LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  There was a frightened scream, then angry shouts. “Grab him!”

  “How?”

  “Find something! Kill him!”

  “But he has done nothing to wrong you.” The Ilangien’s voice went unheeded.

  The Demon had also ceased listening. He drew the flames higher and moved toward the people, his violet eyes ablaze. The crowd stumbled backward and parted, but the Demon knew he had to hurry before their fear turned to violence. He continued his steady advance toward the door, unaware that several individuals had already grown bold. One rushed up behind him, a stool raised over his head.

  The Demon spun and met the weapon with his fire-laden arms. The stool splintered and broke into flaming pieces. “Nigqora!” he shouted in pain, but he did not slow. He turned and fled toward the door, smashing it open with his shoulder. The cold rain assailed him, and the shock distracted him enough that his fiery deterrent immediately extinguished.

  His feet, however, never ceased in their flight. “Wanting in substance” though he was, he was fast, and he had disappeared into the shadows of another building before anyone could give pursuit. In an alley, he took a moment to catch his breath and tear the boots from his feet. The Demon assumed his true form, stretching his clawed toes and not caring that his pair of leathery white wings had ruined another set of clothing. His bloodied arms throbbed, but nothing seemed to be broken, so he directed his attention to the side of the building and began his nimble climb to the roof. Once there, he kept his body low and looked to see if anyone was searching for him on the ground. Most of the patrons had lost interest, lingering at the tavern door or disappearing inside. Just a few ventured into the street with watchful eyes. There was no sight of the Ilangien.

  The Demon crawled to the back of the building and extended his wings. Nothing ever happened the easy way; he should have expected something to go awry. No matter. He summoned a strong updraft to catch in his wings, and then he pushed himself into empty air. He pumped his flight muscles, gaining altitude before he caught a steady current to carry him along. The cold was penetrating and harsh, a blatant contrast to the comfort of the carriage. At least he was free—unimpeded by walls, villages, or drunken fools. And he was finally on his way to Mystland.

  The sky was growling, growing darker. He felt it shake the earth beneath his feet, felt it travel through him. It was coming. He had crept outside to his secret hideaway to play, but even in this hidden haven amongst the trees and bushes, he could not hide from Sielor—the “sky monster”—as he called it. Already it was tearing at the trees with its wind-claws, batting the palms as if to search beneath their leafy fronds…searching for him.

  Sielor growled again, louder this time. He covered his ears and cowered there, at the base of the twisted little tree he loved to climb. His heart pounded with every passing moment, and his growing fear entreated him to run as fast as his legs would allow. Be quiet, and it will not find you. Don’t cry. Don’t move. Six-year-old logic was simple but seldom reliable.

  There was a sharp crack where Sielor’s knife-sharp fingers sliced open the clouds, silver-white tears splitting down to the earth. He drew a sharp breath and fled. The leafy vines and tropical vegetation that had been his refuge now sought to snare him. Twice he nearly tripped and fell. He passed the fire rock and the remnants of the blaze the older children had left. The sharp, black peak of the mountain temple was his beacon; he was nearly home.

  The sky grew darker still, the shadow of Sielor’s belly looming over him. Lightning lacerated the sky again, closer this time. Startled, he missed a step and fell forward onto the rocky ground. The stinging pain of his skinned and bloody knees momentarily distracted him from the monster. Don’t cry, he told himself. Keep running. He stood and began again.

  The next strike was deafening in its proximity, and he could feel his hands and feet tingling. Go away! he thought desperately. Now he could see the base of the mountain, the door to the servants’ quarters. Just a little farther! He could hide in his mother’s room, beneath her bed. Her spirit would protect him.

  He raced through the doorway, nearly toppling someone who had crossed his path. He did not stop to see who it was. No one could stop him now. He scrambled up the steps and down the torch-lit hall. His mother’s door appeared before him, and he tugged frantically at the handle. At first it did not move, but then he pulled with all his feather-weight. It gave suddenly, and he nearly flew back into the wall.

