LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Arythan stifled a yawn. “So why’d ‘e start the guild?”

  “’Cuz he wanted to help other thieves live a better life,” Jodann said.

  “If ‘e’s real, I’d like to chat with ‘im,” the mage said, grateful the food was gone and the eating was over.

  “What for?”

  “To tell ‘im what a lousy job ‘e’s doing. Then I’d knock ‘is bloody teeth in.”

  All eyes were on Arythan, their owners stunned.

  “What part of the curse don’t you understand?” Big Nose said, as if taking personal offense to the comment. “You try to hurt him, you’re the one who gets hurt.”

  Arythan smiled malevolently. “’E’s not the only one with dark magic.”

  The table fell silent, and Jodann’s cohorts shifted uncomfortably. More vexed than alarmed, Jodann ignored his comment. “So, you need to finish your list.”

  “Y’ said I was done.”

  “I didn’t know if you were up for the task, but there is one more thing.” She glanced at her wary friends.

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s how the Red-Handed pulls the good thieves from the not-so-good thieves. I’m only telling you this ‘cuz you had a rough start with him.” She leaned closer, and Arythan withdrew. “Nostickey.”

  She said it so fast that he did not have a chance to blink. “What?”

  “Just what I said. Nostick-key.” Jodann annunciated each syllable. “It’s special. It’s made of this stuff that you can shape—but only once.”

  “A key that opens any door,” Scruffy said with a nod. “We all done got it for him when we joined, didn’t we?” he asked the others at the table, and they nodded. “Only one place to get it.”

  “Yeah, and you don’t even gotta steal it. The Red-Handed has a standing agreement with Edmund Jalaph in the spice shop. Once a year, Jalaph gives a key for the guildmaster.”

  “Why?” Arythan asked, immediately suspicious.

  Jodann sighed and rolled her eyes. “How should I know? It’s tradition.” She looked carefully at the mage. “Look, you don’t have to get it. I just thought you’d be up for a challenge.”

  “What’s the catch?” he demanded.

  “If you get it too warm, it melts. You gotta be fast.”

  Arythan considered the option. “So I got nothing to lose. If it melts, ‘e didn’t know about it anyway.”

  The thieves nodded.

  Something did not seem right about the situation, but Arythan could play as good a game as any. “Fine. I’ll get it. Where’s the bloke’s shop?”

  “Nostick-key,” Arythan repeated.

  Edmund Jalaph looked at him, and his face twisted into a wry smile. “You’re with the guild, aren’t you?”

  The mage gave a slight nod, wondering if only the Red-Handed could obtain this key from the vendor. It was strange that there was no actual exchange, stranger still that a shopkeeper would not want to capitalize on such a useful product. Either the key was difficult to make, or it was illegal. Either way, the man must owe a substantial amount to the thieves’ guildmaster.

  “Give me a moment, and I’ll wrap it for you,” Edmund said. He went into a back room and reappeared a few minutes later, a small wrapped bundle in his hand. “Careful with it.”

  For a key, it was heavy and block-like; Arythan concluded it must be in a box of some sort. He stuffed it into his pocket, tipped his hat, and was gone out the door before another word could be said. It was a fairly warm day, and he wanted to deliver the mysterious key to Jodann before it melted. He walked briskly to the Roost, where she promised she would be waiting.

  Arythan did not see her immediately. She was not outside the building, and when he poked his head into the mess hall, she was not there either. “’Ave y’ seen—”

  The brute at the door turned away before he could finish. With a sigh, Arythan hurried up the stairs and to the dormitory. There were only a few thieves there, and they all made faces at him. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew she was up to trickery, but I volunteered anyway.

  He hurried back down the steps and paused outside. What should he do? Wait for her? Search for her? Try to deliver it to the Red-Handed himself? I could try to freeze it, Arythan thought. He found a quiet corner and focused, drawing the magic toward him, and channeling the energy to the now-pliable block in his hands. He tried to push the warm air away, pull at the cold. I did it before—to the blacksmith. Why is it so difficult now? He glanced up to find the streets were turning and shifting. The edges of his vision darkened, and he fell over.

