LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

“Are you going somewhere?” Maevia asked.

  “A walk. Before the storm,” the Demon said.

  “Mind you don’t wander into the labyrinth,” Neriene told them as they headed up the stairs.

  Once outside, the Demon paused, invigorated by the energy of the wind. It made him all the more eager to find the Ilangien and leave the witches’ territory.

  Miria caught her breath, surprised by the feralness of his eyes. She watched him search for a scent in the air. “How will we find him?”

  “I don’t know.” He started a light jog.

  “Where are you headed?” she tried again.

  He shook his head. “’S just a feeling.”

  She looked up at the welling of darkening clouds and gave a sigh before hurrying to catch up to him. His pace quickened as they ran downhill toward an expanse of a stone wall. There was a gap in the wall—an archway with a beast’s head carved at the apex. When he reached it, he stopped and waited for her to meet up with him.

  “Hawkshadow,” she gasped. “This is…the labyrinth….”

  As if on cue, a brilliant flash of lightning tore open the sky, and the black clouds groaned.

  “’E’s in there,” the Demon insisted.

  “What if we get lost?”

  “I’ll get us out.”

  “But—” She sighed again. “Let me stay with you.”

  He gave a nod, and together they entered the maze. The sky had grown dark enough to rival the evening light. They rounded corners and followed straightaways, sometimes encountering statues that time and weather had deformed.

  “I don’t like this,” Miria said, her eyes lit by fear. She reached for and latched onto his arm.

  I don’t either, he thought, but the energy of the storm and the blood pumping through his body had him on edge. He knew the Ilangien was close. His stomach was already protesting.

  They skirted another wall and entered a new opening—only to find they had reached a dead end.

  “Sieqa,” the Demon cursed. “There isn’t time to retrace our steps.” He looked up at the wall, which was in a state of disrepair. There were places where the stone had crumbled away, cracks and breaks that sparked an idea. He turned to Mira. “I’ll climb to the top; I’ll find ‘im faster. Just stay ‘ere.”

  “Please be careful,” she warned, then shivered in spite of herself.

  Without a backward glance, the Demon began to scale the wall, his claws finding holds in the dilapidated stonework. At the top, he spread wide his wings for balance and craned his neck to peer into the labyrinth. He cursed again when he realized the walls were too tall to get a clear view of the other passages. He looked down at Miria. “Don’t move! I’ll come back for y’.” He made a mental note of her location, ignoring her shouts of protest. When he felt the next forceful draft hit him, he spread his wings and jumped.

  The Demon was accustomed to riding the wind, but the storm had grown too strong. It was more of an effort to beat his wings and steer himself in the right direction than it was to run through the passages. And a storm of this magnitude was already beyond any control he might attempt to assert over it. A constant pain was prodding his gut, and he knew he had to land. Dammit, Erik. Where in bloody Secramore are you? He reached for the top of the nearest wall to pull himself down.

  Just as his claws gripped the stone, it crumbled beneath his weight, and he felt himself falling backward. He hit the ground, breathless. It took him a moment to realize that his head had barely missed colliding with the wall behind him. With effort, he picked himself up, grateful to be bruised but not broken. He was, however, beginning to acknowledge that this valiant effort to find the Ilangien was not working at all as he had hoped. He did not know how he would get back to Miria—even if he did find Eraekryst. And what state would the Ilangien be in? If he was injured, there would be no way to drag him out—not unless he wanted blisters atop his blisters.

  The Demon doubled over in pain. He lifted his head to scan the passage. He thought he glimpsed movement at the far end, but the first heavy drops of rain had started to fall. “Erik!” he cried.

  There was no response, but again a shadowy form wavered in the distance. It can’t be him, can it? He would have answered with some smart remark.

  He staggered closer to where he had seen the blur, as much as it pained him to do so. “Erik!” Then he watched as the darkened figure stood to its full height. It was not Eraekryst. It was tall, shrouded in dark clothing, and a soft blue light surrounded it. He stopped, and it began to advance.

