It ignited the imaginations of those not brave enough to cross its forbidding threshold. Its reputation stretched from the western marshlands to Black Dragon Isle, from the Gulf of Ice to Raysal-El-Hin. To daring explorers, audacious bounty-hunters and thrill-seeking adventurers, Adventurer’s Arms was synonymous with wealth, adventure and excitement. Like a dragnet, it bundled in dwarves, elves and other strange human-like creatures unheard of in respectable society, even half-orcs and goblins, so extreme was its clientele.
No-one approached Adventurer’s Arms without a mild to strong fluttering tickling the insides of their stomach. No-one knew what to expect when walking through its heavy, iron-bound doors. What was guaranteed was an assortment of well-heeled and desperate characters promising gold and exotic tasks rubbing shoulders with a fascinating assembly of patrons hoping to make their fortune.
As always, Perry and Elfindi wore their most convincing apparel. As Perry excelled at deal-making he acted as frontman. His reputation as swash-buckler and adventurer preceded him, but his overconfidence and undisciplined tongue occasionally inspired doubts. His fearless negotiating, like his fearless sword-wielding, pleased some but unnerved others. Elfindi’s skills as cut-purse, thief and cat-burglar, his prowess and fighting ability stood him in good stead for any quest. Their well-rehearsed refrain, “We make a formidable team…” was often heard in this tavern. Just as importantly, from a client viewpoint, they honoured their contracts, down to the smallest detail, including privacy clauses. Those virtues alone were worth their weight in gold in this business.
Occasionally fights broke out in this hive of simmering expectations. Alonçane’s governor had ordered regular patrols of men-at-arms to roam adjoining streets, hoping to minimise incidents. Two guards in civvies wandered around inside the tavern itself. But regulars knew a spellcaster or two lurked inside incognito, ready to diffuse any situation that got out of hand.
It was dusk. Fading light coloured Alonçane’s rooves, domes and chimneys in a smooth grey darkness, gently bathing cobblestones, carts and buildings in shade. Street sweepers disappeared. Markets shut down. Artisans, traders and craftsman closed their workshops. Peasants and farmers hurried back to their simple dwellings. Stragglers darted around corners. Beggars retired to habitual haunts affording some shelter from the unforgiving elements as they slung down worn hat or discarded basket in hopes of kindness and coins, or preferably both.
They passed a retired soldier in reduced circumstances hobbling past on a crutch. Perry extracted two coppers from his purse. “My brother’s influence,” he told Elfindi as he gave them to the man. Elfindi unclasped his own purse in response. He looked inside and hesitated, then dropped a gold coin into the beggar’s open hand.
“What?” Perry cried. The beggar choked in disbelief.
“Courtesy of a generous Norse chieftain,” Elfindi grinned.
“I’d put that out of sight, if I were you,” Perry advised the man.
Still recovering, he leaned on his staff and lifted dirty hands to his scarred and weathered forehead in gratitude. Then he stared blankly ahead, as if remembering better days.
They entered Adventurer’s Arms as if they owned the establishment, poised, unaffected, hoping to inspire confidence. Elfindi was surprised. Instead of being confronted by a burst of noise and movement, as one would expect in a big city tavern at this time of evening, relative calm prevailed. Weird and wonderful characters spoke in hushed tones around heavy wooden tables. Others sat by themselves in corners, eating or drinking, casting furtive glances here and there. Parties of adventurers claimed tables, laughing loudly and joking, but only three such parties were present.
Maids, servants and bartenders chased orders for food, wine, spirits and ale. Men sat across from each other, surveying the clientele, weighing up who seemed best equipped for their particular need. Spellcasters wore distinctive robes, dressed in finery or the colours of their particular schools or circles. Druids and clerics generally congregated together if not accompanied by a party, also dressed in garb of their Groves, Orders or, if they had none, whatever eccentric apparel took their fancy. Most adventurers wore their habitual attire. Fighters were most common.
Some patrons hid behind a cloak of secrecy, wearing common clothing, giving nothing away. Were they fighters, druids, clerics, rangers, monks, illusionists, magic users, assassins, catburglars, trackers, negotiators, sailors, pirates, loremasters, entertainers? Who knew? A range of weapons hung from belts, lay on tables or leaned up against walls – long, short and double-handed swords, scimitars, battle, throwing and poleaxes, clubs, maces, flails, hammers, halberds, spears, bows and arrows – Elfindi noticed them all.
