Refrain

by Nathan Ravenwood

  As they dueled, Vann's fingers flew across the guitar strings as he summoned his own power, building it on the end of his guitar. “Make sure you don't miss,” Rorzan said from above him.

  “I won't,” Vann said, closing one eye as he took aim. He waited until Janaza took notice, and when the orc took an extra step back from Eckert's sword swing, he let the magic fly. Lightning streaked through the air, aimed right at the Avatarian's back.

  Somehow, Eckert was faster. His sword snapped back around, the bolt of magic striking the wire. Vann's magic meshed with his, the two power currents coiling together until the sword was ablaze with white light that lit up the clearing. “My my!” Eckert said, sounding genuinely impressed for the first time. “So this is the power of the guitar! Quite something!”

  “How?” Vann said, his eyes bugging out. The pit of his stomach dropped out as Eckert whirled and flicked the magic at Janaza, the power erupting from his sword in a beam of solid light.

  Wisps of blue magic zipped out of the woods and surrounded Janaza, before flaring into a dome-shaped shield the moment before the beam of magic hit. There was the sound of a woodwind reed peaking like a tea kettle, then the beam reflected off the shield across the river, gouging out a massive twenty-foot wide furrow in the ground that obliterated trees and terrain in its path.

  Arielle and Ori emerged from the trees, the former wreathed in her omnichord and the latter holding her guitar like an axe. Behind them, leaping over fallen trees, the centaurs came, their backup drawn by the noise of the fight.

  Eckert's smile grew wider, and a curious kind of madness glinted in his eyes. “Ah. The more, the merrier!”

  Sheathe struck wire again, and this time both halves of the weapon blazed with light. Eckert waved them like conductor's batons, bringing them together with a crack. Tree roots exploded free of the ground, tanging around the legs of the centaurs and bringing many of the frontrunners crashing to the ground. Those in the back skidded to a halt, warily trying to find a way forward as the roots kept moving.

  Janaza and Vann went on the attack again, hammering Eckert's guard and seeking a weak point as Arielle's fingers flew across her omnichord to bombard him with projectiles. Ori circled around the edge of the fight, seeking an opening. Yet for all their efforts, nothing seemed to faze Eckert. The Avatarian was a blur, blocking Vann and Janaza's swings while casually flicking away Arielle's projectiles, absorbing them into his sword to redirect them at one of the others, or summoning a barrier to deflect an attack while his hands were occupied. He never Sang a single note, simply using the sound of the clashing weapons to fuel his spells. And it wasn't as though ceasing to attack him was an option; he could just strike his sword against his sheathe to make a noise to use if none were available.

  The sheath cracked across his knee and brought him down to the ground, followed up by a knee smashing into his jaw. Vann's head spun as he flopped backwards, his back hitting the dirt hard and knocking the wind out of him. Who was this guy?

  Janaza's face was twisted with exertion and frustration, her berserk strength seemingly useless against this gangly clown man. She took a particularly vicious swing at his head with her bass edge, only for him to duck and drive an elbow into her gut, then floor her with twin blows from his cane sheathe. Janaza went down, her breathing frantic as she was flattened.

  “I haven't had this much of a workout in ages,” Eckert said, whistling a jaunty tune as he stepped over the beaten orc towards Vann. “Feels good to get out and stretch my legs.”

  Think, think, think! Vann 's mind raced, trying to find a creative solution around the problem, but nothing came to mind. Eckert had an answer for everything they did with his freakish ability to do magic using just a single sound rather than a complex series like he needed to. How did he have such an ability? How was it even possible?

  Those thoughts vanished as Eckert's boot stepped on Vann's wrist, the heel grinding down and making him scream in pain. Pins and needles shot through to the tips of his fingers.

  Ori tackled Eckert with a loud squawk, forgoing her guitar in favor of good old fashioned punches to the face. Her talons scratched Eckert's cheeks and neck, and for a moment, Vann felt some hope. But then the Avatarian drilled her in the chest with the blunt end of his cane sheath before wrapping his arms under and around the harpy's shoulders before bearing her down to the ground, pinning her underneath him. “A good attempt, my feathered friend,” he said, thin rivulets of blood running down his cheeks. “But not good enough.”

