《The Pirate's Ruby [A Lighthearted Fantasy Adventure]》


 Chapter One — That Poor, Poor Lute

    In all the world, Holsley had only three things to his name; a worn-out lute, an empty tankard, and a naueseating sense of dread.


    His stomach lurched, and he quelled down all thoughts of retreating to the nearest and darkest alley. If he went through with this, he reminded himself, then he would have enough coin to buy a meal, perhaps even a warm bed for the night, or, if luck favoured him, enough to live comfortably for a week in the town¡¯s least snobbish tavern.


    When he had first arrived in Petty¡¯s Nest, Holsley had been intent on playing the strings for whatever was left in people¡¯s pockets ¡ª that had gone poorly to say the least. Thrown bottles, disgruntled boos, and even riots inevitably followed any performance he made. Instead, he had turned to odd jobs in order to survive. Unfortunately, the young bard had been cursed at birth with an affliction that made him rather clumsy and easily bored.


    As an apprentice woodcutter, his first pitiful swing almost felled his instructor. As a server for the local pub, his unsteady hands delivered more drinks to the floor than the regulars¡¯ tables. Even a more straightforward job, like a grocer, had culminated in an exhilarating cart chase across the town that had ended with a week¡¯s worth of hard-grown vegetables in the river.


    The lute was all he had left.


    Holsley winced as he climbed to the top of the bandstand steps. The keen light of the overhead lantern blinding him a little as he took centre stage. It wasn¡¯t too late to run, he thought. No one had yet seen him, and none were likely to care. Then what would he do for dinner? That thought alone kept him going. A person could only swallow hard tack and nuts for so long before all hope was driven out of them.


    No, he knew he¡¯d have to play today.


    To comfort himself, he gently caressed the wood of his lute. It had been his for as long as he cared to remember and, in truth, wasn¡¯t much to look at now ¡ª mainly thanks to the many years of accidentally bashing, dropping, and landing on top of the innocent instrument. These days, it was more bandage than lute. Still, it was a sturdy tool, and could be played beautifully in the hands of a minstrel that practiced every now and again.


    The young bard pretended not to notice the indifferent faces of the hurried townsfolk as he worked up the courage to get started. Most wouldn¡¯t notice him, even if he did get started. They were only here to peruse the open shops in the adorable, albeit cramped townhouses that were boxed in all around the square.


    Holsley set down the empty tankard on the other side of the railing. That was the most crucial part. Then, he went through the steps of warming up his instrument. The teenage bard playfully plucked each string in sequence to ensure they were in tune. None were. So, he spent the next few minutes fiddling with them.


    A few strangers stopped at his jarring twangs, undoubtedly wondering what this young scruffy lad with curly auburn locks and a distinctive gap in his front teeth was about to perform. Petty¡¯s Nest was in the middle of nowhere. It was one of those places that didn¡¯t get much in the way of entertainment because entertainment never visited. Most times, they would take what they could get unless it were particularly bad. They just wanted something to break up the monotony of daily strife every now and then.


    Holsley swallowed some vomit. Even more came to a standstill, struck stone-like with wicker baskets under their arms. A tentative hand strummed awkwardly along the strings. He didn¡¯t look up as he started. He never looked up. That was a sure way to turn him into one of the town¡¯s permanent fixtures.


    ¡®P-present day¡­present day is¡­¡¯


    Was he naked? Holsley sure felt naked. He was suddenly self-conscious about the two circles, not unlike tattoos, drawn on his little finger. Could the town see them? What did they think? Probably nothing. The young bard mumbled through the words as he desperately tried to calm his nerves.


    ¡®Present day is, uh, gonna beest the day yond, yond those gents¡¯re gonna throweth t backeth thee.¡¯


    More strangers. Awesome. Not that Holsley noticed anything beyond their tattered boots or, in some cases, bare feet. His eyes were firmly on the lute. They watched his fumbling fingers as they awkwardly plucked and teased something vaguely resembling music from the strings.


    ¡®A-and by anon, thee shoudst¡¯ve, shouldst¡¯ve somehow realis¡¯d what thee gotta doth.


    I, I believeth not yond anybody, uh, doth feel the way I doth about thee anon.¡¯


    ¡®Speak up!¡¯ The man was two pies short of overweight and wore an apron caked in dried blood. The young bard could have shot several insults back at him. Comments about his weight, painfully yellow teeth, and thinning hair came to mind. Instead, his frantic heart went into overdrive as he looked out at the unsightly crowd before him.


    Uninterested faces stared back. Some had moved onto thoughts concerning the rest of their day. Others looked annoyed, teetering towards anger. A rare few were snickering with drunken swaggers. From experience, Holsley knew those were the ones to watch out for. The kind of people who were drunk moments after midday were always looking for a more violent type of entertainment.


    Holsley¡¯s breath caught in his throat. It was suddenly too dry to swallow.


    ¡®I¡¯m s-sure thee¡¯ve hath heard t all b-bef¡¯re, but thee nev¡¯r very much, uh¡ª¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not even the next bloody verse!¡¯ You could have made a fashionable leather bag out of the next heckler¡¯s gangly arm skin. An older woman, pushing ancient, who had probably risen from the grave just to throw insults at him. Her outburst spurred on more jeers. Boos were thrown up, and thumbs were pointed down as the crowd grew restless and snide.


    ¡®S-sorry,¡¯ Holsley squeaked, but it hardly mattered now. ¡®Just let me¡ª¡¯


    The hanging lantern was white hot on his neck. Sweat prickled his forehead, matting his hair, and his clammy hands suddenly failed to gain any traction on the sharp strings of the lute. In short, he probably wasn¡¯t going to get enough coin for stale leftovers, let alone a meal, a bed, or a week in a tavern.


    ¡®Hadst¡­oh, darn it. Hadst¡­¡¯


    It was over. The next part of the song wouldn¡¯t come. Holsley knew that he knew it, or at least he had known it that last time he played it ¡ª over a year ago. Perhaps he should have practised. The thought was rather intrusive and generally unhelpful. His hands hovered over the instrument as his brain tried to reason through his following actions.


    He couldn¡¯t think with all these eyes on him.


    Some people shouted the next lyrics, which then led to squabbles over what the correct words actually were. Small brawls shortly followed. This was Petty¡¯s Nest, after all. The townsfolk didn¡¯t throw rotten vegetables here, which, admittedly, would¡¯ve actually been a godsend to Holsley¡¯s hunger pains. No, they threw punches instead.


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    Holsley watched an oversized fist barrel into the stomach of a man near the middle of it all. This one act of violence, like a stack of carefully placed dominoes, led to another act of violence. Soon, the crowd was a frenzy of fists, insults, and kicked-up dust. You couldn¡¯t have made things more chaotic if you added two leopards and a giraffe to the mix.


    All Holsley knew was he needed to get out of there. Now. Pretty soon, the crowd¡¯s anger would focus in on the one who caused all this. It was either that or the violence would come to an end and no one in Petty¡¯s Nest wanted a riot to end ¡ª it was bad for their infamous reputation.


    With the bandaged lute in hand, he turned to fly down the steps and seek out safety. As it turned out, today had different plans. Once swivelled, he found himself staring down, or up to, a rather bulky half-orc with a serious muscle problem. Serious because he seemed to have too much of it. Garrok smiled at him through lips that curled around the two tusks jutting out of his lower jaw.


    Garrok had a reputation in the town as someone who liked to pick fights. More than that, he liked to pick fights for no reason other than to hit something. Holsley had a suspicion that the something this green-skinned hulk wanted to hit now was probably him.


    He brought up his lute as if the flimsy bit of wood could do anything to protect him. Garrok took a step forward, and Holsley took a considered one back. The brute had to duck beneath the lantern overhead before he towered over the bard. ¡®Where¡¯d you think you¡¯re going?¡¯


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ Holsley muttered. The riot was in full force around the bandstand, but the sounds of it were nothing more than background music now. Holsley could think of a hundred things to say, but none were particularly useful. Most were outright insulting. Instead, he went for reason. ¡®Y-you surely aren¡¯t going to hit me over a song, right?¡¯


    ¡®You ruined one of my favourite songs.¡¯ The half-orc spoke it with the dull cadence of a man reciting a fact not subject to opinion. ¡®Now I get to punch yer face through to the other side of yer head.¡¯


    ¡®Ponderblock is one of your favourite songs?¡¯ Holsley asked, genuinely confused.


    The brute didn¡¯t waste any more time. Garrok threw a punch Holsley¡¯s way that would surely have killed him if it struck true. Quick and agile, though, the bard dodged the blow by throwing his head back, arching his back, and allowing his feet to catch up to the rest of his body.


    ¡®Wait!¡¯ he said frantically as he danced around. ¡®I¡­I have another song I know you¡¯ll love!¡¯


    Without dawdling for permission, Holsley plucked the strings of his lute carefully, making sure to keep out of the orc¡¯s reach as he did so. The first two strums did nothing, but the third made things interesting. The undersized troll stopped suddenly and put on his best impression of a dullard attempting to entertain complex mental arithmetic.


    Most didn¡¯t know, and even fewer could guess that Holsley had a secret. Unlike other northern bards, Holsley could play something a little more than music. He could play spells. That is, magic woven from songs. Of course, Holsley had kept it very hush hush. People distrusted magic this far north, and he saw no need to make himself any more of a pariah.


    A few genteel plucks were pulled. The melody was clunky and off in some places, occasionally hitting the ear a little wrong or a little too sharp, but it was working. The thug before him was falling under his charming spell ¡ª a bewitchment that, he hoped, would make them the best of friends for the next hour.


    Naturally, magic was a little hard to master, and Holsley was nowhere near able to claim mastery over it. The more practised the spellcaster, he had been told, the more powerful the spell would become. It was a wonder he could even cast the spell at all then. The young bard was so out of practice it was a miracle he could even remember owning a lute.


    Garrok¡¯s fists uncurled as he relaxed at the dulcet tones of Holsley¡¯s playing. Then, the inevitable mistake. The pressure to get it right, as always, was too much. The melody became too clunky, too unbearable, and even discordant as Holsley forgot the next few steps and ambled his way through.


    ¡®Damn it!¡¯ Holsley dug into his worn leather satchel and fished out a few bits of torn yellowed parchment. Each contained an instruction for one of the spells the elves had struggled to teach him. The muscled stranger was brought back to reality as he frantically sorted through them, searching for the charming spell.


    It was too late. One of the two circles on his fingers turned red. The spell had taken its toll on Holsley, even if it hadn¡¯t been cast right.


    ¡®Is this a joke?¡¯ Garrok shook his head, bringing himself entirely out of the stupor. ¡®What are you trying to pull here, bard?¡¯


    ¡®Just strings!¡¯ Holsley insisted, backing right up to one of the bandstand¡¯s pillars. ¡®Nothing else!¡¯


    A swift fist, propelled by anger and confusion, broke through Holsley¡¯s defences. It went straight towards his chest, landing a heavy blow on the lute and caving in the drum. The instrument remained in one piece, but Holsley felt as if he had been split in two.


    He gasped, coughed, choked, and spluttered. Words wouldn¡¯t come. He couldn¡¯t breathe. His lungs felt squashed, and saliva dripped lazily from the corner of his mouth. The situation suddenly became very real. Doubled over but still on his feet, Holsley held up a hand, begging not to be struck again.


    ¡®Y-you got me,¡¯ he wheezed, dropping the lute with a melancholy TWANG. ¡®C-can we call it, uh, even?¡¯


    The furious stranger pulled back his fist for another bout. Holsley watched him, half-bent over, with little to no idea of how to defend himself. The bard wasn¡¯t a fighter. In truth, he had never even thrown a punch. Not one in his entire life. This next fist would connect with his head and drive the consciousness out of him. Perhaps he¡¯d even die. The young bard had heard that could happen with a miscalculated blow.


    Holsley didn¡¯t have much, but he had always been gifted with two things ¡ª quick reflexes and bloody good luck in bad moments.


    Holsley ducked the next attack at the last possible second by dropping dead to the ground. Instead of connecting with his head, Garrok¡¯s fist connected with the bandstand. The structure shuddered as his fist collided with it, cracking and breaking, literally breaking, one of the supporting pillars that held the thing upright.


    ¡®ARGH!¡¯ Garrok screamed, shrieking in pain as he pulled back his hand. Holsley cringed. The hand was limp and twisted at an awkward angle at the wrist. Holsley was no cleric, but any idiot could tell it was broken. He could muster very little sympathy, however, as he was only grateful that it had been the bandstand and not his face that had been struck.


    It wasn¡¯t over, though. Not by a long shot. The impact on the bandstand had consequences of its own. With the sway of the structure, the lantern, which had been precariously hanging above them, swung off its hook and smashed onto the lacquered floor. The entire thing erupted up in flames in a moment, maybe even less.


    ¡®Not fire,¡¯ Holsley breathed.


    The oversized brute disappeared, hopping over the side and screaming obscenities as he bounded away. Holsley had a different problem, however.


    Fear. Pure, uncompromising fear clutched hold at his heart, and strangled it like it was trying to squeeze juice from the organ. He couldn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t think. Performing in front of a crowd was scary, but this was pure terror. The fire danced around him almost mockingly, rising up the pillars and spreading across the ceiling. Anyone with a smidgen of sense would have been up and over the railing by now.


    Holsley didn¡¯t have sense, however ¡ª not when faced with fire. He knew he should move, but his feet simply ignored the request and proposed he ask again later ¡ª possibly when not faced with the mesmerising nightmares in the crackle of the flames. He was incapable of doing anything, even twitching, and his body and mind were content to simply let him burn to death.


    ¡®What in the name of good are you doing, boy!?¡¯


    A burly hand took hold of Holsley at the shoulder. With an impressive amount of strength, a quick pull was all it took to bring him up and over to safety. Like a child¡¯s ragdoll, the young bard was thrown effortlessly onto the cobblestones of the town¡¯s square.


    Coughing, Holsley struggled to right himself. The young bard stole a minute. The tiled pavement was cool beneath him, and he turned back over only when he was proper and ready. That is, when his breathing returned back to its rightful cadence.


    The man who looked down on him, his saviour, was no stranger. Even with the sun in his eyes, Holsley could recognise the battered armour and well-worn face that was as cracked as unloved leather.


    With a deep breath, Holsley stood up, and Darynell ¡ª as that was his name ¡ª offered a hand to guide him. He wore a badge of office on his dulled breastplate, marking him as both a defender of the peace and the Captain of the Guard for Petty¡¯s Nest. Just about the highest authority you could get in a donnybrook-loving town like this.


    ¡®What have you done this time, Holsley?¡¯ Darynell sighed the question. Holsley looked around and grimaced. The crowd had long since scattered, no doubt scared off by the sudden presence of the guards, which left only the young bard to face the consequences.


    ¡®Uh, I think that depends on how much you heard,¡¯ he replied.

 Chapter Two — The Paint Blotched Gnome

    The gnome opposite him didn¡¯t look much like a criminal.


    He was relatively short, as gnomes tended to be, and he had the betraying angular features of his kind ¡ª especially on the nose, chin, and ears. Beyond his species, though, the gnome¡¯s arms and legs were covered in multicoloured bangles, and, if that wasn¡¯t enough of an affront to fashion, his worn clothes and skin were speckled with thick blotches of paint.


    At a push, Holsley would say he looked more like an unfashionable decorator. Still, the young bard supposed that he didn¡¯t much look like a criminal either. Holsley figured then that anyone would look like a criminal if seen milling about the inside of a cramped cell.


    ¡®It¡¯s rude to stare,¡¯ the gnome huffed. Holsley quickly looked away. ¡®What you in for, kid? Stealing sweets?¡¯


    ¡®Kid!?¡¯ Holsley¡¯s face swung back. ¡®I¡¯m fifteen!¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s what I said.¡¯ The gnome gave him a cold stare. ¡®I¡¯ll ask again. Why you in here?¡¯


    There weren¡¯t many gnomes in Petty¡¯s Nest ¡ª which is to say there were none. So, Holsley knew from looking at him that he wasn¡¯t from around here. A complete stranger that would be here one day and then gone the next. What harm, he thought, was there then in being honest?


    ¡®I got caught busking,¡¯ he said after a long pause. ¡®If you have to know, like.¡¯


    ¡®Didn¡¯t realise busking was a crime in Petty¡¯s Nest?¡¯ The gnome raised one of his frosty eyebrows.


    ¡®Only when it starts a riot,¡¯ Holsley muttered, reluctantly adding, ¡®I, uh, forgot the lyrics to the song I was playing.¡¯


    ¡®Stupid.¡¯


    Holsley slumped back in his seat and winced. His ribs were nicely bruised from that blow he took earlier. The young bard lifted his shirt to inspect the damage. A horrific purple and blue discolouration was what awaited him across his chest. It was tender, sore, and honestly made breathing a little tricky.


    ¡®Nasty, eh.¡¯ The gnome leaned forward. ¡®How did you manage to get that?¡¯


    ¡®I got punched,¡¯ Holsley replied. ¡®Really hard.¡¯


    ¡®Learn the song then.¡¯


    Hopping off the bench that served as both seat and bed for the unlikely souls under the watchful eyes of Petty¡¯s Nest¡¯s finest, the gnome jangled his way over and sat beside him. Holsley threw his shirt down quickly, suddenly embarrassed.


    The gnome tutted. ¡®Very nasty.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll be fine,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®Once I get my lute back, I can sort myself out.¡¯


    ¡®Why would your lute matter?¡¯


    ¡®Oh!¡¯ Holsley straightened up. ¡®It wouldn¡¯t! It would, uh, just make me feel better to have it.¡¯


    ¡®You know, if you¡¯re looking to make some coin, kid, there are better ways to do it,¡¯ he said with an odd sense of pride. ¡®Take me, for example. I¡¯m what you might call an entrepreneur.¡¯ When Holsley didn¡¯t say anything, he pressed on, unabated by the purposeful silence. ¡®I¡¯ve got a cart full of ale that I¡¯ve bought on the cheap. After I get out of this cell, I¡¯m heading up to Tressa to sell it all. I know an innkeeper¡¯ll give me a good price for out-of-town favourites, even if it has gone a little off.¡¯


    Holsley let out an annoyed grunt. ¡®Don¡¯t talk to me about Tressa. That¡¯s the last place I want to hear about right now.¡¯


    ¡®Sure, as a city, it has its problems.¡¯ The gnome shrugged. ¡®Plenty of opportunity, though.¡¯


    There was no one better acquainted than Holsley to discuss Tressa¡¯s opportunities. After all, he had been unlucky enough to be born there. When he left it three years ago, it had been a nightmare of easily irritated guards, destitute buildings, and an infectious mindset that put everyone out for themselves. He¡¯d rather drag himself across broken glass, no, swim through a bubbling lake of acid, NO, eat six-week-old mouldy gravy than set even a little toe in that horror of a city.


    ¡®What did you do?¡¯ Holsley glanced over at the gnome, trying to be casual about not so casually changing the conversation. ¡®I assume you haven¡¯t booked a room here or anything?¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t be silly.¡¯ The gnome grimaced. ¡®Just a bit of a misunderstanding between me and your local innkeeper at the Second-Hand Boot.¡¯


    ¡®Enessa?¡¯ Holsley knew of the tavern. It was a nice enough place, but he avoided it like it was made of peanuts ¡ª he was allergic to peanuts. It reminded him too much of home. Not because it was elegant, lavish, or swanky, but because the rotgut slinger was an elf. It¡¯s not that he didn¡¯t like elves, mind. It¡¯s just that he didn¡¯t want to reminisce about his time spent under their stern watch. ¡®What was the misunderstanding? Did you forget to pay or something?¡¯


    ¡®I re-painted the room,¡¯ he replied sullenly. ¡®She stuck me in this, well, unwelcoming, poorly decorated hovel of a pit. Outrageous. So, I took it upon myself to redecorate. Believe me, the room looks better now. More colour. She didn¡¯t like it, though, and that led to our misunderstanding. Guards were called. Long story short, it earned me two days in the cells and a fifty crown fine. Ungrateful is what I call it.¡¯


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    ¡®It¡¯s pretty crazy to repaint a room, though.¡¯ Holsley didn¡¯t know if it was the gnome¡¯s brashness or simply the madness of what he had done, but it forced a short smile on his face. ¡®First I¡¯ve ever heard of anyone doing that.¡¯


    ¡®It ain¡¯t a laughing matter, eh. I take renovation very seriously.¡¯


    ¡®No, I can see that.¡¯


    ¡®Merhim, by the way. Merhim Bindle.¡¯ The gnome stuck out his hand, and Holsley shook the offered appendage. It was a firm grip from such a short creature, and he found himself bending his arm a little to compensate for the strength. ¡®What would I call you if I wanted to?¡¯


    ¡®Holsley!!¡¯


    The young bard jumped at the roar of his name.


    Darynell stood suddenly on the free side of the iron bars, his whiskers trembling and his eyebrows thoroughly furrowed. Once he had captured Holsley¡¯s attention, he beckoned the bard closer with one finger. ¡®Let¡¯s have a chat, you and I, shall we?¡¯


    ¡®Better you than me, kid,¡¯ the gnome muttered as Holsley, quite reluctantly, got up from his seat.


    ***


    Darynell didn¡¯t say much as he marched the bard through the barracks. Looking about at the dusty noticeboards, bored guards, and faded aesthetics was all Holsley could do as they went from corridor to corridor. The short journey ended up a set of stone steps that ended inevitably at a tired-looking door.


    The plaque on it was the only shiny thing he¡¯d seen on this little trip, and it told him that he was about to enter Darynell¡¯s office. Although he didn¡¯t need a plaque for that, he¡¯d been here a few times already and could probably find his way in the dark.


    They stepped inside.


    Holsley had often thought that someone had played a cruel joke on Darynell. They had put the Captain of the Guard in what amounted to a broom cupboard. The tight space was then filled with an obscene amount of paperwork and piles of very boring sounding books that he was sure no one had ever read. There was just enough room to fit a desk and two chairs between the unshuffled madness.


    Of course, the only thing about the room Holsley cared about was his lute, which he found lying on a stack of rolled parchments just below the window. The young bard ignored his desire to dive for it and took the chair closest to the door. He sat down and huffed like a naughty child expecting a severe but not entirely undeserved punishment.


    ¡®Another riot,¡¯ Darynell grunted as he took his seat. The wood rattled under his weight. ¡®The fourth one in two months. Exactly as long as you¡¯ve been here.¡¯


    ¡®Four?¡¯ Holsley wanted to object, but when he counted the incidents on his fingers, he found the addition was correct. There had been the misspoken lyric in the Second-Hand Boot, which had earned him a black eye. A total freeze-up when he¡¯d attempted to play as part of the town¡¯s most recent festival for Halfway Over. Oh, and the time he was whacked over the head with his own lute for, quote, ¡°not looking much like a bard.¡±


    ¡®One more arrest and you¡¯ll have spent more time behind the bars of our cells than any other criminal this town has ever seen.¡¯ Darynell crossed his arms. ¡®Considering this is Petty¡¯s Nest, that¡¯s saying something. What do you have to say for yourself?¡¯


    Holsley, as he usually did, said the first word that came to his mind. ¡®Impressed?¡¯


    ¡®Shocked, more like.¡¯ Darynell leaned back. ¡®Why did you come here, Holsley? Surely, you¡¯d have a better time somewhere else. You can¡¯t play the lute, you can¡¯t do the labour, and you attract more trouble than a drunkard at a wedding.¡¯


    The young bard shrugged.


    ¡®Do you even want to be a bard, Holsley?¡¯ Darynell narrowed his eyes. ¡®I¡¯ve met some bad buskers in my time, but at least they could get through a song.¡¯


    ¡®I guess I don¡¯t have a choice,¡¯ replied Holsley with another shrug. ¡®It¡¯s either play or starve.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s why I¡¯m sorry I have to do this.¡¯ Darynell sighed deeply as he reached back and gently brought Holsley¡¯s lute over the desk. ¡®Holsley, I¡¯m giving this back to you, but I¡¯m prohibiting you from playing it publicly.¡¯


    The young bard cringed at the word. ¡®What does prohibiting mean?¡¯


    ¡®It means you can¡¯t play it.¡¯


    He sprang up. His chair was flung into a pile of unkempt paperwork. ¡®You can¡¯t do that!¡¯


    ¡®For one month,¡¯ Darynell warned. ¡®People around here have enough to be stressed about without your music adding to their concerns. I¡¯d love, just love, to go one week without someone striking someone else over something as stupid as a few forgotten words to a song.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve killed me then!¡¯ Holsley crossed his arms. ¡®That¡¯s it. I¡¯m dead. You¡¯ve killed me. If I can¡¯t play, I can¡¯t eat.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m going to give you a couple of nobles to help you get started,¡¯ said Darynell, reaching into one of his desk drawers. ¡®I¡¯m sure there¡¯s plenty of work in the town for a boy your age.¡¯


    ¡®No one will hire me,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®They all think I¡¯m stupid and clumsy.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t do more than that, Holsley,¡¯ replied Darynell. ¡®If you can¡¯t find a way to live here, then it might be time to consider moving on.¡¯


    ¡®Please don¡¯t do this.¡¯ Holsley pressed his palms together desperately. ¡®Please. I¡¯ll practice. I really will. The next time I play, it¡¯ll be perfect.¡¯


    ¡®Your problem isn¡¯t just practice, Holsley,¡¯ replied Darynell. ¡®You¡¯re no good in stressful situations. All the practice in the world don¡¯t mean anything against that. You¡¯ve got to learn your courage. Until then, you shouldn¡¯t play. You¡¯ll end up getting seriously bottled.¡¯


    ¡®What do I do then?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got to figure that out for yourself, just like the rest of us.¡¯ Darynell pushed two silver coins across the table. ¡®I¡¯m also obligated to inform you that if I catch you playing, I¡¯ll have to confiscate the lute. Sorry to do it, but I will. If I do, you won¡¯t get it back for the rest of the month.¡¯


    Holsley took the lute and swiped the coins from the table. ¡®Can I go now?¡¯


    He left without another word, although a few rude gestures came to mind as he slammed the door behind him. Darynell didn¡¯t know what he had just done. It wasn¡¯t like he could just magically find a job in a town that had become too small. Holsley had a reputation, and the captain must have been aware of it.


    As he stalked down the corridors, Holsley glanced at the two nobles he had been given. They were old-looking, carved with decorative florals, and each had two holes drilled through the centre. A noble was worth ten peasants, he knew. One peasant was a slice of buttered bread. Two peasants was a drink at the local tavern. Five peasants was a meal. Ten peasants was an overnight stay with a small breakfast in the morning. Holsley had two days of comfortable living in his palm, while a month was exactly twenty-eight.


    I¡¯ll have to beg, then.


    The morose thought walloped him, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he had made the right choice in leaving the safety of Donathal. The gazes were stern, and the judgement was severe, but at least he could get a decent meal and a cosy bed for the night. Perhaps Darynell was right. It may be time to move on.


    But this town had been the birthplace of Marlin Mandrovi, one of the greatest minstrels he had ever heard of. Holsley had followed his exploits closely as a child. He was a bard, and an adventurer, and an explorer, and a treasure hunter, and everything else in between.


    It had been here, in this unsuspecting small town, where that legendary minstrel had got his start, and Holsley supposed that he might also find his start here. Follow in his footsteps, as it were. It turns out, though, that he was treading a very different path.

 Chapter Three — March of the Tubheads

    The narrow alley was wedged between the baker¡¯s and the butcher¡¯s, so each morning, Holsley would wake to a mouth-watering scent not unlike sausage and bacon butties.


    Sometimes, the proprietors would throw away scraps of fat or crusted bread, which went down surprisingly well together. The alley itself was just one of a hundred in the town. Holsley had picked it primarily because it was the only one filled with enough rubbish to construct a makeshift shelter. Two water-stained crates, a leaky barrel, and a few scratchy blankets were what he called home.


    Inside of the shelter, there was a small tin full of hard tack and a half-deflated waterskin. Holsley took a nibble of the biscuits and drained the rest of the water. He winced as he drank. It had been getting quite difficult to breathe without provoking an obnoxious pain in his chest, but he needed food and water first before he could perform.


    He hopped onto the roof of his temporary accommodation and pulled the bandaged lute around. Now, he had to concentrate. Holsley had been taught precisely six spells by the elves. Two were dead easy, like conjuring a simple light, but four were tricky and required good practice. One of these was the charming spell, along with a minor healing spell that could erase his bruises.


    Fortunately, Holsley was very well practised with the healing spell. That¡¯s what happens when you¡¯re accident prone. His fingers immediately found the right strings, and he played a short but sweet tune accompanied by a few elvish words.


    Any curious onlookers might only have heard fancy prattle, but anyone who spoke elvish would¡¯ve perceived him singing a quaint prayer to Zandazarr ¡ª The God of Health. He smiled thoughtfully. It was the first spell the elves had ever drilled into him because he was constantly tripping up or falling over, but he could never tell if it was simply a nice gesture or because they thought he was using up too much of their precious magical resources.


    A minute passed.


    Holsley opened his eyes to see if it had worked. To his relief, he found that his right hand was now glowing with a radiant light that made the digits blurry. The next creature he intentionally touched would receive this magic and be made a little healthier. It couldn¡¯t cure disease, mend broken bones, or help a person regrow limbs, but it was well-suited for minor ailments, pains, and cuts.


    The bruise receded immediately. The feeling was warm and pleasant, rather like resting your frostbitten hands near a raging fire. It spread across his chest and left nothing but smooth skin in its wake. Once done, the young bard found that he could breathe again without issue, and let out a satisfied sigh.


    Both of the circles on his little finger were now red. He wouldn¡¯t be able to cast another spell like that until he had taken a long rest. Not unless he wanted to push his limits. Holsley leaned his head back against the butcher¡¯s wall. That meant he¡¯d better tread carefully for the rest of the day.


    One of the crates standing opposite him depicted a lively painting of a young elf maiden cheerfully holding up a loaf of bread. It was half scratched and worn from the weather, but her smile still shone brightly.


    ¡®Why can¡¯t I play like that in front of people?¡¯ Holsley asked her sullenly.


    It was far too early in the day to head to bed. He supposed it may be worth looking into jobs again, although who to ask about potential work, he hadn¡¯t the foggiest. Perhaps it was more prudent to take what little money Darynell had given him and spend it on something to make him feel better. A decent meal wouldn¡¯t go amiss.


    Resolutely, Holsley hopped off his makeshift home and made a beeline towards the local boozer. Enessa wouldn¡¯t serve him as he was underage for a human, but he¡¯d still be able to get a cold glass of milk and something to soothe his stomach. The young bard decided he would stay for as long as it took to start feeling anxious about his sojourn with the elves.


    Only when the Second-Hand Boot was in sight did he realise he wasn¡¯t alone on the dust-bitten road. The other townsfolk had come to a stop mid-bustle and were staring anxiously into the short distance behind him. Some were even hurrying away.


    The carriage was an ornate beauty in gold, silver, and black. It was being pulled by two elegant stallions who did little work towing the magnificent vessel. There weren¡¯t any trumpeters nearby, but Holsley felt as if a fanfare was following in its wake. It was the kind of vehicle too fancy for weddings or funerals but perhaps suited for both, like the sudden death of the bride at the altar.


    Holsley didn¡¯t much care about the overpriced cart, though. It was the rosy-cheeked boy he couldn¡¯t take his eyes off.


    The youngster stood in the middle of the road without a care in the world. Holsley didn¡¯t know much, but he did know that a carriage like that wouldn¡¯t stop for some stupid, stubborn boy like him. No one was doing anything, which meant he had to do something.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The young bard sprang into action. Holsley was on the boy in seconds, pulling him out of harm¡¯s way in the seconds after that. The carriage wheels found nothing but dirt as they kicked up dust on the ground together. They lay flat on their backs for a moment, both stunned by what had just happened.


    The youth gave Holsley a hard stare, before swiftly delivering a cheap shot to the groin. The young bard doubled over as the boy ran into the nearest alley, leaving him crouching on the floor and nursing his aching area. Holsley didn¡¯t know why he had ever expected a different outcome. Even the children were quick to throw hands in Petty¡¯s Nest.


    Four men, each carrying large maces and wearing identical uniforms, passed by Holsley. He recognised those uniforms. They were mainly leather, but their upper bodies were covered with something akin to plate armour, including uncomfortable-looking pauldrons, thick gauntlets, and fluttering capes. These men eyed Holsley as if he were something they wouldn¡¯t care to tread in.


    ¡®Tubheads,¡¯ Holsley hissed.


    There was no mistaking the infamous Tressan Guard for anything other than that. Although, the helmets were also a dead giveaway. Each wore a pewter kettle hat to complete their uniform, which was emblazoned with the heraldry of Tressa. This badge, like Darynell¡¯s, marked their authority and allowed them to beat the crap out of anyone they disliked in the name of the law.


    They were called Tubheads because, from what Holsley had heard, the instantly recognisable helmets they wore were made from reconstituted tubs that had been taken out of the many abandoned buildings of Tressa. These were lower guards, something that was made clear from their single-colour yellow cloaks, meaning that they were the lowest rank you could be in the city¡¯s service. Grunts was a more appropriate moniker for them.


    Usually, Holsley would avoid tubheads like the plague. They were a shoddy lot who were quicker to use their maces than their brains, but his gut told him he should follow. So, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and trailed the carriage at a short distance behind.


    There were only two reasons the city of Tressa would concern itself with a small town like Petty¡¯s Nest. The first was to collect taxes, which would explain why so many bystanders had been brought to a sudden, fraught standstill. The other reason had more to do with the town¡¯s noticeboard.


    About once a week, the tubheads would come through the town to put up a poster that explained a new law the city had just passed, or with an important announcement from the Council of Four concerning things Holsley wasn¡¯t even the least bit concerned about or, even more commonly, to notify the populace of an upcoming hanging.


    The carriage finally pulled to a stop at the town¡¯s noticeboard, which was pitched up just outside the Second-Hand Boot. The horses snorted and whinnied their disapproval at being reined in, while the tubheads spread out around the carriage. Folks were gathering now, and they hadn¡¯t missed it. Each one kept their hands firmly on their maces.


    A figure stepped out, and bottles of half-drunk wine came clattering out with him. Even from a distance, Holsley could hear the swill of alcohol. The half-orc brusquely burped into his hand and cast his eyes over the crowd. He shrugged after a moment and reached into the carriage to grab something.


    ¡®It¡¯s a hanging,¡¯ Holsley told himself when he saw the rolled-up parchment.


    The half-orc stumbled to the board. What proceeded were three agonising minutes of him trying to nail the poster into the wood. Every now and then, he¡¯d shout at the hammer as if it was misbehaving and promise it a new life as toothpicks if it didn¡¯t tighten its act. Once he¡¯d got it done, he was off. No stopping him. The carriage was long gone before any of the townsfolk had a chance to wave goodbye.


    The crowd circled in like vultures.


    For the majority of them, it would be the most exciting thing that would happen to them today. Something to talk about over foaming mugs later. It always was. Holsley had always found those conversations a little morose. That didn¡¯t stop him from inching closer, though. He was a proud member of the most.


    Of course, being a little shorter than the average height for his age, Holsley was forced to push through the crowd. As he did so, he caught their reactions to the news. Murmurs spread out amongst them like a chest infection and soon everyone was hacking up their opinions.


    ¡®He looks a little too young to be a pirate?¡¯


    ¡®Aye, there won¡¯t be an appeal for him.¡¯


    ¡®Handsome, though. Isn¡¯t he!¡¯


    ¡®Let¡¯s see ¡®im come round ¡®ere. I¡¯ll make ¡®im wish it twer an ¡®anging.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, shut up, Mark! You tosser!¡¯


    You could populate a town with the amount of people Tressa had hung this year on that noticeboard. A small one that wouldn¡¯t function well or be pleasant to live in, but still a town. For a moment, Holsley was lost in the thuggish faces, wondering which one was the latest. They all looked so blunt and murderous. A couple seemed sweet, which, for some reason, made them look even more sinister.


    Then he found it.


    The rugged teen was a little older than Holsley. He had bum fluff on his chin, which was perhaps the makings of his first beard. There was a small scar over his left eye. Also, despite the illustration being absent of colour, Holsley could tell that his hair was a vivid crimson. It was unkempt and wild, spiked up in some places and flat in others.


    Holsley¡¯s heart missed a beat, and he quickly read the accompanying words beneath the illustration.


    ¡°By order of Love Ravenpeak on behalf of the Council of Four, carried into motion on the fifth day of Dunalorn, 1116; the human, known exclusively as Roland Darrow, will be hanged for his crimes of piracy and desertion on the sixteenth day of Dunalorn in the courtyard of the Old Stone Keep. All appeals must be made before this day in accordance with Tressa¡¯s governing laws.¡±


    Holsley read it again. Then, a second and a third time, just to be sure he hadn¡¯t got anything wrong.


    Roland Darrow. That was the name. Roland Darrow.


    Every other notice of a hanging had depicted some generic-faced criminal. Bland thugs, brutes, and ruffians. This time was different. The criminal on that poster wasn¡¯t just some stranger. No, it was someone he knew. A friend. A close friend. Someone who, in many ways, had been like a big brother to Holsley in his youth.


    Holsley spoke his following words aloud, involuntarily, and to no one in particular. ¡®How quickly can I get to Tressa?¡¯

 Chapter Four — Bare Foot Escape Shenanigans

    The mace swung high, and Roland ducked low.


    If the young rogue had stuck around long enough to see it, he might¡¯ve caught the scathing impact the sudden blow had left behind on the dungeon wall. He didn¡¯t, though. Instead, he opted to keep rushing forward on his bare feet, intent on flying away before the guard had another chance to ring his bell.


    All it had taken was a simple mistake. That¡¯s what had alerted the tubheads to his latest escape attempt. Roland had skidded around a corner a little too quickly and caught the attention of some loitering guards. After spitting out whatever was in their mugs, they were after him like a shot.


    The whole thing had forced him to double back on himself and get rightfully lost. Now, with other guards alerted to his presence, he found himself having to dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge to get past his aggressors. It also didn¡¯t help matters that an architect with a distinct lack of imagination had created these dimly lit stone corridors.


    Getting free of the cage had been the easy part. It always was. Staying free was the part he was having trouble with. Roland was never one to back down from a challenge, though. He was resolute in his decision to keep going until he hit fresh air, or a mace hit him. There¡¯s nothing much to life without a bit of risk.


    The lithe rogue dipped around the next corner as the pummels of boots and clanking armour rang against the walls like hail on glass. He pressed himself flat against a recess in the stone. Seconds later, a stumbling gang of tubheads rushed past him. They seemed pretty confident in their direction, so he didn¡¯t try to correct them.


    Roland only allowed himself a wry smile after their gruff profanities were nothing but distant howls down the corridors. He¡¯d given them the slip. It was a wonder they could catch anyone at all with all that kitchen wear weighing them down.


    He snuck from out behind the concealed nook.


    This was not Roland¡¯s first time in a dungeon. That fact would probably not come as a surprise to anyone. Despite being only seventeen, he had been incarcerated ten times, with half of those times being held right here beneath Tressa¡¯s old stone keep. Escaping those times had been easy, but he¡¯d never faced a hanging before. He¡¯d never been stowed quite so deep. Seems that they upped the security for a man courting the noose.


    Moving quickly, he trailed back the way he had come. This time, they¡¯d placed him on the fourth level. That was the lowest and darkest part of the dungeon, where only the ill-fated were thrown. It was so dark that not even torchlight was enough to see by. A magical, impenetrable darkness. He¡¯d got out of there quickly enough ¡ª as a competent rogue, he was adept at moving about in the dark.


    A quick swipe of the keys was all it had taken. Easy without any light. Then he¡¯d slipped out of his lonely cell and felt his way up to the third floor. That¡¯s the floor he was lost in now. It was still dark, but at least the dwindling fires in the wall sconces were enough to see by.


    Roland¡¯s stomach hissed painfully. Four days had passed since he had been found and thrown into a cell, and in that time, he had been given nought but a single slice of bread to eat each day and a glass of water. Wasn¡¯t it enough that they were going to kill him? Did he need to be dehydrated, starving, and near frozen to death as well?


    It was to stop him from escaping, he knew.


    Roland was easier to catch when he couldn¡¯t string two thoughts together. At least, that¡¯s what they thought, but they knew nothing of Roland. A few scraps of bread and a mouthful of water were more than enough to keep him determined. It didn¡¯t matter that his knees were aching, that his arms felt about ready to pop out of their sockets, or that there was a constant dull pounding in his skull.


    Roland would escape in time.


    After that, he would recover the items they had stolen from him. The rapier and the ruby. Two things that made him feel nauseous when they weren¡¯t close by. He¡¯d worked so hard to get them, and now they were in the hands of strangers. Tressan strangers. The uppity more affluent lot from the higher wards, no doubt.


    Then, tragedy struck.


    Roland hadn¡¯t noticed the glow of the tubhead¡¯s torch from around the corner. Once again, he¡¯d stumbled recklessly into sight. It was his head. It felt all light and fluttery, which made the very act of thinking about as ambitious as stumbling upon a sign labelled exit. He was like an over-excited golden retriever, running without any need for direction.


    They paused for a moment, both he and the guard. Each working out the ramifications of his sudden appearance. The tubhead was on their own. She held a burning torch in one hand and a mace in the other. Roland had nothing to his name but the manacles bounding his wrists together.


    ¡®I was beginning to think I wouldn¡¯t run into you.¡¯


    Roland narrowed his eyes. That voice sounded awfully familiar.


    It had been three years since he¡¯d last felt the cobblestones of this city, but before that, he had lived here all his life. As a pretty good thief, he¡¯d made enemies. Lots of them. She could¡¯ve been anyone. He had as much chance of remembering her name as shouting the first one that popped into his head.


    The guard hit the ground running. Roland knew there was no going back, which meant he needed to go forward. That, in turn, meant this tubhead was now an obstacle. He needed to either go around her or go through her.


    Roland sprang forward, putting whatever energy he had left into moving as gracefully as possible.


    The first swing came in. Roland sidestepped it easily, but he didn¡¯t get cocky. Dodging the blows of ill-trained tubheads was easy, but, as the people of Tressa often say, you only need to get hit once.


    He swung his body backwards, dodging another blow. The mace came around again, and he ducked. It ricocheted off the wall with an impressive display of illuminating sparks. Roland rolled forward around the tubhead, placing himself ahead of her.


    ¡®You move fast for someone on an empty stomach.¡¯ The guard grinned. Her mouth was the only part of her face that he could see, except for her eyes. Those purple eyes. Where had he seen those eyes before? ¡®Try this one, though.¡¯


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    If he¡¯d been fed, well rested, and capable of rational thought, Roland would¡¯ve seen the tubhead¡¯s sham attack a mile away.


    She swung, giving the impression that the mace was going low, but when Roland moved to step over it, she unexpectedly spun around and slammed her leather boot into him. The unexpected attack struck his chest square on and immediately bowled him over.


    Roland first discovered the wall, the floor, and then the pain under his ribs. He held them with an unsteady breath. The foot, which had been unusually quick and skilfully used for a tubhead, had taken the wind right out of him.


    The tubhead smiled. She towered over him, casting her shadow three times upon the wall, making her seem taller. He looked up at her, half expecting another wallop to meet his head. The mace didn¡¯t move. She stayed her hand and stood watching him momentarily as if trying to take him all in.


    ¡®Just do it,¡¯ Roland said.


    She slowly leaned down to him and spoke the following words in a whisper. ¡®Straight ahead,¡¯ she told him with a nod of her head, ¡®twos lefts, then a right.¡¯


    There wasn¡¯t another word, not even from Roland. She straightened, retrieved her torch, and whistled a jaunty tune as she marched down the corridor. Roland watched her suspiciously until the light followed her out of sight. She was gone. No alarm bells, no calls for help. Nothing.


    Odd, he thought as he struggled to stand up. His ribs were bruised and beaten, but they weren¡¯t broken. Roland had been cursed with broken ribs before, and they hadn¡¯t felt like this. It was less painful, and he could still breathe, for one thing. The stone wall was friendly enough to lend him a hand in finding his feet.


    Cautiously, he slunk to the end of the corridor. It ended in two directions. One went left, and the other went right. Could he trust the tubhead¡¯s advice? There was very little reason to trust her, especially after the beating she¡¯d just given him. Roland took a deep breath, winced a little at the pain in his side, and chose the right path over her suggestion.


    Surely, he guessed, she would¡¯ve given him opposite directions to lead him into a trap. Why would she have done otherwise?


    This time, he checked around every other corner before jumping out. After half an hour of guessing, he wondered if the guard had given him the truth after all. There was nothing he could do about it now. He¡¯d already lost his way again. The only thing to do was to keep moving forward.


    At the hour mark, Roland took a break. Breathless, he leaned against the cold stone of the dungeon wall. The damage the tubhead¡¯s foot had done was subsiding, but he felt drained from his bitter stay in this dingy hotel. His stomach let out a groan. It wasn¡¯t helping. Roland was suddenly assailed with sweet daydreams of lying on the floor and only waking back up when he felt the prod of a tubhead¡¯s boot.


    ¡®No!¡¯ Roland slapped himself around the face. ¡®I¡¯m not dying in this stupid city.¡¯


    With renewed determination coursing through his veins, he pushed himself into motion and kept moving for yet another half an hour.


    Tender, sweet fresh air caressed his face. A breeze, of all things, rustled his hair and welcomed him closer. Before long, he was chasing it, racing after it, and cared little for if the guards heard him.


    The way out of the third level was well-lit by dutiful sconces, which led to an iron gate that filled up the space between floor and ceiling. Behind them, Roland spied a set of stone steps that would undoubtedly lead up to the second level. Things would be much easier up there. It wasn¡¯t a maze-like labyrinth of similar-looking corridors. It was a straight and easy-to-navigate set of hallways.


    Roland rushed to the gate and drew a ringlet of keys from his trousers; the ones he had swiped. The first key went smoothly into the lock, but wouldn¡¯t budge when he tried to turn it. He tried another. Same thing. He swore and tried another. None of the keys worked. Roland was a mere ten feet from almost guaranteed freedom, but could do nothing about it.


    Then he heard the heavy boots behind him.


    He didn¡¯t need to turn to know that four tubheads, exactly like the ones that had been chasing him, had emerged from the darkness. Roland could hear their snide remarks and half laughs at having him cornered like this. Had they set a trap, he wondered, or had they simply got lucky?


    Furiously, Roland tried to turn the key again. This time, he gritted his teeth and forced the stupid metal rod with both hands. SNAP. The thing broken cleanly in the lock. It was a key to a cell and nothing more. He¡¯d been stupid and desperate to think otherwise.


    ¡®I don¡¯t think it fits.¡¯


    The hairs on the back of Roland¡¯s neck stood suddenly to attention.


    A fine leather boot appeared on the steps, slowly followed by another. The figure was devil-like, carrying horns atop their head and a wickedly whipping tail from out their backside. Their skin was blue, and their eyes were piercing with a hellish glow ¡ª a tiefling. The figure approached the other side of the iron bars, curiously picking something out of his fangs with those blackened fingernails.


    Roland hadn¡¯t seen this creature in almost three years, but not much had changed. His fiery hair was still thinning, his spiralling horns were still dull, his gut was still stretching his now grandiose tubhead uniform, and he still had a face that no mother could love.


    ¡®Kythos,¡¯ Roland snarled.


    ¡®It¡¯s been a while, Roland. I¡¯d ask how you¡¯ve been, but I already know. A lot of things have changed since you left. I¡¯m the Lower Warden of Tressa now,¡¯ he said, smugly pulling on the golden sash that wrapped his fine tubhead uniform. ¡®Only one step removed from being in charge of the entirety of Tressa¡¯s safety.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t say anything. He only scowled.


    Kythos stepped closer to the bars. Close enough to get a good look at Roland, but not quite close enough for the rogue to grab him and use him as a bargaining chip for freedom. ¡®I was quite disappointed to hear that you had returned to Tressa, Roland. I had rather hoped we had seen the last of you three years ago.¡¯


    ¡®Believe me, it wasn¡¯t my choice,¡¯ replied Roland through gritted teeth. ¡®I¡¯d have gone anywhere else in the world if I could¡¯ve.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, I do not doubt that.¡¯ Kythos had finally managed to get the offending piece of food out with his nail, which he then decided to have as an afternoon snack. Roland stuck his tongue out in disgust. ¡®You¡¯ll be saddened to hear that the High Warden of Tressa has decided to take a close interest in your stay with us. I¡¯ve been assigned to ensure your stay is as unwelcoming as possible.¡¯


    ¡®Meaning what exactly?¡¯ Roland raised an eyebrow.


    ¡®You¡¯re not escaping this dungeon,¡¯ he replied, the lines on his face deepening. ¡®Not under my watch. You¡¯ll be hung in seven days, and I¡¯ve acquired front-row seats to it. Before that happens, however, you and I need to have a discussion, don¡¯t we?¡¯


    ¡®Do we?¡¯


    Kythos licked his teeth, probably to ensure there were no other stragglers from his most recent meal. ¡®It¡¯s about a little boy who managed to drift ashore in a broken rowboat with a selection of most peculiar items. He himself was wearing nothing but rags, but in his possession, he had an ornate rapier that is most positively magic and a shattered ruby worth a small fortune.¡¯


    ¡®Give them back, and I¡¯ll tell you everything.¡¯


    Kythos smirked.


    The tubheads were on Roland before even he had a chance to react. He¡¯d been so focused on Kythos that he¡¯d forgotten all about them. Stupid. The first whack of the mace hit him on the side of the thigh, bringing him to his knees, which was shortly followed by a chorus of jabs. Roland was assailed on all sides; ruthlessly kicked, beaten, and knocked with mace ends.


    He refused to shout out, however, no matter how much this sucked.


    ¡®That¡¯s good, Roland Darrow,¡¯ said Kythos. ¡®I¡¯m pleased to see that you still hold up well against a good beating.¡¯


    Roland was roughly brought to his feet and forced to stand before the Lower Warden of Tressa. Kythos leaned into the bars. It was just close enough for Roland to get his shot in. While he couldn¡¯t fit through the bars, his foot bloody well could. He brought it up between the gap and straight under the tiefling¡¯s chin. Kythos reeled backwards, and Roland was given a retaliatory punch to the gut by one of the tubheads.


    Kythos staggered, his eyes glowing red. Nothing was left of the smugness, and he had turned a dark shade of blue. Still, he swiftly regained his composure and wiped the blood from his chin. ¡®Take him back to his cell.¡¯


    Roland had a sinking feeling that more pain would be in his immediate future.

 Chapter Five — Tasteful Nudes

    It took Holsley a few minutes to piece together the jumble of thoughts and questions assailing his mind. Had Roland become a pirate? Apparently. What, exactly, had he done to deserve a death sentence? Stolen something, presumably. What was Holsley going to do now? That was an excellent question.


    He decided that he had to speak to Roland at the very least. Any further plans would have to be placed on his mind¡¯s already overburdened back burner. This meant he needed to get to Tressa. That meant he needed to find a way there. Could he do that alone? Of course not ¡ª he had the navigational aptitude of a duck frozen in the winter.


    Holsley had been content to simply drift these past six months. Roaming from town to town, following the safety of travelling caravans as they traversed the old roads in between destinations. That¡¯s how he had managed to get to Petty¡¯s Nest. He couldn¡¯t take a more casual approach now, though. Not with only eight days until the execution.


    The young bard needed to know the way, and he needed a way of keeping himself protected from the bandits, monsters, and other untold dangers that awaited any foolish traveller who dared to go alone.


    What he needed was a guide.


    With a moment to consider the thought, he rushed through the midday thrum of the town, barging through the crowds and stubbornly knocking people out of the way in his adrenaline-fueled rush. When they turned to yell, nothing was left but a cartoonish dust cloud to argue with. There was one person in Petty¡¯s Nest who could take him to Tressa, and he knew exactly where to find them.


    Without a consideration for whomever might be on the other side, Holsley threw the door open and rushed into the guard¡¯s station. It ricocheted off the wall and snapped a few lackadaisical guards to attention. Those same guards gave him a muted, yet shocked expression as he shot by like a blur.


    A few called to him, but he ignored them. Instead, he continued through the building he knew like the back of his hand, until he arrived at the cells.


    They were empty.


    ¡®No!¡¯ Holsley slammed his head against the bars. ¡®Where is he!?¡¯


    ¡®Holsley!¡¯ Darynell once again roared his name. ¡®What¡¯s the meaning of¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I need to find that gnome.¡¯ Holsley pointed into the cell as if that mere gesture explained everything. ¡®Where did he go? Do you know where he is, Darynell?¡¯


    The old captain approached and settled a gentle hand on Holsley¡¯s shoulder. ¡®Calm down, lad. Let¡¯s start at the beginning, shall we?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s Roland,¡¯ replied Holsley breathlessly. ¡®They¡¯re going to hang him on the sixteenth.¡¯


    Darynell clicked his tongue. ¡®Alright, get into my office, Holsley. Let¡¯s have a chat.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t have¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Holsley!¡¯ Darynell barked, pointing towards the back. ¡®In my office. Now.¡¯


    This time, Holsley led the way. When they arrived in Darynell¡¯s office, he took up residence in the same seat as before. Nothing had changed. The stacks of paperwork had become no thinner. Of course, it had only been an hour or two.


    It was only when Darynell was sitting comfortably that he addressed Holsley again. ¡®Okay,¡¯ he started and cleared his throat. ¡®Take a few deep breaths, then tell me what¡¯s happening.¡¯


    Holsley slowly let the air in and out of his lungs a few times. It annoyed him how much that trick had worked. He felt his mind turning slower, processing things differently, and most importantly, starting to think rationally.


    ¡®A good friend of mine is going to be hanged in Tressa next week,¡¯ he started. ¡®I know the gnome is heading there, and I want to find him before he leaves so I can convince him to give me a lift.¡¯


    ¡®This is about that new poster the judicator put up, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ Darynell replied.


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ said Holsley calmly. ¡®It is.¡¯


    ¡®What exactly do you intend to do in Tressa?¡¯


    Darynell leaned back. He eyed Holsley up and down in much the same way he might have done for a criminal. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what he was capable of. It may have crossed his mind that Holsley would do something reckless, and the young man wasn¡¯t entirely sure he was wrong either.


    ¡®I, uh, well, I just need to see him at least,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®I need to get to Tressa before¡­¡¯ he trailed off. He couldn¡¯t even muster the strength needed to whisper it. He didn¡¯t want to think that far into the future. Holsley had lost friends before, and it was never easy to think about.


    ¡®Do you know about the Law of Appeal in Tressa?¡¯ Darynell sighed, leaning forward again. Holsley¡¯s quizzical look told him all he needed to know. ¡®It¡¯s a Tressan law that gives a person at least ten days of life before they are hung. It states that if it can be proved in that time that a person given the death penalty has done more good than bad in their life, then their sentence will be reduced.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s great!¡¯ Holsley sat up a little straighter. ¡®How can I prove that?¡¯


    ¡®You can speak on his behalf to the Lower Warden of Tressa,¡¯ replied Darynell. ¡®That¡¯s usually how it works anyway. Travelling to Tressa from here takes about two days, as long as you don¡¯t get lost. That would leave you six days to sort out an appeal. Now, there¡¯s a caravan moving through the town tomorrow that you could¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not waiting until tomorrow!¡¯ Holsley stood up. ¡®Where¡¯s the gnome?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s probably gone already, Holsey.¡¯


    ¡®Just tell me where. Please.¡¯


    Darynell sucked at his gums. ¡®Merhim went to hire some security for his trip to Tressa. Can you remember Hanson? Mutton chops, face like a dead fish, sings like a cat fighting for its life. I recommended him. If Merhim¡¯s still in Petty¡¯s Nest, you can find him on the End Row at Hanson¡¯s house, most likely.¡¯


    ¡®Who¡¯s Merhim?¡¯ Holsley raised an eyebrow.


    ¡®The gnome you¡¯re after.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, right!¡¯ Holsley slapped his head.


