Part One
The Troll looked up at the players and smiled- the beats from their drums thumped through him- a raw primeval sound that absorbed all his attention and thought.
He was not dancing rather swaying with the beat as most of the audience were doing. A live band played- real, not big screen TV- a live band with real instruments; a rare thing indeed.
He was only dimly aware of why he has come to this pub- a meeting with someone? The first beats had pushed reason far from his mind.
Bongos had been joined with bass; the horn notes a counterpoint to the deep resonance and power of the drum. You felt rather than heard the music. It had a power far greater than anything recorded, turned up loud or not.
The tempo increased, the horn fell away until only the drums were left - a dance of power and energy. Tones overlaid and mixed but the power never changed. The beat grew- the audience stomped in time, the power grew. Wild colours only viable to some present flew across the drums and players.
Half present has their eyes shut the drums reached a peak, a climax, the energies frantic, the mountain peeked, the audience reached critical. Willpower strained, muscles bulged on the players necks as a point was reached...
Then,
Then suddenly.
It stopped.
A beat
A second
A teasing pattern rolled sweetly from a drum. The audience was held
Suspended
Hung
Stopped
Then a barrage of sound. The drums pounded like no sound on Earth. Brutal, powered, relentless, timeless.
The audience roared its approval.
Then a roll, a pattern, a final beat.
The music ended and the cheering began. Waves of sound overlapping- cheers, clasps, calls for encore, unclear cries and the sear noise of people expressing their thanks. The Troll’s the loudest of all.
The Band played again.
A lonely sound from the horn, like an animals cry; a thin wail. A slow beat joined it, like a hunters drum. The tempo increased, the horn grew more frantic, an animal in fright and flight.
The hunters drum grew, and was joined by other beats, the gallop beat of horses, the pounding of running feet.
A shriek, the sound collapsed together in a jumble of notes and noise.
Then a light note from the horn. A animals contentment at escape. The hunt over.
The band stopped. The moment held as the horns note died away.
Then an explosion of appreciation from the audience.
The leader picked up a mike from the floor, looked at it distastefully and then switched it on for the only time that night ‘thank you’ he said. Sweat beading on his forehead.
Slowly the audience realised it was over. The bar manager started playing a African drum CD, no comparison for the live show, but loud. People began to wake up from the spell and realise their glasses were empty, there was a rush on the bar.
Time stopped and rolled backwards. The Troll remembered who he was and why he was here. His name is Torvan. Taking the few steps it needed to bring him from the back of the room to place him at the edge of the stage- he was still taller than the band leader- he looked down at the man ‘ you called me’ he rumbled. The leader looked up ‘out back’ he said.
Part Two
Up close the Troll could see the leaders pointed ears hidden behind his long hair. Steven lived for his music, it sustained him- literally. In the many years they had know each other Torvan could never remember seeing him eat.
Steven was short for the Sidhe. Thin and whip like with black eyes and hair. He always looked bored unless he was playing. Then when he played his eyes became that of a madman. His whole body changed to a beasts- born to do one thing- play the drums. Noble by blood, commoner by choice- Steven avoided the politics and double- dealing of court. He didn’t need it to play and playing was what he wanted.
No- needed.
The Troll was huge, even sitting down on the floor of the bar managers office he dominated the room. A giant, even amongst his own kind. Torvan was just under nine foot tall, and nearly four foot across the shoulder, all of it muscle. He had a weightlifters body- huge shoulders, immense barrel chest, tapering down to a (relatively) thin waist, with massive thighs and calves ending in huge feet. He was not built like a bodybuilder- his mass was not for show. He was built like a Warrior.
Torvan adjusted himself on the floor and brushed back loose strands of his wild red hair. He wore his hair long, with a days growth of beard . His two twisted horns and salty blue skin glinted demonically in the bad lighting of the office.
