Pyromancers Song

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, Bertrand thought idly stroking his white beard as he looked out at the small village below. It wasn’t often he’d spot one in the skies, perhaps once or twice a year. He was never sure if he was grateful for their rarity or not. Perhaps things would be easier if they’d come closer… He gazed out the southern facing window, his mind poking at the thought; he’d been living in this valley nearly thirty years and still couldn’t determine why they’d come. I was so sure when I first arrived…his mind trailed off.

His mind often wondered these days; sometimes with intention he’d let it drift to his youth and the days of his learning but often it happened on its own. Bertrand loved looking out from this window; it never ceased to amaze him that of all the gorgeous places he’d been in his life, the beauty of a small village outshined them all. The village of Thrusting was nestled alongside the Twindling River, a community of farmers, fisherman, and herdsman. He’d been lucky when he came to the valley that he’d been the first physician to settle here in quite some time. The townsfolk were as relieved as they were frightened to have a man of science in their midst. Even after thirty years they still didn’t always come to him for help, but they always accepted the help he offered. He wasn’t sure if it was out of respect or fear that they’d elected to give him the old lord’s house which overlooked the small village from a hilltop a half mile to its south.

A creak from the bedroom door shook him from his daydream.

“Master Shrew?” A soft voice echoed into Bertrand’s mind from behind him, “Master, I don’t mean to disturb you, but we must be on our way soon. If you still mean to make it into the village before sundown.” A young lad dressed in white apprentice robes muttered from the doorway, a contrast to Bertrand’s vibrant yellow physician robes.

“There weren’t always dragons…” Bertrand mumbled as his mind found its way back to the present. He met the boy’s eyes and nodded, stroking his white beard, “Yes, yes, I still mean to go. Give me a moment and I’ll be right down, Tallard,” he said moving from the window.

“Of course, Master Shrew,” Tallard said, closing the door behind him.

That boy…always so punctual, Bertrand thought, making his way downstairs towards the operating room to grab the elixirs and medicines for their evening rounds. He’ll make a good physician if he keeps his studying up. His punctuality will serve him well. Bertrand had a soft spot for Tallard. Bertrand had practically raised Tallard as his own. He’d delivered the boy and his twin brother ten summers past. Unfortunately, Tallard’s mother died in the birthing process and his brother was stillborn: he’d come out deformed. Bertrand had kept the infant’s corpse within a jar of formaldehyde in hopes of determining what had happened. So far, he’d had little success. What could’ve happened to that little boy…his mind began to wander off again. He finished grabbing the necessary supplies and made his way outside.

Tallard made quick work of loading up the small cart. Most of the elixirs Bertrand offered were nothing more than colored water and a muddling of herbs or spices – not true medicine. But the people always appreciated it, and their ailments always improved (likely because most of their ailments grew from boredom and too much drink rather than true illnesses). Bertrand had become a member of the community, and the people of Thrusting Village counted on him to take care of them, whether they wanted him to or not.

Bertrand and Tallard made their way down the hillside to the village proper. The sky had hints of pink to it and the town was cast in a shadow from the western hills, the sun too low to shine its brilliance. As they drew closer to the center of the village, Bertrand could hear a commotion coming from the Inn.

“Is there something going on at the inn tonight, Tallard? Or do people just lack the good sense to get some rest?” the old man said, turning away from the cart.

“I told you this morning, remember Master? A bard has come to town! He says he knows songs from across the world, from Sweetstone to Kiveria!” Tallard said, his face lighting up with excitement.

“A bard? Strange for a man of culture to venture this far down the valley,” Bertrand said, wrinkling his brow. Being so far south, little outside travel came except for the mining caravans that passed through every few months headed north out of Mishova. “Are the people sure he isn’t some swindler?”

“No, Master Shrew, he’s for real! He had a harp, and a lute, and everything! He even wore a nice green tunic! No one in the valley owns anything so fancy!” The young boy was barely able to contain his excitement, his eyes widening.

“Have you ever seen a bard before young man? Or a lute or harp?”

“N…no, I haven’t,” Tallard said, his expression dimming.