    He chose not to waste any more time. Holsley turned to leave and run out of the door, but found that a hand had caught his arm before he could. Holsley tried to shake the old captain off, but his efforts were only met with a melancholy gaze, and an even tighter grip.


    ¡®Before you go, I need to tell you¡­¡¯ Darynell drew in a deep breath. ¡®In my lifetime, I¡¯ve never heard of someone¡¯s sentence being reduced by the Law of Appeal. In fact, I¡¯ve never heard of someone¡¯s sentence being reduced ever. When Tressa decides to hang you, that¡¯s it. The choice can¡¯t be undone. Do you understand that Holsley? I don¡¯t want you to get your hopes up.¡¯


    Holsley shrugged him off. ¡®I guess Roland will be the first you¡¯ve heard of then.¡¯


    ¡®Do you believe he¡¯s a good person?¡¯ said Darynell. ¡®The appeal won¡¯t stand a chance if there¡¯s any doubt.¡¯


    ¡®I do,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®He can¡¯t have changed that much in three years.¡¯


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡®Hmmmm,¡¯ the old captain hummed. ¡®Also, about the gnome, I don¡¯t think¡ª¡¯


    Holsley didn¡¯t stay long enough to hear it. Before Darynell could finish his sentence, he was out of the door.


    The End Row was the street that marked the edge of the town to the north. It was the last road you needed to move through in order to reach the Longwalk Woods. He didn¡¯t know much about geography, but he knew Tressa was in that general direction. If Merhim hurried, he could hire some muscle and be on the road before an hour was up.


    Holsley had to be quicker.


    ¡ª


    The further out you went in Petty¡¯s Nest, the more the town repeated itself. Stacks of quaint one-storey houses followed him along the road like a never-ending pattern. Over and over again, with only minor details between them changing, like the colour of the curtains, the state of the gardens, or whether or not their chimney was smoking.


    It was impossible to tell which house belonged to Hanson.


    Holsley stopped, a stitch decisively getting the better of him, and leaned against one of the garden walls. He took a few moments to breathe. This is the kind of place he¡¯d hate to end up in, he thought oddly. Stuck in one place forever. Never leaving. Rather like a tree whose roots deepened the longer it stayed put ¡ªlike every tree, then.


    Minutes passed, and his body caught up with his determination. Holsley pushed off the wall a renewed man and set about on his search for Merhim. It was here that an opportunity presented itself.


    Along the road, about the beaten path, someone had parked a cart with four large barrels outside of one of the houses. Someone had affixed a bumper sticker on the back of the cart, which read Beer on Board.


    ¡®That has to be his,¡¯ Holsley thought aloud.


    He crept closer. It quickly became apparent there was no one on the cart. The seats were empty, and the old plough horse seemed indifferent. A few scenarios rushed through Holsley¡¯s head. If he were to ask the gnome to take him north, it seemed more likely than not that he would say no. Holsley had no money, had only just met him, and he might not want any more company in the first place. However, if Holsley were to sneak aboard undetected, then the gnome couldn¡¯t be allowed to disagree.


    There was a long chest hanging from the back between the wheels. Most likely, it contained clothes and the like for the gnome¡¯s trip. It was quite a large case; big enough, perhaps, to fit a person inside. Holsley could climb in, get comfortable, and spend the next few days travelling to Tressa for free with no one the wiser.


    He¡¯d come up with this idea in the space of a few seconds but already knew it was the right decision.


    With a silly smile plastered on his face, Holsley reached towards the cart, leaving an ear out for danger. When he was close enough to touch the wooden planks of it, the horse let out a little whinny to let him know that she knew he was there. It didn¡¯t perturb him. The bard slunk right up to the back and wrapped his fingers around the chest¡¯s lid. With a firm but easy pull, he lifted the cover to take a look.


    Initially, he was just trying to examine how much space was inside. What he found instead, though, shocked him to his core. There weren¡¯t any clothes or other belongings that a gnome might carry with him on long journeys. There were paintings. About a dozen of them, all stacked neatly in a row. It was only when Holsley lifted one up, however, that the shock quickly set in.


    ¡®By the Gods!!¡¯


    It was a painting of the gnome. A seductive painting. The gnome lay on a couch while eating grapes. Fully nude. With only a silk blanket to cover his shame. Dark curtains framed the whole sordid scene, and when Holsley could rip his eyes away, he saw that the background looked remarkably similar to the upstairs rooms of the Second-Hand Boot.


    Maybe he did a little more than repaint his room, Holsley thought then.


    Reluctantly, urged on by pure curiosity, he sifted through more paintings. They were each tasteful nudes that they grew more and more¡­scintillating. Each one depicted the gnome Holsley had met in the cell, painted in a whole host of compromising and seductive positions.


    By the fifth painting, he wanted to retch. He wanted to wash his hands, his eyes, and his brains out with soap made out of barbed wire. Instead, he¡¯d have to settle for just getting rid of the displeasing paintings and pretending he had never seen them in the first place. There wasn¡¯t enough room in the chest for him and the gnome¡¯s peculiar art pursuits anyway.


    Holsley threw them in the nearest hedge. He took each painting, one at a time, and buried them in the bushes. Then, he stamped them in to ensure none were peeking out. He hoped no one else would be cursed with seeing them, but stifled a giggle at imagining the reaction of some poor homeowner who did.


    He heard a sudden jangle then from just ahead. The kind of jangle you get when you¡¯re wearing a great deal of jewellery. Holsley had run out of time and instinctively crouched behind the cart. Merhim came into view, leading a stranger towards him. Holsley did recognise him, as it turned out. Hanson had been the guard who threw him into the cells after his first bad performance.


    The man really did have a face like a dead fish, complete with rubbery lips, tanned skin, and beady eyes.


    The cart wobbled as they climbed aboard, and Holsley, thinking fast, dove underneath it so he couldn¡¯t be seen. This would make things difficult, he realised. If his plan was to be successful, he needed to get into that chest before the cart set off.


    ¡®Are you ready?¡¯ he heard Merhim¡¯s voice above him.


    ¡®I¡¯d just like to make sure the ale¡¯s belted down properly,¡¯ a gruff voice replied. ¡®I¡¯d hate to lose something on the road and find my pay reduced.¡¯


    ¡®See to it then!¡¯ the gnome snapped. ¡®Quickly please, eh. I want to be in Tressa before the tenth.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, yeah.¡¯


    The cart wobbled again as Hanson stepped off it. A pair of legs came into view, along with a dangling sword. The boots looked new, fancy even, and Holsley couldn¡¯t help feeling slightly envious when he compared them to his worn pair. The legs moved to the back of the cart and clambered on board.


    ¡®What¡¯s it looking like?¡¯ Merhim called.


    ¡®Looks good,¡¯ replied Hanson. ¡®Oh, hang on a minute. I think we¡¯ve got a loose strap here.¡¯


    There was a tugging on a leather belt to Holsley¡¯s left. Each strap ran around the cart, moving underneath and over the top of the barrels to keep them secure. Evidently, this strap was unfastened. His stomach dropped. The fastening device ¡ª a little metal lever you pulled to make it taut ¡ª was just beside his head.


    Hanson would need to inspect it to correct it, and there was no way he wouldn¡¯t spot the scrawny bard hiding beneath the cart. That would probably lead to a few difficult questions that Holsley couldn¡¯t answer, questions like: who are you, what are you doing underneath the cart, and why are all my paintings crushed into a hedge?


    ¡®Just leave it!¡¯ Merhim insisted. ¡®I¡¯m eager to get going. The barrel is trapped by the others. It won¡¯t get loose.¡¯


    ¡®You sure?¡¯ asked Hanson. ¡®Won¡¯t take a moment?¡¯


    Holsley grabbed a hold of the fastening lever as they talked. Then he tugged on it. Hard. The strap became taut in a moment and wouldn¡¯t be coming loose again any time soon. Quickly after, he backed away, keeping an ear out and hoping he wouldn¡¯t get caught.


    ¡®Oh, hang on.¡¯ Boots thudded above him. ¡®That¡¯s strange? It appears to be tight now?¡¯


    ¡®Would you get up here now, please?¡¯ Merhim snapped again. ¡®Blimey, it¡¯s lucky I didn¡¯t hire you for your speed, eh? You best be better with a sword than you are with inspecting straps.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m already regretting signing the contract with this bloody gnome.¡¯ Holsley heard Hanson mumble as he stepped off the cart. ¡®Should¡¯ve stuck to my music career.¡¯


    When the bard was sure he wouldn¡¯t be seen, he scurried out from underneath and carefully watched the pair. If he jumped up now, they would surely notice the sudden motion. So, he¡¯d have to wait.


    ¡®HYA!¡¯ Merhim shouted, whipping the reins into action. The plough horse whinnied, and the cart rolled forward. It¡¯s now or never Holsley thought as the cart began to pick up speed along the trodden road.


    Holsley grabbed a hold of the side and hopped onto the back. If either of the pair had noticed the sudden wobble, neither had mentioned it. He supposed it was only fortunate that Petty¡¯s Nest didn¡¯t put too much care into road maintenance. From there, he kept himself low and hidden, using the barrels as a cloak against his presence. Once he was sure he was in the clear, he pulled open the chest.


    There was a rather large crossbow inside of it now.


    Had it been there before, Holsley wondered, or had Hanson placed it inside when he was inspecting the straps? It didn¡¯t matter. He knew he¡¯d never get comfortable sharing the space with it. Gently, he removed the weapon and threw it onto the road. There was a grumble from the front of the cart. The pair didn¡¯t move, however. Holsley continued.


    He placed his lute in first before climbing in himself. Always, he kept an eye out for any sudden movement or glances from ahead. Holsley was beginning to think he could shout murder, and the pair wouldn¡¯t react. With less care, he climbed inside the box chest and allowed the lid to come down on top of him.


    Click.


    Holsley paused. With both palms, he pressed at the lid and found it stuck. It was locked. Somehow, through a queer coincidence of fortune and misfortune, when Holsley had looked in the chest for the first time, it hadn¡¯t been locked. The lid must not have been replaced properly. Now it was, and he was locked inside.


    The young bard pushed again. It became quite clear, quite quickly, that he wasn¡¯t getting out any time soon. Panic set in. What if he never got out? What if Tressa was far enough away that he would starve to death? He held a breath and reminded himself that he was doing this to save an old friend.


    That made things a little easier.


    It didn¡¯t help, however, that he had severely misjudged the space at first glance. It was much smaller than he had originally thought. His leg was forced to sit awkwardly while the rest of his body was twisted into a position that wasn¡¯t exactly comfortable. Also, the lute he had put in first was now contending with him for the space.


    He was beginning to wish that he¡¯d grabbed some food, too. Any food. Even the hard tack biscuits back in his little alleyway home. Holsley still had the two silver nobles Darynell had given him. That would have done for some road snacks ¡ª little point in wishing for it now, though.


    Holsley was trapped, and short of screaming for help, would simply have to try to ignore the cramped darkness and make the most of the trip to Tressa. Perhaps he could sleep the whole way there?


    As if on cue, Hanson started to sing.

 Chapter Six — The Bard in the Boot

    ¡®Ouch.¡¯


    Holsley rubbed his forehead. For a moment there, he¡¯d forgotten that he was trapped inside what amounted to a wooden casket. The cart had jolted, waking him suddenly and forcing him to smack his head into the ceiling. Hard. He groaned with the pain and took the next few seconds to recall what kind of predicament he was now in.


    Holsley didn¡¯t even get halfway through that thought. The cart rocked again, this time more violently, and he quickly realised that it wasn¡¯t due to an uneven road. Unless he was mistaken, he was sure the cart had come to a dead stop. The wheels no longer creaked, and he couldn¡¯t hear the scattered gravel of the path below him.


    There was a battle raging outside of his little box. People were yelling. Actually, there was a lot of yelling, which was accompanied every now and again by an explosion. BOOM. It would rock the cart and send him tumbling around inside of the chest like a hand shaking a palm full of dice.


    That¡¯s just great, he thought. I¡¯m going to die trapped inside a cramped chest.


    That wasn¡¯t the end he had seen for himself, and by the Gods, that wasn¡¯t the end he would allow either. Spurred on by the growing claustrophobia and a sudden, desperate need not to die in his makeshift coffer, he threw his hands against the lid. Holsley banged, pushed, screamed, and punched. Anything and everything in an attempt to get himself free.


    It was one thing to lie in wait for the cart to arrive in Tressa, but it was entirely another thing to be trapped in what sounded like a very heated battle. Any moment, one of those explosions could find him and blow him to little bits, but over the din of the repeated explosions and the yelling, Holsley didn¡¯t think anyone could hear his hysteric thumping.


    ¡®Come on!¡¯ Holsley yelled. ¡®Please! Someone! Anyone! There¡¯s a bard trapped in the boot!¡¯


    ¡®I need the crossbow!¡¯ It hadn¡¯t been said to him, but Holsley had heard it all the same. That was Hanson¡¯s voice. Footsteps along the gravel quickly followed, shrinking the distance between the bard and the guard in a few heavy steps. A key entered the lock, turned, and the lid was thrown open.


    It was night. That was a surprise. Holsley had fallen asleep, but assumed it had only been for an hour or so. By the glow of the moons, he reckoned he must have been dozing for at least six hours. Maybe more. The young bard squinted at the man hovering above him until his eyes adjusted.


    ¡®What the¡­!?¡¯ Hanson, slack-jawed, stared down at Holsley. ¡®Where did you come from?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, hey there.¡¯ Holsley greeted him with a bashful wave. ¡®Uh, I think I must¡¯ve got turned around somewhere.¡¯


    Another explosion rocked the cart. This time, Holsley saw a jet of fire shoot up into the air, followed closely by an upward explosion of gravel and dust. Dull thuds of which rebounded off the cart¡¯s wooden exterior.


    Hanson pulled him out and threw him into the road. ¡®Where¡¯s the crossbow?!¡¯ He desperately searched the chest, haphazardly throwing out Holsley¡¯s lute. ¡®What have you done with it?¡¯


    Holsley didn¡¯t have the heart to tell him it was back in Petty¡¯s Nest. By now, some drunkard was probably using it as a bit of improvised entertainment. He imagined a woodcutter and a few close friends aiming at half-drunk tankards lined carefully atop a picket fence.


    Instead of saying anything then, he opted to say nothing at all.


    ¡®You little¡ª¡¯ Hanson reached for Holsley as if to choke him, but suddenly recoiled in pain.


    When he turned, Holsley saw that an arrow ¡ª one made from blackened wood ¡ª was sticking out the back of his left shoulder. He winced as Hanson groaned and swung himself around the cart to safety. Holsley grabbed his lute and scrambled after him, also not wanting to feel the keen sting of a sudden arrow.


    It was a good job too, for the moment he had moved from his spot, an arrow struck it. That was almost instant death. It had been fired by something hidden in the treeline that edged along the road, but in his haste to find safety, he hadn¡¯t caught a glimpse of what. It was too dark.


    ¡®You!¡¯ Merhim pointed a finger towards Holsley as he backed into safety. ¡®What¡¯re you doing here, kid?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not a kid!¡¯ Holsley retorted. ¡®I, uh, hitched a ride in your chest.¡¯


    THUNK. An arrow sunk into the wood just above them. That arrow was quickly followed by about ten more. It was raining sharp, pointy sticks, and Holsley imagined the other side of the cart was beginning to take on the appearance of a hedgehog.


    ¡®Where¡¯s the crossbow!?¡¯ Hanson grabbed Holsley by the shirt with his good arm and shook him.


    ¡®Uh, there wasn¡¯t a crossbow in there,¡¯ Holsley replied quickly. ¡®It was empty when I climbed in. Honest.¡¯


    ¡®Empty?¡¯ Hanson didn¡¯t believe it. Holsley could see it in his wide eyes.


    ¡®Wait! What do you mean empty?¡¯ Merhim straightened. ¡®There wasn¡¯t anything else in there? No paintings?¡¯


    ¡®No. None. Nothing.¡¯ Holsley gulped. ¡®Uh, but I¡¯m sure if there were, I imagine they were very tastefully done.¡¯


    ¡®It must be goblins.¡¯ Hanson dared a look over the lip of the cart. ¡®They¡¯re definitely wielding bows and arrows, but I can¡¯t explain¡ª¡¯


    Another roar of fire followed by a spray of dust and road pebbles interrupted him. Something had hit the path. Something powerful. Holsley had never seen anything like it before. It was like a blast of fire. Maybe magic? That was his first thought. Offensive magic? Not something he was well versed in.


    ¡®That,¡¯ Hanson continued. ¡®What kind of weapons are they using to produce that?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s magic,¡¯ replied Merhim, confirming Holsley¡¯s suspicions. ¡®Couldn¡¯t be anything else. I recognise a fire spell when I see one, eh.¡¯


    ¡®Goblins¡­¡¯ Hanson swilled the word around in his mouth, ¡®¡­with magic.¡¯


    The gnome gave him a sharp nod.


    ¡®Well, in any case, they¡¯ve got us pinned down. I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s nothing for it but to abandon the cart. If I had my crossbow, I might¡¯ve¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not ready to abandon my ale that quickly, eh!¡¯


    ¡®Can¡¯t we just get in the cart and make a run for it?¡¯ Holsley asked. The moment the question had left his lips, he realised there was probably an excellent reason for not opting for such a simple solution.


    ¡®The wheel on the other side is broken, kid,¡¯ Merhim replied. ¡®I¡¯m beginning to think these blighters had something to do with it.¡¯


    ¡®Couldn¡¯t we just all get on the horse?¡¯ Holsley continued his trail of thoughts, remembering the old plough horse.


    ¡®Old Millie isn¡¯t fast enough,¡¯ Merhim snorted. ¡®Besides, I got her free and let her run off into the woods. I was rather hoping she¡¯d distract our attackers.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s what we should do,¡¯ said Hanson. ¡®Make a break for it. We can return on the hour if these goblins are after the cart. If not, they¡¯ll have more cover to contend with in getting an arrow on us.¡¯


    ¡®On three then,¡¯ Merhim replied reluctantly. ¡®They¡¯d better leave the ale alone, eh.¡¯


    Danger isn¡¯t an uncommon thing in the world. If you took to travelling outside of the safety of towns and other such settlements, chances are you¡¯re going to run into something scary eventually. Holsley very rarely dealt with danger, however. Sure, sometimes a big bully wanted to perform improvisational dental surgery on his teeth, but they were nothing compared to what lay in wait in the wilderness of Everfall.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    He thought about the stories he¡¯d read as a child. Marlin Mandrovi had faced dangers every day, but the magnificent minstrel had always found a way out of it, usually through sheer cunning or devilish trickery. Those were his favourite stories. Holsley didn¡¯t have a lot of cunning or trickery, though. When the word was given, he would have to hope for the best.


    ¡®Now!¡¯ Hanson screamed, and they took off together in a sprint.


    Arrows flew from behind. Some struck the trees or the ground nearby, but not one grazed Holsley¡¯s skin. He stumbled into the treeline, thankful for the extra protection offered by the trunks, and didn¡¯t slow. Holsley quickly lost track of the other two as he sped over the crunchy autumn leaves.


    The goblins had followed them in.


    Holsley could hear the patter of their footsteps. They were shouting something in a strange, guttural language. Although he didn¡¯t know the words, he could tell that what they were saying didn¡¯t bode well for him. He doubted they were yelling things like, spare the bard, or maybe we should just give up because we¡¯re out of arrows.


    So, Holsley kept running, lurching awkwardly through the bare trees at top speed.


    Holsley only slowed when the thunk of the arrows against the trunks dwindled. It was dark, and he could barely see an inch before him. He could be making a big circle back towards the cart for all he knew. Breathless, he crouched behind a tree and rested there for a moment. Surely he¡¯d be hidden here, he thought.


    Could goblins see in the dark? If so, then he was in a great deal of trouble. By the moonlight, he could just make out the silhouettes of the surrounding forest, but all sense of where he had been and where he might be going was long gone from his mind.


    ¡®Help!¡¯


    That was Merhim! Perhaps he¡¯d been cornered? Holsley needed to do something. It was hard to act when faced with the idea of goblins bearing down on him with nasty-looking arrows. It was all his fault, though. If Holsley hadn¡¯t thrown away the crossbow, Hanson might¡¯ve fended the creatures off.


    If the gnome died because of him, his conscience would never shut up about it.


    That thought alone was enough to bring him out of his mossy seat. He was off again on already aching legs without a second to reflect. Merhim repeated himself, this time much closer, and Holsley followed his voice. He followed the gnome¡¯s reaching pleas, but who he found first wasn¡¯t Merhim. It was Hanson. The hired guard was running in the exact opposite direction to the desperate cries.


    ¡®I¡¯d keep running if I were you,¡¯ he said as he passed.


    Holsley went to say something, but he was already gone. The last the young bard saw of Hanson was his back retreating into the distance, the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder blade. It was disheartening. Not because he was abandoning his duty, although that was bad enough, but because the saving of the gnome had been left solely to Holsley.


    He found Merhim seconds later. The gnome was in a right state. He had fallen to the ground and received a rather nasty-looking bump on the head. Evidently, in his rush, he had tripped, but that wasn¡¯t the worst part. The worst part was that he was not alone.


    Merhim had backed himself up against a tree and was at the mercy of a short, green-skinned creature wielding a rusty kitchen knife.


    Holsley had never met a goblin, but he¡¯d definitely heard of them. This one matched the description perfectly. Three feet tall. Mouth full of needle-thin teeth. Elongated, membranous ears that had grown into points. Some stories had described them as cute or cuddly, like a puppy or something, but Holsley could not see that in this thing.


    It looked vicious and bloodthirsty.


    As was typical with goblins, the diminutive creature had also augmented itself. That is to say, it had replaced some of its limbs with crude prosthetics it had found in the forest. Its eye had been replaced with a black billiard ball, and instead of a left hand, it now wore a spatula sticking out of a bloody stub wrapped with tight bandages.


    ¡®A gnome,¡¯ the creature croaked towards Merhim. ¡®I hates gnomes.¡¯


    The goblin hadn¡¯t heard Holsley¡¯s approach. So, while it had a knife, Holsley had the element of surprise.


    He checked the circles on his fingers. They were both black. That rest he¡¯d managed to get in the chest hadn¡¯t been for nothing, then. Holsley had two spells to make use of, and he only needed one to save the gnome. Supposing that he cast it right, of course.


    Just as he had done at the bandstand, Holsley plucked the strings of his lute and stepped into view. The goblin turned, hissed, but at the pull of the third note went dopey. Its one eye drifted ever so slightly off-centre, and its vicious grin became a pleasant smile. Holsley awkwardly wove the notes and teased the strings until he was ready to accompany his playing with words.


    ¡®Now listen to me, my sweet little goblin.


    You¡¯re making a fuss. You ought to be, uh, hobbling?¡¯


    This was further than he¡¯d managed to get with the half-orc.


    You had to be clever with a spell of charming, for while the tune remains the same each time, you had to change the lyrics to pacify the creature. It didn¡¯t give him control over the goblin, but it would regard him as a friend instead. So long as the words made sense to it in the moment.


    That¡¯s why the song was made to be so genteel and pleasant; it was to entice your target and sort of hypnotise them into liking you. This was harder to cast on smarter beings, like humans or half-orcs, but a skilled enough bard could enchant anyone if their playing was perfect and their lyrics golden.


    Goblins appeared to be pretty easy to confound with magic and half-rhymes.


    ¡®We do not need to fight, cause fighting is pointless,


    instead, let¡¯s be friends and stop with this whole mess.¡¯


    The goblin blinked in confusion.


    Holsley watched it carefully as his short song came to an end. Then, quite sweetly, it hopped up to Holsley and held out its spatula arm. The young bard shook it, thankful that he had managed to beguile this creature, and tried to ignore the rusty knife in its other hand.


    ¡®Friend!¡¯ it sparked.


    Holsley breathed a sigh of relief.


    He stole a glance at Merhim, who seemed to have been caught by surprise. The young bard knelt down to the goblin¡¯s level so he could look it in its eye. ¡®Listen, uh, what¡¯s your name?¡¯


    ¡®Boblin.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s a, uh, pretty name.¡¯ Holsley winced. ¡®Listen, Boblin, I need your help. Your goblin buddies are trying to kill me and my friend here.¡¯ The goblin angrily stamped his feet at this. Holsley calmed him with a reassuring hand on the shoulder. ¡®Hey, hey, it¡¯s okay, I have a plan. I¡¯d be very much appreciative if you could, oh, I don¡¯t know, lead them away from us and in the wrong direction. Could you do that for me, Boblin?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, yeah.¡¯ The goblin nodded its head vigorously, very eager to please. ¡®I¡¯d do anything for you! I¡¯d die for you.¡¯


    ¡®I mean, uh, don¡¯t do that, but yeah, sounds good.¡¯


    Boblin the goblin hurried into the woods. Less than a second after that, Holsley heard him yelling in the guttural language of his kind. Holsley listened eagerly, expecting the worst, but every time he heard the goblin shout, the creature was further away from them. Eventually, its voice became a whisper.


    With that done, he rushed to Merhim and helped the gnome back to his feet.


    ¡®So, that¡¯s why you needed your lute, eh.¡¯ Merhim dusted the dirt off his clothes, his bangles rattling as he did so ¡ª that was probably how the goblin had caught him out. ¡®So, you do know magic. I thought I¡¯d seen those circles on your fingers back in the cell.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, yeah,¡¯ replied Holsley sheepishly. ¡®Just a little bit. I¡¯m not much of a spellcaster.¡¯


    ¡®Fooled me,¡¯ replied Merhim. ¡®I thought I was about to meet Sarwolia back there before you came in.¡¯


    Holsley smiled and decided not to mention his guilt at throwing away the crossbow. They waited a few minutes until they were sure the goblins had all been led off by Boblin. It soon became apparent that the threat was gone, and they could relax a little. There were no more guttural shouts, nor arrows, nor the pacing of tiny feet through the trees.


    ¡®Right, we¡¯ve got to find Hanson.¡¯ Merhim slapped his hands together. ¡®Then we retrieve Old Millie, get back to the cart, and get out of here before there¡¯s more trouble.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, about Hanson.¡¯ Holsley tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. ¡®He¡¯s gone. I saw him run off into the woods, and I don¡¯t think he¡¯s coming back.¡¯


    ¡®Then I need some other security,¡¯ the gnome sighed. ¡®What were you doing in my chest, lad?¡¯


    ¡®I need a ride to Tressa.¡¯ Holsley nervously rubbed his arm. ¡®I, uh, don¡¯t know the way.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a done deal then.¡¯ Merhim held out his hand. ¡®I¡¯ll take you to Tressa, and you use your magic to keep me safe. Agreed?¡¯


    Holsley shook the gnome¡¯s hand but omitted to tell him that he was a bit out of practice with magic, and that, if pushed to do that again, it likely wouldn¡¯t work. He¡¯d gotten lucky. Right now, his record for successful spellcasting was about one in every ten attempts. If trouble reared its head, it was probably better not to rely on him or his lute to save the day.


    They worked their way back through the trees. ¡®What about the wheel?¡¯ Holsley asked along their journey. ¡®Isn¡¯t it broken?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s an easy fix without the threat of arrows.¡¯ Merhim waved away his question. ¡®I¡¯m more concerned with how those little cretins were casting fire spells at us. Goblins aren¡¯t exactly known for magic.¡¯


    ¡®How can you be sure it was magic?¡¯ Holsley ducked beneath a low branch.


    ¡®I¡¯m a gnome,¡¯ he replied. ¡®We know our magic.¡¯


    They found the cart intact with all its booze shortly after finding the plough horse. The sweet creature had found a nice spot of grass to munch on, and didn¡¯t seem any the wiser that its life had been threatened a mere half an hour ago.


    ¡®What¡¯s your name again?¡¯ Merhim asked the bard when they reached the cart. ¡®Sorry, I¡¯m terrible with names.¡¯


    ¡®Holsley,¡¯ he replied. ¡®That¡¯s what they call me anyway.¡¯


    ¡®Hmmm.¡¯ Merhim hopped over to the other side of the cart. It was, as predicted, covered in a tremendous number of arrows.


    Beyond the ranged ammunition, Holsley could see how the wheel had broken. From the scorch marks, it must have been hit by a blast of fire, the effect of which had severed the wheel at the joint. However, Merhim didn¡¯t seem very troubled about it, and even let out a little chuckle. Then, he withdrew a small leather bag filled with tools dedicated to the repair of the cart.


    ¡®Not the first time I¡¯ve had to repair a dodgy wheel.¡¯


    ¡®Will it take long?¡¯


    ¡®About as long as it takes, eh.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯


    ¡®Right then,¡¯ Merhim said eagerly. ¡®I¡¯ll mend this while you look out for goblins.¡¯

 Chapter Seven — Paint by Slumbers

    The unlikely travelling companions were courting nightfall by the time the wheel had been fixed.


    Fortunately, Merhim had been spinning yarns about his many ventures through the Longwalk Woods for the past hour or so. If Holsley hadn¡¯t known any better, he could¡¯ve sworn the gnome had planted the trees himself from the way he told his stories. Still, he had no choice but to trust his judgement, and allow him to lead the way.


    Merhim led them to a small clearing for the night. Judging by the ashen branches lying in the pit and the way the wooden logs had been arranged for comfortable seating, they weren¡¯t the first travellers to make use of this place. In fact, Merhim confessed to having been here several times before.


    They had arrived at the right time. Holsley couldn¡¯t help noticing how dark and twisted the trees had become. Overgrown branches reached towards them like outstretched fingers, and he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Best to be in the safety of camp then. He set his mind to ease by gathering some kindling.


    After a few short trips in and out of the woods, they had enough spindly sticks to start a fire. Merhim, who had been playing around with a pot and a sack full of vegetables, did the honours himself. He retrieved a peculiar metallic device from his pockets that Holsley knew as a firestarter. Upon the press of a button, it brought a small flame to life, which Merhim used to get the blaze going.


    ¡®Bet you¡¯ve never seen one of these before, eh?¡¯ Merhim presented the firestarter for Holsley¡¯s inspection, but the bard turned it away. ¡®Ah yes, pride of gnomish manufacturing, this. While humans and elves are busy rubbing two sticks together, us gnomes can get on well enough with our love of invention. Sarwolia, be blessed.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve seen one before,¡¯ Holsley said glumly. ¡®A long time ago.¡¯


    Merhim fed his vegetables to the pot, which he then simmered over the fire. Holsley watched him do it as his thoughts turned to Roland. They probably hadn¡¯t even fed him. Every time he had been to an execution, which was rare, the men standing on those platforms looked skinny as rakes. Starved. He had a tough time imagining Roland in that kind of state.


    ¡®So, why you heading to Tressa all of a sudden, kid?¡¯ Merhim¡¯s question cut through the silence. Holsley¡¯s thoughts returned to the present moment as he watched the gnome stir their dinner with a wooden spoon. ¡®I thought you didn¡¯t much like Tressa, eh?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t.¡¯ That¡¯s all the answer Holsley wanted to give, but he pressed on to elaborate ¡ª he owed the gnome at least that much for misplacing the crossbow. ¡®A friend of mine has got himself into trouble. I¡¯m going to try and help him.¡¯


    ¡®Trouble?¡¯ The gnome raised an eyebrow. ¡®What kind of trouble?¡¯


    ¡®The kind that gets you hanged,¡¯ replied Holsley.


    ¡®Is he a pirate?¡¯


    That was a good question, but Holsley didn¡¯t have a good answer. Instead, he shrugged. ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯


    ¡®Tressa hates pirates at the moment. They¡¯ll execute them quicker than they can say parlay.¡¯ The gnome snickered, then stole a tentative slip of the simmering broth and promptly pulled a face. ¡®That needs a few more minutes. What is it you¡¯re planning on doing then, kid?¡¯


    ¡®Well, Darynell told me about the Law of Appeal,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®I¡¯m going to try to¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Waste of time.¡¯ Merhim shrugged the rest of Holsley¡¯s words away. ¡®Many have tried. None have succeeded. Tressa doesn¡¯t like its criminals, and believe me, the criminals don¡¯t like it either. You must be close to this friend of yours, though, since you got yourself locked in a trunk for him.¡¯


    ¡®I was, uh¡­am,¡¯ Holsley said awkwardly. ¡®Haven¡¯t seen him for a few years, though.¡¯


    ¡®Is he innocent, do you think?¡¯


    Holsley digested those words for a moment as the gnome took another chance at sampling the broth. It was another good question. He¡¯d never thought of Roland as being innocent, as such, but he certainly didn¡¯t deserve to die. Roland wasn¡¯t a bad person. Holsley supposed that his innocence wasn¡¯t really important, just as long as Roland hadn¡¯t done anything too bad.


    He was being hung for piracy. That meant, most likely, he¡¯d become a pirate. They just did things like steal from other ships, right? Like thieving. Roland had always been a thief, a really good one, too. It just meant that now he was a thief on the water instead of the land.


    ¡®What does desertion mean?¡¯ Holsley asked then, recalling the word from Roland¡¯s poster. ¡®I think he¡¯s being hung for that too.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s when a person abandons their position in the military,¡¯ replied Merhim without looking back at him. ¡®Your friend must have escaped from mandatory military service. I¡¯ve heard Tressa offers that to first-time offenders.¡¯


    Holsley was desperately trying to piece together the last three years of Roland¡¯s life, but he had very few clues to go on. Somehow, his friend had become a pirate, and it must have been after he deserted his post in the Tressan military. Maybe becoming a pirate was why he had abandoned his post in the first place.


    So many questions.


    ¡®When was the last time you saw him?¡¯ Merhim pulled the spoon to his mouth, this time, seeming content with the results, and hurriedly prepared bowls to share the broth. It was a simple meal, but it smelled delicious. Incredibly delicious. Holsley¡¯s belly growled with anticipation. He hadn¡¯t eaten anything all day.


    The young bard knew it had been three years, but was trying to recall the last time he had seen Roland. It must have been in the Tressan markets after the incident with Kythos. He could remember them getting into hysterics over how angry the brutish tiefling had become from their bout of mischief. He smiled at the thought, then frowned. It had been the same day as¡ª


    ¡®Here.¡¯ The gnome thrust the bowl in Holsley¡¯s direction and broke the spell his memories had cast over him. ¡®Get this down you, eh. Got a few days to Tressa yet.¡¯


    Hunks of carrot, lettuce, potato, and leek swam happily together in the brown, watery liquid beneath his senses. From how his nostrils were stinging, it wasn¡¯t a leap to guess that the gnome had added some spices to the brew to bring out the flavour. He smelled sweet coriander, spicy cumin, and a little garlic.


    It wasn¡¯t the best meal he had ever had. Not by a long shot, but it was certainly functional and tasty, even if the broth was too busy, in his opinion. There was too much going on with the spices, vegetables, and flavour. Still, he hungrily wolfed it down, remembering the old adage that beggars can¡¯t be choosers.


    The pair sat uneasily together as they munched their dinner, slurping down the broth and chewing on the vegetables. Merhim had positioned himself on the log directly opposite the fire, leaving Holsley to glance over at him through the flames. The day was waning, and soon they¡¯d be asleep, but there was one thing that Holsley wanted to know of the gnome. One thing that, if he didn¡¯t ask, he¡¯d soon regret.


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


    ¡®Okay, uh¡­¡¯ he began, grinding the carrot pieces slowly in his mouth, ¡®¡­about those paintings.¡¯


    Merhim stopped chewing and glanced up at Holsley. ¡®So¡­you did see them then?¡¯


    ¡®I mean, I may have caught sight of them when that thief I mentioned was running off with them,¡¯ said Holsley, leaning a little closer towards the gnome. ¡®I¡¯ve got to ask, uh, why? Why do they exist?¡¯


    ¡®Painting is my passion, Holsley,¡¯ the gnome said simply, with a shrug. ¡®Have you ever seen a magical item before, lad?¡¯


    The young bard blinked.


    Holsley didn¡¯t need to think long about what the gnome had asked because he had seen a magical item before. Back in Donathal, the elves used magical items for practically everything. From defending their borders against mountain monsters to propping up wobbly chairs and beyond. So much that they had become a little boring.


    There was something else, however. An item he had known in his youth. A lute ¡ª a magical lute ¡ª that was nothing less than a masterpiece of craftsmanship. It could play beautifully and could only be played beautifully. The instrument was made from an enriching crimson wood that shone in even the darkest of places, and no matter what you did to it, it could never be scratched or broken.


    Just thinking about it made Holsley ache to see it again.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ he said, finally. ¡®I¡¯ve seen magical items before.¡¯


    ¡®I bet you haven¡¯t seen anything like this, though.¡¯


    Merhim reached into the inner pocket of his scraggly coat and pulled from it an old paintbrush. ¡®I bought this from a market stall in Port Ral¡¯Endas. It may not look like much, but it¡¯s magical. All you need to do is think of a colour and tap its brush against an object. Whatever you touch will, for a time, become that colour. You can also paint with it like you¡¯ve got a never-ending supply. Look, watch this.¡¯


    The gnome touched the tip to his jacket, which was currently a dark green. Suddenly, it turned a vibrant blue, then a crimson red, and finally a gravestone grey. ¡®I found my passion for painting after buying this brush.¡¯


    ¡®Okay,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®But, uh, what about the nature of your paintings? The, um, nudity in them?¡¯


    ¡®Humans! You¡¯re all so prudish!¡¯ Merhim folded the paintbrush back inside his jacket pocket and crossed his arms over the breast. ¡®You can¡¯t handle the peak gnome form, eh? You think I should be painting mountains and forests and the like? Boring. Grossly boring.¡¯


    Holsley watched him stomp over to his unfurled bedroll. A part of him wished he hadn¡¯t asked about it. Asking it hadn¡¯t even yielded an answer. Wisely, he decided to change the subject. ¡®Do you think those goblins will come looking for us?¡¯


    ¡®Nah,¡¯ said Merhim, sliding into the woollen bag. ¡®Goblins don¡¯t attack the same people twice. Far too cowardly. Now, let me get some sleep, kid. I want an early start to make up for lost time.¡¯


    The young bard finished the last few bites of his meal and then positioned himself far enough away from the fire that he could still feel it without being near it. Then, as he often did when he struggled to sleep, he counted sheep in his head until unconsciousness found him.


    <hr>


    A gnome¡¯s scream was far more effective than any alarm.


    Holsley hadn¡¯t known how many hours had passed since he had reached the land of nod, but he did know two things. The first was that it was still dark, but the moons had moved some way across the sky, meaning hours had passed. The second was that the gnome was threatening to bash his face in with a spare tree branch he had stolen from the ground.


    ¡®You braindead bard!¡¯ he seethed, shaking him awake. ¡®You incompetent idiot. You maddening minstrel! You¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I get it!¡¯ Holsley forced the gnome off him. ¡®What are¡ª¡¯


    ¡®YOU were supposed to be keeping watch for trouble, eh,¡¯ shouted the gnome. ¡®You¡¯re the hired security! Why weren¡¯t you awake? This could¡¯ve been avoided easily if you were bloody awake!¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯ Holsley rubbed his head, confused. ¡®What are you¡ª¡¯


    He reached for his lute, as he often did when he needed something to comfort his nerves. Holsley¡¯s fingers found nothing instead. Eyes wide, he searched the dirt for the instrument. It had been right there, just next to where he had been sleeping. His gut twisted. It only dawned on him what had happened when he looked for the cart, the ale, the horse, and anything else they had brought with them. It was gone. Everything was gone. ¡®What happened?¡¯


    ¡®We were robbed, eh.¡¯ Merhim kicked the half-empty pot, which did little more than scatter what remained of the stew and stub his toe. He hopped on it angrily. ¡®You were supposed to be keeping watch!¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t know that!?¡¯ Holsley had never felt so affronted in all of his life. He¡¯d never served as security on a journey before, and, if he were being honest, he didn¡¯t even know the extent to which he was serving as security on this journey. ¡®Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, what good are excuses now?¡¯ Merhim moaned, dropping to his knees. ¡®I spent what little I had left on that bloody ale, and now I¡¯ve got nothing. Not a damned thing, eh.¡¯


    ¡®I need that lute.¡¯ Holsley found his feet and straightened his back. ¡®I can¡¯t go to Tressa without that lute.¡¯


    ¡®Good luck with that, kid.¡¯ Merhim sat down on one of the logs and then buried his face into his hands. His palms obscured any other words he spoke, but Holsley could imagine what his muttering amounted to. So, he stopped listening. Instead, he went to see the patch of flattened grass where the cart had once been.


    It was too dark to see it properly, but he could conjure a light to see the area better. It was one of the minor spells that the elves had taught him. These minor spells, or cantrips as they were more commonly called, could be cast with minimal effort and without even the use of a lute ¡ª although their total power remained up to his ability.


    Holsley took a fallen branch from the ground and whistled a simple tune. This one had taken some time to master but was simple enough to conjure at a moment¡¯s notice. As he whistled, a small bauble of light grew from the top end of the stick. It wasn¡¯t terribly bright, but it was enough to illuminate the area. The tracks were obvious. The heavy wheels had flattened the grass and left a trail they could follow into the woods.


    ¡®I¡¯ve found something,¡¯ he called over to Merhim. ¡®Maybe we could follow these tracks?¡¯


    ¡®Follow them and do what?¡¯ Merhim glanced up over his palms. ¡®We¡¯ve got no weapons, and we¡¯re probably up against bandits, kid. Right now, I¡¯d bet anything they¡¯re sitting about having a good old drink on my coin. Probably while rummaging through our belongings¡­well, my belongings.¡¯


    The gnome had a good point.


    There was no telling what awaited them at the other end of these tracks. To him, it was a simple matter of his need for the lute outweighing any potential pending danger. Holsley simply could not abandon the instrument and reach Tressa without it. It was his only weapon for one thing, and for another, it was just about the only thing he had left in this world.


    ¡®I¡¯m following them,¡¯ he said firmly, holding his makeshift torch a little higher ¡ª it should last at least an hour. ¡®You can come if you want?¡¯


    ¡®Do you have any idea how dangerous these woods are, eh?¡¯ The gnome straightened and set his eyebrows to stern. ¡®I ain¡¯t blindly walking through the trees hoping we come across the men who robbed us so we can politely ask them to return our things. What do you expect to do here exactly? You don¡¯t even have a weapon?¡¯


    What would Marlin Mandrovi do? Holsley knew the answer, of course. The magnificent minstrel would charge into the forest without a care for the danger and find the villains that had robbed him. He wouldn¡¯t fight them, though. No, he¡¯d find a way to outsmart them. Trick them into handing back his things. Could Holsley pull something like that off?


    He was no Marlin Mandrovi, but it was worth at least seeing where their things had ended up, right?


    ¡®Listen, I¡¯m not going to go charging in demanding our stuff back,¡¯ replied Holsley, shining the light towards Merhim so he could catch the gnome¡¯s expression. It wasn¡¯t reassuring. ¡®There¡¯s little harm in seeing what we¡¯re up against. Uh, I think. Maybe we might find an opportunity to take everything back?¡¯


    ¡®Suppose that¡¯s reasonable,¡¯ Merhim sighed. ¡®But if it¡¯s a bandit camp, chances are they¡¯ll be looking out for intruders. They¡¯ll have a patrol set up.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think it¡¯s bandits or anything human-sized anyway,¡¯ replied Holsley. The young bard beckoned Merhim over to inspect the grass with him. ¡®My boots have left prints in the grass and the mud, look. There¡¯s very clear evidence of me and even clear evidence of you, and we¡¯re not that heavy. Why are there no other tracks then? Not one footprint?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s a good catch, kid,¡¯ said Merhim thoughtfully. ¡®Our thieves must be quite light then.¡¯


    With a deep breath caught in his lungs, Holsley took the first step forward. Following the tracks would be easy, as obscuring a heavy cart was no easy task in an environment like this ¡ªeven in the dark. The hard part would be keeping himself moving.


    In truth, Holsley¡¯s nerves were on edge, especially when it felt like all this darkness was closing in on him. Danger lurked everywhere, he knew, and every step past a tree or brush of a leaf might set off a life-threatening trap. It was a stupid decision made in desperation, but he needed that instrument back.


    He couldn¡¯t see Roland without it.

 Chapter Eight — The Ice Bucket Challenge

    Roland held his breath as his head was forced back beneath the water.


    The subzero chill frosted his face, blinded his eyes, and made his skin come alive with the sensation of a thousand tiny needles prickling it all over. He struggled against the hand on the back of his neck, holding him down as bubbles of air struggled towards the bucket¡¯s surface.


    This was what passed for torture in Tressa. Pathetic. It was boring, mundane, and quite frankly, Roland had been exposed to more imaginative ways of pain ¡ª the many scars riddling his body could attest to that. Even so, when he was brought back out of the bucket for the hundredth time, he inhaled air like it was going out of fashion.


    ¡®You know, I was rather looking forward to a quick pint after work.¡¯ Kythos, the slovenly tiefling, threw the rogue¡¯s head back. Roland would¡¯ve struck him if it hadn¡¯t been for the manacles bounding his hands behind him. ¡®You ever have a tough day, Roland? Wanna relax for a little bit. Unwind. Do sorry weasels like you even have bad days?¡¯


    Honestly, there was something cocky Roland could say to that, but he didn¡¯t want to ruin his sojourn from the water.


    He was shivering. He couldn¡¯t do anything to help that. It had been two hours since he¡¯d been thrown in this dank, cramped broom cupboard. He was soaked through. Every ten minutes, Kythos would knock on the door and retrieve a new bag of ice, which he¡¯d pour into the bucket. Then everything would start afresh.


    He just needed a break.


    Kythos picked at something in his teeth with those long nails of his and flicked it away. In his other hand, he held an empty mug. Something was written on it, but Roland couldn¡¯t see with water soaking his eyelashes. He just assumed it said something like w.


    ¡®It¡¯s unfortunate for you that I got assigned to do this, Roland. I could really just go all night. I¡¯m enjoying myself, actually.¡¯


    The rogue didn¡¯t reply. He wouldn¡¯t reply. He wouldn¡¯t give this fat slob, whose shirt was speckled with gravy, a damned thing.


    ¡®Alternatively, I could go for that pint.¡¯ Kythos leaned into him. It was close enough that Roland could sniff the lingering mutton on his breath from his last meal. ¡®Come on. End this torture and go back to your cell. Get some rest. Then we can both gracefully move on.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve got gravy on your shirt.¡¯


    Roland barely had enough time to hold his breath before his head hit the water. Another icy embrace reached out to claw at him, but he didn¡¯t fight it. He tried to relax this time, but that wasn¡¯t happening. Not when his lungs were fighting to breathe freely. A few seconds later, he resorted to struggling again.


    When Roland was brought back up this time, he was almost surprised by it.


    ¡®Three days ago, you were found half-dead on a rowboat. You had nothing to your name except the clothes on your back, a fancy-looking rapier, and a shattered ruby that must be worth at least ten thousand gold crowns.¡¯ Kythos dipped his empty mug in the bucket and returned it full. He sipped at it as if their conversation was nothing more than an inconvenience to him. ¡®Now, I want you to tell me exactly where a little grubber like yourself managed to find a ruby like that. Did you steal it? Sorry, stupid question. Where did you steal it from? Who did you steal it from? Why were you in that bloody rowboat?¡¯


    Roland put all of his will into not smiling. If he smiled now, he likely wouldn¡¯t come back up from that bucket. Kythos was a Ravenpeak, that much he knew, and he also knew that his mother was the High Warden of Tressa. That wasn¡¯t secretive or anything. Everyone knew about their connection.


    It just meant that she had signed the order to have him executed without a trial ¡ª alleged criminals didn¡¯t get a trial in Tressa. Perhaps she had been in a rush that day, for it was only later that they discovered Roland was more than what he appeared, and that the ruby was more than just a simple ruby. Now, they wanted some serious answers.


    As long as he didn¡¯t talk, they couldn¡¯t kill him. That much he knew, and it almost made him smile.


    They were stupid. All the higher-up, poshy, posh people were. They were too busy eating fancy meals in their big homes and disparaging the poor. Now, he suspected, they couldn¡¯t overturn his execution because that would make them look even more dumb. Skyward forbid that they do anything to make themselves appear merciful.


    Kythos dragged the only chair in the room over and sat as his forked tail whipped back and forth. He gave Roland a hard look, but the rogue had seen harder. In truth, it was almost comical. There was nothing this tiefling could do to intimidate him, not when Roland held all the cards.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡®I¡¯m running out of patience,¡¯ Kythos seethed. ¡®Just tell me what I want to know.¡¯


    ¡®I thought you could do this all night?¡¯


    The Lower Warden of Tressa tightly gripped and unfastened his fingers repeatedly. As a boy, Roland had given this overweight tubhead the runaround, and no matter how much he tried, Kythos hadn¡¯t been able to keep up with him. The guard had been much fitter back then as well. In that time, he quickly learned how short of a fuse Kythos actually had.


    With a calming sigh, Kythos ran a hand through his thinning hair, being careful to avoid his horns. ¡®I can make your last week very comfortable,¡¯ he said through clenched teeth. ¡®Good food, a decent bed, and some entertainment. Do you like books? I can get you books.¡¯ Roland hated books. ¡®I could even talk to my mother and suggest you not hang in return for your cooperation. If you tell me what I want to know now, we could save a lot of unnecessary suffering. What do you say?¡¯


    As tempting as that sounded, it was all lies. Roland wasn¡¯t an idiot. So, his reply was a simple but satisfying shake of the head.


    ¡®You little¡ª¡¯ Roland didn¡¯t hear the rest of the insult as he was too busy having his head forcefully pushed right to the bottom of the bucket. He struggled instinctively this time because this time felt different from the others. Kythos wasn¡¯t in control; his anger was, and he thought then that the guard would probably kill him.


    A minute passed, then a minute and a half. Maybe. It was hard to keep time when your head was in a bucket. All he knew was that it felt way too long.


    Roland¡¯s lungs began to beg. Bubbles emerged from trying and failing to scream, and he thrashed against his oppressor¡¯s hand. Kythos was stronger, however. Perhaps if he hadn¡¯t spent the past few days not eating anything or wasting his energy on failed escape attempts, he might be able to free himself. As it stood now, there was very little he could do ¡ª it was a discomforting thought.


    Kythos said something, but the water distorted it. Roland thought it had sounded somewhat like, ¡®WHY DON¡¯T I JUST KILL YOU NOW!?¡¯


    Was this it? Was he about to die?


    A memory came back to him. Suddenly and unexpectedly. Was it his life flashing before his eyes? It was a memory he returned to often. Hands coated in blood, his breathing shallow, desperately crawling to find help until he was too weak to move. A young boy on the edge of death. Roland had been running all night, which was quite impressive, seeing as he had been stabbed in the back. He thought he would die then. Bleed out and be forgotten. Someone had saved him, however.


    Holsley.


    Something changed. The grip on his neck became a little weaker, and he seized the opportunity. Roland threw himself up with every bit of strength he still possessed, parting from the water, and greedily gulped down as much air as possible. Water came out like vomit a moment later, but he was still alive. He drenched the floor with it as he lay shaking on his side, barely able to see through his waterlogged eyelids.


    ¡®What are you doing, Kythos?¡¯


    There was somebody else in the room. The voice was harsh and croaked with an eerie connotation.


    Roland looked up, half expecting to see another tubhead, but only the two of them were still in the room. What he did see, however, was Kythos standing rigid like a statue with wide eyes and a fresh chorus of sweat on his brow. The guard¡¯s skin had gone a very pale blue.


    ¡®Roland Darrow is destined for death on the sixteenth.¡¯


    Once again, Roland searched the room for the source of the disembodied voice but found nothing. Not even after wiping the water from his eyes. Kythos seemed to think it was coming from one dark corner, but no matter how he strained his vision, Roland couldn¡¯t see anything.


    ¡®I-I¡¯m allowed to interrogate prisoners in whatever manner I see fit.¡¯ Kythos puffed up his chest, but Roland could see he was shaking. ¡®I was not going to let him die!¡¯


    ¡®I could feel the life leaving him.¡¯


    Kythos stiffened as Roland recoiled.


    Slinking out from the darkness in that corner of the room came a length of rope that seemed to have a mind of its own. It slithered along the ground like a snake, with a frayed head which seemed perfectly capable of seeing where it was going. In shock, Roland backed up, quickly reaching the opposite wall as this animated serpent wormed its way towards Kythos.


    The tiefling didn¡¯t move ¡ª not that there was anywhere to go in this cramped space anyway. Slowly, like a methodical animal, the rope climbed up the guard¡¯s leg, circling as it did so, and continued up his body.


    Kythos seemed to know what would happen next because he grabbed the rope just before it coiled tightly around his neck and squeezed.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ he uttered.


    ¡®Ask only your questions.¡¯


    ¡®I will!¡¯ Kythos assured it. ¡®I promise.¡¯


    As quickly as this ordeal had started, it unravelled.


    The rope snapped back, swiftly undoing itself from Kythos¡¯s body and receded into the darkness. A second passed, and then another, each moving slower than the last. The corner seemed like just a corner again. Still, Roland stared at where the rope had disappeared as if it might return. He was transfixed, and his head was swimming with questions.


    ¡®What was that?¡¯ Roland spluttered. ¡®What just happened?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re done.¡¯ Kythos crossed the room to him and was not gentle in helping Roland back up to his feet. ¡®We¡¯ll try again tomorrow.¡¯


    ¡®No, what?¡¯ Roland gasped as they headed towards the door. The tiefling pounded on it to be let out. ¡®What was that thing? I don¡¯t understand?¡¯


    Kythos glanced down at him.


    Roland stared back into those eyes, still wreathed with anger, but there was something else there now. Roland had known Kythos for a long time, but he had never once, not ever, seen him frightened. Angry, sure. Annoyed, absolutely. Not afraid, though. That¡¯s what was in his eyes now. The old guard was terrified, and it wasn¡¯t hard to see why.


    The rogue didn¡¯t think he¡¯d get an answer, so instead, he kept his mouth shut, but it turned out he was wrong.


    ¡®That¡­¡¯ Kythos took a deep breath, ¡®that was your executioner.¡¯

 Chapter Nine — Trick or Meat

    Broken branches, flattened grass, heavy hoof prints, and the tracks of wheels left behind in the dry mud. In short, the trail couldn¡¯t have been more obvious if they had been following the path of an irritated rhino. It seemed that every opportunity the thieves had been given to go through the bushes rather than around, they had jumped at with reckless abandon.


    The morning light was peeking through the trees by the time they came to the final crushed bush. Unfortunately, the only thing the light illuminated was how pointless the hours-long journey had been. From behind the safety of a nearby boulder, the pair spied the entrance to a small cave fiercely guarded by three small goblins.


    ¡®Yeah, that makes sense,¡¯ Holsley sighed. The cart and the horse stood tethered to a tree a few feet to the left of the entrance, but there was no sign of the gnome¡¯s ale or pack or Holsley¡¯s precious instrument.


    ¡®Those green-skinned b¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, this isn¡¯t good,¡¯ Holsley interrupted. He checked, as he often did in the light of morning, on the circles dotted along his little finger. One was still red from the charming spell yesterday. The young bard hadn¡¯t rested enough to recharge his magical potential. Damn it. ¡®This really isn¡¯t good.¡¯


    ¡®Right,¡¯ Merhim straightened, ¡®let¡¯s head back to camp then.¡¯


    ¡®No!¡¯ Holsley grabbed his arm, then said, in a much softer tone, ¡®I¡¯m not leaving without my lute.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s hopeless, eh.¡¯ Merhim shrugged. ¡®It¡¯d be a few more days to Tressa, and we can talk to the guards. If we¡¯re lucky, we might meet a couple on the road. Beyond that, there¡¯s nothing we can do, kid.¡¯


    Holsley didn¡¯t have time for guards. There was no way he was leaving here without that lute, and he knew Merhim didn¡¯t want to abandon his belongings either. He just needed to think.


    ¡®What would Marlin Mandrovi do?¡¯ he whispered to himself.


    ¡®Who?¡¯ Merhim barked.


