Several times, while practicing a song, her lute started to glow, wisps of light rolling off the strings. While playing a battle song, her fingers grew stronger, able to hold down the strings with ease and far less pain. During a song about an old swordsman and his skill, her fingers moved through the chords almost without her having to think about it, her hands moving with greater speed and confidence.
Magic. She was doing magic. It wasn’t as flashy as shooting fireballs or raising the dead, but it was a good start. An amazing start. She’d dreamed about what magic would feel like, what she’d do if she got to go off to Hogwarts or really cast spells from a scroll.
The reality of it was the same and different all at once. She felt the power deep inside, like a groundswell of emotion, the same as when she nailed a skit or won a hard-fought bout in a fencing tournament. It was triumph given form to make change in the world.
Ecstatic, Leah opened a fresh notebook and started writing, slowed by the pen and ink but only just. She copied song titles and effects, checking them against the official bardic text from HQ, fabricated to look like an in-world journal of a famous bard.
She compiled a short list of ten songs that were Council-approved as fitting in this region, and spent the rest of her shift transcribing the lyrics and rehearsing her way through in a soft voice, one eye always scanning the woods around them.
The owls and birds and various sounds of the forest accompanied her. It was Fantasy World forest, which ended up sounding a lot like the meditation/relaxation tapes her aunt Mei listened to whenever they’d go to her house for New Year’s.
Eventually, Roman crawled out of the tent and set about arranging his arsenal like Jayne in “House of Gold,” weapons laid out in order of size and use next to him around the camp.
“You ready for So You Think You Can Belt?” he asked as Leah put away her books.
“I did magic! At least, it better have been magic, or else I’m going to ask what kind of mushrooms you put in that stew. I found three songs so far where the magic kicks in like it’s supposed to.
“That’s great,” he said. “Keep practicing.”
“I mean, I’m not going to win any bardic competitions, but it should be good enough for Fallran pop radio. Can Shirin enchant me an auto-tune necklace or something for later on?”
Roman chuckled and shooed Leah off to bed. “Long day tomorrow. If we’ve got time, maybe some sparring in there to stay fresh?”
Leah rubbed her thighs, still sore from riding. “Only if we do hip openers first.”
“Got it. Yoga, then fencing.”
And so Leah slipped into her tiny tent, the dark canvas all of twelve inches above her head, and dreamed gloriously silly Fantasy World dreams of heroism and saving the world. They smashed together Jones, Pratchett, Hobb, Tolkien, and more into a magical stew of joy.
Chapter Seven: Putting the Band Back Together
King and Shirin made good time the first day on the road to the city of Ag’ra, where Ioseph had said they’d be likely to find Xan’De, the Matok warrior-mystic. Ag’ra was a port town and a crossroads. Officially a free city, it was closely allied with Fallran, but ancient magics kept its walls sacrosanct. It was unlikely the Night-Lord would move on Ag’ra without consolidating his hold on Fallran first.
King and Shirin had ridden these roads and roads just like them many times over the years. It was dangerous to split the party, but there was a comfort in being back with his oldest partner on the team. They knew each other well enough they barely had to talk if they didn’t feel like it.
As they set off the second morning, Shirin felt like it. “It really is quite fun to see Leah having such a good time on a mission. She hasn’t been that excited since Ahura-3.”
“As long as she keeps her head on her shoulders and lets her knowledge serve her and not distract her, she’ll do fine.”
“We all have our loves. Leah tells me that you had some puppy-face going on when the two of you walked into Henriksen’s precinct.
“That’s nostalgia more than fannishness.”
“You say potato, I say pommes frites.”
King’s holy symbol glowed in warning, beaming straight into his eyes. “Trouble coming.” He held the holy symbol and concentrated on an incantation.
King was pragmatic about gods in genre worlds. Back home, he was a One-God kind of man like his mother raised him, but here, there were many gods, and they were demonstrably real. He’d had several long talks with the Genrenauts interfaith chaplain not long after joining up. These worlds were part of the multiverse, and if God had made one universe, why not others? So, prayers here were the same as prayers there; it’s just that there was a different set of lenses, a filtering system. And in Fantasy World, God’s Will made itself very clear.
Certainty fell upon him like a summer rainfall, crisp and sudden. Skeletons.
“There’s a patrol coming. We should get off the road.”
Nudging the horses into the woods without a path, they ventured just far enough into the brush and tree cover to be hidden, positioning themselves on the eastern side of the road to minimize the glint of sunlight on their armor, and they waited.
Sure enough, two minutes later, a skeleton troupe clanked by, coming down the road the other direction. King counted twenty spearmen led by a mounted skeleton warrior in full plate.
Shirin petted her horse’s hair. Her other hand held tight to her staff. Once they’d passed, Shirin’s horse got restless, but they waited still.
The sense of danger dimmed, and they returned to the empty road.
Shirin squinted to make sure the skeletons were out of sight. “Do you think they were coming from Ag’ra?”
“Not likely. There’s probably an outpost or garrison in Chandler’s Crossing.”
They encountered another two patrols over the course of the day, one coming from the Crossing, and one turning northwest toward Weller’s Well at the Y-juncture that split off toward Shady Grove.
