Vesuvius turned to his other soldiers.

  “Pick him up,” he commanded, “and throw him in the giant’s range. When it approaches, have your ropes ready. You will bind him as he goes for the bait.”

  A half dozen soldiers grabbed the corpse, rushed forward, and threw him into the clearing. The other soldiers followed Vesuvius’s command, rushing forward on either side of the clearing with their massive ropes at the ready.

  The giant studied the fresh troll at its feet, as if debating. But finally, as Vesuvius had gambled, it exhibited its limited intelligence and lunged forward, grabbing the corpse—exactly as Vesuvius knew it would.

  “NOW!” he shrieked.

  The soldiers threw the ropes, casting them over the back of the giant, grabbing hold on either side and pulling, pinning it down. More soldiers rushed forward and threw more ropes, dozens of them, again and again, binding its neck, its arms, its legs. They pulled with all their might as they encircled it, and the beast strained and struggled and roared in fury—but there was soon nothing it could do. Bound by dozens of thick ropes, held down by hundreds of men, it lay face down in the dirt, roaring helplessly.

  Vesuvius walked close and stood over it, unimaginable just moments ago, and looked down, satisfied at his conquest.

  Finally, after all these years, he grinned wide.

  “Now,” he said slowly, savoring each word, “Escalon is mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  KYRA STOOD AT THE WINDOW of her chamber watching dawn break over the countryside with a sense of anticipation and dread. She had spent a long night plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning after overhearing her father’s conversation. She could still hear the words ringing in her head:

  Does she not have a right to know who she is?

  All night long she had dreamt of a woman with an obscured face, wearing a veil, a woman she felt certain was her mother. She reached for her, again and again, only to wake grasping at the bed, at nothing.

  Kyra no longer knew what was real and what was a dream, what was a truth and what was a lie. How many secrets had they been keeping from her? What couldn’t they tell her?

  Kyra finally woke at dawn, clutching her cheek, still stinging from the wound, and she wondered about her mother. All of her life she had been told that her mother had died in childbirth, and she had no reason to believe otherwise. Kyra felt she did not really resemble anyone in her family or in this fort, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that everyone had always looked at her a bit differently, as if she didn’t quite belong here. But she had never imagined that there was anything to it, that her father had been lying to her, keeping some secret from her. Was her mother still alive? Why did they have to hide it from her?

  Kyra stood at the window, trembling inside, marveling at how her life had changed so drastically in the last day. She also felt a fire burning in her veins, running from her cheek to her shoulder and down to her wrist, and she knew she was not the same person she was. She could sense the warmth of the dragon coursing through her, pulsating inside her. She wondered what it all meant. Would she ever be the same person again?

  Kyra looked down at the people below, hund
reds hurrying to and fro so early, and she marveled at all the activity. Usually this time of day was quiet. But not now. The Lord’s Men were coming for them, like a brewing storm, and her people knew there would be retribution. The spirit in the air was different this time, too. Her people had always been quick to back down. But their spirit seemed to have hardened this time, and she was thrilled to see them preparing to fight. Scores of her father’s men were securing the earthen banks, doubling the guard at the gates, lowering the portcullis, taking positions on the ramparts, barring windows and digging ditches. Men selected and sharpened weapons, filled quivers with arrows, prepared horses, and assembled in the courtyard nervously. They were all preparing.

  Kyra could hardly believe she was the catalyst for all this; she felt a sense of guilt and of pride all at once. Most of all, she felt dread. Her people, she knew, could not survive a direct attack by the Lord’s Men, whom, after all, had the Pandesian Empire behind them. They could put up a stand, but when Pandesia arrived with all its might, they would all surely die here.

  “Glad to see you’re up,” came a cheerful voice.

  Kyra spun, startled, as did Leo beside her, not realizing anyone else was awake in the fort this early, and she was relieved to see Anvin standing in the doorway, a grin on his face, joined by Vidar, Arthfael, and several more of her father’s men. As the group stood looking back at her, she could see they looked at her differently this time. There was something different in their eyes: respect. They no longer looked at her as if she were a young girl, an observer, but rather, as if she were one of them. An equal.

  That look restored her heart, made her feel as if it had all been worth it. There was nothing she had ever wanted more than to gain the respect of these men.

  “You’re better, then?” asked Vidar.

  Kyra thought about that, and as she opened and closed her fists and stretched her arms, she realized she was, indeed, better—in fact, stronger than ever before. As she nodded back to them, she could see they also looked at her with something else: a touch of fear. As if she held some sort of power they did not know or trust.

  “I feel reborn,” she replied.

  Anvin grinned wide.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re going to need it. We’ll need every hand we can get.”

  She looked back, surprised and thrilled.

  “Are you offering me a chance to fight with you?” she asked, her heart thumping. No news could be more thrilling to her.

  Arthfael smiled and stepped forward, clasping her shoulder.

  “Just don’t tell your father,” he said.

  Leo stepped forward and licked these men’s hands and they all stroked his head.

  “We have a little present for you,” Vidar said.

  Kyra was surprised.

  “A present?” she asked.

  “Consider it a homecoming,” Arthfael said, “just a little something to help you forget that scratch on your cheek.”

  He stepped aside, as did the others, and Kyra realized they were inviting her to follow. There was nothing she wanted more. She smiled back, joyful for the first time in as long as she could remember.

  “Is that what it takes to be invited to join your lot?” she asked with a smile. “I had to kill five of the Lord’s Men?”

  “Three,” Arthfael corrected. “As I recall, Leo here killed two of them.”

  “Yes,” Anvin said. “And surviving an encounter with a dragon counts for something, too.”

