by Ed Greenwood
The guard bowed and backed away, but at that precise moment, a group of mounted soldiers appeared in the gate, heading from the courtyard out on patrol. Spotting the leader of the troop, the Hammer waved a friendly greeting. The young Lord Stone led these men on patrol. Now he would get to the bottom of this situation.
“My lord, how goes the realm?”
The young warrior ignored the greeting and made to ride past, ignoring Ganithar and his squire completely. The knight bristled at the insult. The boy owed him civility, at least; he’d rocked the mewling little whelp on his knee all those years ago. This insult just wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.
With a flourish, the knight raised his hammer. A flurry of magical lightning bolts lashed out of the clear sky and struck the ground around Sir Ganithar’s war-horse. The battle-hardened mount reared majestically, an impressive move that the squire’s smaller war-horse mimicked.
The patrol’s horses were not so hardy; they screeched in panic at the lightning and retreated. Only Lord Stone’s mount stood its ground.
Ganithar raised his visor and shouted, “Now you recognize me, eh? It’s good to see you again. I’m looking forward to drinking with your father. You’re looking well.” This last was a lie-well meant, but still utterly false. The young castle lord looked haggard, years older than his true age.
“Oh… Ganithar. Well met,” Lord Stone said vaguely. “I didn’t see you before. I’m glad you’re alive and well. The castle can use all the bold adventurers it can get right now.”
“What’s wrong? Is there some attack coming? My hammer is always at your service.”
“No, no attack. My father died five days ago. It was quite sudden. His heart just stopped.” The young lord advanced as if to ride on, but Sir Ganithar was far too perplexed to let that happen. The knight spurred his mount to block the nobleman’s path; the squire followed his master’s lead and hemmed the lord in.
From his high war saddle, the Hammer looked down on the new ruler of the castle. “Friends usually invite friends to dinner when they haven’t seen each other in years. Let’s sup together and drink to your father’s honor.”
The expression on the young noble’s face was a pained one. He obviously wasn’t thrilled at the thought of dining with Ganithar, but found it difficult to refuse.
“I don’t get out much these days. The castle and the things in it demand more and more of my time. I’m sure some of your old village friends will be wanting to hear your latest tall tales.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but there’s no one I’d rather break bread with than you.”
Lord Stone winced as if he’d been struck. “So be it. Please come to dinner with the rising of this night’s moon. I should be back from patrol by then. We can raise a glass or two and speak of my father.”
“It’s a pact then!” The Hammer grinned. “Let me introduce you to my squire. Tomkin Woodsmanson, front and center.”
The squire, all of fifteen and not very worldly for his travels with Sir Ganithar, was quite pleased to be introduced to this particular nobleman. He’d come from the lands around Castle Stone and seen the young lord during high market days. He bowed as low as the jousting saddle allowed.
“Ganithar, I didn’t think you were the type to take on a squire.” The castle lord looked the lad over with an appraising eye.
“Oh, I admit he’s rough around the edges, but he saved my life.”
The look of surprise was plain on Lord Stone’s face, so the Hammer elaborated: “It’s a rather longish story. Suffice it to say I was in the woods when a wyvern surprised me. It knocked me right off my horse and pinned me to the ground. I would have been a corpse had this foolish boy not put a woodsman’s axe clean through the monster in one swing. In return for the deed, he asked me to make him as good a warrior as I am. I couldn’t say no-not after he’d saved me.” Ganithar smiled warmly. “But we’ll talk about it more tonight. I want to get the road dust off my old hide. Tonight, my lord?”
“Tonight-if we must.” Lord Stone turned to find his patrol reassembled. He nodded to both knight and squire, then pushed past them and rode away.
“Is he a great lord, like in the old tales?” Tomkin asked eagerly.
“His father was. That lad riding off has been a bit of a bully in the past. Only time will tell what type of ruler he makes.” The knight narrowed his eyes as he watched the patrol ride away. “But something is terribly wrong with him. I think you and I will ferret it out during dinner.”
“He wouldn’t want me dining with the likes of you both.”