    Holsley ignored him. Marlin would find a way to trick the goblins, but how? The young bard looked back to the cave entrance. Currently, two of the goblins were roughhousing, wrestling and rolling about on the dry mud while the third clapped his hands together and laughed at their buffoonery.


    Goblins weren¡¯t stupid, but they were childlike. Maybe that meant they were a little gullible, too?


    ¡®What do you think is going to happen here, kid?¡¯ Merhim snapped his fingers in Holsley¡¯s ear to grab the young bard¡¯s attention. ¡®You think we¡¯re going to rush in there and take back what¡¯s ours, eh?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, well¡­¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s three of those unsightly blighters watching the door, which means there could be a hundred more inside. That means they¡¯ve got a leader, a small army, and a bunch of weapons. We¡¯ve got a dagger between the two of us!¡¯


    The gnome wasn¡¯t wrong.


    Obviously, they couldn¡¯t fight their way in, but maybe they could sneak inside? Steal back what had been stolen from them. Holsley made a quick mental checklist of what he could do and the items they still had between them. Then, an idea occurred to him. He smiled excitedly.


    It was exactly what Marlin Mandrovi would do.


    ¡®I think I can distract them,¡¯ he said. ¡®I know a minor illusion spell I can use to change my voice. I can make myself sound like a goblin.¡¯


    ¡®What good would that do, eh?¡¯


    ¡®I can mimic the goblin who threatened you yesterday and lead those guards away from the entrance to say¡­¡¯ Holsley looked about the woodlands around them until his eyes landed on an idyllic spot. He pointed at it with his finger. ¡®To that patch of woods over there.¡¯


    ¡®Then what?¡¯ Merhim straightened. ¡®There¡¯s still a hundred more in there! Goblins hate gnomes, hate gnomes, so if you¡¯re suggesting I walk in and¡ª¡¯


    ¡®What if they don¡¯t see a gnome?¡¯ Holsley grinned. ¡®If you wore a disguise, you could sneak in while I distract the guards. You could find our stuff and sneak back out through the entrance with no one the wiser.¡¯


    ¡®Carrying four barrels!?¡¯


    ¡®Well, maybe not all the barrels,¡¯ Holsley admitted. ¡®They took your pack, though, right? Was there anything valuable in it?¡¯


    Merhim grimaced. ¡®What little I had left. Every crown and noble my life has given me.¡¯


    ¡®Should be easy to sneak away with,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®None of them are going to suspect another goblin walking around, especially if there are as many as a hundred in there.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t look much like a goblin, kid.¡¯ Merhim gestured to himself, sweeping his jangling arms over his fanciful, though path-beaten clothes. ¡®How do we change that?¡¯


    ¡®Do you still have your paintbrush?¡¯ It was a rhetorical question. Holsley already knew that he did. The gnome had stashed it inside his jacket before sleeping last night. If the goblins were afraid of waking them, they wouldn¡¯t have risked stealing it, and something told him they were.


    ¡®I do?¡¯ Merhim retrieved it from his pocket, and Holsley gave him a moment to let the penny drop. ¡®Oh no! I am not doing that!¡¯


    ¡®Even if it means we might be able to steal back your ale?¡¯ Holsley urged with innocent eyes. ¡®Even just your pack and my lute would be worth it.¡¯


    ¡®Sarwolia, save me,¡¯ the gnome muttered.


    Holsley watched patiently as Merhim paced, clearly thinking through the disastrous-sounding plan.


    ¡®Alright, fine,¡¯ Merhim exhaled finally. ¡®I¡¯ll look around, but I¡¯m only taking my pack and your lute. And the ale if there¡¯s a good opportunity, eh.¡¯


    That suited Holsley just fine. Barrels of ale might be hard to lift without being spotted, but he was sure that if he could find where the lute and his pack were, they could be easily stolen without the goblins even batting an eye.


    All it took was a tap of the paintbrush.


    The gnome¡¯s skin became goblin green, and he was already halfway over to looking the part. The real trouble, or so Holsley had thought, would come from finding suitable garments. It turns out, though, that he needn¡¯t have worried. This area of the woods was riddled with the bits and bobs the goblins didn¡¯t find appealing, and they had their literal pick of the litter.


    Merhim stripped down to the essentials, and they constructed an outfit for him that was undoubtedly the height of goblin fashion. A potato sack from a hanging branch would serve as a tunic. A half-broken wooden spoon that the gnome could wield from inside his sleeve. A dirty bandage that could keep his hair and ears hidden. All this, mixed with green skin, made him reasonably convincing.


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    Thank goodness it would be dark in the cave.


    ¡®They¡¯re going to stab me, aren¡¯t they?¡¯ Merhim said hopelessly. ¡®You¡¯re going to get me killed, kid.¡¯


    ¡®I actually think this could work.¡¯ Holsley stepped back to admire his thriftiness. ¡®Still up for it?¡¯


    ¡®I guess,¡¯ Merhim said. ¡®Don¡¯t expect me to linger, though, eh. I¡¯ll be in and out.¡¯


    With that vote of confidence, the pair proceeded with the plan.


    In no time at all, Holsley had found a suitable tree and was advancing up its overgrown branches. Unlike Roland, he hadn¡¯t been blessed with the natural dexterity necessary to climb things easily, so he took it slowly up the gnarled branches, always keeping an eye on where his feet were going next.


    Holsley nestled into a seat on one of the higher branches. The great oak was still blessed with enough autumn leaves to keep him hidden, so he wasn¡¯t worried about being spotted. From here, he could see the entrance to the cave, the goblins, and the goblin-like gnome crouched behind a boulder across the way.


    There was nothing else for it but to act.


    Holsley cleared his throat and, very gently, so gently that he was sure he could not be heard from afar, whistled a tune into his palm. It was quick, catchy, and clung to the air like dust to a sunlit shelf. After only a few seconds, two of his fingers shone with an enchanting blue glow. This was a very slight spell the elves had taught him, so slight that it didn¡¯t require his playing of the lute.


    They had called it the many illusions spell, for you could cast many illusions with it. Holsley would use it to make his voice sound like a goblin, but he could also use the slight spell to create crude images no larger than his palm. Unfortunately, the images he created were a bit rubbish. A skilled caster could make illusions that were indistinguishable from reality, but his were more like children¡¯s drawings of the thing that he was conjuring.


    Holsley placed his glowing fingertips on his throat and concentrated on what he wanted to sound like. The only tricky part was figuring out what he wanted to say.


    ¡®Uh¡­Help! Help, please, I¡¯m injured!¡¯ The voice was undoubtedly in the right tone ¡ª a clear and convincing imitation of the high-pitched, guttural, nasally groan that was the goblins¡¯ cadence.


    It took a few tries before the guards¡¯ pointed ears perked up. They had still been roughhousing when he started calling for them, and they only jumped out of the scrum when each was convinced that they had heard something.


    They said something to one another and glanced over at the trees. Then, proceeding with caution and raising their rusted weapons, they stepped closer and closer towards the sounds of Holsley¡¯s imitations.


    They were a strange group to look at. More junk than goblin at this point, having scrounged a great deal from the people they had stolen from. The leader of the search, an overly rotund goblin that looked like he¡¯d benefit more from rolling than walking, wore armour made from old pots and frying pans.


    His consorts were similarly dressed. On the left was a small goblin wearing an old kettle for a hat. He had replaced his leg with the tip of an old spear and now hobbled as a result. On the right, a taller, sleeker goblin kept his head concealed underneath a powdered wig and wrapped himself in a leather coat that trailed behind him like a wedding dress.


    However, the weapons they carried were most concerning to Holsley.


    Rusted kitchen knives that were blunted beyond belief. To kill a person with those, you¡¯d have to put a great deal of effort into it. Something, Holsley didn¡¯t doubt, the goblins were overly eager for.


    As he watched Merhim cross to the cave entrance and slip inside unnoticed, he suddenly felt very foolish. Was this a good idea? After all, he was sending the gnome into a den that was more likely than not filled to the brim with murderous goblins. If the goblins in there were like the goblins out here, then had he convinced Merhim to go to his death?


    ¡®Gaggaknack!¡¯ the goblin leader called out into the trees. Perhaps one of the most significant flaws in his plan to pretend to be a goblin in distress was the fact that he didn¡¯t know the first word of their language.


    ¡®Uh, Gaggaknack?¡¯ Holsley echoed back, praying that the word was a goblin way of saying hello or something similar.


    Whatever it meant, it seemed to drive the goblins on. Holsley kept leading them around the copse of trees by throwing his voice with the magic he was using. Whenever they reached one place they were sure he was in, he would throw his voice to another, and they¡¯d start all over again.


    It didn¡¯t take very long for them to start squabbling.


    They shouted at each other in their rather terrifying goblin language, and although Holsley couldn¡¯t understand what they were saying, he could tell what was being implied. The larger one seemed to think that the other two were stupid, and that¡¯s why they hadn¡¯t found the injured goblin yet. The others, likewise, thought he was stupid, and it quickly became a game of slaps.


    Intrigued, Holsley shifted further along the branch to watch. He didn¡¯t need to throw his voice anymore as they were distracting themselves just fine. After a few slaps, the knives were levelled, and they began circling one another and hissing like stray alley cats. It was an intoxicating display that Holsley simply couldn¡¯t pull his eyes away from.


    ¡®I wonder how goblins resolve disputes?¡¯ Holsley whispered aloud, leaning forward, unaware of the creaking branch beneath him. ¡®Do they have courts of justice, or is everything decided through stabbing?¡¯


    Snap. Holsley straightened. That wasn¡¯t good.


    The branch he stood on jostled, dropping him by no more than an inch. In muffled horror, he looked back. Under his weight, the tree¡¯s limb was bending and cracking. It was all happening so quickly, too. That bard had but a moment to think of a way to save him from a sudden fall. Too late. The branch broke, and he suddenly fell uncontrollably.


    Holsley fell through the branches of the gnarled oak, most of which broke away with his weight while others actively slowed his fall. He felt like the coin in a game of Plinko, hitting every peg on the way down and never quite sure where he would land. Finally, his body found the ground, and he met it hard.


    Pain raced across the surface of his body, but mainly along his back, and he had become momentarily paralysed. Holsley stared up at the canopy of trees, taking in the lambent light of a beautiful autumn day. The air was chill but not cold, and the light was bright but not blinding. It was exactly the kind of weather he enjoyed and would often go walking beneath.


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ That was all Holsley could manage when three diminutive figures loomed suddenly above him.


    For a second there, he had forgotten that there were goblins. He must have landed right in between them. On instinct, the bard raised his hands and gave them an awkward smile.


    ¡®A hooman?¡¯ one of them gawped. ¡®What¡¯s a hooman doin¡¯ ¡®ere then?¡¯


    An idea occurred. A terrible idea. One that wouldn¡¯t work in the least but was about the only thing he could think of that might just save his life. Quickly, he placed his fingers on his throat. The following words out of Holsley¡¯s mouth were, ¡®I¡¯m not a hooman!¡¯ made in the same tone he had been using to lure the goblins to this part of the woods. ¡®I is a goblin.¡¯


    The goblins looked at one another, confused.


    ¡®No,¡¯ the overweight one said with a jab of his finger. ¡®You is a hooman. Stoopid.¡¯


    Holsley carefully sat up, keeping his hands in sight. ¡®No! I¡¯m a goblin. I was, uh, uh, cursed,¡¯ he said nervously. ¡®B-by a wizard. He turned me into a stinky hooman and stuck me up a tree. I is a goblin, I swears it.¡¯


    ¡®The wizard,¡¯ the three of them muttered it together in unison like it meant something. Had Holsley gotten lucky? Was there a wizard lurking in these trees, turning unsuspecting goblins into humans?


    The taller goblin straightened his wig and stepped forward towards Holsley. ¡®Prove it,¡¯ he said through a mouthful of yellowed fangs. Holsley choked. Gods, his breath reeked of rotten meat.


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ Holsley thought on that for a second. ¡®I hate gnomes. They are nasty, stupid things, and I hates them with a passion. I wish they was all dead.¡¯


    The terrifying trio looked at each other in a way that Holsley interpreted as that was a very goblin thing to say, but we¡¯re still not convinced. Somehow, he was getting away with this. There was a silent debate between them then, made only with the wild flickering of their eyes, but eventually, they relented.


    The larger goblin, waddling about in his constricting pot armour, approached Holsley with a stern eye. ¡®We still ain¡¯t sure,¡¯ he informed Holsley, ¡®so we is taking you to Stabby Toe.¡¯


    ¡®Stabby Toe?¡¯ Holsley was so taken aback by the name that he had forgotten to keep his fingers on his throat. ¡®Stabby Toe?¡¯ he repeated in the croaked voice, just to make sure he¡¯d been heard in the right cadence.


    ¡®Our guv¡¯nor.¡¯


    Holsley was threatened into a standing position through the poking of rusted weapons. When he stood, he was then marched towards the den¡¯s entrance. He did so willingly, not wanting to contract a severe case of being stabbed to death, but kept his fingers on his neck so he could keep conversing with them.


    ¡®Uh, so what are your names, fellow goblins?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m Pot Gut,¡¯ said their apparent leader ¡ª the rotund one covered in makeshift armour. Then he pointed to the taller one. ¡®That¡¯s Wiggy.¡¯ Holsley supposed that was because he was the one wearing the wig. Finally, the finger pointed to the last goblin with the kettle headwear. He probably had a name like Kettlehead or Spear Leg or something. ¡®That¡¯s Kevin.¡¯


    Oh, never mind then.


    These were almost all literal names, leaving Holsley wondering what a goblin named Stabby Toe could be known for.


    ¡®Oh, uh, it¡¯s a pleasure,¡¯ said Holsley after he realised they were waiting expectantly for him to introduce himself. ¡®I¡¯m, uh¡­¡¯ he thought for a moment. Ideally, he wanted a name that might strike some terror into these goblins, something that might make them think twice before killing him. He couldn¡¯t think of anything. ¡®They call me Gob Lin.¡¯

 Chapter Ten — Putting a Toe in It

    Holsley was surprised at how deep the tunnels went.


    Initially, he had imagined a small network of roughly dug-out tunnels leading to perhaps two or three rooms at the most. Inside those rooms, no doubt, he¡¯d find dozens of goblins all huddled together around spitting fires and eating animals straight from the bone. What he found instead was quite the opposite.


    The young bard was marched at knifepoint to the edge of a deep hole within the cave, barely lit by crudely built burning sconces dotted about the dry walls of worked mud. He peered over the side.


    The dug-out space must have gone down for at least a mile and was overflowing with wooden walkways, scaffolds, and bridges that all seemed to move with a mind of their own¡ªpuppeteered by a sophisticated pulley system above his head.


    ¡®Ouch!¡¯ Holsley yelped. One of the goblins, Kevin, had rammed a sharp fingernail into his left butt cheek as an incentive to move. ¡®Okay, I¡¯m going.¡¯


    His goblin captors escorted him onto a rickety wooden scaffold, forcing Holsley to follow the steps to a bottom he couldn¡¯t quite see. As he did so, he marvelled at what they had created here. Whatever books he had read concerning goblins had clearly been written by authors who had never ventured a single foot inside their dens.


    First of all, whatever suspicions he and Merhim had about the number of goblins in here was woefully underestimated. This was an outright community with numbers, he suspected, similar to a small town. They flowed in and out of tunnel entrances, along the shaky bridges, busily coming to and fro.


    Second, they were amazingly resourceful. Frying pans hung alongside tunnels that goblins would ring before entering. Clothes, clearly stolen from taller humanoids, were hung out on a washing line and stitched together to make sheets and blankets. Crates and barrels, the kind that would have once contained food and drink, had been repurposed into seats and tables.


    It was all quite remarkable.


    Of course, the goblins were fully aware of an intruder in their home. Suspicious eyes followed his every move as Wiggy¡¯s sharp reminder at his back kept his legs in motion. Holsley only looked up when he heard the telltale sound of trickling water, and it was amazing to find half-cut pipes escorting fresh rainwater down into the deeps of the goblin home.


    ¡®What yous looking so shocked for?¡¯ Pot Gut rattled ahead of him. ¡®Ain¡¯t you ever seen a goblin home before?¡¯


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ Holsley replied, remembering to press his fingers to his throat this time. ¡®Yes, but mine isn¡¯t this nice. Or big. Or¡­innovative.¡¯


    ¡®Where is it then?¡¯ asked Kevin.


    ¡®Oh, it¡¯s in the¨C¡¯ Holsley muffled his voice with his hand so they couldn¡¯t hear his following words. ¡®¡­towards the other side of the woods.¡¯


    ¡®Where?¡¯ Wiggy raised an eyebrow, or the bit of skin above his eye where an eyebrow would usually sit.


    ¡®It¡¯s in the¡ª¡¯ Holsley did it again, but this time pointed towards a nondescript goblin across the way drinking what appeared to be sludge from a bowl. ¡®Who¡¯s that?¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯ They turned to look, and their question was momentarily forgotten.


    Soon after, they reached the ground floor and headed towards a larger tunnel entrance on the other side. All around this entrance were wonky wooden plaques written in what looked like confusing chicken scratches. Holsley guessed it was a system of rules, judging by the pictures, with punishments that did not look pleasant.


    ¡®We must always obey the guv¡¯nor,¡¯ Pot Gut said when he caught Holsley looking. ¡®No stealing, and always do what he says.¡¯


    The others nodded in silent agreement.


    Holsley shuddered. He wasn¡¯t all too excited about meeting the leader of these goblins, but he had to admit to feeling curious. What kind of goblin could¡¯ve built all of this? What goblin with a name like Stabby Toe could control this band of creatures?


    His wayward thoughts caused him to suddenly stumble on an exposed root, prompting another prod in the backside.


    Stabby Toe must be huge. The goblins in his stories only worshipped the biggest and strongest of their kind. The ones who could defend them the best. He imagined a beastly, gargantuan goblin that towered even over his human height. Hairy with obstructive fangs and toenails that had been trimmed into daggers.


    Now, that would be a way to go. Stabbed to death by toenails. The bards didn¡¯t sing songs about those sorts of deaths.


    They moved through a system of tunnels that led away from the big-hole foyer. Holsley became instantly lost, like, at most, two minutes into the trek through them. These corridors were incredibly repetitive, with no real distinguishing features between them. The goblins seemed to navigate them just fine, however.


    At just about the time when he felt like the dirt walls were closing in on him, the tunnels opened up into the next room. It was massive. At the very least, forty goblins sat at long tables illuminated by overhead lanterns and roaring fires. To the young bard¡¯s disbelief, he saw that the tops of these tables were moving like a giant conveyor belt. Raw, uncooked pieces of meat slid in front of the goblins, who grabbed what they wanted and devoured it instantly.


    It was a food hall. The goblins had constructed themselves an eatery.


    ¡®Woah,¡¯ was all he could mutter.


    In the corner, he saw what was powering this strange machination. It was a goblin, huffing and puffing as he ran on a large wheel made of pilfered parts. Like a hamster, Holsley thought. Mostly, it was made from bits of an old wagon, some rope, wheels, and other things that he¡¯d expect to find as part of a caravan.


    The tension was thick as the trio led him through an aisle between the long tables.


    Goblins hissed at him like stray alley cats and didn¡¯t dare touch their bloody meals while he was around. They watched him carefully, no doubt wondering what a human was doing so deep in their home. Holsley was beginning to wonder that himself. All the young bard could do was smile weakly at them, almost apologetically.


    Holsley aimed for an exit without glancing in any direction but the ground. If he kept his head down, he thought, perhaps his presence would be less intrusive. He felt a strange pang of guilt for encroaching upon the goblin¡¯s homes. Even though they had stolen from him, he felt like he had overstepped a boundary by coming inside.


    When the trio forced him into another corridor, away from the hall, he was thankful to hear the din spark back up. Goblins re-conversed in their incomprehensible sharp-tongued language while hungrily devouring their breakfast. He sighed, but his relief was short-lived. It suddenly dawned on him that he hadn¡¯t seen Merhim.


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    It wasn¡¯t the best light in here, but surely, he would¡¯ve noticed a gnome amongst this crowd.


    He also realised that there was no turning back now. Escape would be more difficult than ever this deep. He should have run. There were now a hundred goblins between him and the outside world. Getting out of this alive would require some quick-thinking peppered with a decent amount of charm ¡ª two things that Holsley had never been very good at.


    ***


    The sight of a door at the end of an especially long tunnel was unexpected and equally unwelcome.


    It was the only door he had seen, which meant that whatever lay behind it must be something important. Like the guv¡¯nor. The trio giggled, whispering to one another in goblinish while glancing up at Holsley. They reminded him of naughty children up to no good. It made Holsley¡¯s stomach ache with unease.


    Holsley blinked as the trio removed the door from its frame and placed it firmly on the ground. That was one way to open a door, he supposed. Holsley stepped over the plank of wood, following them in, and what he found on the other side was far worse than he had imagined. The room was dominated by a creature sitting on a crude throne of wooden chests.


    It wasn¡¯t a goblin. Or, at the very least, not like the other goblins.


    The thing was huge, larger than Holsley even when sitting down. It was covered in orange and brown fur. An upturned piggy nose and gorilla-like maw made Holsley believe it was an animal for a moment, but there was intelligence in those eyes ¡ª a dominating intelligence that scrutinised the human that now stood before it.


    ¡®What is this?¡¯ Its voice rumbled like a falling boulder, and, like a boulder coming at him, made Holsley want to turn and run. ¡®Why yous bring a hooman down here?¡¯


    ¡®He says he ain¡¯t a hooman.¡¯ Pot Gut rattled forward, shifting up his loosely tied frying pan belt. ¡®He says the wizard turned him into a hooman from goblin and stuck him up a tree.¡¯


    Stabby Toe¡¯s eyes glanced across the room at the mention of a wizard.


    Taken in by the frankly horrifying vision of this creature, Holsley had briefly forgotten that the rest of the room existed. He cast his eyes over it now, taking the moment to observe his surroundings and hoping, in that moment, for some method of egress.


    The room was large and strangely square. Like the others he¡¯d seen, it had been dug out but with far more precision. The bard saw an impressive collection of treasures spilling out from each of the room¡¯s corners and surrounding the goblin master. Crates of goods, sacks of spendable coins, swords, armour, and casks of ale. All of it was stolen from the road and covered in scorch marks.


    There must be a year¡¯s worth of pilfering here, perhaps even longer.


    Holsley gasped.


    He hadn¡¯t noticed the stranger in the corner gagged and wrapped up in ropes at first glance ¡ª a tawny man, half-conscious, lying on a pile of rotting food. The stranger was human by appearance and much older than Holsley, perhaps seventy or eighty, as was evident from his overgrown beard and wild bushy eyebrows.


    However, the cobbled-together patchwork robes and pointy hat revealed to the young bard what he really was. This was a wizard. There was no doubt about it. In all the books he¡¯d read and stories he¡¯d heard, wizards tended to favour a robe and a pointy hat.


    ¡®What¡¯s yer name,¡¯ Stabby toe burped.


    ¡®Lin.¡¯ Holsley shifted awkwardly on his feet. ¡®Gob Lin.¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s a liar,¡¯ Stabby Toe roared, leaning forward. ¡®He¡¯s a stoopid hooman, playing stoopid tricks.¡¯


    ¡®No, I is a goblin. I is. I is.¡¯ Holsley protested, keeping his fingers pressed to his throat. ¡®I ain¡¯t a stoopid human.¡¯


    For the first time, Holsley noticed the stick lying on the armrest of this creature¡¯s throne. It was straight and ornately carved with whirling patterns. The guv¡¯nor took a hold of it and stroked its length while he observed Holsley.


    ¡®Prove it,¡¯ he snarled.


    This wasn¡¯t going to end well.


    ¡®H-how?¡¯ Holsley asked. ¡®I just want to turn back to normal and, uh, eat meat, sleep and, and wrestle?¡¯


    An unnerving smile crept across Stabby Toe¡¯s features. ¡®If you is a goblin, say something in goblin.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, g-gaggahas, gaggabrack, uh, oh, gaggaknack?¡¯ Holsley wished he had said that a little more confidently, seeing as his life might depend on it.


    Unimpressed, Stabby Toe stood to his full height. Holsley took a step back on pure instinct. How he wished he had his lute. Not that it would save him or anything, but it would be nice to die with a familiar friend in his arms.


    ¡®You ain¡¯t no goblin.¡¯


    It was then that Holsley noticed one of the goblins in the corner, desperately trying to get his attention. Except, they weren¡¯t a goblin. No, they were a gnome in disguise. Holsley held back the smile as he glanced over. Merhim was positioned near the wizard, using the distraction Holsley was providing to undo the stranger¡¯s restraints.


    The young bard needed to keep up the diversion.


    ¡®Say something else.¡¯ Stabby Toe pointed the stick towards him, and Holsley suddenly realised what it was. He put two and two together. Dammit. A wizard in the corner meant that this blood thing was most likely a stolen wand. Oh!


    Quickly, he recovered all the things he knew about magical wands. Some were dangerous, no, most were dangerous, while others were useful. Could anyone just pick them up, though, and start slinging spells? He couldn¡¯t remember. He really couldn¡¯t. Stabby Toe seemed pretty confident he could wield it, though.


    The goblin leader said something to him in goblinish. Holsley had no idea what had been said, which was apparent on his face. He backed up a little more.


    ¡®Ah, see, I¡¯m an out-of-town goblin.¡¯ Holsley gave Stabby Toe a nervous smile. ¡®I speak a different kind of goblin. It¡¯s the accent, you see.¡¯


    ¡®Your voice has changed.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ Yeah, Holsley had kind of forgot about that. He looked over; Merhim was still struggling with the restraints.


    Holsley had never met a wizard before, but he did know they were quite powerful spellcasters that, like him, drew from the mysterious power of the arcane. Thanks to his elven education, he also knew that as long as their mouths and hands were free, they could perform spells. This wizard better be conscious enough to cast and quick enough to save him.


    ¡®I don¡¯t think you is a goblin.¡¯ Stabby Toe forced him to back up against the wall. The trio that had led him here were snarling now, gooey saliva dripping out of the corners of their smiles. Stabby Toe thrust the wand right at Holsley¡¯s neck. ¡®I think you is an intruder and a thief, here to steal our wizard.¡¯


    Just a little more time.


    ¡®Yeah, well¡­¡¯ Holsley was thinking on his feet now. ¡®I don¡¯t think, uh, YOU is a goblin!¡¯


    Stabby Toe blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden outburst.


    ¡®Y-yeah!¡¯ Holsley stepped forward. ¡®You don¡¯t look like a goblin to me. You¡¯re too tall, hairy, and uh, uh, ugly!¡¯ Why did he say that? ¡®No, not ugly, but, uh, different looking is all I meant. Like we¡¯re all beautiful in our own way, right?¡¯


    The goblins looked at each other as if he had a good point. The sudden bout of inspiration seemed to work until Stabby Toe snarled, and everyone quickly realigned their allegiances again.


    ¡®Do magic on him!¡¯ exclaimed Kevin excitedly. ¡®Do it!¡¯


    ¡®Okay, wait.¡¯ Holsley put up his hands. ¡®You got me. I¡¯m not a goblin, but I am a bard. That¡¯s way more useful. I, uh, could sing songs and tell you stories. I mean, not right not, I don¡¯t have my lute, but as soon as I get it back. I¡¯m sure goblins like stories, right? I know loads of¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Shut up,¡¯ Stabby Toe snarled. ¡®We don¡¯t like stories.¡¯


    ¡®Then why don¡¯t you tell me one?¡¯ Holsley asked. Merhim was sure taking his time. ¡®Like, why didn¡¯t the goblins just kill us at the campsite before taking our stuff?¡¯


    ¡®Death attracts guards,¡¯ Stabby Toe sniffed, then he threw up the wand, clearly tired of this conversation. ¡®Guards bring trouble.¡¯


    ¡®What about¡ª¡¯


    ¡®No more questions!¡¯ Stabby Toe flicked the wand as if to use it.


    At the last possible moment, Holsley stupidly dove forward. The beast had got too close. The bard, acting on pure instinct, managed to wrap his hands around the stick and fought for it. They struggled, but it was clear who was stronger. Stabby Toe bound a furry arm into Holsley¡¯s chest and sent him skittering into a wall on the other side of the room. Fortunately, a pile of old chests was there to break his fall.


    Holsley hit them hard, shattering them under his weight, but he had managed to win the wand out of the goblin¡¯s overgrown fingers.


    ¡®Give me that!¡¯ Stabby Toe roared from across the room.


    Holsley had never held a wand before, much less used one ¡ª he didn¡¯t even know what this wand was capable of.


    Stabby Toe didn¡¯t care about that. The brute came right for him, his unkempt toenails scraping the floor. Ah, so that¡¯s why they called him Stabby Toe. What Holsley did next was more of a flinch than anything intentional.


    He flicked the wand forward, and the end erupted in flames with a loud explosion. Not unlike the explosions he had heard in the woods. So, this is how the goblins were casting fire spells. The resulting fireball missed Stabby Toe by an ear, but it did strike his makeshift throne. Wooden Throne. The structure went up instantly in a ball of fire.


    Chaos ensued. Stabby Toe boomed in anger and turned away from the young to attend to the blaze as the goblins scattered.


    If Holsley had a copper peasant for every time he had set fire to a flammable space while a vicious brute was bearing down on him, he¡¯d have two copper peasants. Which wasn¡¯t much, but it¡¯s weird that it had happened twice in as many days.


    It didn¡¯t matter much what followed after the spell had been cast, though, as Holsley couldn¡¯t register it. All he could do was lay there, back against the wall, as he watched the inferno dance and grow to an overwhelming size.


    ¡®Not again,¡¯ he squeaked.

 Chapter Eleven — Trodden Hat

    Don¡¯t leave me, Holsley.


    The flames jolted up the bloated chests as panicked goblins rushed about in a bid to put out the fire under Stabby Toe¡¯s orders. Holsley caught their blurry forms as an afterthought ¡ª a mere background to the bonfire in the centre of the room. His real attention was on the disembodied voice emanating from it and the erratic beating of his own heart.


    You have to save me. Please.


    Holsley coughed. The heat was already too much. He could feel the fire crawling towards him, making him sweat and itch as his skin began to blister. A part of him wanted to succumb to it. Lay down and allow the flames to take him as penance. That¡¯s why he couldn¡¯t move. He was about as stiff as a wooden mannequin.


    Holsley.


    ¡®Holsley!¡¯ Merhim¡¯s hoarse voice cut through the chaos, but Holsley was only slightly aware of it. ¡®We¡¯ve got to get out of here, kid. Now!¡¯


    It was like Holsley was floating above himself. The young bard could see the gnome, could hear him, but could not control his body. Compared to the sound of thudding in his chest, Merhim¡¯s voice was small and distant. His heart hurt with the pressure; it was so constricting. It was beating so fast. Was it going to explode?


    Merhim grabbed Holsley by his shoulders but didn¡¯t shake him. Instead, with a gentle voice, he cut through the noisy flames and forced his head to take up the entirety of Holsley¡¯s vision.


    ¡®Holsley,¡¯ he said calmly. ¡®I want you to breathe, okay, eh. Slowly. Just nice steadying breaths and, as you do so, count to ten.¡¯


    Something was thrust into Holsley¡¯s open hand. Without looking, he knew that it was the lute. His lute. It calmed him a little, centred him, and he inhaled deeply as he closed his eyes. He coughed. The smoke was billowing out of the fire. They didn¡¯t have much time before this room was a thing of the past.


    The gnome counted aloud as he massaged Holsley¡¯s shoulders.


    Holsley breathed with the counting, taking a breath at each interval. They needed to be quick. The fire was raging. He found his heartbeat easing as he counted along in his head. The strangled echoes of the past were replaced with peace. It was just him, Merhim, and his lute.


    Roland was in trouble, Holsley reminded himself, so he couldn¡¯t die here. Not now.


    By the tenth steadying breath, the young bard had calmed his heart. The gnome took his hand, and before he could even glance at the fire, they were both out of the room. Holsley looked back only once, but it wasn¡¯t to settle his eyes on the inferno. It was to catch sight of Stabby Toe, who was still furiously trying to beat the flames out.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long before those dagger-like toenails were coming for him.


    ¡®I¡¯m okay,¡¯ Holsley said as they rushed up the long tunnel. He leaned against a wall to cough out the last of the smoke in his lungs. ¡®Yeah, I¡¯m okay.¡¯


    A few things came to light with the return of his calm and, just as importantly, his breath as they continued their sprint up the tunnel leading away from the guv¡¯nor¡¯s room. Merhim, who had returned to his natural pale skin, held a small wooden chest. One that must¡¯ve been stolen from Stabby Toe¡¯s treasure.


    Holsley also couldn¡¯t help but notice their party had grown by another member. The tawny wizard, surprisingly rakish and tall compared to the young bard, was just ahead of them and seemed more eager than anyone to leave these claustrophobic tunnels.


    There was also the matter of the wand. Holsley still had his fingers wrapped about it. In the confusion and the chaos, he hadn¡¯t even realised he had kept the wretched thing. Unsure of what to do with it now, he stowed it away inside his satchel to return it to the wizard later. For now, he didn¡¯t want any more fires.


    They were in sight of the food hall ¡ª the choking aroma of freshly culled animals could account for that much.


    Holsley pushed through the stench, but before they could step out of the tunnels into the large room, they were stopped by a sudden animalistic cry. Behind them, Stabby Toe was roaring, and the oversized goblin did not sound happy. Even though Holsley couldn¡¯t understand what he was saying, he could guess that all efforts to save the throne had not prevailed.


    ¡®Does anyone remember the way back through the tunnels!?¡¯ Merhim said frantically, looking across the eatery at all the goblins between them and freedom.


    The wizard shook his head.


    ¡®Uh, I think I do,¡¯ said Holsley, knowing for a fact he only had a vague recollection of the route at best. ¡®The bigger problem is getting past these goblins.¡¯


    ¡®Perhaps I can help.¡¯ The wizard rolled up his sleeves, and as he did so, Holsley looked at the circles, not unlike his own, on the digits of his left hand. By far, this wizard was the more powerful spellcaster between them. Unfortunately, most of the circles were red, meaning they were expended. ¡®I know a spell that can get us through this.¡¯


    ¡®Aren¡¯t you out of magic?¡¯ Holsley asked, keeping an eye on his digits.


    ¡®I will simply have to push through.¡¯


    That was a bad idea. Holsley knew that. The elves had taught him what happened to spellcasters who went past their physical limits. At best, you would become severely weakened, and at worst, you could contract a sort of arcane plague that transformed your entire body into magic.


    That¡¯s why every spellcaster volunteered to have the circles tattooed on their fingers, just so they could keep track.


    The wizard fished into a small pocket pouch on his belt and pulled something out of it. With wild fingers, he enchanted whatever was in his hand with arcane words pulled from the long spell. After that, he blew the dust over the three of them and tapped each on the head with his long finger.


    Holsley, Merhim, and the wizard instantly turned invisible and wasted no time stepping into the room.


    The invisibility was strange. Although Holsley could see himself, obviously the goblins could not. Being this close to another creature was so surreal without them being aware of your presence. Around him, goblins got on with their meals without a care. Devouring the meat with their pointed fangs.


    One goblin caught his attention. It was eating meat, like the others, but taking smaller, more refined bites and taking its time to chew. Fascinated, Holsley approached this goblin and leaned towards its face. A black billiard ball eye. This was Boblin the Goblin, the little goblin Holsley had enchanted in the woods.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The goblin stopped, and its billiard ball eye swung around to focus on him. Holsley smiled. That was strange, he thought. It was almost like the goblin could-


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ Holsley whispered.


    Every goblin eye was on him.


    He looked back to find the wizard sloped against a table, his breathing erratic and his skin both pale and green. The wizard looked ill, maybe even worse. This is why you didn¡¯t overuse your magic. Not only was the wizard on death¡¯s door, but it had also resulted in the spell faltering and failing, and now they were stranded in a sea of goblins.


    The young bard put up his arms and stepped back, eventually bumping into Merhim. The goblins licked their lips, eyes wide with excitement. Had there always been this many in the eatery, Holsley thought, he could¡¯ve sworn there was much less than this ten minutes ago. They all reached for their rusted weapons.


    Just when he thought they were about ready to dogpile on them and get right to the stabbing, Lady Luck reared her head again and saved their necks.


    Tens of Goblins came running out of Stabby Toe¡¯s tunnel in sheer panic. Some were even on fire, which drew attention away from the young bard and his acquaintances. They were shouting and screaming, and the other goblins were creating a quick and terrifying picture.


    The wizard had set fire to the room, defied their leader, and was now out to get them.


    Like a virulent disease, all it took was one of the infected to pass on their fear to another. From there, it spread, causing chaos and goblins to run from the hall into the accompanying tunnels. None knew what was happening, but that didn¡¯t matter. They all knew that they should run.


    In seconds, the hall was emptied of everything except the meat left at a standstill on the makeshift treadmill.


    Holsley guessed this confusion wouldn¡¯t last long, but it went a long way in giving them some much-needed time to flee. Stabby Toe still had his wits about him, and he was the main danger. If the gargantuan goblin regained control of his horde before they escaped, they wouldn¡¯t be getting out alive. So, keeping all of that in mind, they didn¡¯t slow to take in their surroundings.


    ***


    The wizard stopped first, a quarter of an hour later. Though, in fairness, they were each exhausted and breathless.


    Holsley knew this wasn¡¯t right. He¡¯d navigated them into these tunnels and was now lost as to where they were. The young bard knew they could escape out of that big hole near the cave entrance, but how they could find it quickly became a deepening mystery. The goblins should put up a sign or something, he thought.


    ¡®Can¡¯t you do anything?¡¯ Merhim straightened, a sigh thoroughly caught in his throat, and his chin aimed at the wizard. ¡®I know you don¡¯t have any spells, but maybe a magical item or something?¡¯


    The tawny wizard shook his head in apology. ¡®No, no, I¡¯m afraid not, my friend. The goblins were careful not to let me rest. Thus, I have no magic left in me for spells. If I had my spell book, I may have been able to do something, but alas, that was burned a few weeks ago.¡¯


    ¡®Weeks!?¡¯ Holsley spluttered.


    The wizard nodded. ¡®That¡¯s how long I¡¯ve been down here.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m surprised they didn¡¯t kill you, eh,¡¯ said Merhim.


    ¡®They wanted me to teach them magic,¡¯ replied the wizard, straightening his back ¡ª Holsley heard the click of his bones and winced. ¡®A fact of which I refused. So, they tried to torture me instead.¡¯


    ¡®Are you really a wizard?¡¯ Holsley meant to whisper it, but it came out loud and almost question-like.


    ¡®That¡¯s correct, my boy.¡¯ The wizard coughed, wincing slightly as he stooped lower against the wall. He did not look well. That didn¡¯t stop him from bowing shortly, though, and sweeping his misshapen hat in a formal gesture. ¡®Most call me Trodden Hat on account of my well-travelled headgear, and yes, I am a wizard. An accomplished wizard of some renown, as is the fact of the matter. I studied at the prestigious Tower of Spells and specialised in the art of conjuration.¡¯


    ¡®Lot of good that is if you can¡¯t cast any spells,¡¯ muttered Merhim behind crossed arms.


    Trodden Hat gave him a sideways smile. ¡®What may I call the two of you now that you know of me, hmm?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m Holsley,¡¯ Holsley said, gesturing to himself. ¡®That¡¯s Merhim.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, yeah, we¡¯ll get to our introductions later, eh!¡¯ Merhim swept up the small wooden chest he had snatched from Stabby Toe and held it between his arms again. ¡®For now, we need to figure a way out, eh? Running around in circles ain¡¯t doing us any favours.¡¯


    ¡®I do have one trick.¡¯ Holsley fumbled with the lute. He glanced down at the last circle on his little finger. It told him he had one good spell left in him for the day. ¡®We need someone who knows the way out, but I don¡¯t think a goblin will tell us.¡¯


    Merhim raised an eyebrow as Trodden Hat grinned and clapped his hands excitedly, then devolved into a somewhat concerning hacking cough.


    Holsley was about to elaborate when a sudden voice cut through their planning.


    Low, grumbling, and especially sour. It came all of a sudden and all around them, echoing off the walls as if it were everywhere at once. ¡®I can smell you,¡¯ it said. That was Stabby Toe. ¡®You thinks you can up and steal our wizard. You ain¡¯t stealing nothing! We¡¯re coming for you.¡¯


    ¡®There!¡¯ Trodden Hat pointed across the tunnel towards a strange device resembling a horn with a taught string attached and following along the length of the wall.


    ¡®What is it?¡¯ Holsley asked.


    ¡®A speaker,¡¯ replied Merhim with a short nod. ¡®We¡¯ve got these back where I¡¯m from. Stabby Toe¡¯ll be somewhere talking into another one, and his voice will be shouting out through any that are attached.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s quite ingenious,¡¯ said Trodden Hat, curiously stroking his beard.


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ replied Merhim, as if the idea belonged to him alone. ¡®Are they that desperate to learn magic?¡¯


    ¡®That Stabby Toe has some big ambitions,¡¯ replied Trodden Hat. ¡®He wants to use magic to take control of the Longwalk Woods.¡¯


    ¡®All the more reason to get out of here,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®Now, help me look for an animal. Any animal at all. Anything that¡¯s seen the outside world.¡¯


    Merhim gave the young bard a curious look, but Trodden Hat merely smiled as they did what Holsley asked.


    It didn¡¯t take long to find something. Merhim had been the one to spot it with his superior vision in the dimmed light. The gnome pointed up at a bat who had settled into the higher part of the tunnel walls, where it was lovely and dark.


    ¡®What are you going to do?¡¯ asked Merhim curiously.


    ¡®Uh, talk to it, hopefully,¡¯ replied Holsley, preparing his lute and a scrap of paper with the appropriate spell from his satchel.


    If he had to be honest, this spell was the most disappointing one in his arsenal. The elves had taught it to him, hoping it might encourage the young bard to step outside more often, but it hadn¡¯t. If anything, it had had the reverse effect.


    The spell was one of animal language. It allowed its caster, for a brief amount of time, to speak in the language of animals and understand what was being said. Now, to Holsley, that had originally sounded truly amazing right up to the point that he learned most animals made poor conversation partners. They rarely thought about anything other than food, sleeping, building a nest, or finding a mate.


    With the lute in hand and the spell¡¯s notes threaded through the strings, Holsley got to work.


    It was a discordant melody designed not to entice or please. The harsh, cutting strings made Holsley cringe, and he resisted the urge to stop. Merhim and Trodden Hat didn¡¯t resist, however, and slapped their hands so fast over their ears that their faces turned red. Once it was done, a slight bolt of green energy shot into the young bard¡¯s throat.


    Holsley set the lute down.


    ¡®Uh, hello?¡¯ Holsley approached the bat. It didn¡¯t stir. Holsley tried again, louder, ¡®Excuse me?¡¯


    ¡®Leave me alone,¡¯ the bat replied in a harsh, unforgiving voice. ¡®I crave the solitude of the darkness.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, sorry about that.¡¯ Holsley turned to the other two for support, but he realised quickly that they couldn¡¯t understand a single thing he was saying. He was speaking in bat-like chirps. ¡®Um, I just need directions for the way out.¡¯


    ¡®There is no way out,¡¯ the bat moaned, languidly unfurling its wings as it did so. ¡®Death is the only release from this twisted tale.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, right.¡¯


    ¡®Do you want to hear some of my poetry? I don¡¯t think it¡¯s very good.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, well¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I stare into the dark and say nothing when it stares back,¡¯ the bat recited. ¡®I live like an animal, blood and wails, life submerged in black. Now more than ever, I need¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I thought it was, uh, very good,¡¯ Holsley interrupted. Gods, he hated talking to animals. ¡®Now, about that way out.¡¯


    ¡®Sometimes, I let go of the ceiling and just drop to the floor, hoping to feel something. Anything. I have so much pain inside of me.¡¯


    Holsley turned back to Merhim and Trodden Hat, who gave him a look as if to say, ¡®Well?¡¯ but his look in return was a decisive, ¡®Nope.¡¯


    More than a little disappointed, the bard left the bat behind as the last circle on his little finger changed from black to a faint red. What a waste of a spell. They were about to round the next corner when the bat spoke up again for the last time. ¡®The walls change around me, confining, crushing, and paths adjust without goodbyes.¡¯


    ¡®What did it say?¡¯ asked Merhim.


    ¡®Nothing useful.¡¯ Holsley sighed. ¡®Looks like we¡¯re going to have to figure this out for ourselves.¡¯

 Chapter Twelve — The Goblin Trap

    There was no end to the corners.


    Turn after turn just led to more turns after turns. Holsley simply could not understand how they had managed to get this lost. Surely, they must be going in circles. Still, it seemed the further they walked, the less likely it became that they would find an exit ¡ª even retracing their steps led them to new dead ends and frustration.


    How was this place so big?


    ¡®This is getting awfully suspicious,¡¯ Merhim announced as they turned yet another corner and were again forced to double back on themselves. ¡®You two must be thinking the same thing, eh? The goblins can¡¯t have dug this far. It¡¯s like a blooming underground city!¡¯


    ¡®Goblins are furious burrowers, my friend,¡¯ Trodden Hat retorted through wheezes ¡ª he still looked like a man wiping his feet on death¡¯s doormat. ¡®A den of this size may not be unheard of. I am more suspicious of the fact that we have not encountered any more of the goblins.¡¯


    That was a good point, and it made Holsley curious. The next time they faced a dead end, the young bard decided to step up to it instead of turning back. The others watched as he came within an inch of the wall and felt it with his hand.


    It was incredibly flat despite appearing like dug-out mud in the dark.


    Then, with an audacity encouraged by his curiosity, Holsley pressed an ear to the flat wall. There was chittering on the other side. Like the sounds of a conversation being had in a language he couldn¡¯t understand. That meant the wall was incredibly thin, which got his mind turning even faster.


    ¡®That bat tried to tell us.¡¯ Holsley took a step back and laughed. ¡®It¡¯s a fake wall. They keep changing the layout of these tunnels with fake walls.¡¯


    The wizard and the gnome exchanged a look that was caught somewhere between outrage and awe. The seconds after the reveal, it all began to make sense. Yes, of course, the goblin den was never this big. They¡¯d been tricked. The goblins had properly stitched them up with a mixture of fake scenery, lengthy corridors with multiple turns, and darkness to mask what they were doing.


    ¡®What do we do now?¡¯ Holsley returned to the other two, keeping his voice down so the goblins couldn¡¯t hear him. ¡®We don¡¯t have any weapons. I¡¯m out of spells, and to be quite frank, there¡¯s no telling how many goblins are behind that plywood wall.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t forget that Stabby Toe is coming too, eh,¡¯ said Merhim.


    Trodden Hat idly curled his whiskers. ¡®I see no talking to them either. Not with that leader of theirs at the helm of their progression. A shame, as any creature that could do this surely must be intelligent enough to see reason.¡¯


    Every piece of literature that Holsley had absorbed about goblins had been wrong. They weren¡¯t dumb, barely conscious animals with an insatiable hunger and bloodlust. They were intelligent, wily, and intuitive creatures with an insatiable hunger, bloodlust, and a talent for crude ingenuity. Yet, Holsley had still managed to trick them.


    What would Marlin Mandrovi do?


    He approached the fake wall with confident strides. The goblins were more intelligent than they had been given credit for, but from what he had seen, they were still childlike and gullible. It brought to mind a story he had once heard about Marlin Mandrovi, who had once talked his way out of being eaten by cannibals by turning them against one another.


    ¡®Ahem.¡¯ Holsley knocked on the plywood. It seemed so obviously fake now the more he looked at it, and he felt even more foolish for being misled by it. ¡®Uh, excuse me. I know there¡¯s goblins on the other side of¡­well, we¡¯ll call it a wall. I¡¯d love to have a word, uh, if you have a moment?¡¯


    ¡®There ain¡¯t no goblins on the side of the wall,¡¯ came the quick reply. ¡®Head back!¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve got to say, this wall is really impressive.¡¯ Holsley tapped it again and lay his hand flat against the wooden surface. ¡®Does Stabby Toe appreciate the work?¡¯


    There was no answer. Perfect.


    ¡®Why do you follow Stabby Toe exactly? Like, what are you getting out of that relationship?¡¯


    ¡®What are you doing!?¡¯ Merhim hissed from behind him, but when Holsley glanced back, he saw the gnome held back by the pale wizard. Trodden Hat gave him a nod, which he took as approval.


    ¡®What you mean?¡¯ The voice behind the wall was louder now. ¡®We follows Stabby Toe because he says so.¡¯


    ¡®Well, with the way he treats you, it must all be worth it,¡¯ said Holsley coyly. ¡®I¡¯m sure you get a nice share of the things you steal?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ came the reply. A single, solid answer that Holsley had wholly expected. Judging by just how much stuff had been in the guv¡¯nor¡¯s treasure room, he had suspected as much.


    ¡®What?¡¯ he said, aghast. ¡®What about other benefits? Like, is your visit to a cleric covered?¡¯


    The wall came away in a strangely perplexing motion that hurt Holsley¡¯s eyes. It seemed to fold out of view and suddenly revealed the three goblins behind it. It was none other than Pot Gut, Wiggy, and Kevin who looked up at Holsley with suspicious eyes.


    Pot Gut stepped forward, pulling up the pots that covered his lower half. ¡®What you meaning, hooman?¡¯


    ¡®Listen.¡¯ Holsley leaned down and prayed they didn¡¯t get him with a dagger in the throat. He had to act confident now and especially friendly. Otherwise, this wasn¡¯t going to work. ¡®It¡¯s pretty clear to me that you guys shouldn¡¯t be taking this from Stabby Toe. You do all the work, and he just sits in a fancy chair with all his boxes.¡¯ Then he remembered there was a magic wand in his satchel. ¡®Also, he used to have a magic wand, but now he doesn¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®What you suggesting?¡¯ Wiggy sidled up next to his shorter friend. ¡®We kills Stabby Toe?¡¯


    ¡®No, no, no,¡¯ said Holsley with a wry grin. ¡®I think you guys should unionise.¡¯


    The three looked at one another in disbelief, and in a similar fashion, so did Trodden Hat and Merhim. He glanced back at them and winked.


    This is what Marlin had done in his story. The cunning bard had turned his attackers against their cannibal leader. In that version, he had argued that everyone should get a share of his organs as he was spinning on a spit. In this version, Holsley convinced the goblins to strike and turn against their master. Hopefully.


    ¡®What¡¯s a unionise?¡¯


    Holsley felt like he was talking to children and even affected that pandering tone you used when you were.


    ¡®If you goblins all band together,¡¯ he started, ¡®you can make demands, and if Stabby Toe doesn¡¯t do them, you don¡¯t work. You only work when he gives you everything you want. We hoomans do it all the time and it always works out.¡¯


    That was a lie, and Holsley knew it ¡ª imperfection was practically a human invention.


    ¡®Stabby doesn¡¯t have the wand anymore,¡¯ Kevin mused. ¡®He¡¯s still bigger, though. And stronger. And smarter. And meaner.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, but there¡¯s only one of him.¡¯ Holsley reminded them. ¡®There¡¯s a bunch of you.¡¯


    It was working. Their minds were teetering on change, and when that happened, Holsley would send them off to spread the new mindset to all the other impressionable goblins. Pretty soon, every creature in the den would be refusing to work and holding up picket signs that expressed their displeasure.


    Or, at least, that¡¯s what might have happened if Stabby Toe himself hadn¡¯t shown up right at that moment.


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    ¡®There you are!¡¯ his booming voice cut through their conversation. He looked a little worse for wear. Although he stood firm, half of his body had been burnt and singed by the unexpected fire, and he was now forced to walk with a limp in his right leg. A retinue of goblin followers were walking in his wake.


    ¡®I wonder how many goblins there are behind this wall?¡¯ Trodden Hat mused at the sudden appearance of another dead end that had snuck up to within a foot of their backs. They were well and truly trapped now.


    Holsley gathered his lute by the neck and held it like a bat. Merhim took out his dagger, and Trodden Hat, simply following suit, raised his fists.


    ¡®Take them!¡¯ Stabby Toe commanded. ¡®Bring them all to me so I can bash their brains in!¡¯


    What would Marlin Mandrovi do now? Holsley hadn¡¯t the foggiest. He¡¯d find a way out, but as he had mentioned, they had no weapons or magic. They were stuck with no hope of escape. He rattled off the things he could do in his mind but quickly found that he was useless.


    The goblins behind Stabby Toe stepped forward, and Holsley forced himself not to close his eyes. At least he could go down fighting. They¡¯d probably eat him. It was a daunting thought, but strangely, it made him feel worse that he wouldn¡¯t even be cooked or seasoned first.


    Then, a curious thing happened.


    Pot Gut, Wiggy, and Kevin held up their hands and stopped the other goblins from marching closer. They seemed uneasy initially, but Pot Gut soon grew more confident with each clattered step he took towards his brethren.


    ¡®No,¡¯ he rumbled towards Stabby Toe. ¡®You needs to treat us better. There¡¯s more of us than there is of you, and you ain¡¯t got magic no more, so we wants¡ª¡¯


    A foot carrying the power of a charging bull delivered a kick with such conviction to Pot Gut¡¯s chest that the goblin disappeared for a moment and reappeared at a wall behind Holsley. Pots rattled, all bent out of shape, as the goblin fell broken to the floor alongside bits of the wall he had been catapulted into.


    Shock and silence fell across the crowd.


    Stabby Toe went down a second later. His leg didn¡¯t look right. It was bent at an unnatural angle. The mighty creature had kicked Pot Gut so hard that he¡¯d broken his leg and was now on his back, trying desperately to right himself.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t speak.


    The goblins seemed rattled. They looked at each other with an uneasiness that told the young bard they were judging the situation and were trying to make some critical decisions about their next action.


    There was a nudge at his shoulder. When he turned, two wise eyes looked down at him. Trodden Hat nodded as if knowing what he should do next, and it took the young bard a few moments to catch up. Then, he knew exactly what to do.


    As Stabby Toe turned to the rest of his goblin gang, failing to find his feet, Holsley whistled a short tune. A magical tune. He placed his fingers on his neck and spoke in a perfect imitation of Pot Gut¡¯s voice. ¡®Kill Stabby Toe! He¡¯s weak!¡¯


    The next moment was hazy, ill-remembered even in the second it occurred. Holsley would reflect on it later, trying to remember the specific details, but it always came up short. It was the second after that he would never forget, though.


    The goblins only needed a simple command to get started. They swarmed upon Stabby Toe like a nest of teased wasps. Rusted weapons, prosthetics, and kitchen cutlery were jabbed into every inch of the large goblin¡¯s body.


    Stabby Toe fought them off valiantly ¡ª roaring and throwing them against the walls, but with a broken leg, he was no match for the army of pointy-eared goblins.


    ¡®Time to leave, kid.¡¯


    They rushed away from the scene, sparing no glances back.


    Holsley had never run so fast in his life ¡ª adrenaline was more potent than any spell. He sped up the corridors, which appeared shorter and less confusing with the absence of the goblin¡¯s trickery and barrelled ahead. Stabby Toe¡¯s profanities chased them but never caught up. Freedom was on the horizon, and it looked like they would make it.


    An exposed root sent Holsley flying.


    There was a crack, followed by a depressive twang. When Holsley picked himself up from where he had fallen, he took a moment to bring up his lute. It had broken under his weight. Split, quite literally, into two pieces. The neck and the drum were now separated, and the lute was in no condition to be played.


    Holsley could only stare at it. This was the fifth time he had broken it in such a way.


    Trodden Hat, breathless, managed to catch up to him, followed by Merhim with the chest still clutched tight.


    ¡®We have to keep going,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®No time to dwell, eh.¡¯


    ***


    They gulped the fresh air like it could make them forget their trials. Without any goblins around, they had quickly risen the scaffolding in the big hole and made it back to the cave entrance.


    From there, the horse and cart had been an easy way to get into the woods and they wasted no time in getting as much distance between them and the goblins as they could. By the time an hour had passed, they had reached the road and found a friendly shoulder to bring the cart to rest.


