ã€ŠThe Thief&#x27;s Armorã€‹


 Prologue

    Fourteen Years Ago

    Situated atop a large plateau jutting out from the southern face of Kaduin, the largest of the Caster Mountains, was the ancient and proud city of Ire. Several hundred feet below, a five-mile-wide corridor of farmland stretched like a patchwork blanket through the middle of Darine Valley all the way down to the Gulf of Segriar. Forests of dense cedar trees on either edge of the farmlands made passage in and out of the valley difficult save for the trade routes that twisted and turned with the contour of the land. On a clear day, one could make out the shimmer from the ocean from right outside Ire''s gates.

    What began as a simple outpost established by General Gonford Ire during the Great Goblin War had morphed over the centuries into a mighty, fortified city. A gray stone wall, one hundred feet high and thirty feet thick, ran along the edge of the wide semicircular plateau and ended as both extremities met the side of the mountain. Towers rose up at various points along the wall, each of them stationed by guards armed with steam rifles and vapor cannons ready to punish any foe that dared attack the city. A single road wound its way up the mountain arriving at a wide gate flanked on either side by halberd-bearing soldiers made of granite. Massive black iron doors plated with decorative brass served as the only entrance and exit.

    Like many old cities, Ire had seen its share of good times and bad; times of growth as well as times of decline. The tranquil beauty and rich natural resources of the valley combined with the city¡¯s strategic location on the mountain made it the site of battles across many wars.

    Around one hundred years ago, a massive army laid siege to the city. Ire''s governor at the time showed his dedication to the people by bravely hollowing out a small refuge for himself within the mountain. However, several of Ire''s citizens discovered what he had done, and word spread quickly. Fearing the wrath of his people more than the invaders, the governor quickly surrendered the city. As a reward, the city''s new rulers beheaded him. They then took the governor¡¯s idea a step further and expanded the one-room refuge into a bunker that could house a small company of soldiers with enough supplies to last six months.

    Since then, each successive leader applied different ideas to the excavation of the mountain. At times, it served as a storehouse, other times as a private haven. Over the years, the city expanded the caves. he network of tunnels, corridors, and rooms eventually became as large as the city on the outside. After a series of harsh winters and terrible battles, the majority of the people made the caves their home. They routed pipes of all kinds to support life inside the city within the mountain. Each home had access to water, plumbing, steam, and natural gas. Lanterns fueled by gas lines provided lighting. The city within the mountain became known as Pipework City, or to most of its residents, the Pipes.

    Finally, an era of peace settled across the land of Tirian as the cities established hegemony and life within Ire changed. The city, now free to expand culturally and financially, prospered. In time, its wealthier citizens, tired of the cramped corridors and tight spaces, claimed the outside areas of the city as their own and named it Upper Ire. In place of armories and barracks, they built homes, shops, amenities, and restaurants that suited their tastes.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    After a rash of high-profile thefts and murders, the new nobility reinforced the guard and restricted access from the Pipes. But, this created a new problem: the majority of what they needed to sustain daily life still lay within the Pipes. The outer city needed workers, and the people inside the Pipes needed supplies from the outside world. Discontent between the two cities eventually gave way to outright hostility in the form of strikes and small-scale brawls.

    Finally, a riot broke out at the checkpoint between Upper Ire and the Pipes. The nobles quelled the riot, but they knew it would not keep if they simply let things lie. The leaders of both cities held a parley. The nobles wanted to maintain a clean Upper Ire, one without the constant threat of crime from the denizens of the Pipes. Those in the Pipes wanted equal treatment and opportunities to flourish, which meant little to no restriction on the flow of supply. They settled on a pass system, admitting only those denizens of the Pipes who either had sponsorship from a noble or raised enough money to buy a pass. Even with the deal struck that day, distrust and animosity remained between the two cities.

    Deep within the furthest reaches of the Pipes, past the main water flow-control station and the master sewage pump, lay a series of abandoned tunnels. Some years ago, the city closed them down due to rising maintenance costs.

    From somewhere among these tunnels, a small whimper echoed off the walls and the hollow, unused pipes, startling Jarek. He had just been paid for stealing a painting from a mansion in Upper Ire and was counting the money for the third time when the sound reached him.

    Jarek found solace among these tight, cramped hallways and passages. Through some creative rerouting of pipelines, he set up his home in this deserted corner of the caves. Few people cared enough to venture out this way except for the occasional curious child, but they were easy enough to frighten away. So, when Jarek heard that whimper ring throughout the caves it set him on edge. Unsheathing his knife, he crept out of his room and into the corridor. The lighting was dim at best, but his eyes were used to this environment. Even so, he could not identify the source of the noise.

    He had nearly chalked it up to imagination when he heard it again. Jarek made his stealthy way in the direction of the sound. A third whimper, much louder than the first two, told him he was close. A fourth that he had almost stepped on it. He drew out his small lantern to get a better look.

    The flare of the match made Jarek¡¯s eyes flinch as he lit the wick. A sphere of light shone in the dark passageway revealing the damp, cracked walls. At his feet lay a brown leather bag with a wide shoulder strap. The bag bulged as though stuffed with a large pillow.

    Suddenly, the bulge moved. Jarek jumped backward, almost dropping the lantern. He readied his knife and was about to stab the bag when it made another, more distinct noise. Scarcely believing his ears, he sheathed the knife and reached for the bag. He undid the clasp, lifted the flap with one hand, and raised his lantern over it.

    Within the bag lay a small baby boy.

 The Journal of Amon Vosh, Vol. 88, Entry #47

    Another sleepless night has passed. Not that sleep would do me much good; the nightmares see to it that I remain restless. This vicious cycle has instilled within me fatigue ingrained deeply within my bones. My mission began so long ago now that I can scarcely remember my life before. It is as though I was born with it planted in my brain.

    Two centuries. For two centuries, I have chased the accursed instrument across this continent. At least a dozen times a day, I wonder why I continue. But then the memories come flooding back, clear as day.

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    The bodies. The ruins. They replay themselves before my mind¡¯s eye. The final image of this dark and twisted show is the mandolin, its horrible eye staring into mine. At this, my resolve returns like the turning of the key that winds the spring of an automaton, driving me onward.

    I know the purpose of the thing. The creature within wishes to be free. All its will is bent on this. This simply cannot be allowed. No other outcome can satisfy me than its complete and utter destruction. Then irony does not escape me: in this attitude, the mandolin and I are the same. We would each do everything in our power to accomplish our task.

    It is what makes it¡ªand me¡ªso very dangerous.

 Chapter 1: The Bard

    Present Day

    Hastiand the bard wiped the corner of his mouth and glanced at the streak of blood on the back of his hand. He shifted his gaze to the man towering over him. The setting sun obscured his face, but the tone in his voice expressed his mood clearly.

    ¡°Come on. Sing it again. I dare you,¡± said the man.

    With mock surprise, Hastiand said, ¡°What? You mean you don¡¯t like music about your ample backside?¡±

    Several onlookers laughed. The man snarled and reached for the club slung on his belt. He had wrapped his fingers around the handle when a voice stopped him.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough, Gerald.¡±

    All eyes went to Forstomur, the dwarven chief constable of Estella. His red beard ran down the length of his dark blue shirt and tucked into his belt. He rested his right hand on the pistol at his waist.

    ¡°Let him up,¡± said Forstomur.

    Gerald did not move.

    ¡°Now!¡±

    Much to Hastiand¡¯s amusement, Gerald grimaced, defeated. He let go of the club. With a sneer, he leaned down and said only loud enough for Hastiand to hear, ¡°Forst can¡¯t protect you everywhere.¡±

    He kicked the bard¡¯s leg, turned and marched through the crowd. With nothing left to entertain them, the onlookers dispersed. Forstomur helped Hastiand to his feet.

    ¡°You know you deserved that punch,¡± said the chief constable.

    ¡°Probably.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m glad you didn¡¯t fight back. My joints have been giving me fits lately. I¡¯d hate to pull something while whupping both your butts.¡±

    Hastiand smirked and wiped the mud off his shirtsleeve. ¡°I¡¯d hate that too. I wouldn¡¯t dream of making life difficult for my favorite officer of the law.¡±

    ¡°Tuh!¡± said Forstomur in a half-scoff-half-chuckle.

    Hastiand rubbed his jaw as he scanned the ground. Spotting what he was looking for, he moved to a group of musty old barrels next to a small stable. Lying in front of the barrels was a mandolin.

    Despite a few splashes of mud here and there, the instrument held a sense of majesty about it. The strings and pegs shone as bright as pure gold; their brilliance enhanced all the more by the reflection of the sun¡¯s rays. Ornately etched circular patterns crawled like vines all over the smooth, polished wood of the teardrop-shaped body. The wood itself was the color of dark red cherry. A simple black leather strap connected the peghead to the base.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    It was the kind of instrument that made one feel as though a master performer could play the most beautiful and exotic music in the world. That is, until one looked into the sound hole. Shaped like an open eye and holding deep darkness within that seemed to breathe, it made one feel as though it were alive. Alive and hungry.

    ¡°I¡¯ll never understand how you can stand that thing,¡± said Forstomur.

    Checking it for nicks and smudges, Hastiand replied, ¡°It¡¯s with this ¡®thing¡¯ that I earn my living.¡±

    ¡°Money won¡¯t matter if it sucks your soul in.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Ghouls, spirits and silly superstitions are for the common, simple man. I thought you smarter than that, chief constable.¡±

    ¡°Being common and simple has saved my skin more times than I can count.¡±

    Hastiand sighed and looked long at the mandolin. He slung the black leather strap over his right shoulder and turned back to Forstomur.

    ¡°It¡¯s high time I moved on. As much as I like Estella, I¡¯d rather not run into Gerald again.¡±

    ¡°Shame. When d¡¯you think you¡¯ll be back through?¡±

    ¡°Who knows?¡± The bard raised an upturned hand toward the sun. ¡°As the sun and moon chase each other day after day, so do I chase the wind. Wherever it goes, there also must I.¡±

    Forstomur chuckled. ¡°All right. No need to be an ass.¡±

    ¡°A least I¡¯m a smart ass.¡± Hastiand brushed aside his long black hair and grinned. ¡°And now, I take my leave of this place.¡±

    He bowed low, spreading his arms out as he did. He straightened, winked at Forstomur, and then strode out onto the road toward the outskirts of Estella. The chief constable chuckled as the silly man, tall and lanky as he was, marched so confidently away.

