Holsley turned to face the crowd, fingers poised on his magical lute and instantly froze.
‘Oh yeah,’ he breathed.
With the chaotic tumult of the pasty twenty-four hours, Holsley could be forgiven for forgetting a few things. Stuff like putting his shirt on the right way round that morning or eating something just in case it was going to be a rough day ahead, or perhaps the fact that he had genuinely debilitating stage fright.
In Petty’s Nest, a crowd of ten had been enough to make him falter. Here, there must have been at least three hundred people huddled around the gallows.
Seconds felt like hours, and Holsley was caught like a startled cat in a hallway. His hands became clammy, his stomach felt like it might turn inside out at any moment. He tried to think, tried to move, but all that came to mind was the pressure of the situation and the way everything now revolved around him.
The crowd waited patiently for something to happen, and when that something was not forthcoming, they began to whisper to one another. Pretty soon, if Holsley’s experience were anything to go by, they would become slowly frustrated, then quickly angry, and then someone would throw the first punch.
‘Well?’ Kythos called from the sidelines. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Just play something, his thoughts screamed at him. Anything.
‘Holsley.’ It was Roland’s voice behind him, cutting through the chaos. ‘It’s okay. Just take a breath and try not to think.’
One finger plucked a string. It was the wrong one. Holsley took a breath. The same finger plucked another string, this time the right one. He had a magical lute, he told himself, that alone should give him the confidence to play.
Except it didn’t.
Initially, the elves hadn’t wanted to teach him the sleeping song, stating it was too complicated for him to learn. However, Holsley had insisted after learning of its author, the one and only Marlin Mandrovi. They said he couldn’t practice it properly since elves were immune to sleeping charms, but Holsley had hopelessly studied it anyway.
Not once had he ever successfully played it.
Just over a day ago, Holsley had imagined storming the stage, as he had today, and putting as many tubheads to sleep as possible with this unbelievable tune. Afterwards, he’d rescue Roland, and they’d flee before anyone could do anything. In reality, what happened was more or less the exact opposite of what he intended.
Holsley played as best he could from his memory alone and hit a foul note — that one string on the lute that seemed ill-tuned. The song abruptly finished without even a hint of magic being teased out of the strings, and when Holsley went back to the beginning, he was met with a chorus of boos.
There were many things a magical lute could fix, but it couldn’t fix you outright forgetting the song. It just made playing it more comfortable, relaxing, easier even. It was when Holsley fished out the screwed-up notes from his pocket that Kythos stepped in to end it.
‘That’s enough!’ he sparked towards Holsley. Kythos commanded the tubhead’s around the stage with a quick gesture. ‘Wrap this bloody grubber in chains!’
The guards approached. Holsley turned to Roland, who gave the bard a small, forlorn smile. This wasn’t at all how the young bard had hoped it would go.
‘Plan B.’ Holsley dug into his trousers and pulled out the gnarled wand. The crowd gasped at the sight of it, and the tubheads each took a wary step back. Tressa was cagey of magical items on the best of days, so they knew enough to know a dangerous one when they saw it.
Wands were powerful, unpredictable, and capable of things beyond their limited imaginations. It was precisely the reaction that Holsley had wanted, and it bought him some time to act. Deciding what to do with the wand was the next problem. What exactly was he supposed to do now that he had everyone’s attention?
‘Are we really to believe that’s a wand?’ Kythos laughed, putting a few of the tubheads at ease. ‘Where exactly would a little grubber like you get a wand from?’
‘A wizard.’ Holsley swung the wand around toward Kythos and gave it a little flourish. It was a desperate move that he hoped would send the tubhead screaming and keep the others away. Holsley had hoped they would back down at the sight of it, but he guessed now he would have to summon the explosive flames and show them it was real.
Very reluctantly, he skipped Plan B and went right to Plan Z instead.
That old man back in the Crooked Hat had said the wand was one charge short of being useless. So, he’d have to make it count. Holsley would summon a small bolt, blasting Kythos in the chest, and pretend afterwards that the wand was still primed. The tip sparked, but nothing happened. Holsley tried again, but still nothing more than a few sparkles.
Tubheads advanced on him. They grabbed a hold of him, but he managed to slip through them thanks to the ring. Behind him was a wall of people, and around him, there was the gallows with a mingling of guards on all sides. Nowhere to run. It was only a matter of time before someone got wise and shot him with an arrow.
Desperately, he tried the wand again. Nothing.
Tubheads squared up their maces and got ready to beat submission into him.
In frustration, Holsley threw the wand in their direction. It bounced off one of their helmets with a metallic ping before hitting the ground underfoot. Holsley didn’t know if what happened next had been intentional or not, but a tubhead then stepped on the magical device. The wand snapped in two beneath their heavy boot, and that sealed the fate of every person within the square.
