Heroes And Fools

Songsaycr
Giles Custer,Tod Fahnestock

Dayn Songsayer reined in his horse at the side of the road and took a deep breath. The road was busy, and the villagers looked at him warily as they passed. Not many friendly faces on the road these days, he thought. Dayn was determined to lend them a smile before long. Everyone was headed up the hill for the festival. Dayn had never been around these parts before, but he had heard rumors of a harvest celebration at a small temple to Paladine. The crowd appeared poor, but not as bad off as some he had seen. The people carried buckets of water or baskets of foodstuffs and blankets. They were not the type to have many spare coppers, but Dayn hoped he could make enough to spend the next few nights in an inn and possibly get some oats for the mare.

Dayn leaned over and patted his horse’s neck as he stretched his own back. A groan escaped him. His horse snorted, as if to agree. She stamped her hoof and nodded her head in the direction of a shady copse of trees. It was hot. The sun was merciless. It had been so ever since the Chaos War. Would things ever go back to normal? Dayn squinted at the sky. Would it always be so hot? Were the rumors true, that the gods had forsaken Krynn yet again?

Dayn didn’t want to believe the ugly tale, though many did. He’d grown up with the tales his father told of similar times long ago. The world had suffered so much when the gods were absent. No healers. Charlatans in robes walked the land, taking money from those unwise enough to believe in their gibberish about new gods. The voice of Paladine was seldom heard.

All of Krynn had almost fallen to the Dark Queen Takhisis. But whenever his father’s tales were at their blackest, a shining star would always appear. Someone would always rise up with the courage and conviction to make things right again. But nowadays. .

By the Abyss, if the heat didn’t let up soon, Dayn might prefer to serve the Dark Queen. Dayn frowned and made the sign of Paladine, murmured an apology.

Anyway, the gods certainly were fickle, Dayn thought, as he jumped down from the mare and looped the reins over her head. Then again so were people.

Dayn waited for the next villager. A sandy-haired woman made her way up the dry and dusty road. Three young boys buzzed around her like hornets. They all carried empty buckets and seemed to be intent on beating each other to death with them. The woman was oblivious to it all, the calm in the middle of a storm. She was not old yet, but the years of hard work had made her tough and lean. Unlike most of the others, this woman didn’t glance away. She looked him directly in the eye and nodded. Dayn would bet anything she had a sharp tongue hidden behind her cynical grin.

“Excuse me, good lady,” Dayn accosted her. “I was wondering if you could tell me what all the empty buckets are for.” Dayn’s deep, rich voice often put people immediately at ease. He was told it had a soothing quality. It was an asset in his line of work. This woman was no different than most. She looked at the lute strapped across Dayn’s back, and her expression softened a bit.

“G’day, stranger,” she said. “You must be wanting something if yer callin’ me a lady.”

Dayn smiled. He was right about her sharp tongue. “I’m not looking for anything more than a kind word from a friendly face. I’m not from these parts. I have heard there is a festival going on, but I don’t know what for.”

“Aye, stranger. ‘Tis in honor of Paladine.” She said the word as if it left a sour taste in her mouth. “Every year after spring planting we gather at the temple for the god’s blessing.”

“We get to stay up all night,” the oldest boy piped in.

“And build a big fire,” the middle one added.

The youngest hid behind his mother’s skirts. Dayn noticed the boy had his hand wrapped in a dirty bandage. The dark stains from old blood were still showing through it.

“The temple grounds are filled with berry bushes,” the woman continued. “Everyone stays up the night, and at dawn we get to pick as many berries as we can eat.”

“And the buckets?”

“Some fools expect to bring a bucket home, but most berries never get past their mouths.”

“Indeed,” Dayn said, then turned on his most charming smile. “I don’t suppose you know where an honest man might sing for his supper?”

“A storyteller, are ya?” She eyed the lute. “I figured as much. No one’s got much to give away around here, lad, but I imagine someone would put up a fine bowl o’ stew if yer singing were as good as yer speaking.”

“That’s all I ask. Food for my belly and a song in my heart.”

“Yer young yet, you’ll soon find you need more than that to get by in this world. Come with me. I’ll show you the way.”

“Indeed.” Dayn said, and followed his new friend up the hill.

The woman, Jayna by name, led Dayn into the temple grounds. The temple was small but beautiful. The white stone was flawlessly smooth and looked very old. It was built on the top of a hill with a wonderful view of the pastures and farmlands below. The temple had a small monastery for the clerics in the back. Their freshly plowed gardens were slowly being overwhelmed by the hordes of berry bushes all around.

The people had gathered around a fountain in front of the temple. There were perhaps forty families, more women than men. The Chaos War had seen to that. Everyone was chatting softly among themselves, and even the children were playing quietly. The mood was rather dark for a festival. Perhaps Dayn could do something about that.

Dayn headed for a berry bush. A little fruit seemed just the thing to cut this beastly heat. The bushes seemed to thrive in this oven. They were brimming with dark green berries. He grabbed a berry and was about to eat it, when he heard a lovely voice.

“You’re not going to eat that?”