    A camp was made before night fell again, and they shared what was left in Merhim¡¯s pack alongside what they could scavenge from the woods. They hadn¡¯t been able to get Merhim¡¯s ale back, but he seemed content with the chest he had stolen. Hours later, he was still trying to fiddle the lock.


    ¡®I am grateful to be out in the fresh air again.¡¯ Trodden Hat sat beside Holsley on the dry ground, bundling his dirtied robes like a blanket. ¡®I owe you a great thanks, young bard.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t mention it,¡¯ replied Holsley, then he turned a curious eyebrow on the wizard. ¡®How did you ever get caught, though?¡¯


    The question had bugged him ever since they had legged it out of Stabby Toe¡¯s ignoble throne room.


    ¡®Caught me while I was sleeping,¡¯ Trodden Hat half-laughed at the answer as he leaned back on his hands. ¡®I come to the Longwalk Woods once a year to gather a special mushroom that grows after the summer. It¡¯s good for potions. It was a nice day, so I took a nap under a tree, and they found me snoozing.¡¯


    ¡®You fell asleep?¡¯ Holsley questioned.


    ¡®That¡¯s what happens when you reach my age, friend,¡¯ he said sweetly. ¡®They took me, forced me to try and teach them magic, but I refused. Can¡¯t anyway, there are rules. So, they just kept me there. It¡¯s a good job you found me, as I¡¯m not sure how much longer I could have gone on.¡¯


    ¡®Again, it¡¯s no trouble,¡¯ Holsley said. ¡®We were there for all the wrong reasons anyway.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry about your lute.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Holsley sighed as he stared down at the pieces in his lap. It would take more than a few bandages and a spot of glue to fix it this time. There was a shop in Tressa that could fix it ¡ª if he had any money.


    ¡®Where is your current road taking you, if I might ask, young bard?¡¯


    ¡®To Tressa,¡¯ Holsley replied. ¡®A friend of mine is being hanged, and, well, I¡¯m hoping I can do something about that.¡¯


    ¡®Oh dear,¡¯ replied Trodden Hat, looking away. ¡®Not a very easy fate to avoid in Tressa, I¡¯m afraid. These days, the city certainly loves its hangings. It has done ever since the war. I¡¯m very sorry for your friend.¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s my closest and, well, really my only friend,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®It¡¯s been three years since I saw him last, though.¡¯


    ¡®I wonder if he¡¯s still the same person you knew.¡¯ Trodden Hat stood up, shaking his robe to recover his legs. ¡®People can change a lot in three years, especially ones about your age. Be careful, Holsley. Your friend might not be the one you¡¯re expecting.¡¯


    Before Holsley could answer, Merhim interrupted him with a whoop and a cheer. ¡®I¡¯ve got it open!¡¯ he shouted. ¡®I¡¯ve got it open, eh!¡¯


    They rushed over to witness the opening of the chest and, without a doubt, were not disappointed.


    Merhim creaked the lid open and gasped. The small chest was filled with coins ¡ª gold crowns, silver nobles, and copper peasants ¡ª hundreds of coins in each denomination. Merhim dug his hands into them and threw them up like a shower of wealth.


    ¡®Guess all that danger wasn¡¯t for nothing after all!¡¯ he laughed. ¡®Glad I grabbed something! Split three ways, that¡¯s¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Oh, I don¡¯t need anything,¡¯ Trodden Hat insisted. ¡®A worthy prize for the two that saved my life. Keep my share and spend it in good health, my friends. Besides, I must take my leave before I overstay my welcome.¡¯


    Merhim waved the wizard off indifferently. ¡®If you say so, eh!¡¯


    Holsley followed the tawny man to the edge of the light from the roaring fire. He held out his hand and shook the wizard¡¯s surprisingly callused palms. Without letting go, Trodden Hat brought him in closer. ¡®In accordance with wizard courtesy, I owe you one favour. The favour of a wizard, which is not easily forgotten and always returned, young bard.¡¯


    ¡®Could you help me¡ª¡¯


    Trodden Hat shook his head. ¡®No, I cannot help your friend evade the noose. Even though I am a wizard, with a sufficient number of spells once well rested and reunited with my books, I am not eager enough to take on Tressa. Wizards, well, all spellcasters really, are not welcome there, and we do best to stay away.¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ Holsley didn¡¯t disguise his disappointment.


    ¡®No, the favour I owe you is scholarly in nature.¡¯


    Holsley raised an eyebrow. ¡®Scholarly?¡¯ It sounded a little useless. The bard didn¡¯t need a scholar. He needed a wizard.


    ¡®Indeed. At a time that you decide, please visit me at my cottage, which sits on the outskirts of Tiptoe Talk along the Crossing. I know a great deal about the mysteries of this world, and anything I don¡¯t know, I may easily be able to find. You are welcome anytime, and I promise to be there when you arrive.¡¯


    The young bard didn¡¯t really know what he meant. It all sounded rather clandestine. There was something in it, though, that made his heart aflutter. His first wizard had not been a disappointment. Trodden Hat was everything he thought they were. Wise and humble, just like the ones in his stories.


    With that, Trodden Hat marched off into the forest, and Holsley watched him until he was out of sight.


    The young bard had an odd feeling that if he were to go and look for him, he wouldn¡¯t be able to find the wizard again now. Even though he couldn¡¯t have gone far. That, in the simplest of terms, the wizard had simply vanished.


    A small leather pouch was thrust roughly into his idling hand. Holsley looked down at the gnome, who gave him a sharp nod to his quizzical look. ¡®Just about three hundred crowns,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®That¡¯s one hundred. Your share.¡¯


    ¡®One hundred!?¡¯ Holsley¡¯s voice squeaked. ¡®Why not¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m taking more for all the trauma you put me through!¡¯ Merhim snarled. ¡®Dressing me up as a goblin, not watching the camp in the first place, and putting me in all sorts of danger. Honestly, you¡¯re lucky to get that, kid!¡¯


    Merhim huffed his way back to the campfire pot and got to work on dinner. They were sitting around the fire in no time, warming their feet and eating wild stew.


    Holsley honestly didn¡¯t mind the money. In truth, it was more than all the money he had held since leaving Donathal. No, what did bother him was what Trodden Hat had said before his parting.


    Was it possible that Roland Darrow wasn¡¯t the friend he once knew from childhood?

 Chapter Thirteen — For Fox Sake

    Roland leaned harder on the piece of wood he¡¯d broken off the wall and wedged between the bars.


    Just under two hours ago, it had been the bed they¡¯d given him to sleep on. Now, it was a crude crowbar he hoped would help him escape this cramped cell. Roland gritted his teeth as he put more of his weight into it, which was admittedly not much. The minuscule meals were getting to him now, so much so that you could practically play his ribs like a xylophone.


    After this, Roland would have nothing left. The cell hadn¡¯t been built for comfort, and that plank was the last of the furniture. At least, he thought it was. In truth, there was no light in the darkest part of the Tressan dungeons, and he¡¯d only discovered his surroundings by feeling around for what was there. For all he knew, a three-piece suite could be hidden in the corner.


    ¡®Come on!¡¯ he growled between clenched teeth, threatening to break. ¡®Come on, please!¡¯


    The plank slipped, and he slipped with it. Roland crashed to the floor and swore at the flash of pain in his elbow. Without much thought for manners, the rogue hopped up and kicked the bench, kicked the bars, and kicked up the hay off the floor. He then muttered a string of obscenities before collapsing to his knees.


    He never gave up. Not now, not ever, but he did need to think. There was a lock on the door; maybe he could use the wooden splinters as a crude lockpicking device. The rogue was so tired, though. So exhausted. Days of stale water, slim pieces of bread, and waterboarding do that to a person. Others might consider accepting their fate. Roland didn¡¯t.


    ¡®As persistent as ever.¡¯


    The voice was even, cruel, and quite familiar.


    Roland looked to the outside of his cell just as a candle was lit. After the momentary blindness, he just managed to squint the sight of a tall figure whose beady, red, piercing eyes looked at him through the darkness. More details pressed on his mind as his eyes caught up to the light.


    It wasn¡¯t a man. It was half of a man, and the other half was a fox. While the unusual visitor stood upright, his body was covered in red and white fur, and he had the betraying features of a vulpine creature. Ears pointed up, whiskers pointed out, and claws that were just pointed ¡ª not to mention the bushy tail that swung with each step the creature took towards him.


    ¡®Fox!¡¯ Roland coughed it. ¡®Come here to gloat, have you?¡¯


    ¡®In a way.¡¯ Fox quietly placed a stool on the floor ¡ª the one the guards used when they wanted to sit and watch the young rogue. He fluttered back the coattails of his jacket and took a seat. As he did so, Roland caught the unmistakable glint of gold on the werefox¡¯s finger.


    ¡®I heard you¡¯d returned to Tressa, so I just had to see you, Roland,¡¯ Fox continued. ¡®How have you been? Where are you living these days?¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯d you get the candle?¡¯ Roland nodded to the light source in Fox¡¯s hand, who momentarily looked at it bemusedly. ¡®Only magical light works this far down in the dungeons.¡¯


    ¡®Swiped it from upstairs,¡¯ he replied. ¡®I just wanted us to have a proper chat. You know, before you get executed.¡¯


    ¡®A lot of trouble you¡¯ve gone through just to see me, especially since you want me dead.¡¯ Roland glanced up and imagined how many tubheads Fox would¡¯ve had to sneak past to get here. He wasn¡¯t stupid; he knew it had taken work, and he also knew that a lucky spot would have ended with Fox Matthews thrown in a cell himself. He looked back at the sinister figure. ¡®I don¡¯t think I¡¯m supposed to have visitors.¡¯


    ¡®Well, you did the same for me once, so I thought it was only polite,¡¯ replied Fox, gingerly picking a bit of dirt from his jacket. ¡®I thought I¡¯d never see the day that Roland Darrow, the jewel of the Whispers of Tressa, would see his comeuppance. Tell me, how does it feel knowing you¡¯re about to get what¡¯s coming to you?¡¯


    ¡®How are the Whispers?¡¯ Roland swayed. ¡®Still a bunch of devious, backstabbing dickheads?¡¯


    Fox stood up from the stool without a sound. Not a murmur. He stepped closer to the bars, and Roland wished he had the energy to take a step back ¡ª that little tantrum he¡¯d subjected himself to ten seconds ago had knocked the life out of him.


    ¡®Wondering if they¡¯re going to save you?¡¯ Fox grinned. ¡®I¡¯d put that thought to rest. You were kicked out, Roland, and with very good reason, too. They want absolutely nothing to do with you.¡¯


    At the mention of his sordid past, an old scar on Roland¡¯s lower back flared up. The young rogue resisted the urge to massage the nostalgic pain away. It was one of the hundreds of scars he had on his back, but the only one he had ever received in Tressa.


    Roland had already guessed that the Whispers wouldn¡¯t save him. It was nice to have confirmation, though. Yet, he couldn¡¯t help feeling a little disappointed. Roland had hoped that a few might come. It wasn¡¯t a surprise, he guessed. People didn¡¯t tend to like thieves, but none more so than other thieves.


    Without stopping, Fox stepped through the bars.


    The were-creature slipped through them in much the same way a cat can supernaturally slither through any gap. One moment, he was on the side of freedom, then the other, he was squaring up to a kneeling Roland. The rogue knew he needed to stand, and so summoned the strength to do so. They were of a similar height, but Fox had an intimidating two inches on him.


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    ¡®You owe me, Roland,¡¯ Fox growled, his beady eyes staring daggers into Roland¡¯s own. ¡®For what you did to me, you owe me more than you could ever give.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t answer. He just stared back at Fox. It didn¡¯t take much experience for him to know that Fox knew a little more than he was saying ¡ª probably a lot more. If he were to talk, he¡¯d reveal something, so it was best just to keep quiet and let the vulpine figure talk.


    ¡®They say you were found on the coast in a little rowboat with nothing to your name but a silver rapier and a ruby worth ten thousand gold crowns.¡¯ Fox forced Roland to take a step back, edging him towards the wall of his dank cell. ¡®I want you to tell me where you found these items. I know they¡¯re important since the guards spend every night trying to torture the truth out of you. Give me some information that I can sell. Do that, and I¡¯ll call us even.¡¯


    There was no need to wonder where Fox had heard these rumours. It was no secret that the tubheads in Tressa were more corrupted to their core than a rotted apple. What¡¯s more, he knew the Whispers were also in their pockets, which meant a silver noble here could reveal a scintillating secret there.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡¯ Roland shrugged, doing his best not to lose eye contact. ¡®Sounds like you may have been given the wrong information.¡¯


    Fox licked his lips in consideration.


    Roland looked down and caught the glint of gold on the creature¡¯s finger. It was a ring, and even in the darkness, he could see that it had the likeness of a cat¡¯s face with tiny rubies for eyes. He knew it was a magical ring as he had seen it before. It allowed you to slip through the slightest of gaps and was the kind of magic ring that could allow a convict to slip through every bar between here and the dungeon¡¯s entrance.


    ¡®I was wondering what I¡¯d find down here after all these years,¡¯ said Fox. ¡®Perhaps, I had thought to myself, it wouldn¡¯t be the same red-haired boy I knew so long ago. Maybe it¡¯ll be a man who has learned from his mistakes and developed some compassion.¡¯


    You were wrong about that, Roland thought.


    He made a lunge for the ring. It was a desperate lunge, but he knew he¡¯d have a better shot at stealing it if he did it in the middle of the conversation. That didn¡¯t happen ¡ª not even close. With the heightened reflexes of a wild animal, Fox spun away from Roland and kicked him into the wall. That was the second time he¡¯d felt his back smashed against the unforgiving stone today.


    It had been worth the try, he told himself. You only gave up when you gave up.


    ¡®You¡¯re so predictable,¡¯ Fox sneered, revealing his black gums. ¡®I heard you became a pirate. Is that true?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯ Roland nodded.


    ¡®Didn¡¯t learn much from them then, huh?¡¯ Fox crouched down on his knees to Roland¡¯s height and produced a set of trimmed claws on his right hand. ¡®You know, I could just torture it out of you. I certainly have the tools for the job, and I don¡¯t need to be concerned with how you look to the public on execution day. I want to know where those items came from.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll shout for the guards,¡¯ replied Roland ¡ª it was his only defence. ¡®They¡¯ll come too. They¡¯ve been jittery ever since my third escape attempt.¡¯


    ¡®Suppose I¡¯ll just have to settle for watching you hang.¡¯


    Fox sighed before slipping back through the bars. After a second of internal deliberation, Fox pulled off the ring and held it out towards the rogue. Roland couldn¡¯t reach for it to snatch it. In fact, he couldn¡¯t even stand back up. It was like every bit of energy he¡¯d conserved for himself had been stripped from him in that single lunge and the resulting shunt into the wall.


    ¡®Beg for it,¡¯ Fox said simply.


    Roland gave him a cold stare as an answer.


    ¡®Beg.¡¯ Fox shrugged. ¡®Get on your knees, put your hands together, and beg me for the ring. Do that, and I¡¯ll give it to you. As simple as my word, isn¡¯t it?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯d never give it to me,¡¯ Roland snarled. ¡®I know you wouldn¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®That doesn¡¯t matter, does it?¡¯ replied Fox. ¡®What matters is you¡¯ve got a chance here. A chance at escaping. If there¡¯s even the smallest whisper of truth to my words, it¡¯s more than you¡¯ve got when I¡¯m gone. So¡­beg.¡¯


    He¡¯d have done better asking Roland to stop breathing forever.


    There was a lot that Roland wasn¡¯t good at, but being submissive was right at the top of his list. Of course, that was also something Fox knew well. Probably about the only thing Roland had ever learned from the strange figure. Roland didn¡¯t bow to power or authority, and he certainly didn¡¯t bow to fox-like thieves with delusions of grandeur.


    Roland didn¡¯t move an inch.


    ¡®Shame,¡¯ said Fox, rescinding the ring. ¡®I would have done it too. Turns out that it was pride that got you killed in the end, Roland.¡¯


    ¡®Did you actually just come here to gloat?¡¯ Roland could sense their impromptu visit was coming to an end. ¡®Or was it genuinely to get information off me?¡¯


    ¡®I had to see if it was really you, but officially, both.¡¯ Fox squirrelled the ring onto his index finger. ¡®Now, if you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯ve got some gambling to do at the Crooked Hat. You remember that place, don¡¯t you, Roland?¡¯


    It was hard to forget a place that broke your arm if you couldn¡¯t pay the door cover. Sometimes, Roland could still feel the break in his shoulder on cold mornings. It came with a dull ache that only went away by being near a roaring fire.


    ¡®I¡¯m in there most nights now,¡¯ Fox went on. ¡®Actually, I became a part owner. I get to drink there for free and everything.¡¯


    ¡®Lucky you.¡¯


    ¡®First drink is on me if you can get away.¡¯ Fox smiled. ¡®If you can¡¯t make it, I¡¯ll understand. Trust me, I won¡¯t go losing my head about it.¡¯


    With that, Fox blew out the candle and submerged the room once again in an unforgivable darkness. In a few seconds, he would be gone, but Roland couldn¡¯t resist the chance to get inside Fox¡¯s head. Fox thought Roland was predictable. He was wrong. Roland was just desperate. It was Fox, who was predictable.


    ¡®You¡¯re not going to the Crooked Hat tonight,¡¯ Roland said aloud to the room, allowing his voice to reverberate off its cold, stone walls. ¡®You¡¯re planning on stealing that ruby, aren¡¯t you?¡¯


    The lack of an answer was answer enough.


    Roland kept his ears open as he concentrated on picking up on anything that sounded like slight breathing or padded footsteps. When he heard neither, he knew that Fox was gone, and he was once again alone. That comment must surely have got under Fox¡¯s skin, he thought with a slight smile.


    A minute passed before he felt strong enough again. Roland got himself up with a struggle and moved towards where he guessed the plank was. Then he was at it again, wedging the piece of furniture into the bars and trying to apply enough pressure to bend the bars out so he could slip through.


    This time, he would bend it. Either that or he¡¯d find some wooden shards, ones sleek and robust enough to serve as lock-picking tools, and then he would escape this prison. That was something he couldn¡¯t mistake for fiction, so the only real question was how he was going to do it.

 Chapter Fourteen — Fetch Inn

    The journey hadn¡¯t felt like a couple of days; in truth, it had felt more like a couple of weeks. Still, on no more than the twelfth day of Dunalorn, their cart creaked up the old road that hugged the cliff and led to the gates of Tressa.


    For the past hour or so ¡ª ever since they had emerged from the dense forest, Holsley and Merhim had been watching Tressa come into view under the early morning light. Over the battlements, they gawked at the hundreds of huddled buildings that teetered on the edge of a cliffside that had seriously eroded beneath the city over time.


    It was just as Holsley remembered it ¡ª horrible. Every inch of the city was covered in crude scaffolding, and it seemed that the only thing that had changed in the three years since he¡¯d been gone was that now the scaffolding required its own.


    Despite the dystopian vibes, however, one thing did put a short smile on his face. Below the city, with its hands perched on either side of the cliff, stood Kashiern the Giant ¡ª a colossal, three-hundred-foot-tall moss-ridden statue that stoically held Tressa aloft on its back. The giant was about the only thing worth seeing in Tressa, but he could only catch half of Kashiern¡¯s profile from this view.


    He knew the best view was on the way in from the sea ¡ª a view he¡¯d never witnessed but had heard a great deal about.


    ¡®You nervous?¡¯ It almost didn¡¯t sound like a question to Holsley. It sounded more like the gnome was stating a fact. If it was a question, the answer was that he didn¡¯t know. All he knew was that his stomach was cramping up from the number of emotions he¡¯d been feeding it that morning.


    The young bard was upset that he had to come back to Tressa, worried about his friend¡¯s impending death, anxious about what he was going to do about it, and angry that it appeared nothing had changed in the derelict city. So, he thought the best answer was not to answer at all and continued staring out at a sprawling metropolis that, by rights, should have been abandoned decades ago.


    A minute passed in silence.


    ¡®Be on your toes, kid,¡¯ Merhim whispered.


    Holsley looked up from his daydreaming just in time to witness the approach of the South Gates. The large stone archway cut through the wall that sealed off the parts of the city that weren¡¯t inaccessible by steep cliffside. Holsley spied several tubheads watching them carefully along the top, and several more strolled out of the gates to stop them.


    Merhim pulled on the reigns and brought the cart to a crawl, then eventually stopped at the gesture of the tubheads. Like the ones Holsley had caught sight of in Petty¡¯s Nest, each guard wore half as much plate armour as they should and steel caps emblazoned with the badges of their authority.


    ¡®Greetings.¡¯ The one who moved in towards Merhim¡¯s side of the cart was older, his hair growing grey around his ears, and he spoke with the grizzled accent of a bear just out of hibernation. ¡®First Constable Higgins. Are you here for business or pleasure?¡¯


    ¡®Business,¡¯ Merhim replied promptly. ¡®I¡¯m buying some of the city¡¯s ale to transport to neighbouring towns.¡¯


    ¡®Good business that,¡¯ he muttered.


    Holsley ducked down a little in the passenger seat, hoping not to be addressed personally. Another tubhead had come alongside this constable, a younger one with a propensity to stare and an itchy mace hilt that only his hand could scratch.


    The older guard coughed, spat out something rotten, and continued as if nothing had happened. ¡®Do you have signed permission from the Alcohol Distribution and Brewing Guild for your business endeavours, sir?¡¯


    Merhim didn¡¯t say a word beyond a grumble as he fished into his jacket and pulled out a small scrap of paper, which he handed to the constable. Higgins inspected it, nodding as he went, and handed it back without barely looking at it.


    ¡®All in order,¡¯ he grunted. ¡®Now, I have to ask the both of you a couple of questions before you can be on your way. Answer them honestly, or else there¡¯ll be trouble waiting for you in Tressa proper.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re open books, eh.¡¯ Merhim gave Holsley a nudge.


    ¡®Are you carrying any magical items on your person?¡¯ First Constable Higgins poised his feathered pen on his clipboard.


    ¡®No,¡¯ said Merhim rigidly. ¡®We are not.¡¯


    ¡®Just to let you know, if you are found to be carrying magical items that haven¡¯t been declared, and to which you do not have a license for, they are likely to be confiscated and land you with a hefty fine determined by the rarity and power of such items.¡¯


    Merhim nodded his head. ¡®Of course.¡¯


    ¡®Last question, are either of you spellcasters?¡¯ Higgins took in both of them. He lingered a little longer on Holsley than the bard would¡¯ve liked but soon retreated back to the clipboard to read the next bit. ¡®Spellcaster here is defined as any person who can utilise magic and cast spells of any level or rank. This includes, but is not limited to, the Arcane, the Green, and the Divine methods of spellology.¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ Merhim said flatly.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t remember spellcasters being a significant thought for tubheads when he¡¯d been in the city last. Then again, he supposed he hadn¡¯t been a spellcaster back then and thus wasn¡¯t under their watchful eye. The city certainly seemed jumpy about the idea of wayward spells and magic items.


    Of course, maybe they had a good reason to be jumpy, as the last magic item he¡¯d held was a wand that had exploded. Wait, was he still carrying the wand?! Holsley¡¯s eyes widened in terror, and he shifted his weight a little to take suspicion off his bag.


    Higgins took from his satchel a parchment. Unrolling it revealed a contract, which he encouraged the pair to sign. From what the young bard could see, it was a list of the city rules alongside a declaration at the bottom that declared they had been presented with the current laws on magic upon their entrance into the city.


    Merhim signed it first, then Holsley reluctantly signed it with the offered quill.


    The guard passed Merhim the contract. ¡®Failure to present this document when asked to by a city guard is punishable by imprisonment or a fine.¡¯


    Then they were gone without so much as a farewell.


    ¡®It gets worse each time I come through,¡¯ said Merhim as they passed beneath the gate and into the city proper. ¡®Right paranoid about magic this far north, eh.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Holsley replied, half-listening. ¡®Why, though?¡¯


    ¡®Higher-ups don¡¯t like the idea of commoners with access to magic,¡¯ replied Merhim with a sniff. ¡®Especially after that business with the gangs getting their hands on potions a couple of years ago.¡¯


    The cart ambled along the cobblestones onto Attilan Road. Holsley straightened when he saw the signpost. This was the main road that cut through the city and passed by each ward. Visitors and merchants followed it to the markets, but people of importance allowed it to take them all the way into the city¡¯s prestigious Golden Penny ward, where the city¡¯s nobles dwelled.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Nostalgia hit Holsley like a punch to the head. Suddenly, things he hadn¡¯t thought about in years came back to him like he needed to continue the thoughts he had left behind. Memories of every alley, shop window, and crooked building assailed him without mercy. They added to the already heavy pile of emotions he was carrying.


    The cart creaked into the hustle and bustle of a city that wasn¡¯t pretty to look at but was teaming with life nonetheless. The distinctive thrum of the masses eagerly moved alongside them on the sidewalk while other carts and vehicles slowly moved ahead on the main road at a snail¡¯s pace.


    The young bard smiled. On days like this, he and Roland would set their minds to causing mischief.


    ¡®I¡¯m going to take us to the Fetch Inn.¡¯ Merhim¡¯s voice had to rise above the sudden din all around them. ¡®I owe them an apology for the ale I promised.¡¯


    Holsley barely heard him, not because of the din but because of just how much there was to see.


    On his right, two men, one a dragonborn and the other a sickly-looking human, argued over the last basket of grapes on an indifferent merchant¡¯s trolley. A little ahead of them, two fair-haired boys no older than eight were weaving between the stalled traffic while playing a silly game where they jumped up and tried to slap the drivers. Behind, he saw a half-elven woman at the reigns of a measly cart, desperately trying to touch up her makeup.


    Everywhere he looked, another unique life was experiencing the city for themselves. He¡¯d almost forgotten how crowded Tressa could be. It was nothing like the town he¡¯d left behind.


    As expected, the scaffolding was everywhere and was worth mentioning twice. It had been here so long that the city civilians barely noticed it. They stepped around it, under it, and, in some cases, over it without even breaking their strides.


    It was hard to ignore the buildings, however. Most were in a sorrier-than-sorry state, especially around here in the poorer wards. They sat, leaning heavily against the wooden supports that had been placed to bolster them. In some places, a few had already collapsed into piles of rubble. Very few were occupied; Holsley could see as much through the boarded-up windows.


    Then he noticed the posters.


    It set his mind and heart racing in equal measure. Tressa hadn¡¯t changed much since he¡¯d been gone, but it sure had been busy. The faces of hundreds of criminals convicted of all sorts of crimes were set on display along the once-bare walls of abandoned houses. They stared back at him with that same stern face ¡ª the one that said it didn¡¯t matter if they¡¯d done it. They were dead men now.


    Holsley only recognised one of them ¡ª the most recent addition, pasted over all the other posters. Roland¡¯s. It was the same as the one they had put up in Petty¡¯s Nest. The hanging was still set for the sixteenth, and he still looked just about how Holsley would¡¯ve imagined him three years on from their last meeting.


    ¡®That him then?¡¯ Merhim spat.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ came a meek reply, but Holsley was too concerned with what he was going to do next to carry the conversation forward. The gnome must have sensed this because he didn¡¯t press Holsley on the matter, for which the bard was grateful.


    The cart turned off the main road at about fifteen minutes of the hour later, cruising along a much narrower but quieter street. The houses weren¡¯t very different here, still leaning, crooked, and supported only by swiftly assembled wooden beams from ground to wall.


    The tavern was a different story.


    The horse whinnied its reluctance to stop as Merhim pulled back on the reigns. They had come to a ratty old tavern that, thankfully, seemed able to stand on its own. It looked like a list of chores come to life; the paint had been stripped and worn by the weather, the shutters were moss-ridden and hanging low, and many of the windows were cracked or boarded up.


    On first impression, it didn¡¯t seem like a very hospitable tavern, but despite its appearance, it had a certain charm.


    ¡®Nice to be somewhere after a long journey.¡¯ Merhim stretched out his arms, shaking off the days of cart wobbling that had undoubtedly stiffened his joints. ¡®I come here every time I¡¯m in the city. Acceptable rooms for acceptable rates, kid¡­say, have you put any thought into where you¡¯re going to be staying?¡¯


    Holsley hadn¡¯t.


    It was yet another thing the young bard would need to consider. Exactly how long would it take to get Roland out of the noose? A day? More? In his head, he saw himself rushing the stage of his execution with his lute in hand. He could even attempt the sleeping song if he could master it, but if that¡¯s how he wanted to do it, he¡¯d need room and board for at least four days.


    ¡®I suppose I could stay here,¡¯ replied Holsley as they entered a shabby tavern with curling carpets covered in cigar burns. At least he could afford a room for a few nights, thanks to the goblin side quest.


    ¡®I¡¯ll introduce you to the owner,¡¯ Merhim said proudly.


    ***


    Gannamane was a beautiful, orange-furred catfolk with a pleasant way of speaking that momentarily distracted Holsley from his dour thoughts. He¡¯d heard of catfolks before but had never seen one up close. They came from the Jungle Isle of Tess¡¯Ax¡¯Ax ¡ªa place farther south than he ever planned on going¡ª and, apparently, they were very agile creatures capable of great feats of dexterity.


    This one owned the Fetch Inn and, after Merhim had regaled her with the exploits of their journey through the Longwalk Woods, had even given them a couple of free drinks for their trouble.


    Seeing as the tavern was mostly empty, they had their pick of seats and chose a bench in the corner where everything was nice and quiet. Merhim sipped at his bitter, while Holsley drank down his milky rose ¡ª a concoction of cherries, blueberries, and strawberries blended together in full milk and topped with ice.


    ¡®Right.¡¯ Merhim clapped his hands together. ¡®What¡¯s your plan then, young bard?¡¯


    Holsley was a little caught off by the question.


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ he gulped. ¡®Plan?¡¯


    ¡®About your friend facing the noose,¡¯ replied Merhim. ¡®What is it exactly that you intend on doing about it, eh?¡¯


    The young bard considered his idea to rush the stage and save Roland a second before he was about to drop by putting the guards to sleep with his lute, but it seemed a bit silly now that he was being forced to voice his plan out loud.


    Instead, he shrugged and took a long draw of his drink. ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ he said, finally. ¡®I need to see him first, though.¡¯


    ¡®Not much chance of that.¡¯ Merhim shook his head. ¡®Criminals sentenced to death in Tressa aren¡¯t allowed to have visitors.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ It was hard for Holsley to hide his disappointment. ¡®I didn¡¯t know that.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯d need to get permission from the Lower Warden at the very least,¡¯ Merhim said. ¡®Do you know who the Ravenpeaks are?¡¯


    Of course, he did. After all, he had grown up here. The Ravenpeaks were a family of tieflings that controlled the various securities of Tressa. Holsley only knew about them because everyone was endlessly complaining about a new rule or law they were enforcing upon the city. He didn¡¯t know much more than that, just that they were responsible for law and order in Tressa.


    Oh, and he had spent most of his youth giving one of them the right runaround.


    ¡®Apart from the Lower Warden,¡¯ mused Merhim. ¡®A member of the Ravenpeaks could give you permission.¡¯ Then, he waved the idea off. ¡®That¡¯s for later, though. Right now, what you need to do is seek out an appeal.¡¯


    That¡¯s right. Holsley had almost forgotten what Darynell had told him back in Petty¡¯s Nest. The Law of Appeal could save Roland¡¯s life, reducing his death sentence to a simple life imprisonment instead.


    ¡®How does that work?¡¯ Holsley leaned forward. ¡®What would I need to do?¡¯


    ¡®As I understand it, you appeal for a criminal by providing a testimony for their character.¡¯ Merhim stroked his sharp chin in contemplation. ¡®If you can prove your friend has done more good than bad in his life, then he¡¯ll be spared the noose.¡¯


    ¡®How do I prove that, though?¡¯


    ¡®Well, you know him,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®You¡¯ve come a long way to see this Roland. You must have plenty of examples of him doing good. I¡¯m sure you could vouch for his character.¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s a good person,¡¯ Holsley said confidently, but not many examples of Roland being altruistic came to mind. It was hard to separate his best friend from a skilled thief. Perhaps he could just make up a couple of examples? After all, he knew Roland. ¡®I can come up with a few things.¡¯


    ¡®You can start with that then.¡¯ Merhim drained the last of his bitter from his wooden tankard. ¡®Think up as many examples as you can. The Lower Warden would¡¯ve been gathering as much testimony from as many people as possible. There¡¯s no court in Tressa, and there hasn¡¯t been since the war. Guilt is decided by the Ravenpeaks alone, so you¡¯ll need to get through to them, and I warn you, I¡¯ve never heard of anyone getting a hanging reversed.¡¯


    ¡®Where would I need to go to make this appeal?¡¯


    ¡®The Old Stone Keep, I reckon, eh,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®If you go to the Named Offices, they¡¯ll guide you to where you need going.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll go now!¡¯ Holsley stood up, sliding his chair out from under him. ¡®I can catch a dray up to the keep.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t you want a bit of a rest?¡¯ Merhim urged him to sit down again. ¡®You¡¯ve got four days, Holsley, and we¡¯ve come a long way. You might think clearer on a good night¡¯s sleep?¡¯


    ¡®My friend is probably lying in some rotten cell right now, and I don¡¯t want him to be there a moment longer than he needs to be.¡¯ Holsley went for his lute but frowned immediately. He had almost forgotten it was less of a lute now and more like two pieces of well-varnished firewood. He picked it up anyway. The goblin gold could pay for it to be repaired.


    The lute was, after all, and quite literally, instrumental to his secret plan of saving Roland.


    ¡®Listen.¡¯ Merhim grabbed Holsley¡¯s attention before he sauntered off. ¡®I¡¯m going to stay in the city for another couple of days. You saved my life, Holsley, and that ain¡¯t nothing a gnome forgets. Please come and see me before you doing anything rash, yeah kid. I¡¯ll always be here to lend a wise ear, eh.¡¯


    Holsley gave him a quick and what he hoped was an appreciative-looking nod, but he didn¡¯t turn to leave right away. From the look on Merhim¡¯s face, it was clear that the gnome had a little more to say.


    ¡®What is it?¡¯ he asked.


    Merhim sucked at his gums. ¡®Don¡¯t worry about it, kid.¡¯

 Chapter Fifteen — Tressan Bureaucracy

    Getting on top of the crate had been more of a chore than Holsley realised, but it had been necessary in order to find his footing.


    The young bard looked out at the infamous courtyard of the Old Stone Keep and over the tightly packed crowds moving within it. It was quite a scene. One that hadn¡¯t changed much from when he was a boy and, as far as he was aware, hadn¡¯t changed much in the past hundred years either.


    The courtyard could be accurately described as a sea of cracked flagstones, reaching out to several large and great buildings that sat beneath the even larger and greater Old Stone Keep ¡ª a high-rising blocky mess of stone towers, walkways lined with battlements, and so many windows that Holsley doubted mathematics had got that far with the numbering.


    At any time of day, the keep was a looming structure rising as high as the morning sun. In its prime, he may have called it majestic, but these days, it was a crumbling mess wrapped in scaffolding, just like every other building in Tressa.


    Holsley directed his eyes down, back to the courtyard. What he was looking for was in one of the less-impressive buildings within the keep¡¯s shade.


    The tower across the courtyard to his left belonged to the tubheads. Most called it Tub Tower, but its official name was the High Warden¡¯s Watch. Holsley preferred Tub Tower. The young bard could tell what it was from what was in front of it. He gulped. It was the gallows, Tressa¡¯s preferred instrument of death.


    He quickly looked away.


    That¡¯s not what he was searching for. On the other side of the courtyard, directly opposite Tub Tower, was a long stretch of building that dominated that side. With its shaped gable roofs and fancy arched windows, it looked like a manor, but it wasn¡¯t. It was an administration building. When a person had a problem that had nothing to do with breaking the law, like a streetlamp not turning on, that¡¯s usually where they went to get it sorted.


    Holsley hopped off the crate and winced when the ground caught his foot awkwardly.


    Other notable buildings included an old, decrepit church that not even scaffolding could improve, several other manor-esque attachments, and a few smaller buildings dotted about to make the place feel more homely.


    ¡®Get out of the way!¡¯


    He jumped back as a sudden cart raced across his path through the open gates. Heart racing, he looked to the figure driving but caught her middle finger first in his eyeline. The tiefling narrowed her eyes and shouted something that was lost in the crowd¡¯s din but was no doubt offensive and rude. He stared daggers at her but needn¡¯t have bothered as she was gone a second later.


    ¡®Good to be back,¡¯ he mumbled to himself.


    People moved around the courtyard in a circular pattern, with others constantly getting on and off as if they were all members of the same organism. Holsley jumped into the fray, intent on manoeuvring to the Named Offices, but quickly faced a few navigational problems.


    He¡¯d be lying if he didn¡¯t admit that he was perhaps a little shorter than the average height for a boy his age. However, even if he was of average height, he still doubted he could see above this crowd. Holsley quickly found himself being pushed and pulled in all directions while seething Tressans sneered at him and shouted obscenities for getting in their way.


    When he¡¯d had enough, the young bard forced himself to the centre of the thousand-person march. Holsley had been intent on getting his bearings but quickly realised that he had ended up in the courtyard¡¯s centre. When he had been perched on the crate, he hadn¡¯t seen it, and he was surprised at himself for forgetting it was here.


    Tressa didn¡¯t have a lot of artwork. Or, to say, artwork that was in a good condition. It did have this, however. Standing upon a marble plinth, Holsley admired the work of six unique statues, each depicting a different person in the heat of a great battle. As a boy who had grown up in this city, he recognised their faces instantly from the legends. These were the fabled Heroes of Tressa.


    Over three hundred years ago, these six strangers valiantly fought off a great evil and subsequently founded the city of Tressa. From there, they became the monarchs who formed the first Council of Six to rule over the people. These days, it is the Council of Four, as two of the founding families have died out.


    Curious and feeling a little nostalgic, Holsley approached the plinth and leaned in towards the plaque below it at waist height. Quietly, he read the words aloud as he followed them with his finger.


    ¡®Droth Rosevale, human. Saarthen Davanx, elven. Ivela Everonn, human. Alion Attilan, human. Abberella Haven, elven. Love Ravenpeak, tiefling,¡¯ he mumbled. ¡®In the year 813, these six heroes founded the great city of Tressa for the purposes of rebuilding the three towns destroyed in the Unbridled Storm of 812. This statue commemorates their greatest achievement in being the absolute defeat of Violl, the mother of spiders, whose banishment created said storm.¡¯


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Holsley straightened back up.


    ¡®The only change permitted is the change we create ourselves,¡¯ he said the last part louder and found himself as he had when he was ten, reading it for the first time ¡ª confused at what it meant.


    He looked up at Love Ravenpeak¡¯s youthful face and cringed. She was perhaps the same age as Holsley was now, with magnificent curling horns and a face so stern and determined that Holsley almost felt rallied into action. Unlike the others, she didn¡¯t carry a weapon but pointed like she was commanding them into action.


    Each finger on her hand wore an impressive, if not bulbous, ring. There were five of them altogether, with four on the one that was pointing and the last on one of the fingers behind her back. Most looked about the same, except for the one behind her back, which seemed to have been cut in the shape of a brain.


    This was the current High Warden of Tressa. He knew that because she¡¯d been High Warden of Tressa since before he was born. This was the woman who had deemed Roland evil enough to execute and had gone as far as to do the paperwork. She didn¡¯t look like much. In fact, she didn¡¯t look like this. Holsley had seen paintings of her, and in them, she was an ancient and far more demonic-appearing creature.


    Love was the only founder left, which was a fact everyone knew. What everyone didn¡¯t know was how she¡¯d managed to live for over three hundred years, which was well past the lifespan of a regular tiefling. Some said, while others believed, that she stayed alive out of sheer stubbornness, but others thought magic might be the culprit.


    Holsley wasn¡¯t so sure, however.


    ***


    It was approaching midday by the time Holsley stepped inside the Named Offices.


    An entire hour had passed since he had come to the courtyard of the Stone Keep, and he had spent much of it in an aggravating queue with some rather disinterested individuals. When he finally did step inside the offices, he did so with wide eyes and a sigh of relief.


    A hundred clerks sat behind a counter that ran the length of the opposite wall, not unlike a bank. They even sat behind arrow-proof screens. Occasionally, a tiny bell would ring, letting the next person in line know they were up. Beyond that, though, there wasn¡¯t much to say about the Named Offices. They were sparsely decorated and seemed actively uninteresting.


    Ring.


    Holsley hopped to attention and rushed to the counter. Behind it, a weedy human with a struggling moustache waited for him. ¡®Good morning. What do you need from the Named Offices today?¡¯


    ¡®Uh.¡¯ Holsley had momentarily forgotten. The indifference of the inside and the hour of waiting on the outside had derailed his thoughts. ¡®Uh, I¡¯m here to¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Yes, yes, complain about your gutters?¡¯ The gentleman clicked his tongue as Holsley reeled back from that unexpected statement. ¡®There¡¯s a very simple parchment you need to fill out.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not here for that?¡¯ Holsley replied, a little confused. ¡®I¡¯m here to appeal for Roland Darrow. He¡¯s, uh, going to be executed on the sixteenth.¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ The weedy man said it with the same exaggerated tone as a giant yawn. ¡®All appeals must be brought to the attention of the City Guards.¡¯


    ¡®You mean the tubheads?¡¯


    The man nodded. ¡®You can submit an appeal in the High Warden¡¯s Watch across the way.¡¯


    ¡®My gnome friend told me I had to come here first to find the right way to go?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m telling you the right way to go,¡¯ replied the weedy teller, even going as far as to point this time. ¡®Across the way.¡¯


    ¡®So, I just stood in a queue for an hour for nothing then?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    With a harumph, Holsley stormed off in the opposite direction. The moment his body moved away from the counter, the little bell rang again to signal that the next person could now approach the tellers. He could already hear them complaining about their gutters moments before he found his way to the door.


    Must be a pretty common problem, he thought.


    He sighed and hoped this little setback would be the only one of its kind today, utterly unaware that today would be one of the busiest days of his life.


    ***


    Holsley couldn¡¯t keep his eyes off the gallows as he marched towards Tub Tower.


    They looked so old, so wooden, practically rotted away. In less than a week, unless Holsley could stop it, his friend would be standing on that platform waiting for death while a crowd eagerly anticipated his end. Wagers would be passed between them, betting on whether his neck would snap or whether he¡¯d be forced to choke on his own weight.


    He held his breath and continued to hold his breath as he passed the two tubheads on either side of the iron bolted door. They had no reason to stop him, but there was an inkling in the back of his mind that they might just recognise him. They didn¡¯t. Instead, he stepped through the door and into the beating heart of the city¡¯s policing.


    A desk awaited him, and sitting upon that desk was an older gnomish woman. Beyond her was a set of stone steps that led up to the parts of the tower he needed to go. As he entered, the doorway shutting behind him, one of the three multi-coloured bells above her head jingled, and a half-elf stood up from a nearby bench and casually hopped up the staircase.


    Holsley approached the desk and read the little nameplate that told him the gnome¡¯s name was Shray Olindle.


    ¡®Uh, hi, Shray.¡¯ He gave her a small wave, and she gave him a glance over the rim of her half-moon spectacles. ¡®I¡¯m here to make an appeal for Roland Darrow?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s fine,¡¯ she replied with the bare minimum requirements for a smile. ¡®We¡¯ve had a few people filtering in and out for Roland Darrow. You can produce your evidence to the Lower Warden.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, where would I find them?¡¯ Holsley drummed his fingers excitedly along the desk.


    The gnome merely pointed to three bells hanging above her head. ¡®You must wait for him to become available,¡¯ she said in a drawling voice. The red bell will ring when he is open to visitors, and then wait for your turn. At that point, I¡¯ll wave you up to his office.¡¯


    Holsley looked back to the rounded bench in the foyer, the one filled close to breaking with people from all walks of life. An older woman eyed him up and gave him a short wave, which he returned awkwardly before turning back. ¡®Uh, is this likely to take long?¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ Shray replied curtly without looking up. ¡®Please take a seat.¡¯


    With no other choice, Holsley found a nice gap between the bench minders and settled himself in for a long wait.

 Chapter Sixteen — A Lovely Chat with the Warden

    An hour passed, and people went, only to be replaced by more people.


    A never-ending queue of victims with a seemingly endless parade of criminal complaints. Holsley had heard it all and was still shocked when he heard a little more. Genuinely, he had never even known there were this many crimes to commit. All the while, all he could do was sit, listen, and twiddle his thumbs.


    A part of him wished that the instrument he still carried in his satchel was whole. At least then he could while away the time by practicing. Thinking it over, though, Holsley supposed he wouldn¡¯t do that even if the instrument were in perfect condition. Not with all these strangers here around him to observe and judge.


    ¡®I have so many scarves.¡¯


    For a moment, he hadn¡¯t realised the pile of scarves beside him was talking to him. When Holsley turned, he found an old, sweet face staring back at him expectantly from within the knitted bundle alongside two rakish hands holding up a well-crafted blue piece of winter wear.


    ¡®Would you like one?¡¯ the pile asked.


    ¡®Oh, uh¡­¡¯ The autumn chill was upon them. Summer had been weeks ago, and he just couldn¡¯t imagine himself saying no to this sweet old thing ¡ª especially since he had to sit next to her for an undetermined amount of time. Holsley dug into his pockets for some copper peasants before handing them over. ¡®I¡¯ll take one.¡¯


    ¡®Bless you.¡¯ The woman took it in two shaking hands before handing him a well-crafted blue scarf. ¡®They¡¯re saying I can¡¯t sell my scarves no more on account of my license. It¡¯s such a shame, I bought so much wool and knitted them all myself.¡¯


    Holsley¡¯s stomach lurched. He had never been good at this kind of thing, which was really two kinds of things. The first was talking to strangers, and the second was trying to comfort them. It¡¯s not like he had any answers. Still, he ploughed on, determined to at least say something that sounded sympathetic. ¡®Uh, I bet good tidings are just around the corner.¡¯


    The young bard sighed ¡ª that was a Tressan saying. Oh no, he thought, that meant the city was already getting its teeth into him, drawing him back inside the almost inescapable labyrinth of unending alleys and lacklustre politics. Holsley refused. As soon as he was sure Roland was safe, he would leave Tressa as quickly as it was convenient.


    ¡®You¡¯re a sweet boy.¡¯ The old woman gave his cheek a pull and threw in a sweet smile for free. ¡®Wrap it tightly around you now. There ain¡¯t half of a freeze coming, but you¡¯ll be fine. I can tell you¡¯re lucky.¡¯


    Holsley wasn¡¯t given the chance to reply and enquire into that wording. A bell rang out, and when he turned to check, he saw Shray pointing towards the stone steps. He suddenly felt nervous as he stood up to leave. Strangely, it occurred to him then that he was about to argue someone¡¯s life. To prove that they should continue living.


    Wouldn¡¯t that be extremely difficult?


    He gave the pile of scarves a quick goodbye, and the pile waved back.


    If this went well, he might have a good shot at saving Roland. If this went half as well, he¡¯d at least see him. If it went badly, then Roland might have some company on that noose of his.


    ***


    The gnomish receptionist had given him the barest of instructions. Essentially, all he had to do was go up. He still got turned around. Holsley wondered if it was clever architecture or simple magic that made it hard to recall the lengths of passages he¡¯d already marched through. Why was everything in Tressa modelled after a maze?


    After twenty minutes of rushing corners, Holsley only knew he was finally heading the right way when he saw two tubheads standing on either side of a corridor. As promised by Shray, these men were standing watch over the Lower Warden¡¯s office while the officer was in residence. He moved closer, and they didn¡¯t flinch, which he took to mean he could pass without explaining himself.


    The corridor led to a door just around a tight corner. It was a great oaken door, very sturdy looking, and kept strong with iron ornaments and hinges. With a sense of unease, Holsley rapped on the door three times but didn¡¯t hear anything close to an answer on the other side. Was the warden in there?


    ¡®Use the knocker,¡¯ a tubhead called to him from the end of the corridor. ¡®The door¡¯s thick and blocks all sound, just how the warden likes it.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, uh, thanks,¡¯ Holsley called back.


    Holsley took hold of the big iron knocker in the centre of the door and used it like a hammer to bang on the wood. He only went for the handle after he¡¯d given it three sturdy thuds and moved inside without permission.


    Almost immediately, he stumbled over the haphazardly stacked pile of papers directly behind the door. The office was an absolute pigsty. Loose parchments of every shape and size flitted about every space of the room. Wayward books, stacked vertically, graced the shelves, the floor, and the desk despite the abundance of space. Dead plants clung to life on the windowsill, and the rotting aroma rising from tens of decaying plates of food hung sordidly in the air.


    Holsley cringed at the smell and stepped in far enough to close the door behind him. In the centre of this chaotic disorder sat a blue-skinned tiefling approaching fifty.


    The warden shifted a little in his obviously cumbersome armour but didn¡¯t look up to welcome Holsley, and that was just about the luckiest thing that could¡¯ve happened to the young bard today.


    Holsley wasn¡¯t staring at the Lower Warden of Tressa, nor was he looking at a tiefling, a guard, tubhead, or anything that could be attached to a simple label. No, this was Kythos Ravenpeak. The nightmarish figure that had terrorised his youth and haunted his every step. Fate, exceptionally cruel, had placed Roland¡¯s life in the hands of a man who had once sworn an oath to strangle the life out of him.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Kythos dug his hand into a bowl of popcorn to his left, devouring the bits and licking the salt from his fingers ¡ª all while not giving Holsley the time of day. This gave the young bard a few seconds to act.


    Thinking on his feet, Holsley swiftly wrapped the scarf about his lower face, hoping it would be enough to disguise him. Kythos let out a burp and gestured to the seat opposite. Holsley took in more of the warden as he sat down. The old tubhead was covered in stains from old meals; his armour was greasy with it, and he wasn¡¯t shy about wiping his salty fingers off on his thighs.


    ¡®Another to give evidence against Roland Darrow, is it?¡¯ Holsley made sure to keep his face and eyes down to the floor. ¡®Well, let¡¯s have it then! What did he do to you?¡¯


    ¡®N-Nothing,¡¯ Holsley replied, then lowered the octave of his voice a little. ¡®I mean, nothing.¡¯


    ¡®Then what are you doing here?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m here to appeal for Roland Darrow,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®I want to make the case that he should live.¡¯


    ¡®Well, that¡¯s a first.¡¯ Kythos rummaged around in the desk drawer and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from it before finally looking up. ¡®Seems I may have found the only person in the North with something good to say about the scoundrel. Go on then, what¡¯s so good about him?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, he saved my life,¡¯ said Holsley.


    ¡®Saved. Your. Life.¡¯ Kythos wrote the words down dutifully. After a moment of silence, he added to his stern gaze. ¡®Is that it? He saved your life. Anything else?¡¯


    ¡®Uh.¡¯ Holsley was a bit lost for words. What more did anyone need beyond that? ¡®Well, he¡¯s a good person, and I don¡¯t think he deserves the noose.¡¯


    ¡®That so?¡¯ Kythos lowered the quill. ¡®That good person was involved in over ten recorded raids on innocent villages along the Crossing, including three within Tressa¡¯s territory. According to witnesses, of which there are many, he and other members of the Gleeful Goat terrorised, stole, and even killed people in those villages.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re mistaken,¡¯ said Holsley, who knew Roland like the back of his hand. He was a thief, yes, but he wasn¡¯t a killer ¡ª especially not to innocent people. As a boy, Roland had insisted on only stealing from those who could afford it, and, to Holsley¡¯s mind, that wasn¡¯t a person capable of harming another person on purpose. It was utter nonsense.


    Kythos clearly didn¡¯t see it that way from how he creased his brows.


    ¡®You what!?¡¯ the tiefling demanded, spitting flecks of half-crunched popcorn towards Holsley. ¡®You think all of these people are lying?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, well¡­¡¯ Holsley tried to swallow but found his throat suddenly dry. It was as clear as freshly wiped glass that his appeal wouldn¡¯t work here. Not with Kythos, who was still slobbish and hard-hearted. This tiefling was the proof that people didn¡¯t change much in three years. Instead of arguing further, he gathered up what saliva he had left and asked, meekly, ¡®May I see him? Please?¡¯


    ¡®Roland Darrow is dangerous.¡¯ Kythos leaned in to emphasise his point. ¡®No one is allowed to see a prisoner destined for execution without the written consent of myself or¡ª¡¯


    ¡®A member of the Ravenpeak Family, I know,¡¯ said Holsley, growing tired of it. ¡®You can permit me, though. Just five minutes? What would I have to do to get that?¡¯


    Kythos leaned back. ¡®What do you want to see him so bad for?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a friend,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®I just want to say, uh, goodbye if I can?¡¯


    ¡®Well, tough.¡¯ Kythos slammed a hand down on the table, causing Holsley to involuntarily jerk in his seat. ¡®Get to the execution early if you want to speak to him. You can shout out your reconciliations from the front of the crowd.¡¯ Kythos grinned. ¡®Better yet, I¡¯ll even throw you the head when it¡¯s all done.¡¯


    He¡¯s so stupid, Holsley thought. Roland¡¯s being hung, not beheaded ¡ª even I know that.


    Once, when Holsley had been studying under the tutelage of the elves, he had read a fairy tale about fate. The story was boring, simple elven fantasy, but there was a line in it that stuck with him ¡ª ¡°Fate doesn¡¯t deal in cruel irony; she deals in appropriate obstacles.¡± That¡¯s what this was. Kythos was an obstacle, and he had to figure out a way to overcome him.


    As he often did, he asked himself what Marlin Mandrovi would do.


    Then, he grinned.


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯ Holsley leaned in, leading with his left ear. ¡®I didn¡¯t quite catch that last part. Could you say it again, please?¡¯


    ¡®I said I¡¯ll even¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Enunciate.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll. Even. Throw. You. The. Head.¡¯ Kythos said slowly. ¡®Get it now?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, that¡¯s what I thought you said.¡¯ Holsley stood at that and gathered up the satchel with his broken lute. There was no need to stay any longer. Kythos wouldn¡¯t change his mind about executing Roland, but maybe Holsley didn¡¯t need him to. ¡®Thank you, uh, Mr. Warden? I do hope that my appeal will be considered carefully in your final decision to hang Roland.¡¯


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t bet on it counting for much,¡¯ replied Kythos. ¡®One saved life against a reported sixteen lives taken. Pretty clear cut to me.¡¯


    ¡®Then I guess I¡¯ll¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Have we met before?¡¯ Kythos¡¯s eyebrow suddenly went up. ¡®Who are you? For some reason, you seem quite familiar to me. Have we met before?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, no,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®I¡¯m¡­Langden.¡¯


    ¡®Langden who?¡¯


    Langden was a farm dog Holsley had met some time ago on the road. A fat, bloated thing that was too old to move. Kythos reminded him of that dog, which could hardly roll over to retrieve a slither of bacon. He quickly looked about the room for a last name and found it by combining two items.


    ¡®Bookplant.¡¯ Holsley cleared his throat. ¡®Langden Bookplant.¡¯


    Kythos eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment, Holsley honestly thought he would stand up and rush the bard. Then the tiefling returned to his paperwork, bored with the whole situation. ¡®Close my door quietly on your way out.¡¯


    Despite his anger, Holsley did close the door quietly. After all, he had to if he wanted his quickly dreamed-up plan to work. As soon as the lock clicked into place, a wicked grin sprawled across his face. He moved away from it, further down the corridor, and then turned his attention to the two guards with their backs to him, who were still diligently watching for signs of trouble.


    Holsley whistled a short but quiet tune and watched his fingers come to life with magic. Pressing the digits against his neck, he experimentally said a few random words and was pleased to hear them come out in Kythos¡¯s voice.


