Deadly Troubadours

chapter one

COAL TOWN: THE QUEST 1

On a normal night the Black Canary, the only pub in Coal Town, was a dreary place, full of sour beer and sour people. It was for that special breed of working class that felt life was against them. This sentiment matched a majority of the populace of Coal Town. The usual patrons considered themselves a hard lot, but they were brittle and prone to breaking. A past, present and future of toiling in a mine for stones that did not earn the description of precious left them bleak and cheerless. The Black Canary’s resident bard did not deserve the title as he usually sat mournfully in the corner incessantly proclaiming life too sorrowful for music. When he did play it was one of the three songs he knew and all of them were sad. His performances consisted of playing the three songs over and over again in random order. His badly plucked chords added a gloomy background to the gloominess of the pub. The usual sounds were grumbles, half-hearted curses and the occasional sigh. Laughter was such a stranger here that one would think it unwelcome. Which is why young Jackson Velvet was dumbstruck by the roar of cheer that echoed off the walls on that one peculiar night.

And what are you going to do then? asked pink faced Anton Cleaver as he slapped the wobbly wooden table the stranger was standing upon.

That, my dear sir, is when I will distract that silly lizard by undoing my trousers and showing her something truly monstrous in size! The half-filled pub bawled with laughter. Even toothless Gareg was hissing with mirth.

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. He feared that he was still in the mine breathing in some fume unlocked by an unlucky swing of the pick or perhaps pinned beneath a sudden downpour of rock. But when he opened his eyes the same scene was presented to him. Standing on a table in the center of the room was a tall man with blonde hair cascading down his back, longer than any man should let his hair grow. His face was free of whiskers except for thin sideburns coming down just to the level of his ears. His clothes lacked the simple utility of what was standard in the mining town. Instead they were a patchwork of colors and fabrics, sewn together seemingly at random with accents of polished buttons placed where there was seemingly no need. The only thing about the stranger’s dress that made sense to the miner was the simple leather boots.

It will only be natural for her to rear back in mortal fear from such a sight, as you or I would from a great bear. If only I could manage a convincing roar then the beast would have no choice other than to die of fright or fall madly in love. I will keep my preference to myself. The crowd reacted with a mixture of guffaws and appreciative gasps.

While I keep the beast otherwise entertained, my erstwhile companions will strike, moving like lightning into said den of terror! With a flourish the blonde stranger motioned to a table against the far wall where sat three companions who seemed to be doing their best to sink into what little shadow the flickering pub torches offered. Jackson could make out a black haired youth, a young lass with short and shaggy red hair burying her face in her hands and a chestnut-skinned man. They looked to be of equal age with Jackson, and while they did not match the eccentric dress of their companion, their clothes stood out from the rest of the pub patrons as they were not covered in soot and coal dust.

Before the beast has recovered, a ripple of laughs spread through the bar, they will…

Alek, called out the chestnut one, his voice weary wouldn’t you rather play a song?

A song? Quite right. The blonde nimbly pulled a mandolin slung around his back into position and began to play a lively tune that none in the pub had heard before. Hands were soon clapping in time and the tale of the bard’s fight with the dragon was forgotten by most to the relief of the other three companions.

Jackson went to the bar and ordered a lager. Brendy, the owner and bartender, barely took her eyes off the golden-haired musician as she rather clumsily poured the drink and handed over a glass more than half full of foam. First one’s on the house, she mumbled as she stared at the bard's gyrations. Jackson's eyes bulged at this unexpected act of generosity and he quickly scuttled away from the bar before Brendy changed her mind.

His eyes turned again to the companions. They lacked the joy of the bard, especially the raven-headed fellow who even in the orange torch-glow looked a rancid shade of green. The female's skin too had a waxy pallor to it. Of the third, the chestnut color itself was enough of a rarity in these parts to attract attention. Half memories of the stories Jackson's gran would tell on stormy nights flooded over him. Excepting the capering bard, these companions full-fit the descriptions of the Plagued Travelers of fireside story fame that left disease and madness in their wake. The three whispered among themselves and Jackson's imaginings caused him to shudder at what possible horrors they spoke of.

We are not actually considering following through with this bat-shit scheme are we? the green-faced Demetrius Tate asked again. The boat ride had agreed neither with him nor with the copious amounts of firewine that had sloshed around his belly until it had escaped in a most dramatic fashion.

We swore a public vow on the Stone Prince. Unless we want to sacrifice all the reputation we have among the Free Thinkers, we must follow through. Talbert Gretchen remained as level-headed as ever despite his feeling that Alek’s two-step was taking place on his head instead of on a rickety table in the pub’s center.

In that case then, fuck our reputation. I imagine it will be much worse off if we are reduced to dragon shit. Don’t hear many famous songs about that!

