Chords (revised 2nd ed.)

By Geoff Hart

War’s afoot! The kingdom of Amelior has invaded the Eastcountry, and many have been caught up in their invasion—including Bram, a former Ameliorite knight, and Gareth, a mercenary. But magic’s also afoot, in the form of a mysterious bard from the days before the exodus that brought humans to these new lands. Where his music is heard, death soon follows. Thrown together by circumstances, Bram and Gareth are forced to work together to help the Eastcountry stem Amelior’s advance. But Bram’s past has followed him, and he’ll need Gareth’s help to defeat the ancient magic that’s following in his wake.

On the surface, this is a familiar tale of friendship in a time of war. But Chords uses the story of Margrethe, their companion, to reveal what the male narrators neglect to tell us, thereby shedding new light on an old tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Hart
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780987913036

Geoff Hart

Geoff Hart has reputedly been telling tales (sometimes ending up in considerable trouble thereby) since he was 6, but took many years to realize he could earn a living at this trade. Since 1987, he's worked as a technical writer and scientific editor for IBM, the Canadian Forest Service, and the Forest Engineering Research Institute of Canada. Since 2004, he's been a freelancer, and only occasionally stops complaining about his boss. Geoff has worked primarily as a scientific and technical editor, specializing in authors who have English as a second language, but also does technical writing and French translation. He claims to have survived at least two bouts of leading or managing publications groups with only a minor need for ongoing therapy. A Fellow of the Society for Technical Communication (STC, www.stc.org), he has published 400+ nonfiction articles on communication, and spends an altogether unreasonable amount of time mentoring colleagues. His training is in plant ecology and plant physiology, which continue to fascinate him. In his spare time, he has committed three SFnal novels and a short story collection.

Book preview

Part I: Chords

"Our lives are works composed by an unseen, unknown composer; our bodies the instruments upon which that music plays; our actions and those of the people who share our lives the chords and harmonies of the symphony. Some rewrite the score now and again, but in the end, we must remember: it’s not our hands that shape the larger music."—unknown pre-Exodus author

Chapter 1: Bram

As I crested the long, steep mountain path, the castle I’d seen from afar rose into view, gilded by a sunset that carpeted my path with my shadow. I stood a moment, leaning on my staff and catching my breath. It had been a pleasant but long uphill climb. As my breathing slowed, I enjoyed the play of soft pastel light on the slopes, a more pleasant task than following instinct and analyzing the number of towers and errors in their spacing. Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased.

Behind me, stone clattered under an incautious foot, and I spun, gripping my staff in both hands, to face the newcomer, eyes moving past him to confirm he was alone. But there was no harm in politesse. Good day, fellow traveler.

He pushed a lock of glossy, raven-black hair from his eyes, which were the blue of a deep mountain lake beneath the sun. He stood gracefully, hands raised and opened towards me to show them empty, his fine features unperturbed by the taxing climb that lay behind. He had smooth hands, save for callused fingertips on his right hand. Not a warrior, then, nor a laborer. He wore a townsman’s clothes, new enough to be unstained by the road’s dust and sweat, and he carried what seemed likely to be a harp bag, but no weapon. Oddly ill-equipped, given our distance from the nearest town. An enigmatic smile lit his face as he observed my scrutiny, and when he replied, his voice was mellow. My thanks, and in my turn I offer you the good will of a fellow traveler. An auspicious invocation when the shadows lengthen. Do you also head for yon castle?

I do, and I’d be grateful for a minstrel’s company. These roads aren’t always friendly for one alone at night. I thought of an earlier escape, but relaxed my grip on my staff. No sign of anyone at his back, nor ahead of me despite evidence horses had passed this way shortly before. He’d an open, honest look, and I’d once reckoned myself a good judge of men; I felt no ill will in him. I beckoned him to join me. After bowing, at once courtly and mocking, he glided the last few paces upslope.

Lead on, friend, for we’ve a ways to go if we’re to arrive before they close the gates for the night.

That ended our conversation for a time, as we needed our breath for walking, then for running the last few hundred paces as they began preparing to raise the drawbridge for the night. There looked to be a chill night coming, with the deep, clear sky showing the fragile clarity that only a mountain night possesses. When I’d begun my climb earlier, there’d been a hint of rain clouds, and knowing how fast mountain weather changes, I felt twice fortunate at the prospect of lodging. It proved a pleasant surprise when the gatekeepers welcomed us. Mind you, wandering minstrels are rarely unwelcome, and my strong back’s appreciated where there’s work to do.

And there’s always work.

A cluster of horses, still sweaty from the trail, stood by the stables at the courtyard’s far end, held by men at arms while grooms worked to dry them and ward off a fatal chill. Our hosts had guests, likely the same riders who’d preceded me along this trail. Sadly, my bed and board would be well-earned. My companion and I were separated before I could ask his name, and when they learned I’d worked with horses, I soon had work enough to occupy me. I’d hoped to find rest and comfort, an unaccustomed luxury, but I confess I’d also been too long without companionship. Though I’d needed time alone, a man must occasionally fill other needs.

