Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide
Page 1
© 2012 Tracy and Laura Hickman.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hickman, Tracy, author.
Eventide / Tracy and Laura Hickman.
pages cm — (Tales of the dragon’s bard ; book 1)
Summary: When a traveling bard stumbles into a dragon’s den, he is forced to tell it stories or be eaten. When he runs out of stories to tell, he makes a deal: if allowed to leave, he promises to return with more tales of adventure, romance, and bravery.
ISBN 978-1-60908-897-2 (hardbound : alk. paper) 1. Dragons—Fiction. 2. Storytellers—Fiction. I. Hickman, Laura, 1956– author. II. Title. III. Series: Hickman, Tracy. Tales of the dragon’s bard ; bk. 1.
PS3558.I2297E94 2012
813'.54—dc23 2012006217
Printed in the United States of America
Publishers Printing
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the Unseen Citizens of Eventide:
Our Subscribers
Table of Contents
The Dragon's Bard's Most Sincere Overture
Chasing One's Own Tale
Chasing One's Own Tale
The Innkeeper's Glorious Service
Wishers of the Well
Farmer Bennis
Feet of Prowess
Feet of Prowess
The Milliner and the Pixies
Treasure Box
Father Pantheon
Pixie Hats
Mumbles and Bumbles
The Curious Dwarven Smith
The Notorious Stratagem
The Notorious Stratagem
The Gossip Fairy
The Highwayman
Guilty Associations
Dirk's Last Ride
Courting Fates
Courting Fates
Broken Wishes and Mended Hearts
There Are No Gnomes!
Fair Hero
Fair Hero
River Fairies
Battle of the Five Pies
Tale of Frightful Manors
Tale of Frightful Manors
The Black Guild Brotherhood
The Frightening
The Dragon's Tale
The Dragon's Tale
Muster of the Dragonwatch
The Siege of Eventide
The Wake
• Prologue •
The Dragon’s Bard’s
Most Sincere Overture
I know what you’re thinking! You’ve never seen a dragon at all—let alone any Dragonking named Khrag. You’d be right, friend, and it’s my calling day and night to see to it that you don’t! Now, you can discern with your own eyes that I’m no dragon slayer, but I keep old Khrag from burning down your door and savaging your town more surely than any knight who ever tilted a lance!
How? Why, good friend, I’m Edvard the Just! You’ve no doubt heard of me . . .
No?
But surely you’ve heard of the renowned Dragon’s Bard, purveyor of peace—the Minstrel of Mystery who wanders the land in search of places, people, and their tales. The tales that save all innocents from the dragon’s wrath.
That old and terrible monster Khrag, king of dragonkind, lies atop his hoard of inestimable wealth in a cavern deep among the roots of Mount Okalan, the accumulated treasure of a hundred wars beneath his deadly, ancient claws. It is as desirable a place as any dragon might long for all his long days, but dragons are creatures of adventure. Khrag lives for the stories told of the sunlit world so far above him and grows restless and angry when he is bored. But so long as his curiosity is satisfied, he’ll rest at his ease in his dark home deep in the ground.
I chanced upon Khrag quite by odd circumstance. The humorless brothers of a discomfited young lady took umbrage at finding her name prominently featured in a fictional story of rejected love, and they unthinkingly threw me into the lair of the Dragonking. Khrag was then and remains an imposing creature who, upon my rushed acquaintance, was quite prepared to eat me at once. As he raised his razor-toothed head to strike, I said to him—for dragonkind all understand the language of men—I said:
“It is entirely too bad to come to so quick an ending, for this would have made an excellent story.”
I stood humbly before the dragon, believing that I had told my final tale.
Yet the dragon—to my amazement and yours, too, I see—did not eat me! Instead he sat me down before him, surrounded by the gold of unnumbered kingdoms, and asked me, his great eyes gleaming, “You have stories? Perhaps I shall eat you later . . .”
Khrag hungered for stories, and I began immediately to tell him all the tales I knew. I told him all the great tales—those same epics and sagas you yourself have known since your youth. Tales of the House of Eldris—how Aubrey and his companions rallied the shattered and dispirited army of Duke Jonas the Unyielding in the Great Epic War and led them against the Nightmarch Warriors of Xander the Shadowmancer. Khrag became annoyed, and there is nothing more dangerous than an annoyed dragon. The tales were old to him. Indeed, Khrag had participated in many of these tales himself and was, I must tell you, frankly bored to dragon-tears with the same old legends of the great and powerful. So I switched at once to the tales from places of which no one has heard and of creatures whose stories are sung and praised only around small fires. Day and night were uncounted in the cavern, for my knowledge of stories is voluminous.
At last my tales ran dry. By this time I was haggard, thin, and quite worn out. I gazed up at the dragon with horrible expectation.
The dragon blew a puff of smoke from his left nostril, then spoke. “Good story—but now you have grown too gaunt, and eating you is no longer appealing to me. I think I shall find a nice village to terrorize with flame, burn to the ground, and utterly destroy.”
