75: Deliverin' The Goods

  Gord was not a songwriter. He had loved the music of his favorite bands, memorized the lyrics, sung them as he jumped from planes or rode along in APCs, but he never actually created any songs. Nor would he sing too loudly in the shower. But he tapped his fingers and his hands on anything, even while on duty. In the back of his mind, he felt a fear that he imagined most creators felt: What if they couldn't do it? And was he good enough to actually play with the rest of them?

  He followed along as they rushed towards the large leather tent where minstrel bands and lone bards signed up for the stage. Lita was in the lead, and he felt like yanking her and everyone back when he saw what was sitting at the sign-up desk: An eagle-feathered librarian, with the same impressive beak and emanating power and understanding.

  "Calm your worries," Lita whispered. "This is a Metal History librarian, documenting this Battle of the Bards for the ages. They are the wisest and fairest of all librarians in Metaloria."

  They followed her into the tent, which reeked of incense and the smell of old books. Only then did Gord see that the tent itself comprised vellum pages from books that had clearly fallen apart. He wondered if each sentence in those pages was a spell. Or was this some sort of art display? Art had always confused him. Why not just make things make sense in the first place? As they drew closer to the desk, he still marked the exits and replayed in his mind who to grab and roll out with in an escape. Kim was first. Lita second. Since he only had two hands, the rest would be on their own.

  "Ah, the fates have delivered unto me more minstrels," the librarian said. It didn't sound like sarcasm. "I am Fitzgerald Concordia. But you can call me Fitz of the Grey Gods. What is the name of your motley crew?"

  "Uh," Lita said. She looked over at the group assembled behind her and said, "The Disparate—"

  "Iron Anvil Priest," Gord shouted.

  "Grinding Gods of Metal," Damon added.

  "The Rockets," Kim added.

  "Grinding Gods of Megametal," Fiora finished for them all. They looked at her. "It may be a little over the top, but—" She gestured towards the audience. "—they will lick it up, if nothing else."

  The librarian nodded. "Then Grinding Gods of Megametal, you are in luck as the lead singer of another band broke his wrist trying to jump from a Marshal Magic stack during rehearsal. You may have their spot. Expect to hit the stage halfway through the metal moon rising." She gave an official form to Lita, who scratched her name on it and the name of their band. "May the metal gods be with you," the librarian added.

  "You have our thanks." Lita took the scroll and left the tent. Gord brought up the rear, keeping an eye on the librarian. Fitzgerald gave him the devil horns sign, and Gord nodded his thanks. Maybe not all librarians were bad.

  "How long do we have?" he asked as they worked their way towards the side of the stage. He hoped it would be enough time to take this feeling of tapping his fingers and maybe turn it into a skill he could use.

  "About ten of your minutes," Lita replied.

  "You mean ten hours, right?" Kim said.

  "No." Lita looked up at the Metal Moon and squinted. "We go then or we do not go at all. This is the last slot of the Battle of the Bards."

  "But we haven't practiced!" Damon said.

  "We will have to wing it," Lita replied.

  "We are doomed," Fiora said, limping along. Gord reached out to give her a hand, but she batted it away. "I am finding my second wind."

  They pushed their way through to the stage. The minstrels on stage had a banner behind them that said: Crimson Teabags. Now, that was an interesting band name, Gord thought. They were doing a valiant cover of 'Open The Gates' by Fist.

  It was a song he'd heard many times; his most favourite metal memory was when he was in a biker bar watching Fist play it live. The topic was a harbinger of good things. Of luck. He knew one made their own luck, but that song was about opening gates, and that's what they would need to do.

  His group gathered at the stone stairs that led up to the stage. The crowd was there. Right there. It was easy being part of the audience, but when all of them were looking at you, it was like being under a thousand spotlights. The audience was its own instrument. He had faced live gunfire and angry zealots, but this was maybe going to be worse.

  "You won't be alone," a voice said. At first, the thought was inside his head, but when he looked to his left, Kim was there. She squeezed his hand.

  "Good," he said. "But I do hate to point this out—we don't have any instruments."

  "I've been thinking about that," Lita said. "The Bag of Ultimate Rock Surprises doesn't work any longer, but I may have the answer. What would you like to play, Damon?"

  "The Schenkeraxe," he said. He sounded like a little boy at Christmas. "Well, it's destroyed, I guess, so I'd settle for a KK Downing's Flying V."

  "I am uncertain what that is." She put her hand on his forehead and then nodded. "Ah, I see." And with a wave of her staff a magical glowing opening appeared between them. She reached into it and with a flourish of whammy bar sound, a guitar appeared in her hand.

  "It's perfect," Damon said. He took it from her. "Uh, except it's about the size of a ukulele."

  "I can't reach into the other realm for another one; there isn't time," Lita said. "Hold it against your staff." He did so, and the staff became a Flying V. Damon gave it a strum to discover it was perfectly in tune.

