The Thief and the Red Mandolin: The Black Armor Tales, #1

By Samuel A Mayo

An ancient evil trapped within a mandolin wants to break free. Hastiand the bard carries this burden hoping to bring back the love he lost. Satchel the thief longs to see the world outside his home, but Jarek, his mentor holds him back. When the paths of the bard and the thief collide, it sparks a journey for each that will test their mettle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Tapestry Press
• Release date: May 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393338796

Samuel A Mayo

Sam Mayo was born the day after Christmas in 1982. He currently lives in the Midwest with his family and their weird pets. He writes stories of adventure that mix science fiction and fantasy.

Book preview

The Thief

and

The Red Mandolin

Book 1 of The Black Armor Tales

Samuel A. Mayo

COPYRIGHT © 2009, 2017, 2020 by Samuel A. Mayo.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

Dark Tapestry Press

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

The Thief and The Red Mandolin/ Samuel A. Mayo. – 3rd ed.

As before, as always, for Michelle.

About the Author

Sam began creating stories at a young age. In high school, he wrote a few short pieces (they were terrible). In college, he wrote several more short pieces (also terrible). In 2008, he finished a draft of the fantasy-adventure novel, The Thief and Red Mandolin (not as terrible). He self-published it in 2009. He has written a few more books and several short stories, some of which have been published in anthologies.

Sam splits his time between writing, working in a cubicle, and Tae Kwon Do. He also occasionally contributes articles to CarboardCarnage.com.

When time allows, he enjoys playing video and tabletop games and hanging out with his awesome wife and daughter. They live in the American Midwest with their overweight cat and overly-sensitive dog.

Life is good.

For information on other works by the

author, please visit him online at samuelmayo.com.

Map of Satchel's Journey

Glossary

Cesteres:: The standard currency of the Tirian Hegemony, it is made of silver. A typical day's wage is five cesteres.

Coppers: The lowest form of currency in Tirian. Ten coppers are equal to one cestere.

Ep’mhat (Epp-uhm-hawt): Vai’Aneen term for Thank you

Ifnouté (Eef-no-tay): Vai’Aneen word that means demon or devil

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Journal of Amon Vosh  (Vol. 88, Entry #47):

Chapter 1 The Bard

Chapter 2 The Thief

Chapter 3 Dead Body, Angry Girl

Chapter 4 The Bounty  and The Deal

Chapter 5 Market Day

Chapter 6 The Fight in the Alley

Chapter 7 The Journey Begins

Chapter 8 Respite in Temna

Chapter 9 Snag

Chapter 10 The History of the Vai’Aneen, Part 1

Chapter 11 Campfires and Death

The Journal of Amon Vosh  (Vol. 88, Entry #48):

Chapter 12 The History of the Vai’Aneen, Part 2

Chapter 13 The Barbarian

Chapter 14 Basco

Chapter 15 The Head of Do’Grum

Chapter 16 Dreaming of Catherine

Chapter 17 Dancing and Magic

Chapter 18 Basco’s Party

The Journal of Amon Vosh  (Vol. 89, Entry #9):

Chapter 19 Disclosure and  Epiphany

Chapter 20 The Memory Sphere

Chapter 21 The Swamp and  The Fear

Chapter 22 Predictions

Chapter 23 The Black Armor

The Journal of Amon Vosh  (Vol. 89, Entry #12):

Chapter 24 Training’s End

Chapter 25 The Arnsøthan and The Ring

Chapter 26 The Search

Chapter 27 The Cathedral

Chapter 28 Knight Errant

Chapter 29 Ballad of the  White Knight

Chapter 30 Flight from Leona

Chapter 31 Decisions

Chapter 32 Brunland

Chapter 33 Captain Sebastion

Prologue

Fourteen Years Ago

Situated atop a large plateau jutting out from the southern face of Kaduin, the largest of the Caster Mountains, was the ancient and proud city of Ire. Several hundred feet below, a five-mile wide corridor of farmland stretched like a patchwork blanket through the middle of Darine Valley all the way down to the Gulf of Segriar. Forests of dense cedar trees on either edge of the farmlands made the passage in and out of the valley difficult save for the trade routes that twisted and turned with the contour of the land. On a clear day, one could just make out the shimmer from the ocean from just outside Ire's gates.