“If you’ve never seen a bard, nor heard nor seen a lute or a harp, it’s entirely possible you have no idea if this man is a bard or not, correct?” Bertrand asked, raising an eyebrow at the young lad.

“Yes…” Tallard sighed, his shoulders and face lowering.

Sometimes I forget how young the lad is, Bertrand thought, his forehead smoothing “Well then, I suppose if you are to be a proper physician you need to be exposed to some culture. If we can get the rounds quickly finished this evening and you can properly recount the necessary elements needed in the elixir to ease a strained muscle, perhaps we can stop at the inn and determine if this bard truly knows his music.” The old man winked at Tallard, a smile stretching across his wrinkled face.

“Really?!” Tallard yelled, his face brightening up like the waters of the river at dawn, “Thank you Master!”

“Yes, yes,” Bertrand said, “remember a physician never loses his composure. Not ever. Now grab the cart and let’s go: you don’t want to miss the music, do you?”

Their rounds didn’t take more than an hour. The village wasn’t large by any means. Bertrand grabbed the proper medicines from the cart and Tallard rushed off to deliver them. Bertrand would quiz Tallard about different elements of elixirs, their proper composition, and their active ingredients. Tallard was hardly ever wrong. A bright lad for his age, and it always brought a smile to the old man’s face.

–

The sun had fully set when their rounds were through. The village inn was small and was more tavern than inn, given no one ever came to Thrusting. The inn was the only building in the village made of stone, it had a black tiled roof and a small stable out back. Smoke rose from the chimney, and the sound of a gentle harp and light melted out of the open windows and doorway giving an inviting aura to the otherwise well-worn look of the inn.

Yellow light bathed Bertrand and Tallard as they entered the warm stone structure. The sound of music tickled Bertrand’s ears, he hadn’t heard true songs in over a decade, the last time a bard had come to the valley. The inn was busy with townsfolk enjoying their ale, food, and music.

“Ahh, Master Shrew!” a voice called out from across the room. It was Tuck, the innkeeper. He was a tall, lengthy man. His sharp eyes locking with Bertrand’s, “Not often we find you join us for an evening. Come to hear the music?”

“Yes,” Bertrand nodded, placing his hands on Tallard’s shoulders. “I figured the boy could use a little exposure to outside culture.” Bertrand and Tallard smiled.

“Well, if it’s culturing you’re wanting for the lad, you’ve come on the right night. We’ve got us a proper bard! Came down along the river. Says he come all the way from Tithilas on his way down to Mishova to gather stories from the mines,” Tuck stated, his voice raised slightly above that of the crowd and the music.

“From Tithilas you say?” Bertrand asked, brow raising.

“Yeah.”

“Is it the same bard who came down ten summers past?” Bertrand asked, his hands still resting on Tallard’s shoulders.

“Nah, different fella. Says his name is Hesh.” The tall innkeeper nodded in the bard’s direction. “Can I get you fellers a drink?” Tuck asked, wiping some glasses at the bar.

Bertrand shook his head but gave the innkeeper a smile and waved him off. Bertrand glanced in the bard’s direction, Is that… No, no. Couldn’t be. He thought he’d recognized the stout man. He moved through the crowd and found a table for Tallard and himself. The music continued for a time, harp and lute playing beautifully. Eventually the bard called forward any children interested in hearing a story. Tallard looked up at the old man and, Bertrand gave the young lad a nod, and like a fish out of the net, Tallard slipped off into the crowd towards the small makeshift platform the bard was performing on.

“Gather round little sparks!” The short, bearded man called from the platform, gently strumming his harp to compliment his voice, “Have you ever heard the tale of The Final Dragon’s Breath?” he whispered to the children who’d gathered before him. Their eyes wide, they all shook their heads, Tallard included.

Most of the inn had settled down and conversations quickly fell to a murmur. The hearth’s fire was warm, its light illuminating the inn’s festivities hall with the aid of several well-placed lanterns, their light glowing off the dark stone walls. The silence became thick, filling the air. Its only absence was the gentle plucking of the harp in the bard’s hand.