The second time, they were nearly found out. King’s horse, tired from carrying the weight of a large man in full armor, got spooked by one of the skeleton’s screams and tried to break for the deep woods. King nearly dropped off the horse, he was hauling back on the reins so hard. His holy symbol warned him of greater danger, so he walked the steed a bit farther into the forest, signaling Shirin with his sword.
Even deep into the brush, King saw the blackened metal, bleached bone, and glowing purple eyes of a skeleton. It had followed them into the woods. But the undead soldier’s commander called it back, and the thing returned to the road.
Shirin looked worried when they reunited. “Three patrols in one day? That’s some army.”
“All the more reason to pass in secret. If the Night-Lord gets word of a gathering force, he’ll recall his patrols to repel the siege.”
“We will need Ioseph to re-form the army, then. Unless we can pull a Cut-off-the-Head move with the Night-Lord.”
“We’ll need to thread the needle on this one, to be sure. The companions will help set us on the right path, but I’m thinking we may need to adjust the plan and pull a reversal somewhere. Something to discuss with the others when we check in.”
They passed the rest of the day without incident, camping off the road just under a day’s ride from Chandler’s Crossing. Then another two days to Ag’ra and the first of their errant heroes.
* * *
Leah and company ran into trouble first thing the following morning.
Roman went ahead to scout, while Leah and Mallery rode side by side and talked.
Leah picked up her new favorite-least-favorite topic of conversation: music. “I knew that everyone used ‘Greensleeves’ as a tune, but this is kind of ridiculous. I hope you and Roman like that song.”
“Used to. But it’s fine. The story has its expectations. We give the story what it wants, feed into the narrative inertia. Whenever possible, we lean into expectations instead of swimming upstream against them. And here, th
e story world expects ‘Greensleeves’ and faux-Irish folk songs and poetry. Stick with that and you’ve got us covered. The same way the blessings I gain through Felur are Vancian magic that’s distinct but only sort of from the arcane spells that Shirin uses. I swear, almost a third of our respective spell selections end up doing the same thing.”
Roman came tearing over a hill at a full gallop. He waved them off the road, his other hand on the reins. She could see the worry on his face from half a football field away.
They jumped off their horses and led the steeds into the woods. Roman slowed and joined them, urging them even farther back from the road.
“A skeleton patrol. Ten strong, with shadow wolf steeds and some kind of zombie knight as their leader. They’ve got captives, coming this way at a forced march.”
They tied their horses to an old-growth tree and crept back toward the road, hiding behind shrubbery while Leah kept a lid on the wealth of Monty Python references that popped into her mind’s eye like a set of video game dialogue options.
The skeletons and their dark mounts came into view, hungry slinky things that looked equal parts panther, wolf, and smoke. At their head rode a partially decayed figure in a polished version of the hammered armor the skeletons wore. Its eyes showed intelligence, and Leah caught it barking orders, some kind of threat lobbed at the captives.
Humans, halflings, and some dwarves were mixed in the crowd of the undead squadron. All of the captives were ragged, clothes tattered, some bloodied. They were chained ankle to ankle and pulled carts laden with iron ingots.
“Aren’t we going to do something about this?” Leah whispered. “One of them could be a hero in the making or have key information or something. That’s how it always goes with these subplots.”
“King said no subplots,” Roman said. “And ten shadow wolf-mounted skeletons is too many to take, even with surprise.”
Leah studied Mallery’s face as the comedienne-cleric considered. “I have a spell that might be able to help balance the odds, but it’s still too dangerous. And even if we take out the skeletons, then we’d have to escort the prisoners back to safety. And there’s a garrison in every town, it looks like. I don’t like it. This isn’t our moment.”
“Are we seriously not going to do anything?” Leah asked. “What kind of crap heroes does that make us?”
Mallery lowered her voice, talking slower. This was her reasoning voice. “We’re not the heroes. We’re the story doctors. And if we get bogged down here, we’ll never get to the Hammer, never set up the story so the heroes can triumph. We’re trying to finish an epic conflict, not fight a guerrilla war.”
“This is bullshit,” Leah said, her voice too loud for the situation.
Roman put a steadying hand on her shoulder. With the touch, she realized that she was shaking with anger. “Keep your eyes on the prize.”
Leah bit her lip as the skeletons and their captives passed, the carts rolling along the road. Leah heard a soft, high voice singing, the others echoing in call-and-response form.
Every single fiber of her raised-on-heroic-fantasy being wanted to burst from the brush, draw her sword, and bring swift justice to the skeletons, to be a hero and set the poor citizens free.
But that wasn’t her job. Her job was to fix the story, not right every little wrong in the entire world.
But was that really enough? If you force someone to work with shoddy equipment and they get hurt every week, eventually, shouldn’t you fix the tool instead of sending them to the doctor? She’d spent the last several months playing the doctor, applying spot fixes along with the team, keeping to the shadows. Help the real hero, delay the problems until the real hero came back.
This world was short on heroes in a big way. The breach had been allowed to fester, and now the problem was bigger than a simple fix.