I next met the minstrel while wrestling an ale cask into position in the great hall, which had filled with the castle’s notables and their guests; my ease, it seemed, was not to be purchased solely by a few hours in the stables. As I rose, mopping sweat from my eyes, the room overheated and airless, conversation ceased. A darker shadow emerged from an archway by the high table. Light gleamed from midnight hair and black satin garments as my erstwhile companion strode to the hall’s center, fingers wandering across harp strings and calling forth echoes from the vaulted ceiling. His harp was of an antique and ornate style, with a deep tone that resonated in my bones when he brushed the bass strings. He bowed towards the high table, then all semblance of diffidence vanished, and he played.

The reverent silence was richly deserved: he was a master of his craft. Even before I’d taken to the road, I’d never heard the like. His fingers built shimmering tonal patterns, flowing runs of sound. Between the chords wove his voice, merging with the harp, complementing it, coaxing forth echoes from the chamber’s walls and harmonies from the music. Through it all ran a gentle melancholy, waxing and waning in counterpoint to his words. When he finished, the final chords fading reluctantly, he stepped back into the shadows. We mortals, kissed by the mystical, returned slowly to the mundane.

There was no applause. Such would have been scant praise. Conversation resumed gradually, tones hushed. The keep’s lord and lady, clad in worn finery, returned to their dining and their guests, attended by watchful servants in shabby homespun. Gemstones dripped transformed lamplight from fingers and ears, but the light seemed subdued, as if in defiance of some inevitable fading. The lord’s men-at-arms stood here and there amidst the hall’s faded grandeur, grey-silvered in tarnished armor, lightly armed, boredom in every uncomfortable line. I shook my head to clear it, remembering how much brighter the hall had seemed earlier, then returned to my work, hoping to lift the mood. Uncomfortable memories had reawakened.

A gentle hand touched my shoulder, and I found myself facing the singer. Look, he whispered, eyes sad and voice wistful. They’re unaffected by what they’ve heard. Proud words, yet somehow not wounded pride. He appraised me a moment, then nodded as if he saw something. Yet you were touched, and for that, I give warning. There: at the hall’s entrance? Our host’s men have company. I followed his gaze and saw a score of men from the courtyard taking up position by the men-at-arms. Our host has offended someone, perhaps, or proven inconvenient. Now would be a good time to leave.

I felt a chill, despite the oppressive warmth, for there was certainty in his words. How could you know this? I scrutinized him, seeking signs of treachery.

In that same mellifluous, melancholic voice, he replied. You must trust that mine is not the way of the sword, and that I serve other masters.

He said those last words strangely, but I’d no time to ask, for a bellow of pain at the main door punctuated them, followed by clashing metal. In the momentary silence as the first guard fell, bedlam entered the hall, screams of outrage and agony sounding from walls that had recently echoed different music. The struggle at the doorway was over, replaced by chaos as people fled or tried to defend themselves. At the high table, daggers that had served as cutlery and less formal weapons were no longer being used for dining. Those newcomers not engaged with the remaining guards were hacking at anyone within reach.

I backed against the wall, and drew my dagger. Images of other battles rose before me, and I fought them down, sweating. The minstrel was gone, though he’d been standing beside me an instant earlier. Unarmored and out of practice, I had little hope of righting the situation, and this wasn’t my fight. I began edging toward a side exit. But an eddy in the crowd left me facing a blood-splashed newcomer, who turned on me, grinning, seeing what seemed an unarmed servant. He rushed incautiously, sword held too wide, and before he realized his error, I caught his sword arm, stepped inside his swing, and buried my dagger in his throat, wrenching it free as he fell.

Dodging a screaming servant, fear and anger keeping me in the moment, I tried for the man’s sword, but a comrade saw him fall and would’ve slain me before I could pry free the blade. The second man approached more cautiously, wanting to avoid his companion’s fate. I edged towards a table as he stalked closer, and caught up a pewter mug in the seconds his caution granted. He was almost on me, and in the moment’s clarity, I saw blood flecks in the coarse beard that lay projected from his chainmail coif. I hurled my impromptu weapon at his teeth. It missed, but following close behind it, I didn’t. The natural reflex to dodge my missile delayed his thrust long enough for me to grasp his wrist left-handed, pull, and twist to sink my knee in his stomach. Chainmail would’ve deflected my dagger, but not an impact; he lost his breath and his interest in fighting. I gave him no time to recover. I stepped back, still holding his wrist, and used my momentum to swing him against the wall; he struck headfirst and dropped in a jingle of chain links. I took the sword from his weakened grip.

Sword in hand, blood still dripping onto the rush-strewn floor, I sought my next opponent, my desire to flee subsumed by knowing I’d just become an actor in a struggle I didn’t comprehend. Atop the high table, our host and his guest rolled over and over amidst the remains of their feast. I didn’t pause any longer—outnumbered as we were, I did the only thing that might save us. I ran for the high table, arriving just as the two men crashed to the floor. Before either could recover, I wrenched the ungrateful guest from our host and onto his feet. His struggles ceased when I wrapped my arm beneath the line of his jaw and lifted him onto his toes. With the pommel of my sword, I smote the table. The noise turned all eyes towards me. With the sword at my prisoner’s throat, I shouted into the momentary hush.