  Arythan closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. “Drunkard.” He heard a lady’s snide remark. I’m too weak, he thought miserably. I don’t have the strength for it, and it’s not worth it anyway. He gave up on magic-induced preservation and tried to clear his thoughts. She must be watching me from somewhere.

  The mage looked up and down the street, but he did not so much as glimpse Jodann. By now his head was throbbing again, and he lay back against a wall with his eyes shut.

  “Smells like you got it,” came an amused voice from above.

  Arythan could have sworn he had only closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them, Jodann was standing with seven other thieves, all of them pinching their noses and snickering. I should never have tried my magic, was all he could think.

  “Get up,” Jodann said, hands on her hips.

  “What is this?” he asked, bracing himself against the wall to stand. He had forgotten he still gripped the no-stick-key in his hand. By now it was gooey like tree sap, and he felt it ooze between his fingers.

  “Don’t you smell it?” she asked.

  “Smell?” No, of course he did not. He moved his hand to his nose, but before any stench could register to his impaired nose, Jodann reached over and pushed his hand into his face.

  Guffaws and outbursts of shrill laughter reached his ears before he could pull his hand away and open his eyes. The stuff was a slimy cake upon his face, dripping down his nose and cheeks, burning around his eyes. And it did smell. It smelled like rotting flesh and manure combined. It was starting to smell like burning rotting flesh and manure, because his anger was stifling.

  “How stupid are you?” Jodann asked, brushing tears from her eyes. “Nose-sticky. It’s nose-sticky! It’ll clean the hair off your face!” She started laughing again, though the others had never stopped.

  “You got him good, Jodann!” someone commended.

  “He don’t look so happy,” said another.

  “What’s he—”

  There was actual steam as the substance melted off Arythan’s face and slumped to the ground with a heavy plop. Whatever residue was left erupted in blue-violet flame and burned away. But even the light of the fire could not outblaze the fury in his eyes. He stared the thieves down, most of them turning to flee in fear, though Jodann held her ground, waiting to see if she should join them.

  Arythan clenched his fists, trembling with emotion. Let it go, he told himself, though he did not want to calm down. Just let it go. He forced himself to slow his breathing, forced the flames to die, and forced himself to swallow his rage.

  “Look, I didn’t mean any harm by it,” she said, uncertain. Then she tried another approach. “The Red-Handed will be angry, you using your magic for all to see. You shouldn’t have done that—”

  “Nigqor-slet,” Arythan heard himself say, and then he passed out.

  He awoke on the floor again, in the middle of a familiar room with familiar voices. Jodann and the Red-Handed were talking, silhouettes in front of the hearth. They had not noticed his state of awareness, or else he suspected they would have fallen silent. As it was, he decided to remain still and listen to their conversation.

  “I tried to help him,” Jodann said with an innocent shrug. “He just ain’t that good. You see I came back with what I needed, but he didn’t even get twenty soldiers. Instead of working, I found him with some stolen food—bread, fruit, and all—eating a regular feast fo
r everyone to see. Even snatched a hat for himself.”

  “So I noticed,” the guildmaster said from his armchair.

  “I told him he done wrong, and he just kinda shrugged. So I gave him another chance to finish his list, and when I found him, he was working his magic—just like you told him not to. That’s a caster for you: can’t be trusted. He even tried to use his fire to burn us, but I knocked him out before he could hurt anybody.”

  “That’s quite a tale, Jodann. You should be commended for your efforts. I do reward those loyal to our cause.” The Red-Handed stood. “In fact, I may give you the lead on the Crimson Dragon project. It will be a major undertaking.”

  Arythan could almost see Jodann’s rotten smile from where he lay.

  “Thank you, sir. I would see it done but good.”

  “I know that you will,” the Red-Handed said. “We will have to assemble the right members for the work. Most of our people will work the crowd, but some will have to mind the profits the Crimson Dragon amasses. A chosen few will serve as a diversion, should we need one.” He paced before the fire. “Did you learn our caster’s name?”

