The Wanderer's Story

So there she was, so big that her head brushed the rocky ceiling. She was staring right at me as I stepped inside, a mess of bloody cuts and scratches. And there was pure, burning hatred in those ancient eyes, let me tell you. She moved her head very slowly towards me, like a snake in the brush about to strike…but the rest of her was perfectly still. Her body couldn't move.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No, girlie. See, I stood perfectly still, watching her close, waiting to see if she what she would do. But it was like her massive, scaly body was stuck there. I kept quiet. I held my breath. Now, I don’t know if you know this, but dragon hearts are big, powerful things. So powerful you can hear them thumping right there in front of you. In that vast, empty cave, I swear I heard that might heart pounding against the stone walls. But something was amiss… her’s wasn’t the only heart I heard. There were two - another beating much more softly than hers.”

“Was it yours?”

“I thought so at first. But no; my heart was running like a warhorse, but I couldn't hear it. That other heart was slower, more peaceful. Care to chance what it could have been?”

The pretty young girl with the bright, round cheeks shook her head slowly.

“Well,” the storyteller went on after swallowing a mouthful of ale, “Turns out that explained why the great she-dragon wasn’t moving. Oh, if you could have known my relief when all the pieces fell into place.” He tapped the side of his head with a knowing grin on his face. “You see, there weren’t just one dragon in that cave. There were two!”

His dramatic revelation was met with a blank stare.

“God, do I have to spell it out for you? That great and terrible beast was... expecting. She was carrying a pupinside her.”

The girl’s jaw fell in a comical O. “Please tell me you didn't killed her with a baby growing inside of her!”

“What else could I do?” he replied with a shrug. “A dragon’s a dragon no matter what state they're in. Now, she may have been stuck there – ‘bedridden’ you could say – but that didn’t mean she was any less ferocious.” He gave a sly grin. “There's nothing fiestier than a lady swelling with child - and that can be said for any creature.”

The leather-clad wanderer, who was the most boastful traveler anyone could ever hope to meet, rubbed his knuckles against a cheekbone, wincing at stinging memory.

“You’re taking forever! Get to the part where you fight before mama finishes her song!”

The wanderer looked past the small girl at the woman on the elevated dais across the tavern. The shape of her face – smooth and round – made it irrefutable that she was the pretty little girl’s even prettier mother. Her fingers curled in and out like blades of sea-grass ebbing in the current while she played, commanding total control over her harp-strings. Beside her sat a grey man with a deep blue cloth wrapped over his eyes. The neck of a giant lute leant against his shoulder as he strummed the wooden body. Though more technically proficient than his beautiful partner, his voice had no hope of matching hers.

“Alright,” the wanderer shot the minstrel’s daughter a toothy smile while drumming the rim of his mug. “Where were we… did I mention the dragon was so tall her head-”

“-brushed the rocky ceiling. Yes, now get on with it!”

“Well, her big smoking snout was open,” the wanderer curled his fingers and opened his arms like a set of menacing jaws, “And I guessed from where I was standing that those teeth could still get to me pretty easily, even if she was immobilised. If I didn’t start dancing soon, I’d be dangling between those great, big jaws soon enough.” He snapped his arms together dramatically.

“Instinct took over. I was like a dog… no, a wolf! I ran along the cave wall, staying as far away from her as I could. Her head flew at me quick, but I was quicker. Her mouth bit into the rocky ground by my feet. And then I was up. I jumped right onto the back of her big, scaly neck. I was riding it like a kid riding a log down a river.”

“And you didn’t fall off?”

He shook his head and winked. “But I came pretty close. Anyway, I reached behind my back, felt my trusty, solid steel, and plunged it right between…” he paused, prodding two fingers on the back of the girl’s neck. “…two bony lumps right there.”

The girl jumped at the cold touch of his fingers. “Did it kill her?”

“No, it took more persuading to get her to lie still. Like most women, really. But a few more hard stabs through that beautiful, hard neck and she was done. Come sunrise, my pockets were bursting with dragon teeth, and I had five sacks bigger and fatter than you full of her bones.”

The girl was not so easily convinced. “Five sacks? How did you ever get them out? And what did you do with the baby inside of her?”

“Oh, well, I had to leave the bones there and buy a packhorse back in town. No problem; her teeth could’ve gotten me a while stable if I wanted.”

“And the baby?”