    ~*~

    The horizon covered half of the sun and bathed the landscape in oranges, reds, and golden yellows. The colors flowing amidst the green of the forest as Hastiand passed the last house. Estella sat amongst the trees of a hill a few miles from the western edge of the Darine Valley. To the northwest lay the City of Ire. After walking for another half-an-hour or so, he stopped at the top of a small rise before the trail descended into the valley.

    Taking in the scene, he said aloud to no one in particular, ¡°Now that is true art.¡±

    ¡°You are hopeless,¡± said a voice, dark and harsh.

    Hastiand glanced at the neck of the mandolin on his back. ¡°The most hopeless man alive, I¡¯m afraid.¡±

    ¡°Why do you talk like that? It¡¯s irritating.¡±

    ¡°How else should I? I can only talk like myself.¡±

    The mandolin grunted. ¡°Vapid. You did it again.¡±

    ¡°And again, I take pleasure in irritating you.¡±

    ¡°Idiot.¡±

    ¡°If only. Life is much easier for the simple-minded.¡±

    ¡°You mean those who believe in, ¡®ghouls and spirits and silly superstitions¡¯? I almost laughed.¡±

    Hastiand frowned. ¡°I happen to like the chief constable. I¡¯d rather he didn¡¯t look too close. He doesn¡¯t deserve the attention of a certain cursed mandolin.¡±

    ¡°You are the one who is cursed. I am simply an instrument.¡±

    ¡°Of course you are,¡± Hastiand said, annoyed. His mood had soured.

    ¡°Aw. Did I upset the clever bard?¡±

    ¡°Quiet.¡±

    ¡°Tsk tsk. Temper, temper.¡±

    ¡°I said¡ª¡±

    Hastiand stopped. Heavy footsteps closed in from behind. Wheeling around, his hand moved to the dagger at his right hip. Before he could draw it out, a large hand gripped his throat, lifted him, and slammed him into a tree. Hastiand winced as his back hit the hard bark. His hazel eyes looked down at his assailant.

    Gerald.

    ¡°Not so fearless without the constable around, are you?¡± he said with a smirk.

    As Gerald tightened his grip, Hastiand forced out the words, ¡°Stupid...man.¡±

    Another voice, harsh and dark, said, ¡°Ah, just what I needed.¡±

    Seconds later, the scream of a man echoed across the valley.

 Chapter 2: The Thief

    The lights had gone out across the Pipes, but a dim gray light permeated Ledion Square. When the flames gaslight finally died down, the full moon shone through the hole in the rock ceiling high overhead and bathed the fountain situated directly below with silvery light.

    In a dark corner near the butcher shop, Satchel had been waiting for at least an hour. His eyes drifted back to the guardhouse near the checkpoint that led to Upper Ire. A citywide curfew was in effect, and only the guards were allowed in the square when the lights went out. Anyone else caught there after dark spent a night in jail if they were lucky. This was Satchel¡¯s first job as a thief without Jarek¡¯s supervision. The last thing he wanted was to be at the receiving end of a guardsman¡¯s club. At the moment, none of the guards watched the square.

    Probably playing Euchre, Satchel thought.

    Just then, his ears picked up the faint sound of light footsteps. He slowed his breathing to calm his nerves. The footsteps grew steadily louder. A hooded figure appeared directly in front of him. He held his breath and willed every muscle in his body to freeze in place. To his relief, the figure did not look in his direction, their attention focused on the other side of the square.

    The figure¡¯s head turned this way and that, searching. Something near the fountain caught their attention, but Satchel could not make out what. The figure moved toward the fountain with the same silent gait as before, keeping to the darker areas of the square.

    Satchel abandoned his hiding place and followed, minding his steps. As he drew near, he noticed another figure crouched beside the fountain. The first figure met the second. Short, furtive whispers followed. Satchel moved to a shadow beside a stack of crates, a place that put him within earshot of the conversation.

    ¡°This is too open,¡± said the first.

    To Satchel¡¯s surprise, the voice sounded familiar, but he could not quite place it.

    ¡°Do you have it?¡± said the second figure. The voice belonged to an older man. It carried an air of weariness.

    ¡°Yes. And you?¡±

    Then it struck Satchel. He recognized the voice now. It belonged to a girl.

    Inadvertently, he said in a low breath, ¡°Addie?¡± He put a hand over his mouth, but if either of the people by the fountain heard him, they showed no signs of it. He tightened his jaw and listened more intently than before.

    The man searched around inside his cloak and produced an object, but Satchel could not see what.

    ¡°Here,¡± said the man. ¡°But, why is a girl like you¡ª¡±

    ¡°None of your business,¡± said Addie, sharply.

    ¡°Suit yourself.¡±

    New sounds from elsewhere in the courtyard piqued Satchel¡¯s ears. Shuffling feet. Lots of feet. The clink of metal armor. The hard click of a bullet entering a steam rifle¡¯s chamber.

    His heart began to thud against his chest. Guards. Stay or leave? he thought. The payoff was good but if he was caught...

    Satchel took a long breath, made his decision, and began to move. His body went into automatic thanks to years of rigorous training and work as a pickpocket.

    His quick feet and even quicker hands made the rest of the world slow down. The timing was flawless. Passing through the narrow gap between Addie and the cloaked man, Satchel grabbed both packages at the exact moment of the hand-off and sprinted away without missing a beat. The two victims stood stunned for a full second before reacting.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Then the courtyard exploded with sound as guards rushed in. Thudding boots, bustling armor, and the cocking of gun hammers melded with barking orders, creating a discordant symphony that echoed through the square.

    As Satchel neared the edge of the courtyard, a guard spotted him and broke rank to stop the young thief. Too easy. With a quick step and well-placed foot, Satchel bypassed his assailant and simultaneously tripped him. He exited the courtyard, tucking the packages into the empty pocket on his pack as he went. The young thief wound his way through narrow passages to lose any pursuers.

    Even in the dark, Satchel knew the tunnels by heart. He breathed a sigh of relief when the rusty iron grate that led to the sewers came into view.

    As he passed a nearby alley, a hand shot out, grabbed his arm and swung him toward the wall. Instinctively, Satchel kicked up a foot and pushed right as he neared the stone, softening the impact. He pulled out his dagger and slashed at the arm that held him.

    Instead of flesh, he hit metal. It jarred his hand and made him drop his knife.

    A voice said, ¡°The more you struggle, the tighter I squeeze.¡±

    Satchel stopped moving and gazed up at the imposing figure. Jarek.

    ¡°Old Man?¡±

    ¡°Fourteen years and still no respect.¡± He released his grip on Satchel. ¡°You and I need to chat.¡±

    The young thief rubbed his arm where his mentor had grabbed him. He had once seen Jarek¡¯s mechanical left arm crush a man¡¯s wrist, so Satchel knew that he got off lucky. Jarek kept his arm covered and gloved most of the time, so Satchel rarely ever saw it. Prosthetic limbs were not unheard of in Ire, but Jarek¡¯s arm was of a different caliber altogether. Made from graphite-colored metal, its movements were as smooth and free as a normal arm, but far stronger. Though Satchel had asked many times about his arm, the old thief refused to discuss it.

    Satchel bent down and retrieved his dagger. When he looked up, Jarek had already opened the grate and motioned for Satchel to go in. The familiar putrid stench of human waste filled the boy¡¯s nostrils as he climbed down.

    Once Jarek had joined him and replaced the grate, Satchel asked, ¡°How did you know?¡±

    ¡°You have to ask? I make it my business to know everything that happens in Ire that¡¯s worth knowing. I especially like to keep tabs on an apprentice who¡¯s taken on a job without telling me.¡±

    He looked back through the grate, checking for signs of pursuers.

    Satisfied, Jarek led Satchel down the tunnel some ways before stopping and lighting his lantern. The young thief took in his mentor¡¯s face as it was briefly illuminated. In this light, it took on the same color as his silver hair, contrasting with the slimy dank walls of the sewer. Ever since Satchel could remember, Jarek had always had the same gaunt visage that exuded experience. At times, he wondered what the old man looked like in his younger years, before he came to Ire, and before he found Satchel in that leather bag.

    Jarek set the lantern down and sat, his face fading back into the darkness of the tunnel.

    ¡°Who put you up to this?¡± he asked.

    Satchel hesitated before saying, ¡°Not anyone from here. He never gave me his name, but he came to the Pipes a few weeks ago looking for a thief.¡± He looked down, embarrassed, as he said, ¡°He promised a thousand cesteres.¡±

    Though it was dark, Satchel could feel the scowl on Jarek¡¯s face.

    ¡°You took a suspiciously high paying job and didn¡¯t bother learning anything about who wanted it? I taught you better.¡±

    ¡°I tried finding out who he was but came up dry.¡±

    ¡°All the more reason to have turned it down.¡±

    ¡°I thought¡ªI figured that I could¡ª¡±

    ¡°Could what? Take on a job by yourself? I decide when you¡¯re good enough, Satchel. No one else. Understand?¡±

    The boy grimaced, looked away, and said, ¡°Daft old man.¡±

    Jarek smacked the side of Satchel¡¯s head. ¡°Stop calling me ¡®old man.¡¯ Show some respect.¡± He took a breath. ¡°Now, let¡¯s see the items.¡±

    Satchel handed his bag to Jarek. Each item was wrapped in a dark cloth tied with string. Removing the first revealed a rolled-up parchment with a black wax seal. When Jarek tried to remove the seal, it resisted.

    After several attempts, he stopped and said, ¡°Curious.¡±

    He turned his attention to the other package. It was a cylindrical brown leather pouch with a small strap. Inside that was an old, well-used spyglass, the kind used on sailing ships.

    Jarek held one in each hand and shifted his gaze back and forth between them.

    ¡°Rather strange.¡± Satchel did not reply because he knew Jarek was speaking more to himself than his apprentice. ¡°Why would anyone want to trade these, much less steal them?¡±

    He examined them a little while longer before returning them to Satchel.

    ¡°All right,¡± Jarek said as he rose, ¡°let¡¯s meet this employer of yours.¡± Satchel began to protest, but the old man cut him off. ¡°You¡¯ll do as I say and be quick about it.¡±

    Satchel felt a finger prod his back, and he started forward down the tunnel, with his mentor right behind him.