  Arythan almost smiled when Jodann was caught without an answer. “He—ah—won’t give it.”

  “Hm. Well, we have time to coax it from him. Whoever he is, I want him with you on this project.”

  “But sir—are you sure? He’s gonna mess everything—”

  “Do not question me, Jodann,” the Red-Handed said, his voice a little higher. “His abilities might be useful.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it. Sorry.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to wake him, to let him know what the consequences are for his day of failure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arythan had closed his eyes as the footsteps approached. There was a sharp pain to his side that left him wide-eyed and gasping.

  The Red-Handed stared down at him with a slight smile. “We meet again. Sorry to disturb your rest.” He waited until Arythan’s full attention was upon him before he continued. “I was dismayed to hear of your unsuccessful day. I had thought I had given you proper motivation.”

  “I stole what y’ asked,” Arythan gritted.

  The guildmaster glanced at Jodann. “That is not what I heard.”

  “She’s a liar.”

  The Red-Handed raised an eyebrow. “Jodann has served the guild loyally. You think she would have the audacity to deceive me, or that I would take a stranger’s word over hers?”

  Arythan scowled at him. “Guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Correct.” The Red-Handed’s smile grew. “You stole some food for yourself, did you not?”

  “I bought it. With the extra money I earned. Before she took it from me.” His penetrating stare fell upon Jodann, and the thief looked away.

  “He’s the liar, sir. I told him—”

  “Enough, enough.” The guildmaster waved his hand. “What has happened cannot be changed. Greed is not to be commended in my guild. Whether the food was bought or stolen, it was done at the expense of the guild. This cannot go unpunished.” He motioned for Arythan to sit up. “I offered you food for the work you did, but it was not satisfactory for you?”

  All Arythan could see in his mind were the bits of yellow spittle flying from Jodann’s mouth. He made a face but said nothing.

  “Hm. Well, then, you can go without. No rations for you tonight. Consider this a lenient punishment. Wrong me again, and we will see how well you pick pockets without your thumb. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly,” Arythan said.

  “I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. You will follow Jodann’s lead with the Crimson Dragon. If you are successful, you have an opportunity at advancement. If you fail, I will use your own knife to…” He held up his hand and made the motion of a finger being severed.

  “If I do well, I want my knife back,” Arythan said.

  “Oh, oh, I don’t think so!” the guildmaster said, amused. “Not so soon in this game. Not before we have gotten to know each other better.” He moved closer to Arythan and patted him on the head. “You just be a good thief—” He paused. “Jedinom’s Grace, what is that smell? I caught it before, but—” He looked down at Arythan with disgust and wiped his hand upon his trousers. “Dare I ask?”

  “He got into the nose-sticky, sir,” Jodann said.

  The Red-Handed withdrew several steps. “It seems every new thief manages to meddle with that dreadful substance. Get him out of here before I vomit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jodann led Arythan out of the room, chatting with him as though he was her new student. The mage maintained his silence, his anger inspiring the determination to remedy his situation. He heard nothing she said until they reached the Roost, and she faced him. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  The mage looked at her, then headed up the stairs. There was no room to sleep on the floor this time, and those closest to him wrinkled their noses and frowned. Arythan narrowed his eyes and stalked out, headed back down the stairs, and huddled in the alley next to the building. The night was cold, but his stomach burned with hunger. How much more would he have to endure before he had an opportunity to escape? How much more could he endure?

  Shivering, Arythan pulled his knees to his chest and pulled his hat down farther. The Crimson Dragon. Maybe therein was his opportunity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TWISTS AND BURNS

  “WE SHOULD not be here.”

  Eraekryst glanced at his brother, then turned back to the villagers at the bar, who had erupted in a sudden fit of laughter. “There is no wrong done by our presence, Atrion. We are but casual patrons observing a social setting.” He eased back in his chair, his excitement radiating through his glow.

  “Thou misunderstands me, brother,” Atrion said, raising his voice on account of the din. “We risk being seen for what we are, and our influence here could stir their emotions.”

