Heroes And Fools totfa-2

by Margaret Weis

  “If I gave soup for a song, I’d have everyone in town caterwauling at my cart and no money to take home to my father.”

  Dayn laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of caterwauling at you.” His voice worked its special charm. The girl leaned back from her aggressive stance and regarded him with new interest, although she was by no means convinced.

  “The gods forbid I should ever be caught caterwauling,” Dayn said. He unslung his lute and stroked the neck lovingly. With a sidelong glance at the girl, he said, “I suppose I may have caterwauled once or twice, but I assure you it was only late at night after too much ale.”

  The girl raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “You may continue.”

  “Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I will sing you a song, and if you think it worthy of a bowl of that fine stew I smell, then I will eat this night. If not, I shall move along and never bother you again.” Dayn extended his hand.

  She paused a moment longer, then spoke. “Very well, bard.” She took his hand. “You seem very sure of yourself. Sing as you may.”

  Dayn knew that showmanship was all part of singing professionally. Many things made a successful bard, so said Dayn’s father. A good voice was important. A long, solid memory was invaluable. Deft fingers were a must. Empathy for the audience could mean the difference between being the local hero or being run out of town. But timing. . ah, Dayn’s father said, it all came down to timing. Timing was a skill no bard could live without. A singer could have the most ragged whiskey-voice and the most fumbling of fingers, he could sing the most banal and boring song, but if he sang it at the right moment, the audience would cheer.

  So Dayn took his time tuning his instrument. The girl, who said her name was Shani, set up her cart and stirred her soup, but so far there weren’t any customers. Dayn smiled at the girl between plucks and asked about the soup business as he turned the pegs. By the time Dayn finished tuning his lute, a few villagers with nothing better to do had clustered around the cart.

  “What would you like to hear, Shani?” the young bard asked.

  “Something to make people hungry.”

  “My songs usually work better on the heart than on the belly, but I will give this one a try.”

  There were many songs Dayn could have chosen. It had crossed his mind to sing a wooing song of romance for young Shani. He was fairly certain she would have enjoyed that, but Dayn needed more than an audience of one if he were to make money in this town. He decided to stick with a song of spring.

  Dayn began the song by simply humming. He caught Shard’s eye and smiled before he turned to face the few others who had gathered. Once he was certain they were paying attention, he began strumming. His voice soon rose to meet the lute. The song told of the hard cold days of winter. Dayn’s voice was quietly passionate. The few villagers grinned and looked at one another, pleased. A group of kids ran screaming past. Dayn smiled and let the uproar pass. He sang of the dark, lonely winter, and the people nodded. Life had been hard lately, leaving most of them sad and weary.

  Then the song shifted. He sang of warmth spreading through the earth, thawing the stillness and bringing on a new season of life. The long cage of winter opened. The long preparation of early spring began. The birds sang and there was the promise of harvest.

  Dayn prolonged the end, giving them a chance to hear the upper range of his voice. It never hurt to show off a little in the first song. The point was to get them interested enough to be hungry for more.

  He ended with a little flourish on his lute. He paused, his eyes closed, feeling the music in his heart. That was it, the entire reason for being a bard. Each song brought a moment of grace, and every hard night on the road, every time he slept without dinner in his belly, every day he rode sweating in the sun, was worth that one moment. Dayn smiled his secret smile and slowly opened his eyes. His audience of four had turned into a dozen. Not a word was spoken as Dayn came slowly out of his trance. When he blinked and let the lute hang on its strap, they whistled and clapped. Some stomped their feet. One short, over-eager man even came up and thumped him on the back.

  “Now that’s talent, boy! You should be working that voice in Palanthas!”

  Dayn smiled and nodded his thanks. He sought out Shard’s face and caught her slight smile.

  “You’re staying for the festival, aren’t you?” the man continued.

  Dayn assured him he would be staying around Gotstown as long as he could afford, as it easily surpassed Palanthas in beauty. A few of those who gathered to listen bought some of Shard’s soup while they praised him. They smiled and chatted before slowly drifting away to spread the news of the new bard.

