LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  Several masked faces within earshot turned to look at him, and Arythan stopped chewing. After a forced swallow, the mage looked around at the guests.

  “I do not believe he is here, and if he is, I think he would be wiser than to attempt so bold a transgression.” Unconcerned, Eraekryst took another bite of the tart. “Mm, yes, delicious.”

  The music had begun again, and then something new: a jester. He danced out to the center of the floor with mismatched hose, a bright red tunic, and bells on his pointed hat and matching shoes. He did not wear a masque, but his face was painted so heavily that no one knew the difference. From out of his pocket he withdrew four colorful handkerchiefs. Up they went into the air, and he began to juggle and dance. One foot, then the other, then he somersaulted and caught one, jumped up and tossed another into the air….

  Eraekryst watched him a moment, waiting for something spectacular. Though the crowd seemed willing to laugh here and there, he rested his chin on his hand in boredom. “You know, Durmorth, that a duel between Sparrow and Crow would have everyone dazzled.”

  “We don’ do that anymore,” Arythan said. “This bloke’s not bad. ‘E’s not terribly good, but ‘e’s not bad.”

  “We should intervene for the good of all these guests,” Eraekryst insisted. “We do not need weapons.”

  “No one wants to see a lame ‘wizard’ and a swordless, pointy-eared actor.” He reached for a cheese tart.

  “Never mind my ears; their shape is unseen. You could conceivably stand in one place while I—”

  “What? Danced around me?” Arythan shook his head.

  “You are less than inspiring.” Eraekryst watched the jester strut around the room, throwing handkerchiefs and catching them. He sighed. “I cannot endure it.” With a thought he kept one of the handkerchiefs in the air, suspended above the jester’s head. The fool stared at it, dumbstruck, before he leapt to snare it. Of course, it was just beyond his reach.

  The guests rolled with laughter, and the jester tried to look purposeful, but his growing frustration spread a smile upon Eraekryst’s face.

  “Oi, y’re not very kind,” Arythan said. “An’ I thought y’ didn’t want to show off y’r talents.”

  “I am extending him a favor, which is in fact, a kindly gesture. As for my talents, I expect you will take full responsibility for them.”

  “Bonzer. Thanks.”

  A servant came by to clear their plates, leaving behind a platter of gingerbread flowers and sugared almonds. Arythan, however, had not finished his stew. He held to the bowl as the servant tried to take it from him. “I’m not done yet,” he protested.

  “Milord, I must make way for the next course,” the servant said.

  Eraekryst turned to him. “Do you not see the state in which my companion is? He has not eaten in several months, and one lingering bowl would be but a trifle to you, would it not?” He ignored Arythan’s glare and waited for the man to relent.

  “Fine, take it,” the mage grumbled, handing it to him.

  “I fought for your cause,” Eraekryst said.

  “Y’re just so ‘elpful tonight.”

  “I am.” The Ilangien planted a gingerbread rose in the center of the mage’s trencher. By now, all four handkerchiefs were suspended in the air, and they swirled around the jester’s head as though they had been caught in a whirlwind. The music had stopped, signaling the end of the first course, and immediately the floating fabric dropped to the ground. The guests applauded, but the jester’s face remained sour as he gathered his materials and exited the hall.

  The next course was brought in: pumpes, trout, and pokerounce. Of course neither Eraekryst nor Arythan knew the names of the dishes, but the contents spoke for themselves. The Ilangien watched his companion set to the spiced meatballs with vigor, but he did not so much as glance at the fish.

  “One would think an island-dweller would favor aquatic dishes,” Eraekryst said.

  “What?”

  “You decline the fish.”

  “Y’ decline everything that used to breathe.” Arythan finished his third cup of wine, and a servant immediately came to refill it. “Try eating fish every bloody day o’ y’r life, every meal, an’ y’d ‘ate it too.”

  Eraekryst dismissed his claim. “I cannot relate to your situation at all.”

  “But I did answer y’r question.”

  “Aye, you did. I will remember this night ’til the Flame takes me.”