Suddenly Perry gasped. “Look, Elfindi! There she is!” Without warning Perry dodged, darted and almost barged through four conversing fighters in his eagerness to catch the exquisite spellcaster they’d seen earlier that day. As he briskly side-stepped a buxom wench - Perry could not tell if she was fighter or serving maid - he arrived where his lovely damsel had been standing. But she was gone. Two druids took a step back, wondering what lunatic stood before them. Perry simply stared at the empty wall as if someone had cast a Confusion! spell on him.
“Never mind, she’ll be here somewhere,” Elfindi reassured him.
A group of elves sat together, their sharp eyes taking in everything, their green skins contrasting with rich orange glows from lanterns set into tavern walls. On a table beside them two dwarves eyed everyone suspiciously, armed with massive battle axes and round wooden shields. In this venue patrons were required to disregard race and longstanding race tensions. Another dwarf, massive by dwarf standards, sat by himself. A nasty-looking crossbow perched beside him; his thick red beard separated into two bushy columns.
Perry approached two noblemen, easily discernible as such by their dress and finery. “Greetings, my lords.” He bowed delicately. “Perry is my name. This is Elfindi.”
“At your service,” Elfindi declared.
A servant boy scurried by carrying a tray of mugs. Elfindi leaned across suddenly to avoid bumping into him. The servant boy stumbled. By dint of experience not a drop was spilled.
“What do you offer?” the nobleman with dark eyes asked.
Elfindi opened his fist. Inside lay an emerald brooch. “To begin with, I offer this.” The nobleman’s dark eyes narrowed. His hand shot to his breast. No brooch. Rage smouldered in his dark eyes as he leapt to his feet. He calmed down when his brooch was placed delicately on the table by the smiling half-elf.
“That doesn’t begin to show what we can do,” Perry explained. He launched into his well-rehearsed spiel. “We have exceptional abilities in stealth - breaking into castles or carriages, ships or shelters, houses or hovels. We have exceptional fighting ability - we’ve bested bands of brigands, orcs, goblins and Mugar warriors. We defend caravans of goods from one end of Silk Road to another. We are guards and mercenaries. We break into dungeons, hunt dragons, right wrongs and return hostages.”
“Very impressive. And magic?”
Perry opened his hand to Elfindi. “For quests requiring magic, we hire spellcasters. We have many worthy friends and contacts.”
The nobleman nodded. “I’m sure you do.”
“What is your rate?” the other nobleman asked.
Perry threw his hands upwards, palms outward. “That depends on length of quest, danger, risk. None come better, so we’re not cheap…”
“Very good,” came a dismissive reply. He ignored the intruders and resumed his conversation with his companion.
Perry exchanged glances with Elfindi. Dismissed. How rude!
They shrugged their shoulders. Approaching tables uninvited was an accepted custom at Adventurer’s Arms. Even so, they found an unoccupied table to enjoy their supper. An elderly magic user with piercings on both sides of his prodigious nose and a plate of food joined them.
“Perry, yes? Heard about you. Maybe join you. Looking for expedition.” He mumbled an incantation, then
tucked into fresh squid garnished with peanut sauce and boiled parsnips. Garden green leeks and bright orange carrots added colour to his plate. Seeing Elfindi’s curious expression at his incantation, he chuckled. “Old habit. In our business cannot be too careful. Lots shady characters. Must have wits to survive. You two survivors, I see that.”
He extended a hand, festooned with fancy rings on each finger which glinted and glittered. Perry and Eflindi shook hands with him. “Gatby my name. Come from Novorobisk. I know what you think. Why he has name like Gatby when comes from Novorobisk? Everyone ask.” Perry shot a glance at his friend. “No-one pronounce real name – Vyacheslav.” He sliced off a chunk of squid, delicately adding a portion of turnip, then carrot, then daintily placing it into his mouth, his pink lips moving up and down like wriggling worms inside his white beard. “Repeat,” he told Perry.