The bard’s voice began with a soft tone, the strums of the harp gentle, giving a light and comforting tune to the story. The bard sang, his music matching the tones and themes of the tale. It recounted the last DragonSinger, Celuriel, and her corruption by Dexuriel, the first Pyromancer. The story told that Celuriel’s voice could control the dragons, and Dexuriel had always wanted that power for himself.

The bard’s tune turned sinister, his voice growing deeper. The story went on: Dexuriel charmed Celuriel and convinced her to give him the dragon's fire. The dragons, outraged, turned on the humans. But without their breath, their threat was limited. Dexuriel could not risk Celuriel returning his new power to them, so he killed her.

The tune stopped. The festival hall was silent, just the crackling of the fire echoed. The bard slowly plucked the harp, the music soft, his voice gentle as he finished the tale.

“…so now the dragons roam from the East to the West, until the DragonSinger returns for their quest.” With the final strum of the harp, the music faded out. The crowd looked at him with wonder in their eyes. Silence consumed the room once again.

That tune…Bertrand thought, his mind wandering off to years past before he came to the valley. The bard looked up and met Bertrand’s eyes. Halgard? Bertrand thought, the hair on his neck rising. The bard gave him a wink.

“Was she really the last Dragonsinger?” a small boy sitting near the performance platform asked, his cheeks rosy from the warmth of the hearth.

“Yes. She was. At least on record,” Halgard responded matter-of-fact. “There are reports out of the East near Tithilas that a young boy was born several years ago with the ability to sing…”

“A boy? Can boy’s sing?” asked the boy with rosy cheeks.

“Am I not a boy?” responded Halgard with a raised brow.

“Umm…I mean- “

“I know what you mean little lad. Yes, boys can be Singers.” Halgard replied.

“Well, what happened to him? The boy near Tithilas?” Tallard asked, leaning closer to the platform as if doing so would allow him to hear the words from the bard’s mouth quicker.

“He died. The Pyromancers killed him before his fifth birthday.” Halgard replied, shaking his head. He sat his harp down in the case, clasping it closed.

The children were quiet for a moment, their faces a mixture of disbelief and awe. Is that why you’re here? Bertrand thought, his mind finally going at the familiar pace of his youth.

“How do you know that the story about Celuriel is true? Or that Dragonsingers are even real? Or that any of that is even real?” Tallard asked, still leaning inward, nearly tumbling over.

“There are records of her existence, and we know Dexuriel was the first Pyromancer, and Pyromancers still exist. Those I have met. Not to mention the fact that Dragons can’t breathe fire, and ancient records and stories tell of them destroying cities with their breath from the skies. Why do you think the cities of old are constructed of stone and not wood? Hmm…?” Halgard responded with a sly smile and wink to the boy sitting in front of him.

“Oh…” Tallard’s face gentled, and his questions ended.

Tallard’s inquisitiveness pulled Bertrand’s attention from his worried state. Good lad, he thought, sitting at the table. He is learning to question sources of information. That’ll serve him far better than any lesson.

“You’ve met a Pyromancer?!” A young girl sitting off to the side asked with wide eyes.

“Yes, more than once,” Halgard replied standing up and stretching. “I think I’ve answered enough questions for now. I could use an ale. Excuse me children.” The short, bearded man stepped off the platform and headed towards the bar. Tallard could see strands of grey in his black beard now that he stood a little closer. The inn had mostly returned to its typical volume by the time the bard finished answering the children’s questions. The bard weaved through the crowd, smiling, and shaking hands of the townsfolk who gave thanks for the music and entertainment. He approached Bertrand’s table where he sat alone.

“Excuse me, physician?” Halgard spoke up, “Could I trouble you for an elixir? My back and arms have been giving me pains for the past few days now: all the rowing on that burning river. I’d be happy to pay?” The bard pulled out a small coin purse.

Bertrand eyed him, “Of course,” he nodded. “My elixir cart is just outside. Follow me.”

–

After the bard finished his story Tallard and the other children talked in bewilderment about the story and argued what was true and what wasn’t. The baker’s daughter, Regina, thought that the part about Dexuriel convincing the lady Celuriel was made up and couldn’t possibly be real. Tallard thought it silly that was the part she thought was made up, but he didn’t push his point with her. She was one of the only girls near his age in the village, and he had an inkling of what that meant. Once they had finished their conversation, he went looking for Master Shrew.

