LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  The Demon, too, focused upon the barrier. His next little trick would be difficult and taxing. If it truly was the door, he should be able to pass through. If it was solid rock, he would be forever trapped, keeping the Ilangien company in his mountain prison.

  His entire form darkened, and his fingers faded, becoming translucent and insubstantial as smoke. He reached into the stone as the rest of his intangible body passed beyond the room and through the door that was not. It was like walking through a wall of viscous, sticky mud; as much as he pushed at the solid matter, it pulled at him. It took all his focus to keep himself together while in his shadowy form, and walking through solid matter was probably the most arduous and dangerous feat he could attempt. He could only imagine the consequences should he make a mistake.

  He emerged on the other side, in the familiar corridor. Becoming solid once again, the Demon took a moment to catch his breath and clear his mind. That damn drone made thinking nearly impossible. He did not know how long he had been inside the Ilangien’s prison, but he doubted it had been long enough for the mountain stewards to cease their investigation. With a glowing immortal at his side, the advantage of remaining unseen would be useless.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door, keeping it propped with his body. The Ilangien stepped outside, and the glowing green runes that lit the corridor blazed bright white. Sieqa! An alarm! The prisoner was already walking quickly down the passage. The Demon had to take a moment to gather himself before he hurried after him, for the sound had become blaring and painful, the light blinding to his sensitive eyes.

  They rounded the corner and came upon a steward heading in their direction. He had been carrying a tray of food, and upon seeing the two refugees, dropped it in surprise. He stood dumbly in the middle of the hall. The Demon did not hesitate; he raced for the steward and slammed him against the wall. He waited for the Ilangien to run past before he followed close behind him.

  They pushed through the door and raced down the stairs, but just as they approached the door to the kitchen, several stewards came to detain them. The Ilangien paused, and the Demon—nearly mad with pain—almost crashed into him from behind.

  For all the trouble the Demon had already encountered, for all his urgency to recover the items for his employer, for all the agony he endured now—he was not about to let some bald-headed mountain priests keep him from his escape. Too exhausted to employ his magic, he would try something else—something that only he knew was a testament to true desperation. He flung back his hood, revealing his true form as something other than Human. His violet eyes blazed, and a pair of leathery, white wings erupted from his back. He spread them wide and charged. “Get out o’ my way!” he growled.

  Even if the stewards did not understand him, the intent was clear. Sharp teeth bared, glowing animal eyes, long tapered ears, menacing claws, and dragon wings—all this headed toward them in a fury. Terrified of this white demon, they scattered and fled.

  The Demon made straight for the lift that yet remained waiting in the kitchen. From the insistent desire to vomit, he knew the Ilangien was right behind him. He did not have to urge the prisoner inside, but once the two of them were in the confined space, he finally expelled the bile that had been promising to escape him. “Y’ make me sick,” he gasped, weakly gripping the rope and pulling at it, one hand over the other.

  The Ilangien frowned. “The sensation is mutual, Durmorth,” he said in a frail voice.

  The Demon glanced at him but said nothing. The lift took them down until it would go no farther. The passage opened to the temple before them. The space appeared to be empty. The Demon placed a finger near the pulley’s rope, and a violet flame jumped from his clawed fingertip. In another moment, the rope caught fire, blackening as the flames traveled upward. They quit the lift and made for the exit that would take them to the storage room. They were halfway across the temple floor when the Ilangien froze in mid-stride, the bag dropping from his hand.

  The Demon spun to see what had happened. “What’s the matter, mate?” Though his eyes darted nervously around the temple, they kept returning to see the source of the prisoner’s trouble. The Ilangien did not respond—did not move at all—though the thin collar around his neck was now glowing faintly.

  He heard footfalls and saw a steward dressed in a black robe approaching them. The man demanded something in another language, and the Demon was not sure if he should wait or flee. The Ilangien was undoubtedly under the steward’s power, but the bag was there—discarded on the floor. He could take it and run.

  He met the Ilangien’s gaze, knew he could see his thoughts as if he had voiced them aloud. Just run, he told himself. Take the bag and run! But he did not. Where others might find a need for self-preservation, the Demon’s moral conscience decided his course of action. He tensed as the steward drew nearer, his eyes frantically searching for something he could use to his advantage.