“It doesn’t matter what he likes. You’re my squire and go where I go.” Ganithar patted the boy on the shoulder. “You must learn to serve me. Loyal service is as important to a squire as the arts of war. Do you understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll always serve you to the best of my ability. I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, Sir Ganithar.”
“No, no, lad. That’s not what I want. Try to anticipate what I need. Anticipation is vital in a warrior, too. Figure out what I need and respond to me before I ask. I’ll teach you to do the same to your foes. That’s the way of a good warrior. Now, let’s prepare ourselves for some fine food. You know they grow some excellent watermelon here. It boasts some of the best in Faeriin-though the roses make a better symbol for the castle, eh, Tomkin?”
The squire nodded, only half-listening to what his master said, his mind caught up in the lesson the knight had imparted.
“Anticipate, that’s what I need to do,” Tomkin repeated softly as, now unchallenged, they rode into the castle.
“Two plates. Lord Stone obviously doesn’t want me to dine with you.” Dressed in full livery, with a two-handed broadsword strapped to his back, Tomkin felt decidedly overdressed and more than a little foolish as he gazed through the garden gate at the small table within.
“Nonsense, lad. Lord Stone has taken the time to serve us dinner in his fine garden. Admittedly, the garden has gotten rather smelly of late, but we’ll both find out why at dinner. Another plate is easily gotten.”
“No!” the squire squeaked for fear that the castle lord could hear them while they whispered outside the garden gate. “I couldn’t eat in front of him. I’d be afraid of dribbling soup down my surcoat. Couldn’t I just eat my meal with the horses?”
Ganithar, remembering his days as a squire, took pity on Tomkin. “All right, lad. You don’t have to attend the dinner. But I want you to stay outside this gate and guard it with your life. No one is to disturb our dinner without my permission. I want to get to the bottom of the strange goings-on around here.”
Much relieved, Tomkin took his post as the Hammer strolled into the garden and met Lord Stone.
“Anticipation, anticipation, anticipation,” the boy muttered to himself over and over. “Should I draw my sword, I wonder? Or maybe I should stand inside of the door, not outside. Should I call for help if attacked, or die silently, defending my lord?” Sweat began beading on the squire’s forehead as he looked in all directions, ready to sell his life dearly for the Hammer.
Standing just outside the garden, the woodsman-made-squire craned his neck this way and that, trying to see both the Hammer and the doorway into the keep. So caught up in his duty was the boy that he could barely hear the words of the two men in the arbor.
“I no longer rule this castle,” Lord Stone said. “I serve another, and here it is!”
Tomkin caught a glimpse of a large melon resting on several rose stalks. It was unusual all right, but wild roses alongside melons were nothing strange in the forest. Tomkin didn’t like roses very much, but he did like watermelon.
The leaves on the melon vine looked larger than normal, spear-shaped things as big as plates. Inch thick vines spilled out all over the plant. The bloated, blood-red roses seemed to be fashioned of impossibly thick petals coated with oil.
Tomkin tore his gaze away from the garden. Even the weirdest of plants must not distract him from his duty. If the Hamm
er wanted to eat dinner surrounded by weird plants, that was his choice. They’d both seen many stranger sights than that on the trail.
After surveying the area around the garden, Tomkin once again glanced into the arbor; he saw his master tugging at a rose vine connected to the melon. There were rose vines wrapped around his back, too.
The squire shook his head. What a silly game this seemed to be. He and friends held such contests of strength in the woods, but they used small trees to bend and snap; this melon-stalk didn’t seem like much of a test for what he knew of his master’s considerable strength. The scene also confused the squire, for the knight had laid strong prohibitions against playing with food-and that melon looked ripe for the picking.
Again Tomkin shook his head. Strange were the ways of his betters, and he was nowhere near experienced enough a warrior to judge them silly for it. He sighed and turned back to his watch.
“Anticipate, anticipate, antici-”
A shove from behind sent Tomkin reeling. Sir Ganithar and Lord Stone pushed through the garden gate, barely noticing that they’d knocked the boy down. The squire glanced back into the garden and saw the plates still heaped with food. A glance back at his master revealed a terrible look on the Hammer’s face. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were glassy.
