Tebiah

"A noble song indeed, good Micas! Surely one that will be remembered for many years."

The large bearded man near the back of the murky, smoke-filled tavern roared his boisterous praise of approval above the surrounding cheers as Micas Harstos, a mercenary belonging to the Bastone Guild, stepped smiling from the table that had served as a temporary stage. Making his way back to his seat near the large hearth in one corner of the room, he was applauded and praised by the many patrons that had gathered at The Sleeping Dove inn for an evening of song and drink.

"Well, what'd you think?" Micas addressed a smaller figure who sat staring into the roaring flames casting a pale glow across the large room, illuminating the many farmers, merchants, and other odd characters comprising the tavern's assembly.

The grey eyes of Besh Shilrionne turned from the fire, a slight twinkle caught in their corners. "It'll do," he shrugged. "At least you assured us lodging for the night."

“Aye, it was a noble effort,” Roshi Termillion, known by most as Roshi the Barbarian and also a member of the fabled Bastone Guild, agreed. “A bit maudlin, but you were ever the sentimental type.”

“I rather liked it,” Kline Tammunz, the fourth member at their table, said cheerfully.

Micas laughed, about to speak once more when the innkeeper (a short, stocky fellow of bright complexion) pounded a large soup ladle against the wall, requesting the attention of noisy benefactors.

"Gentlemen," he began. "To one and all I bid you listen. We are in agreement that Micas certainly is a Master songsman." He was interrupted by shouts and cheers from the large crowd.

"Please, good sirs. Please!" He begged. "Give me leave to say a word! We are always most delighted to have such a fine minstrel among us, and we surely wish to extend our invitation for him to return at his convenience.

"However, I should think you will also be interested to note his companion, a well-known friend to you all and a talented weaver-of-tales, Besh Shilrionne."

A roar of applause sounded as Besh nodded his head in modest acknowledgement of the innkeeper's kindness.

"Sir Besh, if I do not impose too greatly, would you give us a sample of your fine ability? It draws near midnight and I fear we shall have need to disband soon, but not until you grant us the pleasure of a tale."

"Yes-a tale, Besh!" a tall man blurted out from the center of the room, followed by resounding choruses from the other men in the tavern.

With a sidelong glance at his companions, Besh rose and made his way to the same table his comrade had occupied a moment before.

Positioning himself, he said, "So you want a tale, eh? Then have one you shall! A tale filled with despair and grim remorse - quite adequate, I think, to end our companionship for the evening."

Spreading his hands and eying the now-silent crowd, he began.

In the rolling fields outside the village of Gan-sural, the bright sun and periodic rains lent themselves to the growing of wheat. Indeed, the lives of the villagers were made from their wheat - it was all they had. You see, the wheat protected them. It clothed their bodies in the winter and saw that their children never wanted from hunger. The Gan-surals depended on their one savior; it had never forsaken them.

One year, when the late summer winds ahead of harvest time blew stronger and more callous than usual from the north, a band of Shelamen - the thieves who terrorize the villages in the north - spilled out of the forests and went pillaging, demanding payment from the villagers. The Gan-surals possessed neither the skill nor the knowledge to defy the bandits, yet refused to pay the tribute. In retribution, the wheat burned.

But the Gan-surals did have one thing - their gold. Enough to hire two-score Bastones.

We never thought we were in for a fight. The way of the Shelamen was not the way of the Bastone y’la Tivah-ti Resha, the "Makers of Legends and Kings." Murdering defenseless farmers and raping their wives and daughters was not the same as crossing swords with professional soldiers-of-fortune who lived by the skill of their arms.

Still, for some reason, we had to fight. Micas, my companion and your beloved minstrel, always said the Shelamen must not have believed the Gan-surals would purchase guardians. Our colleagues Tammunz and Roshi, just there at the table with Micas, thought the raiders were simply too arrogant to believe they would be defeated.

On the appointed day, when the sun was four hours old in the sky, the Shelamen came with fire and sword. We were waiting; the Black Horse Who Knows No Rider waited with us. The Shelamen expected to find defenseless farmers; instead, they found us. They found Death.

