Volume the First: The Epic of the Bard von Glipshank

By: Nynevah Posted on: April 04, 2004

"My heart's forlorn,

Why do you scorn?

My love, my only desire.

Thy face, thy lips,

The blow of your fist,

All kindle my raging love's fire."

A harsh laugh echoed through the bar, a heavily wetted mercenary slapping his thigh with amusement. The source of his seeking voice ignored his plea, turning back to the bar with a toss of her head. The bard sighed, quickly tuning into another verse.

"Alas, fair one,

You are no fun.

Your slaps and jibes are appalling.

I beg you, please,

Don't be a tease,

My heart for you is still calling."

The plaintive chords hardly concealed the bite in the words, and a halfhearted smile tugged at the bar wench's lips. The bard grinned with a wink, thumping his glass onto the table for a fresh drink.

"My throat is dry,

Oh maid, come nigh.

Though money's one thing I lack.

If you beg me to stay,

Just for the day,

I'll pay my ale in the..."

A slap cut his words short, and he grinned again and held his cheek. The siren wench glared in response, cheeks bright pink, hands on her hips. The other patrons concealed their laughter behind snorts and coughs, though more than a little escaped.

"Mister Fitzmarkin! I think you best watch your mouth, fore that instrument o'yourn ends up your rear!" She exclaimed, trying hard to hide a smile.

The lanky bard pulled a mournful face, tipping his wide brimmed hat down to shade the wicked glint in his eyes. It was a game they'd been playing for years.

"Kitra, my dearest love, how could you say such a thing to me? I was only writing a song! Twas but a song of a maid I know. Certainly not you."

The barmaid arched an eyebrow, tapping her foot with mild annoyance. She blew an escaped curl out of her face, winking secretively.

"And why not, Mister Bard? Would you be so kind as to explain why it could not be me?" She asked with mock indignation, crossing her arms over her ample chest.

"Well..." He said slowly, "I didn't say anything about your lovely...horse-like eating habits, or your waspish temperament, or even your beak of a nose! Why dear, with those and the cow udders you have, you could be your own personal menagerie!"

That earned him another slap, this one hard enough to knock his hat from his head. He leaned down with a grimace and dusted it off carefully, setting it atop at a rakish angle. Kitra gave him a look cold enough to freeze any man in the bar dead in his tracks, but he knew well enough that her chest was heaving with suppressed laughter, not rage. The other patrons held their breath, wondering how far this strange bard's courage would stretch.

"Alas, only jealousy drives my wicked tongue, you know that, my dearest wenchy love. Would only that I have such a good figure when I reach YOUR age!"

With a laugh, he darted up from his seat, dodging the heavy tankard lobbed at him as he sprinted for the door. Wrenching it open, he turned briefly and blew a kiss her way.

"Settle my tab, would you, love? Seems as though I'm broke again!"

The door slammed shut behind him just in time, as a crash of pottery signaled another tankard had followed the first. Someone in the bar would pay his tab in thanks for the show, he knew that much. If they did not she would complain next time he came through. A smile on his face, Fitz slung his instrument over his shoulder, whistling for his small, sturdy pack pony. The shaggy beast trotted up, a mouthful of grass hanging out of the side of its mouth.

"Ach, you silly lump." He muttered in amusement, setting off down the road. The pony followed along behind at a bouncing walk, occasionally pausing to graze at the side of the dusty path. The day began to wane as he traveled, Sun finishing her trek across the arc of the sky. As the horizon lit with a fiery glow, he finally reached his destination, worn, dirty, and tired. The road terminated at a small hut on the outskirts of the fishing town of Shastaan, thatched roof covered in drying fishing nets, shells lining the pathway up to the age-darkened wooden door. Fitz loosed his pony in a small fenced in side yard, hoisting the saddlebags up to his shoulder as he made his way to the door. A few quick raps and it creaked open, a familiar old face peering through the crack.

"Fitzmarken von Glipshank!" The old woman exclaimed, a smile lighting her wrinkled face. "Goddess bless, I was hoping you would come. Come in, come in! There's someone here you'll want to see!"

