You’re summoned to perform Irminric’s song.

  He’s grown impatient. You’ve been delaying, half-assing lines together. You don’t care, as if you ever did. You've heard better from a cat in heat. There’s nothing song-worthy about this man. It feels sacrilegious to even try putting him into a tale worthy of a long hall. You sense your bardic forebearers looking up disapprovingly when you try. You don’t want him to be remembered – you want him to die, forgotten, at the bottom of the ocean.

  It’s morning, and the hall is full of raiders and jarls having breakfast – they tear at vast loaves of bread and gorge on root vegetables and pork roasts. Torm and Catherine are here. Irminric is celebrating another successful raid. Yesterday, sitting on the steps outside the long hall, you watched new slaves lined up and sorted. They looked so clean and unbedraggled. You think for a moment. How long has it been? Almost two years? What songs and bands have you missed coming out of Byra? Out of Carthesia? Is there still music in the world?

  After the incident with the Byrian nobles, the slaves hardly look at you. He punished someone else in your place. Maybe they want to know what makes you special – what makes their lives worth less than yours. Nothing, you want to tell them. Maybe you would’ve been better off in the lumber camps, the shipyard, the kitchens. Or jumping over the edge of the ship, chains and all, into the blackness when they first dragged you from bed. Or wading into the surf and letting yourself be thrashed into the rocky cliffs. But instead, you’re Irminric’s pet – his translator, his scop, his entertainer. You’re also his punching bag. You wonder if he sits around thinking of new ways to break you. Maybe it’s a challenge. He’s succeeding.

  Sometimes, at the feasts where you perform, you stay a little longer until almost everyone is drunk and passed out at their tables. You sneak an ale or two. You force it down. Sometimes, it comes back up. But it makes things more tolerable. You can live a little longer when you’re numb. You just hate that you smell like them.

  You sit in your spot in the corner, fingering chords on your mandolin. You’ve never felt so uninspired. Normally, playing for the hall is one of the only fleeting moments of joy you feel anymore. You can close your eyes and pretend you’re not a slave and they’re not unabashed slavers. But maybe this is the line. You can’t sing this man’s praises, not for all the ale you could possibly force down.

  You glance at Irminric at the high table. Catherine sits beside him, her yellow eyes wandering over to you. Torm is meandering the hall with a drink, chatting with raiders and recounting their spoils and kills. You just woke up an hour ago. You want to go to sleep.

  A clatter splits the bustle.

  A slave stoops in front of Irminric – a forest elf, ruddy green in color. She has dark hair in braids over her shoulders. She looks new, probably one of the ones you saw yesterday. She scrambles, picking up spilled horns and patting the table with a rag. “Gods, I’m sorry,” she stammers.

  He jumps to his feet, growling. The front of his tunic and baggy pants is wet. It looks like he aggressively pissed himself. You sputter a laugh. The hall goes quiet.

  He shoves her to the floor.

  Even here, you hear the crack. She groans. Catherine stands, approaching the slave. She crouches over her, drawing her Vasterholmian shortsword. You strain to hear the words.

  “What’s your name, precious?”

  “Yasmeen,” the slave returns meagerly, clutching her head.

  The shortsword touches her cheek. She freezes. Catherine coos, “That’s the Warchief you just spilled on. I wouldn’t forget that, if I were you.”

  “I won't,” the slave says. The shortsword travels up to her hair, tracing along it.

  Catherine smiles, her deranged dark lips parting to reveal gleaming teeth. “You have such pretty hair.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lissarel,” Catherine hisses. It’s elven. Fire.

  Orange flames whoosh down the blade.

  The slave shrieks, flame engulfing her hair. She flails. The raiders cheer. You grab the blanket from the back of the chair next to you. You hustle, shoving Catherine aside. You muffle the blanket over the slave, smothering the flames. It’s hot beneath your hands. She grabs at you, pushing feebly. Smoke pours out from underneath. You lift it up. She gasps in air. The flames are gone.

  Her remaining hair is singed. The smell toils. Her ruddy scalp and part of her face are blistered. Her wild eyes blink, taking you in.

  “Go on,” you say quietly. It’s lost in the bustle of the disappointed raiders and jarls. “Get to Brava in the kitchens. She’ll help. Get out of here.”

  The slave nods, staggering to her feet. You help her up. Other slaves are watching from behind the pillars, unnoticed by anyone who’s not looking for them. One helps the new slave hobble into the kitchens.

  You turn to see a flaming shortsword leveled at you.

  “You’re supposed to be the fun one,” Catherine says, cocking her head like a bird of prey. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “You're right. You've got a bright future as a cleric with that kind of wisdom.” Some of the raiders nearby laugh.

