The Search For Magic

Product given for services rendered

“I hate rain,” Gnash said.

“Yeah, me too,” Yarl agreed. “I hate everything right ahout now.”

It had been raining forever. For as far back as they could remember, it had been raining.

The two brothers wore chain armor over leather jerkins, and carried kite shields. The clothes they wore under their armor were soaked through, and their boots-what was left of them-squished as they plodded through the mud. The rain fell in a steady downpour that was neither light nor heavy. The ground in the pine forest was soaked.

“Wait!” Yarl stopped, sniffed the air. “You smell that? I smell somethin’ good”

“I just smell you, and it ain’t good.” Gnash answered flatly.

Yarl thumped his brother on the arm. “No, I mean it. It smells like food. I can’t remember the last time we had a good meal.”

“You always think of food. Damn it, Yarl, we’re deserters. If they catch us, they’ll hang us. On top of that, we don’t know where in the Abyss we are. We’ve been walkin’ in circles”-he pointed to a rock formation that they had passed at least six times-”and all you’re worried about is your empty belly! What if there are Solam-nics around?” He glanced about nervously.

Yarl scowled. “I know exactly where we are. We’ve only got to go another fifty miles or so until we reach a port, and from there we can catch a ship that’ll take us anywhere we feel like, so shut your goddamn mouth! As for that boulder, it’s not the same boulder.”

“Is too,” Gnash muttered, but he was too cold and hungry to fight about it. “I do smell somethin’ though. It smells really good. Take a whiff.”

“By the Vision, you’re right, Yarl!” Gnash sniffed the air like a hungry dog. The smell was faint, but suggested warm bread.

“Kinda like a home smell, ain’t it, Gnash?” said his brother.

The brothers sniggered.

“Ma could sure bake bread.” Yarl sounded wistful.

“Now don’t get started,” Gnash, the elder, said severely. “Sure we got some bread, but we had to eat it buttered with all that religious hokum. Paladine this and Mishakal that and ‘Remember to say your prayers, boys,’ and ‘You know it looks bad for the sons of clerics to be wastin’ time, hangin’ out in taverns.’ Well, Pal-adine’s gone, and good riddance, I say.”

“That big red dragon we sold ‘em to sure did make short work of them,” said Yarl, cheering up at the memory. “Chomp, chomp. Didn’t even bother to cook ‘em first, like I thought she might.”

“Don’t talk about red dragons, neither,” Gnash said nervously. “If she or the Dark Knights finds out we deserted, she’ll go chomp, chomp on us!”

“Bah! She won’t find out,” said Yarl confidently. “As for the Knights, they were getting whupped so bad when we lit out we don’t have to worry about them no more. I think the smell’s coming from that direction. Someone’s cooking us dinner, brother.”

“I think you’re right,” said Gnash. He grinned. “Only they don’t know it yet.”

Yarl patted the broad saber hanging at his side. “Ain’t no one gonna mess with us! We’re sergeants from the army of the Knights of Takhisis!”

“Gentle, brother!” warned Gnash. “First let’s poke around.”

The two moved forward at a lope, heading toward the smell that grew stronger and more tantalizing the nearer they came. The rain grew heavier. The water poured down the center spine of Gnash’s helmet, down the nose guard, then dripped off the tip of his nose. The fall storms would only get worse, then eventually turn to snow, Gnash thought, hoping they reached some seaport long before that happened. At least in this downpour, no one would hear them coming. And he couldn’t get much wetter than he already was.

The pine forest ended abruptly. The brothers looked out of the woods to see a clearing of tall grass that drooped in the rain. A huge pile of freshly turned dirt rose up out of the grass.

Yarl gripped his saber. Gnash looked at his brother, shook his head, and proceeded stealthily.

“What is all that dirt?” Yarl asked in a low tone.

“I think it’s a grave-one of those big ones where they dump a lot of bodies after a battle. Damn it, Yarl,” Gnash swore, “do you know what this means? This means we’re still somewhere close to the war! Too damned close.” He felt for his saber. The grip was wet, but he wanted it close if a fight erupted.

“Yeah,” said Yarl, and after a moment’s consideration he added, “but if they’re digging graves, then the battle must be over.”

“I guess you got a point,” he admitted, admiring his brother’s sound logic. “But just be careful. We don’t know who’s diggin’ the graves!”

He crouched low and crept forward. Yarl stayed right at his side. Creeping past the mound, they stopped at the far end. A stone marker stood at the head of it.

Gnash nodded to his brother. “Go see what it says.”