  When most of them had gone, Dayn turned to see a very different expression on young Shard’s face. Admiration sparkled in those dark eyes. A shy smile had replaced her challenging look. She whisked one of those errant, black strands of hair away behind her ear and tipped her chin at a bowl that was already set out for him.

  Dayn decided it was going to be a fine night.

  As it always did, the afternoon brought more and more people over to the cart, begging him for another song. Dayn assured them he would sing when he was finished with his supper. He encouraged them, in the meantime, to eat some of Shard’s amazing soup.

  Shani’s sales increased with each song request.

  For his part, Dayn took a very long time nursing his soup. The price of a song grew in proportion to its demand, and Dayn was hoping to get the best price possible out of Gotstown.

  As the shadows got longer, the people began lighting fires. It was nearing the point where the people’s impatience would turn to annoyance, and Dayn began to tune his lute. He tried to get the old strings just right but was distracted by a commotion across the way. Dayn walked over toward the fountain just in front of the temple steps to see what was going on.

  A old cleric of Paladine had latched onto two young boys. The two children were screaming and yelling. It was all the slight old man could do to hang onto them. The boys’ faces were stained green. Obviously, they had begun the ceremony a little early. Dayn started to smirk but sobered immediately as he saw the grim looks in the crowd.

  “Somebody help me here,” the old priest said. He handed one of the boys to a farmer, but the man did not hold on tight enough and the boy ran away. The cleric turned his attention upon the other boy. Dayn recognized him as Jayna’s son, the little boy with the hurt arm.

  “Who is this boy’s father?” the gray haired priest shouted to the crowd. “Who here hasn’t taught their children proper respect?”

  Jayna pushed her way through the small crowd, anger plainly written on her face. “He’s my boy.”

  “He has committed a crime against Paladine! Against all the gods that created this world! Everyone knows the elderberries are sacred this night,” the cleric said, his expression stern. The old priest ruined his wrath on the scared little boy. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The little boy cringed under the angry man’s gaze. “You’re hurting me.”

  Jayna stepped forward and grabbed the cleric by his white robes.

  “Let him go, old man.”

  The thin, old cleric’s face went white. “This is a temple of Paladine. If you can not-”

  “I said let him go!”

  “It is forbidden to eat the elderberries before sunrise!” the cleric reiterated.

  “Look at his arm,” the boy’s mother practically shouted. “You’re hurting him.”

  The priest noticed the boy’s wound for the first time and let him go. The boy ran away and hid behind his mother’s skirts, hugging her leg.

  “I’m sorry,” the priest mumbled.

  “He’s just a boy. He burned his hand two weeks ago, and I still can’t stop the bleeding.”

  The old man looked truly sorry. “I apologize. I wish I could help you.”

  “That’s right, you wish you could, but you can’t, can you? At this festival you priests used to heal anyone in need. You us
ed to help people. Now you don’t do anything.”

  The woman’s words stung the frail cleric, but he had nothing to say.

  “Your god is dead!” Jayna shouted.

  “No! No, he’s not! He will return,” the priest said.

  “Just like the boy’s father will return? He left years ago to fight your god’s war. When will he return?”

  The dead silence of the crowd became a low murmur. Other widows nodded in agreement.

  “We must be patient, that is all.”

  “We don’t need patience, we need help. How many veterans of that war are here? How many of them can’t walk, can’t work? What are you going to do about them?” Jayna said.

  Someone yelled agreement. The cry was followed by several others, and a few men broke from the crowd to join the mother in accosting the cleric, who was backing away slowly, wide-eyed.

  Dayn was only twenty-three years old, but he recognized the makings of a mob. Something had to be done, and quickly. He looked around for ideas, but nothing came. He only had one weapon, anyway, only one talent.

  Snatching his lute, Dayn pushed his way through the crowd.

