The songs and legends that are written about glorious battles, noble duels and standing up for what’s right are almost comically oversaturated. Everybody alive and a large number of those yet to be born have heard of some hero or another standing against impossible odds and prevailing by picturing their friends and family back in their quiet home. However, these tales always forget to mention one important fact.

Those people’s lives suck.

***

Varys rolled to a stop, dragging himself round a stone pillar, a desperate scramble to avoid the hail of blades that sprung into being mere moments ago. He instinctively reached down to feel for wounds on his legs, breathing a shallow sigh when Spots of adrenaline danced in his eyes as he took a breath, scanning his surroundings for safety.

He found nothing. No semblance of security could be seen in the smoky wasteland that was once a beautiful garden where he would often study, with the sun in the pages and a breeze in his hair. The young apprentices would often come out there to practice their songs, play improvised quartets on a variety of instruments that combined into whole new realms of possibility.

Oh what a paradise this College had once been.

Now, that breeze was poison, burning the eyes and lungs of anyone who went against the tide of unknown invaders. The beautiful sun was covered by the smoke of a thousand burning instruments and books. The young and hopeful apprentices now lay strewn around the courtyard, and the many halls of the college, slain without a second of remorse.

Varys usually kept his emotions in check, only expressing himself when he had a flute in his hands. But he decided to make an exception for the two lovely gentlemen who were currently trying to pepper him with magical knives.

He reached down to his belt, drawing his short-sword and pressing the flat to his palm. He gently tapped the blade, up and down its length, ignoring the jeers and spell incantations from his two aggressors, focussing on the resonance of the blade.

Several loud cracks threw him off, as yet more magical blades pelted the marble pillar behind him, goading him to accept his inevitable death. He grunted, tapping his blade more quickly and harshly.

“Come now, Bard! You’ve no chance of getting out of this alive. Why not make it quick?” The voice that echoed in the courtyard was one of irritating confidence. Varys cursed to himself quietly. He just needed a little more time, only a few more seconds.

“Suit yourself then.” The owner of the voice sighed, and began chanting a new spell, far different from the blades. Varys’ eyes widened with terror. The form of his incantation was an artillery spell, one that, if given enough time, could blast both Varys and the pillar that protected him into hell.

“Hold! I have connections outside this college, killing me would only serve to make your next objectives harder than necessary, don’t you think?” Varys called, furiously tapping his steel. He knew he should have used a longsword, so much easier to resonate.

The spell chanting stopped, and the faint mutterings of his aggressors followed.

“Alright then. We won’t kill you if you be our lapdog, Bard. Sell out your brothers and sisters, heal our wounded, lick out boots, the whole deal. Not like you have much of a choice, eh old man?” Varys could hear the sneer in his voice, not even trying to hide his deceit. Varys rolled his eyes; some people really needed a decent slap every now and then.

With a final, angry tap on his sword, the steel began to vibrate, almost humming with magic. Varys sighed with relief. He quietly got to his feet, his muscles quivering from the rush of the surprise attack. He raised his sword above his head, aiming square in the middle of the pillar.

“A good offer indeed.” Varys grunted, loud enough for them to hear.

He brought his singing blade down on the stone, causing ripples to cascade through the structure, cracking and splitting the ancient building. The pillar snapped free of the remains of the roof, falling down towards two very distinct and very fearful voices. The collapsing stone sent up clouds of dust and burnt pollen from the once beautiful courtyard.

Varys stepped confidently out from his hiding place, surveying the devastation. Ah how he loved magic. One of his assailants was pinned from his stomach down, retching and howling with agony. His companion was nowhere to be seen, and mercifully silent. Varys stared down at the man who still lived.

“While I appreciate your generous offer, with respect, I refuse.” He smiled warmly as he stuck his blade hilt-deep in his foe’s chest, stealing away his last gasp.

Varys drew out the bloodied steel from his assailant wiping it clean on a clean part of the man’s tunic. He scanned the man’s face, and what remained of his equipment.

The book that peaked out from the shattered pillar was enough of a giveaway to show that he was a wizard, not to mention the magic that he had been flinging around mere moments before. One thing that didn’t support this theory, however, was his armour. Granted, wizards in armour were not unheard of, particularly in the circle of the Eldritch Knight, however this was nothing like that.