  Her yellow eyes narrow. The flame vanishes when she sheathes her blade. She halfway turns, still holding your gaze. “Make him sing.”

  Irminric grunts, sitting at his spot at the high table again. “Seven Oaks. Give us my song. Quiet!”

  His voice is like the crack of a whip. Catherine returns to her seat beside him, leaving you with an audience of every raider and jarl in the hall. They’ve gone completely silent. You bring your mandolin around, resting your arms on it for a moment.

  Past all the hulking killers seated at the long tables, more slaves are watching. There’s a birdfolk peeking from behind a pillar. A half-orc who walks with a limp. A gnome missing a couple fingers. All of them are invisible, except to you. They saw what you did. Why did you do it? Because no one is coming to help in a place like this? Because someone had to do something?

  You turn to look at Irminric. What song could possibly fit him?

  And then a smile cracks your lips. Your blood hums. You stand a little straighter. You’re about to do something profoundly stupid. You feel the presence of the slaves behind you.

  It’s worth it.

  You find your rhythm. You clear your throat, playing a few introductory chords, a melody, a riff. It’s an easy progression – a catchy one – that you keep in your pocket for when you need a quick song. You can nimbly pluck it in your sleep. But you work it, crafting it, like the raw magic of an illusion. Something like magic courses through you, words coiling in your head, falling into perfect order. Something legendary, passed from bard to bard through millennia. Something beyond even the most epic and cherished tales and songs.

  Inspiration.

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  On a cold, rocky island

  Sea spray drifting by

  Wet smell of the shipyard

  Had me saying goodbye

  That's not even the worst part

  The warlord's still breathing air

  And every in and out of his sour breath

  Could singe a troglodyte's hair

  Some raiders guffaw into their drinks. Another laughs before stowing it. You continue, meandering the length of the hall. The slaves remain riveted, ducking behind pillars, hardly daring to be seen. One of them is trying not to smile.

  He sat at the high table

  I smelled it across the hall

  I thought it couldn't be worse, but

  It hit me suddenly like a brick wall

  Then he went to the washroom

  And he took up a squat

  Everyone across this rocky shore

  Left it a dead, vacant lot

  They call him the biggest, blackest dragon

  If you've smelled his ass

  You don't have to ask

  Nobody shits like the biggest, blackest dragon

  We're all worse for it

  Must be quite the itch

  You turn, looking down the length of the hall. Irminric is frowning, his claw straining around his horn of ale. You do a small spin, kicking along down the wood floor. Someone begins thumping the table, keeping time. You beckon them onward. You pass by Torm. He only blinks, his brows puckered together.

  I know he took a bath most days

  I even saw him use soap

  He's got a lot of big, black scales to clean

  It's beyond hope

  Between his big, black asscheeks

  Sweat from his tail

  No claw yet to clean it

  No claw to prevail

  So I smell it in my sleep

  His great black crevasse

  Don't think he's ever had a vegetable

  Or a turd he could pass

  And from the noise from the washroom

  Where his big, black bowels do void

  His temper comes from walking around with

  A big, black hemorrhoid

  A roar of laughter breaks out. There’s murder in Irminric’s eyes as he locks them on you. You step through an empty spot on a bench, mounting a table, playing and striding the length of it. You punt a cup of ale. It connects with a raider’s face, spraying her. A slave watches, hand clapped over his mouth, tears in his eyes. He’s shaking with laughter.

  They call him the biggest, blackest dragon

  If you've smelled his ass

  You don't have to ask

  Don't put me close to the biggest, blackest dragon

  He's a noisome man

  You'll be overran

  You continue on, riffing through chords and prancing along the table. Finally, you bring it to an end, prompting another chorus of applause from the raiders. You sling the mandolin behind you, giving a sweeping bow. You can’t stop smiling. They thump the tables, shaking the hall. You step down, bowing again before turning to the high table.

  You don’t make it that far. Something cracks you in the back of the head.

  Things become blurry. You remember laughing. You can’t stop. You’re being dragged, your heels scraping dirt. Your lungs are raw, your throat dry. You’re limp. And still, you laugh. It was so fucking worth it. Nobody will forget that, especially not Irminric. You sear the song into your mind, the words flitting across your vast stores. You pack it safely and lovingly away. You can barely breathe. One of the best performances of your life, and you’re going to die for it. Maybe it’s as good an end as any bard can hope for.