“Hey, Master Tuck,” Tallard asked, his chin barely reaching the bar, “have you seen where Master Shrew went?” He looked up at the tall innkeeper. Tallard always thought the man’s nose was just a little too big for his face.

“Yes, he stepped outside with the bard.” Tuck pointed out the front doorway. Tallard nodded and headed out.

As Tallard turned toward the stable out back where he and Master Shrew had left their cart, he could hear their voices.

“…we were wrong,” Master Shrew had said, “I’ve been on watch for nearly thirty years, given birth to every child in this valley, and there is no sign of one.”

“What of the boy?” The bard replied.

“He is well past his fifth birthday, and he still hasn’t shown any signs. The dragons must have come for another purpose. I’m telling you, we misread the signs.” Master Shrew’s voice sounded serious, like the kind of voice he used when Tallard got the elixir labels mixed up.

“We didn’t misread anything!” the bard snapped back, “I’m telling you Bertrand. The Council has dispatched Pyromancers to the valley. They know something we don’t, I just…” The bard’s voice quieted, and Tallard couldn’t hear what he said. He slipped closer behind a wood pile, hoping to catch a little more of their conversation.

“…alright, Halgard. Alright.” Master Shrew’s voice had calmed.

Halgard? Master Shrew knows the bard? Tallard thought with surprise.

“I’ll keep an eye out for them. Will you be staying in the village long?” Master Shrew asked the short man.

“Good, good. No, I’ll take my leave the day after tomorrow. I’m needed elsewhere.”

The backdoor to the inn swung open and firelight came streaming out, as if to push back the darkness of the cool night. A patron stumbled out, passing the two men conversing.

“Well, thank you much for the elixir, Master Physician! I should be getting back to my tunes,” Halgard said, giving a slight bow. “I hope you’ll come visit again before I take my leave; I may be needing more of these.” He shook the vile of liquid and headed inside. Bertrand nodded to the bard.

Tallard came out from his hiding place and approached his master.

“Ahh, Tallard, my boy. I’m glad you came and found me. I think it is best we head back and turn in for the evening, hmm?” the elderly man said, placing his wrinkled hand on Tallard’s shoulder. Tallard nodded, unsure of what to make of the conversation he’d overheard. He helped his master with his cart and headed back up the hill.

–

As the two made their way from the village to the physician’s home, a silence sat between them. The cart’s wheels creaked over the tightly packed dirt, the glass vials clinking with every bump. Bertrand’s mind wandered against his will to the conversation he’d had with Halgard. Perhaps I missed something, the Council would only send men out this way for one purpose, and they would be certain. His mind pondered at the thought. Or perhaps the boy…

“M-Master Shrew?” Tallard’s voice was soft and uneasy. The old man continued walking along with a blank stare, his mind obviously somewhere else.

“Master Shrew?” Tallard said more firmly this time.

“Hmm?” Bertrand responded, his mind finding its way back to the moment as he looked over at the young boy.

“Did you know that bard?” Tallard asked, not looking his master in the eye.

“What makes you ask?”

“Well…well I overheard you two talking. Outside, by the stable. You called him Halgard. Is he your friend?” Tallard asked, glancing up but not holding his master’s gaze.

He did hear us, Bertrand thought. Scorching Halgard…

“Yes, I know the bard.” Bertrand said, an evenness to his voice, “We used to work together, a long time ago. Back before I came to Thrusting.”

“Oh…” Tallard replied, still not meeting his master’s gaze. “Why did you work with a bard?”

“It’s complicated, Tallard.”

“Oh…Well why–”

“Enough questions for now, Tallard.” Bertrand said, rubbing his forehead. “I appreciate your inquisitive mind, but I am tired. Perhaps tomorrow after morning lessons I can tell you more about it, hmm?” Bertrand said, straining a smile toward Tallard.

“Okay,” the boy replied, adjusting his grip on the small cart. The silence resumed between them for the rest of the way home.

