by Sean Gibson
I mulled the offer. On the one hand, I didn’t think I’d have much luck getting any adventurers worth their weight in mithral to bite on this “opportunity”; on the other, all I had planned for the next couple of weeks was bopping around to various towns and villages in the area to perform, and this wouldn’t prevent me from doing that, and would put some extra gold in my pocket besides—and all I had to do was whip up a new little ditty, which I could do in the bath. So, that made the decision pretty easy. “All right,” I said, “after careful thought and deliberation—”
“You’ve only been thinking for like two seconds,” said Goodman Youngman.
I gave him the same look I once gave a rabid were-owl-bear that tried to get handsy with me. Youngman blanched in the most satisfying way. “As I was saying, after careful thought and deliberation, I will take up your cause.” I picked up the purse and tucked it securely inside my shirt. “In part because I feel for the good people of Skendrick and wish to help free your town—”
“Village,” said Goodman Drunkman.
“Village,” I amended, “from the oppressive yoke of the dragon, but mainly because you’re paying me, and I’m not really in a position to turn down ten gold pieces right now, the economy being what it is.”
Goodman Drunkman drained the rest of his drink. “We’ll give you half now and half when you’ve managed to get us some adventures. Adventurerersh. Adventurers. That’s a hard word to say,” he said, his speech slurred.
I tapped my impressive bosom, not to point out its impressiveness (well, not solely for that purpose), but to indicate where I had sequestered the purse. “You do realize that you’ve already given me all the gold, right?”
The two men looked at each other. “You were just supposed to give her half,” said Drunkman. He hiccupped.
“I’ve never done this before,” replied Youngman.
“I have a feeling that’s true in more ways than one when it comes to interactions with members of the opposite sex,” I opined.
A moment of awkward silence ensued. “Well, what happens now?” asked Goodman Youngman.
“Now I finish my drink, take a nap, and then get ready for my performance tonight.”
“And what about helping us?” he pressed.
“I’ll get to it. I need to write a song first. And then I’ll sing it everywhere from here to Kazaloon.”
“Where’s Kazaloon?” asked Goodman Drunkman.
“Next to Pluradia.”
“Where’s Pluradia?”
“You guys don’t get out much, do you?”
“This is the first time I’ve ever left Skendrick,” said Goodman Youngman.
“Me too,” said Drunkman. “Except for when I was here last night. And all the other times I’ve come here. Which is pretty often.” He hiccupped again.
“I’d tell you to enjoy your time in Borden,” I said, “but that would require getting your hands on substances that aren’t usually available for sale in Borden. Though I do know a guy.” I finished my drink and stood up. “Gentlemen—or, rather, Goodmen—it’s been…well, if not a pleasure, certainly financially rewarding. Whatever. In either case, it’s time for my nap. You’re more than welcome to stick around for the show tonight.”
“We need to get back to Skendrick,” said Goodman Youngman. He looked at Drunkman. “And we don’t have any more money to stay the night anyway.”
Sometimes I hate my tendency to want to help every stray dog that wanders into my path. I ground my teeth. “I will cover a room for you if you want to stay.”
“Can we?” asked Goodman Youngman, the excitement evident in his voice.
“We really should get back to Skendrick…”
I sighed. “I’ll cover your bar tab, too—within reason.”
“Then again, it’s always good for a young man to expand his horizons,” said Drunkman enthusiastically. “All right—we’ll stay.”
I secured a room for them, tossed them the key, and then retired to my own room. I really did need a nap, and I needed some quiet time if I was going to write a song to help the good people of Skendrick dupe some idiotic adventurers into taking on (and most likely getting immolated by) a red dragon.
Fortunately, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s writing songs that appeal to idiots.
Chapter 11
THE HEROIC ADVENTURERS MEET THEIR DESTINY
Bruised and battered, but not deterred, from their mission to seek justice for all those in need, Nadinta and her companions arrived in the sleepy town of Napperville. Rather than seek solace in the bottom of a bottle or a house of ill repute, however, the stolid adventurers, eager to set right the misfortune that had befallen them in Velenia, made their way to the town square, where those in need of assistance of all kinds gathered to find aid. Farmers came to seek help in harvesting crops, builders to find laborers to help them build and repair homes, and merchants to find those who could make deliveries. Adventurers, too, gathered in the town square on occasion, ready to lend their strength and skill at arms to those unable to defend themselves from the evil creatures that lurked in all corners of Erithea.
In truth, however, there was seldom a need for the services of such noble heroes in Napperville, and so, after determining that no one would call upon them for help, Nadinta, Rummy, Borg, and Whiska walked to a quaint inn to recover their strength and prepare for their next quest.
That evening, over a simple meal of stew and bread, the companions learned of a village in dire straits indeed, one in need of heroes to rescue it from the ravages of the savage red dragon Dragonia. The entertainer that the inn had retained that evening, the legendary bard Heloise, painted such a vivid and heart-wrenching picture with her beautiful words and honeyed voice that the heroes were overcome with a desire to provide succor to the good and valiant people of Skendrick, and so they approached the bard after she had finished her tale and, near tears borne of their compassion for the Skendrickians’ plight, expressed to her their desire to aid the village, and begged her to take them there straight away so that Skendrick would not need to suffer one day more at the hands of the foul beast.