A sudden feeling of dread washed over Fitz and he slouched his shoulders low. The old woman seemed not to notice, fiddling with the latches on the inside. The door swung wide, the inviting warmth and smell of the eternal pot of stew over the fire washing away all doubts. He hurried inside, all thoughts of her 'someone' pushed to the back of his mind for the moment by hunger.

"I picked you up a few pretty things in Delos, Gammers." Fitz grinned, plopping down in front of the fire and waiting expectantly for his bowl. That was all the strange, lonely old woman only known as 'Gammer' ever asked from her frequent visitors, a few trinkets as they went on their travels. Ugly ceramic kittens, a rather large decorative beer stein with 'Greetings from Genji!' emblazoned across it, prayer cards from Shallam, the list went on. The piece of honor, however, that had earned Fitz his place as her favorite border was a beautifully crafted sculpture, designed to look like a shrine of Ourania. Of course, like all souvenirs, it had been horribly painted; the shoddy strokes almost ruining the graceful lines with an egregious amount of silver glitter. The abomination glared down at him from the mantle, slowly shedding its paint like a particularly pathetic sort of snake. He fished through his backpack for the expected tithe, coming up with a small silver spoon with a sloppily painted image of the Basilica set into the handle. The spoon was snatched in a heartbeat and replaced with a steaming bowl of stew. Gammer retired to her rocking chair by the fire, chuckling to herself and examining her new treasure with a practiced eye.

"That's nice." She finally admitted with a grudging air. "I haven't gotten this'un yet. Are they making a new set?"

"Wouldn't know, you're the expert." He said halfheartedly, noticing the extra pair of travel bags resting next to the fire. So her 'someone' was here after all, and not just another attempt of hers to set him up with a village girl. Women were nothing but trouble, he mused as he ate, the comfortable click of Gammers' knitting needles punctuating the crackling of the fire. The soothing silence lasted only a few minutes before the back door slammed open, and then shut again, the heavy thump of boots on wooden floor growing closer. Fitz slowly backed away into the dubious safety of the shadows behind the overstuffed armchair, a growing sense of dread turning the meal in his stomach sour. A shadow loomed in the doorway, and the old woman looked up from her knitting with a smile.

"Mathilde! There you are, girl. Fitz, this is my grand niece, Mathilde of Shastaan. Mathilde, this is Mister Fitzmarkin von Glipshank, he's a music maker."

The tall, broad woman stepped into the light, a halfway-amused expression flitting across her face. Ugly, he immediately decided. Too big and manly by far, her face too hard, mousy brown hair cut to her shoulders instead of flowing fetchingly down her back. To him she looked like a fighter, hands and wrists scarred, hard black eyes that barely glanced over him. No wonder she did not have a man. Poor Gammer to have to foist such a creature off on the nearest available person, no doubt she was dumb as a brick as well.

A fool and a fop, he seemed to be. Yet, Gams continually harped constantly about this brave and noble traveler. Cowering behind the old green velvet chair, he hardly seemed legendary to her. Lanky and too thin to make his large nose look anything but ridiculous, he almost seemed a scarecrow, though more garishly dressed than any self-respecting scarecrow would be. Despite the travel dirt, he was immaculately groomed, from his neat wheat-blond ponytail down to his perfectly oval fingernails. Unfortunately, not all the grooming in the world could improve such a man. Was this to be the bard that she would be protecting?

A grimace spread across her face, almost unbidden, but quickly hidden behind her usual diffident scowl. The bard seemed to notice, with a quick narrowing of his eyes. She stomped over and sat on the cushion next to Gammer's rocking chair, crossing her legs underneath her.

"Sent Isolde off to hunt." She muttered quietly, reaching over for her packs.

"Isolde?" The fop inquired, sounding more politely conversational than curious. Mathilde grunted quietly, pulling a cloth and some polish from her pack.

"Her falcon." Gammer said gleefully, clicking her false teeth with her tongue. "The darling bird brings back such nice rabbits for me."

"Ah," said the bard called Fitz without much enthusiasm. Mathilde set to work polishing her swords, gleaming Theran steel slowly yielding its few stains to her patient care. The silence droned on, uncomfortable and heavy in the air.

