The Bard

I’d always imagined flying would be a breathtaking experience. Freedom embodied in the form of muscle, bone, and rushing wind. Battling gravity and winning; if only for a little while. This was certainly the case when there was a way to see what you were doing.

But this? Plunging into a pit of blackness with only the occasional glowing crystal for light?

Fuck no. This was terrifying. Breathtaking for all the wrong reasons.

Biting back a scream, I clung to the warrior’s arms. I tried to think of how I could have avoided this. Something I could have done or said.

I’m sorry. My father said to wait at least a lifetime before diving head-first into a pit of blackness after a meal.

Lovely as your home sounds, I’m afraid I’m allergic to gravity-induced speeds. Can I take a rain check?

Writer spare me, This plan had gone so sideways.

Interminable moments passed as we glided down. My eyes were useless, leaving me only with the sensation of falling head-first without end. Further, further, and further again we went; completely at the mercy of the warrior’s strong leathery wings.

My heart ticked an ungodly number of seconds by, bile rising in my throat. Wind rushed in my ears, cutting off all other sounds. There was a vague sense of other flying bodies nearby as the warrior bobbed and weaved between them.

Leveling.

Rising.

Rotating.

Falling again.

There was certainly a path that the Gray Eyes knew by heart, but there was no chance in the Hells I would ever make sense of it. Between the blackness, my watering eyes, and the desperate need to vomit, it was a miracle that I stayed conscious.

And this brought me to one conclusion. Listening to stories was amazing. Being in the stories was a nightmare.

Finally, the warrior’s wings fanned out, slowly lowering us to a stony ledge that loomed over a larger drop into blackness. A single small crystal the size of a candle gave off feeble light near the wall. I could barely make out other dark tunnels leading to different parts of the Chasm. Some openings were larger than the Skywater water palace doors, while others had room for only one person. The air carried the faint odor of lichen and other plant life, the humidity surprisingly warm and nice on my frost-bitten skin.

Still bound, I was lowered to the stony floor on watery knees. I didn’t miss how gently he did it. Every story I’d heard about Gray Eyes described how they were ruthless killers, and crossing them was a death wish. But they hadn’t just killed us on sight like some tales claimed. There had clearly been some strategy other than that. Some anterior motive long before they emerged from the coffin-sized crevice. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, and had used restraint in their fight. Formations and pre-planned blows.

Which had completely blown my plan of slipping away while Black Pegasus was torn apart.

So that begged the question as to how long they’d known we were here? Why hadn’t they killed us?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted those answers. Regardless though, I was still breathing. And that meant I still had to get to the Ethereal Forest near Tumblend. The Writer had given me that message for a reason, and it was thanks to these Gray Eyes that I would get a chance to fulfill it.

Not quite brutes after all, I thought as I assessed my injuries. There was a tiny cut in my side from the warrior’s knife as well as bruises and various cuts from walking along the crust of the Source Chasm. But otherwise I was unharmed.

The same couldn’t be said for my former captors.

There was only enough light to discern the silhouettes of the three other warriors. They landed gracefully next to us, each carrying the members of Black Pegasus. The warrior had wrapped each of them in their cloaks, presumably to keep them from struggling during the flight. All of them were groaning in pain as they were set down. Were they not a bunch of kidnapping bastards, I would have felt bad for them. Getting your shit pushed in by a Gray Eyes and then being thrown head-first into the Source Chasm couldn’t have been a fun way to spend an evening.

“Where…Where are you taking us?” asked one of them, Stick likely from the voice. The vague silhouette cradled her head as she sat up, swooning with the motion. The others were barely conscious, only turning their heads to look at the warriors vaguely.

The Gray Eyes looked at one another, continuing their silent communication.

Suddenly, they all stood straighter, almost at attention. Tension lined every muscle as their gazes simultaneously wandered to a deeper part of the Chasm, their heads inclining.

After a moment, they snapped to attention as one, their claws coming up to touch their throats with fingers straight.

A salute? I wondered, realizing they weren’t just talking to one another. Based on the incline of their heads, they were focused on someone else further away.

“Where are you taking us?” Stick repeated, pushing herself to a standing position, swaying, and nearly falling again.

They looked at her, leathery wings and broad shoulders squared. After a beat of silence, one stepped forward.