Perry shot another glance at Elfindi, who breathed a sigh of relief Gatby had chosen Perry and not himself to repeat whatever it was he wanted repeating.
“Er, repeat what?” Perry asked.
“Repeat name.”
“Vechislav?”
“No! You see?” the old wizard admonished him. “Wrong. You, say it!”
Elfindi gave it a go. “Vyechislav.”
“Good half-elf. Not perfect, but good. You half-elves good ear for languages. Elves better, of course.” He nodded at a nearby table of elves. “Elves good ear for languages. Good ear for everything. Much better than men – you or me.” He pointed his fork at Perry. “Halflings, half-elves and elves make good cutpurse. And half-orc. Maybe half-orcs best.” He sliced more squid, added turnip, forked a carrot and delicately placed it into his mouth, his pink worms slowly moving up and down inside cottonwhite beard. Perry and Elfindi could only watch in amusement.
As he scanned the room, Perry spotted his exquisite spell-caster deep in conversation. A standing party of elf, human, halfling and half-elf partially blocked his view. The human was a mountain of a man, possibly a druid. He wore long robes with an absurdly ostentatious coat of loud pastel colours, perfectly designed to block Perry’s view. As Gatby ate, Elfindi turned and followed Perry’s gaze, which, lo and behold, ended with the alluring spell-caster.
Perry rose to excuse himself. “Pray excuse me, Visilich. Need see someone.”
To his utter shock, Gatby slapped Perry on the back of his hand. He barked viciously, like pulling a bone from the mouth of a rabid dog. “You call me Gatby, not these stupid names! Sit! You chase pretty spellcaster? You stupid! Must be wise. You know recipe,” he snapped at Perry. “What is recipe?”
“Recipe? What are you talking about?” Perry shot back irritably. A red outline of Gatby’s handprint materialised on the back of Perry’s stinging hand.
Gatby slapped Perry once again on exactly the same spot. He could not believe how much it stung. “You speak more respect to elders, you understand? I said, what is recipe?”
Perry sat down, gob-smacked. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Vissenchki…er…Gatby,” Perry said as humbly as he could in a vain attempt to placate this feisty old spellcaster. Best not aggravate this crazy old fool, he thought to himself. No telling what disturbance he might cause. Disturbances were bad for reputations and that was bad for business. “I don’t know any recipes. I don’t cook.” Perry threw his hands up in exasperation, then quickly withdrew them. Welts and ringmarks were clearly visible.
“That is not what I mean. Stupid. Fighter who chases young spellcaster is recipe for…?”
“Disaster,” Elfindi cried.
Like a wily old wizard, Gatby patted Elfindi’s hand gently, almost tenderly. “Clever. You clever one. He dumb one.” Gatby glared at Perry as if he were a stupid, wayward child.
Though shocked at his brashness, Elfindi took an immense liking to this eccentric magician who appeared to have a fatherly aura about him. Elfindi decided he’d take this opportunity to ask questions about magic which he’d always wanted to know. Despite his crotchety exterior, Elfindi felt this old wizard would be patient and understanding. Engaging in a conversation was ideal for another reason. The longer they spoke, the more chance this seductive young spellcaster, who seemed to have cast a Charm! spell on Perry, would be snapped up other parties. Perry needed to focus on business, not a pretty face.
If one thing could fire an old magician’s passions, it was a willing pupil enquiring about magic. For a second time in one afternoon, Perry was forced to listen to passionate presenters pour out information he had no desire to listen to. He may as well try to exercise his patience, he told himself, something his mother always exhorted him to do. Beside, he felt in no mood for another horrific slap across the back of his hand.
Gatby waxed lyrical in his own tongue before realising what he was doing. “People from Novoborisk not use commontongue much.” He cast a spell on himself, giving himself an ability to speak commontongue proficiently. Elfindi sat entranced while Perry sat and listened, bored beyond the telling, casting his eyes hither and thither before steeling them back again for fear of retribution.
“Magicians, wizards, necromancers, sorceresses, druids and clerics are all magic users, otherwise known as spellcasters. More experienced ones possess a greater repertoire of spells, of course. Some spells require incantations, others need ingredients; other spells can be performed by a word or simply at will. Only very powerful magic users can place magic upon something else, like swords, and only the most powerful can create magic of any permanence, usually with aid from a deity or very powerful cleric.
