PodCastle 882: How to Steal the Plot Armor – PART TWO of TWO
* Author : Luke Wildman * Narrator : Hollis Monroe * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums Previously published in Writers and Illustrators of the Future, Vol. 37 Rated PG How to Steal the Plot Armor by Luke Wildman PART TWO of TWO Something was obviously wrong from the moment we entered the great hall. Too many folk milled about, too many by far. Logs crackled in the firepit. The tables groaned under a weight of food and drink too profuse for the number of retainers who abided here while the Lord of Omlath was absent, and something was wrong with their eyes . . . a sort of dull light. They moved in a jerky, mechanical way, as if someone had wound them up and set them to clanking from task to task. Disconcerting, to say the least. The explanation soon became apparent. In a flower-carved throne at the head of the hall, the Lord of Shadows presided. The Master of Darkness swung his gaze to us when we entered, and his obsidian eyes seemed to pierce all hopes and disguises. “Ah,” he said, “entertainers. Come! Play a song for your great lord.” Sir Barm stiffened beside me. I followed his gaze and beheld a willowy slip of a teenage girl lounging on the steps at the Shadow Lord’s feet. She wore a fetching red gown, a gold circlet over brown curls, and she possessed the same delicate pasty features as her dad, though they looked better on her. From how Sir Barm was gaping, I knew at once that his love for her was no fickle impulse. There was a story behind it, though I hadn’t listened when he told it to me. This could spell trouble. “Lords and landed gentry!” Bacchus said, bowing. “Behold — we trifling troubadours shall traipse through twittering tunes, endeavoring to entertain for the honor of your encores!” And with that, he began to play. I’d hired the man for a reason. Neither Sir Barm nor myself had the faintest idea what to do with the musical paraphernalia strapped to us, so we banged our drums and blew our pipes at random . . . and somehow, Bacchus made a song of it. He wound our cacophony into a greater melody, sweeping discordant notes along as if they were intentional. The song reared to the vaulted roof, reverberated among the ceiling beams, sank low and mournful into the souls of our listeners. In this song, wrought partially of my own ineptitude, I recalled every grief of my life, relived each failed and faithless moment, remembered all my bitter choices, until I longed to weep. And still it continued. Bacchus was rearing the song toward a triumphant crescendo when jeers interrupted him. His accordion squawked in protest, and the music fell apart. All heads turned toward the source of the desecration. “You call that music?” the Shadow Lord’s daughter asked. “There weren’t even lyrics! When I hear music, I want poetry. I want to hear about ancient deeds of valor. In short . . . I want recitations.” A cruel smile played on her rosebud lips as she rose and sauntered toward us. “Play a good song, a song with words,” she said. “Make them play one, Daddy . . . or chop off their heads!” The Shadow Lord looked bemused. He raised his eyebrows at us. “Well, boys? You heard my daughter.” I clenched my jaw. Bacchus was shooting me worried glances, but he should’ve been more concerned about Sir Barm. The knight was trembling from head to heels, his accordion emitting tiny squeaks as he took shuddering breaths,