Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

“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.

Kresean shrugged. “I fought and fought. Those that could not be harmed by weapons, we left to the mages. Those that could bleed, we attacked. I owe a lot to the men around me. They saved my life more than once. I wanted to do the same for them, but there is only so much one man can do. Most of us who made it to the end were just plain lucky. I barely remember the point at which I looked up and noticed that no one else was fighting. No Chaos fiends, no friendly faces. It was only later I heard that the leader of the Chaos hordes had been killed, and that was why the rest lost heart. Otherwise, I believe we would all have died. You simply cannot imagine-”

“Even faced with that, you still fought on,” Dayn whispered, more to himself than to Kresean. But Kresean heard him.

“What else could I do? My friends all died fighting. I was just waiting for my turn, but my turn never came,” Kresean said. He shook his head, as if warding off a bad dream. “That’s why I want to help these folks with the dragon. Somehow my life was spared. I ought to do something worthwhile with it.”

Now they were heading to a small town called Feergu, so small that Dayne had never heard of it. It was up in the mountains, and Kresean had got word of a young dragon in the vicinity killing off livestock. Then, a week ago, a young child had turned up missing.

“How are you going to kill the dragon?” Dayn asked his newfound friend as they rode along. “Won’t you need a dragonlance or something?”

“Aye, I wish I had one. If it was full grown, there would be no hope without one, but if it is young, I should be able to take it.”

“You’re really going to fight a dragon?”

“That’s right, lad, and you’re going to write about it.” Kresean twisted in his saddle, winked at Dayn.

“That’s beautiful.”

“Do you think that’ll be something others would want to hear?” Kresean asked, smiling. “Do you think that will raise their spirits?”

“Definitely.” Dayn felt he would explode from excitement. Kresean was right. This was the only way to write a ballad. Dayn would walk side by side with Kresean. Dayn would be there when the blood was spilled, when the danger ran high, when the victory was gained.

For the rest of the day, Kresean recounted tales from the Chaos War. By that night Dayn’s admiration for Kresean had grown a hundredfold.

Two days later Dayn and Kresean rode over the crest of a hill and looked down at their destination. Feergu was a misty little hamlet nestled in a valley. Behind the town, the mountains rose tall, disappearing into the ever-present fog. Dayn felt trapped, hemmed in by those rocky giants. He wondered why the villagers had decided to settle here in the first place.