He chewed on his thoughts. “Dragon pup’s bones aren’t really all that hard yet, you see. More mushy and soft, like a little girl’s ears,” he flicked her ear playfully. “Not much use for ‘em. Not quite ready for harvesting.”

She seemed to think on it for a moment while rubbing her ear. “So you just left it there. The poor unborn baby dragon..."

Just then, a voice spoke from behind him: “Sir, I hope you aren’t filling my daughter’s head with wild tales of your adventures?”

The wanderer turned around to see the minstrel he had eyed earlier now eyeing him up and down. He’d been so caught up in his own story that he didn’t realise she had finished her final song. His daring suddenly deserted him and he babbled, trying to form a coherent answer.

“Celeste, is he good at telling stories?”

“Oh, mother, you wouldn’t believe it! I’ve never met a man who’s slain a dragon before.”

“Well, there really is nothing quite like a good story,” the minstrel beamed. Her lips parted in a smile that revealed a white treasure-trove.

The dragon slayer’s heart fluttered, though a very small part of his mind was uneasy about her sincerity. Though he would never admit it, for every woman he had bedded, he had been thwarted by at least three other. Once women knew that he was a bone collector, they assumed he was loaded with coin. But really good hunts were few and far between; his trade rarely earned him more than enough for a decent bed and a night of drinking and the occasional whore. But he was a braggart and always would be. The years of humiliating losses only made him sharper at getting to a woman’s true motives. At least that’s what he told himself.

The harpist sat on the hard wooden chair beside him. A tavern boy set a mug and a plate of hot pork down in front of her, which she paid with a smile.

“To be able to drink and eat for free,” the wanderer mused, “I would give up my trade and take up the wood pipes.”

The minstrel smile. “It is more than simply that. The tavern keeper here has been in love with me for years, and never fails to offer us any rooms we want whenever we play. He would give up his own private chambers if it made me happy.”

She played with the rim of her mug; that knowing smile stayed etched on her face for a moment longer before turning serious.

“My family and I are always on the hunt for good tales to inspire our tunes. If my daughter speaks true, then perhaps yours will be of use. Celeste was right in saying it’s not every day we meet a traveling swordsmen who honestly claims to have felled a dragon. Far too many claim to it, but are not honest.” She shot her daughter a smile that could pierce through bone. “There is certain to be a song in your story. Such a prospect must be enticing for one such as you, mustn’t it?”

The swordsman lifted his mug to his lips and took a long, mock-contemplative sip. “Well,” he said, “It is no secret that a minstrel song in one’s honour is a priceless gift. With a player as good as you and your old friend, word about my deeds would spread far and fast. It is something most men would give their right arm for.”

“Then let us thank the gods for arranging this meeting,” she lifted her own mug and downed a mouthful, not inelegantly.

He swallowed more, letting the ale give birth to courage he didn’t truly possess. He had not lied; the prospect of having a song written after him would mean almost everything to him. Word was already spreading about his success, but the words of a minstrel – particularly one as talented and beautiful as this one – would push his name to lands he’d never imagined. But he didn’t want to appear so enticed. This fine woman needed to be challenged.

“How can a half-drunk wanderer of the wild such as myself insure your sincerity? You play a fine harp, and your voice is nice enough. But how do I know you and your folk will do my tale justice? And how do I know that my tale is all you are after?”

The corner of her mouth twitched and she raised a perfectly curved eyebrow. “Sir, I would bite my tongue were I you. Erron are I are among the best players in these parts, and Celeste is showing considerable talent herself. We have had more than our share of wealthy patrons.” She tugged at the chain around her neck and produced a string of small silver ornaments: proof of the wealthy lords and ladies she and the old man had played for. We make enough coin – more so than a dead dragon ever will.” She let a tiny hint of a smile go. “Humour me for a time. The worst that could happen is you bore me, or I find you to be a hopeless liar, and not a note is written in your honour. At best, your story will birth a song that will catch in the winds and spread far and wide across Demurra; your name and your deeds traversing countries.”

The small girl grinned up at the dazed traveler as he tried to hide the sudden conviction in his face. He was startled to realise he had forgotten she was there.

He let the dregs of his drink flow down his throat, stowing away the last bit of courage he had. “I am a man who lives and breathes the wilderness and adventure, so the stale air in here is beginning to offend me. Allow me to accompany you for a while in the cool night air, and we’ll see how my story catches your fancy.”

The minstrel’s face brightened just a little.

He grinned. Like all encounters with women, it always helped feeling like one was in control. “Wherever I go, a tremendous tale is never too far behind.”