Steven studied the Troll- he had known Torvan for a good few years, he had roadied for them for a while before he’d taken to staying at court (and got a lot more boring for it). When he could he got to gigs, but as the band travelled a lot that had become rare.
A beat passed as they studied each other.
The band members began lugging equipment past the closed doors of the office. They grinned at Torvan and Steven. They were happy, as always they were when they played- the music helped cast a spell over them all that bound them and the audience together.
The band was Human. Only Steven was Changeling. One of the old races of Earth. One of the races of the dreaming- the mythic world of Trolls, Elves, Satyrs, Vampire, and Werewolves that Humans could not see normally. The band knew what Steven and Torvan were, both of them had told and show them.
Having played at the court of High King Ross in Glasgow did help.
Then the dance began.
‘You called’ said the Troll. His voice deep and rumbling.
‘Yeah- got a lead on Artan and Lin’. Torvan leaded forward in interest.
‘What you got?’ His voice was calm, but his dark blue eyes held Steven. Artan and Lin were two of Torvan's oldest friends- they had helped him through the Change after his Troll nature first expressed itself. They had been missing for three years, dispite all attempts to find them.
‘Ah- nothing for free!’ Steven, for all that he avoided the intrigue ridden courts knew how to play the game. Sidhe- the nobles of the Changelings were born to it.
Torvan leaded back against the wall. The fake partition wall creaked ominously.
‘OK. What’ He was more blunt than he intended, but this was personal business.
Steven smiled.
‘There is a drum- an old military one. It was used by the disbanded Queens 3rd of Worcestershire regiment; but it was originally made for one of the Satyr revel bands. I need it’.
Torvan blinked at him. ‘Why?’ he inquired.
Steven signed ‘we are playing a Satyr Halloween revel’. Torvan raised his eyebrows. If anyone in the band didn’t believe- they would after that orgy for music, dancing, drink, and sex.
Steven read his expression. ‘Yeah. It should be a laugh’.
‘Where is the drum?’ Torvan needed the information on his friends. Steven could amlost see the determination building in the Troll
‘That’s the tricky part. We last heard of it in the Regimental Museum. However that has now closed and I have no idea where the collection is. It’s easily discovered. It’s covered in bear skins and active’.
Active?
‘You want me to play with a Treasure? The risks of me connecting to it are high. You may not get it back!’ Torvan disliked playing with Treasures- the magical items of the Fae. They were highly unpredictable. The Troll had been having odd dreams recently and having any sort of curse from an item was not something else he wanted.
Steven laughed ‘It’s an item of music- what would you want with it? You cannot fit your hand on a drum let alone play a note!’
True. Torvan’s hands were huge, easily fourty centimeteres across. There were few instruments he could play that were not made for him especially- although he’d once jammed (badly) with the band while playing a kettle drum.....
‘OK. Point taken. It could have some good side effects too’.
A old fashioned cash register rang in Steven’s mind.
‘You may need help’ Steven’s quiet suggestion broke into Torvans thoughts.
‘Huh? Oh yeah. I have a few allies I can call on.’ Torvan thought of Ger- a Sidhe knight with who he’d worked recently, and Charlie a very odd Sulagh good with secrets and information- even if his personal habits were a little...
No- a lot questionable.
Then of course there was Amanda the Mage. Torvan wasn’t fond of her but she had her uses. A shield was one......
‘Ok I’ll take this quest for you’. Torvan smiled at Steven showing his fang like teeth. ‘ I will attempt to retrieve this bear drum for you as promised’ It was not a oath as such but when Trolls committed themselves to something they moved with a stubbornness of will that was nearly impossible to break.
‘Thank you’ was all Steven said and shook Torvan hand his hand tiny as a babes inside Torvans.
‘Give me the details’ Torvan stood and stooped below the ceiling. He spend a good chunk of his life hunched over like this.
‘In the car’ Steven said and led out of the room.
Torvan followed. His determination to retrieve the drum growing with each step.
End of part two.
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