  “I am not partial to fish either,” entered a woman’s voice, and they both turned to look at her from across the table. She was dressed in shades of warm green, and her masque was the shape of a butterfly’s open wings. She smiled at them, but her eyes kept returning to Eraekryst. “It is impossible to remove all the bones, and you will discover them in the most painful way as you consume the meat.”

  “’Struth, that,” Arythan agreed and took a drink. “’As no taste, either.”

  “Now that is where I might beg to disagree,” the woman said. “If you can afford the proper seasonings, you will find the meat rather agreeable.” She gestured toward the Ilangien. “May I ask, milord, why it is you avoid the meat dishes?”

  “You are quite astute, Lady. ’Tis a cultural distinction,” Eraekryst said, meeting her gaze.

  “Where, then, are you from?”

  “’E’s from Saladron, where they only kill plants for food,” Arythan said. He helped himself to a piece of the pokerounce.

  “You are becoming intoxicated by your beverage,” Eraekryst said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Not yet, but soon, maybe.”

  “I have not yet witnessed you in such a state,” came the intrigued response.

  “Imagine that. Something y’aven’t seen.”

  They had forgotten the inquisitive woman, who now voiced herself again. “You both must have traveled quite a distance to be here. You must be here on business, for no one ventures to Cerborath for the entertainment.”

  “Ah, but that is exactly the reason I am here,” Eraekryst said, bestowing her a smile.

  “Really?” Arythan muttered. “I’m ‘ere because everyone I knew is dead.”

  Eraekryst frowned and lifted a finger, but the mage continued.

  “And I ‘ave nowhere to go, an’ even if I did, I can’t bloody leave with m’ leg—”

  “Enough, Durmorth,” Eraekryst said, with a swipe of his hand. “Only you could spoil so festive an atmosphere.”

  “‘Durmorth’. Is that your name?” the woman asked.

  “I ‘ave no name.” Arythan downed the rest of his wine, and he blinked back the water from his eyes.

  “You are keeping the tradition of the masquerade,” the woman said with a nod. “One does not disclose one’s identity until the unmasking.”

  “Is that so?” Eraekryst asked.

  “No, I really don’t ‘ave—”

  “Hush, Durmorth. You are a storm cloud passing before the sun, the shadow behind the dancing candle, the mud that sucks at the sole of one’s boot.”

  The woman laughed. “Are you certain the two of you are friends?”

  “’E’s more like the light that ‘urts m’ eyes, the…” Arythan glanced at the untouched fish. “The lil’ bones that get stuck in y’r teeth when y’re eating tasteless fish.”

  “Colorful but overly long and tedious,” Eraekryst said. He took a piece of pokerounce and sniffed it, intrigued by its scent.

  “It is delicious,” the woman said. “His Majesty spared no expense with the spices. I do love the smell of cinnamon come harvest season.”

  Eraekryst glanced at the mage to find him frowning, his head propped on his hand as he ate. He introduced a new topic. “From where do you hail, Lady?”

  “Oh, I think it would mean little to you,” she said, her smile undiminished, “you being a visitor here. I live a day’s travel from Crag’s Crown, near the northern forests. It is not so domestic as this setting; you would enjoy it, I think.”

  The Ilangien reg
arded her curiously. “What leads you to such a conclusion?”

  “Well,” she said, “your costume. You have adorned your coat with mosses and leaves, and there are acorn caps affixed to the buttons, there…” She pointed to his décor. “Even your masque has bark and…” She leaned a little over the table to see. “Is that a moth?”

  “It is comfortable there,” Eraekryst admitted. “I had not thought my attire so obviously attuned to my tastes as much as a mark of eccentricity.”

  Arythan made a sound.

  “Certainly it is that as well,” the woman said, ignoring the interruption.

  A servant came by to swipe the traces of the meal, and Arythan handed him the platter with the fish. He motioned for the cupbearer to pour another round but said nothing when Eraekryst gave him a look.

  “Now that the meal is at a close, I wonder what else awaits us,” the Ilangien mused.

  “Oh, the meal is not finished yet, milord,” the woman said. “There is one more course.”

  Both Eraekryst and Arythan stared at her, amazed.

  “I could not endure another morsel,” Eraekryst said, and Arythan emitted a soft groan.