  Arielle began to weave a spell, and Eckert rolled back a little so that Ori was between his body and the elf. “Ah, ah, ah. Let's not be hasty.”

  Arielle hesitated, her fingers frozen over the strand of the omnichord that would finish the spell. “Seems your people haven't lost their touch,” she said.

  Eckert only grinned. “Now then, I believe you were coming with me, Vann.”

  Vann picked himself up, getting to his feet and trying his best to ignore the aches and pains from getting his ass kicked. “Not a chance.”

  Eckert sighed. “I do hate to be this kind of person, but if you don't...” He tightened his grip on Ori's shoulders and she yelped in pain, her arms bending backward at an angle. “I will hurt her.”

  “Vann, maybe do what he says?” the harpy ground out. “This shit really hurts!”

  Vann slowly stared at the scene around him, his beaten friends and the incapacitated centaurs. Rorzan hovered above the whole scene, anxiously looking around, his eyes concerned. He swallowed heavily. There was no question of what awaited him if he surrendered.

  Slowly, he let go of the guitar, letting it fall to the dirt. “Let her go,” he said.

  Slowly, Eckert released Ori from his grip, and the harpy scrambled away. He got up and brushed dirt off his coat, brandishing his sword. Then he whirled and deflected Arielle's magic missile back at her with a vicious swipe of his blade. The reflected attack blasted the elf off her feet, her omnichord disappearing around her. “What did you actually think was going to happen?”

  An arrow zipped out of the woods and thwacked into Eckert's shoulder. He staggered, then looked down at the shaft sticking out of his tricep, the smile falling from his face for the first time to be replaced with a look of surprise. “Oh? Where did this come from?”

  More arrows zipped out of the woods, many of them just narrowly missing the Avatarian. He scrambled back, swatting some of them out of the air with flicks of his sword. Vann looked to see where they were coming from.

  From out of the woods emerged ten short, cloaked figures, each of them holding a longbow made of black wood. Their cloaks went down to their knees, and the legs below the hem were furred and ended in cloven hooves. The one in the lead raised its weapon, a shaft nocked to the string. A voice Sang from the hood, a rough, coarse sound, and the tip of the arrow blazed with power.

  “Interesting,” Eckert said, his eyes flicking across the newcomers, then to Vann and his allies. “It seems I'm outmatched for now.” He slowly scraped the sheath along the wire, charging his sword with more magic. Then he looked over to Vann, and his smile returned. “I shall see you again very soon, Mister Fyfe.”

  A swing of his sword split the air, the space warping as if the air had become superheated in a moment. A darkness appeared where the sword had swung, and Eckert darted through with a loping stride, disappearing from view. A moment later, the darkness snapped shut with an audible pop.

  Vann sighed and fell to his knees, leaning on his guitar for support. “Holy crap,” he muttered.

  “I told you not to fight him,” Rorzan said, swooping down and hovering in front of him. “Vann, buddy, I know I'm not serious all the time, but when I get real with you I need you to listen.”

  “I underestimated him,” Vann said. He looked up at the ghost. “I'm sorry.”

  “You didn't know,” Rorzan said, patting him on the shoulder as best as he could in his ghostly form. “I guess if nothing else this can be a lesson.” He looked beh
ind him. “We'd have been super fucked unless they showed up.”

  The cloaked figure in the lead took a few steps forward, then reached up a human looking arm to pull back the hood. The head that emerged had two curly horns, a wild head of hair, a flat nose, and a long goatee. He held out a hand to Vann. “Elder Marabaas,” he said in his raspy voice. “Glad to be of service, scion of Diavolo.”

  ***

  Eckert walked through the other end of his portal into the lower bay of the airship. He took a few steps forward towards the wall. Then he held out an arm and leaned against the wall, exhaustion crashing down on him. He was out of practice, it seemed.