The noble and humble bard recognized that the group before her was formidable indeed, and so she raised them up from their prostrate positions, comforted the suffering Nadinta with a gentle touch on her shoulder, and told them that she would lead them to Skendrick, and that she felt deep in her bones that the worthy adventurers would prove mighty enough to slay the dragon.
Chapter 12
ALCOHOL + DESPERATION = BAD DECISIONS
Their flight had been neither swift nor heroic, but at last Nadinta, Rummy, Whiska, and Borg reached a sleepy hamlet that they considered far enough from Velenia to be safe from pursuit from their prior employer.
“As farm implements go, maybe a scythe would be better, eh?” said Rummy as they waited to enter the village, checked by a bored guard armed with a garden hoe.
The guard shrugged, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and said, through a yawn, “There’s an inn down the road a few blocks that way—The Dancing Dozer. Can’t miss it. Unless you do. Which you won’t.”
“Dancing Dozer?” replied Rummy. “That seems dangerous. I’ve heard of sleepwalking, but dancing while you’re asleep seems like it would—”
“Come on, Rummy,” said Nadi. She nodded to the guard. “Thank you.”
“So, what do we do now?” asked Whiska as they walked.
“We go to the inn,” replied Nadi.
“I meant after that, you pointy-eared tree hugger.”
“I…don’t know. One thing at a time.” Nadinta shook her head, seeming unsure of herself.
They arrived at the inn a few moments later and reserved two rooms, deciding to double up to conserve their meager supply of coins. After taking some time to clean up and refresh themselves, they reconvened in the very sparsely populated common room of the inn, just in time to catch a glimpse of the most spectacular backside any of them had ever seen, which was attached, in
cidentally, to a bard of no small skill, as they would soon come to learn.
“So, what do we do now?” asked Whiska as they sipped drinks, an indulgent purchase given their financial circumstances.
“We go to the inn,” said Rummy after taking a long pull of his ale.
“We’re already at the inn, you hairy molerat.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought we were just having the exact same conversation we had half an hour ago.”
“We have to go back,” said Nadi as she stared into her wine glass.
“To Velenia?” asked Rummy.
“Yes.”
“Where there’s a homicidal wizard with an incredibly powerful weapon who has every intention of turning us into shish roundabobs?”
(Shish roundabobs were an ingenious invention that was revolutionizing food service across Erithea; unlike shish kabobs, which are pointy and pose constant danger throughout a meal, to the point (pun fully intended) where you can’t really relax and enjoy the lovely combination of meat and vegetables they offer, shish roundabobs are fashioned from a stick that has a pointed end in order to slide easily through food, but the pointy part snaps off once the food is on to reveal a soft, round tip that is much less dangerous if you happen to poke yourself in the eye with it. Even better, the stick is hollow, and can be filled with whatever substance best compliments the meal you’re eating—yogurt sauce, hot sauce, garlic sauce, lizard blood…whatever you fancy. It’s been whispered that the woman who invented them once lost an eye while eating a shish kabob, but I met her, and the worst injury she ever suffered eating a shish kabob was a tiny scratch on the roof of her mouth that took about a minute and a half to heal; she’s an exceptional marketer, however, so she generally wears an eyepatch wherever she goes—often switching it from one eye to the other so that she doesn’t strain her vision—and lets people make assumptions about the dangers of shish kabob consumption, leading, in most cases, to an uptick in sales for her invention. She’s pretty amazing.)
But, I digress.
“He’s our responsibility, Rummy.”
“Like hell he is!” shouted Whiska, drawing stares from the few other patrons who occupied the taproom. “I didn’t hand him some sort of crazy magical weapon!”
“No, you just found it,” said Rummy. “And gave it to the person who gave it to him.”
“We’re all culpable,” said Nadi.
“I like…shish roundabobs. Do you think…they have any?” said Borg.
“I’m not entirely sure they have running water in this…this…well, I was going to say backwater, but that would sort of undermine my point. Anyway, I’m not sure they have running water here, Borgy, let alone fancy inventions like shish roundabobs,” said Rummy, shaking his head sadly.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not doing this!” Whiska stood up. “If you decide to come to your senses, I’ll stay. Otherwise, you’re on your own, you ridiculous tailless top feeders!” She stormed off in a huff, slamming the door of the inn behind her.
“I’m not sure that calling us the opposite of bottom feeders is as insulting as Whiska thinks it is,” mused Rummy. “And all of her stuff is still up in her room.”
“She’ll be back,” said Nadi. “I hope.”
“Whiska seems…upset,” said Borg.
“Sure does, big guy,” said Rummy.
They ate and drank in silence for a few moments before Rummy spoke again. “Look, Nadi…it’s not that I agree with Whiska, mind you—I mean, I don’t think you look even a little ridiculous without a tail, for example. But, I’m not sure we’re quite ready to go back to Velenia.” Nadi started to say something, but Rummy held his hand up. “Please—let me finish.”
“That’s what…she said,” said Borg.