Now, I did feel significant relief at not being eaten on the spot, and the inclination of any lesser man would have been to flee at once. I nearly gave in to such an impulse when a thought came to me: What of those villages, towns, ports, and cities? What of the women and children who lived their lives peacefully, not knowing that this Dragonking was planning to sweep all that they held dear away from them forever?
What a fine story that would make!
But, no! My great heart swelled within me and courage took hold in my breast.
“Mighty Khrag,” I said, “there are many more stories across the land surrounding your lair. If you savage the countryside, they will be lost to you—to everyone. They are growing like unseen sweet truffles all around. All you need is someone to sniff them out for you. But if you go stomping about the world, you might ruin many quests and spoil their stories.”
“I want more stories!” The dragon’s great, greedy tongue flicked across his massive jowls as his eyes gleamed nearly as golden as his belly. Khrag reached forward, hooking one talon through my coat, and drew me closer as he growled, “You bag of bones! I’ll leave your precious villages alone if only you come back every midsummer with your skinny carcass, a bag of truffles, and a head full of stories.”
So it is that now I travel the face of our land, going from village to town, experiencing the lives, sights, and sounds of each place so that I might take them back to Khrag and . . .
I beg your pardon? Who? Oh, that! That is my apprentice, Abel. He is not terribly promising as a bard, but he is a faithful scribe—his ability to write and bind books is pro
ving a somewhat useful addition to my already celebrated skills.
Oh, so you read? But of course you do! I knew at once that you were of that learned and educated class that has been trained in the art. Then perhaps I might interest you in this volume of mine, a true and accurate portrait of a village that might amuse you. You may have occasion to visit this charming locale, and such a book would serve you well, for it would acquaint you not only with the hamlet itself but with the inhabitants who live there. You would know where best to dine; where you might take your lodgings; the important eccentricities of the town’s broken wishing well; the peculiar customs regarding gnomes, pixies, and haunts; and whom you might trust there, should occasion arise.
And the citizens of that village! This book will acquaint you well with them all: Tomas Melthalion and his tragic confrontation with the Highwayman Dirk Gallowglass over his daughter, Evangeline; the dwarven blacksmith Beulandreus Dudgeon, whose arts extend beyond iron and anvil; Jep Walters and the haunted adventures of the Black Guild Brotherhood; the gentle farmer Aren Bennis, whose past is a mystery; my good friend Jarod Klum, whose love will drive him to desperately glorious deeds; and, of course, Caprice Morgan, who keeps the wishing well supplied along with her two sisters. Indeed, Khrag himself said just before he fell into a satisfied sleep that he felt he knew them so well as to make the collection on the whole a treasure of inestimable worth.
And I have many such volumes now of different places where I have traveled, which may be made available to you at a price so trivial as to . . .
My pardon! The name of this town? But of course, you may read it plainly for yourself on the cover. Upside down? Really? Allow me, then . . .
It’s called Eventide.
Chasing One’s Own Tale
Chasing One’s Own Tale
Wherein Jarod Klum meets unlikely confederates who threaten to help him win his true love . . . even if that means turning him into a hero.
• Chapter 1 •
The Innkeeper’s Glorious Service
Accounts apprentice Jarod Klum sat at his desk in the dim,
chill confines of the countinghouse and dreamed up plans for his escape.
It was not just from the countinghouse itself that he wished for his release, although he did think it appropriate that the countinghouse doubled as Eventide’s village lockup. Jarod considered himself a prisoner of his circumstances, held in the shackles of his trade, bound by the chains of his family traditions, and enslaved by fate. Here at this wooden desk and tall stool he spent his days learning the trade of counting other people’s wealth, sitting among scrolls and ledgers as dusty and quiet as his own life.
Whenever possible, Jarod gazed out beyond the wavy glass panes of the window next to him and saw himself leaping over the snow-encrusted Cursed Sundial just across the Wanderwine River to the center of Charter Square. He would be brandishing a sword or a yardstick or whatever weapon was at hand. Caprice Morgan, the beautiful, green-eyed daughter of Meryl Morgan, would happen to be standing in the square, petrified with fear. A terrible monster with seven heads—or maybe nine—would be attacking the village up the frozen river as he took her protectively in the crook of his arm . . .
Or sometimes he imagined swinging from a rope out of Bolly’s Mill just at the north end of Trader’s Square, sweeping up the vivacious form of Caprice Morgan out of the clutches of marauding pirates who would somehow have gotten lost and wandered up the length of the Wanderwine River’s frost-coated shoreline from the Blackshore Coast . . .
Or occasionally he would be at the head of a triumphant parade, with the enemies of the town in chains behind him as he rode a warhorse up Cobblestone Street. His crimson cape would billow in the winter wind as all the townsfolk turned out to cheer him—especially Caprice Morgan, who would look up admiringly through her grateful, tear-filled green eyes. He would reach down easily despite his brilliantly polished armor, grasping her waist and lifting her to sit in front of him as he . . .
