The Wandering Bard - Chapter 3

         The Bard ducked under the swing of the axe head, losing a few hairs in the process. From within his coat he drew a flintlock pistol and fired directly into the face of his would-have-been executioner. Executing an executioner. The irony was not lost on The Bard as he cracked a slight smile. Puns were simple and often times fun, as long as one was not faced with them every day. He straightened up and looked his audience in the face, hiding his weapon away once more.

         “I know that you hate me,” The Bard began, taking notice of the moving guardsmen. “But do not let hate define who you are, as a nation.” The crowd was scared, he saw it in their faces. In their eyes, a madman was free, talking to them without a worry. To the Bard, it was Tuesday.

         Bombs that he had placed around the area started going off, sending outright panic into the crowd, which began to flee. Summoning up his best evil laughter, he watched out of the corner of his eyes the guards running faster towards him, fighting against the crowd. A sudden sharp pain erupted in his chest, and The Bard looked down, surprised.

         A child, no more than twelve years old, had a knife in hand, and said weapon was thrust deep into the Bard’s body. Too young to be a killer, The Bard lamented, seeing blood flow from the wound. A weakness came over his legs, and he collapsed.

         The explosions subsided, and few people remained in the plaza. A few guards, The Bard, and this boy.

         “Unlike you, I have no words to speak.” The boy told him, drawing the knife out and taking aim at another spot. The Bard merely laughed, and the boy struck again, ending the man’s life.

         The pain was something he had rarely experienced before, but that could also be said about him playing the villain. Every once in a while it had to be done though, so that the people who suffered could learn and grow into better souls, and to keep the story going. This boy, standing before him, wore a hard, pained look in his eyes. There was a personal reason for attacking him, there was no doubt. The child would take today’s victory and become a hero, the boy who killed a tyrant. Thirty-seven years in the making, all for this moment.

         Darkness came over The Bard’s vision at last, but he wasn’t fully gone yet. With blood welling up in his lungs, he managed to speak his final words.

         “Go forth, and do not falter, my child.”

         He couldn’t see the boy’s reaction, nor did he really want to. Yet before his soul departed, a single hot tear struck him in the chest, harder than any knife blade ever could.