“You dare offer insult to us, you dastardly knave? You must be jesting to provide us with nothing!” The gruff voice bellowed, echoing off the stone walls and sealed gates. Beside me, I could feel Lucan vibrating with outrage as we viewed our ‘guests’.

  “Well, that is contradictory. Either I've given you insult or I've given you nothing. It cannot be both,” I shouted back, a smile playing across my lips. The sun was setting on the second day since my compatriots had headed out on their quest, and I found myself, for the second time, trading barbs at the closed gate of the town. Only this time, I had the pleasure of being on the inside.

  The experience had me understanding Spendlove a little better—it was immensely fun to stand atop the wall and hurl insults.

  “Come down here, filthy minstrel, so I can beat some sense into you. We’ll go easy, and you can be bait for this here creature that’s been troubling this town. Perhaps you can distract it with your little lute and silly words!” The lead man of the cultivators bellowed. The man was dressed in sensible travelling gear, a gambeson and a blade at his side, with a shimmering cloak over his back.

  If the arrogance hadn't made it clear, the cloak marked him as a cultivator. It flowed with light glamour that, I guessed, was meant to make the colour shift to match its surroundings, given the fact it perfectly matched the dull earthen tones of the road.

  There were eight ‘hunters’, all of them Bronze or Wood to my senses. They were a rough-looking band. Those faces that weren’t hidden beneath hoods were grizzled and scarred.

  The sun was setting behind them, casting them all in shadow, which their clothing seemed to drink in. A sinister collection of figures demanding entry to a town I was sworn to protect.

  I'd been wary of them since we'd seen them on the horizon, and now, having the time to examine them, that wariness had grown into full-on suspicion. I noticed that, while their gear was mismatched and cheap, they rode mortal horses that, while nothing compared to the spirit mounts we’d been given, were of top quality—far beyond the means of such a group.

  “Go get this Sir Spendlove gent! Rumour has it he had a bounty out on the beast. We will hunt this creature for him using our great skill. We’ll save this little town. Don’t you people want that?” The lead hunter grinned as he announced his plan. Beside me, I felt Lucan twitch. I looked over at the squire, who bore a brow crinkled in confusion. It seemed Spendlove had tried to deal with the monster issue without involving Lucan or the Artoss.

  He looked at me, likely about to say something, but it was at that moment my aura slipped. My face remained smiling even as the anger crept up my spine. My truth sense confirmed the first part—Spendlove was indeed rumoured to be offering a bounty. That was an irritation, an embarrassment to the Artoss. What had my aura crackling was the lies.

  These people were no hunters. ‘Saving’ this town was the last thing on their minds.

  I met the eye of the lead bandit and smiled, glad that my fae sensibilities only limited my words, not my actions.

  “It seems I should at least take your names to my master. You carry no banner, wear no livery, and have yet to properly introduce yourselves. How am I to know who I address?” I called back. The lead bandit grinned, finally pleased to be getting somewhere.

  “You dare! Why should we be forced to educate a slovenly wretch such as yourself? We are the Golden Hinde!” The man lied proudly, and my smile grew more genuine as I nearly broke out into laughter. Did this group contain the dregs of the band that Bors and Miss Peaches had destroyed? Or were they just using the name, relying on the fact the group was known but news of their demise had yet to spread? My good mood fled as I realised this sealed the deal—these were bandits.

  Looking over the group, I considered my options. If I were a true knight, taking this motley collection of squires would’ve been no issue. For my bardic self, eight on one would be a rough fight, and there was too much potential for damage to the town.

  I was at least finally stocked up on impurities. If I died, I'd return. My strange sense of fullness was back—it would slow my cultivation, though, knowing how quickly I'd pushed forward of late, that wasn't too great a threat.

  It had been a long time coming. I’d used the last couple of days unsupervised to concoct some truly dreadful brews. The Artoss estate had, if anything, been too helpful. The alchemists on staff had been incredibly knowledgeable, and the exact kind of people who’d never have let me create such vile potions. My reliance on impurities was one secret I didn’t dare spread. Only Bors knew of my strange need, and even then, when I’d been forced to explain why I was eating monster cores, I’d only revealed that there was ‘something’ within that I required.

  Scaring the group off wouldn’t be too much of a challenge. They’d come prepared to fight that Pig Iron bastard Spendlove—convincing them I was more trouble than him wasn’t too hard. The bigger fear was what might happen if they slipped away. They could wait nearby and strike once we were gone.

  My powers were not built for killing so many in a short time. A burst of death glamour spread over so many would only weaken them and kill their horses, and then they’d run. I couldn’t chase them in case they—or others—came back to the town.

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  If only the others were back! I’d risked popping out to the river that morning to find the flow of water steadily rising—a sure sign of my comrades' success. I’d hoped they’d already be back by now, but it seemed their return was taking a little longer than their journey out.