He was kitted out in magic leather, from the beautiful hide of Sun Bulls. Varys turned his nose up at the display. He couldn’t deny that the beasts were worthy of their namesake, but their annoying deafness made serenading them exponentially more difficult. The creatures were a rarity in most realms, considered sacred to most peoples, Varys’ tribe of Wood Elves included.

The man was wearing a necklace, with the faint glow of a magical focus was on full display. Varys examined it closer, searching for any sign of who he might be connected to. There was a small inscription of a scroll and sickle, beneath of which the words ‘Ignorance is Weakness’ were etched in the gemstone in the centre.

A terrible thought started clawing at the back of his mind, a bead of sweat tumbling down from his forehead, sinking into the forest of his beard. Varys rose and began digging through the rubble, trying to locate the body of his other assailant.

Several terrible minutes of suppressed anxiety later, the twisted and rather gruesome looking hand of the other jeering fellow was in full view. Varys gently pulled his flute from his belt and played a light tune, weaving his magic into a more useful form.

The body began to lift up slowly, large pieces of shaped rock tumbling aside. The spell wasn’t what you would call quiet, but stealth never was Varys’ forte, and he was in too much of a hurry to really care.

Upon closer inspection, the body was, in fact, that of a dwarf, stocky and muscled, a long and dusty red moustache tumbling off his broken frame. He was wearing the same armour as his friend, but there was no spellbook to be found, instead, a dented Holy symbol hung from his wrist; a 3-pronged star backed by a spiral. Varys’s spell faulted as an involuntary gasp halted his flute, sending the corpse cascading back down on the rocks.

“Oh, Hells take me.” Varys stumbled back from the whole scene, his hands trembling.

The dwarf was no wizard, he was a cleric, a priest of Silf, one of the many gods of Knowledge and Justice that claim that they have the right rules and morals that everyone should follow. Varys once wrote a poem about how utterly moronic it was that people fought over them all the time and gave it to his Sister’s husband, who happened to be a Cardinal of one of them at the time. Needless to say that was the cause of the last attempt on his life.

What terrified Varys, however, was not this god, nor the Order of Enlightened Wizards to whom the other fellow belonged to, but the fact that they weren’t trying to kill each other. Wizards were notorious for their inability to get along with anyone who obtained magic by any other means than devoted study, or perhaps they were just jealous that they had wasted their life and social skills, who knows really.

That they were working together meant that there was something they had to do together, something they had in common. Whenever groups joined with each other with a common goal, people died, and Varys had a sneaking suspicion that he was part of the ‘people’ this time.

Shouting voices snapped him out of his daze. A collection of deep, guttural grunts and high-pitched squeals echoed throughout the courtyard, from every direction. For the first time in his life, Varys cursed the College’s incredible acoustics.

He sprinted towards the nearest exit, the one that lead down to the kitchens. If he could reach the supply tunnels, he would have a decent chance to get out and disappear in a city of his choosing. He had enough favours owed to him that once he was out, the world was his oyster to retreat into.

That was what he thinking to himself when an eight-foot Orc stepped around a corner in front of him, looking around for the source of all the shouting noises. The monster’s jagged teeth twisted into a vicious grin as he raised an axe the size of a large cello above his head and roared with fury.

“Mercenaries.” Varys cursed under his breath. Of course the followers of a god of knowledge and the largest sect of wizards on this plane of reality wouldn’t take chances with a place as tricky as the Bard College of Lore.

Varys raised up his flute, placing his lips to the mouthpiece and cycling through several ideas before settling on a spell that would let him pass with minimal effort. The arcane notes swirled out of the instrument, dancing through the air and into the orc’s ears, re-writing his memory with a few simple enchantments. Varys had never appreciated how stupid orcs were, but now he was truly grateful.

Before he had even lowered his instrument, the giant axe had clattered to the ground as the orc strolled forward with his arms open wide, an ear-to-ear smile of glee on his face.

“Friend!” The giant green mass of muscle called, practically skipping.

