by Chris Pisano
“You bought me a mug of ale? Where is it?”
“We’re waiting for the barkeep to bring it.”
“In that case, I’ll sit down. But you have to buy me as much as I can drink while you talk.”
“Very well,” agreed the bard, motioning to the barkeep to bring another round.
The barkeep, very familiar with ogres and more so with this ogre in particular, brought Bale a bowl brimming with ale, watered down to decrease potential future hostility or inebriated clumsiness. He had learned the hard way that an ogre-sized hand was capable of destroying every single glass in the establishment.
While the bard told his tale of a mad wizard and five magical stones, Bale consumed first one ale, then another. He pondered over the difference in flavor between the first two bowls and decided that a third was required to formulate a true hypothesis. The ogre philosopher, Inebrious Frequentous once said, “Never judge one’s ale, until the final draught is drunk … and you are, too.”
Soon enough, the bard’s words begin to swirl and eddy like the ale in Bale’s bowl. Bale had even taken to shaking the bowl or perhaps it was merely the unsteadiness of his hands. Either way, he stared, bemused by the sloshing liquid thinking, smiling in the manner of a dolt whose one clever idea left him thinking that he, too, would one day be remembered as a great, Ogrish philosopher. So wrapped up in his own thoughts, which were saturated with ale, Bale took no notice to the bard nor the map he unveiled.
The bard unfurled the map on the table, using Bale’s bowls as weights for the curled corners. “As the map shows,” he continued his sales pitch to the ogre, “you have to travel to Mount Pyrous. Near the base on the south side is a cave. Inside the cave you will find the stone. However, it is guarded by a dragon who …”
“Dragon!” Bale blurted, the word acting like ice water poured down his pants.
“You have a problem with dragons?”
“Well … they are kind of big and scary.”
“You are big and scary.”
“But not that big and scary.”
“Sure you are! You and your companions are the creatures that haunt dreams!”
“He dreams about us?”
“Who?”
“Pyrous.”
“Pyrous?”
“The dragon. You said his name was Pyrous.”
“I said he lives in a cave on Mount Pyrous!”
“Well, I’m sure they named the mountain after him, don’t you think?”
“I highly doubt that. Now, when you get there you will …”
“Then what’s his name?”
“Name? How should I know?”
“So you’ve never met this dragon?”
“Met the dragon?”
“Yeah. You know, talk to him, share a pint or two …”
“Talk to …? No! Dragons don’t talk! They are foul beasts born from the very depths of the worst hell imaginable, whose sole purpose is to dash the life out of others, wanting only to rend every creature limb from limb and feast upon their souls! Attempting to talk to a dragon is certain death!”
“Certain death?”
“Oh, you can’t be scared!”
“I wasn’t until you said talking to a dragon is certain death!”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not going to ask you to talk to the dragon.”
“Pyrous?”
“Yes, Pyrous. I’m sure he’s much nicer than the other dragons.”
“You’re sure? And you think … what? Just talk to him about the weather and how much nicer his cave is than the Fecal Swamps and all that, and he’ll just say, ‘Hey, how ’bout you take this stone I have here?’ Is that about how you figure it?”
“Well, I’m not positive, but that’s about how I figure it, yes.”
“Then why don’t you do it? Take him a few bowls of ale, and poof! You get the stone.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, I can’t make a journey that far. Bad knee, I’m afraid. Happened to me when I was performing at an inn. I got so caught up in my own story that I fell off a table. Hasn’t been right ever since.”
“Hmm … too bad. Well, this Pyrous sounds like a mighty nice dragon, but I don’t think it’s for me. I have strict schedules for eating and drinking and breathing. Plus, you never said what was in it for me. Do I keep the stone or what?”
“No, no. The stone would come to me. And in return I’ll immortalize your courage in songs that shall be handed down from generation to generation.”
“So I get the stone,” Bale reasoned, “but I give it to you, and then you’ll sing songs to tavern crowds and make lots of money. Hardly seems fair.”