  The pain intensified, and the Demon pushed himself against the wall for support. Though the figure walked toward him steadily, it moved with unnatural fluidity and speed. His eyes grew large as it came to meet him.

  The slender form stopped directly before him—close enough that he had to look up to its face, but enough distance between them that they did not touch. Beneath the depths of the hood was a woman’s visage. Her skin was the pale blue of shadows in the snow, and shimmering black locks of hair crossed her forehead and dipped behind her ears to vanish in the darkness of her attire. Her eyes were the deepening shades of a red-violet sky before a storm. As he peered into them, he saw the reflection of a barren and ravaged forest. She was terrible.

  The Demon could not move, held captive, it seemed, by her wide-eyed stare. There was a look of decided malice, as though she might strike him without warning. Her mouth set in a grim expression, she looked through him, studied him inside and out. Her maddened eyes seemed to bulge as without a word, she lifted her hand in front of him and clenched her fist, drawing forth the Shadow-malady from him as though she was pulling his innards out through his mouth. And that was exactly how it felt.

  He gasped in shock and in pain, folding like a weed beneath heavy snow. A rush of heat flooded through his body, making him stagger with dizziness. In spite of the overwhelming warmth, he trembled like he had emerged from an icy pond, and his heart ran ragged in his chest. He heard Miria’s frantic cries, and when he looked up, the dark woman was gone.

  Breathless with agony, he groped along the wall in the direction of Miria’s voice. She nearly slammed into him as she rounded a corner. “Hawkshadow!” she gasped. “Jedinom’s sword! What happened?”

  He could not begin to explain, even if he had been physically able to do so.

  She positioned herself under his arm and started to walk with him. “We need to get you out of here.” She had tried to sound calm, but he heard a quiver in her voice that betrayed her fear. He could hardly blame her; he was terrified. It took great effort to ignore the pain with each difficult step, and he knew they would never make it out of the labyrinth. The distance was too far.

  They turned a corner and slowly made their way down the wall. The space opened up into a sort of courtyard with a small building and an altar. In front of the altar, a fire blazed with expectant flames, but there was no one to be seen. The sight gave the Demon gooseflesh. “No,” he strained. “’S not it.”

  They backed away and returned to another passage in the labyrinth. The Demon gave a cry and slid from her shoulder.

  “What is it?” Miria asked, dropping to her knees.

  He clutched at his chest, the source of his pain. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow, the tightness of his lungs. He looked at her, his eyes wide as he gasped for air.

  “You’ll be all right,” Miria assured him, though he could see in her eyes that she did not place credence in her own words. “We just need to make it out. Shall we try again?”

  He gave a slight nod and allowed her to help him to his feet. They staggered through the passages for a minute before they saw a break in the wall.

  “This is it,” Miria said. “It has to be.”

  As they approached the Demon felt his veins to turn ice. “No,” he whispered, staring at the shrine in disbelief.

  “That’s impossible.”

  But there it was, the same shrine with the fire and the altar.

  “We’ll go a d
ifferent way this time,” Miria said, her voice uneven.

  They did not get far before the Demon squeezed her hand for them to stop.

  “You’re burning up. And your eyes…” Miria looked into his eyes, which were as luminous as though flames danced behind them. “I wish I knew what was wrong. I want to help you.”

  The Demon nodded toward the passage, and they were on the move again, much slower than before. They headed toward a bend, only to find that it was the end—the end of the maze. And it ended at the same shrine.

  Miria gave a cry of despair, and the Demon sank back against the wall. They watched as two figures clad in black robes emerged from the shrine and waited by the altar. One of them turned in their direction.

  Miria drew a sharp breath. Garmult’s dark, looming figure had appeared from the passage behind them, and his rigid fingers gripped her arms, restraining her. “Hawkshadow, run!”

  Even as he scrambled to escape, he knew his efforts were futile. Doubled over, he staggered painfully forward, smashing his shoulder into a wall as he rounded a corner. The rain beat down on him, and he could scarcely see through his fever-bleary eyes. He fell into the cold mud, shaking so hard that his head felt like someone was beating on it.