“You want me to walk close to a grave?” Yarl asked, horrified. “What if somethin’ grabs me?”

“How old are you? Ten? Nothin’s going to grab you,” said Gnash, disgusted. “Now go on.”

Yarl did as he was told. Gnash was the older brother by a year and Yarl always did what his brother told him to do. Yarl cautiously approached the stone marker, sinking in the fresh mud with every step.

“Says THREE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN SOLAMNIC SOLDIERS, FIFTY-ONE SOLAMNIC KNIGHTS, AND TWO QUALINESTI ELVES. BATTLE OF THE SOLACE WATERSHED, CHAOS WAR, YEAR 384 AFTER CATACLYSM. THEY DIED BRAVELY. Stone’s been fresh cut, Gnash.” Yarl glanced about. “That means there must be Solamnics still about.”

“Solamnic grave-diggers,” said Gnash, relaxing. “They won’t have swords, just shovels.”

The clearing ended another fifty yards ahead as it led into a forest of poplar and oak and scrub pine. The brothers entered the forest warily, but saw no sign of anyone.

The smell was stronger now-the sweet smell of fresh baked bread with something else, cinnamon or nutmeg, Gnash wasn’t sure. Both were so hungry they wouldn’t have much cared if the whole Solamnic army had been up there waiting for them, so long as they were fed.

The trees stopped ahead, with another clearing opening out beyond it. An ancient road, overgrown with grass and weeds, crossed the clearing. The two stopped and stared into the wet landscape. The clearing opened onto several old farm fields, with an old, tumbledown farmhouse at the end. A wagon stood parked beside the ruin of the building. Smoke and the wonderful smell rose from some sort of chimney-like contraption sticking up out of the back end of the wagon. No one was in sight.

“Think we should sneak up?” Yarl asked.

Gnash shook his head. He felt braver now that he was certain there wasn’t an army around. “Naw. We strut in bold as brass. Make friends with ‘em first. Then later, we do what we must. Either way, we’ll eat good tonight, brother!”

“You bet!” said Yarl, grinning.

The two headed across the open expanse, sabers sheathed but at the ready. They might have drawn their weapons, had they seen an enemy, but still there was no one to be seen. Gnash waved his hand toward the right side of the farmhouse. He pointed to left. The two brothers split up and circled the farmhouse, peering inside. No one there. They met up outside the wagon that had to be the strangest looking vehicle they’d ever seen. It was actually closer to a house on wheels. All sorts of pots and kettles dangled from hooks on the sides. The wagon was seemingly meant to carry heavy loads. Several large draft horses grazed nearby, glanced over their at the brothers, and went back to eating. Gnash pointed at the horses.

“No more walking,” he said softly.

“Hey! Wagon!” Yarl shouted boldly.

A canvas curtain hung over the back end parted. A beard poked out. So thick and black was the beard that it took the brothers a moment to realize the beard was attached to a head. Two black beady eyes stared at them, then the head withdrew and another head- this one with a salt and pepper beard and intense brown eyes-poked out. The curtain parted. An elderly man, hale and hearty to judge by his upright bearing and quick step, walked down the stairs that led up to the wagon. Behind the old man came a short, stocky person, the owner of the full black beard.

“That little guy’s a dwarf,” said Gnash, showing off.

“I know a dwarf when I see one,” Yarl stated indignantly. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“The old man’s wearing robes. He looks like a wizard. Let’s see your hands, Old Man,” said Gnash, reaching toward his saber.

The human held his hands out, so that the two could see that he had no weapons. The dwarf did the same.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the old man greeted them.

He walked forward, his hands in plain sight, his gray robes trailing in the mud. The dwarf remained behind, near the wagon.

The two brothers each fingered their sabers nervously.

“You’re cold and wet,” said the old man in friendly tones. “You must be hungry, as well. Am I right?”

Gnash was taken aback. He’d expected the old man to run off screaming at the sight of two such fearsome warriors. Gnash could have drawn his sword and just sliced the old man in two at that point and taken what he wanted. But what did the old wizard have up his sleeve besides bread? He was acting so nice to them that Gnash felt obligated to talk to him.

“Uh, what’s that smell?” Gnash asked.

Yarl nodded and licked his lips.

“I’m baking bread, and I’ve got a pot of beans on,” said the old man. “You are welcome to share supper with my associate and myself. You like spicy food?”

Gnash watched the old man warily. He should be afraid of them, for he must know that they would steal his food and his horses and probably kill him in the bargain. But the man didn’t appear to be afraid of them at all, and that made Gnash even more nervous.

