Lost From Legend

Chapter 1

Metal rang against metal like church bells through the vast hall. Before the granite throne beyond which a glowing chasm gaped, a tall ponytailed woman matched blades with her colossal black-armored adversary. Sweat dripped into her eyes and glued her undershirt to her skin, yet she fought ever harder in her drive to win. Time and again her sword met the tyrant's spear, both opponents' breaths quick and panting.

Down a short set of steps, two men formed a living wall against the legion of human and beast flooding the room. Their bodies drenched in blood, they hacked desperately at the sea of hostile flesh that threatened to engulf them. The kingdom of Levine's armies had crumbled before the juggernaut of Umbral, but its young king and friends would battle for freedom to their last breaths.

Manon! the larger warrior Paul cried. How is it going up there?

Argoth's spear tore into her shoulder, and she hissed in pain. Not so well. Tell me again why I'm the one dueling him?

Need help? asked her royal fiancee Claude, his dark lean form already coiling to move.

Paul shot him an irritated glance. Wait! Don't leave me! His hammer brained a troll twice his height, a volley of spears bounced off his bowl-shaped shield. You two always abandon me.

Sorry, Claude said, running to help his love. Momentarily distracted, Manon failed to dodge when Argoth rammed his spear into her chest.

Still think you're strong, wench? the dark lord said with a sneer.

The anguish turned her vision into a haze of red, and she kicked uselessly as he lifted her on the shaft. She couldn't really see right now, but remembered where Argoth's head had been and chopped down. The shock jarred her arm and her body ripped off the spear as she fell, hitting the ground hard. The pain was intense, lava in her breast. Blood gushed from her wound, spilled over her shaking hand. Thick, choking blood welled up in her throat, and she coughed to spit it out.

Blinking, she forced her sight to return. The dark lord stood over her, helmet and skull split open to reveal the gray mass of his brain. He raised his spear and lurched towards her, dying on his feet. She lay still where she'd fallen, waiting for him to attempt his final attack. Even now, she planned to win. He would stab down at her, and she'd bat the spear aside with her sword. Then she would...

Claude's charging body slammed into Argoth, driving him back towards the pit. Manon saw immediately what was about to happen, and shoved herself to her feet to chase after them. Argoth's foot came down past the edge of the chasm and he toppled backwards, shouting. Claude fell in after him—and Manon dove, landing flat on her belly. Pain shot through her chest like she'd been stabbed again. But she caught him, foot in hand, and there he hung, supported only by her failing strength.

Her arms trembled from his weight, and she could scarcely imagine pulling him up with her wounds. The sulfurous gas rising from below stung her eyes and made it difficult to breathe. But she had to save her love. Slowly, she bent her arms, bearing him away from death. She saw spots of red appear on his back, and realized dazedly it was blood dripping from her mouth onto him.

Suddenly, his boot slipped an inch in her blood-slick hands. She gasped, her heart racing. Paul, help!

I'm... busy! he cried over the din of ongoing combat.

Manon kept pulling, knowing she would not make it, watching Claude's boot continue to slide lower in her grasp. Damn it, your boot is too smooth.

Manon, he said, live happy.

But... I love you!

He smiled, then his boot slipped from her grasp and his body tumbled away. He did not scream as he disappeared from sight. She lay there and cried, her blood and tears falling into the depths after him.

Manon? Paul's soft voice asked. She felt him kneel by her side and wrap his huge arms about her, pulling her up to her knees. You're wounded badly.

It's nothing. She continued to stare down the abyss into which Claude had fallen. Well, what are you waiting for? Go down there and help him!

Paul looked dubiously into the pit. I don't think we're really equipped to be going down there. Seeming to recognize the despair in her gaze, he draped an arm about her shoulders and added, Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be fine. We've all survived worse than falling down some little hole, right?

Maybe so, but their parting weighed down Manon's heart with an awful sense of finality. That, and the visible glow of fire from the heart of the earth did not bode well for him. Ignoring Paul's attempts to comfort her, she clawed at the ground in an effort to drag herself over the edge and after her Claude.

Oh, stop it, Paul said, hooking his fingers into her pants to hold her back. Claude wouldn't want you to die with him, and like I said he probably isn't even dead. Now, let's get that wound patched up so you can be alive and well when he gets back.