  If I discounted violence or seeking aid, well, that left me with only one option. It seemed I must bullshit my way out of the problem.

  “Squire Lucan, please go back to the manor with this news,” I said loudly, and I felt the group's eyes lock onto the other confirmed Bronze.

  “At once.” Lucan was the perfect aide in my deception. He nodded, walking off as if nothing were amiss. He didn’t even give me a confused look, trusting entirely in my orders. I felt him descend the wall, only to encounter, at the base of the stairs, words I’d written on the stones in soot: Bandits. Keep town safe.

  “Now, gentlemen, please forgive your rough reception. Spendlove is the kind of man who’d keep even a column of knights waiting at the gates. In all our conversations, the safety of the town has been a most frequent topic!” I didn’t need to reveal that such concern came from a single conversation full of lies.

  “And he doesn’t greet us because?” The man looked at me warily. Still suspicious, but I could see the group relax as my tone changed. They were quick to believe I was fooled.

  “He retreated to his bedroom, complaining of some illness two nights ago. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since then.” I smiled at the technical truth, and the bandits smiled back. Tension unwound—not only did we believe them, but the pig they hunted was wounded too!

  “I apologise for my earlier rudeness. I am Taliesin, travelling troubadour, singer, and minstrel. While you wait, why don’t I sing you a quick ditty?” I pulled out my lute.

  “If it’s good enough, maybe we won’t gut you like a thunder boar,” one of the others laughed.

  “Thunder boar? He’s no more than a piglet!” another cried, and laughter broke out from the group. The leader’s eyes didn’t leave me.

  “Entertainment is the least you can offer us, bard. But as it’s all your kind is good for, get on with it."

  I stood atop the battlements and smiled. The sun dipped below the horizon. The shadows of the houses and hills stretched over the vista before me. My eyes ran over all the shadows—those on the road, those in the hills, and a smudge of shadow above it all.

  I plucked the strings of my lute and began to play.

  Step light, brave souls, the road does wind,

  Fate’s embrace is close behind.

  The stars above shine fierce and bright,

  Guiding you toward endless night.

  A couple of the thugs clapped or hollered, calling out songs they’d rather hear. I smiled but didn’t stop. Their shouts only made it clearer that they couldn’t sense the gathering death glamour in my lute.

  Your hands hold tools for work, not war—

  Or so you’d claim, but we know more.

  Masks may shift and faces fade,

  But wolves will die beneath the blade.

  I saw the leader stiffen. He alone seemed to be paying attention to the lyrics. His eyes locked onto me, and I could feel him begin to build up his glamour, a ball of swirling air gathering at his fingertips. It disturbed the thin layer of smoke I was spreading around him.

  Your hands bear bows, your coats seem clean,

  Yet shadows cling, whispering all they’ve seen.

  The wolf may wear the shepherd’s guise,

  But I see truth behind your lies.

  “We’re made! Attack!” The man called out, bringing up a hand, some manner of wind blade curling out to strike me. He was too late. I let my fingers fall from the strings and brought the swirling mass of death to bear, funnelling in my anger and resentment towards the callous bandits who dared attack this peaceful place.

  Tis your turn to die.

  I focused my full attention upon him, and my gathered death glamour flowed along the path of my aura. I threw smoke around myself, letting my troubadour’s gear shift to my armour just in time for the wind blade to hit me.

  The strike wasn’t weak, but I was Iron. Wrapped in steel and my glamour-rich smoke, the wind did nothing but push me back an inch and banish the cloud around me. My Harlequin armour was revealed—the small horns and grinning masked helm made the men go pale.

  They turned to their leader, only to see the man slump like a puppet with its strings cut. He slid off his horse and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The horse itself remained frozen, paralysed by the lingering aura and glamour.

  The group looked up at me. I slowly drew my fingers back to the strings of my lute and plucked a chord. Then all was beautiful chaos.

  They tripped over each other in their attempts to flee. Others whipped their horses into a frenzy, trying to escape me. At least one of them just collapsed to the ground, begging for mercy.

  “Oh fuck! That was death glamour!” one shouted.

  “That ain’t no Pig Iron!”

  The group exploded into a desperate attempt to escape the deadly sound. They broke apart into small groups. Those on horseback were outpaced by sudden bursts of speed from those on foot, as their compatriots threw their glamour into their attempts to flee.

  If I had been a lone cultivator, this would have been a disaster. Tracking them down would be next to impossible. However, fate had smiled upon me this day, and what had been mere smudges on the horizon now resolved into familiar forms.

  “Hold or be cut down.” The booming voice froze the runners in their places, while the vast descending shadows caused the horses to buck and panic. The regal forms of Archimedes and Gring descended upon the unlucky hunters.

  They stood no chance. The Order of the Round Table had returned.