LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  He had walked away, though—at least from the other members of the troupe so that he could eat in silence. Quiet mornings were the best times to clear one’s thoughts, though his second motive was to not be seen. He was not ready to be pressed for an answer, nor did he want anyone to look upon his face. If they wanted to believe he was scarred, then he would not dissuade them. After all, he was scarred—perhaps more on the inside—but even he could not regard his own Humanlike image. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  The porridge was sweet and thick, and it filled his stomach in the most satisfying way. He tried not to eat it too quickly, but a hot repast was so rare and wonderful. He closed his eyes and relished what he could taste of his meal. He opened them just in time to see a dainty pair of feet stop before him.

  “Are you all right?” the melodic voice asked.

  Arythan blushed and tipped his hat forward. “’M fine,” he said, finding his voice. “This is good.” He gestured with the bowl.

  “But it’s only porri—” Miranda caught herself. “You don’t get a lot of warm meals, do you?”

  Arythan shook his head, embarrassed. He glanced up at her to see her blue eyes were focused off into the distance. She twisted her delicate hands awkwardly and swayed upon her feet as though she considered fleeing at any moment.

  “I thought maybe you would like to join—”

  Arythan was quick to interrupt. “They asked y’ to talk to me, didn’t they?”

  She looked at him briefly, then turned away. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because,” he said, “you don’ like me.”

  Her face immediately changed to one of surprise. “That’s not—”

  “I don’ blame y’, luv. Some thief joins y’r group, an’ y’ know nothing about ‘im. Could be dangerous. Could be a murderer.” He saw her horror and shrugged. “I’m not, but y’ don’ ‘ave to take my word. Y’ave no reason to trust me at all.”

  “You severed someone’s hand,” Miranda said, not hiding her disgust now.

  “’E wasn’t the nicest bloke. I’ve got the burns an’ bruises to prove it.”

  “Don’t you believe he’ll send someone to find you? An act of vengeance?”

  “’E did, but I’m free now,” Arythan assured her.

  “So you did kill someone,” she whispered.

  “No. I’m not a murderer,” he said, his voice hardening.

  “But…” She hesitated. “…you are a thief.”

  Arythan shrugged again, grateful she did not pursue the topic of murder. “Not if I don’ ‘ave to be.” In the following silence, he glanced over to find she was trying to see into the shadows of his hat. “Y’ can tell the ladies I made my decision.”

  “Did you?” Miranda raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “I’ll tell them when I’m done eating.”

  Now it was her turn to blush. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “Yeah, y’ did, but they asked y’ to.”

  “How do you know I didn’t volunteer?” she asked, drawing herself up.

  “Because they know I like y’,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “An’ y’re a beautiful lady with a sweet voice ‘oo can get answers from blokes like me.”

  At last Miranda smiled. “But I have failed, Medoriate.”

  He gave a slight nod, “At least y’ came to talk to me.”

  “That would make you the victor, then. The least you can do is look at a lady when she is speaking to you.”

  “Hm.” He stared at his bowl, considering. At last, he lifted his head to look directly into her face. “Fair enough, m’lady. Nice to ‘ave met y’.”

  Her surprise was worth the gesture. She reddened and nodded before hurrying away.

  “That bad, eh?” he murmured. At least now he could finish his breakfast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ENCORE

  SEVEN DAYS OF TRAINING whirled in his mind like a mad cyclone. This was it: the culmination, the test, the moment of truth. He was next, waiting in the shadows like a traitor awaiting execution. Arythan watched Nel and her dogs in the ring without truly seeing them. He imagined Rosie and Lyssana standing there as they had at rehearsal, telling him what to do.

  “Lift your chin.”

  “Keep your back straight.”

  “Command their attention, Arythan. Meet their eyes.”

  They had circled around him, each with a stick. They poked at him each time he slipped. A prod to the back, a jab at his arm when his hand should be raised…all the subtle gestures that would snare the audience.

