LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  As she spoke her last sentence, she turned the hourglass in a random direction, sending Myranda sliding or falling in that direction. She concluded by flipping the hourglass over. Myranda held fast to the table, which she had become pinned against. It was heavy enough to keep her down.

  “Well, if that is how you want it,” Azriel said. Suddenly the furniture, with the exception of the pedestal, the book atop it, and the hourglass, plummeted upward. In a thunderous crash of splintering wood, the contents of the room collided with the vaulted roof.

  Myranda struggled to move, a good portion of debris having landed atop her. Many bones were broken by the crash, but no sooner had she realized this than they were repaired. As she pulled herself from the rubble, Azriel floated “down” to the ceiling and flipped upside down to survey the damage.

  “Still able to move about, eh? Very well. We shall have to restrain you,” she said.

  The sorceress’s eyes wandered as she tried to think of something creative to torture her student with. They came to rest on the chandelier, which was hanging “up,” unaffected by the shift. She smiled, and the leg-like candle holders twitched to life, scurrying up its chain and across the ceiling like some ornate spider. Everywhere the candle-tipped feet touched took to flame. Myranda freed herself and moved as quickly as she could across the rubble-strewn ceiling, but the animated candelabra moved across debris as though it was born to do it, which of course it had been. The pseudo-creature tore its chain from its mount and threw a loop of it around the hapless girl. In a twinkling she was wrapped tightly in the chain, and the fire was pooling around her.

  “Right. I am rather proud of that one.” Azriel beamed as she moved to the pedestal and took up the pen.

  Myranda used her mind to gather up as much of the fire that surrounded her as she could and focused it around the chandelier spider. The automaton melted immediately, dripping in bright orange blobs to the floor below, but the chain cocooning her remained taut. With the utmost of care to protect herself, as she had the leaves in Solomon’s test, she sliced the chains with the fire.

  “Your resourcefulness is remarkable. I may have to redefine the word capture,” said Azriel.

  Approaching the hourglass again, she gave it a twirl. Instantly, Myranda found herself falling, jerked this way and that as “down” perpetually changed. It was disrupting beyond belief. She could barely think. She certainly couldn’t move, as each time she approached something that she could grab onto, she fell away from it again. She was trapped in mid-air. Another smile of satisfaction came to her instructor’s face and the pen was once again in hand.

  Myranda’s mind searched for something that might free her. The only thing that seemed to have a chance was levitation. She had never managed it on anything but water before, but Deacon had assured her that the same technique needed to be changed only slightly to levitate anything. Myranda consciously took hold of the mystic energy inside of herself and commanded it to be still. Her uncontrollable flight through the room came to a swift end. A second thought brought the spinning hourglass to a halt, this time properly oriented. As she lowered herself to the ground, Azriel gave a smug smile.

  “I must say, you are driving me to new heights of creativity,” Azriel said.

  Myranda opened her mouth to reply to the compliment, only to be stopped by an odd sinking feeling. She looked down to discover that the floor beneath her had turned to quicksand. She sank swiftly to her waist before she once again put the levitation spell to work. The sand held firm, but slowly she was beginning to pull herself free.

  “Sandstone,” Azriel said audibly.

  Instantly the sand was stone once more, and straining against it felt as though her legs, still encased within, would give far before the stone did. Azriel still had the pen in hand and approached the book to mark the failure. Myranda needed time. She threw up a wall of flame between Azriel and the pedestal. Azriel smirked and undid the spell, barely missing a step. Myranda focused her mind on the tremor spell. A few moments of shaking that threatened to turn her bones to powder shattered the stone of the floor. The pieces of rock fell away, as there was nothingness beneath them, but Myranda levitated herself up.

  “Right, that is quite enough levitation for one day,” Azriel said.

  Myranda dropped, grabbing onto the edge of the hole she’d made. She tried to levitate again, only to find that some spell--an enormously complicated one--was blocking her from doing so. Though she knew that with time she could break the spell, she had more pressing matters at hand.