“Not now, Borg,” said Rummy. He paused. “Though that was pretty good.”
“I don’t get it,” said Nadi.
“Never mind.” Rummy finished his ale. “I agree that it’s our responsibility to try to stop that madman.” He spoke softly. “But we’re not ready. I barely even know how to hold a weapon. Borg is basically a giant, sweet punching bag.” He looked at Borg. “No offense, big guy.”
“I have…to poop.”
Rummy pointed toward the commode. “Please do it back there.”
Borg squinted. “That is…a small room. I will…wait.” He looked pained.
Rummy looked uneasily at his giant companion and shook his head. “Anyway. Whiska’s got power, no doubt, and she’s clever, but she’s got no idea how to work with other people.”
“And me?”
“You’re perfect, Nadi.”
“Rummy.”
Rummy shrugged. “You’re smart, calm, fair, honest, and skilled with weapons. You’ve got all the qualities of a good leader.”
“But? And be honest.”
“But, you doubt yourself too much, you have an overactive conscience, and you’re not assertive enough.”
“I see,” replied Nadi. “Anything to add, Borg?”
“Getting punched…doesn’t really hurt.”
Nadi smiled. “Glad that’s true for one of us, at least.” She looked at Rummy. “Though there are different kinds of punches, and sometimes the ones that aren’t physical hurt more.”
Rummy grimaced. “You said be honest! Look, we’re never going to become successful adventurers unless we trust each other and are truthful about our shortcomings. We’re new to this! Of course we’re not perfect. Some of us are less perfect than others.” He nodded toward the door through which Whiska had departed. “Some of us have a tendency to poop too much, but are too big to use normal bathrooms, which makes it awkward to be in public with others.” He nodded to Borg, who nodded solemnly in return. “And some of us have to speak truth to those in positions of power so they don’t end up like Emperor Halsted.”
(Emperor Halsted was the key figure in an old legend about power’s ability to corrupt and blind those who possess it to the truth. In most versions of the story, the Emperor is convinced by a shady con artist to buy some expensive new clothes from him, only it turns out that there are, in fact, no clothes at all, and the Emperor ends up parading naked throughout his kingdom, but no one is willing to tell him the truth. In some versions of the story, most likely written down after years of oral recitation had garbled the original tale, the Emperor ends up wearing “newt clothes,” which, as might be expected, make him look like a giant, bipedal newt. I’ve always been partial to the newt version, even if the moral of that story is less clear.)
Nadi smiled wryly. “It is difficult not to let the power go to my head, leading such a fearsome and dangerous group.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “What do you suggest we do, truth speaker?”
“Right now? Have a drink. Enjoy the fact that we’re still alive. Get a good night’s sleep. We can figure out our next move in the morning. Whatever that move is, we need to get a lot better at not almost getting killed before we go back to Velenia.”
Nadi, Rummy, and Borg spent the next couple of hours nursing drinks, but even the slow rate of consumption left them more than a little impaired by the time my show started. They, along with several other already inebriated patrons—well, not that many; this was Napperville, after all, and there couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people in the tavern that night—rocked drunkenly in their seats, singing along to my first few songs, all well-known favorites, in the characteristically loud, confident, and off-key voice of the overserved.
With the crowd sufficiently warmed up, I decided it was time to debut my newest work, though given the typical Nappervillian crowd (not to be confused with The Nappervillain, a well-known local crime lord who trafficked heavily in black market wool), I didn’t hold out much hope that there would be any eager adventurers among them.
I strummed my lute and motioned for the crowd (such as it was) to be quiet. “Those of you who have called this region home for any length of time know well the danger and hardship that a ruined crop can bring; imagine, if you will
, what it would be like if decimated vegetables were the least of your worries, and that you had to spend your days and nights looking to the skies for fear of death being rained down on you from above.
“That is the plight of your friends and neighbors in Skendrick, not so very far to the north, and they are in need of aid. I have taken up the cause of the good villagers and would like to dedicate my latest composition to them, and urge you, if you know any brave and worthy adventurers who might aid Skendrick in its darkest hour, to come forth after my performance and tell me so that I might lead those hearty souls to the place where they are needed most.”
With the exception of a few soft, drunken belches, the room had gone quiet, the mood shifting from loud and raucous to quiet and somber. You might think that trying something like this would kill the mood entirely and would be an idiotic move for a performer who relies on tips generated by goodwill to make the evening worthwhile, and you’d be right—if you were talking about a lesser bard. Fortunately, I’m not a lesser bard.
I began to sing soft and low, without accompaniment.
Gather round friends, and hear tell my tale
Of love, of loss, of pain
When I am done you will know full well
A sorrow that will drive you insane
It was a little darker and heavier-handed than I normally like to go, but I’d written a jaunty melody to counterbalance the bleakness. There are few things in life so bad that a catchy whoa-oh! chorus can’t make at least a little better.
The Dirge of Skendrick
Written in the key of persuasion
Take heed, my friends, for all in this life
Can be taken in the blink of an eye
When the bulk of a massive red dragon
Rains fire and death from the sky
* * *
For so it has happened, and is happening still
In a town just like your own
Where people are screaming and crying for aid