  “Do your thing with the fire. That’s it—lift your hands. Exaggerate—lift them higher!” The stick tapped under his forearms to get him to do as asked. When the flames emerged upon his palms, he was reprimanded. “Say something before you do it.”

  Say what? he had wondered, feeling stupid enough with his hands in the air. Why say anything at all?

  “It’s a cue to the audience that magic is about to happen. It’s more dramatic. Go on. Say something.”

  He did not know Jenagavi, the language of magic. In his native tongue, the word for fire was fiora, but what was the fun in that? Vulgarities were much more amusing, especially when his audience did not know they were being cussed at.

  “Sieqa!” he had said, withholding a grin when they commended him.

  “That’s it, Arythan! Now say it louder, with power behind it.”

  He hated raising his voice, making noise. Being loud drew attention, though it was attention he was seeking…even if he did not truly want it.

  Someone poked him in the back, pulling Arythan from his memories and back into the present. Nel had vacated the ring, and so had her dogs. “Your turn, Medoriate.”

  Rosie was in the center of the ring, facing the audience. “Never before seen in this ring, you will witness a rare display of magic as Medoriate Arythan of the Crows calls upon the elements! Do not be alarmed, for his intention is not to harm—merely to dazzle your eyes with his talents. What you see is real—no petty tricks or illusions. Behold the Dark Wizard!” As the audience murmured and applauded, Rosie turned her smiling face toward him, and gave a nod.

  His palms sweated and itched inside his gloves, and he wished he could vanish beneath his dark cape. The torches around the ring never seemed so bright, and though this was a small town, the audience might well have been an entire kingdom. Terrified, he peeked around the corner to see them watching the ring expectantly.

  “Arythan, go on!” Lyssana whispered.

  He jumped forward, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. His stomach felt like a jug of ale that had been shaken and sloshed around in the bed of a wagon. He would have vomited had he not already expelled his last meal behind the scenes earlier. He drew a deep breath and started walking toward the ring.

  “Keep your back straight, your chin up!” The words repeated in a vicious cycle in his head. “Back straight, chin up!” Was he doing it? Was his back straight enough? His vision locked on the ring, he reached his destination, and Rosie tipped her hat at him.

  “They’re all yours,” she whispered and left the ring.

  Don’t go, he pleaded in his head. Don’t— And then he turned to find his audience. All those faces were watching him, and in that moment, he realized that the air was silent.

  What was he supposed to do? He had forgotten. He had forgotten all of it. Just like that. “Keep your back straight, your chin up!” the voice reminded. Shut it, I know! Now what?

  All he could do was stand there, frozen. The only things that moved were the rivulets of sweat that ran from the damp and matted hair beneath his hat, down his face, and into the scarf over his mouth and nose.

  “What is this?” someone from the audience shouted.

  “Show us magic!” cried another.

  One by one, the voices began to amass in an uproar.

  Do something, stupid! Do anything! Arythan lifted his arms, and the audience quieted. What do I do? Sieqa. What do I do? He could no
t concentrate on a single thought, and his hands trembled as though the Quake had reclaimed them. Fire? Wind?

  “Keep your back straight, your chin up!”

  Damn you!

  The audience began to lose patience again. This time was worse. Boos and hisses drowned whatever negative comments were being thrown at him.

  “S-sieqa,” he uttered weakly, knowing he had failed.

  A wet, round ball hit him in the chest, and he looked down to find a rotten tomato at his feet. He glanced up in surprise when another decomposing vegetable assailed his shoulder. In that instant, his temper seized control, and his audience became his enemy. Now, at last, the magic stirred, but there was no control, and he knew it.

  Calm down. Breathe. Do not kill the bastards watching you, or you’ll lose your only hope of a future.