"Oh my!" Gammer suddenly exclaimed, "I completely forgot to tell Fitz why I've introduced you two!"

Mathilde politely ignored the fleeting expression of panic that crossed the man's features. He was no prize himself, and if he thought for one moment that she'd put up with the old woman's matchmaking, she'd...she'd...well, time enough for hurting after she found out what was going on.

"So, anyway..." The old woman continued gamely, ignoring the tension in the air, "I'da been havin' a thought, from listening to all yer stories, Fitz, about all the trouble yer get yerself into. And I thought to myself, "Now, what would Fitz need to help hims out of all them troublesome times?" is what I thought. And," she paused, taking a breath, "I decided that yeh need a bodyguard, which is what my Mathilde is!"

Mathilde blinked for a moment as she watched the man squirm. No doubt, his 'stories' were all fabrications, and he did not want to tell the old woman so and risk losing her hospitality. A small smirk crossed her face, and she quickly turned her gaze back to her swords. There was no point in upsetting the old woman. She listened to him hem and haw, trying to find a polite way to say no, with amusement.

"...I'll sleep on it." He finally said, the words heavy with the forced lie. He already knew his answer, but it was hard to say no to such an old woman. Who knew what it might do to her fragile health?

The night grew late and the travelers adjourned to their cots, lulled to sleep by the chirrup of crickets, and the distant sound of water crashing on the shore. Despite the thoughts that occupied him earlier, Fitz found that a full stomach and a quick wash had only added to his burden of fatigue, and he was fast asleep. So hard he slept, in fact, he did not hear the back door creak open nor the stealthy footsteps that made their way to his cot. It was not until a hand clamped down around his mouth that he even realized he had been tied up and was about to be slung over someone's back. At this point...it was a bit too late.

The sudden light burned his eyes as his captors pulled loose his blindfold. He muttered through the gag, turning his eyes from the blaze. He sat upon a dirt floor, uncomfortable, cold, and still bound. The room seemed to be just a small cellar, perhaps for food storage. Whatever the case, the walls were empty, the lantern before his bound feet the only thing of note...And whomever lurked in the shadows. A small, weasely snigger directed his attention to the corner near the stairs, where two patches of shadow detached themselves and approached him, two hulking trolls that grasped him by the arms and pulled him upright. He glared about himself, unable even to attempt to wrest himself from their vise-like grip. This was a travesty, an absolute insult! A man of his stature and grace should not be treated in such a manner! What were they thinking?

So involved was he in his personal reverie, he did not notice the man coming down the stairs until he stood before him, cast into shadow as the light of the lamp shining into Fitz's face. While still fuming, he had to admire the effect, truly a dramatic moment. The man in shadow sniggered again, sending a chill up the bard's spine.

"Remember...ME?" The man cried in a nasal, irritating voice, stepping forward into the light. His eyes gleamed with vengeful malice, a cruel smile twisting his thin lips. His thin, pointed face was framed by long, carefully maintained black hair that seemed to get in the way more than anything else. He spat a piece of it out of his mouth, frozen in his position of menace, waiting for the reaction.

"Mffh mrfhh!" Fitz replied from around his gag.

His captors paused in confusion, the trolls shuffling their feet in embarrassment for their boss. The tall man cleared his throat, reaching out to untie the gag.

"Eh..as I was saying, Fitzmarkin von Glipshank...Remember ME?!"

"Um...no." Fitz responded, licking his dry lips. "Be a good man and let me go, eh? I wouldn't want to be late for my engagement in Shallam."

The man screamed in frustration, darting forward and slapping Fitz across the face with a resounding smack. The bard blinked in shock while his head swam, unsure how to deal with such aggression. The man fumed and stomped around in unutterable frustration, finally grabbing Fitz by the chin and forcing him to look at him.

"It is I, you disgusting worm! I who you have wronged so badly! The great bard Mercrestio Melevolice, the Bane of Your Existence! Yes, tremble in fear at my name! Tremble! Treeemble!" The man began to laugh, a high-pitched, shrill sound that sent a shiver through Fitz. The lanky bard stared at this strange, disconcerting man, who waited patiently after finishing his spastic laughter.

