Hastiand’s eyes opened slowly. His head ached, and he had that strange haze that always accompanied a terrible night’s sleep.

  “Ugh. You’d think I’d drunk half the ale in Milly’s Tavern,” he said as he rubbed the sides of his head.

  “It’s about time,” said the mandolin. “I’ve never been so bored.”

  “And good morning to you, too,” Hastiand said sourly.

  He brushed the hair away from his eyes and took in his surroundings. He had fallen asleep under a large oak tree several yards away from the road. All around him, lush emerald grass formed a soft, natural carpet. The scent of mid-spring hung in the air. Birds chirped gleefully as they dipped and whooshed around each other. The morning sun peeking over the tops of the trees made the scene all the more radiant but did little to ease his headache. Still, the scene brightened his mood.

  “Disgusting,” said the mandolin. “I hate spring. Makes me wish I had a mouth so I could vomit.”

  Hastiand grimaced as he stood. “Way to ruin the moment.”

  “Quit your whining and let’s go. I can’t stand to be here any longer.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Hastiand stepped to the nearby stream and started washing his hands and face.

  “Hey, are you deaf?” said the mandolin.

  Hastiand did not reply. He made a show of splashing water on his face and rubbing his cheeks and eyes.

  “I know what you’re doing, and it’s childish.”

  Still, the bard did not respond.

  The mandolin growled and began hurling insults at Hastiand. The bard took his time. The louder the instrument’s tirade became, the longer Hastiand took. Finally, the mandolin gave up and stopped talking altogether. Hastiand grinned to himself, satisfied. He finished up and returned to the mandolin.

  He slung the instrument across his shoulder alongside his pack and began marching down the road.

  Aside from the sounds of the forest, he walked in silence for some time before the mandolin said, “You haven’t said anything about last night.”

  Hastiand frowned. “What’s to say? Nothing I haven’t seen before. He sealed his own fate the moment he attacked.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the mandolin, more than a little pleased with itself.

  Hastiand followed the road throughout the rest of the morning, stopping only at midday to munch on a loaf of bread from his pack. Sometime afternoon, they came to a small town near the edge of the wood. Located several miles south and east of Ire, it served as a farming community for the city proper.

  The bard strolled past the first few houses without much notice as people went about their business in the warm afternoon. Several children played with a dirty puppy, women sat together swapping gossip, and young men carried wood or plucked feathers from the day’s hunt. One old man drove a cart past Hastiand, carrying stacks of hay. All in all, a nice, quaint little hamlet. Hastiand could feel the mandolin’s disdain. He lowered his head as one or two people looked at him.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “What’s wrong?” said the mandolin in a playful whisper.

  Hastiand did not answer.

  “That wouldn’t be guilt, would it? I thought you indifferent.”

  Hastiand still said nothing.

  “Playing mute again? That’s fine. I can fill the silence with more discourse on your woeful limitation. Let’s see...how about women? Your luck with--”

  The mandolin stopped because Hastiand had reached back, grabbed the its long neck and started toward a log pile with a heavy ax leaning against it.

  The mandolin chuckled. “You tried that already, remember?”

  “Maybe I just didn’t hit hard enough.”

  “You know the one thing that will end your curse as well as I.”

  “It’ll make me feel better.”

  “A crazy bard swinging away at a musical instrument that won’t break? I thought you didn’t want to draw any attention.”

  Hastiand stopped. His grip tightened around the neck. He began to tremble.

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “I know I must keep you until what must be done is done. But, until then I would appreciate it if you would kindly shut up!”

  “Um, you okay, mister?” said a new voice.

  Startled, the bard turned and looked down. A blonde boy, about six years of age, stood a few feet away staring at him with a perplexed look.

  Hastiand adopted a smile and said, “Sorry, I was...rehearsing for a play I have to perform later and got carried away.”

  “Oh, okay. Have fun with your play, mister crazy man.” With that, the little boy ran off down the road.

  After a few moments, the mandolin said, “That was a close one. You ought to be more careful.”

  Hastiand sighed and thought to himself, Just two more. Only two more. Then I’ll be rid of this thing.

  His eyes shifted to the road, then upward to the mountain. There, above the tops of the trees, nestled firmly on the side of the mountain was the city of Ire. He slung the mandolin back on his shoulder, pulled the hood over his head and walked on with his head down.

  ~*~

  “I don’t like it. The way his body looks lying there like that. Isn’t natural.” Dricbal, the gravedigger and town handyman shook his head as he said spoke.

  Forstomur frowned, keeping his eyes on the body lying on the ground. Janice, the butcher’s daughter, had been out for a morning stroll when she stumbled upon Gerald’s body. It had taken half an hour to calm her down.

  His eyes moved to the round, pear-shaped man leaning over the body.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I can’t tell what killed him,” Doctor Nielburg replied, shaking his head. “Strangest thing. No wounds. No signs of strangulation. Poison maybe. Heart attack? Can’t tell you more until I get him back to town.”

  Forstomur frowned again, irritated. He motioned to a couple of men behind him.

  “All right, boys,” he said. “Put him in the cart. And cover up the body for crying out loud.”

  The men worked quickly. Dricbal jumped onto the front of the cart as soon as they had loaded the body. The doctor climbed in beside him and with a click of Dricbal’s tongue, the horse pulled forward as the other men followed behind.

  Forstomur stepped closer to the spot where Gerald had been and inspected the impression left in the grass. Then he noticed something else: a pair of prints in the dirt at the base of the tree that did not belong to Gerald. His eyes moved up the trunk of the tree and stopped where some of the bark had recently been chipped away.

  He stood in silence for a few minutes, thinking. Forstomur knew that instrument was behind this somehow. He also knew what he had to do, even if he didn’t like it. He cursed and started walking toward town.

  ~*~

  The door to the constable’s office slammed as Forstomur flung it open, startling Igner, junior constable of Estella. Igner stared wide-eyed as the dwarf stomped into the building and approached him.

  “Wipe that look off your face and prepare a notice,” said the Forstomur.

  “Yes sir!” Igner blurted.

  He opened the top drawer on the right side of his desk, fumbled for a piece of parchment and his quill. Dabbing it for ink, he readied himself to transcribe whatever the chief constable said.

  A sternness filled Forstomur’s voice. “Wanted Alive: Hastiand the Bard for questioning regarding the death of Gerald Jofferson of Estella. Description: a man, tall and thin with long black hair and a small beard. Carries a red mandolin.”

  “How much for a reward, sir?”

  “Fifty hundred cesteres.”

  “F-five-”

  “Just write it down!”

  Igner followed the orders, still in complete bewilderment. Nothing like this had ever happened.

  “Get it out as soon as possible,” continued the dwarf. “Find all the couriers in town you can.”

  Forstomur marched to his office and shut the door. He sat at his desk and rubbed his forehead. After a few moments, he said to no one in particular, “What happened out there, Hastiand?”