A Bard's Lament: An 'Ageless Runes' Tale

By Christopher Joyce

59 years after the events of 'Rise of the Lesser Prince', Emrys is a travelling bard, down on his luck and in need of coin.

He travels from town to town, playing his trusty lute and singing for his supper.

Emrys desires fame and fortune above all else, and will stop at nothing to fulfil his ambitions...

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Joyce
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223074175

Christopher Joyce

Christopher is a Middlesbrough-born Horror/Fantasy author, and freelance content creator. When not busy crafting tales of weirdness and wonder, Christopher's main passions are retro video gaming, superhero comics, and tabletop strategy games.

Book preview

59 years after the battle of Aclevion...

There wasn’t a dry eye in the tavern.

Emrys had the full attention of every man, woman, elf, and dwarf in the bustling Cursed Cat. The air carried a thick, sweet aroma of honey wine and pipe smoke, and the sound of his lute played with expert precision was the perfect accompaniment to his angelic voice as he sang.

The Cursed Cat tavern on the outskirts of Adeniron was usually pretty busy at this time of the week, but the introduction of Emrys into the venue had brought in nearly twice the usual crowd. While this was obviously great news for the proprietor - a tall, haughty-looking elf from the south - a packed tavern rarely meant much in the way of actual material gain for Emrys himself.

Still, he was content enough at that moment; he held the crowd in his thrall as he played and sang, not that he really saw the faces which stared back at him - he rarely did, shutting out his surroundings and giving everything he had to his voice and his lute.

This is a new song, he said once the applause had died down, but still struggling to be heard by those at the back of the room.

A recent composition, he added. He nodded to steady himself, wiped the back of his right hand over his shaven head to keep the sweat at bay. His bearded chin was downcast, as if he were studying something upon the tavern floor. Then he looked up, not with his head but with his eyes alone, fixing the front row with an intense and handsome stare.

He plucked a note, and then another, and a sorrowful melody was born to the air. He sang.

Oh hello there, sweet maiden fair; all luscious locks and smiling.

Come walk with me, pray, talk with me, amongst the winter gardens.

For you alone are standing here, amongst the frozen grass.

The meadows where your eyes closed dear, oh where you breathed your last.

Oh the sweet golden maiden of Markosh,

Oh the pain that your mother must feel.

For the sweet golden maiden of Markosh,

Will