I’ve got your lord. Drop your weapons and surrender!

To my dismay, the soldiers only laughed. The nearest mocked me. Fool! Think you our master would risk himself here?

The fighting resumed, and my reward was the attention of the speaker, who broke off pursuit of a wounded servant and came for me. Reflexes won over thought, and I pushed my captive into our host’s arms. I advanced to meet my assailant, waiting by the table’s end and catching up a serving platter in my free hand. As he drew near, I flung it at him, following closely—but this time my ploy failed. The man was a veteran, and deflected the projectile with his dagger and braced his sword to impale me. I met his sword in a desperate stop-thrust that backed him off, and leapt backwards to evade his counter. My reflexes were good enough to save my life, but the sword felt awkward, and unarmored, I’d be hard pressed to fend off a skilled attacker. Reluctant but not stupid, I gave ground before his disciplined attack, noting as I did that the fighting was dying down and the survivors, mostly soldiers who hadn’t left to pursue the castle folk, had begun slaughtering the wounded. At that moment, backing, I slipped on something and fell backward.

I deflected his reflexive lunge with an awkward parry that disarmed me and left me open for a second, final blow. But as he began that stroke, my host jumped him. The collision threw both to the ground, the soldier’s dagger buried in my savior. I gave his killer no time to untangle himself, and stilled him with a kick to the head, all I could manage from the ground. In the stillness that was replacing the moans of the dying, I appraised the scene.

My former captive had fled. In the rest of the room, nothing stirred save our assailants and guttering tapers; by sheer luck, none had toppled and started fires. Far off in the hallways came sounds of further conflict. I had moments to act before someone came after me, so I retrieved my fallen sword and crept behind the tapestry that backed the high table. As I’d hoped, it concealed an exit, and I stepped through, not knowing where it led but having no alternative.

There was no immediate pursuit. I eluded detection through luck and instincts honed by traveling alone in hostile lands. I eventually reached a walkway overlooking the courtyard, encountering none but the dead, and peered from concealment on the scene below. Most of the attackers still stood, surrounded by the corpses of the castle’s guard and several dying horses. I saw no prisoners, not even the castle’s women. Clearly, I could expect no mercy were I caught. The drawbridge remained up, leaving no escape that way, and a fall from the sheer walls into the empty moat would cripple me.

I withdrew into the shadows to think as the post-battle reaction took hold and I began trembling.

***

By the time the drawbridge lowered, I’d stopped trembling. I watched, unmoving and stiff, as a man mounted and rode into the night. As I’d expected, the remainder divided into small groups and separated to sweep the castle for survivors. I stretched cramped muscles, then crept to the narrow stairs nearest my position, smiling grimly as four men began climbing towards me. As the leader reached the topmost step, I flung myself on him, hitting him high to overbalance him and sending both of us into the men behind him. Narrow as the stairs were, the others couldn’t get out of the way, and our combined weight was irresistible.

Armor clattered against stone as we five tumbled to a jarring stop at the base of the wall. The impact winded me, but I was on top; those below were less fortunate. I got to my feet and recovered my sword. The topmost man had begun stirring, and the shouting from soldiers atop the far wall would soon bring help. I stilled him with a kick, then ran for the stables, across the courtyard. Several horses stood unguarded and already harnessed, so I cut the nearest one’s tether and swung into the saddle. Shouts warned me men were drawing near, and two men from the stairs were already on their feet and moving towards me. I cut the other horses free, took a deep breath, steadied myself, reined my horse around, and put my heels to his flanks.

Even without my spurs, the horse leapt forward. Steering with my knees, I turned him into the others, driving them before me. We fled towards the men trying to cut off our escape. Not being warhorses, the smell of blood and scent of their dead fellows maddened them. They fled across the drawbridge, scattering their owners, the drumbeat of hooves filling the night air. Crouching low across my steed’s back and hoping the dim light would confound any crossbowmen, I fled across the moat and into the night. I knew I could escape beyond earshot before any pursuit could be mounted. And I was fortunate; none were able to saddle the remaining horses or ride them bareback after me.

Tomorrow would be another matter. To conceal my tracks, I followed the other horses for a time before slowing to a walk and striking cross-country along a ridge beneath the new-risen moon’s light. I let the horse feel its way along. My proficiency at riding returned quickly enough—it’s one of those things you never forget—and I found the motion soothing. I’d seen forests east of the castle, and hoped the experience from my wanderings would keep me ahead of pursuit even if they had a tracker. But I doubted they did, and the soldiers wouldn’t feel enough at home in the wild to pursue me by moonlight.

By the time I reached the woods, the moon that had lit my way was dipping below the surrounding peaks. Several times during my flight I paused to listen for pursuit. Nothing reached my ears save the horse’s breathing and, now and then, the squeak of a hunting bat. Just outside the forest’s edge, I dismounted. The horse chuffed and stamped its feet, an owl hooted nearby, and a mosquito whined past my ear. Otherwise, nothing.