Varys returned the smile, drawing his blade, ducking under the sluggish hug, and slashing the back of the orc’s legs, dropping the beast to his knees with a cry of surprise.

“Sorry, big guy. I did enjoy our friendship.” Varys waved, sheathing his blade and continuing his escape. He didn’t want to stay for when the spell wore off and the orc realised that he had no friends and started doing what orcs do, though that might actually buy him some time. Three cheers for indiscriminate murder!

Varys sprinted as well as a 400-year-old elf could do, his lungs aching from his lowering adrenaline. He followed the familiar and nostalgic hallways, avoiding the less nostalgic and rather nauseating bodies of familiar faces and slain invaders. He rounded a corner to see a flock of sheep blocking the hallway and sighed, unconsciously scratching his beard.

“Good to see they listened at Polymorphing lessons.” Varys smiled a little before changing routes. It would help him to meet up with any survivors and getting them all out together. The more Bards the better the party after all!

He ducked into a half-destroyed supply closet as unfamiliar voices perked up, getting louder as they passed by his ransacked hiding place. He stayed there, catching his breath and making a mental plan of the route to the kitchens and which towns had the most thriving underground to escape into, not to mention how he would warn the other colleges, if there were any left at least.

After making sure that there was no one to back-stab him within the immediate vicinity, he started following his plan. Turn left at the bath house, right at the practice rooms, pick up a copy of ‘how to escape the authorities’ from the library, and head to the closest staircase to get down to the basement where the kitchens resided.

He met a rather large hurdle at this particular stage, because there was something horrifying waiting for him when he got to the banister that held the stairs in place. Staring down to the floor below, he saw seven of his students, some of his most beloved friends, lying on the floor, ethereal chains wrapped around their wrists, and a rather authoritarian looking man strolling in front of them.

He was dressed completely in subtly shifting armour, as if it was constructed by magic, a dark cloud shaped into a raven perched onto his shoulder, and a dagger made of purple crystal twirling in his hands.

“I will ask you three this time. Where might I find the other Colleges.” The man asked, almost absent-mindedly, as if he was just doing this out of boredom.

At that point, Varys’ heart caught. Only three of his students were still moving, while the others were motionless, crimson pools collecting beneath them. Varys held his hand over his mouth, using all of his willpower to not scream.

Wilson, one of Varys’ youngest students and had a particular habit for voicing his mind at very bad times, raised his head to the man.

“You can actually ask that? Don’t you warlocks learn things from the innards of chickens?” Wilson spat at the man’s feet, defiant rage glowing in his eyes.

‘Warlocks?’ Varys took a silent breath of horror. Wizards, clerics, now warlocks too? His thoughts became a jumbled hurricane, thoughts flying around with no rhyme or reason, only terror.

The man looked down at Wilson, his grip tightening on his dagger, and his expression twisting in disgust. He stormed towards Wilson, the tip of the blade shuddering with rage.

Varys turned away, screwing his eyes shut, trying and failing to burn the image of Wilson’s terrified eyes out of his mind. That did nothing to stop the sound of his precious student’s death from echoing in his ears. A small sob escaped from his lips, despite his best efforts to stay silent.

The silence was immediately broken by the shadowy raven letting out a screech that made the whole staircase shudder.

“Oh? Someone else?” The man’s voice became a shade brighter than before. “Where is our new guest I wonder?”

Varys slowly backed away from the staircase, careful to keep himself silent. He considered leaping down and fighting the man, but he would be going in blind, no idea how many foes he would be facing. Then there was that raven. It gave him chills, its brand of magic was not that of a normal familiar, but something else. Something more.

“The stairs?” Varys could hear the grin in the man’s voice. “Kill them, then follow me.” Several other voices began mumbling out of earshot, followed by the mass shuffling of feet and the scraping of steel.

Varys abandoned his stealth, and made a break for the library. It was the largest room he had passed, and would be the easiest to gain the upper hand in, provided that it wasn’t already on fire. He retraced his steps, ignoring the rising shouts behind him, and darted into the library, slamming the large doors shut, then used his meagre strength and peerless stubbornness to ‘persuade’ a nearby bookshelf to cover the door.