  "You will be our singer." Lita pointed at Kim.

  "What?" Kim said. "I can't be the lead singer. Back-up vocals are more my style. Plus, I don't have a mic."

  "You carried it with you this whole time," Lita said. "Your sword is your mic."

  "What?" Kim said. Then drew Strümbringer and looked at the pommel. It was clearly in the shape of a microphone. Kim tapped it. "Testing. 1-2-3." He voice was amplified. "Well, isn't that something."

  "It will connect to the Marshal Magic amps." Lita then pulled out a ukulele-sized bass guitar and attached it to JoJett. It grew from one end to the other. "That is for me," she said. "Being a quadmeister is in my soul."

  She turned to Gord. "What is it you need? I haven't heard you sing or play," she said.

  "Uh, I need nothing," he replied.

  "Drums," Damon said. Looking above his head. "He's a Thumpmeister. Third Class. Animal. He needs a drum set."

  Lita smiled. "An animal? Perfect, we will need our animal selves to survive. Plus, it's clear that he's a steady beat. Now imagine what you need." Gord did so. Lita reached into the magical opening again. "There's nothing here." Then, a moment later, added: "Ah, I got it. But it's big."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Gord could see what she had a hold of. It looked to be a golden drum kit, and he thought he saw the star from Rush and a naked man on the front. It was Neal Peart's kit! As if she had summoned it out of his head. He couldn't fail with Neal Peart's drum kit. It's not like he'd try something as complicated as YYZ.

  And she pulled, smiling, looking at him as if she were about to give him the greatest birthday present. Then her staff crackled, and she let out a cry.

  The drum vanished.

  "Bon scott!" she said. "I asked for too much."

  Gord sagged down. He'd seen himself as Neil Peart playing those drums. Imagined hitting the tinkly things and the bassy things; but now it was gone. He couldn't hide the disappointment on his face. "A pail might be enough."

  "Will this work?" Fiora said. She was holding a great big bass drum and a cymbal; there was a splash of blood on it.

  "How did you get it?" Kim asked.

  "Roadies like me always find a way," Fiora said. "And I don't need magic. Now that we are all musically armed, let's get on the road to rock."

  76: It's a Long Way to the Top

  A memory slithered out of her head as Kim stared at the stone steps leading onto the stage.

  Kim was eleven, standing on the St. Michael's School Gym stage looking at her father, her mother, and the aunts and uncles, all in the front row. And behind them were other parents and every student from her school. It was the last round of the talent show, her uncle Gord had said her version of 'the sound of silence' was even better than that of Disturbed, which disturbed her slightly because she wasn't certain who Disturbed was.

  But on this day, to close off, she was going to sing a shortened version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen, another band her uncle adored. Her father stared, his eyes full of pride as she stepped out on the stage. The school's one old spotlight shone its eye on her. She had this; she told herself. It was a complicated song, especially all the figaro parts. She was going to leave out the first line about someone shooting someone else in the head. It seemed too violent for the crowd.

  She stepped forward and opened her mouth. To hissing. The back of her throat was tightening to where it was hard to bring in air. Her old friend anxiety had been rising throughout the whole day. She knew once she started it would go away, but here it was. And this was a cappella. There was nothing to hide behind, either musically or on the stage.

  All that came out was a screech that was made more horrid by the microphone. Feedback burst from the amps. In her memory, the spotlight blew up, but that couldn't have happened. The anxiety, that monster inside her, was gleeful, almost too powerful. It wanted her to fold. No, she would fight it, she decided. Her father looked on, urging her to win, to win. Her mother had closed her eyes. Not in shame. Maybe to guard herself. Or to hear every note and give her notes later.

  She ran from the stage, nearly tripping over the curtain.

  "You okay?" Uncle Gord asked, and Kim shuddered, suddenly facing the real world in front of her. "The lead singer leads us out. That's what we decided."

  "Yes," she shook her head, but the feeling of failure clung to her and she glanced back down the stairs. The rest of her group were behind her, each clutching their musical weapons. Uncle Gord balanced his drums between his large hands.

  "AND NOW," the host of Hammersmith said, "PLEASE WELCOME the Grinding Gods of Megametal."

  "Straighten your back," Fiora said. "Burn their faces off!"

  Since that was clearly a metaphor, Kim took a breath and climbed towards the stage, each step making more of the massive audience appear.

  She stepped out on stage with Strümbringer in her hand—the pommel held towards her mouth.

  That same anxious demon had followed her from Earth. But when she looked out at the audience, she saw her father. She did a double-take, then a triple-take, then looked back. The man had the same hair, though not as long as everyone else. It was someone similar. For a moment, she believed that maybe, just maybe, somehow after his death, he had been brought to this world.

  The audience was still waiting, for unlike the other bands, they had no friends, no family or followers, nothing to build on. This was a new band.

