The War Of The Lance (23 page)

*****

Guarinn Hammerfell stood at the center of a maelstrom of wild moaning and screaming.
GUARINN! HELP HIM! Hands clawed at him, shreds of livid flesh falling away to expose bones
as white and brittle as ice. THE WOLF IS KILLING HIM! Hollow voices accused him, and the
foul names - child-killer! murderer! faithless friend! - turned the ice-mist filling his
lungs to poison.

A wind rose to pound at him, tear at him, with such violence that even the dead hands,
shedding tattered flesh, rattling bones, fell away before it. Howling, screaming,
deafening wind.

ROULANT! Familiar with everyone who haunted this nightmare realm, Guarinn knew that name
had no business being spoken here. He snatched at it, clutched it tight for a lifeline. He
was choking, fighting for air, falling . . . and staggering on the deer trail, his axe
clenched tight in his fist.

The wolf lunged again at Roulant, leaping for his throat. In the only instant of sanity he
might get before the dead snatched him back into the Spoiler's trap, Guarinn sighted,
threw, and didn't miss.

The wolf fell to the ground, its spine severed. Hard and dark, the beast's eyes held
Guarinn for a long moment. Then they softened, and the night filled up with silence.

The dying wolf became man. A moment, the man had,

and he used it to speak. Only whispered words, barely heard.

“Roulant... are you hurt?”

Roulant ignored the question. “Thorne! You're . .. dying! No, Thorne. This isn't how it's
supposed to be! You said...”

Thorne smiled, shifting his gaze to Guarinn.

“You,” Thorne said. “Old friend, you knew I wouldn't survive, didn't you?”

Guarinn heard grieving, Una and Roulant, one sobbing softly in shock and the aftermath of
terror, the other offering comfort in the face of his own astonished grief.

“And you killed the wolf. Knowing.” Thorne closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

Guarinn lifted his friend's hand and held it, very gently, close against his heart until
he felt the last pulse, and some time longer after that.

*****

Limping, leaning on Una for support, Roulant knelt beside his friends, the living and the
dead.

He and Guarinn and Una knelt together as snow began to fall, listened to dawn-wind
singing. It held no echo of wolfish howling. The Night of the Wolf was over, and Roulant
saw the peace of it in Guarinn's smile.

It was just after MIDSUMMER'S, ON a fine, golden morning, when the seller of potions came
to the town of Faxfail.

Perched precariously upon the high bench of a peculiar-looking wagon, he drove through the
borough's narrow, twisting streets. The wagon, pulled by a pair of perfectly matched
dappled ponies, was a tall, boxlike craft all varnished in black and richly decorated with
carved scrollwork of gilded wood. On the wagon's side panel, painted in a fantastically
brilliant hue of purple, was the picture of a bottle above which was scribed, in flowing

letters of serpentine green, three strange words: MOSSWINE'S MIRACULOUS ELIXIRS. It was a
mysterious message indeed, and startled the townsfolk who looked up from their morning
tasks and chores in curiosity as the wagon rattled by.

The seller of potions himself was a young-looking man, with hair the color of new straw
and eyes as blue as the summer sky. He was clad in finery fit for a noble - albeit in hues
a bit brighter than most nobles would choose - and his dark, crimson-lined cape billowed
out behind him in the morning breeze. He waved to the townsfolk as he passed by, his broad
grin rivalling the sun for sheer brilliance.

On the hard wooden bench next to the seller of potions bounced a short, swarthy-looking
fellow. His look was not nearly so cheerful as his companion's, but then this was only
typical. He was a dwarf, and it has often been said that dwarvenkind is every bit as hard
and unyielding as the metals dwarves are so fond of forging deep in their dim mountain
smithies. This particular dwarf wore a dour expression, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over
his iron- gray eyes in a scowl. His coarse black beard was so long he wore it tucked into
his broad leather belt, and his shaggy hair was bound with a leather thong into a braid
behind his neck.

“You know, you're going to scare the townsfolk out of what little wits they have with that
sour look you're wearing,” the seller of potions said quietly to the dwarf through
clenched teeth, all the while grinning and waving. “It won't do us a great deal of good if
they all take one look at you and go scurrying inside to bolt their doors. At least, not
until after we have their money. I don't suppose you could smile for a change, could you?”

“I am smiling,” the dwarf answered in a gruff voice. His craggy visage was not quite as
warm and friendly as a chunk of wind-hewn granite, but almost.

The seller of potions eyed the dwarf critically. “Maybe you shouldn't try so hard,” he
suggested lightly, but the joke was completely lost on the dour-faced dwarf. The seller of
potions sighed and shook his head. His name was Jastom, and he had traveled with this
particular dwarf long enough to know when argument and teasing were pointless. The dwarf's
name was Algrimmbeldebar, but

over the years Jastom had taken to simply calling him Grimm. Not only did the name slip
more readily from the tongue, it also suited the dwarf's disposition far better.

