“In the time of King Rocheveron,

  a young man called Judd LaMogre,

  began his quest, with nothing less,

  Than slaying a fearsome ogre.

  In Fort Faine, two score of goblins,

  poisoned crops, beasts and man

  LaMogre cut down those demonic wretches,

  til not one had legs to stand.

  In mangrove swamps, where witches lurked

  And Maul’s malevolent eye was glaring,

  LaMogre tore apart it’s choking hold,

  blinding it from ever staring.

  Mocked he was, in Fort Bastil,

  who is this unknown fighter?

  Yet Judd LaMogre was crowned champion!

  And gained a talented songwriter.”

  Judd looked at Verne and they both shared an eyerolling sigh at Giordi’s singing. Though Judd cringed consistently at the lyrics, hearing all manner of exaggerations in both describing Judd and what he did, the minstrel had the soldier’s mess utterly entranced by his performance. Even sword master Roust and a number of his guards were in attendance, listening and watching as Giordi spun melodic tales that turned Judd from a very average, ungainly and unremarkable sort into a dynamic warrior worthy of a place beside Andigre himself.

  It was all very embarrassing.

  And there was nothing Judd could say or do to get out of it.

  After all, inviting Giordi was his idea.

  He had no idea it would backfire so severely.

  The soldier’s mess resembled a tavern where food was free but ale was bought. Donimede refused to fund the soldier’s drinking habits and given how many soldiers and guards there were in Fort Mavour, Judd couldn’t reproach him on that. Barrels of ale were rolled from the ceiling into a wooden and metal frame, coming down in the centre to rest on a contraption that allowed for the barrels to be hooked up to taps. Around this central and dominant structure of libation liberation was a counter that prevented the soldiers from snatching a free drink or two. Manning the taps were barmaids, hired predominately by the size of their bust and the level of scandal at which they would wear their bodices.

  At one end of the room was a raised platform with a single table where those of ‘superior’ rank could sit. The table was grand, a hefty construct and the chairs had high backs, spread out and allowing for plenty of elbow room. The lower level was quantity over quality, long tables lined with pews down the sides, soldiers and guards crammed in together, all turned towards whatever was most entertaining at the time. Usually that was the plunging cleavage of the barmaids but tonight, it was the dulcet tones of Giordi Gavoli who sang clear and bright in front of the platform on a half stage where other entertainers had probably stood countless times in the past.

  Even if the men of war had not been inclined towards music, they were interested in brave and heroic deeds and Giordi had captured many of the wild adventures Judd and his companions had been on with upbeat lyrics and, at times, cringing attempts at rhymes.

  After capturing the demise of the ogre, goblins and mangrove swamp monster, Giordi proceeded to sing about the cockatrice, the orthros, the giant spider and the hydra of Fort Omra before he ended his song and bowed with a sorrowful expression on his face.

  “Though there are more monsters who met their match upon LaMogre’s metal, I have not had the time in which to write the verses.”

  “Tell us about them instead!”

  “Go on! Tell us about the unicorns!”

  “No, the slaying of the centaur!”

  “Tell us about the giant spider again!”

  Judd groaned and shook his head as Giordi, who found eloquent and dramatic improvisation of spontaneous speech a joy to perform, proceeded to tell of all the monsters Judd had slain without singing about them. Judd was at the ale taps, filling his stein and had yet to make his way back through the crammed tables and crowded souls to the balcony to where Roust, Chael and several other soldiers sat.

  “The night was black,” Giordi gestured dramatically, “and the only light in the abandoned, desolate fort of Sol was from the bursts of lightning that illuminated every corner…yet the giant spider, that had bound Sir Bobellion in its webs as a host for its eggs, hid upon the stained glass window…visible only as every one of its eight legs peeled away from the black iron frame, its body as large as an ogre and its legs, able to reach to both sides of this room.”

  Giordi’s singing had arrested everyone’s attention so that Judd had been able to get to the ale taps without being waylaid by eager soldiers. But there wasn’t a spare chair available now, every soldier, guard and servant risking rebuke to listen to the minstrel’s tales. Judd stood by a wall, unable to return to the balcony as Giordi spun a tale as elaborate and captivating as the giant spider’s web itself.

  “That monstrous beast, that arachnid most foul, clambered down the wall, its eight eyes seeking out the strongest, bravest and greatest threat to its young…”

  Judd could stand it no longer. “Who was so overcome by terror of that giant spider that he turned and ran, trying to escape!”

  Everyone turned and looked at Judd, some in surprise, others in annoyance and some in downright disdain. “Who are you to spoil this minstrel’s tale?” One poor ignorant guard asked and was promptly informed by those in the know. “Wait…you’re LaMogre?”

  “I am afraid so.” Judd shrugged. “I’m not as tall as a house, as brawny as a bear or as brave as a lion…and I am terrified of spiders,” he pointed at Giordi, “which you well know!”