  "Uh," she said into the pommel, not sure if she wanted to tap it. "Is this thing on?" The Marshal Magic speakers made a whining sound. She looked behind her to see that Damon was adjusting his guitar strap, Lita clutched her bass and Uncle Gord sat on a stone chair, his bloodied drums arrayed in front of him. Fiora was on the edge of the stage, and in that moment vanished as her rainbow scales turned her invisible.

  Kim took one more deep breath, stepped ahead and said, "We are Grinding Gods of Megametal."

  She was greeted with silence. Oh, great, she thought, they don't even like our name. A moment passed, and then the crowd let out a roar. Maybe they had needed a moment to register the name, but she felt that cheer fill her up. This was not like the audience when she was 11; this audience was sending her their energy!

  "Your Metal Health just went up," Damon whispered. Then he looked above his head. "And so did mine. This is going to be wild!"

  She turned back to the audience, who were all waiting, many of them holding up their heavy metal devil horns. Others brandished firefly candles. And a few had torches, though they might be planning to burn the whole place down.

  "And this is 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'," she said with confidence.

  Another roar came out of the crowd and hit her like a wave of warmth and power.

  Uncle Gord hit his wooden drumsticks together, four times, on a beat, and then, as if they had practiced it, Damon started with a power chord that made her stand up straighter. The music washed over the crowd. Like so many singers, she stood there while the others played their instruments. She knew that was boring to the crowd, so she whipped her hair to a galloping riff.

  Kim went right to the edge of the stage. This is what Anvil felt like, she thought. No wonder they still risked heart attacks to feel this feeling. To be one with the crowd. The music climbed, and with a bang, the song came to a sudden stop. The magical distortion dropped from Damon's guitar, and with a clean crisp and surprisingly soft tone, the song began.

  But when she opened her mouth, the monster came back. Her voice growled, it hissed, the microphone that somehow sent her singing to Marshal Magic boxes that played the sound, squealed. Several in the crowd covered their ears, and the cheering became the sound of silence, literally.

  No, Kim thought. No, not again.

  Behind her, Damon and her bandmates repeated the line of music, for she had missed the starting place.

  But there was something about that sound of hissing. It almost worked alongside the music. It was raw. She was angry. She'd face so many actual monsters in Metaloria. How dare the monster of anxiety return to her? Kim channeled that into anger.

  And when they finished their next line, in perfect timing, she sang:

  "In the village

  The darkness spreads

  The innocent

  Lift up their heads

  And see a broken sky."

  Power chords and a thumping bass line filled the air.

  "Something wicked this way comes,

  Something evil better run,

  Something wicked this way comes,

  Run, run, run, run, run."

  When they hit the chorus, she felt the song rising inside her. She was one with it. One with the crowd as they fed her their adulation.

  "Looking into the darkness,

  don't look too close,

  Looking into the darkness,

  The rainbows are morose."

  They weren't the best lyrics, she decided, but they would work if she delivered them with believability. With soul.

  "Don't open the gate,

  It's too late, too late, too late."

  And with another rise in the chords, the bass sounded louder, the drums more powerful, and then she saw that there was something perfect in her group's unison. Though they hadn't practiced together, they had fought side by side, and here they were doing the same thing. Bringing this song to life. Dio's song was no longer his song, but their own. It belonged to them.

  "Something wicked this way comes

  Something evil better run,

  Something wicked this way comes,

  Run, run, run, run, run."

  "It's me!" she shouted this line like a warning, but with a hint of glee.

  "It's me! Me! Me!" And her voice shifted to that horrid, powerful, gritty sound she'd been producing at the start. The wicked monster of anxiety was her.

  Flames blasted out of mid-air, with no apparent source. The heat was so close her hair burnt a little. But she laughed, knowing it was Fiora, spouting out flame each time Kim said: "Me! Me! Me!"

  The audience gasped, wowed by the pyrotechnics that went over their heads. Only a few caught on fire and were quickly put out by helpful mead drinkers. And maybe Fiora had meant she'd literally burn their faces off.

  Then Kim sang, "I'm the wicked one."

  Damon stepped forward with his guitar and began the solo. It started low on the frets; the notes growled and built higher and higher. Each note from his fingers came out sounding like the wicked monster in the song. Many in the front row flailed their heads. The cries of the audience, the cheers, the demonic shouting, the sound of guttural interior joy of being angry and frightened — every emotion of the song. She was getting the monsters out of her. And the darkness. And she felt as if she were growing bigger on the stage.

  But as powerful as Damon's playing was, bang on the notes, it was still missing something. The bass was a little off. The drums slower. The song, unpracticed, was not building up to its natural progression of power.

  Damon hit a dead note, and another. The magic, the power of the audience, was being flushed away by disharmony. She wondered if she should step in and maybe do some "ahh, aah," or "oh, oohs," or even a "yeah, yeah" to really add to the song. But they needed something big. A showstopper.

  And that's when Jam leapt onto the stage and attacked them with an axe.