The War Of The Lance (25 page)

“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. Grimm stood
beside him. Durm watched the two from across the commander's bed, his expression stony.
With a flourish of his cape, Jastom lifted the purple bottle and unstoppered it. No sense
in sparing

the dramatics. Jastom nodded to Grimm. The dwarf grabbed the draconian's

twisting head and held it steady, forcing the monster's jaws open with strong fingers.
Jastom tipped the bottle and poured the thick contents past the draconian's lolling forked
tongue and down his gullet. Grimm let Skaahzak's jaws snap back shut. Jastom waved his
hand, and the empty bottle seemed to vanish into thin air. Durm never even blinked an eye.

Jastom took a deep breath, searching for something suitably dramatic to say. But before he
could, the fetid air of the tent was shattered by a blood-curdling shriek.

Skaahzak.

The draconian shrieked again, writhing upon the bed. Jastom and Grimm gaped at the
creature. In a flash, Durm drew his sword and levelled it at Jastom's heart.

“It seems you have failed,” Durm spoke softly, almost as a father might chide an erring
son, except that his voice was so deathly cold.

Abruptly, the draconian commander leapt from the bed and knocked Durm's sword aside. The
goblin's gruel was coursing through the

creature's blood, lighting him aflame. The gray tinge had left Skaahzak's flesh, and if
his wound was causing him any pain he did not show it. His yellow eyes glowed brightly now.

“Stop this foolishness, Durm,” Skaahzak hissed. “I will have your head if you dare strike
either of these most skillful healers.”

Jastom's head was spinning. But he was not about to let this opportunity go to waste. He
doffed his cap and bowed deeply. “It gladdens my heart to see milord in such excellent
health,” he proclaimed

in a deeply-felt tone. He surreptitiously kicked Grimm's knee, and the dwarf toppled
forward in clumsy imitation of Jastom's graceful bow.

“You have done me a great service, healer,” Skaahzak said in his dry, reptilian voice,
donning a crimson robe that an attendant soldier offered him.

“I am overjoyed that I could restore such a brilliant commander to health,” Jastom said.
Grimm muttered something inaudible under his beard.

“That you have,” Skaahzak hissed. Suddenly he spun about wildly, a ferocious, toothy grin
on his face. “I've never felt better in my life!” He lurched dizzily and would have fallen
but for Durm's strong hands steadying him.

There was no doubt about it. The draconian was rip- roaring drunk.

“Take your filthy paws from me!” Skaahzak spat, shrugging off the lieutenant's grip. “You,
who have brought me healer after healer, cleric after cleric, all who poked, prodded, and
prayed to their foul gods over me, and all who failed. I should have you flailed for
letting me suffer so long.” Skaahzak's expression flickered between intoxicated ecstasy
and livid rage. Little seemed to separate the two emotions in this creature.

Durm watched silently, impassively.

“However, you DID bring these most excellent healers to me,” Skaahzak said, his voice
crooning now. “Thus I will be merciful. I will even grant you a reward to show you the
depths of my kindness.” He held out his left hand. "You may kiss the ring of your master,
Lieutenant

Durm." On the draconian's clawed middle finger was a ring

set with a ruby as big as a thumbnail. Jastom guessed that Skaahzak hadn't removed the
ring in years. In fact, he doubted the draconian would be able to take it off at all. The
monster's scaly flesh was puffy and swollen to either side of the ring. Durm did not
hesitate. He knelt before Skaahzak's proffered hand.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the glimmering ruby. As he did so, Skaahzak struck
the lieutenant. Durm did not even flinch. Slowly, he rose to his feet. The ruby had cut
his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood, as crimson as the gem, ran down his jaw. The
draconian grinned.

“There, lieutenant,” Skaahzak said, his reptilian voice slurred and indistinct. “Your
reward is complete.”

Durm bowed stiffly, giving Jastom a brief, indecipherable glance.

Jastom tried to swallow his heart, but it kept clawing its way up into his throat. He cast
a meaningful look at Grimm. It was time to get out of this place. The dwarf nodded
emphatic agreement.

“Well, I am delighted to see that all things appear to have been set aright,” Jastom said
pleasantly, placing his cap back on his head. “Thus I believe that we will be - ”

Skaahzak interrupted him.