“My name is Baret. You will answer my questions, surface-landers,” The Gray Eyes said, his voice a lethal quiet. Like a claw sharpening on stone.

Stick’s silhouette bristled, but he loomed over her. No room for negotiation. No question as to who was in control.

”Why are you trespassing here when others in your group used the main Chasm?” He asked bluntly.

“W-We were just—“ Stick began, her silhouette sitting a bit taller. She was interrupted as the warrior bent down until their faces were inches apart.

”No. Lies.”

Stick swallowed audibly, swaying with the concussion I’m sure she was fighting off. Her mouth opened and closed without reply for a moment, but the aching in her head seemed to make her settle on simplicity.

“We’ve come to see the Night Garden Gate,” she said, a hand coming up to cradle her head.

”Tch.”

The snort escaped me before I realized it. Their heads snapped to me, low light making their eyes glitter in their silhouettes. I looked down, letting the space settle to silence. I couldn’t help myself. I’d known Black Pegasus wasn’t entirely sane, but this was a new level of madness.

I may love stories as much as any Bard, but even I knew the Night Garden Gate was a myth. Something created by fanatics obsessed with Death which thankfully didn’t work. A fantastical lie built on kernels of half-truths. We Bards knew it had to be.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

If it were true, then the world would have ended by now.

But Baret apparently didn’t know that.

His hand darted out, fisting in Stick’s tunic.

”See it, or use it?” He asked as if I had never spoken. Standing to his full height again, he dragged Stick up until her toes tickled the floor. My heart skipped a beat as he spoke. He couldn’t be serious. Was he actually entertaining them?

“The Gate doesn’t belong to you! We will see it!” Sack Pox growled, pushing himself to a half-sit. His words came at a rasp as he struggled for breath.

”It was built by Black Pegasus a thousand years ago! The Far Shore now calls to all! Our Goddess has need of us! You can’t stop us from—“ he went on before breaking off in a cough. I heard him spit something up. Probably blood.

”All that is here is my Empress’s to command,” said Baret calmly, not moving an inch, “Humans that know not what they tamper with are not welcome,”

He stopped with a shake of his head, waiting patiently for Sack Pox to finish hacking.

“Why do you surface-landers keep coming here? You have been warned many—”

“Naught se vine en ter…”

The warrior halted mid-sentence, looking perplexed as the eerie words prowled in the darkness.

All of Black Pegasus began to speak together, their gazes tracked toward Baret. He, along with the rest of the Gray Eyes stood tall, drawing their weapons. But the motion was sluggish, their hands uncoordinated on their hilts.

But BlackPegasius was still chanting.

The warriors began to advance on their captives, but their motions quickly grew staggering. They moved as if controlled by two puppeteers who wanted two entirely different things.

Eyes wide, I glanced between them as the ancient tongue went on. I knew this language. Every Bard did, though we seldom had the opportunity to use it without threat of death. But as long as I could remember, we were the only ones who knew how.

Rooted to the spot as I listened, Black Pegasus went on.

“Perde tu no ese necre uun…”

The air began to hum. I grunted as my Story Mark began to writhe on my skin, drawn to their words. And as the words left their lips, I finally understood why they were here, why they needed me, and why it needed to happen here.

I couldn’t let it happen.

And then I was moving, my legs gathering beneath me with athleticism I didn’t own.

Gods, I wished I had my cello.

“Ana Mare! De Circe per afere!” I bellowed over them, and I felt power within me shining. My lungs swelled, trying to drown out their words with my voice. They were novices, but Elder Speech was an old friend of mine. It would obey me, not them. I didn’t give a shit how many of them there.

But Baretand his warriors were still standing still, still looking dazed as Black Pegasus slowly began to rise. One of the warriors began to turn his knife on himself, the blade catching wicked light as it aimed toward his breast.

No, no, No!

“Ana Mare! De Circe per afere!” I screamed again, my hands scraping as I pressed toward Baret. My hands reached for his sword, which had clattered to the stone. He too was unsheathing his small dagger, and turning the blade toward his throat.

My hands circled around the sword, even as my own limbs grew tired. My thoughts clouded. Black Pegasus’s hellish chorus was echoing inside my skull. Beckoning. Calling for me.

And then it wasn’t hellish at all. It was a haunting, beautiful melody. Sweet as honey, and twice as smooth. Some distant part of me knew they were still using Elder Speech, but my mind heard the common tongue.