  “So?” Lord MacAngus said from behind him. “What are we dealing with here?”

  “A moment, Bosie, please,” Eckert panted, brushing his hair back behind his ear. He wiped blood off his cheek, some of his makeup coming with it.

  “Quite something, then, if you need a moment.”

  The Avatarian chuckled and straightened up, sliding his sword into its cane sheath and tapping the end on the floor. The tapping echoed off the metal with a hollow ring. “Indeed. I probably could've taken them, but I didn't account for the satyrs showing up.”

  “Yet more allies,” MacAngus said, stroking his beard. “What are they planning?”

  “Something that's sure to be quite spectacular, if we don't bring Vann to heel.”

  Chapter Eight - Cel

  “It's a good thing you showed up when you did,” Ashern said to Marabaas as Janaza tended to the wounded in the centaur village square.

  The satyr laughed and shouldered his longbow. The tops of his horns only came up to where Ashern's legs met his dense torso. “Think nothing of it, old friend. Always happy to help.”

  A cheer went up from the satyrs, along with much stomping of hooves on the ground. Save for one – the long figure on the end remained still, it's hood canting from left to right, as if the satyr inside it was still keeping an eye out for danger.

  “That's everyone,” Janaza said, wiping sweat from her forehead and shouldering her bass. “Not exactly the hangover cure I was expecting, but a good fight never fails to bring you around.”

  Marabaas bobbed his head at the orc. “Always loved watching orcs fight. You lot bring out the best in everyone, ally or opponent.”

  Janaza dipped her body in a small curtsy. “You flatter me.”

  “Are the lot of you fit to travel?” Marabaas asked, looking the travelers over. “I know you just got through getting the smackdown laid on you, but if you have enemies in pursuit of you it would be best if we got off as soon as possible.”

  Rorzan snickered but everyone ignored him.

  “I'm good,” Janaza said, stretching out her legs and wiggling her toes. “Anyone else?”

  “I can walk,” Arielle said.

  “Same,” Ori said.

  “Vann?”

  Vann shouldered his guitar. “Yeah. Let's get going.” He gave Ashern a sheepish look. “I feel bad just leaving like this.”

  The centaur leader waved a hand. “Don't worry. I'm more than certain we'll be seeing each other again soon.”

  Vann blinked. What did he mean by that? “Well, thank you for your hospitality.” He held out a hand. “And all the yopou.”

  Ashern laughed and shook his hand. “There's more where that came from whenever you return.” His eyes flicked over to Arielle, and the elf flushed to her eartips.

  “Alright, troops,” Rorzan said, pointing dramatically to the north. “Let's get a move on!”

  They set out from the village with little fanfare save for the centaurs waving to them as they trekked north out of the village and into the woods, passing through the clearing where they'd fought Eckert, through the river, and off into uncharted territory.

  ***

  Compared to the relatively quiet and easygoing centaurs, their new traveling companions were demonstrably more loud and boisterous about... just about everything. They moved with a quick pace, but were constantly loping back around, jostling and jockeying with one another. Most of them were males, younger than Marabaas by a large margin, yet the satyr Elder kept pace with them easily. The one satyr who hadn't dropped their hood brought up the rear. Every so often Vann would glance back, and one time when he did he glimpsed the cloak parting slightly and saw a slender, feminine figure underneath it. Whoever she was, she wasn't saying much.

  They trekked northeast for most of the day, stopping for a lunch in a copse of trees. Vann drew his traveling cloak closer about himself. “How far north are we going to go?” he asked Marebaas. “Should we have brought thicker cloaks?”

  “I think you'll be fine,” the older satyr said, gnawing on a leaf he plucked from a vine nearby. “Rorzan made the trip just fine a few hundred years ago.”

  “Well, a lot of things have changed since then,” Rorzan said, floating down next to Marebaas. “Back then I had a pulse. And skin. And legs.”

  Marebaas snickered, chomping down on the last bit of the leaf, his big teeth tearing the plant to shreds. “Aye, heard all about that from my father.”

  Vann did a double-take. “Wait, your father was the one who met Rorzan?”

