They stopped at a stable just inside the city wall. Jarek purchased three thoroughbreds and riding equipment for each. He picked out a huge chestnut gelding for himself, and Addie got a spotted gray mare. It seemed to Satchel that Addie’s horse was nearly as snotty as she was.

  Since Satchel had never ridden a horse, Jarek picked out an old, docile black gelding for him. After they finished packing the horses—and after Satchel had gotten used to pointing his horse in the right direction—the three of them rode out on the Great Northeastern Road.

  The young thief looked back at the city whose walls he had never ventured beyond. He had always wanted to explore the world outside of the city, but now that he was about to, a strange feeling came over him, as though it would be a long time before he ever returned to Ire.

  While they rode Jarek said, “We’ll follow this road until we reach Miner’s Trail. From there we proceed north to Leona.”

  “How long will it take to reach it?” asked Satchel.

  “Five days. Hopefully, we won’t be there for long. It will be a nice stop before we venture through the Koldriff mountains into Arns?th.”

  “Arns?th? What is it like?” said Satchel

  The young thief had read and heard little about Arns?th and the other lands of the Barren North, much less seen anyone from there.

  Jarek smiled and obliged Satchel. He only knew what he had picked up from books and tavern conversation, but would tell what he could. The men of Arns?th were of much greater size than those in Tirian though they were far fewer in number.

  Tirian and Arns?th had long ago developed a cooperative relationship, each providing the other with necessary resources. The sheer size of Arns?than men made it difficult to mine raw minerals, but they worked closely with the men and dwarves of Tirian in mining operations. The Tirians would dig large tunnels and the Arns?thans would haul it out.

  Some of Arns?th’s men even enlisted in the Tirian military. In exchange, Tirian provided scholars to educate the people of Arns?th and food that could not grow in Arns?th’s harsh, cold environment. In times of war, they provided aid to one another. They even shared a common enemy in the great Komjin Empire across the Armendr Sea.

  “You mean like Kazi?” said Satchel.

  Jarek’s eyebrows went up. “You remember that? There may be hope for you yet. Don’t think all its people are like him. In general, they are pleasant, quiet nation. However, they hold personal honor sacred above all else, even to the point of death. As such, their culture is very different from that of Tirian and Arns?th. Their language is also very complex. More than a few disputes have erupted based upon misunderstandings during negotiations.

  “It is for this reason that there is an entire wing of the University at Garbagnon dedicated to the study of the Komji way of life and their language. Scholars from that wing typically become ambassadors. There’s been a five-year period of peace, though I’d hardly call it stable.”

  Addie broke in, “Since when did you know so much about anything outside the Pipes?”

  “You think I’ve never been anywhere else?” Jarek replied.

  “I...I guess I never thought much of it.”

  “I wasn’t always a thief, you know.” Jarek gave her a smile and a wink, and then resumed his discussion of the Komji, Arns?th, and Tirian as they rode.

  It’s strange to see him in such a good mood, Satchel thought. Hoping that Jarek’s good mood would hold out, he kept asking different questions one of which was, “Can you speak Komji?”

  Jarek chuckled and said, “Only enough to find the nearest tavern and bathroom.”

  “Could you at least teach me that then?”

  “We have at least two weeks of travel ahead of us. I don’t see why not.”

  Addie said little throughout the day.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  As the sun began to set, they stopped and set up camp. After they laid out their bedrolls and ate dinner, Satchel turned to Addie to say something.

  Before he could get it out, she snapped, “Don’t pester me. I’ve had to listen to you talking all day, and I’ve had enough.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up!”

  Satchel’s face fell. He wanted to apologize for stealing the packages, but it seemed as though she didn’t even care to speak with him. Dismayed, he lay down on his bedroll and stared at the sky.

  Why does she have to act like that? he thought.

  The twinkling of the stars diverted his thoughts. The stars were so much brighter out here. And so many! The hole in the rock ceiling of the Pipes only allowed a small scrap of the night sky. He imagined making pictures out of the dots of light. It so entranced him that he didn’t even notice that the mandolin’s song has faded from his mind.

  ~*~

  “Why we gotta go so far for this job?” asked Brunk as he slapped a bug that landed on his neck. “Don’t like leavin’ the city if I don’t gotta.”

  The hulking man sat on the other side of the campfire from his two companions; the low embers made his outline visible under the darkness of night.