Their contest of strength must have become a squabble, Tomkin decided. Sheathing his sword, the squire followed his master away from the garden.
Sir Ganithar dismissed the boy’s concern with a stiff-limbed wave. “No, nothing’s wrong. You and I will be sleeping in the hall tonight. Tomorrow we have much work to do-and a trip to take.”
That was decidedly odd. Just a few hours ago the squire had heard the Hammer order special baths to be prepared every day for three tendays. Ganithar had also ordered the fixings for a huge party. Tomkin himself had carried the invitations to all of the knights’ local friends, and sent off even more to the High Moor Heroes’ Guild.
Tomkin hoped that he hadn’t done something to cause the argument between Lord Stone and his master. Perhaps, the squire realized grimly, I failed to anticipate something Sir Ganithar needed at the dinner. The knight must surely have been furious, for he left without eating a bite.
Sir Ganithar’s chilly silence as Tomkin helped the knight prepare for bed only confirmed the boy’s suspicions. Tomkin was miserable as he went about his chores: though he could barely lift the magical hammer, it was his duty to stow it so Ganithar could reach it easily if an attack came upon them at night. The special cloak of silence, boots of leaping, and belt of invisibility were entrusted to the squire every night, as well. The Hammer figured no one would ever suspect the young squire of holding such fabulous items.
Before he dozed off, the Hammer ordered his squire to sleep on a pallet outside the room’s only door. Tomkin did as he was told, but only pretended to sleep. A short time later, hearing the snores of Sir Ganithar, he rose from the pallet. He donned the cloak to prevent the guard from hearing his movements. The boots would allow him to spring great distances and move as lightly as a feather over any floor. The belt, activated with a magic word only Ganithar and he knew, made his form vanish from the sight of man, plant, and animal. Thus girded, he could set about “anticipating” his lord’s needs.
The dreams of Ganithar the Hammer and all the other minions of the rose were the same. Huge vines of enormous size twisted around their bodies and squeezed the life out of them. The twenty entranced men and women sleeping in the castle all twisted and turned in their beds, caught up in the nightmare images filling their minds. Thorns plunged into their bodies, ripping out their still-beating hearts. They tried to cry out, but vines filled their mouths.
Then, quite abruptly, the dreams ended, and each of the rose minions fell into a deeper, less-troubled sleep.
“Sir Ganithar! Wake up! See what I have anticipated for you.”
Ganithar leapt up, his warhammer in hand. At first he saw only the stupid grin of his squire. “You have on my cloak,” he rumbled. “And my boots and belt!” Then he noticed the huge covered silver platter in his hands.
“I’m sorry something spoiled your dinner with Lord Stone last night,” Tomkin said. “And since you went to bed without eating, I anticipated you’d be hungry this morning. I found this serving thing and got your breakfast ready before you woke up.” He lifted the tray’s lid to show his master the lovely great melon he’d chopped off the rose vine in the garden.
Seeing the look of shock in his master’s face, he reddened. “You’re upset about the piece I cut out of it, aren’t you?” the squire asked sadly. “I’m sorry, but I only wanted to make sure it was ripe. It tastes rather good, but not like any melon I’ve ever had before. And it smells a bit like roses. I suppose it’s from growing so close to them.”
Stolen Spells
Denise Vitola
On the sign hanging outside Bareen Tykar’s shop, there was the symbol of a spinning wheel and below it the words “Country Spell Crafts and Implements for Daily Living ” I cast my gaze over the door, noting the deep, rich color and the carving of a twisted tree. It was a beautiful piece of art, gloriously old and fashioned from timber found only in Cormyr. The man who owned such a door would have money enough to buy a magical lock that would keep thieves like me standing out on the street.
I had just arrived in Kendil, a quiet hamlet in the foothills of the Sunset Mountains, just east of Asbravn The village had a mercantile look about it; the majority of the buildings were well-kept, whitewashed affairs edged with flower boxes, each decorated with a quaint, homey motif. An inn fronted the swept cobbled street, and farther down the way, there was a tiny shrine honoring Sune Firehair, Goddess of Beauty and Patron of Love.