 Chapter 3: Kazi

    Over time the tunnels of the Pipes changed as the city dug new passages, and old ones caved in. So confused were they that no one had ever mapped out all the passages nor even had the desire to. Even Jarek, who spent most of his time going back and forth between Upper Ire and the Pipes these days, would likely get turned around were it not for Satchel leading the way. They passed small grottoes that many of the Pipes¡¯ less fortunate called home. Eventually, they came to a tunnel with a faint orange glow at the end. Satchel indicated to Jarek that it was his rendezvous point.

    The old thief put a hand on Satchel¡¯s shoulder and, through a short series of hand gestures, told him to move ahead, and that he would wait in hiding. Satchel nodded and continued down the tunnel.

    His eyes adjusted quickly as he stepped into the room, lit only by a single candle perched on a stack of wooden boxes against the far wall. A large lump of cloth piled next to the boxes startled Satchel as it rose, forming into the shape of a man. A hood concealed his face in shadow except for a pair of eyes that reflected the dancing flame from the candle.

    A cracked voice carrying a thick accent came from the cloth and said, ¡°You have them?¡±

    His heart still pounding from the scare, Satchel nodded, reached into his bag, and pulled out each prize. In his right hand, he held the parchment, the brown leather case in his left hand. The way the orange light of the candle flickered across the man¡¯s eyes had an unsettling effect on Satchel.

    ¡°Yes. Good.¡±

    A gloved hand reached out to grab them.

    Satchel pulled away. He swallowed. ¡°P-payment?¡±

    The fingers of the man¡¯s hand curled for a moment before he said, ¡°Of course.¡±

    The next few seconds seemed to happen in a heartbeat. The hand reached into the cloak, and the gleam of a blade shot toward Satchel. It sliced through the first layer of skin on the bridge of the boy¡¯s nose but got no further. Jarek dashed by Satchel brandishing a short sword. With a quick upward strike, he sliced through the man¡¯s arm at the elbow, severing it. Blood poured out onto the ground from the open wound as though dumped out from a pitcher. A curdled scream filled the room. The man crumpled to the floor.

    Jarek stood over his opponent, pointing the tip of his sword at the man¡¯s throat. The hood had fallen back revealing a face covered in scars.

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°Stay put,¡± said Jarek, ¡°or I¡¯ll lop off a lot more than that!¡± To Satchel, ¡°You all right, boy?¡±

    Satchel could only nod, his mind and body jarred by the experience. The old thief turned back to the man on the floor.

    ¡°Answer some questions and I might let you walk out of here with your life. You¡¯re a long way from home, Komji. What¡¯s your name?¡±

    ¡°I do not need to answer you, old fool.¡± The man spat on Jarek¡¯s face.

    Jarek snarled and stabbed the man¡¯s right thigh. Another scream of pain.

    ¡°Old fool or no, I¡¯m the one with the sword. Talk or I twist.¡±

    The man lay there writhing for a few moments. Jarek shifted his hand on the hilt.

    ¡°No! Stop!¡±

    ¡°I will when I hear something useful.¡±

    ¡°Kazi. My name is Kazi,¡± the man said quickly. ¡°I was hired to do get the items.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s better. Who do you work for?¡±

    Kazi hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Jarek¡¯s eyes narrowed. He turned the sword handle.

    ¡°All right! I¡¯ll tell you what I know, but I can¡¯t if I die.¡±

    Jarek eyed him. He then yanked the blade from Kazi¡¯s leg. Kazi grunted and did his best to tuck the stump that used to be his arm back into his cloak as Jarek and Satchel watched. He tore a strip of cloth from his robe and, with some difficulty, tied it around his arm near the shoulder to slow the blood flow.

    After finishing, Kazi sat breathing heavily for a few moments. His eyes flickered. When he finally spoke, it came out disjointed.

    ¡°My employer. Tall, white hair, white armor. Promised me what I want most. Needed to get...honor back. Wife and child died a year ago. Pirates on the Armendr got us. Couldn¡¯t protect them. Burned me. Alone for so long. Alone...¡±

    Kazi¡¯s eyes began to close. Jarek smacked the side of the man¡¯s cheek with the flat side of his blade.

    ¡°A name?¡± said the old thief.

    Kazi glared at Jarek. ¡°No name. He just looked like...a white knight.¡±

    Satchel looked up at Jarek for any sign of recognition but saw nothing.

    ¡°How did you meet him?¡±

    Kazi continued, ¡°I lived like an animal for months. He found me. Said he needed me. Told me to go to Ire and steal something. Gave me a knife and a pass for the checkpoint and money. I am not a good thief, so I hired one. Heard about that boy.¡±

    Jarek¡¯s eyes burned. ¡°And you decided instead to kill him and keep the money.¡±

    Kazi¡¯s gaze shifted away from Jarek, ashamed.

    ¡°Tell me more about him. The white knight.¡±

    Kazi shuddered. ¡°Not a real man. More like a fog. An illusion.¡±

    Jarek grabbed Kazi¡¯s cloak and yanked him up so that they met nose to nose.

    ¡°That¡¯s not an answer!¡±

    ¡°I told you all I know!¡±

    Jarek held Kazi for a few more seconds before dropping him back to the floor. He picked up Kazi¡¯s knife, put it in a pocket somewhere in his cloak and turned to leave.

    To Satchel, he said, ¡°We¡¯re going.¡±

    Kazi struggled to sit up and then said, ¡°W-What about me?¡±

    ¡°What about you?¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t leave me like this!¡±

    ¡°You hired my apprentice for a dangerous job and then tried to kill him. You¡¯re lucky I¡¯ve only taken your arm.¡±

    The Komji whimpered and curled up on the ground. Jarek motioned for Satchel to lead the way back into the tunnel. The young thief gave Kazi one last look and then moved ahead, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

 Chapter 4: Dead Body

    Hastiand¡¯s eyes opened slowly. His head ached, and he had that strange haze that always accompanied a terrible night¡¯s sleep.

    ¡°Ugh. You¡¯d think I¡¯d drunk half the ale in Milly¡¯s Tavern,¡± he said as he rubbed the sides of his head.

    ¡°It¡¯s about time,¡± said the mandolin. ¡°I¡¯ve never been so bored.¡±

    ¡°And good morning to you, too,¡± Hastiand said sourly.

    He brushed the hair away from his eyes and took in his surroundings. He had fallen asleep under a large oak tree several yards away from the road. All around him, lush emerald grass formed a soft, natural carpet. The scent of mid-spring hung in the air. Birds chirped gleefully as they dipped and whooshed around each other. The morning sun peeking over the tops of the trees made the scene all the more radiant but did little to ease his headache. Still, the scene brightened his mood.

    ¡°Disgusting,¡± said the mandolin. ¡°I hate spring. Makes me wish I had a mouth so I could vomit.¡±

    Hastiand grimaced as he stood. ¡°Way to ruin the moment.¡±

    ¡°Quit your whining and let¡¯s go. I can¡¯t stand to be here any longer.¡±

    ¡°So I gathered.¡±

    Hastiand stepped to the nearby stream and started washing his hands and face.

    ¡°Hey, are you deaf?¡± said the mandolin.

    Hastiand did not reply. He made a show of splashing water on his face and rubbing his cheeks and eyes.

    ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing, and it¡¯s childish.¡±

    Still, the bard did not respond.

    The mandolin growled and began hurling insults at Hastiand. The bard took his time. The louder the instrument¡¯s tirade became, the longer Hastiand took. Finally, the mandolin gave up and stopped talking altogether. Hastiand grinned to himself, satisfied. He finished up and returned to the mandolin.

    He slung the instrument across his shoulder alongside his pack and began marching down the road.

    Aside from the sounds of the forest, he walked in silence for some time before the mandolin said, ¡°You haven¡¯t said anything about last night.¡±

    Hastiand frowned. ¡°What¡¯s to say? Nothing I haven¡¯t seen before. He sealed his own fate the moment he attacked.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I see,¡± said the mandolin, more than a little pleased with itself.

    Hastiand followed the road throughout the rest of the morning, stopping only at midday to munch on a loaf of bread from his pack. Sometime afternoon, they came to a small town near the edge of the wood. Located several miles south and east of Ire, it served as a farming community for the city proper.

    The bard strolled past the first few houses without much notice as people went about their business in the warm afternoon. Several children played with a dirty puppy, women sat together swapping gossip, and young men carried wood or plucked feathers from the day¡¯s hunt. One old man drove a cart past Hastiand, carrying stacks of hay. All in all, a nice, quaint little hamlet. Hastiand could feel the mandolin¡¯s disdain. He lowered his head as one or two people looked at him.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± said the mandolin in a playful whisper.

    Hastiand did not answer.

    ¡°That wouldn¡¯t be guilt, would it? I thought you indifferent.¡±

    Hastiand still said nothing.

    ¡°Playing mute again? That¡¯s fine. I can fill the silence with more discourse on your woeful limitation. Let¡¯s see...how about women? Your luck with--¡±

    The mandolin stopped because Hastiand had reached back, grabbed the its long neck and started toward a log pile with a heavy ax leaning against it.

    The mandolin chuckled. ¡°You tried that already, remember?¡±

    ¡°Maybe I just didn¡¯t hit hard enough.¡±

    ¡°You know the one thing that will end your curse as well as I.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll make me feel better.¡±

    ¡°A crazy bard swinging away at a musical instrument that won¡¯t break? I thought you didn¡¯t want to draw any attention.¡±

    Hastiand stopped. His grip tightened around the neck. He began to tremble.

    Through clenched teeth, he said, ¡°I know I must keep you until what must be done is done. But, until then I would appreciate it if you would kindly shut up!¡±

    ¡°Um, you okay, mister?¡± said a new voice.

    Startled, the bard turned and looked down. A blonde boy, about six years of age, stood a few feet away staring at him with a perplexed look.

    Hastiand adopted a smile and said, ¡°Sorry, I was...rehearsing for a play I have to perform later and got carried away.¡±

    ¡°Oh, okay. Have fun with your play, mister crazy man.¡± With that, the little boy ran off down the road.

    After a few moments, the mandolin said, ¡°That was a close one. You ought to be more careful.¡±

    Hastiand sighed and thought to himself, Just two more. Only two more. Then I¡¯ll be rid of this thing.