Dayn turned around and was smitten immediately. The voice came from a girl of eighteen or nineteen. She had long, raven black hair bound up in a beautiful bun, fixed with a wooden comb. A few long strands had come free, mischievously hanging in front of her deep, dark eyes. She brushed one strand away and hooked it behind her ear. She was pushing a steaming cart. Dayn could smell the soup simmering inside.

“We can’t eat the berries until dawn. It’s Paladine’s way of reminding us that good things will come to those who wait.”

“Really?” Dayn said with a smile. He carefully balanced the berry back on the leaves of the bush.

“Actually,” the girl said, “it’s mostly a way the clerics can keep the people from earing all the berries before they get enough for themselves.”

“I understand perfectly. Is there any way you could spare a bowl of soup for a starving artist?” Dayn asked.

The young woman leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms. Her expression told Dayn that this was a small community. She knew him for a stranger; she probably knew each of the people around the temple by name. Her delicate black eyebrows raised, and her warm smile became a bit more distant.

“I give a free bowl of soup to everyone who gives me two free coppers,” she said.

Dayn smiled. “I could sing for you,” he offered.

The girl leaned forward and put her hands on the edge of the cart. One of those errant strands of black hair came loose and sloped along the side of her smooth chin. Dayn felt he could write a ballad on those provocative, rebellious hairs alone.

“If I gave soup for a song, I’d have everyone in town caterwauling at my cart and no money to take home to my father.”

Dayn laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of caterwauling at you.” His voice worked its special charm. The girl leaned back from her aggressive stance and regarded him with new interest, although she was by no means convinced.

“The gods forbid I should ever be caught caterwauling,” Dayn said. He unslung his lute and stroked the neck lovingly. With a sidelong glance at the girl, he said, “I suppose I may have caterwauled once or twice, but I assure you it was only late at night after too much ale.”

The girl raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “You may continue.”

“Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I will sing you a song, and if you think it worthy of a bowl of that fine stew I smell, then I will eat this night. If not, I shall move along and never bother you again.” Dayn extended his hand.

She paused a moment longer, then spoke. “Very well, bard.” She took his hand. “You seem very sure of yourself. Sing as you may.”

Dayn knew that showmanship was all part of singing professionally. Many things made a successful bard, so said Dayn’s father. A good voice was important. A long, solid memory was invaluable. Deft fingers were a must. Empathy for the audience could mean the difference between being the local hero or being run out of town. But timing. . ah, Dayn’s father said, it all came down to timing. Timing was a skill no bard could live without. A singer could have the most ragged whiskey-voice and the most fumbling of fingers, he could sing the most banal and boring song, but if he sang it at the right moment, the audience would cheer.

So Dayn took his time tuning his instrument. The girl, who said her name was Shani, set up her cart and stirred her soup, but so far there weren’t any customers. Dayn smiled at the girl between plucks and asked about the soup business as he turned the pegs. By the time Dayn finished tuning his lute, a few villagers with nothing better to do had clustered around the cart.

“What would you like to hear, Shani?” the young bard asked.

“Something to make people hungry.”

“My songs usually work better on the heart than on the belly, but I will give this one a try.”

There were many songs Dayn could have chosen. It had crossed his mind to sing a wooing song of romance for young Shani. He was fairly certain she would have enjoyed that, but Dayn needed more than an audience of one if he were to make money in this town. He decided to stick with a song of spring.

Dayn began the song by simply humming. He caught Shard’s eye and smiled before he turned to face the few others who had gathered. Once he was certain they were paying attention, he began strumming. His voice soon rose to meet the lute. The song told of the hard cold days of winter. Dayn’s voice was quietly passionate. The few villagers grinned and looked at one another, pleased. A group of kids ran screaming past. Dayn smiled and let the uproar pass. He sang of the dark, lonely winter, and the people nodded. Life had been hard lately, leaving most of them sad and weary.

Then the song shifted. He sang of warmth spreading through the earth, thawing the stillness and bringing on a new season of life. The long cage of winter opened. The long preparation of early spring began. The birds sang and there was the promise of harvest.

Dayn prolonged the end, giving them a chance to hear the upper range of his voice. It never hurt to show off a little in the first song. The point was to get them interested enough to be hungry for more.

He ended with a little flourish on his lute. He paused, his eyes closed, feeling the music in his heart. That was it, the entire reason for being a bard. Each song brought a moment of grace, and every hard night on the road, every time he slept without dinner in his belly, every day he rode sweating in the sun, was worth that one moment. Dayn smiled his secret smile and slowly opened his eyes. His audience of four had turned into a dozen. Not a word was spoken as Dayn came slowly out of his trance. When he blinked and let the lute hang on its strap, they whistled and clapped. Some stomped their feet. One short, over-eager man even came up and thumped him on the back.

“Now that’s talent, boy! You should be working that voice in Palanthas!”

Dayn smiled and nodded his thanks. He sought out Shard’s face and caught her slight smile.

“You’re staying for the festival, aren’t you?” the man continued.

Dayn assured him he would be staying around Gotstown as long as he could afford, as it easily surpassed Palanthas in beauty. A few of those who gathered to listen bought some of Shard’s soup while they praised him. They smiled and chatted before slowly drifting away to spread the news of the new bard.