Tarwyn and the Dragon, the Dragon and Sir Drake, the Razing of Gilead, the Fiery Death of the Halfheart Prince… Talbert counted on his fingers as he tallied up the stories which illustrated the fame of being ended by a dragon or the utter madness it was to confront one depending on what point was being made.

Oh, yes, I remember now all those childhood games. ‘No, no! I want to be the one who gets to die horribly in the gullet of a dragon!’ I would say. Demetrius wildly gestured miming the enthusiasm that he had, in fact, not shown as a child.

It would be highly unlikely to die in a dragon’s gullet, Talbert went on to clarify, it would be much more likely to die either in its maw due to the sword-like teeth or in the stomach due to the corrosive fluids contained there. That is, of course, ignoring a much more likely demise at the end of its talons or even the possibility of dragonfire.

You do realize that it is the demise itself and not the exact method of said demise which I am advocating against?

Of course. That was merely an attempt to change the discussion from one involving our likely and horrible deaths into an examination of how exactly we can avoid messy death by dragon and…

Perhaps by going home?

And, Talbert continued, avoiding breaking our oaths. Need I remind you that forswearing ourselves will get us removed from the Order? Unless that is an option you care to consider?

Demetrius clenched his jaw and stared meekly at the table. Being exiled from the Order of Free Thinkers was not something he wanted to consider, not with all that went into getting them admitted to the guild in the first place. Stones painted to look like eggs? was all he could offer.

Talbert sighed. Assuming we found or even manufactured a stone to look like a proper dragon egg, which we have never seen, it would hardly be a convincing forgery. Ignoring the various alchemical properties a dragon egg possesses that stone lacks, it would arise no small suspicion when discovered that our egg contained stone and not a forming dragon. How many times do we have to go over this?

Kestra rose to her feet, still slightly unsteady from the rolling, stormy boat ride earlier that day. We will not retreat from this. We made our oath to the Stone Prince. The decision is made. There is nothing else but to follow through. That was the truth of it, no matter how much Demetrius protested. They had made their oath and made it publicly. If they wanted a future within the Order, they had no choice but to abide by their words even if they were foolishly given.

Now you must excuse me. I'm going outside before I cover you and this table in what little hasn’t already been offered to the Gods of the Sea. She stumbled to the door gaining in speed as she went. Kestra was not a fan of boats, or really any travel other than her own two legs, under normal conditions. The recent weather had not been kind, and they were all still in poor conditions from the celebratory intake of alcohol that lead to their current situation.

Kestra had spent much of their time aboard doubled over a bucket. Talbert was amazed that such a small woman could bring up so much sick and still have anything at all inside her. Demetrius had grown ill himself listening to her wretch repeatedly. Alek, who remained as carefree as ever, had merely strummed and plucked on his mandolin while pondering different rhymes for vomit.

Demetrius’ face deepened its verdant shade as he watched her storm out the pub door and he gave thanks that the sound of rain and song drowned out noises she was surely making on the other side of the thin pub walls. How can such a small thing hold in so much?

Talbert lifted his glass and held it up to his mouth without drinking. She holds in much too much, he said with a frown and placed the untouched glass back on the table.

chapter two

KESTRA: ORIGINS 1

In her dreams Kestra was always with her mother. Her father and brother were often present as well, but it was her mother that was the constant. Her mother, who had combed her long red tresses, who had washed her face and who had cared for her when she had fever, was ever at the center of her dreams. The details of their small wooden house were fading, but she could clearly see the face of her mother. But only in her dreams.

When she awoke the current reality of her surroundings came flooding back, and the last thing she wanted was to remember the face of her mother, for when she did it was as she last saw her. Her mother's tears could no longer fall and her screams had torn her throat raw so that the only sounds she made were rasping and wordless. Though she still lived when Kestra was carted away, her mother’s eyes were dull and glassy, as if she had gone away someplace deep. All around her the snarling faces of soldiers floated and laughed, still waiting to have their turn.

That was not how Kestra wanted to remember her mother, so she pushed the memories away, ignored her past and lived only in the present. The hard stone floor with its smattering of rank straw to serve as a bed were more comforting than the violent and fiery images she had of her former home. The stone walls that radiated cold and were constantly damp kept out those memories. The bamboo bars that completed her cage were flexible enough to give the illusion of almost breaking but never did. This had been her world since she had been taken.

She couldn't be sure of the time. It was always dim, a perpetual twilight or perhaps a perpetual dawn. She would sleep and awaken, never knowing how long she had been out. Sometimes there was food waiting for her in a wooden bowl. Cold rice covered in a watery gravy. A bone possibly still holding leftover meat. A cup of something bitter that made her feel lightheaded and sleepy.

