“If the lie comes full circle, it becomes the truth,

If your enemies find out, keep lying, forsooth!

For the sworn lie is love in the hearts of the true,

And without it, the people, they’d never love you.”

— The Ballad of Sir Joe, by “Golden-Voiced” Garbeaux.

Sitting with Aimee we watched the sunrise, with a rainbow arcing over it, while seated atop our perch, covered in a cotton sailcloth. I breathed in deep, “if only I still had a lute … I’d search for the melody and the words to do this beautiful morning justice.”

Aimee scrunched up her face, did a double take and looked at me, “Oh, yeah, you, a Bard, don’t have an instrument. I never thought about it. Why is that?”

“Ah,” I began, “so you don’t know that story?”

“I do not.” Aimee smiled, her Elvish features catching the light marvelously.

“Ah. Well, short story, sad story; Joe and I were in the depths of this cavern dungeon. All about us were Troglodytes, my sinuses were completely closed from one catching me full in the face with his rectal spray.”

“What!?” Aimee drew back in amused disgust, “Trog stink comes from … there!?”

“Pretty much.” I said, “Think of a skunk’s anatomy. Raise the tail and let ‘er rip. Well, as he is wont to do, Joe started grabbing things because the battle was too easy for him. He used a heavy rock, a still-living Trog, my lute and then started in strangling and crushing heads with his hands.”

Aimee laughed out loud, “Oh my gods! Joe just smashed it!?”

“I’m not sure it’s funny, Aimee. As a Bard I’m more disarmed sans instrument than I am sans sword.”

“I know, I know. But your delivery… Not to mention it sounds almost exactly like what he did in the Goblin Stronghold.”

I pondered, “true… The man did have a way of repeating himself.”

“Oi, you great chunk of shit! Just try again to bite me … fuck!” growled McGrue as he grappled with our new teammate. Having gone nine months without pay sacrificing what little coin we squeezed out of the King’s coffers for a plowhorse was truly painful. Joe’s carriage, however, had previously been pulled by his “Mighty Steed”, a magic item he kept in his inaccessible bag of holding and whose magical word of activation we did not know. Why he didn’t want a “meat horse” he made clear; he didn’t want to love it, take care of it or pay someone else to take care of it.

He’d had exactly one real horse that I was aware of, a mare with the ironic name of “Rations”. Joe ate Rations. We were on the trail, not in any kind of trouble, not starving, he’d just found the miniature that summoned that damned fake horse and slaughtered Rations on the spot. He did that the very second he knew how to use the magic item. Never mind that I could have ridden that horse as he rode Mighty Steed, meaning that we could go faster than my walking pace. Gods forbid he should ever let anything bring anyone around him closer to his level. That sort of thing never occurred to the greatest hero in the known worlds.

McGrue worked the bridle into our new horse’s mouth. He was the wrong kind of horse; wrong breed, wrong size, wrong upbringing, wrong training, wrong everything except for the price The farmer selling him didn’t want him anymore on account of “the biting problem”.

Brushing the dust from his hands, “There! I trust we won’t have any more problems then?” and he feinted at a right cross to the horse, which recoiled, raising a hoof like a bare-knuckle boxer ready for the next swing. The damned thing literally started fighting McGrue the moment the first strap and buckle went about its neck and, to his credit, McGrue basically won a brawl with a giant animal that, afterwards, cooperated with his desires. “What to name ye…” he pondered. “Grizzly? Oi, guys, is ‘Grizzly’ a good name for a horse?”

“A horse or that horse?” asked Aimee.

“A ho–seriously? How many horses do we have, girl?” he sputtered.

“Oh yeah, that horse? Grizzly’s a good name. Grizzly the fur-hoofed horse.” She was having a little fun with our situation, which wasn’t great. Aimee, like me, was clinging to life by a bad plan for fear that failure would be worse.

“Can we back him up into the yoke then? No way I’m strong enough to push the carriage to him.” I stated. “And as for the name we should discuss it more.”

McGrue reached for the reins, received a headbutt for his trouble, grunted, stepped to the side and started to pull. When not challenged head-on the horse was less difficult. “Yeah, yeah, you take a hoof to the sternum and come back swingin’ then you get to decide. You’re startin’ to sound like one of those damned Democrasists.”

“Oh, don’t say that word!” said Aimee, worried.

I, on the other hand, was a little confused; “I’m sorry but I don’t follow. Demon what now?”

McGrue continued edging the horse back though it jostled him repeatedly, still wanting to fight. “The King, the guard, everybody in authority is starting to crack down on…” McGrue checked all around to make sure nobody could hear then whispered “...voting. They’re saying it’s … what was it? ‘Deleterious to the Crown’? Supposedly it’s because of this underground organization called the Democrasists. Do they exist? I dunno.”