  “Yea, for we might contribute to their merriment. How dreadful.” Eraekryst sipped from his drink and made a face. “This concoction—‘beer’ as it is called—is far more terrible than the possible consequence of us being here.” He glanced at his brother again, only to find his expression unconvinced. “We will not be recognized,” he insisted, “and we would have known by now if we were.”

  “Thou takest this chance so readily.” Atrion gazed warily into the tavern’s crowd.

  Eraekryst slid Atrion’s cup closer. “Drink, and ease yourself. This is the adventure. This is what we must experience to know more about these people. Do you not find it fascinating? This gathering is the result of a long day of labor. The Humans have gathered together as a diversion. See how they talk, laugh, and indulge in potent beverages? This cannot be more different from our own people.”

  “Ah, but we did have a gathering, and thou wert not present,” Atrion reminded. “We, too, had talking, but also dancing and music.” He looked down and studied the contents of his cup. “Though I could hardly see the use of such foul-tasting refreshment.”

  Eraekryst raised his own vessel. “As I understand it, ’tis not the flavor that is important.”

  “It is not?” Atrion asked, perplexed.

  “Nay. ’Tis the fermented plant remnants that intoxicate them. I have, after much consumption, experienced my own euphoria, but ’tis coupled with a lack of restraint.” He gave a slight smile in recollection. “I did so unintentionally offend my companion.”

  Atrion looked up at him, surprised. “Companion?”

  Eraekryst nodded. “Aye. I never disclosed the details of my escape from the black mountain. I would not be here with you now if not for a mortal’s assistance. The durmorth who infiltrated my prison had hoped to recover an item of prophetic value. Instead, he delivered me.”

  “A mortal durmorth?” Atrion shook his head. “Thou art a jester. No such creature exists.”

  “Ah, but he does, and ’tis what renders this painting so remarkable—that so yo
ung and frail a creature could help me achieve a freedom I could not award myself.” Eraekryst braced himself and took another sip of beer. He grimaced. “This really is quite awful.”

  “Why persist in drinking it, then?” Atrion asked.

  “Because I desire an authentic Human tavern experience, brother. Unlike you, I do not intend to waste the coinage spent to purchase such a drink.”

  “How didst thou pay the lady tending to us?” Atrion asked. “We came with naught but ourselves.”

  “To say that I afforded them with my charm would be a flattering fallacy, but I confess that I may have alleviated a passerby of a minimal monetary burden.”

  Atrion stared at him in amazement. “Thou hast stolen—”

  “Hush!” Eraekryst said, a finger to his lips. “’Tis a maneuver I had learned from the durmorth, whose occupation involves the lightening of others’ pockets.” He waved off his brother’s frown. “’Twas a trifle, a small sacrifice for the greater good.”

  “I do not know what to say,” Atrion murmured. “I am astounded that thou wouldst consider such a transgression, and I am more astounded that thou wert able to successfully achieve thy goal.”

  Eraekryst looked at his cup. “You should not be astounded, for as my brother you know that I have done worse in the ways of trickery. Anyway, success is a relative term.”

  “What dost thou mean?”

  “I am not so nimble-fingered as my companion.”

  “Thou wert caught in thine action?”

  “Aye, but the victim will not remember the occasion. Fear not, Atrion, I have remedied the situation. Now allow me to continue my tale.” Eraekryst saw the doubt remaining upon his brother’s face. “Trust in me,” he said with all seriousness.

  “I do, Eraekryst, but thou art convoluted in thy thoughts.”

  Eraekryst bowed his head. “’Tis true, though I cannot apologize for my inherent nature.” He took a swig. “Now! My tale.”

  Atrion waited for him to begin, but Eraekryst was lost to another thought. “This mortal durmorth was unlike any creature in Veloria. Unlike any creature of which I have heard in tales and the lore of the Banishing. He had fox eyes of a violet hue, ears longer and more tapered than ours, a carnivore’s teeth, and the wings of a miniature dragon. Aside from his eyes, he was as colorless as the reflected light on a coursing stream.”