“Me powerful. Sorry, I’m powerful, but not that powerful. Magic users are well-versed in magical lore and the history and theory of magic. They are not proficient fighters. There are exceptions, like the Warrior Queen of Rin or Moses Al-Shaddai from Raysal-El-Hin. Most belong to a Circle. If not, they share workshop space for a fee, or if wealthy enough possess their own workshop.
“Another branch of magic is the illusionist. Only paladins and monks see through most of their illusions. Spellcasters can dispel them. Experienced or knowledgeable victims are less likely to fall victim to illusions. Conversely, the more innocuous the illusion, the more likely it is to succeed, even against a high priest, knight or wizard. For example, even a beginner illusionist can fool a wizard by presenting him with an illusory gold piece if it was taken from among real gold pieces contained in a real pouch. If an illusionist succeeds in convincing a victim of his or her illusion, even should a trusted confidant tell them otherwise, they will not believe it and act accordingly. Once an illusionist friend experimented on a village idiot not far from my home. This idiot was lovingly woken up with breakfast and a lullaby by a fire-breathing Red Dragon. It was such an absurd situation the village idiot, after some confusion and convincing, eventually saw through the illusion.
“Another class of magic user is the druid. They live in forests or woodland areas and communicate with forest animals. More experienced druids also communicate with magical beings such as centaurs, dryads, tree-beasts, giant snakes, even giant spiders. They excel in healing spells and potions, especially nature-based ones. They belong to Groves of one type or another.”
An image appeared in Elfindi’s memory. It struck like a blow to his heart. A short woman from the Central Kingdoms, he remembered she was short, pulled him away from green hands. He remembered seeing pain in his father’s green face all those years ago as those green arms belonging to his father drew him toward his heart. The helpless infant was pulled from opposing directions, elf on one side and a human on another. He belonged to both, yet neither. His parents had fought over him throughout his infancy, then both disowned him as he came of age.
A tear appeared in Elfindi’s eye before he whipped it away as if it never existed, along with the memory that inspired it. The old wizard’s eyes embraced him, for some reason taking a liking to the troubled half-elf. Elfindi felt a warmth pass through his body. A healing spell, he asked himself, or simple compassion radiating from this old sage? Gatby place
d his ring-dominated hand on Elfindi’s shoulder, then nodded.
So much seemed to be silently communicated in that gesture that Perry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. For half an hour he had listened patiently to Gatby telling them information he mostly knew, even if Elfindi didn’t. The emotion of the moment confronted him. Still, he dared not leave. Not simply from fear of a Biggle’s slap - his right cheek might be next - but out of respect for his dear friend who, in all seven years they’d known each other, had not once ventured into such emotional territory. Perry shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to leave. Yet he suspected he needed to request this stupid old wizard’s permission.
Thankfully Gatby had eaten his meal, yet curiously left his leeks untouched.
Gatby lifted his head to Perry. “You wonder I leave my leek?”
Perry threw up his hands in haste, fearing offence had been taken. “Leeks. Oh, they’re still on your plate?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I’d leave them, too. You do well to leave them.”
“Numbskull, my familiar eats them later. I save for him.” With that, he gathered them up and stuffed them into his shoulderbag. “Perfect leeks. Just right.”
Perry nodded. “Yes, perfect leeks. I was confused by this orange light which made them appear a smidgeon off-colour.” He was ignored.
“We meet again, maybe soon,” Gatby said, patting Elfindi’s arm. He nodded appreciatively.
“Thank you for company.”
On his way out, he threw an admonishing glance at Perry.
Perry made sure the elderly wizard was out of earshot before allowing his jaw to drop.
Elfindi smiled like a naughty urchin. “You were put in your place.” He chuckled. “Like when that stupid goblin-child raced out his hole and spotted you in full fury. He stood there, mesmerised, like a possum in full glare of a Light! spell.”
Elfindi suddenly laughed at the memory of Perry’s face when Gatby slapped his hand. His laugh became infectious. Perry’s indignant frown turned into resignation. Then he smiled. Before long both were doubled up in uncontrollable laughter.
Age of Demons_In Search of the Amulet Page 5