  With but a glance, the Demon pulled the flames from the green torches to the runner upon which the man stood. Flames flared high between him and them, overpowering the steward so that he fell backward. The Demon nearly collapsed right there from the exertion, but instead he swallowed another round of bile and staggered after the Ilangien. The prisoner had recovered the bag.

  They fled down the ramp into the storage room and to the beacon of outside light that streamed through the mountain’s wall. The Demon paused before the windlass, studying the end of the rope with the hook attached. He knew their escape would not be easy, but climbing down the rocks was a better alternative to plummeting to the rocks below. If Jaice Ginmon was already waiting in the small boat, then he would be able to draw them in from the treacherous shore.

  He picked up the rope, drew a length of it, and ported it outside to the precipice. He stepped past the Ilangien and threw the rope over the brink. He had done a fair estimation of the length he would need, for the hooked end only dangled four or five feet above the water.

  “I ‘ope y’re strong enough to climb.” The Demon looked at the prisoner. The Ilangien was a world away, if he was anywhere at all. At first the Demon thought he might have been snared by another spell, for he did not move—even when the rising winds buffeted against him. He stood tall and straight, staring with wide glittering eyes at the ocean. Then he blinked, and the Demon saw the glimmer of a tear run down his ashen face and along the contours of his sunken features. Despite the urgency of their situation, the Demon could not bring himself to press him. Just how long had it been since this prisoner had seen outside the mountain?

  Together they stood for a moment, watching the waves crash beneath a cloud-veiled sun. Presently they heard shouts from behind them, and the Ilangien gave a nod. “I am ready,” he said and secured the bag over his neck and shoulder. With more grace and agility than the Demon thought him capable, he gripped the rope, eased himself over the edge, and began to scale his way down.

  The Demon waited until the prisoner was halfway to the water before he followed suit. It was all he could do to keep his hold on the rope, for though he was free of the mountain, the drone, and the light, his head still assailed him with dizzying pain, and a growing weakness made his limbs shaky and unreliable. The voices above him had grown louder, and a glance revealed foreign faces peering down at him from the ledge. They were encouragement enough for him to quicken his descent. He heard the splash of water from below and knew the Ilangien had quit the rope. So long as he did not drown, the bag would keep the objects safe and dry until they could be delivered. The Demon would be glad to be rid of them.

  He felt the rope jerk and nearly lost his grip. His hands had slid several inches, and his palms burned from the friction. He paused and realized that he was still moving—in the wrong direction. The stewards were using the windlass to pull him upward. Sieqa.

  The Demon looked down to assess the distance. Ten feet, maybe more, to go. He tried to lower himself as fast as he could, but it was not enough, and his hands were tearing open. Even if he ope
ned his wings, the updrafts would carry him straight into the side of the mountain. There was only one choice.

  He took a deep breath and let go of the rope. Not a heartbeat later, his body glanced off a rock, and he plunged under the water. He knew he was reliving the delightful experience he had before his infiltration of Kirou-Mekus…only now he was certain there would be no mermaid to assist him.

  The Demon fought his way to the surface and caught sight of the boat. Already Jaice was helping the Ilangien aboard. If he could do it… He pushed and kicked against the current, swallowing mouthfuls of salty water. He would dip under as the waves smothered him, but he did not cease his efforts. Slowly he was closing the distance. Something brushed against him, and he started, his thoughts instantly upon the mermaid. It was not her but a rope. Eagerly he took hold and felt himself being hauled through the water.

  A strong and calloused hand took hold of his scrawny wrist and hoisted him upward and over the side of the boat. Like a dead fish he lay there with his eyes closed, catching his breath. Something large and thick fell upon him, but the blanket would not quell his shivering.

  “Oi, boy-o, don’t die on me,” Jaice Ginmon’s chipper voice reached his ears. “Y’ got what y’ came for and brought a mate with y’. No worries now. I’ll get us outta ‘ere.” A pause. “What, y’ crack y’r ‘ead open?”