    ¡®You two!¡¯ he barked up the corridor. The men stood to rigid attention but didn¡¯t turn around. ¡®Don¡¯t bother moving. I want you to take Mr. Bookplant to the dungeons to visit Roland Darrow. Take him there and leave him alone in the room with the prisoner.¡¯


    ¡®But, sir, shouldn¡¯t we¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Are you backtalking me!?¡¯ Holsley said louder, hoping that the real Kythos hadn¡¯t heard. ¡®Gods, do as I say or¡­.or, or you¡¯ll be demoted down so far people will think you¡¯re the janitor that does guard work on the side.¡¯


    ¡®Sir, do you¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Now, get to it!¡¯


    Holsley removed the fingers from his throat and strode forward confidently, pulling the scarf from his half-hidden facial features. ¡®Are you going to take me to see Roland?¡¯ he asked, ¡®I sure hope so. That guy did not seem to be in the best of moods.¡¯


    ¡®Follow us.¡¯


    The tubheads were suspicious ¡ª that much was evident from the look they gave one another, but neither one went to challenge Kythos. They were convinced just enough to believe what Holsley had wanted them to believe. It meant that, with only gentle tugging, Holsley¡¯s lie would unravel like a scarf made of yarn, but for now, he was getting what he wanted. He was going to see Roland without all of the paperwork.


    The tubheads led the way, taking him lower and lower into the tower. Even lower than the room he had been waiting inside for this past hour or so. That made sense, as the dungeons were beneath the Warden¡¯s Tower. Roland had been stowed somewhere deep below.


    As the stone steps ran long below him, he couldn¡¯t help but consider what he might find in that dank cell. Would it be the Roland he could remember from his youth? The young and daring thief who thought he could get away with anything.


    Or would it be a different Roland, one that, instead, thought he could get away with murder?

 Chapter Seventeen — ...and it feels so good

    Holsley had never wanted to imagine the more macabre afterlives that may be awaiting sinners through death¡¯s door, but if he did, his imaginings wouldn¡¯t be too far removed from Tressa¡¯s dungeons. Just when he thought he¡¯d seen the worst of it, he took another step and was quickly proven wrong.


    They started on the first floor. Here, you could expect to find the light offenders, those that weren¡¯t really criminals but had been placed behind cells for misdemeanours that might include stuff like talking back to a guard or petty theft.


    The light was blinding on this level. In every possible space, an overloaded sconce emitted a bright glow that illuminated every crack, corner, and cranny. Guards fed them obsessively with flint and steel as he was marched through. He didn¡¯t need to wonder why ¡ª it was all to keep the criminals here uncomfortable. And it was working.


    By the time they had reached the end of the first level, Holsley¡¯s head wouldn¡¯t stop throbbing, and his eyes had trouble adjusting to the light spots the torches had burned into his vision. Unfortunately, the vivid light had also meant he¡¯d seen everything. There was no hiding the cramped cells filled with half-starved inmates rattling bowls for food that was probably more of a mercy than a necessity.


    ¡®Keep up,¡¯ one of the guards called to him from ahead as they descended another set of steps.


    It only got worse from there. The lower they went, the darker it got, which wasn¡¯t necessarily news to Holsley. As a youth, he¡¯d heard the same rumours as everyone else about the severe lighting conditions that awaited criminals in the Tressan dungeons. It was brightest at the top and then steadily grew darker as the severity of the crimes also grew darker.


    The second level was dim but not pitch black. Far more comfortable than the level above him. Perhaps something closer to a typical prison. The light this time, however, was not the source of the inmate¡¯s discomfort. That could be found in the cramped lodgings.


    Holsley sped past cells that were so packed that the gaunt men inside them could barely move. Most were shrivelled up and aged beyond their years, while others looked about ready to keel over. None asked for food, which, to Holsley, meant they knew they wouldn¡¯t get it.


    Unfortunately, the young bard had heard about this level too. It was for the more typical offenders, people who had committed crimes just short of murder and treason. Twenty inmates were forced to share a single, cramped cell and were only given enough food per day to feed one of them. For them, it was either learning to share or figuring out how to become the strongest.


    Holsley almost couldn¡¯t believe that the vicious rumours were true, but the proof was right there in the sunken eyes that followed him.


    At the beginning of each level, at the bottom of a set of stone steps, there was a seated guard dutifully defending a sturdy set of iron bars. Each of them was different in looks, but they all wore the same face of indifference. The entrance to the third level was protected by a sleeping half-orc who wasn¡¯t shy about snoring.


    Holsley gave him a baleful look.


    You couldn¡¯t see much on this level beyond the sparse torchlight echoing from the sconces on the walls. Holsley was grateful for that as it meant he couldn¡¯t see the suffering, but it didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t still hear the groans. There weren¡¯t any viewable cells on this level, but there were occasional doors which remained shut and looked unwelcoming.


    He knew that behind those sporadic doors was a traitor to the city. A person who had committed a crime against a higher member of Tressa¡¯s society, like one of the founders or a high-ranking guild member. Here, they got meals and space, but they didn¡¯t get light. Holsley had heard that most simply went mad in the overwhelming eternal night, and from the groans, he believed it too.


    Holsley stumbled about in this darkness, struggling to get his footing and occasionally leaning on a stone wall to aid him. It was awful being surrounded by such bleak nothingness. Though he had to admit, he was impressed by the confident ease the two tubheads leading him seemed to navigate it.


    After the next set of steps, there wasn¡¯t a guard or an iron gate to the fourth level. Instead, he felt the darkness become¡­.darker. Strange, as it was already too dark to see. As a spellcaster, he recognised the work of magic afoot and knew on instinct alone that ordinary light sources wouldn¡¯t penetrate this fog of pure night.


    THUD! Holsley rubbed his head.


    The guards had led him into a door, and he could hear them snickering about it. He also heard the familiar sound of a key in the lock, followed by a creak of what must have been the door opening. A quite loud creak, actually ¡ª one that would be hard to disguise should someone want to get through without making a sound.


    ¡®Right.¡¯ A gruff voice.


    Someone thrust something into Holsley¡¯s hand. It felt like a candle. He couldn¡¯t see who was talking, but it must¡¯ve been one of the tubheads. ¡®You can find Roland Darrow¡¯s cell by hugging the wall to the left. Look for the red door. You can find your way back by following the arrows on the wall, which aren¡¯t visible in the dark. This candle will last for exactly fifteen minutes. If you¡¯re not back here by then, the darkness can have you. We can¡¯t come in after you.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, uh, okay.¡¯


    Fifteen minutes wasn¡¯t enough time to do anything.


    Holsley heard a click, followed quickly by the emergence of a fiery light in his hand. Suddenly, he could see the walls, the tubheads, and the slightly ajar circular door that was twice his head in height. Without enquiring further, Holsley gulped, stepped through it, and tried his best to follow the tubhead¡¯s instructions.


    Gods, it was dark in here.


    The candle did its best to illuminate the way, but that didn¡¯t count for much. At best, he could see only a few feet in front of him, and even that was like walking through an impenetrable fog. The piece of wax must have been magical, he told himself, as he could almost feel its arcane properties. The thing had a hum, which you only got from crude magic.


    There were no cells down here. That¡¯s because he supposed there were very few inmates in need of them, and yet the corridors were expansive. Holsley lost track of how many intersections he¡¯d come across. That¡¯s what the magical darkness was for, though. If a criminal did get out, they¡¯d have difficulty finding their bearings.


    He stopped at a red door.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t see beyond it. He tried the handle and was shocked to find that it opened. Why wouldn¡¯t it be locked? Maybe the guards were too confident that this darkness could keep dead men from finding their way out.


    The young bard froze. This had suddenly become real.


    His mind raced with questions. Was this the right thing to do? Had Roland changed? Did he deserve to be here? Would he even remember who Holsley was? The question of doubt was no question at all to Holsley. He¡¯d come all this way, though, and his good friend might only be another couple of steps away.


    To motivate himself, Holsley pushed down the doubt and tried to remember his last good memory of the pair of them. That came easily. They had been sitting on a roof together, laughing themselves silly as they watched a disgruntled Kythos and his thugs search for them. Roland had managed to steal a couple of ales, and they shared them while they made fun of the abrasive tiefling.


    Roland had begged for a song, and Holsley had obliged him. The young bard couldn¡¯t remember how long they had been sitting there as he played, but he did remember Roland¡¯s words at the end of his performance. ¡®I¡¯ve listened to a lot of bards, but out of all of them, you¡¯re the only one that¡¯s ever made me give a damn about what they were playing.¡¯


    With that thought, he smiled and stepped inside.


    It was cold and musky. The air was difficult to breathe ¡ª like inhaling a woollen blanket. The room opened into a series of iron-barred cells that sat dutifully along the right side of the wall. Beneath his feet, Holsley heard old hay crunch underfoot, and he tried his best to ignore the stench of unwashed inmates. Nothing stirred in the cells, however ¡ª at least not until he crept to the last one.


    A shadow lay on the floor.


    ¡®R-Roland?¡¯ Holsley brought the light closer, his heart dancing away in his chest. ¡®Roland? Are you there?¡¯


    With an exaggerated groan, the figure turned over and slowly sat up. The candle¡¯s light fell upon them, and Holsley¡¯s stomach clenched at the stark red hair it illuminated. Only one person in the Further Kingdoms had hair as vivid and as crimson as that.


    ¡®Holly?¡¯ The voice was weak, cracking, but clear as day. ¡®Holly? Is that you?¡¯


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Holsley winced. ¡®I hate it when you call me that.¡¯


    Roland stood up rapidly, taking up a height perhaps half a foot above Holsley¡¯s own. He stepped towards the bars, revealing his whole face. The rogue looked a little older but a whole lot more worn. His clothes, now rags, hung off his awfully thin form. Yet, there was still a devilish charm about him, one that Holsley remembered from their youth.


    ¡®You look awful,¡¯ Holsley said.


    ¡®And you look about the same height,¡¯ replied Roland with a stern face. ¡®Didn¡¯t they tell you that you were supposed to grow taller as you grew older, Holly?¡¯


    ¡®They didn¡¯t,¡¯ Holsley replied quickly. ¡®Didn¡¯t they teach you how to grow a beard?¡¯


    There was a pause, and then laughter erupted from the pair of them.


    They didn¡¯t waste any more time. Holsley and Roland embraced one another as old friends do ¡ª bars be damned. A minute passed easily as they got their fill and allowed the merriment to fade. Roland was the first one to break, stepping back but keeping to the light, while Holsley remained as he was with the candle in hand.


    ¡®Is it really you, Holly?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s me.¡¯ Holsley shrugged casually. ¡®It¡¯s been a while, huh.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t even¡ª¡¯ Roland shook his head in disbelief. ¡®What in the name of good are you doing down here?¡¯


    ¡®Well, I came to rescue you,¡¯ Holsley replied. ¡®I saw your, uh, poster, and I rushed straight to Tressa. Well, I got sidetracked by goblins, but then I rushed straight to Tressa.¡¯


    ¡®Gods, I almost forgot how unbelievably stupid you are.¡¯ Roland half-laughed. ¡®How did you get in here? There¡¯s no way that old dickhead Kythos would¡¯ve let you come to my cell.¡¯


    ¡®Conned my way down,¡¯ Holsley replied cockily. ¡®Dead easy.¡¯


    ¡®Dead stupid!¡¯ Roland¡¯s voice raised a little as his eyebrows furrowed. ¡®You¡¯re going to get yourself killed.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re welcome.¡¯ Holsley leaned into the bars. ¡®How many times have you tried to escape?¡¯


    ¡®Three,¡¯ replied Roland. ¡®I was pretty close with the last one.¡¯


    ¡®Then I¡¯m here to help with number four!¡¯ Holsley insisted. ¡®You must have an idea. You always had a¡ª¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t even have an idea!?¡¯ Roland yelled, then lowered his voice. ¡®You¡¯ve come down here with no way to get me out. No, no, no. You can¡¯t be here, Holly. You can¡¯t. I appreciate you coming, but there¡¯s nothing you can do. You¡¯ve got to leave.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not leaving.¡¯ Holsley straightened. ¡®Not while you¡¯re trapped in there. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m going to let you hang.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s good to see you, Holly. It really is. This encounter alone is going to see me through the rest of it, but you can¡¯t¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Yes, I can.¡¯ Holsley took a step back. ¡®I¡¯m not going to let you hang. That¡¯s the end of it. If you don¡¯t let me help, I¡¯ll help myself to help you¡­okay, I phrased that weirdly, but what I¡¯m saying is I¡¯m not going to give up, and I¡¯m certainly not going to leave.¡¯


    A second passed in silence.


    ¡®I tried to find you, Holly.¡¯ Roland dropped his eyes to the floor. ¡®After the¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I left Tressa,¡¯ Holsley swiftly cut in. ¡®That¡¯s all I want to say about it.¡¯


    ¡®But, where?¡¯ Roland pushed closer against the bars. ¡®Where did you go? Where have you been?¡¯


    ¡®Funny story. After I left the city, some elves found me, and I spent a couple of years learning how to play music from them,¡¯ he replied, then clicked his fingers excitedly. ¡®Oh! They taught me how to do magic.¡¯


    ¡®Do magic?¡¯


    Holsley whistled, and an orb of light appeared on the ceiling above their heads. Its glow illuminated the entire room, even more so than the candle, and allowed them both to take in more of each other. ¡®Yeah. I¡¯m not very good, a bit out of practice, but there¡¯s some stuff I can do.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s crazy!¡¯ Roland¡¯s eyes were wide with surprise. ¡®I wouldn¡¯t believe it if I weren¡¯t seeing it. Imagine you, of all people, learning how to cast spells. So, what, you¡¯re a wizard now or something?¡¯


    ¡®Nah,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®I¡¯m not good enough to be a wizard.¡¯


    ¡®Well, as someone that knows next to nothing about magic, consider me absolutely impressed.¡¯


    ¡®What about you?¡¯ Holsley said then, returning his eyes to the man standing on the other side of the iron bars. ¡®What have you been up to? They¡¯re calling you a pirate, and, if I¡¯m honest, that¡¯s the nicest thing they¡¯re calling you.¡¯


    ¡®Let¡¯s just say I¡¯ve had a few rough years.¡¯ Roland waved the question off with a shrug. ¡®Done some things I¡¯m not too proud of.¡¯


    ¡®Is it true?¡¯ Holsley sidled a little closer to the cell. ¡®What they¡¯re saying, I mean?¡¯


    ¡®Some of it,¡¯ Roland replied. It was impossible to miss the look of consternation on his friend¡¯s face. The way he sombrely looked off into the middle distance as if remembering. ¡®I was abducted, Holsley, and forced to¡­¡¯


    Roland hesitated.


    ¡®You don¡¯t have to tell me.¡¯ Holsley placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder resting against the bars. ¡®Now, how do we get you out of here because I seriously doubt the guards are going to treat my appeal for your life very seriously.¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯ve set their sights on me now,¡¯ replied Roland with a click of his tongue. ¡®There¡¯s no way they¡¯d let me out of here alive. My only chance is to escape out from under them.¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯ Holsley nodded. ¡®Let¡¯s do that! That sounds like a good plan.¡¯


    ¡®Any plan sounds better than what you came down here with.¡¯ Roland shook his head. ¡®But no, you can¡¯t help me, Holly. If you get caught¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I won¡¯t get caught then,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®I came all this way because my friend was in trouble, and I¡¯m not leaving until I get them out of trouble. There has to be something I can do?¡¯


    Holsley could see the gears turn in Roland¡¯s mind, carefully weighing the pros and cons of the young bard¡¯s help. Of course, if he didn¡¯t accept it, Holsley would have to take things into his own hands, which the rogue knew meant risky, ill-prepared plans, clumsy accidents, and split-second decisions that only led to more trouble.


    ¡®You already have an idea, don¡¯t you?¡¯ Holsley grinned.


    Roland sighed and looked Holsley dead in the eyes.


    ¡®Okay, listen. Last night, I was visited by an old friend from the thief¡¯s guild.¡¯ Roland stood up a little straighter. ¡®He was carrying with him a ring, a very special ring, one that has the power I need to escape. It allows a person to slither through the slightest of gaps, like a cat, and if I can get my hands on it, I¡¯d have no trouble slipping out of here.¡¯


    ¡®Where is he now?¡¯ asked Holsley. ¡®Do you know?¡¯


    Roland nodded. ¡®His name is Fox Matthews. It¡¯s an appropriate name because he¡¯s just about the only person in Tressa that looks like a fox. Well, something in between a human and a fox. He¡¯s a good thief anyhow but a bit of a gambler. So much so that he¡¯s known for gambling all his stolen goods away only hours after he¡¯s stolen them. I know for a fact that he gambles most nights in the Crooked Hat on all sorts of dice games.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, that place.¡¯ Holsley recalled a wonky tavern filled with raucous louts that he would hurry past whenever he was near. It was one of the roughest pubs in Tressa and primarily known for trouble. He¡¯d never gone in, and he had never wanted to either. ¡®You want me to steal the ring?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ Roland said quickly. ¡®But maybe you could win it? If you had something worth gambling, then Fox would offer up the ring for the sheer thrill of it. I know he would.¡¯


    ¡®I have a hundred gold crowns?¡¯ Holsley said, thinking of the goblin inheritance he¡¯d come into recently. ¡®Would that work?¡¯


    ¡®Not enough.¡¯ Roland frowned. ¡®You¡¯d need a magical item. Something you wouldn¡¯t miss if you lost it.¡¯


    ¡®I think I might have something.¡¯ Holsley¡¯s mind flicked to the wand in his satchel. ¡®I¡¯ve got a wand that explodes things.¡¯


    ¡®What!?¡¯


    ¡®Oh!¡¯ Holsley straightened. ¡®I could use it now! Blow up the cell and get you¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Is it loud?¡¯


    Holsley used his tongue to idly play with the gap between his two front teeth as he carefully considered an answer.


    ¡®Yeah, kinda,¡¯ he said, finally.


    ¡®Then no. Believe me, those guards have good hearing, and I¡¯m not escaping while you¡¯re stuck down here with me¡­but that does sound like the sort of thing Fox would be interested in.¡¯


    ¡®Knew I stole it from a goblin king for something.¡¯


    ¡®When I escape, I will have questions about this,¡¯ said Roland. ¡®For now, though, let¡¯s keep it simple. Get the ring, find a way back to my cell, and I¡¯ll escape on my own.¡¯


    ¡®Will Fox hand over the ring if I win?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ replied Roland confidently. ¡®He¡¯s a lot of things, but he won¡¯t dishonour a gamble unless you¡¯re cheating him.¡¯


    ¡®Am I trying to cheat him?¡¯ Holsley¡¯s only gambling experience was busking at another bard¡¯s spot; he¡¯d never rolled a die, picked up a card, or glanced at the rules for even the most common pub games. He knew of them but didn¡¯t know how to play them.


    ¡®It would guarantee a win,¡¯ Roland said thoughtfully. ¡®Don¡¯t do it, though. Trust me, Fox would rip you apart.¡¯


    Holsley raised an eyebrow. ¡®Then, how am I going to win?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re just going to have to get lucky, Holly,¡¯ Roland replied grimly. ¡®Knowing you, though, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll be fine.¡¯


    Yeah, Holsley wasn¡¯t so sure about that.


    ¡®You need to protect yourself first, though,¡¯ said Roland. ¡®Buy a weapon you know how to use in case things go sour. And if things do go sour, just run away and don¡¯t use the weapon.¡¯


    Holsley instantly thought about his lute, still sitting broken in his satchel ¡ª he could see the neck poking out.


    Magic was his weapon, and if he wanted to wield it, he would need another lute. Perhaps he could just buy one while he got his own repaired, but he shook his head at that thought. Holsley was out of practice and could barely remember the strings to the simplest of spells, and he¡¯d be out of his element if it came to a fight.


    What if he wasn¡¯t, though?


    There was another lute in the city. One that was coursing with magic. The kind of magic that could provide him the edge to overcome his need for practice. It would prove a little tricky to get, but it might be worth it.


    ¡®You¡¯d better get going before the guards come looking.¡¯


    ¡®And before the candle burns out,¡¯ added Holsley.


    ¡®There¡¯s one more thing.¡¯ Roland leaned his face into the bars. ¡®If this all works out and I manage to escape, with or without your help, I will need a way out of the city. It¡¯s a long shot, but I once knew a smuggler in the docks. He¡¯s been known to help thieves for the right price, and I can pay him if I escape. Go to the docks and find a ship with a beaten hull called the Square-Jawed Dragon. Tell the captain I¡¯ll pay handsomely for a speedy escape out of the city when I need one.¡¯


    ¡®The Square-Jawed Dragon,¡¯ Holsley repeated slowly. ¡®How do you know it¡¯ll be there?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t,¡¯ said Roland, turning his knuckles white against the bars. ¡®Like I said, it¡¯s a long shot. The ship has always been there when I¡¯ve gone looking, but then again, I haven¡¯t seen this city in three years.¡¯


    ¡®Speaking of which, why in the name of good did you come back to Tressa?¡¯ It was the number one question on Holsley¡¯s mind ever since he had seen the poster back in Petty¡¯s Nest. ¡®Out of all the places in the world. Why here?¡¯


    ¡®It wasn¡¯t my choice.¡¯


    That was all Roland was going to give him. Holsley was no expert on reading people. In fact, he¡¯d be the first to admit that he was somewhat na?ve, but staring at his friend right then, he thought Roland was keeping something from the conversation. Something that may well be important, but he didn¡¯t have time to press.


    ¡®It¡¯s good to see you again, Holly.¡¯ Roland gave him a grim smile. ¡®If nothing else, it was just good to see you.¡¯


    ¡®You too, Roland.¡¯ Holsley went in for another embrace, and they stood there for a few moments, patting each other on the back.


    ¡®Promise me you¡¯ll be careful.¡¯


    Holsley gave him a nod. ¡®I will and I¡¯ll be back before you know it.¡¯


    The door squeaked to a close behind him, but Holsley didn¡¯t pay any attention to the sound. Instead, his thoughts were elsewhere as he followed the painted arrows by waning candlelight.


    Ten minutes ago, he had been standing at the door, hesitating to go in. Now, he was sure he made the right decision. Roland was different but still essentially the same person. That good-hearted rogue he¡¯d known as a boy was still there. He knew it. No matter what happened, he would save Roland and get him out of the city alive.


    First, though, he would need to get out of this dungeon.

 Chapter Eighteen — Washboard Secrets

    The young bard sighed as he dawdled down the corridor. His mind was racing, and his mind usually didn¡¯t like to race. If anything, it preferred to take a leisurely stroll to its destination. Not much chance of that now, however, as it needed to go a mile a minute trying to formulate plans.


    Suddenly, there were things he needed to do, and an impromptu getaway was out of the question. Holsley needed to hire a ship, retrieve an enchanted lute, con a seasoned gambler, and acquire a magical ring that he then needed to sneak back into the dungeon. Oh! Also, he needed to get all this done before his friend was hanged.


    Some pressure.


    Perhaps, he thought, it would be better for his mental health if he took the list one step at a time.


    Hiring a ship would be first, then as it was the easiest. That meant he needed to go to Tressa¡¯s famed Hidden Docks and find the Square-Jawed Dragon. While he was there, he recognised that he could also hire a rowboat so he could grab the lute he needed as well. That was settled then. The moment he stepped foot out of this dungeon, he¡¯d rush to the docks and get it over with.


    He looked up at the backs of the tubheads more than a few strides ahead of him. It was unsurprising they were so far away, seeing as he¡¯d been kicking his heels since he¡¯d left Roland behind. They¡¯d managed to reach the second floor at least, and here he was able to somewhat see in the dim light. It was a good thing, too, as it was harder to lose sight of the guards and end up with a whole other problem.


    They didn¡¯t speak to him, but Holsley kept within earshot, nevertheless.


    URK! The young bard was suddenly hoisted back by the collar and pulled mercilessly towards a door that he¡¯d only noticed out of the corner of his eye. On instinct, he tried to call out, but a gloved hand slapped his mouth shut. He mumbled, straining, but the unknown assailant was the stronger of them.


    ¡®Shut up,¡¯ a voice whispered in his ear. A feminine voice. ¡®I¡¯m not going to hurt you.¡¯


    ¡®What¡¯s happening?¡¯ Holsley whispered back once his mouth was free. ¡®Who are you?¡¯


    The hand gently closed the door ajar and swung Holsley around to her. It was a tubhead, or at least someone that looked like a tubhead. She was a little taller than him with a stern set of thin lips, but he was most caught out by the likes of her powerfully pervading purple eyes, which shone out beneath the overhanging mask on her kettle hat.


    ¡®Be quiet.¡¯ She held a finger to her lips. ¡®Wait and watch.¡¯


    Holsley did as he was told.


    Through the slight gap in the door, he could see the two tubheads that had been escorting him. They had come to a stop up ahead. For a moment, the young bard thought they might be looking for him, but then another figure emerged, and his breath caught in his throat. It was Kythos, and the tiefling bore down on the two like an approaching disaster.


    Words were exchanged, though Holsley couldn¡¯t hear them. With his impressive common sense, he presumed that the three were talking about him. If true, then Kythos was a little more than unhappy that Holsley had suddenly gone missing. Whoever this stranger was, she had good timing. A second later, the young bard would be face to face with his furrowed brows.


    Holsley swung back to the stranger but found only empty air waiting behind him. She was gone, and as to where Holsley couldn¡¯t fathom because this was a broom cupboard with barely enough room to move and only one exit.


    Who was she? The stranger had been dressed like a guard, but there was no way a guard would¡¯ve pulled him out of danger like this. Then why? And how did she know about Kythos¡¯ sudden appearance?


    It didn¡¯t matter, he decided and returned his attention to the gap in the door.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t hear the guards as their voices were tame and reasonable, but as for Kythos, his came out in a dull roar that everyone would still be able to hear even if they had covered their ears.


    ¡®I don¡¯t get where he¡¯s gone!¡¯ he bellowed. ¡®I want him found. Now! He can¡¯t have left this dungeon.¡¯


    Kythos was huffing and puffing, getting worked up, while the two tubheads backed away. His tiefling skin was a light blue, but Holsley swore his face was growing red.


    ¡®Don¡¯t think I¡¯m done with you two, either.¡¯ He pointed at each of them in turn. ¡®I can¡¯t believe that little grubber slipped under my nose.¡¯ Kythos viciously kicked a wall, which put up a good fight. ¡®Curse it. Bloody curse it.¡¯


    The tubheads muttered something about doubling back, or at least Holsley thought they had. They didn¡¯t have the astounding timbre of Kythos¡¯s natural voice. It seemed to him then that he was in a tricky situation. If the guards here were set to searching for him, there was a good chance he might not see the outside again, let alone the docks and the lute.


    ¡®There¡¯s something else.¡¯ Kythos leaned in but kept his voice at a hearable level. Holsley bent his ear closer to the gap. ¡®I doubt it, but when the boy is found, check to see if they¡¯re carrying a shattered ruby upon their person.¡¯


    One of the tubheads said something.


    ¡®Don¡¯t ask why, idiot!¡¯ Kythos snapped. ¡®Just confiscate it, and don¡¯t allow anyone else to see or take it. Understand? My mother will be very disappointed if it isn¡¯t found, and I¡¯m looking for a couple of idiots to blame its theft on.¡¯


    The tubheads nodded their understanding, but Holsley was left confused. Theft? Shattered ruby? Why would Kythos think he had such an item?


    ¡®Right, get on with it!¡¯ Kythos pushed past them and marched quickly by his door without stopping. ¡®I need to see Mr. Darrow about an appointment with my mother. She won¡¯t be kept waiting.¡¯


    Holsley held his breath as the tubheads rushed past his door. He was thankful that neither of them had the idea to check it first. They were all gone a minute later, leaving Holsley alone to ponder his next move. He had to get out of the dungeon, he knew, and he had to get out fast.


    He investigated the room.


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    It was a broom cupboard, just about big enough to house two people and a fine selection of mops. Shelves had been erected up and down the walls, and as his eyes adjusted better to the absence of light, he found something that didn¡¯t belong. A few pieces of armour neatly folded atop some padded leather, an undershirt, and mud-coloured trousers.


    The stranger had left him a guard¡¯s uniform.


    ¡®Well, that should help,¡¯ he said, holding up the undershirt.


    He didn¡¯t dwell on why she had done this, only on getting the uniform on and getting out as quickly as was humanly possible.


    ***


    There was no telling where the uniform had come from, but he knew for sure it had come from someone taller than him. It was slightly baggy in places, and he felt the need to pull his new trousers back up every second step he took. Not to mention the helmet, which hung too low on his eyes and occasionally obscured his vision.


    He felt like a little boy playing dress-up.


    Every now and then, he¡¯d nod to a passing guard, hoping that his below-average height didn¡¯t draw any suspicion. Luckily enough, that wasn¡¯t a problem in this dimly lit dungeon. He encountered very little, which is to say no trouble, until he reached the iron bars barring the stairs up to the first level.


    His heart skipped a beat when a sudden hand grabbed him by the shoulder as he reached for the gate. He expected to find it attached to Kythos, but when he slowly rotated around, he saw an older guard giving him the eye.


    ¡®You¡¯re needed in laundry,¡¯ the old brute said with a gruff voice. ¡®It¡¯s backed up.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ Holsley pulled his trousers up over his hips. ¡®Uh, okay.¡¯


    Mechanically, he stepped away from the iron bars and reluctantly approached the dungeon. The incident had been so abrupt he hadn¡¯t the wits to fabricate a lie. Instead, he reserved himself to his fate.


    Holsley trudged back as the old guard watched. He remembered distinctly walking by a cart full of washing on this level. Old uniforms, mostly, with the odd bed cover. That¡¯s where laundry would be, he guessed. He¡¯d go there just long enough to douse any suspicion and then return when the coast was clear. He retraced his footsteps and followed the scent of soapy suds and fragrant linens.


    Some of the guards were scrubbing the stubborn stains off with a washboard. Others neatly folded the dry clothes hanging on a line near the fire. Holsley came in, saw an empty bucket, and got to work at the dirty pile next to it. Five minutes, then he was gone, he told himself.


    Holsley didn¡¯t talk, and no one asked any questions. Perfect. Instead, they spoke to one another and allowed him to listen. Curiously enough, their conversation quickly drifted towards Roland, and several rumours propped up about him. That wasn¡¯t really a surprise. People were always abuzz with gossip about the next hanging ¡ª Holsley could remember that much from his youth.


    Still, it provided an opportunity to discover more.


    ¡®You know, they say they found ¡®im in a rowboat just out of the docks.¡¯ A heavyset woman said from her corner, scrubbing the stubborn stains from a shirt in a washboard. ¡®He had nothing to ¡®is name ¡®cept for a sword and a ruby in a dozen pieces that must be worth a small fortune.¡¯


    Was that the ruby Kythos was on about?


    ¡®I heard he beheaded the mayor of Ashridge, he did.¡¯ The younger guard on folding duty was a little shy on teeth but made up for it aplenty in facial boils. ¡®Cut his head clean off without a single remorse. They say he came back later to pull out his lord¡¯s gold fillings.¡¯


    Holsley doubted that ¡ª well, not the fillings part.


    ¡®That¡¯ll happen when you join Berry Kellam¡¯s crew,¡¯ barked another of the guards ¡ª a fiercely tanned and muscular woman placing the recently folded clothes onto the awaiting shelves. ¡®A friend of my mother¡¯s saw ¡®er ship, that Gleeful Goat, coming into port once. They were away before it even docked. Most people were. There aren¡¯t those stupid enough to stand up to the likes of the Bloody Darling ¡®erself.¡¯


    Holsley gulped. He had heard of the Bloody Darling.


    ¡®Gone now, though,¡¯ sniffed the pimply washboarder. ¡®She ain¡¯t been seen for nigh on three months, she ain¡¯t. I heard the ship was sunk by another group of pirates. Doomed to sail on the ocean floor now.¡¯


    ¡®Would explain how that Darrow ended up on a rowboat.¡¯ The woman stacking clothes nodded knowingly. ¡®And how he got his hands on that ruby and sword.¡¯


    Holsley looked up briefly to the last guard in the room. The stranger was older, that was for sure. Some time ago, he¡¯d fared farewell to his hairline. He was smoking a pipe while rocking back and forth on a chair. He came to a considered stop and leaned forward. ¡®I¡¯m not so sure,¡¯ he said knowingly. ¡®From what I¡¯ve been privy to, old Kythos has been set to the task of finding the truth of the matter. I¡¯ve heard he¡¯s been torturing that Darrow boy for a week, and the lad hasn¡¯t given up one bit of knowledge.¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s you ¡®ear that?¡¯


    ¡®I got me sources.¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®Seems be that Darrow was sentenced a bit too ¡®astily, I reckon. Lady Ravenpeak¡¯s after something from ¡®im. Something she didn¡¯t know he ¡®ad until she¡¯d already sentenced ¡®im. Too late to take it back now, it is. They can¡¯t appear weak and indecisive these days in Tressa. Be riots shortly after.¡¯


    Holsley leaned in so hard that he slipped on the rim of his bucket. Suddenly, his forearm was covered in a healthy layer of soapy suds. Every eye came upon him, and he gave them a weak smile. ¡®Uh, I better go dry off.¡¯


    It was as good an excuse as any to leave.


    Holsley wandered the hallways back the way he came, still doing his best to keep a low profile. All the while, his mind muttered away. Of course, he had heard of Berry Kellam before. There was nothing that spread quite so far and fast as a good pirate story. She was a villain, he¡¯d heard. A cruel queen who led a gang of pirates known as the Bloody Darlings. Though it couldn¡¯t be true that Roland was part of her crew ¡ª only women were allowed to join, he¡¯d heard.


    Then again, maybe it was true. If so, how had a street thief from a city four hundred feet above the water ended up sharing the same space as an infamous sea-faring pirate? It didn¡¯t make any sense.


    He squashed down the urge to rush back to Roland and get answers to these questions. Holsley could ask him when the rogue was free, which meant getting him free, which meant getting the ring, which meant getting the lute, which meant getting a rowboat and hiring a ship.


    There was a lot of getting involved now.


    When he thought that a sufficient amount of time had passed, Holsley slipped back towards the dungeon¡¯s exit. He sighed a breath of relief when he saw that the gruff guard was nowhere to be found.


    With an air of confidence, complimented by the occasional high-pitched word, he convinced the doorminder to open up and let him out. Honestly, he thought that aged skeleton would let anyone out if they asked nicely enough.


    He doesn¡¯t know, Holsley realised shortly after. Kythos hadn¡¯t informed the other guards about him, only those two tubheads, and it wasn¡¯t hard to see why. The ruby. For some reason, Kythos thought Holsley might have the ruby, which meant, Holsley guessed, that the old tiefling was concerned whoever found him first would simply keep it.


    The young bard smiled.


    Getting out of the dungeons wasn¡¯t much trouble after that. Soon, he was bathing in the early afternoon daylight and looking for a way to ditch his oversized uniform at the first opportunity. Of course, it was tempting to keep it, but he didn¡¯t have any room for it on his person ¡ª not with the lute in his bag, and it didn¡¯t fit him well anyway.


    Holsley kicked the offending uniform into a gutter when nobody was looking, clogging it instantly. He was just about to leave when he noticed a familiar figure down the other end of the alley, adjacent to the courtyard ¡ª a tiefling with red skin.


    For a second, he couldn¡¯t place her, then he remembered her giving him a rude gesture from the front of her cart. It had been her who had almost run him over at the entrance. She was there now with that same cart delivering barrels of booze around the back of the stone keep.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t resist the chance to get even. The young bard approached the cart, careful to keep hidden. It was an old piece of wood barely running on four wheels. The important part, though, was that it was filthy. He supposed that happened when you were flapping your wheels about the city.


    With a little giggle, he took out a finger and promptly wrote a message across the back of her cart in the mud. ¡°I¡¯m a horse¡¯s ass.¡± Then, he was away before she noticed him.


    Was it childish? Yes. Would it annoy her? He sure hoped so. Unfortunately, he wouldn¡¯t be around to see it. Holsley was away into the crowds only seconds after a group of tubheads stepped out of Tubhead Tower.

 Chapter Nineteen — The Secret Egress

    Roland had a knot in his stomach, and it wasn¡¯t from the days spent absent of a good meal.


    Holly had come back for him. The idea both overjoyed and overwhelmed him in equal measure. Just when he was thinking that he didn¡¯t have any friends left in this world, along comes the only person believable enough to come.


    Was it a little too convenient?


    Had Holly come to save him, or dare he think it, had the bard come for something else instead? Something concerning what he knew about the ruby. The rogue had learned a lot of painful lessons these past three years, but the most important one was that everyone was always out for themselves.


    ¡®On your feet.¡¯


    Roland had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely noticed the door had opened. Kythos approached the bars with his hands behind his back, and he hadn¡¯t come alone. Four other tubheads, each carrying maces and determined looks, came with him.


    ¡®Put your hands on the wall and no sudden movements,¡¯ Kythos snarled. ¡®Gods help me do it, or I¡¯ll kill you right now.¡¯


    There wasn¡¯t much choice. Roland knew this. However, he still didn¡¯t do as he was told, and the moment passed into a minute, ending with the tubheads rushing into his cell and beating a new lesson into him with their steel boots.


    Roland choked up blood as they wrapped the chains around him. They weren¡¯t amateurs either. These guys knew to wrap his hands and his feet separately. By the end of it, Roland was wearing a cocoon made of restraints. He could barely move, which was the point of these exaggerated measures.


    ¡®You¡¯ve got a meeting, Mr Darrow.¡¯ Kythos stood a little straighter and allowed his upper lip to curl. ¡®You¡¯re really in for it now.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t reply unless you could count a hard stare as a reply.


    The other tubheads brought him forward for inspection. Kythos diligently placed his fingers in the chains at various points and gave his bindings a sharp tug here and there. No matter where he pried or what place he pulled, the chains seemed well and secured.


    ¡®No escaping this time,¡¯ Kythos warned and leaned in closer. ¡®Otherwise, I might just have to think about breaking your legs.¡¯


    ¡®As if that would stop me,¡¯ Roland growled.


    The room went dark, and the smell of old potatoes assailed his nostrils. It didn¡¯t take a genius to figure out that a bag had been thrown over his head. That¡¯s good, Roland thought. A bag meant there was something they didn¡¯t want him to see. It most likely meant that they were leading him out by a secret path.


    Roland was a thief, a rogue, a charlatan. He had grown up learning everything there was to know about the fine art of pilfering. In one lesson, he learned that you could always expect old castles like the Stone Keep to be riddled with secret passages and doors.


    Someone pushed him into a march with a rough hand, and Roland stepped as far as the chains would let him.


    If Roland could concentrate, he might have a chance at retracing these steps later. Except he couldn¡¯t. It was too difficult. His mind kept drifting to Holly and the bard¡¯s true intentions. It should be enough that Holly had literally saved his life, but he knew that if he had changed, then that sweet and innocent boy probably had changed as well.


    They took a left about thirty paces from his cell door. He catalogued that on an invisible list behind his eyes as strange. He knew for a fact that the exit was on the right. After all, he¡¯d memorised that part of the fourth level¡¯s layout.


    ¡®You had a visitor today, didn¡¯t you, Mr Darrow?¡¯ Kythos was suddenly in his ear. ¡®It was none other than that little grubber you used to hang out with. Holsley was the name, wasn¡¯t it?¡¯


    Roland shrugged. ¡®Never heard of a Holsley.¡¯


    The back of his knee exploded in pain.


    The rogue¡¯s leg buckled, and he instantly folded to the floor, grunting his pain through clenched teeth. By the Gods that had hurt. Kythos, the big bastard, had struck him from behind with the back of a mace. Not hard enough to break bone, but enough for Roland to get a little taste of the pain the tiefling could inflict.


    ¡®That¡¯s for lying,¡¯ Kythos said. ¡®Next time, it¡¯ll be your head.¡¯


    Two thuggish hands pulled him up by the elbows, and he was forced to hobble on ahead. They stopped about three minutes later ¡ª though he couldn¡¯t be sure of the exact time. Roland listened intently. Boots on the ground. Then, there was a strange squeaking noise, like something metal being turned, followed by a fierce grinding noise. It was rather like stone grating along stone.


    Is a wall being moved?


    Roland¡¯s footsteps echoed through wherever they had come next. It must have been a large room. Something, he doubted, that had been built for a dungeon. A great hall? The kind you have for kings and queens. That was just a guess ¡ª for all he knew, this room could be anything from the kitchen to an oversized, squirrelled-away privy.


    ¡®I¡¯m being marched to see Love, ain¡¯t I?¡¯ Roland asked no one in particular. ¡®Does her ladyship not want to pay a visit to my cell?


    The first reply was his voice bouncing off the walls, and the second was Kythos¡¯s. ¡®You just know a little bit about everything, don¡¯t you, Mr Darrow?¡¯


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    Roland shrugged.


    ¡®S¡¯pose it doesn¡¯t matter.¡¯ Kythos sniffed. ¡®No, my mother would never grace the dungeons with her presence. As the High Warden of Tressa, we¡¯re going to her instead. Now, shut up. We¡¯re almost there.¡¯


    Some more walking followed by a sudden rise. Roland felt stone steps underneath. Together, he, the tubheads, and Kythos ascended in a circular pattern. The air was unbearable here ¡ª very humid and musty, difficult to breathe. In his experience, it meant that this staircase was in between the walls where ventilation was next to impossible.


    If anyone had bothered to check beneath the potato sack, they¡¯d have seen Roland grinning away. This was a secret way out of the dungeons. There was nothing else it could be. The fourth floor had a secret means of egress, which meant he had a secret means of egress. All he had to do was find it.


    The rogue wasn¡¯t sure where he was taken to next, but he knew it was done in silence. After the stairs, the ground suddenly squeaked underfoot with every slip of his soles. The air was fresh and fragrant, suddenly clean, and he inhaled it greedily. Roland couldn¡¯t see, but he imagined flowers in vases stationed at reasonable intervals along the pristine corridors.


    In all his years as a thief, he had never considered stealing from the Old Stone Keep. Not that he had never wanted to mind, but he already knew it was a fool¡¯s game, and Roland didn¡¯t play games he couldn¡¯t win.


    The keep was fortified against intrusion, well-stocked with vigilant guards, and had most of its valuables hidden or kept behind vaulted doors. And, if all that wasn¡¯t enough of a deterrent, there were the grave punishments you received if you were caught.


    The bag came off.


    For a moment, Kythos¡¯s ugly face obscured his blurred vision. Slowly, however, his vision returned as his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light pouring off the overhead chandeliers.


    Compared to where they had started, where they were now was practically night and day in difference. Roland found himself in one of the opulent and ostentatious rooms of the Old Keep, and it was boiling. He¡¯d feel cooler standing atop of a raging fire.


    On top of the heat, this room was particularly gaudy. It wasn¡¯t the furniture which, admittedly, made it feel like a church waiting room. Nor the pillars, high ceilings, or even the elegant stonework faces carved into every unnecessary keystone along the skirting. It was the paintings covering every inch of the wall, which he detested for their garishness.


    They depicted a variety of elegant tiefling women in all states of fashion. They were beautiful and graceful and donned the strangest attire he had ever seen. The one immediately in front of him was of a tall tiefling stuffed into an oversized ball gown that, seemingly, had been made entirely from used parchments. When he squinted, he could just make out what the plaque beneath it read ¡ª ¡°A thousand love letters.¡±


    Kythos took a seat near a set of double doors. Roland watched him for a moment while also keeping an eye on the other tubheads that stood vigilant at the room¡¯s only other exit. The warden fiddled with his thumbs but quickly stopped when he noticed Roland looking at him.


    He guessed that Lady Ravenpeak must be busy then, and this must be the anteroom that joined into her¡­throne room. Can you even have a throne without a king or queen? Roland didn¡¯t know; he wasn¡¯t really up to date on the conventions of the upper class.


    ¡®Holsley won¡¯t save you.¡¯ Kythos stated this so plainly, and out of the blue, Roland had no choice but to be a little taken aback. ¡®I know he visited you. I know you two cooked something up together. He won¡¯t save you. He can¡¯t.¡¯


    Roland shook his head and took a seat on the marble bench opposite the bloated figure. He narrowed his eyes. ¡®I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡¯


    Kythos grumbled and crossed his arms. ¡®I hope you did the smart thing and sent him on his way.¡¯


    That would¡¯ve been the smart thing to do, Roland found himself agreeing, and then a wave of nerves hit him. He¡¯d sent Holly to get the ring from what he knew was one of the more dangerous thieves in Tressa. Skilled, cunning, and remorseless ¡ª the three things any good thief needs to be. That¡¯s what Holly was up against because he was getting desperate.


    No, Holly would be alright. That bard had a habit of getting out of bad situations.


    Minutes passed by with nothing to fill the air except the heavy breathing thundering out of Kythos¡¯s nostrils. All it seemed they could do was wait for Lady Ravenpeak, the High Warden of Tressa, to be done with whatever she was doing now. Roland guessed this happened a lot ¡ª people waiting for her and never the other way around.


    ¡®What was that thing the other day?¡¯ Roland was eager to get his mind off his friend, so he brought up a question that had troubled his mind since his last interrogation. The animated rope that had appeared out of the shadows. ¡®Seriously?¡¯


    Kythos swallowed but didn¡¯t answer.


    Roland pressed further. ¡®You said it was my executioner?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve heard the legend of the Hangman of Tressa, yeah?¡¯


    Of course, he had. Roland didn¡¯t know of anyone who hadn¡¯t. The Hangman of Tressa was one of those particularly sinister bedtime tales parents used to scare misbehaving children into being good. It was a silly mistruth based on a fact, as all good bedtime stories were.


    As the legend goes, an innocent man was hung for a crime he didn¡¯t commit and swore with his last breath to get revenge on all criminals. Some now believe that this wronged man comes back to terrorise those facing the noose and ensure that they make it in time to their execution.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Roland replied simply. ¡®I¡¯ve heard of him.¡¯


    ¡®Well, he ain¡¯t a legend.¡¯ Kythos clicked his jaw. ¡®That¡¯s what was in the room with us the other day.¡¯


    ¡®The Hangman isn¡¯t real.¡¯ Roland straightened. ¡®I know what you¡¯re doing. You¡¯re trying to get under my skin.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t need the Hangman to get under your skin,¡¯ replied Kythos with a sniff. ¡®You seem to be doing that just fine to yourself. Still thinking about that little bard, are we? The only person so far that hasn¡¯t come to buy a front-row seat to your execution.¡¯ Kythos leaned forward, his face twisted into a sneer. ¡®Well, don¡¯t worry, Mr Darrow, if I get my hands on him, I¡¯ll make sure he hangs alongside you. I¡¯ll even let you share the rope.¡¯


    Roland curled up his fingers into fists. If it hadn¡¯t been for these chains wrapped about his body, he would¡¯ve leapt at Kythos right there and then. Beat him to a bloody pulp if he could. No one threatened his friends. Well, friend. He may not know if he could trust Holly, but he did know that the bard had once saved his life. That counted for something.


    ¡®See?¡¯ Kythos laughed that cruel laugh of his. ¡®I can get under your skin quite easily.¡¯


    The doors opened. They didn¡¯t creak or moan; they gently glided across the marble floors with a soft sigh. Kythos¡¯s face changed in an instant. Another tiefling of the pink-skinned variety stepped out and looked at the assembled force of guards. She seemed momentarily confused, but it quickly passed when she noticed Kythos.


    She didn¡¯t look like a guard. That was Roland¡¯s first impression of her. She wasn¡¯t wearing the armour, the weapons, or even the attitude, but she did carry herself with that same undeserved sense of pride that was present on all tubheads. The unknown tiefling was wearing a uniform, however, consisting of remarkable black leather armour with silver linings. A small raven logo was embroidered on the right part of the chest.


    One of the house guards, Roland guessed ¡ª part of the personal force that protected Lady Ravenpeak.


    ¡®Her Ladyship is ready to see you,¡¯ she said confidently, glancing over at Roland. ¡®Please step inside and do not speak unless spoken to.¡¯


    They moved towards the door together, but before passing the threshold, Kythos grabbed Roland by the collar and brought the rogue¡¯s ear close to his lips with a growl. ¡®Try to escape, and you¡¯ll see just how real the Hangman is, you little grubber.¡¯

 Chapter Twenty — The Hidden Docks of Tressa

    The elevator lurched, eliciting a pitiful whine from the young bard.


    On instinct, he grabbed the railing tighter and continued to avoid looking directly over the edge, but it was impossible. Below him, at a staggering height of a few hundred feet, were the Hidden Docks, which served the purpose of being Tressa¡¯s only access to the sea.


    They were perhaps the city¡¯s proudest achievement. As the name implied, the docks were concealed by a cove dug out of the cliffside. Thanks to the natural rocky walls, the docks gained a greater deal of security and were in a highly defendable position should the city ever get attacked by enemies out on the open sea.


    Although the docks were considered part of Tressa, they operated separately from the city¡¯s dominion. From what Holsley understood, they had their own guards, own rules, and even their own mayor, but they didn¡¯t stray too far from the lingering ordinances of the government above.


    Except for a set of roughly carved stone steps rapidly degrading with weather and time, the only way to get to the docks was by way of an elevator. This meant being suspended in mid-air for an uncomfortable amount of time while you were pulled towards the ground.


    Another lurch. This time, Holsley let out a small mewl at the twist of his gut.


    ¡®You¡¯re really quite alright.¡¯ The reassuring voice belonged to one of two gnomes who had embarked on the journey downward with him. With a flick of his spectacles, the spindly gnome approached Holsley and stood near him while his wife (Holsley assumed from the identical rings on the pair¡¯s fingers) calmly flicked the page on a book she was reading. ¡®It¡¯s really a remarkable bit of natural engineering this elevator, and you shouldn¡¯t feel worried about falling.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, it¡¯s not the falling that worries me,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®It¡¯s more what happens after.¡¯


    The gnome chuckled, but it wasn¡¯t a chuckle at his attempted humour; it was a chuckle at his expense. He tapped the marble stonework of the box-shaped lift around them and gave it a few rubs. ¡®This is andocarinite, otherwise known as feather stone. A mysterious geological phenomenon that has more to do with magic than with the formation of rock, creating boulders so light that, with the right tools, you could float them in the air like balloons. You see, it can¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t bore the poor boy with all that, Illin.¡¯ The sharp tongue belonged to his wife, who didn¡¯t look up from her reading. ¡®He¡¯s not interested in the mechanics of it all.¡¯


    She wasn¡¯t lying, Holsley thought and silently thanked her.


    ¡®Fear is but an emotional response for what we don¡¯t understand,¡¯ replied Illin, facing Holsley again. ¡®If you knew the mechanics, my boy, you would know there¡¯s nothing to be afraid of. For two hundred years, these elevators have been in service, and there have only been about twenty fatalities in all that time. Most of those occurred during the first five years of operation, mostly because people didn¡¯t understand the concept.¡¯


    ¡®That really puts my mind at ease, thank you.¡¯


    ¡®The Tressans have utilised the stone by adding a special crystal on the top and bottom that stabilises the magic. Quite complicated, but the short end of it is that it allows the elevator to stay afloat. Then, they have gathered up two ropes, one connected to the top of the cliff and one to the bottom that, quite literally, allows them to pull the elevator up and down with the barest of effort.¡¯


    ¡®What would happen if those crystals broke?¡¯ Holsley asked then, and for the life of him didn¡¯t know why.


    ¡®Oh, we would fall in an instant.¡¯ Illin beamed like this was something to be proud of. ¡®Worse, actually. We¡¯d also start to spin, rotating endlessly until we were scattered on the floor below. Not to worry, my boy, for the rope that brings the elevator back up also serves as an additional safety measure to keep it from falling should the crystal fail.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m very sorry about him.¡¯ Illin¡¯s wife stepped forward, and Holsley caught a quick glimpse of her book. The Wayfinder¡¯s Wife, it was called. Not a book he had ever heard of before, but he suspected it might be a boring romance tale. ¡®We¡¯re on our way to see the mechanical ships at Shipwreck Isle, and he always gets a little talky before a journey.¡¯


    ¡®Calms the nerves,¡¯ said Illin, fiddling with his glasses.


    ¡®No, it¡¯s fine,¡¯ promised Holsley.


    They talked a little longer after that, but only until the elevator came to rest on the ground, which, in total, took about six minutes of the young bard¡¯s life. Holsley had the strangest feeling that he might see the married couple again as he watched them disappear into the crowds. The feeling didn¡¯t last long as it was near-instantly replaced by awe at the overwhelming activity of the overcrowded docks.


    People were yelling, shouting, bellowing, and screaming at one another. Crates were being thrown from ships while merchants in crude booths desperately tried to tempt visitors to inspect their wares.


    In fairness to them, there was a lot to inspect. Stuff from up and down the Avanni Coast. Clothes, food, books, and all manner of trinkets ¡ª which all seemed exotic and otherworldly, brought over from a multitude of different cultures across the world.


    It didn¡¯t take long for the young bard to get swept up by the crowds.


    On one side of him was the town part of the Hidden Docks; hundreds of wooden houses situated against the rocky wall of the cliffside with little separating them except for narrow alleyways. On the other side were the ships, more than he could count, moored along the multitude of complex platforms that made up the actual docks.


    As a boy, Holsley had been to the docks twice. These memories returned to him as he elbowed frantically through the crowd.


    The first had been with Roland to see the Golden Gallant. It was an enormous ship that looked more like a castle someone had thrown into the sea. Besides the impressive crenelated towers, Holsley most remembered the gargantuan golden lion figurehead. It belonged to the former kings and queens of the Further Kingdoms, and Holsley remembered keenly feeling insignificant next to it.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    It had been one of the delights of his childhood, however. That was the first time he¡¯d ever seen the Knights of Aldor, and, through the crowd of onlookers, he had also caught sight of the future queen of Aldor who, if fate hadn¡¯t been so strange, might¡¯ve once been the queen of the Further Kingdoms ¡ª Amelia Graychurch the Third ¡ª a fussy five-year-old, who had locked eyes with him momentarily.


    He had been with Dan the second time he had come to the docks.


    Holsley pushed that memory back. He wasn¡¯t ready or willing to revisit his memories of Dan. That¡¯s not why he had returned to Tressa. Instead, he forced himself through the crowd and into a less packed lane that he could more easily saunter along. The young bard focussed his efforts on finding the Square-Jawed Dragon.


    Roland had described it as a ship with a beaten hull, but every ship in the docks could be described this way. He¡¯d ask for directions if he didn¡¯t feel so sheepish doing it. As it stood, however, Holsley would have to make do walking up and down the docks, reading the names on the ships, until he came into contact with that particular vessel.


    About ten minutes later, he found it.


    Of course, the dragon figurehead had been the giveaway, mainly because the dragon was missing half of its jaw.


    Not an inch of the ship wasn¡¯t covered in either barnacles or some makeshift repair. The mast was leaning over, quite literally, and had to be supported by two beams of wood, and several bone harpoons were sticking out of its side. It didn¡¯t look like it could sail out of the docks, let alone navigate the world¡¯s oceans.


    For a moment, Holsley hoped it was the wrong ship. It wasn¡¯t. The name along the hull read Square-Jawed Dragon, except a few letters had faded over time, leaving it as S¡ª-e¨Cawed Drag¨C.


    Sighing, Holsley stepped towards the gangplank of the Seawed Drag and didn¡¯t know what to do next. He called up towards the deck. ¡®Hello? Is there anyone aboard? I need to, uh, hire a ship?¡¯


    The face that appeared over the side next was about as far from human as you could get. It was longer, stretched out, lizard-like, and covered in red to purple scales. Through slitted eyes, remarkably like a snake¡¯s, it curiously looked down at Holsley.


    A dragonborn, the young bard realised. He¡¯d never met a dragonborn before, though he¡¯d certainly heard of them. You got them when brave humanoids had scintillating affairs with dragons.


    ¡®Hop aboard, young one!¡¯ The creature yelled down to him excitedly. ¡®Entry is free, though the tour will cost you!¡¯


    Holsley ascended the wobbly gangplank. Upon staring into the waters below, he suddenly remembered that he couldn¡¯t swim, so his body made careful, considered movements to compensate for the rise of fear. If he took a dip, chances were good that he wouldn¡¯t come back up.