  The tingling had spread to his arms and legs. Please, Mother! Help me! He wrenched the door closed behind him and dove under the bed. The window had never been sealed, and now the forceful drafts tore through the room and unsettled the blankets and the rugs. Outside Sielor growled so loudly he thought his ears might burst. The very room seemed to shake, and he pressed his eyes tight and clenched his fists to his face.

  The door flung open, and he gasped. His father’s feet stood at the threshold, then marched toward the bed. The whole structure above him shifted in one great motion, and there his father towered above him, grim-faced and terrible. He gave a cry and tried to run, but his father snatched him up in arms of stone.

  He screeched, tearing and kicking and squirming. His father only tightened his grip and carried him back into the hall, down the steps. He saw the fleeting faces of the servants as he was swiftly brought outside to the storm, to the monster.

  His father set him down and shoved him against a familiar tree, pinning him there with one great hand. The trunk was blackened and scarred with long gouges where his claws had fought for his freedom. He was helpless to struggle as the rope tightened around his shoulders, rubbed at his skin. Then his legs were bound so that he could not thrash about.

  His entire body tingled, and he hurt from the inside, as though someone was pounding through his stomach with a rock. His eyes widened as they turned to the churning sky. Sielor was waiting. It saw him. He shivered in terror.

  His father left him—left him for the monster. Something sharp struck from inside him, and the sky was torn in two. Bright, hot light engulfed him, and then it was dark.

  The Demon wiped his sleeve across his damp forehead, forgetting the bandage that was already there. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the first nightmare he had about his childhood, and in fact, he had already had this particular one—different versions of it—several times. He did his best to shake off the residual tension the vision had caused him. As a child, he had not known about his connection to the elements—the Old Magic that had been passed to him through his mixed parentage. His father must have suspected his son was a mage, but if he had, he had never cared to enlighten him. As a result, the first twelve years of the Demon’s life was spent in unending terror of storms.

  Once he had discovered his mage abilities, the Demon began to master his control of the magic. This task was made more difficult by the strength of his connection to the elements. His emotions would inadvertently affect the environment around him. If he grew angry enough, trees might smolder and ignite. If he was depressed, it might rain for days. When his brother took him to Mystland to better learn about his magic, the Demon discovered that mages were quite rare and very different from the wizards who tried to teach him. His tutelage was a growing point of frustration that eventually caused him to leave Mystland. He would have to be his own teacher.

  The Demon knew his dream was inspired, in part, by the fact that he was returning to medori territory. His proximity to the magic there always prompted a strange and inborn flaw: a welling. He would feel the pressure build inside him steadily, and whether it would take days or hours, the magic would have to be released. This usually took the form of a short but extremely violent and destructive storm that left him unscathed and temporarily weakened. Once the fatigue wore away, he felt great.

  Now he stared at the road as it slipped under and behind the covered wagon bed, wondering when he might experience those initial symptoms of his magical bane. Certainly he would have to part ways from Rinn, the
middle-aged merchant who had reluctantly allowed him to ride in the back with his leather goods. The scent of boots, shoes, purses, horse tack, and other crafted items was not unpleasant, though at times it overwhelmed his sensitive nose. The Demon kept to the canvas opening, breathing in the chill evening air, huddled beneath his torn cloak.

  He had achieved a fair start on the wing—covering a bit of ground until the rain, his hunger, and his exhaustion forced him to land. Rinn had found him before nightfall, as he walked along the berm of the Western Link. The merchant had stopped his wagon and asked bluntly if the Demon needed a ride. Then he had pointed to the back, and that had been the extent of their exchange thus far. For the Demon, it was the perfect scenario: no questions, no staring, no expectations.