  “And what, pray tell, did you do once you escaped the great hall of Fort Sol?” Giordi asked, undeterred.

  “You mean, after you saved my life?” Judd didn’t have to worry about not being seen anymore so he squeezed his way past chairs and tables, soldiers shifting out of his path so that he could glower at Giordi at a much closer, ear boxing, distance. “I ran out into the rain, onto the roof where that oversized web dweller chased me down.”

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  “Wait, wait…” One of the soldiers raised his hand. “You went onto the roof of a fort?”

  “Yes, to escape the spider.” Judd confirmed.

  “It was raining, wasn’t it?”

  “Pouring,” Giordi looked at Judd, “and you can’t deny that.”

  Judd nodded. “Yes, it was pouring rain but that didn’t stop the spider. It launched itself over my head, landing onto the ridgepole of the great hall.”

  “You were balanced on the ridgepole?”

  Judd paused. “Well…yes…trying to escape.” Suddenly he realised all eyes were on him.

  “How did you kill the spider?”

  The soldier’s mess was usually a cacophony of drinking, burping, complaining and flirting with the barmaids but in that moment, you could have heard a sparrow fart.

  Judd blundered momentarily. “I…I had cut off two of its legs on one side so when it reared, ready to pounce, I rammed my sword into its gut…”

  “And was so enraged he drove it off the roof where it landed in the courtyard, the sword still sticking out of its body.” Giordi beamed. “I’m telling you, LaMogre…you can’t make this stuff up.”

  Judd looked around and saw, despite his attempt to belittle his actions, there was more adoration and wonder in the eyes of the soldiers and guards than there had been before.

  His protestation and subsequent confession had not quite gone according to plan.

  “You’re the one who saved my life by hitting it with your lute,” Judd argued, “and I fell off that roof!”

  “And you survived?!” A soldier exclaimed while the others gasped and applauded.

  Judd groaned and Giordi laughed.

  “To the slayer of the spider that had Fort Sol in its web!”

  “Here’s to LaMogre!”

  “Huzzah!”

  “I give up.” Judd groaned, sinking into his chair beside Verne who was not even bothering trying to hide his smirk. “Even cowardice becomes a positive virtue after enough ale.”

  “It’s a refreshing telling of heroics amidst terror.” Captain Chael, out of his armour and reclined in his chair, drank from his stein. Arsch and Kipre were also at the table as well as sword master Roust.

  “Unless it’s false modesty…” Sir Donimede remarked from the end of the table, enjoying a glass of liquor that he’d brought to the mess himself. So far he had not offered to share.

  “Well then, I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.” Judd drained his ale and licked his lips.

  “True enough,” Chael nodded, “better off just letting your minstrel tell the tales and grin and bear it.”

  “If he’s not careful, I’ll break another lute of his,” Judd said loudly enough so that Giordi, who was climbing the stairs to join their party, heard him and grinned, “and this time it’ll be on purpose.”

  “You’re not going to begrudge the men a little light entertainment?”

  “You’ve got many songs of comedic content…surely my climbing out of a dam, coated in slimy green sludge and trailing leaves like a swamp monster, would make for a more entertaining tale.” Judd retorted.

  “When were you covered in dam slime?” Giordi frowned.

  “Don’t you remember? It was after I killed the werewolf then had to chase down the wolf pack it sent to kill…people chained to the well in Quarre.” Judd realised all too late that his minstrel had set him up. Arsch and Kipre’s eyes were wide and even battle hardened Chael and stoic Roust put down their ales and stared at him. Giordi smirked from behind his ale and Judd wanted to thump him.

  “The werewolf in Quarre sent wolves into the town?” Kipre asked.

  “Yeah,” Judd fumbled, trying to figure out how to get out of this story, “she…”

  “She? The werewolf was female?”

  “She was, yes.” Judd saw their looks. “I take it you don’t see a lot of female werewolves?”

  “It’s unheard of.” Arsch admitted.

  “In the early days of my commission to Fort Mavour,” Donimede announced, “werewolves were a considerable problem, keeping crops and cattle numbers low but I made sure that threat was dealt with before the birth of my first child. I admit, their numbers were so plentiful, we never stopped to check their gender. We had other more pressing matters.”

  Clearly Arsch and Kipre had other things on their mind other than the ‘pressing matters’. “What did she look like?”

  Judd felt rather than saw Chael and Roust’s interest and wondered if they had been dying to ask the same question.

  “Hairy.” Judd said dryly. “She was dealing dangerously with certain authorities in Quarre,” Judd fudged over the specifics, not wanting to start sowing discord and gossip, “and she could summon wolves to do her bidding…which didn’t end after I killed her so we had to hightail it back to the township to save the innocents who were chained to the well…and I fell into the dam.”