Holsley was up one second and on the ground behind him the next. An ear-shattering explosion had rocked the earth. Screams erupted from the crowd as they frantically scattered, seeding chaos as they scrambled away from the bard, and when Holsley opened his eyes a second later, he saw why.
The gallows were on fire.
***
Roland wasn’t quite sure what to make of what had just happened.
The rogue still stood with his neck bound in a rope but was now surrounded by a wall of fire that was spreading quickly. The gallows had gone up like dry wood on a bonfire, and if he didn’t do something quickly, he’d be caught up in an ironic twist. Whatever Holsley had planned when he had approached the stage had quite clearly gone to pot.
He struggled against the chains. Nothing had changed there. He was still wrapped up tight, and thanks to this rope, he was stuck right where he was standing over the trapdoor. Even if he dislocated his wrists, which he’d only managed to do once, he doubted there’d be enough room to slip them out, especially with his stone hand.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Things were looking dire.
Black smoke accompanied the fire and assaulted his lungs. He coughed. Give it another moment, and he’d be dead from inhaling too much smoke. Roland’s only chance lay in someone saving him.
‘Holly!’ He shouted the name and wheezed as more smoke wormed down his windpipe.
‘H-Holly!’ he babbled again, this time a little quieter. ‘I-I can’t get out!’
***
Don't leave me, Holsley.
Holsley’s body was rigid and unresponsive. The young bard lay on his back, chest riddled with pain, as he stared into the fire. He’d been blasted from the decking and onto the ground, which was now a prime spot to watch the bonfire rage.
Oh, how the flames danced as they charred the skilfully cut woodwork of the gallows. How they seemed to laugh and crackle at him as he looked back at them in a state of uncompromising fear. Again, he could hear the voice through the blaze calling out to him as he gazed into the unfathomable depths of the heat.
I don't want you to leave.
A disfigured hand reached out from the stage. Its flesh was charred and black, the skin melted, and the bloody fingers extended towards him. You can’t leave me, please. I’m going to die here.
Holsley’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes stung with tears. It felt as if some cruel spectre had placed his heart and lungs in a vice and were playfully crushing the organ with every passing second. He knew he should move, as he always knew, but he couldn’t work his legs.
Roland was dying in there. That was a sobering thought. His best friend, whom he had come all this way to save, was burning right before his eyes on a makeshift stake that he had built, and there wasn’t anything he could do.
It’s happening again, he thought.
***
His lungs burned as the wheeze transformed into a hacking cough. Phlegm was cascading out of his mouth as he desperately tried to exhale the smoke and find a path to freedom. Roland could barely see, his eyes stung. The tubheads had flown from the stage, and by the sounds of it, the crowd had backed away as well and were now rushing about like headless chickens. All he could think, however, was if Holsley was okay.
All that was left to do was struggle, so that’s what he did. Roland wouldn’t go down without a fight. If he had to scrape his hands down to the bone, he’d get these damn manacles off. He couldn’t reach up to undo his noose with them on.
A silhouette appeared in the flickering flames. At first, he thought it might be the bard, but then Roland narrowed his teary eyes. The figure was too tall to be Holsley and seemed too lackadaisical in its approach. It sauntered through the blaze and stopped short of Roland. From the tattered cloak, piercing red eyes, and confident gait, Roland surmised that this was none other than the Hangman of Tressa.
That was it then, he thought. This was the end of it.
The rogue stood a little straighter, chin raised, but never once did he give up trying to escape his chains.
What would the people of Tressa say after this, he had to wonder? No doubt, they’d talk about how the strange fire had erupted, how smoke had obscured the area, and it would all be attributed to the sudden appearance of a wand, which would be attributed to stranger and stranger suspicions with each subsequent telling. There’d be very little of him left in the tall tavern tales.
The Hangman studied him. His face, and thus his motives, were hidden beneath a cowl. Roland tried to hold his breath, but it was clear that wouldn’t happen. He coughed again. Any moment now, the noose was going to tighten, and he was going to be hung after all.
Instead, he opened his eyes wide in surprise as the noose uncoiled itself. It slackened, unravelling, and suddenly Roland was free to retreat.
He raised an eyebrow.
In reply, the Hangman held up three fingers wrapped in worn leather gloves.
I wasn’t due to hang today, he realised quickly.
Without waiting another second, the Hangman receded into the flames, his cloak trailing behind him. For a moment, there were no flames, no smoke; it was just them. The Hangman faded back as if the wanting fire had consumed him. Looking past where his silhouette had been, Roland saw someone else.
