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“we would like to hear a song or two from the bard Armulyn. We beseech your lordships this trite pleasure, for which we will give you our eternal thanks and servitude.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” Tink muttered with a sideways glance at the Fangs, whose scaly smirks showed how much they were enjoying the mayor’s groveling. One of the Fangs nodded and let out a slithery growl that polluted the air like smoke.
    â€œWe thank you, kind masters.” Mayor Blaggus cleared his throat. His tone changed abruptly to the regal, inflated voice he had used for many years before the Great War. “My dear friends and neighbors, an honor rarely bestowed has risen on us like a warm sun,” he announced. “Armulyn the Bard, tale-spinner of the imaginary Shining Isle of Anniera, has chanced to join us in Glipwood on this fine day. He has accepted my invitation to perform for us. Please welcome this son of Skree to Glipwood by the Sea. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Armulyn the Bard!”
    A bedraggled man stepped up to the wagon with a worn whistleharp 5 under one arm. The smile on his leathery face reminded Janner of a mischief-minded little boy about to disobey. Armulyn winked at the crowd and bellowed, “Hello, dear Skreeans! Fangs are ugly!”
    The applause ceased abruptly, and the four Fangs standing at the edge of the crowd roared a chilling roar and rushed, hissing, toward the bard.

7
    Barefoot and Beggarly
    J anner felt a sheen of cold sweat break over him like a fever. It took him a moment to realize what he’d just heard. Had Armulyn just insulted the Fangs? Amidst the waters of his shock was a splash of surprise that the beggarly man on the platform was in fact the famous storyteller. Was there some mistake? Surely Armulyn the Bard would at least be wearing shoes, he thought. And by the filthy, callused look of the man’s feet, Janner could see that he rode no horse but walked wherever he went. If not for the weatherworn whistleharp in his hands and the deep waters of his eyes, Janner would have believed the man was an impostor.
    The Fangs pushed Glipfolk aside and bounded toward the wagon, drawing their swords as they ran. Janner’s whole body tightened, and he tried to tear his eyes away from the moment when the Fangs reached Armulyn. Many in the crowd emerged from their shock in time to scream.
    But the bard merely stood on the wagon and smiled. As the Fangs neared, Armulyn strummed his whistleharp and raised his voice in song. The Fangs faltered, jerked to a stop, and crouched before Armulyn, trying in vain to cover their ears and wave their swords at him at the same time.
    â€œSssilence!”
one of them hissed.
    Armulyn stopped singing and raised his eyebrows at them, as if annoyed at the interruption.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCareful,
bard,
” the Fang spat. “It would be nothing for us to chop you into bits and gobble you in a broth.”
    Armulyn gazed at their sinister faces with that same reckless smile. “I doubt you’d like the taste of me. I’m wiry and ill fed.” The only sound was the rattle of leaves in the wind. “Will that be all?” the Bard said after a moment, lifting the whistleharp to play again.
    The Fangs stood frozen, but Janner thought he saw their black eyes shift sideways at the throng of people surrounding them on the green.
    â€œEnjoy your petty songs,” the lead Fang growled. He turned to the crowd. “And we will enjoy killing you all the moment Gnag the Namelesss decides he is finished with you. May that day come quickly.” The Fang’s tongue flitted out between his long narrow teeth, and his mouth curled upward in a grin. He clacked his teeth together and hissed at a little girl cowering at her parents’ feet as those surrounding her on the field looked down at the ground or closed their eyes. The Fang who had spoken spat on the grass and moved away, his three companions following with