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.
