LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “Begin!” he said.

  He attacked slowly at first, one at a time. Her blocks were a bit sloppy, as she hadn’t practiced with a sword in years. Worse were her attacks. The weapon was quite a bit heavier than the staff.

  As she began to recall what her uncle and father had taught her, her performance improved. Lain noticed it and increased his attacks in both rate and intensity. The attacks were followed by a pause for her to attack. She was holding him off well enough, but her attacks were still slow. The clash of steel against steel was unnerving. Perhaps that was why he had chosen not to use the training swords. He was toying with her.

  Anger had as powerful an effect on combat as it did on magic, it would seem. She fought back harder and faster. As she did, her defense suffered. More than once, an attack slipped through. She didn’t even pause when it did. Lain pulled his attacks so effortlessly his flow of attack and defense was not even interrupted.

  Despite the accelerating attacks, Myranda never came close to landing a blow. After a few minutes, Lain called the sparring to an end.

  “You are not a cold beginner, but you can benefit from practice. A bit of discipline is in order as well,” he said, not a hint of fatigue in his voice.

  “Oh?” she remarked, trying to catch her breath.

  “You fight as though I am trying to teach you,” he said.

  “Is that wrong?” she asked.

  “You should fight as though I am trying to kill you,” he said. “Those strikes that you trusted me to pull would have been enough to end your life. A bit more care is in order, even when the weapons aren’t real. We will be switching back to training swords for the rest of the training, but I will not be pulling my blows quite so far anymore.”

  “You are planning on hitting me!?” she said.

  “This is combat training. You need to learn about consequences,” he said, tossing her the replacement for her weapon.

  It was lighter, but solid. She would be able to swing it faster and more easily, but the thought of being hit by a blow as powerful as Lain was capable of was not appealing.

  “We will dispense with the offense and defense drills. This will now be proper sparing. Attack or defend when the opportunity arises. Until now, you haven’t had to consider counterattacks, so that is how you will earn your questions. You will earn one question for each counter you land. I will not throw any until you have thrown your first. A counter is quite different from a normal attack, so I will demonstrate the times when they are appropriate,” he said.

  Myranda thought she’d had enough to think about before--trying to identify when to attack, when to defend, and whether a counter was possible was like playing a game of chess in a heartbeat. The position of limbs, the distribution of weight, the speed, direction, and location of the weapon . . . she could take an hour to consider each one and still be wrong.

  All too soon, the demonstration was over and the sparring began. She quickly found that during an attack or while defending, things were clear. The tenseness came in the moments when she and Lain were between attacks, quietly measuring each other, deciding what would happen next.

  Finally, it happened. Myranda had leaned in for a downward strike. Her arms were raised, leaving her abdomen undefended. Lain struck with what looked to be one of his slower attacks. It most certainly did not feel like one. Myranda cried out, dropped her weapon, and doubled over. In an instant Myn was between them, desperate to stop them from fighting. The pain shot through her. It was a moment before she could regain the wind that had been knocked out of her.

  “That was a kill,” he said, as though his point had not been made clear enough.

  She managed to recover after a minute or two and tried to continue, but Myn would have none of it.

  “That is all for today. I imagine that Myn will be cutting our next few sessions short. But if she can get used to your attacks connecting, she can get used to mine,” he said.

  “Don’t be so sure. My attacks were not as cruel as yours,” she said.

  “Oh, no? You were swinging with all of your might. You came near to breaking a rib once,” he said.

  “Impossible. You didn’t make a sound,” she said.

  “In my line of work, it is wise to keep silent,” he said.

  “I don’t care how disciplined you are, you would have doubled over, too, if I’d hit you as you did me,” she said.

  Lain dropped his weapon to the ground and grasped his right little finger with his left hand. With a sharp twist and a horrid snap, he wrenched the digit out of place. The merest flutter of his eyes was the only indication he’d felt anything. He took his hand away. Myranda cringed and turned away. When she heard a second snap, she knew that the finger would at least be where it had started.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have struck so hard,” she said.

  “You will never learn to fight properly if you are pulling your attacks. I want you to fight as you had before, or I will never answer another question,” he said.

  A terrible guilt filled Myranda.

  “Let me see your hand,” she said.

  “No need,” he said.

  “Just let me see. It is swelling already,” she said.

  A whisper of a thought was enough to heal the minor damage he’d done. While she was at it, she healed the blow she had taken.

  “Unlike you, I can’t stand idle while someone suffers,” she said.

  “Sometimes standing idle is the best course of action,” he said before retiring to his hut.

  Myranda gritted her teeth in anger as she walked away. Myn canted sideways behind her, trying her best to keep an eye on both of them. Past sundown, it would seem that the throng of admirers had better things to do, as she was not assaulted by them as she headed back to Deacon’s hut. Myn barged in as before, and rushed over to him to start sniffing at his tunic’s pocket.

  “Stop. I said one per day. You’ve had yours,” he said, protecting his pocket from her search long enough for her to give up and retreat to Myranda for a scratch on the head.

  Deacon could see that something was on Myranda’s mind.

