A Song of Shadow (The Bard from Barliona Book #2) LitRPG series

by Vasily Mahanenko

  Chess, chess...Something about chess kept spinning in my mind. That’s right! The Legendary Chess Set of Karmadont...Or was is Kardamon? I couldn’t remember exactly but it was something like that. The Barliona fora had been erupting at the news that some unknown jeweler had begun to recreate the legendary chess set. It followed that the souls of the recreated pieces had been reincarnated in the world and I was seeing the ones that were next.

  I wonder whether all the other buildings, sculptures, suits of armor and weapons were also awaiting some craftsman to start recreating their ancient legend. Was it possible for me to reincarnate the soul of an item in Barliona at least temporarily too?

  I was seriously considering conducting some experiments when a motion drew my eye. Not the mere transformation of one image into another but one that was self-contained, autonomous. Among the changing silhouettes of items, a person was plodding along the dusty ground. His bowed head, drooped shoulders, hunched back and scuffling gait was at odds with the impressive plate armor he was wearing.

  The dead man’s cuirass boasted a masterful engraving of a lizard, clearly visible even under the layer of gray dust. His ash gray head was crowned with a metallic circlet and his shoulders were wrapped in a long cape, pinned with a fibula in the shape of the same lizard. His limp hand gripped his long sword, dragging it along the ground behind its long-dead owner.

  Looking closer, I noticed that his armor was fairly ragged and his sword was nicked and chipped from many blows. Some king who had fallen in a legendary battle? Judging by the state of this soul, his ancestors had forgotten much of that ancient story.

  The spirit paid no attention to Eid and me. He simply plodded along, periodically skirting some chance obstacle. I looked around with curiosity trying to see any other denizens of this afterworld. In the distance, at the very edge of visibility, I made out an enormous figure creeping across the horizon, but the intervening gloom concealed its details, making it impossible to examine the colossus. Who was it? A titan? A dragon? A fallen deity?

  My feet carried me after the receding figure of their own volition, but the giant’s stride was so long that he quickly dissolved beyond the indefinite horizon of this world. In exchange, a tall, stately figure of a woman stepped out from behind a majestic maple tree. Maybe there was some legend associated with this tree or this was the spirit of some dryad...She held her chin raised proudly, her shoulders back, and she stepped with a smooth yet confident step. Even ignoring her sumptuous dress, I could guess that this wasn’t some poor, recently-deceased girl.

  Unlike the dead king, the lady noticed me. She stopped for a few seconds, appraised me with an exacting glance and crumpled her face in derision. It was as if she had encountered some horse dung amid the pretty path that had been laid for her personally. Having expressed her contempt, the lady continued along the way only known to her through the dust of the world of the dead.

  I shut my mouth, which I had opened to greet her. My desire to chat up this sour-faced dame about returning to the world of the living evaporated just like that. No big deal. I still had an entire king in reserve. By the way, where’d he go?

  Luckily, catching up to the slowly shuffling man in a crown turned out to be as simple as pie. Alas, it was the last piece of pie. How was I supposed to bring him back?

  “Hey...your Highness!” I ventured without much confidence.

  He didn’t react in any way, plodding onward to a goal that remained unknown to me. Although, why do I say that? Eid had told me that the souls that no longer had the strength to resist Chaos’s call would wander toward the Gates of Erebus. I guess this soul’s hour had come.

  Just to make sure, I tried touching the soul, waving in front of his eyes, stepping through it and even trying to prod it with the eid, which earned me a look of disapproval from the instrument’s soul. None of this had any effect. The plodding phantom did not react to my efforts in the least.

  Call me callous, but I thought the whole thing was funny. What an interesting quest the game had assigned me. I wouldn’t call it common at any rate: It was certainly far afield from the typical ‘kill ten rats and harvest their hides and tails’ fare. This one required thought.