  You’re inside, now. It's a new place. There’s an iron gate. Morning light streams through it. You’re dumped on a wooden bench against the wall. The room spins while you sit up. There are weapons around. Your mandolin is gone. Two raiders wait nearby, grunting and talking. You catch snatches of your song. They snicker. You’re still shaking, chortling uncontrollably to yourself. You’re close to tears. You lean your head back against the wall. It aches. You’re about to die. But you’re a fucking bard, and Irminric still has no idea. He waited two years for that. All that time, and you retrieved it wrist-deep from your ass in front of the whole hall.

  That’s when you realize you hear cheering outside. And chanting.

  One of the raiders approaches, hefting you. You stumble. Your legs are weak. “C’mon, chump.”

  The other raider appears, retrieving your hand and depositing a sword in it. You stare at it. They both laugh. Then, the iron gate opens, revealing the floor of the Pit.

  You go cold.

  You’re dumped unceremoniously on the dirt. The gate closes behind you.

  The arena’s stuffed with raiders and jarls. You glance up to see Irminric in his seat on the platform. Catherine sits next to him. You don’t see Torm. And then you do.

  He emerges from another iron gate on the other side of the Pit. He has his axe out, holding it overhead to great cheers from the crowd. He’s been given the responsibility of killing you in front of an audience. He’s going to make it fun. What a delightful group activity.

  You swallow around the cutting dryness in your throat. Your whole life, you’ve loved entertaining. Music, magic, and stories come naturally to you, giving people reason to smile when there’s otherwise darkness. But not this. You wanted your life to be full of brightness and joy, not your death.

  You stagger to your feet. At least they’re giving you a fighting chance. You look down at the shortsword you were given. You’ve never even held one. It’s heavier than it looks. It’s Vasterholmian, single-edged and coming to an angled point. You try it in both hands, finding which one feels better. Either works, you realize. Playing an instrument makes you fairly good with both.

  If only you knew how to use it.

  Torm stalks toward you, arms out, stretching his shoulders. He riles the crowd, making exaggerated motions like he’s warming up. He cracks his neck. “Let’s see how well you sing after this.”

  You ready yourself. Before you know it, you’re in the dirt.

  Your body throbs. Your rib sears, thanks to the head of his axe. You’re going to throw up. You barely got the chance to swing before flinching. The audience roars.

  He leaves you there, laughing and circling. You fumble for the blade, pushing yourself up. “Put your pussy into it,” he calls.

  A boot cracks into your gut. You see white. You flop into the dirt again. The audience winces. You don’t know what they expected from you. But something else nags you. You expected worse from Irminric. Somehow, this seems tame.

  Unless his plan isn’t for you to die.

  A half-giant hand hefts you by your shirt, setting you on your feet. You scramble away, brandishing your sword again. Torm is big, but you can be fast when needed.

  It doesn’t matter. He uncoils his whip. “Let’s have some fun.”

  You don’t know what he means - you've been having a blast already. It snaps at your feet with a crack. He spins. It lashes across the outside of your thigh. You wail, staggering. It comes at you again. You sweep your sword at it. It coils around the weapon. With a flick, it sails into the dirt.

  Then, the whip coils around your neck.

  You choke. You’re dragged toward him through the dirt. You clutch at the leather. Blood pounds in your head. You can barely breathe. You writhe to your knees. You pull at the cord but can’t find space for air. He swaggers closer, the crowd chanting. Maybe he’ll take your head off now. Maybe you'll get a good spot on the fence.

  “Weak shit,” he spits.

  He glances around at the raiders, encouraging them. He’s grinning – you’ve seen it before. He hefts his axe, his back to you. The crowd booms. You swallow around the vice grip on your neck, sour spit welling in your mouth. Will you even feel yourself hit the ground?

  He turns. The head of his axe comes at you. Then, there’s blackness.

  You stir awake. You’re being dragged again. You’re not dead. You wish you were.

  Your head pounds like it's going to explode. You can taste metal. Your whole body throbs. You can barely see. You can barely breathe. You blink, and you’re in the long hall. You’re in the cellar. You’re in your bed. The iron bars close and lock.

  You lay still for a moment, weeping.

  You stare at the dim, flickering light of the torch. This is what you get. No one will save you here. You weakly flick out your arcane hand, your throat spasming as you hum a quiet triad. It fumbles, finding the outline of your mandolin. It’s been tossed on the floor underneath your bed. At least you get to keep it. You accept it from your arcane hand, your arms barely working. You’re actively dying, you think. If you do, will Irminric have you brought back?

  Your fingers are slick with blood. You press them against the strings, willing your hands to play the three chords. You’ve told no one about this item’s capabilities. You hardly dare to think about it. But warmth like sunlight courses through your body, dampening the throbbing and knitting you back together.