    More of the dragonborn revealed itself to Holsley. Moth-eaten and patched clothes worn proud and loose over a bulky frame, like he didn¡¯t have a care for how the world saw him. The long jacket and his tricorne hat were cracked black leather, and in his hand, he took unhealthy gulps of a large bottle of what Holsley guessed was red wine.


    The dragonborn grinned from his seat on a nearby barrel and beckoned Holsley closer. It had taken him a moment to notice it, so dazzled as the young bard was to be in the presence of a new species, that there was an orange tabby lounging across the dragonborn¡¯s shoulders. It purred contentedly, indifferent to the young bard¡¯s presence.


    The dragonborn cleared his throat. ¡®Welcome, young one, to the Square¡ª¡¯ he took a break to burp into his hand and wave it away. ¡®Sorry about that. The Square-Jawed Dragon. Jewel of the Crossing, and about the finest ship a man could ever hope to set sail on. I am its captain, the well-renowned Captain Krell Longshort.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, I¡¯m Holsley,¡¯ replied Holsley with a short wave. The dragonborn was drunk ¡ª he wasn¡¯t very good with drunk people. They tended to throw punches when he got the lyrics wrong to their favourite songs. ¡®Is it, uh, just you on board?¡¯


    Krell eyed him suspiciously. ¡®For the moment. I¡¯m between crews, ye see. Not to worry, it shall be rec¡­URP¡­tified soon. Now, what is it I can do for ye?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve been sent by Roland Darrow.¡¯


    ¡®Ssh!¡¯ The dragonborn leapt towards him and shoved a finger across Holsley¡¯s lips. It tasted terrible, like lacquered varnish. ¡®Can¡¯t have anyone around here hearing that name. Best we keep it out of the conversation now that I know it, ay?¡¯


    ¡®Sure, uh, my friend sent me.¡¯


    Krell stepped back. ¡®Your friend is in a lot of trouble, ain¡¯t he? Me and mine would be putting our lives on the line escorting him out of Tressa¡¯s reach. It needs to be worth our while, young one.¡¯


    ¡®It will be,¡¯ replied Holsley.


    ¡®Good.¡¯ Krell shifted himself back up on the barrel, carefully moving his tail so he didn¡¯t sit on it. ¡®How much do ye think a service like that is worth, and how much are ye willing to pay?¡¯


    Holsley didn¡¯t know how to answer that question. He realised it would be hard to haggle a deal with the dragonborn when he didn¡¯t know what Roland had to offer. Right now, it seemed like it was nothing. ¡®Uh, enough to see your way and much, much more. You¡¯ll have to trust we can deliver it on the day.¡¯


    ¡®Hmmm¡­¡¯ Krell scratched at the scales on his chin. ¡®He¡¯s due to be hung in four days, ain¡¯t he? I can leave on that day a little over noon or before if ye like. There are a few spaces aboard that even the most observant guard won¡¯t find ye.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s¡ª¡¯


    Krell didn¡¯t let him finish. Instead, he stood up and somehow manifested shadows across his face despite the bright autumn sun. He towered over the bard, who, in response, backed up a little. ¡®I warn ye though, young one, if ye get aboard this ship with a wanted criminal on the day, ye had better make it worth my while. I¡¯ll bet, without any uncertainty, that the city would pay a little more for him.¡¯


    ¡®Are you saying you¡¯d turn him in?¡¯


    Holsley cringed. That was a stupid question; it was precisely what the dragonborn had just said.


    ¡®Only if ye didn¡¯t pay up something good. I¡¯d rather do business with yous than a guard.¡¯ Krell shrugged his shoulder. ¡®I¡¯m a smuggler, so it¡¯s better for business. I can¡¯t be seen cavorting with the tubheads too often. It¡¯ll turn people off my services.¡¯


    The light reclaimed his face, and the dragonborn became jovial once again.


    ¡®We¡¯ll have something good,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®I promise, just as long as you can wait.¡¯


    Krell sniffed. ¡®I¡¯ll need some assurances, of course. Enough to make the waiting worthwhile in the event that, ahem, he ends up succumbing to a serious case of hanged neck.¡¯


    Holsley had to think on that one. There was the bag of gold he was carrying, but he had wanted to use it for gambling later. Perhaps he could give up just a little of it to pay this shipmaster off.


    ¡®How¡¯s fifty crowns?¡¯ That was half of what was in his purse. ¡®Will that do it?¡¯


    ¡®Aye, ten regals will do it indeed,¡¯ Krell roared. It made Holsley think that he may have offered too much. ¡®Fifty crowns, and I¡¯ll stay put.¡¯


    Reluctantly, Holsley counted the jingling coins from his pouch and handed them over to the dragonborn¡¯s awaiting palm. Once he had counted fifty, Krell gave a low bow before forcing the currency into his jacket pocket. ¡®We have a¡­URP¡­deal then! Shall we shake on it?¡¯


    A moment of hesitation stayed his hand. The young bard thought oddly that this must be how people feel when they make deals with a devil. This didn¡¯t stop him from shaking it the moment after, however. It was a firm grip that felt like he was shaking hands with a used skillet. The dragonborn¡¯s skin was like fire. When his digits were finally released, he shook them in the cold air.


    ¡®Now, is there anything else I can do for ye, young one?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯ Holsley had been admiring the ship ever since he had been invited aboard, and it turns out there was something more he wanted from Krell.


    Holsley pointed across the deck to a tired-looking dinghy seemingly held together by chewing gum and prayer. ¡®How much would hiring that rowboat for the next couple of hours cost?¡¯

 Chapter Twenty-One — All you need is Love

    nd noticed the cat first before anything else in the room because you never really expected a cat to grace a throne.


    The luxurious-looking feline was curled up on the silk pillow and was certainly dressed well enough to be in that position, too. The black tabby wore a magnificent golden harness covered in jewels that, the rogue didn¡¯t doubt, was probably worth more than anything he¡¯d ever stolen. The tiny creature also didn¡¯t seem particularly perturbed by the heat, but it made him question how long it could stand to be in this furnace.


    For a moment, he thought he might have been ushered into the wrong room. Beneath the tall, stained-glass windows, several inconspicuous tieflings stood around a series of mannequins adorned in garish outfits ¡ª like the ones in the paintings outside. They were stood to attention as another tiefling, much older and taller than the rest, walked confidently along them.


    If Love Ravenpeak was amongst this group, she was the easiest to tell apart. The matriarch wore a flashy, glittery ensemble with an exaggerated skirt that trailed far behind her. The ladyship¡¯s silver hair was up in a tight bun over her sparkling horns, and her red eyeliner popped against her blue skin.


    ¡®This one requires more work.¡¯ Roland overheard her say to one of the mannequins. ¡®It¡¯s dated, darling. Overused. This style went out seasons ago, and you¡¯ve done little to refresh it. Increase the neckline, bring in the skirt, and remove these tacky baubles.¡¯


    A tiefling to the mannequin¡¯s left bowed sheepishly and remained with her head lowered.


    Kythos cleared his throat.


    With a certain reluctance, Love turned to note the intrusion with disgust written across her features. She glared at him with black pupilless eyes and lips so thin they threatened to cut her cheeks. The woman was ancient, though she wore her wrinkles youthfully. It was in the way she presented herself. She wasn¡¯t hobbled over and weak but stood up straight and proud.


    ¡®I¡¯ll be with you in a moment.¡¯ It was said simply but was certainly cutting.


    Kythos stole a half-step back when she wasn¡¯t looking. Roland didn¡¯t miss that.


    ¡®Now, we must address a more serious issue.¡¯ Love turned to the eight fashionable tieflings in front of her. She stepped to one of them, who instinctively cowered beneath her towering figure. The girl, Roland thought, was suddenly on the verge of tears. ¡®You¡¯ve stolen from me, haven¡¯t you, Larrais?¡¯


    ¡®No?¡¯ Larrais sniffed.


    It was a terrible lie. Roland could tell it immediately and he barely had an idea what was happening.


    ¡®Twenty thousand gold crowns,¡¯ Love said calmly. ¡®That¡¯s how much you stole in magical jewellery. Twenty. Thousand. Crowns.¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t,¡¯ Larrais begged. ¡®Please, your Ladyship.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t intend to pay me back, do you?¡¯ Love sneered. ¡®You thought you¡¯d get away with it. How arrogant, girl. I suppose you thought it might compensate you for your lack of talent.¡¯


    Two tieflings house guards appeared from nowhere and grabbed Larrais by the arms. She struggled against them but was a tiny thing with barely any strength. Tears stung her eyes now, making her red skin even redder. She begged further, but any chance at sympathy was not forthcoming.


    There was a flash on Love¡¯s index finger, and when she revealed her hand, Roland saw it was covered in rings. Fanciful rings with large gems. Larrais struggled for her life as Love reached out to touch her with one of them.


    When the tip of Love¡¯s ring finger met the woman¡¯s forehead, a terrific transformation took hold.


    Cold, hard stone spread across her face like a rash ¡ª solidifying her horrified expression forever. Her skin became rigid, grey, and sleek like marble. Her horns cracked and split, the strands of her hair paused in time, and finally, her eyes lost any sense of life. Even her scream, which, up to this point, had been loud and piercing, ceased as the stone rash spread from her cheeks and down her throat.


    It didn¡¯t go any further than that.


    Roland watched, heart beating like thunder, as the tiefling collapsed, clutching desperately at her stone head. She couldn¡¯t scream, couldn¡¯t see, couldn¡¯t breathe, yet somehow continued to live. She writhed like a worm while her legs kicked out frantically. He thought it would end, but it didn¡¯t. She continued to struggle, turning the moment into an agonising minute.


    ¡®One hour,¡¯ Love spat the command to her guards. ¡®Then the dungeons. I don¡¯t know how long for that one. Until I remember she¡¯s there, I suppose.¡¯


    This had been done for him. Roland wasn¡¯t stupid. Love had performed this little trick to show what fate befalls those who cross her. It had worked, too. Roland stared at the tiefling¡¯s body for a moment longer as she continued to struggle. With a gulp, he became aware he was dealing with an opponent on another level.


    ¡®Leave us.¡¯ Love hissed at the other tieflings, and they left the room without even a glance at their former colleague.


    That meant it happened too often, and they were well-trained to ignore it.


    Everyone left inside the room held their breath as Love marched across it. The matriarch ascended the stone steps one at a time and stepped towards her throne. She took the cat, still lazing on the chair, and placed it in her lap. Then, before anyone dared to speak, she retrieved a wooden box and carefully withdrew little chocolates that she delicately placed in her mouth.


    ¡®You should consider yourself very fortunate to be so interesting, darling,¡¯ she said, chewing thoughtfully and wiping her fingertips on a napkin. ¡®I rarely find anyone interesting these days.¡¯


    ¡®Uh.¡¯ Roland didn¡¯t know what to say.


    ¡®Here¡¯s what I know about you, Roland Darrow.¡¯ Love handed the box off to one of her houseguards. ¡®You¡¯re either very good at resisting torture, or my son is very bad at performing it. Honestly, both seem as likely as one another, but I don¡¯t need to torture you to know that you have an interesting piece of knowledge rolling around in that head of yours.¡¯


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    Roland just stared at her. He didn¡¯t know what kind of game she was playing, but surely, he¡¯d win if he refused to play.


    ¡®My wizard uncovered the origins of your ruby, thanks primarily to some markings etched along its surface. They discovered, interestingly enough, that it is one of the three gems of Yorn.¡¯ Roland held his breath as she continued, but she gave him a small smile to see it, and he realised he might have given something away. ¡®As I am sure you are aware, the three gems of Yorn were stolen quite some time ago by an infamous pirate calling himself Dlyn Whitmore. This means you may know where his very impressive and very stolen hoard of treasure is.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know anything,¡¯ Roland said confidently, but it still sounded like a blatant lie.


    ¡®Oh, don¡¯t be silly, darling,¡¯ Love cooed. ¡®If you didn¡¯t have anything worth sharing, surely you would have shared it by now.¡¯


    An agonising moment passed. She didn¡¯t say a word, clearly wanting him to speak first. The room felt suddenly hotter, and it wasn¡¯t his imagination either. Somehow, she was making it warmer, bringing up the heat to get him to spill his secrets. Love could sit in here all day. All the tieflings could. Roland, however, would eventually burn if the sweat didn¡¯t drown him first.


    He remained silent.


    Love smiled. ¡®Here¡¯s a question that I doubt anyone has asked before now. What is it you want, Roland? What could I give you in return for your answers?¡¯


    She probably expected him to say something like freedom, food, or money. Roland didn¡¯t want any of that. He¡¯d have all of it and more without any of the dignity loss that came attached to such bargains.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want anything.¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®I¡¯m not going to tell you anything.¡¯


    ¡®Formidable, darling.¡¯ She licked her grinning lips. ¡®You don¡¯t disappoint, do you?¡¯


    ¡®What do you want treasure for anyway?¡¯ Roland narrowed his eyes ¡ª he¡¯d gesture to the lavish room if his hands weren¡¯t firmly affixed to his sides. ¡®Haven¡¯t you got enough gold already?¡¯


    ¡®No, I don¡¯t.¡¯ Love¡¯s face took on a stoic demeanour. ¡®Close to three hundred years ago, I was charged with keeping Tressa safe. Since the last war, this city has fallen into disrepair and poverty. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve noticed, darling. You grew up here, after all. With a treasure like Dlyn Whitmore¡¯s, I could rebuild the city, root out the corruption, and prepare us for an inevitable war with the dwarves.¡¯


    ¡®Are you sure you¡¯re not going to put it all into your dresses?¡¯


    A bony finger was thrust in his direction. It was adorned with a ring that curled about the length of the appendage. Love spoke dark words in a language he didn¡¯t recognise. Suddenly, without warning, his mind felt like a blunted dagger was stabbing it. Speak the truth, a voice inside his head commanded. Answer the questions honestly.


    NO! he shouted at it internally.


    ¡®You stole the rapier and the ruby from Berry Kellam, didn¡¯t you? Witnesses, several witnesses, saw you as part of her crew.¡¯ Love leaned forward slowly, never lowering her finger. ¡®She found his treasure, but you wanted it for yourself. So, you stole a rowboat in the middle of some ocean, took those items, and your lack of navigation accidentally brought you here. Is that the truth, or isn¡¯t it, dear?¡¯


    Roland fought against the voice in his head. Tell her everything. It was magic. She was using magic. Some kind of truth spell or something? Roland wasn¡¯t sure, but he was sure as heck going to resist it. DO IT!


    ¡®I¡¯m not telling you anything.¡¯ Roland forced the words out through his clenched teeth. It hurt to lie. ¡®Not a damned thing!¡¯


    ¡®What about the rapier?¡¯ Love continued regardless. Distantly, he heard her fingers click. Without warning, two members of what appeared to be kitchen staff brought in a table from behind the guards.


    They set it before Roland, complete with a silver dish. The smell of roasted chicken, swollen with stuffing, was intoxicating to an empty stomach, but the sight of it was paralysing. A full dinner with all the trimmings. It was enough to make a full belly moan. ¡®Tell me about that. Just that. And this feast is yours. I bet you¡¯re hungry, darling.¡¯


    ¡®I¡ª¡¯


    ¡®My personal wizard studied the weapon. He knew it was magical, but he didn¡¯t know what it could do,¡¯ said Love. ¡®What is it for? Does it have anything to do with Whitmore¡¯s treasure?¡¯


    It was like a hand gripping his brain. Squeezing it. Roland had the sudden urge to vomit, but it wouldn¡¯t be the contents of his stomach; it¡¯d be the truth. He fought against it and looked about the room for something to focus on. Anything that would take his mind off her aggressive questioning.


    It was so hard to do that with the mouthwatering food before him. She was assaulting his mind and his stomach at the same time, and what¡¯s worse, it was working.


    Any second now, all of his secrets would come spilling out.


    His eyes rested on Love¡¯s neck. Something was hanging on it. A piece of string that had been fashioned into a makeshift necklace. Everything about the woman seemed opulent and ravishing. Her clothes, her eyes, her attitude, but there was this one single blemish. Roland had to ask himself why someone would wear a string around their neck.


    The hand around his mind receded, and the voice disappeared.


    ¡®You have a firm will.¡¯ Love watched Roland thoughtfully as he gasped for air ¡ª almost as if he had been holding his breath. ¡®It comes, no doubt, from a hard life.¡¯


    It did.


    ¡®I can save you from the noose. Quite frankly, dear, I¡¯m the only one that can,¡¯ she said flatly. ¡®All you need to do is tell me everything.¡¯


    The smell of the roasted chicken was driving him mad. Roland licked his lips.


    ¡®In exchange for the meal,¡¯ he replied. ¡®I¡¯ll tell you about the rapier, but I can feed myself.¡¯


    Love¡¯s eyes narrowed. She didn¡¯t trust that but had nothing to lose in giving him a meal.


    ¡®Undo his manacles,¡¯ she spat towards the guards. ¡®Now.¡¯


    ¡®Uh.¡¯ Kythos stepped forward, self-consciously twiddling his fingers. ¡®Mother, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s the best idea. Mr. Darrow is a right tricky grubber. There¡¯s absolutely no doubt, not one, that he won¡¯t try to escape if we remove his¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Oh, don¡¯t be stupid, Kythos.¡¯ Love interrupted him. ¡®Four walls, one door, and ten guards. Six of which are my guards. There is nowhere for him to run. Agreed?¡¯


    ¡®Of course, mother.¡¯ Kythos bowed and then did as he was told ¡ª much to Roland¡¯s relief. The manacles came off, which meant all his chains clanged to the ground, seeing as they were all wrapped about together, and the guards crowded around the room¡¯s only exit. They had their hands on their maces¡¯ hilts, but none moved closer.


    Roland dug hungrily into the meal. He wouldn¡¯t wait for cutlery or common decency to get his fill. He dove into the bird with two hands and shovelled what meat he could into his awaiting gob. It was rich and salty with crispy skin and tender meat. Cooked to perfection. Perhaps the best roast dinner he¡¯d ever had if he had stopped to taste it.


    Half the chicken was down his gullet before he looked up to regard Love. She was sitting there, waiting patiently.


    ¡®Ready to talk, darling?¡¯


    Roland wiped the grease from his lips. ¡®Nah.¡¯


    He was up in a flash and gone in the next.


    The guards had been expecting him to run; they had even been preparing themselves for this eventuality, but they weren¡¯t prepared for where he would run. Roland wasn¡¯t heading for the door. He wasn¡¯t heading for Love. No, he was heading for the window.


    The tall stained-glass window depicted what very well must be Love herself. A half-body of her looking vigilant while a lambent crown danced above her head. It was really rather beautiful. A trained thief like him could tell. You did well as a thief if you knew what looked like good craftsmanship.


    That¡¯s why throwing one of the mannequins through it pained him.


    The glass smashed easily. The picture became half complete in a second, ruining, no doubt, months of work. Roland didn¡¯t care. All that went through his mind at that moment was how he¡¯d prefer to die rather than let his secrets spill. How he had earned them through blood, sweat, and pain, and how now they belonged to him. Only him. Better he dies with some pride than hand it over to the likes of her.


    Still, as he dove through the hole the mannequin had made in its wake, a large part of him hoped dearly that he wouldn¡¯t. Death was the end. Roland wasn¡¯t ready for the end. It all barely felt like the beginning. If he were destined for something more, then he would survive. That¡¯s how it was and how he could afford to be a little reckless.


    An arrow whizzed past his ear as the relentless force of gravity took hold of him and pulled him towards the ground.


    He only hoped there would be at least one thing between him and it.

 Chapter Twenty-Two — The Stone Door

    There were only really two problems with Holsley¡¯s plan, but, granted, they were big problems.


    The first problem was that he didn¡¯t know how to handle a rowboat ¡ª which wasn¡¯t the end of the world. The second problem, and perhaps the more concerning of the two, was that he had never learned how to swim and had what some might call a paralysing fear of the water.


    These two little problems combined meant he had spent the past twenty minutes rowing around in circles and trying desperately not to upset the boat. When Holsley had seen people do this, it all seemed so easy. Just grab the oars and row. Turns out, there was more to it than he had initially thought.


    ¡®Ye need some help?¡¯ Krell laughed from above. ¡®Where exactly are ye heading, young one? Except, of course, back where ye started, har har!¡¯


    Holsley looked up at the dragonborn¡¯s toothy grin leaning over the ship¡¯s side; he debated whether to tell him. ¡®Not too far. Just along the cliffside.¡¯


    The young bard struggled with the oars, practically juggling them to get them back into the water. Laugher erupted. Along the docks, a crowd had gathered to admire Holsley¡¯s attempts at getting the boat started. For the most part, he ignored them, but it was getting harder to do that with every mocking point and whispered giggle.


    ¡®I can¡¯t stand this,¡¯ Krell¡¯s voice boomed from above.


    A sudden torrent of water shot into the air and drenched Holsley from head to toe. The rowboat shook viciously. Holsley clenched his teeth and dug his fingers, down to the nail, into the wood, like talons. If he entered that water, he¡¯d go to a seabed grave.


    The dinghy wobbled as the great dragonborn pulled himself aboard and shook his coat dry. Well, dryer. He confidently took hold of the oars, sunk them into the water, and quickly brought the rowboat around to face the dock¡¯s exit.


    A tremendous cheer went up from the crowd as he did this. Holsley sunk lower in his seat. Perhaps, he thought, if he sunk low enough, he might become invisible to the naked eye. If he were lucky, maybe he¡¯d just disappear altogether.


    ¡®Not sure where ye going, but ye sure as anything ain¡¯t gonna get there on ye own.¡¯ Krell laughed. ¡®I¡¯ll take us. All ye have to do is point and yell.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ Holsley grumbled.


    ***


    Captain Krell Longshort was a natural with the rowboat. Without breaking a sweat, he brought the dinghy over the length of the docks and through the gates leading out to the open sea. The dragonborn had also performed this feat in minutes, although Holsley couldn¡¯t tell if that was quick for the task or if it just felt quick because he¡¯d been labouring around for twenty minutes.


    The young bard carefully manoeuvred himself up to the prow as soon as they were over the threshold. From there, he shouted directions and, if the situation warranted, pointed out dangers the rowboat was heading towards. The young bard certainly did one more than the other, as Tressa¡¯s shoreline was riddled with jagged rocks and ravenous waves.


    ¡®Why¡¯s ye want to go near the cliff anyway, young one?¡¯ Krell had his back to him, commanding the oars effortlessly. ¡®What¡¯s there for ye?¡¯


    ¡®Uh.¡¯ Holsley wasn¡¯t sure if he should answer. The truth was a secret. Not many people knew about The Bard¡¯s Drop ¡ª a clandestine hideaway at the base of Tressa¡¯s cliffside that had become famous amongst Everfall¡¯s most prestigious musicians. Most regarded it as a place where you could play respects to deceased bardic legends.


    ¡®A friend of mine is buried down here.¡¯ Holsley came up with a reasonable-enough-sounding lie. ¡®I¡¯ve come to play my respects.¡¯


    ¡®What? Did your friend fall off the balcony or something?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, I buried him here when he died.¡¯


    The dragonborn swallowed his tongue.


    It was another lie, but the truth wasn¡¯t far off. Holsley had come here when Dan had died, but it certainly wasn¡¯t from falling over the side of a balcony. He dearly wished that was the case. No, he had only come here to add Dan¡¯s magical lute to the collection inside the drop before leaving this awful city behind forever.


    Dan ¡ª Holsley hadn¡¯t thought about the name in years, but he supposed it was only inevitable that he¡¯d have to end up thinking about him eventually. What with coming back to Tressa. Still, he tried to push the memories back.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯ Krell pulled off his hat respectfully. ¡®Shouldn¡¯t poke fun at a man in mourning. Ye carry on, young one.¡¯


    With a jolt, the rowboat came up on the rocks, and it didn¡¯t take long for Krell to moor it to the nearest pillar of jagged rock. Holsley told him it would be best if he went alone to play his respects, and the dragonborn gave him a knowing yet sympathetic nod. Honestly, it was impressive how much emotion and communication the dragonborn could express with just a slight nod of his head.


    Krell took up a comfortable position with his back to the stern, placed his tricorn hat over his eyes, and was snoring long before Holsley had made his tenth pace from the rowboat.


    The rocks proved to be the most difficult obstacle. They sat unevenly on the ground, which forced Holsley to stumble awkwardly across them. Occasionally, he would slip and catch himself, but his feet remained tentatively on the ground for the most part. After a few minutes of recalling this area, he found what he was looking for.


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    It was invisible to anyone who was not keen-eyed or already knew it was there.


    A set of crudely formed steps was carved masterfully into the cliffside, chiselled out of the stone itself. Holsley started up them. They had been built, he had been told, so that they could only be seen from dead on. If you try to spot this entrance from the sides, you¡¯d only see the all-too-common rocky walls that went up for a few hundred feet.


    Deep down, a part of him had secretly hoped the way was flooded. At least then, he wouldn¡¯t be faced with this terrible choice ¡ª either to rescue a friend in dire trouble or keep a promise to the long deceased. It made his stomach churn just thinking about it. Holsley needed a lute, though, especially if he was going to save Roland, and he didn¡¯t need just any lute, either.


    He needed Dan¡¯s.


    Holsley had been to the Bard¡¯s Drop precisely two times before. The first time, he couldn¡¯t remember. He had been very young, but he could remember, if he thought hard enough, that there had been some songs and a lot of dancing with strangers.


    The second time was clearer. Much clearer. Dan had brought him back and explained the purpose of the Bard¡¯s Drop while laying his friend¡¯s violin to rest. When a good minstrel died, he had told Holsley, their instrument was forever added to those already in the Bard¡¯s Drop. It was an honour to be counted amongst the greats.


    That¡¯s what Holsley had done for Dan. In the higher levels, standing tall, he had placed the lute on an empty pair of hooks. Now, he was coming back to get it.


    The agonising steps finally reached their end. They led, simply enough, to a seemingly inconspicuous wall. No door, window, or anything ¡ª a simple section of the cliffside almost indistinguishable from the rest. Holsley knew better, though.


    A wooden sign hanging crooked on a nail nearby read: ¡°Speak Minstrel and Enter.¡±


    Holsley moaned loudly. ¡®Riddles.¡¯


    ***


    For the life of him, he could not remember having to solve a riddle when he was younger. Was that new? He had no idea, but more pressingly, he had no idea for the answer. Holsley wasn¡¯t very good at riddles. That¡¯s the kind of stuff more imaginative people were good at. He was a bard, which meant he was sort of good at playing songs and roaming about without much purpose.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯ Holsley sat himself calmly upon a nearby waist-high boulder. It was positioned well enough so that he could read the sign across the path. He stared intently at it as if his very gaze might get it to reveal the answer accidentally.


    It didn¡¯t, of course.


    The next thirty minutes were spent driving himself to near madness. The afternoon was going down over the horizon, and it¡¯d be night in a couple of hours, but he didn¡¯t pay the time of day any mind. He couldn¡¯t. Holsley was too busy scratching possible answers into the rockface with a broken quill. There was something about ¡°Speak Minstrel and Enter¡± that seemed so simple, but that only made it harder for some reason.


    Was it a language? Had Dan taught him a language? Maybe he had to sacrifice a minstrel in order to enter. No, wait, that was dumb. A song, then? He didn¡¯t know any with that exact name, but he tried a few ¡ª badly. Nope. Perhaps it was a minstrel¡¯s name, like a famous minstrel. He rattled off a few of the ones he knew, starting with Marlin Mandrovi. Nothing. Of course, nothing. Then what could it be!?


    ¡®Damn the luck!¡¯ Holsley kicked the small boulder in frustration, which, as expected, did more damage to him than to it.


    Maybe this was fate, he came to realise. Holsley couldn¡¯t enter the Bard¡¯s Drop because he wasn¡¯t a bard. Let¡¯s face it, he didn¡¯t practice, got jittery around crowds, and he had allowed his lute to be smashed into two pieces.


    ¡®I¡¯m so damned stupid,¡¯ he huffed, plopping himself back down on the rock. ¡®Just a stupid, useless bard. What am I doing here? I can¡¯t save Roland. I can barely save myself!?¡¯


    Ariesse came to mind. She often did when he was this frustrated. The lovely Ariesse had pointed ears, a cherubic face, and a mane of golden hair. She danced about him in his memories, mocking how stupid humans were. They got bent out of shape so easily, she had told him, by the simplest of things.


    There weren¡¯t many elves in Donathal. Really, it was only a handful. Most of them appeared as adults, or at least something resembling adults when, in fact, they were centuries older. Ariesse was the only teenage-looking elf, and she acted like it too. She played pranks on him, giggled during their lessons together, and teased Holsley to no end with a parade of facts about humans ¡ª like the fact they usually die in their seventies, whereas an elf like her could live up to five hundred years.


    Whenever he got angry, which happened a lot with the uppity elves of Donathal, who insisted that he get every single damn thing right, she would follow him to his room. She¡¯d whistle and attract the birds from their tree branches. Without skipping a beat, she¡¯d switched the tune and make them dance about his bed. Unlike him, she was naturally talented at the weaving of magical songs.


    Holsley always asked her how she did it, but her reply was always the same. ¡®By not worrying about it. Stupid human.¡¯


    How do you not worry about something? It was like figuring out how not to breathe. Holsley was worried. In fact, he was more worried now than he had ever been in his life. Almost. His best friend was about to die, and there wasn¡¯t a thing he could do about it without that lute. He was a deer stepping into a lion¡¯s den, and he needed that protection.


    Holsley took a deep breath. Then another. He didn¡¯t reread the wooden plank as he already knew what it said. Instead, he just listened and allowed his mind to drift. The young bard¡¯s breathing slowed, and he focused on his chest¡¯s rise and fall.


    The waves crashed noisily against the rocks.


    The city above was a boisterous clatter of lively conversation and stamping feet.


    Sea birds screeched and squawked as they hungrily hunted for fish unfortunate enough to be in the shallows.


    Krell was still snoring.


    His mind returned to the last time he had been right here, waiting patiently for Dan to help him inside. There had been a riddle. Holsley could remember Dan pointing it out and asking him for the answer. Except, he didn¡¯t know it. Come on, Dan had prodded, just think about it, Holsley. It¡¯s a joke.


    He opened his eyes.


    The answer hit him like a piano full of bricks. It was so damned obvious. So much so it was embarrassing. Without hesitation, Holsley leapt to his feet and stood where he knew the door should be.


    ¡®Minstrel,¡¯ he said clearly. Then, waited patiently to see if something would happen.


    Speak minstrel and enter.


    Literally, say the word minstrel. He grunted with the revelation. It was so stupid. Where had the architects of the drop stolen that little conundrum from? He was sure he had heard of it before, perhaps in one of Marlin¡¯s adventures.


    The stone suddenly shifted. Clockwork clicked and coiled on the other side. A block of wall slid across smoothly, backing away from him, then discreetly gliding to the side and out of the way. A doorway became obvious immediately, leading into dark places almost unknown. Beyond, Holsley would find the Bard¡¯s Drop in its entirety ¡ª the single most incredible collection of legendary instruments known to the Further Kingdoms.


    Holsley only hesitated once to look back and ensure the rowboat was still there. When he was satisfied that he could still see it back down the way, the young bard turned back with a smile and stepped across the threshold into the darkness.


    The door sealed shut behind him.

 Chapter Twenty-Three — Rooftop Hustle

    Roland hit the slanted roof hard, rolled down the slope, and caught hold of the gutter a second before it was too late.


    Above him, by about thirty feet or so, tubheads crowded around the broken window to witness what had become of him. Their expressions were caught somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and disappointment.


    Roland would smile if there were anything to smile about, but this had been a costly stunt. His already exhausted body now had to worry about the possibility of a few broken ribs, aching joints, and a bruised mid-section from where he¡¯d landed on the roof. All would be worth it, though, if he could just keep moving.


    With a groan, Roland hoisted himself back up with the help of a nearby dormer window. Inside, he could see a quaint bedroom all dressed up for its occupant. Upon trying the window, however, he found that it was locked. Could he smash it? That would be a certain way inside, but would it be the best way out? No, he realised, they would expect him to escape this way.


    It was time to make a quick inspection of the area.


    If he followed this roof to its end, he¡¯d find about a ten-foot gap. A neat leap over it would get him onto the battlements of the inner keep. From there, he could reach the nearby gatehouse, get inside, and work his way into the square without having to drop and expose himself. The square was always busy, which meant it could obscure him, and from there, he knew a way into the sewers.


    This was his best option.


    The horns were already blaring when he¡¯d manoeuvred his way back to the top of the triangular rooftop. Every tubhead in the keep would be looking for him now, and it¡¯s not like he was challenging to find either. Roland got to his feet quickly. The slate tiles were unforgiving on his bare soles, but he fought through the irritation.


    A sudden arrow thunked within an inch of his next step and threw Roland off balance. The tubheads behind the broken window were firing upon him. He slid a little along the slope but righted himself quickly. If they were trying to kill him, they were lousy shots. They¡¯d have to try better if they were trying to scare him.


    Without thinking about it, Roland snatched the arrow up and continued his trajectory. He needed to hit the end of the rooftop running. That was the only way to build the momentum necessary to clear the gap. If he didn¡¯t, he¡¯d simply fall, and he seriously doubted he¡¯d find yet another misplaced rooftop to cushion his fall.


    Not too far from the gap, though, the situation changed.


    A horned figure pulled herself up onto the roof from one of the farther dormers and quickly got in a position to challenge Roland ¡ª a tiefling. The woman must be one of Love¡¯s minions from the finely studded black and purple leather. She was well-built and held her two-handed mace like a baseball bat. She looked slow, which favoured Roland, but all she needed was one good hit.


    There was no exchange of words. The guard got into it without hesitation. She barrelled towards Roland, building up her own momentum, but the rogue could see her attack a mile off. She brought the mace around at about chest level, and he ducked beneath it on his knees. The old power slide. Then, he came around on the other side of her, but his weapon, the arrow, wouldn¡¯t do anything against that armour.


    The mace struck the roof, shattering the tiles beneath it without an almighty clatter. She turned to face him, and Roland put up the arrow defensively. The tiefling snarled. The mace came round, and Roland jumped back out of the way. Then, travelling along the same path, it went up high and tried to hammer him like a nail. Roland swung to the left, narrowly dodging it ¡ª more broken roof tiles.


    An idea came to him. He twirled his body, spinning along her lowered arms, and nimbly stabbed the arrowhead into her hand. She yelped with the sudden rush of pain. When she let go of the mace, Roland quickly kicked it so that it sailed off the roof. By doing this, he levelled the playing field a little.


    Another growl. With startling speed, the tiefling came upon him. Her black and red hair, styled in a ponytail, swung wildly with each thrown fist. Roland was quicker, though. Even on a restricted diet of bread and water, he was faster. He easily sidestepped, dodged, ducked, and parried the fists as if he¡¯d practised this exact fight beforehand.


    Years of training and muscle memory spurred him on, much to the annoyance of his dancing partner. Before long, she was roaring and swinging faster, putting her brute strength into practice, but he knew this would only tire her out. When her gait slowed to a crawl, Roland picked up the pace. It was true that she was bigger and heavier, but that was something he could use against her.


    On the next swing, Roland grabbed her wrist, brought his body into hers and, with a strength spurred on by motion, threw her over his shoulder. The tiefling struck the roof. It must have hurt, too, if her contorted features were anything to go by. She wasn¡¯t done, though. The tiefling slowly found her feet. Roland wasn¡¯t done either.


    His kick, aimed squared at her chest, sent her flying towards the edge of the roof. She spun along the slope, end over end, but caught herself on one of the dormers. That was the end of it. With no time to spare, Roland found his feet again and took off running.


    However, five steps into his escape, he was hit with a very different problem. A call for help. He stopped to glance back over his shoulder. The tiefling, who hadn¡¯t murmured a word during their fight, struggled to find purchase. It was an awful long way down, he saw, and instant death was assured.


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    Why should he save her? That was his first thought. In minutes, perhaps even seconds now, this rooftop would be crawling with tubheads. They might be all over the battlements if he¡¯d misjudged them. This tiefling had never done anything for him. He certainly didn¡¯t owe her anything, either. He owed her less than that, as she had tried to capture him a moment ago.


    Roland looked from her to the battlements and then back again.


    There was no second-guessing the surprised look on her face when Roland offered his hand to her. She took it gratefully, but he didn¡¯t linger to help her. Good deeds never went unpunished, after all. With some difficulty, Roland pulled her hand to a more substantial ledge where she¡¯d find a better purchase.


    He didn¡¯t wait for a thank you or expect one. Instead, he was off like a shot.


    Roland leapt across the gap just as tubheads clambered onto the roof behind. Some made to run after him, but he was far too swift now that he had gotten moving. He climbed up onto the battlements and jumped over to the walkway. Guards were shouting, shaking their fists, and he was laughing.


    It felt different this time. A stupid iron barrier had thwarted each escape attempt before. Not this time. Not in the city¡¯s fresh air, far above what they could call the dungeons. This time, he¡¯d get to the streets. That¡¯s all he needed to do. If his bare feet found the courtyard¡¯s flagstones, he could disappear forever.


    Which of the two should I go for first after my daring escape? He pondered as he rushed towards the closest tower. The ruby or the rapier?


    ***


    The tower served a few purposes. As a thief, Roland was told to know these things. It served as a watch tower to help keep the city safe and as a gatehouse that allowed people in and out of the square. Ten or so were dotted about the walls, all connected by the battlements. What most didn¡¯t know, however, was that some of these towers were derelict and abandoned.


    Fortunately, there was an easy way to tell whether the tower was in use. The door was locked, and the tower was not in use. Roland smiled. A little further up, there was a window that would no doubt be latched, but that wouldn¡¯t be a problem. The rogue jumped to the door frame and used the jutting stone bricks to reach the window ledge.


    This is where the arrow came in.


    Taking hold of the arrow¡¯s pointy end, he fed the other end through the gap between the window¡¯s panes. He raised it slowly, forcing the latch to come undone easily on the other side and the windows to open for his convenience. After that, stepping inside and relatching the window was a simple matter.


    The marble floor was cold and covered in a thin layer of dust. There was furniture in the room and d¨¦cor, but Roland couldn¡¯t tell what any of it looked like because each article was covered in a sheet. As any good thief did, he quickly counted the exists. Barring the window was an oak door with iron hinges and a shadowy archway leading into more obscured parts of the floor he was on.


    Aches erupted up his chest and joints as the day¡¯s events wore heavily on him. The adrenaline was wearing off, and his exhaustion was creeping. Roland didn¡¯t want to waste time but just had to catch his breath. Despite the chicken dinner, he¡¯d not eaten well nor slept, and his limbs were growing heavy.


    Roland sat on a covered chair, promising to leave in no longer than a minute. The tower was locked, which meant they had to find a key, which meant he had a little time. From here, he¡¯d go up, not down, and climb stealthily on the outside with no one the wiser. That was his best bet.


    He sat there a moment, slowly breathing in and then breathing out.


    At his third exhale, he realised he could see his breath lingering in the air. A sharp coldness had overtaken the room.


    Roland realised it almost a moment later and glanced up. A single eye, a red orb, peered at him through the darkness of the archway. A footstep followed its appearance. Then another. A figure emerged from the shade, and Roland¡¯s heart stopped dead.


    It was a woman, a human who had been worn down by life. She was a filthy creature with a sinister face. Her hair was rum red, her mouth full of golden teeth, and one eye obscured by a patch. She wore the finest set of dishevelled clothes anyone was bound to see.


    Three rapiers clinked together on her belt.


    ¡®Berry,¡¯ Roland whimpered.


    She laughed, cold and hard, sending shivers down his spine.


    ¡®You betrayed me, Roland,¡¯ she said seriously. ¡®Now I¡¯m coming for you.¡¯


    Roland spilled over his chair. It rattled the marble floor, kicked up the settled dust, and forced him on his back. When he returned to a more upright position, Berry was gone, and he was left to wonder if he had seen her at all. How could he have seen her? He thought. There¡¯s no way.


    The rogue yelped in surprise.


    A figure, another figure, had suddenly appeared right next to him. Someone different. A hood obscured this stranger¡¯s face, but even without seeing, Roland could tell something was wrong with him. He could smell the reek of death upon the stranger. A noose was hanging around their neck like an ill-fashioned accessory, and it swung with every step they took.


    Roland backed off. He didn¡¯t need to wonder who this was ¡ª The Hangman of Tressa. He grabbed the arrow like a dagger and got ready for a fight.


    Kythos hadn¡¯t been lying then. The supernatural figure was real. This wasn¡¯t an imposter or someone playing dress-up. This was a real thing. Roland had never been in the room with a ghost before, but he had heard that an eerie coldness and a low fog followed them wherever they went.


    ¡®You can¡¯t escape the noose.¡¯


    He winced. The voice was like nails on a chalkboard; it made him shudder and cringe.


    The Hangman stepped forward, and with each step, Roland felt colder. His skin grew paler, and he felt¡­strange. It was hard to explain, but it felt as if there was nothing for him beyond this moment. Like this may well be the end. It made him terribly afraid and rooted him to the spot. It didn¡¯t help his wits that he was still rattled by Berry Kellam¡¯s appearance.


    ¡®W-what do you want?¡¯ His teeth chattered.


    ¡®Five days.¡¯ The Hangman held up his fingers. ¡®You cannot be allowed to escape.¡¯


    Unseen ropes lashed out at him. Roland tried to dodge, but they had caught him off-guard. They wrapped about his feet, tied his arms to his back, and drew an unsettling noose around his neck. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t loosen them. In fact, each time he tried, they coiled tighter.


    A door banged below. Footsteps followed it.


    ¡®Berry Kellam,¡¯ Roland said, but didn¡¯t know how to phrase his question. ¡®How?¡¯


    ¡®Five days.¡¯ It was all the Hangman replied.


    When the tubheads entered, the hair-raising figure was gone. It left Roland, once again, wondering if that had been real. It must have been. The guards got him in his stupor, not that he could¡¯ve escaped. Last time, he had caught them off guard; this time, they were swiftly around him. Against that many maces, Roland had no choice but to surrender.


    Chains were added, tighter this time if such a thing were possible, and he was marched back towards the keep with the promise of Love¡¯s punishment. Roland couldn¡¯t help but remember how the tiefling had struggled when her head was turned to stone.

 Chapter Twenty-Four — Bang, Boom, Twang, Clap, Zing

    Holsley stumbled into the overwhelming darkness, and his foot immediately knocked against something.


    Bending down, he grasped what felt like a recorder on the floor ¡ª an elongated piece of wood with holes punctured at intervals along its side. Even in the dark, he could feel how dusty it was, how brittle. Holsley pursed his lips and whistled a tune, one to summon his ball of light, and he placed it on the end of this instrument.


    The area around him became instantly illuminated. Light shed its insight on the floor and revealed the hundreds of grimy instruments lying at his feet. On the wall to his right, Holsley spied more instruments, though these were in much better condition, hanging up on old iron nails split into the rock.


    Although he couldn¡¯t see it, Holsley knew he was standing at the base of a square tower. Somewhere, there were stairs leading to balconies that themselves would have stairs leading to higher balconies. He couldn¡¯t remember how many floors there were, maybe five, but he was already beginning to regret placing the lute as high as he could. It had seemed like the right decision at the time.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯ he called into the anticipating dark.


    ¡®Hello,¡¯ came the echoey reply.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t expect to see you here!¡¯ Holsley shouted a little louder.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡¯


    ¡®You look so handsome!¡¯


    ¡®You look so handsome.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you.¡¯


    Holsley giggled. The young bard had done the same thing when Dan had brought him here, except Dan had managed to chase away every shadow. As it stood, Holsley could barely see twenty feet ahead of himself. It meant he had to tread carefully into the dark with the well-lit flute and hope he bumped into the stairs sooner rather than later.


    The young bard gingerly stepped over the instruments as he continued further into the unknown. From recollection, he knew there were two sets of stairs on either side of the ground floor, and they each led up to different areas and balconies, but only one would lead him to the lute.


    TWANG!


    Holsley¡¯s clumsy toe met with a broken lute, and he cringed at the sound. He continued on. The last time he had been here, Holsley had asked after the difference between the instruments on the floor and those hanging up on pegs.


    Some bards are better left forgotten, Dan had said.


    From what Holsley could tell with his makeshift light, most of the instruments hanging up were magical. Those were easier to tell in a place like this. Magical instruments were always pristine ¡ª they couldn¡¯t gather dust, scratches, or cracks. They didn¡¯t age and couldn¡¯t be broken by ordinary means either. It made them special, and Holsley knew it meant those hanging up had belonged to real legends like Marlin Mandrovi.


    He was tempted to grab a few of the lutes, seeing as that was his instrument of choice. The young bard fought against the urge, however. Playing another bard¡¯s instrument was terribly unlucky, and that was especially true of a magic one. There was a superstition in it. Apparently, the former owners could hear you playing their instrument in the afterlife.


    Holsley wasn¡¯t sure he really believed that. So many stories revolved around the passing down of magical instruments to new minstrels that this superstition didn¡¯t make much sense. Dan believed it, though, but he also believed that the instrument could be passed on as long as its former owner approved.


    That¡¯s how he hoped it¡¯d work with Dan¡¯s magical lute.


    The eerie silence of the Bard¡¯s Drop was getting to him by the time he found the first stone step. Holsley ascended it slowly, using the dusty railing as a guide and batted at the thin cobwebs that suddenly obscured his path. He again cursed himself for leaving Dan¡¯s lute so high in the drop. Right at the top, if he recalled right.


    More instruments awaited him on the first floor. First of five-ish floors, he thought. Like the others, this floor was filled with aisles stacked with old books full of forgotten songs alongside more neatly stacked instruments. Holsley reached out for one of the books, but the tome disintegrated before he could turn a page.


    The elves would have never allowed their books to reach this level of decomposition. They were keen readers with a genuine love of history. Something they¡¯d infected the young bard with, and in fact, much of Holsley¡¯s spare time had been spent studying the written word within their libraries.


    Holsley smiled at the memory of them. The air was always fresh, no matter where you chose to sit, and the sunlight was never invading but always present. And, as a nice touch, the elves always left out pitchers of water with wedges of lemons and ice alongside bowls of fruit and nuts to snack on while you explore the written word.


    The Bard¡¯s Drop had very little in common with the libraries of Donathal, but it still reminded Holsley of them. Here, history was written with music rather than ink. Each instrument represented a person who had done something to earn recognition. They each had a story, and he only wished he could discover what some of those stories were.


    ***


    It had taken another half an hour of careful ascension to reach the highest floor. After he¡¯d managed to catch his breath, he quickly noticed something catching the light above him that hadn¡¯t been present on the lower floors. It was a magnificent chandelier hanging in the centre of the ceiling, overlooking the quick way down over the balcony¡¯s iron railing. He knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to see the floor from so high, but he shined his light down anyway.


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    Darkness swallowed the glimmer whole.


    That¡¯s how Dan had done it before, Holsley suddenly remembered. The old bard had cast a powerful light spell right into the chandelier and it had bounced from it into every nook and cranny. That¡¯s how every bard must have been able to bring light to this dark, unused space.


    He wondered, and not for the first time, who had designed this place.


    Dan had told him that a great bard, which he supposed made sense, had founded the Bard¡¯s Drop centuries ago. A great lover of music. Rumour had it that they had died in the drop and still fiercely guarded the instruments from thieves and opportunists. Hopefully, if the rumour were true, they wouldn¡¯t call Holsley a thief for taking back something he had left here.


    The young bard crossed the upper balcony while flicking the recorder¡¯s light this way and that. He knew that he had placed the lute on a wall, laid across two pegs, but he couldn¡¯t remember where that spot had been. So, he just had to check everywhere.


    Holsley walked down each of the dead-end aisles, shining his light on the wall, which brought them to an abrupt stop. He then doubled back on himself.


    The musky air was getting to him. Somehow, it was colder up here than downstairs ¡ª so much so that he could see his breath as he breathed out. Holsley wrapped his arms about himself for warmth, as he had only a flimsy shirt to protect himself from the chill.


    At the end of the fourth or fifth aisle, Holsley finally spotted his prize with a great sigh of relief. The pristine lute hung on two pegs, exactly as he had remembered, right in the centre of the wall between the shelves. Beaming, he marched towards it, but his footsteps grew heavier the closer he got.


    Dan had called it the redrose lute, and it wasn¡¯t hard to see why. Even in the dim light, Holsley could tell that it was made of a fine, crimson wood that had been given a beautiful, lacquered finish. It was just about the finest lute here. The strings were all silver in colour, except for one, and they reflected the light comfortably back at him. Flowery decals adorned the pickguard, and delicate etchings of intricate swirls had been etched into the ivory pegs.


    This was nothing less than a lute of legend.


    From experience, he knew it was indestructible, but beyond that, it made casting spells easier ¡ª something an out-of-practice bard like Holsley sorely needed. Magical instruments knew what song you were trying to play and could compensate for lacking talent. However, it did come with a catch, as these things often did.


    A bard playing a magical instrument too often could stunt their potential. Only bards with a great deal of experience handled instruments like this because if you relied on a magical instrument to play, you¡¯d never get better at playing. Not to mention, they were very addictive. However, if you were already at your peak, there was no growth to impede, and these instruments could only improve your skills.


    Holsley¡¯s hand trembled as he reached for it.


    He stopped himself a moment before his fingertips could brush the strings. This was all wrong. He already knew it had been immoral to come here, to take such an item left behind in this way, but he had done so anyway. Holsley needed a way to protect himself in the city ¡ª to protect Roland. He couldn¡¯t do that with a broken lute.


    Still, being here, about to take it, the whole thing felt really wrong, and he hesitated.


    ¡®What do I do?¡¯ he whispered into the dark.


    THUD.


    The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end.


    Something rolled towards him, rotating down the middle of the aisle until it rested about ten feet away. Holsley turned to it with wide eyes as it came into his light. Goosebumps prickled his flesh.


    It was a drum?


    He watched hesitantly as a small drum spun itself flat on the floor, wondering if it had fallen from one of the shelves.


    Holsley approached it with trepidation, but another instrument rolled out of the darkness just as he reached out for it. A trumpet. Then another ¡ª a flute. And another ¡ª a tambourine. The young bard backed up against the wall, nudging the redrose lute as more instruments slid across the floor. They moved of their own accord and came to rest in a neat pile before him.


    Holsley pulled the redrose lute off its perch.


    It was quite weighty, much heavier than he remembered it being. He grasped the neck. There wasn¡¯t any time to think about right or wrong anymore; he might very well need it to defend himself. The young bard watched nervously as the instruments came together, slotting into one another like a backwards puzzle box, until a shape slowly emerged and raised itself.


    The makeshift construct stood on four legs made primarily of flutes, trumpets, and other elongated instruments. Its curved body was made of drums and cymbals, which surrounded and protected an accordion that inflated and deflated like a set of lungs. The thing¡¯s dog-like face was a mismatch of everything else, but Holsley couldn¡¯t miss the sharp drumsticks attached tautly to both its upper and lower jaws, ready to shred an intruder apart.


    It was a wolf made out of instruments ¡ª like an art installation gone mad.


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ Holsley whimpered through a heart now firmly in his throat. He had never seen anything like this before.


    The construct unleashed a sound from its jaw that was a collaboration between the instruments on its misinformed body. A slice of wind rushed out with the sound, barrelling towards Holsley, who, on instinct, ducked. That was his smart move of the day, as where his head had just been a second before, there was now a deep slash in the stone wall.


    The attack could¡¯ve literally sliced him in two.


    It was time to let adrenaline take the wheel.


    Holsley dove through the shelf, careless of the neatly stacked instruments, and into the next aisle, narrowly avoiding another bark from the construct. The young bard rushed back up the aisle on the other side, hit the balcony railing, and desperately looked for some means of safety. There wasn¡¯t anything. He was trapped up here with the creature.


    The wolf construct slowly stalked out of its aisle, eyeing Holsley through eyes made of castanets. With every step, its body erupted with a chorus of music. The sound reminded Holsley of a one-man band if a one-man band were a hundred times more threatening and two hundred times more unnerving.


    ¡®What do I do?¡¯ Holsley backed up towards one of the aisles, hoping the obscurity of the shelves could save him. ¡®What do I do?¡¯


    He had the redrose lute. He had songs. What song could he possibly play to keep this thing from tearing him apart? Was it an animal? Did it count as one? Maybe he could try and talk to it instead of fighting it.


    The bard was taking too long. The construct let out another bellow, one Holsley narrowly had time to dive out of the way of. This time, the blast struck a set of shelves, slicing them cleanly apart and leaving nothing but paper and dust to fall around the bard like snow.


    From beneath the broken pieces of wood and scattered books, Holsley caught a glimmer just behind the construct. The flute was still glowing a fierce white, illuminating the area, but there was something sparkling overhead, high up on the ceiling. It was perhaps the only thing that might just save his life.


    The construct moved in closer, each step rattling with cymbals, strings, and conflicting notes. Holsley looked this thing dead in the eyes. Despite them being simple, rounded pieces of wood, they were starkly terrifying. He¡¯d never looked into eyes so intimidating.


    ¡®Don¡¯t suppose we can talk this out?¡¯ he asked mawkishly.


    The construct leapt at him, which was something he had been expecting. Holsley rolled out of the way, avoiding the hoof-like bottoms of trombones as it landed on top of where he had been. Then he leapt into action. His legs did the work as he barrelled away from the creature and towards his next bad idea.


    Without hesitation, he hopped onto an overturned shelf and dove as hard as he could towards the chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

 Chapter Twenty-Five — Bargain

    ¡®You must be absolutely exhausted, darling.¡¯ The sound of her voice was really starting to irritate Roland.


    She was sat there on that stupid high-backed throne as if nothing had happened. He watched her hands affectionately stroking the cat¡¯s fur while she watched him through indifferent eyes. Love was all the more a devil in that moment, and it wasn¡¯t difficult to imagine that fiendish heritage coursing through her veins.


    The guards keeping him held threw Roland at her feet. It would be impossible to escape now, but at least he had tried.


    ¡®I¡¯m afraid you still have something I want, so now I¡¯m going to have to change tactics in order to get it.¡¯


    Love gently shooed the cat away. Roland watched the feline cross the room until they collapsed into a lavish cat bed in the corner. He darted his eyes back just in time to see Love rise.


    ¡®You don¡¯t care about the city. I get the message. There¡¯s nothing you would want to save here, and you¡¯re not particularly fond of the people either. Simply put, they¡¯re not your problem.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t speak, but he did reply with an honest shrug.


    He hadn¡¯t noticed the chest sitting near the throne. That was a new addition. Love padded the space between her throne and the wooden box, idly playing with a few of the rings on her fingers, twisting and turning them out of habit.


    ¡®You¡¯re a thief, which means you enjoy gold.¡¯ Love stopped behind the ornate chest, a smile on her lips. ¡®That¡¯s something I can provide.¡¯


    She placed a heeled foot on top of it and gave it a quick shove. The heavy wooden box flopped over instantly with a rattling bang, spilling its contents down the steps and all along the floor. Crowns, hundreds, perhaps thousands of gold crowns, scattered before him, rolling beneath his knees, the legs of guards, the tables, chairs, and every space in between.


    ¡®Ten thousand gold crowns and your life,¡¯ said Love. ¡®In exchange for what you know.¡¯


    It was awfully tempting. It was just about the most potent argument she had come up with so far.


    That was the second most gold he had ever seen in his life, certainly more than he¡¯d ever had on his best day. There was no end to the possibilities it could bring. He could start a business, buy a ship, purchase a horse and never have to stop running. It was just enough money to pick a direction in life and stick to that heading.


    It still was not enough.


    ¡®You¡¯re thinking about turning it down, darling.¡¯ Love had caught the apprehension on his face. ¡®May I remind you, however, that the alternative is death. Quick, cold, hard death. There¡¯s no escaping it either, dear. You can certainly attest to that by now. Whatever plans you have for that information lurking somewhere in that skull of yours will be useless. Why not use it to save your life instead?¡¯


    Roland thought about it. He hated to admit it, but the tiefling monarch did have a point. For a moment, the very briefest of moments, he thought he might do it, but then he looked across the room and found Kythos.