When most of them had gone, Dayn turned to see a very different expression on young Shard’s face. Admiration sparkled in those dark eyes. A shy smile had replaced her challenging look. She whisked one of those errant, black strands of hair away behind her ear and tipped her chin at a bowl that was already set out for him.

Dayn decided it was going to be a fine night.

As it always did, the afternoon brought more and more people over to the cart, begging him for another song. Dayn assured them he would sing when he was finished with his supper. He encouraged them, in the meantime, to eat some of Shard’s amazing soup.

Shani’s sales increased with each song request.

For his part, Dayn took a very long time nursing his soup. The price of a song grew in proportion to its demand, and Dayn was hoping to get the best price possible out of Gotstown.

As the shadows got longer, the people began lighting fires. It was nearing the point where the people’s impatience would turn to annoyance, and Dayn began to tune his lute. He tried to get the old strings just right but was distracted by a commotion across the way. Dayn walked over toward the fountain just in front of the temple steps to see what was going on.

A old cleric of Paladine had latched onto two young boys. The two children were screaming and yelling. It was all the slight old man could do to hang onto them. The boys’ faces were stained green. Obviously, they had begun the ceremony a little early. Dayn started to smirk but sobered immediately as he saw the grim looks in the crowd.

“Somebody help me here,” the old priest said. He handed one of the boys to a farmer, but the man did not hold on tight enough and the boy ran away. The cleric turned his attention upon the other boy. Dayn recognized him as Jayna’s son, the little boy with the hurt arm.

“Who is this boy’s father?” the gray haired priest shouted to the crowd. “Who here hasn’t taught their children proper respect?”

Jayna pushed her way through the small crowd, anger plainly written on her face. “He’s my boy.”

“He has committed a crime against Paladine! Against all the gods that created this world! Everyone knows the elderberries are sacred this night,” the cleric said, his expression stern. The old priest ruined his wrath on the scared little boy. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The little boy cringed under the angry man’s gaze. “You’re hurting me.”

Jayna stepped forward and grabbed the cleric by his white robes.

“Let him go, old man.”

The thin, old cleric’s face went white. “This is a temple of Paladine. If you can not-”

“I said let him go!”

“It is forbidden to eat the elderberries before sunrise!” the cleric reiterated.

“Look at his arm,” the boy’s mother practically shouted. “You’re hurting him.”

The priest noticed the boy’s wound for the first time and let him go. The boy ran away and hid behind his mother’s skirts, hugging her leg.

“I’m sorry,” the priest mumbled.

“He’s just a boy. He burned his hand two weeks ago, and I still can’t stop the bleeding.”

The old man looked truly sorry. “I apologize. I wish I could help you.”

“That’s right, you wish you could, but you can’t, can you? At this festival you priests used to heal anyone in need. You used to help people. Now you don’t do anything.”

The woman’s words stung the frail cleric, but he had nothing to say.

“Your god is dead!” Jayna shouted.

“No! No, he’s not! He will return,” the priest said.

“Just like the boy’s father will return? He left years ago to fight your god’s war. When will he return?”

The dead silence of the crowd became a low murmur. Other widows nodded in agreement.

“We must be patient, that is all.”

“We don’t need patience, we need help. How many veterans of that war are here? How many of them can’t walk, can’t work? What are you going to do about them?” Jayna said.

Someone yelled agreement. The cry was followed by several others, and a few men broke from the crowd to join the mother in accosting the cleric, who was backing away slowly, wide-eyed.

Dayn was only twenty-three years old, but he recognized the makings of a mob. Something had to be done, and quickly. He looked around for ideas, but nothing came. He only had one weapon, anyway, only one talent.

Snatching his lute, Dayn pushed his way through the crowd.

“People, people, good people. I know how you have suffered. I, too, lost many friends in the war. But we must keep faith.”

Dayn jumped up on the fountain. The shouts quieted as people turned their attention to him.

“Paladine will return. He has done so before. The healers will return. So will the heroes. Remember the Second Cataclysm. Remember the heroes of the War of the Lance!”

Dayn glanced at the angry faces. He had their attention, but it was a tenuous hold. He had just the song. He lifted his lute and started to sing. He started with a fast-paced, rousing tune to match the temper of the crowd. He sang of Tanis’s wisdom, of Caramon’s strength, and of Sturm’s sacrifice for all things good.

At first, it seemed to work. The crowd quieted. The shaken cleric slunk quickly away to the safety of the temple. But Dayn’s illusion burst a moment later when someone threw a berry.

It hit Dayn on the forehead. It didn’t hurt, but it shattered his confidence. A good performer knew when he had his crowd, and when it was slipping away. When the berry splatted against Dayn’s forehead, he realized that this crowd was not his, not by a long shot. His strumming faltered. His voice dipped.

Another berry hit his tunic. A barrage of berries assailed him. Dayn winced under the assault and gasped as one struck him painfully in the eye. Shielding his face, he jumped down from the fountain and backed away from the crowd.

“Take yer songs elsewhere, bard!” a huge red-faced man yelled. “We don’t want to hear about your old heroes!”

“We’re sick of the old heroes! Where are they now when we need ‘em?” another man joined in. “What are they going to do for us?”

“Ain’t no heroes anymore!” A woman added her shrill voice to the throng.

