Chapter 1: The Day of the Disastrous Ditty
The Muddleburg Annual Bardic Trials were a sight to see and to hear—at least, that had been the intention. Banners of every hue billowed in the breeze over the village square, and benches creaked beneath the weight of waiting villagers. Children were sitting atop their parents' shoulders, merchants stopped haggling, and even the famously disgruntled baker had shut his bakery early.
Bards in Dravenloch were not entertainment alone. They were guardians, healers, and often the sole barrier between a village and the horrors that lurked beyond. An accomplished bard might calm a rampaging troll by singing it a lullaby, or rally warriors for combat in a tune of war. Their music was infused with power—actual power—that reverberated across the air and warped the very fabric of the world.
That made what was going to occur even more unfortunate.
Ten year old Ned Numbles clung to his lute in his damp palms. His orange hair stuck every which way, despite his mother's desperate attempts that morning to tame it with a comb. Freckles scattered across his nose like a map of the stars, and his green apprentice's vest dangled a little too loosely on his tiny figure.
"Cease fidgeting," Sir Ballantree admonished, tweaking his own spotless purple cloak. Legend had it that the bard was twice as tall, twice as confident, and had a voice that could coax birds out of trees. "Do recall what I've taught you. Shoulders back. Singing comes from the diaphragm. And in the name of all that music, please, this time, don't drop your lute."
Ned shook his head intensely. He had practised the tune a hundred times. Okay, ninety-three, to be precise—he had counted them. Of course, that pesky cat had fled during practise. And certainly, his mother had suddenly had to get important errands done whenever he began playing. But today would be different. Today, he would impress Sir Ballantree.
"And now," declared the village elder, his voice ringing across the town square, "our moment of waiting—the pupil of our finest minstrel, the pupil of Sir Ballantree himself—young Ned Numbles!"
A few perfunctory claps spread through the audience. Sir Ballantree gave Ned a gentle nudge toward the front, accompanied by a whispered, "Don't embarrass me."
He stumbled onto the wooden dais in the middle of the square. Faces in front of him dissolved into a crowd of anticipation. He saw his mother in the front row, smiling warmly in his direction, though her left eye flickered nervously. Next to her, the village healer had already opened the cap on a bottle of headache tonic.
He cleared his throat. "Good day, all. I'm Ned Numbles, Sir Ballantree's apprentice." He stiffened his shoulders, as instructed. "Today, I will sing 'The Sunrise Over Dravenloch Valley,' a traditional ballad of—"
"Get going, boy!" one of them yelled from the rear.
Ned's fingers shook as he placed them upon the strings of the lute. Concentrate, he instructed himself. Recall the notes. Sense the music.
He breathed in deeply, shut his eyes, and then started playing.
The initial note dangled in mid-air like a question mark. It was slightly too sharp, fractionally too lengthy, but it was far from disastrous. Not yet.
Then Ned opened his mouth to sing.
What resulted was less a melody than the sound of dreams of music trampled by harsh realities. His voice broke on the tops of the notes, dropped too low on the bottoms, and seemed to be both flat and sharp at the same time. The lute accompaniment was no better, with fingers placed between the frets and strummed patterns that had less relation to the impetus of rhythm.
A mother in the front row covered her child's ears. Three dogs in the audience started howling in sympathetic anguish. And worst of all, a strutting duck, wandering quietly on the square, froze mid-stride, rocked its plump head, and fled in terror from what appeared to be a phantom pursuer.
Ned, though, had his eyes shut in concentration and did not catch the unfolding disaster. Taking the stunned silence for avid attention, he raised his tone, putting his heart and soul into the chorus.
That was when the lute string broke.
Not that it broke—it recoiled in a twang so violent it almost blinded Ned. The jolt had sent him stumbling backward, arms flailing. One of his feet snagged on a loose board, and down he crashed in a mass of limbs and clashing notes.
The silence that ensued was almost palpable.
Ned blinked upward toward the sky, his own lute broken beside him. When he could find the strength to sit up, he took in the destruction: half of the audience had fled, the village elder massaging his temples, and Sir Ballantree—dear God, no.
The face of Sir Ballantree had exactly the same colour as that of an overripe beet. Each deep, suppressed breath was quivering his magnificent mustachio, and his knuckles had whitened where he clutched his own elaborate lute.
"I—I'm sorry," Ned stuttered, pushing himself to his feet. "I can begin again—"
"NO!" shouted what was left of the audience.
Sir Ballantree strode onto the platform, his cloak billowing theatrically in the nonexistent breeze—a trick Ned had always been impressed by yet never quite mastered.
"I beg your pardon, people of Muddleburg," the master bard declared, his honey-smooth tones in stark contrast to his clear anger. "I suppose my pupil requires a bit of extra practise." He glared over his shoulder at Ned, his voice dropped to a whisper. "A decade of study for nothing. I've never felt so embarrassed."
One of the veteran campers in the waiting room laughed. "Sounded like somebody's had lessons from The Crooner Below."
A few others laughed, although quickly growing silent under the glare of Sir Ballantree.
"I need to clear my head," the master bard announced, making his way to the outskirts of the village. "Maybe I'll solo hunt some lesser monsters. At least those sound nicer when they shriek," he added, then stopped just to jab a forefinger in Ned's direction. "Wait here. Make no more noises until I'm back."
And away Sir Ballantree strode, a true legend, his disgraced apprentice all alone on a stage of splinter wood and shattered strings.
Ned gazed after him, his heart falling to his muddy boots. The rest of the audience broke up in commiserating mutters and backward glances, and the other apprentices picked up their instruments and moved away as if incompetence in music was contagious.
No-Tune Ned, they whispered, a nickname that spread through the group in cruel efficiency.
He hugged his shattered lute to his chest. This was not how the day was meant to unfold. This was not how any of it was meant to unfold. But watching Sir Ballantree's purple cloak vanishing beyond the treeline, a tenacious idea rooted itself.
He may well be the worst bard-apprentice in the history of Dravenloch, but he was not a quitter. Somehow, he would show that he was better than a musically catastrophic failure.
Even if he had to save the world using the worst songs ever sung.
Comments