I led my mount beneath the trees. Rich leaf mold cushioned our steps, filling the air with a spicy aroma that mingled pleasantly with my horse’s pungent sweat. Leather creaked and twigs snapped as we walked, picking our way among deepening shadows. When the last of the moon slipped behind the peaks, leaving us in near-total darkness, I stopped. It would’ve been foolhardy to proceed further. I tethered my companion to a tree, removed his saddle, and wiped him down as best I could with the saddle blanket. Then I moved aside so he wouldn’t trample me while I slept, lay down, and closed my eyes.

I was more fatigued than I thought, for I remember naught else.

***

I awoke, stiff, sore, and cold, to a changed world. Gentle rain drizzled through a broken green canopy, and the horse tossed his head in silent reproach. I rose and stretched away the worst of the stiffness, yawned until my jaw cracked, and combed hair out of my eyes with stiff fingers. Not having eaten last night, I was starving. The saddlebags revealed a soft blanket, a coil of thirty or so feet of thin but strong hempen rope, a cake of stale waybread (which I ate as I completed my inventory), flint and steel, a half-full water skin, and a curry comb. These, the clothes on my back, my knife, the sword, and the horse were the sum of my resources.

I draped the blanket over my head to keep off the rain, then sat to ponder my circumstances. Memories of the night’s work returned, despite my best efforts to suppress them. I summed up my situation: I knew nothing of the lands I’d entered, apart from childhood rumors, and the only person I could ask had disappeared. (I felt certain the minstrel had escaped.) To the east lay unknown lands; at my back was nothing I could return to. It didn’t take long to choose. At least motion would keep my thoughts at bay. I considered discarding the sword, but as I’d been unable to retrieve my staff, and had reason to believe I’d need to defend myself again, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Reluctantly, I cut enough of the rope to form a loop, tied it to my belt, and hung the weapon through it.

As the rain began tapering off, I followed my back-trail to the forest’s edge, then struck off at an angle to rejoin the road well east of the castle. As I swayed along, still stiff from a night on the ground, I wondered whether my problems might be more serious than I’d initially realized. In my land, anyone who could afford a horse could ride one; indeed, it’d long been necessary for survival. But the new lands I was entering followed older customs; riding was likely a right reserved for the nobility and their officers. I had no demonstrable right to my horse, and as horse thieves were despised in any land, I risked being hanged were I discovered on horseback. Not without justice, I admitted.

These thoughts led to the uncomfortable realization that last night’s killers must have been authorized to ride, and that I’d interfered with an officially sanctioned lesson... though that rang false given my failure to end the fight by capturing the apparent leader. Either way, that bade ill for my future in the lands ahead. Prudence won over my desire for mobility. I reined in, dismounted, and, resenting the necessity that forced my hand, gathered my few possessions in a saddle bag. Then I drove the horse down the road, hoping it would find its way back to the castle.

On foot again, I moved onwards at a pace I could sustain all day, knowing there’d be a village ahead of me at some point and that I must avoid it and other travelers. There was no telling what might follow the massacre, and I couldn’t risk stopping before I was safely through the next valley, at earliest.

As I walked, wary of pursuit, my thoughts returned to the fight, worrying at fragmentary images like hounds at a deer. Something about the men, their armor, and their horses clashed with what I’d heard of the Eastcountry. Pondering this took my mind off the familiar pattern of violence I’d fallen into last night with so little regret.

Chapter 2: Gareth

Cold rain ran down my neck every time I looked down from the wall. Things aren’t going well when you lose a tooth, your rank, and a fight, all the same day. But earlier promotions hadn’t lasted much longer, and the days leading up to the fight hadn’t led me to expect this one to last the month. The promotion’d already been feeling stale, and most days, I preferred just being one of the men.

I consoled myself with a sip of barracks-brew. Fiery liquor burnt its way down my throat. Having lost rank’s privileges, I’d gained a solo midnight shift at the western gate in the rain. Early summer was feeling an awful lot like early spring—a fair match for how things’d been going ’til then. I took another sip, and when I looked down again, feeling warmer and more philosophical, someone was standing in a puddle below the gate.

I looked him over best I could in the lantern light. Fancy black clothes, satin head to toe, and soaked to the skin. Glossy black hair, plastered flat to his skull. A shade too pretty for a man. A sack over one shoulder, its contents looking the only dry thing about him. We stood there a time, him and me, neither wanting to speak first. But eyes tell you lots about a man, and when I got a good look at his, I shivered: it was like looking at someone who’d woken from a bad dream. But then he gave me a sheepish smile and just looked embarrassed.

Well, I gave him a grin at that; just two poor bastards sharing the bad luck of being stuck in the rain and no one in the wide world caring. He recognized it too, and his smile widened.

Good evening, brother guard. Might you find it in your heart to lower a half-drowned, half-frozen traveler a rope? The voice was smooth as his looks, but male enough.

I wouldn’t leave a dog out in this weather. C’mon up. I lowered the knotted rope we kept on hand for visitors who arrived after we’d barred the gates for the night. He swarmed up the rope with surprising strength, and stood beside me on the wall, grateful and amused.