“I still don’t get it. I wasn’t voting. How did this come up?”

McGrue breathed hard with the effort of yoking the horse, “You don’t have to, that’s the problem. All you need is to have a discussion in which everybody has a say in what will happen, like naming a stupid, violent plowhorse.” The horse tried to bite McGrue, was foiled by the bit in its mouth, “Uff! Dammit!” and got a fist to the neck for its trouble. “We can decide among us what the name is but if we do that within earshot of a guard we will be arrested.”

I was gobsmacked, “But that … that’s stupid! Why haven’t I heard this before?”

“Innit though? We was listening to Joe, day in and day out, this is in the last couple months. Luckily I have friends outside the Guild so I actually hear things. So yeah … we can discuss it, but later. Now let’s get out of here.” He tightened the yoke down and started inspecting the carriage. “Eh, still nobody about, I think it’s safe to load up the biggest package.”

Understanding, Aimee and I stood up from our bench. McGrue approached, pointed to one end and grabbed the heavier one; Joe’s upper body. “He was a terrible boss,” I whispered, “but he does make an okay bench.” I gave my fellows a grin that was probably a little too gleeful. This felt like payback and payback was far too long delayed.

Aimee dashed ahead of us, getting into the carriage. She wasn’t strong but she did help to direct Joe to where she felt he needed to be and around obstacles inside. Still mummified in his casket of canvas Joe sat there like the corpse he was.

“Joe, mate, you comfy? Yeah, you comfy.” asked McGrue of our long-gone employer.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“He can’t hear you.” said Aimee. “I recalled the spell already.”

“I know he can’t hear me but … you what now?” McGrue furrowed his brow.

She chuckled, “What? I recalled … you know, ‘Recall Consumable’? You didn’t really think I used up both those Walking Dead scrolls already did you? One just to walk him outside? I’m stretching those things as far as I can.”

“This isn’t something I’ve heard of either.” I chimed in. “Care to enlighten?”

“Okay, I guess. Feels like I’m explaining myself all the time now” She cleared her throat,. “When a Hedge Wizard uses an item meant to be used only once but the effect hasn’t expired they can, y’know … grab the magic and, y’know, push it back into the item it came from.”

Both of us were surprised by this one. “Luv,” started McGrue, “that sounds incredibly dangerous!”

She blew a frustrated raspberry, “Uh, yeah! Half of what a Hedge Wizard does is dangerous, genius. For every spell I cast I have to prevent a backlash and avoid releasing the magic into the world where it can do what it wants without me! Considering that I was forbidden from practicing for a year though I think I’m doing pretty damned good.”

“Oh, you are!” I volunteered, not wanting to anger the obviously annoyed Hedge Wizard.

“Of course, Aimee, we’re just concerned.” McGrue leaned in, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“No need.” she said. “You’ll know when it’s time to be concerned, okay? So long as I don’t try to use the same scroll or potion or what have you twice on the same day it should keep working. If there’s a backlash we’re all getting blasted. If the magic gets free, well … just run when I run. Okay?”

“Uh … okay?” said McGrue, not at all comforted.

After that the three of us finished loading our lives into that carriage, sad at the sight of how little we had. We were meant to be heroes assisting the greatest champion of the realm. When Joe’s legend was told anything said of us would have to be lies. Before Joe died we were useless, there only for him to bilk the King out of massive amounts of coin. Now that he’s dead Joe’s further glory would be manufactured, our parts downplayed. What price glory? High, but one we were ready to pay.

“So what is the plan,” asked Aimee, getting comfortable. McGrue likewise turned to face me, the party leader.

“As you both know, the King has sent us on a mission with great rewards, but our funds are presently quite limited,” I began. They both nodded. “Additional supplies and equipment could be greatly beneficial.”

“Okay,” said McGrue carefully.

“What you don’t know is that Sir Joe has an estate,” I said.

McGrue looked shocked, “We always stayed in the city, I assumed that Joe didn’t have any property.”

“Nope, he was gifted an estate before I started working with him, we only swung by it once and never stopped, but I know where it is,” I said.

Aimee grinned, “I knew we kept you around for a reason. What do you think he keep there?”

“Again, I don’t know but he disappeared enough times that he must have gone back there at least once,” I said. “And given that we didn’t find any of his vast wealth so far.”

“He probably dumped at least some of it in his estate,” said Aimee. “Gab, I could kiss you. I won’t, but I could.”

“Alright, so, Gab, you know where the estate is then?” clarified McGrue.

This grabbed my attention away from my dark introspection, “Ah, yes. One moment.” I’d purchased a five copper map of the countryside, a woodcut pressed in black paint onto a small, dirty piece of repurposed sailcloth. A poor artisan sold them to pay for his materials. His work was actually excellent, resplendent oil landscape and still life on fine canvas but his low class kept most folk with an appetite for art at bay. I presented the map to McGrue.