What began as a simple outpost established by General Gonford Ire during the Great Goblin War had morphed over the centuries into a mighty, fortified city. A gray stone wall, one hundred feet high and thirty feet thick, ran along the edge of the wide semicircular plateau and ended as both extremities met the side of the mountain. Towers rose up at various points along the wall, each of them stationed by guards armed with steam rifles and vapor cannons ready to punish any foe that dared attack the city. A single road wound its way up the mountain arriving at a wide gate flanked on either side by halberd-bearing soldiers made of granite. Massive black iron doors, plated with decorative brass, served as the only entrance and exit.

Like many ancient cities, Ire had seen its share of good times and bad; times of growth as well as times of decline. The tranquil beauty and rich natural resources of the valley combined with the city’s strategic location on the mountain made it the site of many battles across multiple wars.

Around one hundred years ago, a massive army laid siege to the city. Ire's governor at the time showed his dedication to the people by bravely hollowing out a small refuge for himself within the mountain. However, several of Ire's citizens discovered what he had done and word spread quickly. Fearing the wrath of his people more than the invaders, the governor quickly surrendered the city. As a reward, the city's new rulers beheaded him. They then took the governor’s idea a step further and expanded the one-room refuge into a bunker that could house a small company of soldiers with enough supplies to last six months.

Since then, each successive leader of the city applied different ideas to the excavation of the mountain. At times, it served as a storehouse, other times as a private haven. Over time, the city expanded the caves. Eventually, the network of tunnels, corridors, and rooms became just as large as the city on the outside. After a series of harsh winters and terrible battles, the majority of the people made the caves their home. They routed pipes of all kinds to support life inside the city within the mountain. Each home had access to water, plumbing, steam, and natural gas. Lanterns fueled by gas lines provided lighting. The city within the mountain became known as Pipework City, or to most of its residents, the Pipes.

Finally, an era of peace settled across the land of Tirian and life within Ire changed. Hegemony had been established. The city, now free to expand culturally and financially, prospered. In time, wealthier citizens, tired of the cramped corridors and tight spaces, claimed the outside portion of the city as their own and named it Upper Ire. In place of armories and barracks, they built great mansions and established shops, amenities, and restaurants more suited to their taste.

After a rash of high profile thefts and murders, the new nobility reinforced the guard and restricted access from the Pipes. However, they soon realized they had a problem: the majority of what they needed to sustain daily life resided within the Pipes. The out city needed workers, and the people inside the Pipes needed supplies from the outside world. Discontent between the two cities eventually gave way to outright hostility in the form of strikes and small-scale brawls.

Finally, a riot broke out at the checkpoint between Upper Ire and the Pipes. The nobles quelled the riot, but they knew it would not keep if they simply let it lie. The leaders of both cities held a parley. The nobles wanted to maintain a clean Upper Ire, one without the constant threat of crime from the denizens of the Pipes. Those in the Pipes wanted opportunities to flourish, which meant little to no restriction on the flow of supplies, and they wanted to be treated as equal citizens. A pass system was created, admitting only those denizens of the Pipes who either had sponsorship from a noble or raised enough money to purchase a pass. Even with the deal struck that day, distrust and animosity remained between the two cities.

Deep within the furthest reaches of the Pipes, past the main water flow-control station and the master sewage pump, a series of abandoned tunnels lay. Some years ago, the city closed them down due to rising maintenance costs.

From somewhere among these tunnels, a small whimper echoed off the walls and the hollow, unused pipes, startling Jarek. He had just been paid for stealing a painting from a mansion in Upper Ire and was counting the money for the third time when the sound reached him.

Though educated enough to blend in with the nobles, Jarek found solace among the tight, cramped hallways and passages of the Pipes. Through some creative rerouting of pipelines, he set up his home in this deserted corner of the caves. Few people cared enough to venture out this way except for the occasional curious child, but they were easy enough to frighten away. So, when Jarek heard that whimper ring throughout the caves it set him on edge. Unsheathing his knife, he crept silently out of his room and into the corridor. The lighting was dim at best, but his eyes were used to this environment. Even so, he could not identify the source of the noise.