Rumors sped faster than sparrows through the towns narrow streets, and by the time the
wagon rolled into Fax- fail's central square, a sizeable crowd of curious townsfolk had
gathered expectantly. It wouldn't be the largest audience Jastom had ever hawked potions
to, but it wouldn't be the smallest either. Faxfail was a town deep in the Garnet
mountains of southern Solamnia. The nearest city of consequence - that would be Kaolyn -
was a good three day's journey to the north and west. These were country folk. And country
folk tended to be far more trusting than city folk. Or gullible, depending upon one's
choice of words.

“I suppose this means I'll have to mix more elixirs,” Grimm grumbled, eyeing the growing
throng. The dwarf opened a small panel behind the bench and nimbly disappeared inside the
wagon.

Concocting potions was Grimm's task; selling them was Jastom's. It was an arrangement that
had proven quite profitable on their journeys from one end of Ansalon to the other. The
two had first met some years before, in the markets of Kalaman. At the time, neither had
been making a terribly good living for himself. Even Jastom's brilliant smile and
ingenuous visage had not been enough to interest folk in the crude baubles he was
attempting to foist off as good luck charms. And as for the dwarf, his gloomy, glowering
looks tended to keep potential customers well away from the booth where he was trying to
sell his elixirs. One night, the two had found themselves sharing a table in a tavern,
each lamenting his particular misfortune over a mug of ale. Both had realized that each
had what the other lacked, and so their unlikely but lucrative partnership was born.

The wagon rolled to a halt in the center of the town's square, and Jastom leapt
acrobatically to the cobbles. He bowed deeply, flourishing his heavy cape as grandly as a
court magician, and then spread his arms wide.

“Gather 'round, good folk of Faxfail, gather 'round!” he called out. His voice was clear
as a trumpet, honed by years of hawking wares until it was as precise as the finest
musical instrument. "Wonders await you this day, so

gather 'round and behold!" From out of nowhere (or, in fact, from out of his

sleeve) a small purple bottle appeared in Jastom's upturned palm. A gasp of amazement
passed through the crowd as folk young and old alike leaned forward to peer at the odd
little bottle. The morning sunlight sparkled through the purple glass, illuminating a
thick, mysterious-looking liquid within.

“Wonders indeed,” Jastom went on, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper that was
nonetheless audible to even the most distant onlookers. “After just one sip of this
precious potion, all your aches and ailments, all your malingering maladies and ponderous
pains, will vanish as though they had never been. For a mere ten coins of steel” - a
dismissing gesture of his hand made this particular detail seem of the barest significance
- “this bottle of Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir will heal all!”

This last, of course, was not precisely true, and Jastom knew it. He and Grimm were
charlatans. Fakes. Swindlers. The potion in the purple bottle couldn't so much as heal a
rabbit of the sniffles let alone any of the dire ills he was claiming. Mosswine wasn't
even Jastom's real name. It was Jastom Mosswallow. However, by the time folk in any one
place realized the truth of things, Jastom and Grimm would always be long gone, headed for
the next town or city to ply their trade.

It wasn't at all a bad business as Jastom reckoned things. He and Grimm got a purse full
of coins for their efforts, and in return the folk they duped got something to believe in,
at least for a little while. And these days even a brief hope was a rare thing of worth.

It was just six short months ago, in the dead of winter, that all of Krynn had suffered
under the cold, hard claws of the dragonarmies. The War of the Lance had ended with the
coming of spring, but the scars it had left upon the land - and the people - had not faded
so easily as the winter snows. The folk of Ansalon were desperate for anything that might
help them believe they could leave the dark days of the war behind, that they could heal
themselves and make their lives whole once again. That was exactly what Jastom and Grimm
gave them.

Of course, there were true clerics in the land now, since the War. Some were disciples of
the goddess

Mishakal - called Light Bringer - and they could heal with the touch of a hand. Or at
least so Jastom had heard, for true clerics were still a rarity. However, he and Grimm did
their best to avoid towns and cities where there were rumored to be clerics. Folk wouldn't
be so willing to buy false healing potions when there was one among them with the power of
true healing.

Abruptly, there was a loud, surprising clunk! as the wagon's side panel flipped downward,
revealing a polished wooden counter and, behind it, a row of shelves lined with glimmering
purple bottles. Grimm's glowering eyes barely managed to peer over the countertop, but the
crowd hardly noticed the taciturn dwarf. All were gazing at the display of sparkling
elixirs.

Jastom gestured expansively to the wagon. “Indeed, my good gentlefolk, just one of these
elixirs, and all that troubles you will be cured. And all it costs is a mere ten coins of
steel. A small price to pay for a miracle, wouldn't you say?”

There was a single moment of silence, and then as one the crowd gave a cry of excitement
as they rushed forward, jingling purses in hand.