    His eyes shifted to the road, then upward to the mountain. There, above the tops of the trees, nestled firmly on the side of the mountain was the city of Ire. He slung the mandolin back on his shoulder, pulled the hood over his head and walked on with his head down.

    ~*~

    ¡°I don¡¯t like it. The way his body looks lying there like that. Isn¡¯t natural.¡± Dricbal, the gravedigger and town handyman shook his head as he said spoke.

    Forstomur frowned, keeping his eyes on the body lying on the ground. Janice, the butcher¡¯s daughter, had been out for a morning stroll when she stumbled upon Gerald¡¯s body. It had taken half an hour to calm her down.

    His eyes moved to the round, pear-shaped man leaning over the body.

    ¡°Well?¡± he said.

    ¡°I can¡¯t tell what killed him,¡± Doctor Nielburg replied, shaking his head. ¡°Strangest thing. No wounds. No signs of strangulation. Poison maybe. Heart attack? Can¡¯t tell you more until I get him back to town.¡±

    Forstomur frowned again, irritated. He motioned to a couple of men behind him.

    ¡°All right, boys,¡± he said. ¡°Put him in the cart. And cover up the body for crying out loud.¡±

    The men worked quickly. Dricbal jumped onto the front of the cart as soon as they had loaded the body. The doctor climbed in beside him and with a click of Dricbal¡¯s tongue, the horse pulled forward as the other men followed behind.

    Forstomur stepped closer to the spot where Gerald had been and inspected the impression left in the grass. Then he noticed something else: a pair of prints in the dirt at the base of the tree that did not belong to Gerald. His eyes moved up the trunk of the tree and stopped where some of the bark had recently been chipped away.

    He stood in silence for a few minutes, thinking. Forstomur knew that instrument was behind this somehow. He also knew what he had to do, even if he didn¡¯t like it. He cursed and started walking toward town.

    ~*~

    The door to the constable¡¯s office slammed as Forstomur flung it open, startling Igner, junior constable of Estella. Igner stared wide-eyed as the dwarf stomped into the building and approached him.

    ¡°Wipe that look off your face and prepare a notice,¡± said the Forstomur.

    ¡°Yes sir!¡± Igner blurted.

    He opened the top drawer on the right side of his desk, fumbled for a piece of parchment and his quill. Dabbing it for ink, he readied himself to transcribe whatever the chief constable said.

    A sternness filled Forstomur¡¯s voice. ¡°Wanted Alive: Hastiand the Bard for questioning regarding the death of Gerald Jofferson of Estella. Description: a man, tall and thin with long black hair and a small beard. Carries a red mandolin.¡±

    ¡°How much for a reward, sir?¡±

    ¡°Fifty hundred cesteres.¡±

    ¡°F-five-¡±

    ¡°Just write it down!¡±

    Igner followed the orders, still in complete bewilderment. Nothing like this had ever happened.

    ¡°Get it out as soon as possible,¡± continued the dwarf. ¡°Find all the couriers in town you can.¡±

    Forstomur marched to his office and shut the door. He sat at his desk and rubbed his forehead. After a few moments, he said to no one in particular, ¡°What happened out there, Hastiand?¡±

 Chapter 5: Angry Girl

    Around the time Satchel turned five years old, Jarek moved from his small, one-room grotto into a larger home nestled within Beggar¡¯s Corner, the poorest area of the Pipes. It had become apparent as the boy grew older that more space was needed.

    Unfortunately, the pipes in the house didn¡¯t always work. The hot air was sometimes not, the water pressure never stayed consistent and the sewage took longer to flush away. The gaslights maintained a low light, occasionally flickering brightly for a moment before settling back down.

    In the middle of the room sat a small black stove, its fire burning brightly. Satchel sat at the rickety wooden table across from the stove and stared intently at it. Jarek had been gone all day, allowing the young thief to get some much-needed rest.

    Satchel went over the events of the previous night for perhaps the hundredth time that day when Jarek burst into the room with a hard and angry look on his face. No one could pull off an expression like that. The old man did nothing for a moment and then threw something on the table. It was the parchment Satchel had stolen the previous night, its black seal still intact.

    ¡°What in the blazes did you steal?¡± Jarek demanded.

    Satchel replied, ¡°I already told you. I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been getting that same answer all day. Not one person I talked to seems to know what you¡¯ve snagged.¡±

    He picked up the parchment and held it in front of Satchel¡¯s face, showing him the seal.

    ¡°I can¡¯t identify the seal, nor does it break off to see its contents. Even Bromly was at a loss. Bromly!¡±

    Jarek threw the parchment back onto the table and paced around the room.

    He began talking again, more to himself than to Satchel. ¡°The one thing he did tell me was...no it¡¯s too ridiculous. He must be mistaken. But, Magic?¡±

    Satchel¡¯s eyebrows went. ¡°Magic?¡±

    Ignoring Satchel, Jarek continued, ¡°But, that is what he said. Magic.¡±

    At one time, magic had been a part of daily life in Tirian. Legend had it that the High Elves introduced it to humans. Before this, only the elves knew magic and how to use it. The High Elves felt compassion toward humanity and wished to bestow a gift upon the young race.

    Unfortunately, human nature corrupted that gift, albeit with some help from treacherous Dark Elves. After the end of Junggen¡¯s War¡ªin which magic played a part in the decimation of seven of the thirteen major cities on the continent¡ªHegemon Seligar outlawed the use of magic. However, he did not stop there. He began systematically hunting down elves of all kinds to stamp out magic use once and for all. The mass genocide of the elves continued until his own guard assassinated Seligar.

    His son, Lysander, took power and put a stop to the killing. Many speculate that it was more for financial reasons than out of kindheartedness. He kept the ban on magic in effect. That was nearly forty years ago.

    As a boy, Jarek had seen the atrocities inflicted on the elves first-hand. He had told Satchel some of the stories. They had given the young apprentice nightmares. If magic was involved, the scroll could not be taken lightly.

    ¡°It¡¯s no help,¡± Jarek continued, ¡°that I can¡¯t track down either of your victims. It¡¯s as though they disappeared. In my city!¡± He stopped and narrowed his eyes at Satchel. ¡°You¡¯re sure you didn¡¯t know anything about them?¡±

    Satchel kept his eyes still and nodded in reply. While relieved that Addie had not been caught for her sake, he did not look forward to running into her. As much as he feared Jarek¡¯s temper, it was nothing compared to Addie¡¯s. If he told his mentor, the old thief would find her and bring her back to their home. Satchel still had a small scar on his chest to remember the last time he had made her angry.

    Jarek frowned, walked to the edge of the table, and gazed at the flames in the stove.

    ¡°I had a bit more luck with the spyglass,¡± he said. ¡°I had a hunch the moment I laid eyes on it. It belongs to Captain Sebastion.¡±

    ¡°Captain Sebastion?¡±

    Jarek considered a moment before answering. ¡°An old colleague. The captain is the former leader of the Harkon Pirates.¡±

    Satchel¡¯s eyes widened. He had heard of the Harkon Pirates. They were a notorious group of marauders that terrorized the Armendr Sea. Tales drifted up from the port cities to the taverns in the Pipes. None of them painted the Harkon Pirates in a good light.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    How did Jarek know their leader? Satchel almost asked the question but thought better of it. Jarek would tell him if he thought Satchel should know. Neither of them spoke; they sat in uncomfortable silence for some time.

    Eventually, Satchel decided to gather up the bread and leave when Jarek said in a steady voice, ¡°I may have to go to Brunland.¡±

    ¡°Brunland?¡± Satchel repeated.

    ¡°Yes, Brunland. Did I stutter? Sebastion used to make port there. Since I can¡¯t very well leave you on your own here, you¡¯ll have to come with me. Oh, and one final matter.¡±

    He dropped a small sack that clinked as it landed on the table in front of Satchel.

    ¡°Compensation for interrupting your job. It¡¯s not the amount you were promised, but it¡¯s enough.¡±

    Satchel stared into Jarek¡¯s eyes. Within them, he saw a small hint of fatherly pride and affection, a rarity. It lasted only a second before the familiar hardness returned. Despite his consternation, Jarek was proud that his apprentice managed to pull off a tough heist.

    ¡°Market Day is in two days,¡± Jarek said. He held up his left hand. ¡°My arm¡¯s response time has slowed slightly as of late, and I want Jacob to look at it. We¡¯re also going to shop for supplies. Until then your time is your own. I¡¯m retiring for the evening.¡±

    At that, Jarek walked down the hall toward the door to his bedroom. Satchel clipped the pouch to his belt and ran through the front door and out into the dank hallway, barely able to contain his excitement. The thought of leaving the Pipes swam around his head. The more Satchel thought about it, the more excited he became. He had never ventured beyond the checkpoint, and the only view he had ever had of the outside world was through the hole in the rock ceiling over Ledion Square.

    He knew exactly how he wanted to spend his money. There had been a black cloak hanging up in Gruber¡¯s tailor shop that was down one of the main shafts on the other side of Ledion Square. Satchel would have to hurry. He ran as fast as he could, taking every shortcut he knew.

    He was so lost in thought that, as he finished crossing the Square, he had no time to react when a hand grabbed his shirt and dragged him down a narrow side passage. Jerking free of their grip Satchel turned to run but lost his footing and fell to the ground. Rolling onto his back, he raised his head and found himself looking up into the deep blue eyes of a very angry redheaded seventeen-year-old girl.

    ¡°Addie!¡±

    She reached down, grabbed a chunk of Satchel¡¯s dark hair and pulled him up. Throwing him face-first against the nearby wall, she pressed her knee into the small of his back and held his head against hard stone. Satchel let out a pitiful grunt.

    As she padded his clothing with her free hand, she asked, ¡°Where are they?¡±

    Finding the money pouch, she pulled it off his belt, relaxed her knee and let go of his hair. But, before Satchel could make a run for it, he felt cold steel against his neck that made him stay put.

    ¡°Is this what they promised you, runt?¡± she said. ¡°What did you do with them?¡±

    Satchel kept his mouth shut.

