Unlikely Heroes

Chapter 1: Tap Dancing Is Good For Your Karma

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No, scratch that.

It was a dark and stormy night. Er…no. More like the opposite, actually.

Once upon a time. Yes, that was it, the pages whispered with delight. Once upon a time, there was a wizard. Except he didn't know that he was a wizard, because he could not remember anything, not even his own name. It was really very annoying. He could not imagine anything more annoying. But then he was unconscious, so it was very hard for him to imagine anything at all.

A young man woke up beneath a tree and winced. Everything hurt, especially his head. What had happened to him? What was he doing there? What was his name? Try as he might, he could not remember.

He glanced around. As he tried to stand up, an acorn fell from the tree above and landed right at his feet. A gray squirrel darted after it and popped the acorn into its mouth, then dashed away.

"An acorn," the wizard muttered. "What the bloody hell does an acorn have to do with me?"

He groaned as he took a step forward. His body protested, but still he took a step anyway. Something about the acorn and the squirrel resonated with him.

"Acorn," he said aloud in response. Yes, it would do for now, until he remembered who he really was, however long that would take. Hopefully not too long.

He looked around and took another step forward, then another and another. Soon he was walking, though he did not know where he was walking. The road ahead of him beckoned.

Behind him, the squirrel spit out the acorn and ran to catch up.

* * * * *

Somewhere else, in a very dark corner along a cobblestone road in the city, Grimlor Leadfoot reached out for a pedestrian's coin purse. The coins in it jingled, whispering to him of many things -- fortune, the future, and silver and gold. Sweet, sweet gold. He stretched out, then suddenly lost his balance and fell, smack dab on the cobblestones and in full view of his mark. He let out a string of curses.

"What the...help, guards," the pedestrian shouted.

It was just not his day. No, scratch that. It was just not his lifetime. Grimlor took one look at the oncoming guards and ran for it. Darting through the long and windy streets, he could not help but bump into people as he passed them. Most of them cursed and did not give him a second glance.

He finally made it to the sewer entrance, but the guards were coming up behind him very quickly. He fumbled for the lock. It was just not his day. But then again, it never was. Still, he kept at it. Finally, he got the sewer entrance open and jumped down into the smelly darkness.

Grimlor cursed, having landed face first in the muck. He got to his feet, wiped the thick, rancid muck off of his face, and then ran. He heard the guards trying to get the entrance open. It was only a short time before they came down.

Luckily, he was very good at running, despite his last name. They called him Leadfoot because he had a tendency to be clumsy. But he also had a great deal of luck. It was just that most of it was bad. Every once in a while, though, the gods cut him a break. He hoped they were feeling generous today.

He hid in the shadows and held his breath as the guards splashed by. The sewer muck was so stinky that its odor was rumored to haunt the streets of the city. Sometimes it scared people to death in the night.

The guards splashed on by, and Grimlor hid until he was absolutely sure that they were gone. He was very good at hiding. He didn't require moving for that. Slowly, he crept out of his hiding place and proceeded to trip once again. It really wasn’t his day.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, in the middle of a really big battlefield, a fighter in a shining suit of armor looked up as an enemy came at him with a sword. Alain screamed and ran for it. He really was not cut out for being a soldier. He fought because if he didn’t, his mother would hound him to no end when he got home because he didn't have a real job. Fighting paid the rent, you see. He was a mercenary, and not a very good mercenary. But people hired him because he worked cheaply.

They called him Doombringer not because he fought well, but because he usually brought doom to whichever side he was fighting on. It wasn't really his fault. He always tried hard. Still, when it came right down to it, Alain was a coward.

He really wanted to go into a different line of work, but his mother wouldn’t let him. He wanted to be a bard. But being a bard didn't pay at all unless you got into the royal court. So he was a mercenary, and he was absolutely terrible at it.

As he ran from the enemy fighter, Alain dashed into a tent to hide. Then he noticed a chest. He opened it and took out a sword. It glowed pink.

"Hey, what are you doing?" the weapon shouted in a female voice. "Put me down, you imbecile! You are not worthy enough to hold me. I am only for *real* fighters, not nitwits like you. You are a loser."