He had nearly chalked it up to imagination when he heard it again. Moving in a stealthy gait honed through years of experience and training, Jarek made his way in the direction of the sound. A third whimper, much louder than the first two, told him he was close. A fourth that he had nearly stepped on it. He drew out his small lantern to get a better look.

The flare of the match made Jarek’s eyes flinch as he lit the wick. A sphere of light shone in the dark passageway revealing the dry, cracked walls. At his feet lay a brown leather bag with a wide shoulder strap. The bag bulged as though stuffed with a large pillow.

Suddenly, the bulge moved. Jarek jumped backward, almost dropping the lantern. He readied his knife and was about to stab the bag when it made another noise more distinct than before. Barely believing his ears, he sheathed the knife and reached for the bag. He undid the clasp, lifted the flap with one hand, and raised his lantern over it.

Within the bag lay a small baby boy.

The Journal of Amon Vosh

(Vol. 88, Entry #47):

Another sleepless night has passed. Not that sleep would do me much good; the nightmares see to that. This vicious cycle has instilled within me fatigue that buries itself in my bones. My mission began so long ago now that I can scarcely remember my life before. It is as though I was born with it planted in my brain.

Two centuries. For two centuries, I have chased the accursed instrument across this continent. A least a dozen times a day, I wonder why I continue. But, then the memories come flooding back, clear as day.

The bodies. The ruins. They replay themselves before my mind’s eye. The final image of this dark and twisted show is the mandolin, its horrible eye staring into mine. At this, my resolve returns like the turning of the key that winds the spring of an automaton, driving me onward.

I know the thing's purpose. The creature within wishes to be free. All its will is bent on this. This simply cannot be. No other outcome can satisfy me than its complete and utter destruction. Then irony strikes: in this mentality, the mandolin and I are the same. We would each do everything in our power to accomplish our task.

It is what makes it—and me—so very dangerous.

Chapter 1

The Bard

Present Day

Hastiand the bard wiped the corner of his mouth and glanced at the streak of blood on the back of his hand. He shifted his gaze to the man towering over him. The setting sun obscured his face, but the tone in his voice expressed his mood clearly.

Come on. Sing it again. I dare you, said the man.

With mock surprise, Hastiand said, What? You mean you don't like music about your pimply backside?

Several onlookers laughed. The man snarled and reached for the club slung on his belt. He had just wrapped his fingers around the handle when a voice stopped him.

That’s enough, Gerald.

Everyone looked in the direction of the voice and saw 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. Eventually, 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 as 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 trouble 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 miserable 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 otherwise smooth, polished wood that made up 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 produce from it the most beautiful and exotic music in the world. Until one looked into the soundhole. 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 to carry that thing around, 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.

I think 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 shall 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 could not help but chuckle as the silly man, tall and lanky as he was, marched so confidently away.

THE HORIZON COVERED half of the sun, bathing the landscape in oranges, reds and golden yellows flowing amidst the green of the forest as Hastiand passed the last house. Estella sat amongst the trees of a hill a few miles from the western edge of the Darine Valley. To the northwest lay the City of Ire. After he had walked for another half-an-hour or so, he stopped at the top of a small rise just before the trail descended sharply 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 always 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 nearly laughed.

Hastiand frowned. I happen to like the chief constable. I’d rather he didn't look too closely. He doesn't deserve the attention of a certain cursed mandolin.

You are the one that is cursed. I am simply an instrument.

Of course you are, Hastiand said flatly. 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 on his right side. Before he could draw it out, a large hand gripped his throat, lifted him and slammed him into a tree. Hastiand winced as his back hit the hard bark. His hazel eyes looked down at his assailant.

Gerald.

Not so fearless without the constable around are you? he said with a smirk.

As Gerald tightened his grip, Hastiand forced out the words, Stupid...man.

Another voice, harsh and dark, said, Ah, just what I needed.

Seconds later, the scream of a man echoed across the valley.

