Alternate Short Story: The Heartless Orchestra

I’ve always loved the fantasy genre, especially authors like Terry Pratchett and Roger Moore. There’s something special about an author who can affectionately poke fun at the things you love. In fact, the reason why their satire works so well is because they have so much love for what they're satirizing. It’s the literary equivalent of a long argument you have a friend about not very much at all, that most often culminates with a lovely meal and a wistful parting of ways.

Corker was a character I came up with to honor that tradition. She’s simultaneously a muscled hero of legend and a fussy travel blogger, wandering her realm and poking at anything interesting for her to write about. She’s hard to capture in a longer work, precisely because her style works so well for short news column-style reviews. Here’s the first story I ever wrote with her, in an attempt to work out what I was trying for with her character more than anything else.

***

Corker’s Musical Reviews – The Heartless Orchestra

There’s such a thing as invisible light, my companion once explained to me. Light that can be seen by only a lucky few creatures but can still be bright enough to burn out any unlucky bastard’s eyeballs. Believe me, dear readers, I was skeptical. Yet my companion insisted. To paraphrase: “Your world has flying unicorns and you find this unbelievable?”

Why reference our noble steeds in such a way, I’ll never understand. However, it sparked another question: if invisible light exists, could there also be such a thing as unhearable sounds?

Apparently, yes!

My editor is currently breathing heavily over my shoulder about this lengthy digression. But I promise him, and you all in turn, that all my blathering is leading to a very important point: how can you expect me to write a music review for a symphony I can’t hear?

Allow me to provide a little more background. Not two days after my discussion with Mykuhl, I was given notice of a new concert being held in Partook. Now, I had my misgivings, especially after that horrendous concert conducted under the blessings of Princess -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------(Note from the Editor: We at the Sultryz News naturally have the highest regard for Princess Melie, Glory be her name) … after which I kicked him in the face! Nevertheless, let’s not dive too deeply into past horrors. After a light lunch up at Gorgug’s, I got some directions and clambered down to the Nohmcaves.

A quick apology for any of my gnomish readers. No doubt I will soon be misrepresenting all manner of cultural subtleties. Yet my first impression came from a place of innocent wonder, and I feel it would be inauthentic to relate my adventure in any other way.

My guide was a friendly enough fellow by the name of Larkney. Such friendliness blossomed from my generous gift of coins. I must warn you all that this tactic is only advisable with enough steel to back up the silver. Otherwise, in any town or city of the Sphere, you’re likely to end up with empty pockets and a knife through your nose.

“Needta ask, Yer Magnificence,” Larkney asked, staring at the bundle of relics I’d strung around my neck, “whether yer familiar with the ‘Heartless’ part of the ‘Heartless Orchestra.' Most tallies like yerself think it’s—oh." A skeleton with glowing green eyes walked out of a nearby doorway, and I gave a suitably heroic roar of surprise and leapt backward. My trusty rapier was out in the space of a moment, the relics around my throat beginning to weave their spells.

The skeleton didn’t seem overly perturbed by my caution. It just shrugged on a black, flowing robe and hissed at Larkney. “Just a tourist, Mrs. Daybridge.” My guide assured her. “She’ll be no trouble, I promise.” For the first time, I noticed that the undead creature was rather gnomishly short. She hissed at me again and slung her instrument over her shoulder, going through a pair of large and imposing doors. Larkney nodded at me, and we followed her into the… auditorium? Temple? Club grounds? My guide only whispered ‘Hurren’ and shook her head vehemently.

I could smell sharp, almost cloying incense being lit. The rows of faces I saw turn towards us were wreathed in shadow through the lamplight. There were no chairs, only mossy green carpets that somehow felt insufficient to protect my rump from the bumps of the cavern floor. I folded up my cloak and sat on that instead. The gnomes all applauded as a group of skeletons stepped onto the stage. They all looked short enough to be gnomes, or a group of children who’d had early ends and a morbid taste in attire. They bowed and straightened up, and all the chatter hushed.

For the first few minutes, I wasn’t sure they were playing at all. They certainly weren’t using any instruments I could recognize. They were all strange brass and bone contraptions that spat out steam and bubbles every few seconds. So I turned and saw the gnomes swaying softly, drumming their fingers softly against the stone. One bearded young woman stood up amongst a sea of carpets and began to dance, her body’s swirling movements never even brushing the other listeners. The lamps had all faded to embers, and the glowing green light from dead players’ eyes was the only light bright enough to see by.

Was it a ritual of a religious nature? Some sort of communal communication with dead gnomish ancestors? It was the sort of theory Mykuhl would’ve come up with, and in that lonely moment I have to admit I missed him greatly. I shivered, crossing my arms over my knees, and nestled my head in the crook of my elbows.

Then I felt it. I don’t think my ears were involved at all. It came through the ground, and I could feel the hairs on my arms twitch at its presence in the air. I could decipher no true rhythm, but something of the pattern remained in the rocks and in the dust, some shadow of music I spent the rest of the performance piecing together with little success. The symphony seemed to end all at once, the skeletons crumbling into a pile of dust that cradled their instruments. None of the watchers echoed my subsequent worries, rolling up their carpets and leaving with their pilgrim’s silence. Even my guide, Larkney, left alone without looking back. I tossed her a tip anyway.

How does one rank an orchestra that cannot be heard? It’s a tricky question, but I subscribe to the view that if tourists can gawp at petrified cyclopes and blood trees and all such mundanities, then this performance is worth gawking at too. Overall, six out of seven quills. I might even have returned the next day, except that wyvern-hunting season had begun, and you readers all know I’d rather shoot myself than miss that.