  He shivered from the dampness and coughed into his sleeve. Rinn would probably stop at the next village, and there he could scrounge a hasty meal before retreating back to the wagon. The Demon closed his eyes and laid his head back against a soft, leather bag. This time when sleep found him, there was only darkness and quiet—peace.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DEAD

  “THIS IS IT, KID. Out.”

  The words did not quite register as a rough hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from sleep. The Demon blinked.

  “C’mon. Out,” Rinn repeated, his gritty voice emotionless. “Can’t afford to catch whatever it is you have.”

  The Demon said nothing, still in a daze. He gathered his cloak around him and climbed out of the wagon bed, his bare feet landing in a cold puddle. He shivered and looked around. Another small village; Rinn had stopped at the front of an inn. The Demon turned to ask him what he could pay him, but already the merchant was driving away.

  Without much thought, the Demon headed for the lodging. He approached the innkeeper behind the counter. “What’s the p-price of a r-room for the night,” he asked through chattering teeth.

  The man studied him. “Are you alright, boy?”

  “I’m f-fine.” He was not fine. His head was burning, his eyes watering. The rest of him felt like he had taken a dip in an icy lake. It hurt to move, though he could not stop shaking. And then there was the pressure within….

  “You look a little pale. Maybe you need a drink.” He tried to get a better look beneath the Demon’s hood. “Here, sit down.”

  The Demon swayed on his feet, slightly dizzy. “Jus’ a room, p-please,” he said, his voice giving out. The innkeeper understood, naming a price. The Demon fished out the coin purse and set several pieces on the counter. He could not focus enough to determine their value, and he did not care. Whatever it was, it must have been sufficient, because the man took the coins without a word.

  “Up the stairs. Third door on the right,” the innkeeper said. Then he called a woman over and began speaking to her in a hushed voice.

  The Demon was already heading for the stairwell. He made the first few steps, but the world seemed to contort and tilt with every movement he made. He stepped into empty air and fell forward with a loud thud. His vision darkened, then returned, and when the ringing in his ears subsided, he became aware that a woman was asking if he was all right.

  “Sorry,” the Demon mumbled, ignoring her hand and crawling the rest of the way up. At the top he was able to brace himself against the wall, his breathing heavy. The woman had gone, maybe. He could not tell. Third room. Right side. He counted twice to make sure it was the correct door, then opened it cautiously. The interior was empty but for a bed. Pale light shone through a foggy window, illuminating the bed like some celestial gift that had appeared just for him. He made straight for it, but collapsed just shy of the mattress.

  When the Demon woke next, he was unsure how much time had passed. He knew he had journeyed in Rinn’s wagon for a few days, but he had forgotten exactly where he was and when he had arrived. He was in a bed, and daylight burned his eyes. As it was, he could barely open them. Someone had kicked him in the gut, or so it seemed. Oqrantos, mora-miq, he thought, wishing to be relieved of his misery.

  Through his bleary vision, he detected a tray next to his bed. His fingers groped until they found a bowl with something thick and cold inside. Carefully, he picked it up and brought it near him—a task nearly impossible with his constant trembling. The spoon was even worse. His hands shook so badly that it was all he could do not to get the mystery meal all over himself. Whatever made it into his mouth was bland and gritty—probably how clay would taste if one were to eat it. He gave up on the meal and curled into a ball, shivering beneath the blankets. His thoughts came and went, as did his consciousness.

  He awoke yet again, but this time the room was darker. And there were voices.

  “…not sure what he is….”

  “…white as the snow, wings….”

  “…burning with fever….”

  “…can’t turn him out.”

  “…can’t let him stay. Need the room….”

  “What if he dies? Or if we catch….”

  There was a pressure on his arm. “Can you hear me, boy?”

  The Demon drew a breath and tried to focus on the innkeeper’s face.

  “We did what we could for you, but we can’t let you stay. We need the room for another patron.”

  One-handed, the Demon feebly searched beneath the pillow and withdrew the coin purse. He gave it to the innkeeper.