  I circled the blindly plodding spirit and contemplated what I should do. Call me callous (again), but the ghost’s pitiful sight did not elicit much compassion in me. I wasn’t familiar with this NPCs history, so the nameless king was nothing but a faceless bit of code for me. He did however interest me as a lab rat of sorts. I’d be curious to know what power I had over the souls and in this place in general. The only hitch was that I really didn’t know his story. In fact, I didn’t know the history of a single local ruler, fallen in battle. And in that case, how could I sing about him?

  I trailed the king unhurriedly as I considered the situation. I sure am lucky today with my companions. It’s all knights and kings like in the popular romance novels. Though, unlike in those novels, the local knight had already stabbed me today. And I mean that literally—not figuratively-erotically. And now this nameless king was ignoring my illustrious person.

  The nameless king....That reminds of something...

  I stopped and rubbed my face with my palms, trying to catch the elusive song. The tune dodged and avoided my consciousness for a bit but finally gave up and dredged up a memory of a fantasy song I’d heard recently. It was in the collection of fantasy songs I had downloaded when doing research for the game. A classic of prog. I hadn’t ended up learning it, but I remembered the first chords and I tend to memorize the lyrics the first time I hear them. And if there’s something I don’t recall, I can always improvise. As long as the foundation is there, filling in the gaps presents no problem. And so Em9 to Em9 with a flat sixth, I believe...

  Eid followed behind me, leading his horse by its bridle, and observing with interest as I muttered the song’s verses under my nose and fingered various chords, trying to weave the sounds into a melody. It was clear that he wasn’t about to help. When I had finally remembered the lyrics and found the one chord that kept eluding me (F#m7b5, ugh!), I sprinted ahead of the ghost and sat down in the middle of his way so that he would hear me play as he passed.

  For the first time since we met, the ghost reacted. Hearing the singing, he started and slowed his already turtle’s pace. I rejoiced to myself. There’s a sign! He can hear me. Or see me. Either way, we have contact.

  The ballad of a witch arriving to a royal court that whirls with revels, tournaments, and puppet plays resonated with the soul. He stopped and raised his head with noticeable difficulty. The look in his eyes was terrifying. Empty and senseless, it gave rise to an otherworldly horror in me. Living people never look like that. Or at least I hope they don’t.

  As I sang, the soul of the nameless king approached me. The man straightened out to his full height and looked me in the eyes. A look of comprehension appeared on the ghost’s face. He was listening.

  When the ballad’s last notes faded, the phantom was still staring at me. Suddenly a fire flared in his eyes, scorching the dusty grayness of the land of the dead. The world filled with color and smells, changing everything entirely.

  Like barbed wire cutting at it, the scent of ashes parches my throat and the acrid smoke stings my eyes and squeezes forth tears. I cannot move in the slightest—I cannot control what is happening—I am only a bystander, an observer.

  A crescendo of ringing steel sounds amid the roar of raging fires. Through the tongues of flame, I can see a wave of steel-clad cavalry rushing towards me. The surging fear forces me to start back, but my back encounters an obstacle and someone’s hand pushes me forward.

  “Not a step back, carrion! Either you consign the souls of these filthy beasts to the Lords or they will consume yours!”

  I still the trembling in my hands and notice in passing that my skin is a vivid green. I grip the spear’s haft tighter like a piece of rope that will save me from drowning. I am much more afraid of the Lords than the oncoming foe.

 
; “To battle!”

  Obeying the command, I take a knee and stick the spear’s heel into the ground, pointing the tip in the direction of the avalanche coming toward me.

  The infantry bristles with two ranks of spears, awaiting contact with the cavalry. The mages conjure a wall of flame not five meters before us. My armor heats noticeably from its heat. Even trained warhorses would not rush through such fire, I tell myself. They will buck their riders and all we will have to do is finish off the unlucky ones, allowing the Lords to devour their souls. Their souls—not ours. But the cavalry does not stop. They have mages too and the tall wall of flame wanes to a harmless barrier no higher than my shoulder.

  And then the riders fall upon us.

  Time slows. I can clearly see the first rank of mounted knights. Among them, I discern a rider with a crimson lizard on his breastplate. My heart, feverishly beating in my chest, goes still from terror and skips several beats. It is he—the Salamander King—the one who dared challenge the Lords and rebelled against the Tarantulas!

