© J.B. Norman — Published by Emona Literary Services™
Kat, Dunstana, and Nix the Elven bard Dunstana has recently latched onto as a sort of apprentice are walking down the forest when they are forced to leap back from a sudden sulphurous explosion right in their path.
“Bwa-ha-ha!” an ominous voice laughs from the cloud of smoke left by the explosion. “Behold, it is I…”
Kat, Dunstana, and Nix stare as the voice gives way to hacking coughs.
“Ugh, the smell,” the voice from inside the cloud groans. “Does it always stink this bad?”
Kat, Dunstana, and Nix all blink in bemusement as a hooded figure stumbles into view, flailing its long-sleeved arms to disperse the cloud.
“So, uh,” Kat offers. “Can I help you?”
“Ahem,” the hooded figure says. “It is I, the great evil sorcerer Maludovico Derth! I have come to bargain.”
“I guarantee you don’t have anything we want,” Kat notes.
“I don’t know,” Dunstana muses. “I think I’d look pretty cool in that robe.”
“For, you see, as a member in good standing of the Academius Maleficarius,” the sorcerer continues, “I am obligated as per sections three, five, eight, and forty-two of the proclamation of the Third Stygian Council to offer a wager before attempting to devour your souls.”
“I am so sick of that Council,” Nix mutters. As a bard, she’s had to fight off musical sorcerers trying to eat her soul with a stick lately…
“Devour our souls?” Kat repeats incredulously. “What the heck?”
“Yeah,” Dunstana agrees. “That’s ridiculous! How can you even devour something that exists as a metaphysical reality, rather than a material object?”
Kat stares down at her sister.
“What?” Dunstana asks. “Annie was talking about some, you know, Ancient Elven philosophicator, or something.”
“Very well,” Maludovico Derth says. “My terms are thus: I shall challenge your chosen champion to a contest of musical prowess.”
He flicks his wrist and produces violin and bow from his left sleeve.
“You could win this lovely pickle made of gold,” he continues, flicking his other wrist and flourishing the gleaming golden gherkin he pulls from his sleeve.
“Can we actually eat that thing, or is it just a decoration?” Kat asks.
Maludovico Derth ignores her question.
“Whereas if I win, I get to devour your pineal glands and thereby consume your delicious souls,” the sorcerer declares.
“How is that fair?” Kat cries. “If we win, all we get is that stupid pickle. We don’t even get to eat your soul!”
“But the pickle really is quite fetching,” the sorcerer notes.
“Be a man,” Kat insists. “At least put your soul on the line.”
“But I like my soul,” Maludovico Derth murmurs. “I need it to eat other people’s souls.”
“Don’t worry,” Dunstana says to the others, reaching into her coat’s inner pocket. “I’ve got this.” She produces her beloved cowbell and —
CLONK! CLONK! CLONK!
“Very well,” Maludovico Derth says grimly, setting his violin and bow to work. He begins to play.
And continues to play.
And shows no signs of stopping.
“Ugh,” Kat groans. “It’s been forty-five minutes!”
“We really should just run away,” Nix notes.
More Realmgard Short Scenes here.
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