He took deep breaths, collapsing on a nearby chair from exertion. Physical activity never was his strong suit. His hands tightened into fists, the guilt of leaving his students eclipsing his discomfort, and the tears in his eyes breaking free. The whole string of his emotions came bursting out, and Varys’ head fell into his hands as he cried his good memories away.

Then his anger rose, a fury he had never felt before. He practically leaped off the chair and frantically looked around the library for something that could help him fight. Something to help him avenge his precious students.

His eyes found something, but it was the last thing he had ever wanted to see.

In a shadow of a bookcase, there was movement. Black beady eyes stared back at him, a tiny, deep voice chuckling in the distance.

“Oh no.” Varys breathed; his rage replaced by fear almost immediately.

The barricaded door heaved, as if it were hit by a battering ram, splinters of ancient wood were flung across the floor. Varys made a beeline for the stairs. The windows on the top level were by far the least safe part of the entire college, but right now, they were the only way that Varys could leave.

The door heaved again, wisps of dark magic plumed from the new holes in the door, widening the gaps further, followed by shouts of impatience.

Varys took the steps as fast as he dared, his adrenaline rush renewing. He drew his sword, ready to shatter the beautiful stained glass. He racked his brain to remember the right song for flight, his thoughts as tangled as his sweaty hair. The glass depicted a scene of glorious romance between Barret and Terpsichore, the most talented and beautiful bard who wooed the heart of the goddess of dance herself.

It was a wonderful tale, full of brilliant magic and important messages. Varys’ favourite of them was the ever controversial ‘Do Not Seduce the Dragon’ chapter.

It broke the old man’s heart when he brought his steel swinging down on the ancient glass, shattering it in its single blow.

At the same time, the door exploded open, the warlock man as the vanguard. He turned his cold eyes immediately upwards, catching Varys’ terrified gaze, a smile spreading over his face immediately.

“My word, it’s the Outcast Scholar himself, Varys Sylvas! What an honour to finally meet you.” The warlock’s voice was annoyingly honest. “I’m a big fan of your study on the building of true character, if I may say so.”

“Why thank you.” Varys sheathed his blade, taking his flute out at the same time, hiding it behind his back. “Perhaps you should read my paper on why wholesale massacre never ends with the murderers alive for long?” Varys stepped onto the ledge; his back being buffeted by the wind behind him.

The man lowered his face with a disappointed shake.

“I’m sure it tells of history in great detail,” He raised his eyes, dark energy crackling between his hands. “But this is like no other time in history, Bard. We will build our victory using your bones as our foundation.”

Varys held his gaze, anger swelling up in his throat, the wind behind him curling into a gust.

“Eloquent words for a cultist. And what of those who will live in this world of yours? Will you tell them of the many young hearts and minds that lay buried beneath them?”

The man’s smile vanished, the dark energy coiled into crystalline chains between his fingers.

“They will only know that they deserved to be there.” His voice had no trace of humour left, only hate and self-righteousness. He extended his hands towards Varys, three spike-tipped chains flying out towards him with murderous intent.

Varys moved like lightning, raising his flute and blowing out a piercing note that shuddered the library to its core. The man cried in pain, dragging his hands away from his spell to cover his undoubtably ringing ears, causing the chains to harmlessly fade back into nothing.

Using the confusion of the magically loud noise, Varys took a step backwards, his foot slipping off the stone window and falling into the chasm of the air. He brought his flute up to his lips, curling up to stop the rushing air from restricting his music, and played a quick tune to himself.

The wind grew quieter, slower and calmer, as Varys weightlessly hung in the air beside the vast wall of the college. No matter how many times he used this spell, he never quite got used to flying.

He turned around, scanning the area of the college and the surrounding mountain range for a good way to escape.

Then the smell hit him.

Fire. Steel. Burning oil and sick magic filled the air, turning the very clouds black with hatred. The college was mere minutes away from being considered pure charcoal, the once scenic mountains were lines of spiked fences, siege weaponry and streaks of artillery magic leaving scars in the air.

Where there was no fire, there was line after line of armoured warriors marching through, flanked on every direction by wizards, clerics and warlocks as far as the eye could see.