    ¡°Tell me or I slit your throat.¡±

    ¡°Slit my throat and you¡¯ll never know where they are.¡±

    Addie turned him around, ¡°You gave them to Jarek, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°What if I did?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to go see him, won¡¯t we?¡±

    Satchel shook his head. ¡°Won¡¯t do you any good.¡±

    ¡°All the same, we¡¯re going. Try to run and I¡¯ll make sure you can¡¯t even use your hands to eat with.¡±

    Satchel sighed. ¡°I won¡¯t run.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡±

    ¡°Can I have my money back?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Satchel led the way toward Beggar¡¯s Corner. They arrived at the edge of the Square, and he looked to the ceiling high overhead. The sun had gone down, and the stars peered in through the opening. As they went behind the butcher¡¯s shack, he halted.

    ¡°Why are you stopping?¡± said Addie.

    ¡°You hear that?¡± he said in a whisper.

    ¡°Hear wha-¡± Then she heard it, too.

    Music.

    No one played music in the Square this late in the evening. Most people were at home or on their way thanks to the curfew. Satchel moved slowly in the direction of the music. Addie followed. The sound became more distinct as they drew nearer to its source. Chords and notes thrummed from strings up into the air; they were close.

    They rounded a corner and saw him. A man sat cross-legged in plain view with his back against a wall and played music on a mandolin. The song floated and drifted between the buildings; each individual note seemed to carry weight. It was a song of remorse, regret, and deep sadness. Satchel winced a little as he felt his chest constrict. Not only that, but he also sensed the song within his mind. He swallowed, grunted, and then the feeling went away, but the song inside his head did not. A sob came from behind him.

    He looked back at Addie and said, ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t feel that?¡± she said, fighting tears.

    Wanting to show that he was tougher than Addie thought, he said, ¡°It¡¯s a little sad, but nothing to get worked up about. The man¡¯s an idiot to play that thing at this time of day. He¡¯ll be lucky if the guards just rough him up a little.¡±

    ¡°But, no one¡¯s gone near him.¡±

    And it was true. Satchel looked around and saw that no one had approached him. Incredibly, several of the guards had staggered across the square and stood listening, all with the same sunken look on their faces.

    Something is not right about this, Satchel thought.

    He and Addie stood unmoving as the bard played on. Addie continued to cry silently. Satchel wanted to get away from there, but the music seemed to root him to the spot.

    Something is definitely not right.

    The boom of thunder snapped their attention. Satchel looked back to the ceiling of the Square. Clouds had rolled in. Arcs of lightning flashed here and there followed closely by a low rumble. It had also caught the musician¡¯s attention. He stopped playing, got up as he shouldered the mandolin and walked down the street away from them.

    ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s go,¡± said Satchel.

    Addie wiped her eyes and nodded. Rain began to fall through the skylight as they continued onward in silence. Satchel was not sure why that man bothered him, or why the music had affected Addie as it did. Something deep within his very being tugged at him. It felt ancient. It made him angry.

    And that song wouldn¡¯t stop playing in his mind.

 Chapter 6: The Bounty

    Forstomur¡¯s eyes were wide. ¡°Amon Vosh? You¡¯re sure?¡±

    ¡°You can read it yourself, sir,¡± Igner said. He placed a piece of parchment on the chief constable¡¯s desk. ¡°A courier from down south brought it while you were out.¡±

    Forstomur picked up the paper and quickly read it. He read it once more, this time more carefully.

    ¡°The seal looks legitimate,¡± he finally said, dropping the parchment back on the table. ¡°But, why would he of all people take an interest?¡±

    ¡°Pardon, sir, but who is he?¡±

    ¡°A bounty hunter of some renown. He was famous¡ªor should I say infamous¡ªin the criminal underworld some years ago. We¡¯d even heard tales about him back in Ironhelm Shaft. The stories paint him as a boogeyman of sorts. At least, one for those who broke the law. They say he¡¯s been operating for over two hundred years.¡±

    ¡°Two hundred years? How¡¯s that possible?¡±

    Forstomur shrugged. ¡°No one knows. Some think he¡¯s one of the gods sent down here to keep order. Others say he¡¯s part of an ancient race of immortals hiding in the shadows. More practical folk, such as myself, believe it¡¯s simply a moniker handed down to different people throughout the years.¡±

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t they tell from his face?¡±

    ¡°Now that¡¯s the funny thing. No one knows what he looks like.¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯ll be a piece of cake if he¡¯s on it,¡± Igner said smiling.

    ¡°Not necessarily.¡± Forstomur¡¯s voice was grave. ¡°Some of those stories tell of entire towns simply vanishing in the wake of one of Amon¡¯s hunts.¡±

    Igner¡¯s smile quickly faded.

    Noticing the distress on his deputy constable¡¯s face, Forstomur quickly added, ¡°But, those are just rumors. I mean, how could one man wipe out an entire town by himself?¡±

    Just then, a crash of thunder rattled the windows and made Igner jump. Rain and hail began to pound the roof.

    ¡°That came on us quicker than I expected,¡± said Forstomur.

    ¡°I hate storms.¡± Igner shuddered. ¡°Never could sleep well through the thunder and the rain.¡±

    ¡°Really? I always liked a good thunderstorm. Nature¡¯s way of showing off.¡±

    ¡°Maybe, but-¡±

    Before Igner could finish, the front door swung open and banged against the inside wall. The wind rushed in, extinguishing the lanterns. Forstomur ran to the door and fought the strong wind as he tried to close it. The wind died momentarily, and in that pause, the chief constable pushed on the door, shutting it hard.

    ¡°Igner, drag one of those chairs over here.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t see anything.¡±

    Forstomur grunted as he felt the wind press on the door once more. ¡°Just grab one of the lanterns under your desk, and be quick about it.¡±

    ¡°Allow me,¡± said a new voice.

    Startled, Forstomur jumped away from the door, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he strained his eyes to see. A flash of lightning through the nearby window revealed a tall, dark figure holding the door shut with one hand.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°My apologies,¡± said the voice. ¡°I did not mean to frighten you, chief constable.¡±

    Forstomur said with suspicion in his voice, ¡°Who are you and what are you doing in my office?¡±

    ¡°In a moment. Let¡¯s brighten things up a bit, first.¡±

    The figure snapped his fingers, and all the lanterns in the room re-lit themselves. Standing before Forstomur was a man draped from neck to toe in a black coat. A mask of the same color covered the lower part of his face. He had short, jet black hair and burnt orange skin. To his surprise, Forstomur noticed that the man had pointed ears and leafy green eyes that carried massive strength behind them.

    The stranger regarded Igner. ¡°The chair, if you please. I¡¯d rather not stand here all night.¡±

    Igner shot a quick look at Forstomur and then placed a chair in front of the door.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± said the stranger. He dropped his hand and wandered around the room, stretching his arms and neck as he took in his surroundings. ¡°Quaint little office you have here. Perfect for a quaint little town like Estella.¡±

    He turned and faced the chief constable. Forstomur noticed that his eyes had changed color from the green to a golden yellow.

    Distracted by this, he almost didn¡¯t hear the stranger say, ¡°You are Forstomur of the prestigious Ironhelm clan if I¡¯m not mistaken.¡±

    The chief constable grunted.

    The stranger continued, ¡°Former foot soldier during the Werewolf Extermination campaign. Eventually became one of King Grimstane Undermountain¡¯s personal guards. Currently, the chief constable of Estella, a position you took after the king¡¯s unfortunate and untimely death.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± said Forstomur. His face had turned red. ¡°You don¡¯t need to recount my personal history. I repeat my questions: Who are you? What are you doing here?¡± He paused for a second and said, ¡°And how the blazes do you know all about me?¡±

    The man seemed to consider for a moment and then moved to Igner¡¯s desk. He sat on one end, crossing his legs and arms.

    He began, ¡°I¡¯ll answer your questions in reverse order. How I know all about you is easy enough. I knew the king long ago before he even became king. Nice enough dwarf, but he was never the same after those werewolves killed half the clan and sparked that nasty Extermination. There is not an insignificant number of dwarves throughout the Underkingdoms who remember the name of Forstomur ¡®Wolf Skinner¡¯ Ironhelm. It was from them that I heard about your appointment as sheriff. As to what I am doing here, this should explain that.¡±

    He reached inside his long coat, retrieved a piece of parchment, and showed it to the dwarf: the wanted poster they had sent out the day before.

    ¡°You should have guessed by now the answer to your first question.¡±

    Forstomur frowned and said, ¡°That I have. Amon Vosh.¡±

    Amon grinned underneath his mask. ¡°Correct.¡±

    ¡°At least now I know how you¡¯ve been around so long. You¡¯re a cragging elf.¡±

    ¡°Tsk tsk. Language, my dear chief constable.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my office; I¡¯ll say what I like. Why are you here? It can¡¯t be the money.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s just say it¡¯s personal and leave it at that.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not much of an answer.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the only one you will get for now. The rest will have to wait. Now, I have questions of my own.¡±

    Forstomur crossed his arms and studied the bounty hunter.

    ¡°Two questions only, I promise,¡± said Amon.

    Finally, Forstomur said, ¡°All right.¡±

    ¡°First question: what did the mandolin look like?¡±

    The chief constable gave him a quizzical look but described the mandolin anyway.

    Satisfied with Forstomur¡¯s response, Amon said, ¡°Second question: in which direction was the bard headed?¡±

    ¡°West. Along the road toward Ire.¡±

    Amon¡¯s eyes narrowed and changed to the color of deep crimson as he said in a low voice, ¡°So he¡¯s searching there is he?¡±

    Igner asked, ¡°Searching for what, sir?¡±

    ¡°None of your concern.¡± To Forstomur, ¡°I would ask that you and your deputy remain in Estella until I return with Hastiand. Allow no one else to follow.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t promise that.¡± The chief constable leaned forward. ¡°And I still want him alive.¡±

    ¡°Oh, he will be, trust me. But, it would be better for all involved if no one else followed after him.¡±

    An underlying current of menace flowed through Amon¡¯s tone. The tales of the bounty hunter¡¯s exploits and the rumors of the devastation that followed in his wake bubbled on the surface of Forstomur¡¯s mind. He thought of the people of Estella, too.

    He sighed and said, ¡°Very well.¡±

    Amon brightened. ¡°Ep¡¯mhat. Thank you. I have wasted enough of your time. I must be off.¡±

    With that, Amon spun around, approached the doorway, moved the chair and turned the door handle. As the bounty hunter stepped over the threshold, Forstomur saw that the storm had abated, and a steady pattering of rain fell to the ground.