  The earth rocks and falls from my feet. Weakened by the enemies’ spells, the ground yawns beneath us and the even row of spears collapses, allowing the cavalry to break through our ranks. Something heavy slams into my helmet and the light fades in my eyes.

  I open them again when the battle’s already ended. Corpses strew the field before the castle; the Lords step languidly among them. The spiders’ immense bodies halt over their fallen foes, the terrible fangs plunge and a barely noticeable mist seeps from the fallen bodies into the Tarantulas’ maws. The Lords harvest their crop.

  One of them approaches me and I overcome my pain and get to one knee.

  “Lord...” I whisper hoarsely, hoping that the plentiful food has been enough and the same terrible fate will pass me by.

  The enormous spider hangs over me. I stop breathing. No, not me. I fought for you. You promised to spare our souls. The moment which lasts an eternity passes and the Tarantula moves on. The feast continues.

  Stumbling over the earth, rutted by spears and spells, I head for the castle. My people are there—there are healers there. The Lords are not there right now. Two ogres drag a moaning, wounded person past me. He has crimson hair and the familiar lizard on his breastplate. Yours is a sad fate, oh Salamander King. You shall serve as an example to everyone unhappy with the Lords’ rule. A terrifying example.

  I do not rejoice at his fate, I pity him. If I had believed in his rebellion even for an instant, I would have joined him. But I did not believe. And I was right. We are too weak, too insignificant to oppose the Lords. And yet, may the Abyss take me, how I yearned for your victory...

  The world wavered before me and the first vision gave way to the next.

  I am standing sentry outside of the dungeon and listening to the screams of agony. They have been sounding for many days now—all throughout the fortress of the Crooked Tusk. The Lizard King, as the minions of the Lords called him, had swapped his throne for the rack, yet remained king. The Tarantulas’ torturers knew their craft, yet Salamander did not give up. The blood froze from his screams, but the captive refused to recognize the Lords. The Tarantulas could naturally devour his soul, but first they wanted the leader of the rebellion to publicly recognize their hegemony. To this day, they had not gotten their wish.

  Another soul-freezing scream, forcing my body to tremble, cuts off abruptly. I hope that Salamander has finally said farewell to his life, but the torturers emerging from the chamber curse, discussing new methods for breaking the prisoner. That means he merely fainted. A pity.

  The torturers depart, leaving me to guard the chained and powerless prisoner. As if he can escape. Escape...

  An unbearably outrageous thought appears in my mind. Flight. A desperate flight from the Lords’ domain. Not a single one is in the castle at the moment, which means they would not be able to catch me. The thought of freedom makes me drunk, granting me a careless courage, and I hurry to the chamber, worried that my decisiveness will evaporate. I lock the chamber from the inside and with great effort scoot the now-vacant rack to prop the door shut. The wounded man hangs limply in the stocks. The sight of his twisted joints and lesion-covered body no longer affects me. None of this is important. We will be able to escape.

  The Salamander King opens his eyes, as if sensing something. His eyes stop on me. I do not know how but he has understood it all. He grins toothlessly. And I plunge the dagger home.

  Go with peace, Salamander King. They will not have your soul. By the time they realize what has happened and call the Lords, we will be in the Gray Lands. They cannot reach you there. Neither you nor me.

  Now I will plunge the dagger, its blade soaked in Salamander’s blood, up to its hilt into my own throat. My lips strain to form a grin. I am free.

  The darkness that veiled my eyes gave way to dull grayness. I was sitting in the dust, staring dumbly at my trembling hands and trying to understand which world I was in. My eyes tickled but there were no tears. Players can’t cry in Barliona—this is a place of entertainment and diversion, not tears. The screams of the tortured man lingered in my ears, and my mind refused to comprehend the system notification that had appeared.

  Attention! Through your Bardic Inspiration you have recovered lost lore about the Salamander King.

  You have used song to bind yourself to the soul of the Salamander King. From now on, you may summon this soul from the Gray Lands by performing this song.