*****

All morning and all afternoon the townsfolk crowded about the black varnished wagon,
listening to Jastom extol the wondrous properties of the potions and then setting down
their cold steel on the counter in trade for the small purple bottles.

There was only one minor crisis, this around midday, when the supply of potions ran out.
Grimm was busily scurrying about inside the cramped wagon, measuring this and pouring that
as he hurriedly tried to mix a new batch of elixirs. However, a few burly, red-necked
farmers grew impatient and began shaking the wagon. Jars and bottles and pots went flying
wildly inside, spilling their contents and covering Grimm with a sticky,
medicinal-smelling mess. Luckily, the dwarf had managed to finish a handful of potions by
then, and Jastom used these to placate the belligerent farmers, selling them the bottles
for half price. Losing steel was not something Jastom much cared for, but losing the wagon
- and Grimm - would have been

disastrous. After that interruption, Grimm was able to finish

filling empty bottles with the thick, pungent elixir, and business proceeded more
smoothly. However, the dwarf's eyes were still smoldering like hot iron.

“Fine way to make a living,” he grumbled to himself as he tried to pick sticky clumps of
herbs from his thick black beard. “I suppose we'll swindle ourselves right out of our own
necks one of these days.”

“What did that glum-looking little fellow say?” a blacksmith demanded, hesitating as he
started to lay down his ten coins of steel on the wooden counter. “Something about
swindle?”

Jastom shot a murderous look at Grimm and then turned his most radiant smile to the smith.
“You'll have to forgive my friend's mumblings,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He
hasn't been quite the same ever since one of the ponies kicked him in the head.”

The blacksmith nodded in sympathetic understanding. He left the wagon, small purple bottle
in hand. Jastom's bulging purse was ten coins heavier. And Grimm kept his mouth shut.

*****

It was midafternoon when Jastom sold the last of the potions. The corpulent merchant who
bought it gripped the purple bottle tightly in his chubby fingers and scurried off through
the streets, a gleam in his eye. The fellow hadn't seemed to want to discuss the exact
nature of his malady, but Jastom suspected it had something to do with the equally
corpulent young maiden who was waiting for him in the door of a nearby inn, smiling and
batting her eyelids in a dreadful imitation of demureness. Jastom shook his head,
chuckling.

Abruptly there was a loud WHOOP! Jastom turned to see an old woman throw down her crooked
cane and begin dancing a spry jig to a piper's merry tune. Other folk quickly joined the
dance, heedless of the aches and cares that had burdened them only a short while ago. One
shabbily-dressed fellow, finding himself without a partner, settled for a spotted pig that
had the misfortune to be wandering through the town square. The pig squealed

in surprise as the man whirled it about, and Jastom couldn't help but laugh aloud at the
spectacle.

This was the work of the elixirs, of course. Jastom wasn't altogether certain what Grimm
put in the small purple bottles, but he knew the important ingredient was something called
dwarf spirits. And while dwarf spirits were not known to possess any curative powers, they
did have certain potent and intoxicating effects.

Jastom had no idea how the dwarves brewed the stuff. From what little he had managed to
get out of Grimm, it was all terribly secret, the recipe passed down from generation to
generation with ancient ceremony and solemn oaths to guard the formula. But whatever was
in it, it certainly worked. Laborers threw down their shovels, goodwives their brooms, and
all joined what was rapidly becoming an impromptu festival. Respected city elders turned
cartwheels about the square, and parents leapt into piles of straw hand-in-hand with their
laughing children. For now, all thoughts of the war, of worry and of sickness, were
altogether missing from the town of Faxfail.

But it couldn't last.

“They won't feel so terribly well tomorrow, once the dwarf spirits wear off,” Grimm
observed dourly.

“But today they do, and by tomorrow we'll be somewhere else,” Jastom said, patting the
nearly-bursting purse at his belt.

He slammed shut the wagon's side panel and leapt up onto the high bench. Grimm clambered
up after him. At a flick of the reins, the ponies started forward, and the wagon rattled
slowly out of the rollicking town square.

Jastom did not notice as three men - one with a sword at his hip and the other two clad in
heavy black robes despite the day's warmth - stepped from a dim alleyway and began to
thread their way through the spontaneous celebration, following in the wagon's wake.

*****

Jastom whistled a cheerful, tuneless melody as the wagon jounced down the red dirt road,
leaving the town of Faxfail far behind.

The road wound its way across a broad vale. To the north and south hulked two slate-gray
peaks that looked

like ancient fortresses built by long-vanished giants. The sky above was clear as a
sapphire, and a fair wind, clean with the hint of mountain heights, hissed through the
rippling fields of green-gold grass. Sunflowers nodded like old good-

wives to each other, and larks darted by upon the air, trilling their glad melodies.

“You seem to be in an awfully fine mood, considering,” Grimm noted in his rumbling voice.