LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  “I do not know what it is that troubles thee,” Atrion began, “but I will be beside thee. There is naught but time and patience to guide thy path, and thou wilt not be alone in this journey.”

  “To which journey do you allude?” Eraekryst asked, meeting Atrion’s gaze.

  “The journey to reclaim thy place amongst our people, of course,” Atrion said, confused.

  “Could it be wrong?” Eraekryst’s question was almost defiant. “Why does no one else entertain this doubt…or do they?” He looked pointedly at Chierond.

  Chierond’s expression hardened. “What hath come over thee? Thou dost direct thine anger at those who have come to thine aid, come to bring thee home. Where is the origin of this doubt?”

  Eraekryst hesitated. They were too late to help him. He had changed, and that change began over a century ago, when he was abducted and tortured, his confidence shattered. In his heart, he knew he could not return home—not to rule. But there was one who had, in her darkness, torn away his delusions. In one brief encounter and the few words spoken, she had altered his vision completely. “Who is Seranonde the Huntress?”

  Chierond was nearly timeless in his existence, and there was little that could stir him visibly. The utterance of this name, however, widened his stare and drew him back, if ever so slightly. “Where hast thou heard this name?” he asked quietly.

  “From her own lips,” Eraekryst said, gauging his reaction.

  “Thou hast seen her?”

  “For her to have spoken to me, I must have seen her.”

  “Mind thy tone,” Chierond said sharply. “Where was this? What did she impart to thee?”

  “’Twas outside Mystland where she came to me. I do not know if her goal was to taunt me or to warn me…” Eraekryst trailed, noticing the confusion on his brother’s face. “Who is she?”

  “A dissenter. One reviled amongst even her Durangien kin. Thou wouldst not be here now had she not a reason to spare thee.”

  “Hast thou met her?” Atrion asked.

  “I have not had that pleasure,” Chierond said. “She was one of seven who attempted to break the binding that concluded the War of Light and Shadow. She and the others were pursued for their treachery. She was the only one not slain, not found. Ilangiel and Durangiel alike searched for her through the ages, but she hath ever evaded justice. Her name hath faded with time, but she hath stained the history of our people.”

  “What was it she had done?” Eraekryst asked, thinking of the ghosts he had seen trailing her. “There have been confrontations between our people and the Durangiel in the past that have resulted in bloodshed. To be so hunted, I would have thought—”

  Chierond lifted his chin. “She betrayed her people, murdered her kin. Is that not enough?”

  Eraekryst frowned but said nothing.

  “What is it that she does, if not live amongst her kind?” Atrion asked. “What would she want with Eraekryst?”

  “She hunts demons,” Eraekryst said darkly, and the others looked at him. “Creatures of Shadow.”

  “She hath not many to find,” Chierond said. “As I see it, she is a coward who will spend her eternity hiding from the darkness of her past. As for her encounter with Eraekryst, I cannot speculate.”

  “Perhaps she is bored. Or lonely,” Eraekryst said, tiring of Chierond’s evasive conversation.

  Chierond gave him a look of disapproval. “Regardless, thou wilt not repeat thine encounter. Think nothing more of the Huntress, and consider instead the welcome that awaits thee in Veloria. ’Twill be a grand gathering in thine honor.”

  “Aye,” Atrion said, his eyes bright, “all will be right again.”

  Eraekryst managed a weak smile for him, then slipped back into his silence.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GUILDED

  THE POSTING HAD SNARED his attention from across the street, and though he could easily read the print from where he stood a distance away, he was drawn to the advertisement. A brilliant red dragon was stretched across the top of the paper, coupled by bold black lettering with an ornate flourish: Behold the Crimson Dragon!

  Hm… Arythan rubbed the corner of the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. Good. He abruptly tore the posting from the stand and stuffed it into his pocket. He kept his hat low and maneuvered the street, sliding past market-goers and zigzagging his way to his destination. He imagined the smell of the bakery—at least, what he remembered the scent of fresh bread to be. Even if he could barely taste or smell it, he knew the texture: the crispy, flaky crust that concealed the soft interior, soon to melt into his mouth and satisfy his empty stomach.

