Reralt and Narro continued down the road. To their left stretched a dense, green forest; to their right, golden wheat fields and quiet pastures waved in the breeze.
“So, Reralt,” Narro began, having just finished reciting The Ballad of Reralt and the Devil—a tale he couldn’t shake the feeling was actually about a little girl who had beaten Reralt up and stolen his lunch.
Still, Reralt seemed entirely convinced it had been the devil.
“What’s it like, being a Lord?” Narro asked. There was still a long way to go, and he couldn’t bear another foggy exploit from the so-called hero.
Poor Narro.
“Well,” Reralt said, riding with perfect posture—one hand on the reins, the other resting proudly on his hip. He nodded solemnly at every peasant they passed, clearly expecting a bow in return.
“Probably the same as your Lord,” he said. “Although I don’t believe I’ve ever met him—and I remember everything.” He tapped his temple. “Brains like an octopus.”
Narro wasn’t sure that was a boast.
“I can remember eight things at once,” Reralt added, in a tone clearly meant to be awe-inspiring.
Narro wisely chose not to press the matter. He’d seen the contents of Reralt’s coin purse—a considerable amount of gold. Combined with just enough wit to keep him breathing, things might turn out quite well for Narro.
The postman-turned-bard—for no real reason.
Well. No good one, anyway.
***
“Well no, we’re a democracy,” Narro said, a hint of amusement in his voice. Boy, I’d like to see where this is going.
“A what now?” Reralt cupped a hand to his ear, as if the word had physically bounced off him.
“A democracy,” Narro repeated, louder, humoring the walking bag of gold. “We let the people decide who rules them. By a vote.”
“Interesting concept,” Reralt mused. “So how does that work? How do they know who to vote for?”
“Well,” Narro said, “people who want the job explain how they’d like to do it. Then the people who like those ideas vote for them. The one with the most votes gets to try and implement them.”
“Try?” Reralt blinked. “So... anyone can just say whatever the people want to hear?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea at all,” Reralt muttered, deeply troubled. “Sounds like lying is just... encouraged. Institutionalized.”
“Mm-hmm,” Narro said, eyes forward.
“Also,” Reralt continued, “the people with these ideas—they need a lot of time to explain them, right? Going from city to city?”
“True...” Narro said, sensing the conversation slipping through his fingers.
“So they don’t need to work?” Reralt raised an eyebrow. “Just like lords and ladies?”
Narro fell silent.
“So who makes sure they get food?” Reralt asked, frowning. This strange type of government felt oddly familiar.
“Well... they’re usually subsidized by wealthy voters,” Narro said, eyeing Reralt with disbelief.
“Like lords do with their advisors,” Reralt muttered, brow furrowed.
“Sort of,” Narro replied.
He was starting to suspect Reralt might be either the smartest idiot, or a moronic genius.
“That seems like aristocracy with added barricades,” Reralt concluded.
Reralt rode a bit ahead. He thought he saw a rabbit.
“So the only difference is that you don’t know who your lord is?”
“Eh... heh?” Narro scratched his head.
He had to admit—that sounded about right.
***
Reralt dismounted at the side of the road. He had definitely seen a rabbit.
And now that the devil had stolen his lunch—well, the lunch he had heroically claimed from those slightly undead monk-zombies—he needed something more.
After all, he was a grown man.
And hungry.
He wetted his finger, held it to the wind, and gauged its direction and speed.
He nodded. Slightly.
Like a man who understood nature.
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Then he returned to his horse and retrieved his bow.
It was an ornate thing, inlaid with filigree and arcane symbols—more artwork than weapon.
It looked heavy. And too large. And far too ceremonial.
Not particularly functional.
But it did catch the light nicely.
Narro dismounted beside him, guiding his horse a few steps away.
He’d seen the rabbit too—about twenty meters off, facing the other way.
An ideal shot. Simple. Clean.
Reralt nocked an arrow and took his stance.
He drew back the string. Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then, with great confidence, he closed both of his eyes.
As he’d learned in childhood, if he closed his eyes and waited three seconds after the shot, he always hit the bullseye.
In one account, he’d even shot so well, so fast, the arrow changed color mid-flight.
And grew a second feather.
Narro stood watching, wondering how in the nine hells this man had made it to his age.
Reralt loosed the arrow.
Narro screamed.
He collapsed into the grass, an arrow jutting from his right leg.
Reralt opened his eyes. The rabbit was still there. Still hopping away.
Very much unshot.
“Reralt, you idiot!” Narro shouted from the ground.
“Language!” Reralt snapped. “Don’t stand in front of the arrow. Now I missed the rabbit.”
“You shot me!” Narro groaned.
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Reralt said, already crouching beside him. With a clean, confident yank, he pulled the arrow free and immediately pressed something vaguely cloth-like to the wound.
“No harm done. You keep the leg,” he said with a proud nod. “Just be more careful next time.”
***
The rabbit had only hopped a few yards further.
Still sitting.
Still very shootable.
Reralt decided he’d have another go.
Narro quietly took shelter behind Reralt’s horse.
Reralt nocked a second arrow, pulled the string taut, closed both eyes again—and fired.
He opened them just in time to see the rabbit, once again, hopping away unharmed.
He muttered under his breath. “Damned magical rabbit. Impervious to my arrows.”
Then—thud.
A duck fell from the sky, an arrow sticking out of its side.
“Ha!” Reralt exclaimed, delighted. He scooped it up and held it aloft like a trophy.
“Dinner,” he said, proudly showing it to Narro.
Narro nodded, mounted his horse, and never, ever said a word about it.
***
The sun was almost down when Reralt punched Narro.
Narro had been unusually quiet, working on a new poem.
“Look!” Reralt pointed to the horizon, eyes wide. “Honor and epos to be got there!”
A thick column of black smoke rose about four or five miles away.
Narro didn’t even look up. “A farm shed is burning.”
His leg still ached from the arrow—though he had to admit, the wound wasn’t that bad.
“No, my trustful bard,” Reralt said, thrusting his hair dramatically. “That is dragon fire.”
Narro glanced at the smoke.
It was, definitively, not dragon fire.
Dragons weren’t common in these parts.
Still—smoke meant people. A roof. Maybe food. Maybe even a real bed.
And if Reralt was paying? All the better.
“Well then,” Narro said, spurring his horse forward, “let’s go slay the dragon.”
Reralt blinked.
Narro didn’t have hero genes. He’d cried over a little arrow.
“He must be so impressed he wants to mimic me,” Reralt nodded to himself. There was no other reasonable explanation.
“Once again, I am an inspiring presence to the common folk.”
He rode after Narro with a heroic swish of his cape (which he didn’t have, but imagined very vividly).
Halfway there, Narro suddenly stopped.
He sat frozen in the saddle, eyes wide. Tears welled up.
They were now close enough to see it clearly—distant, yes, but unmistakable:
A large, green dragon wheeled in the smoke-filled sky.
— as mumbled by men who’ve seen the feathers fly
With bow in hand and eyes both closed,
Lord Reralt stood in practiced pose.
His aim, they say, bends winds and fate—
A master shot none dare debate.
The rabbit danced through cursed terrain,
Too swift, too sly, too foul arcane.
But lo! I aimed with hero’s pluck—
And fate delivered me a duck.
“I always meant to strike the sky,”
Said Reralt with a noble sigh.
“For rabbit hunts are far too crass—
I dine on game that flies with class.”
Some arrows fly where none expect,
Some truths bend 'neath the weight of wrecked.
Let songs recall the skies above—
And hush the ground they’re written of.
— contributed to Narro, the Limping Bard.
Next… How Not to Train Your Dragon.
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