Varys couldn’t bear to look anymore, scrunching up his eyes in revulsion. What evil could have led this massacre? What insanity refused to prevent it? He didn’t try to realise the answer, though it was obvious, nonetheless.

“It’s Genocide.” The words were a wisp out of his lips, as his hope crumbled away inside him.

At that moment, when his very soul had given up, he made a choice that would lead to his death, and thousands more after him. But if that choice had not been made, the toll on the world would have been truly unimaginable.

A spike lunged down through the air, carving a crimson line down Varys’ back. The pain flared up instantly, forcing a cry of pain from the aged man. The agony clouded his mind for only a short second, but it was enough to break Varys’ concentration, and break the spell that was keeping Varys from plummeting to his death.

The air rushed up once more as he flailed for some purchase on the once ornate walls of the college, now charred and crumbling from sustained devastation.

He jerked to a stop, another wave of pain shooting up his ankle. He looked down, only to see that his leg was now above him, and ensnared by a crystal chain that lead back to the strained face of his attacker, who’s grimace twitched at the corner with a twinge of satisfaction.

Varys couldn’t hear what he barked at the lackeys in the room for, but several seconds later, he was being hoisted back up towards his doom.

Varys didn’t resist. What would be the point? Who knew how many opponents he faced in the library, or how powerful they were? The chance that he could prevail was unknown, therefore useless. His life had led him this far and no further, and his blood would soon stain the stones that he helped build.

But not his mind, nor his heart, nor his soul. They belonged to the world, to inspire anyone who would hear them, to warn them of the oncoming storm that had taken him, to give a chance of greatness to any who would learn. Varys’ time was running thin, and he wouldn’t be the one to carry on the legacy of the Bardic College of Lore. That fate belonged to another. To a stranger. Varys could only hope that help would come to them.

The old man gritted his teeth, raising his flute to his lips for the last time, taking in tired breaths to ready himself for his last performance. The notes flew freely, beautiful as the day he had first heard them. The melodies intertwined into a tapestry of all his life and love, stretching out to the horizon at an impossible volume.

The song stretched out over the burning buildings, across the smoky mountains and out to the world, away from the agony until all that was left was the pure magic. The song continued, past the frantic cries of the armies, away from Varys’ burning lungs and ever depleting stores of magic, as the tempo followed his heartbeat. Slowly ebbing away.

The last notes of the song were but a whisper in the air, as the flute tumbled helplessly from Varys’ exhausted hands towards the burning abyss below. The old man closed his eyes, as he felt large hands on his feet, dragging him back into his lives work, his body tired and his mind eased.

‘Let’s give it one more go, eh son?’ Varys managed to crack a tiny smile, as he reached for the blade at his hip…

***

The minstrel slumped against the towering oak, taking deep breaths to try and clear the bubbly ale from his mind, and the noisy revelry of the tavern below. He groggily wrapped his hand around the strap of his lute, running his fingers numbly over the strings.

A tune began to ring in his ears, the source of which was unclear, but it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. He scanned the night sky, looking for the angel that played the melody.

His mind was still foggy, but his hands danced over his lute, unconsciously imitating and harmonising with the music, creating an improvised duet of pure bliss.

He didn’t know how long he played before he fell asleep, but when he awoke from his ale-fuelled powernap, his heart seemed to beat twice as loud as usual, his eyes beating along with its loud rhythm. He pressed his hand against his chest, but nothing felt wrong. He rubbed his eyes but still the world warped around him.

He took deep breaths, trying to calm his unusual hangover to little effect. It only grew louder and louder. His chest felt like a barrel filled with fire, rumbling and eager to burst with wrath, like he was about to vomit a nest of fireflies.

When he released the pressure, there was no destruction, no fire, no explosion, but a voice that was his own, yet not. His voice had lost its horse edge and was now melodic and silky, as the note that he sung swam around the tree like fairies on a calm, waltzing wind.

As the gorgeous note that escaped from his chest eased, and he could breathe again, he stared into the sky, then down to his lute, then straight ahead, overlooking the small town that was his home. The one word that filled his mind, came spilling out in this new, angelic voice.

“What?”