The Ballad of Piper Wren: Chapter One

When people left the mountains for the big city, they usually travelled with a target on their backs, or a flame in their chests that had grown too big and bright for their little hamlets in the hills. They usually went with a quest, or a dream, or a broken heart that only the rush and tumble of Eastreach could meld back together.

Piper Wren was travelling with a sensible coat, a new pair of boots, and a cheese and pickle sandwich that her mother had packed for her.

“You’ll write as soon as you get there, won’t you, Thora?” Ma Stonehelm had said, as the two of them stood in the mouth of the clan’s mine. Pa would have joined them, but he’d been put on the early shift that day, and he’d never been good at goodbyes. He would shuffle his feet awkwardly and scrunch his face up so it was almost hidden by his beard.

Piper nodded. “Yes, Ma.”

“And you’ll make sure to stay somewhere safe?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“And don’t forget, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come home.” Ma gave Piper what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. “Gaffer Rockhauler said he’d hold your spot in the ruby mine for three months.”

“Yes, Ma.”

Piper already knew that her spot would be held. Gaffer Rockhauler had told her, in the tone of someone who expected their boots to be, if not full-on kissed, then at least given a small peck of gratitude. He’d looked offended at Piper’s “thanks, but no thanks”, until he’d decided to pretend she’d never said it.

Her boots skidded on the stony path. Piper caught her balance, taking a deep breath, and slowed down a little. The road out of the mountains was narrow and rarely-walked, and there was a steep drop to her right-hand side. While she was good enough at climbing inside the caves and tunnels of her clan’s mountain, cliff-faces and mountain passes were a very different business. The thought of falling down into the valley and breaking a leg made her keep a careful watch on where she put her feet.

Whenever her courage wavered, thinking of her job in the ruby mine would set it right back up again. Piper could swing a pick as well as any other dwarf, and the gems she brought back were good enough that she was able to help her parents out with the everyday household expenses. The work was hard, but she could do it. She didn’t even mind it.

But Piper wanted more than something she didn’t mind. Piper wanted to sing. Not just at feasts, or while she was hewing precious stones out of the walls of the mine — which, her parents had always said, had been good enough for every other dwarf in their clan’s history.

Piper didn’t want music to be her hobby. It was too important for that. She wanted to live by it, through it — singing and playing her way through the world, performing for a different audience each night, far from the mine where everything had been the same for centuries and would be the same for centuries more. She wanted to see everything she could, and weave it into her songs. She wanted change, terrifying, constant change, not the stone-carved life that had been set down in front of her ever since she’d been born.

She had a plan. She’d been saving up her spare pay for the past year, and now she had enough to buy a second-hand lute and a couple of months’ stay in one of Eastreach’s cheaper inns. She was going to the city, where she’d shave her beard, change her name from Thora Stonehelm to Piper Wren, and strike out on her own as a bard.

The only reason her parents weren’t stopping her was because they didn’t believe she’d actually do it. Piper had thought that leaving might finally make it clear that yes, she was going, she was really going to the city, and she wasn’t coming back until she was a famous musician. But, no, even leaving wasn’t enough to convince them that she was actually leaving. Ma and Pa and Gaffer Rockhauler all believed that she’d be back in a few days — a couple of weeks, tops — with the wildness out of her system and her itchy feet ground down along with the soles of her new boots.

But Piper knew it was going to work. She could see it all laid out in front of her. It would go exactly as she’d planned, because how could it do anything else, if she believed this hard?

To be honest, the only part she wasn’t sure about was the shave. Piper hadn’t had a bald face since she’d turned twelve. Her beard was soft, thick and curly, like the hair on her head, and the thought of stepping on stage with a naked face was almost enough to make her turn around and run home. But you had to make sacrifices if you were going to get ahead, and Piper had heard that human and elven women were usually smooth-faced. If she was going to live in the city, she’d have to live the way city-folk did.

The path curved around the side of the mountain. Ahead, down in the lowlands, Piper saw a small village — still a fair stretch away, but close enough that she’d make it before dark. Behind it was a wide forest that stretched out like an oil slick, and beyond that, the distant, blue-mist shape of the city of Eastreach.

Excitement swooped through Piper, pushing the fear aside. She hitched her pack higher on her back, and strode down the road, into the valley.

*

By the time she reached the village, it was dark, and a light but extremely persistent drizzle was falling. Piper had pulled her hood up and hunched her shoulders down, but the rain was starting to seep through the wool. She was cold, wet, and starting to feel a little sorry for herself.

It didn’t help that the village seemed to have closed for the night. Piper looked around at the shuttered windows and bolted doors, and sighed.

Something had to be open. Even a small village would have a tavern, wouldn’t it?

