The Champions of Metal

A Story by C.S. Williams

An personal exercise in writing traditional fantasy. In a world where music is a is a force of magic, two musicians are accosted while travelling.

The forest’s sweet dampness, a symptom of late summer, bore down like a great blanket. The road to the Capital stretched endlessly in front with the trees blocking the sides. Vittoria flipped up her hood and headed to the man’s side. In the middle of the road were two bodies splayed out in the dirt. Her co-passenger was just ahead, his large frame like one of the trees.

“I told you to stay in the carriage,” the stranger said, still staring ahead.

She pointed to the bodies. “That looks like a trap.”

“Further reason,” His gaze darted around, listening for any breaks in the silence.

“Not likely,” She said. “I’ve got a better idea.” She slid her guitar from behind her back, catching its silver neck in her hands. Her calloused fingers, tattooed black and itching with anticipation, caressed the metal strings lovingly. “Cover your ears,” She said seductively to the stranger.

In her mind’s eye, a gray haze fell over the earthen forest. Her guitar, her silver Weeping Dark, played a song of longing and despair that rang through the waning day. Every memory that formed the song came rushing back: Strumming with Dad; Mother leaving for the East; Her village burning, the smell of her father’s corpse. As the last note slunk from the guitar’s shell, she felt the effects of the song settling around her. A cloud of gloom and torpor fell like rain. She turned to her companion, standing sternly. Yet through his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, she saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

Soon loud sobs filled the air from the woods. She could make out three figures trudging out of the brush, their faces red and wet with tears. They were farmers, judging from their simple garb and threshing tools hanging from their belts. Even the two laying in the road barely moved from their positions before collapsing and sobbing. Vittoria smiled to herself before slinging her guitar over her shoulder.

“Quite impressive,” A loud voice bellowed behind them. “But your sorcery will not save you!” The two whirled around to see a farmer on the carriage, a bloodied knife in his hand. The driver slumped over, eyes glazed and blood trickling from his slit throat. He unlatched the rods holding the horses to the carriage, slapping them hard and sending them roaring down the road and out of sight. “Right,” the bandit said, wiping and sheathing his knife. “Clothes. Valuables. Food.” He approached them with a rusted sickle drawn.

The stranger stood in front of Vittoria, long red cloak billowing like a war banner. “Turn around. You do not want this fight,” he said gravely.

“You’re surrounded,” The leader replied, pointing the sickle at the stranger. Vittoria saw clumps of wax stuffed in his ears.

In a flash of steel, the sickle fell pathetically off the hilt. The stranger now held a long thin rod to his assailant’s throat, a tight string stretched along its width. It glinted brightly in the low light, and Vittoria felt a humming in her chest as she watched it vibrate. The primordial Song, she thought, shaken. But he’s got no guitar. Still, his show had given her an idea. “At your request, I’d like to ask something.”

The leader shrank backwards, dropping his empty hilt. “Anything.”

“We’re short a working carriage and we really need a ride. Any ride will do, but we’ve got an appointment with the kingdom to keep.”

The leader began sweating, “We can’t,” he stammered.

“Why not?” The stranger growled.

“We have nothing for you!”

The stranger advanced, holding the string to his enemy’s neck.

The leader shut his eyes. “Our town’s a few hours from here. Take whatever you want.”

“What about your horses?”

“They’re yours.”

“Take us to them,” The stranger took the string off the leader’s neck. “Or I cut you down, thief.”

The leader nodded, signaling for his men to follow.

“Who are you, anyway?” Vittoria asked the stranger. The group had formed a loose circle, with the stranger’s bow at the leader’s back. “We weren’t properly introduced in the carriage.”

“My name is Reginold.” He said curtly. “And I know who you are.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“My name is Reginold. I am your escort, by order of the First Republic.”

“So you’re a ‘pubby.”

“I’ve no love for the Republic. My payment is at the Capital.”

“We’ve got that much in common,” She laughed.

“Indeed.”

The forest had darkened. A horrible smell of rotten eggs and cinder grew stronger the closer they got. Soon the wooden gate of the village bore down on them. Rotten bodies hung from posts and from trees, their foreheads carved with a symbol too familiar to Vittoria: a spiraling eel, boring into darkness. The Coiled held this place.

“You forgot to tell us about this, rat.” Reginold growled.

“Just follow my lead and you won’t get hurt,” the leader said, knocking on the door. It opened with a heavy creak, a single figure appearing. He was large in height and build, a dark hood covering his face. On his shoulder was a piece of fabric that Vittoria quickly realized was a tanned human face. “We’ve got a few more for the pile,” the leader said to the freak. The freak nodded, allowing the group into the village.

A massive bonfire burned at the center of a few houses in a clearing. Piles of cows and human bodies blazed and popped with a hideous odor, while a pyramid of garbage weakly contained the blaze. The streets were strewn with garbage and bones. Disparate pockets of figures wandered round the alleys and the fire, tossing things inside.

The leader led the group inside a what used to be a tavern. The place had been ransacked, the furniture in splinters and the bar cleared of any drinks. The leader then opened a door that led down into darkness.

“So the horses are down there?” Reginold said, raising an eyebrow.

“We wait until nightfall. Then you get to the stable.” The leader said.

“Clemence?” A voice called from below.

“One minute!” He called out. “Come on! Before somebody sees you!” He motioned for the two to enter.