“Never were heroes in the first place!”

Frightened, Dayn searched for a friendly face. Shard was there, but she was caught up with the crowd, shouting and laughing. He offered a silent prayer to Paladine as he stumbled backward. Never before had a crowd turned on him so badly. The berries didn’t really hurt. But each small pelting was like a hammer to his heart. He had failed to reach them.

“Wait!” he said, but they weren’t listening. They gathered closer around him. In a moment, he would be surrounded. What then? Would the berries turn into a stoning?

Dayn backed into someone. A strong hand grabbed his arm. Too late!

“No!” Dayn shouted, as he turned to see his attacker.

The man was well over six feet tall. His broad shoulders were draped in chain mail shirt and shoulder plates. A thick mass of wavy brown hair framed a sturdy, square jaw and penetrating brown eyes. The man smiled gently as Dayn tried to recover his wits. It was the kind of smile that instilled confidence, that could send young soldiers charging into battle. Dayn’s terror fled in an instant under the spell of that smile.

“Easy lad.” The man said, pulling Dayn quickly away from the crowd toward Dayn’s mare. The barrage of berries followed them. “You’ve got ‘em riled up. Things could get ugly.”

Dayn agreed completely. They rushed to their horses. The stranger mounted a tall black stallion as Dayn leaped astride his mare. They kicked their heels into the horses’ flanks and raced away.

They rode hard for a good half an hour before the strapping stranger chose to slow the pace. “We should be safe enough now.” He turned in his saddle to face Dayn and grinned. “Your sense of timing could use some work, son. I would think you’d know better than to jump into the middle of an angry mob!”

“But they were going to hurt that priest!” Dayn countered.

The man’s eyes narrowed. He paused a moment, then spoke, “Indeed, lad. It was brave, what you did. Brave, but stupid. No one belongs in a battle they can’t win. I don’t want to see a bard fight any more than I want to hear a soldier sing.”

Dayn thought about that for a moment. He grudgingly had to agree that the stranger was right. “Anyway,” Dayn said, “I want to thank you for helping me back there.”

“Comes with the job,” the stranger said.

“What job?”

“You think the only heroes are in your songs?”

“You’re a hero?” Dayn wasn’t sure about a man who called himself a hero, like he was talking about being a miller or a smith.

“I try to help those in need, lad. It’s tough to match up to those songs of yours, but I do what I can.”

Dayn looked up into the man’s broad smiling face. He felt bad for doubting the man.

“You certainly saved my skin. Did you fight in the Chaos War?”

“Indeed,” the man said. His voice was deep and steady. “Kresean Myrk Saxus at your service, lad.” Kresean extended his hand, and Dayn leaned over and took it. The man had an iron grip. “I know more than I care to about that war.”

“Dayn Songsayer. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“It’s a shame what happened back there, lad. I really liked your singing.”

“Thanks.” Dayn felt embarrassed by the praise. The big man’s words felt better than he expected.

“Your voice is grand. Your problem is the song you were singing.”

“My song?”

“You saw how those folks reacted to heroes from a past age. Maybe if they could hear about a hero from this day and age it might lighten their lives a great deal more.”

The second Dayn heard Kresean’s words his mind began to see the possibilities. Kresean was right. People didn’t need long-dead heroes from a half-forgotten war. They needed today’s heroes, someone they could see and touch.

“Of course!” Dayn exclaimed. “There must have been countless displays of valor during the Chaos War. What stories can you tell me?”

The huge man chuckled.

“Stick to me, lad. I’ll do you one better.” Kresean winked.

“How is that?”

“You want to write a true ballad of a hero?”

“Yes.” Dayn’s eyes sparkled with interest.

“The kind of ballad that pulls at the heart? The kind that everyone in this village will thank you for singing, will cry at the outcome?”

“Yes!” Dayn nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

“Then you’ve got to live it,” Kresean said with finality.

Dayn’s brow wrinkled. “Live it? What do you mean? The Chaos War is over, and-”

“Forget the Chaos War, lad. We got our faces kicked in on that one. Everybody knows it. It’s a losing proposition to dredge up memories of that loss, and it’s a fool’s errand to try and make people believe we won.”

“We did win. If we hadn’t driven back the Chaos hordes, we’d all be dead.”

“Ah,” Kresean said, “there’s a difference between winning and surviving. Look around you. Do people in this land look like they’re reveling in the spoils of a war well won? No! These are people who were beat up and left for dead! Don’t remind them. Give them something-someone-new to believe in. Piece by piece, we can build things back up.”

Dayn nodded as Kresean talked. The bard was mesmerized by the deep voice, by the earnestness in Kresean’s dark eyes. Dayn began to see things in an entirely new light. “How? All by ourselves?” he asked.

“Of course. When better to start? Who better to accomplish it?”

Dayn’s eyes looked past Kresean, into a world of snapping pennants and trumpeting horns. He saw Kresean at the head of a great army, sun sparkling off the perfectly polished armor of legions of Knights, a sea of people standing on either side of the procession, clapping. Later that night, in the great hall, he saw himself singing a song of bravery, self-sacrifice, and victory as the Knights looked on. At the end, everyone assembled would be stomping their feet and yelling.