“You got a weapon on you, Old One?” Gnash asked, motioning at the man’s cloak. “Or maybe stuff for spellcastin’?”

“No weapons on me,” the old man responded, shaking his head. He pulled back the cloak to show that he had no weapons or bags of bat wings attached to his belt. “I do have a lot of weapons over here near the wagon, though. Perhaps you’d like to see them?”

The old man motioned toward the wooden crates piled beside the wagon. At his gesture, the dwarf clomped down the stairs and opened the lid on one of the crates. Suspecting a trap, Gnash moved forward slowly. He kept his distance, peering inside the box.

“By the Queen! How many swords you got in there?” Gnash demanded, astonished. “Hey, Yarl. Come look at this!”

“There’s gotta be a hundred swords!” Yarl added, awed. “Enough for an army.”

The old man smiled. “No, only forty, with another forty daggers or dirks. They’re not in very good shape though. I can still use them, however.”

“Use them? You got an army we should know about, Old One?” Gnash glared at him.

The old man glanced at the dwarf. Both of them seemed amused. “An army?” the old man repeated, chuckling. “Oh, dear, no. When I say I use them… well, I can show you, if you’re interested. You need to come into the wagon to see. There’s food for you here, too.”

The man turned and walked back up the three steps into the back of the wagon. He flipped up the left flap of canvas, then stepped in. After a penetrating look at the two brothers, the dwarf followed.

“Wait here and be ready for anythin’,” Gnash said in low tones.

“In the rain? While you get to go inside with the food?” Yarl demanded.

“I’m the one walking into danger,” Gnash returned with a swagger. “You stay outside where it’s safe.”

“In the rain,” Yarl muttered, but under his breath.

Gnash marched up the steps and entered the back of the wagon. He maintained a grip on his blade, not knowing what to expect.

The inside of the wagon was lit by a lantern hanging from one of the spines holding up the canvas. The smoke came from a small field forge, such as the one an army blacksmith used on the battlefield to make weapons or repair armor.

“You some sort of weaponsmith, Old One?” Gnash asked. “Maybe serving with the Solamnic army?”

The old man struggled out of his cloak, hung it from another hook on the same spine as the lantern. The dwarf shook himself like a dog, raining water from his heavy beard.

“My name is Flannery. This is my associate Digger Cutterstone. We’re not with the army. We’re from Palanthas, and I assure you that we mean no harm to you or your friend.”

“Brother. Yarl’s my brother,” Gnash corrected. He grinned in a nasty sort of way. “We know you don’t mean us no harm, Old One. And we don’t mean you any harm, although we’re the ones with the swords. Swords in our hands,” he added quickly, thinking of all the swords in the box.

“Oh, he’s your brother.” Flannery said, with a significant glance at the dwarf. “We should have guessed. Should have seen the resemblance. Won’t you invite your brother in? We’ll eat soon. The beans are almost done.”

Gnash looked around the wagon. A pot of beans bubbled onto a steel plate that had been mounted over the top of the forge. To the side of the forge were bread loaf tins and two ladles. Some sort of strange machine stood at the back of the wagon. The machine looked like a leather punch, only much bigger, with a handle that pulled down a cylinder. On the other side of the wagon were two beds that had been covered with planks so that they turned into benches. At the back of the wagon stood a large chest with a heavy iron padlock. Gnash eyed the chest.

“All right, Old One. I guess I trust you. But no funny stuff. We’re sergeants with the army of the Knights of the Takhisis, so don’t you mess with us. We don’t take kindly to no messin’ from no one from Palanthas.”

Gnash backed up his warning with a threatening look. He stroked the hilt of his saber blade menacingly, then whistled to his brother.

“Come on in, Yarl. He’s going to give us some food,” Gnash said.

Yarl entered the wagon. He looked at Gnash, who winked. Yarl knew that wink from their childhood. It meant that there was going to be some fun later on.

The two sat down on the bench. The dwarf rolled over a large barrel for them to use as a table.

Flannery served four bowls of beans that had been flavored with a hint of cinnamon in a brown tomato sauce. He gave each of the brothers a small loaf of fresh-baked bread.

“Usually, Digger and I eat alone,” Flannery explained. “Tonight we’re happy to share our food with you.”

“Why are you out here digging graves?” Gnash asked, eyeing the food in his bowl, but not touching it yet. “Are you sure you don’t work for one of the armies?”

“No, I don’t work for any army-” Flannery began.

“Did you find any valuable jewels on the bodies?” Yarl interrupted, looking greedily at the chest with the iron padlock.