Forty-three Shelamen died that day and twenty-one lived to be executed the next. We were more fortunate. Micas received a cut across his right arm, Tammunz a minor scrape on his face. Both minor injuries. Roshi and I were uninjured, although another Bastone, whose name I have long since forgotten, caught an arrow in the fleshy part of the leg, no lasting harm.

There was one other Bastone casualty that day. A large mare, catching a leg on an unseen rock, threw her rider to the ground, crushing him beneath her weight as she, too, went down. It was Tebiah, the oldest among us....

In his younger days, Tebiah had led many of the other elders into countless valiant and victorious battles. His sword had slain Gredabain the Black, the terrible ruler of Hyrod. It was said Tebiah had driven back the dreaded Sea Dragon Selavarj during the siege of Cuil. He had traversed the Uncharted Lands alone at least twice, returning to tell of their beauty and their terrible emptiness. His trophies from battle would fill the halls of any palace.

But in recent years, with the death of his eldest son during the Battle for Thuon Pass during the Pantomaras War, and the toll of age beginning to firmly take its grip on him, Tebiah had fallen from a state of glorious success into lonely desolation. His strength fled as did his youth, and he turned more and more to drink in his search for comfort and solace. It was the sad crumbling of a great man.

We covered Tebiah’s broken body with a cairn of stones, leaving him on the ground without a ceremony. As we collected our pay, I looked back on his simple grave. The Gan-sural sun - the wheat sun - shone brightly on the mound of stone, but I remember the day as sullen and grey.

“I never thought ol’ Tebiah’d die like that,” Roshi had observed as we rode away.

“Hell, I never thought he’d die!” someone added, laughing.

“Anyone remember when he was a real Bastone?” a mercenary named Raskatt had asked.

“Long as I can remember, he only took the easy jobs.”

“Fine with me. I don’t want to depend on a sot in a fray.”

“Wonder when he was last sober?”

“Probably the last time he could mount his horse without help!”

Laughter.

“Befuddled …”

“Shiftless …”

“Soused …”

“Dim-witted …”

“Senile …”

“Petty …”

We separated, me and my three companions heading one way, the remaining members from our company heading in theirs.

I remember once having seen a Bastone huddled, dead drunk, in the middle of a street in the pouring rain, clutching at a drenched, mangy mongrel, trying to share his warmth with the wretched creature.

I remember a cold morning being shaken awake by a calloused hand to watch the sunrise in silence.

I remember an aged camp follower, no longer wanted, lying down to die along the road to Melissa and the only man who fell out of line to be with her as cold smothered the fire in her breast.

I remember a battlefield strewn with the slain bodies of soldiers fighting for a cause now long forgotten, presided over by a single Bastone, his body still slick with the blood of the combatants as tears fell from his eyes washing over the faces of friend and foe alike.

Tebiah was not so old, then.

Last summer, I rode through Gan-sural again. The stones that once made up Tebiah’s monument had long since been used to help build a wall for the wheat. The wind no longer plays among his bones. It need not bother; for there is nothing left of him, now.

Almost nothing. I have not forgotten old Tebiah.

We were the Makers of Legends and Kings.

Who will remember?

The only sound in the tavern was the crackle of the fire in the hearth. When Besh had finished, he stepped down from the table and returned to his seat. Still there was no word from the flabbergasted audience.

Micas whispered something into Besh's ear and a man near the front of the room, dressed in the expensive silks of the Merchant's Guild, softly murmured, "Magnificent! "

Almost as if on cue, the room exploded into a roar of applause, many standing in their places. The innkeeper, filling a large tankard with frothy ale, raised his glass, toasting the two mercenaries who had entertained his guests so greatly, soon followed by all the other members of the audience. The praises and toasting went on until well after midnight.

The following morning the innkeeper again thanked Micas and Besh, wishing them as well as Tammunz and Roshi safety and speed on their journey through his land. Promising to return someday, the four departed, in search of another town and another tavern.