“Never worry, dearest one…”

No! They wouldn’t do this to me. They wouldn’t do this to anyone. Driving my nails into my arm until it bled, the warmth of the chant faded. It was like wading through and icy lake. Wading through it so long that you like the cold. That the cold of the water had turned warm, and coming up for air seemed far colder.

Even if you were drowning.

But I knew better. And I had to break the surface.

Blood made a gentle tap tap tap on the stone as my finger dug and dug, the nails biting through tissue to muscle. It worked. I could hear both the languages mixing in my head now, my temples pounding.

“Let your waking mind rest…”

Fuck off, I thought to it. The entity of the words. You’re mine.

And that was when rage filled me, pure and cleansing as fire.

I was a Bard, and this was my Gods-damned language. My art. My culture. Only we spoke it, and it had purpose. These bastards had no right to pervert it this way.

The Source Steel sword in my hands was heavy. I heaved it with both hands, as Baret pierced his leather armor, seeking his heart.

“ANA MARE! DE CIRCE PER AFERE!” I screamed again, filling every channel of the Chasm. Using every molecule of air in my lungs.

Incantations always were best in groups of three.

Baret’s eyes cleared just in time for me to swing the sword. Stick stumbled back as I did, breaking the rhythm of the others.

It was a terrible swing, missing entirely. I wasn’t a warrior. In fact, this was the first time I’d ever held a full sword. Any half-fledged trainee would have been able to disarm me before I lifted it an inch. It bought less than a second.

But it was enough.

Baret and the others pressed forward, slamming their fists into the guild members as they lost the flow of Elder Speech. They crumbled to the ground with each concussive hit. Baret recoiled afterward, his hands clutching his skull. The other warriors seemed less affected, merely shaking their heads. Clearly Baret had been the main target. They glanced at one another in their silent language, but Baret massaged his eyes. He shook his head like a dog trying to clear water from his ears.

Elder Speech was how we made Story Marks, and only we Bards could do so. Only we could convince the story to take residence on our skin. A piece of history to carry with us. It was a dance of using our tools to write while the Elder Speech coaxed the story to take residence with us. Little pieces of life inscribed in ink and flesh.

Persuasive as a siren.

Forbidden as sin when used for any other reason. Black Pegasus had now offended me to my core.

It was one thing to kidnap me, starve me, and make me shake with cold and fear. But never come for my art.

I would make them pay. If I got the chance.

Panting, I let Baret’s sword drop again as the after-affects took hold. My skull was splitting, making it harder to see than before. Everything seemed two-dimensional, as if a beginner artist had painted the world in dull grays and black.

“You,” Baret said quietly, standing over me as he massaged his temple, “Explain.”

Blinking against the pain, I looked up at him with my brows knitted, but I was spared from answering as one of the other warriors laid a hand on Baret’s shoulder.

”Sir,” he said, little more than a deep whisper.

Baret loosed a breath through his nose, looking to the other Gray Eyes.

”The Empress is nearly ready,” he said, nodding his head toward Black Pegasus and myself, aiming toward where Stick was sprawled.

Baret’s face became blank, unreadable as he glanced back at the woman on the stone.

“W-what are you doing?” She asked around a grunt of pain. Baret said nothing, pulling her up by the cloak still clasped around her throat. He began to drag her toward the edge leading into more blackness. For several seconds there was only the sound of her boots dragging on the rough floor.

There was something beyond it though. Feint voices drifting up from the darker tunnel.

”Where are you taking me?” Stick asked, still barely able to speak with her bruised diaphragm. And Baret still carried to the edge.

Closer. Closer.

“The air tower. Then Death’s angels will see you to the Hells.”

Stick was fighting now, writhing in his grip, but her arms were wrapped tight in her cloak. I could just barely see the outline of the black winged stallion embossed on the fabric as they passed the glowing crystal.

Baret barely registered her struggle. His shoulder stayed relaxed, his grip firm around her as they drew nearer and nearer.

Stick’s silhouette was just barely visible against the gloom of the caverns, the largest one yawning below. The one the voices were coming from.

She was screaming now. Begging. Bartering.

It fell on deaf ears.

She was still screaming as Baret tipped her over the edge.

Still screaming as she fell.

And fell.

And fell.

A soft thud, and the screaming stopped.