Kresean clapped Dayn on the shoulder, jolting him from his reverie.

“I’ll do it!” Dayn said.

“That’s a good lad. If I’d had a dozen men as stouthearted as you, I could’ve brought the Knights of Takhisis to heel at the High Clerist’s Tower.”

“You were at the battle for the High Clerist’s Tower?”

“Indeed.” Kresean nodded.

Dayn reached for his satchel, in which he kept all his writing materials. “You must let me get everything down on-”

“Lad.” Kresean put a hand on Dayn’s shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you want to write songs about defeat, go to Palanthas. I hear there are types there that love to hear such things all day long. Tragedies, they call them. But not in the countryside. Not here.”

“Right.” Dayn nodded. “Of course. So what do we do next, then?”

“Next?” Kresean said, and that infectious smile curved his lips. “Next we kill ourselves a dragon.”

The morning was quiet. Only the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road accompanied Dayn and Kresean westward. Dayn remembered when the birds would sing at this time just before sunrise. No more. Perhaps it was too hot for them to bother.

Dayn had been up most of the night listening to Kresean’s stories of the Chaos War. His friend was not a Knight, merely a man-at-arms, but he had risen quickly through the ranks as those ranks had died around him. The bloodiest battle, so said Kresean, was the battle for the High Clerist’s Tower against the Knights of Takhisis, but that was nothing compared to the terror of the Chaos army. Those abominations could kill a man without shedding a single drop of his blood. Some howling horrors could suck the wind from a man’s lungs, make him die from suffocation. Others, inky black, could pass over an entire troop of soldiers and swallow them whole. The shadow creatures covered them and they disappeared. No screams. No remains. Nothing.

“What did you do? How did you survive?” Dayn had asked, thunderstruck by the terrifying nature of the Chaos hordes.

Kresean shrugged. “I fought and fought. Those that could not be harmed by weapons, we left to the mages. Those that could bleed, we attacked. I owe a lot to the men around me. They saved my life more than once. I wanted to do the same for them, but there is only so much one man can do. Most of us who made it to the end were just plain lucky. I barely remember the point at which I looked up and noticed that no one else was fighting. No Chaos fiends, no friendly faces. It was only later I heard that the leader of the Chaos hordes had been killed, and that was why the rest lost heart. Otherwise, I believe we would all have died. You simply cannot imagine-”

“Even faced with that, you still fought on,” Dayn whispered, more to himself than to Kresean. But Kresean heard him.

“What else could I do? My friends all died fighting. I was just waiting for my turn, but my turn never came,” Kresean said. He shook his head, as if warding off a bad dream. “That’s why I want to help these folks with the dragon. Somehow my life was spared. I ought to do something worthwhile with it.”

Now they were heading to a small town called Feergu, so small that Dayne had never heard of it. It was up in the mountains, and Kresean had got word of a young dragon in the vicinity killing off livestock. Then, a week ago, a young child had turned up missing.

“How are you going to kill the dragon?” Dayn asked his newfound friend as they rode along. “Won’t you need a dragonlance or something?”

“Aye, I wish I had one. If it was full grown, there would be no hope without one, but if it is young, I should be able to take it.”

“You’re really going to fight a dragon?”

“That’s right, lad, and you’re going to write about it.” Kresean twisted in his saddle, winked at Dayn.

“That’s beautiful.”

“Do you think that’ll be something others would want to hear?” Kresean asked, smiling. “Do you think that will raise their spirits?”

“Definitely.” Dayn felt he would explode from excitement. Kresean was right. This was the only way to write a ballad. Dayn would walk side by side with Kresean. Dayn would be there when the blood was spilled, when the danger ran high, when the victory was gained.

For the rest of the day, Kresean recounted tales from the Chaos War. By that night Dayn’s admiration for Kresean had grown a hundredfold.

Two days later Dayn and Kresean rode over the crest of a hill and looked down at their destination. Feergu was a misty little hamlet nestled in a valley. Behind the town, the mountains rose tall, disappearing into the ever-present fog. Dayn felt trapped, hemmed in by those rocky giants. He wondered why the villagers had decided to settle here in the first place.

The town was a small place by the side of a swiftly flowing mountain river. It didn’t even have a central square. There was just a smattering of stone and wood houses.

“Let me do the talking,” Kresean said. “I’ve already spoken to the man they sent out looking for help. His name’s Chandael. He was the first to tell me about the reward.”

“Reward?” Dayn’s brows furrowed. “What reward?”

“They’ve promised a reward to whoever kills the dragon,” Kresean said.

“You didn’t tell me we came to collect a reward.”

Kresean clapped a hand on Dayn’s back. “You’re a crusader, all right, lad. Look at it this way. I know how much you love to sing. You’d do it for free, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t, do you?”

“No,” the bard had to admit.

“You don’t have to feel like a thief, just because you earn your living. These people want to give us something. It’s rude to turn it down. If you did someone a favor and they wanted you to stay for dinner, you wouldn’t refuse just because you’d have done it for free, would you? No. You accept their hospitality. Besides, we’ve got expenses to pay for. A little reward never hurts.”