  “I suppose that things didn’t go well today,” he said.

  Myranda fumed for a moment before she could answer.

  “Deacon. Lain . . . he could have done something about the massacre,” she said.

  “What massacre? Ah! The one you told me about, at Kenvard. He could have prevented it? How?” he asked.

  “He found the person who leaked the information! He knew it was going to happen!” she said.

  “What did he do with the information?” he asked.

  “Nothing!” she said.

  “Well, that was decent of him,” Deacon said.

  “Decent of him!? I cannot think of something worse he could have done!” she cried.

  “He could have sold it to a higher bidder, or delivered it himself to receive the payment intended for the man he killed,” Deacon said.

  Myranda paused for a moment. Each was admittedly far worse than doing nothing at all.

  “But still--he could have warned them!” she said.

  “Well, I suppose you are right,” he agreed. Almost immediately, a confused look struck his face as a thought came to mind. The same thought struck Myranda as well.

  “Why would he need to?” she realized. “If the intelligence never got delivered, the Tressons couldn’t have known about the weakness . . .”

  “Indeed. One wonders how the massacre could have happened at all. That is, if Lain’s word can be trusted,” Deacon said.

  “I don’t think Lain cares enough about what I think to lie to me anymore. And after how I have acted, I don’t blame him,” Myranda said.

  After having a late meal, Myranda retired.

  The days to follow began a new routine for her. She awoke, had breakfast, and played with Myn for an hour or so. The little dragon was now quite the flier. Once airborne, she could stay aloft seemingly indefinitely, and before long, she was able t
o take off from the ground rather than a rooftop. Once the flight was over, either through the fatigue or choice of Myn, Myranda would stop by Deacon’s to look for any tips before venturing to Cresh’s hut.

  Once there, she would learn the next step in a long string of earth magics. Despite the language barrier, Cresh was a very good teacher, managing to coach her through refining the size and direction of her tremors, identifying the qualities unique to each type of earth, and even coaxing plants to grow faster, larger, and stronger. This last topic was the most difficult, and required nearly three weeks to complete. In this time, Myranda found that she had come to understand his odd language well enough to not rely so heavily on the gestures.

  Her time with Lain was the most trying. Over a week of battle was needed to finally convince Myn that Lain and Myranda were not fighting out of anger again. This, however, was not completely true. Myranda’s apology for her behavior prompted no response at all from Lain. He fought in almost complete silence each day. She managed a pair of well-placed counter attacks, several days apart, but they differed from her other achievements. She stumbled upon them less in a moment of epiphany, and more through some new instinct that she was developing. They were almost mechanical in nature. Lain’s only words on the topic were to remark that such was as it should be.

  Further trying was the fact that, with each passing day, sparring with Lain was becoming more difficult. A bit more speed and a bit more accuracy found their way into his maneuvers every time they fought. He was keeping his skill level just beyond hers. Before long, the clear openings for her to attack vanished, and the split-second openings for counterattack were shaved thinner and thinner.

  Five weeks after starting her work with Cresh, the dwarf indicated that it would be a fine time to offer her the final test. There had been no warning that the end was near until now. At least, none that she’d managed to understand. He produced an apple from his pocket, proclaiming it to be, apparently, the last fresh one to be had in the village. Myranda wondered where the others had gone, and how many there had been, considering in all of her time in Entwell she’d seen neither an apple nor an apple tree. The latter fact, it would appear, would soon be remedied.

  Cresh took a bite of the fruit, dug his fingers into its core, and retrieved a seed. The dwarf launched into a speech that was apparently very amusing, as he punctuated it with stifled laughter. A quick tremor churned up the earth beside his hut enough to yield to the seed when he dropped it. After pushing it into the soil, he requested that Myranda replace the lost apple, as well as supply the pantries of the whole village. Her success would hinge upon how the apples tasted. He expected to be sinking his teeth into one by sundown.

  “Sundown!?” she objected, hoping that perhaps she had misunderstood him.

  The dwarf replied with the beginnings of yet another long-winded exposition on one subject or another, but the vigorous nodding that preceded it was all the answer she needed. Had Myranda known that the test would be on this day, she would have arrived earlier. The sun was only a few hours from the horizon. She set to work immediately. The method was one she had practiced time and time again. She would mingle her energies with those of the seed, coaxing it to sprout. Once the growth had begun, she would provide for its every need from her own strength. Until now, she had only done so with weeds, and in some occasions, flowers. The tree required far more nurturing than any of the previous plants.

  Halfway through the first hour, the sapling of the tree had emerged from the ground, and leaves were beginning to form. This test was unlike the others. Whereas the fire and wind were enormously taxing to keep fed for the appropriate amount of time, they required only one type of energy. The tree’s needs were many and varied, requiring her to call upon nearly all of what she knew of earth magic to meet them. The elements in the soil had to be drawn into the still-growing roots at many hundreds of times the speed that nature would have allowed. Similarly, Myranda’s spirit took the place of the sun as the source of energy for the leaves to feed on. Only water was provided by Cresh, as water was not the point of this test.

  Another half-hour saw a tree as tall as she.

