Chapter One of "Arch Enemies"

Prophet and Loss

Stage fright consumed me and I peered through the curtain, fist clenching my lute. Nervous sweat trickled down my hair as Bobo, regular as clockwork, fell on his arse. I barely noticed that something had been said to me until it was repeated with greater force. Blinking stupidly, I looked around.

"Now," the young squire growled. He stood before me, unduly muscular, with angular features emphasizing his dark skin, and decorated with the kind of goatee young men have because they can't grow hair anywhere else on their face yet. "His Grace does not wish to wait. He requires your presence immediately."

"There must be some mistake," I mumbled. "I have to perform in a few moments."

He and his fellow squire exchanged a glance that said "musicians" in a wholly disparaging way. I opened my mouth to explain, but they grabbed me and pulled me aside. The subject was not open to debate.

"Look, you have the wrong guy," I stammered while being dragged away. "I have to go! I am scheduled to perform as soon as Bobo and Spanks finish their act ..."

Emerging from the backstage area, we meandered through the crowd of drinking, stinking patrons who were busy drowning their sorrows with similar wretches, pinching waiters and waitresses, and laughing at the antics on the stage.

"Oh Bobo, you're sooooooo stupid!"

Consequently, no one paid much attention as we made our way past tables packed tighter than a Galanthian slave ship. My escorts stayed close to my side, but were polite enough to make it seem as if they simply happened to be going in the same direction as I was.

Boris, the owner of the Five Lions, looked up and raised his bushy eyebrows as I passed. His moustache twisted in frustration and his mug slammed onto the bar. I shifted my eyes to the two guards with me and Boris backed away, watching me suspiciously.

Bobo and Spanks' routine continued on unabated. I knew that in a few moments, Bobo would be hit by the slapstick -- two long, thin boards held together at one end and open at the far end, which make a loud crack when applied to an appropriate posterior but which didn't really hurt at all. Slowing my pace, I glanced over my shoulder.

Crack!

The squires, surprised, spun around to stare at the stage as I ducked under a table. Frantically crawling past jutted knees and slopping through spilled beer, I squirmed my way towards the rear, my lute strapped to my back scraping against the undersides of the tables. The shouts of the squires followed soon behind as I scrambled to a half crouch and tried to sprint between two long tables filled with smelly sailors.

"Stop that bard!" Smallbeard yelled and a hand reached down to grab at my shirt. I dove under a neighboring table, slamming into the legs. It collapsed immediately, drenching me in a variety of intoxicating liquors as the table's occupants sprang upright or fell backwards in their seats.

The clamor from the crowd drowned out Bobo and Spanks as everyone shouted at once, "What's going on?"

"Maybe it's an escaped convict!"

"A convict?"

"Is there a reward?"

The word 'reward' was all anyone heard, and the patrons spun around trying to locate the object of the reward, grabbing anyone who looked like a possible escaped convict and turning aside all available furniture to discover the whereabouts of the prize.

Quickly pulling myself up, I leapt onto the nearest table and started traversing the room, crossing stepping-stones over a river of spilled beer. "A reward! A great reward!" I shouted over the din, waving my arms enthusiastically. "There he goes now, out the door!"

There came a scramble of arms and legs as bodies lunged towards the front in order to catch the villain. I navigated towards the rear the best I could, knowing the back door waited for me.

Crossing the last table brought me to a quick halt as Smallbeard loomed ahead. Leaning across, he held out his sword and raised an eyebrow threateningly.

I paused for an instant, considered, and then took a careful step backwards. The now unbalanced table fell under my weight as the other end rose up to catch Squire Smallbeard under the chin with a satisfying thud. I jumped aside, not looking to see how he was, and dashed for the backstage area.

I had only run a few feet before mysterious words bellowed behind me and I fell to my face. Strange how my first thought was relief that I had not broken my lute.

I couldn't move a muscle, not even my eyes, and so had no idea what was happening. Wildly trying to conceive of an escape plan, I was interrupted by suddenly being flipped over. I found myself staring into the eyes of the other squire.

"You've been a very naughty boy, Terin Ostler," she said.

* * *

By the time the spell had worn off and I could move again, the tavern had calmed down. The squires had assured everyone that everything was fine, I was not an escaped criminal, and that no reward had been offered. They tossed a few coins to Boris, who did not look satisfied, and with each one taking an arm, led me out of the Five Lions Inn. Their demeanor made it clear that I would not be let go, and the sword gripped tightly in Smallbeard's other hand issued a discouraging warning.

Tripping slightly while my eyes adjusted, I stepped into the dark night and brisk air of Ashbury City. The noise level dropped tremendously and the cool breeze was like a splash in the face. No, wait, it was a splash in the face from some drunken barbarian falling backwards at the sight of the squires and accidentally tossing his mug into the air. He made a loud oof sound as he fell, and then fixed me with bloodshot eyes. His dark scraggly beard accentuated a face that seemed older than the muscled body to which it was attached. Ragged muddy clothes barely fit his oversized frame. His eyes widened as he looked up.

"Bishortu!" he gasped fearfully.