Thanks, friend.

No problem. But if you don’t mind my asking, where might you be coming from in those fine clothes this time of night?

You’d never believe me. His grin vanished. But if there’s anything else I can do?

I shrugged. Just doing my job, not that those bastards care who I let in. Just show me what you’ve got in the sack. I should’ve pressed him harder, but wasn’t feeling all that loyal. More to the point, he hadn’t walked far in those fancy shoes, with no cloak. Someone out avoiding a husband who’d come home early? A thief? The way he’d climbed the rope said he was nimble enough, but he looked wrong for that line of work. I shrugged. He looked cold, so I offered him my flask. He waved it off, so I took another swallow.

I’d prefer not to uncover my harp, as the rain will damage it. But if you want to see it, come to the performers’ yard west of the palace at noon and you’ll hear me play like you’ve never heard before. He cocked his head as if listening, but his eyes never left me. Well, thanks again for your courtesy, Gareth, but I’ve pressing business at the palace. Have a good watch.

I wished him good night and watched as he slid down the street-side rope like the thief he probably was, and I was just annoyed enough with life to let him go. He dropped the last bit, landed like a cat, and vanished into the shadows, black swallowing black. Just like a thief, except: What thief would be escaping into town?

Then I raised an eyebrow, ’cause I surely didn’t remember telling him my name, and I surely didn’t know his. And even feeling the way I’d felt, I’d never have let a stranger with things to hide come over the wall on a dark night without a lot more reason or a lot more liquor.

I’m not stupid, but I’d seen enough strangeness to be sure magic existed and that maybe someone had just worked some. So I took a little more warmth from my flask and went back to watching, checking the shadows a tad more carefully than before, hoping no one’d seen anything, and hoping no more strangers would appear out of the night.

***

Funny thing—that black-haired guy was the first thing on my mind when I woke next morning. That and my headache made me wonder if I’d drunk a little more than I’d thought, ’cause the dreams I mostly remember are drinking dreams. The only way to be sure would be to get to the palace, and if I didn’t manage, I’d spend the next month wondering. I haggled with my new sergeant, a drinking buddy from when I had his rank and he had mine, and got myself transferred to the midtown barracks. He shook his head like I was crazy, but he owed me a favor. An hour later, I arrived at my new home.

You can always tell when an officer’s around. All you do is drill, or worse, do makework too lousy for the common laborers. Before I even had time to locate the still, I was out on the parade ground with my new mates, slogging up and down the pavement. Lucky for the Baron, he doesn’t pay by the mile. As we wore ruts in the pavement, out came the sun. I don’t mind marching in rain, ’cause it cools the blood, but the sun’s another matter. It was a toss-up between whether we could sweat faster or the sun could dry us faster. The sun lost, though it was a near thing, and we spent the better part of the morning dripping sweat across the nice, clean parade ground, while people began gathering in whatever shade they could find. News had got around of the performance; the town crier must’ve had a busy morning. A few bastards cheered us on for a while from the shade, sipping drinks, but they eventually lost interest.

After enough years at this job, you learn to just do what you’re told while your mind’s off elsewhere. So that’s what I did while I watched the preparations. Several lackeys in livery were setting up a platform with a canvas roof by an entrance. It didn’t take much brain to figure out these were the expensive seats and that the crowd wasn’t here to watch us drill. That last night’s visitor was involved seemed a fair bet. Around noon, a commotion began on stage, and our officer emerged from the shade and told us to make ourselves comfortable. I was farthest from him when he gave the order, and he hadn’t learned my face yet, so it was easy to slip into the crowd when he headed back to his cold drinks. If he was typical officer material, he couldn’t count high enough to know one of his men was missing, and none of my new chums would enlighten him.

With the townspeople crowding ’round and the sun in my eyes, I couldn’t see much. Since nobody’d noticed I was missing, I found a better place to watch. There was a store with a balcony overlooking the platform, and I sweet-talked my way into a fine seat. In fact, the shopkeeper and his family weren’t much inclined to keep me company, so I had the balcony to myself. The way I smelled after half a day in the sun, I couldn’t find it in my heart to feel offended. I set my pack down by the railing, unbelted my sword, and settled back to watch.

Time passed, the noon bell sounded, and the crowd grew restless. I just sat back, put my feet up, and closed my eyes; in the soldier business, you learn to catch sleep when you can. When the muttering stopped, I sat up and peered over the balcony’s edge. The Baron’d arrived, and stepped forward to speak. He pointed at an old guy sitting to one side, said something about an emissary from the west, spoke a few words about difficult negotiations, thanked us for our patience, and promised a reward. There were cheers after he’d done speaking and stepped back to rejoin his personal guard. Then the minstrel appeared.

He’d changed clothing, and now wore a blue cloak so dark it almost matched his hair. Judging from how it caught the light, must’ve been velvet. The crowd murmured as he opened the sack I’d wondered about and produced a harp. It was pretty enough, all gold and glittery in the sun, but didn’t seem particularly worth the wait. But after the trouble I’d gone to getting a good seat, I figured I’d stay to see if he was any good.

I didn’t regret it.