Three times she had been awake when the food man came. He had spoken to her and his tone had not sounded unkind, but the words were unfamiliar and guttural and contained none of the warm sounds of her people. The guard would smile and hold the bowl and cup out to her. She would stay where she was, not trusting, and wait. In the end he would always put the bowl and cup gently on the stone floor and turn to leave. She would wait until he was gone and then count to fifty before she would quickly pick up the bowl and cup, take them far from the bamboo bars and eat.

Perhaps she would trust him more if it weren't for the other voices. She would hear harsh shouts in the same guttural tongue. Sometimes screams would follow. There were other noises too. Heavy thuds and thumps that seemed to come from above her.  There were also crunches like tree branches breaking from the weight of heavy snow and cracks of leather slapping together sounding like the few times her father had to teach her little brother to mind him.

This morning’s bowl, if it was morning, would be the eleventh bowl she had been given since her arrival. She couldn't remember much of what happened since she was taken. She remembered her mother's empty eyes. Being in a cage on a wagon. Hunger. Being thrown into a bigger cage on a bigger wagon. There were other children. A bigger girl with blonde hair and grey eyes stole her boots even though they must have been too small for her. The air turned from the comfortable chill of home into something thick, hot and wet that was strange to breathe. Food was scarce. Occasionally it would be tossed into their rolling cage. What little Kestra could grab she would have to either eat immediately or hide from the grey-eyed girl. Mostly it would get taken. She felt weak all the time.

One day the wagon stopped. The cage opened. Most of the other girls climbed down. Kestra tried and fell into burning sand. Her face was covered in the fiery grains. She couldn't breathe and started to think this would be her death, choking on sand in this sweltering land. Then strong hands picked her up and roughly brushed the sand away from her nose and mouth and held her as she coughed out the rest. She was half carried, half dragged to her new cage. She curled up on the straw and sleep claimed her.

Awaking she saw the bowl of food. She shoveled as much as she could into her mouth knowing that it would soon be stolen away by another, stronger girl. No other girl came but she wolfed down the entire contents of the wooden bowl just the same. Afterwards her belly felt full enough to split open, just as the god Vhal did when he tried to drink in the entire sky until he popped open and formed the oceans. Kestra didn't pop, but she did wretch up her food before she again curled up into her straw cocoon.

When she next awoke there was another bowl and cup as well as a bucket of grey water and a rag. The grey water had a funny smell, but it was better than the smell of her sick. She scrubbed her little cell and did her best to scrub her face and body. She ate slowly this time, eating only a little. Later she used the bucket when making water. She slept again. Then woke again to find a new bowl, cup and bucket.

The first time she saw the guard fear overtook her and she couldn't move. Even with the bamboo bars between them it was as if she could feel him next to her. His clothes were different from those who took her as were the sound of the incomprehensible, guttural words he spoke. He was big and strong in the same way they were. He held what she had come to think of as her bowl, her cup and her bucket. She was biting her lip. Blood dripped onto the stone floor. He frowned almost sadly, unlatched a bottom portion of the bars and slid in the new bowl and cup. He pointed at the bucket in her cell, said some words she couldn't understand and softly shook the bucket he was holding. Kestra didn't move. He repeated his actions only more slowly. She still didn't move. More blood dripped to the floor.  He sighed and went away.

She had seen him two other times since. The fear was less each time. The last time she even pushed the old bucket, bowl and cup to where he could reach it before scurrying away to the other side of the cage. He had smiled and said a few words. She still couldn't understand him but the dread she felt at seeing him had lessened.

Down the hall, out of sight from her cell, she heard the scrape of an ill-hung door opening. She heard the steady footfalls that she thought of as his. She gathered up her cup, bowl and bucket and placed them near the low gate of the cell door and then sat with her back against the far wall, cold and damp as it was. She hugged her knees to her chest and waited.

The familiar face came into view. He was older than her father, but not as old as her grandpa. He had a weathered face, a chin covered in sandy stubble and murky eyes the color of pea soup. His garb was simple hard leathers. On his head he wore a little hat with leather flaps that covered the sides of his face. She couldn’t imagine why he would wear such a thing. Other than the cold stone it was far too hot here and she could see the sweat on his brow.

He was speaking again. She frowned. What was he saying? He motioned to the left and from down the hall came a rather short and rather plump woman. She was dressed in rough brown clothes. Her long dress rested on the top of her shoes and it had loose sleeves that came down to her wrists. It was cinched by a thin chain about her waist that made her look all the rounder. From the dress’ collar came a faded red wrapping cloth that circled her head so that only her face could be seen. She had a wide smile, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes had a sparkle that reminded Kestra of the fairy Brim whose dances were so joyous they caused fish to join in, leading them to fill the nets of her father. Before Kestra could stop it a giggle escaped her throat at the memory. The guard smiled in return.

