The Barrow Lands Bards

by Mel. White

and was popular in religious cults that predicted everyone else was going to die really really soon and go to the nine hells. Worsche apparently intended for his audience to die of grief and shame, leaving him to pick through their purses afterwards, but they were too frozen with either ennui or with depression to do more than have a few coppers at him. He left the bard's seat with an audible sniff, and then it was my turn.

  The crowd was nearly moribund. I gave them a chord and a beat and swung into "Black Liza's Revenge". After a few verses, some of the ones who had been sitting farthest from Worsche began to perk up slightly, but it was going to be hard to get them to the point where they were lively and happy and throwing money at me -- or at least not throwing beef bones at me. I leaned forward and began tapping my toe lightly and a few more sat up and took notice.

  I followed "Black Liza" with "The Old Cow and the Periwig", which got smiles and chuckles and even a few voices joining in on the chorus. By the time I finished "Blue Ribbon Jig", I had a small pile of coins at my feet. Worsche had vanished, thankfully, and I scooped my take into my little purse and headed off towards the tiny bedchamber in the outer buildings. Tomorrow I'd head to the Gray Heaths. Another week's travel should bring me to Diamandia just in time for the Festival of Winter Moot.

  As I was about to open the door to my room, Worsche suddenly appeared beside me.

  "Going to Winter Moot?"

  "Yes," I answered and didn't elaborate.

  "Ye'd do best to avoid Red Hills, then. Ogre up yonder he got et up by his cousin an it's not safe." At that, he turned on his heel and strolled around the corner. I stared after him for a moment and then entered my room, puzzling over the strange encounter.

  Worsche was both human and Outlander by birth, and seemed to feel that animals were for eating and not for conversations. The fact that a Pig sow was a more popular entertainer and a better musician than a human particularly galled him. He looked furious when he left the feast hall earlier that evening, so his words of caution didn't ring true.

  There were three main routes to Dimandia. The shortest one ran across the Gray Heaths and through the Red Hills. The next longest one was the Broad Way that went through Main Rowe and Baoe Garth and from there into Diamandia from the north. If the Redmirilla River was in flood -- which was likely at this time of year -- it would add another two days to the trip. The longest route went through Six Pines and if I took that path, I wouldn't arrive in Diamandia until the festival was halfway through.

  No, this was another fumble handed attempt at revenge. I smiled to myself. Tomorrow I'd make a great show of heading for the Broad Way and then as soon as I was out of sight, I would swing my pony's head toward the Red Hills. Let Worsche think he'd won. I would be there to see his face when he finally walked the last mile to the Widow Queen's castle and saw me sitting in the bard's gallery.

  But the day dawned cold and rainy and my pony shied and shook her head when I turned her onto the Gray Heaths. She had never liked this place, and in truth I couldn't blame her. The stones here had strange stories to tell to those willing to listen. A bard could collect a month's worth of new songs and tales in the space of four nights, but at a terrible cost to their health. I once stayed overnight to learn seven new songs and a story from the stones called the White Sisters, and was sick in bed for two weeks after. The third song I learned from them turned out to be one of the most popular in my repertoire, and earned me a lot of silver. I'd sung the other songs as well, but the tale was of a murder. I hadn't found the right occasion to tell that one.

  I would not stay here this time. Perhaps in a year or so I would work up the courage to try it again -- but not now. Not this time. I soothed my pony, stroking her neck and whispering to her that we would hurry through this eldritch place and then I kicked her into a trot. The sound of her hoof beats was barely audible in the thick silence that seemed to hang over the landscape.

  I could feel it pressing on my soul.

  We didn't stop. About noontide I dismounted and slipped a small feed sack of dates and oat grain over my pony's nose and let her chew while I walked and led her and ate my meager meal of bread and hard cheese.

  By the time we reached the edge of the Gray Heath, the sun was only a handsbreadth above the Hardwell Hills. My pony flicked her ears forward and began a bone-jolting jog toward the river that marked the boundary between the two lands. I bounced uncomfortably in the saddle, but hung on. And then we were splashing across the ford and safe in the embrace of the Hardwell Forest. I reined in with a sigh and let my pony drink from the clear clean water of the river. I walked and stretched, easing my stiff muscles.

