The Promise (scene from a novel in progress)

 The following is a scene from a novel in second revision titled "The Promise." Enjoy, and if you are wishing to beta read for me and help make my work better, please leave a comment on this post.

            The bard strums a chord which is surprisingly in tune. Then he addresses the room in a similar musical voice. No matter how pretty instrument or the man sounds the stranger would prefer to choke off the voice with the instrument’s strings.

            “Well met fine travelers and village folk. This fine inn keeper has been kind enough to allow me to buy a fine meal and fine ale with a story.” He raises a mug and takes a swig double what most would consider safe and hides any expression well that would give truth to the lie of its quality.

            “This story you may know; if you do not you may want to move from under the rock you have called home.” With this he smiles at a young fellow with a group of older men with the knowledge of an entertainer that this young man was being treated out for some special event, maybe even the lad’s wedding eve. The young man’s companions all have a good laugh and slap him on the back or shoulders. If he guessed right this should earn him an extra half-penny or, if lucky, a full copper. He has no hopes anyone here has a silver in their pocket to part with.

            “My tale may be over three hundred years past but is still why we can call ourselves free men today: Leoniceel and the Sword of Justice.”

            The stranger at the bar grunts into his ale, a mere whisper. “Justice? Bloody thing was all tarnish and rust and not even mine.”

            The Bard strums a new chord, this one has an ominous ring and begins his tale.

“All feared the Cursed King who had bought his immortality from the Dark, the cost, his soul. His demonic horde was a swarm of death across the kingdoms. Though no one knew his name or from whence he came all fell to his evil rule and grotesque demons.”

            Leoniceel grumbles again, slightly above a whisper this time. “They were only scared men choosing to follow instead of death.”

            A man, turned toward the stage, sitting two stools down the bar, his arms those of a metal smith, gives him a frown but the dark glare Leoniceel returns gives the man an urgent need to focus back on the bard as if he is the smaller man.

            “The Cursed King’s army left nothing but carrion birds and fire-gutted buildings. Death ate well in those days. Fifty, nay a hundred years the land knew war.”

            Leoniceel laughs into his ale, no longer trying to keep his disapproval to a whisper. “It was one bloody miserable winter.” The inn keeper trades out the near empty mug in front of the stranger with a full one and takes the moment to shush him, letting his eyes wander up toward the bouncer with obvious meaning.

            A new note, this one a little sadder than the last, flows from the bard’s instrument pulling everyone to lean toward the bard.

“The Cursed King’s army knew no mercy and even the women and children were left for dead wherever they marched. Every generation births a hero, a man who stands above others to do right. Justice! With his sword Justice, Leoniceel dealt it to the Cursed. He moved across the burnt waste avenging those fallen to the evil king. Some say there are a thousand demons imprisoned back into the Dark by his blade, but I tell you it is nearer ten thousand.”

            Leoniceel forces a swallow of ale, so he does not yell out that maybe three fell to him during that winter and none he recalls were demons. In three hundred years tales about him have only grown more fanciful and as equally more hated by him. This bard’s more so.

            Unable to tune out the bard’s overbearing voice he is forced to pick up listening after a verse or two missed.

“At last, Leoniceel tracked the Cursed King to his camp where he is surrounded by a thousand of his demon generals. Justice strikes down demon after demon as our hero fought his way toward the King’s tent. Righteousness was his strength; Justice was his weapon when Leoniceel faced the Cursed King in combat. Hours they fought. Every injury to the king quickly healed by the promise of the Dark and he never grew tired. Leoniceel, being mere man, fought on but did not have much left in him to keep facing this master demon who reigned over all demons.”

            The bard begins to strum his instrument faster and faster as the battle grows more dire and Leoniceel fights the need to throw his mug at the bard to shut up the lies.

            “Then with the glory of good and with his sword, Justice, in his hand Leoniceel gains the strength to sever the Cursed King’s head from his body and end his reign of death.”

            Losing the battle inside his own head Leoniceel jumps off his stool and tosses the half full mug across the room to crash on the stage at the feet of the bard. Within seconds the over-sized hands of the bouncer has Leoniceel’s wrists pinned together behind his back and his feet off the ground hauling him toward the doors and just as quickly tosses him like a sack of grain into the street. After an exit like that the bouncer does not waste the words to tell him to stay out instead, he returns to his wall without the knowledge of how easy the hold could have been countered. Leoniceel knows he deserved his assisted exit so never resisted.