“Sirs!” said Fetlin, alarmed. “I think the man is a plant. He was placed there to lure you into following. He could be leading you into terrible danger!”
“Then we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?” said Stynmar.
Fetlin argued, but the two mages refused to listen to him. The sky was starting to lighten when they stalked out of their house, bent on recovering their scroll, armed with nothing but their waning magic, righteous indignation, and the glowing amulet. Fetlin was, himself, slightly better armed with a small crossbow.
The stranger still lurked in the alley. The moment the man sighted the two wizards, he took to his heels.
“Thank the gods he didn’t go into the sewer!” said Stynmar, wiping sweat from his face.
“Hurry, Masters,” said Fetlin, “if you want your scroll back, we must follow him!”
Not long ago, Fetlin had been known to the Palan-thian authorities as Fetlin the Felon, which was, in a roundabout way, how he had made the acquaintance of the two mages, who were now his masters and friends. Fetlin knew all the streets, corridors, and alleyways of Palanthas. He had skulked, slinked, and sneaked through every one of them. Although he now walked the straight and narrow path of honesty, he was pleased to find that he had not lost his touch for fast and fleeting furtive movements.
Unfortunately, he could not say the same for his masters.
Grantheous and Stynmar had not a sneaky bone in their bodies. They zigged when they should have zagged. They ran into carts, fell over garbage piles, small children, and their own feet. So inept were they that the stranger was forced on more than one occasion to halt so they could catch up. Deeply embarrassed, Fetlin hoped none of his old gang saw him.
The chase, such as it was, led up a lane and down several alleys, a left turn, a right turn, and then forward in the direction of the warehouse district and the docks.
The sinister man paused at the end of a street. He looked to make sure that the three saw him, then dashed across the street to a warehouse, where stood a man in flowing black robes. The man walked up to the black-robed figure. The two conferred, then both of them entered the warehouse, closing the door behind them. The one in the black robe walked with a decided limp.
“That’s… it,” said Stynmar, coming thankfully to a halt. He was gasping for breath, puffing and wheezing. “That… Black Robe… stole… our scroll.”
“Yes,” said Grantheous, gulping air. “We should go… get it back.”
The two looked at each other.
“When… we’ve rested,” said Stynmar, brightening. “Look! A tavern!”
“The very place,” said Grantheous. “We’ll come up with a plan, Fetlin. You stay here and keep watch. Let us know if he leaves.”
The two mages bolted for the tavern. They were in such a hurry that they did not notice the faded wood sign hanging above the entrance, nor did they notice the yellow pine floor stained with beer and blood.
Fetlin noticed. He would have warned them, but he’d been told to stand guard. He could only hope his masters figured it out before it was too late.
The two found a table near the back, as far from the windows as possible.
“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.
“Have a drink,” said Stynmar. “I can’t think when I’m thirsty. My dear?’” he sang, summoning the serving wench.
“I’m not your dear, old man. What do you two want?” she demanded, placing one hand on her hip. “Prune juice?”
“Beer,” said Grantheous with dignity. “Your best brew.” He pulled out a steel coin, one of the few they had left.
She eyed it suspiciously, then flounced off. She brought back two tall, almost-clean flagons. Chasing and sneaking and intrigue was thirsty work. The mages drank deeply.
“Wonderful stuff,” said Stynmar, chugging his flagon.
“Tastes vaguely familiar,” said Grantheous, wiping the foam from his beard.
“We’ll have another!” both called out.
“So what is our plan of action?” asked Grantheous.
Stynmar polished off his second beer. “We go in after him!”
Grantheous stared down into his own pint, as if the solution to the riddle lay somewhere in its bubbly, amber depths. “But we don’t know for certain that the Black Robe stole it.”
“He fits the description. I say we confront this mystery man and his sinister minion. See what they know.”
“Threaten them, you mean?” said Grantheous.
“He stole from our home,” said Stynmar. “We know he did. We go into the warehouse-”
“The warehouse across yonder?” asked the barmaid, plunking down two more beers.
“Yes,” said Stynmar, looking at the barmaid in doration. “You are the loveliest thing I’ve seen in years, my dear.”
“Bah! They all say that.” But she looked flattered.
“Have you seen a black-robed man sneak into that building?” asked Grantheous.
“Have I seen him? The ugly bastard’s been in here the past three nights.” She twirled a string of hair, coaxing it to curl, and leered at Stynmar.
“What’s he like?” Stynmar asked hesitantly. “Strong? Powerful? Fiery eyes? A dark smile?”
“Hah! He’s older than you two, skinny and bony. I could wring his neck like a chicken.”
“Many thanks, m’lady,” Stynmar said as he slid forth the last of his steel coins.
She grinned, bit on it to make sure it was good, then returned to the bar.
“He is ancient!” said Stynmar.
“And he is weak,” said Grantheous.
“We go in the front!” the two said together.
They raised their glasses and tossed back the remnants of their third pint.
“One more round before we take on the evil man who has stolen from us,” said Grantheous.
“One more round before we take back that which is ours,” said Stynmar.
“Masters!’ cried a voice. “What are you doing?”
“It’s Fetlin,” said Grantheous. “Our trusted apprentice.”
“Have a drink, lad,” said Stynmar. “Great stuff. Almost as good as our own.”
“Masters!” Fetlin groaned. “It is your own!”
The two looked down, looked up, and looked down again. Looked into their empty flagons.
Grantheous raised a ghastly face. “We have just drunk three pints of our own enhanced brew.”
“The strongest of the batch,” Stynmar whispered in horror. “The Minotaur Tickler!”
“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.
Stynmar rose. He reached out, grabbed the barmaid, and kissed her. “We go in the front!” he said.
Grantheous rose. He, too, kissed the barmaid. “We go in the front!”
“The gods help us,” said Fetlin.
Grantheous and Stynmar walked straight toward the warehouse. Fetlin did his best to stop them, but they were in no mood to listen.
“We will be neither diverted nor discouraged,” said Grantheous.
“With or without magic, we will fight the good fight to the end,” said Stynmar. “We must not allow our recipe to be used for evil.”
“Damn right,” said Grantheous, and hiccuped.
Fetlin checked the small crossbow and loaded his only bolt. Stynmar adjusted his white robes and then aided Grantheous in tucking away his chest-length beard.
“Best not to allow the enemy any advantage,” he said solemnly.
Grantheous and Stynmar stopped in the middle of the street to do a few stretches, limbering up their calves, thighs, and chests.
“Nothing worse than getting a leg cramp in the midst of chasing down evil and pummeling it,” said Grantheous.
Fetlin could have sat down and wept.
Exercises completed, the two strolled, with strides of importance and purpose, the final distance to the warehouse.
“Nothing can overcome the stuff our courage is made of,” announced Stynmar.
“Hops and barley,” Fetlin muttered.
The two stopped outside the warehouse door. They turned to one another and shook hands.
“We will win today,” said Grantheous, exuding confidence.