    The tiefling was now sporting a rather nasty-looking bruise on his cheek that had swollen one of his eyes shut. Roland knew the aftermath of an open-handed strike when he saw one.


    He was disgusted at himself.


    How dare he even consider simply handing over everything he knew after everything he had been through to get it ¡ª the blood, sweat, tears, and pain ¡ª especially the pain. It all had to mean something; if he relinquished the information, it would just mean the last three years of suffering counted for nothing.


    Roland swivelled his eyes to the other side of the room, to where the tiefling had been, the one whose head had been turned to stone. He hadn¡¯t forgotten her. The woman wasn¡¯t there, which meant she was probably suffering in the dungeons. He reminded himself that this is what Love Ravenpeak did to thieves.


    This is what she did to people like him.


    ¡®Well?¡¯ Love asked after three moments had passed.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    Around him, Roland noticed the tubheads shift uncomfortably. Something was about to happen to him, but he didn¡¯t care. Like every other bit of pain that he¡¯d ever received, he¡¯d take it stoically. There was nothing she could do to him that he hadn¡¯t already experienced in some way or other over the past half a decade.


    ¡®Kythos.¡¯ Love didn¡¯t turn her eyes away from Roland. ¡®Walk him with me.¡¯


    Roland heard the rattling of the tiefling¡¯s armour approach. He was then crudely brought to his feet and forced to follow Love as they crossed the room towards the still-broken window. She didn¡¯t say a word as they did this. Instead, she looked over the sprawling cityscape beyond the fractured glass.


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    They stopped short of the mannequins. Each was still outfitted in fabulous dresses, riddled with glitter and sequences, and fabricated in the strangest fashions. One had a high collar, another an oversized gown, some wore corsets, while others were low cut and flirty. Beyond looking nice, though, Roland didn¡¯t care much for them.


    ¡®Do you like fashion, darling?¡¯ Love asked, affectionately stroking the closest dress. It was red, and that was as much as Roland knew about it.


    ¡®I like stealing it,¡¯ Roland offered.


    ¡®I¡¯ve heard,¡¯ replied Love. ¡®When I turned fifteen, my grandfather gave me a ring. It was unlike any other gift I had ever been given before. It was magic, you see. The ring could produce sizeable flames that I found I could use to defend myself when in trouble. My grandfather had given it to me from his personal collection as a way to protect myself from danger.¡¯


    ¡®Does this story go anywhere?¡¯


    Kythos struck Roland hard in the back of the head with a gauntleted hand, nearly knocking the consciousness right out of him. When he straightened back up, dizzier than he had been a few seconds ago, Love looked at him again with those indifferent eyes as if she hadn¡¯t noticed his head had just been rung like a bell.


    ¡®I loved the gift, Roland, but I had a problem.¡¯ Love stepped towards the next dress, and Roland was forced to follow. ¡®It didn¡¯t go with any of my clothes. It was a gaudy thing with a large ruby eye, and no matter what I wore, it looked out of place. That¡¯s when I decided to fabricate my own fashion, and, through that, discovered I was rather talented at it.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t know what to say, but he couldn¡¯t help noticing that they were steadily moving closer to that broken window.


    ¡®I began to collect other magical jewellery. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, and more. For each one, I created a new fashion, but I never followed that passion, not really,¡¯ Love said this with a distinct lull in her voice. ¡®Instead, a group of strangers brought me to the forefront of danger. We founded the city together, and I had to take a step back from my tailoring. I still create, though. Passionately. And I still collect magical jewellery. I have so many of those now, including your rapier, actually. I know it isn¡¯t a piece of jewellery, but I¡¯ve decided to branch out to magical swords and build a new gown based around it. I¡¯ll discover what it does in time.¡¯


    ¡®Why are you telling me this?¡¯ Roland asked, squirming inside of Kythos¡¯s grip. ¡®Why do you think I would care?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, I know you don¡¯t, darling.¡¯ Love turned to him and smiled. ¡®You should, though.¡¯


    She gave Kythos a slight nod. The tiefling¡¯s grip tightened around him, almost suffocating him, and Roland could do very little to get free. They had reached the window now. Tressa rolled out before them. He couldn¡¯t see the appeal, even from this high. The city had a distinct appearance that made him think of a giant dropping houses down from high above, leaving the people to tidy it up themselves.


    ¡®Why do you think we don¡¯t indulge in more horrendous acts of torture?¡¯ Love asked but didn¡¯t ask. Roland knew she wasn¡¯t looking for an answer, so he simply stared back at her. ¡®It¡¯s because, for one thing, it often leads to misinformation. Blatant lies are told under duress. For another, we don¡¯t want to mutilate our prisoners. People don¡¯t like that. They see a man with two missing legs hobbling out to their hanging, and they consider it cruel. There¡¯s suddenly an uproar.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t reply.


    ¡®You can¡¯t be reasoned with, darling. You¡¯d rather leap to certain death than reveal your secrets to me, and I can¡¯t torture it out of you, either. I can¡¯t even give you gold, which, I assume, is the only reason you¡¯re hiding your secrets in the first place.¡¯ Love stepped a little closer. Kythos¡¯s grip got a little tighter. ¡®Congratulations. You¡¯ve finally convinced me. No matter what I do, I cannot retrieve what you know. Unfortunately, that means you¡¯re dangerous to me, and you¡¯ve left me with only one option. As High Warden of Tressa, it is my authority and right to move up your death sentence to a more appropriate date¡ª¡¯


    ¡®If you toss me out of that window, I¡¯ll just survive,¡¯ Roland promised. ¡®I can do it twice.¡¯


    ¡®The arrogance.¡¯ Love laughed. ¡®Toss you out of the window? Where on earth did you get that idea?¡¯


    ¡®Then, what?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m moving up your hanging to tomorrow morning.¡¯ Roland¡¯s breath caught in his throat. ¡®Naturally, I can¡¯t have you running off again. So, I will leave you with something to remember what happens when you try to escape.¡¯


    Love grabbed his hand so suddenly that Roland had almost thought he¡¯d imagined it. He certainly didn¡¯t guess what came next. A pain like nothing he¡¯d ever felt before shot across his left hand, originating from one of Love¡¯s fingers ¡ª the one with the black ring. He let out a yelp but didn¡¯t say anything further than that.


    Then he saw it.


    Spreading out like a rash, his fingers became grey and cracked ¡ª like stone. The disease flourished across his palm, making it heavier, as the ice-hot pain continued to assault him. By the end of it, he couldn¡¯t move his hand. He couldn¡¯t even twitch his fingers. They were stuck in that position, and just as it seemed like the stone curse would spread up his arm, Love stopped and stepped away.


    ¡®I wonder how effective a thief is with a stone hand?¡¯ she remarked. ¡®No picking locks, climbing walls, or utilising improvised weapons.¡¯


    Kythos loosened his grip, and Roland fell to the floor, clutching his new stone appendage. It felt real. It felt like stone, like the kind you got on old statues or the walls around a garden. His hand was solid all the way through, and no matter how he willed it to move, the limb refused to obey him.


    ¡®I would have personally taken the gold,¡¯ said Love, returning to her throne. ¡®You overplayed your hand, Roland. You¡¯ll be executed tomorrow before you have a chance to share what you know with anyone else.¡¯ She looked up at Kythos. ¡®Take him back to his cell.¡¯


    ¡®Why not just kill me now!?¡¯ he demanded.


    She sneered at him. ¡®Because no one would get to see it.¡¯


    Roland leered at her as he was forced to move. Although his thoughts dwindled on his rigid hand, he still couldn¡¯t help noticing something. Roland had always been good at catching the small details, even in dire situations. It¡¯s a talent that made him a good thief, even if what he caught eye of didn¡¯t make sense.


    As he was dragged out of the room, he once again noticed the string around Love¡¯s neck. The strange bit of twine that didn¡¯t blend with her fabulous attire. For unknown reasons, he saw a part of it blacken and smoulder in the same way something blackens in a fire before it turns to ash.


    Just a section of it, though.


    He was the only one who noticed and didn¡¯t say anything as he was dragged out of the doors.

 Chapter Twenty-Six — Super Cursed

    If he wasn¡¯t careful, Holsley was going to bring new meaning to the name Bard¡¯s Drop.


    He had jumped just as the assortment of instruments had snapped at him and had managed to leap to the supposed safety of the hanging chandelier. Unfortunately, this had left him dangling from his sweaty palms over a terrifying drop.


    Holsley ignored the eager darkness below him and instead focused on working his hands along the brass branches and climbing towards the middle of the light fixture. In his head, he saw himself swinging over to the other side, but to make that happen, he needed to be in the centre.


    HONK!


    An invisible slice of wind raced past his ear. A second later, he heard a chunk of wall on the other side of the tower rupture as the shot hit it. Cement and stone crackled down from above him as dust shifted off its centuries-old resting place. The wolf-like construct wasn¡¯t quite so ready to let him go.


    BONG!


    Another shot, like an invisible arrow, sliced up the chandelier and sent brass parts and candles sailing into the darkness below.


    When the chandelier steadied itself, Holsley doubled down on getting to the other side. He swung out his legs, then brought them in, willing the overhanging ornament to swing. It was slow going, but he kept it up, putting his strength into building the momentum necessary to jump to the safety of the other side.


    The chandelier suddenly dropped an inch.


    ¡®Whoa!¡¯ Holsley exclaimed.


    His weight was pulling it out of its socket. The device hadn¡¯t been built to handle the load of a desperate bard carrying an extravagant lute on his back. Any minute now, any second even, the chandelier was going to drop, and his only legacy in The Bard¡¯s Drop would be as the kid who found a shortcut to the ground.


    BOUNG!


    A drumbeat. This one louder and more impactful than the others. It hit the chandelier like a giant fist. Crystals exploded, spattering him with tiny cuts, and the brass frame became severely twisted and bent. Another shot like that, and he¡¯d be a goner.


    ¡®Focus,¡¯ he told himself, folding his legs in once again and then out at the height of his swing.


    It was working. The chandelier was large enough and low enough that he could sway right onto the other side of the Bard¡¯s Drop. From there, he could rush down the stairs and make a quick getaway ¡ª well, a getaway.


    The young bard was smiling with the latest swing. One more, he thought. That¡¯s all it would take to escape the construct and be in sight of safety. He folded his legs in again, right at the backwards height of the swing, but this time, they snagged on something behind him, and the momentum immediately halted. It held him in place, unable to continue the oscillation.


    He cringed as the chandelier dropped yet another inch.


    Holsley, who had placed the glowing flute in his mouth for safety, turned to investigate what had happened. It became apparent instantly. The bard¡¯s boot, and indeed his entire foot, had become lodged inside the mouth of the construct. Unnatural, drumstick-like teeth in that string-filled mouth kept him from following through on his final swing.


    It pulled at him, eager to drag him back over, but couldn¡¯t tear through his old leather boots.


    This would be a weird way to die, Holsley thought then. Unique, certainly, but weird. To be killed off by an assortment of living instruments. Was that a good or bad way for a bard to go? He couldn¡¯t make up his mind on the subject.


    He wiggled his leg against the creature, but it was relentless.


    OK, he thought, you can have the boot.


    He got his free foot and quickly swung the appendage into the construct¡¯s face as hard as he could. It connected with something solid, and he felt his heel driving into a series of instruments. The castanets for eyes, the drumsticks for teeth, the harmonica nostrils, and whatever else that made up the monster¡¯s facial features.


    Then, he slipped his trapped foot out of the boot while the creature was distracted.


    Holsley wouldn¡¯t get another chance at this; the next chance the monster got, it would be livid. The swing of the chandelier continued, following its previous path. It came close enough on the opposite side that Holsley¡¯s feet could just touch the iron railings on the other side. He managed to grab hold with a toe, just enough to keep himself connected, then he pulled himself closer to the bars with his feet and then his legs and held on for dear life.


    No matter what he did, though, he couldn¡¯t bring himself any closer than his upper thighs. He tried pulling his legs in, which brought him within spitting distance of the other side but not close enough to jump or climb across the balcony railing. He was stuck. His hands were clamped on the now taught chandelier while his legs were wrapped around the balcony railing.


    BOM! A thunderous drum erupted.


    The chandelier, which had been strong and secure a second ago, became a limp tangle of metal and crystals. It dropped like a deadweight to the floor. Holsley had the sense of mind to let it go as he was falling with it. The chandelier left his hands, and he found himself suddenly dangling upside down by his legs.


    Now, he was staring at the other side.


    The construct paced about the balcony, watching him with sober eyes. He couldn¡¯t tell if it was planning its next move or just charging its next attack. Either way, Holsley didn¡¯t want to be here.


    The young bard tried to pull himself up. He quickly gave up, breathless. Holsley wasn¡¯t what you would call strong. None would ever describe him in such a way. They would probably describe him as stuck, though, in that moment. He was left dangling by his feet over a sheer drop without the athleticism required to pull himself up.


    What would Marlin Mandrovi do? It was time to ask that question again.


    For starters, he realised, the famed minstrel probably wouldn¡¯t have gotten himself into this situation. He was probably also hench ¡ª at least enough to lift himself up to a simple balcony. Holsley would have to try something else.


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    He thought about what he had.


    The redrose lute was unbreakable as it was a magical item. He also had it on a strap around his back. With a sigh, Holsley retrieved it. The strap was fastened to two bolts on the lute¡¯s upper and lower parts. It was also quite long. This gave him an idea. Holsley undid the upper bolt by unscrewing the cap, allowing the strap to hang loose.


    With a groan, he pulled himself up again, straining his core, but this time, he didn¡¯t need to go all the way. He held the lute by the drum and, while straining his entire body, fed the head of the neck sideways through a gap in the bars. Then he turned it. The lute became stuck fast, and he suddenly had an anchor to pull himself up on.


    Using the strap as a makeshift rope, Holsley climbed up while anchoring himself on his feet. After that, it was a simple matter of manoeuvring himself into a standing position and climbing over the railing. That part wasn¡¯t even difficult. His thundering heartbeat levelled as he tumbled over to safety, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.


    ¡®I did it!¡¯ he proclaimed, jumping up and taking the recorder out of his mouth. He pointed across the chasm to the construct. ¡®How¡¯d you like me now, sucker! Bet you weren¡¯t expecting me to make a miraculous leap to the safe side of the tower, huh?¡¯


    The construct replied with a bellowing TWANG that completely demolished a pillar directly to Holsley¡¯s left.


    The bard had just enough time to pick himself up off the floor and see, or more accurately hear, the construct, across the way, gallop into action. It rushed towards the stone steps. Holsley¡¯s breath caught in his throat. It would go down and back up to get him, and there wouldn¡¯t be a convenient chandelier to rescue him this time.


    The only thing for it was to race the creature to the bottom.


    Holsley¡¯s sprint was more of a stumble than a run. At every accidental opportunity, he barrelled into shelves and sent instruments awry, staggered down steps two at a time, and tripped over nothing more times than he¡¯d care to admit. All the while, the construct, playing its mismatched melody, kept pace with him.


    At one point, on a particularly silly stumble over seemingly nothing, the glowing flute he¡¯d held in his mouth was sent soaring over the side. The bard didn¡¯t have time to cast the spell again on a different object, he¡¯d just have to move without it. This led to a great deal of bumped shins and banged elbows while he navigated the darkness. At the end of this, he¡¯d be little more than a walking bruise.


    If he survived.


    Sweat was dripping off his forehead by the time he reached the second floor. He wiped at it constantly, but his sleeve was so soaked that he simply put more sweat on. All the while, that sickening cacophony of music rang throughout the Bard¡¯s Drop. The awkward, unnerving music that he wished he couldn¡¯t hear.


    Holsley was just about ready to take his final breath when he reached the ground floor again ¡ª he knew it as the ground floor because it was covered in the broken remains of the chandelier.


    There was no creature. He stopped, desperate to ease the stitch in his lungs. Holsley listened intently. There was no music. No sickening cacophony. The Bard¡¯s Drop had become silent again. Did this mean that the construct had given up? Holsley didn¡¯t think so. More likely, it was waiting for the opportune time to strike.


    As he crossed the floor towards the door, he thought about this.


    Bards didn¡¯t come to the drop all too often, but he reckoned thieves were a little rarer. All alone in this dank and dark place, the creature must relish the chance for someone to come along with misaligned intentions. Perhaps, then, it was playing with Holsley? If he thought on it for long enough, he realised that none of its attacks had been aimed true.


    That meant he was in real trouble.


    Holsley rushed to where he thought the door might be, but his mind was racing. He shouted ¡®minstrel¡¯ repeatedly, but the door refused to budge. Then, just as he thought he might be in the wrong place, he heard the music. A low, thudding, BOM, BOM, BOM. The sound of a striking drum coming from within the surrounding darkness.


    Thinking quickly, he pressed his back against the wall. The redrose lute was in his hand, and he ran through the spells he knew. There was still the animal one, the spell that allowed him to communicate with beasts. If he could talk to this thing, he could figure out what it wanted from him.


    The construct stepped out of the shadows with a sneer. He could see it because it was carrying the lit flute in its mouth. It was also taking its sweet time to get to Holsley, which pretty much confirmed his theory that it was playing with him. There was nowhere he could go now, and the construct knew it.


    So, Holsley began to play.


    The song was awkward, and the strings didn¡¯t obey his fingers. On top of that, the lute was also heavy, and Holsley hadn¡¯t adjusted to its weight yet. Still, he did the best he could, trying, from memory, to cast the animal speech spell that he knew. It didn¡¯t sound anything like what it should sound like.


    The construct came to a stop and hung its head to the side. Then, in a hoarse voice that didn¡¯t seem to emanate from its hard lips, it said, ¡®I remember you.¡¯


    Holsley stopped playing. Before him, the construct changed. The instruments rearranged themselves at the creature¡¯s whims, and it turned from the image of a wolf to the image of a man, reshaping its limbs into arms and feet with a silhouette against the dark that looked half-giant. The creature stood at a great height over Holsley, and he found himself backing away even further from the sight.


    ¡®W-what do you want?¡¯ Holsley asked it then, clutching the redrose lute closer.


    ¡®You came here not so long ago, young bard,¡¯ it replied. ¡®Why have you come to reclaim that which was willingly given?¡¯


    ¡®I-I-I¡­¡¯ Holsley stammered. Perhaps it was just best to tell the truth, he thought. His intentions were innocent, at least, and it had been him that had placed the lute down here in the first place.


    Holsley straightened up a little. ¡®I came to borrow the lute so I can save my friend. He¡¯s going to be hanged, and, well, uh, I would use my own lute, but I broke it. I¡¯d also just buy another one, but I¡¯m so out of practice that I need a lute that can give me an advantage. This lute.¡¯


    ¡®Instruments given to the drop cannot just be taken,¡¯ replied the construct. ¡®You gave it willingly, which means it belongs here. Taking it turns you into a thief, and for that, you must be punished.¡¯


    ¡®What are you going to do to me?¡¯


    ¡®Play a song so powerful that your entire being will explode into particles of light.¡¯


    Holsley blinked. ¡®Oh, wow.¡¯


    ¡®Prepare yourself.¡¯


    ¡®WAIT!¡¯ Holsley yelled desperately. ¡®I wasn¡¯t stealing it. I was borrowing it with the full intention of returning it. That¡¯s not theft. What would I have to do to simply give it back later instead?¡¯


    The humanoid construct pondered this question for a moment. Clearly, this had been the first time anyone had ever asked to borrow one of the instruments. In the silent moment that followed, Holsley wondered what exactly this creature was. The best he could gather was that it was a ghost of some kind ¡ª a supernatural entity, at any rate. In stories, ghosts often wielded otherworldly powers and were obsessed with protecting things.


    ¡®You contributed the lute,¡¯ the construct said at last. ¡®This I know, so I will allow you to borrow it for a time. You may use it to save this friend of yours, but after you do, you must bring it back to the Bard¡¯s Drop.¡¯ The construct bent low as if reaching towards Holsley, and their voice took on an even more sinister inflection. ¡®Until the lute is returned, young bard, you may not play another instrument. That is the price.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, well, that¡¯s not too bad.¡¯ The whole point of coming here was because he didn¡¯t have another instrument to play. It shouldn¡¯t be a problem if he used the redrose lute to solve all his troubles. ¡®What happens if I play another instrument?¡¯


    ¡®It will burn.¡¯


    The construct offered its hand, and Holsey shook it after a tentative second. He had very little choice otherwise. No sooner had he taken hold of the drumstick fingers than the figure collapsed into a haphazard pile of old instruments. The creature, spirit, construct, whatever you would like to call it was gone, and once again he was alone in the darkness.


    Without needing any other reason to leave, Holsley found the door and, this time, managed to open it by speaking the passphrase. He stepped out into a sky bathed in the dimmer light of late afternoon and realised, to his horror, that the day was gradually reaching its end.


    The salt air hit him next, along with the spray of the waves. It was a fresh and welcoming feeling that he couldn¡¯t help but bask in for a second.


    Next came the hard part.


    Holsley needed to win a magical ring off a seasoned gambler without knowing the first thing about gambling or even what game he would be playing. Holsley didn¡¯t even know enough to cheat. What he did know, however, was that he¡¯d need to look the part. His raggedy old clothes wouldn¡¯t cut it in a gambling den.


    Holsley needed to go shopping.

 Chapter Twenty-Seven — Just About Fourteen Crowns

    It was quickly approaching night by the time Holsley had returned to the city.


    Krell had given him a ride back to the docks, and the elevator had carried him up the rest of the way. As he hurried along the many streets that made up Tressa, he caught himself in a trail of thoughts, most of which revolved around the redrose lute. The instrument was slung over his back, the strap fixed, and his own instrument was still being kept out of sight in his satchel.


    Why did it feel so wrong to have the lute?


    A part of him was tempted to take it back and break off the debt, but he knew he needed it. That, unfortunately, led him down a darker avenue of questions, like, did he actually want to be a bard? His initial thought was yes, but the more he considered the question, the more he thought he might be kidding himself.


    The elves hadn¡¯t thought he was talented enough to continue playing, and he¡¯d grown so out of practice this last half year that he couldn¡¯t even thumb his way through a song. It had been his dream once, but now it seemed rather silly. Childish, even. Holsley had grown to almost hate the lute recently ¡ª it only ever seemed to cause him anguish.


    Maybe that meant it was okay to use the redrose lute and hinder any talent he possessed. If Holsley was already a bad bard, then what did it matter? Still, he resolved only to use it in dire situations, like when life or death was on the line, at least until he figured out if he wanted to play the strings or not.


    With these sullen thoughts haunting his steps, Holsley quickly found his way to the markets and moved beneath the grand archways that marked their location.


    Passing through, he found a large square on the other side filled with an abundance of shops to meet every desire, all squashed together in a circular pattern around an impressive fountain and a large area of flagstones meant to keep the crowds at bay. Of course, there was the presence of scaffolding everywhere, but it wasn¡¯t as intrusive in this ample space.


    Many of the shops had already turned their signs to closed and snuffed out the lights, but there were still that kept their windows bright. Thankfully, the tailors and the old music shop were counted among those that were. The only two he needed right now. Well, and maybe the leatherworkers.


    Holsley knew he didn¡¯t have long to peruse them, so he kicked up a rush as he marched towards them.


    The music shop was first, which was aptly called Strings N¡¯ Things. It was a charming little place that he was glad to see still held a prominent position in Tressa¡¯s markets. The window displays were adorned with all manner of instruments, and the lambent light coming from behind the frosted windows was enticing and warm.


    A faint jingle of the shop¡¯s bell made him feel twelve again, back to a time when he had come in here for fun to investigate the fantastical objects that he could never afford. He moved across the threshold and was taken in once again by the sights of the many intricate instruments on every shelf. Freshly made ones, in complete juxtaposition from where he had just been.


    A stranger sat behind the counter, his whiskers hungrily catching the crumbs from the scone he was scoffing. When he saw Holsley, he almost choked and managed to upright himself into a more welcoming demeanour.


    ¡®Sorry about that,¡¯ he said, quickly dusting off his vest. ¡®I was just about to close.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s okay,¡¯ Holsley replied sheepishly.


    The young bard sauntered up the middle aisle towards the counter. He could feel the broken lute in his bag, poking him with each step he took. When he finally reached the gentleman, he hoisted his satchel onto the countertop.


    ¡®I am Igbold Darrenbow, current owner of Strings and Things,¡¯ the proprietor said proudly. ¡®What can I help you with today then, young sir?¡¯


    Young sir? Holsley shook off the insult. He upturned the bag and allowed the broken lute, still severed in two places, to speak for him.


    A moment or two passed as the man examined the individual pieces, even playing a little with the strings, which were the only things connecting the two halves together. Then he looked up at Holsley.


    ¡®I see,¡¯ he said gravely. ¡®I suppose you want me to dispose of this, young sir?¡¯


    ¡®No!¡¯ Instinctively, Holsley made a grab for the two pieces. ¡®I want you to fix it!¡¯


    ¡®Fix it?¡¯ Igbold looked perplexed. ¡®Are you sure?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯ Holsley nodded. ¡®I¡¯m sure. How much would that cost me?¡¯


    ¡®Well¡­¡¯ Igbold breathed in and out. ¡®The damage is quite excessive, as you can plainly see. It wouldn¡¯t be easy to fix?¡¯ Holsley waited as the man tapped his chin, counting up the costs in the privacy of his own head. ¡®Ten gold crowns, I¡¯d say. However, you could buy a new lute much cheaper. Why, I could even show¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll pay the ten crowns.¡¯ Holsley watched him for a moment longer as he hurried the change into his hands. ¡®How long will it take to repair?¡¯


    ¡®Three to four days, I reckon,¡¯ replied Igbold. ¡®You can either pick it up past midday on the fifteenth or in the morning of the sixteenth. It won¡¯t take longer than that, I promise.¡¯


    The sixteenth ¡ª that was the day Roland was due to be executed. If everything went to plan, Holsley had hoped to be out of the city long before that day arrived. Holsley didn¡¯t surrender the pieces of his lute just yet, not even when Igbold reached out his hands to take them.


    ¡®Is there any way you can do it faster?¡¯ asked Holsley. ¡®Maybe by tomorrow?¡¯


    Igbold shook his head. ¡®I¡¯m afraid not. We have a list of repairs and tunings. Quite busy, you see, for the next few days.¡¯


    Holsley thought on it a moment longer. ¡®Could I come and get it before it¡¯s been repaired?¡¯


    ¡®Sure,¡¯ said Igbold. ¡®Though, you won¡¯t get a refund.¡¯Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯ Holsley handed him the pieces, and Igbold took them happily. After a receipt was made up for the repair on a slip of paper, the young bard left the older store owner to his unfinished scone.


    The bell chimed, and once again, Holsley was standing against the cold. He wasn¡¯t even sure why he was bothering to fix the bandaged lute. No, he knew why ¡ª it was for sentimental reasons. While he hadn¡¯t played it much these past six months, the lute was still the only thing he owned that was truly his and connected to a part of his past he never wanted to forget.


    Before he left the market, Holsley made two additional stops.


    The first was to the tailors, a short walk from the music shop. Initially, the short tenderfoot refused to give him the time of day until Holsley rattled his change purse. Over the next twenty minutes, Holsley purchased some new clothes, including a couple of frilled shirts, brown trousers, and even some knee-high socks to keep his ankles covered. He had enquired about a jacket, but it had been too expensive.


    That had set him back two nobles.


    The next stop he made was to the leatherworkers, run by an old turtle that didn¡¯t seem to realise the day had slipped by. Here, he spent four gold crowns on a new set of boots inlaid with some intricate stitched patterns, which he desperately needed, seeing as half his own ramshackle boots were still in the Bard¡¯s Drop.


    Holsley also enquired where he might procure some fixed dice at these places, but he didn¡¯t get any useful answers. None knew where he could start looking, nor were they particularly willing to share such information if they did.


    With that out of the way, though, he now had to figure out his next move.


    As of now, he didn¡¯t have a single plan. At his disposal, Holsley had a charm spell, which only worked half the time and only against the most dim-witted of creatures. Even with the redrose lute, he doubted it would work on Fox. By Roland¡¯s description, the creature sounded wily and cunning.


    He had been hoping to have enough time to learn some pub games and figure out their tricks, but there was very little time for that now. So, it seemed that he was left with but one option. Holsley would have to win the old-fashioned way instead.


    ***


    Life always seemed a little brighter after a hot bath.


    Holsley had found his way back to the Fetch Inn and didn¡¯t waste time any time, he quickly got to cleaning himself up. If he was going to gamble with gamblers, he needed to look the part after all, not like some young grubber who didn¡¯t belong, but a straight-backed, clean adult with gold to burn.


    The young bard passed by a mirror in the hallway on his way to the bar and stopped in his tracks. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time his hair had been this clean ¡ª the muck and mud staining it was gone. It was replaced with natural auburn locks that framed his rosy cheeks and the distinctive gap between his front teeth.


    He smiled, and his doppelganger smiled back.


    Then he winced and clutched a hold of his stomach. The day had taken a toll on the young bard. He¡¯d been up and down the bureaucratic ladder, in and out of dungeons, top and bottom over cliffsides, and making deals with half-dragons and instrument men. It hadn¡¯t left much time to spare for a quick meal.


    Fortunately, he could rectify that right now.


    Holsley dragged his feet across the fraying, smoke-stained carpet and, to his surprise, found Merhim sat in the same seat he had been this morning. The gnome was casually sipping up some rather enticing stew while making easy work of a tankard nearby. Without delay, Holsley sidled up in the chair opposite him.


    ¡®Back, eh?¡¯


    ¡®Hungry,¡¯ replied Holsley, his tone exhausted. ¡®So. Hungry.¡¯


    Merhim looked over to the barwoman, Gannamane. The catfolk gave him a quick nod back before turning away. That was all it took to order a meal in a bar like this. Soon, Holsley would find a bowl of delectable stew in front of him, which would satisfy his hunger and sure up his nerves.


    ¡®How did it go?¡¯ Merhim turned back to him. ¡®Did you appeal the decision?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, it went bad,¡¯ replied Holsley, sitting up a little straighter. ¡®I met with the Lower Warden, but he didn¡¯t much like what I had to say about Roland. Even now, I don¡¯t think he wrote anything down.¡¯


    ¡®I guess that¡¯s that then, eh.¡¯ Merhim snorted. ¡®Will you attend the hanging?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s not going to be a hanging.¡¯ Holsley had said that a little too loudly. The young bard looked around, checking the faces of the other sullen patrons to make sure either none heard him or that none cared. It appeared to be the latter. ¡®I¡¯m going to save him.¡¯


    ¡®How do you plan on doing that, exactly, kid?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ve got a plan.¡¯ Holsley smiled. ¡®I managed to sneak into the dungeons to see him, and we came up with something. I¡¯m going to gamble that magic wand I took off the wizard we saved from the goblins.¡¯


    Merhim¡¯s eyes flared wild. ¡®Wand? You stole a wand from the wizard!?¡¯


    ¡®I didn¡¯t steal it!¡¯ Holsley replied, affronted. ¡®I just, uh, kind of forgot to give it back in the confusion is all.¡¯


    ¡®You ain¡¯t making a lick of sense, lad,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®Gamble it for what? How¡¯s this going to get your friend out of the dungeons exactly, eh?¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a thief that has this magic item. It¡¯s a ring that allows someone to slip through slight gaps. If Roland can get his hands on it, he can break out of the dungeon no problem.¡¯ Holsley beamed as if he had all the answers in the world. ¡®To get it, though, I need to win it in a gambling game.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, Holsley.¡¯ Merhim put his face into his hands. ¡®That¡¯s the stupidest thing I¡¯ve ever heard. You plan on breaking out a convicted criminal from the dungeons of Tressa!? Tressa! Of all places? You¡¯re going to get yourself hung along with him.¡¯


    Holsley bit his lip. It was the first time it had crossed his mind that he might not succeed at doing this. What else was there to do? Roland was his friend, and only cowards abandoned their friends when their lives were in danger. He¡¯d get Roland out, no matter the cost ¡ª even at the risk of his own life.


    ¡®What if you don¡¯t win against this thief?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sure I will.¡¯ Holsley gave a half-hearted shrug. ¡®I¡¯m good at figuring this stuff out.¡¯


    ¡®What you playing against him?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, as in, like, what game?¡¯


    Merhim nodded.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ said Holsley. ¡®In truth, I don¡¯t know many gambling games.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, well, first of all, they¡¯re called games of chance.¡¯ Merhim brought his chair forward a little. ¡®There¡¯s quite a few, but some are harder to pick up than others.¡¯


    ¡®Hiya huns!¡¯ Gannamane, the picturesque catfolk, appeared beside the table with a bowl of stew, a few slices of bread, and some cutlery wrapped in a napkin. ¡®Is this for you, Holsley hun?¡¯


    Holsley rubbed his hands together. ¡®Thank you so much.¡¯


    She placed the bowl in front of him and gave his hair an affectionate stroke. ¡®Now, if you want some more, you just give me a holla, okay?¡¯


    Holsley nodded eagerly and watched her a little as she sauntered back to the bar. Then he returned his attention to the conversation at hand and, of course, to the beef stew that was now rapidly cooling on the table before him.


    ¡®Have you thought about cheating?¡¯ Merhim asked as Holsley unwrapped the spoon.


    ¡®I did try to find some crooked dice in the markets, but no one seemed eager to let me know how to buy them.¡¯


    ¡®Funny that, eh.¡¯


    ¡®I do know some magic that I can use to produce, like, tiny illusions, but they¡¯re not very good, and I don¡¯t think it¡¯d fool anyone who could see it.¡¯


    ¡®Hmmmm.¡¯


    Holsley dug into his dinner hungrily, shovelling each spoonful in and not even bothering to savour it. It was his nerves that needed feeding the most. This conversation with Merhim did not make him feel better about his plan or what may be coming next. The one thing he could control was how full he would be when he got to Fox.


    As Holsley devoured, Merhim reached into his satchel and retrieved a small coin pouch. From it, he withdrew several six-sided dice and gathered them before him. Holsley watched eagerly between mouthfuls of well-seasoned beef rich in stock and spices. Merhim brought the dice, maybe twenty in all, into his palms and gave them a rattle.


    ¡®Even though I think this is a right foolish endeavour, I can¡¯t in good conscience let you go without knowing a single game of chance,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®Best I can do then is prepare you, lad. There¡¯s one game that¡¯s become quite popular in the recent year, and there isn¡¯t a tavern in Tressa that ain¡¯t playing it neither.¡¯ Merhim uncoiled his fingers and revealed the various bone dice he still held. ¡®The game is called Towers.¡¯

 Chapter Twenty-Eight — Really Crooked Gamblers

    By design, your typical pub is both welcoming and warm, especially on the outside, which usually looks inviting and pleasant. That¡¯s kind of how taverns are supposed to operate if they want to remain in business. They brim with pleasant conversations, good drinks, warm hearths, and engaging staff.


    The Crooked Hat Inn was not a typical pub. In fact, it was just about as opposite as a tavern could be to one.


    It was, in short, an impoverished, leaning hovel as reliant on wooden stilts as a one-legged man was on a walking stick. Its windows were cracked, smashed, or boarded up. The paint on its walls was peeling and dirty. The wood that composed most of the building was rotted. There was also a sign as crooked as the building¡¯s namesake.


    In honesty, to Holsley, the whole thing looked like it might tumble over with the slightest breeze, and he was deeply surprised it already hadn¡¯t, but, like the patronage that frequented this kind of establishment, it was hardy, rugged, and relentlessly stubborn.


    He had been staring at it from around the street corner, watching the thuggish patrons coming and going, slowly building the courage to approach.


    Holsley did so after an agonising few minutes, but his hand hesitated on the corroded wood of the door. The nerves were building now, really building. Eggs had been laid in his stomach, which would soon become caterpillars, which would quickly become butterflies. He became suddenly aware of how damned stupid this idea was.


    What in the name of good was he doing?


    He couldn¡¯t gamble. He wasn¡¯t smart with cards or dice. It would just have to be luck, he reasoned. That thing he had always relied on. Dan used to say that he had been born lucky because his birthday marked the calendar¡¯s last day: the twenty-eighth of Adle. It was stupid luck, though, only available when the bad luck had run its course.


    He had to go in there. If he didn¡¯t, Roland¡¯s death was a guarantee. There was no way he could live with that, so he swallowed his nerves and stepped inside.


    The young bard immediately regretted this decision.


    Dozens of strangers in dark clothes sat around tables drinking, gambling, and having both a bad and good time in equal measure. In the slight stretch it took for Holsley to cross from door to bar, two fights had broken out over accusations of cheating on both sides of the sizeable front room. They smashed tables, broke stools, and were urged to keep fighting as other strangers made bets on the outcome.


    Holsley stumbled into the counter half-distracted and was only snapped away from the revelry by the loud grunt of the bartender. He turned, raised his eyes up high, then a little higher, and squeaked. The man wasn¡¯t a man at all ¡ª he was a boulder. A crudely cut statue brought to life. It leered down at him while scrubbing new stains onto the countertop with a dirtied rag.


    ¡®You sure you belong here, boy?¡¯


    Boy!?


    ¡®Uh, I¡¯m looking for Fox Matthews.¡¯ Holsley gulped and hoped the motion hadn¡¯t been audible enough for all to hear. He could feel the eyes on his back from across the room. ¡®I heard that he, uh, frequents this¡­place?¡¯


    ¡®Aye, he does.¡¯ Even the barman¡¯s voice was rocky. It reminded Holsley of an avalanche in how the words rolled down his ears. ¡®You can find Old Fox in the back room, but he ain¡¯t one that likes getting disturbed for no reason.¡¯


    ¡®Good job I¡¯ve got a reason, then.¡¯ Holsley gulped again.


    ¡®Now, what yer drinking?¡¯ The boulder gestured to the chalkboard behind him. In most taverns, it would be overflowing with descriptions of different ales, lagers, and cocktails. Fascinating mixtures and tantalising tastes from across the world. In the Crooked Hat Inn, however, it simply said, in big, bold words, ¡®BEER.¡¯


    ¡®The beer sounds good,¡¯ replied Holsley.


    The rocky barman eyed him up and down, then sighed. ¡®What species are you? Can¡¯t tell?¡¯


    ¡®Human.¡¯


    ¡®You sixteen?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, yes.¡¯


    The barman grunted.


    Of course, Holsley had just lied, although he reckoned the barman either knew or didn¡¯t care. He was surprised to hear him ask at all. There was a minimum drinking age in Tressa, like most places in the world, but it was all dependent on your species. As Holsey was human, he knew he needed to be sixteen to drink. Half-elves also had to be that age. Gnomes had to be twenty-five, regular elves had to be fifty, and dwarves had to be eighty-seven.


    An ale was thrown in front of Holsley, its frothy head spilling onto the bar. About five seconds after it hit the counter, a half-orc hiked up to the young bard and placed an overly large arm about his shoulders. The young bard tried first to ignore the stench of liquor, which gummed up his nostrils, then tried to ignore the sleeve of tattoos on this half-orc¡¯s arm, which depicted mostly skulls and fire.


    Holsley strained to escape the unwelcome huddle, but the arm held him firm.


    ¡®I think you¡¯re in the wrong place, little boy.¡¯


    ¡®Maybe I am.¡¯ His heart was racing, but he knew he had to fight through the tension. It would be worse if he didn¡¯t. Holsley had to fit in, and he had to find the proper banter. This was a hive of scum and villainy, and if he looked out of place, he¡¯d be thrown out of the place. ¡®I was told this was an establishment all the decent gamblers bet in, but I see I might be mistaken.¡¯


    ¡®Funny.¡¯ The half-orc didn¡¯t even crack a smile. ¡®Here to gamble, then? Got your big boy allowance, did ya?¡¯ Three copper peasants for some sweets?¡¯


    Everyone within earshot was eagerly watching the encounter unfold. Most of them, Holsley thought, were probably placing bets under the table about what would happen in the next few seconds. For a moment, he wondered what odds he was getting. If it was up to him, beating the half-orc barehanded would be a million-to-one at the very least.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡®Yup, and I¡¯m ready to lose it,¡¯ Holsley replied, feigning confidence. ¡®You know what, though. Suddenly, I¡¯m not very thirsty. Why don¡¯t you have a drink on me, friend?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re a quick one, boy.¡¯


    The thick green skin of the half-orc¡¯s arm receded from around his shoulders. It went for his ale and hefted it up from the countertop. ¡®What should I call you in case the undertaker comes knocking?¡¯


    ¡®Holsley.¡¯ He had no idea why he gave his own name.


    ¡®Thanks for the drink, Holsley.¡¯


    The half-orc returned to his table with a smile. Stifled titters from the rest of the table¡¯s occupants made Holsley feel like a bit of a fool. Well, more than a bit of. They were smiling and glancing over at him, so there was no mistaking what they were giggling at. The half-orc merely gave him a nod and then turned his back on him forever.


    ¡®Another drink?¡¯ The barman leaned over the bar.


    ¡®No, thanks.¡¯


    Holsley moved away from the group and towards the closest door. Stepping through it, he was immediately faced with a set of wooden stairs leading upwards into the higher parts of the inn ¡ª most likely where the guest bedrooms were. Once he was alone, in this curious space between the rooms, he let out a held breath. It took him a few moments to compose himself.


    Once he was settled again and in the right mind, he puffed out his chest and sauntered into the next adjoining room.


    ***


    To say the tavern was full of the kinds of people you don¡¯t want to encounter in a dark alley was an understatement. It was a thug¡¯s tea party, and the invitations told people to turn up looking ugly, tough, and sprawling for a fight. Suit and tie optional. There wasn¡¯t one table he passed by that didn¡¯t eye him up suspiciously.


    He didn¡¯t belong here, and they knew it. He knew it. Holsley was a weedy teen amongst this backdrop of seasoned rogues. Not to mention, he was also carrying the redrose lute on his back ¡ª an impressive, finely crafted instrument that anyone could tell was worth a small fortune. He attracted attention here like a noble who had just spent their wealth in the gold chain store.


    The ground floor of the Crooked Hat Inn went mostly around in circles, except for some connecting rooms that must¡¯ve been for more private parties. Holsley counted three main rooms before he found himself back at the beginning again, with the bar present in every room.


    He counted the ways to escape. There were windows, but each of them looked bloated in the frame and hard to open. There was also a kitchen off to the side, which might have an exit into the alleys. Upstairs might be a safe bet if the front door got blocked. He didn¡¯t like his chances of crossing an inn full of roguish strangers in a hurry. The only advantage he had was that he could fit comfortably underneath the tables.


    It just meant he¡¯d have to be careful not to upset anyone.


    Holsley eventually found Fox entirely by accident. He had happened to glance over at one of the private rooms as a bartender drifted out with an empty tray. Through the gap in the door, he spied the, well, fox-like humanoid sitting at the head of a table. Even the quick glimpse told Holsley he was a bit of a character. Ostentatiously dressed and wearing the copyrighted grin of a Cheshire cat.


    Roland had said he¡¯d be obvious and had not been lying.


    With a surge of courage that was minutes in the making, Holsley pushed through the doors like he owned the room on the other side. A table revealed itself to him, and positioned comfortably around it was an eclectic group of characters from various species. Species which included, but were not limited to, an elf, a tenderfoot, a human, a dwarf, and a werefox.


    Holsley had expected them to react. Perhaps question what he was doing there or whether he¡¯d wandered in through the wrong door. Not one turned their heads to notice him. So, Holsley took up the only empty seat and sat quietly, stomach aching, while the others continued to gamble as if he wasn¡¯t there.


    He watched and listened carefully. Suddenly, they were arguing about who had won the last hand. The elf, a lithe and pale figure whose style looked more at home in an oil painting, gathered his meagre coins in anger and stormed out of the room. A silence replaced him. Each of the table¡¯s occupants looked to one other in turn, then shrugged and recovered their dice.


    ¡®Who are you?¡¯ Fox leered across the table at Holsley. ¡®This is a private game.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, me?¡¯ Holsley had been so enraptured in the scene that he¡¯d momentarily forgotten what he was doing here. ¡®Sorry, uh, my grandma¡¯s dying, and I¡¯m trying to leave Tressa.¡¯ He shook his head. ¡®I mean, I heard this was the place to gamble. I¡¯m, uh, looking to lighten my purse if you¡¯re interested in, uh, heavy-ing yours?¡¯


    Holsley placed his leather pouch of pilfered goblin coins on the table to cement his seat. Or, more accurately, what was left of it. The slight jingle of the metallic coins meeting one another inside the bag was perhaps a little more diminished than he would¡¯ve liked. Tressa had been quite costly so far.


    ¡®Who told you this was the place to gamble?¡¯ Fox squared his eyes. All Holsley could focus on was how intoxicating his voice was. It was like angels had poured liquid butter down the back of his throat, and, once again, he was caught off guard.


    ¡®Oh, uh, good question.¡¯ Holsley clicked his tongue. ¡®Very good question.¡¯


    Fox waited expectantly for the answer. The entire table was leering at him now. Holsley¡¯s first instinct was to lie, but he didn¡¯t know enough about Fox to come up with something believable. So, instead, he said the first and only name that came to his mind.


    ¡®Roland Darrow.¡¯


    Fox¡¯s eyes swelled. Just for a moment. Long enough for Holsley to notice and realise, thankfully, that he had said something right. The cunning sod grinned and licked his black gums with a pointed tongue.


    ¡®Now there¡¯s a name worth putting down on the table,¡¯ he said. ¡®You¡¯re welcome to join us¡­¡¯


    ¡®Holsley,¡¯ Holsley continued after a few awkward moments of silence.


    ¡®Just Holsley?¡¯ said Fox. ¡®Well, any friend of Roland¡¯s is a friend of mine. I should warn you, however, that you can only join if you enjoy losing your money.¡¯


    ¡®One of my favourite pastimes, actually.¡¯ Holsley beamed. ¡®I go out every weekend and try to lose all the money in my pocket. I¡¯m getting pretty good at it.¡¯


    ¡®You can join in the next game,¡¯ said Fox seriously. ¡®We¡¯re almost done here.¡¯


    The group continued a round of Towers ¡ª a game of chance that Holsley had learned the basics of just over an hour ago. At least he could witness the game in action with some seasoned players, he thought. They were each engrossed in their little corners of the table, hiding their dice below a flat palm and questioning each other relentlessly except Fox. That¡¯s because, Holsley guessed, he already knew he had won this round.


    Holsley¡¯s eyes roved over Fox as they played for signs of his prize. The ring wasn¡¯t overly large, quite easy to miss at first glance, but it was there on his furry index finger. A piece of jewellery that bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat¡¯s face ¡ª that had to be it. If Holsley were to have a chance at freeing his friend from the gallows, he couldn¡¯t leave without that ring.


    With nothing else to do, he watched the game and reminded himself of the rules. Each gambler rolled six dice and would call out a number that their dice allegedly added up to. One would say ¡®twenty-five¡¯, another would say ¡®eighteen¡¯, and so on.


    As Holsley understood, the person with the highest total at the end of the round would win. The twist was, though, that a player could lie.


    They could spout a number, and it would be up to the other players to call them dishonest. If they were proved dishonest, they would have to give up a die and stack it on a tower in the middle. If they were proven truthful, the accuser had to give up a die instead. If at any point the tower fell, the player whose dice were highest on it was out of the game.


    You kept going until you ran out of dice or knocked over the tower. The last person left was the one who kept the entire pot, and you could keep adding to the bet at the end of each round.


    ¡®It¡¯s time to come in.¡¯ Fox rapped a hand on the table to get Holsley¡¯s attention. ¡®I hope you have a steady hand, bard.¡¯

 Chapter Twenty-Nine — A Game of Chance

    Throughout the game, people flitted in and out, a variety of unnamed strangers who all seemed to know Fox personally. None of them really spoke except to shout profanity, and all of them left the table a lot angrier. Fox was good at this. He was good at reading people and employed that talent in hustling the table.


    Holsley, on the other hand, was doing poorly. He suffered embarrassing loss after embarrassing loss until his purse looked more like a leaky waterskin. He was learning but not quick enough to turn the game around.


    Besides Holsey and Fox, the only other consistent occupant was an older gentleman who had made a hobby out of coughing into his gloved hand. Oddly enough, he¡¯d roll his dice, count them, and never lie. Whenever someone challenged him, he¡¯d reveal his dice, and they¡¯d yell an expletive. Then, he¡¯d smile as he watched them struggle to stack the tower.


    It was strategy. Holsley knew that. Everyone around the table, even those arriving new, had a strategy. They went into this game knowing what they were going to do. This made Holsley a bit of a wild card in comparison because he constantly changed his tactics. In one game, he¡¯d be completely honest; in the next, he¡¯d lie at every turn, and in some, he¡¯d do both.


    It hadn¡¯t worked out so far.


    ¡®So, how do you know Roland Darrow?¡¯ Fox eyed him from across the table, and it was hard not to feel belittled by his stare and over-eccentric manner of speaking. ¡®I assume you¡¯re here for his execution?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re old friends.¡¯ Holsley just about managed to get out. ¡®Uh, that¡¯s about it, really.¡¯


    ¡®I could say the same.¡¯ Fox retrieved his dice, as did everyone, and the table shook as they clattered against the woodwork. A scurried frenzy followed as people secretively hid their rolls and considered their strategies. Holsley had, as usual, rolled utter rubbish. ¡®How did he stab you in the back?¡¯


    ¡®Excuse me?¡¯ Holsley sat up a little straighter. For a second, he thought he hadn¡¯t heard Fox correctly. ¡®What did you say?¡¯


    ¡®He stabs everyone in the back,¡¯ Fox said this in the same intonation as someone reading off the back of a menu. ¡®If you know Roland, you¡¯re either being stabbed in the back, waiting to be stabbed in the back, or trying to stab him in the back. That¡¯s how it works with that particular thief.¡¯


    Were they talking about the same Roland?


    ¡®Oh, he¡¯s not stabbing me in the back,¡¯ said Holsley. He took a sip of his water. ¡®I¡¯ve known Roland a long time. He¡¯s one of my closest friends!¡¯


    ¡®I was his friend once,¡¯ replied Fox with a sneer. I can still feel the figurative dagger in between my shoulder blades. And they call foxes vermin.¡¯


    Roland had never really mentioned anything about his life before meeting Holsley. In fact, he¡¯d actively avoided the topic of discussion whenever it came up. Holsley had gathered from the available evidence that it hadn¡¯t been a good upbringing. The guild was merciless and unnecessarily cruel.


    When Holsley first met Roland, the young rogue was bleeding to death from a vicious stab wound in his back. He had told Holsley that the guild had given him that mark in response to a betrayal, but he¡¯d never mentioned what that was.


    ¡®Do you ever bet any higher than this?¡¯ Holsley leaned back and feigned boredom. ¡®I¡¯m getting a little tired of small bets.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d believe that more if you¡¯d won any of the games,¡¯ said Fox. ¡®Are you going to goad me into betting my ring now? You know, so that you can try and spring Roland out from the dungeons?¡¯


    Holsley sat up. ¡®How did you¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t bullshit me.¡¯ Fox waved him off and rolled his eyes. ¡®It¡¯s stupidly obvious. Why else would you be here on behalf of Roland Darrow?¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯


    ¡®Roland could do it too. That is if his skills haven¡¯t gotten lazy in the years since his last visit to Tressa. If he had this ring, he¡¯d be out of the dungeon before the guards had even thought to check in on him.¡¯ Fox idly rotated the ring on his furry finger. ¡®Problem is, he doesn¡¯t have the ring. I do. If you want me to part with it, I¡¯m going to need a lot more than that pitiful bag of coppers.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve got a magic item.¡¯ Holsley had said it a little too desperately. He knew that. ¡®It¡¯s a, uh, magic wand. They¡¯re pretty valuable, right?¡¯


    ¡®Let¡¯s see it.¡¯


    Holsley dove a hand into his satchel and pulled up the gnarled wood of the wand. At that moment, he could not have been more aware that it looked like a common household stick. A simple tree branch. Same as a thousand others that could be easily found on any woodlands walk.


    ¡®Morrely.¡¯ Fox¡¯s eyes rotated towards the older gentleman. After Morrely coughed into his hand, he held it out to Holsley. The young bard winced and handed over the stick, carefully not to graze the spots of phlegm. Morrely was a wizard¡ª the thought struck Holsley quickly. Of course, he was a wizard; that¡¯s why he kept his hands gloved. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Fox returned his stare to Holsley. ¡®This is my appraiser. In return for evaluating high-interest objects, I cover his bets at the table. Morrely here is quite well-versed in the world¡¯s magical items and can even utilise magic to identify them. A rarity in a city like this. You don¡¯t mind if he takes a look?¡¯


    ¡®Not at all,¡¯ Holsley replied uneasily.


    Morrely, without saying a word, withdrew his glove. Holsley noticed the little circles on his fingers. Four on the little finger of his left hand and two on the next finger up. Not the most powerful wizard in the world, but a far sight better than the young bard.


    Morrely held up the stick. He took a small white pearl from his pocket and kissed it before saying a few words while waving his fingers above the wand. Like magic, for that was what it was, the stick hovered a few centimetres up from his palm and was left to levitate for a moment. Then it was done, and only mere seconds had passed.


    ¡®Worthless,¡¯ he coughed into his hand. ¡®No better than a meagre stick. It was a powerful wand once, but the charges are burnt out. It has perhaps one left, which could be used to spark flames into existence, but it is hardly worth anything when compared to the ring. I would not advise gambling against this.¡¯


    Yeah, Holsley had been afraid of that.


    ¡®You heard him.¡¯ Fox turned to Holsley and tossed the stick back at him. ¡®Do you have anything more to bet with? If you don¡¯t, I¡¯m afraid¡ª¡¯


    ¡®If I may, sir.¡¯ Morrely interrupted. ¡®The young bard is carrying something that, in my expert opinion, is worth more than the ring.¡¯


    Fox raised a furry eyebrow, but Holsley knew what he was talking about in a second.


    ¡®The lute he came in with is of fine make and design, clearly magical, and could be quite powerful in the right hands,¡¯ said Morrely confidently. ¡®Why, I would wager that its value is at least four times as much as the ring and could be worth the risk of gambling.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you, Morrely,¡¯ said Fox without averting his eyes from Holsley. ¡®Well, you heard him. If you want the ring, it might cost you the lute. Care to take that bet?¡¯


    This was the last thing Holsley wanted to happen. It was unthinkable to bet the redrose lute, especially with the curse upon him. Losing that lute would mean he could never play another instrument again. Any hopes of becoming a world-famous bard would be dashed. He hadn¡¯t taken it to gamble with, he had taken it to defend himself.


    How else was he going to get the ring, though?


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ Holsley mumbled. It would have to be a split-second, poorly thought-out decision. ¡®Okay.¡¯


    That was all it took to cement the deal in place. The pair, across either side of the table, placed their bets near the centre. The ring took up next to no space, whereas the bulging lute made it difficult for people to peer over.


    ¡®How¡¯s one game of Towers sound?¡¯ asked Fox, eagerly gathering the dice. ¡®One game. The winner takes the magic items and the gold in the other¡¯s purse. Seeing as your lute is worth so much.¡¯


    Holsley smiled. ¡®Sounds good to me.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m starting to hope you¡¯re hustling me,¡¯ Fox said, then laughed. ¡®If that¡¯s the case, you must be the greatest hustler in the history of hustlers.¡¯


    ***


    A game of Towers is played in multiple rounds until all players are out except one. The last person with any dice left takes all of whatever has been bet, while the others walk home with nothing. Holsley was hoping not to be the latter, but by the fifth round, it was clear he was outmatched.


    The tower of dice, which now stood erect in the centre of the table, consisted mostly of his dice. The wobbly behemoth reached up at about six dice tall. Surely, he thought, the next die added would topple it. At this point, it was his only chance of winning. If he could struggle through and force Fox to place the next part of the tower, he might make it fall and forfeit the game.


