The Search For Magic tftwos-1

by Brian Murphy

  The Search For Magic

  ( Tales from the War of Souls - 1 )

  Brian Murphy

  Nancy Varian Berberick

  Linda P. Baker

  Nlck O’Donohoe

  Paul B. Thompson

  Jeff Crook

  Kevin T. Stein

  Jean Rabe

  Richard A. Knaak

  Don Perrin

  Donald J. Bingle

  Brian Murphy, Nancy Varian Berberick,Linda P. Baker, Nlck O’Donohoe,Paul B. Thompson,Jeff Crook,Kevin T. Stein,Jean Rabe,Richard A. Knaak,Don Perrin,Donald J. Bingle,

  The Search For Magic

  All For A Pint

  Brian Murphy

  Light from the tavern window illuminated the faces of the two wizards as they peered inside. Stynmar’s chubby cheeks rested against the pane of cracked glass and Grantheous’s beard tickled the adjacent frame. Fetlin, their apprentice, stood between them, staring into the tavern. All anxiously awaited the results.

  Fetlin ran his fingers through his bright red hair and looked around. His masters shouldn’t be wandering around the docks of Palanthas, but they had to test the market and both had insisted on coming. Fetlin fingered the butcher’s knife he had thrust into his belt in case of trouble.

  The Two-Handed Mug, like every other tavern located on the docks, smelled of salt and fish and sweat. The wood floors, made from slats of yellow pine, were discolored by blood and beer, reminding the patrons fondly of bar fights of old.

  Inside, the raucous laughter of the sailors changed to cheers as two minotaurs kicked their chairs back and tossed a table aside. The minotaurs growled and snorted. Patrons jumped over the bar, where they could watch in relative safety, or ran out the front door, taking the fight as an opportunity to leave without paying.

  The two minotaurs gave deafening roars and locked horns and arms. The mages looked at each other, worried. Stynmar shook his head disconsolately. Fetlin, who was supposed to be taking notes, had trouble telling the minotaurs apart. He saw that one had a scarred lip and the other a nose ring, and he wrote this down in case it later turned out to be important.

  The minotaurs grunted and heaved, each testing the other’s strength and balance. With a sudden heave, Lip Scar flipped Nose Ring onto his back. The minotaurs rolled this way and that, knocking over chairs and tables and sailors, then Lip Scar gained the upper hand. Sitting on top of his opponent, Lip Scar raised his hands, fingers outstretched, and paused. Excitement hung heavy in the air. Sailors called out bets. Money changed hands. Lip Scar scanned the crowd, daring anyone to say anything. He sneered and, reaching down, began to tickle Nose Ring in the ribs.

  Nose Ring started to laugh, and soon he was screaming from laughing so hard. He tickled Lip Scar, who snorted and guffawed. The two minotaurs were having a wonderful time. The sailors looked on, first in astonishment, then in disgust. They went back to their drinking.

  Outside the tavern, Grantheous and Stynmar stared at each other in disbelief.

  “Minotaurs tickling each other?” Stynmar gasped.

  Grantheous frowned. “I didn’t even know minotaurs could be tickled. I don’t think anyone’s ever tried.”

  “Or lived to tell about it,” said Fetlin.

  The mages nodded and said, in unison, “Much too potent!”

  The two walked off, heading for their next test.

  Fetlin wrote the comment “too potent” on his piece of parchment and then fell in step behind his masters, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure no one followed them.

  The mages saw many strange things that night. Their second test was an old man, known to all Palan-thas as Dour Dave because no one had seen him smile in the last fifty years. To their astonishment, Dour Dave dashed out of the tavern called the Seventh Lance, wiping foam from his mouth and laughing merrily.

  Spying the mages, he called out, “Hey! You’re wizards! Can you get any magic from this moon?”

  Dropping his pants, Dour Dave gave the shocked mages a good view of his backside, shining in the moonlight. He giggled, yanked up his pants and ran off around the corner, just as a Palanthian guard appeared.

  “Still too much,” said Grantheous, stroking his beard.

  Fetlin noted the determination on his parchment and followed the mages to the Crow’s Nest. Here they found the group of dwarves they’d been watching. In previous weeks, the dwarves groused and complained about the woes of the world, what with the gods departed and evil dragons lording it over the people of Ansa-lon. This night, however, the dwarves were cheerful.

  “Dragons and Dark Knights and all the misery they bring cannot last forever, my brothers,” one was saying. “Nothing evil lasts forever! Lads, we must hold on. We will do our part to bring about change. Every little bit helps, eh?”

  The other dwarves shouted in agreement. They raised their mugs to better times.

  Grantheous and Stynmar looked at each other. They smiled. Stynmar wiped away a tear.

  “Just right,” Grantheous told Fetiin, who made a note.

  Late that night, the two mages and their young apprentice sat around the table in their snug home in the presumably safe part of Palanthas, watching while Fetiin wrote out the spell neatly on a clean scroll. They had finally discovered the delicate combination of magic and beer that delivered the desired results. Grantheous was all for celebrating, but Stynmar looked a bit pensive.

