Gladsong the Dagger

Gladsong

J. Wesley Hill

Wynan Thatch sat glaring into the fireplace, beckoning for it to consume him. Tears stained his thin face and matted his thick grey beard.

“Master,” the voice of some god of mischief echoed from the silver dagger, Gladsong, hanging from his belt. “You shouldn’t cry so much. This amount of stress isn’t healthy.”

Wynan sobbed and threw back another long gulp from his leather wineskin.

“Did you know that wine is literally poison?” The dagger gasped. “Master! You could get tumors! I insist that you stop drinking that wine this instant!”

Wynan heaved a disgruntled sigh and strapped the wineskin to his belt. He stood and yawned.

“Don’t get too close to the fire, master. You could burn yourself. Watch your step, it’s dark out. You should’ve eaten something! You’re getting skinny, Master. You look tired. You should get some sleep.”

His footsteps echoed through the hall above the inn as he trudged to his room. Without care or worry, he dropped his clothes and accessories to the floor and flopped onto the bed.

“Don’t worry, Master. I’ll keep a lookout.”

Wynan passed out almost immediately. Outside, dark shadows pooled in the alleyways. Figures of doom crept to the windows seeking to kill travelers for their purses.

“Eeeee! Master! Danger, Master Wynan!” The sleepy bard turned over and shoved the pillow over his head. The assassin outside curled up into a ball in the alley with a mostly eaten, moldy leg of mutton. “Oh… it’s just a beggar. Go back to sleep master.”

“Eeeee! Master! Fire! Danger! No… no wait, the innkeeper is just stoking the fireplace…”

“Eeeee! Master! I think the man in the next room is plotting to kill you! Get up! No, no wait. He was just thirsty. You can go back to sleep.”

“Eeeee! Master! Ratmen are swarming the city! They’re going to eat everyone alive! No, wait. It’s just a mouse in the kitchen. Ew. Don’t eat any of the bread, master.”

“Eeee! Master! Did you lock the window? I don’t think you did. I insist that you get up and lock it this instant before someone crawls through and tries to kill you.”

The poor man slid out of bed with dark circles sagging under his eyes. He took another gulp from the wineskin and slunk to the window. He opened it and stared into the dark alley below.

“Master, you need to sleep. And I told you to stop drinking that.”

He leaned over the edge, pleading to the cobblestones below to take him.

“Now master, we’ve been through this. I can only resurrect you once a month. If you keep intentionally dying, I have to wait for you to come back. I get lonely, master!”

Wynan sagged to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He tossed the cursed silver dagger aside and crawled toward the door.

“Master! Don’t leave me here! Remember that time you left me at the Dragonclaw Inn and the orc found me? I had to convince him to find you and try to kill you! He was successful, but I brought you back! I always find my way back to you!”

Wynan sighed and recovered the dagger before slogging back down the stairs.

“You’re up early, Sir” the fair haired bar maiden greeted him. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Yes, please,” Wynan’s voice was silk and honey.

The girl winked and fetched him some stew, a small loaf, and a pint of fine mead. “You must be a bard.”

Wynan nodded and set the bread aside. He tore into the stew like a starved wolf.

“Master, chew your food! Master, slow down! You’re going to choke! Oh, now look what you’ve done, you’re choking. The wench is screaming! Gods, her voice is awful. It’s not helping at all. Your face is turning purple. Careful when you fall down, Master. Don’t hit your head too hard or you’ll have a headache for days. Great, Master, see what you’ve done? Now I can’t use it again until next month. Are you happy now?”

“H-how…?” The bar maiden stared at Wynan in horror. The pitcher of mead she held had spilled all over her dress, but she wasn’t paying any attention. The bard had been raised from the dead and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“It’s the dagger,” Wynan sighed. He slumped over and buried his face in his arms. His dirty cotton shirt sleeves soaked through with new tears. “Damn thing won’t let me die.”

“Don’t cry, Master,” the dagger moaned. “This much stress isn’t good for your health.”