  The strum of a lute fractured the conversation; the second entertainer had arrived. He was the young, blond-haired, blue-eyed sort who made women swoon and men jealous of his powers of enchantment.

  “He is Robin Gelspeare, a well known minstrel,” the woman whispered.

  “A child with a toy,” Eraekryst said to himself. He watched with a hint of envy as the minstrel sang his love ballad and held his audience rapt. His lyrics are mediocre, his voice pleasant enough for a Human…but the instrument—the instrument is yet untapped, unappreciated. ’Tis wasted upon him. He envisioned himself in the young man’s stead, tried to imagine the feel of the strings alive and moving beneath his nimble fingers. He could almost hear the melodies as he coaxed the lute to sing for him.

  “’E’s quite good,” Arythan said, taken by the spell.

  Eraekryst frowned. “He could be much better.”

  “Do you sing, milord?” the woman asked him.

  “I do not,” Eraekryst said, “and I would not have to with such a fine device of melodic wonder.”

  She studied him from behind her masque. “I somehow find it hard to believe one with a voice such as yours cannot sing.”

  “Your pardon, Lady, but ’twas not what I said. I do not sing.”

  Arythan sipped his drink. “Good. Le’s keep it that way.”

  The woman turned to Arythan. “You are opposed to music?”

  “Nah. Just singing. Y’ don’t need words. They get in the way.” He nodded toward Eraekryst. “’E ‘as too many words as ’tis.”

  Eraekryst feigned insult. “You, too, have words, Durmorth, but they are most foul and foreign.”

  “’Ow’d y’ know if they’re foul?”

  “Because you are—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the woman said. “I do not wish to interrupt, but the final and most important course is about to be served. You would not want to miss the Telling of the White Bear.”

  Eraekryst immediately ceased his banter, a sparkle in his eyes. “Yes, the Telling. I would very much like to witness the Telling.”

  Their attention stirred with the other guests’ as a man dressed in black entered the room. He wore traveler’s attire: worn boots, a thick and weathered coat with an equally weathered hat. He crossed the hall, seemingly blind to the diners, walking as though his feet had been worn into dust. The minstrel began to sing a melancholy tale of famine, desperation, and vulnerability. He sang of the exiled family from Desnera—a family that had been denied its inheritance of land and power. He sang of their days of wandering in poverty, crossing the bitter Northern Kingdoms into an unforgiving territory of snow, rock, and wilderness.

  The man reached the high table and turned around as though he would pace back in the direction from which he came. Instead, he lifted his head as a large form lumbered into the hall. It was a crude husk of a bear—the furry white hide and head that concealed the men who propelled it forward. The minstrel sang of danger as the bear caught wind of the exiles and their camp. The bear had been larger than the mass of three oxen, fiercer than the winds of the mountainous Edge. It had been no ordinary bear, but a demon bear with blazing red eyes and unnatural strength and speed. And it had come to claim the lives of the Garriker bloodline, to destroy it forever.

  All the men armed with bows could not bring it down…all but one. Edward was his name, and he had lost his family to the hardships of their journey through the Wild. The bear saw him and charged, as if sensing a threat in this solitary man. Edward had nothing more to lose. He took careful aim and let his arrow fly. It buried itself in the white bear’s heart, and the mighty beast swayed and dropped, its snowy breast stained scarlet.

  As the minstrel sang the tale, the man and the “bear” acted accordingly. The skin was abandoned to the floor and dragged from the room. The man who played Edward was given a crown, signifying him as the first king of Cerborath. He staked his claim to the land where the bear had fallen, and so began the Garriker legacy in a new kingdom.

  The audience applauded, and the actors and the minstrel left with gracious bows. Still this was not the conclusion. A servant marched in with a large, covered platter. He bowed before the king and lifted the lid. The diners murmured and gasped as the head of a black bear was offered to the king, its mouth still open as though it would attack. Garriker smiled and accepted the platter, setting it upon the table so that it faced his guests.

  In came the rest of the animal upon a large cart. It had been skinned, spitted, and roasted, and it was adorned with flowers and leaves. The carver began his work, and pieces were served to everyone. Girdle bread and sweet frumenty coupled the dish as a grand final course.