"A magic sword?" he gasped. He thought of all the money that would bring when he sold it at the marketplace. Hopefully it would be enough to move out of his mother's basement.

"I said, PUT ME DOWN," she bellowed.

Alain reached for it. "No. You are coming with me."

"You are a lily-livered coward! I will make your life a living hell, even more so than your mother does right now. You will put me down, now, or I will curse you!”

His voice trembled slightly. "You can't do that. You're bluffing.”

The sword glowed red as she lectured him. "Am I? I’m a magic sword. You have no idea what I could do to you. I could turn you into an evil villain. I could turn you into a little girl. I could give you eternal hunger or thirst. I could kill you slowly with a terrible disease. I could do anything, and you wouldn’t even know until it was too late."

Alain Doombringer looked at the sword dubiously. It really wasn't worth the risk. He could always find another way to make money. He dropped the weapon and ran for it.

"You are such a loser," she called after him, then cackled. "They always fall for it," the sword whispered. "Stupid men. Little do they know my true power is for women only. That is, young women going through a certain monthly…mmmph!" Her voice was muffled as the tent collapsed amidst all the fighting.

* * * * *

The next day, a bard named Orrin Songless was wandering around the mercenary camp carrying a drum. It wasn't any old drum, though. He'd gotten it from a bunch of troll raiders. He had crept into the camp to get it. By the time they knew he was there, he already had the Drum of Dancing. He’d escaped the trolls with the drum’s magic.

Orrin was not just any bard though. He was called Songless for a reason. He absolutely hated most music. Not to mention, he was tone-deaf. Oh, sure, he could recite a spoken poem or tale just fine, but you would never hear him sing or play any instrument. The drum he had no problem with, though. It was most likely the only instrument he would ever play.

The drum was made of some sort of leathery hide and there were runes all around it. They were trollish in origin. He had no idea what they read. All he knew was the drum made anyone who he wanted to tap dance, and they would not stop unless he wanted them to.

"Hello Orrin,” Alain said, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Doombringer," Orrin greeted him.

"My name is Alain," he sighed.

"You nearly brought us doom the other day, I heard," the bard said.

Alain nodded dejectedly. "I wish I could go into your line of work."

Orrin raised his eyebrows. "You want to be a bard?”

"Yes," he replied. "I would love to. The problem is, it doesn't pay very well."

The bard laughed. "That is true. Still, I don’t mind. I would much rather do this than a lot of things. I mean, there are a lot of worse jobs. You could be scooping out horse dung instead."

Alain grimaced. "Aye. Hey, why do you play a drum?”

“I can’t stand anything that carries a tune,” Orrin replied.

“You’re kidding. Why be a bard then?”

“For the adventure. What else is there?”

“I guess,” Alain said with a shrug.

"Besides, the drum makes people tap dance when I play it,” Orrin said.

Alain looked stunned. "Tap dance? Really?"

"Sure. Want to see for yourself?" the bard asked.

"No, no, that's okay," he replied.

"Come on. Tap dancing is great. It's good for your karma," the bard responded.*

"How do you know? Can you tap dance?" Alain inquired.

"No," Orrin admitted. "But if someone else played this drum, I would."

"Uh huh. Thanks. I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself.” Orrin waited until Alain left, then looked at a nearby chicken and tapped the Drum of Dancing.

The chicken began to tap dance, clucking in time to the drum's rhythm. The bard chuckled. Perhaps tap dancing really was good for your karma, whatever karma was.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Acorn had arrived at the entrance of Helmsgate. The city’s tall marble spires stretched into the sky, casting dark shadows across the land. He could hear the sounds of merchants advertising their wares, of people sharing the already cramped streets, and of various animals – horses, chickens, and dogs. The smells of sweat, the salty air, various kinds of roasted meat assailed him. He wondered if this was really as good of an idea as it seemed.

Behind him, the squirrel chittered.

He glanced around. "What? Oh, hello there."

The squirrel chittered again.

"You want to come with me?"

The squirrel bobbed its head up and down.

