Forstomur’s eyes were wide. “Amon Vosh? You’re sure?”

  “You can read it yourself, sir,” Igner said. He placed a piece of parchment on the chief constable’s desk. “A courier from down south brought it while you were out.”

  Forstomur picked up the paper and quickly read it. He read it once more, this time more carefully.

  “The seal looks legitimate,” he finally said, dropping the parchment back on the table. “But, why would he of all people take an interest?”

  “Pardon, sir, but who is he?”

  “A bounty hunter of some renown. He was famous—or should I say infamous—in the criminal underworld some years ago. We’d even heard tales about him back in Ironhelm Shaft. The stories paint him as a boogeyman of sorts. At least, one for those who broke the law. They say he’s been operating for over two hundred years.”

  “Two hundred years? How’s that possible?”

  Forstomur shrugged. “No one knows. Some think he’s one of the gods sent down here to keep order. Others say he’s part of an ancient race of immortals hiding in the shadows. More practical folk, such as myself, believe it’s simply a moniker handed down to different people throughout the years.”

  “Couldn’t they tell from his face?”

  “Now that’s the funny thing. No one knows what he looks like.”

  “Well, it’ll be a piece of cake if he’s on it,” Igner said smiling.

  “Not necessarily.” Forstomur’s voice was grave. “Some of those stories tell of entire towns simply vanishing in the wake of one of Amon’s hunts.”

  Igner’s smile quickly faded.

  Noticing the distress on his deputy constable’s face, Forstomur quickly added, “But, those are just rumors. I mean, how could one man wipe out an entire town by himself?”

  Just then, a crash of thunder rattled the windows and made Igner jump. Rain and hail began to pound the roof.

  “That came on us quicker than I expected,” said Forstomur.

  “I hate storms.” Igner shuddered. “Never could sleep well through the thunder and the rain.”

  “Really? I always liked a good thunderstorm. Nature’s way of showing off.”

  “Maybe, but-”

  Before Igner could finish, the front door swung open and banged against the inside wall. The wind rushed in, extinguishing the lanterns. Forstomur ran to the door and fought the strong wind as he tried to close it. The wind died momentarily, and in that pause, the chief constable pushed on the door, shutting it hard.

  “Igner, drag one of those chairs over here.”

  “Can’t see anything.”

  Forstomur grunted as he felt the wind press on the door once more. “Just grab one of the lanterns under your desk, and be quick about it.”

  “Allow me,” said a new voice.

  Startled, Forstomur jumped away from the door, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he strained his eyes to see. A flash of lightning through the nearby window revealed a tall, dark figure holding the door shut with one hand.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “My apologies,” said the voice. “I did not mean to frighten you, chief constable.”

  Forstomur said with suspicion in his voice, “Who are you and what are you doing in my office?”

  “In a moment. Let’s brighten things up a bit, first.”

  The figure snapped his fingers, and all the lanterns in the room re-lit themselves. Standing before Forstomur was a man draped from neck to toe in a black coat. A mask of the same color covered the lower part of his face. He had short, jet black hair and burnt orange skin. To his surprise, Forstomur noticed that the man had pointed ears and leafy green eyes that carried massive strength behind them.

  The stranger regarded Igner. “The chair, if you please. I’d rather not stand here all night.”

  Igner shot a quick look at Forstomur and then placed a chair in front of the door.

  “Thank you,” said the stranger. He dropped his hand and wandered around the room, stretching his arms and neck as he took in his surroundings. “Quaint little office you have here. Perfect for a quaint little town like Estella.”

  He turned and faced the chief constable. Forstomur noticed that his eyes had changed color from the green to a golden yellow.

  Distracted by this, he almost didn’t hear the stranger say, “You are Forstomur of the prestigious Ironhelm clan if I’m not mistaken.”

  The chief constable grunted.

  The stranger continued, “Former foot soldier during the Werewolf Extermination campaign. Eventually became one of King Grimstane Undermountain’s personal guards. Currently, the chief constable of Estella, a position you took after the king’s unfortunate and untimely death.”

  “That’s enough,” said Forstomur. His face had turned red. “You don’t need to recount my personal history. I repeat my questions: Who are you? What are you doing here?” He paused for a second and said, “And how the blazes do you know all about me?”

  The man seemed to consider for a moment and then moved to Igner’s desk. He sat on one end, crossing his legs and arms.

  He began, “I’ll answer your questions in reverse order. How I know all about you is easy enough. I knew the king long ago before he even became king. Nice enough dwarf, but he was never the same after those werewolves killed half the clan and sparked that nasty Extermination. There is not an insignificant number of dwarves throughout the Underkingdoms who remember the name of Forstomur ‘Wolf Skinner’ Ironhelm. It was from them that I heard about your appointment as sheriff. As to what I am doing here, this should explain that.”

  He reached inside his long coat, retrieved a piece of parchment, and showed it to the dwarf: the wanted poster they had sent out the day before.

  “You should have guessed by now the answer to your first question.”

  Forstomur frowned and said, “That I have. Amon Vosh.”

  Amon grinned underneath his mask. “Correct.”

  “At least now I know how you’ve been around so long. You’re a cragging elf.”

  “Tsk tsk. Language, my dear chief constable.”

  “It’s my office; I’ll say what I like. Why are you here? It can’t be the money.”

  “Let’s just say it’s personal and leave it at that.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “It’s the only one you will get for now. The rest will have to wait. Now, I have questions of my own.”

  Forstomur crossed his arms and studied the bounty hunter.

  “Two questions only, I promise,” said Amon.

  Finally, Forstomur said, “All right.”

  “First question: what did the mandolin look like?”

  The chief constable gave him a quizzical look but described the mandolin anyway.

  Satisfied with Forstomur’s response, Amon said, “Second question: in which direction was the bard headed?”

  “West. Along the road toward Ire.”

  Amon’s eyes narrowed and changed to the color of deep crimson as he said in a low voice, “So he’s searching there is he?”

  Igner asked, “Searching for what, sir?”

  “None of your concern.” To Forstomur, “I would ask that you and your deputy remain in Estella until I return with Hastiand. Allow no one else to follow.”

  “I can’t promise that.” The chief constable leaned forward. “And I still want him alive.”

  “Oh, he will be, trust me. But, it would be better for all involved if no one else followed after him.”

  An underlying current of menace flowed through Amon’s tone. The tales of the bounty hunter’s exploits and the rumors of the devastation that followed in his wake bubbled on the surface of Forstomur’s mind. He thought of the people of Estella, too.

  He sighed and said, “Very well.”

  Amon brightened. “Ep’mhat. Thank you. I have wasted enough of your time. I must be off.”

  With that, Amon spun around, approached the doorway, moved the chair and turned the door handle. As the bounty hunter stepped over the threshold, Forstomur saw that the storm had abated, and a steady pattering of rain fell to the ground.

  Deputy and chief constables were silent for a few minutes before Igner said, “What do you make of that, Forst?”

  Forstomur said nothing but wore a grim look on his face as he watched the rainfall.