  “Pushed,” Giordi looked at him pointedly, “you were pushed.”

  “Yes, alright, I was pushed.”

  “By who?” Chael asked.

  Judd shook his head. “It’s not important and who did it, died before dawn.”

  “But Judd did scale sheer cliffs, in his armour, covered in dam slime and arrived to save my own sorry ass,” Giordi jerked his head towards Verne, “Verne’s too.”

  The soldiers at the table ogled Judd while the captains studied him with admiration. Judd sighed and glowered at Giordi. “I hate you…”

  “When are you going to start believing your own integrity, bravery and incredible accomplishments, Judd?” Giordi demanded. “You set out to become a knight and every monster slain, every bully knocked down a peg or two and every life saved only proves you more than qualified to become a knight.” Giordi leaned back in his chair. “I merely put your deeds to music.”

  “About that,” Verne spoke up suddenly, “when are you going to tell the person who wrote, ‘Harvest time and mulberry wine’, that you stole their melody?”

  Giordi gnashed his teeth and slumped. “Ah! I was hoping no one would notice.” He sighed. “You’ve got a good ear, Verne.”

  “Not really. There hasn’t been a day since you joined the party that you haven’t been singing some ditty or other.”

  “Yes I know, but to pick up on my pinched melody…I shall have to be a bit more creative…”

  “I don’t think my reputation can stand any more of your ‘creativity’.” Judd moaned.

  “But I haven’t even sung the ballad of Judd verses the centaur or of when you stayed out all night in defence of a criminal tied to a whipping post on the western prairies?”

  Arsch and Kipre’s jaws dropped. “All night? You stayed out all night?”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Judd protested, “and I was in full armour!”

  “But still!” They both stood up. “We’re going to let the others know.”

  Judd sighed and closed his eyes. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked up at Chael.

  “Never begrudge a little hero worship. It’s inspiring.”

  “I recall how recruitment numbers swelled when I first arrived in Mavour,” Donimede chuckled, “all the young lads wanted to be me and some, I’m told, even lied about their age, just for the chance to meet me. Isn’t that right, Roust?”

  “I’m sure it is.” Roust lifted his stein in a kind of salute.

  Judd did the same, noticing a smell in the air that set his teeth on edge. He couldn’t quite fathom what it was. He shook his head and went back to his ale, draining the stein dry.

  “You’d better take it easy,” Chael laughed, “even drinking yourself stupid and ending up in a scandalous tangle with a barmaid will only lift you in the eyes of the soldiers.”

  “That’s certainly not the kind of reputation I want to cultivate,” Judd cringed then shook his head, “but honestly, this tastes like water after drinking with the nomads. I’ve never known anyone to drink like they do…and I worked on the docks of Astaril!”

  “I cannot fathom how you were allowed into their camps.” Chael admitted. “Any dealings we have had with them has been through their palisades. Not once were we allowed inside as we traded.”

  “We were extremely fortunate in our dealings with them.” Judd insisted, hoping to soften his favour in light of their shunning.

  “You must have been to be given a nomad bride as a gift.” Donimede’s tone was slightly scathing.

  Judd held up his hands. “Truly, she is not my bride.”

  Donimede nodded and stood up. “I am sure I am not the only one relieved to hear that. Well, gentlemen…I have pressing matters of fort business to attend to. Goodnight.”

  They rose in respect to watch him leave and sat down again. Immediately the tension in the air, which Judd had only been aware of subconsciously, lessened. Chael and Roust relaxed, the sword master rolling his eyes. “Wretched stink…put me right off my drink…which wouldn’t happen if Donimede would stop watering down the ale.”

  “That smell?” Roust nodded. “What was it? I couldn’t work it out.” Judd admitted.

  Roust gave a mocking shake of his head. “Hair dye.”

  Judd stared at Roust who didn’t have a hair on his head then turned to Chael.

  “Not me!” The captain protested, stroking his ginger sideburns. “This is all natural.”

  Judd paused, glancing at Verne and Giordi. “Donimede?” He asked hesitantly. The captain and sword master nodded. “Hair dye?”

  “To keep his hair as black as a raven.” Chael shook his head. “If you ask me, he ought to just let himself go grey…or at least dye his eyebrows.”

  Judd hadn’t taken any notice of Donimede’s eyebrows but it did occur to him that, for his age, the knight did not have a single grey hair on top of his head.

  “It’s why I shave my head,” Roust chuckled, “to keep the temptation away to cling to my youth.”

  “Instead you just cover it with tattoos that will wrinkle with every year that passes.” Chael taunted.

  “Better than covering my face with unnecessary and unsightly sideburns.”

  Judd laughed at their banter then looked up to see Arsch and Kipre returning to the table, bringing several soldiers with them.

  “LaMogre, we were wondering if you would tell us about the slaying of the centaur.”

  Judd sighed. “It’s going to be a long night…”