  “Satyrs live almost as long as elves do, Vann,” Arielle chimed in from behind them. She was sitting with Janaza, lounging with her head in the orc's lap as the two snacked on some of the bread that the centaurs had sent them off with.

  “Then how old are you?” Ori asked Marebaas.

  The satyr grinned. “Guess.”

  Ori immediately looked a little flustered at being put on the spot. “Erm... hmm... a hundred fifty?”

  Marebaas pointed upwards with his thumb. “Nah. One hundred ninety.”

  “That's the equivalent of senior, in case you need some perspective,” Rorzan said.

  “Oy, mind yourself,” Marebaas snarked at him. “I ain't as old as you, Diavolo, but I'm still flesh and blood.”

  “Ooo, I'm so jealous,” Rorzan said. He made a face. “No, really, I am, this isn't as fun as I make it seem sometimes.”

  As the banter continued, Vann gazed around the small company of satyrs around them. All the bucks were chatting loud and boisterous in their native language – only Marebaas had used the translation spell. They were roughhousing with one another, pushing and shoving as they jockeyed for position on the logs where they sat and ate. As he watched, one of them tackled the other, the two of them going at in in a wrestling match on the ground.

  Apart from them all, however, was the female satyr. She sat with her legs tucked underneath her on a nearby rock, chewing slowly on bites of a root vegetable as she stared off into the forest, Her hood was still drawn up around her head, and her whole body language seemed to scream 'don't talk to me'.

  “I get the feeling she doesn't like us very much,” Vann said to Marebaas.

  He followed his gaze. “Who, Cel? Nah, she's just quiet like that.”

  Cel turned her head at the mention of her name. She locked eyes with Vann, and he gave her a small smile and a nod. To his surprise, she returned it, before turning away again and going back to eating. “Seems a bit out of character,” he said.

  “She is a bit of a loner,” Marebaas said. “But she's got a good head on her shoulders. She...” He trailed off, then coughed and adjusted his posture on the log. “She just doesn't like to mess around like the lads here do.”

  The two satyrs that were wrestling had each other in quasi-headlocks as they jockeyed for position on the ground, cheered on by their fellows. Vann said, “I can kind of see why.”

  They set off again after lunch, continuing further to the northeast in a single file line to, according to Marebaas, 'mask their numbers'. All the while, Vann kept his head on a swivel, mindful of the way that Eckert had fled their battlefield. If he could get out like that, it was easy to assume that he could get in as well. It was likely how he'd ambushed Vann earlier, which meant he could literally come from any direction.

  Despite his concerns, however, the strange
man - nor anyone else - showed up during the course of their movement during the day. The evening, they set up a quick camp and bedded down, with a cadre of the satyrs standing watch. Vann slept with his back to Janaza, both of them wrapped up in the orc's big cloak as a blanket, her arm wrapped protectively around his midriff and her breasts swelling against the small of his back.

  In the middle of the night Vann awoke with a pressing need to relieve himself. He gently untangled himself from Janaza's arm and padded a ways away from their sleeping group, finding a tree to do what he needed to do. When he was done, he moved back, and noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

  Standing apart from the group in the lee of a large oak tree was Marebaas, and floating beside him was Rorzan. Though the ghost was facing away from him, Marebaas was turned towards him slightly, the two of them conversing in low voices. However, Vann couldn't read the satyr's lips to figure out what he was saying, and he didn't trust himself to be able to creep forward without being spotted. Why would he need to creep, though? What were they talking about in the dead of night that he couldn't hear himself?

  Just as he made up his mind to go see what they were talking about, Marebaas nodded and started walking back to the sleeping circle of satyrs. Rorzan remained where he was, putting his hands on his hips and staring off into the distance. Vann debated going to him, then turned and moved back over to where Janaza was snoring. He'd ask the ghost about it in the morning.

  ***

  “I was running a question past him,” Rorzan said as they walked through the early morning fog that wound its way through the trees.

  “What about?” Vann asked as he picked his way over a fallen log.