  The task of growing the tree, while growing in intensity, decreased in complexity as the end grew near. Though dizzied by the energy she’d spent, Myranda was able to push enough of the spell to the back of her mind to be able to appreciate the completion of her handiwork. It was a sight to behold as new cracks in the bark appeared. The leaves shriveled and dropped away onto a growing mound beneath the tree. Almost immediately, the greenish brown leaf-buds reappeared, followed in turn by the brilliant white apple blossoms. A breath of wind that she conjured pollinated the flowers and the resultant fruits plumped before her eyes. She cut off the flow of energy just as the last of them reddened.

  Through the virtue of her magic, she had brought this tree through two dozen seasons in the space of an afternoon.

  The sun had, by rights, set a few minutes prior, but as the sky was till rosy with its light, Cresh decided that the time requirement had been met. He reached for an apple, but found the lowest of them just be out of reach. He raised the crystal-tipped root he used as a staff. The tree lowered its branch as though it had a mind of its own, and shook an apple free into his hand. The dwarf sniffed the fruit thoughtfully before taking a bite, considering the flavor as a connoisseur might sample a fine wine. Finally, he declared the endurance test to be complete.

  Myranda heaved a sigh of relief, as she had far more strength and clarity left now than she had entering into any of the other tests of dexterity.

  Myranda was led inside of his hut, and the door was shut behind her. A table was in the middle of the room, and a chair had been grown before it. Atop it was set a bowl filled with gray sand. A pair of empty bowls was set beside it. Cresh spread a pinch of the sand on the palm of his hand to reveal that there were actually fine grains of black and white mixed thoroughly enough for the bowl’s contents to seem uniformly gray. He then produced a blindfold, which he secured over her eyes. She was to separate the black and white into the separate bowls without the use of the eyes or her hands. With that, Cresh retired to another room.

  She reached out with her weakened mind. The differences in the energies of different types of earth were difficult to detect in the clearest of mind. Despite her many impairments, the black grains were soon clearly unique enough in her mind’s eye to separate. The spell to manipulate earth was one she had learned well, but with so much of her concentration devoted to keeping the two types distinct, when the time came to move them, they seemed as heavy as lead weights. Moving them more than a few at a time seemed impossible, but she pressed on. By the time the last white grain found its way to its own bowl, she felt as though she’d moved a mountain.

  Cresh pulled the blindfold from the weary girl’s head and patted her on the back, chuckling. She opened her eyes to the light of a torch and smiled weakly at the reason for his laughter. While she had succeeded in separating the sand, she had been less precise where the sand landed. Rather than in the respective bowls, she had managed to scatter the sand anywhere but. The only clear spot was the bowl that the sand had formerly occupied. Fortunately Cresh was satisfied. He handed her an apple and helped her to her feet and out the door.

  The hour was late. None of the admirers and well-wishers were awake--save Deacon, who had remained despite being required to wait outside of the hut. He helped her to her hut and set her on her bed.

  “Well, this is a refreshing change. You finished a test and did not need to be carried home,” he said.

  “A personal best,” she said, lying down. Myn hopped atop her immediately.

  “Sleep well. When you recover, you shall begin work on the final elemental magic,” he said.

  Myranda likely hadn’t been awake long enough to hear the end of the sentence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MYRANDA AWOKE AFTER A BLACK, dreamless sleep, and stumbled forth groggily. Myn led her to Deacon--who, in turn, le
d her to the food hall. As they ate, and she shook off the last of the sleep, they spoke.

  “How many days has it been this time?” Myranda asked.

  “Only a single night has passed. Another personal best for you. Here, have one,” he said, placing another of her apples before her.

  “Ah, yes. The fruits of my efforts. I still have the one that he gave me last night,” she said, taking a bite. The flavor was familiar, but different. It had a hint of something that made it unlike any apple that she had ever tasted. Her face betrayed her thoughts.

  “Curious? The apple tastes different because you grew it. When a person prompts a plant into being, the result is a fruit slightly different from any grown before. You leave your mark. What’s more, any apple tree grown from a seed from this one will bear fruit with the same quality. You have given birth to a new breed,” he said.

  “I like it,” she said, munching happily.

  “Are you quite rested? Calypso has already been told of your completion and is eagerly awaiting you,” Deacon said.

  “I feel well enough to do a bit today. Calypso . . . I haven’t met her yet,” she said.

  “No, I don’t believe you have. Well, we shall remedy that soon enough,” he said.

  After the meal, Myranda fetched her staff and was taken directly to her next trainer. At least, she was told so. When she reached her destination, she found it to be the small lake near the edge of the village toward the sea. Myn sniffed at the water and immediately retreated. She seemed terrified of the stuff, and adamant that Myranda not go near it. Apparently, the circumstances of their arrival in this place had taken their toll on the poor creature.

  “Calypso!” Deacon called out.

  They waited a few moments before he called again.

  “I know that I learned my fire magic from a dragon. Does this mean I will be learning my water magic from a fish?” Myranda asked.

  “Well . . . I suppose that would be half correct,” he said, picking up a small stone and skipping it across the surface.