LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “To this day I wonder what made me decide to return to the world that had chased me away. I suppose the human in me has as much say in what I do as the fox, because one day I wandered into a small town. What was it named? . . . Bero. Well, I looked about as you would expect after years in the woods. I was wearing barely a shred of clothes, absolutely filthy. My hair was about so long,” he remarked, indicating shoulder-length with his hand. “and a knotty, matted mess. As a matter of fact, I have yet to cut it since that day, so somewhere among these tresses are the very same locks I wore on that day.”

  “At any rate, my return to civilization was not warmly greeted. I received what still stands as the worst beating of my life, and was thrown into a shed until the townsfolk could claim a live bounty. In those days you could turn in a live malthrope for one hundred-fifty silver pieces or the tail off of a dead one for seventy-five. Fortunately those fellows got neither, as I was able to escape that shed in time.

  “Had I a decent head on my shoulders, I would have learned my lesson, and returned to the forest until some hunter or woodsman killed me in typical fairytale fashion. Then at least my memory would have been passed on from generation to generation to scare children. Instead I let the vengeful instincts of youth guide my actions. I decided that if humans did not want me among them, then among them I would remain. Before long I found that during the winter I could bundle up enough to go unnoticed. The next clear step was to go to the place where such gear was commonplace in all seasons. And so I came to be a denizen of the Nameless Empire,” he said.

  “Please, not that I mind, but we prefer to call it the Northern Alliance,” she said, realizing how evil the alternative sounded.

  “I know,” Leo said, drawing his vulpine visage into his peculiar little smirk. “I wanted to see how you would react. Besides, now it is my turn to ask you a question.”

  “Go right ahead,” Myranda said.

  “If you are so often on the move, how is it you manage to earn money enough to survive?” he asked.

  “Well, the money I had intended to buy dinner with was in a satchel I had found on the body of a dead man in the middle of a field north of here,” she said smoothly. Now that the second glass of powerful wine was nearly empty, it did not even occur to her how strange and awful that must have sounded.

  “I see . . . so do you roam the wastes in search of expired aristocrats, or have you got a more conventional means of support?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I do whatever I can. Help in a field, clean a house, that sort of thing. Anything anyone with money needs done. If the odd jobs in a town dry up, I move on. Yet another reason I never sit still,” she said. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “That is a shade more difficult to explain. As you pointed out, the Perpetual War tends to get under the skin of the good people, north and south. It seeps into everything that they do. As such, battle is as much a matter of sport and pleasure as it is a matter of combating the enemy. Here and there, particularly in the north, arenas can be found. People gather there to watch various fighters clash in the name of entertainment,” he said.

  “I have heard of those places,” Myranda said with a sneer.

  “Well, it is in those places that I earn a living,” he said.

  “You earn a wage by beating others to death?” Myranda said, shocked.

  “No, no. Not to death. We would run short of fresh talent rather quickly if that was the case, what with the army offering the same opportunities for far greater prestige. No, our matches last until the other fighter, or fighters, either submit or are unable to continue. When I fight, I wear a helmet with a face mask that completely conceals my face. Needless to say, a faceplate with a snout draws a bit of attention, but I have led the crowd to believe I am a man pretending to be a beast to gain a psychological edge over my opponents,” Leo explained.

  “Clever,” she said.

  “I hate the mask, though. The thing is practically a muzzle. I will wear it every day, though, so long as the prize money continues to flow. I just won a three-week-long tournament a few days ago. Placed a hefty bet on myself. All told, I took away more than two hundred silver pieces. That ought to last for some time. After all, I get most of my food, drink, and even shelter from the forest. Aside from medical and clothing, I have no expenses,” he said.

  “I wish I could say the same. There are a few rather expensive purchases I need to make, but before I do, I will have to find a wealthier town,” she said.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “Well, this town has a rather sparse market. I will need to find a town that has a store that buys and sells weapons or jewels,” she said.

  “Jewels? Interested in buying jewelry?” he asked, raising the eyebrow again. “You do not strike me as the jewelry type.”

  “Oh, no, that sort of thing does not appeal to me. I need to buy a tent and a horse,” she said.

  Leo furrowed his brow and scratched his head. “You are aware that those are items not typically found at a gem dealer or a weapon smith,” he said.

  Myranda laughed, covering her mouth and shaking her head. “I am sorry about that. I did not quite make myself clear, did I? You see, I have got something that I want to sell so that I can afford those things.”

  “Ah, now I see. What did you have in mind? I thought I heard something clang right before I helped you out,” he said.

  “Well, um, right you are,” she said. She still had enough sense about her to know that she should not show off the sword to someone she barely knew, but he had seen it fall. It would be terribly rude and distrustful to hide it from him now. She would show it and hope for the best.

  She stood and quickly stumbled back down. The room was spinning.

  “Careful now, I think that the wine had a bit more of a kick than you had realized,” Leo said, standing to help her.

  “It certainly did,” she said. A tinge of fear raced through her as she worried that there might have been more than just wine in that glass. The dizziness and fear faded together after a few moments. “I must have stood too quickly.”