Piper trudged through the cobbled streets, rain soaking into the hems of her trousers. The village was full of rickety houses built out of the same grey rock as the mountains. When she walked down a particularly narrow street, it was almost like being back in the mine. Except the mine was never this quiet. Occasionally, Piper saw a gleam of light from behind a shutter, but it looked like nearly all of the town had gone to bed as soon as the sun had set.

She turned a corner, and smiled as she saw the first open door of the night. At the end of the street was a tavern, just as she’d suspected. The building was a little larger than the other houses, with timbered walls, leaded windows, and a painted sign swinging above the door. The Three Crows, it read, with some crudely-painted birds underneath the lettering. A buzz of conversation spilled out into the rainy street.

Squaring her shoulders, Piper strode forwards and walked into the pub.

As she crossed the threshold, the chatter died down. Several people turned to look at her. None of them had particularly friendly expressions on their faces.

Piper slowed and stopped, her smile turning slightly frozen.

It wasn’t that the place seemed dangerous, exactly. The tavern was well-kept, with a bar against one wall and several tables dotted around. About ten people — mostly humans, although Piper was sure that she spotted a goblin under a large hood in the corner — were drinking at tables or in a cluster by the fire. A pale elven woman stood behind the bar, pouring whisky into a glass. There wasn’t even any obvious dirt in the tavern, let alone blood on the floor or axe-marks in the walls. And the drinkers’ faces, as they stared at Piper, weren’t angry, or hostile. Looking more closely, Piper realised that they were afraid.

The fear only lasted a beat, before everyone seemed to relax at once. The drinkers turned back to their pints or their dinners, and the elven woman set the bottle of whisky down, and knocked back the contents of the glass before refilling it.

Putting her smile back in place, Piper walked up to the bar.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “My name’s Piper Wren.”

The elven woman raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes,” Piper replied. If she was going to change her name for the big city, she might as well start using it now. It might take a little while to get used to.

“Not a very dwarven name,” the elven woman said.

“Well, that’s what it is.” Piper slapped a couple of copper coins down on the bar. “And I’d like an ale, please.”

The elf looked down at the coins, then back at Piper. “You’re assuming ale is two coppers a pint, are you?”

Piper blinked. “Um — well-”

Before she could answer, the woman took the coins and grabbed a pint glass from under the bar.

“Close your mouth, at least until I’ve got you the ale. And next time, maybe ask the price. You don’t want to get ripped off.”

What under earth is wrong with her? Piper watched in awkward silence as the elf poured her a pint of ale and slid it across the bar to her. “Um…thank you.”

“Want anything else with that?”

Piper shook her head. The elven woman grunted and turned away, rearranging the bottles of spirits on the shelf behind her.

“Thank you,” Piper said. The elf woman didn’t respond. Wrinkling her nose, Piper took her ale and looked around. There must be someone friendlier than the barkeep, who might be happy to let Piper sit at their table.

She started towards one table, where two human men and a woman were playing cards. When they saw her walking towards them, the man on the side nearest her shifted over, spreading his elbows wide and taking up as much of the table as he could. The gesture was clear enough, Piper thought as she slowed. No room.

Piper changed direction, heading towards the corner where the goblin sat alone. Maybe it’d be nice to talk to another cavedweller on her first night in a new town.

“Hi,” she said brightly, as she plopped herself down in the chair next to the goblin. “Awful night, isn’t it? I’m glad there’s a nice big fire in here.”

The goblin blinked at her with enormous green eyes. She was small even for a goblin, with scaly, lichen-coloured skin and sharp claws at the end of her fingers. The hooded cloak looked like it was originally made for a human — the goblin was almost drowning in it.

“Fire’s good,” the goblin said after a moment. “Ale’s better.” She looked down at the empty half-pint glass in front of her.

“Oh — um — here, let me top you up.” Piper poured half of her ale into the goblin’s glass. The goblin gave her a sharp-toothed smile, picked up the glass, and began to lap at the drink like a cat.

“Cheers,” Piper said, holding up her own glass. She took a sip. The goblin hadn’t been lying. The Three Crows might not have had the most pleasant atmosphere, but at least the beer was good. “So…I’m new in town.”

“Could tell,” the goblin said with a smirk.

“I’m Piper,” Piper ploughed on. “I’m a bard.”

The goblin cocked her head to one side. “No instrument, though.”

“I’m trying to be a bard,” Piper corrected. “Is there anywhere in town that might sell me…I don’t know, a cheap lute or something?”

The goblin sipped her ale thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Might be a shop on main street.”

“Great!” Piper said. She’d get some enthusiasm going in this conversation if it killed her. “What’s your name? How long have you been living here?”

“Kriss,” said the goblin. “Don’t live here. Just passing through.”

“Well, here’s to good travels for both of us.” Piper raised her glass.

Before Kriss could respond, the tavern door opened. The room fell quiet again, just as it had when Piper had walked in.