As they approached the house, Bertrand could see a faint light coming from the backroom. Did I leave a candle burning when I left? His mind had often been wandering these days. Tallard went around back to put the cart under the lean to, when Bertrand noticed the door was ajar. He carefully pushed the old oak door open. It was dark inside, but he could see faint candlelight coming from beyond the back-room door.

“Master!” Tallard called, hurrying around the building to Bertrand, “There’s a horse tied up under the lean to! Black as night. I almost – “

“Sshhh…” Bertrand whispered, holding a hand up to silence the boy. “There’s someone inside,” he said, pointing toward the door in the back. Tallard’s eyes widened.

Bertrand slowly stepped into the house, the dry wood creaking beneath his feet. Nothing seemed disturbed, no books thrown about or furniture broken. Are they here? he thought as he approached the back-room door. No, they wouldn’t know to come here. Word would’ve spread in the village first. He pushed the back-room door open to find a woman lying on one of his operating beds, several candles lit in the window. She was groaning, sweating, her belly bulging.

“I…I need your help…” the woman groaned, clenching her teeth and holding her belly. Her hair was dark; she couldn’t have been older than twenty. She looked a child in the physician’s eyes.

Bertrand’s eyes widened. He didn’t recognize the woman, but he knew she was in labor, and a physician never hesitates.

“Tallard!” the physician bellowed to his assistant, his voice lost the touch of an elderly man and a stern confidence grasped his tone, “Fetch a pail of warm water, bring me rags, forceps, a knife, alcohol, and elixir of bubii. Hurry!” Tallard nodded and sped away without question.

“How far apart are the pains?” He asked, bringing the candles closer.

She wailed in pain, “Close! They’re close…” Her teeth gritted. Not a minute passed before Tallard was back with the supplies.

“I’m heating the water now, Master.” Tallard said, eyes wide but his voice calm.

“Good. We need more light: bring in some of the lanterns.” Tallard did as he was told. Bertrand gave the woman the elixir of bubii to ease her pain. It would set her to sleep through the process. A few minutes later Tallard brought in the water.

“Care for her…” the woman’s voice was soft, her eyes closing.

Good, the elixir is working. Bertrand thought as he prepared for the procedure.

“I hear her in my head. She sings…she sings…” the woman whispered as her eyes gently closed.

“She…she sings?” Bertrand’s voice trembled. Halgard was right, he thought, his mind racing. No: focus! He couldn’t let his mind wander, not now. A physician never loses his composure, the words echoed in his mind. He took a breath and set to work.

The birth was complicated. It reminded him of Tallards. There was blood loss, a lot of it. The mother hemorrhaged. His hands, though trembled from weakness, were sturdy in their work. But his stitching wasn’t enough. He’d lost her. He couldn’t focus on that. Not now. He turned to the child; she wasn’t breathing. He used the aspirator, nothing. He leaned her over his knee and pounded on the child’s back, nothing. Just stillness and silence. No, we’re so close…his lips began to quiver.

Tallard watched from the doorway with awe at his master. But when the child still did not move, he could see the pain in his master’s face. He slowly approached the old man as tears dripped from his master’s eyes. Tallard took the still infant from his master’s hands. Her cheeks so pale, her eyes so bright. He held the small child next to his chest and began to hum.

A finger wiggled.

And then she coughed . . .

–

Late that night a knock came to the door of the physician’s house. Bertrand was still in his yellow robes, the blood of the unknown woman who lay dead on his operating table still coated his sleeves. His collar soaked in tears of a young boy. A boy he loved. If he was honest with himself, it was soaked in his as well. The house was quiet and dark. Bertrand’s mind wandered to his past, to days when his back was straighter and his grip stronger. To days when his hair was darker and his muscles firmer. But mostly, his mind wandered to lessons he’d taught Tallard. The first time he’d shown the boy how to properly mix an elixir. The first time the boy had asked a question that Bertrand felt had substance. The first time he realized he saw the boy as his son.

The knocking turned to a pounding at the door which stirred Bertrand from his pondering. He looked out the southern facing window that he’d stood at so many times taking in the beauty of the valley. The ripples of the water that seemed to dance in the moonlight. The green trees shifting in the wind. The silhouettes of a man and child cast by moonlight that sat in the small rowboat moving upriver. Bertrand closed the shutters, straightened his robes, grabbed his candelabra, and headed towards the door.