From his belt he took a key which he inserted into the latch of the bamboo door. There was a click and he pulled the door open. He stepped back as the woman slowly edged forward. She spoke in the same tongue the guard used, but it sounded less jagged coming from her. Kestra was uneasy with this woman coming into her space, and pressed her back firmly into the stone wall behind her, trying to add precious inches to the space between them. Still speaking the plump woman knelt to the ground a few feet away. Kestra eyed her cautiously. The woman pointed at her own chest, spoke some more then held out her hand to the young girl. She repeated the action. This time she repeated the same word three times. Marya. Marya. Marya. Each time she said the word, she gestured to herself. Kestra understood the meaning, but she did not speak when the hand gestured towards her. She wasn’t sure if she still had a voice it had been so long since she had spoken.

The plump woman looked at the guard, her smile faltering slightly. He said a few words, touching his temple. The woman shook her head and turned again to the little girl. New words came. She reached into the cloth wrapped around her head and pulled free a lock of hair that matched the fiery amber shade of Kestra’s, the same shade as Kestra’s mother, of all the women in her family. Tears came to the little girl’s eyes.

The woman again motioned to her chest. Marya. She motioned again to the little girl. The little girl opened her mouth. Her voice felt tight and rusted shut. With effort she squeaked out Kestra.

The woman smiled and stood and held out her hand to Kestra. There was a moment of hesitation. As dreary as this place was these walls of stone had been a place of refuge, blocking out what had come before. But the straw was dirty and the stone was cold and damp. Kestra reached out and took the woman’s hand. She was gently pulled up and together they walked out of the cell.

chapter three

TRYST: THE QUEST BEGINS

The city of Tryst was greatly trying to improve its image from a town rampant with thieves and pickpockets back into the town of mystique and romance; a town befitting its name. It did have a fair amount of charm with its surplus of crystal rivers, a well-blended populace that represented almost every corner of the Twelve Kingdoms. In addition, among its populace were a high percentage of those dedicating their lives to the arts in the belief that such an occupation added to the betterment of all. Not to mention that for a majority of the year Tryst's weather was so fine it practically kissed one’s skin. Scattered around the city was a bevy of cafes, lounges, eateries, grottos, dens, and other secret spots that offered picturesque views of whatever a patron would care to observe, be it sunset, stars, scenery or slaves. The main reason it suffered such a harsh reputation for pickpockets and thieves is that, sadly, such sticky-fingered lurkers appreciated the glories of Tryst as much as anyone and so had flocked to the city in droves.

In the most recent election former Praetor in the Imperial Army, Evvert Trin, received an overwhelming mandate to become Lord of the Guard and transform the Trsytian guard from from what they were, a gang of corrupt and incompetent slobs, into something more reputable. The disgraceful state of the guard was a result of what the former Lord of the Guard had allowed them to become as he lined his pockets with any and all bribes offered his way and paid little heed to the training, funding and maintaining of the guard. Trin signaled to all that his would be a new breed of guard by making his first order of business the arrest and public flogging of his predecessor.

Naturally there was some fear that the former guards would resent Evvert's devotion to order, his distaste of graft and his preference for military precision. The less corrupt but still lazy members of the guard, who had signed in when it became clear to all that little was actually being expected of them, considered simply ignoring his decrees of change. The more corrupt members plotted mutinies, accidents and even attempted a few assassinations on their Lord Guard. All such attempts failed and when Trin announced that he would be bringing in one thousand loyal soldiers from his former legion to augment the current five hundred Tryst guards, even the boldest of the mutineers realized that the change Trin had promised was the change he would deliver and they decided it would be wiser, and safer, to simply resign their guard's commission.

The change in policies and quality of the guard was also reflected in the change of the guards’ appearance. Before, the guards, having had all their funds rerouted into personal coffers, were left to their own devices when it came to choosing arms and armor. The only defining characteristic of Tryst guards was to be a bright yellow sash worn from left shoulder to right hip. Since much of the guard saw washing the yellow sashes as an unnecessary expense, the once brilliant color soon soured into a shade resembling a festering wound. The common nickname pus-back was a great indication of the respect Tryst had for its guard.

Trin dictated that his guard would be outfitted with bronze scale jerkins, leaf-shaped shields, short swords and distinctive long, conical helmets enameled in the brightest scarlet. His goal was to make the guards distinctive and easy to spot by the good citizens of Tryst should they ever have need to call on them for aid. At first there was snickering and mocking directed towards the unusual and eye-catching helms. Some quipped that the pus-backs had simply been replaced by pimple-heads. But within two turns of the moon the guard’s exceptional manner and skill, a result of Trin's strict