    Deputy and chief constables were silent for a few minutes before Igner said, ¡°What do you make of that, Forst?¡±

    Forstomur said nothing but wore a grim look on his face as he watched the rainfall.

 Chapter 7: The Deal

    Satchel turned up the gas on the stove. Addie sat at the old wooden dining table and looked around.

    ¡°Bring back any memories?¡± Satchel asked, trying to be friendly.

    ¡°Hardly,¡± she said. With an air of superiority, she continued, ¡°I¡¯ve surpassed the old man¡¯s teaching and moved into a whole new league.¡±

    Annoyed, Satchel said, ¡°Uh huh. And what league is it where you let another thief take both your pinch and your payment?¡±

    She shot him a nasty look. ¡°Do the world a favor and fall down a dark shaft. Where is the old man?¡±

    As if in response to her question, Jarek stepped into the main room from the hall that led to the bedrooms. Seeing Jarek without a shirt on had an unsettling effect on people. His dark mechanical left arm grappled onto part of his chest, and scars of various sizes and shapes etched into his slim, muscular frame. He bore a hard expression on his face as he fixed his eyes on Addie.

    ¡°What¡¯re you doing here, girl?¡± he said.

    Addie¡¯s face, so proud moments before, now had a tinge of fear on it. Her voice further betrayed her as she replied, ¡°I just came for what¡¯s mine.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you mean.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb with me. The little scum copped my packages and ruined my job.¡±

    Jarek shifted his gaze to Satchel. ¡°Don¡¯t know anything about the victims, eh? You lied to me.¡±

    Satchel shrank back.

    With Jarek¡¯s anger trained on someone else, Addie gathered enough courage enough to ask, ¡°So, do you have them?¡±

    Jarek relaxed, turned his back to her and said, ¡°If you¡¯re talking about the spyglass and parchment, you can forget it.¡± He sat in the chair at the head of the table. ¡°There¡¯s more to this than you realize.¡± He leaned forward, set his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. ¡°And now you¡¯re going to tell me the details of this job. Spare me nothing.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have time for this. I just want to get paid.¡±

    Jarek slammed a fist on the table. ¡°By the gods, child, I poured years of my life into making you a promising thief. The least you could do is answer some questions without any lip.¡±

    Conflicting thoughts seemed to fight for control in Addie¡¯s mind. Eventually, she bowed her head, defeated. ¡°What do you want to know?¡±

    Jarek he sat back in his chair. ¡°Who hired you?¡±

    ¡°I never got his name.¡±

    Jarek shot an annoyed look to Satchel and shook his head. ¡°How are my apprentices so sloppy? Okay then, what did he look like?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say much about that either. He wore a white robe with a hood covering his face.¡±

    ¡°No distinguishing features at all?¡±

    ¡°None. Well, other than that his hands were almost as pale as his robe.¡±

    Jarek mulled this over for a moment. ¡°How did you meet him?¡±

    ¡°It was the same night as the Liebert jewelry heist a fortnight ago.¡±

    Jarek brightened and chuckled. ¡°You mean the one Anders botched?¡±

    His chuckle had a calming effect on the room. Addie seemed to relax.

    ¡°The same. I was in the Temple District of Upper Ire. As I crossed the courtyard in front of the temple, he appeared out of nowhere in front of the temple doors. It startled me, but I kept moving. When I passed by, he called my name and motioned for me to come to him.¡±

    ¡°He knew your name?¡±

    Addie nodded. ¡°I asked him how, but he ignored the question and said he knew what it was I wanted most in the world. He said I could have it if I did something for him.¡±

    Jarek and Satchel exchanged knowing looks.

    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Addie.

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°In a moment,¡± said Jarek. ¡°Finish the story.¡±

    ¡°I said, ¡®And what would that be?¡¯ and my heart sank when he answered me. He knew it exactly.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s when he hired you?¡±

    ¡°Not yet. He said that if I was interested, I should return to the fountain in the Temple courtyard the following evening at the same time and receive my instructions.¡±

    ¡°Curious.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t get any sleep that night and turned the prospect over and over in my head. I think it was sheer curiosity that brought me back to that courtyard. I didn¡¯t see the robed guy, but I found a sealed envelope with my name on it sitting on the rim of the fountain. Just like he said, inside the envelope was instructions about what to do and when.¡±

    ¡°Do you still have the note?¡±

    Addie hesitated. ¡°It¡¯s going to sound crazy.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a yes or no question. How is that crazy?¡±

    ¡°Well...as soon as I had finished reading it, the note disappeared in front of my eyes.¡±

    ¡°Disappeared?¡±

    ¡°It broke apart into tiny golden pieces that flared and then vanished. Like it had been set on fire.¡±

    Jarek¡¯s jaw worked for a moment. He then said, ¡°What did the note say?¡±

    ¡°It told me to steal the spyglass from an antique collector down in Rowan named Gavin. It was a tough job, but I pulled it off flawlessly. I doubt he¡¯s even realized it¡¯s gone yet.¡± Addie smirked.

    Ignoring it, Jarek asked, ¡°What else did the note say?¡±

    Addie continued, though with a little deflated, ¡°It told me to bring the spyglass to Ledion Square at a certain time and trade it for something. It didn¡¯t say what. I was to then wait for more instructions.¡±

    ¡°Anything else you can tell me about it?¡±

    Addie sheepishly reached into her pocket and held out her hand. ¡°This was also in the envelope.¡±

    She opened her fingers. Lying in the middle of her palm was a small silver ring. Jarek picked it up and inspected it. Satchel leaned in to get a better look. Intricately etched all around the circular band were small vines and roses. The handiwork was magnificent. Not a single flaw or scratch.

    Jarek muttered absently to himself. ¡°Where have I seen these markings before?¡±

    Satchel began to say something, but Addie spoke first, ¡°The note told me to accept this gift as the first of many blessings should I accomplish my task.¡±

    ¡°Have you had it appraised?¡±

    ¡°I thought I would keep it,¡± she said, embarrassed.

    Jarek scoffed. ¡°That¡¯s a first.¡±

    Addie snatched the ring back from Jarek¡¯s hand and returned it to her pocket.

    ¡°No need to get testy,¡± said the old thief. He sat back. ¡°This whole business has me puzzled.¡± He rubbed his chin. ¡°How is the White Knight tied to this robed man?¡±

    ¡°What Knight?¡±

    Jarek relayed the encounter with Kazi.

    ¡°Do you think we¡¯re caught in the middle of a rivalry?¡± asked Addie.

    ¡°Possibly,¡± Jarek responded.

    Satchel said, ¡°What if they¡¯re all on the same side?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s stupid,¡± said Addie.

    ¡°What makes you think that?¡± asked Jarek. ¡°What purpose would it serve to send two thieves after the same items and then betray everyone involved?¡±

    Satchel hesitated, not expecting his mentor to entertain his idea. ¡°Well, what if they wanted the parchment and to get it they had to promise the spyglass? But, they had no intention of parting with the spyglass. The guards showing up means that someone else tipped them off.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of assuming, boy. And I still don¡¯t see how the two are connected.¡±

    ¡°You said earlier that you had seen the markings on the ring before, right?¡±

    ¡°Your point?¡±

    ¡°They look like the same markings on Kazi¡¯s knife.¡±

    Jarek¡¯s eyes widened. Jumping up, he rushed back to his room and reemerged holding the Komji¡¯s dagger. He asked Addie to pull out her ring and he compared the markings.

    ¡°By the gods, you¡¯re right, boy!¡± The old thief spoke quickly. ¡°Let¡¯s retrace the sequence of events. Addie, you were to make the trade, but Satchel had been tasked with snatching both the spyglass and the parchment. Then Kazi should have brought them to the White Knight. So, the Knight knew where the spyglass was located and who had the scroll.¡± He paused to think. ¡°Was the man wearing orange?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Orange. Did he wear orange?¡±

    ¡°Uh, I think so. It was dark...actually, yes he did. Just his hood though.¡±

    ¡°A Guild man then. That explains that.¡±

    ¡°Guild man?¡± Satchel said.

    ¡°The Guild of Steam,¡± said Jarek. ¡°They collect and preserve all manner of technology and information. Let¡¯s finish the sequence. Addie was supposed to be captured along with her dealer by the guards. But, they hadn¡¯t counted on your abilities.¡± He grinned. ¡°Thanks to me, of course.¡±

    Addie rolled her eyes.

    Jarek continued, ¡°Unbeknownst to everyone else, the Knight had a third person, Kazi, snatch both articles.¡±

    ¡°But, why didn¡¯t he have the guards bring it to him?¡±

    Jarek gave her a long look. ¡°Who¡¯s the most dishonest thief in town?¡±

    ¡°Borruk. Everyone knows that.¡±

    ¡°I trust the guards less than I trust him. The Knight is not stupid. They¡¯d have divvied up the spoils and sold them off faster than you could blink. No, he had to have someone he could trust, or at the very least, control. To have manipulated the guard and the Guild, our Knight is a clever man.¡±

    ¡°So what do we do then?¡±

    ¡°Satchel and I are leaving in two days for Brunland. Someone there may be able to help us with the spyglass. They may even know about this scroll.¡± He leaned forward. ¡°I could use your skills, Addie.¡±

    She pursed her lips and said nothing for a long minute. She then said, ¡°I want payment.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d expect nothing less. I¡¯ll assume expenses for the trip, and you get a cut of whatever we find on the road and five coppers a day, besides.¡±

    ¡°Deal.¡±

    ¡°Good. Now, both of you get some rest. I have some business to attend to. Tomorrow, we make ready for the trek. Addie, use the spare room upstairs.¡±

    With that, Jarek grabbed a shirt and cloak from his room, slipped on his gloves, and walked out the front door. After he had gone, Addie climbed the stairs to the second floor but stopped for a look back at Satchel. They eyed one another for a few silent moments before she sighed and continued up the stairs, leaving the young thief by himself.

    He stared at the glow of the gas fire as he thought. Words from the conversation of the evening swirled in and around his mind. White Knight. Brunland. Spyglass. The scroll. The Guild of Steam. He shivered as he thought about how close he had come to death the previous night.

    Finding no resolution to anything, Satchel turned down the gas on the stove, went to his room and lay down on the bed. All the while, that accursed song kept playing through his mind.

