a mage in red robes. From his place behind the dirty bar,
Slegart frowned. It was not that he disliked magic-users
(rumor had it that his inn existed by the grace of the wizards
of the tower), but that he didn’t particularly like them
staying in his place.
When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young
man, as both Slegart and the others in the common room
noted) tossed down a coin and said, “Dinner,” Slegart’s
frown broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man
added, “and a room for the night,” however, the smile
slipped.
“We’re full up,” growled Slegart, with a significant
glance around the crowded common room. “Hunting moon
tonight …”
“Bah!” The big warrior snorted. “There’ll be no moon
tonight, hunting or otherwise. That storm’s going to break
any moment now and, unless you’re partial to hunting
snowflakes, you won’t shoot anything this night.” At this,
the big man glanced around the common room to see if any
cared to dispute his remark. Noting the size of his
shoulders, the well-worn scabbard he wore, and the
nonchalant way his hand went to the hilt of his sword, even
the rough-appearing humans began to nod their heads at his
wisdom, agreeing that there would definitely be no hunting
this night.
“At any rate,” said the big man, returning his stem gaze
to Slegart, “we’re spending the night here, if we have to
make up our beds by the fire. As you can see” – the warrior’s
voice softened and his gaze went to the magic-user, who
had slumped down at a table as near the fire as possible –
“my brother is in no condition to travel farther this day,
especially in such weather.”
Slegart’s glance went to the mage and, indeed, the man
appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion. Dressed in red
robes, with a hood that covered his head and left his face in
shadow, the magic-user leaned upon a wooden staff
decorated at the top with a golden dragon’s claw holding a
faceted crystal. He kept this staff by him always, his hand
going to it fondly as if both to caress it and to reassure
himself of its presence.
“Bring us your best ale and a pot of hot water for my
twin,” said the warrior, slapping another steel coin down
upon the bar.
At the sight of the money, Slegart’s senses came alert.
“I just recollect – ” he began, his hand closing over the coins
and his eyes going to the warrior’s leather purse where his
ears could detect the chink of metal. Even his nose
wrinkled, as though he could smell it as well. ” – a room’s
opened up on t’second floor.”
“I thought it might,” the warrior said grimly, slapping a
third steel piece down on the bar.
“One of my best,” Slegart remarked.
The big man grunted, scowling.
“It’s goin’ to be no fit night for man nor beast,” added
the innkeeper and, at that moment, a gust of wind hit the
inn, whistling through the cracked windows and puffing
flakes of snow into the room. At that moment, too, the red-
robed mage began to cough – a wracking, choking cough
that doubled the man over the table. It was difficult to tell
much about the mage – he was cloaked and hooded against
the weather. But Slegart knew he must be young, if he and
this giant were, indeed, twins. The innkeeper was
considerably startled, therefore, to catch a glimpse of
ragged, white hair straying out from beneath the hood and
to note that the hand holding the staff was thin and wasted.
“We’ll take it,” the warrior muttered, his worried gaze
going to his brother as he laid the coin down.
“What’s the matter with ‘im?” Slegart asked, eyeing the
mage, his fingers twitching near the coin, though not
touching it. “It ain’t catchin’, is it?” He drew back. “Not the
plague?”
“Naw!” The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the
innkeeper, the big man said in a low voice, “We’ve just
come from the Tower of High Sorcery.” Slegart’s eyes grew
wide. “He’s just taken the Test. . . .”