  The girl pulled herself out of the hole in the ground and bolted for the doorway. The chains of the drawbridge pulled taught as she approached, and the stones of the floor began to shoot up in front of her, forming bars as they had for her illusion earlier. She dodged some and cast a quick tremor to shatter others. She was determined to escape this castle. Azriel’s spells were becoming more potent by the second, and there was no doubt that she was not far from discovering one that would stall Myranda long enough to mark her failure. She simply had to get as far from the book as possible to maximize the time she had to escape.

  The drawbridge was nearly halfway shut by the time she had fought her way to it. As she climbed the steep wooden incline, the surface turned into a checkerboard of fire and ice. Was Azriel trying to catch her or kill her? She swept the fire away with her mind and managed to leap from one piece of charred wood to the other until she pulled herself onto the nearly vertical end of the bridge. With a mighty leap, she came crashing down on the outer bank of the moat. The drawbridge sealed shut and for a moment there was peace. Myranda breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short by the creaking of the chains. A moment later they snapped and the drawbridge began to fall open. The terrified girl rolled frantically away, narrowly avoiding being crushed beneath the massive door. So narrow was her escape that, when she tried to move, she found that the hem of her tunic was pinned beneath the bridge.

  The shadowy form of Azriel was approaching through the doorway. Myranda pulled desperately at the pinned cloth until it tore free. First, she rekindled the blazes on the bridge. In an instant smoke, fire, and steam concealed the outside world from anyone within. With the modicum of time she’d bought, the girl scanned the horizon. There was a scattering of trees and bushes dotting the open field before her. She conjured a wind to rattle the branches and prayed that her idea would work.

  Azriel walked across the flaming walkway utterly unaffected by the flames. She reached the other side of the moat a moment before the tattered wooden door fell into the water. An unseen force made her twitch. Turning to look through the steam rising from the moat, she saw that the first five minutes had elapsed. The hourglass inverted itself, foregoing the gravity reversal that generally would accompany it. Her purpose here was to be tested against as many situations as possible, not the same one over and over again.

  With the approaching deadline renewing her resolve, Azriel turned back to the field. Myranda had been busy. She’d managed to shake free the seeds from the trees and bushes and grow a veritable forest to hide in. It was far too dense to see through, and the girl was still able to thwart her detection spell.

  “Clever girl, but there are more ways than one to track prey,” Azriel said.

  She began to stalk forward, seeming to waft away and back again as a pitch-black wolf with the same flickering white fire in her eyes. The air carried the scent of her target as clear as day. As she followed it, the trees nearest to her withered and died.

  Far ahead, Myranda moved--unseen but not unknown--through the thick woods of her own creation. Precious little sun made it through the leaves, a fact that made her feel all the better. As a minute ticked by, then another, the tiniest hint of a feeling of safety came over her. It was a feeling quickly dispelled when she heard the quiet swish of grass beneath feet other than her own. She looked about, trying to spot her hunter, but Azriel made the very sun in the sky sink below the horizon, replacing it with a moon with hardly the strengt
h to allow more than a few rays to peek through the thick canopy. Silently, Myranda managed to climb the nearest tree.

  In a lone spot of moonlight, she saw the flicker of a black lupine form, and she realized how she had been found. She conjured a wind from behind her hunter to carry the scent away, but it was too late. The branches of the tree closed in around her like a cage. The moon seemed to brighten, lighting the cleared path leading to the castle.

  Something, moving fast, came bursting out of the distant doorway toward them. It was the pedestal, book and pen perched firmly on top. When the pedestal was beside her, Azriel resumed her proper form. She took up the pen. Myranda drew all of the heat she could from the branches. They stiffened, crackling and flaking as the cold rendered them fragile. The desperate girl lashed out against the embrittled wood. The limbs gave way far more suddenly and fully than she had expected. Every last branch and much of the trunk collapsed into large, icy chunks.