  Rosie came striding toward him, a look of sympathy upon her face. She clapped a hand to his back. “Go clean up,” she murmured. Then she was facing the crowd again with an apology. “Ladies and gentlemen, our wizard has become ill—”

  Her words were a jumble as he retreated back to the shadows from whence he came. But there was no comfort behind the scenes. His failure weighed upon him, and for the first time he realized how much he had wanted to succeed. He also knew there would not be another chance—not even if Rosie and Lyssana offered it to him, not even if he practiced for a year before his performance.

  He headed outside into the cool darkness, tore off his hat, gloves, and cape, and cast them aside. He sat down hard and ran a shaky hand through his short, wet hair. A soft voice came from beside him.

  “You weren’t ready. I’m sorry, Arythan.” Lyssana placed a hand on his shoulder.

  He could not meet her gaze. What are you sorry for? I’m the one who buggered the whole act.

  “We’ve all had our share of bad performances. To be honest, though, I don’t know how the crowd smuggled in the food. We keep our eyes open for such things, but it seems a few always sneak in. Don’t let it bother you.” She was trying to cheer him up, but it was not working.

  “I’ll stay behind at the next town,” Arythan said, his heart under his feet.

  There was a pause. “You aren’t serious, are you?” Rosie had hurried back to join them.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s just asinine,” came the blunt response. “Do you think the Crimson Dragon would have been successful had we given in to every defeat?” She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him. “So you struggled in the ring. It was not unexpected.”

  Arythan stared back. “Y’ knew I would fail?” He was ready to leave at that moment, to walk away and not look back.

  “No, we didn’t know what would happen,” Lyssana said. “But we knew you struggled with this.”

  “Which is why we have an alternate plan for you,” Rosie added. She kissed her companion on the cheek. “You tell him about it, Lys. The ring bids my presence.” She ducked back into the tent.

  Lyssana gave Arythan a hopeful smile. “I think you will like this idea better….”

  Training for the ring was much different this time, and Arythan welcomed the challenge. Everything centered around his magic—magic he had never tested his limits to explore. He could call storms, summon flames, and shake the earth, but such undertakings were basic. Never before had he cause to be creative. Even when he was a spectacle for the Prophet’s clan, his appearance was brief, his magic minimal. What would it take to shape fire into the forms of animals? Have it rain inside the Dragon’s red tent? Command the wind to steal a hat from one man’s head and place it atop another’s? Yes, this new training was actually fun.

  It was also exhausting. The more concentration demanded of him, the more tired he would be after the exertion. Such was the price of his new mission, though he accepted it readily. His endurance and his stamina could be built with time; he merely had to be careful not to draw more energy than he could handle.

  Then there was Dain, the sword-swallower. Dain knew how to appease a crowd, and Dain was more than comfortable as the center of attention. Most importantly, perhaps: Dain was not afraid of a little magic.

  The night of their performance was like the stillness in the air before the tempest hit. Anxiety was heavy, but a charge of excitement ran amongst the troupe like chain lightning. Dain and his sword took the ring to thunderous applause, but when Dain pointed his sword to the ground, and fire leapt from the earth, the tent went silent. Dain raised his hands to the sky, and the air grew thick and veiled. One swipe of his sword sent the rain falling until the clouds vanished, and the wind raced around the tent like a wild horse with a mischievous attitude.

  The grand finale: Dain buried his blade into the ground, and icy spikes grew from the hilt. The spikes burst into icy flowers complete with icy leaves and petals. When he bowed, there still was not a sound. Then, one by one, the audience stood and the crowd’s hands met in a deafening sound. Cheers, whistles, and screams completed the joyous cacophony as Dain made his exit.

  He was all grins when he came upon Arythan at the performers’ door. The mage was smiling, too, though he was drenched in sweat and propped against the wall for support. “Excellent work, Medoriate Crow! I feel like a full-blooded caster!”

  “I feel ready for a long nap,” Arythan murmured.