 Chapter 8: A Good Morning

    Light from the morning sun pierced through the clouds and shone through the glass window, warming Hastiand¡¯s face as he lay in bed. While the mattresses at the Five Swords Inn in Upper Ire were not the most comfortable, they were far better than sleeping on the ground. Hastiand was grateful, especially considering last night¡¯s heavy rain.

    On a whim, he had gone down to the Pipes the night before to get a lay of the land, so to speak. He had a hunch he would find what he sought within the lower city. He¡¯d stayed longer than he meant to thanks to a song that popped into his mind. Her song. Whenever that happened, he could not help but play it.

    He yawned and instinctively looked at the chair in the corner of the room. There sat the mandolin, as majestic and eerie as ever.

    ¡°Rise and shine,¡± it said derisively. ¡°Are you going to do something productive today? Or are you going to be lazy again?¡±

    Hastiand, ignoring the mandolin, climbed out of bed and moved to the window. A large courtyard stretched out three stories below. A stone statue sat atop a fountain in the middle. The statue was that of the city¡¯s namesake, General Gonford Ire. The general was in a most heroic pose, gazing and pointing into the distance with his left hand while holding a sword in his right. Despite the city¡¯s best efforts, birds had covered it with white mess as a sign of their ownership.

    The sun¡¯s rays cast long shadows across the courtyard. Within the shadow of the statue sat a single man. His clothes and unkempt hair suggested that he was a beggar.

    Hastiand studied the man for a moment and was about to turn away, but hesitated when the man looked up as if hearing someone. A young woman rushed across the courtyard, her long golden hair flowing behind her. From her lavish maroon dress and bejeweled necklace, he guessed that she belonged to nobility and wealth. She stopped in front of the beggarly man. Princess and pauper gazed at one another, neither speaking. Then they embraced long and deep.

    The bard let out a long sigh.

    ¡°What¡¯re you staring at?¡± said the mandolin.

    Hastiand turned away and wiped his eyes. ¡°Nothing,¡± he said. ¡°Just enjoying the view.¡±

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    He glanced out the window one more time and saw the couple disappear down a side street at the far end of the courtyard each holding the other¡¯s hand. Hastiand¡¯s mouth managed a faint little smile.

    After he had dressed and packed his knapsack, Hastiand shouldered the mandolin and headed downstairs. Tables and chairs littered the dining room on the inn¡¯s main floor with no rhyme or reason as to their arrangement. Travelers and locals alike, all enjoying their breakfast, occupied half the tables. Hastiand moved to an isolated table in one corner of the room. A plump, jolly waitress had already arrived before he sat down.

    ¡°Can I get you anything, love?¡± she asked brightly.

    ¡°Eggs and buttered bread, please. Oh, and milk if you have it.¡±

    The waitress said that they did and it would be five coppers. Hastiand nodded and thanked her, but instead of leaving, as he wanted her to, she began talking. Did he enjoy being a bard? What was traveling everywhere like? Where had he been? Oh, and what a pretty mandolin. Is there a Missus Bard?

    Hastiand interrupted her and said in a voice louder than he meant, ¡°Madam, I have only so much patience. Would you please be kind enough to carry your cheery smile into that kitchen and ask the chef--who I¡¯m sure is as cheerful as you--to cook my breakfast?¡±

    Hastiand thought he heard the mandolin chuckle. With a ¡°hmpf¡± the woman stomped across the room to the kitchen. A few of the patrons had been watching, but most returned to their meals and conversations.

    But, one set of eyes did not turn away.

    A man wearing a black coat sat in one of the armchairs close to the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He kept his gaze on Hastiand.

    The bard looked away quickly. After a short time, he dared another glance. The man was gone. Hastiand surveyed the room, but the man was gone.

    My mind must be cracking, he thought. He chuckled to himself. Or maybe it already has, and I¡¯m only just now realizing it.

    The waitress brought the plate out with the same sour look on her face as before. She slammed the plate onto the table before turning to leave with another ¡°hmpf.¡±

    Hastiand said, ¡°Uh, miss?¡±

    She looked at him with narrow eyes in response.

    ¡°I...apologize for earlier. I¡¯ve had a string of long days and late nights. It¡¯s no excuse, but I am sorry.¡±

    Her eyes and face softened a little. Then she perked her head back up and with a smile said, ¡°Pay it no mind, dearie.¡±

    She resumed her jolly manner and went about helping other guests. Hastiand ate his breakfast, savoring every bite. It could turn out to be a busy day, and this might be the only meal he would get so he wanted to enjoy it. Once he finished, he put twenty coppers on the table and picked up the mandolin. He checked with the innkeeper to extend his stay by another night in the same room. He then stepped out onto North Ire Road leading toward Ledion Square.

    Now, he thought, to find the music.

 Chapter 9: Market Day

    Having the sheets on your bed thrown off and being yelled at are never pleasant ways to meet a new morning, but this was how Satchel awoke. It took him a moment to realize Jarek was shouting and going on about how a proper thief would know when he should get up no matter how tired he was. Satchel rubbed his eyes and yawned deeply after standing up.

    ¡°Sorry, Jarek,¡± he said sleepily.

    ¡°Oh, so now you remember my name?¡±

    This started another tirade about young people¡¯s lazy attitudes these days. Jarek finally left the room, allowing Satchel to dress. He went into the kitchen where frying bacon, warm bread, and a bleary-eyed Addie greeted him. Something inside Satchel made him feel better knowing that she had received the same rude wakeup he had.

    He said as brightly as he could, ¡°Mornin¡¯.¡±

    She grunted and continued eating her breakfast. Satchel grabbed a plate, forked on some bacon, and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf on the table. After they had eaten and cleaned the kitchen, they left Jarek¡¯s hovel and ventured into the Pipes.

    The passages of Beggar¡¯s Corner were quiet in the early morning save the occasional shout or breaking of glass. While not the oldest part of the Pipes, the Corner looked as though it could be. Satchel had grown up in this place and knew every inch of it. He knew where the best places to hide were and the places to avoid.

    The three of them came to Pugman¡¯s Way, the main thoroughfare through the heart of the Corner and followed its downward route to where it joined Market Street. They blended in with the traffic of merchants transporting their wares to market. Along the way, Satchel made sure to pinch a few cesterses from a fat, wealthy-looking vintner.

    Ledion Square buzzed with activity as shops opened for business. Women kept their children close as they perused the items for sale and the men negotiated prices with the vendors. Once every month, merchants and dealers from around Tirian came to set up shop in Ledion Square and show off their latest wares. Local businesses turned out as well, taking advantage of the large crowds that came with every Market Day.

    Originally, Ledion Square was known as Saint Bartholomew¡¯s Square--Saint Bart¡¯s for short--and many of the Pipes¡¯ inhabitants still called it that. Several years ago, the governor of Ire renamed it after the hegemon of Tirian to garner favor. He even went so far as to demolish the old statue of Saint Bart and replace it with an outlandish visage of Hegemon Ledion. It had cost the city a fortune. Jarek looked at the statue as they passed by and spat on it, a private protest against the governor.

    The group wove through the throng and eventually arrived at Jacob Halwell¡¯s red tent. Jacob was one of the few metalsmiths Jarek trusted. He greeted the old thief with a hearty handshake and a jolly laugh. Jacob was a big, burly man with a broad white beard and bushy eyebrows, the only hair on his head. Satchel always enjoyed visiting Jacob¡¯s tent. He was kind and told the best stories. It helped that he also carried the highest quality swords, axes, knives, maces, and spears of anybody. What Satchel enjoyed most were the strange contraptions and exotic weapons that the merchant found during his travels abroad.

    As they exchanged greetings, Jarek pulled Jacob in close, talking in a voice so low that Satchel could not hear them. The two men then headed to another part of the tent closed off to everyone else.

    Addie saw a rack of bows and crossbows in one corner of the tent near the entrance and went to inspect them. The Tirian Hegemony only allowed the military and local law enforcement to use steam rifles and pistols. Thus, Jacob did not carry them, at least not officially. Satchel turned his attention to the swords of various shapes and sizes.

    He liked to imagine himself as a knight or general, leading the charge in a great battle. Jarek called it part of the silly imagination of boys. A dancing glint of light caught Satchel¡¯s eye, and he turned to look for its source.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    On a small table near the entrance was a series of little mechanical animals formed out of various metals. One of them, a small brass sparrow hopped around the table on its little wiry feet, and its metal body played with the sun¡¯s rays as it bounced here and there. Satchel bent down, held out his hand, and watched in amazement as the bird hopped right into his palm and stopped. The sparrow¡¯s head swiveled side-to-side and seemed to inspect him, as a real bird would.

    As he put the bird back on the table, a big set of hands wrapped around Satchel¡¯s chest, trapping his arms, and hoisted him up. Jacob¡¯s familiar laughter filled his ears.

    ¡°Jacob, put me down!¡± Satchel said, also laughing. The merchant set him down and turned him around so that they faced each other.

    ¡°Satchel m¡¯boy! How are you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m good, Jacob. Do you have any new daggers?¡±

    ¡°Ah, straight to the point as always. Get it, the point?" He let out a hearty laugh at his own joke. ¡°I like that about you, lad. I don¡¯t have much that you haven¡¯t already seen, I¡¯m afraid. But, I have something else that you¡¯re sure like.¡±

    Jacob led the young thief to a neabry table, reached underneath the table, and pulled out a large beautifully ornamented box. The main body of the box had a sturdy black wooden frame with a golden lock. The panels of the box had been painted, each depicting a different scene, but all from the same story, Jacob told him. The scene on the lid was the final part of the story and the one that Satchel liked best. It showed two warriors facing off against one another with swords raised, one wore white armor and the other wore black.

    ¡°So what¡¯s in it?¡± he asked.

    Jacob gave a wide smile, and his dark eyes brightened. He produced a small key and unlocked the box. What Jacob pulled out, Satchel was not expecting. It was a pair of black leather boots, well-worn and in need of polishing. Satchel looked at the boots with disappointment on his face.

    ¡°Not what you expected?¡± Jacob asked.

    ¡°No, not really. What made you think I would like a pair of ruddy old boots?¡±

    ¡°Well, you may not like them now, but given time and care, trust me, you¡¯ll come to appreciate them.¡± He leaned in close to Satchel¡¯s ear and whispered, ¡°There¡¯s magic in them.¡±

    The young thief gave Jacob a surprised look. ¡°Magic?¡±

    Putting a finger to his mouth, the merchant said, ¡°Not so loud, boy. You can believe me or not, but I¡¯ve always been straight with you, haven¡¯t I?¡±

    Satchel nodded.