  “People, people, good people. I know how you have suffered. I, too, lost many friends in the war. But we must keep faith.”

  Dayn jumped up on the fountain. The shouts quieted as people turned their attention to him.

  “Paladine will return. He has done so before. The healers will return. So will the heroes. Remember the Second Cataclysm. Remember the heroes of the War of the Lance!”

  Dayn glanced at the angry faces. He had their attention, but it was a tenuous hold. He had just the song. He lifted his lute and started to sing. He started with a fast-paced, rousing tune to match the temper of the crowd. He sang of Tanis’s wisdom, of Caramon’s strength, and of Sturm’s sacrifice for all things good.

  At first, it seemed to work. The crowd quieted. The shaken cleric slunk quickly away to the safety of the temple. But Dayn’s illusion burst a moment later when someone threw a berry.

  It hit Dayn on the forehead. It didn’t hurt, but it shattered his confidence. A good performer knew when he had his crowd, and when it was slipping away. When the berry splatted against Dayn’s forehead, he realized that this crowd was not his, not by a long shot. His strumming faltered. His voice dipped.

  Another berry hit his tunic. A barrage of berries assailed him. Dayn winced under the assault and gasped as one struck him painfully in the eye. Shielding his face, he jumped down from the fountain and backed away from the crowd.

  “Take yer songs elsewhere, bard!” a huge red-faced man yelled. “We don’t want to hear about your old heroes!”

  “We’re sick of the old heroes! Where are they now when we need ‘em?” another man joined in. “What are they going to do for us?”

  “Ain’t no heroes anymore!” A woman added her shrill voice to the throng.

  “Never were heroes in the first place!”

  Frightened, Dayn searched for a friendly face. Shard was there, but she was caught up with the crowd, shouting and laughing. He offered a silent prayer to Paladine as he stumbled backward. Never before had a crowd turned on him so badly. The berries didn’t really hurt. But each small pelting was like a hammer to his heart. He had failed to reach them.

  “Wait!” he said, but they weren’t listening. They gathered closer around him. In a moment, he would be surrounded. What then? Would the berries turn into a stoning?

  Dayn backed into someone. A strong hand grabbed his arm. Too late!

  “No!” Dayn shouted, as he turned to see his attacker.

  The man was well over six feet tall. His broad shoulders were draped in chain mail shirt and shoulder plates. A thick mass of wavy brown hair framed a sturdy, square jaw and penetrating brown eyes. The man smiled gently as Dayn tried to recover his wits. It was the kind of smile that instilled confidence, that could send young soldiers charging into battle. Dayn’s terror fled in an instant under the spell of that smile.

  “Easy lad.” The man said, pulling Dayn quickly away from the crowd toward Dayn’s mare. The barrage of berries followed them. “You’ve got ‘em riled up. Things could get ugly.”

  Dayn agreed completely. They rushed to their horses. The stranger mounted a tall black stallion as Dayn leaped astride his mare. They kicked their heels into the horses’ flanks and raced away.

  They rode hard for a good half an hour before the strapping stranger chose to slow the pace. “We should be safe enough now.” He turned in his saddle to face Dayn and grinned. “Your sense of timing could use some work, son. I would think you’d know better than to jump into the middle of an angry mob!”

  “But they were going to hurt that priest!” Dayn countered.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He paused a moment, then spoke, “Indeed, lad. It was brave, what you did. Brave, but stupid. No one belongs in a battle they can’t win. I don’t want to see a bard fight any more than I want to hear a soldier sing.”

  Dayn thought about that for a moment. He grudgingly had to agree that the stranger was right. “Anyway,” Dayn said, “I want to thank you for helping me back there.”

  “Comes with the job,” the stranger said.

  “What job?”

  “You think the only heroes are in your songs?”

  “You’re a hero?” Dayn wasn’t sure about a man who called himself a hero, like he was talking about being a miller or a smith.

  “I try to help those in need, lad. It’s tough to match up to those songs of yours, but I do what I can.”