“Well, I guess. I just thought-”

“There are practical sides to everything, lad,” Kresean said. “If I make a name for myself, someday I’d like to get a job as a captain of the watch or a councilman in a small city. I like to help people out, but I’ve got to take care of myself as well.”

Dayn relaxed. “You’re right. Of course. Sorry.” He fiddled with his reins.

“Think nothing of it, lad. Your heart’s in the right place. No mistake about that. That’s all that really matters.”

The two riders were noticed quickly as they road into the tiny town. The first few people they saw were quick to duck back into their houses, but soon the bolder citizens stood watching them from doorways. The glum-faced citizens watched the two men as they rode along the main trail that meandered through the cluster of houses.

“Excuse me!” a man shouted from a distance. “What’s your business here?”

Kresean turned in his saddle to face the middle-aged villager who spoke to them.

“Good, sir.” Kresean delivered one of his magnanimous smiles and gracefully slid from his horse. “I spoke with a friend of yours, Chandael. He said you are in need of a swordsman.”

A short, nervous smile grew on the big man’s face. “You’ve come to help then?”

“Aye, that I have.”

The man sighed in relief. Soon twenty people gathered around, patting Kresean on the back and shaking his hand.

“Chandael’s still gone looking for help,” the big man said. “We didn’t know if he had found anyone.”

“Well, he found me. Sir Kresean Myrk Saxus at your service.”

Dayn blinked. Sir Kresean? He wasn’t a Knight.

Kresean’s smile faded into a serious look. “The drag-on-has anyone seen it again?”

“No, sir,” the man admitted. “No one has seen it yet, but we’ve followed its tracks, and the way it takes apart a sheep is a terrible thing to see.”

The villagers nodded their heads.

“We’ve gone out looking for it but only in large groups. It hasn’t shown its face. We thought one man might succeed where many would fail. I would try it myself, of course, but I haven’t even got a sword.”

“Of course,” Kresean said, careful not to hurt the man’s feelings. “No one expects you to slay a dragon anymore than you’d expect a soldier to know how to plant a field.”

The man nodded and seemed to feel better.

“More animals were lost again this week. Soon we shall all be forced to seek our livelihoods elsewhere. Our poor village barely has enough trade to survive as it is.

And with poor Kindy’s loss. . We fear more for the safety of our children with every day that passes.” The man’s gaze drifted to the ground.

“Do you think you can help us?” A woman broke from the throng and headed for Kresean. He turned to her and took her hand in his.

“What is your name, good woman?” he asked.

“Cessa. I have two daughters. I’m afraid to send them to herd the sheep. Yet if no one is there to watch them, we might lose the entire flock.”

Kresean patted her hand. “Cessa, tomorrow at first light my comrade and I will find this rascal and liberate him of his head. I shall bring it back as proof, and you can do with it as you see fit.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the woman’s face, and a murmur went through the crowd.

“Thank you, kind sir. Thank you. The gods must have sent you.”

They were given a room that night in Chandael’s loft, which doubled as an inn for what travelers managed to find themselves in Feergu. Dayn couldn’t sleep, but Kresean’s light snores assured him that everything was going to be all right. He meant to ask the warrior about calling himself a Knight. Probably that was another practical necessity. The man was everything Dayn could’ve asked for in a hero. The bard finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of shining armies and huge banquet halls in which to sing his ballad.

The next day Dayn and Kresean bade goodby to the villagers and rode west toward the dragon’s lair. Heavy mist rode alongside them. Moisture clung to Dayn’s skin like wet fingers. The mountain’s bulk was a palpable presence before them. Everything seemed unreal to Dayn.

At the beginning of the ride, Kresean had been strangely pensive. If ever there was a time to talk of past war stories or to delineate a plan to fight the dragon, now was that time, but as they left the town, Kresean said nothing.

He’s mentally preparing himself, Dayn thought. Best to leave him alone.

The entire ride passed in silence. Finally they came to the river ford where the people had lost the beast’s tracks. Farther upstream the valley narrowed into a steep canyon with many caves along the water’s edge, where the people suspected the dragon kept its lair.

“If this is the ford, then we’re almost there.” Dayn smiled at his companion. Kresean grinned back.

“We’ll have this rascal’s head stuffed in a sack before lunch.”

The two crossed the river and crept up the rocky hill on the far side. The ground sloped down gently until it neared the water and dropped off into a sheer cliff. Dayn started to walk along the edge of the cliff. Below was a series of caves. There were half a dozen small openings, their mouths near the water. Among the rocks below, Dayn spotted some scattered bones. The remains were covered with tufts of bloody wool.

“Ah ha!” Kresean whispered and pulled back from the edge. Dayn did the same.

“Looks like this is it, lad.”

“We found his lair,” Dayn whispered excitedly. He could barely contain his excitement. “Do you think it’s in there?”

Kresean nodded. “I do. Let’s think a moment.”

“Yes,” Dayn said. “So, do we go in after it right away? Or lure it out?”

“Easy, lad. Not so fast. We wait.”

“Wait?”

“Best to be prudent to start. Let’s see the size of the thing first, then we can make our plan.”

“Oh,” Dayn said. “Okay.”

They settled in to watch the cave’s opening.