Flannery smiled. “No jewels. I’m not really looking for jewels. I look for armor and weapons.”

“Grave robbers, huh,” said Gnash.

“Dear me, no!” Flannery was shocked. “We don’t rob the dead. We make a pact with them. The standard contract.” He glanced at the dwarf, who shoveled beans in his mouth and nodded his agreement.

“Contract for what?” Gnash asked, after waiting what seemed like an eternity for the old wizard to continue.

“For their armor and their weapons. In exchange, we give them a proper burial. You see, we work this way: My associate and I search for battlefields, particularly those where the dead haven’t been properly buried in the afterhaste of battle-those where the bodies are just flung into a pit or maybe never buried at all. We dig up the bodies and remove their armor and weapons.”

“Grave robbers,” said Gnash indignantly.

“Not really,” Flannery argued. “The dead aren’t using their armor or their swords anymore. They don’t mind giving them to us, especially when we explain that we’re providing a service. Product given for services rendered.”

“Service for product,” said Digger, the first words the dwarf had uttered. Yarl’s eyes widened suspiciously.

“In return,” Flannery continued smoothly, “we bury the dead and perform the proper rituals so that they may rest in peace.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Gnash, rolling his eyes. “Get to the interesting part. What do you do with the armor and the swords? Sell ‘em as souvenirs?”

Flannery reached into his pocket and pulled out two shiny steel coins. He handed one to Yarl and one to Gnash. Both examined them. The coins were marked LORD CITY PALANTHAS on one side and BANK OF PALANTHAS on the other.

“Yeah, so?” Gnash said, fingering the coins. “You get a little money from selling old weapons.”

“Must be about twenty copper’s worth of old weapons out there,” said Yarl, disgusted.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Flannery said. “We don’t sell the armor for coin. We melt down the armor and the swords and use the steel to make coins. I minted both those coins you’re holding in your hand.”

Yarl gasped. “You… you make your own money? Can you do that?”

“We can, and we do,” said Flannery. “We work for the Bank of Palanthas.”

Gnash thought this over. “Then how come everyone’s not running around making their own money out of old armor?”

“Excellent question, my friend. The reason no one else does it is that steel is extremely difficult to work with. I have developed a magical powder that I add to the steel that causes it to melt at a much lower temperature than normal.”

Flannery pulled out a bag and opened it. Inside was a fine, gray powder. “I use just a pinch. Can’t waste any magic. Not these days. After the steel is melted, I pour the steel into sheets and then use that machine you see over there to punch out the coins. A good sword or piece of armor makes a surprising number of steel coins.”

Flannery motioned at the dwarf to open the iron padlock on the chest at the rear of the wagon. Digger frowned and looked at the old man questioningly, but Flannery gave him a reassuring nod. Shrugging, Digger opened the chest for the brothers to see.

Gnash and Yarl peered inside. The chest was full to the brim with steel coin, all gleaming and freshly minted.

Gnash stared at the man in disbelief. “Are you telling me that you have a wagonload of steel coins, and you’re all alone out here with nothin’ but a dwarf for a bodyguard? I don’t believe it.”

Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his sword hilt and looked about, as if expecting a huge warrior to leap out at him at any moment.

“I assure you, we are quite alone,” said Flannery.

“Then why tell us? We’re really bad guys, you know.” Gnash and Yarl both scowled ferociously. “You know we’re gonna have to kill you now and take all your money.”

“I’m afraid that’s a risk I have to take,” said Flannery with a hint of sadness. “You see, I tell you this because I need your help. I was trained as a cleric of Paladine-”

“We don’t think much of clerics,” growled Yarl, rattling his sword in its sheath.

“Oh, I’m not a cleric anymore,” said Flannery hurriedly. “It’s because I was a cleric of Paladine that I am able to bury the dead Solamnics and dead elves with the proper sacred rituals. But I’m in a bit of quandary when I come to the bodies of those who died in the name of Queen Takhisis. I can’t bury them with the proper rituals so that they will sleep the sleep of the dead, which means that I can’t take their armor. I’ve been hoping I’d run into someone who would understand the proper procedure for burying the dead of Queen Takhisis. Now you gentlemen are here, and you might be able to help me. Besides having my utmost gratitude, I’d be glad to pay you, of course.”

The brothers looked at each other. They couldn’t believe this old man was so foolish. But then, their parents had been the same way. Always prattling about trust and loving your neighbor and all that rot.

“You’re gonna pay us all right,” said Gnash tersely. “As for buryin’ dead guys, we’ll see to it that we bury you both nice and proper.”