  Dayn looked up into the man’s broad smiling face. He felt bad for doubting the man.

  “You certainly saved my skin. Did you fight in the Chaos War?”

  “Indeed,” the man said. His voice was deep and steady. “Kresean Myrk Saxus at your service, lad.” Kresean extended his hand, and Dayn leaned over and took it. The man had an iron grip. “I know more than I care to about that war.”

  “Dayn Songsayer. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “It’s a shame what happened back there, lad. I really liked your singing.”

  “Thanks.” Dayn felt embarrassed by the praise. The big man’s words felt better than he expected.

  “Your voice is grand. Your problem is the song you were singing.”

  “My song?”

  “You saw how those folks reacted to heroes from a past age. Maybe if they could hear about a hero from this day and age it might lighten their lives a great deal more.”

  The second Dayn heard Kresean’s words his mind began to see the possibilities. Kresean was right. People didn’t need long-dead heroes from a half-forgotten war. They needed today’s heroes, someone they could see and touch.

  “Of course!” Dayn exclaimed. “There must have been countless displays of valor during the Chaos War. What stories can you tell me?”

  The huge man chuckled.

  “Stick to me, lad. I’ll do you one better.” Kresean winked.

  “How is that?”

  “You want to write a true ballad of a hero?”

  “Yes.” Dayn’s eyes sparkled with interest.

  “The kind of ballad that pulls at the heart? The kind that everyone in this village will thank you for singing, will cry at the outcome?”

  “Yes!” Dayn nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

  “Then you’ve got to live it,” Kresean said with finality.

  Dayn’s brow wrinkled. “Live it? What do you mean? The Chaos War is over, and-”

  “Forget the Chaos War, lad. We got our faces kicked in on that one. Everybody knows it. It’s a losing proposition to dredge up memories of that loss, and it’s a fool’s errand to try and make people believe we won.”

  “We did win. If we hadn’t driven back the Chaos hordes, we’d all be dead.”

  “Ah,” Kresean said, “there’s a difference between winning and surviving. Look around you. Do people in this land look like they’re reveling in the spoils of a war well won? No! These are peo
ple who were beat up and left for dead! Don’t remind them. Give them something-someone-new to believe in. Piece by piece, we can build things back up.”

  Dayn nodded as Kresean talked. The bard was mesmerized by the deep voice, by the earnestness in Kresean’s dark eyes. Dayn began to see things in an entirely new light. “How? All by ourselves?” he asked.

  “Of course. When better to start? Who better to accomplish it?”

  Dayn’s eyes looked past Kresean, into a world of snapping pennants and trumpeting horns. He saw Kresean at the head of a great army, sun sparkling off the perfectly polished armor of legions of Knights, a sea of people standing on either side of the procession, clapping. Later that night, in the great hall, he saw himself singing a song of bravery, self-sacrifice, and victory as the Knights looked on. At the end, everyone assembled would be stomping their feet and yelling.

  Kresean clapped Dayn on the shoulder, jolting him from his reverie.

  “I’ll do it!” Dayn said.

  “That’s a good lad. If I’d had a dozen men as stouthearted as you, I could’ve brought the Knights of Takhisis to heel at the High Clerist’s Tower.”

  “You were at the battle for the High Clerist’s Tower?”

  “Indeed.” Kresean nodded.

  Dayn reached for his satchel, in which he kept all his writing materials. “You must let me get everything down on-”

  “Lad.” Kresean put a hand on Dayn’s shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you want to write songs about defeat, go to Palanthas. I hear there are types there that love to hear such things all day long. Tragedies, they call them. But not in the countryside. Not here.”

  “Right.” Dayn nodded. “Of course. So what do we do next, then?”

  “Next?” Kresean said, and that infectious smile curved his lips. “Next we kill ourselves a dragon.”

  The morning was quiet. Only the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road accompanied Dayn and Kresean westward. Dayn remembered when the birds would sing at this time just before sunrise. No more. Perhaps it was too hot for them to bother.