"All right. I guess I'll have to name you something. Um…how about Chip? Seems like a good name for a squirrel."

The squirrel chittered and bobbed its head.

"Fine. Chip it is, then. Come on." Acorn bent down and scooped up the animal.

Chip the squirrel climbed up Acorn's arm and sat on his shoulder, looking perfectly content as they both entered the city of Helmsgate.

"Hey, what's that on your shoulder?" asked a guard.

"That? It's just Chip."

The guard seemed to think that was terribly funny. He grinned, showing his teeth. "And what is your name?"

"I can’t remember. But you can call me Acorn for now," he replied.

"Acorn, eh? With a chip on your shoulder?" the guard asked with a smirk.

He nodded.

"I see. Well, I suppose you can enter," the guard said. "Just don’t cause any trouble."

"We won't," he replied.

The guard let them in. Acorn wondered if he could find anything to jog his memory. Maybe an herbalist could help. He wandered off in search of the nearest apothecary.

* * * * *
Chapter 2: When Squirrels Collide

Grimlor Leadfoot stumbled across the entrance to the thieves' guild hideout. It was in the sewers, partly because they stank so much that nobody else would go down there willingly, and partly because the city guards were too lazy to go looking there.

He knocked three times on the door, and a previously hidden peephole in the door opened ever so slightly.

"What is the password?" asked the thief who was guarding the door.

"Come on, Ulthor, you know me," Grimlor said, getting very annoyed.

"Aye, Leadfoot, but you still need to give me the password," Ulthor replied.

Grimlor sighed. "Very well. I am a lumberjack and I’m okay. I sleep all night and I work all day."

"Keep going," the other thief said.

"You've got to be kidding me. I know the bloody password, okay? Let me in," Grimlor said.

"Not until I get the rest of it," Ulthor answered.

"Oh, all right." He sighed. "I cut down trees, I eat my lunch, I go to the lavatory. On Wednesdays I go shopping and have buttered scones for tea. That enough for you?"

"No," Ulthor replied, quite self-assuredly.

Grimlor sighed again. "Fine. I cut down trees. I skip and jump. I like to press wild flowers. I put on women's clothing and hang around in bars. Can I come in now?"

"Keep going.”

"You've got to be kidding me.”

"Nope. You have to tell me the rest of it," Ulthor said.

Grimlor sighed yet again and wished for the hundredth time that he wasn't having a very bad day. "All right. I cut down trees, I wear high heels, suspendies, and a bra."

"Keep going.”

"That's it! I've had enough of this. Let me in!" Grimlor demanded loudly and stamped his foot on the floor.

"No, you have to finish it," Ulthor replied.

"Do you make anyone else do this?" he asked crossing his arms over his chest.

"Of course. All the time," the other thief replied.

"Why?" Grimlor asked.

"One, it just happens to be in the thieves' guild rules that we all voted on. Two, because I can, and three, because I am a really annoying bloke. Now finish the bloody password," Ulthor said.

"All right, all right. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear papa," Grimlor replied. He sighed yet again. "Now will you please let me in?"

There was a click and sliding noise as the door was unlocked. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Ulthor asked, grinning.

Grimlor glared at him sharply and then went inside.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Acorn had stumbled across an herbalist, literally.

"Ow! Watch where you're going," she snarled at him.

"Sorry," he apologized. "My mistake. I am looking for the herbalist," he said, gesturing to the sign.

"Well, you've found her. What can I do for you?"

"I have amnesia. Is there anything you can give me to help?" he asked, hoping that she could help him.

"Hmm. Amnesia…let's see…nope, do not think there are any herbs for that. I could try hitting you on the head again. That always works in soap operas," she said.

"What's a soap opera?" Acorn asked.

"Uh…now that I think about it, I do not know. I imagine someone in an opera gets into a bath tub," she said.

"A bath tub?" he repeated.

"Are you deaf? I said a bath tub," she replied in a very annoyed tone of voice.

"I heard you just fine. It's just a bit hard to imagine someone on stage, sitting naked in a bath tub and singing opera," he said.

"Right. Well, I would not do it," she said. "Unless there was a shower curtain."