  “I can’t take this,” the man said. “You don’t need to pay us for your stay, but you see…” He sighed. “We can’t have a sick kid here. If this should spread… I’m sorry.”

  Weakly, the Demon gave a nod. He could barely lift his head from the pillow, and when he did, he thought he might vomit. There was a set of strong hands that helped him to his feet, supported him.

  “Give him the blanket,” a woman said, and the Demon felt the weight of the material fall across his shoulders.

  His assistance through the hall and down the stairs was a blur. Then he was outside, in the dark, blinking at the starry sky. And he was alone. His body shook—hard enough that he had to stand against a wall to keep from falling. When the episode passed, he was completely spent. He found a corner between the inn and the neighboring building where he huddled under his blanket, unseen.

  The Demon’s thoughts turned to his brother. How did you live with this? How could you bear it? He stared at the empty street. Maybe I won’t make it. Maybe someone will find me here after I’m dead. He wondered what sort of discovery he would be—a rag-clothed, white-skinned, half-blooded demon-mage bastard. Bizarre, but no great loss. Then his feverish mind ventured down strange avenues—imagining someone cutting off his wings and selling them…his half-frozen body being tossed into some great bonfire…rats eating off his toes. It was with this last hallucination that he became aware of an approaching figure.

  Em’ri? he wondered. Is that you? Have you come for me? He waited to see his brother’s face, but there was nothing familiar about this person. He felt the blanket lift from his shoulders, saw the coin purse in the stranger’s hand. He tried to move, but all he could do was tremble. Stop! he wanted to shout, but a strangled gasp was all that left him. The vagrant walked off without another glance, the victor in this battle of survival.

  I have nothing left to lose. And it was true. At least someone would profit from his misery. The long, cold hours of night passed, and so, too, did his consciousness.

  The Demon was unsure whether or not he was dreaming when he saw a glimmer of light at the end of the alley. For all he knew, he was already dead, and this was his welcome to some sort of afterlife—the one in which he did not believe. When the pain in his stomach intensified, he decided this was definitely a place of eternal punishment to which he had been sent.

  He opened his eyes fully and stared at the approaching shape.

  “Unhappy fate,” a sympathetic voice murmured. “I am truly sorry, Durmorth.”

  The Demon turned away. Eraekryst’s sincerity only angered him. He did not want anyone’s sympathy, but here he was, helpless,
and the most pathetic of creatures. He was embarrassed and ashamed and almost felt it would have been better had the Ilangien discovered his lifeless body.

  The Demon would have liked nothing more than to turn Eraekryst away with a sentiment conveying his true feelings, but since he had survived the night, he needed help contending with a serious problem: the welling. How, exactly, he expected the Ilangien to assist him when they could not so much as make contact, he did not know. He forced himself to meet Eraekryst’s silver-blue regard. “I need to go…into the forest.” There was not much to his voice, but the Ilangien had heard him.

  “Is this an immediate request?”

  The Demon nodded.

  Eraekryst studied him absently, his mind clearly at work. Then he rubbed his chin and asked, “Do you trust me?”

  The Demon stared at him dubiously.

  Eraekryst sighed. “I need you to sleep whilst you are taken to the forest. Will you allow it?”

  You didn’t feel the need to ask before, and I don’t think I have a choice at this point, the Demon thought. He gave the Ilangien another nod.

  “Very well.” Eraekryst flicked his wrist, and the Demon slumped over, unconscious yet again.

  “Oh, I am a man stricken by grief!”

  The innkeeper, his wife, and the few others present turned in surprise to the tall, pale man who had burst through the entrance.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” the innkeeper asked, alarmed.

  Eraekryst pressed a fist to his forehead and shut his eyes. “’Tis my brother. I have found him.” He opened his eyes and turned to his audience. “He lies dead in the alley,” he said with a quavering voice. “I know not how or why, but he is there.” He covered his face with his hands.