Chapter 10
"Tell us again, Sir Darc," Lady Osanna asked. "How were you the first one to discover that the nameless knight was a machine?"
("I wasn't. Most readers saw it coming from a mile away.")
Darc gave Bor's wife a self-effacing smile.
(Otherwise known as a "shit-eating grin.")
He wanted to flatter her for her beautiful appearance at the banquet table - but he was not yet sure of how to court the noblewomen, without insulting their husbands.
("Sir, may I shag your wife?")
That, and... Darc, too, had now heard the story of when Bor broke an enemy's neck.
"It was easy, really," he told the guests.
("He just snapped it, like a twig... bada-bing!")
The assembled families, sitting along the half-circle of tables in the castle's great hall, stopped chatting and listened. Darc felt the looks on him, but kept his cool. Talking had never been difficult for him in his previous life, when he headed his own upstart company.
("Have you fine folks thought about investing in UpstartCompany.com?")
"So many observations pointed in the same direction," he explained. "We never saw his whole face, never heard him talk; he seemed to respond only to commands from Tharlos. He didn't fly, but he had a jetpack. Did you see how the nameless one and Tharlos entered the pit? The nameless one stepped to the edge and sank down slowly, but his jets sounded very high. That must have used up all his fuel.
("And when I say high, I mean high as a kite!")
"And he was very strong, but he never ran. And, most important of all, the footprints - his were twice as deep as the others. To be that heavy, he had to be all metal. The real trick was the false jaw; it even looked as if he was breathing."
Dohan, sitting next to Darc, laughed and drank more wine - he was already slightly drunk.
([Sings]"Schugar in the morning..." *BARF*)
Azuch, who sat very still with his shoulder in a large plaster cast, moved his head an inch in Darc's direction.
(But can we be certain it was precisely one inch?)
"But why," Azuch asked softly, "why would the Paskos risk their reputation and fragile alliances on such a wild scheme?"
(Let's ask Dubya, he knows all about wild schemes.)
Darc shrugged, taking another bite of the juicy steak on his plate. Real, fresh meat was a luxury in this town.
"You know them better than me, my lord," he said between mouthfuls.
(*crunch, crunch*)
"I think... I think Tharlos was desperate for revenge.
(*BURP*)
He deliberately wanted to humiliate Damon and his closer allies... or cripple them.
(*Slurp* "Let's have some more of that wine!")
Perhaps his plan was to make the robot fighter disappear afterwards, and replace him with a human for this banquet!"
(Perhaps his plan depended on everyone else being complete idiots!)
Eveli, all dressed up and with her red hair set up in knotted braids, looked worshipfully at the much older Darc. Everyone could see she was fascinated by him. "How sharp-minded you are, Darc," Eveli said admiringly.
("...for a half-senile cryogenics reject!")
Her older brother waved his silver cup at her. "Do not get lost in that sharp mind, little sister!" he laughed, his cheeks flushed by victory and wine.
(Wait a minute...! They let minors sit at the table with these drunks? They're positively medieval!)
"Time for dance!" Dohan stood up and clapped his hands to the group of musicians. "Play! A quick and merry dance!"
("Lambada! The forbidden dance!")
Bor, also cheerful despite the reawakened feud with the Paskos, nodded to the musicians. The quintet ended their atmospheric, light background music and struck up a dancing tune.
("The Chicken Dance!")
The five-man band used instruments Darc could well recognize: two guitarists, a flutist, a drummer with a battery of drums and cymbals, and a singer. The musicians were fairly old men; all were dressed in red and their shoulder-long hair was turning gray.
(Dirty hippies...)
Dohan Damon was the first man to escort a lady onto the dance-floor in front of the tables. Soon, other couples came to join them. Darc wished he had taken dance lessons - their steps were faster and wilder than waltz, but not quite as quick as a polka.
("Heeey, Macarena!")
The women's skirts spun, umbrella-like, as they whirled around with their partners. Something about the melody that rang a bell in Darc's memory, but the song was almost like Chinese music, restricted to a very high-pitched range of tones, with very little variation of the register.
(The Best Of Celine Dion.)
The lyrics were - what else? - a love song. Darc resisted the urge to ask a beautiful lady for a dance. He concentrated on the music, like he used to do in his youth in Liverpool, when he and his teenage friends tried to learn cover versions of old rock'n-roll classics.
(Then his friends kicked him out of the band and renamed it Oasis.)
Darc - David Archibald - later buried his musical ambitions in exchange for biochemistry studies, but kept playing as a hobby.
Then, in the middle of a refrain, Darc recognized the roots of the melody. It was "Great Balls of Fire!" Filtered through centuries of Chinese, Spanish, and God-knows-what influence!
([Wailing song]"Chiiing chong, balls of fire, God knows what... OLE!")
It was more than he could take. He excused himself, rose from the table and walked around to the musicians. The other guests were clueless; Bor told the band to cease playing.
"I'm sorry, friends," Darc told the five musicians, "but this just doesn't sing. You must play faster, and your voices must go up and down more - is there a 'piano' here, by the way?"
"What is a 'pi-ano'?" the drummer asked curiously.
("It's a big wooden box full of strings, but that's not important right now.")
"It's... never mind. Do you know the words to another old song, 'I'm All Shook Up?' In your language, that would be... 'A Tou Shok Op'."
(Swahili? Urdu? Gaelic?)
He hummed and whistled the first notes to them; after a brief hesitation, the singer brightened up with a response: "You mean the church hymn? 'All Earth Shook Up'?"
(Ah yes, the Rush Limbaugh Marching Song.)
Darc blinked confusedly, and ignored the curious remark: "Just play the melody I gave you, and not too fast, more like this -" - he hummed it again - "- then pause for one beat, just when I come to the words 'I'm in love - I'm all shook up'. Okay?"