  Fetlin put on the teakettle then, seeing that the two wanted to be alone, went off to bed.

  Grantheous poured out the hot water. “So, what is wrong, my friend?”

  Stynmar wiped sweat from his chubby face and sighed. “I’m not sure we are doing the right thing.”

  “Not doing the right thing?” Grantheous was shocked. “You bring this up now? On the eve of our success?”

  “Now is the best time to bring up any doubts,” Stynmar replied. “This is our last moment, our final out. Once we cast the spell, there will be no going back.”

  “So what’s wrong?” Grantheous asked.

  “They have a right to know,” said Stynmar, gesturing to the window.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Grantheous, understandably confused.

  “The people have a right to know what they are purchasing,” said Stynmar. “If I were a customer and I found that a pair of mages were magicking my beer, I would be upset.”

  “Yes,” said Grantheous, “and you would have every right to be upset if-and please mind that if-we were doing something ugly and nasty and evil to their beer. But Stynmar, we are helping these people.” He poked at his knobby knuckles, voice lowering. “You heard those dwarves. We’re doing good.”

  “Do you realize how many evil things have been done in the name of good?” Stynmar argued. “The Kingpriest, for example.”

  “Now, don’t get started on the Kingpriest again. Listen, Stynmar,” said Grantheous sternly, “since magic has started fading, some wizards have curled up their toes and died. Others are obsessed with scouring all of Ansalon for artifacts from previous ages, hoping to suck the magic from them. Stynmar, you are the only one who came up with this brilliant idea-take whatever magic we have left in these old bones and give it to the people. ‘A pint of hope’ you called it.”

  “ ‘A pint for hope, a pint for love, a pint for faith,’ “ said Stynmar wistfully. “Yes. I know that’s what I said, but-”

  “No buts!” said Grantheous. “After Dour Dave, I’ve seen enough butts for one night. You and I cr
eated this spell. With your knowledge of the arcane and my knowledge of spell components and herb lore, we have created that pint of hope. Perhaps I should say gallons of hope.”

  “I still think that the customers should know,” Stynmar protested.

  “Why?” Grantheous slammed his fist on the table. “Why should they know?”

  “Did you see the minotaurs?” Stynmar shuddered.

  “Bah!” Grantheous dismissed the tickling with a wave of his hand. “A minor setback. It was an experiment. Much too much briarroot. Incredibly binding, that stuff. That was a test. We had to know the exact effect of extreme potency. The final batch will not be that strong.”

  “I know, it’s just that-”

  “Haven’t you done something good for someone and kept it secret?” said Grantheous.

  Stynmar nodded. “All the time. That’s why I chose the White Robes.” He sighed. “Back in the old days when colors had meaning.”

  “And you’re still doing it,” Grantheous stated. “What would happen if they did find out that we have injected the hope and exuberance of youth into their beer? You know laymen. They would be suspicious of the magic. The brew might quickly sour in their mouths, leaving them upset and angry, mistrustful of everyone.”

  Stynmar pondered this for a while, then conceded the point. Despite the deception, he was doing good. Surely that must outweigh everything else. Grantheous was right.

  Grantheous winked at Stynmar. “And if we make a bit of steel on the deal, so much the better.”

  Stynmar blanched. Magic for money? That might be all well and good for Grantheous, who had chosen the Red Robes of practicality, but White Robes were supposed to be charitable. Or did it matter anymore? Wasn’t it now a question of survival?

  “Stynmar, the end is inevitable,” said Grantheous gently. “Perhaps a week from now, or a month from now, or a year from now. We have seen all the signs. The magic will die, and as it dies, we mages will be left naked and vulnerable to our enemies. We must do something!”

  “I know. I know.” Stynmar sipped his tea unhappily. “You are right. I just wanted to clear this up before we start on the new batch of beer.”

  Grantheous nodded. “Your dilemma is understandable, my friend, but perhaps, by spreading a little bit of magic into people’s daily lives it may help. Somehow.”

  Even though the magic brew had been Stynmar’s idea, Grantheous had been the one to make it happen. He pushed Stynmar into working to find the correct combination of ingredients and spell components and rituals to perform on the beer casks. Grantheous truly hoped that good would come of it, and if that good had a solid form and a steely ring and would tide them over in their waning years, he saw nothing wrong in that.

  “Won’t you miss it?” Stynmar asked.

  “Yes,” said Grantheous. “The day magic dies will be the day I die. Oh, not physically, but part of me will be laid to rest. I will never be the same. None of us will.” He gazed into the distance, far beyond the walls of their humble kitchen, and lifted his teacup. “Here’s to a ripe old age.”

  Stynmar raised his cup, then chuckled. “I was just thinking what our old mentor and master would say about our beer recipe.”