Manon allowed him to wrap the ugly rent in her chest. Claude might still be alive, she made herself think, and if so she would wait for him. She looked around, remembering the many enemies that had faced Paul, and realized all of them were dead or gone. At least he, as always, had not disappointed anyone's expectations.

#

They stopped to rest half an hour away on the barren plain around Argoth's castle. Manon tried not to look back, but could not keep her eyes from drifting to the now quiet Fortress of Night. Suddenly wracked with chest pain that had nothing to do with her wound, she choked back a sob and whispered, Claude...

What are you crying about? Paul asked in a light tone, his rock-hard arm looped gently around her waist to help support her wounded body. Didn't I tell you he'd be fine?

He had, and Manon wanted to believe it, but she could not lie to herself anymore. Claude is not fine. He fell into the lava. He's dead!

Paul lowered his gaze and sighed. I'm sorry. You're probably right, and I shouldn't have tried to fool you like a baby. But we're alive; let's not forget that.

She looked at him, at his towering frame and handsome aristocratic face, and felt a pang of envy for his seemingly limitless strength both physical and mental. He too had lost a close friend today, yet seemed steadfast as he'd always been. He'd say that. But what will we live for?

Well, I have my family at home, and I'm sure there are people who still care for you too. And, we both know the fight never ends. But if that's not enough for you, why don't you think about it while we walk?

Manon bowed her head, replaying the day's events over and over in her mind. She was sure she could've done something better. She should have saved him! Did she really belong in this world anymore? She could just reach into her chest, pull out the heart she no longer had much use for, and go to join him. But there might very well be an afterlife, and if so he would be highly disappointed in her for doing that.

I'll take care of his land, she decided at last. Claude had been the leader of his people, and now with him gone, she supposed his fiancee would have to do. He promised we'd get married once this was over. She began to sob uncontrollably. Aren't heroes always supposed to keep their promises?

Relax, Manon. You'll worsen your wound.

She ripped bandages from her chest, revealing the gaping hole where Argoth had driven his spear into her. A mortal wound for most, but her spiritual energy sustained her. This? It's nothing. If Claude were here, we'd be laughing together, celebrating as happily as little children at our birthday, but now... Manon wept, burying her face in her filthy cloak.

Paul waited without a word, even taking the opportunity to change her bandages as she cried. She hardly felt the pain, only able to think of everything she wouldn't be able to do now. She would never marry or raise a family, and when she died she'd be buried alone, the last of her line. Claude had been her only one, and there was no other love in the world for her. It was as if all the light had been sucked from her life, and her future could only hold the deepest darkness.

Though she might not be destined to have a happy ending, however, she would find a purpose in life. Even if the tyrant who had cost her Claude was dead, and she could not take revenge on him, she would take some small comfort in devoting her life to stopping the rise of others like him.

#

They all hated her, Manon knew. It had been nearly ten years since the death of her beloved Claude, and still she had never been able to win over the Council of Levine. Looking over the long table at them from her high-backed chair, she noticed they seemed as edgy and agitated as she'd ever seen. The large-windowed chamber was ironically bright, given the constant tension within; the colorful patterns which adorned the walls and ceiling did not help in that regard.

What's wrong now? Manon barked. Are you thinking of trying to talk me out of strengthening my army again? If so, the answer is no!

One of the younger council members, a thin scholar in his forties whose life experience Manon expected was more akin to a man half his age, hesitantly spoke. But Lady, your expansion of the military has depleted our resources for other important projects. We understand the need for our nation to develop and grow, but it should not all be in one direction.

Always the same old arguments. Nothing we develop will mean anything if our country is overrun. Don't you think our safety warrants more attention than the rest of your extraneous government programs?

Our safety matters a great deal, yes. He frowned. But Levine is already the strongest nation this side of the Brak Mountains. Surely there's no need for you to invade Fillone for ore as you are planning to?

There is another side, and other continents. Manon scoffed. Besides, those hills used to belong to Levine. Fillone merely stole them from us in their time of strength, and we are more than justified in reclaiming them.

The man stood, spreading long arms in a pleading gesture. What you say may be true, but that change of hands happened hundreds of years ago. Fillone has shown no recent hostility to us. Our neighbors already view us with suspicion and fear—we should not give them another reason to distrust us.

Manon slitted her eyes in a warning look at him. It would have been simple enough to kill him, but she had not done that to a councilor since first establishing the rules of her reign and would try not to start again for as long as possible.