When half the day had passed, Dayn thought he was going to die of boredom. He had long ago given up lying next to Kresean and staring at the cave. Instead, he paced back and forth. A short while after Dayn had become bored, so had Kresean. Instead of keeping vigil on the cave, he had unpocketed some game stones and was tossing them in a patch of dirt he had smoothed. He seemed completely unconcerned. He’d invited Dayn to join a few times, but the bard wanted to get on with the adventure. This wasn’t what Dayn had in mind when he thought of dragon hunting. Shouldn’t the whole process move a little faster? Perhaps he was being impractical again. Certainly Kresean knew what he was doing. Still. .

Dayn didn’t want to follow that thought, but happily he was interrupted by Kresean.

“It’s finally moving,” the warrior said calmly. Dayn turned around and could hear the scraping sound. Kresean pocketed his stones and moved quietly over to the edge of the cliff.

Dayn flopped on his belly and stared down at the empty cave mouth. At first, he didn’t see anything, but soon he heard a scraping below. It was coming closer.

“What now?” Dayn whispered tensely. “Do we ambush it? Don’t you need to be closer? Are you going to stab it as soon as it comes out?”

“Just wait, lad.”

Clamping down on his excitement, Dayn waited. He envisioned the beast bursting from its lair, unfurling its wings, and leaping for the sky. A reptilian battle cry would wail forth. Excess moisture would spray from its wing tips like deadly diamonds. It would turn its burning eyes upon the pair of heroes on the top of the cliff and-

The dreaded dragon lumbered out of the cave.

Dayn’s excitement melted like a chunk of butter thrown on a fire. He let out his pent-up breath.

“That’s the dragon?” he exclaimed.

Kresean was smiling. “Dragon enough for me, lad.”

Dayn whipped his head about. “What?” He looked back down at the creature. He wasn’t an expert on dragons, to be sure. He would be the first to admit it. However, he had heard tales of the fearsome beasts. He knew about dragonfear scattering entire armies. He knew that dragon fire could destroy a stone tower with one blast, that dragon lightning could blow the tops off of mountains. One shriek from a dragon could freeze a person’s blood. Dragons were filled with magical might and fierce intelligence. Dragons were green, black, red, blue, copper, and gold and so on. This one was the color of mud.

It was no bigger than his mare. It looked like nothing more than a lizard-a very big lizard, true, but a lizard nonetheless. Whatever that thing was, it was not a dragon.

The reptile was moving with the lethargy of a cow. It was close to seven feet long, counting the tail, but never a dragon!

“Are you kidding?” Dayn asked.

“No,” Kresean replied.

“But that’s not a dragon!”

“It is to them, lad. That’s all that matters. We’re here to take care of their dragon. That’s their dragon. Let’s take care of it.”

Dayn sighed and crouched next to the ledge. He looked disconsolately down at the giant lizard. How was he going to make a ballad out of this? Why hadn’t some villager come and poked a spear into that hapless thing long before?

Dayn cleared his throat, lightly. “Well, go lop its head off, and let’s get back.”

“Not so fast. I’ve got a special plan.”

Dayn looked at him. “You need a plan?”

“Always have a plan,” Kresean said. “C’mon.”

Dayn watched as the warrior backed slowly away from the ledge, then rose and started down the hill. It took a moment for Dayn to gather his wits, then he took off after Kresean.

“What are you going to do?” Dayn asked as he drew up alongside, matching strides with the taller man.

“A little something I prepared,” Kresean said as they reached the horses.

“How could you prepare something?”

“I scouted out this job out ahead of time.”

“I thought this was your first trip to Feergu!”

“It is, lad, it is. I’d never been to the village before, just to these caves after I heard about the commotion. Do you think I would have risked our lives coming out here for a real dragon? Be serious.” He unstrapped the flap on one of his saddlebags, removed a large bundle, and set it on the ground. It was a young pig Kresean must have bought in the town. It had been cleaned and dressed and was ready for the spit.

“But I thought. .” Dayn said. “Why not just go poke your sword into the damn thing?”

Kresean handed Dayn the pig and smiled. “I don’t relish the thought of being bitten.”

“What? You faced worst horrors in the Chaos War.” Kresean drew his sword and presented it hilt first to Dayn. “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you kill it?” Dayn gazed at the thing over the belly of the dead pig. “I’ve never used a sword in my life!”

“Well I have, and I assure you that my method is much safer. Brains over brawn, lad. That’s my motto. Now, here’s what I need you to do. .”

Half an hour later, Dayn and Kresean climbed the hill again. Dayn frowned the entire way. Kresean carried the pig, which was now stuffed with poisonous Frissa leaves.

They regained their perch and the huge lizard was still there, nibbling at the last remains of one of the sheep carcasses. Kresean wasted no time. He pitched the pig over the ledge. It landed with a thud a few feet from the reptile. The lizard whipped about and hissed. When the pig did not respond, the lizard hissed again, still oblivious to Kresean and Dayn. Slowly, the creature lumbered over. It prodded the thing with its nose a few times and touched it all over with the tip of its forked tongue. Finally, it began feasting.

The lizard devoured the pig, and the two men settled in to wait again. Dayn was miserable. An hour passed, and the lizard began retching. It vomited for an hour, then it wheezed for an hour. Finally, it flopped onto its stomach and lay there, breathing laboriously.

