Legion

How much would Legion need to pack? Food and clothing were obviously a priority, but how much of either? How long would he be gone? It depended on how far the stranger had gotten. There was only one road out of Refuge.

He took his bag downstairs to appraise what food would survive a trip into the desert. It was nearly noon without a cloud in the sky. The kind of day Legion and his dad would spend on the dock fishing. Legion’s fishing poll still rested on the floor near the back door, exactly where he had dropped it the day before.

His father kept the slow-perishing foods separate from what they bought at the town market. Those were his traveling foods; meant for when he went far beyond Refuge to procure artifacts for the museum. As Legion stuffed his pack with jars of oats and beans his eyes drifted to the museum’s entrance. The very sight of those aged relic made the knot in his stomach grow tighter.

Had to keep his mind busy. Father kept a jar of spiced pig jerky saved away at the back of a cupboard. Legion took one from the jar and nibbled on it. It was tasty, but the pleasure felt hollow. It also reminded him that he hadn’t eaten today. This might be his last chance for a full meal.

Eggs. He felt like eating eggs. There were still some left from old man Rylo’s farm. Enough for a meal.

He ate his breakfast on the back patio. He stood stiff-legged and watched the glittering waves of the Insólito Sea. There was little wind, so the water was calm. That was remarkable for the Insólito, known for its unpredictable waves, deadly currents, and jagged rocks. It was a stretch of water many boats avoided, which made it a great harbor for the residents of Refuge. It was dangerous work, but the fishers of Refuge turned this spot of coast into a safe haven for Diablans like Legion and his father.

As Legion returned inside he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the outside washbasin. He looked like he hadn’t slept, which was true, but he had hoped it wasn’t so obvious. A Diablan’s eyes grow dimmer the more exhausted they are. Legion’s were like the embers of a long abandoned campfire.

He took a moment to wash his face. The water felt cool against his clay gray skin. He took special attention to clean his horns. It wasn’t something he often did, but his father prided himself on his clean horns. Said that’s how he won over Mother.

Legion looked back to the Insólito. His eyes fell on the boat he had left on the shore the night before. He hadn’t even bothered to tie it. Too busy with other things.

It would have been a good day for fishing.

Past midday now. How much time had he wasted on trivial things? He had to make a final check of things before leaving. Food. Clothing. Maps and other reading materials.

He paused.

A weapon.

He needed a weapon.

Over the mantle was a cutlass. It held no importance in the museum, but it had washed on shore one day. Legion always had a fascination with that cutlass. When he was younger —and his father wasn’t looking— Legion would sneak it outside and imagine himself as a ruthless pirate. The cutlass had no sheath, leaving a question of how he’d transport it. At least it was something. His family never kept weapons. Legion had his Arcana, but that was unreliable. So the cutlass would have to do.

A knock at the door made Legion’s entire body lurch forward.

Barato Manes. The “Mayor” of Refuge. He was a pudgy diablan with a long, swishing tail and a chin like a doorstop.

“Legion. How are you?” The old man was always forward with formalities.

“Fine.” Legion had only cracked the door a few centimeters.

“May I come in, or is this a bad time?”

“What do you want?”

Barato scratched his chaffing brow. His purple eyes were dim like Legion’s. “What do you think?”

Legion could only nod. He opened the door, forgetting he was still holding the cutlass, which Barato took notice of.

“Packing away your father’s collection?”

“No. Just...being nostalgic.” Legion sheepishly hid the cutlass behind his back.

Barato’s doubt was obvious. Without asking, he took a seat at the dinner table. He scanned the artifacts adorning the walls. His arrowhead tail tapped distractingly on the wooden floor. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Legion didn’t meet his eyes.

“Poor lies get you nowhere in life.”

“I am though.” Legion put the cutlass next to his pack of supplies. “I feel calm and in control.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I only heard about it this morning.” Barato’s voice turned to a low croak when he was sorrowful.

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Legion fixated on the floor.

“Thank you.” He said, barely opening his mouth.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Legion answered with a glare. Barato was costing him time.

“Right then.” Barato stomped the dust off his boots. He scanned the room for something to draw conversation to. He pointed to the museum, which was visible from the kitchen. “Didn’t there used to be a rug there?”

“I had to wash it. It was…stained.” Legion shook his head. He was blinking more than necessary.

Barato leaned back in his chair, eyes fixated on the faint outline of where the rug had lain. “Ah. That’s where it happened then?”

Another glare. Legion’s palms grew hot.

“Do you know why the fellow did it?” Barato kept his tone conversational. Like he was asking about the weather or how Legion’s studies were going.

“No,” Legion busied himself with his pack, “but I intend to.”

