Legend to Farmer: A Slice of Life Fantasy, page 1
Legend to Farmer 1
Dante King
Copyright © 2023 by Dante King
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
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Chapter 1
It was the subtle pitch change in the droning of the airship’s aether-core engines that woke the man. A moment later, a slight shifting in gravity told him that the pilot of the sorcery-powered craft was tilting the nose toward the ground.
The man was startled to find that he’d been dozing. Wrapped in the sunny memories of his past, in recollections of fire and battle and blood. These mental souvenirs of his lengthy and infamous military service had flowed, in an unlikely fashion, into dreams.
For a fleeting instant, the man’s old war-honed reflexes kicked in, and he found himself tensing; his muscles singing, his senses reaching out to scan for threats even as his eyes remained closed.
Then, he relaxed. He remembered where he was. He remembered why he was there.
His fingers, crisscrossed with a series of thin white scars from a thousand skirmishes and melees, tightened on the leather satchel sitting on his lap. He breathed out a soft sigh of relief as he felt the reassuring bulge of the packets of assorted seeds and the three eggs inside.
The fancy, wyvern leather chair creaked under him as he shifted his weight. He finally opened his sea gray eyes and looked out of the starboard porthole. A scintillating flash of orangey red made him blink as a vast flock of firebirds swirled and flashed past the windows like a shimmering shoal of airborne fish.
The man turned his attention to the ground below, running a hand through his thick shoulder length hair. Twenty-five or so years before, when he had illegally made his mark on the recruitment sergeant’s form and enlisted in the infantry at a mere fourteen years old, that hair had been a sandy, dark blond. Now, it was liberally streaked with gray, as was the short rough beard that he had cultivated over the past few weeks of travel.
He rubbed at that beard and smiled down at the landscape that rolled away beneath him. It was a vista that birthed an almost childlike awe and wonder even in a heart as hardened as his.
This far south, the end of winter still breathed lightly upon the countryside, painting the earth in shades of white and silver. A river, glittering like a trickle of wandering quicksilver, wound through the heart of the wintery haven. From that height it portrayed no hurry, as if it had chosen to sink with the quiet rhythm of the land itself.
The man found himself speculating in which of the many bends and elbows he would find the farmstead that he had purchased. He had a crude map tucked in his belt pouch, but it was impossible to tell from this hawk’s eye vantage point.
He could see the thin pencil shadings of wood smoke coming up from a small township. It was the only evidence of civilization, or human habitation, that the passenger could spot for miles around. It was like an atoll of existence in an otherwise wild and unchanged land.
Abodes nestled together on the shores of a small lake like old companions seeking warmth against the cold. The smoke rising from the chimneys spoke of hearths alight with life, a stark contrast to the frigid expanse that ringed it. Distantly, mountains guarded the horizons on three sides, their craggy profiles softened by the touch of the weak winter sun. Cloaked in snow, they loomed as guardians of a realm that looked untouched by the wars that had been raging on the borders of it for years and had only just come to an end.
The former warrior felt himself relaxing as he looked down at that portrait of tranquility. The harmonious interplay of the elements resonated with something deep within him. Finally, he allowed himself to dare to hope that his journey’s end held the promise of solace, of a new chapter.
Of a new me, he thought.
A slightly irritable voice made the airship passenger look around. A man who had earlier been flipping a disk of fire over the backs of his knuckles was now berating a stewardess for taking too long with his drink.
Damn hot-headed firemages, the former warrior thought to himself. I ought to… He gave his head a small shake. Do nothing. Mind my business, that’s what I should do.
Careful not to catch anyone’s eye, his gaze swept around the luxuriously appointed main cabin. Many people were snoozing, just as he had been. One old man pored over parchment scrolls that levitated in front of his bespectacled nose. Another younger woman was playing an arcane puzzle game, the pieces of which floated and revolved in front of her.
The retired warrior rubbed the last of the drowse from his eyes. This really was the only way to fly. He had flown on the backs of giant rocs in combat formations, as well as once having fought a warlock on the back of a rather cantankerous dragon, but this… This was fairly wonderful. It was almost going to be a shame to get off.
There’s an idea, he thought. An airship that just travels perpetually around the Realm. Stopping only to take on supplies and to let passengers on and off. Maybe spending a few hours in some pleasant destination so that the travelers can look around, before moving on again. I’m sure there’d be money to be made in that.