  Myranda carefully pulled the sword from its hasty hiding place and placed it on the table, pulling the blanket off. Leo’s eyes widened.

  “That is a fine weapon,” he said.

  He leaned close and cast a gaze of admiration upon the mirror finish.

  “Excellent temper . . . clean edge,” he said, scanning the weapon eagerly with his expert eyes. “Would you mind if I lifted it?”

  “Go right ahead,” she said.

  He slipped his gloves on before touching the elegant weapon, apparently fearful of smudging the surface. He then lifted it, carefully considering its weight and looking down the length of the blade, admiring its quality.

  “Superb balance, surprisingly light. I do not have much use for the long sword in my work, but I can tell you that this is a remarkable weapon,” he said, placing it down and removing the gloves.

  “I was most interested in the handle,” she said.

  “Why? There was nothing specifically remarkable about the grip,” he said, puzzled.

  “What about the jewels?” she asked.

  “Oh, Oh. I had not even noticed. Cosmetic touches like that are the last things I look for,” he said. “Those would raise the price a tad, I would say.”

  “I should hope so,” Myranda said, wrapping the sword and replacing it.

  “A word of advice. If you want the best price, see a collector, not a smith. Shop owners always pay less than what they think they can sell something for. Collectors pay what the piece is worth. As much as those jewels are worth, I would wager the workmanship and uniqueness of that piece would fetch a still higher price,” he said.

  “I am not greedy. So long as this treasure earns me what I need, I will be more than satisfied. If it pays for a want or two, all the better,” she said.

  “Trust me, you will have quite enough,” he said.

  Putting the sword down again had
disturbed the bandage. She adjusted it, frowning at its appearance. The filthy bar had lent more than its share of filth to the already tea-stained cloth, turning it black and greasy wherever it had touched the table.

  “What happened?” Leo asked, indicating the injury.

  “Oh. I burnt myself,” she said--best not to be specific in this case, particularly considering the fact even she was unsure of exactly what happened.

  Leo nodded thoughtfully. “You will want to let the air at that. Burns heal better that way. Just a few hours a day ought to do. Less of a scar,” he said.

  “Is that so?” she asked.

  “Trust me. I spend most of the year recovering from one injury or another,” he said, placing his hand on his shoulder and working the joint until a distinct snap could be heard.

  “Why not see a healer, or a cleric?” she asked.

  “Aside from the fact that they are nearly impossible to find? Believe it or not, when those folks do their job, they tend to want a look at their patient. I would rather not have them find out what I am--and if a healer cannot tell at the first glance I would frankly think twice about allowing them to work on me,” he explained.

  “Right, foolish of me to ask,” she said.

  As the hours of the night passed, Myranda made up for an eternity of solitude. She spoke until her voice nearly failed her and drank in Leo’s words as deeply as she did the wine. They were equally rare luxuries to her, and she would enjoy them as long as she could. Weariness and wine were a potent mix, though, and finally her eyes were too heavy to ignore. Even so, she fought to stay awake to share more tales with her friend. It was Leo, always the gentleman, who insisted that she get some rest. He stood to leave.

  “Before you go, I must ask you something,” Myranda said.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he said, slipping his gloves on.

  “You have every reason to be as bitter and angry as my late uncle. How is it that you have come to be so kind?” she asked.

  Leo threw his cloak about his shoulders as he answered. “Simple. Would you have let such a grim and angry person through this door?”

  “I suppose not,” she said.

  “Of course not. You reap what you sow in this world. I do not mean to say that I have never been as you described. I spent the better half of my years hating your people with all of my heart and soul. Perhaps a part of me still does. The truth is, whether I like it or not, your people rule this world. I can either live a life of hate and solitude, or I can do what I feel is right and hope for the same in return. Until today, though, I’d had little luck. Meeting you serves to remind me that there is some good within everyone, even if you have to dig to find it,” he explained.

  With that, the unique creature pulled his hood into place, instantly becoming one of the nameless, faceless masses again. He then pulled the door open, wished her a good night’s rest, and shut it behind him.

  Myranda spent a long moment staring at the door. She had learned much in the past few hours. It shamed her, but she could not deny the fact that had she seen his face before she’d known his nature, she would have treated him with the same disdain and prejudice he had come to expect. All of her life, she had heard the horror stories of what these beast men did. To think that one of these “fiends” would show her the patience, warmth, and understanding that even the priest lacked . . . In short, Leo was everything that Myranda feared had been lost forever in the wake of this horrific war.

  Without his lively presence in the room, Myranda realized how tired she really was. She rose from her chair and sat on her bed. Doing so jostled a cloud of dust from the poorly-kept quilt. A glance at the bandage reminded her of Leo’s words. Carefully, she removed it. The coarse, grayish material had absorbed only a drop or two of blood. Her palm had been entirely swollen the day before, but now there was only a stripe of redness along her palm and a single welt toward her fingers. She laid back and winced as the tightness in her back slowly eased away.