  “Whatever you wish, little wizard.” The big man helped him back to the staging area, where they were met with a second round of cheers and clapping, Lyssana and Rosie at the forefront of the congratulatory committee. All agreed the arrangement was a perfect partnership. For Arythan, it meant he had finally found his place in this strange new family.

  Caspernyanne: oldest of the Northern Kingdoms and influential in its presence throughout Secramore. Compared to the cities, towns, and villages the Crimson Dragon usually entertained, Caspernyanne dwarfed them all, not just in size but by reputation and esteem. Only this kingdom could rattle the nerves of even the most experienced performer. Rosie and Lyssana did not attempt to hide their anxiety from their staff, but they knew that what worked on the audience would work for them as well: laughter was the best remedy.

  As the Dragon drew nearer the kingdom, they laughed more, told more stories, drank a little more heavily. There was quickly coming a time when all frivolities would cease, and long hours of practice would follow them into their dreams. Though his performance would keep him beyond public eyes, Arythan worked just as hard as the others. Because of his efforts, even the wariest of the Crimson Dragon were letting fall their reservations about the caster-thief.

  At Caspernyanne’s boundaries, the troupe was met by an escort, servants of the king and queen themselves. “They had welcomed our heralds, and now they welcome us. Fortune is with us,” Lyssana had said.

  “An’ if they ‘adn’t?” Arythan asked.

  “They would escort us through the kingdom and back to the Link. Out the door like a plague-ridden vagabond,” Rosie replied.

  Arythan fell silent. He had once been a plague-ridden vagabond.

  “Not everyone welcomes us, and I’m sure you know that there are certainly biases against medori, Arythan,” Lyssana continued. “There are not many troupes who would risk having a medoriate amongst their performers.”

  “But we are rather audacious that way,” Rosie added with a wink.

  “What’s the risk?” Arythan asked, afraid he was a liability.

  The women looked at him in surprise. “We’d have thought you, of all folk, would know the Warriors of the Sword.”

  Again he grew quiet. His brother had never mentioned any warriors to be wary of…then again, his brother never thought he would end up anywhere but Mystland, the medori haven.

  “Anyway, let’s not speak of them. Bad luck,” Rosie said, closing the conversation. “Think, instead, of how we will delight the king and queen.”

  The troupe was given sanctuary in the royal city. Once they had performed for the regents, they would be allowed to travel and entertain the rest of the kingdom. Lyssa
na and Rosie were taken to have an audience with the rulers, and the rest of the troupe ate their dinner as they shared stories about the north.

  “They’re a strange folk, the Northerners,” said Raldor, the horse trainer.

  “What, you mean with their customs?” asked another.

  “Customs, beliefs, all of it. They worship Jedinom, but everywhere you look, there are remnants of the old gods.”

  “Old gods? No one gives thought to them. It’s thought blasphemous.”

  “Not here, it isn’t. These folk are not as strict as the Southerners. In every house, you’ll find a small statue or a poppet of one of the old ones.”

  “Raiding Northerners’ homes, are you, Raldor?” someone jested.

  “I’m just saying the lore here is strong,” the horse trainer said. “Take what you will from it, but I’ll not get too close to any one of them.”

  “It’s not like they follow Ocranthos,” another commented. “What’s to fear?”

  “The Dark One holds no candle to the two-faced gods of the ancient days,” Raldor asserted. “When I was a child, I heard their stories. Death, sickness, famine—”

  “I’ve got worse than that. I’ve got a nagging wife!”

  The troupe laughed.

  “Ah, you left her behind long ago, Shady.”

  “And still she haunts me in my sleep!”

  “Enough, enough,” Raldor interrupted. “I wasn’t chatting about your marriage. Jest all you want; you don’t know the stories.”

  “Tell them to us, Ral!”

  “I haven’t a mind to. Not here. Not now. Maybe when this realm is behind us, and we’re all toasting with the sweet wine of the south,” the horse trainer said, his words becoming distant, longing.