He yanked his sword out and pressed the point of his blade to Flannery’s breast, then glanced over at Digger. “You, dwarf, start shoveling that steel into sacks. I want to know how much we’re going to make for this night’s work. Make it quick or you’ll get to see me start cuttin’ pieces off this old man.”

Flannery gave a slight nod. Digger started to count out stacks of steel coins.

Flannery looked down his nose at the blade that was pressed against his chest. “Nice weapon. A little rusty, but still in good condition. How much did you pay for it?”

“It cost him forty steel up north,” Yarl answered proudly. “It’s a really good blade. I got one too.”

Flannery touched the edge with his finger. “Sharp. Know what it’s worth?”

Gnash sneered. “Yeah, it’s worth forty steel.”

Flannery shook his head. “I reckon I could make sixty steel coins out of that blade this very night. And I could make another sixty out of your armor.”

Gnash’s jaw sagged. “Sixty! I only paid twenty-five for the armor!”

“Now you see why I’m in this business,” Flannery explained. “You could rob us, of course, and kill us into the bargain, but in truth you’d be cheating yourself out of a lot more money. Whereas if you help us, I’ll cut you in for a share of all the armor of the Knights of Takhisis.”

Outside the wagon, night had fallen. The pattering of rain stopped. Inside, the dwarf halted his money counting and turned around.

“You really mean that?” Gnash asked eagerly. “You could make our armor and blades into a lot more money than they’re worth?”

“And if we help you dig up dead Knights of Takhisis, we get a share of their armor, too?”

“It’s not so much the digging up we need help with,” Flannery explained-a tad reluctantly it seemed. “It’s the putting back into the ground that’s giving us problems”.

Gnash and Yarl looked at each other. The old wizard was talking riddles again.

“What do you say? The standard contract for services rendered?”

Digger reached into his shirt and drew forth a sheaf of parchment. He held it forth temptingly.

“I know what I say,” Gnash said to his brother.

“It tops the reward for Mom and Pop,” Yarl agreed, eyeing the steel coins in the chest. Leaning close, he whispered, “Besides, once we learn the trick of that there powder, then we can kill them both anyway.”

“Smart thinking, little brother,” whispered Gnash admiringly. Lowering the sword from Flannery’s chest, Gnash thrust the weapon back into its sheath. He reached down to undo the buckle of his sword belt.

“Just a moment,” said Flannery, raising his hand. “Remember our bargain: product given for services rendered. Tell me the ritual for burying the dead of the Knights of Takhisis.”

“Some mumbo jumbo about commending the souls of the dead to Takhisis for all eternity,” said Gnash, not much interested. “That’s the important part. The Gray Robes say that settles ‘em. There’s wrapping of cloth and incense and candles as such if there’s time. Spooky waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Thank you!” said Flannery with a deep sigh. Lifting his hand, he held it over the heads of the two brothers. “And I commend your souls to Takhisis for all eternity.”

Swords, sheathes, belts, buckles, chain mail and helmets made a sharp banging and clattering sound as they all hit the floor. For a brief instant, two skeletal figures stood staring at Flannery, a flicker of enmity in the hollow, empty eye sockets.

“Product given for services rendered,” Flannery reminded them sternly.

“Standard contract,” said Digger Cutterstone, exhibiting the paper.

The skeletons collapsed in a heap of tangled bones onto the pile of metal that had once, thirty years ago, been their armor.

The dwarf and the old man stood looking at the remains.

“That was a close one,” said Digger.

“Indeed it was,” said Flannery, wiping sweat from his face with the sleeve of his robe. “We must be more careful next time. But at least now we know that part about commending their souls to Takhisis. Seemed to work fine.”

The wagon rolled off the next morning, heading for the site of the next battle-Chaos War, War of the Lance, it didn’t matter. There were enough battlefields to keep Masters Flannery and Cutterstone busy for the rest of their lives.

They left a peaceful gravesite with two grave markers on the large mound.

The first read:

THREE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN SOLAMNIC SOLDIERS, FIFTY-ONE SOLAMNIC KNIGHTS, AND TWO QUALINESTI ELVES. BATTLE OF THE SOLACE WATERSHED, CHAOS WAR. YEAR 384 AFTER CATACLYSM. THEY DIED BRAVELY.

The second read:

TWO DEAD BROTHERS, SERGEANTS OF THE KNIGHTS OF TAKHISIS, BATTLE OF THE SOLACE WATERSHED, CHAOS WAR, YEAR 384 AFTER CATACLYSM. THEY DIED… FINALLY.