“I seek the wizard Burne, to serve in the stead of my late master, Lanithaine.”
The elf stared at no one as he finished, not knowing which man was the wizard he sought and not certain he could hold anyone’s gaze, anyway, feeling as foolish as he did right now. The sudden thought that this Burne character would find him unsuitable and send him back home with the obligation unsettled made Shanhaevel squirm.
One of them gasped at the elf’s words. He was tall, muscular, and clean-shaven, with closely cropped straight dark hair. Shanhaevel could see that the man was dressed for traveling, complete with a shirt of mail. A second man, an older fellow with a thick pile of curly hair and rather large ears who was smoking a long-stemmed pipe, rose from his chair. Shanhaevel met the man’s gaze despite his embarrassment, and saw with some surprise that he was rather short and paunchy, and his long robes seemed slightly too big for him.
“Did I hear you correctly?” the man asked, his face ashen. “Lanithaine is dead?”
Shanhaevel opened his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat was back, so he only nodded. It was the first time someone else was aware of his teacher’s death, and it freshened his pain.
“Oh, by the gods,” the fellow replied, sitting heavily and gripping the armrests of his chair with trembling hands. “Our old friend,” he half-whispered, lost in some private grief amid the solemn group of men sitting around him in the silent room.
“Yes. This is grave news, indeed,” the first man answered softly, staring at his hands.
Blinking, the paunchy man with the pipe looked up at Shanhaevel once more. “How?”
Shanhaevel swallowed hard, trying to gain command of his voice. “Slain earlier tonight. By gnolls.”
The room erupted in chaotic chatter.
4
“This is outrageous!”
“Tonight, you say? This is not good.”
“That’s the third sighting this week!”
It all came at once, a whirlwind of conversation, everyone speaking and asking questions. Finally, the man who had first spoken to Shanhaevel banged his mug on the table.
“Please, gentlemen! Enough!” When the room returned to order, the man sighed, his face grave. “Now, we all know that this does not bode well, and certainly, we will take steps to find out what is going on, but first things first, if you please.” The man turned back to Shanhaevel. “My friend, I am Lord Burne. Lanithaine was a friend and a good man. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”
Shanhaevel nodded his thanks, once again unwilling to trust his voice.
“I know of you,” Burne continued. “Lanithaine mentioned you often. I was led to believe that you are capable. We need someone of your skill to ride with the company.”
Shanhaevel swallowed in surprise. “The company? I don’t understand.”
Burne pursed his lips and explained. “We’re forming a small expedition by order of his grace, the Viscount of Verbobonc. We need a wizard with some skill to be a part of it. Lanithaine did not mention this to you?”
Shanhaevel cocked his head to one side, considering. An expedition? Now that was something he never would have considered.
“No.” His heart felt as if someone were squeezing it, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and held the other man’s gaze. “I only know that the two of you served together in a war a decade ago. He said you were friends.”
“Please, sit down,” the wizard said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs surrounding the table. Shanhaevel nodded gratefully and slid into the seat, dropping his suddenly heavy saddlebags to floor beside him. Burne turned to make introductions.
“This,” Burne began, gesturing to the man immediately on his right, “is Melias, sent to us by his grace, the king of Furyondy. He also rode with your mentor, and he is to be in charge of the company.”
The hilt of a sword protruded above the man’s shoulder. He nodded once at Shanhaevel and smiled. The expression held surprising warmth in it.
Shanhaevel returned the nod respectfully, still trying to sort this out in his head.
“I’ll let Melias introduce his own companions,” Burne said, indicating the two other fellows flanking Melias at the table, “for they arrived with him only today, and they are in his service, not mine.”
Melias nodded again and pointed to the young man with the twinkle in his eye who had spoken earlier, teasing Shanhaevel about his botched introduction.
“This is Ahleage, our, um, scout, and this is Draga, who is a fair shot with that bow.”
Shanhaevel nodded to each in turn, getting a better look at both as he did so.
Ahleage was dressed in a shirt of black leather, and as he rose and bowed, his movements were fluid and graceful. Shanhaevel noticed both a short sword and dagger on his belt. When he sat again, he kept his chair away from the table, and Shanhaevel sensed that he was tightly coiled, a cat ready to spring up and away in a heartbeat.
Draga was slightly older than Ahleage, though not by much, Shanhaevel suspected. Also dressed in armor, the bowman was a rather hairy fellow, with tight curls of light brown hair on his head, several days’ growth of beard on his face, big, bushy eyebrows, and forearms that were generously covered, as well. A bow stood in the corner behind him, unstrung at the moment, but Shanhaevel could tell that it was a weapon of some quality. A quiver of arrows rested beside it.
“The rest of these gentlemen are the village council,” Burne said. “This is Lord Rufus of the Tower”—a graying, full-bearded man, one of the two who wore armor and weaponry and who had a reserved look to him—“and that’s Canon Terjon”—a thin, middle-aged blond man, clean-shaven, his lips pursed in a no-nonsense frown. His robes were of the church of Saint Cuthbert. Burne gestured next to a man with a graying beard, a long braid, and a playful, warm smile. “This is Jaroo Ashstaff, a druid of the old faith.”
Burne continued on his other side, indicating a powerfully built, completely bald man with grand, sweeping moustaches. “To my left, here, is Mytch, who runs the mill in Hommlet. Beside him is Hroth, the captain of Hommlet’s militia”—a fellow with closely cropped white hair, one scarred, cloudy eye, and a large, hawkish nose—“Ostler Gundigoot, the owner of the Welcome Wench”—a bespectacled fellow with nearly white hair and beard, who was smoking a long-stemmed pipe similar to Burne’s—“and finally, the lord mayor of Hommlet, Kenter Nevets.”—a slight man with little of his dark hair left and somewhat watery blue eyes, who held an unlit pipe.
“Good evening and good health to you all,” Shanhaevel said as he tried to gather his wits and mask his confusion. “As I said before, I am Shanhaevel, companion and student of the wizard Lan—”
“That’s not what you said,” Ahleage interrupted, chuckling, and Draga stifled a cackle of his own. “You said your name was Shadowspawn.”
Shanhaevel’s face flushed. He opened his mouth to retort, but Melias spoke first.
“Enough. I don’t need—”
At that moment, the door opened and Glora Gundigoot entered, followed by the blonde barmaid, bearing a tray with platters of food, more mugs, and another heavy, moisture-coated pitcher. Shanhaevel noticed that the younger girl blushed as she caught Ahleage’s eye, and she nearly stumbled as she came through the door.
“Just set it down and scoot,” Glora scolded, “They have plenty to talk about without you lollygagging around.”
Leah placed the tray on the table and turned to go, stealing a quick glance back at Ahleage.
“Shoo! Shoo!” Glora admonished, swatting at the girl with her dishtowel until she scurried out, and then the goodwife pulled the door shut once again. The smile on Ahleage’s face remained for some time afterward.
Despite his unease, Shanhaevel wasted no time reaching for one of the platters of food. As he shoveled mouthfuls of hot meat pie in, using a crust of fresh bread to sop up the rich gravy, Burne reached for the pitcher and poured cold mead for Shanhaevel, then began refilling everyone else’s mugs. Shanhaevel nodded appreciatively to the wizard before going back to the food in front of him.