  Finally she shifted herself under the covers and stretched, prompting the odd crack or snap from her weary joints. She smiled as she lowered her head onto the greatest luxury of all, a pillow. Before drifting quickly to sleep, she placed her left arm over her head on the pillow, exposing the afflicted palm to some much-needed fresh air while she rested.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE VERY INSTANT SHE CLOSED her eyes, Myranda found herself transported to the blackened field that had poisoned her sleep the night before. Fear and desperation filled her as she searched for some remnant of the light she had remembered. In the distance, a handful of faint, flickering lights seemed to beckon to her. She ran toward them--but, one by one, the shining embers flickered out.

  The ground became uneven and she stumbled, feeling the cold, dead grass crunch beneath her palms. Unwilling to waste even the time to stand, Myranda crawled toward the lights. There was a feeling within her that if she looked away for even a moment, the last piece of light would be lost to her forever. A sudden coldness beneath her hand startled her, and she reflexively closed her fingers around it. Whatever it was that she had found, it was firmly planted in the frigid earth. She wanted to move forward, but at the same time, she could not bring herself to let go of the freezing object she’d found. She pulled and strained, finally looking to the artifact she had stumbled upon.

  Even as she could feel the speck of golden light in the distance flit away forever, she saw the item she’d found replace it. It was a lantern, and the second her eyes met the wick, it fizzled to life. In the oppressive blackness, the dim flame seemed blinding. When her eyes painfully adjusted, she rubbed them to find that the world she was accustomed to had returned. The light she blinked at was the handful of rays that made it through the heavy curtains. The dream was over.

  Blinking the sleep from her eyes was a matter of moments. Shaking the powerful emotions and painful throbbing from her head was another matter. She looked in vain for a basin or such to at least wash her face, but the room was rather poorly stocked. Dejected, she slowly gathered her things and laced her boots. When she was certain she had everything, particularly the sword, she entered the hallway, locked the door behind her, and sought out her only intact pocket to place the key. On the way to the stairs, she stopped in front of the door she’d seen Leo at the day before. After a long moment she continued on, deciding to let him sleep.

  The tavern was a very different place in the wee hours of the morning. Pale light from the cloudy morning sky replaced the warm light of candle and lamp. The only motion was the stirring of flies upon a half-finished plate of food left by an unsatisfied customer the night before. Where had been a room full of rowdy patrons now was only one, a filthy man who’d had a bit too much of the ale and made a pillow of his leftover cabbage.

  Behind the bar was a wiry young fellow, likely the owner’s son. He’d leaned his chair against the wall and gazed lazily into space through a few greasy locks that hung in front of his half-closed eyes. Myranda approached him, hopeful of procuring a few pieces of the meat from last night. In her experience, if the meat was past its prime, the kitchen would usually part with it free of charge. It might not be tasty, but it would be nourishing, and so long as it filled her stomach, she was satisfied.

  “Sir?” she said.

  He did not react.

  “Um, sir?” she repeated loudly.

  She waved her hand before his eyes, only to hear a long, grating snore. She shook her head. It was one thing to sleep on the job, but teaching one’s self to do so with open eyes was quite a trick. He had earned the sleep, she would not rouse him. Her stomach already grumbling, she pushed the door open slightly. A biting wind blew some stray snowflakes into her face. She paused for a moment to pull up her heavy hood and fasten its frayed cord, all the while letting the arctic breeze whisk inside. Once she had finished preparing herself, she opened the door fully.

  Despite her precautions against it, the full force of the wind passed right through the cloak. There was a time when
it had been as thick and warm as the ones that nine out of ten of her fellow northerners wore, but time and use had rendered it thin and ragged. The sleeping innkeeper shifted uncomfortably as the cold air found its way to him. Myranda glanced back at the motion, suddenly reminded of something she needed to do. She walked up to the counter and dug the room key out of her pocket. The groggy keeper gave a glance of acknowledgment and drifted back to sleep.

  Again, she pushed open the door and faced the blast of wind from outside. The vague white light from the clouds reflected off of the barely disturbed snow. Her slowly-adjusting eyes glanced at the mottled gray sky and dark horizon of the nearby Rachis Mountains to the east. The colorless landscape did little for her sour mood, as the chosen beverage of the night gone by made its presence known as a dull, constant ache in her head.

  Finally, she could see well enough to take in the more specific sights around her. A scattering of the town’s residents were up and about in these first hours of daylight. Five were huddled together against the wind, all but one wearing the ubiquitous drab gray cloak. She began to look away when the inn door swung open to allow yet another cloak-clad, faceless villager into the cold. The newcomer stood briefly beside the others, not even evoking a glance from them. It then turned and waved at Myranda with a familiar black-gloved hand. The figure, indistinguishable from the others, rushed over to her.

  “Leo?” asked Myranda as the figure approached.

  “Indeed,” came his familiar voice. He hunched over a bit, turned his hooded head to and fro slowly, and slouched. “The bed is a devious invention, letting one sleep until after sunup. Some folks need the dawn to catch their breakfast.”