"I'm sorry..." He finally responded, after wracking his brain for a few minutes, fear so easily forgotten, "But I really don't know who you are. Would you mind letting me go now? I don't have time for this."

"Insolence!" The man screamed, hopping up and down. "Kill him! Kill him!"

The trolls unceremoniously dumped him to the ground, the shorter of the two reaching for a sword at his belt. Fitz blinked in astonishment, the realization slowly dawning on him that maybe this was not just a bit of playacting after all. He lowered his chin to his chest, thinking fiercely. What could he offer to get them to leave them alone? Certainly, many people would like to get a piece of him, but that is the price you pay for fame. This obviously insane fan would probably let him go if he offered his condolences for the imagined insult, and perhaps an autograph or a quick song…

"Hold on just one damned minute!" A voice boomed from the top of the stairs, interrupting his train of thought. The trolls and their master turned, faces frozen in theatrical shock ridiculous enough to make Fitz's rescuer pause in her tracks.

"Er…" Mathilde paused, taking in the scene before her. She chose her words carefully, hoping that politeness would be enough to smooth over whatever the idiot man had done. "Well, I mean…Heh…I'd appreciate it if you'd let him go? See, if anything happened to him, I'd get in a bit of trouble."

"Do not attempt to use your feminine wiles on me, lass!" Mercrestio screeched, clenching his fists. "I will not yield! No matter how comely you think you are, my head will not be turned!"

The trolls stared at their leader in disbelief, than back at the hulking woman in the doorway, then back again. Noting their looks of incredulity, Mathilde stomped down the stairs, fury sufficing her features.

"It's not that bloody implausible!" She roared, unsheathing both her blades in one movement, the silken hiss as menacing as that of a serpent. "Get the hell out of here, before I spit you like pigs!"

The trolls barely had time to raise their blades in defense before she was upon them, as fast and frightening as a tornado. Though they attempted to hold their defense with valiant courage, the first fell quickly, knocked unconscious by the hilt of a sword upon his temple. The second fell with a shallow gash in his arm, and a quick punch in the gut that left him breathless. As the second guard fell with a thump that nearly echoed in the empty basement, Mercrestio's pallid complexion turned even paler, if possible. Catching up his robes around him, he sprinted up the stairs before the furious woman could turn her wrath upon him.

Enemies absent, Mathilde shook her head, vision slowly regaining clarity. The dank cellar swam into view as she squinted, willing away the battle rage.

"Argh…bastards." She muttered, sheathing her swords after cleaning them carefully on one of the fallen guards' shirts. "I really hate it when people piss me off."

"Hm. I haven't seen anyone berserk in a long time." Fitz mused quietly, a sly smile crossing his face. A blackmailed guard could be almost as good as a loyal one, and a guard could be quite useful if some crazy cult was after him. "Last one I saw was an…hmm…what were they again? Oh yes, a…"

"Shut up." She said shortly, fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword.

"You don't want to kill me, do you? That would hardly look good, and I'm assuming since you tried so hard, even in bloodlust, not to kill the men you just fought, that you won't try to kill me."

"You're not as stupid as you look." She said with grudging respect, releasing her sword. "What do you want?"

"Protection, as the old woman was right, as evidenced here. A man of my talent and reputation needs a good guard." Especially considering what he was soon heading into, he added silently to himself. "You'll get food, repairs, and necessities, and that's it. Standard contract, and I'm not paying you, so don't ask. It's a better deal than you know you'll find anywhere else, considering…"

"Okay, okay. You have a deal, for the time being." She finally agreed, turning around to head back up the stairs. The sun shone down as she opened the cellar doors, brilliant orange and red as the dawn burned through the heavy haze of night. Isolde jumped to her outstretched fist with a soft screech from a nearby tree, and she stepped forward into the light, into whatever waited beyond.

Fitz wondered for a moment if she would feel so confident when she was told where they were going. Oh well…there was time enough to worry later, for there were more important things on his mind.

"Hey! Come back here and untie me!"