  “We told you not to venture into the labyrinth,” a voice said, and then he was smothered by darkness.

  “This isn’t what he wants!” Miria cried. She stared at the Demon’s limp body upon the altar, powerless to help him. The witches stood beside him, painted in the horrible red light of the flames. Their faces were ghastly. Wicked black eyes that bore no depth were sunken into sallow flesh that looked as though it might melt from their faces like candle wax. The rain had plastered their hair in dark, slick masses to their heads, giving them the appearance of drowned corpses.

  “What he wants is irrelevant,” Neriene said, throwing a menacing glance at her. “Do not interfere, lest you desire a worse fate than his.”

  Maevia opened the jar of spiders and dumped them upon the Demon’s body, murmuring the words of a spell. The arachnids scattered, leaving strands of silk in their wake. Hundreds of them crawled over his flesh, weaving a translucent shroud around his limbs, torso, and head. Once the Demon was enveloped by webbing, Maevia called the spiders back, herding them inside a stone bowl. As a dark and teeming mass, they collected in the vessel, lines of silk trailing behind them. The witch raised her pestle and smashed the lot of them into a sticky, viscous slime, which she slathered over the obsidian knife.

  “Wake him,” she directed Neriene.

  Neriene passed her hand over the Demon’s face, and at once he stirred. He tried in vain to pry himself from the stone. Neriene watched him squirm and writhe with a smile, then took her knife and cut through the webbing over his face.

  “Don’t do this,” he pleaded, when he had caught his breath.

  “You are dying, boy. What good will your magic do anyone if it is locked within a corpse?” She leaned close to talk to him, her breath like rotting flesh. “Your eyes burn with light as the Quake draws the magic to you, but it is too much for you. You will burn away, from the inside out. You tremble because your body cannot assimilate so much power. The magic tears away at you now. I imagine it must hurt you.”

  Neriene touched his feverish forehead, and the Demon shuddered. “Don’t worry. We will save you, if we can.”

  “Let me die,” he whispered.

  “That would be a terrible waste,” the witch said. “Though you may yet get your wish.”

  She moved down his body to where his arms were at his sides. She cut through the silk and raised his shaking hand, tracing the scar upon his palm. She turned to her mother, and Maevia nodded.

  Neriene stabbed the knife through his palm, and the Demon cried out. His blood pooled around the wound and dripped through his fingers onto the altar, down his arm. She withdrew the knife and brought it to the bowl, whereupon she allowed the blood to drip inside.

  Maevia began to chant.

  The Demon went rigid as shadowy tendrils lifted from his bleeding hand and followed along the silken webbing to the bowl. The shadows gathered like smoke around the obsidian blade, then disappeared within it, like water soaking into the earth.

  Maevia’s chanting grew stronger, and so did the tugging the Demon felt inside himself. The sensation had begun with small but sharp pricks, as though someone was extracting individual hairs from his body. Now it seemed as though someone was trying to force his veins through his skin. The pressure, the pulling, the burning—it drew tears from his eyes, stole his breath and left him gasping in pain. “Stop!” he cried, his voice on the verge of breaking. He tried desperately to claw through the webs that bound him.

  Meanwhile, Miria watched as the dark veil rose from the Demon like steam, drawn directly to the bowl and the knife. Unable to stand the sight, she rushed at the witches. “Please stop it! You’ll kill him!”

  Garmult caught her by the hair and wrenched her backward; Miria screamed.

  Neriene strode to meet her. “We told you not to interfere, Medoriate.” She lifted Miria’s chin, forcing her to meet her abysmal stare. “One more time, and the council will be short one member.”

  “This is murder,” Miria said through her tears.

  “The death of one lowly thief?” Neriene shook her head. “They were going to execute him one way or another. We are doing Mystland a favor.” She rejoined her mother at the altar to assess their victim. The Demon’s face was drawn, his brow soaked in rain and sweat. His eyes were pressed shut as his rigid body writhed, wracked by frequent tremors. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps; he did not seem aware of her presence.