The experienced singer stepped back from the stage.
("This gig is bogus, dude!")
He took off his most valuable possession - the tubular metal collar which contained a combined microphone and amplifier - and gave it to Darc.
Darc could not fit it over his head, so he held it like the rock singers of his time used to: to his lips. Both Dohan and Azuch gasped when they saw this, and thought: The King's scepter!
("Larry King's long-lost microphone! It's a miracle!")
The drummer struck up the right, simple rhythm and the guitarists played the beat, probing for the right sound. Darc nodded when they got it right.
He went into the classical microphone stance and lowered his voice to a deep, youthful, American rumble: "Well bless my soul, what's wrong with me!"
([Song]"I'm written by a Tolkien wanna-be!")
The dance couples froze, listening - or trying to listen - to the half-familiar, half-alien tune.
("I can't listen to that weird music while I'm freezing my butt off.")
Darc sang on, and the band got into the act.
("Now we get it! We just stand around and pretend we're talented!")
The guitars grew bolder; the drummer switched to a stronger beat to go with the song. It was like no other cover version Darc had ever heard before, but he kept rocking on - humming through an uncertain spot in the text, moving his hips the way he remembered the late great artist did his act.
(Please, not like the late Elvis! Do it like the early Elvis!)
When he had repeated the refrain for the last time, he raised his hand to hold up the music.
("Freeze, music! Give me all your money or the notes get it!")
He scanned his audience - still shocked into silence - and said: "Thank you, thank you... that was a little song from my time. I know a few more, but I see I did not sing very well, so..."
(The crowd immediately gave him a standing ovation.)
A female, throaty voice called back from the tables: "No, I beseech you! More! Another song like that one!"
(Later, backstage, she gave him a beseechjob.)
The people in the hall turned to the source of the plea: a very special guest in her own high-seat - high-priestess Inu of the city cathedral. She was a curvy woman in her mid-thirties, with full lips painted a deep red; her long hair was set up in a platinum-blond bun.
(The author unwittingly exposes his secret turn-ons.)
The only jewelry she wore, was a sort of gold-thread net that held her hair in place.
(A.R.Yngve's Writing Rule Of Thumb: Sort Of, Something, Some.)
And she was dressed in a single-piece black dress that left her pale arms bare. Darc could feel pure desire floating on her voice, all the way across the carpeted stone floor.
(Pure Desire has a higher density than air, but a lower density than stone.)
He hoped the guests wouldn't notice his instant physical response.
("Get that disgusting Englishman out of here!")
"What do you wish to hear, my lady?" he asked through his mike.
"Just sing like you did before," she said, looking straight at him with wide, blue eyes.
(Rock'n roll groupies of the fuutuuure...!)
He nodded slowly, and turned to the band again. After some discussion, they tried a rough version of "King Creole".
(The version where the word "jelly roll" has been... replaced.)
The high-priestess applauded their effort, joined by the other guests. The dance couples returned to their seats, listening in silence. Darc rounded up with a not-quite-seamless rendition of "Love Me Tender", and it brought tears to Inu's eyes.
("*Sob* S-s-somebody make him stop s-s-singing!")
Darc thanked for the applause, but it annoyed him that no one had wanted to dance. Had he been that bad?
(Are the French rude?)
Azuch Fache just sat staring before him in wordless rapture. Dohan was equally speechless. The voice of their myths had become real. And Bor Damon, seeing the reaction of the others, closely observed and listened to his guests.
("This guy was worse than Morrissey!" "Why couldn't we get Pink instead!" "Darc couldn't hold a candle to Tom Jones!")
Darc needed to rest his vocal cords. He thanked the audience and the band - the singer received his microphone as if he thought it was a lucky charm - and took his seat at the table.
(Right on the whoopee cushion. *PRRBRLBRLFSST*)
The guests were chatting in lower voices now, throwing furtive glances at Darc. He ate and drank hungrily, oblivious to the profound effect of his performance.
(And soon he was alone in the room.)
A half-hour later, the robot Lachtfot leaned over next to Darc's chair and handed him a rolled-up note. Darc unfolded it and read to himself:
"'Meet me in the cathedral at midnight. Use the back door. Bring no robots. Come alone and I promise your safety. Praised be the Goddess.'
("'P.S.: I am no longer infected.'")
"Who gave you this?" he asked Lachtfot in a low voice.
"High-priestess Inu, Sir Darc," the robot replied.
Darc leaned forward, and looked to the side. Inu sat next to the Yotas, on a higher, gold-colored chair under a small silk canopy. She looked aloof from the other guests, did not talk, and had hardly touched her food. Though she was only drinking water, her face had taken on a deep pink hue.
"Well, well... go tell the good lady that I will come."
("Phwoarrr! Nudge nudge, know what I mean?")
"Who, Sir Darc?"
"High-priestess Inu, of course."
"She is not called 'lady'. Her title is 'Her Holiness'. I will notify Her Holiness, Sir Darc."
("'Her Bazoominess' among friends!")
Darc quipped to Dohan: "With these robots, who needs comedians?"
"What?" slurred the drunken young warrior.
"Nothing," Darc sighed, and raised his cup. "A toast... to the Goddess!"
("Here's to groupies - past, present and future!")
If Darc had noticed the way Azuch and Bor were now talking about him, looking at him with wary eyes, he might have changed his mind about the high-priestess. Unaware of the plans being drawn up for his fate, Darc toasted with the guests.
(Ironically, his future was toast.)
DARC AGES (c)A.R.Yngve 1995, 2000, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.
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A.R.Yngve
The MSTing Of
DARC AGES
Book One
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(Was booed out of the Elvis Impersonators Convention in Las Vegas, 1998.)
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