Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

A old cleric of Paladine had latched onto two young boys. The two children were screaming and yelling. It was all the slight old man could do to hang onto them. The boys’ faces were stained green. Obviously, they had begun the ceremony a little early. Dayn started to smirk but sobered immediately as he saw the grim looks in the crowd.

“Somebody help me here,” the old priest said. He handed one of the boys to a farmer, but the man did not hold on tight enough and the boy ran away. The cleric turned his attention upon the other boy. Dayn recognized him as Jayna’s son, the little boy with the hurt arm.

“Who is this boy’s father?” the gray haired priest shouted to the crowd. “Who here hasn’t taught their children proper respect?”

Jayna pushed her way through the small crowd, anger plainly written on her face. “He’s my boy.”

“He has committed a crime against Paladine! Against all the gods that created this world! Everyone knows the elderberries are sacred this night,” the cleric said, his expression stern. The old priest ruined his wrath on the scared little boy. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The little boy cringed under the angry man’s gaze. “You’re hurting me.”

Jayna stepped forward and grabbed the cleric by his white robes.

“Let him go, old man.”

The thin, old cleric’s face went white. “This is a temple of Paladine. If you can not-”

“I said let him go!”

“It is forbidden to eat the elderberries before sunrise!” the cleric reiterated.

“Look at his arm,” the boy’s mother practically shouted. “You’re hurting him.”

The priest noticed the boy’s wound for the first time and let him go. The boy ran away and hid behind his mother’s skirts, hugging her leg.

“I’m sorry,” the priest mumbled.

“He’s just a boy. He burned his hand two weeks ago, and I still can’t stop the bleeding.”

The old man looked truly sorry. “I apologize. I wish I could help you.”

“That’s right, you wish you could, but you can’t, can you? At this festival you priests used to heal anyone in need. You used to help people. Now you don’t do anything.”

The woman’s words stung the frail cleric, but he had nothing to say.

“Your god is dead!” Jayna shouted.

“No! No, he’s not! He will return,” the priest said.

“Just like the boy’s father will return? He left years ago to fight your god’s war. When will he return?”

The dead silence of the crowd became a low murmur. Other widows nodded in agreement.

“We must be patient, that is all.”

“We don’t need patience, we need help. How many veterans of that war are here? How many of them can’t walk, can’t work? What are you going to do about them?” Jayna said.

Someone yelled agreement. The cry was followed by several others, and a few men broke from the crowd to join the mother in accosting the cleric, who was backing away slowly, wide-eyed.

Dayn was only twenty-three years old, but he recognized the makings of a mob. Something had to be done, and quickly. He looked around for ideas, but nothing came. He only had one weapon, anyway, only one talent.

Snatching his lute, Dayn pushed his way through the crowd.

“People, people, good people. I know how you have suffered. I, too, lost many friends in the war. But we must keep faith.”

Dayn jumped up on the fountain. The shouts quieted as people turned their attention to him.

“Paladine will return. He has done so before. The healers will return. So will the heroes. Remember the Second Cataclysm. Remember the heroes of the War of the Lance!”

Dayn glanced at the angry faces. He had their attention, but it was a tenuous hold. He had just the song. He lifted his lute and started to sing. He started with a fast-paced, rousing tune to match the temper of the crowd. He sang of Tanis’s wisdom, of Caramon’s strength, and of Sturm’s sacrifice for all things good.

At first, it seemed to work. The crowd quieted. The shaken cleric slunk quickly away to the safety of the temple. But Dayn’s illusion burst a moment later when someone threw a berry.

It hit Dayn on the forehead. It didn’t hurt, but it shattered his confidence. A good performer knew when he had his crowd, and when it was slipping away. When the berry splatted against Dayn’s forehead, he realized that this crowd was not his, not by a long shot. His strumming faltered. His voice dipped.

Another berry hit his tunic. A barrage of berries assailed him. Dayn winced under the assault and gasped as one struck him painfully in the eye. Shielding his face, he jumped down from the fountain and backed away from the crowd.

“Take yer songs elsewhere, bard!” a huge red-faced man yelled. “We don’t want to hear about your old heroes!”

“We’re sick of the old heroes! Where are they now when we need ‘em?” another man joined in. “What are they going to do for us?”

“Ain’t no heroes anymore!” A woman added her shrill voice to the throng.

“Never were heroes in the first place!”

Frightened, Dayn searched for a friendly face. Shard was there, but she was caught up with the crowd, shouting and laughing. He offered a silent prayer to Paladine as he stumbled backward. Never before had a crowd 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.