On the other side he found two men, tall and broad. One wore a hood covering his face, the other bald with the moonlight shining from his head. Both wore cloaks down to their boots.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” Bertrand asked.

The bald one spoke, “Yes. We are looking for a young woman. She’s pregnant and ill. We thought it likely she’d seek the aid of a physician, and the people in town directed us to you.” The man’s features were sharp, his eyes dark against the flickering candlelight.

Bertrand looked to the other one but could not see his face, “Yes, I have seen her. I am terribly sorry, but she did not make it. She died in the birth.” He said, shaking his head.

The bald man grunted. “I see, and what of the child?”

“Died in birth as well. Terrible.”

“Might we take a look, Master Physician?” the bald man asked, crossing his arms. He wore leather gloves, and through the opening of his cloak it became obvious that he had armor donned.

“Of course,” Bertrand said, stepping aside. “She’s through the door in the back. The child as well.”

The two men stepped into the house, their boots thudding against the dry wood floors. As they moved into the back room, they saw the woman they’d been pursuing, lying dead on the operating table.

“The child?” the bald man asked, turning towards Bertrand.

“You don’t want to see it, sir. It’s a horrible sight.”

“Yes. I do.” The bald man said, his face expressionless. Bertrand sighed and pulled back the blankets on the table next to the woman. He unveiled a twisted, bloodied, gnarled figure. Bertrand could feel a tension from the cloaked man, as if he were angered by the sight.

The bald man grunted, “What’s that smell?” he said covering his nose.

“It’s formaldehyde. I use it to preserve the bodies. I am a man of science and a deformity such as this is worthy of scientific investigation.”

“Investigation?” the hooded man asked, speaking for the first time. He stepped forward.

“Y-yes,” Bertrand responded, uneasiness spilling out into his voice. “Insights from a deformity such as this could lead us to prevent such things in the future,” he said, eyeing the infant’s corpse on the bed.

“Ahhh,” the hooded man’s voice hissed from his shadowed face, “I think not.” The man dashed toward Bertrand, cloak in a flurry. Before Bertrand knew what was happening the man unsheathed his dagger at his side and plunged it deep into Bertrand’s belly. Bertrand gasped, dropping his candelabra, and toppled to the floor. His breathing became ragged.

The hooded man wiped his knife clean with a cloth, his face shadowed.

“Scorching madness, Guildwall! What in the embers?” the bald man called out.

The hooded man looked up at his partner, face covered in shadow. “You heard him. He wanted to dissect the infant. We don’t need anyone poking around a situation like this. Who knows what he might’ve discovered?” His voice slithered out of the shadows, “Besides, it should’ve been me who killed her, not the damn child!” The cloaked man’s fists clenched tightly, his teeth gritting. “This needs to be cleaned up. The moment that woman slipped through our hands the first time this whole thing was scorched!”

The bald man looked at his partner, nodding. “What should we do with the bodies?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Burn them. Burn the whole scorching thing to the ground! We can’t have any Singers entering the world. No one needs to know what happened here,” the hooded man proclaimed as he turned to exit the house.

The bald man pulled his leather glove from his hand, revealing a palm blackened and cracked, the skin taking on a scaled appearance. Dim orange light like that of embers emanated from the cracks in the skin. He held his hand out toward the candles which still burned from the procedure earlier that evening; their flames began to twist and curl, growing. The light from his palm pulsating, growing brighter… whiter… hotter. The beds were the first to catch fire. The flames sputtered and weaved across the floor like snakes striking at prey as the entire room became ablaze. He looked down at Bertrand, meeting the old man’s eyes. He crossed his middle finger over his index, held the hand toward the old man on the floor, nodded and left the house.

Bertrand could feel the heat from the fires on his skin, a stark contrast to the coldness emanating through his body from his wound. They’re safe… they’re safe, at least for now. Bertrand couldn’t help but smile at the thought, despite his pain. They knew, the dragons knew all that time ago. That’s why the dragons came to the valley. We were right…his mind began to wander off for one last time.