  It was then that I noticed that the forest was silent. There were no birds chanting in the trees, no sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Indeed, there was no noise beyond the sound of my footsteps and the creak and jingle of my pony's harness. I began to get the creepy back-of-the-neck feeling that eyes were on us... eyes that were not friendly. Perhaps Worsche really had been telling the truth.

  There was a ruined temple to a long forgotten god ahead, a place with a holy well and guardian trees. I gathered the reins and mounted my poor tired pony. Even if the dryads had left that temple area, the land was still under the power of the nameless god. We'd be safe there for the night.

  But the path to the temple was blocked by a landslide of huge gray boulders and when I turned to go around it, I lost the path. Just as the forest was dimming in twilight, I found another path and saw a light glimmering ahead.

  "Ogres or worse, we stay there tonight," I told the pony and hurried her forward.

  The light was from the portal torches of a very pleasant looking manor. A servant stood at the door, holding the reins of a tall chestnut horse as a heavyset young man dismounted. Where there were guests, there would be a feast and where there was a feast or a dinner with companions, a bard would be welcomed, fed, and given a bed reasonably free of fleas and bed lice. I rode forward though trees where large black birds roosted and dismounted at the doorway.

  The servant welcomed me warmly. Yes, there was a dinner tonight for the lord and his companions and no, they had no music for the meal. The last bard had left some eight days before and really hadn't been that good. He'd put them all to sleep with his songs and left before they could complain and ask for their money back. I grinned to myself -- this was the reason Worsche didn't want me to travel this route... so I wouldn't hear the tale of his last dismal performance. That sort of thing was worthy of a song, and with that happy thought, I began idly running through rhymes in my head, toying with making a jig about a bard and sleep spells.

  The servant led me to a spacious bedchamber where -- oh heaven! -- a heated bath stood ready for me. Fragrant herbs floated in the clear water. "After you've refreshed yourself, come to the kitchen," the servant said with a smile. "There's food for you. Milord has dinner at midnight, so you've plenty of time."

  Now that was a rarity -- a host who fed his musicians first rather than last. I undressed and stepped toward the bath. My body hurt from the day's journey -- perhaps I'd even have time for a short nap. I trailed my fingers through the warm water, feeling very sleepy.

  "No get in!" a voice whispered urgently.

  I blinked in confusion and looked around. There was no one there. I braced my hands on the edge of the tub and prepared to climb in.

  "No get in!" the whisper sounded again.

  I wiped my wet hand across my face, feeling even more tired. "Why not?" I mumbled, and put my toes into the warm bath.

  "It cooks you!" the voice whispered.

  THAT jarred me awake. I stepped back and looked more closely. Cooking pots were usually were round, but there were oval and rectangular ovens and roasting pans big enough for a whole ox. There wasn't any sign around the rim of the bath that said "insert Pigs here and cook till done", but now that I looked at the "tub" closely, it was pretty apparent that it was some kind of soup pot or roasting pan. The "floor" that the tub rested on turned out to be an oven. I back
ed away, yawning.

  "Herbs in pot make you to sleep," the voice warned. I stumbled toward the window, opened the shutters, and hung my head out. A few deep breaths cleared the fog from my brain. Maybe Worche hadn't been lying. Maybe he sang his audience to sleep so he could escape. Unfortunately, that wasn't one of my abilities. I was great at waking things up, but I couldn't sing them to sleep.

  I pulled my clothes to the window and dressed hastily in the fresh air. "Take me too," the voice whispered, pleading, as I pulled my tunic over my head. "Take me out."

  "Where are you?" I looked for a mouse or some other talking creature, but there was nothing.

  "Behind big."

  "Big what?"

  "Door," the voice whispered. I carefully peered out into the hall but saw nothing. I opened a dressing table in the room and found sharp cooking knives and a fork that made me shudder, but there was nothing there whispering to me. The big tall cabinet that I thought was a clothes closet was worse. It housed a selection of spices and broths and things in jars and a shelf of recipes. I peered at one.

  "Porc au vin," I read. "Take one large Pig, bleed it and scald it...." I shuddered and my eye fell on another note. This one was for pulled pork sandwiches. A third was for Pigs' knuckles in brine. My skin crawled