I’m no great fan of court music, but this guy was good. I could hear every note perfectly, layer upon layer of them, and sadness underneath it all. I’m not sentimental, but something in me responded anyway. You could see it in the crowd too; they stood or sat there, mouths gaping, collecting parade-ground dust, barely breathing ’til he finished. My mouth was dry, and it was painful to swallow, so I must’ve been doing the same. I took out my flask and when I put it down again amidst the loud applause, the minstrel was gone like a dream, as if he’d never been there. A low, excited muttering began and I got ready to return to duty before the officer noticed my absence.

The Baron walked to the front of the stage and the crowd hushed. He raised his hands for silence, like he was going to make another speech, and the silence spread. But just as the last murmurs died down, there came the snap! of a bowstring nearby, and a crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching in his chest. The Baron toppled from the stage without a sound.

Panic ensued.

Everyone was yelling and running about, and the few who weren’t were being jostled by those who were. Townsfolk were fleeing, my friends in the guard were drawing weapons and looking around, and far as I could tell, I was the only one doing anything halfway sensible. That’s because I’d spotted the bowman’s position, on the roof next to my balcony. I got myself moving before I was quite sure what I was doing. Stepping as far back as I could on the balcony, I took a running start, used the railing as a takeoff point, and jumped for the roof where the assassin’d been. I caught the roof’s edge, braced against the shock, and held on. I hit the building’s side hard, but my leather armor cushioned the shock. I pulled myself over the roof’s edge and landed in a crouch, ready for trouble. A big crossbow and two loose bolts lay there. Judging by the bow’s size, I didn’t want to meet this guy barehanded. I drew my sword, but the only sign of the killer was an open trap door by my feet.

If I were him, I wouldn’t be waiting around, so I pursued. Holding my sword against my side, I jumped down through the door, folding at the knees and rolling onto my left side when I hit, just in case I’d guessed wrong. My time hadn’t come yet, ’cause he wasn’t there. But I heard heavy running footsteps down the stairwell. I got up and ran after him.

This time, I guessed wrong. A blade licked out, nicking my ear as I leaned aside. My own counterthrust took the bastard in the chest, tearing through his leather cuirass. He screamed, and went on screaming as I kicked him off my sword and he rolled down the stairs. Then I spotted the guard crest, and I turned and ran, cursing.

Guess I wasn’t the only one who’d seen the assassin.

My luck held. The guardsman’d been alone. From the noises downstairs, that wouldn’t last long, so I ran deeper into the building, looking for a back exit. I saw a window ahead of me through an open door, and ran for it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what the assassin’d left of the owners, an old couple and their daughter. I didn’t much want to end up the same way, so I kept going. The window was just above head height, so I jumped down, hit the ground running—and lost my balance, going ass over elbows into a trash heap.

I was down for maybe a couple breaths, but that was enough for two guards to round the corner. Things were going from bad to worse. The guards didn’t look to be in any mood for explanations, and since I couldn’t talk my way out of this one anyway, that left me only one choice. The first one was bloody young, and I was on him before he could react; then he was just bloody. His partner was tougher and managed to pink me a few times before I downed him. Then I was off and running again.

I managed to find a nice dark cellar before my breath ran out or any other would-be heroes found me.

***

Night again, and more rain. It suited how I felt, and it was the only thing that’d get me out of town alive. I slipped out of the cellar, sword in hand and leaving my armor behind, and catfooted it towards the main gate along the quietest route I could think of. Not a great idea, maybe, but I hoped they’d think so too, and would look elsewhere. Anyway, it was the best I could come up. There were extra patrols out, meaning I’d become just as popular as I’d feared, but I knew the patrol routes as well as they did and had no difficulty avoiding my former friends. When I reached the gate, I slipped into the shadows to wait while the dozen men on watch stubbornly refused to get careless enough to let me slip past unobserved.

It began looking like I was in real trouble.

As I began reconsidering my plan, I felt icy fingers creeping along my spine. The instincts that’d kept me alive through a mis-spent life drew my eyes to a dark alley leading to the walls. From out of the dark, starting off almost like normal night sounds, came a weird humming that vibrated in my bones, chasing those cold fingers up my spine. The guards on the wall didn’t notice—in fact, they weren’t noticing anything much at all. Then, between blinks, he was there, walking towards me, fingers crawling across the harp strings like pale spiders. But spiders don’t wear blue velvet and probably don’t talk as pretty when they come for you.

Good evening, Gareth. I’ve come to repay my debt. I’ll hold the guards enthralled long enough to get you over the walls. But you’d best hurry; strange things are afoot this night. He met my gaze, but his eyes weren’t all there, as if he were concentrating on something and didn’t have much attention left for me. I started to speak, but before I could, he frowned, and added something to the strumming. My feet moved on their own and carried me towards the wall. Needing no more encouragement, I broke into a run, caught the dangling rope, and hauled myself onto the wall.