Dayn had his hands wrapped around his shins, his head on his knees. He looked at Kresean. “Now what?”

“Merely the end of phase one, lad.”

Dayn growled to himself.

“Come help me with this.” Kresean moved over to a boulder that sat near the cliff. He began pushing it toward the edge. With a sigh, Dayn went to help him.

Straining and grunting, the two of them pushed the boulder over the edge. The huge rock missed the lizard, but it started a mini landslide. Dozens of stones rained down on the beast, bouncing off its back and legs. The poor creature, lacking the strength to crawl away, was clobbered.

Dayn look at Kresean expectantly, but the warrior shook his head.

“Just a few more,” he said, and headed for another stone.

With a series of three more minor landslides, they managed to completely bury the hapless creature. Kresean climbed down a more gradual part of the cliff and made his approach. Dayn watched as the warrior walked gingerly on top of the pile of rocks and stuck his sword into it. After a few tries, he hit something. He smiled and pushed harder. Kresean stabbed the spot repeatedly until the dirt flowed red. He raised his sword triumphantly and winked at Dayn.

“How’s that for a tidy bit of dragon slaying?”

Dayn said nothing.

“Come on, lad. Help me dig this up, and we’ll get the head.”

“That certainly was a harrowing experience, wasn’t it, lad?” Kresean winked, patting the dusty, battered lizard’s head that rested on the rump of his horse. The left half of the head had been caved in by the landslides.

Dayn said nothing.

“So, have you given any thought to how you’re going to compose our epic ballad?” Kresean asked. “I’ve got some titles I’ve been playing around with, if you want to hear. I was thinking maybe Kresean and the Cave of Doom. Or maybe Flashing Swords and Dragon’s Teeth. How about-”

“How about Cowardly Kresean and the Poisoned Piglet!” Dayn yelled at the warrior. “How about He Won by a Landslide1. You’re a fraud! You lied to me!”

“I never lied to you,” Kresean said, holding up his hand. “You’re a bard. You have an active imagination. That’s good. That’s fine. That’s what you’re supposed to have. That’s what will make the ballad something to cheer for. I came here to help these villagers, and I have. They were afraid of that dragon. The dragon’s dead now. We did what they asked us to do.”

“Stop calling it a dragon. It’s not a real dragon! You told me we were going to fight a dragon!”

“You can make it as big as you want in your ballad, the bigger, the better. Don’t go diminishing people’s fears. They’ll hate you for it. I thought you wanted to bring light into people’s lives. You don’t make people feel better by calling them cowards.”

“I bet you weren’t even in the Chaos War,” Dayn said.

“Yes, I was!”

Kresean whirled his horse around and grabbed Dayn by the shirtfront.

“Don’t you judge me! You have no idea what it was like. No idea what we went through! You would have run, too. Do you know what it’s like to hold your best friend in your arms as the life seeps out of him? Have you ever seen a dozen of your comrades cut down all at once? Blood flying through the air? No! You’ve never even handled a sword! Don’t propose to tell me how to be a hero!”

Dayn was shocked. He’d never seen this side of the man before. He looked at his horse’s mane. “You’re right. I haven’t seen those things.”

“We each have our specialty, Dayn,” Kresean said, gentle again. “Yours is singing. Use it for something good. People need something to believe in.”

“But-”

“After all, their dragon is dead-”

Dayn shot him a sharp look.

Kresean chuckled. “Okay, I mean the big lizard is dead. I’m just asking you to embellish the deed a little, for their sake and ours. Let them think they were saved by a hero. It’s better that way for everybody.”

Dayn frowned, and said nothing else on the ride back. He thought about what Kresean said. He had to admit that the warrior had a point. Songwriting was about embellishing. It was about delivering the most magical moments from real life to those who had very little magic in their own lives. Perhaps real life never matched up to the tales of bravery found in songs and stories.

As his voice slowly lowered on the last word of his new ballad, Dayn looked around at the villagers of Feergu. They were packed into every possible space in Chandael’s tavern, and each person’s face glowed. Dayn had sung his song masterfully, with just enough detail to make it realistic. There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire tavern. After Dayn stopped, there was a long, reverent pause. Applause exploded in the room. The entire floor shook with stomping feet. A few people got up, hooked arms and began dancing in circles. More beer was called for.

Kresean rose from where he sat and came over to Dayn. “How do you feel, my lad?”

Dayn was surprised to hear himself say, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Kresean tossed a bag of coins on the table in front of Dayn. “Fifty-fifty.”

“A little reward never hurts,” Dayn grinned, pocketing the coins.

The big man clapped him on the shoulder.

“I say we keep this up. Take it on the road, town to town. Your voice, my looks. There’s no telling where it will end. We could milk this partnership until we’re swimming in cream, until I’m a councilman in Palanthas and you’re singing for a king. Until-”

“Until a real dragon comes along?” Dayn offered.

“What?” Kresean raised an eyebrow warily, then realized Dayne was kidding. Kresean bellowed with laughter, and the young bard joined in. The celebrating villagers surrounded them with cheers, and they laughed until the tears ran down their faces.