  Arythan entered the baker’s shop and found his place at the end of a short line. He had pickpocketed the necessary funds earlier that morning, and he had waited for this moment all day. The baker was beginning to know him as a regular patron, even though Arythan never said a word. Bread was filling, bread was cheap, and he never grew tired of it, though he often dreamed of meat and gravy, sweet pastries and the like.

  The man in front of him stepped aside, and Arythan moved up to the counter.

  “Ah, you again. I assume you want the usual,” the baker’s assistant said.

  Arythan nodded and slid his coins across the counter.

  “Here you go.”

  He tried not to grab the loaf too hastily. He tipped his hat to the vendor and headed for the door. On his way out, he could feel someone’s eyes upon him. Just a glance revealed a petite woman with dark hair and darker eyes watching him. Arythan had seen her before, and just as before, he planned to lose her in the street.

  He pulled the posting from his pocket and wrapped the loaf as he walked, hoping maybe this time he would have a warm meal. The market crowd was thicker now, as it was late afternoon, and dinner was at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Everyone’s mind but his tail. Slipping to Shadow would have made this an easy escape, but now he had to work harder to remain unnoticed or avoid unwanted company. A peaceful, warm meal in solitude was good motivation for him.

  Arythan dove into the heart of the crowd, slipped behind a wagon, and took a side alley to reach a less-traveled street. It had only taken him a couple days to learn the layout of this town—whatever town it was. The obvious problem was that this woman knew it better. Without turning to see her, he knew she was there. If he could not lose her, he would need another plan. Arythan gave an impatient sigh. His bread was growing cold.

  The mage quickened his pace and slipped into another alley. When she rounded the corner after him, he was waiting. He grabbed her from behind, one hand twisting hers around her back, the other at her throat with his obsidian blade. Her face was pressed against the wall; she was pinned. Arythan did not have to utter a word, for she spoke first.

  “Ah, you got me, stranger.” Her voice was high, like a child’s, but it betrayed no fear. Her words were slightly distorted on account of the wall against which her lips were smashed. “Gonna kill me? Beat me?”

  “Jus’ need a reason,” Arythan murmured.

  “Nah, you’re no killer.”

  “Unless I ‘ave to be.” The edge of the blade broke her skin, leaving a thin trace of blood along its edge.

  Still, the woman was undaunted. “Southie, eh? You’re a long way from home. I noticed you ain’t found a place to stay yet.”

  “What do y’ want?” Arythan asked, his words hardening.

  She managed a contorted smile, exposing a couple rotten teeth. “So glad you asked. I’m here to invite you to see the Red-Handed.”

  “Took y’ two days t’ask me,” he said. “’Oo’s the Red-‘anded?”

  Her smile did not vanish. “I had to be sure you were a pickpocket. See, pickpockets and thieves gotta work for the Red-Handed. They gotta belong to the guild.”

  “Why?”

  The woman blinked. “’Cuz they do, that’s why. That’s what I gotta tell you. The Red-Handed wants to see you.” She squirmed uncomfortably as Arythan considered her words. “I’m just
a messenger. Cantcha lemme go? I’m not gonna kill you.”

  He stepped away from her, out of arm’s reach.

  She straightened her shabby attire and stared at him, hands on her hips. “Well, you coming?”

  Arythan shook his head, and the woman frowned.

  “You ain’t got much choice. You come with me nice now, or he’ll come for you later. You can’t hide. The guild is everywhere, and we’ve been watching you.” She peered beneath the shadows of his hat. “Better to see him when he’s in good spirits, ‘cuz he won’t be if he’s gotta come for you.”

  “What about when y’ show up without me?” Arythan watched her expression drop all humor.

  She glanced at the mouth of the alley, then back at him. “Wasn’t planning it that way. I always do my job.” She gave a short whistle, and Arythan lunged at her, toppling her to the ground. The knife was at her throat again as he brought her to her knees in front of him. She did not smile this time.

  Two figures appeared in the daylight and crossed into the shadows of the alley. “You don’t wanna do that,” one man warned him.