“What’s … are these the roads around Fenreal?” He laid the map across his thigh as he sat in the carriage’s driver’s seat.

Whipping out my lead pencil I scribbled a circle at the end of one of the side roads illustrated, “This is our destination.”

“Ah, is it then? No village marker or anything? Map’s pretty detailed … all the local villages and farms have symbols.”

I laughed, shaking my head, “Joe didn’t want people to know where his land holdings are. Would you?”

“Not if it was full of treasure,” said Aimee.

McGrue leaned back with a “clunk”, leaned forward, unslung his ax and laid it at his feet, “If I were that bastard I’d hide my shit too. His fans would probably set up a shanty town outside his walls and his political enemies … well, if any weren’t scared to move…”

“Right?” I agreed. “Someone has to have known his … limitations, right? He was guarded against any plots in the city but out there in the wilderness…

“Yeah…” mumbled McGrue. Well, enough talk. You ridin’ next to me? Might like the company.”

My heart thrilled a bit at this; I’d always assumed that McGrue disliked me. Maybe it was because we were in the same boat with our deception, “Not as yet, but thank you. I’ll start our journey with Aimee and, y’know, Joe. Make sure everything’s going, ah, smoothly. We won’t reach the estate until nightfall so I’ll come up front midway, maybe we can all stop and eat. There’s a tavern midway there.

McGrue glanced at the map again, “Ah, so there is. Fine. But get in now. Daylight’s burnin’.”

Pulling the door open I ducked inside, coming face-to-face with Joe! Uncovered, helmet up, eyes open, skin clear and perfect, “Ah! Dragonballs!”

Aimee giggled as McGrue leapt down and squeezed his head in, “What is it?” He was wielding his ax. I pointed and he got a good look at Joe. “What … what is this? Is he…?” Looking to Aimee we both questioned her with our eyes.

“Oh, I got you boys. I wasn’t even trying either.” She chuckled anew, “I cast cure wounds on him, silly. I substituted a pinch of McGrue’s herbal mix for the material component and substituted dead flesh for living in the casting, boom, ‘repair corpse’.”

“But … how!?” I asked, my voice cracking in comedic fashion.

“What do you mean?” asked Aimee. Studying my face she understood. “You still don’t get how a Hedge Wizard does things. Oh, I don’t know, Garbeaux, can a musician play music without reading sheet music?”

“Well, yes.”

“Right,” she said, “and when he goes back to that same song he’s played before it might be a little different, note out of place here or there, but it’s the same song. Or, he can find other notes that work but convey something similar. That’s what we do with magic.”

“So…” I struggled, “jamming but with magic instead of musicians?”

“He looks alive. This is creepy.” muttered McGrue.

“He does,” said Aimee, “but that’s because I cast gentle repose first. Preserve the body first, repair it second, good for a day.” Reaching up she pulled the helmet down over Joe’s face again. Unbalanced, the limp corpse slid down until Joe lay leaning against the right carriage wall.

We gentlemen both nodded, good enough, McGrue ducked out. I, however, still had a question left, “So what magic have you left for the day?”

Sighing, Aimee understood the subtext. Hedge Wizards had less power to work with in general in terms of magic. Innovations like changing the effect of cure wounds raised the effective level of the spell by a lot, “Not much. Is that what you wanted to hear? We still have the second Walking Dead scroll for getting Joe into the Estate.

“Good enough.” I smiled, not wanting to seem critical. With a whinny the carriage started to move, the plowhorse objecting to its first day of work as carthorse. As quickly as we started we stopped again. A sharp crack and a plume of dust erupted from the front wall of the carriage, around Joe, and Aimee and I looked at each other.

Outside, “You fucking lump of unharvested beef! You will not kick this carriage! You are about ten seconds from eating an ax blade!”

More horse vocalizations including, I could swear, growling. Crack. Another kick. More dust. I looked to Aimee with a wan smile, “it’s probably fine?”

“I will end you!” and a weight left the front end of the carriage. More horse noises, meaty smacks, cries of pain and the carriage jostled continuously. “You think that hurts!?” McGrue shouted and everything fell still. “Now this … this would hurt…”

Aimee and I stared each other in the eye, not the romantic joining of souls that eye contact can be, but the fear of knowing McGrue and of having not even begun our journey. “I … am sure …. He has it under control…”

“One more kick.” We heard McGrue. “One more time and I rip them off. Now I’m getting back in my seat and you will pull this fucking carriage. Got it?”

Another few seconds and we were rolling along smoothly. Aimee and I sat rigid for several minutes thereafter. An inauspicious beginning to our journey.