“Well, my impressive friend, did I mention to you that there is another group looking for a similar stone? A group with whom you are familiar, I believe. They have failed to update me on their progress, and so I must either assume the worst or that they are of weak moral integrity and absconded with the stone.”
The bard forced a neat little smile to settle on his lips as he wondered if the ogre was really dumb enough to fall for this change in tactics.
“The worst? You mean Pyrous ate them?” Bale asked.
“No. No dragons for them, but a desert. The thing is, I believe the three fellows who were working on this for me are friends of yours.”
Bale turned his attention to the table from whence he came, the current locale of Phyl, Zot, and Pik. “When did those three trolls have time?”
The bard shot a glance to the same table. “Trolls? What? No. No, no, no. Not those friends of yours. The other three. The thieves.”
Realization splashed Bale in the face like a bag of used fish scales as he wrinkled his oversized nose. “You mean Nevin and Silver and Diminutia?”
“Yes.”
“I knew they were looking for some kinda stone! This map is like the map they have.”
“Exactly. One of the stones from my tale.”
Bale’s attention quickly diverted to the seat of the bard’s chair. “I don’t see any tail.”
“My story.”
“A story about a tail?” Bale asked as his eyes returned above the table’s top.
For each throb that slammed into his temples, the bard clenched his teeth harder. “Not tail. Tale! Story. Epic. Saga. Recounting of past events done in a melodic, yet dramatic, way.”
Glassy and empty were Bale’s eyes. His attention had been lost while trying to figure out why the bard said he had a tail when he clearly did not. “I like rattails. Put them in a pan for a bit and they crisp up real nice.”
“Okay. Forget the tale. Forget tails completely.”
“Even rattails?”
“Even rattails. Here. Let’s look at the map again,” the bard said, relieved to finally get to the point he was trying to make. However, during the exchange, his hands clenched the map from utter frustration, crushing the center of it. Hoping the ogre did not notice, he attempted to flatten the creases with his hands.
“Why’s the map so wrinkled?” Bale asked.
“It’s old.”
Before the bard could continue, Pik had made his way over to see what kept Bale from rejoining his friends. “My, my, my. What have we here,” he said as sly as a spider talking to a fly. “A map?”
“Yes,” Bale said. “To one of the stones that Nevin and Silver and Dim are looking for.”
“Really? And this bard is giving us the map to the stone … why?”
“Because he’s not as brave as we are. And he wants to make a story about us. But don’t talk about his tail, he’s very sensitive about that.”
The hobgoblin’s shallow eyes mixed with his disseminating smile sent a chill rippling down the bard’s spine. Hobgoblins were noted for their mischief, and this one was no different. “Well, he doesn’t seem like a creature born with a tail. Did you happen to get one by skimping on a story to a surly wizard? Bed and run from the wrong witch, perhaps?”
The bard slid his left hand to his waist to keep close tabs on his coin pouc
h. “I fear your brutish friend may have misinterpreted an ill-formed comment I made earlier. I have no tail.”
“So, dear bard, you wish to give us a map to a very powerful stone? No fee?”
“None needed. I have a personal vendetta against the very same set of thieves you do. I have had past dealings with those miscreants and wish nothing but ill will toward them.”
Pik’s long fingers danced across the map, sliding from landmark to landmark. His face twitched and turned between recognition and confusion. “I believe this map is accurate in its assessment of the surrounding lands, but how can we be assured the end treasure is correct?”
“The only way you can truly be assured of that is when the thieves find the stone they quest for before you find the stone this map leads to … but that would mean the thieves have shown you up. And I’m quite convinced that yours is the more capable group.”
“Well, Bale, he has offered us quite a tribulation. It’s a chance to outdo that miserable Nevin and his cronies. Maybe we can even send them to the Fecal Swamps! Shall we talk to Zot and Phyl to see what they think?”
Bale’s eyes lit up as his hand patted his belly, waking it up to let it know that it will be filled soon. “Do tribulations have tails?”
“No,” Pik and the bard yelled in unison.