*          *          *

Before leaving the sour stench of vomit and drink behind, the harpist instructed her daughter to “see that Erron has proper company before we return.” The travel-worm swordsman spied Erron, the sightless lute player, rocking a tankard back and forth in front of him in a slow and somber pace. A small gathering of young men around him seemed entranced by whatever he was saying. Perhaps they were aspiring bards themselves, desperate for the advice of a silver-haired songster. The wanderer was grateful for that strip of cloth over the withered player’s eyes, for he didn’t quite know how he would react to seeing his beautiful young singer leaving with a strange man.

“That Erron, is he your master?”

She seemed to need a moment to decide. “I birthed Celeste young, and he was the only man who offered to care for us and teach me an honest trade. I stole whatever I could from Celeste’s father before accompanying him.” She shrugged. “He is a superb teacher. And he accepted whatever payment I could offer him.”

The swordsman let the unspoken words linger awkwardly in the air. He prayed to any god that might have been watching over that his companion was oblivious to the nervous thumping of his heart against his chest.

“The life of a traveling player has given him a queer hand that can be as gentle as the summer tide or as hard as a northern blizzard,” she went on. “He might look feeble, but any men who ever saw him as no threat has been very wrong.” She held out her hands in front of her, “He always goes for the fingers. He can snap them like twigs, before they even realise that he’s moved. Nothing is more painful and humiliating to Erron than the idea of having one’s finger broken. He’s ruthless.”

The traveler swallowed. How can a blind, emaciated old man be such a threat?

She sensed tension build in his muscles and brushed her hip against him playfully, “Don’t look so sullen! He may be firm but he is not as possessive as most masters. I earn my keep, so I am free to do as I wish when we are in town. Tell me, have you heard the song of the puppeteer apprentice who’s cruel and hungry master drives him to slice his own head off with twine?”

“I have. I’ve been hearing that one all my life.”

She gave a sarcastic sort of chuckle, “You can thank dear Erron for it. He says he once knew a hefty old puppet master who enjoyed having as much control over his apprentice boys as he did his little wooden toys.” She said this while twirling her fingers in the air, working invisible puppet-strings. The wanderer marveled at the grace and dexterity in those fingers. This one is wasted on an old cretin like Erron, he thought.

“So it is a true story, I suppose.” She now eyed him carefully. “But every story-teller would swear his tales are always true.”

“Every word of mine is true,” he blurted out without thinking.

“Well that’s what I will judge for myself. Tell me, who are you and what is this dragon-story you enamored my silly daughter with?”

And so with barely another thought, he dove into his story. By the time he had finished, the moon was gazing approvingly down at them from its starry throne. The wanderer and the minstrel sat on a stout stone wall that encircled a tree marking the centre of the town. He had grown thirsty from so much talking, but the presence of this fair player hanging on his every work made him ignore such trivialities.

“Well, my daughter certainly knows a good story when she hears one. There’s hope for her as a songstress yet.”

He smiled stupidly, despite himself.

“In fact, her mother may already be spinning a tune in her head to go along with it.” She strummed her fingers over an imaginary harp and hummed a rough melody.

The wanderer rode on a wave of bravado that no tavern ale could match. “Perhaps her mother should return to the tavern out of the cold before she forgets it.”

This made her laugh a funny, surprisingly unmelodic laugh. “Our memories hold a thousands songs and always have room for more. Fear not, my brave traveler. The tune will stay with me for a while.”

He found deeply satisfied by her answer. “I admit that as a child I dreamt of performing a feat so grand that minstrels would be praising my name all over Demurra. And now you appear out of nowhere and promise me this very thing. I have either pleased the gods tremendously, or this is some elaborate trick on their part to punish me.”

She turned around and her eyes trapped his. Her face was suddenly devoid of the glee she had just shown. “I swear on my very voice, on my fingers that there will be a song about you. Your deeds as a Bone Hunter shall be known all across the lands. If you have such little faith in me, refuse my payment for your story and be on your way. I will never speak a word of you again.”

“Payment?” His treacherous heart leapt once more like an excited puppy; never staying calm when he wanted it to. He could not pry his eyes from her face, illuminating a rich, silvery blue against the moon’s glow. That look in her eyes… even a minstrel could not fake that look, could they?

She ran a delicate hand over the chest before he could form another coherent thought. Gentle. So gentle for a hand that commanded such control.