I felt inside my jerkin pocket to check the bits of helpful magic I carried. A thief is never far off from his tricks and spells, and knowing that I had come to this place adequately prepared made me feel more confident about meeting the proprietor of this shop.
Entering the establishment, I paused to glance around. The place was empty except for an old, fat clerk wearing a green apron and brushing a beefy hand through his shock of white hair. He stood before a wall of shelves arranged with rows of glass jars, tins, boxes, and intricately plaited baskets. The light from thick, stubby candles set among the goods gave these mundane treasures a bright sparkle, but there was so much dark wood that the large room had an oppressive feel to it.
The man squinted at me as I kicked the door shut and halted to smooth my beard and braid. “Bareen Tykar?” I asked, stepping up to the polished stone counter.
“Aye,” he answered, “and who would be asking?”
“My name is Arek Adar. You sent a message along the trade route to Triel about wanting to find a certain elixir from the Sunset Mountain region. An elf named Latine Firewalker spoke with me.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he studied me. Finally he smiled. When he did, his lips disappeared into the bag of wrinkles that made up his face. “Firewalker came by earlier and said to expect you.” Leaning forward, he continued in a low voice. “He tells me you locate hard-to-find objects, objects of some antiquity.”
I nodded. He made it sound as if I were a bona fide dealer of heirlooms, but the truth of it isn’t nearly so mundane as that.
I’m a thief of magical objects. I’ve stolen icons from all the cities clinging to the edges of the River Chionthar. My adventures have even taken me to Cormyr and beyond, and yes, I love antiques. The old spell-stuff had such romance to it, such charm. Nowadays, it’s different, what with mages by the hundreds flocking into the Heartlands hawking their crude, magical wares. How dull.
“It’s true, then?” the merchant asked.
“Perhaps.”
He pursed his lips, and I saw the tip of his tongue dart out to wet them. “Look around you,” he said. “In this shop, I sell magical teas and balms. These things are drubbed up by the people of the southern range of the Sunset Mountains, and while in the past these elixirs were
held in contempt by the elite living in the big cities, that’s no longer true. I employ several agents and they travel into the lesser-known places looking for things for me to sell. One of them returned from a trip to the village of Urlok, and he told me about a brew called Spring Tonic. It’s so potent that it revitalizes a man and takes him back to the spring of his youth.” “I’ve not heard of it, nor have I heard of Urlok.” “I can supply you with a map.”
‘Traveling the Sunset Mountains in unfamiliar territory can be dangerous. Zhentarim, you know. Red Cloaks. Monsters, too.”
Bareen Tykar shook his head. “Yes, yes, I understand. Your commission will reflect the added cost of danger. Are you willing to try?”
“Tell me more about the Spring Tonic first.” “Apparently, this brew is drawn from a hidden pool. The people of the Sunsets have kept the location of this spring a secret, as much a secret as the spell employed to create the tonic. My colleague is sure it’s the reason for the health and vitality of the people in Urlok.”
“Why doesn’t your associate just go into the mountains and buy it for you?”
“We’ve tried this, but Jig Elbari, the dwarf who blends it, is unwilling to sell it.” “So you want me to steal it?” “That’s right.”
I always take a moment to prime the client by pretending to be wary of him and his request. Folks expect thieves to be suspicious. It’s part of the little dance we do to get a better price for our services and silence. I’ve found it is also a good way to drive the bargaining my direction.
He turned to pour a cup of tea from a free-standing samovar, finally filling in the quiet between us. “All right. I’ll make it worth your time and risk. If you find the Spring Tonic, I’ll triple your fee. That should salt the soup a bit, don’t you think?”
Two days later, my black war-horse, Stealth, and I traveled a narrow trail through the southern range of the Sunset Mountains on this mission for Bareen Tykar. The path was barely visible, blanketed with autumn leaves, moist from the silky mist curling low about my horse’s feet. It was a heavy, dark wood we passed through, and dusk was coming on. Night bugs started to peep and twill about me, greeting the evening with a heralding symphony.