King kept telling her to take the initiative more, to find her own style. The fantasy genre responded to bold action, to big gestures, and to the power of one person to make a difference.
It was time to step up and answer the call.
“Fuck it.” Leah stepped out of the brush, lute in hand.
“Leah!” Mallery called in a stage whisper.
Leah ignored it and played a power chord, or as much of one as a lute could handle.
“Hey, skeleton warriors! Let me sing you the song of my people!”
Mallery brushed the shrubbery aside and took up a spot next to Leah.
“That was incredibly reckless. We’re way outmatched here. Stick with me, and we’ll do our best.”
On her left, Leah saw Roman moving through the brush, doubtless going around to flank. Roman would be their ace in the hole.
Which left her and Mallery facing down ten skeletons on shadow wolves.
“We just need to break some of the prisoners free, and they’ll cause a bunch of chaos. Now would be a good time to even the odds.”
Mallery grasped her holy symbol, holding it forward and praying in a strong, clear voice.
“Felur of mighty grace, turn your bright light upon us to scatter darkness and crush the foes of life.”
She held her mace up high. It turned first into a torch, covered in magical light, then became a tiny sun, light too bright to look at directly. She swung the mace forward, and the light lashed out, going to war with the sickly purple light that animated the skeletons. The zombie knight stepped forward, leaning into its shield to resist the holy lance.
The outline of a muscled woman in armor similar to Mallery’s holy symbol formed in the light. It did battle with the silhouette of a purple sorcerer with a gnarled staff. The avatar of the goddess swung at the sorcerer’s staff, but the sorcerer parried the blow and pushed back. The goddess swung again, scoring a cut across the sorcerer’s arm.
When the light faded, three of the skeletons were gone, their armor clattering to the ground.
But their steeds remained. As did the zombie knight, who raised its voice, shouting, “Charge!”
Mallery raised her shield, and Leah remembered she was a part of the fight, not just the audience. She drew her sword and started singing a version of “Whiskey in the Jar,” which was marked in her disguised textbook as a Song of Battle.
The wolves split and started to circle, two bearing right, one left.
“We stay in the middle, they’ll pick us apart!” Leah said between stanzas.
“Agreed; follow me!” Mallery feinted one way and then made for the prisoners, slashing at one of the wolves with her shield.
Leah followed suit, forgetting her song as she swung at the wolf. She cut into one of the creature’s paw swipes, defending as she attacked. Her maestra would be pleased. The creature’s blood came out thick and black and wrong, spraying onto the road and grass and Leah’s face.
Ick, she thought, but kept the thought, and her breakfast, down for the moment.
“Keep the song going,” Mallery said as they advanced.
She’d gotten them into this mess because she couldn’t stand by, and she needed to help get them out of it. If she got them all killed, then that didn’t help the prisoners.
The skeletons pressed in, chasing them as they pushed for the prisoners. Leah lost track of everything that wasn’t right in front of her. She could hear Mallery calling moves and swinging, but while Leah was good with a blade, she had significantly less experience fighting nonhuman opponents. It was all Leah could do to swing the sword in defensive cuts and maintain the song. And even then, she took a cut along the arm and heard Mallery get hit several times.
This was not my best plan, she thought as the remaining skeletons came closing in…
* * *
There was a fire across the town the night King and Shirin stayed in Chandler’s Crossing, but King insisted they stay out of the fight and not make waves.
Not yet.
Two days later, they arrived at Ag’ra, the letter from renowned wizard Ioseph Bluethorn granting them easy access.
And once they were inside
, Xan’De was not hard to find. As a port town, Ag’ra was cosmopolitan. Which meant that it had a Matok fighting arena. Xan’De’s return had made waves as he rose once again to the top of the brackets.
They found him in his quarters in the neighborhood around the arena. Xan’De’s quarters were decorated in the Matok style, all open to receive the sun and the sea breeze, with divans and reclining chairs and outdoor bathing.
Even reclining in the bath, goblet in hand and without a care in the world, Xan’De dominated the room. Easily seven feet tall, wide and muscled, his bare torso tattooed and scarred from years of battle, all four arms adorned with Art Deco–esque geometric tattoos. He bathed with three beautiful women—a dark-skinned human woman, a fair elf, and an olive-skinned curvaceous gnome. King was spared a full view by the magically powered jacuzzi function in the hot tub.
A servant preceded them as they approached.
“Mighty Xan’De, may I present Anthony Kane of the order of Felur’s Fist, and his companion, the Wizard Shi’Reen. They say they come with news from Ioseph Bluethorn.”
Xan’De set down his goblet and disentangled himself from his fans. “If Bluethorn truly sent you, you’ll have a way to prove it.”
King drew the enspelled ring and knelt at the front of the tub, not interested in wading in and then having to polish his armor for hours.
Xan’De only took one long step to cross the wide tub and take the ring in one hand. The sapphire glowed as the rune manifested, and Xan’De recoiled as if struck, his eyes flashing the same hue.
Xan’De spoke. “The time has come. We will close the circle that was spoiled. A better challenge than putting the pups here in their place.”
Genrenauts: Season One Page 43