  “Right. An’ I won’t if y’ just leave me alone,” Arythan grumbled.

  “It’s not that easy,” the woman spat. “I tried to tell you.”

  “Y’ didn’t do a good job explaining.” Arythan pressed the knife deeper as the figures advanced. He was not a killer, but he did want to escape this situation. He pretended to hesitate, waiting for the two men to get just close enough. Then he shoved the woman away from him, straight into one of her rescuers. He slammed his shoulder into the other, and the surprised man staggered backward, breathless. Arythan did not wait for their recovery. He fled to the other end of the alley, though the sound of pounding feet was not far behind him. Weak as he felt, he would never outrun them.

  Just as the blood surged through his veins with his racing heart, his magic fed upon his anxiety and coursed through him. It manifested in the form of the wind, a powerful gale that tore behind him, lifting debris and his pursuers. He heard their shouts drown in the onrush of air, but he did not look back.

  Arythan ran into the connecting street, expecting more resistance. When no one attacked him, he continued his flight to the next visible haven. Breathless, he charged past the shops and the browsers to duck around a corner, down a short flight of stairs and to a narrower, deserted road. He fell back against a wall and slid to the ground, ignoring the sharp stitch in his side that kept him from taking a full gulp of air. The road and its lining structures shifted and spun with the dark spots that obstructed his vision. His limbs tingled, his ears rang, and it was all he could do not to fade from consciousness.

  Once his breathing evened and his senses returned, he took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the end of his scarf. Who was the Red-Handed, and what was this guild? A guild of thieves and pickpockets? Did that make any sense? And what could they possibly want with him? He was less than a stone in the road, simply trying to survive and… Arythan’s eyes widened when he remembered his dinner. With renewed eagerness, his fingers delved into his coat pocket to fish out the bread.

  His heart dropped when he felt the paper in which it had been wrapped. It was damp and flattened, and when he withdrew it, it was a sorry sight from what it had been. Sieqa. Whatever it looks like, I’m still going to eat it, and whether it’s warm or not, it will be delicious. He pried the smashed crumbs from the paper, unmindful of the stains from the ink of the posting. He wadded several of the large crumbs together and popped the morsel into his mouth.

  Arythan closed his eyes as he chewed, allowing the bread to dissolve in his mouth, then slide down his throat. It took great restraint not to tear into the rest of the loaf. When he opened his eyes to forge another piece, he found he had an audience.

  A small boy of no more than six years was standing a short distance before him, watching him with eyes that rivaled the full moon. His face was sooty, his clothes tattered. His hair was matted to his head. Arythan froze, then looked at his bread, then back at the boy. The mage suppressed a sigh. “Jus’ one piece,” he murmured to the child. “’S all I can give y’.”

  The boy cautiously approached, stretching his hand toward the waiting chunk of bread in Arythan’s fingertips. All in one moment, the boy snatched the piece away, stuffed it into his mouth, and disappeared.

  Arythan scratched at the beard beneath his scarf, staring after the child thoughtfully. It was hard enough for him to survive on the streets now that Miria’s sympathy fund was gone, and he could only imagine how one so young could have any hope of a life. Arythan’s own poverty was a recent lifestyle that had emerged with his independence once his thieving clan and brother were gone. His own childhood, while far from satisfactory, had never been lacking in regard to his basic needs. There had always been plenty of food on the table, fine clothes, excellent schooling, and a large, furnished dwelling to support the growth of a priest-king’s son. There were the other areas of his life, however, that had been more than deficient.

  He heard the sound of small feet slapping upon stone, coming his way. To his dismay, Arythan saw four children—the initial boy included—with gazes locked on his dinner. He wrestled with the temptation to shove the whole loaf into his mouth at once, as impossible as that would be. With an empty heart, he watched the kids assemble before him expectantly. “I ‘ad told y’ jus’ one,” he said to the boy, though he received no response.

  Arythan sighed heavily and broke four pieces from his loaf. He watched the four faces munch away, glancing down to find that less than a third of his meal remained. As the children finished, they stood there a moment, and Arythan shooed them away. “That’s it. Bugger off.” Soon only the familiar boy remained.