The squires glanced at each other and then one gave a tug as if to say, "Let's go." I went, but looked back and saw the barbarian staring. Even at quite a distance away, he remained still. He seemed to be afraid of me -- not the squires, but me. Eventually he faded into the night, still standing, still staring. I swallowed uneasily.

"What does the Duke want with me?" I asked once I shook my discomfort at the barbarian's distracting gaze. "I haven't done anything. Does he want to hire me to perform? I didn't know he had even heard of me. I didn't know anyone had ever heard of me."

"You are Terin Ostler," replied the other squire calmly, as if stating a fact so obvious that further discussion was not needed. She seemed about my age and her voice was quite sweet. I idly wondered if she could sing. A biata, judging by the feathers. I had only encountered biata a few times in my travels and always thought of them as a rather mysterious race of people -- apparently descended from gryphons, feathers grow in their hair and on their eyebrows, which can sometimes make them look, well, kind of foolish. Still, with a lifespan, history, and culture almost as old as the elves, they probably were used to us short-lived humans thinking them strange.

"Ah. Well. Yes, I am," I stammered. "As you said. So you have heard of me?"

"Not until a quarter hour ago," replied Smallbeard. "His Grace told Darlissa and me to go to the Five Lions and find a short lad with a long nose and a lute. We asked Boris what your name was."

Both seemed more at ease now that I was not struggling to get away. I did not even consider the idea of escape. This was getting interesting. Besides, they had very large, sharp weapons.

My mother had always complained that I was too curious for my own good. "Curiosity killed the cat," she would say, an expression I always hated. What? It's bad to be curious? We should just be stupid and never wonder? On the other hand, that part about being killed was pretty persuasive. On my list of things to do, "being killed" placed way down at the bottom.

This thought unnerved me and brought me back to reality like a slap. I could not think of any beneficial or positive thing that could come of being brought against your will to see the Duke, and once more began to ponder various escape plans.

"The Duke specifically asked for me?"

"You or someone who looks like you and carries a specific musical instrument," replied Darlissa. Giving me a glance, she added quietly, "Although he also said you were supposed to be handsome." She snorted, shook her head sadly, and smiled.

Nothing more was said as they escorted me down the dirty cobblestone streets. The quiet spring night made the process unnerving, but the people out and about didn't pay us any attention as they trod along in their various tasks. The fog sliding off the river shrouded the city in gray and made me feel like a participant in a dream.

As the capital city for the entire duchy, Ashbury had much to offer. You could find unusual merchants on every block, great restaurants, and many forms of entertainment. When in Ashbury, you were in the front row (as the saying went), because everything happened there. Of course, "everything" included its fair share of crime, and groups like The Fist had supposedly easily taken control of Dockside and the black market. Ashbury was a city of contrasts -- front rows and watching your back. Not a bad idea for a song.

That night the city was, as usual, crowded with drab people pushing against each other, each convinced that their errands and duties were more important than anyone they might possibly encounter. They filled the doorways of short, squat buildings that towered a few stories over the narrow passageways, threatening to topple but never making good on the threat. Dogs, cats, and chickens wandered aimlessly underfoot.

I had only been in Ashbury City for a few weeks, having traveled from Blythedale through Nordenn and the Ash Forest to reach the capital. "You're crazy!" my father had said. "Do you know how many starving bards there are in Ashbury? Stay here and help with the business, and you can live well." But still I snuck off in the night, afraid to let him know that I had no intention of becoming a solicitor -- all those contracts and wills bored me to tears. I remained grateful that my parents believed in education, since I knew how to read and write and had a basic understanding of the world. I also learned from my father how to tell a good story, because that is what lawyers do best.

Unfortunately for my family, they also paid for music lessons.

Still young, and with all the optimism and stubbornness that comes with inexperience, I convinced myself that unlike all the other bards who traveled to Ashbury, I would become famous. I would write great epic poems and songs, enrapture my audiences, travel the world, and perform before nobility.

And now I was to meet the Duke.

I didn't expect it to happen that fast.

Even Druzilla, the beautiful gypsy lady who had cast my fortune in Nordenn had not predicted this. Still, her voice haunted me, because she had somehow known me as soon as she threw her fortune stones. She knew where I was from, knew where I was going, and knew my dreams and desires even better than I did. I was flabbergasted by her accuracy. And then, after she had absolutely convinced me of her extraordinary powers, she gazed deep into me, her blue eyes cutting through me like a fat man at a buffet table, and said with the most solemn of voices, "You will find that the pen will be mightier than the sword!"

At that, I laughed out loud and the ominous feeling dissipated. I paid her two silver pieces for that? I left, convinced that I had been duped by a very skilled fraud, but she followed me to the door of her varda, anger in her eyes. "Do not toss away your future, young bard!" she cried at my back. "Your destiny has revealed itself to me and I have revealed it to you!" Of course, I thought, The Powers That Be always reveal themselves in cliches and homilies. It still made me chuckle to think about it, although deep down I had to admit it was a powerful reading up to that point.