"What's a shower curtain?" he inquired.

"You know, that's a really good question. That word just popped into my head. I don’t know where it came from," she responded.

"The gods, I imagine," Acorn said. "Are you sure you don’t have any herbs for amnesia?"

"Sorry, I can't help you. You can try all of the other herbalists in town, but I am willing to bet they'll give you the same answer," she said.

He nodded. "Well, thanks anyway." Just as he started for the door, the squirrel ran down his shoulder and leapt onto a nearby table. "No, Chip!" Acorn shouted.

"Get your pet squirrel away from my potions!” the herbalist exclaimed, grabbing a broom and trying to shoo it away.

Chittering, the squirrel took a great leap and landed on top of the bookshelf, then proceeded to accidentally knock over a really thick, dusty old book. The pages of that really thick, dusty old book just happened to open to a particular section labeled "Amnesia" in great big old-fashioned script.

"Well," said the herbalist, "it seems that your squirrel might have more brains than you do." She smiled at the furry critter.

Chip bobbed his head in agreement, then jumped back onto Acorn's shoulder.

The herbalist picked up the book and studied the page carefully, blowing off a cloud of dust that caused Acorn to cough several times.

"Ah. Yes. It says here that you might be cured from amnesia by finding a familiar place," she said sagely.

"Great. Now if I only know what that might be," Acorn replied. "I don’t suppose you have any ideas?"

"No, sorry. I am no wizard. If you were, I suppose you could find out somehow," she said apologetically.

Something niggled at Acorn's mind. It nudged at him a few times, and then fled away into the dark, unswept corners where, he presumed, all of his memories were hidden from him. "How would I do that?" he asked. "If I were a wizard?"

The herbalist shrugged. "I know very little about magic, young man."

He nodded and moved toward the door again. "Right. I am very sorry to take up so much of your time for nothing."

"Not a problem. I hope you find what you're looking for," she said as he left the shop.

Chip chose that moment to leap off his shoulder and run into the street.

"Hey, come back here," Acorn shouted. "I said, come back here!"

He darted after the squirrel, annoying a great many pedestrians in the process.

* * * * *

In the meantime, Grimlor Leadfoot emerged from the hideout. He hoped that his afternoon would be more productive than the morning. He had spent it arguing with several guild members over whether or not he had made his weekly quota. He had, in fact, not made it. So he was out looking for another mark, when a squirrel suddenly scampered up his leg.

"Get off of me, you stupid rodent," he shouted, bending down and trying to grab it.

"Chip! Where are you?" Acorn yelled.

Grimlor pointed to the squirrel, which had now somehow managed to climb onto his shoulder. "Is this thing yours?"

"Sort of. He's my friend, you see. It's a bit hard to explain, really.”

"Uh huh. Well, get it off me, now!" Grimlor insisted.

"Right. Here, Chip. Be a good squirrel, if there is such a thing.”

The squirrel clung furiously to the thief's dark brown tunic.

"I think he likes you," Acorn said nervously.

Grimlor glared at him. "I don’t give a rat's ass what he likes. Get that squirrel off of me, now!"

Suddenly there was a commotion as city guards appeared behind Grimlor. "Hey, you! You're the thief we were chasing earlier!”

"Uh oh," he said, and started to run.

Not knowing what else to do, Acorn ran after him, hoping to rescue Chip. He followed the thief and the city guards through the twisting streets. Then suddenly Grimlor tripped. What he tripped over, Acorn could not see, but Chip went flying backward. Acorn caught him and the squirrel scampered up his arm.

"You," the lead guard said, "why were you chasing that man?"

"He stole my squirrel," Acorn replied.

"What is your name?" the guard asked.

"Acorn," he answered.

The guard laughed. "What kind of a name is that?"

"I am only using it until I remember my real name," he replied.

"Uh huh. A flimsy excuse. More likely, you are in the thieves’ guild as well. Arrest them," he ordered his companions.

"Yes, sir," the guards responded.

Grimlor sighed. What else could possibly go wrong?

"I am not talking to you," Acorn said.

"Then why did you say something?" the thief asked.