“You mean to leave the village?” That brought the first spark of surprise out of Barato. Their village wasn’t named Refuge without reason.

“I’ll be back.” Legion glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t know why he bothered soothing Barato’s concerns. He couldn’t remember ever having respect for the gray windbag, not even as a child.

Barato gave a long sigh. An old man’s sigh. “Alone? It's a hard world out there for a lone diablan. I’ve heard some nasty news from travelers. This ‘Order of Suffering,’ you know? It's not a good time for you to go on your own.”

Legion looked out the window to the calm Insólito. He was not alone in thinking it was a good day for fishing. Children were collecting along the docks to drop lines from their makeshift rods.

“I’ll survive.”

Barato laughed. Short and cold. His tail flipped from side to side, tapping hard on the wooden floors. Each impact made Legion wince in frustration. “You might! You very well might, but you won’t be the same as you were here. After you learned why that man killed-”

Legion inhaled sharply. He had been avoiding that word both in conversation and to himself.

“-Your father” Barato continued, more gingerly than he had before, “what do you intend to do then?”

Legion lifted the cutlass, looking at the blurred reflection it gave him. “Make him beg for mercy, then not give it.”

“You can’t just kill a man.”

“Why not? He did.”

Barato had no counter for that. He massaged his knees. He often complained that stress made his knees ache. “What of your father’s collection? Are you planning to carry that on your back?”

“What are you talking about?” Legion refused to look at the artifacts. For the first time he looked at Barato directly.

Barato shrugged with his hands. “They’re valuable items. Your father was not quiet when he boasted about what he appraised them for.”

Legion glared again. “My father never boasted.”

Another burst of laughter. “My point is...you leave here, even for a week, you’ll come home to ransacked house. No amount of goodwill your father built in this community can stop that.”

Legion marched on Barato, stabbing the air between them with a sharp finger. “Then you stop them. You are never quiet when you boast about how your title is more than ceremonial.”

Barato’s mouth creased. Now it was his turn to look out the window. “Like I said, tough times are coming. Times that can be eased with coin.”

He gave Legion his most pitiable look. “Those artifacts are valuable. It would be quite a legacy for your father: Fortifying the village that he called home.”

Legion wanted to punch the man. Break his nose. Stomp on his tail. Rip off his long-cultivated horns. He could feel sparks of Arcana at his fingertips.

“I’ll think about it.” Legion answered through clenched teeth.

“Legion…” The old man rubbed his brow, his own frustration setting in.

“I said I’ll think about it!” Legion shouted in Barato’s face. “I have other things on my mind!”

That time the message was clear. Slowly, Barato got up from his seat. His hand rested on Legion’s shoulder. In his youth, Legion had though Barato a giant. Now they stood eye to eye.

“Until the month’s end. That’s all I can promise you. Out of respect for your father. He was a good man and will be missed.”

Legion almost believed his honesty.

Barato showed himself out. Legion watched through the window as he traveled up the village street, greeting the diablans he passed. Barato never looked back.

Legion gave a short scream of frustration. He didn’t have time for this. He should have left hours ago. He shouldered his bag of supplies. He still didn’t have a sheath for the cutlass.

One last look around the house then. He finally pushed himself to go into the museum, putting considerable mental effort to not recall his father’s voice describing each item, or the sight of his body on the floor.

Most of the artifacts were locked in display cases and set on red fabric. The bigger items, like the chunk of a mural depicting the diablan hero Renaldo, were set against the wall. Most of it was useless things. Old pottery and weathered parchment. The room had a musty smell that he could only associate with his father. Legion wasn’t sure what Barato meant when he said these things were valuable. To men like his father, maybe, but there weren’t many men like him.

Legion bit his lip to distract himself from the tears welling in his eyes.

There was one item that stuck out to Legion. A wand made of a knotted ebony wood. It was longer than other wands Legion had seen, being nearly 40 centimeters. More like a baton than anything. The generous space of the wand was filled with designs and eldritch text. Legion couldn’t read it and he could never recall asking his father for a translation.

“One day you might use one like it,” his father said after showing young Legion the wand for the first time. “That is, if you study your Arcana more.”

Legion closed his fist and raised his thumb. From the tip of his thumb came a dancing crimson spark. It had taken months just to manifest this much control.

The pockets of Legion’s traveling cloak were deep enough that the sizable wand only peaked out slightly. He could feel the eyes of his neighbors on him as he locked his house. Legion took a deep breath, savoring the sea breeze. Clouds were starting to roll in. He took a final look at the ocean. His eyes drifted to the short cliff overlooking the sparkling waters. On that cliff was a grave, freshly made. His father’s favorite spot to read and fish.

It really would have been a good day for fishing.