  “Really, I can’t spare anymore,” Arythan said, not looking at him. “This’ll probably kill me, ‘struth.” The boy did not move, and the mage turned to him, perplexed. “What?”

  The kid thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled something out. He offered it to Arythan, dropping it into the mage’s hand. It was a wrapped piece of candy, warm and slightly sticky.

  “Why didn’t y’ eat it? ’S better than bread.” Arythan shook his head. “I can’t take this. Y’ keep it.” He tried to give it back, but the boy stepped away. “Alright, but take more o’ this.” He tossed the kid another chunk of bread. “Thanks.”

  At last the boy ran away and did not return. Arythan finished his bread, trying to convince himself that he was no longer hungry anyway. He studied the piece of candy curiously. Either he stole it, or someone was kind enough to give it to him—someone sympathetic…or just pathetic, like me. Maybe the kids have an advantage after all. I’m too old to be charming or pitied. And I’m not ready to beg just yet. Absently, he removed the wrapper and set the morsel upon his tongue. Gooey and sweet, he knew it would be some time before such a treat would, if ever, chance his way again.

  Then his thoughts unexpectedly shifted in another direction. He wondered if the Ilangien had found his way home. He was an arrogant, insulting bastard. I’d rather keep company with a crying baby. At least a baby wouldn’t try to read my mind. Arythan shook his head, recalling some of the antics Eraekryst had pulled in their travels together. I didn’t like you, but I hope you made it. Your people must be very patient unless they’re all bastards.

  The mage rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision. I probably need to sleep. He closed his eyes and opened them after a minute. Still, the world seemed fuzzy and swirling. It was starting to upset his stomach. What’s wrong with me?

  New footsteps were approaching, these heavier. As soon as Arythan saw the trio, he made an effort to stand. He had to brace himself against the wall, and even then, he stood slightly bent. “Stay back,” he warned.

  “So you’re a caster and a southie,” the woman said, amused. “What’s the matter? A little dizzy, are you?”

  Arythan vomited a mixture of half-digested bread and bile, and she laughed. “You’re too nice. The little
rats do just fine on their own. Didn’t you think it a little strange that a poor boy would give away his candy?”

  The mage scowled at her.

  She motioned for her two male companions to seize him. “I told you. Everyone works for the guild.”

  Too sick to focus on his magic, Arythan struck at one of the brutes, clipping the man’s jaw. The other pounced on him, driving his own fist in the mage’s face. Bloodied but still conscious, Arythan clawed at him, feeling the other’s skin collect beneath his fingernails. The man howled and threw the mage from him. Arythan’s head cracked against the stones of the street, the ringing returning to his ears. He felt a rock-solid toe connect with his ribs, and he gasped for air. Someone took a hold on his neck, and the mage thrashed for his freedom. He was relieved by darkness and silence.

  Arythan awoke to the sound of popping and snapping. The brightness of the flames met with his eyes as he opened them, though he could not open them fully. His entire face felt swollen, and when he stirred from where he lay, he was graced with sharp pain to his head and side. He was on a cold, stone surface, though this was not the street in which he had fallen. This was a dark room with rich furnishings: cushioned chairs, a grand hearth, paintings on the wall, and a large, exotic animal skin splayed like a rug before the fire. He had not intended to groan, but the involuntary sound escaped him when he sought to roll onto his back.

  “Welcome, young guest.” A man’s voice greeted him from one of the chairs. Arythan had overlooked him as part of the décor, so still had he been sitting. The figure rose to reveal his tall height. He wore a silk blouse with a well-fitted, embroidered vest. His short hair was swept back from his fair face, and a neat moustache sat above his lips. He toyed with the moustache now, pulling at the hairs with a red-gloved hand; his other hand was bare. Arythan’s best view was of his feet, which enjoyed the comfort of fur slippers.

  “You gave Jodann a bit of trouble, though she warned you against it. Not much surprises her, but she did not expect to contend with a caster.” The slippers moved to rest before Arythan’s face, and the man crouched down beside him. “What is your name?”