  Neriene’s satisfied smile dropped like withered leaves from a tree. “We must act faster,” she shouted above the rain. “This opportunity is slipping from us!”

  Maevia began to shout, her words commanding the entirety of the Durós to abandon its host.

  An impenetrable black mist lifted from the Demon’s body, rending his magical being in half. The darkness spewed from his mouth, through his eyes, out his nose and ears. It seeped from his pores, from the very blood that coursed within him. He screamed—a shrill and unnatural sound that stained the air like blood.

  He was silenced as the sky ripped open with a steady stream of electrical energy that raced down and collided with his body, sending rivulets of light through the webbing. When the blinding illumination dissipated, all in witness to the scene were slow to recover their senses. The fire had been extinguished, and the clouds had lightened. The only sound was the falling rain.

  The Larini huddled over the bowl, and Maevia lifted the obsidian blade to the sky. Even against the muted light, a halo of shadow surrounded the object. “By the gods,” she breathed, “it worked.” She and Neriene exchanged a spreading smile. “We hold a fragment of the Durós!”

  Miria was deaf to their words as she approached the altar. The Demon’s body lay still, his eyes shut, his mouth slightly ajar. She covered her lips to stifle a cry, new tears springing forward as her eyes swept over him. The webbing that had held him fast was blackened and brittle, and she tore it away from his gray-cast face as though it was paper. “I’m sorry I failed you,” she whispered, her voice choked. Her fingers reached for his exposed hand, and she clasped it tightly in her own.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  COME THE NIGHT

  THE SOUND of his own labored breathing awakened him, breaking the silence of his darkened world. He felt as though he was beneath a blanket, with his senses muted, but he was anything but warm. He opened his eyes to a moment of panic. I’m blind! He could see nothing but shades of light and dark. He shut his eyes and tried to rub them, but his arms met with resistance—as though they were not a part of his body.

  The Demon struggled to remember what had happened to him, why he felt so empty and lifeless. Am I dead?

  With difficulty he lifted his arms and brought his hands to his face. Something did not feel right. Beneath his fingertips was a thin, loose
, membranous substance, almost greasy in texture. He found it compliant to pressure, and he peeled it away. The outside light met his eyes, and the brightness burned. He blinked away his tears and stared at the monochromatic clouds in the sky. He was not blind, but this was but a small consolation.

  He looked at his hands, his claws, holding them still above him. Holding them still. They’re not…I’m not… He took a shaky breath. He scratched at his palm, where a fresh wound had appeared in the center of his hand. His clawed nails fell away along with large flakes of his skin. The Demon stared, horrified. What happened to me?

  He began to peel away more of his skin, his breaths coming hard and fast. Where his claws had been, there were nails. Fingernails—pink and rounded. And where his skin flaked away, there was blotchy color—flesh tone. No! No, no, no!

  The Demon pushed himself up forcefully and nearly fell back again. He saw the trees and sky around him shift and then come into focus. The rigid substrate beneath him was stone. He was on a table. He was naked. Adjacent to him were the remains of a large fire. He could not remember anything.

  Maddened by what he could not explain, he tore away at the loose and wrinkly skin on his arms. It was the same everywhere: warm-toned skin lay beneath the deadened layer. He felt his face, his fingers moving to his ears. Tapered still, but… He nearly passed out when a large piece fell away in his hand. Instead, he vomited over the side of the altar. His ears, his claws….

  He ran a hand through his hair, more than a little shaken. As he moved it away, he felt the hair move with it. He thrust his hand in front of his face, gaping at the clump of white hair grasped in his mottled fingers. Dizzy, he fell back against the stone, what remained of his ears ringing from the impact.

  It’s a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. Oqrantos’s blood, let me wake up.

  The Demon tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths. What if it isn’t a dream? What if… He could not think of an alternative. He was driven by the sudden need to escape this place.