Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

“Stop calling it a dragon. It’s not a real dragon! You told me we were going to fight a dragon!”

“You can make it as big as you want in your ballad, the bigger, the better. Don’t go diminishing people’s fears. They’ll hate you for it. I thought you wanted to bring light into people’s lives. You don’t make people feel better by calling them cowards.”

“I bet you weren’t even in the Chaos War,” Dayn said.

“Yes, I was!”

Kresean whirled his horse around and grabbed Dayn by the shirtfront.

“Don’t you judge me! You have no idea what it was like. No idea what we went through! You would have run, too. Do you know what it’s like to hold your best friend in your arms as the life seeps out of him? Have you ever seen a dozen of your comrades cut down all at once? Blood flying through the air? No! You’ve never even handled a sword! Don’t propose to tell me how to be a hero!”

Dayn was shocked. He’d never seen this side of the man before. He looked at his horse’s mane. “You’re right. I haven’t seen those things.”

“We each have our specialty, Dayn,” Kresean said, gentle again. “Yours is singing. Use it for something good. People need something to believe in.”

“But-”

“After all, their dragon is dead-”

Dayn shot him a sharp look.

Kresean chuckled. “Okay, I mean the big lizard is dead. I’m just asking you to embellish the deed a little, for their sake and ours. Let them think they were saved by a hero. It’s better that way for everybody.”

Dayn frowned, and said nothing else on the ride back. He thought about what Kresean said. He had to admit that the warrior had a point. Songwriting was about embellishing. It was about delivering the most magical moments from real life to those who had very little magic in their own lives. Perhaps real life never matched up to the tales of bravery found in songs and stories.

As his voice slowly lowered on the last word of his new ballad, Dayn looked around at the villagers of Feergu. They were packed into every possible space in Chandael’s tavern, and each person’s face glowed. Dayn had sung his song masterfully, with just enough detail to make it realistic. There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire tavern. After Dayn stopped, there was a long, reverent pause. Applause exploded in the room. The entire floor shook with stomping feet. A few people got up, hooked arms and began dancing in circles. More beer was called for.

Kresean rose from where he sat and came over to Dayn. “How do you feel, my lad?”

Dayn was surprised to hear himself say, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Kresean tossed a bag of coins on the table in front of Dayn. “Fifty-fifty.”

“A little reward never hurts,” Dayn grinned, pocketing the coins.

The big man clapped him on the shoulder.

“I say we keep this up. Take it on the road, town to town. Your voice, my looks. There’s no telling where it will end. We could milk this partnership until we’re swimming in cream, until I’m a councilman in Palanthas and you’re singing for a king. Until-”

“Until a real dragon comes along?” Dayn offered.

“What?” Kresean raised an eyebrow warily, then realized Dayne was kidding. Kresean bellowed with laughter, and the young bard joined in. The celebrating villagers surrounded them with cheers, and they laughed until the tears ran down their faces.

“This is a gnome story, right?” asked Augie, staring over the rim of his tankard. There was derision in both his glare and his voice-they had traded a number of tales that evening, each more implausible than the last.

“Not exactly,” replied Brack, the older and more slender of the two sellswords.

The pair had met by chance in the tavern. They were veterans of separate units from the same side in the War of the Lance, now reduced to mere mercenary work in these years of chaos. As a youth, Augie had served in the personal guard of Verminaard himself, and Brack had been a lieutenant in the Green Dragonarmy. Now older, and presumably wiser, they chose their battles and their employers more carefully.

After a few moments of sizing each other up and determining that they had both fought for the same masters at one time, they slid into an easy conversation. They spoke of what regions would need their services, which wars and rumors of war would pan out, and the chaos they’d seen brought on the backs of the great dragons. The gnome wait staff brought the drinks quickly, and the dwarf at the bar kept a running tab.

Of course, over time, the conversation drifted to how the world in general had gone into the midden and that nothing was as good as it once was. This line of discussion quickly gave way (after a few more tankards) to stories of how things were in the old days.

Which of course brought Brack to mention of his last battle in the Green Dragonarmy, a disaster brought about in the pursuit of one man-or, to be more specific, one gnome and that gnome’s invention.

Which brought Augie’s question and Brack’s answer and Augie’s reply, “Whadayah mean, not exactly?”

Brack shifted in his chair, noted that his mug was more half-empty than half-full, and signaled to the serving gnome. He paused as the diminutive being brought him a full, foaming tankard, then continued, “I mean yes, it’s a gnome story, in that it’s about a gnome, but no, it’s not a gnome story because it’s not about a gnome at all.”

The big man’s bushy brows hovered over bleary eyes stained by many a drink that evening. “How can it be about a gnome and not about a gnome?”

“When the gnome does not exist,” said Brack, “but his greatest invention survives to this day. Let me explain.”

The patrol of hobgoblins, scouts in the service of the Green Dragonarmy, were having a bad time of it. Scouts were at their best in clear terrain and moderate climate, but ever since their invasion force had landed, they had been deluged by heavy rain and forced to reconnoiter through thick, bramble-filled overgrowth. Little to see, less to smell (other than wet hobgoblin), and nothing to report. They had been gone four days from the main encampment and were soaked to the skin. After a brief, heated discussion (the only heat the dozen creatures had experienced in three days), they decided to ascend one of the hills for a better view of the rain-damp fog.

“We shudda stayed in camp,” said one particularly large hobgoblin.

“And what?” growled another. “It’s just as marshy there. There’s a swamp where our bivvie should be.”

“At least then we don’t hafta march around in wet boots,” said the big one.

“At least yah have boots,” returned the sergeant, a scarred hobgoblin with one good eye. “When I first signs up, we had to do this barefoot.”

The big complainer bared his lower fangs, and the other hobgoblins assumed that a fight was coming and drifted into normal positions, a circle surrounding the sergeant and the big one. But the sergeant stared at the hobgoblin with an icy ferocity, and the big one closed his mouth and at last shook his head in agreement.

“Where we go?” said the big one, finally.

“Up,” replied the sergeant.

The ground grew no drier as they climbed the small tor. Indeed, it now had the added difficulty of being steep as well as damp. The hill was completely saturated, and the hobgoblins began to slip as they climbed. Their trail became a broad swath of mud-stained grass, and their armor was soon decorated with clumps of hanging sod.

“Where we going?” asked the big one again.

“Up,” said the sergeant.

“Down is easier,” said one of the smaller hobgoblins, which earned another icy glare from the one-eyed sergeant.