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
As flesh is charred to the bone
* * *
Near Skendrick does a red dragon dwell
A beast who blots out the sun
He wheels in the sky and lets out mighty roars
As he gobbles up babies for fun
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
* * *
Take up your swords, your axes, your bows
And use them in service to good
Though the day seems dark indeed
We must do what noble folk should
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will save the day?
* * *
The call goes out, who will answer it now?
Send us your warriors, your heroes, your fighters
The night is so dark
But the dawn will be brighter
* * *
Here is the chance for a brave band of heroes
To enter the realm of legend and myth
By slaying the dragon who’s killed so many
Men and women, kin and kith
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will come to save the day?
Will it be you who enters the fray?
* * *
There is more than just gratitude
And stories to be told,
For the heroes who answer
Will be showered in gold
* * *
The dragon’s treasure is legion
Ten feet high and wider than tall
And the brave heroes who slay him
Will lay claim to it all
* * *
The people of Skendrick are in dire need
Of champions to save their town
Who will become heroes and legends
Before all is burned to the ground?
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will come to save the day?
Who will boldly enter the fray?
* * *
It may just be…you.
* * *
I drew out the last note and let it hang in the air, turning my (bewitching) eyes toward anyone and everyone who looked like a possibly competent warrior. In such a small audience, there were really only a few likely suspects, and two of them sat next to each other—a capable-looking elven woman with a bow slung over her chair and an enormous rock giant. I didn’t have particularly high hopes, though—an elf carrying a bow is a bit like a chef wearing an apron; it’s a standard accoutrement and not necessarily an indication of aptitude. Let’s face it—there are some apron-wearing chefs who are pretty hopeless when it comes to making a decent meal. Plus, while rock giants may look tough and powerful and intimidating, most of them are pretty passive, and they’re about as skilled at fighting as the average Skendrickian is at speaking coherently.