Disappointed, Bale slouched his shoulders. His defeat was short lived when he finally remembered this tavern served food. Slamming his fist on the table, small splinters shooting from its legs, he demanded, “Bar wench! A plate of rattails!”
“Well,” a raspy voice came from beneath the table’s horizon. “I can’t speak for Phyl, but I’m in.”
Being the only one at the table surprised that a voice would be coming from under the table, the bard leaned over only to come face to face with a rotund orc, finger wiping under his nose. “Hi. I’m Zot.”
Again feeling the need to check, the bard’s hand covered his coin pouch as he said, “Greetings, friend Zot. You have arrived at the conclusion of the business deal between myself and your associates.”
Zot responded with a phlegm-filled snort, followed by fanning his hand in front of his face. “From my angle, I can tell that you have no tail. However, I can also tell that you need to cut milks, creams, and cheeses from your diet.”
The bard’s cheeks flushed from unbridled rage more so than embarrassment. The effects of his teeth gritting could now be felt in the bridge of his nose. Now that Pik had the map, the bard felt an all but insurmountable urge to dash through the nearest door, or even window, to escape the calamity. “Yes, well, I appreciate third party confirmation that I do not have a tail and …”
Fighting back his own bile, the bard stopped his sentence when the barmaid delivered a heaping plate of fried rattails. Many nightmares would seem like a summer day traipse through a field of flowers compared to the sight of Bale Pinkeye devouring a plate of fried rattails. All the pain in the bard’s head now relocated to the pit of his stomach. Especially when that smell was replaced by the smell of unkempt and weathered animal fur.
Curious by the new stench, the bard turned his head to find the source. His quest was a short one as the navel of a satyr eclipsed everything else from the bard’s vision.
“Why would anyone think you have a tail?” Phyl asked, standing next to the seated bard.
His body starting to reject his mind’s commands to stay cordial, the bard jumped from his seat, almost tripping over Zot as the orc ambled out of the way.
“Demons of the Dark Pit!” the bard shouted. His outburst caused such a shock, four pairs of eyes locked onto the bard; even Bale paused mid-slurp. Feeling the heavy gazes, the bard reminded himself that they were dupes, challenging and trying dupes, but dupes nonetheless. “I apologize for my reaction. Our satyr friend here startled me.”
“Actually,” Pik said, “most people react far more dramatically when they meet Phyl—usually with a little more screaming. Or sometimes laughing.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Phyl asked. “Because I sure find no humor in it,” he said, putting his hand on his hip.
“No,” Bale chimed in, half chewed chunks of rattail covering his chin, “But what is funny is you’re the only person in the tavern with no pants on.”
“I am a satyr. Satyrs don’t wear pants. How many times must we go through this same argument before you understand?”
“I just think it’s uncivil, that’s all.”
Upon Bale’s comment, anyone within ear shot stopped mid-conversation to look at the creature who made such a proclamation; a creature who had traveled from the Fecal Swamps two times within as many weeks, with no bathing in between, whose fingers were halfway in his mouth, shoveling in his dinner as fast as they could while a steady stream of drool and ale flowed freely from the corners of his grease-glossed lips. “What are you all looking at?” was all he could ask.
Viewing this as an opportunity to make his exit, the bard began his farewells, “So, my new friends, do we have a deal?”
“We most certainly do,” Pik replied.
Confused, Phyl chimed, “Wait. What deal?”
“We got a map to a dragon that has a powerful magic stone we’re going to steal,” Bale sputtered, smacking his lips and licking the last remnants of his meal from his fingers.
“Dragon! Don’t I have a say in this little adventure we’re about to go on?”
“No!” Bale, Pik, and Zot replied in unison.
Phyl folded his arms and flopped down in the chair the bard had recently departed. “Fine. When do we leave?”
Giving another mischievous smile, Pik said, “Well, since we have our bellies full of food and ale …”
“… And rattails,” Bale burped.