The waning light of day was gone now. Trace lanterns illuminated a decrepit cellar filled with people stuffed into every corner. Most were frail, hollow-faced in the low light. Their eyes were glazed with fear. A few backed away as Vittoria and Reginold entered, whispering and holding each other. A woman with a young boy came forward and embraced the leader. He kissed her and hugged the boy.

“Why aren’t they disarmed?” The woman asked.

Clemence shook his head. “I promised them horses if they didn’t kill me.”

She bowed her head, dejected.

“How long have they been here?” Vittoria asked the woman.

“Three weeks. When the trade caravans stopped, we suspected the worst. The Republic soldiers pulled out when we had to ration our food. Then the Coiled came and took the rest.” Her son nudged closer into her dress, clutching it tight. “Any dead go on the pile.”

If they don’t kill you all first, Vittoria thought. She knew exactly what would happen here. She’d seen it. This cellar was a stockade. They would be fed to the fire as fuel, just extra tribute for a great sacrifice. “We’re on our way to the Capital. We’ll send help when we get there.”

“The Capital’s dead, Inkfinger!” Someone from the crowd shounted. “All caravans go through the Capital! No caravans, no soldiers, no damned Capital! They got the Autarch, I bet you!” A bubbling of worried whispers rolled through the cellar.

An awful, familiar despair clutched Vittoria’s heart. Reginold turned to Clemence. “Your promise remains. When night falls, we leave.”

“We’re going to die down here,” Vittoria said to Reginold. They had been tucked into a corner for an indeterminate amount of time.

“Don’t say that. We’ll find a way,” Reginold said.

“How, then?”

“I have an idea,” he assured her. He placed a large hand on her shoulder. “Please, trust me.” For the first time, she could see his eyes clearly. There was a paternal spark that she recognized. “I need you to stay here.”

She sat for a moment, then nodded.

He gave her a hearty pat on the shoulder before getting up to leave. He solemnly weaved through the sleeping piles of people towards the stairs. She watched him disappear out of the slim candlelight. Whatever he intended to do, she knew she wanted to stay out of the way. Her Metal was not meant for anything grand. At least, not what she chose it for.

Everyone huddled together, breathing deeply and turning over. There were too many packed per square inch. Yet amidst the fear, there was still warmth. Her eyes found Clemence with his wife and child sleeping together. The man who threatened them not yesterday ago still had a reason to live. Vittoria thought of her reason to live besides what the Capital offered her. She wondered if there was a Capital left. Soon she gave herself over to sleep.

Reginold’s frame filled the doorway of the tavern. The great fire cut the darkness of the night in stark shadows. Around the fire strode the Coiled, their screeching guitars blasting foul Metal into the night sky. They were preparing a great offering of flesh. They would slaughter everyone in this village.

He felt for his violin in his vest. He strode firmly into the center of the road, where he could see his enemies far easier: Dozens, all armed and clad in human skins.

He roared like a beast. Their music stopped as they turned in unison. They did not speak, only watching him before drawing their weapons. Their backs to the fire, they became an awful, jagged shape of stinking flesh and glinting eyes. He prepared his violin and began to play.

A spiraling black cloud began forming above Reginold as his bow struck across the cords. The bow, glowing faintly at first, slowly became white hot until it burned brighter than even the bonfire. The horde was nearly on top of him, but he didn’t care. His solo was not finished.

At the right note, he lifted the bow into the air as a pillar of lightning blasted from the heavens. It encircled him, snapping and licking at whatever it touched. Three men burned to cinders before the lightning finished its transfer into Reginold’s bowstring. The remaining circled him, silent as ever. He holstered his violin, brandishing the bowstring that now blazed with captured lightning. For a while, all he heard was the frenzied cracking of his bow.

An angry shake woke everyone in the cellar. Children clutched at their parents. An elderly man began weeping hysterically. Clemence hugged his family close.

Vittoria slung her guitar and played a song for them all, a lullaby she’d perfected for hospital patients. To its listeners, the sounds evoked memories of their happiest days and deepest dreams. It would relax them, ease them back to slumber before any panic could set in. She kept playing until everyone had laid back down while the thunder rocked the world above.

One of them swung at him. He swiftly chopped his enemy half, burning flesh and metal alike. A great crack of thunder sounded immediately after. All of them followed. They were cut down as well.

Forty cracks of thunder echoed into the night.

A bird’s chirping woke Vittoria. Everyone was still under the effect of her spell. She rushed upstairs to an ocean of broken glass littering the main street. A legion of burned bodies, all cut to pieces, lay smoldering together. The bonfire had been extinguished. A single man lay slumped against a wall.

She dashed to him. He was breathing, but his hair and clothes were singed. She exhaled in relief.

“You crazy b*****d,” she said, staring out in disbelief at the wreckage. “You did all this?”

He nodded, lifting his coat to reveal a small, ornately carved violin. A violin? She thought, puzzled. How could a violin do this? The very thought was impossible. A user of Metal who didn’t use a guitar? There was no way around it. He was a deviant. They were outcasts to the First Republic, together.

As people began leaving the cellar, yelling with joy as the sun rose, she hugged him tightly. His burned hair reminded her of Dad, home from the forge for the day. “You’re a brave man.”

“As are you.” He smiled weakly, for the first time since she’d met him.

“What about the horses?”

“The horses can wait. I need to rest.”