Airship was one of the few viable ways to travel safely between the shattered, broken, and still unsettled regions of the Realm. It was also ruinously expensive. Still, what was gold in the grand scheme of things?
Absently, the man patted the satchel on his lap again, feeling the bulk of the eggs and seeds inside. He felt a little flush of guilt but quickly dispelled it. After all the least his king, and his accursed council of bureaucrats, owed him were a few kernels and eggs to get his farming enterprise off to a good start.
He looked out of the window again. He stared vacantly at the passing landscape that was growing closer and closer with every passing minute. He found himself lost in thoughts of what his potential new future might look like.
What kind of man could he be? The possibilities were endless. No one would know him where he was going. No one would be aware of his past or his reputation. He could be whoever he wanted. That was a comforting thought. To be totally anonymous.
What a treat.
As the whole point of him traveling that far was to start a new life incognito, he wasn’t wearing any of his habitual armor or weaponry. It hadn’t been too difficult leaving all that stuff behind.
Despite the popular narrative convention adopted by bards and storytellers throughout the Realm, he had never possessed a legendary sword. Any warrior worth his salt, who had time enough to name his sword, hadn’t been doing enough fighting. As for armor, if you came out of a scrap without needing to have one of your pauldrons replaced or a section of chainmail fixed up and relinked, then was it really a fight?
With this in mind he was dressed in simple traveler garb. He wore a charcoal gray cloak over his ensemble. The fabric, though worn and slightly soiled from his time on the road, still held the integrity of a well-crafted piece of attire and protected him from the elements. Its hood could be drawn up too, to shield his face, keep away unwanted eyes, and protect his identity.
Underneath this cloak he wore a tunic of deep forest green. It was cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt, his old sword belt in fact, though there was no sword hanging from it now. All he had fixed to it was his po
His trousers were dark and sewn from a good sturdy cloth. His boots were, admittedly, expensive, but they were so weathered and broken-in that only a very close inspection from someone with a footwear fetish would reveal their worth.
The traveler felt another rare smile tugging at his lips. Yes, he was just another wanderer, another man on the road, moving from one place to another on business of his own. He was bereft of responsibilities or oaths or any allegiance, apart from the one that every man laid unto himself.
Staring unseeingly out of the porthole, the ground growing larger as it came up to meet the descending airship, he idly wondered whether there might be time for one more glass of moonberry brandy before they landed, when he felt an insistent tugging on the sleeve of his jerkin.
The traveler tore his gaze away from the swathes of dense pine forests below and turned to find himself eye to eye with a small orc boy. His eyebrows rose a little in apprehension at the sight of the round, eager face.
The orc child had the stubby tusks, squashed nose, and gray-greenish skin of his kind, and he was looking at the weathered man with a fervor that the man found a little disconcerting from big, lambent, yellow eyes. At that moment, it was even money as to whether the boy was going to engage the man in conversation or sink his yellowish teeth into the meat of his calf. He had twin streaks of snot crusting out from each of his nostrils. They looked like the dribbled wax of candles long burned down.
“Can I help you?” the man asked the boy. His voice came out gruff and harsh. He realized that he had barely spoken to another soul for almost three weeks.
“‘Scuse me, Commander,” the orc boy said in a shrill voice that had the man wincing and looking about to see who had heard him. “I was wonderin’ whether you could please sign my sword.”
The traveler jerked his head away and unthinkingly deflected the rubbery weapon as the small orc child thrust it under his nose. This only seemed to make the kid’s day.
“Cor!” the little orc gushed loudly in a spray of saliva. “No wonder you’ve got a reflexes rating of ninety-five in the Supreme Triumphs card game!”
Out of his peripheral vision the man saw a couple of heads nearby turn his way. A skinny witch sitting in the seat in front of him twisted her head to look back. He avoided her gaze.
“Would you keep it down, kid?” the cloaked passenger growled under his breath.
“Is that where the manticore got you when you was stormin’ the Sable Keep?” the kid said, ignoring him, and pointing at the three parallel scars that ran through the man’s beard on the right side of his face.
“Actually, it was a leshy,” the man said, keeping his voice low in the hope that the young orc would follow his lead.
He neglected to tell the kid that the altercation with the forest spirit in question had, in truth, taken place in a tavern fight after the deeds that he’d performed at the Sable Keep. The man had heard the tale, though. Like any good yarn, it had been embellished over the years. Bards were like fishermen: they never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
“Tell me, kid, have you ever heard the saying: ‘A closed mouth gathers no boots’?” he asked.