  “’S nothing,” the Demon heard himself mumble. Already he was drifting away in the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALL TALK

  THE SOUND OF soft scraping coaxed the Demon back to consciousness. He found this new environment immediately more agreeable: no head-splitting drones, green flames, or icy waves. Beneath him were musty but soft blankets, and a gentle but persistent pressure on his brow told him that someone had cared enough to dress his wound. In the quiet darkness, a lonely lantern swayed, hanging from the low ceiling. Under the light sat his benefactor, the adventurer Jaice Ginmon.

  The stocky man was not much older than thirty, and for all Jaice must have witnessed in his travels abroad, he was undaunted by the Demon’s unique appearance. No one else aboard the ship would have dared to lower the Demon’s hood, let alone move him to a better setting. Had this venture been anything other than business, he and Jaice could have easily been friends. But they were the only members of the expedition who had yet to be paid, and once that transaction was completed on shore, their paths would separate.

  For now, however, the Demon was glad he could trust at least one person aboard the ship. He watched Jaice’s obsidian knife shave away curls of pine from his carving. As of yet, Jaice had not whittled enough to define any recognizable form. Without lifting his eyes from the piece, the adventurer spoke, his familiar gritty voice and southern accent filling the space of the small room. “’Ow’s y’r ‘ead, mate?”

  “Bonzer,” the Demon replied, weaker than he would have liked.

  “Jus’ glad y’ decided to wake up. Smiley was ready to bury y’ at sea.” He grinned.

  Smiley, the Demon thought, amused. Jaice had a nickname for everyone, and the Jornoan, Safir-Tamik, was as pleasant as a fish full of maggots. Aside from “Smiley,” the Demon knew the swarthy man as Asmat. Asmat had been one of Priagent Rashir’s seven brothers, and when the Priagent was killed, Asmat was the only one to have escaped. In the Demon’s mind, that made him a coward or a traitor—probably both—though clearly the man had found another alliance. The Demon did not care who he worked for or what name he assumed; there was no love lost between them. Asmat was the one who had beaten him when he had been taken prisoner by the Priagent, and even though the Jornoan was not responsible for the slaughter of the Prophet’s clan of thieves—the Demon’s surrogate family—he was the only one left alive to shoulder that blame.

  If anyone deserves a shove off the deck, it’s him, and I’d be too happy to serve him. Gingerly the Demon sat up and made an effort to return to his more Human semblance.

  “Y’re not so scary,” Jaice said, glancing at him and the apparent change. “I knew y’ weren’t like most blokes, but ‘struth I didn’t know some pretty-boy was ‘iding ‘neath that ‘ood. Neat trick, though—changing y’r shape. Never seen a caster do that before. So what do y’ really look like, eh?”

  The Demon drew his hood. “I’m really a girl.”

  Jaice nearly dropped his carving. “Oi, don’t toy with me mind, mate!” A sly smile spread across his scruffy face, and he raised an eyebrow. “A pretty girl?”

  “Touch me, and y’ die.”

  “Speakin’ o’ girlies, Blondie’s all eyes for that pale bloke y’ brought aboard. ‘E ain’t said a word since I last sawr ‘im. ‘Oo is ‘e?”

  “Don’t know,” the Demon said. Aside from his aches and bruises, his stomach burned from hunger. “A prisoner.”

  As if he had read the Demon’s mind, Jaice set down his work and slid a trencher to him. “Saved this for y’. The others would’ve eaten it all, I swear.”

  The sight and scent of food was maddening—even if it was only a stale biscuit and a bowl of cold broth. The Demon greedily tore a large chunk of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Just like I thought,” Jaice said with a nod of his curly blond head. “Y’ can thank me later.”

  The Demon tipped the biscuit toward him and wolfed down another bite.

  “So I might as well tell y’ what y’ missed while y’ were napping.” Jaice gesticulated toward him with his knife. “What with Smiley and Blondie gawking at y’r mystery guest, they almost forgot the lil’ book. Since the pale bloke wasn’t answering, they turned to me—as if I could tell ‘em ennathing. So all went quiet ‘cept for the wizard. ‘E was yapping away, petting that rock like it ’twas ‘is dog. Then ‘e walked away and locked ‘imself in ‘is quarters ’til supper. Then they all wanted to celebrate, but I ain’t been paid, so I got no reason to join ‘em. Far as I know, they’re still at it.” He watched the Demon drink from the bowl. “Take it slow, there, mate.”

