seemed to stare mockingly down at Jastom with dark
sockets left empty by the crows.
“Reorx!” muttered Grimm. “What’ve you gotten us
into?”
“Those are the healers that have been here before
you,” the lieutenant said flatly. “The first among them was
our cleric, Umbreck. It seemed his faith in the Dark Queen
was not great enough. She closed her ears to his prayers.
All of them failed to heal Commander Skaahzak.”
Jastom swallowed hard, the sour taste of fear in his
throat. But he forced his lips into a smile. “Fear not,
lieutenant,” he said boldly. “We will not fail. Remember,
Mosswine’s Miraculous Elixirs heal all.”
Grimm choked at that but, thankfully, said nothing.
Jastom and the dwarf climbed down from the wagon’s
bench, and Durm led them into the dimness of the tent. A
rotten, sickly-sweet odor hung thickly upon the air, almost
making Jastom gag. Herbs burning on a sputtering bronze
brazier did little to counter the foul reek.
The tent was sparsely furnished. There was a table
scattered with maps and scrolls of parchment and a rack
bearing weapons of various kinds – sabres, maces, spears –
all dark and cruel-looking. A narrow cot stood in one
comer of the tent, and upon it lay – not a man – but a
draconian. Commander Skaahzak.
Jastom did not need to be a true healer to see that the
commander was dying. His scaly flesh was gray and
withered, clinging tightly to the bones of his skull. His
yellow eyes flickered with a hazy, feverish light, and his
clawed hands clutched feebly at the twisted bed covers.
His left shoulder had been bound with a thick bandage, but
the cloth was soaked with a black, oozing ichor.
“Commander Skaahzak was wounded a fortnight ago,
in a skirmish with a roving patrol of Solamnic Knights,”
Durm explained. “At first the wound did not seem dire,
but it has festered. You will work your craft upon him,
healer. Or you will join the rest outside.”
“We … uh … we have to prepare an elixir,” Jastom
said, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling.
Durm nodded stiffly. “Very well. If you require
anything in your task, you have only to request it.” With
another faint smile, devoid of warmth, the lieutenant left
them to their task.
*****
When Jastom and Grimm were alone in the cluttered
space inside their wagon, the dwarf shook his head.
“Have you gone completely mad, then, Jastom?” he
whispered. “You know very well we sold our last potion in Fax-fail, and
yet you go offering one up like we can conjure them out of thin air.”
“Well, I couldn’t think of anything else to say,” Jastom returned
defensively. After Faxfail, they had planned to head for Kaolyn to buy
ingredients so Grimm could brew another batch of dwarf spirits.
“Besides,” Jastom went on, “there must be something we can do. If
we don’t come out of here with an elixir, and soon, Durm’s going to feed
the crows with us.” He began rummaging around the boxes, pots, and jars
strewn about the inside of the wagon. “Wait a minute,” he said excitedly,
“there’s still something left in the bottom of this cask.” He tipped the cask
over an empty purple bottle. A thick, brown, gritty-looking fluid oozed
out.
“You can’t give the commander that!” Grimm cried hoarsely, trying
to snatch the purple bottle away.
“Why not?” Jastom asked, holding the bottle up out of the dwarf’s
reach.
Grimm glowered, stubby hands on his hips. “That’s pure mash –
goblin’s gruel, my grandpappy always called it. The dregs left over after
distilling the dwarf spirits. That stuff makes the rest of the batch seem
like water. Oh, it’ll make him happy – might say QUITE happy for a
while – but in the end . . .” Grimm shook his head.
“A WHILE! That’s all the time we need to get away,” Jastom said
desperately, stoppering the bottle.
Grimm shook his head dubiously. “We’re going to make a fine feast
for the crows.”
*****
The draconian Commander Skaahzak moaned as he thrashed in his
fevered sleep. Jastom held the small bottle filled with the goblin’s gruel.