 “W-what do you…”

She raised a slender finger to his lip and he instinctively lost the will to speak. “Remember how I said that the tavern keeper here is in love with me? I demanded an extra room for the night in case I felt like sleeping…alone.”

A moment of silence passed, which only deepened the look of bewilderment on the wanderer’s face. The minstrel removed her hand from under his leather jerkin and sat back, watching him. You will accompany me, her eyes seemed to command.

“I – but – your master…”

She chuckled. “Erron is blind, or have you forgotten? He can think and suspect whatever he likes, but while I am in town I am my own woman. Let us go back. I wish for you to prove your credibility to me once more.”

*          *          *

The torch burning against the wall cast dancing shadows in the simple room. The wanderer felt a stone of disappointment drop in his gut when he saw how small the bed was.

“There’s nothing quite like the privacy of your own chambers,” she said in a sing-song voice as she sat on the bed, her hands spreading the ruffles in her dress.

“Catching the fancy of a tavern keeper certainly has its perks,” the wanderer commented.

“He is not my concern right now,” she said with more seriousness than seemed necessary. “Come, man of the wilderness. Show me what tactics you used to slay this dragon of yours.”

He drew closer without a word, leaning heavily against the bed. An open window behind them the bed billowed her loose dress. As he lay a hand on her leg, he felt it turn to gooseflesh. She pressed her hand against the back of his head and pulled his face closer to hers, readying for the first of many kisses…

The door burst open with a monstrous crash just as he had closed to meet her lips. The wanderer spun around. The old man stood at the door, the cloth around his eyes making him cold and expressionless.

It was then that the burning torch along the wall was snuffed out, and everything sunk into darkness. He felt the air hum above his head moments before something solid fell hard against his skull.

*          *          *

Celeste watched in silence as the wanderer’s body fell inches from the bed she was hiding behind under. The soles of his boots were thick and worn from years of travel. She hadn't noticed how small his feet were back in the tavern. It made her sad; she had liked the man and wished there had been time to learn more about him. She had liked the way his voice would grow loud with excitement as he was nearing a grand part of his story...

“Celeste, what are you still doing down there? Come out and help Erron.”

She crawled out from her hiding spot. She edged carefully around the fallen swordsman, almost superstitiously careful not to touch him while her mother eased the old master to the floor.

Once Erron was kneeling beside the man, her mother began untying his eye-scarf. The cloth fell away to reveal the two deep, blackened holes Celeste had seen dozens of times before. She had once asked her mother where his eyes were if not inside his head, but the only reply she got was a clip on the ear, and a warning to never ask stupid questions again.

Her mother took Erron's hands and guided them over the unconscious wanderer’s face. The old player began the chant; a high, scratchy collection of incomprehensible words that were so unlike his lovely, whispery singing voice.

The girl bit her knuckles and waited.

A heavy, greenish smoke began swimming out from beneath the fallen man’s closed eyelids and rose into the air. The magic was happening. ‘His story,’ her mother had once called it.

As Erron breathed deep, the smoke slither up, up, up and encircled Erron's blackened eyeholes. The unconscious wanderer’s memories will belong to Erron; his adventures inspiring Erron’s music; his life’s story becoming the words to his songs. The man would be left with nothing.

Soon, the bright smoke was gone – all sucked deep into Erron’s head. Celeste's mother wrap the scarf around Erron’s eyes once more and pulled him gently to his feet. The old man, now looking frailer than ever, took a few steps, staggered, and leant against the wall.

“You've barely slept for days,” her mother chided him. “And this was the last thing you needed. Come, lay down for a bit.” He had no strength to refuse. Celeste’s mother eased him onto the straw mattress and sat beside him, resting his grey head on her lap. “Come give Erron a kiss goodnight and go to the other room,” she instructed her daughter. “Someone will be up soon to take care of that,” he lovely face gestured at the unconscious man. Little Celeste trudged up to Erron's side, patted his sweaty mess of grey hair and let him kiss her smooth cheek.

“Sleep easy,” she said in a timid voice.

A queer thought passed through the girl’s mind as she closed the door behind her, leaving her mother and the old man in darkness: would Erron know now if the wanderer's harrowing dragon-tale had been true? Did he really put a sword through the beast’s neck and steal away her teeth in his pockets? Celeste recalled his rough but pleasant face and the way his intoxicated eyes would light up whenever she asked questions about his adventure, and decided she never wanted to know.

-

Credit to: http://darkandmagical.blogspot.com.au