  Myranda landed amid the rubble and scrambled to her feet. The bulk of the pieces had dropped atop Azriel herself, as well as the pedestal. There was a powerful aura emanating from beneath the pile. If the fury of one was ever strong enough to be felt by another, then this surely was it. Myranda sprinted away, terrified of what may happen next. After a few moments, Azriel exploded from beneath the pile. The sky turned blood-red, glowing with a light that permeated all beneath it.

  “No one--no one--attacks me. You little witch. This is no longer just a game,” her voice thundered as she floated high above the tree tops.

  With a thrust of her hand the trees were spread with such force that some were torn from their roots. Myranda was knocked to the ground by the force of the energy. The ground beneath her began to rumble. A vast rift split the ground, large enough to swallow trees whole. Myranda clung to the edge, but was suddenly wrenched into the air. She fought hard against the force that held her, but it had a grip on her that she could not break. The ground below her began to glow almost white hot.

  “What are you going to do?” Myranda cried.

  As an answer, the molten ground swirled up around her. The heat was unimaginable as she found herself concealed in a void of the swirling ball of liquid stone. As it cooled, it became clear, and she saw Azriel with a look of satisfaction on her face. Myranda was lowered to the still-scalding hot floor of her glass prison.

  “Now. To mark my success,” she said.

  The pen came to her hand and she turned to the book. Dipping the tip of the quill in the ink, she pressed it to paper, or at least tried to. With a waver, the pen passed right through the book. Azriel clenched her fist and whisked the illusion away.

  “Where is it!” she demanded.

  Myranda answered only with a cold, silent stare. Azriel turned and held out her palm toward the castle in the distance. The entire contents of the bookshelf, as well as the hourglass, streaked across the ground to meet her. A wave of the same hand flung all of the books open at once. The pages fluttered, each revealing itself to be completely filled. She turned viciously to Myranda. The girl removed the red-covered book from her tunic and grinned. Azriel wrenched it from her hands, clinking it against the wall of her transparent cell.

  Myranda snatched it back and protected it with all of the strength of mind she could muster, which in this place was more than considerable.

  “Release it, girl. There is precious little air in there, and it grows more precious by the moment. It will not last you until the time runs out. I will make sure of that,” Azriel said.

  “You cannot win. If you break this to have the book, I will be free and you will not be able to sign it. If you don’t, I will last the time limit. If I meditate, I will hardly have to breathe at all,” Myranda fairly taunted.

  Azriel gritted her teeth. The world around them was crumbling in the wake of her anger. Myranda clutched the book and turned away. The mystic pull on the book relinquished just long enough for a small opening to appear in the side of the capsule. Myranda turned to the blast of cool air, holding the book in front of her. Azriel tore it from her hands and whipped it open. Myranda grabbed it and struggled to pull it back, but Azriel had it in her hands now. Myranda pulled and pulled with her mind, and the book constantly threatened to slip from the teacher’s grasp, but she managed to produce the pen and, in a very unsteady scrawl, mark down Myranda’s name.

  With the deed done, the sky resumed its azure hue, the faults in the ground sealed over, and the capsule containing Myranda vanished. She lowered gently to the ground. The delightful little cottage that served as the start to the trying ordeal seemed to form again around them. A moment later, while she was still dazed from the sudden and complete change, Myranda’s friends reappeared. Deacon rushed to her, having seen all that had happened. Myn scampered over, happy to see Myranda again, but stopped suddenly to survey her friend.

  Myranda looked ragged and worn out. She was drenched with sweat. Vast patches of her clothes were scorched. Myn glanced first at Deacon, then at Azriel, eager to find someone to blame. The decision did not take long, as she gave Deacon a quick series of lashes with her tail as punishment.

  “Ouch. I was beside you the entire time! I couldn’t have done this,” he said, reaching down to help Myranda up.

  “She should be very proud of herself. It was a tremendous showing. I dare say she figured a spell or two out for herself while she was being tested. The mark of potential to be sure,” Azriel remarked, once again fully composed and matriarchal. She was busy arranging the red and white books again, a look of mild confusion on her face. She was having trouble fitting them on the appropriate shelves.

