The low sun painted the sky in brush-stroked lazy flame shades as all the town gathered in a square at the base of the large cliff beneath the mayor’s manor. A hasty stage, just a step above the ground, stood waiting, and a crowd gathered as shops moved their wares into the streets in wagons and pop-up tents. The impromptu afternoon music of the day before and the Mayor’s invitation for Siegyrd and his troupe to perform had spread through the whispering vines of the town and produced a ripe fruit of anticipation.
Those who had caught even portions of the show at the Mad Martyr Inn shamelessly promoted its magnificence, and the troupe could no longer move around the town without requests or nods or smiles or cheers of excitement. When the three exited the mansion around midday the market area had been largely empty, but now it was a brilliant bustle of sounds and sights and new smells of fresh foodstuffs cooked for the festivities.
“A small town needs only the slightest reason to throw a party.” Mathin had said to them, “And you are more than a slight reason.”
Siegyrd, Aerendir, and Mareth hadn’t had much of a chance to discuss their next steps with the concert looming. Siegyrd sat at the base of the cliff, behind the stage, one leg up, one down, playing lightly upon his instrument which the surrounding crowds could not quite hear through the din. Aerendir held the greatsword which still held its invocation etched in black upon the blade. Mareth spun his clubstaff in his hand nervously.
“What are we going to do?” Mareth said, a bit of sweat on his brow.
Siegyrd’s eyes were closed as he played softly, a few notes here, a phrase of notes there, as he spoke, “Do what comes naturally, wizard. Though I know you do not like to use your powers for such silly ends. Perhaps you could stomp a beat for us?”
Aerendir boomed in, “The beat is my forte, don’t go giving that to the wizard.” He laughed his deep laugh.
“It’s not a joke. Gods below and maker above it's,” he tucked his staff under his arm and wiped the palms of his hands on his robes, “worse than preparing for battle.”
“You can just stand up there and look pretty then. It’ll be grand.” Siegyrd said between a few more flourishes on the violin.
A few small boys from the town carried sticks and ran up on the stage to pantomime a great battle. Some of the crowd watched, but most paid no mind. The leading boy, with a stick a bit longer than the rest and what looked like a linen table cloth for a cape made his best impression of a regal lord just as a smaller boy faked to stab him in the back. The twisted contortion of his face was a mocking seriousness as he sprawled out on the stage in tortured hollow, silent gasps, and then reached out to an insensate crowd for help.
Siegyrd looked up at the sun, just retreating into a starry night, and stepped on the stage next to the fake dying boy, giving him a little nod and saying, “Bravo. Bravo. A worthy introduction.” He winked, and the boy gawked but did not move.
Aerendir stepped on stage with a flourish of his dark cloak, tossing back the hood and letting his height and the bright silvery whiteness of his hair shine in the firelight and dimming light of day. Aerendir caught the boy’s eye, and this time, the boy jumped up, tucked his tablecloth cape around him and leapt from the stage rushing into the street whooping.
Whispers and commotion filled the air as people noticed the comers to the stage. Siegyrd looked down at Mareth who still stood behind, quaking.
“You’ve faced a diseased dragon rotted almost to the bones and covered in acidic scales, certainly you can step on a puny stage in a no name town.” Siegyrd said quietly.
“Ruthaivan, thank ye very much.” Said a cheeky fellow very close to the stage.
Siegyrd smiled a dazzling smile, and the man couldn’t help but smile with him. “Too true, friend. Ruthaivan.”
Mareth stood still.
Siegyrd wheeled to face the crowd and spread his arms wide as he held the violin in one hand and the bow in the other. He shouted, though it did not seem a strained shout. With the cliff behind him, his voice carried through the whole space. “Ruthaivan! Thank you for your fine and friendly welcome!”
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People crowded closer and closer, grabbing their food or drinks, and picking up their little ones trying to reach the stage.
“We do; however, have a friend of ours who is less than comfortable. Will you give him a particular welcome, a little encouragement. Please welcome our esteemed wizard, Marwolaeth!”
Aerendir began to clap and whopped once, and the crowd began to cheer as well.
Siegyrd “Well, Mareth. Please.”
Mareth, with a little more goading stepped on stage, and the clapping and cheering grew louder. A woman at the back whistled, and the wizard blanched.
Siegyrd moved close alongside Mareth and whispered, “Trust yourself, as you did yesterday. You may think it a waste, but this too is practice for battle for resonance and synchronicity.”
Mareth raised an eyebrow, but had no time to object as Siegyrd spun away with a flourish and drew his bow across the strings in a rapid succession of notes, and Aerendir stomped in a rhythmic pattern on the stage as he layered in base note singing as depth to Siegyrd’s melody.
Siegyrd sang in a foreign tongue, that no one knew though they did not seem to mind. There was a rhyming and alliterative pattern both running alongside each other, almost dueling with each other.