On top, I brushed a guard, but he was frozen, unaware of my presence. I was almost too shook up to notice the music was still playing, driving me on. I looked back, but the minstrel was invisible in the shadows. I had just enough independence left to reach past an immobile guard and help myself to the pack containing the watch’s rations. I waved it back at my helper, slipped it over my shoulder, then slipped over the parapet and down the rope into the night. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I wanted to get there fast.

Chapter 3: Margrethe

I’m recording my story in Volonor, in the far east, which is nominally the safest place to be right now. We hear increasing rumors of Goblin invasions in the far west, of the fall of kingdoms, and of vast slaughter, but in my experience, men exaggerate such things. Nonetheless, the stream of refugees that has begun arriving here, weeks’ travel from the source of these rumors, gives the rumors credibility. We make room for them, strive to house and feed them as best we can, for they’re our distant kin. No matter that they rebelled against us generations ago and carved out their own kingdoms in the West; they’re human, not Goblin, and that’s enough for us. My sources in the palace, and other intelligence, suggest things are very bad indeed, and that we must all pull together, as we should have done years ago after the war with Amelior.

The problems are no longer those of the Westcountry alone; they’ve become our common fate.

I’m simultaneously reassured, and terrified. Two of my loved ones have gone west to do what they may to avert this fate, and on the one hand, their grim competence tells me that if anyone can save us, they can. On the other hand, the part of me immune to logic listens too well to the wildest and most terrible of the rumors, making it hard to sleep without a draught from the palace surgeon.

But I’m getting far ahead of myself.

I’ve written this account because this is a man’s world, and all the stories that are told are those of our men. In fairness, they’re the ones who carved us a new home in this dangerous new world after the Exodus bore us across an endless sea. They fought and died to create what we now have, and no one can take that achievement from them. Our continued survival would have been impossible without their sacrifices. I leave to the historians the question of whether they were also primarily responsible for the destruction of our old world, and therefore reaped the consequences of their actions.

Yet on the other hand—the distaff hand, presumably—they were not alone in their efforts, though a student of the written history might be forgiven for thinking them alone. Yes, a few women fought openly at their side and died with them; I’ve learned over the years that many more undoubtedly fought disguised as men. And yes, some of their stories are known to us. But they are few, and their songs are sung less often than those of the men. So I’m recording this story—my story—to remind posterity, if there will be any posterity, that they were not alone. We broke our backs in the fields and in our homes, laboring in different ways, while they cleared us a space in which to live. Later, when they played at war rather than taking on a share of our burdens, we raised their children, and we put up with their arrogant certainties while clearing our own spaces in which to live.

Our stories have not been told, for they are not heroic.

In this chronicle, I make no claim that I fully and truly represent their struggles, for I was raised in a time of relative peace and prosperity and, despite humble origins, I rose to possess far more material things and liberties than most of my sex. Thus, I can only tell you my story, and hope that others have somewhere recorded theirs. I harbor no illusions our stories will agree, for we come at this tale from very different directions, with different priorities. Instead, I welcome you to my story.

I hope you’ll forgive me my early naivete; I was much younger when this tale began.

Chapter 4: Bram

Night in the mountains has always been special. The thin air cuts with the sharpness of a freshly honed knife and intoxicates like strong wine. The stars dance on high for me alone. Now and then, when I’m exhausted and lonely, it even seems like something unseen, something older and stranger than mankind, is present, watching over me as I sleep.

Sometimes, but not this night.

Perched beneath a rocky overhang, gazing down on the lights of the unfamiliar city far below, I felt myself in the grip of my past. Memory, which had formerly honored its truce with my conscience, was back again in force, taking me to another night like the this one, before our attack on Kardmin. That night, I’d camped in the foothills above the city with my comrades gathered around, each wondering who among us would live to celebrate our victory the following night.

That was the night before we broke their resistance and took the city. The same night I broke my bloodoath, severing myself from the company of all who’d known me and setting foot on my present path. You could say something in me broke too that night. It was this fracture with myself and with my past that led me, after the final sword was sheathed and the last wound tended, to this mountain slope in a strange land. But tonight, there was dried blood on my sleeves, undeniable evidence that old habits had lain just below the surface, ready to awaken with appropriate coaxing. I found myself once more with sword in hand, though I’d never intended to serve any cause again.

I came back to myself, gazing downslope, and felt hot tears of frustration in my eyes. The night in the border keep was still with me, sharp as Kardmin would always be, and a week later, I still woke at night, images of slaughter and my part in it banishing any hope of sleep until exhaustion claimed me. No matter how well you think you’ve buried your past, the truth always surfaces. I’d learned to feel revulsion upon slaying a man, yet when a sword was drawn, couldn’t control the reflexes that led to his death. So there I lay, my back against cold rock, not daring to light a fire—but less from fear of what it might attract than from fear of my response.

By my side, colder still, lay the sword I’d carried for a week and that I dared not leave behind. The greater fear was of lacking its protection, not of being forced to use it. I took the grip in my hand, cradling it and feeling the comfort of worn leather, shuddering at how… right… it felt. I laid it down, and turned my eyes back to the city a traveler had named Arden. A prosperous town, with no ties to the keep behind me and knowledge neither of me nor of my past. I closed my eyes, and kept the thoughts at bay long enough for sleep to come.

