The Guards of Galdenwyck [1-5]
Assamabinladin sat in Kierian’s hut waiting for the old man to finish packing. He couldn’t believe the amount of junk he was stuffing into his leathern rucksack. There were books, bottles, several knives and finally, an old lute, which Kierian had retrieved from an oaken box secreted in a false floor beneath the bed.
“Can you play that thing?” asked Assambinladin, regarding the instrument with disdain.
“Well, of course I can,” Kierian responded cheerfully, not picking up on the conjurer’s mood. He strummed it, producing sounds which ‘binladin could not believe came from that weathered old assemblage. “What would you like to hear?”
‘binladin paused for a moment, trying to think of a song that the old bard could not know. “Farewell, Fair Maiden of Clavior,” he said, a bawdy song he remembered hearing in a tavern at the magic-users’ summit in Eregore years before.
Kierian nodded and picked the strings, tuning the instrument. Then he sat down upon an oaken stool by the fire and began to play, softly at first, just like the beginning of the song was played centuries before. After repeating the intro he began singing,
When the new moons rise in the north and west
I remember the maiden who showed me
the world, laid my hand upon her breast
And helped me see that which I could not see.
Farewell, Fair Maiden of Clavior,
You’ll always be with me,
Farewell, Fair Maiden of Clavior,
The world is mine to see.
Her molten arms burned my skin and mind,
Her shimmering thighs of milk and honey
wrapped round me, Oh, we did that bump and grind.
I did not believe it was her cunny.
Farewell, Fair Maiden of Clavior,
You’ll always be with me,
Farewell, Fair Maiden of Clavior,
The world is mine to see.
Kierian shifted keys and played the intro to the song once more. ‘binladin stood up and clapped his hands together, which caused Kierian to stop playing. Kierian, fearing malicious magic, looked around for his red boots but saw they were across the room, near the door. But ‘binladin was not casting a horrible spell, he was applauding.
“Oh, Kieran, I am sorry I doubted your bardic abilities. Your musick is even greater than I could have imagined. Please, tell me something of your wandering o’er this wide world of Galdenwyck.”
“Would it not be better to sing you a song?”
“Would it not? Why not it would?”
“This is a little strum-ditty I composed during the eighth year of my exile to the Cramiddyn Plains.” He picked up the old lute, and began playing a slow, haunting harmony to the following strains:
“Kierian is a travelin’ man.
He travels wide and far.
Sit down here and grab a beer,
Or clear on out of the bar.
Born in the Ffjords on oaken boards,
His parents worked in a mill.
He grew up quick and sang so slick
Giving halfling girls quite a thrill.
Twelve years from today he learnt color spray
The first spell cast in his brain.
A kobold group tried to steal his soup
He knocked them out with one strain.
Yo ho ho!
He hi ho!
Upskirts did his eyes get crossed.
The princely maiden stank like Assamabinladin.
Pantaloons are now so stained.
Toss some rocks at her fine loose socks!
Exiled into the Cramiddyn Plains!”
He set the old lute down and bowed.
“You just invented that part about me, didn’t you?”
“Oh, Assama, you must forgive me. Each time I perform the Ballad of Kierian, I choose one member of the audience to embarrass in that final stanza. You were my sole audience, and I thus had to rhyme you.”
“It was very enjoyable. Your skills will come in handy in the heat of a battle. I feel that all of my saving throws have a +1 bonus!”
“Ah, ’tis true, as well as your THAC0. But we should invest in some cleric power to assist us while I sing. The rumours are not fiction; an evil vampire, Tamcruz Bradpit, has found a new resting home in the tomb of Werkingetorix. He is sure to have increased his supply of undead followers, and let me tell you, losing a whole level of experience to a wight is not my idea of adventure.”
“Nor is it mine, Kierian. Nor is it mine.”
After Kierian finally finished packing his bardic accoutrements the two set off on foot to the livery stable where ‘binladin was to commandeer a couple of stout ponies for the trip along the coast road to Port Dalwinie. At Port Dalwinie they were to secure passage aboard a ship for the trip across the Sea of Avax to the southern continent. Kierian figured they could probably find a medium-level cleric with a taste for adventure in that city’s religious borough, as well.
Once they were seated upon their ponies, which the livery stable had happily provided free of charge when Assambinladin appeared, the two men started to relax. Even though the journey would be long and treacherous, they felt optimistic, not for once thinking about the fact that the survival of the world depended upon their success.
“You know, ‘binladin, I can tell by your accent that you speak Lawful Evil as your alignment tongue,” observed Kierian.
“What of it, Kierian? We are both Oculanders, are we not?”
“In Oculan, your speech may not make a difference, but out in the real world . . . well, that’s another story.”
“What difference does it make?”
“For one, I speak the Lawful Good tongue but I can disguise my accent when speaking the Common tongue of Galdenwyck. Therefore, only those with magical abilities can discern my true alignment. Any person with rudimentary language training can identify you as Lawful Evil if they are trying to discover your alignment, and that will not do.”
‘binladin moaned. “Oh, Kierian. It is too late for that now, is it not? Perhaps I will play the role of mute conjurer on this journey.”
“Nonsense, lad. A few modifications to your speech is all that is needed. I know a man in Dalwinie, if he still lives, that is, that can help us with that. For now just practice pronouncing the ‘r’ in words like ‘cart’ and ‘fart’”
The ancient bard and young sorcerer rode on in silence, ‘binladin quietly muttering ‘fart’ to himself over and over as Kierian began pondering the chances of their success. No one even knew where Werkingetorix was for sure although rumour held that it was hidden high in the southern mountains near the edge of the world. The thought of facing Tamcruz Bradpit made him shudder. Although just a vampire, there was no more powerful undead creature than Tamcruz. Battling Ocramore, King of the Liches would be child’s play comparably.
‘binladin’s voice snapped Kierian from his musings. “I see Clavdia the Red is gone.”
Kierian searched the sky in vain for a glimpse of the blood-red moon. “Oh, dear, ‘binladin, she is returned. I fear for anyone who crosses her path.”