Without warning (or maybe because my mind was on other things) I found myself before the huge doors to the Ducal Castle. Why do the powerful always make their surroundings so large and imposing? I thought. Is it supposed to make me feel inadequate and meek? I examined the doors as they slowly inched open. The scrollwork must have taken years to finish, and the large brass hinges displayed inlays with the coat-of-arms of the duchy of Ashbury. The highly polished knobs sparkled and the hinges proved to be well oiled, for the door made little noise as it towered over me, opening to reveal the great halls beyond. I felt inadequate and meek.

Ahead ran a long hallway divided by a bright red carpet, illuminated by hundreds of candles on dozens of pedestals with long ornate tapestries lining the walls depicting scenes of classic battles and proud heroes. My taxes were being well spent.

Marching through another set of doors brought us to the throne room. A dozen or so ornately dressed people were surrounding Duke Aramis, who sat listlessly on the throne. They must have been very important because, well, they were surrounding Duke Aramis who sat listlessly on the throne. Many races were present -- humans, elves, dwarves, biata -- which makes sense when you consider that people are always referring to Ashbury as the city that is owned by no one. No other place on Fortannis can claim the diversity of Ashbury City. Of course, that also makes it a place of much turmoil and confrontation as well, but such is the price.

Duke Aramis was a good looking and fairly young noble whose long blonde hair curled around his head and escaped over his shoulders. His friendly, clean-shaven face exuded trust; his active eyes hinted at great intelligence. He proudly wore his gold and purple colors with the winged sword symbol prominently displayed on his chest. To his side, his magical shield and sword sat, well known through a myriad of stories and songs, most of which I could perform at a moment's notice. His dedication to the Code of Chivalry was unparalleled. Unlike some of his predecessors, he had a reputation as a "man of the people," earning his title through his heroic actions and not because he had been born into a noble family.

The squires motioned for me to stop and then they bowed before the Duke and spoke quietly to him for a moment. I followed their example and fell to one knee.

"You must be Teril." The voice was strong and commanding but completely friendly and comfortable. I looked up nervously.

"Terin, Your Grace."

"Yes, I apologize, Terin. Please rise."

He gave a smile as I stood. I could not help but grin back like some farmer brought up on stage to win a prize and who beams nervously as he looks into the audience. I caught myself and tried to look serious. The crowd mumbled around me.

I then noticed two biata in long robes decorated with their strange writing. One was fairly elderly, with graying hair, a slight beard, and thick spectacles. The younger sat in his chair in a pose that clearly portrayed that he did not wish to be there. Duke Aramis glanced at the older biata and then spoke to me.

"Are you aware why we called you here today, Terin?"

I held up my lute. "Entertainment?"

A short burst of laughter erupted from the crowd as well as from Duke Aramis. It made me feel good even though I had not tried to be funny. It also made me more hopeful that I was not about to be sentenced to death.

"I am sure this will be entertaining, Terin," said the Duke. "You are here because of the prophecy."

I looked at him and furrowed my brow. So there was a prophecy about something -- there is always a prophecy somewhere -- and His Grace obviously wanted me to write a ballad about it. Although honored, I wondered why he chose me for this task, but remained silent, not wanting to speak out of turn. I glanced nervously around the room.

The Duke frowned and turned to the older biata. "Xapano," he said, "are you sure it is him?"

The one called Xapano lowered his spectacles a bit and stared at a yellowed piece of paper in his hand. "Short, male, human, long nose, handsome" -- he paused for a heartbeat as a slight bit of doubt crossed his face -- "lute. He fits the description. I can't imagine there could be another one."

"Very well then," replied His Grace, turning back to me. "I hereby name you Terin of the Prophecy. You will be provided with the supplies you need to complete your quest as well as writs to allow access to any part of the duchy in order for you to perform your duties. I will be sending Sir Frost and a few squires along with you to assist and also to protect you from harm ..."

"Are you certain that is allowed, Your Grace?" asked one of the nobility gathered around. Based on her leather crown, I guessed her to be the elven Baroness Glenduria Manyave from the Ash Forest.

"Yes, why not?" the Duke replied testily. "It doesn't say he can't have assistance."

"We wouldn't want to destroy our only chance by not following the prophecy correctly," she replied.

"Well, if they wanted us to follow it correctly, why didn't they make it clearer?" Duke Aramis snapped, and the room went silent. "Why are all prophecies written in such a way that there is more than one interpretation? They are always phrased so that it isn't clear until afterwards what you were supposed to do. Just once I would like to see a prophecy that says something like 'On the fifth of next month, watch your head as you get out of the carriage so you don't get a bump.' Would that be so bad?"

"It is of course Your Grace's decision," said the Baroness, looking unconvinced.

"This is the damndest prophecy I have ever seen," continued the Duke. "Absolutely accurate and exact at one moment and then vague and prophecy-like in the next. Well, at least it is an improvement over all the other prophecies ..."

I had remained completely mute during all of this. Something was definitely wrong, or else I was the subject of a massive practical joke. I ran all the possibilities through my head and could find no reasonable explanation. The murmuring of the nobles gathered around grew in my ears and I finally said to myself, "What prophecy?"

I must have said it louder than I'd meant to because the room got quiet very quickly.