Chapter 29. Ugly symphony.

  That beautiful night sky pulsed and applauded. Greens and purple danced. Dropping stars like roses thrown. All in cheer for the cacophony that made the timbers shudder.

  Starting with that horrid shriek that curled the barks. It was a hair-raising howl curdling the saps within. Gut retching. Lung heaving.

  Oh, how that soprano just held that shallow vibrato of bass. A horrible deep echoing noise. A heavy moist breath, then that wail clawed through the air. Piercing like shattered glass bouncing through the pines. Sharp jagged notes ripping like splinters.

  Next to that horrid wail, there was a raspy cry. Like a rusted blade, scraped with barnacle and cured in sea salt. A soul-soaked scream. A true cry-out that was worthy of the Sevens encore. Like a crusaders final battle call, that voice carried. Daring to reach into the nosebleeds, possibly being responsible for some.

  It was that noteworthy cry that stitched the scene. Binding it all together with the fine threads of terror. High pitched notes of panic nipping like a black sea squall. Snapping like the barking sails beating at the mast. One would have never suspected the man was to tenor a duet. Even that encore worthy callout had been drowned.

  The lead soprano- oh that wicked thing. It nearly stole the spotlight.

  Then from nowhere a third joined in. Only a single note. Turning the poorly timed duet into a distasteful trio. A hot blast of air penetrated. Exploding out with a new note of its own. Fighting for some of that spotlight.

  Those nostrils wide like the maws of a volcano. Bellowing with snout and mucus. All they were missing were the sparks and smoke.

  Arieo lifted his long goofy nose and blasted another. That pressure carried a heated breath of steam. He released a cry that carried. It was the kind of carrying call that would retire pigeons. A true booming of air that competed with the attacking winds in the higher peaks.

  Well, it was a decent holler, I may be exaggerating a bit. Because even that panicked bray was washed out. Perhaps he was short of breath. Arieo could scream for far longer and much louder, but this wasn’t a competition.

  No—that was ridiculous, everything was a competition. It was that damned soprano of the show.

  The Butcher. That beast just shrieked with a hair-raising howl. Only that big guy who wasn’t here would have been able to contend.

  Still though, that handsome little donkey sang a chorus of his own. It was a dreaded song with absolutely no tune.

  Bold brown eyes widened while his master screamed with challenge. Not even one of them could carry a melody. Hold a note. Or even keep tempo with the next. All just wail, scream and holler. Clawing for a moment to call their own.

  It was an ugly symphony. Simple theater for simple minds. Whoever wrote the act was tasteless. It showcased Fannon’s token, with Pandora’s lurking silhouette. Guest appearances by a gassy donkey and his master. A weathered voyager constantly battered and beaten by history but refuses to lose.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The forest paused for a breath. Set-up for Act 2. Or simply just to take notes for some of the finest measurement time imaginable.

  It was the perfect amount of time to take a blink. Gasp with a spongy breath that dripped. Take a heavy heel thumping step. Throw the wooden stock of a weapon into one’s shoulder. Take precise aim. Squeeze the releasing mechanism for a Threading-Crossbow. Release an uncontrollable bowel bubble. Or even taking that first step in the right direction.

  Many, many actions of movement started all in the same blink of time. We are going to focus on one.

  That rickety wagon wheel squeaked. It was a tight iron on wood pinch. The kind of sound that poked the ears.

  No, poke just didn’t feel right, it was too simple an example. That ugly noise wormed into the ears. Gouging new cavities while it raked through. An agitating noise that burrowed deeper with each rotation of the wheel.

  Pitches that skewered and prod. Oh—what a sharp sound. The kind of noise that just injected itself. A painful entry that forced an ear curl. A horrid ringing that turned with torment. Like purgatory cogs. Endless rotations layered with the screams of the damned. Releasing pleas of anguish upon each quarter turning. Confessing every single sin from its travels. Long pitiful petitions. Each begging to stop with wails that suffered.

  He kicked up dirt and grass. Hooves digging deep with each panicked step, scooping into that dark soil, throwing it with vigor. Traces tightened with each flex, pulling against that speed wagon like his pappy with the plow.

  Irritable bowels released a pressure-cooked burst of paranoia with each sling. Arieo sprayed that dirt waking a defining arch. Fresh earth spit from those quick little hooves like the curling feathers of a rooster’s tail. He was literally hauling ass away from that dark pocket in the wood.

  He didn’t like leaving his master behind. Sometimes though he was just too much of a liability. Couldn’t fight properly when he was hitched, and his master didn’t want to take any chances.

  So, when he was told to run, he ran. A hard lesson his speed wagon had to learn the time he didn’t. Now scarred with a squeaky reminder of the attack.

  His master was strong though. The man was ‘differently modified.’ As his master would say. The guy could take a punch. Not just a punch but Arieo had seen blades take bites from his master that folks shouldn’t be able to brag about. Let alone finish the battle with that same nipping blade. Nobody was tougher than his master. Well maybe one.

  The wheel muffled the noise of that self-re-loading rapid firing hell-raiser his master grabbed.

  Actually, it was kind of a neat noise. He’d heard the kickback of the string on this weapon before.

  There was once thick nest of Widowmakers outside the settlement of— umm well actually none of that is important right now.

  He did hear that stock land though, right there in the soft of his master’s shoulder. Before the hard releasing twang of the bowstring. Latch mechanism performing a series of movements, while a new cocking stirrup found place. A spring rotated, cycling the next bolt into place, just before a new release of that heavy string. Throwing those jagged bolts in repetition, much like the needle of a threading wheel.

  -thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-

  “HAARR-AAAAAAAAHH”

  The echo of vicious spikes impaling flesh rippled from tree to tree. The groan of a hollow roar in discomfort was just paces behind, paving the path ahead.

  He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He stayed true like his master says too. He ripped that little speed wagon away to safety. Well to somewhere safer.

  I know. I know. I would have loved to see how that battle played out too.

  Arieo though had another thought on his mind. It was still a nasty dozy of a thought just like always, but not one that wanted to eat him.

  He needed to find a nastier monster. Fight fire with fire. And in his bestiary, there was a brand new one that topped them all.

  The baddest bull in the woods. One that needed no information sheet. One whose skill chart couldn’t be calculated. One whose top lip grow so thick with hair, it inspired others to try (including himself.) One who I’m sure we are all thinking of right now.