"I did not," he said.

"Yes, you did, just now," Grimlor replied.

"Did not," he said.

"Did too," the thief replied.

"Shut up, both of you," the guards said. "Or I'll slit your throats."

Both of the prisoners glared at each other as they were hauled into the prison and shackled to one another. None of the guards paid any attention to Chip, who scampered down Acorn's arm and hid in a bale of hay.

"We are doomed," Grimlor said. "All because of your stupid rodent!"

"Chip is a squirrel," Acorn said. "And we are not doomed."

"Says you," the thief replied. "They'll probably let us starve to death in here."

"You’re such a pessimist," Acorn replied.

Grimlor sighed. Today was a very bad day. No doubt about it.

Chapter 3: Did I Mention That Tap Dancing Was Good For Your Karma?

Alain was not in a very good mood. He was being chased by a mean-looking orc. The brutish creature followed him to the center of the battlefield, where he whipped out a particularly spiky mace and bellowed, "You will die now, human!"

Alain shuddered. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of Orrin's Drum of Dancing. The orc began to tap dance. Try as he might he could not stop.

"Run, you idiot," Orrin shouted.

He took off at top speed. An arrow streaked past him and struck the tap dancing orc, who fell over.

Meanwhile, in the center of the battlefield, there was a commotion. Various soldiers on both sides were being turned to stone. In the middle of it all, there was a tall, gray-haired wizard wearing unsightly pink robes.* He was chanting and waving his arms and doing lots of typical wizardly things. He had long unkempt black hair and a black beard that was not trimmed at all. He was evil. Why should he trim it? It would only ruin what was left of his image, which was already marred by those blasted pink robes.

Alain gaped as the flesh-to-stone spell radius expanded. He ducked as the wave of magic came closer and closer. Then he blacked out. But just before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn that he heard that magic sword laughing at him.

"Loser," she said.

* * * * *

Some time later, Alain woke up in a dank, cold cell. Was there any other kind? He supposed that somewhere in the universe, there must be a cozy, sweet-smelling, warm prison cell with a comfy chair just to balance things out, and guards that gave you milk and homemade chocolate-chip cookies instead of gruel and water with mysterious icky things floating in it. But he had never seen one, and he probably never would.

There was a groan in the adjacent cell next to him. Alain peered through the bars as much as he possibly could.

"Orrin?" he asked.

"Aye," replied the bard.

"Where are we?"

"We appear to be in some sort of prison.”

"Why is it that there are never any warm, comfortable, and cozy jail cells?" Alain asked.

"I don’t know. Now, do you have any other stupid questions, or are you going to let me rot here in peace?" Orrin retorted.

"Do you still have the drum?" Alain asked.

"Why, as a matter of fact, the guards around here are as inane as you are, and they let me keep the drum! Isn’t that smashing?"

"There’s no need to be sarcastic. I was just wondering."

"No, of course not," the bard replied.

"Hey, you, shut up!" someone shouted. "Some of us are trying to get some sleep."

"Yes please," someone else replied. "I am going to be hanged tomorrow. I'd like to be awake for it, thank you very much."

"Why?" Alain asked.

"I want to face my death wide awake."

"You're a mad man."

"No, I am just really annoyed,” the other prisoner said.

Alain sighed and leaned back against the cell wall. Now what? How was he going to get out of this?

Suddenly a particularly furry squirrel with a penchant for long-distance jumping darted into his cell. He looked at it. The rodent looked at him with beady black eyes and scampered to the other end of the cell. Alain watched it.

“Hey, I don’t suppose you could get me out of here?” he asked hopefully.

The squirrel chittered and ran away. Alain sighed. So much for hope.

* * * * *

In one of the rooms above, a guard set down the Drum of Dancing that he had been playing. He had no idea what it did, of course. He just thought it was better than twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he would start a Band of Rocks. Yes, he thought. Or maybe he would call it Music With Rocks In It. That had a certain ring. The Drum of Dancing was set on the floor and forgotten as the guard went back on duty.

