THE BARD WHO COULD'NT LIE
863 Words
Chapter 6 – The Bard Who Couldn’t Lie
Elric woke up to the sound of his own voice.
Not singing. Not humming. Just… narrating.
“I am currently scratching my left buttock,” he said aloud, eyes still shut.
He froze.
Why did he just say that? And out loud?
A voice from across the campfire groaned. “Thanks for that image, bard,” muttered Maestro Veritas, poking at the embers.
Elric sat up. “I didn’t mean to say it! It just—oh no, my hair smells like squirrel stew.”
He slapped both hands over his mouth. The words still forced their way out.
“And I like the smell.”
Veritas’ eyes widened. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“What’s worse?!” Elric demanded, horrified. “Don’t tell me I have Truth Fog poisoning! I’ve heard it makes your belly whistle when you eat cheese.”
The old Maestro shook his head gravely. “No. This is a side effect of your last performance. You sang with too much honesty last night. The magic heard you… and cursed you. You are now under the Spell of Unfiltered Lyrics.”
“That sounds—” Elric started, but the magic didn’t let him finish politely. “—like the dumbest curse name I’ve ever heard.”
The Maestro’s eyebrows twitched. “Exactly. You cannot lie. Not even by omission. Every thought you have will force its way into your words. And because you’re a bard, those words… will sometimes rhyme.”
Elric’s eyes went wide. “Wait. I can’t even pretend anymore?”
He tried to say something sly. “I—uh—I think Maestro Veritas is—”
The magic yanked it out of him: “—smelly and has moss growing in his beard.”
Veritas sighed. “Moss keeps it fresh.”
---
They set out toward the next town, hoping to find an apothecary who could brew a cure. But the moment Elric stepped onto the cobblestone street of Berrytop Village, disaster bloomed.
First victim: the baker.
“Oh hello, traveler!” the cheerful woman said. “Would you like some fresh rolls?”
“They look dry,” Elric blurted. “And you have flour in your nose hair.”
The baker gasped, dropping a loaf like it had insulted her. “Well I never!”
Second victim: the town guard.
“State your business,” the guard barked.
Elric tried to be polite. He really did.
“We’re here to—your armor smells like boiled cabbage and I think your helmet is too small for your head.”
The guard’s jaw worked silently. His eyes darted to Veritas, who was now pretending he didn’t know Elric.
---
By the time they reached the apothecary’s shop, the entire street was buzzing with whispered insults. People glared at Elric from doorways. Someone threw a turnip.
The apothecary, a hunched man with spectacles the size of dinner plates, peered over his counter. “Ah, I see you’re afflicted with Verbal Honesty Syndrome. Rare, but not incurable.”
“Yes, thank goodness,” Elric began—
“—because your shop smells like wet goat and your spectacles make your eyes look like pickled eggs.”
The apothecary flinched but scribbled something into a notebook. “Side effects of the fog indeed.”
He shuffled to a shelf, muttering, and returned with a small corked bottle filled with swirling silver liquid. “This potion will suppress your urge to speak the truth for one hour. But it is very expensive.”
“How much?” Elric asked.
“Twenty gold.”
Elric reached into his purse. “We only have five,” he said—
“—and your wig is crooked.”
The apothecary slammed the cork back in place. “Then you’ll have to live with it.”
---
They left the shop empty-handed.
“Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” Veritas demanded.
“I tried!” Elric cried. “But the magic is like a drunken parrot living in my brain!”
To prove his point, he tried saying nothing for the next five minutes.
At exactly four minutes, thirty-two seconds, a farmer waved at them from a field. Elric waved back… and yelled:
“Your scarecrow looks like it’s judging me and your sheep smell like soup!”
---
By evening, they were chased out of Berrytop Village by an angry mob armed with pies, loaves of bread, and in one case, a very aggressive wheel of cheese.
They camped on the outskirts, Elric lying under the stars, utterly exhausted.
“Maestro?” he asked softly.
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to say—” He smiled warmly. “—your beard moss is actually kind of nice.”
The Maestro blinked. “Wait… was that a compliment?”
Elric grinned. “Yeah. And it rhymed with… nice. Uh…”
The curse yanked the rhyme out: “—I once saw a goose eating rice.”
They both laughed until they fell asleep.
Somewhere deep in the forest, the Truth Fog stirred again.
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