Holsley.
Without the restraint of the noose around his neck, Roland awkwardly hopped off the gallows and rolled towards the bard just below the stage. Something was wrong. Holsley’s eyes were here, but his mind was miles away. He was staring into the fire as if he were hypnotised.
‘H-Holly,’ Roland choked out the word. No response. ‘Holsley!?’
There was no time. The fire had created a thick, concealing black fog around them that they could use to escape, but it had to be now. Right now. If the tubheads got organised in the chaos, they’d be strung up within the hour.
Despite that, though, he managed to smile. Holsley was wearing Fox’s ring — he’d noticed it earlier when the bard had slipped through the crowd. Without asking for permission, the rogue pulled it off the bard’s finger and slipped it onto his own. The manacles fell from his wrists with an infuriating ease. Roland was free, but he had to move if he wanted to stay that way.
He grabbed hold of Holsley’s lute in one hand and then threw the bard’s body over his aching shoulder with a groan.
‘Stop!’ Kythos’s voice boomed over the chaos. Roland turned and spotted the bloated tiefling standing on the gallows, glaring down at him from the other side of the fire. ‘Stop right there, Roland! If you flee, you’ll condemn your friend with you. I’ll make sure you both do more than hang! Do you hear me, you little grubber!?’
Roland’s mouth became a thin line.
‘I owe you something!’ Roland shouted back, shifting Holsley higher. ‘You wanted a small piece of the puzzle in return for one song, right?’
Kythos’s eyes widened, and he stood staring down at the rogue, waiting.
Roland grinned before he shouted, ‘I, and I alone, know the location of the Golden Keep.’
Kythos was dumbfounded, but Roland didn’t care. The rogue stole into the obscuring smoke and quickly planned their getaway. Most criminals, no doubt, would try to escape the Old Gate through the gates. Not Roland. Not the rogue who had staked out this place a hundred times and had thought about escaping it for one week straight.
Instead, he went where he knew the guards wouldn’t look. Roland stole over the cobblestones, steering away from the crowds and using the smoke as cover. His body was weak, and each step was tortuous, but his resolve was stronger than ever. Every now and then, he had to shift Holsley up, but otherwise, he managed it without complaint.
Roland collapsed around the first corner that was out of sight. He just about managed to gently roll Holsley off his shoulders, but it had been too much for him. The rogue buckled and fell onto his hands and knees as he began to violently hack up smoke. He couldn’t breathe, his eyes were stinging, and it felt like he might throw up.
A minute passed quickly, followed by another. Roland found his lungs again and wiped away the tears. They couldn’t stay here forever, but they had at least a little time. When he turned, he found Holsley pathetically wiping away the tears in his eyes with his shirt sleeve.
‘I couldn’t even move,’ the young bard muttered.
‘Are you okay?’ Roland stood up and took a peek around the corner. Some tubheads were frantically rushing about, still lost in the smoke, but no one was heading their way. It was chaos out there.
‘Yeah,’ Holsley breathed the word out. ‘I’m fine.’
‘We need to get into the sewers.’ Roland held out a hand to help the bard up, and Holsley took it gratefully. ‘There’s a grate just down this alley. If we use the ring, we can slip through the bars.’
‘Yeah.’ Holsley nodded.
Roland placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘You saved my life, Holly. Again. Sure, it’s pretty clear that things didn’t go to plan, but for now, it’s all worked out. Yeah?’
Holsley nodded again, sullenly.
‘Come on, I’m starving.’
Roland led Holsley to the grate, and with the help of the ring, both boys managed to squeeze through the narrow bars and drop into the sewers. The redrose lute had to be forced but just managed to fold through, along with Holsley’s leather satchel.
They were met with dirty ankle-deep water on the other side and foul smells that offered their noses no respite, but it was a damn sight better than being strung up.
The sewers that ran beneath the city were a complex system of tunnels. When they weren’t funnelling filth, they were being used as clandestine walkways for thieves. Roland had come to understand them intimately in his youth, enough to know that if the tubheads got a search organised right now, there was still a very narrow chance of actually being caught. If it weren’t for the smell and the rampant disease, he’d confidently stay down here for a few days.
Roland stopped Holsley. ‘Thank you, Holly. Really. I can’t think of many other people who would come to my aid like you did.’
‘Of course,’ replied Holsley with a weak smile. ‘It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me.’
Roland smiled.
The boys pressed on, but Holsley stopped and turned back to stare through the grate behind them. He could see the black smoke rising into the sky, which meant the fire was probably still burning. He pushed the unease of what he had seen and heard in the flames behind him for the moment and put to mind a question instead.
What in the name of good was the Golden Keep?
END OF PART ONE.