He and Guarinn and Una knelt together as snow began
to fall, listened to dawn-wind singing. It held no echo of
wolfish howling. The Night of the Wolf was over, and
Roulant saw the peace of it in Guarinn’s smile.
The Potion Sellers
Mark ANTONY
It was just after MIDSUMMER’S, ON a fine, golden
morning, when the seller of potions came to the town of
Faxfail.
Perched precariously upon the high bench of a
peculiar-looking wagon, he drove through the borough’s
narrow, twisting streets. The wagon, pulled by a pair of
perfectly matched dappled ponies, was a tall, boxlike craft
all varnished in black and richly decorated with carved
scrollwork of gilded wood. On the wagon’s side panel,
painted in a fantastically brilliant hue of purple, was the
picture of a bottle above which was scribed, in flowing
letters of serpentine green, three strange words:
MOSSWINE’S MIRACULOUS ELIXIRS. It was a
mysterious message indeed, and startled the townsfolk
who looked up from their morning tasks and chores in
curiosity as the wagon rattled by.
The seller of potions himself was a young-looking
man, with hair the color of new straw and eyes as blue as
the summer sky. He was clad in finery fit for a noble –
albeit in hues a bit brighter than most nobles would choose
– and his dark, crimson-lined cape billowed out behind
him in the morning breeze. He waved to the townsfolk as
he passed by, his broad grin rivalling the sun for sheer
brilliance.
On the hard wooden bench next to the seller of potions
bounced a short, swarthy-looking fellow. His look was not
nearly so cheerful as his companion’s, but then this was
only typical. He was a dwarf, and it has often been said
that dwarvenkind is every bit as hard and unyielding as the
metals dwarves are so fond of forging deep in their dim
mountain smithies. This particular dwarf wore a dour
expression, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over his iron-
gray eyes in a scowl. His coarse black beard was so long
he wore it tucked into his broad leather belt, and his
shaggy hair was bound with a leather thong into a braid
behind his neck.
“You know, you’re going to scare the townsfolk out of
what little wits they have with that sour look you’re
wearing,” the seller of potions said quietly to the dwarf
through clenched teeth, all the while grinning and waving.
“It won’t do us a great deal of good if they all take one
look at you and go scurrying inside to bolt their doors. At
least, not until after we have their money. I don’t suppose
you could smile for a change, could you?”
“I am smiling,” the dwarf answered in a gruff voice.
His craggy visage was not quite as warm and friendly as a
chunk of wind-hewn granite, but almost.
The seller of potions eyed the dwarf critically. “Maybe
you shouldn’t try so hard,” he suggested lightly, but the
joke was completely lost on the dour-faced dwarf. The
seller of potions sighed and shook his head. His name was
Jastom, and he had traveled with this particular dwarf long
enough to know when argument and teasing were
pointless. The dwarf’s name was Algrimmbeldebar, but
over the years Jastom had taken to simply calling him
Grimm. Not only did the name slip more readily from the
tongue, it also suited the dwarf’s disposition far better.
Rumors sped faster than sparrows through the towns
narrow streets, and by the time the wagon rolled into Fax-
fail’s central square, a sizeable crowd of curious townsfolk
had gathered expectantly. It wouldn’t be the largest
audience Jastom had ever hawked potions to, but it
wouldn’t be the smallest either. Faxfail was a town deep in
the Garnet mountains of southern Solamnia. The nearest
city of consequence – that would be Kaolyn – was a good
three day’s journey to the north and west. These were
country folk. And country folk tended to be far more
trusting than city folk. Or gullible, depending upon one’s
choice of words.
“I suppose this means I’ll have to mix more elixirs,”
Grimm grumbled, eyeing the growing throng. The dwarf