  “’Tis rather barbaric, is it not?” Eraekryst asked, appalled by the remains of the animal before him.

  “Perhaps, but it was also how the early settlers survived,” the woman said.

  “Can’t all live on berries an’ tree bark,” Arythan said, and he helped himself to a slice of the bear.

  “Consider this, if you will,” Eraekryst said. “The bear was a female—and a rare animal at that—to be born without color. She had many cubs which she needed to feed, for they were not strong enough to hunt their own food. She found a meal in the weakened and frail people who had tread into her territory. Alas, she was murdered, and her cubs starved or froze to death in the bitter cold. I ask you, who mourns her? Who mourns her offspring? Perhaps this is not a tale of triumph but one of loss and tragedy.” His gaze alternated between the woman and Arythan, waiting to see their reactions.

  “’T’aint always fair, mate. Give the bear a bow an’ see ‘oo shoots first. Someone always wins, an’ the loser gets…” Arythan looked at his nearly empty trencher. “Eaten.”

  “Some of us are grateful for the sacrifice,” the woman said. As she spoke, a servant apportioned them a marzipan subtlety, shaped like a little white bear.

  “How quaint,” Eraekryst mused and shook his head.

  “Eat the ‘ead first,” Arythan instructed. “Then it can’t stare at y’.”

  Eraekryst picked up his empty cup. “’Twas your sixth beverage. How many before you lack all sense of reason?”

  “Five?”

  “Perhaps you lacked that quality all along,” Eraekryst said.

  “Kind o’ y’ to notice.” Arythan poured Eraekryst’s cup into his own and raised the vessel to him. “To the bear!”

  The woman smiled and raised her bear-shaped dessert. “To the bear.”

  Once the third and final course of the meal had been cleared, the evening’s pace began to quicken. Away went the tables and benches, broken down to clear the hall for more lively activities. King Garriker had vanished, as if his reputation of solemn authority would be tarnished by merriment and laughter. Music continued to play as the guests mingled and chatted.

  “So what n
ow?” Arythan asked, the question directed more toward the woman who remained in their presence.

  “Ah, now we dance,” she said, her eyes upon the crowd as they moved toward the walls. The music changed to a merry waltz, and costumed couples began to step in time to the melody as it bore them gracefully around the room.

  Eraekryst watched them, dazzled. Rarely had he participated in the quick-stepped, erratic dances of his own people, but these Humans had a coordinated sense of motion and timing. Everyone seemed aware of everyone else’s presence, and they circulated around the room like the hands of a clock. He felt a tug at his sleeve and glanced down to see the woman was holding her open hand before him.

  “I did not come with an escort,” she said, her cheeks rosy. “Though you do not sing, I do hope that you dance.”

  “’E can learn,” Arythan answered, a wry smile on his face as he shooed them away. “So long as ‘e doesn’t dance like ‘e fights.”

  Eraekryst looked at him humorlessly. “I trust you are capable of avoiding mischief in my absence?”

  Arythan looked down at his foot. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “’Tis not what I asked,” Eraekryst said, then returned his attention to the woman in green who stood awaiting an answer. “You may teach me your dance, Lady.” He took her hand, and she smiled as she led him into the kaleidoscope of waltzers.

  At first they kept a respectable gap between them until he could determine the pattern of the steps. This took no more than a moment, and the woman gaped at him as if entranced. “Sir, you do possess a remarkable aptitude for this activity. One might think you have waltzed before.”

  Eraekryst gazed at her, seeing past the sequined wings of her butterfly masque to her warm gray eyes. “I can assure you that I have not.” He could almost feel her suspicion through her touch, coupled with a prevailing sense of awe. It was there in her incessant regard; this woman knew him for what he was.

  “Perhaps you have not,” she said, “though you seem quite at ease in this grand setting.”

  “Should I not be at ease?”

  “Well, only in the sense that you are amongst strangers, in a foreign land with unusual customs.” She studied him as they moved gracefully across the floor. “I imagine this—” she nodded to the busy hall—“is quite different from anything in ‘Saladron.’”