    ¡°Then trust me on this. There¡¯s something special about them. What that is, I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Satchel wasn¡¯t sure what to think. While Jacob tended to exaggerate at times, he never lied to Satchel.

    Jacob leaned back. ¡°Take them, boy. They¡¯re yours.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I have enough to buy them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not selling them. I said ¡®take them.¡¯ You turned fourteen since the last time I was here, right? Consider them a late birthday present.¡±

    Satchel looked into Jacob¡¯s eyes and saw sincerity behind them. He leaned down and picked up the boots. While indeed well used, he could restore them with proper care. Besides, they looked as though they might actually fit him.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you try them on?¡± said the merchant.

    Satchel sat down on a nearby stool and pulled off his brown shoes. He slipped the right boot on first, then the left. They stopped just short of the base of his knees. He stood and walked around.

    ¡°What do you think?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re comfortable.¡± And it was true. Satchel had never had shoes or boots that fit this well.

    ¡°I¡¯m glad. Here I¡¯ll give you a kit so you can polish and repair them.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Jacob.¡±

    The older man chuckled. ¡°Think nothing of it, lad.¡±

    About this time, Jarek appeared and saw Satchel wearing the boots.

    ¡°Buying a pair of boots?¡± he asked.

    Jacob answered him, ¡°They¡¯re a gift from me. I missed the boy¡¯s birthday two months ago, and I wanted to give him something.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough. I¡¯ve finished my business here, Satchel.¡±

    Jacob said, ¡°I¡¯ll have the box and the boots delivered to your house by this evening.¡±

    ¡°Can I wear them now?¡± Satchel asked.

    Jacob thought for a moment and then said, ¡°I don¡¯t see why not. I¡¯ll send your old shoes back to the house along with the box.¡± To Jarek, ¡°How does that sound?¡±

    The old thief nodded. ¡°Works for me. Let¡¯s go Satchel. Where¡¯s Addie?¡±

    Addie, as it turned out was no longer in the tent.

    Satchel and Jarek stepped outside and surveyed the crowd, searching for any sign of her. Jarek finally spotted her standing among a large crowd of people. She was watching something. As they drew nearer, Satchel heard a familiar tune rising over the crowd.

    ¡°Oh no,¡± said the young thief, alarmed.

    ¡°What? What is it?¡± asked Jarek.

    ¡°It¡¯s that musician.¡±

    ¡°What musician?¡±

    That same feeling he had the previous night came back.

    That song again.

    His instincts screamed at him.

    ¡°We need to get out of here. Now.¡±

 Chapter 10: The Fight in the Alley

    A boisterous cheer came from the audience as Hastiand finished his last song. It was a cheerful little number he had written called, ¡°Lady of the Meadow.¡± He liked playing it for three reasons. One, the people loved it which in turn meant that they dropped more coin at his feet. Two, it irritated the mandolin when it was used for such a cheery song. The third was more personal. A reminder of a time of happiness and joy in Hastiand¡¯s life. A time long since gone.

    He heard the clatter and clink of coins as the crowd continued to praise him. He bowed low several times and gathered up the money from the floor. Climbing down from the stage, he blew kisses to the women and shook hands with the men. The people swarmed over him, hoping to get a chance to meet him, talk to him, and, in some cases, touch him. The city guards had to help Hastiand break free of the mob, forcing them to scatter.

    Hastiand sauntered away, carrying a nice sack of coins in his hand. He headed for an empty alleyway and thought to himself, Nice haul today.

    Babump.

    A thumping in his chest.

    That feeling. It can¡¯t be!

    Babump.

    It¡¯s nearby.

    Babump babump.

    It¡¯s getting closer.

    He spun around, eyes scanning the alley.

    Bumpabumpabumpa.

    Then, looking back toward Ledion Square, he spotted three people. A redheaded girl staggered into the alley with a hazy look in her eyes headed in his direction. Farther back, an older man and a small boy ran after her.

    One of them has it.

    The mandolin whispered with playful, sinister glee, ¡°Found one.¡±

    Hastiand nodded and began to move. He kept his focus forward and concentrated on the pressure in his chest. Hastiand shifted his gaze between each of them as tried to figure out which of them had what he sought; the thing that would free him from his curse. He drew within a few feet of the girl just as the old man and the boy entered the alley.

    ¡°Can I help you, young lady?¡± he asked, doing his best to stay calm and collected.

    ¡°Your songs,¡± she replied. ¡°They¡¯re so...so beautiful. I wondered if you might play more of them for me.¡±

    ¡°While I am truly flattered, I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve finished for the afternoon. But, I have been invited to play again in the square this evening. You¡¯re welcome to listen to me then.¡±

    ¡°No, I want to hear them now!¡±

    The girl flung herself toward him, arms outstretched. Hastiand shifted to one side, allowing her to stumble and fall to the ground. Just then, the boy ran to her to help her up.

    ¡°Addie, are you hurt?¡± he said.

    The old man addressed Hastiand and said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry about this, bard. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s come over her.¡±

    Hastiand smiled as he said, ¡°It¡¯s quite all right. Happens more often than you¡¯d think.¡±

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    She sat up as the boy knelt beside her. She shook her head, as though waking up from a deep sleep.

    ¡°Satchel, what happened?¡± she said.

    ¡°You lost your head, foolish girl, and chased after this poor minstrel,¡± said the old man.

    Hastiand chuckled. ¡°Think nothing of it.¡± He held out a hand to the man. ¡°My name¡¯s Hastiand. And yours?¡±

    The man hesitated, and then took it saying, ¡°Jarek.¡±

    When their hands met, the thumping in his chest went mad.

    He has it!

    ¡°Say, are you all right?¡±

    Hastiand noticed that his hand shook. Not only his hand, but his whole body trembled.

    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine,¡± he replied hurriedly.

    ¡°Let me kill them,¡± whispered the mandolin. ¡°We can check their bodies afterward.¡±

    Hastiand¡¯s body shook more and more as his hand reached back. He felt the cold touch of the strings and the frets on the neck of the mandolin. There was no one around to notice. The mandolin could make it quick.

    ¡°I heard that.¡±

    The statement startled Hastiand. It had come from the boy called Satchel, who now stood and stared straight into the bard¡¯s eyes. He had his guard up, with one hand perched on a dagger handle.

    ¡°What did you hear?¡± said Jarek.

    ¡°That thing spoke. The instrument. It wants to kill us.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re as daft as the girl.¡±

    Hastiand¡¯s mind worked quickly. He couldn¡¯t blow this opportunity. It had been nearly a year since he¡¯d last found one of the scrolls. He was not about to let it slip away. He forced a smile on his face and did his best to look calm.

    ¡°Look,¡± said the bard, ¡°I don¡¯t know what you heard. I¡¯m merely a traveling musician. I meant no trouble for any of you. So, I¡¯ll just be on my w-oops!¡±

    Hastiand tripped on his own feet and fell straight into Jarek. With a deft hand, he reached for the pocket inside the old man¡¯s cloak. His fingers touched the thin parchment. He went for the grab.

    Got it!

    To his surprise, he found his hand slipping away from the scroll and then away from Jarek altogether. The man shifted backward the moment he saw what Hastiand was doing and pushed off. Hastiand stumbled a bit but regained his balance. Jarek had assumed the same defensive stance as Satchel.

    ¡°What¡¯re you trying there, bard?¡± said the old man.

    The group stood in heavy silence for several moments. Hastiand¡¯s gaze jumped back and forth between the boy, the man, and the route back to the Square. Thoughts in his mind competed for attention. He wanted the scroll, but he had botched the grab. He could escape and make another attempt later. However, to do even that he would have to get past Jarek, a prospect that did not appeal to him. The old man clearly had skill. Despite the mandolin¡¯s abilities, Jarek could probably make quick work of Hastiand if he tried anything. On top of this, he felt the oppressive anger of the mandolin as it bore down on his mind.

    The loud crash of a drunken man falling onto a pile of garbage distracted Satchel. Hastiand took advantage of the boy¡¯s brief moment of inattention and shot toward him, wrapping his left arm around the boy¡¯s neck. He produced a dagger. Satchel squirmed under his grasp, but the bard tightened his grip.

    ¡°Satchel!¡± shouted Addie, jumping to her feet.

    ¡°Let him go,¡± demanded Jarek.

    ¡°Hand over the scroll and I will,¡± said Hastiand.

    A look of surprise came over Jarek. ¡°The scroll? What do you want with it?¡±

    ¡°None of your concern.¡±

    Jarek and Hastiand¡¯s eyes drilled into each other. Neither man moved.

    A sudden bolt of pain hit Hastiand¡¯s right arm, making him drop his dagger. A silver throwing knife protruded from his shoulder. As pain raced through his arm, he glanced in the direction where it came from but saw no one. The shock loosened his grip on Satchel. The young thief struck Hastiand in the abdomen with an elbow and ran.

    Jarek waited for Satchel to get clear before making his move. Dagger bared, he lunged toward Hastiand. The bard recovered and dodged the incoming blade. What Hastiand failed to dodge was Addie¡¯s kick. It landed firmly on the side of his head, causing him to stumble. Jarek came in for another strike and caught Hastiand¡¯s left arm, cutting into the muscle. Hastiand cried out as the girl came at him again.

    Despite the pain in both arms, the bard could still move surprisingly well. He sidestepped Addie¡¯s second kick and countered with a hard knee to her gut. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Hastiand whipped around, the momentum causing the mandolin to swing round to the front where he caught it. Jarek stopped, hesitating.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to do this,¡± said the bard, ¡°but, you leave me no choice.¡±

    A yellow line formed within the sound hole and black smoke started to pour out. Just as Hastiand was about to pluck the first string, a shout came.

    ¡°Stop!¡±

    The interruption came from a man in a black coat that appeared from a nearby cross street, his face obscured by a hood and mask.

    Hastiand cursed. He had lost the upper hand, and now things had become even more complicated. Time to leave. Straining against the pain in his arms, he strummed the top three strings and the mandolin spewed forth a huge, black cloud, shrouding the whole street in momentary darkness.