“Well, then, get a song whore in here and be done with it!” shouted the Widow Gershon.
“It does sound good in theory, certainly,” replied the Alderman, “but that leaves us needing to find a bard…I don’t suppose anyone here knows one?” he asked, his tone somehow both hopeful and doubtful.
“I was in Borden just last night,” offered a slouching, middle-aged man who smelled faintly of stale ale and had a stocky frame now gone to seed, his paunch jutting just over the lip of his belt. (In other words, a representation of my core audience straight out of central casting.) “At the tavern there, Big Bob’s, was an elf girl…had a real pretty voice. Funny, too, but bawdier maybe than the Widow Gershon might like.” He nodded in the Widow’s direction.
“Elven song whore!” yelled the Widow Gershon.
“Had a real nice can, too, if it’s not improper to say,” continued the man.
“It actually is,” replied the Alderman. “Exceedingly improper, in fact.”
The slouchy man nodded. “Well, all the same, her can was just the sweetest.”
“Mebbe we brang the wee lass wi’ the swee’ can aboot so might she sing the fowel beastie inta slumbrin’ times, what say?” said Farmer Benton.
“I’m not sure we’re focusing entirely on her best and most relevant credentials,” said Alderman Wooddunny, “but it seems as though she may be about as good of an option as we can hope for. And, at least she’s nearby.” He raised his hands and then dropped them, a gesture that could have been an expression of either exasperation or an involuntary twitch. “You say she was in Borden last night, Goodman Drunkman…do you know where she was headed afterward?”
The man shrugged. “Not sure, Alderman, but can’t imagine she’s gone far. Maybe I could go back round to Big Bob’s and feel her up to see if she’s interested, if she’s still there.”
“Feel her out, you mean. Not up,” replied the Alderman.
“Right. Feel her out.”
“Well, ah, I would suggest that you go as quickly as possible. Goodman Youngman—please go with him. I empower you both to offer her the sum of up to ten gold pieces from the town’s coffers.”
“We’ll leave right now, Alderman,” replied Goodman Drunkman, sipping from a flask he had produced from somewhere beneath his gut.
“One last thing,” Alderman Wooddunny said as the men moved toward the door, “what did you say this bard’s name was?”
“Heloise.”
And that’s when the real hero entered the story.
Chapter 9
THE MODEST BARD ENTERS AND HUMBLY OFFERS HER SERVICES
And so did Goodman Youngman and Goodman Drunkman, Skendrick’s capable and clever emissaries, depart for the town of Borden to seek out the bard known variously as Heloise the Beautiful, Heloise the Tuneful, and Heloise of the Sweet Can. They found her there, in the common room of the inn where Goodman Drunkman had seen her the evening before, strumming her lute and bringing it into perfect tune.
They made their impassioned entreaty, describing the horror-filled shrieks and rivers of blood that ran through the streets of Skendrick as the mighty and fearsome Dragonia ravaged their land, and the brave resolve of the townspeople in the face of such pain and suffering. They told her of the town’s desperate plea for help and the heroic attempts made by some of Erithea’s most legendary adventuring groups to render their aid, only to be detained or delayed by other, even more epic quests. And they begged her to lend the vastness of her storytelling powers in the service of the town, to save its people from certain extinction should the dragon be permitted to continue its ravages unchecked.
The humble and self-effacing bard nodded as the townsmen spoke, expressing her sincere sympathy for their plight, and she rose boldly to her feet as they finished their tale, exclaiming passionately and for all in the crowded inn to hear that she would not only aid the good people of Skendrick in finding their champions, but would hear no talk of reward or payment for her services—the people needed her, and so she would risk life and limb to find the heroes the town so desperately sought in its hour of need simply because it was the right thing to do.
Goodman Drunkman fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the great bard’s legs, sobbing his thanks, as Goodman Youngman, overcome with gratitude and emotion, sank into the closest chair just before he fainted.
Heloise the Bard calmed and soothed the men and raised their spirits high, making them feel as they had not felt since before the terrible dragon’s wrath had been unleashed upon Skendrick. She brought them both back to their feet and bid them follow her, leading them out of the inn on a mission to find their saviors.
She knew she would not fail, for she could not—lives hung in the balance, an entire town depended on her, and so the noble bard with perhaps the world’s silkiest hair would rise to the occasion.
Chapter 10
IN REALITY, THE PEERLESS BARD RESPONDS INDIFFERENTLY TO AN ABSURD LOWBALL PROPOSAL
If this were a performance and I were describing Borden, I’d probably call it tranquil and idyllic, but those are really just polite ways of saying boring and filled with lazy people, and since I don’t need to be polite here, I’ll say this: Borden is a boring place full of lazy, and frequently chauvinistic, people. On the plus side, lazy chauvinists do love to drink, and so the few taverns there tend to do a rousing business, though where the patrons get the money they spend every night on drink and what is, in all honesty, a pretty homely bunch of hookers is beyond me. I assume that something illicit is involved, but have never been inclined to do any sort of actual investigating.
Suffice it to say, Borden’s not exactly a star-making destination for bards on the rise, but it does consistently offer gigs with solid pay, so if I’m in the region, I make it a point to stop over for a night or two. Around the time the people of Skendrick were so desperately seeking assistance with their little dragon problem, I was in the middle of a two-night stint at Big Bob’s, the nicest tavern in Borden, which is a little bit like saying it’s the least drunk sailor in a dockside bar. Still, the disappointingly regular-sized Robert, the proprietor and namesake of the establishment, didn’t ogle me, paid performers well, and at least had a decent selection of ales, so it was my preferred stop when I was in Borden.
After an epic performance the night before that had featured a packed house pitching in on a rousing singalong of “Back to Borden” as well as four black eyes (all of which were gifts from me to a cheeky Arachnidian who decided that all eight of his legs would be best served attempting to touch various parts of my person…I should note that the spider-like Arachnidians also have eight eyes, so I was kind enough to leave half of them uninjured), I was enjoying some downtime in the taproom with a cold ale as I thought through which songs I would perform for my second show later that evening. There were maybe three or four other patrons scattered across the room lazily sipping drinks, half-asleep in that late afternoon hour at which the body is naturally inclined to want to doze—though, to be fair, I think that description applies to every hour of the day in Borden.