“… And rattails,” Pik continued, “there’s no time like the present. Especially since Nevin and his cronies are after a similar stone.”
“B’ah! I spit on that pompous elf!” Zot yelled, punctuating his thought by spitting on the floor.
“Yeah!” Bale shouted, jumping to his feet. “I’m tired of them making us look stupid! Let’s go!”
The bard watched in disbelief as all four creatures gave a raucous cheer, causing the patrons of the tavern to cheer along in similar fashion. He might as well have been invisible as Bale led his three friends out the door into the night-ensconced streets of Bogosh. And after watching Bale accidentally step in a pile of manure, the bard could only slap his hand against his forehead.
Eleven
Dearborn was scared. She didn’t know why, but she felt emptiness in the pit of her stomach. It certainly was not the situation, for she had been through much worse before, and although in a state of disarray, all control had yet to be lost. Yet, something felt missing. Iderion, she thought. How did I allow that fool Haddaman distract me to the point of forgetting my training and separating myself from Iderion?
It was a rare mission that he and she were not side-by-side. Iderion recruited her into the king’s army the day he saw her refining her archery skills with a bale of hay behind her father’s blacksmith shop. From there, she vaulted into the Elite Troop and quickly came to know Iderion, becoming his right hand, planning every mission side-by-side. Being separated from him on the battlefield felt like two lovers sleeping in separate beds. She was not without her own resources, though.
While searching for the general, she had encountered three more cloaked creatures from The Horde, laying waste to them with ease. But the manner of creatures disturbed her. A mix of kinds, the three she faced and finished were human, goblin, and were-creature of some sort. What motivation would force a variety of creatures together as a band of well-trained marauders? Was a life with Praeker Trieste so enticing?
To her surprise, a cloaked attacker dropped from a low-hanging tree branch. His chest slammed into her shoulder, knocking her askew, but due to her size, she remained on her horse. She wedged her arm between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around his throat, holding his gnashing teeth at bay. Legs flailing, h
is body writhed like a beheaded snake as his gnarled hands clawed at her armor, driving her off balance. She hoped to keep from falling by twisting her body and pushing him as hard as she could, but it was not to be that easy. She managed to push him off the horse, but with vicious swipes, he grabbed her shoulder plate and entangled his other hand in her hair.
With a thud, she landed on him. He squealed like stuck pig as she leapt to her feet, hoping to get a sword from her horse to finish this madness. As he had done during his first assault, he kept her off balance, thrusting his entire body against her legs just as her hand missed her weapon. Again, she hit the ground with a thud. Moist dirt and dead leaves squished into her mouth and nose, the taste of muddied decay coated her tongue. She twisted and kicked wildly with both legs, but the creature moved with such speed that she did not land a solid blow. He scurried up her torso, his teeth and claws sought out her face and jugular. She jammed her forearm into his throat, fending off its frothing mouth as she would a rabid dog.
The creature had the beady black eyes and snout of a rodent. Foaming saliva sprayed from its mouth, splashing on Dearborn’s cheeks and chin, as it barked and growled, chomping at her. Then as sudden as the batting of an eyelash, it stopped. The creature seized and shuddered as the tip of an arrow erupted from its forehead. A second arrow popped from its left eye, stopping just before piercing Dearborn’s skin.
Frustrated from never having the upper hand of that battle, Dearborn tossed aside the carcass and stood, wiping from her face mud, mucus, and gore. She spat the dirt and leaves from her mouth, ready to spit venom at whomever had loosed the arrows that made her feel weak and unworthy to ride with the Elite Troop. But when she saw who, all she could muster was, “You?”
Oremethus stood tall and firm, like a hero from the epic poems Dearborn read as a girl. The setting sun behind him created a glow about his body and a bold shadow before him as if the heavens emphasized their proudest creation. He eased the tension from the cord and lowered his bow. Dearborn knew that if he had released the third arrow, it would have hit the same mark as the first two. Going all but unnoticed behind the crown prince stood two men of the Elite Troop, sentries sent along to scout ahead with the prince for protection.