Unusually for them, most of the two dozen councilors seemed to be losing patience with their colleague too. Perhaps they had finally accepted their job was simply to advise her, and that the real decisions were hers to make.

Sit down, a fat, gray-bearded noble said. Have you forgotten what day it is? You can discuss matters of state later. Right now, the first thing is to get on with our Oath Day ceremony.

Oath Day? That old thing? She hadn't remembered that being today herself, not being one to care for such formalities. Besides, the anniversary of the useless Council's formation hardly seemed worth celebrating. The one thing she did welcome about it would be the opportunity to drink.

A steward walked in pushing a cart before him, and placed the great chalice of red wine in front of her before filling the council's smaller cups. The men stood and recited with some unevenness their lines about swearing to serve and protect the people of Levine, which Manon approved by joining them in a collective bow. Watching them take quickly to their cups, she lifted her own with care. Tradition did not require her to drink her whole portion of wine, but she always did. The hurts she still bore would never lack for need of numbing.

Upon raising the heavy chalice to her mouth, her ears picked up the cessation of sound as all movement in the room halted in its tracks. Strange, given how hastily they had just made to drink, and not the first oddity today. Without looking up, she tilted the cup forward and allowed some wine to run over her lips and down her chin. Even if she accidentally sampled a bit of poison, she doubted it would be enough to kill her. Her suspicions were confirmed as she heard the sound of cautiously shifted robes and daggers being pulled from their hidden sheaths.

Now Manon looked up, dark eyes settling upon the roomful of councilors caught red-handed with bare knives in their hands. Ready to kill me, then? I always figured this would happen someday, though maybe not with all of you cowards at once. Unfortunately for you, I haven't drunk.

Then the pain hit, hungry sparks of flame traveling up her arms through her shoulders and into her chest. She staggered back, falling into her chair, and writhed on her seat.

The poison wasn't in your wine, you stupid brute, said one old councilor with a satisfied sneer. It was on your cup. And before she could rise again they were on her, like a pack of dogs set upon a wounded bear.

Sharp blades pierced her over and over as she tried to squirm away, stabbing into her sides, shoulders, chest, and back. She stumbled out of her seat, tripped, and fell crying in pain. As she rose to her feet, the daggers bit again, and blood spurted from her torn flesh. But she'd gathered herself enough to resolve not to die without a fight and walked into the thick of the blows, one hand closing around a traitor's beefy wrist.

Manon punched the arm's panicked owner in the throat, crushing his windpipe. Snatching his dropped knife out of the air, she thrust it through the bottom of another man's jaw, and with her other hand took his dagger as well. Before her assailants even realized what was happening, she had slashed the throats of two more. A hard knee broke the skull of a third coming in low. Now recognition of their peril widened their eyes, and she smiled bloodily.

You really thought you could overthrow me? she asked. Don't worry, I'm not mad. I've been waiting for an excuse to rid myself of you as it is.

One councilor ran, but the rest charged. Even with her poisoned and wounded, they stood no chance. The power of her spirit still flowed riverlike through her. They stepped into the storm of her blades, and within half a minute all lay dead.

Bent with a score and more of wounds, not to mention the poison burning up her insides, Manon realized her mistake. She should have kept somebody alive. Ah, wait... there was that one who'd run. Summoning the strength to straighten up, she broke into a limping run after the trail he had left of her blood.

Despite her slowed gait, she caught up to him in the hall. Hearing loud breaths from behind a tall ornamental vase, she jerked him out of hiding and threw him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and tried to take flight again, but she threw one of her daggers through the back of his knee and he fell with a shriek. She kicked him onto his back, knelt by his side clamping steely fingers about his throat. The young councilor who had argued with her before the fight? Impressive he had bothered doing that, assuming it'd been part of the plan.

He trembled in her grasp, eyes wide with fear as her talons dug into the sides of his scrawny neck. What made you ever think you should try such a thing? she asked coolly while blood flowed down her arm onto his skin. I'm not exactly the kind of leader who's readily assassinable.

His stammering answer confirmed her suspicions. W-why should I tell you? You'll k-kill me either way.

Tell me, do you think it'll be the same if I just break your neck... or if I hang you up by your tendons outside my window, so I can listen to your pitiful screams all day while the crows feast on your flesh?

All right, all right, I'll tell you! A man came to us a few weeks ago, and told us he shared our interest in restoring Levine's relations with our neighbors. He promised he would help us rebuild this country, according to our vision. But the task of killing you, he left to ourselves.