  Attention! Binding a song to a being that is not directly mentioned in the song can only be accomplished in person in the presence of the being in the Gray Lands.

  Attention! This song does not mention the Salamander King directly and its performance will not nurture this being in the Gray Lands.

  Stats, bindings, performances and other game mechanics simply didn’t gel in my shocked consciousness. I was looking at the soul of the Salamander King and it was looking at me.

  “Who are you?” The spirit spoke slowly as if with great effort.

  “I’m a bard,” I replied, looking up at him. It seemed that Salamander didn’t care about names so much as what was going on. “I have traveled to the Gray Lands from Barliona to conduct a departed soul back to the world of the living. But only temporarily,” I added, noticing Salamander’s eyes flare with fire.

  “Barliona...” the king said pensively. “What is it like right now? Have the Tarantulas been defeated?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I’d never even heard of them until now.”

  “Haven’t even heard...” Salamander gaped.

  His sword fell to the ground with a dull thud, his legs wavered and he collapsed awkwardly to the ashy earth. Salamander was staring ahead somewhere into a nearby sky and smiling. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks.

  “They have fallen...They have fallen and been forgotten...”

  I watched him silently as thoughts about the contradictory nature of human behavior flowed through my mind. Sometimes we laugh in moments of peril and cry in moments of happiness.

  Eid didn’t say anything, preferring to remain a detached observer. I wonder if he cares about what’s going on even a little. After all, I think of him in ordinary human terms, yet when you consider it, he’s not one bit human. What does a musical instrument—even one that’s been imbued with life by its creator—care about our joys and sorrows? As if he had sensed something, Eid looked over at me but didn’t say anything. Meanwhile, the Salamander King finally processed the good news from the larger world and returned to his dull reality, picked up his sword, swept the dust from its blade and slid it back in its scabbard.

  “If even the Tarantulas have been forgotten, it is no wonder that I am barely remembered,” he said with humility and resignation in his voice. “It has been a long time since I’ve heard anything, aside from the call of Erebus. Your music managed to drown it out, but it hasn’t grown any weaker. And I haven’t the strength to resist it any longer.”

  My reply came of its own volition:


  “I will remember you, Salamander.”

  The rebel king smiled bitterly, yet bowed his head gratefully.

  “Thank you, bard. But I am afraid that your memory won’t be enough to save me from the call. And there isn’t much sense in it anymore. The Tarantulas have fallen and I can dissolve in Erebus peacefully now.”

  “Don’t!” I blurted out.

  I looked pretty dumb I bet. A player begging a long-dead NPC to cleave to life. Not so much as live, as ‘be.’ However, the visions I had lived through made this person and his history real. To me, at least. And the thought that in exchange for his deeds he would only receive oblivion and utter dissolution, forced me to protest. His life and death deserved a reward. Even if only a small one. Even if it was no more than several hours in the world of the living. That was all I could grant him.

  Or was it?

  “I will write a song about you,” I promised the spirit. “A good song. It will spread among those who want to remember and you will regain your strength.”

  Salamander smiled and shook his head.

  “That is the most generous offer I have heard since my death. Thank you. But spare yourself the futile labor. Look around. The Gray Lands are not the place where one would want to spend eternity. And even if time passes differently here, I see no reason to cling to this kind of existence. The Tarantulas are gone and my debt has been paid. I can depart with peace in my soul.”

  As bitter as it was to admit it, his words made a lot of sense. I don’t know who came up with the afterlife in Barliona, but whoever it was, was clearly a sadist. You wouldn’t wish an eternity in this dull place on your worst enemy.

  “Maybe you’d like to see Barliona one more time?” I asked after a little hesitation.

  The hell with the Fifth. He’d waited so many centuries that he could wait a little more. I’d be willing to bet that Astilba’s might, as well as her maniacal obsession with her departed lover would suffice to maintain an entire army of spirits. Meanwhile, Salamander did not have long left, and this was his last chance to look upon the world he had fought to defend in his time.