  Kyra marched with the men across the grounds of her father’s fort, Leo at her side, their boots crunching on the snow, energized by the industry all around her, the fort so busy, filled with a sense of purpose, stunningly alive in the dawn. She passed carpenters, cobblers, saddlers, masons, all hard at work on their craft, while endless men sharpened swords and other blades along stones. As they walked, Kyra sensed people stopped and staring at her; her ears burned. They all must have known why the Lord’s Men were coming, what she had done. She felt so conspicuous, and feared her people would hate her.

  But she was surprised to see that they looked at her with admiration—and something else, perhaps fear. They must have discovered she’d survived an encounter with a dragon, and it seemed they did not know what to make of her.

  Kyra looked up and searched the skies, hoping beyond hope that she might see Theos, recovered, flying high, circling her. But as she searched the skies, she saw nothing. Where was he? she wondered. Had he survived? Would he ever fly again? Was he already halfway across the world?

  As they walked, crossing the fort, Kyra became curious as to where they were leading her and what gift they could possibly have in store for her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked Anvin, as they turned down a narrow cobblestone street. They passed villagers digging out from the snow, while huge slabs of ice and snow slid off clay roofs. Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the village, the smell of it crisp on the winter day.

  They turned down another street and Kyra spotted a wide, low stone dwelling, covered in snow, with a red oak door, one set apart from the others, which she recognized immediately.

  “Is that not the blacksmith’s forge?” she asked.

  “It is,” Anvin replied, still walking.

  “But why do you lead me here?” she asked.

  They reached the door, and Vidar smiled as he opened the door and stepped aside.

  “You shall see.”

  Kyra ducked through the low doorway then stood up straight in the forge, Leo following, the others filing in behind her, and as she entered, she was struck by the heat, the fires from the forge making it warm in here. She immediately noticed all the weapons laid out on the blacksmith’s anvils, and she studied them with admiration: swords and axes still in progress, some still red-hot, still being molded.

  The blacksmith sat there with his three apprentices, faces covered in soot, and looked up, expressionless, through his thick black beard. His place was packed with weapons—laid out on every surface, on the floor, hanging from hooks, and it appeared he was working on dozens at once. Kyra knew Brot, the blacksmith, a short man, stocky, with a low brow perpetually furrowed in concentration, to be a serious man who spoke few words, and who lived for his weapons. He was known to be gruff, not to care much for men—only for a piece of steel.

  The few times Kyra had spoken with him, though, Brot had proved, beneath his gruff exterior, to be a kindhearted man, and passionate when talking about weaponry. He must have recognized a kindred soul in Kyra, as they had a mutual love for weaponry.

  “Kyra,” he said, seeming pleased to see her. “Sit.”

  She sat across form him at the empty bench, her back to the forge, feeling its heat. Anvin and the others crowded around them, and they all watched as Brot tinkered with his weaponry: a lance, a sickle, a mace in progress, its chain still waiting to be hammered out. Kyra saw a sword, its edges still rough, waiting to be sharpened. Behind him his apprentices worked, the noise of their tools filling the air. One hammered away at an ax, sparks flying everywhere, while another reached out with his long tongs and pulled a strip of white-hot steel from the forge, laying it on the anvil and preparing to hammer. The third used his tongs to take a halberd off his anvil and place it in the large, iron slack tub, its waters hissing the second it was submerged and emitting a cloud of steam.

  For Kyra, this forge had always been the most exciting place in Volis.

  As she watched him, her heart beat faster, wondering what present these men had in store.

  “I heard of your exploits,” Brot said, not meeting her eye, looking down at a long sword as he examined it, testing its weight. It was one of the longest swords she had ever seen, and he frowned and narrowed his eyes as he held its blade, seeming unsatisfied.

  She knew better than to interrupt him, and she waited patiently in the silence for him to continue.

  “A shame,” he finally said.

  Kyra stared back, confused.

  “What?” she asked.

/>   “That you did not kill the boy,” he said. “We wouldn’t all be in this mess if you had, would we?”

  He still did not meet her eyes, weighing the sword, and she flushed, knowing he was right but not regretting her actions.

  “A lesson for you,” he added. “Kill them all, always. Do you understand me?” he asked, his tone hard as he looked up and met her eyes, dead serious. “Kill them all.”

  Despite his harsh tone and blunt quality, Kyra admired Brot for always saying what he believed, and what others were afraid to say. She also admired him for his fearlessness: owning weapons of steel was outlawed by Pandesia, on punishment of death. Her father’s men’s weapons were sanctioned only because they kept The Flames—but Brot also illegally forged weapons for dozens of others, helping to supply a secret army. He could be caught and killed at any moment, and yet he never flinched in the face of duty.

  “Is that why you’ve summoned me?” she asked, puzzled. “To give me advice on killing men?”

  He hammered away at a sword on the anvil before him, working for a while, ignoring her until he was ready. Still looking down, he said:

  “No. To help you kill them.”

  She blinked, confused, and Brot reached back and gestured to one of his apprentices, who rushed over and handed him an object.

  Brot looked at her.

  “I heard you lost two weapons last night,” he said. “A bow and a staff, was it?”

  She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

  Brot shook his head disapprovingly.

  “That is because you play with sticks. A child’s weapons. You’ve killed five of the Lord’s Men and have faced off with a dragon and lived, and that is more than anyone in this room. You are a warrior now, and you deserve a warrior’s weapons.”

  He reached back as one of his apprentices handed him something, then turned back and laid a long object down on the table, covered in a red, velvet cloth.

  She looked up at him questioningly, her heart beating with anticipation, and he nodded back.