    How to do it, though?


    Holsley had whittled his dice to two, while Fox was left with double that amount. The one thing going for Holsley was that he had managed to roll two sixes on the dice, giving him a tally of twelve ¡ª the highest he could conceivably get on two dice. He kept his expression as neutral as possible while he looked down at the table at Fox.


    Fox had to go first this turn, as Holsley was first last turn. The cunning vulpine inspected his own set first and then spent an uncomfortable amount of time studying Holsley. The young bard stared back at him, but it was like staring down a stuffed animal. Fox¡¯s expression was so indifferent and deadpan that it made Holsley wonder if he was a real person.


    ¡®Ten,¡¯ Fox said finally, leaning back. ¡®My bet is ten.¡¯


    Fox had four dice left, each with six sides. If he¡¯d rolled nothing but sixes, he¡¯d have twenty-four. If he¡¯d rolled nothing but ones, he¡¯d have four. Ten was a strange one to say. If he had gone higher, Holsley would¡¯ve had no choice but to call him out and lose a die, which made him believe that Fox was telling the truth.


    ¡®Twelve,¡¯ Holsley replied honestly. ¡®I¡¯m higher.¡¯


    In Towers, once a player had announced their number, other players could challenge them on it. If no one did, the highest number won the round, and everyone else would have to return a die to their bags and weaken their hands.


    ¡®You¡¯re lying,¡¯ said Fox with a snide grin. No doubt, he had calculated the odds in his mind. Two sixes on two dice was not impossible, but it was perhaps a bit too convenient for what could be the last round. If Fox didn¡¯t call him out on it, in any case, he¡¯d still have to forfeit a die from his own set. Though, he wouldn¡¯t have to stack the tower.


    It was Holsley¡¯s turn to grin.


    He revealed his dice happily and watched Fox curse himself for not getting it right. Sometimes, it simply came down to luck. With a grunt, the werefox grabbed one of his dice and reached tentatively towards the tower. Holsley bit his lip. If the tower fell, Fox would be out of the game, and the winnings would be his.


    Would Fox notice if he wobbled the table with his leg? No, he couldn¡¯t cheat, not after what Roland had told him concerning Fox¡¯s anger.


    Pinching his tongue between his fangs, Fox carefully placed the dice on top of the tower. For a moment, a single moment, it appeared as if he had done it. The tower was stable, the dice was on top, and he could retrieve his fingertips. However, before he had the chance to, there was a loud clatter from just outside the room that sounded like a jumble of heavy footsteps.


    Tubheads suddenly barged through the door. Seeing this, the gamblers suddenly scurried for the walls like cockroaches, knocking the table and, unfortunately, destroying the tower and knocking over the dice. The game says whoever¡¯s dice went on last, which was undoubtedly Fox¡¯s.


    Holsley almost jumped for joy at his fortunate victory, but his face soon fell silent when he turned to look at who had come marching through the door. Kythos stood there with a menacing scowl, his eyes red and piercing, and a giant two-handed mace held gallantly over his shoulder.


    The slob of a tiefling hadn¡¯t even noticed Holsley. No, he was too busy throwing his furious eyes towards Fox. Then, with a voice like a door thrown open against a plaster wall, he bellowed, ¡®Where¡¯s the ruby, Fox!?¡¯

 Chapter Thirty — Escape the Crooked Hat Inn

    A desperate scramble swiftly followed Kythos¡¯s entrance into the squalid backroom, and the once sophisticated gamblers instantly took on the demeanours of trapped rodents instead. Without pausing to even consider the situation, they charged through the tubheads threatening the room, knocking a few down in the scramble.


    Thanks to the sudden confusion, Holsley had been a little slow on retreating with the herd and had now become trapped with the slobbish tiefling and his subordinates.


    ¡®Arrest Fox!¡¯ Kythos commanded to the tubheads still graciously on their feet. ¡®And don¡¯t¡ª¡¯


    He stopped. The tiefling¡¯s eyes fell upon Holsley for the first time, who, in response, gave him a small sheepish wave. They became larger, fiercer, and full of unbridled rage.


    ¡®YOU!¡¯ he shouted across the room with an accusing finger. ¡®What are YOU doing here!?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, passing the time?¡¯ Holsley offered with a slight shrug.


    ¡®GET BOTH OF THEM!¡¯


    Fox was far more capable than Holsley, which was evident from what happened next. The graceful creature dove across the room, springing over the table, claws on full display, and landed a few strokes on multiple tubheads in a single motion. Then, he went on the attack. This sudden spring into action had the fortunate effect of drawing the attention away from Holsley.


    Kythos wasn¡¯t distracted, however, and he shot towards the young bard.


    Holsley acted quickly. He ducked behind and then pushed the table over with as much might as he could muster. Dice, booze, and everything else were sent flying into the air, and the table¡¯s sudden trajectory landed with a painful crack on the Lower Warden¡¯s foot. Kythos let out a howl, quickly nursing his toe, and was subsequently bowled over when he fell against another tubhead who had fallen in the scramble.


    Holsley had seconds.


    Running on pure instinct, he swept up his lute, fumbled for the ring, grabbed his leather pouch, and made a mad dash towards the door. A quick hop over a disgruntled Kythos and through his tubhead subordinates was all it took for him to stumble out of the doorway and into the ensuing chaos.


    Everywhere he looked, he saw the betraying helmets and plate uniforms of the guards fighting against the lithe scoundrels of the Crooked Hat Inn. Maces were thrown about, daggers were brought up, and people rushed hither and thither. Holsley took it in for a second and then just ran and ran fast, dodging more blows and slices than he had ever been thrown at him before.


    One tubhead saw the young bard and brought his mace around to meet him. The bard, who had been paying just about the right amount of attention to his surroundings, ducked the blow by falling to his knees. Good thing he¡¯d done that, too, for the mace forged a crude window through the wall into the next room.


    Just when he thought he¡¯d have to fight this guard in order to escape, a tenderfoot, half his height, dove on the guard¡¯s back and tried to get under their armour with a dagger.


    He had to get out of sight.


    Holsley leapt under one of the rectangular tables and was momentarily safe. Behind him, he saw Fox and Kythos going at it through the open doorway. Kythos swung his beast of a mace towards the agile Fox, who dodged the swing like he could see it in slow motion. They both seemed equally skilled.


    ¡®Keep low.¡¯ That¡¯s what Holsley told himself as he crawled beneath the table. He¡¯d avoid becoming a bloody pulp if he could just do that.


    A loud THUD crashed above him as one of the gamblers was thrown haphazardly onto the table¡¯s surface. This was followed by a scattering of bloody teeth and the trample of boots. Holsley just kept moving.


    When the young bard came to the last table of the room, he faltered. He knew the door ten feet away led into the stairway room, which he guessed would be fairly safe. The problem was that a crowd of tubheads and gamblers stood between him and it. Painfully, he realised there was nothing for it, and he¡¯d have to leg it.


    He couldn¡¯t tell who had been shouting, but he was sure it was him. Holsley flitted between bouts, joining one every few seconds or so. He ducked maces, dodged daggers, flew between strangers, and held up the redrose lute to deflect a punch he was sure had broken someone¡¯s hand.


    None seemed to care about him when he was out of their immediate area, as each had their own problems to deal with.


    By the time he had reached the safety of the stairwell, he was panting like a dog inside a locked carriage on a warm day. His heart thudded furiously, and he was strangely aware of how thick his tongue now was. Still, he had made it without attracting too much attention.


    That lasted about three seconds.


    Foolishly, he decided to look through the gap in the door and immediately met the eyes of Kythos across the room through the heat of the chaos. He didn¡¯t look like a person whose day was going the way they had planned it. Without faltering, Kythos pointed his mace towards where Holsley stood and commanded some nearby tubheads to apprehend him.


    Directly behind the bard was a door leading into the main tavern room, but it was also full of gamblers and tubheads. The practical solution to this problem, at least from Holsley¡¯s perspective, was to find an escape at the top of the stairs. He took wing up the steps and reached the top just as three tubheads emerged at the bottom.


    They¡¯d be on him in seconds. With that thought in his mind, Holsley searched for a weapon. He didn¡¯t find one, but he did find a heavy chest of drawers close by. With the strength of half a man, Holsley forced his muscles past their limitations as he pushed the chest towards the stairs.


    There was something wholly satisfying about watching this big, burly piece of furniture allow gravity to claim it.


    The thing rolled down just as the guards found themselves halfway up. They didn¡¯t have time to turn around nor even think. The chest caught them, making short work of their plate armour, and crushed them beneath it at the bottom of the stairs.


    Holsley didn¡¯t catch much of the aftermath. The young bard was away the second gravity had taken the wheel. Blessedly, the rooms were all open, and he found a quaint one to hurry into. A breeze caught him the second after he had come through the door. This was followed by a quick realisation that the window, luckily, was open.


    Escape seemed imminent.


    ¡®Thank the Gods,¡¯ he muttered happily.


    Holsley galloped across the floor without a second to spare, his spirits soaring. If he¡¯d known more about this misshapen pub and its history of accidents, it wouldn¡¯t have been such a shock when he tripped over a misaligned, popped-up plank. Suddenly, he was careening downwards. The ring flew out of his hand, and just as he hit the floor, he watched it roll away from him.


    If he had known many profanities, this would¡¯ve been the time to say them. Instead, he simply screamed ¡®OH NO¡¯ as the ring rolled through a tiny crack in the floorboards and disappeared from sight.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Holsley acted quickly enough to see where it landed. Looking through the gap in the floorboards, he spied the tavern underneath. Specifically, he saw a table in one of the backrooms filled with half-empty tankards and watched helplessly as the ring sailed into one of them with a comical splash.


    ¡®Of course,¡¯ he moaned, rolling his eyes and returning to his feet.


    With a great deal of reluctance, he rushed back the way he had come. Holsley dove through the door, hit the landing wall with his momentum, dodged down the stairs, and leapt over the still struggling tubheads lying beneath the burdensome drawers.


    This time, Holsley didn¡¯t have the patience for crawling under tables. Things were getting too dicey. Instead, he would just have to rush through, praying that everyone would be too distracted to turn their attention on a weedy bard with next to nothing in intimidating qualities.


    More dodging, ducking, and, at some points, diving to get through the belligerent crowd.


    The room he had seen through the crack had been lit by a lambent glow, so when Holsley turned into a room brightened by a warm hearth, he knew he was in the right place, especially when he saw a circular table full of tankards at its centre. There were perhaps thirty of them, and inside one of those was the ring.


    He took a single moment to catch his breath.


    That was a mistake.


    One second, he was standing in the relative safety of the doorway. The next second, he was screaming in pain as a clawed hand swiped across his abdomen, cutting his new shirt to shreds and leaving four distinct scratches across his belly.


    ¡®You think you can cheat me and walk away!¡¯ Fox snarled, pressing him against a wall, his snout an inch away from Holsley¡¯s nose. In the name of good, Fox was fast. And drunk. The young bard could smell the rotgut he¡¯d been ingesting throughout the night. ¡®Is that what Roland told you to do? Cheat me!?¡¯


    Holsley would¡¯ve answered if he¡¯d had the chance to. Instead, he gasped. Another development appeared. Unknown to Fox, a mace was sailing through the air towards the back of his head. Forced to do the one thing he had control over, Holsley threw his head and his body downwards as if to duck.


    Did foxes have cat-like reflexes? He supposed they must have something similar ¡ª some kind of sense that helped keep them out of harm¡¯s way anyway.


    Seeing Holsley drop, Fox let go of him in an instant and dodged out of the way of the oncoming weapon. The effect was impressive. The mace barely grazed him and instead made a sizeable dent in the wall. Fox rolled over his back onto his side, and when he came back up into a crouched position, two daggers materialised in his hands like magic.


    If Holsley hadn¡¯t been so terrified, he would¡¯ve clapped for how awesome the move had been.


    Kythos held up his mace threateningly. ¡®Where is it, Fox?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡¯ he snarled. ¡®You shouldn¡¯t be here, Kythos. We¡¯re paid up till the end of the month!¡¯


    What did he mean by that?


    ¡®Yeah, you kind of forfeit your exclusion from the law when you steal high-value items from my mother¡¯s vaults.¡¯ Kythos strode forward. ¡®Don¡¯t deny it! We¡¯ve got eyewitnesses, and I don¡¯t see many bloody werefoxes hanging about!¡¯


    ¡®Slander!¡¯


    It was that ruby, Holsley guessed, the one that Kythos had mentioned in the dungeon. The one that he thought Holsley himself might be carrying. Rubies were valuable, he knew that much, but this seemed a little excessive to him? There was more to this than what was on the table.


    Kythos swung the mace at the werefox. Fox easily sidestepped around it and stole out of the room. This left the Lower Warden with a choice. He looked down upon Holsley first, weighing the options, and then, with an exasperated groan, he went striding after Fox.


    Holsley didn¡¯t think twice about it. One moment, he was on the floor; the next moment, he was upturning tankards.


    The fight was still happening around him, but this seemed to be the one room that hadn¡¯t been affected by the tumult. It was a small, quite cosy room with only a couple of tables and an armchair beside the fire. It was also, for whatever reason, where all the patrons had left their drinks? There were over thirty tankards on that sizeable circular table, each one filled almost to the brim as if they had been placed there for safekeeping.


    Drinks of ale, lager, cider, and more swirled together on the tavern floor as Holsley poured them out one after another. It was just his bloody luck that the ring had rolled onto the only tavern table in Tressa where the patrons hadn¡¯t drained their drinks. The word typical came to mind more than once as he searched.


    On the seventh upturned tavern, a tubhead charged him.


    Holsley had seen him enter from the other room, rushing in like he was leaping out of a housefire. The guard was young but a little older than Holsley, with a pimply face and wispy facial hair. He seemed determined too and was perhaps, if Holsley thought on it, one of the guards that had initially rushed into Fox¡¯s personal gambling den.


    Actually, he was pretty sure this had been the tubhead Kythos had fallen over.


    Holsley rushed to the opposite side of the table to avoid him, which sparked a frustrating game of cat and mouse. The bard would run one way, and the wispy guard would run the other, going about in circles with neither gaining the upper hand.


    In that time, the young bard had a quick meeting with his brain and decided this was as good a time as any to test out the redrose lute. As he rushed about the table, he brought the instrument around and frantically searched his mind for the right melody. The two black circles on his little finger told him he had two spells to hand.


    The redrose lute was easy to play, although one string gave him a little trouble. It didn¡¯t sound quite right, and he thought it might be because his pinky finger couldn¡¯t quite reach it. All the same, though, he did manage to get out the right tune through trial and error. At the third pluck, the wispy guard thankfully came to a stop and became transfixed by the music.


    ¡®You¡¯re a guard,


    I¡¯m a bard,


    Life can be kinda hard,


    But so is lard,


    We are but two peas in a confining pod,


    Don¡¯t be daft, or dumb, or a right ol¡¯ sod.¡¯


    Not exactly lyrics to capture the people¡¯s hearts, but they did the trick. The young tubhead swayed from side to side like a lovestruck puppy waiting for a treat. Holsley smiled at his success.


    The redrose lute had been a joy to play, even in the stresses of the moment. As satisfying as running a hot knife through hard butter. His fingers magically knew precisely what Holsley wanted to do, and he didn¡¯t even need to guide them to the correct positions. Very little thought in return for good music.


    One of the circles on his little finger turned red.


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ he stammered, realising then that he hadn¡¯t devised a plan for the guard. ¡®There¡¯s a ring in one of these tankards. Help me find it and give it to me!¡¯


    ¡®Sure thing!¡¯ The guard said happily and got to work. He stopped briefly. ¡®I just want you to know that I love you.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, thanks.¡¯


    There was still no abating to the battle going on around them as this odd pair of souls conducted their methodical search. The occasional scream would tell them someone had been stabbed. An odd thunk here meant someone was either hitting a table or being hit by one. The clang of manacles were arrests being made.


    Minutes passed.


    Typically, the ring was finally found in the second-to-last tankard. Holsley turned it over, and the ornate jewellery dropped like a pin to the floor. Thank the Gods. He bent down and picked it up with a grin spread from ear to ear. The glint of the ruby eyes reflected the light pleasantly, and he found himself, despite himself, admiring the craftsmanship.


    Even if this ring hadn¡¯t been magical, it still belonged in a place of high value.


    URK!


    Holsley¡¯s body spiralled in pain as it was rammed into the table at waist height, his head quickly forced into the ale-laden surface. The lute flew out of his hand, and he heard the familiar twang as it hit the floor. He really had to learn to start paying attention to his surroundings, especially when there was a mad werefox running around.


    ¡®Gods, you need to start wearing a bell or something!¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s mine, you cheat!¡¯ Fox hissed in his ear as he pulled Holsley¡¯s arm up against his back.


    Holsley let out a groan.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t cheat!¡¯ Holsley protested. ¡®YOU knocked over the tower!¡¯


    ¡®You brought the guards!¡¯


    ¡®By the sounds of it,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®You¡¯re the one that brought the guards.¡¯


    ¡®Did not.¡¯


    ¡®Did so.¡¯


    TWANG! THUNK!


    The conversation could have gone on for another hour, going around and around until the morning sun crested the cliff upon which Tressa stood. The wispy guard didn¡¯t fancy that, though. Instead, the enchanted tubhead had found Holsley¡¯s lute and brought it down upon the werefox¡¯s head.


    Holsley straightened up. Fox was laid out on the floor. Blimey, Holsey thought, he¡¯s been knocked out cold. With an air of pride, the wispy guard handed Holsley his lute back and then saluted loyally. ¡®Saw you were in trouble.¡¯


    ¡®Uh, yeah, I was. Thanks.¡¯


    It was time to go. With the ring now in his possession, Holsley could make a cleanish getaway. With the tubhead¡¯s help, he managed to get the stuck window of the room open and then stumbled out of it. The fresh air hit him like a sleet of hail, and he saw, for the first time, the extent of the damage Fox had left on his shirt.


    It was torn from where the claws had struck it and covered in the blood from Holsley¡¯s wounds. He had one spell left and reminded himself that he could use it to heal the vicious marks once he managed to get to safety. To him, that meant not stopping until he was back at the Fetch Inn.


    Before moving away from the window, he told the loyal guard to stay there and ensure he wasn¡¯t followed. Then, he was away under the cover of night with the ring still held firmly in his palm.

 Chapter Thirty-One — Minutes

    There was no doubt about it. At some point, Holsley had lost consciousness.


    A hazy moonlight filtered through the windows, and he slowly realised he was back in his shabby room at the Fetch Inn. It all came back to him. The young bard had managed to stumble his way through the alleys and climb in through the window, all while being exhausted, lightheaded, and continuously cringing at the bloody slashes across his abdomen.


    How long had he been asleep? It couldn¡¯t have been long if the world outside that window was still dark. An hour, then. Maybe two. He groaned as he rolled on the bed, eager to get up and inspect the damage, but he couldn¡¯t move.


    The young bard just lay there.


    The door opened first before the figure knocked. If Holsley had the strength, he would¡¯ve sat up to meet eyes with his visitor. As it was, though, he felt cold and weak, like the energy had been sucked out of him. The day¡¯s events had caught up and, like a boulder, weighed him down like a giant paperweight.


    Merhim appeared above him. The gnome didn¡¯t say anything; he just got to work. Holsley let out a yelp when a stinging, burning liquid was applied to the slashes underneath his bloody shirt. It was just the jolt he needed to get him to sit up a little.


    ¡®Hold still, eh!¡¯ Merhim insisted, pushing the towel onto his wounds and forcing him back down. ¡®I¡¯m trying to forestall infection, kid.¡¯


    ¡®Burn it, more like!¡¯ Holsley barked. ¡®How did you¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I heard you stumble in a few minutes ago,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®Made enough of a racket to wake me up. You were out cold on the bed, and I couldn¡¯t help but notice these scratches, eh.¡¯


    Oh, it had been minutes. It sure felt like hours since he¡¯d fallen in over the windowsill.


    ¡®This was courtesy of my gambling opponent,¡¯ said Holsley with a wince. ¡®He wasn¡¯t too happy.¡¯


    ¡®Gambling didn¡¯t go well then?¡¯


    ¡®Actually, it did.¡¯ Holsley smiled. He could feel the ring in his pocket, poking at his thigh. Once again, and not for the first time, things had gone the wrong way and had somehow ended up going right for him. ¡®I got the ring and barely escaped with my life.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry? Are you saying that you. You? Somehow, someway, somewhy, managed to swindle a seasoned gambler?¡¯ The look on Merhim¡¯s face said it all. Shock. Pure shock. ¡®Have you made a deal with the God of Luck or something, kid?¡¯


    ¡®No, but I was born on the twenty-eight day of Adle,¡¯ replied Holsley thoughtfully. ¡®It was a hollow victory, though. A bunch of tubheads barged in at the last second and knocked over the tower just after he placed down his die. After that, I just sort of grabbed the ring and ran off.¡¯


    The gnome frowned.


    ¡®Wait.¡¯ Holsley held up a hand before Merhim could apply more of that stinging ointment. ¡®I can heal myself.¡¯


    He checked his little finger. One circle was black, and the other was red. For a moment, he wondered why, then he recalled he had used one of his slots to cast a charming spell on a tubhead. He had one more spell for the day then, but if he got some decent rest, it would become two come morning. It¡¯s better to cast a healing spell now, then.


    ¡®You know a healing song?¡¯


    ¡®A minor one.¡¯ Holsley pointed towards the lute. It had rolled across the floor when he fell in through the window. ¡®Would you mind?¡¯


    With a grunt, Merhim retrieved the instrument. Holsley took it gratefully, sat up a little, and didn¡¯t waste any time not playing.


    Delicate hands moved along the strings as if a seasoned musician guided them. He¡¯d never been so graceful. With the redrose lute, he teased the sweetest of notes and encouraged the melody to cling to the air. Then, his voice joined. He whispered the words of prayer to Zandazarr in the elven tongue and waited for the familiar warmth in his left hand.


    Holsley placed his glowing appendage over the scratch wounds.


    In seconds, the long, bloody strokes knitted themselves back together. Blood retracted, and flesh pulled inwards, closing the gaps, as Holsley felt his life return to him. It occurred to him only then that he must have lost quite a bit of blood to feel so lightheaded. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Four faint white scars were all that was left as a reminder of what Fox had done.


    ¡®Beautifully done, kid,¡¯ said a wide-eyed Merhim. ¡®Haven¡¯t heard a song of healing quite like that before.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s only really for small cuts and stuff,¡¯ replied Holsley. ¡®It¡¯ll never completely heal. I¡¯m not that good.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s left an impressive scar, eh.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah?¡¯ Holsley grinned, admiring it. ¡®I¡¯ve always wanted a really cool scar. Feels like claw marks could be anything, right? I could say I got it fending off a bear or, or, tackling a shark.¡¯


    ¡®How¡¯s that any more impressive than the truth?¡¯


    ¡®I dunno.¡¯ Holsley shrugged. ¡®Fighting a bear sounds pretty badass.¡¯


    ¡®So, what now?¡¯ Merhim shifted the conversation and took a seat on the bed. ¡®You¡¯ve got the ring. What do you plan on doing with it?¡¯


    ¡®In the morning, I¡¯m going to sneak back into the dungeons and get it to Roland,¡¯ replied Holsley. He was replaying the plan he had rehearsed in his head for the past five hours or so. ¡®After that, Roland will get out, and we¡¯ll escape the city together.¡¯


    ¡®Both of you?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I don¡¯t see why not?¡¯


    Merhim shifted uncomfortably. Holsley became suddenly aware of how little the gnome¡¯s eyes wanted to do with him. As a young bard accustomed to receiving difficult truths regarding his music, he was afraid he was about to get one now. Not a critique of his music, mind, but a difficult truth, nonetheless.


    ¡®I¡¯ve been walking about the city.¡¯ Merhim twiddled his thumbs idly. ¡®I don¡¯t know how to say this, but can you trust this Roland character, eh?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah?¡¯ Holsley was genuinely confused by the question. ¡®He¡¯s my best friend?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s just, well, I¡¯ve heard things about him, Holsley.¡¯ Merhim met the young bard¡¯s eyes. ¡®I don¡¯t want to upset you, but the things I¡¯ve heard aren¡¯t very good.¡¯


    Holsley rolled his tongue over his two front teeth, prodding the gap between them. Merhim wasn¡¯t the only one who had heard bad things. He recalled the conversation he was privy to earlier, the one that took place in the dungeon¡¯s laundry room. They had heard Roland had killed someone, that he had cut someone¡¯s head clean off and stolen their gold fillings.


    Holsley didn¡¯t believe it.


    ¡®What have you heard?¡¯ Holsley said at last.


    ¡®That he stole, scammed, and murdered in cold blood, eh,¡¯ said Merhim sullenly. ¡®Things that make me believe that, well, he¡¯s on death row for a reason.¡¯


    ¡®Roland wouldn¡¯t do any of that.¡¯ Holsley¡¯s voice rose. ¡®Well, except for the stealing, but you don¡¯t know him like I do. He¡¯s my closest friend, and he would never, not ever, murder someone in cold blood. It¡¯s a line he wouldn¡¯t cross.¡¯


    ¡®Holsley¡ª¡¯


    ¡®No, you don¡¯t know him. It¡¯s as plain as that.¡¯ Holsley shifted to his feet, felt a little shaky, then sat back down when he was struck with a bout of dizziness. ¡®He doesn¡¯t deserve to be hanged, and he told me that much himself. Roland¡¯s a good person, and the whole reason I came here was to prove that.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t be stupid, kid! He was a member of the Bloody Darlings, one of the most, if not the most, bloodthirsty pirates to sail the Crossing.¡¯ Merhim didn¡¯t move. ¡®They slaughtered every ship and town they got their hands on and didn¡¯t discriminate between things like guilty or innocent. Roland was under the thumb of Berry Kellam for the Gods shake ¡ª the Cruel Queen herself. She¡¯s not exactly known for bringing sweethearts onto her crew, eh.¡¯


    ¡®This is just rumour, there¡¯s no proof that¡ª¡¯


    ¡®But there is!¡¯ Merhim stood up straighter so that he was at eye level with Holsley. ¡®Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s odd that you were the only one that came to defend him, hmmm? You were the only one that could vouch for his character?¡¯


    ¡®Not that many people knew him.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, they did.¡¯ Merhim took a deep breath. ¡®After you left this morning, I did some research. Seventy-nine people have come forward as witnesses. People from up and down the Avanni Coast. All of them swear they saw Roland performing brutal acts, and not one of them has a reason to lie.¡¯


    Holsley gave him a hard look.


    ¡®I know it¡¯s not what you want to hear, lad,¡¯ said Merhim. ¡®But, in honesty, I don¡¯t reckon that¡¯s the same Roland you knew as a child. The years have changed him. Being a pirate has changed him. He might have been sweet once or even innocent, but bad times can change anyone for the worse. I think trusting him is going to put you in danger. I think¡­you¡¯re trying to save a monster.¡¯


    ¡®You are so wrong, and you are so out of line!¡¯ Holsley sparked. ¡®Yeah, Roland has always been a little rough around the edges. I¡¯ll be the first to admit that. He never stole from those who couldn¡¯t afford it, though, and he never turned his weapon on anyone except in defence. I know he¡¯s a good person, and I know for sure that he¡¯s my best friend, and I¡¯ll be deeply damned if I let a friend die based on the hearsay of people I¡¯ve never met.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t be such a fool,¡¯ Merhim snorted. ¡®Why is it so hard to believe that he¡¯s changed, eh? He¡¯s about to face the noose, for all¡¯s sake!¡¯


    Holsley didn¡¯t answer because he didn¡¯t have an answer. Fortunately, the silence didn¡¯t last for long. There was another knock at the door, a quieter one this time, followed by a whispery voice on the other side.


    ¡®Is everything okay in there?¡¯ Gannamane whispered through the wood. ¡®I heard yelling?¡¯


    ¡®Sorry to disturb you, pet,¡¯ Merhim replied back, a little louder. ¡®I¡¯m just leaving.¡¯


    Holsley watched him hop off the bed but didn¡¯t say another word. The gnome crossed to the door and didn¡¯t so much as glance back as he left. It was only when the door clicked shut that Holsley¡¯s mind started turning.


    Seventy-nine people was a lot of people. What exactly had they seen, though?


    Roland had always been rough. That was the best way to describe it. The rogue had clearly had a rotten time growing up, and he had told Holsley as much. The thieves¡¯ guild was cruel and conniving, at least that¡¯s what he had always gathered, and Roland had done what he had to in order to survive. Holsley supposed the same was true of these pirates. Maybe Roland had done bad things, but had he done them willingly?


    Holsley lay back on the bed. He needed rest and sleep, and now was a good time to get it.


    It was kind of sweet, though. Holsley tried to switch his brain off, but the thoughts continued unabated. He knew that Merhim was just watching out for him. On the outside, he could totally see how someone could¡¯ve come to the same conclusion as him, but the gnome was still out of line.


    Merhim didn¡¯t know Roland like he did.

 Chapter Thirty-Two — Myphs and Legends

    There was no feeling in the petrified hand. It wasn¡¯t even numb.


    No matter how hard he concentrated, Roland couldn¡¯t get it to move, not even twitch. His hand was nothing more than a slab of stone stuck to the end of his wrist. It was even heavy like stone. He figured that magic could probably undo it, but that was hard to come by this far in the north.


    To make it worse, the stone appendage had also kept him awake through most of the night. There just wasn¡¯t a position for it. Roland would keep rolling on top of it, the petrified fingers uncomfortably poking him in the side or chest. So, instead of sleeping, he spent most of the night wondering about Holsley.


    Had the bard gone through with it? Had he managed to beat Fox and get a hold of the ring? More importantly, though, did Holsley know about the new date of Roland¡¯s execution? It would have to be a quick turnaround for the city to get the Tressans there in time, and he sort of hoped that Holsley wouldn¡¯t be there. Not really. He didn¡¯t want Holsley to see him hang.


    The door to his cell rattled open.


    Three tubheads lurched inside and immediately got to work at bounding him in chains. Their faces were lit by a candle, as they usually were, but the only one Roland recognised was Kythos. The tiefling¡¯s face still sported that remarkable bruise from the slap Love had given him, but there were other marks now and scratches running over his face.


    ¡®You ready?¡¯ he asked. ¡®No, wait, don¡¯t answer. It doesn¡¯t really matter, does it? We¡¯re going to execute you all the same.¡¯


    ¡®You look like crap.¡¯


    Kythos gave him a hard fist to the gut, forcing Roland to double over and choke out spit.


    ¡®Look who¡¯s talking,¡¯ the tiefling muttered.


    Executions were always held at midday. It had been that way since he was a child. The practice had something to do with Jantari, the Goddess of Spirits. If Roland remembered right, someone executed in the midday sun allowed Jantari¡¯s followers to see the sinner for what they truly were.


    In reality, he thought it was simply because everyone was just available at midday. The city would be awake, it was just before the shops opened, and also an hour before anyone could buy a stiff drink.


    The walk through the dungeons was both uneventful and lowkey aggravating. Suddenly, all those doors Roland had been failing to escape through for the past week simply opened up for him now. Perhaps if he¡¯d been smarter, more reserved in his escape attempts, he might¡¯ve had a better chance now.


    A few less guards, a few more opportunities, and he could probably make a break for it as soon as they hit the fresh air. No chance of that now. The tubheads were too well prepared for that possibility. They had him chained from his wrists to his ankles and forced him to walk slowly on a leash that was kept short by two of them.


    Together, they ascended steps, moved through the levels with their variety of lighting, and eventually found themselves in a place Roland didn¡¯t recognise. He¡¯d stolen from taverns, clay rooms, houses, mansions, and manors from all over the city, but the whereabouts of this strange place boggled him.


    The shift from the dungeon had been sudden, almost dizzying. The walls went from dusty grey stone to cracked ornate marble. They were riddled with weeds and reaching lichen, which told Roland this place was old and unloved. In the room just beyond the open door ahead, light streamed in through a shattered stained-glass window, which shone the early morning rays upon what must have once been a church hall.


    Roland navigated the series of broken and scattered pews that ended at a shattered wooden altar beneath the window. He couldn¡¯t see what the glass depicted, but ¡°LIAR¡± was painted over its cracked panes in big red letters. The tubheads led him towards a set of stone steps at the far end behind it.


    From there, he was forced to march up the circular steps, and at the top of them was a worn iron door. Kythos approached it with a handful of keys and undid each of the three locks that kept it bolted.


    Once undone, Roland was thrown inside.


    He hit the floor hard, and without a way to hold out his hands, he painfully skidded to a halt against the stone surface. The door came crashing to a close behind him, and he was suddenly sealed inside.


    With a groan, he pushed himself up and looked immediately for a way to escape. He was met with a bare circular room that went up to a funnel-shaped point above him. There was a window, but it was barred, and the only piece of furniture in the dim light was a single wooden chair.


    ¡®If you¡¯re looking for an escape, there isn¡¯t one.¡¯ Kythos crossed the room and took a seat on the chair. ¡®This here is the executioner¡¯s tower. Below us, the doors open up right into the square where you¡¯ll be hanged.¡¯ Kythos nodded to the window, and Roland hesitantly stepped towards it.


    The feel of fresh air and a thousand pleasant, familiar smells was quickly undercut by the sight far beneath the windowsill. It was of the gallows patiently waiting for him. He could also see a crowd forming beyond them, a little less patient.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Roland didn¡¯t turn. ¡®Why not just leave me in my cell until it¡¯s time?¡¯


    ¡®Tradition.¡¯ Roland could feel the indifference in Kythos¡¯s tone. ¡®This used to be a church and dead men were brought here to pray before being executed. Suppose it¡¯s so they could repent or whatever. These old walls don¡¯t see much prayer these days, though. It¡¯s just a bloody waste of space instead.¡¯


    Roland turned at a knock on the door. Kythos moved to answer it, and when the door opened, he saw a timid tiefling step across the threshold. Curiously, he also saw she was carrying a wooden box that held a set of paintbrushes. With a short bow, she stepped inside, and the doors thudded shut again behind her and locked.


    Kythos brought the chair towards Roland and commanded him to sit. At first, the young rogue thought he¡¯d decline the request but knew it¡¯d only buy him pain. If he was injured, well, more injured, there would be less of an opportunity to escape, so he did what he was told. When he did so, this pink-skinned tiefling got to work.


    She brought his stone hand forward and, while mixing paints, began to paint it with flesh-tone colours. Roland immediately knew what she was here for. She was disguising his appendage so that no one could tell that he had a stone hand or, more importantly, that he had been mistreated while in the dungeons.


    She hummed as she worked, and Roland couldn¡¯t feel a thing of what she was doing. Pretty soon, her presence faded into the background.


    ¡®Whose church is this?¡¯ he asked Kythos.


    ¡®Myph¡¯s,¡¯ the tiefling replied and nodded towards a mosaic behind the rogue.


    Roland hadn¡¯t noticed it at first because of the dark room. The arrangement of tiles was broken and cracked. Some were missing, and most were discoloured, but you could tell what had once been there if you squinted hard enough. Roland saw a radiantly glowing woman wrapping the room in her divine arms.


    ¡®Myph,¡¯ Roland repeated under his breath.


    ¡®Goddess of Heroes,¡¯ said Kythos. ¡®What a joke.¡¯


    An uneasy silence fell upon the room.


    ¡®It¡¯s not too late, you know.¡¯ Kythos knelt down to his level. Roland had been expecting this. Love hadn¡¯t given up on claiming her answers and was probably hoping his impending death would serve as incentive to unleash his secrets. She was wrong, however. Roland had no intention of revealing anything ¡ª even now.


    Kythos continued, unabated, ¡®I¡¯ve been assured that in return for you telling me everything you know, your life will be spared. You¡¯ll even be paid handsomely for the information.¡¯


    Lies, Roland thought.


    ¡®That¡¯s the real reason I¡¯m up here then.¡¯ Roland eyed Kythos up and down. ¡®You¡¯re going to torture me.¡¯


    ¡®Nope.¡¯ Kythos scratched the stubble on his chin. ¡®In truth, I¡¯m not up for it. I¡¯ve had a long night.¡¯


    ¡®You seem to know a lot about this church.¡¯ If Roland was going to be stuck here for the next hour, he might as well try to keep his mind off the noose. ¡®Do you know much about Myph?¡¯


    ¡®Why, you interested in finding religion?¡¯


    ¡®Just interested.¡¯


    Roland could feel the tiefling painter¡¯s ears prick up as she got to work on the tips of his stone fingers. She was just as intrigued as him.


    ¡®My father used to come to this church, back before the war. In its day, Myph was the original Goddess of Tressa. This was the first church to be built, which is why it¡¯s right next to the keep, and everyone worshipped her. Even I did back when I was a boy.¡¯


    ¡®What happened?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I suppose you weren¡¯t even born yet.¡¯ Kythos took up a leaning position near the window and crossed his arms. He wasn¡¯t even looking at Roland now. Instead, he was looking over at the mosaic as if his memories were unravelling against the wall. ¡®Before the war, Tressa was a place of legends. Did you know that some of the Further Kingdom¡¯s greatest heroes came from this city? Most believed that Myph had something to do with it. Heck, the city was even founded by heroes, right. My mother being one of them.


    ¡®Then, the War of Dondros happened. All these heroes and legends were sent south to fight demons, devils, and all sorts of nasty things. To fight evil, basically.¡¯ He let out a small chuckle. ¡®They all died out. Each and every one of them. Sentiments changed. Suddenly, worshipping Myph wasn¡¯t as popular anymore, not with our best and brightest dying on the front lines. When I came home from that war, this church had been stripped and was left abandoned.¡¯


    Roland had only ever heard of the war in passing, but he¡¯d met many people who had fought in it. Every problem the city was now burdened with was blamed on what happened in Dondros a decade and a half ago. From the destitute houses to the corrupt guards to even the way people acted towards one another. In no exaggerated terms, he was told that the city had been a beacon of light before that war came.


    Now it was a shithole.


    ¡®People are finicky creatures,¡¯ Kythos said. ¡®They like to blame their misfortunes on something, and they chose Myph to let their anger out on. That¡¯s what happened here, Roland. Nothing more.¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t reply. Instead, he took another look towards the window. The sky was clear. Seagulls whipped about in the air with their squawks chasing after them, intermingling with the sounds of a lively city in motion. He tried to imagine Tressa as a good place to live but just couldn¡¯t see it.


    For as long as he¡¯d been living here, it had been nothing but cruel to him. Everyone was out for themselves, and to do that, they resorted to doing some pretty despicable things. Except Holsley, he reminded himself, but even now, as he sat there, he wondered what was in it for the young bard.


    Had he really come back just to save him, or was Holsley after something else?


    ¡®You¡¯re not going to tell us, are you?¡¯ Kythos didn¡¯t move an inch. Roland only gave him a leer as an answer. The tiefling tubhead shook his head in disbelief. ¡®I figured as much. Even when it could save your life. I suppose you figure we¡¯re lying about letting you go free. If that were the case, even then, it¡¯d be worth saying something on the slight chance you might make it through today. Can I at least ask why you don¡¯t want to tell us anything?¡¯


    Roland thought about the question for a moment.


    ¡®You don¡¯t deserve to know,¡¯ he said finally. ¡®Besides, who says I¡¯m not going to live through today? You?¡¯


    ¡®You can¡¯t be serious?¡¯


    As a thief, Roland had been taught to wait for opportunity and then act upon it. You didn¡¯t think twice. If you hesitated when the opportunity knocked, you¡¯d miss it, and then you¡¯d have to wait again. It was a lesson that the thieves¡¯ guild had drilled persistently into his head. All he had to do was wait, and something would turn up. It always did.


    Roland looked back up at the fractured mosaic of Myph. The giant woman looked back at him with her faded, kind eyes. He was looking into those eyes now, and he felt, no, he knew, that they were staring back at him.

 Chapter Thirty-Three — A Chance with Death

    On the day of an execution, an hour before the deed was due to take place, every church across the city would ring out to announce the upcoming demise of a sinner, accompanied by three dozen criers who would crawl the streets of each city ward and blare their own metallic chime.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t stand the ringing.


    The young bard tossed this way and that way in his bed, threw a feather-filled pillow over his ears to deafen himself, but couldn¡¯t quite shake the melancholy sound. He hadn¡¯t been able to stand them as a child, and he could stand them less now. They marked death, that someone was going to die in an hour, and he didn¡¯t like what that fact brought out in people.


    ¡®Bloody bells,¡¯ he muttered under his breath, trying to find his dream again. ¡®Just shut up.¡¯


    Then, aroma hit him.


    A wonderful, sizzling, scintillating symphony of smells rising from the kitchens. It was morning breakfast dressing up for patrons. The sultry aroma of bacon and sausages frying in the pan, of beans boiling in the pot, and of, no doubt, freshly baked bread being taken out of the oven and lightly buttered. Holsley sat up immediately at his stomach¡¯s command.


    When was the last time he had even eaten? Must have been just before he¡¯d shot off to the Crooked Hat Inn.


    The bells were still ringing. They had followed him from his half-sleeping state, but it was only now that he became aware of them. Wait! A sudden panic clutched hold of his chest. What day was this? Roland was due to be hung on the sixteenth, right? Was that today? No, it couldn¡¯t be. Holsley had arrived yesterday on the twelfth.


    Quickly, the bard rushed to his bedroom window. Below, just beneath the ledge, a crowd had formed in the street. Mostly commonfolk marching together in a steady stream heading towards the main road that would lead to the keep. Children bounced about excitedly whilst older strangers whispered in hushed but eager tones.


    He raised an eyebrow.


    If Holsley had been bolder, perhaps he would¡¯ve just asked the crowd where they were heading. As he was now, however, the bard didn¡¯t have the stones to turn the eyes of the passersby upon him. It¡¯d be almost as bad as performing in front of them. So, instead, he simply watched them.


    Perhaps, he hoped, someone else was being hanged today, but his stomach was folding in on itself.


    It was a dreadful form of entertainment and not one that sat right with Holsley. As a young boy, no older than ten, he had only ever been to one of these executions. It was curiosity that had carried him there but revulsion that kept him from ever going back. People had cheered with genuine excitement to see some poor stranger drop to their death, and it had made him physically sick.


    Holsley couldn¡¯t remember the criminal¡¯s crimes or even their name, but the stark vision of the man¡¯s shirt and face stained with the rotten vegetables the crowd had thrown before he dropped was forever burned into his mind. He got it, though. Really, he did. These people, primarily murderers and tactless thieves, probably didn¡¯t deserve sympathy.


    It still felt tasteless to sink to that level, though. After all, it was important to remember that these souls were about to pay dividends on their sins.


    Finally, a crier emerged alongside the crowd.


    These men, who often wore powdered wigs and carried small ringing bells, were responsible for keeping Tressa informed. There was only so much a printed paper could do in a city where half the people couldn¡¯t read. They roamed about the roads, ringing the bell and shouting what the betters thought people ought to know.


    ¡®Hear ye, hear ye!¡¯ The man bellowed as he strode on by. ¡®The hanging of one Roland Darrow, infamous pirate and lost son of Tressa, has been moved up by three days. All appeals have been counted, and the scoundrel remains guilty. For those who wish to see this dastardly villain hang, you must make their way to the keep¡¯s square with fervour. For today is his day to hang.¡¯


    The young bard had never known he could get dressed so quickly. He pulled on the only shirt that wasn¡¯t ripped to shreds, threw up his trousers, yelled obscenities at his boots, and didn¡¯t leave without the ring or the lute.


    Then, he was off and out of the window.


    Roland was being hung. A panic overcame him as the redrose lute swung wildly on his back. Twang this and thwock that. Would he be too late to rescue Roland? Was Roland in the dungeon and could he get the ring to him? What was he supposed to do now?


    He did the only thing he could do ¡ª run.


    It wasn¡¯t long before the crowds became the main obstacle. There was no getting past them without a miracle. Fortunately, Holsley realised pretty quickly that he didn¡¯t need to. The bard rushed into the alleys, found the scaffolding in there, and managed to reach the rooftops with some careful footing.


    Next thing he knew, he was springing across the roof tiles. To any below who saw him, they must¡¯ve thought he was terribly afraid of missing the execution for the hurry he was in. If he slipped, he got back up. If something was in his way, he would clumsily vault over it. And if he heard a shout from below shouting vulgarities at him, then he¡¯d simply ignore it.


    Holsley had to get to the keep before they closed the gates. He knew there¡¯d be no chance of getting inside if he didn¡¯t. That meant there¡¯d be no chance of saving Roland. The young bard didn¡¯t quite know what he would do when he got there, but he wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything without slipping inside the keep¡¯s courtyard.


    ***


    Roland had heard of the five stages of grief. They were supposed to be like the steps you took to come to terms with your inevitable death. Starting with denial until you finally reach acceptance. Roland thought then that he was still at the initial step. Did you go through all of them when you were destined for the noose, or were the five stages just for people who had the time?


    The rogue was just in denial. Had been since he¡¯d first arrived back in Tressa. Even now, as he faced the doors and heard the barks of the crowds on the other side, he was still fairly confident that he wouldn¡¯t be dying today.


    ¡®This might be your last chance.¡¯ Kythos was behind him. ¡®Want to trade your life for some information?¡¯


    Roland didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡®You¡¯re funeral,¡¯ he chuckled. ¡®You ready then?¡¯


    ¡®I am,¡¯ said Roland as other tubheads pushed on the doors. ¡®It¡¯s the lot of you that ain¡¯t ready.¡¯


    They had gone a step further in chaining him this time. For one thing, the chains were heavier and thicker. That wasn¡¯t half as annoying as the fact that there was no lock and no key. The manacles had been welded around his ankles and wrists. It¡¯d take three strong people about three days of work to saw him out of his bonds with smithing tools.


    A hand pushed Roland into a forward march.


    The sun lashed out at his eyes as if he were seeing it for the first time. This was followed by a refrain of jeers from the battered faces of his awaiting audience. They were packed in tightly, from what he saw once his eyes adjusted to the light, reaching from one end of the courtyard to the other ¡ª a sea of angry faces with nothing better to do than watch him struggle for life.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Things were thrown as he drew nearer. Rotten fruits and vegetables, glass bottles, small and large stones, alongside other things not worth mentioning. Insults were the most frequent method of assault, however. Roland had never heard so many shots taken at his vivid red hair before. Some of them sounded less angry and more jealous of his vibrant hair tone.


    Roland took the abuse stoically.


    The tubheads led him like a dog to the rickety wooden platform, his manacles clacking with every step. Roland offered no resistance, but that didn¡¯t mean he¡¯d been subdued. The rogue was still waiting for a good opportunity, but with this many guards and his hands bound like this, an opportunity wouldn¡¯t be easy to come by.


    If Roland had taken a good look at the gallows, he¡¯d see they towered above him. The only thing he noticed, however, was the noose. It hung down at about head height. In a minute, maybe less, he¡¯d be hanging from that thing.


    Was Holsley here? Roland looked out and scanned the crowds. Nothing. When he turned back to the gallows, he noticed a couple of tubheads testing to make sure the hatch worked. Roland didn¡¯t care. He wondered again if Holsley had done it and felt sure he had. It might¡¯ve been a good plan if his sentence hadn¡¯t been moved up.


    It was better, ring or no, that Holsley wasn¡¯t here. At least he wouldn¡¯t have to stare into the bard¡¯s innocent eyes as feelings of guilt clutched at every part of his body. That was the only small mercy in this otherwise bleak situation. Roland would never have to be truly honest with him.


    Being here now, in front of the crowds, the noose dangling mere feet away, he felt his first pang of genuine fear. Maybe this was about to happen. Maybe he was actually about to die. He looked up to the sky, eyes narrowed and whispered in a low voice. ¡®You promised.¡¯


    Without saying a word, Kythos grabbed him about the shoulders and marched him to the trap door once his feet were squarely on the platform. From there, he was placed into position. The noose came down, and when he looked over, he saw the executioner, face hidden beneath a cloth mask.


    The bells came to a stop. The Crier of Proceedings to his left proceeded to read out a list of Roland¡¯s supposed crimes to the crowd. The first was desertion of the Tressan Navy, which he could admit to doing, but the rest sounded made up. Almost as if they had created new laws just to penalise him.


    The young rogue¡¯s eyes met with Kythos¡¯s. The tiefling gave him a look which said, ¡®Seriously, this is your last chance to step up.¡¯ Roland gave him a reply that was far shorter and too crude to reveal in the presence of polite company.


    ***


    THROOM.


    The gates to the courtyard came to a shuddering close, and Holsley was grateful to have found himself on the other side when it happened. Even though he was pressed face to shoulder with the people around him, they didn¡¯t seem to notice that he was hacking his lungs out and coughing up a storm.


    Holsley hadn¡¯t stopped running since he had jumped out of the window. Three miles easy at a full pace had taken its toll.


    When he had composed himself, he dared to look up. A wall of people, thick with barely a gap to see through, stood between him and the stage. There must have been hundreds of them in the mass with no clear path to the gallows.


    Holsley could listen, however, as he made very slow progress past the caucus of strangers. When they erupted into a cacophony of boos and taunts, he gathered that Roland had been brought out.


    There was no way to see him, though. Holsley was below average height for someone his age, and even if he weren¡¯t, he¡¯d have no chance. How, exactly, was he going to stop this if he couldn¡¯t even see it happening?


    ¡®Just get to the front,¡¯ he told himself. There¡¯d be plenty of time to devise a reasonable plan, but for now, he needed to be ahead of the queue. That was the challenge, of course. It¡¯d be easier to squeeze through the brickwork of a rigid stone wall than this damnable crowd. Whenever he pushed past one person, two more appeared to block his way.


    Only when a rather rude tiefling knocked him back was he roused from his macabre feelings. Holsley squinted. It was the woman from the market! The one that had almost run Holsley over and subsequently given him the finger.


    ¡®That does it,¡¯ he said.


    Holsley stared down at the glinting shine of the ring as he brought it out from his pocket. Roland had wanted it because, he said, it allowed him to slip through tight gaps, like the bars of a prison cell, or maybe, just maybe, Holsley thought, the gaps between a tightly packed crowd.


    ***


    After the long, pointless list of charges was read, Roland was given a moment to compose himself. Even in a city like Tressa, people recognised that everyone is entitled to at least a second of respect as they deliberate over their forthcoming death.


    Roland sighed ¡ª he couldn¡¯t see Holsley. He didn¡¯t know if he was disappointed or relieved.


    The wind blew about him. It was starting to get cold now. Summer was shedding its skin and giving way to proper autumn. Still, there were signs of it. The sky was cloudless, the sun was bright, and there were still green leaves on the trees, though they were in the minority.


    It was funny. Roland couldn¡¯t help thinking about how lucky he was to be hung on such a nice day. He¡¯d spent a month in that rowboat, wishing the sun would go away, and the last week in a dingy cell, hoping it would come back.


    ¡®Do you have any last words?¡¯ The noose came down over his head and was pulled tight around his neck. Enough that he wouldn¡¯t come loose but eased enough that it wasn¡¯t outright choking him. Kythos had asked, but Roland had barely noticed.


    The crowd quietened and leaned in eagerly.


    At first, he thought he wouldn¡¯t say anything. They didn¡¯t want it, and he didn¡¯t want to give it. Then, he thought, why shouldn¡¯t he?


    ¡®You want me to say a few words!?¡¯ Roland bellowed towards them, and the crowd hushed.


    In his experience, the last words of a doomed sinner always reached eager ears. People love them. They discuss their meaning over foaming mugs in much the same way people enjoy discussing poetry. Sometimes, secrets are revealed, which gives the gossips something to gossip about.


    ¡®My name is Roland Darrow, and, like many of you, I was born in this very city. You¡¯ve all been brought here for the same reason, but I¡¯ll recount why for those who were swept up by the crowd. You are here to watch me die by way of hanging, and honestly, I can¡¯t blame you for that. While bleak, it¡¯s about the only good entertainment this city can offer.¡¯


    There were mutterings of agreement.


    Roland suddenly noticed the children sitting at the front. Little boys and girls no older than eight looked up at him with a sense of wonder. They wouldn¡¯t have looked any different if they had been watching a colourful puppet show in the markets.


    It boiled Roland¡¯s blood.


    ¡®So, it saddens me to say that I¡¯m very sorry to disappoint you all!¡¯ Roland shouted and then gave them a sly smile. A knowing smile. Confused mutters rang out amongst the crowd as they looked at one another. ¡®I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ve all made the trip up for nothing. You see, no one is going to die here today and not in the least me. I don¡¯t know why you were gathered or even why the bells were rung, but you¡¯ve been deceived. For me, today is only the start, not the end. My adventure has only just begun.¡¯


    A chorus of laughter erupted across the crowd. Starting at the front until it reached far in the back. Even the tubheads were exchanging chortles. Roland stood there, stoic and smiling against it. They could laugh at him, but he wasn¡¯t dead yet. The guards stepped away, and the executioner got ready with the lever.


    ***


    ¡®WAIT!¡¯


    The ring had worked remarkably well. With it, Holsley had been able to slip through the crowd as if his skin had been coated in butter. Reaching the front was easy, but getting there on time proved to be more difficult.


    He had listened to Roland give his short speech, knowing that time was nearly up, and just before the lever was thrown back, he had managed to stall the proceedings with a well-timed, one-worded cry that drew out all the air from his lungs.


    ¡®YOU!¡¯ Kythos shot an accusing finger towards him. ¡®What are you doing here, grubber!?¡¯


    ¡®J-just wait¡­¡¯ More running. ¡®Please. H-hang on.¡¯


    The crowd was getting restless behind him.


    ¡®What do you want?¡¯ Kythos settled them down with a gesture as he stepped to the platform¡¯s edge. ¡®Make it quick.¡¯


    ¡®To play a song on my lute.¡¯ Holsley held up his instrument, taking in deep and considered breaths as he did so. ¡®Please. Just one song, and then I¡¯ll leave.¡¯


    ¡®Arrest him!¡¯ Kythos barked, and the tubheads behind him immediately stepped into action. They moved towards the crowd to apprehend him. ¡®No one wants to hear your stupid bloody song.¡¯


    ¡®I do!¡¯ Roland shouted above the din. The crowd went quiet. Kythos eyed him. ¡®Let him play his song. My speech was rubbish.¡¯


    ¡®No!¡¯ Kythos barked, motioning to the executioner just as the tubheads reached Holsley. The young bard didn¡¯t retreat, but every time they moved to grab him, he simply slipped out of their grasp. ¡®Now, get on with¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll tell you something,¡¯ Roland blurted out. ¡®One piece of information that I won¡¯t take to my grave. I¡¯ll do it in exchange for one song.¡¯


    Neither the crowd nor Holsley quite knew about the foundations this bargain was being built upon, but they did notice how it made Kythos pause. They watched the bloated tiefling consider it for a moment as he worked his mind towards a decision. After a little piece of the day slipped by, he finally nodded.


    With a grin reaching from ear to ear, Holsley slipped through the last of the audience, almost tripping over a kid¡¯s homemade doll, and made his way towards the gallows.


    ***


    Roland didn¡¯t let his concentration slip on his surroundings. Holsley had learned magic, he reminded himself. None of these tubheads would suspect it. Not here in the north. Whatever the bard was about to do, it must be casting a spell. Why else would he insist on playing his lute before Roland was dropped?


    Kythos moved behind him as Holsley prepared. The rogue heard him whisper to the tubheads nearby. Once Holsley was finished, he told them the young bard was to be arrested and then hanged before Roland¡¯s body had a chance to grow cold. He didn¡¯t know if Kythos had wanted this to be kept a secret, but he thought it more likely that the tiefling had wanted Roland to overhear his sinister plans for his friend.


    Suddenly, the tiefling was at Roland¡¯s ear.


    ¡®You better tell me something good after the song¡¯s finished,¡¯ he said. ¡®Otherwise, I¡¯ll make your friend suffer in the cells first.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll get a piece of what you¡¯re after,¡¯ replied Roland. ¡®Now shut up.¡¯