This time, it stayed quiet. Two men walked into the pub. They weren’t any taller than the average human, but their swagger made them seem like they took up the entire room. They were wearing leather armour, with a symbol burned into the chest — a hand with grasping fingers inside a circle.

The men strolled up to the bar, and one leaned on it, sneering at the elven woman. She stared stoically back at him, polishing yet another glass.

“Our usual, Laurel, my dear.”

“That’s Ms Thorn to you,” said the elven woman. “And I don’t know your usual.”

The man laughed. “You do like your little jokes, don’t you, Laurel? We’re your best customers. You know our usual.”

“Customers pay.” Laurel put the glass down. “I can get you an ale, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, come now, I think we can do a little better than that, can’t we?” The first man looked at his friend, who was sniggering into his beard. “A bottle of your best whiskey.”

Laurel raised an eyebrow. “Can you afford that?”

The man leaned forwards over the bar. His voice dropped to a low growl.

“I think the question is, can you afford not to serve us?” he said. “Remember who you work for, elf.”

Laurel didn’t reply. She didn’t even blink at him. But she dipped under the bar, and brought up a bottle of warm brown liquid and two glasses.

Chuckling the man took the drink, and he and his companion turned away from the bar. They sat down at one of the tables near Piper and Kriss, and the first man sloshed whiskey into the two glasses.

“It’s a bit dead in here, isn’t it?” he said loudly. His eyes darted around the room, looking for a reaction. None of the other drinkers lifted their heads — in fact, out of the corner of her eye, Piper saw several of them hunch down over their pints.

“I think we need some entertainment.” The man knocked back his whiskey and poured another. “How about you, goblin?”

Kriss flinched. Piper looked from her to the man, who was watching them both with a sneer.

“Go on,” the man said. “Get up and dance for us, goblin.”

Kriss shrank back in her seat, her tiny body seeming to curl in on itself. “Don’t dance,” she said.

“Now, now, don’t sell yourself short. Not that you have much of a choice,” the man added, and barked with laughter. His companion joined in. No-one else did.

“Can you please leave my other customers alone?” Laurel said quietly.

The man snorted at her. “No, barkeep, I don’t think I will. If you’re too cheap to provide some entertainment, we’ll have to make our own fun, won’t we?”

“You want entertainment?” Piper stood up, ignoring Kriss’s alarmed look. She fixed a smile on her face, and kept her voice light and pleasant. “You should have asked me. I’d be happy to oblige.”

The man looked thrown for a moment, but the sneer was soon back. “Oh, right? And what can you do, gravel-kicker?”

Pretend I didn’t hear that, for one thing, Piper thought. Still smiling, she stepped out from behind the table and stood in front of the fire. Taking a deep breath, she began to sing.

She’d picked a favourite folk-song in the mine, hoping it would be just as popular here, and luck was on her side. Kriss soon joined in, her voice high and flute-like. One by one, the other drinkers began to sing along, and Piper smiled and let her voice soar above them all. The two men in their strange uniforms watched, not singing, but at least they were watching her and not Kriss.

Laurel didn’t sing, either, but Piper could feel her dark, unreadable eyes on her from across the room.

As the song wound to an end, the drinkers burst into applause. Piper took a bow, and grinned around at the room.

“What would you like to hear next? Any requests?” She turned to the two men at their table. “How about you, sirs?”

The first man opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then scowled and downed the last of the whiskey.

“This place isn’t worth our time, anyway,” he muttered, and got up. “Come on. We’ve got better places to be.”

As the door closed behind them, the warmth seemed to seep back into the room. Piper sang a few more songs, until the drinkers started drifting away, out into the night. Kriss was curled up asleep in her chair by the fire, and Piper had to stifle her yawns. She had no idea what time it was, but it must have been long after midnight.

She hadn’t even asked about rooms, she realised. She’d been planning to, but then everything had happened and it had completely gone out of her head.

“That wasn’t bad.” Laurel came over, picking empty glasses off one of the tables. She raised an eyebrow at Piper. “I didn’t realise there was much call for singers down the mines.”

Piper gave her a shrug and a smile. “Everyone likes a bit of a song.”

“Hmm.” Laurel stacked up the glasses. “Well, I think you’ve earned a room for the night, at least.” She went to the bar, and came back with a bronze key. “First on the left, up the stairs. It’s not much, but it’s clean.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you.” Piper took the key. She hesitated a moment, then thought, what the hell. “Who were those two men?”

“People you don’t want to know.” Laurel turned away and picked up more glasses.

“I could tell that, but-”

“Goodnight, Piper Wren.”

Piper blinked at Laurel’s back.

Fine, she thought, and started up the stairs. It’s not like it matters. I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.

*

Find Chapter Two here!

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