Chapter 2

The Thief

The lights had just gone out in the rest of the Pipes, but a dim gray light permeated Ledion Square. When the flames of the gaslights finally died down, the full moon shone through the hole in the rock ceiling high overhead and bathed the fountain situated directly below with silvery light.

In a dark corner near the butcher shop, Satchel had been waiting for at least an hour. His eyes drifted back to the guardhouse near the checkpoint that led to Upper Ire. A citywide curfew was in effect, and only the guards were allowed in the square when the lights went out. Anyone else caught there after dark spent a night in jail if they were lucky. This was Satchel’s first job as a thief without Jarek’s supervision. The last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end of a guardsman’s club. At the moment, none of the guards watched the square.

Probably playing Euchre, Satchel thought.

Just then, his ears just barely picked up the sound of light footsteps. He kept his breathing slow to calm his nerves. The footsteps grew steadily louder. A hooded figure suddenly appeared directly in front of him. He held his breath and willed every muscle in his body to freeze in place. To his relief, the figure did not look in his direction, their attention focused on the other side of the square.

The figure's head looked this way and that, searching. Something near the fountain caught their attention, but Satchel could not make out what. The figure moved toward the fountain with the same nearly silent gait as before, keeping to the darker areas of the square.

Satchel abandoned his hiding place and followed, minding his steps. As he drew nearer, he noticed another figure crouched beside the fountain. The first figure met the second. Short, furtive whispers followed. Satchel ducked inside an especially dark shadow beside a stack of crates, a place that put him just within earshot of the conversation.

This is too open, said the first.

To Satchel’s surprise, it sounded familiar, but he could not quite place it.

Do you have it? said the second figure, ignoring the question. The voice belonged to an older man. It carried an air of weariness.

Yes. And you?

Then it struck Satchel. He recognized the voice now. It belonged to a girl.

Involuntarily, he said in a low breath, Addie? He put a hand over his mouth, but if either of the people by the fountain heard him, they made no indication. He tightened his jaw and listened more intently than before.

The man searched around inside his cloak and produced something, but Satchel could not see what.

Here, said the man. But, why is a girl like you-

None of your business, said Addie, sharply.

Suit yourself.

New sounds from somewhere else in the courtyard piqued Satchel’s ears. Shuffling feet. Lots of feet. The clink of metal armor. The hard click of a bullet entering a steam rifle's chamber.

His heart began to thud against his chest. Guards. Stay or leave? he thought. The payoff was good but is he was caught...

Satchel took in a quick breath, made his decision and began to move. His body went into automatic, honed through years of rigorous training and work as a pickpocket.

His quick feet and even quicker hands made the rest of the world slow down. The timing was flawless. Passing through the narrow gap between Addie and the cloaked man, Satchel grabbed both packages at the exact moment of the hand-off and sprinted away without missing a beat. The two victims were stunned for a full second before reacting.

Then the courtyard exploded with sound as guards rushed in. Thudding boots, bustling armor, and the cocking of gun hammers melded with barking orders, creating a discordant symphony that echoed through the square.

As Satchel neared the edge of the courtyard, a guard spotted him and broke rank to stop the young thief. Too easy. With a quick step and well-placed foot, Satchel bypassed his assailant and tripped him at the same time. He exited the courtyard, tucking the packages into the empty pocket on his pack as he went. The young thief wound his way through narrow passages to lose any pursuers.

Even in the dark, Satchel knew the tunnels by heart. He breathed a sigh of relief when the rusty iron grate that led to the sewers came into view.

As he passed a nearby alley, a hand shot out, grabbed his arm and swung him toward the wall. Instinctively, Satchel kicked up a foot and pushed right as he neared the stone, softening the impact. He pulled out his dagger and slashed at the arm that held him.

Instead of flesh, he hit metal. It jarred his hand and made him drop his knife.

A voice said, The more you struggle, the tighter I squeeze.

Satchel stopped moving and gazed up at the imposing figure. Jarek.

Old Man?

Fourteen years and still no respect. He released his grip on Satchel. You and I need to have a chat.

The young thief rubbed his arm where his mentor had grabbed him. He had once seen Jarek’s mechanical left arm crush a man’s wrist, so Satchel knew that he got