The guard saw a squirrel looking up at him with its beady little eyes, but the guard thought nothing of it. Chip leapt onto the guard’s leg and climbed up to his arm and then his shoulder and then his head. The guard screamed in horror as the squirrel clung to his hair.

“Get it off me,” the guard yelled. “Someone, help!”

The poor guard was trying to get Chip off of his head. He stumbled until he tripped and fell backwards, hitting his head on the floor. There was a really sickening cracking noise. Acorn winced. Then there was a jingle as the fell out of the guard’s pocket.

“Chip,” Acorn whispered, “get me the keys!”

The squirrel looked up.

“I said get me the keys!” he repeated.

The squirrel ran away, squeezing through the bars of the cage and running up the stairs in a headlong dash.

Acorn sighed. He was so close to getting out of the prison cell. He tried to squeeze his arm through the bars of the cage, but it just didn’t fit. “If only I had a stick,” he muttered.

He sighed. “I wish I could get those keys,” he said. The keys suddenly moved of their own volition towards him. He gasped. They jingled as they moved closer. He lunged for them, but they leaped away as if to taunt him.

“Bloody keys,” he swore.

They jingled as he grabbed them, but Acorn missed and banged his head against the cell bars. Then they jingled again. But it didn’t matter, because one way or another, he would get out of the cell. He watched them move this way and that. Finally, he timed their movements and grabbed them. “Ha! Got you!”

“Let me out!” Grimlor exclaimed.

“Wait, why should I? You’re a thief,” he said. “As far as I know, I’m the only one here who’s actually innocent.”

“Very soon, the other guards will have figured out that something is going on down here,” Grimlor said. “Not to mention, I wouldn’t be here in the first place if your stupid pet squirrel hadn’t made me trip.”

“Oh come on, Leadfoot,” said one of the other prisoners. “You would have tripped anyway.”

“Leadfoot?” Acorn asked.

The thief sighed. “Okay. I’m not very good at running. But I have a lot of luck. You’ll see.”

“You’re lucky?”

“Aye,” Grimlor said. “Now let us all out, before the guards come back.”

Acorn sighed. “All right.” He let them out.

“Now let’s get out of here,” Grimlor said. “We’ll have to use the secret exit.”

“Secret exit?” he asked.

“Aye. Just knock on that discolored brick three times. It’s a magic brick. It requires three jokes,” the thief said.

“If it’s so secret, how do you know about it?” Acorn inquired.

“I’m a member of the thieves’ guild, remember? We know these things.”

“Oh, all right.” Acorn bent down and knocked on the brick.

“Who’s there?” the brick replied.

“Ach,” he exclaimed.

“Ach who?” the brick replied.

“Gesundheit,” Acorn said.

The brick sighed. “You have two more jokes.”

Acorn knocked again.

“Who’s there?” it asked.

“Guess.”

“Guess who?”

“Exactly!” Acorn grinned.

The brick yawned. “That wasn’t very funny. Try again.”

He knocked once more.

“Who’s there?” it asked.

“Orange.”

“That’s too old,” it said. “Try something different.”

“No, no, it’s not what you think,” Acorn said.

“Oh, all right,” it said. “Orange who?”

“Orange you glad this is the last really awful joke?”

“Indeed,” it replied with a groan. The secret entrance opened. “You may pass.”

The prisoners filed through the secret entrance. At the top of the stairs, the squirrel watched them. It ran quickly to catch up, and made it just as the secret door closed.

Chapter 4: The Secret Tunnel

“Hey, I need my magic drum,” Orrin exclaimed as they sloshed through the sewer muck.

“It’s too late now,” Alain said. “We have to get out of here. Besides, you can always buy another musical instrument somewhere.”

“You don’t understand,” Orrin said. “I cannot play any other kind of instrument.”

“That’s funny,” Alain replied, “I thought you were supposed to be a bard.”

“I am. But I’m not a very good one. I’m tone deaf, and I hate music anyway,” Orrin admitted.

“Then why’d you go into that line of work?” Alain asked.

“My father was a bard, and his father before him. It was expected of me,” he explained.

“We’ll find you another drum, then. Let’s get out of here before the guards find us.”

Orrin sighed and nodded.