Present Day
Hastiand the bard wiped the corner of his mouth and glanced at the streak of blood on the back of his hand. He shifted his gaze to the man towering over him. The setting sun obscured his face, but the tone in his voice expressed his mood clearly.
“Come on. Sing it again. I dare you,” said the man.
With mock surprise, Hastiand said, “What? You mean you don’t like music about your ample backside?”
Several onlookers laughed. The man snarled and reached for the club slung on his belt. He had wrapped his fingers around the handle when a voice stopped him.
“That’s enough, Gerald.”
All eyes went to Forstomur, the dwarven chief constable of Estella. His red beard ran down the length of his dark blue shirt and tucked into his belt. He rested his right hand on the pistol at his waist.
“Let him up,” said Forstomur.
Gerald did not move.
“Now!”
Much to Hastiand’s amusement, Gerald grimaced, defeated. He let go of the club. With a sneer, he leaned down and said only loud enough for Hastiand to hear, “Forst can’t protect you everywhere.”
He kicked the bard’s leg, turned and marched through the crowd. With nothing left to entertain them, the onlookers dispersed. Forstomur helped Hastiand to his feet.
“You know you deserved that punch,” said the chief constable.
“Probably.”
“I’m glad you didn’t fight back. My joints have been giving me fits lately. I’d hate to pull something while whupping both your butts.”
Hastiand smirked and wiped the mud off his shirtsleeve. “I’d hate that too. I wouldn’t dream of making life difficult for my favorite officer of the law.”
“Tuh!” said Forstomur in a half-scoff-half-chuckle.
Hastiand rubbed his jaw as he scanned the ground. Spotting what he was looking for, he moved to a group of musty old barrels next to a small stable. Lying in front of the barrels was a mandolin.
Despite a few splashes of mud here and there, the instrument held a sense of majesty about it. The strings and pegs shone as bright as pure gold; their brilliance enhanced all the more by the reflection of the sun’s rays. Ornately etched circular patterns crawled like vines all over the smooth, polished wood of the teardrop-shaped body. The wood itself was the color of dark red cherry. A simple black leather strap connected the peghead to the base.
It was the kind of instrument that made one feel as though a master performer could play the most beautiful and exotic music in the world. That is, until one looked into the sound hole. Shaped like an open eye and holding deep darkness within that seemed to breathe, it made one feel as though it were alive. Alive and hungry.
“I’ll never understand how you can stand that thing,” said Forstomur.
Checking it for nicks and smudges, Hastiand replied, “It’s with this ‘thing’ that I earn my living.”
“Money won’t matter if it sucks your soul in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Ghouls, spirits and silly superstitions are for the common, simple man. I thought you smarter than that, chief constable.”
“Being common and simple has saved my skin more times than I can count.”
Hastiand sighed and looked long at the mandolin. He slung the black leather strap over his right shoulder and turned back to Forstomur.
“It’s high time I moved on. As much as I like Estella, I’d rather not run into Gerald again.”
“Shame. When d’you think you’ll be back through?”
“Who knows?” The bard raised an upturned hand toward the sun. “As the sun and moon chase each other day after day, so do I chase the wind. Wherever it goes, there also must I.”
Forstomur chuckled. “All right. No need to be an ass.”
“A least I’m a smart ass.” Hastiand brushed aside his long black hair and grinned. “And now, I take my leave of this place.”
He bowed low, spreading his arms out as he did. He straightened, winked at Forstomur, and then strode out onto the road toward the outskirts of Estella. The chief constable chuckled as the silly man, tall and lanky as he was, marched so confidently away.
~*~
The horizon covered half of the sun and bathed the landscape in oranges, reds, and golden yellows. The colors flowed amidst the green of the forest as Hastiand passed the last house. Estella sat amongst the trees of a hill a few miles from the western edge of the Darine Valley. To the northwest lay the City of Ire. After walking for another half-an-hour or so, he stopped at the top of a small rise before the trail descended into the valley.
Taking in the scene, he said aloud to no one in particular, “Now that is true art.”
“You are hopeless,” said a voice, dark and harsh.
Hastiand glanced at the neck of the mandolin on his back. “The most hopeless man alive, I’m afraid.”
“Why do you talk like that? It’s irritating.”
“How else should I? I can only talk like myself.”
The mandolin grunted. “Vapid. You did it again.”
“And again, I take pleasure in irritating you.”
“Idiot.”
“If only. Life is much easier for the simple-minded.”
“You mean those who believe in, ‘ghouls and spirits and silly superstitions’? I almost laughed.”
Hastiand frowned. “I happen to like the chief constable. I’d rather he didn’t look too close. He doesn’t deserve the attention of a certain cursed mandolin.”
“You are the one who is cursed. I am simply an instrument.”
“Of course you are,” Hastiand said, annoyed. His mood had soured.
“Aw. Did I upset the clever bard?”
“Quiet.”
“Tsk tsk. Temper, temper.”
“I said—”
Hastiand stopped. Heavy footsteps closed in from behind. Wheeling around, his hand moved to the dagger at his right hip. Before he could draw it out, a large hand gripped his throat, lifted him, and slammed him into a tree. Hastiand winced as his back hit the hard bark. His hazel eyes looked down at his assailant.
Gerald.
“Not so fearless without the constable around, are you?” he said with a smirk.
As Gerald tightened his grip, Hastiand forced out the words, “Stupid...man.”
Another voice, harsh and dark, said, “Ah, just what I needed.”
Seconds later, the scream of a man echoed across the valley.
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