  The Demon lowered the bowl and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. “Where are they?”

  “Cap’n’s cabin. Pale bloke’s with ‘em. Y’ gonna join ‘em?”

  “If I don’t, they’ll find me later.” The Demon shrugged and stood, a little shaky on his feet.

  “Y’ sure y’re alright?” Jaice asked.

  “I’ll be better when I ‘ave coins in m’ pockets.” He gave the adventurer a nod and his thanks before he left the quarters for the captain’s cabin. Out on the ship’s deck, the Demon paused to regard the night sky. A thumbnail had gouged the blackness, leaving a crescent tear from where pale light pried at the world below. The Eye of Oqrantos, he thought, recalling the beliefs of his people. Always changing, always watching.

  He shook his head and gestured obscenely at the moon. Not only were his people superstitious, but they were nocturnal. It was a quality he had sought to change since leaving his homeland, and he had done so with moderate success. Decent sleep was difficult to achieve, day or night, so he rested when he was tired and traveled when he was not. For now his “travels” were limited to the ship, and he found he felt more like a prisoner than anything.

  At the thought of “prisoner,” the Demon turned his head toward the captain’s cabin, where muffled voices reached his ears through the walls. He frowned, knowing he was stalling. There was no one in that room he wanted to see, though he was curious about the Ilangien from the mountain. Not completely willing to commit to his decision to join the party, he faded to Shadow and opened the door to a small, obscure set of steps. He did not make a sound as he closed the door behind him, but his caution eased as louder voices commanded attention.

  The Demon moved down the steps to a vantage where he could remain concealed but also see the occupants of the cabin. The wizard, Lelan Jagur, was at the head of the table, farthest from the Demon and the steps. His pudgy, ale-reddened face sported a reserved smile. “I tell you, I simply do not see it. Could this be part of the legend—perhaps a bit of fiction
created to draw intrigue and mystery?” He took a long drink from his tankard.

  Luc Polson, the ship’s captain, did not wait for a reply. He was a burly, indignant man who made everyone else’s business his business—especially if he could see an advantage in doing so. “There’s nothin’ to see,” he grumbled. “He’s some poor mute bastard who probably has no idea what we’re saying. He ain’t answered a one of your questions. Nothin’ special about him.” He stared at the Ilangien, who sat across from the wizard, his back closest to the Demon.

  “Do you suggest that I’m lying?” The stiff voice belonged to Safir-Tamik, the dark-complexioned Jornoan who looked every bit the scoundrel he was. His features were sharp and tight, and his arms were folded in a posture of defiance. He glared with hard, black eyes at the captain.

  “You think I don’t know what I see?” the captain countered.

  “I do not.”

  The middle-age blonde sitting next to Safir-Tamik placed a subtle hand atop his. She said nothing, but her effect upon the Jornoan was immediate. He eased back in his chair and averted his gaze.

  The captain’s eyes turned to her—to her endowed chest. “What about you, Miss? Do you see it?”

  The woman glanced at Safir-Tamik, then turned to regard the Ilangien. “I see a prisoner whose value is guarded by his silence. Lord Tamik’s assessment is based upon experience. I trust his judgment.”

  “I would have thought that medori, for all their abilities, would be able to see creatures of magic for what they are. I was mistaken.” The corners of Safir-Tamik’s mouth upturned in a slight smile when he saw the wizard frown.

  Lelan Jagur puffed out his chest. “I am a wizard of the First Rank, but creatures of legend are creatures of legend. The frail young man in that chair is not marked by magic in any way. How likely is it that only you are able to see him as an Ilangien?”

  Safir-Tamik sat forward again, his eyes flashing. “To dismiss him as legend proves your ignorance, and your ignorance blinds you. Frail though he is, there is an aura of light surrounding him as brightly as that lantern. I have seen their kind before; the Ilangiel exist as surely as the White Demon you have hired as your thief.”