***

I woke and opened my eyes, then closed them again, blinded. During the night, I’d rolled onto my side away from the sunrise, and my hand had curled instinctively around the sword’s hilt, holding it where it would catch the sun. I moved my hand, then opened my eyes again, more cautious this time. I sat up. The view was breathtaking, the sun peering over eastern mountains blithe with the promise of a new day. It was still early enough for the valley below to remain in shadow. As I sat, relishing my small, cold breakfast, surrounded by the near-silence of the heights, the sharp line dividing sunlit hilltops from shadowed fields receded faster and faster towards the valley’s floor as the sun rose. Finally, in one last rush, the concealing cloak of night was whisked from the land, baring all to my gaze.

Arden’s grey-brown stone slumbered in the light of dawn, plumes of smoke rising straight from rekindled hearths. The morning air was so clear, so free of the far city’s taint, I fancied I could reach out and collect the streamers of smoke in my hand. Yet the town was far enough away that no sound reached my ears, and I had at least two more days of walking downhill before I reached its walls. And even though I could almost see the first servants walking its streets, I knew the slopes before me were deceptive in their length and difficulty.

The sun’s rays warmed me as they forced back the night’s chill. Wheat fields beckoned below, still a long way from harvest, but there was cold dew on the ground around me. I sat still, basking like a rock lizard, while all around the pale ground mist rose. I sat in appreciative silence until the last dancing veils of vapor were banished by an awakening breeze and my bones had warmed. I smiled at the cloudless sky and rose to my feet, wincing as cold-tightened muscles stretched. I packed my scanty belongings, passed my sword through its belt loop, and begun my descent, careful to avoid patches of dew-slicked rock.

***

A day later, I’d reached the foothills. Gently rolling, mostly bare of vegetation, and clad in scattered taluses of the grey-brown local rock, they differed little from the steeper slopes at my back save for warmer nights. As I descended further, plants became more abundant until the bare rock was concealed other than along the well-kept road below me. The road wound past on its way to Arden, hedged by great banks of stone or earth. Farther from town, a lone traveler strode towards the walls. Perhaps the morning sun blinded him to my presence, for though he scanned around him as he walked, he gave no sign of having seen me. I quickened my pace, noting that our paths might intersect and eager for the company and a chance to learn about my destination.

But I misjudged his pace or mine, for he’d drawn almost level with my position by the time he came within hailing distance. Nonetheless, I filled my lungs to shout—then stopped and crouched behind a bush. From my elevated vantage point, I saw what the traveler had missed: three men, in ambush behind a stone outcrop. A short distance away, a fourth man lay in the ditch, sword in hand. While I pondered my choices, the traveler spotted the three ahead of him, but despite a hasty glance over his shoulder, missed the fourth. I hesitated a moment—this was no business of mine. Yet I couldn’t in good conscience leave him to his fate, and he’d owe me a favor if we chased off the ambushers together.

If I were fortunate, they were hill bandits, likely to flee when opposed by half their number of determined men. If not... Well, I would handle that as necessary. My best course of action would be to attack the three men from behind, with the advantage of surprise, and even the odds quickly. As I thought this through, the traveler went to bay, back against a rock wall, sword in hand. I found myself hoping the ambushers had no crossbows, that the solitary man could hold them off long enough for me to reach him, and that my presence would be enough to end the fight. Freeing my sword, I maneuvered so my shadow wouldn’t alert them, and moved downslope as fast as the ground and the need for stealth permitted.

Chapter 5: Gareth

If you’re going to be hunted, pick a large crowd to hide in. Despite my size, I don’t stand out that much and crowds provide good cover. So I headed east to the nearest big town after fleeing Kelfan, three days’ walk through the mountains. Nice thing about mountains is that they provide good cover and places to hide. Unlike a crowd, they’re quiet enough you can hear your pursuit before it gets too close. They also don’t mean a comfortable bed and good drink are nearby. On balance, I liked the prospects of bed and drink more than the extra warning—enough so, I chose the crowds.

I walked the road whenever possible, keeping an eye behind me so I could leave the road in a hurry if a group of armed men appeared. There was a better chance of being spotted, but I wanted to get as far as possible, fast as possible, before my hunters learned I wasn’t in town anymore. Besides, staying on the road looked less suspicious than skulking in the bushes like a bandit. The traffic was light, but twice after the first day, fast-moving riders rode past—probably couriers. They were moving fast enough they couldn’t have been looking for me, so I didn’t try to hide. Even if their messages were about me, there were more people I didn’t want to meet again behind me in Kelfan. So I kept on, wary of ambushes, and that saved me.

I was being more cautious than usual, ’cause the rocky banks that had risen around me gave plenty of cover for attackers and a tough climb to safety if a group came up from behind. Worse, the rising sun was in my eyes, making it hard to see the tops of the banks. On the other hand, it was the glint of sun on metal that warned me, and then all at once, three armed men waited ahead on the road. I put my back to a wall, drew my sword, and grinned, friendly as could be. But I glanced back along the road, and that’s why I saw the fourth man clambering from the ditch.

Three or one? I was just