  “Because, idiot,” said Slin, “when someone pays you a hundred cesteres upfront with a promise of five hundred more for anything, you do it.” His thin, scratchy voice fit his wiry frame perfectly.

  “I still think we should have taken the hundred and run,” said Thek. He poked at the fire; though not as big as Brunk, the stick looked tiny inside his massive grip.

  “Am I going mad,” said Slin, “or do I hear complainin’ from the pair o’ you? This job’s easy money.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ easy about anything involving the old thief.”

  “Then it’s a good thing the brats make it easier for us.”

  “Don’t see how. They all know how to fight.”

  Slin grunted in frustration. “And we don’t? Listen, we finish this, and we’re on the next ship to the southern reaches of the Armendr Sea to live out our days drinkin’ on the beaches and chasin’ women.”

  Thek groaned. “You said that on the last job.”

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “You are,” said Brunk. “We all know that, right Thek?”

  With a sigh, Thek replied, “Yes, we all know.”

  “Now, no more bellyachin'. Brunk, put out the fire.” Slin jabbed a finger at Thek. “You’re on first watch.”

  As Brunk poured water over the fire, Thek sighed again and said, “Yes, boss.”

  ~*~

  Pounding footsteps on the cobblestone street were the only sounds that broke the silent air in Upper Ire’s Temple District. Hastiand ran erratically, desperate to lose his pursuer. This predator would not give up. They moved as swiftly as a mountain lion and had the tenacity to match.

  Hastiand turned down this alley then up that street, knocking over boxes and barrels, anything to slow his hunter. He caught himself abruptly before hitting a high stone wall. Dead end. Hastiand turned around and saw his hunter blocking the only way out. Tufts of breath pumped out like steam from the pursuer’s mask.

  “Time to stop running, Hastiand,” said the hunter.

  Between breaths, the bard said, “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “No. You made the mistake when you killed Gerald Jofferson.”

  He held up a wanted poster. It had Hastiand’s face on it.

  “If you know about Gerald then you know what will happen to you.”

  “I also know that the mandolin is using you.”

  A dark voice made the air feel even colder as it said, “If he knows that much, he’s dangerous. Let me have him, and we’ll be done with it.”

  Hastiand pulled the mandolin around so that the sound hole faced him.

  “Shut up!” he yelled at it. Then, looking back at the hunter, “In a moment it’ll come out, and I can’t hold it back. You need to get out of here!”

  The cloaked man was undeterred. “I know what it can do, and it won’t harm me.”

  He pulled back his hood. Under the moonlight, Hastiand made out short, dark hair and pointed ears. The man’s skin had a strange, orange hue.

  Hastiand felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re an elf!”

  “A Vai’Aneen to be precise,” came the reply.

  A hideous cackle came from the mandolin. It said, “You mean I left one of you sand-eating vermin alive? I’ll have to rectify my mistake.”

  The elf’s voice burned with anger as he said, “Ifnouté! My name is Amon Vosh. On the blood of my ancestors, I will not let you take any more lives.”

  A low hum vibrated the walls and ground as the mandolin began to shake. It levitated, maneuvering itself directly in front of Hastiand. A thin line of yellow light appeared in the middle of the sound hole. It slowly opened to reveal an eye with a black slit in the middle for a pupil. The mustard yellow iris swirled and throbbed as it glowed. Black smoke poured out the sound hole, spilled over the ground and enveloped Hastiand, obscuring him from Amon’s view.

  “No!” cried the bard. “Not again!”

  “Weakling,” said the instrument.

  Hastiand began to waver as the smoke weighed him down. It seeped into his face, making his temples ache and his eyes burn. Sharp pain stretched down into his chest and squeezed his heart.

  Suddenly, white light cut through the smoke. As the dark haze around him peeled back, Hastiand saw that the light came from Amon’s hands.

  “What is this?” screamed the mandolin. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Fight it,” shouted the hunter. “Don’t let it control you!”

  Just as he felt the smoke consume the last bit of his body, one name crossed through Hastiand’s mind: Catherine. He thought only of this name, thought only of her.

  The pain stopped. The smoke began to recede.

  “You will regret this, elf,” said the mandolin, strained. “This isn’t over.”

  The smoke faded back into the mandolin’s soundhole and the eye closed. Hastiand collapsed to the ground, shivering and soaked with sweat.

  Amon ran to his side. “Hastiand! Stay with me, Hastiand.”

  As the bard’s world faded to black, he uttered, “Catherine…I’m sorry.”