The bell above the door jangled into life, jarring the young accountant back to his dreary world. A man with a narrow jaw and high cheekbones entered with a pronounced flourish of his very real if somewhat threadbare velvet cape. The chill winter air rushed past him into the room, billowing snow around his slight figure. His black mustache and beard, carefully trimmed to a point, only accentuated the general angularity of his appearance. His manner was far too flamboyant, but it was obvious to Jarod that excess in performance was not likely to be considered a bad thing by this man. His hat was an outrageous leather affair with a too-wide brim, in its band a feather from a roc that came nearly to the center of his back. He wore a thick, padded coat, kid gloves, and tall boots—the latter two items exceedingly fashionable and completely unsuitable for the weather. A bright doublet of red occasionally flashed through the open front of the coat with each gesture as he spoke. “I am Edvard the Just!” he cried, as though the counting room were filled with an appreciative audience instead of the one miserable accounts apprentice. “I am . . . the Dragon’s Bard!”
Jarod stared at him and said, “Close the door.”
“Surely you’ve heard of me,” the outrageously costumed man said through a beaming smile.
“Nope,” Jarod answered simply.
Instead of disappointment, Edvard bestowed upon Jarod a look of genuine if misguided pity.
The biting wind swirled icy snow into the room through the open doorway. The Dragon’s Bard was followed into the room almost at once by a short, slightly underweight young man who was nearly overwhelmed by a shouldered pack. Behind him came Xander Lamplighter, Eventide’s Constable Pro Tempore for the last eight years. The large constable with the intimidating scowl was known as one of the gentlest men in all of Windriftshire and one who also had an uncanny knack for catching pixies—a very troublesome local menace.
“Morning, Xander,” Jarod said with as much warmth as the room would allow.
“’Tain’t nothing good about it,” Xander replied as he pushed the door forcefully closed against the wind behind him. “Where’s Ward?”
“Gone over to the Widow Kolyan’s bakery,” Jarod said, though his eyes were on the pair of strangers and the growing pool of melting snow on the floor at their feet.
“Again?” Xander said, pulling off his thick gloves. “What’s her problem this time?”
“She claims that pixies keep magically changing her account balances no matter how many times Father goes over them with her. He could be quite a while.” Jarod shrugged, then reached over for an enormous leather-bound journal on his father’s desk next to his own. He opened the book and pulled a fresh quill from a collection he kept in a mug on his desk. Sharpening quills often took his mind off Caprice on long winter afternoons. It was becoming difficult to find an unsharpened quill anywhere in the office. “You here for the lockup?”
“It’s not necessary at all, I assure you,” Edvard said quickly before anyone else’s thought might intrude on his own. “I am Edvard, and this is Abel, my apprentice. We are mere travelers passing through this charming village . . .”
“Vagrancy . . .” Jarod muttered half to himself as he carefully dipped the quill in the inkwell.
“No, good sir! I assure you we are but storytellers . . .”
“Liars,” Jarod said to himself.
“We go from town to town spreading cheer and wonder . . .”
“Ah, rogues,” Jarod noted on a parchment he had pulled from his desk, not wanting to risk the vellum of the arrest ledger until he had all the particulars.
“Never! We are honest men who take it upon ourselves to gather stories from everywhere we go . . .”
“Thieves,” Jarod commented. He was writing as quickly as possible on the parchment, trying to catch up on the litany of evils he was concocting for the official record.
“Begging your pardon, Jarod, but that ain’t why I arrested ’em,” Xander spoke up.
Jarod looked up, relieved he had not inked any of this onto the precio
us vellum just yet. He had intended to make a more careful copy in the book so that his father would not have any further excuse to criticize his work. “Oh, of course, Xander—sorry. Constable, of what are these men accused?”
Xander straightened up and squared his wide shoulders. “These men were arrested by me—Constable Pro Tempore Xander Lamplighter—on charges of suspicious activities and annoying behavior.”
Jarod looked up from his scratch parchment sheet. “Is that a crime, Xander?”
“’Tis so far as I’m concerned,” Xander said with the conviction of a man who had no idea that he was wrong. “The complaint were lodged by the Widow Merryweather and several other ladies of Cobblestone Street at the insistence of Ariela Soliandrus.”
“The Gossip Fairy?” Jarod smiled. “She’s the one who’s behind this?”
Xander blushed. “Well, this-here gentleman—” the constable gestured at the Dragon’s Bard—“he were asking the ladies all sort of questions ’bout they personal lives and pasts and such.”
“Which,” Edvard interrupted, “they provided most graciously and freely, I might add.”
“Free or no,” Xander continued with a cold glance in the Bard’s direction, “when Miss Ariela arrived and heard what were happening, she flew straight away to each lady’s ear and told ’em that this-here stranger were a bounder and were using his wiles and magic and such to ruin them all and most likely murder them in their beds this very night and steal they best clothes!”
Jarod had stopped writing. “The Gossip Fairy told them this man would murder them in their beds?”
“Aye,” Xander nodded, then blushed again. “That or—well, you know—ravish them mercilessly.”