“No,” the squirt replied amiably.
“No,” the man echoed. “I didn’t think so.”
He hastily took the toy sword that was being waggled in front of his nose.
“If I sign this thing,” he muttered, “will you leave me alone?”
“Maybe,” the little orc said.
“Sorry, I said that wrong,” the traveler said, leaning toward the snot-nosed orc. “What I meant was, if I sign this you will leave me alone.”
The child gazed at him in an inscrutable fashion. Then, never breaking eye contact, he extended a long exploratory finger into one nostril and began slowly revolving it.
“Okay,” he said after a moment of unhurried nasal exploration.
Quickly, the man reached for the quill in the ink pot that was set into the table next to his seat. “What’s your name, kid?” he growled.
“Thokk!”
‘Dear Thokk’,’ the man scrawled across the rubber sword. ‘Next time, instead of blowing my cover, maybe you could blow your nose.’ Then he dashed off his signature underneath.
Valdis Wolfbane.
“Can you do me a favor, kid?” Valdis Wolfbane asked, passing the little weapon back.
“Sure, anything!” the orc replied. He flicked the recently liberated contents of his nostril over his shoulder. They landed in the horn cup of mead sitting in front of a robed well-to-do dwarf a moment before he took a hearty gulp.
“Keep this to yourself until I disembark, okay?” Valdis said.
“You got it!” Thokk squeaked, blowing a snot bubble in his excitement. “Boy, Leeroy’s not going to believe that I was on an airship with the real Commander Wolf—”
With a swiftness that would surely have garnered him a speed rating of ninety-seven in Supreme Triumphs, Valdis grabbed up a handful of complimentary candy from the pocket on the seat in front of him and stuffed one into the little orc’s flapping mouth.
“Excuse me, kid, but I’ve got to use the little boy’s latrine,” he said. “There’s a small gift from me to you, though. Enjoy.”
Then, Valdis turned him about by the shoulders and sent him scampering on his way.
Thokk turned once as he hurried off, his dark green lips working overtime as he sucked on the candy, and gave Valdis a thumbs-up.
As Valdis Wolfbane walked toward the rear of the airship, he saw the little orc scooting off between the passengers in their large comfortable booths.
As he went, Valdis noticed that a few of the passengers nearest him were whispering to one another, or else shooting surreptitious glances his way. As he made his way briskly through the airship’s fancy interior toward the rear where the privies were, he was sure the rumor was rushing ahead of him like sparks running down the wind.
It was as Valdis was nearing the aft section of the airship, having passed through the galley lounge, that a voice crackled over the thaumaturgical speaking tubes that ran through the sorcery-powered craft.
“Ladies and gentlemen, enchanted souls and distinguished beings,” the voice said, in the slightly stilted fashion of the professional airship aviator. “This is your captain speaking. We’ll be making our way into the resupply depot of Timbermere in a little under a quarter of an hourglass. We’ll be grounded for only a short while so there’ll be no chance to leave the craft unless you are one of our passengers scheduled to do so. Judging by the sway of the pines below, the wind at this rural port is fair to middling.”
The pilot cleared his throat. His voice became a modicum more animated. “Now, I have the honor of announcing that we have a very special guest flying with us today.”
“Oh gods,” Valdis growled under his breath as he moved smartly toward the rear of the airship.
“Esteemed passengers, it’s my very genuine pleasure to tell you that we have the very real privilege to be ferrying none other than…”
Valdis tuned out as the captain started to reel off a list of ridiculous titles and accolades that he had, admittedly, mostly earned, but always hated. He fought the urge to pull his hood up as he stalked down the aisles. He would have liked nothing better than to find the piloting deck and knock the block off the guy talking—but that was the old him.
Instead, smiling blandly and not catching anyone’s eyes, Valdis walked toward the aft section of the ship, trying to look like he couldn’t hear what the overzealous man in the wheelhouse was saying.
And that was when Valdis caught the clamor of raised voices coming from the direction of the cargo hold.
He stopped in the wood-paneled corridor, his boots thumping to a halt. He was a fairly big guy, six feet five inches and with shoulders to match, but he still found himself automatically pressing his back to the wall of the skinny corridor. It didn’t make much difference so far as being a potential target went.
Valdis’ teeth crunched on the piece of candy he had just popped into his mouth. He realized he still had a handful of the things.
Feyberry flavor. My favorite, he thought, in a strangely detached manner.