The image that flashed in Mareth’s head was just that, a duel. Illusions had never been his strength, but he wove a song of seeming into the air above the stage where a cloud appeared shaped as a single being split into two figures. A large steady man quick as lightning with a pinpoint blade flourished it in a duelists salute against the velvet backdrop of night. Little lights like eyes flickered in the cloudlike form. A smaller man, staunch and broad shouldered hefted a hammer and nodded in his own way. The forms were muddied at first, almost indistinct, but as the song progressed the image of the battle solidified in Mareth’s mind, and his song of seeming grew more detailed. A series of notes from the violin served to carve the illusion into an immaculate cut of the tall man’s jaw, a few bass notes filled in a beak on the helm of the shorter man. More notes from the violin shaped a fanciful handguard on the sword, a firm and subtle stomp combined into a raven’s head pommel on the hammer as it reached the end of a strike just missing its mark.
Mareth’s eyes were closed, his song all his being, as he heard and felt the songs around him pour through him and back out into the seeming. His eyes could not see, but everything was clear as crystal in his mind.
#
A broad field stretched as far as the eye could see from horizon-to-horizon bleeding as if with setting suns on every side. The detritus of a battlefield, slain upon slain, broken bodies and battered war engines were strewn across it. Flags, torn and weathered of at least seven varieties flew, or were stomped into the grounds, faded to blank gray where once great houses had placed their crests. What remained moving there were two men, locked in combat. A tall dark-haired dark eyed monster of a man, a head taller than any other man Mareth had seen, wielded a rapier that seemed made of some kind of black crystal that exuded dark radiance. A shorter man in thick armor, dwarven craft with a raven’s beak helm, wielded a hammer that looked as though it would quake all the worlds, made of a solid white metal.
The tall man lunged forward, extending his reach. The dwarf allowed the blow to glance off his large heavy pauldrons and spun with ease to swing out his hammer one-handed inside and extending his own reach. He caught the tall man in the side and sent him reeling backward. The large man rolled, caught himself and was back on his feet and shifting directions again, little the worse for wear.
The tall man drew a dagger from the night and tossed it flippantly at the dwarf’s visor. The dwarf batted it away with the hammer, losing sight for a split second and the tall man, knee slide from the side and attempted a slash at the dwarf’s knee. It caught part of the knee armour, but sunk in just past the cap creating a small cut. The dwarf roared and stepped sideways, turning to keep the larger man in view as his leg buckled.
The rapier twisted in the man’s grip and he contorted to pierce toward the visor gap. The dwarf slipped his head left just in time and grabbed the blade of the crystal sword with a gauntleted hand. He pulled the taller man in and made a swing with the hammer. The man released his rapier entirely and let the hammer strike downward into the ground, burying deep and sending an earthquake crashing through the stone which opened the ground and swallowed bodies, gear, siege engines, all.
The man drew a knife and used his left hand to twist it between the plates of the dwarf’s armour, just beneath the armpit. The dwarf howled in pain, and Mareth knew it was a fatal blow. He felt a deep sadness at the blow, as if something beautiful had been ripped from him, as if all the world would go to ash and be blown away by oblivion winds. But then the dwarf dropped his hammer and clamped his arm downward on the wound and the man’s extended hand and arm. The dwarf’s grip was a vice. The man tried to pull back, but he was helpless to escape.
The dwarf turned the crystal blade in his hand, and headbutted the man as he tried to grasp for it again. With a final effort, the dwarf used the man’s own blade and drove it through his heart. The tall man gasped and choked, a fire in his eyes giving way to tears and then to the silence of the soul echoed in an empty shell. The dwarf let the man slump to the ground, releasing his arm. He took one step away, withdrew his helmet, smiled up at the sky, sank to his knees, and then his head fell upon his chest, and he too was gone.
#
The sound of the cheering crowd reached Mareth over an immense distance, as if heralding from another world, and then suddenly he was there, fully aware and awake to himself, standing with his hands raised. Above him on a spinning cloud carved with immaculate detail was the still scene of the dwarf and the man, both fallen on the field of battle.
“Why cheer?” Mareth said, fighting back tears.
Siegyrd smiled, “because they already moved past the sadness of the tale, into the joy of witnessing it retold. Of being part of a magnificent show.”
Mareth looked around and saw that many faces were damp from tears, though they were now ecstatic with praise for the show. “How do you do this so freely? My heart would break.”
“The trick is to be a conduit for the tale, not to relive the tale. Let it pass through you. Don’t try to capture it, just guide, my friend.” Siegyrd said.
Aerendir strode up and placed a hand on Mareth’s shoulder, “That was immaculately done. You’ve a gift for the song.”
“Gift?” Mareth’s eyes were somewhat dazed, and he stumbled. The crowd gasped briefly, but Siegyrd caught him.
“Never fear friends, our magnificent wizard will return, for now let’s let him rest, and I will play another tune.” Siegyrd said.
Aerendir nodded and helped Mareth off the stage as Siegyrd began to play a fiddle tune, lively and fun, an old favorite of the world of men. Soon the whole crowd was singing along.