You must have been pretty desperate to dispose of me, to so blindly trust a stranger. Long-suppressed hunger rising in her eyes, she licked her bloody lips. Did he even tell you where he was from?

No, nothing about himself. But I thought he had a northern accent.

Manon's eyes narrowed. Argoth's kingdom of Umbral had lain to the north. What. Did he look like?

He was a huge man, in a dark cloak and a bear's mask of gold.

The mask didn't ring any bells. Argoth had been huge... and half his underlings as well. She supposed this man could be one of his surviving minions. And is that all you know?

Yes! Before the councilor realized he had sentenced himself to death, Manon tightened her grip and crushed his throat. She stood, head light with blood loss, and looked to the north. It seemed the time had come to go there once more. She hoped this masked giant would be a worthy opponent. The weaklings she'd killed today were hardly enough to sate the bloodlust they had awakened in her vengeful heart.

Chapter 2

Icy wind gusted through the outdoor forge, blowing black smoke out past its wooden roof. The two men present grimaced at the chill that stung their faces, but hard labor and proximity to the fire kept their bodies warm.

Don't you think you should be heading home now, lad? the older man asked between clangs of beaten metal. It'll be busy time at the inn soon, and you don't want yer wife to be mad.

His companion, younger and less bearded than the smith himself, hammered again at the glowing shard of metal he worked. It'll be all right, I'm leaving soon. Just as soon as I get this blade into a proper shape.

Jack, it's a knife that's gonna be used for peeling roots and cutting meat. Long as it's straight, and it looks so to me, it'll be good enough for that.

I suppose. Jack, proprietor of the Happy Beaver Inn, paused to regard the small blade flattened upon the anvil. Take a look at it, though. You think it'll do?

Old Will took a step closer and peered over Jack's shoulder. Go on home. That thing looks more than strong and sharp enough. Why, if this town went to war you'd probably wind up stealing my business.

Jack reluctantly bid Will goodbye and headed out. While he did often feel like he belonged more in the smithy than at the bar, one blacksmith was plenty for this tiny town and he would hardly try to steal the business from his good friend. Maybe if Will decided to retire someday, he could take over for the settlement's forging needs. Then again, he would probably be more than busy with the inn he ran with his wife.

On the way home, he caught sight of his son Matt playing in the leaves. As only one of his friends accompanied him and they looked fairly bored, Jack called to him and waved him closer. Come on, boy, help me out now and I'll cut some time out of your future chores.

Matt jogged over without argument, and they returned together to the house. Jack sat before the big pile of tree limbs out front, and without needing to explain went to work. Winter fast approached, and it would be nice to stock up before the snows started falling. His axe sheared off a section of thick branch, which he then split in half. He tossed the pieces onto the ground beside his chopping block stump, and Matt promptly carried them to the nearby shed.

Time passed quickly for Jack when he cut firewood. Some considered it tough, sweaty work, but what he enjoyed about it was that he did not need to rush. And, like banging away at the forge, chopping up logs somehow satisfied him.

I'm tired, Dad, Matt said after a while.

He looked at his son and smiled. Matt's job wasn't really all that hard, and while unsure how long they'd been doing this, Jack had barely broken a sweat. That's good. It's how you'll learn to be a man.

He doesn't need to be a man yet, Emily said from the front window of their simple wooden cabin. He is only eight. Small, graceful, and fair, she'd become his wife shortly before Matt's birth, and been his lover since saving his life a year before that. Come inside, dinner's ready. You can cut more wood tomorrow, Jack.

Smiling, he put his axe away in the shed and followed his son inside. The comforting smell of Emily's roasted lamb reached his nose. Jack. Her father's name, and the one she'd given him in his memory. He gave it little thought now, except in moments like this, but knew it wasn't the name he'd been born with. He had no memory of anything before his first meeting with Emily, when she'd pulled him from a river and nursed him back to health. But he didn't need the past. Joyous as his life was now, the future could only be better.

How's the baby? he asked, gently patting the slight bump on Emily's belly. He hoped her second pregnancy would be a girl. He'd like to have both a son and a daughter.

It's good. It's kicking! She's going to be a strong one.

I hope so. Maybe she can grow up to be a better woodsman than Matt here.

Girls don't do that, the boy said with a frown.