  “You certainly outperformed me on my first failure. I required no less than three attempts to complete it,” Deacon reassured her. “I shudder to think what would have become of me had I put up half of the resistance you did. I was a bit worried toward the end.”

  When Myranda stood, a book slipped from her tunic and dropped to the ground. The rogue book, a red-covered one, drew the attention of all present. Azriel knelt to retrieve it, placing it on the table beside the one in which she had just marked Myranda’s name. They were identical. The teacher silently waved her hand over the first book. The red color faded to white.

  “Clever, clever girl,” she said quietly.

  Deacon’s jaw hung agape as Azriel flipped to the last occupied page of the newly-white book, where Myranda’s name could be clearly seen.

  “Well then. I would not say that it was the most straightforward method, but a technicality is nonetheless a victory in this case. It would appear you have passed after all. I wonder--when did you steal the two books?” Azriel asked.

  “While you were dispelling my illusions one by one,” Myranda said, lowering herself shakily to a chair.

  “And you stumbled into the bookcase to cover your tracks. Brilliant!” Deacon said.

  “You certainly fought valiantly to keep hold of that book, despite the fact that it was the one you had wanted me to sign all along,” Azriel said.

  “I thought you might suspect something if I didn’t. Not to mention I was not certain it would work, and I was afraid of how you might have reacted had you discovered what I’d done,” Myranda said.

  “You could have been killed for the sake of a ruse!” Deacon said.

  “Well, I don’t think she would have killed me,” Myranda said with a weak smile.

  “I most certainly would have. What do you suppose the black book is for? It contains the names of those whose ambition overcame their resourcefulness. Lucky for you, I was able to wrestle the book from your grip before I wrestled the breath from your lungs,” Azriel said. It was unnerving how nonchalantly she was able to seem when speaking about her willingness to kill.

  Myranda swallowed hard as the realization of her situation swept over her.

  “Well, I would so love to chat with you, but I simply must improve my spells. I still cannot believe you managed to keep me out of your head. That is a rather rare feat. Off with you. Go do some well-deser
ved bragging,” Azriel said.

  Myranda and Deacon quickly obeyed. Suddenly, Deacon’s fear of her seemed entirely justified. They kept a rather brisk pace, with Myn trotting behind, until they came to a seemingly arbitrary spot in the field surrounding the cottage.

  “Wait here, would you?” Deacon said.

  “Why here?” Myranda asked.

  “We have reached the edge of the arena. I must retrieve your staff,” he said.

  He leaned forward, the very air in front of him seeming to ruffle like a curtain as he vanished, first to the shoulders, then to the waist. When he stood again, his upper body reappearing, he held the staff. He was also dripping wet.

  “There. You will need this if you hope to make it back to your hut,” he said.

  “Why? I feel quite well. A bit shaken, but aside from my poor heart, I don’t believe I am any the worse for wear. I feel better now than when I entered,” she said.

  “Yes, and you will lose that benefit when you leave,” he said, handing her the staff. “Now, watch your step.”

  Myranda took a few steps forward. As soon as her head left the boundary of the arena, she felt as though all of her strength had been sapped from her. She leaned heavily on the staff for support. It sunk partway into the muddy ground. The downpour she had inadvertently caused was still raging. In some places the water was ankle-deep. When she had taken a moment to adjust to the state of mental drain she once again found herself in, she spoke.

  “Why hasn’t someone stopped this rain?” Myranda asked.

  “There is your answer,” Deacon said, pointing to an odd sight at the edge of the lake in the distance.

  “What is it? My eyes won’t focus,” she said.

  “Ayna is arguing with Calypso. This happens every time a storm must be stopped. Storms are all wind and water, so it falls to either Ayna or Calypso to manage them as our resident experts, but Ayna will not let Calypso do so. While Calypso does not care about the storm, one of her favorite things in life is torturing Ayna, so she categorically refuses to allow Ayna to do so either. More than once, the argument has outlasted the storm. Forget about that, though. Let us get you to bed. Tomorrow night is the blue moon and you must be at your best,” he said.