  Grantheous snorted in derision. “Master Gerald? That old coot. Always talking about the sanctity of magic and how we must treat it with reverence. Hog-wash, I say. Magic is a tool. That is my motto. No need to pester the gods about it. You would never hear a smith praying over his hammer, would you?”

  Stynmar shook his head. “No. I suppose not Still…”

  “Still,” said Grantheous, glad to end the conversation, “it is a shame about Gerald’s death.”

  “Quite so. Forced to work in the mines of Blode. No magic to save him.”

  “May he rest in peace. And so should we.” Stynmar nodded. Tomorrow they would take their scroll, which young Fetlin had so expertly written out, and go to the warehouse where the rest of the barrels were stored. Once there, they would finish casting the spell that will help people view with hope.

  Grantheous rubbed his hands. “Our future starts tomorrow.”

  The two finished their tea and went to their well-deserved rest.

  As it turned out, their future started somewhere around midnight.

  “We’ve been robbed!” Fetlin shouted. “We’ve been robbed!” He held a candle high with one hand and banged on Grantheous’s door with the other. “Master Grantheous! Please wake! Master Stynmar! Wake up! We’ve been robbed!”

  “What is this about, then?” Grantheous demanded, emerging from his room, his beard done up in a fine meshed net.

  “Robbed?” Stynmar said as he struggled into his robes. “Who would rob us? We haven’t anything of value.”

  “The laboratory,” cried Fetlin. “Come, quickly!”

  The three raced down the stairs to the room Stynmar called the “laboratory,” which consisted of a battered table and a couple of bookcases filled with dusty books. Fetlin pointed to a broken window. A soft breeze blew the curtain in, then sucked it outside and then, as if changing its mind, blew it back in again.

  Fetlin pointed to a casket that stood open on the table. A broken lock lay on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Masters. There were more than fifty pieces of steel in there. Your life savings.”

  The two mages stared into the empty chest, then looked at each other. Stynmar went white. Grantheous staggered and had to hold onto the chair.

  “I was getting up for a drink of water when I noticed the window. I remember quite clearly shutting it. I’m so sorry about the money-”

  “It’s not the money!” Grantheous cried, his voice shaking.

  “The scroll,” said Stynmar, quivering all over. “The scroll was in that casket!”

  “Oh, is that all?” Fetlin relaxed. “I know that it will be a bit more work for me to rewrite it, but you and Grantheous have that spell memorized forward and backward, right?”

  “True, Fetlin,” said Stynmar slowly. “We do know that recipe forward and backward.” He laid emphasis on the words. “That is the problem. Read forward, the spell bestows the positive energy of youth on the recipient. Makes him feel as if he were young again, with the whole world before him. Read backward-” He gulped. Grantheous groaned. “Read backward, it allows the caster to snuff out joy, weaken hearts, destroy hope. And if the caster is strong enough, the spell could even cause premature aging! Turn a hopeful young man into an old, embittered one.”

  “An unfortunate byproduct,” said Stynmar. “It was unavoidable.”

  “But,” Grantheous added, “we never worried about it, because the scroll was always kept locked under a magic ward when not in use.”

  He pointed to the broken lock, decorated with silvery runes.

  “But, Masters, the thief would have to be a wizard to

  break that-” Fetlin understood at last. “Oh! Oh, dear.”

  “We have to get that scroll back,” said Grantheous.

  The two mages were all for running out into the night in pursuit of the thief. Fetlin convinced them to allow him to investigate, suggesting that they might want to use their magic to find out more about the theft. Stynmar brightened at this and, digging into the drawer, brought forth an amulet. He held it to the light.

  “This is a bloodhound,” he stated.

  “I don’t see how your birthstone is going to help us,” said Grantheous irritably.

  “I didn’t say bloodstone. I said bloodhound. It hunts magic. This will help us to track the scroll.

  “It’s glowing red. What does that mean?”

  “Red means the scroll isn’t here.”

  “I can see that for myself,” said Grantheous, his lip curled in scorn.

  “When we get close to the scroll, the amulet will glow green,” Stynmar said.

  “So all we have to do is walk the length and breadth of Ansalon and wait for the amulet to turn green? Wonderful,” said Grantheous, turning back to patching the broken window.

  “I
guess I should have thought this out further,” said Stynmar, peering thoughtfully at the amulet.

  “Masters!” Fetlin shouted, running inside the laboratory. “I may have something! I discovered a most suspicious character lurking in our alley. At first, he claimed he hadn’t seen anything, but after a bit of persuasion”-Fetlin blushed self-consciously-”he admitted that he did see someone tumbling out our window. The person hurt himself in the fall, apparently, for he limped as he ran away.”

  “Where did he go?” Grantheous demanded.

  “Into the sewers, Masters,” said Fetlin.

  “Of course,” said Stynmar sourly. “Where else would he go?”

  The Palanthian sewer system was an excellent one, its tunnels leading to all parts of the city. They provided not only excellent drainage, but also an excellent highway for the local Thieves Guild.

  “Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Grantheous, girding up his robes. “We must go after him.”

  “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.