“I have a proclamation to make!” the draconian shouted. He sloshed some wine into a silver
goblet - spilling the better portion of it on his robe - and began to weave drunkenly
about the tent, stumbling over chests and pieces of furniture. One of his attendants
followed behind him with a quill and parchment, taking down each word. “Be it known that,
for their most excellent service, these two healers shall hereby become my personal
physicians, from now until the end of all days!” He spread his arms wide in a gesture of
triumph. The silver goblet he clutched struck the head of his attendant with a loud CLUNK!
The soldier dropped to the floor like a stone, the parchment and quill slipping from his
fingers. Skaahzak did not notice.

Jastom and Grimm exchanged glances of alarm. “Er, begging your pardon, milord,” Jastom
said hesitantly, “but what exactly do you mean by that?”

Skaahzak whirled about to face Jastom, his eyes burning with the consuming fire of the
goblin's gruel. “I mean that Lieutenant Durm here will show you to your new quarters,” the
draconian said, displaying his countless jagged teeth in a terrible smile. “You will be
remaining here in this camp with me. Permanently. You are my healers, now.”

Jastom could only nod dumbly, feeling suddenly ill. Impossible as it seemed, it looked as
if this time his elixir had worked too well for his own good.

*****

“How many soldiers are standing guard out there?” Jastom whispered.

“Two,” Grimm whispered back, peering through a narrow opening beside the canvas flap that
covered the tent's entrance. “Both are draconians.”

Jastom tugged at his hair as he paced the length of the cramped, stuffy tent. The air was
musty with the smell of the sour, rotten hay strewn across the floor. The only light came
from a wan, golden beam of sun spilling through a small hole in the tent's canvas roof.

“There must be a way to get past them,” Jastom said in agitation, clenching his hands into
fists.

“Too bad we can't get them drunk,” Grimm noted dryly.

Jastom shot the dwarf an exasperated look. “There's always a way out, Grimm. We've been in
enough dungeons before to know that. All we need is time to come up with the answer.”

Grimm shook his head, his shaggy eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. “Even now, the goblin's
gruel will be burning Skaahzak from the inside out, as sure as if it was liquid fire he'd
drunk. He'll be dead by morning.” The dwarf paused ominously. “And I suppose we will be,
too, for that matter.”

Jastom groaned, barely resisting the urge to throttle the glum- faced

dwarf. His energy would be better directed toward finding a way to escape, he reminded
himself. Once they were free, THEN he would have all the time he wanted to throttle the
dwarf.

With a sigh of frustration, Jastom sat down hard on the musty straw,

resting his chin in his hands. Grimm's doom-and-gloom was catching.

The tent's entrance flap was thrown back. The two draconian guards

stood against the brilliant square of afternoon sunlight, their forked tongues flickering
through their jagged yellow teeth.

“It's mealtime,” one of the draconians hissed, glaring at Jastom with

its disturbing yellow eyes. For a startled moment Jastom didn't know whose mealtime the

draconian meant: Jastom's or its own. With a rush of relief, he saw the bowls that the
creature carried in its clawed hands. The draconian set the

two clay bowls down, their foul-smelling contents slopping over the sides. The other
draconian threw a greasy-looking wineskin down with them.

“The commander ordered that you be given the finest fare in the camp,” the other draconian
croaked, a note of envy in its voice. "Skaahzak must hold you in high esteem, indeed.
Consider yourselves

fortunate." After the two draconians left them alone, Jastom eyed the bowls

of food warily. The lumpy, colorless liquid in one of them began to stir. A big black
beetle crawled out of the gray ooze and over the rim of the bowl. Jastom let out a
strangled yelp. The insect scuttled away through the straw.

“Paugh!” Grimm spat, tossing down the rancid-smelling wineskin. “What do these beasts brew
their wine out of? Stale onions?”

Jastom felt his gorge rising in his throat and barely managed to choke it back down. “If
this is the finest fare the camp has to offer, I really don't want to think about what the
common soldiers are eating.” He began to push the clay bowls carefully away with the toe
of his boot, but then he paused. A thought had suddenly struck him.

Quickly he rummaged about his cape until he found the secret

pocket where he had slipped the empty potion bottle after pouring its contents down
Skaahzak's gullet. He pulled out the cork and then knelt

beside the bowl. Carefully, so as not to spill any of the putrid substance on himself, he
tipped the bowl and filled the bottle partway with the slop. Then he took the wineskin and
added a good measure of the acrid- smelling wine to the bottle. On an afterthought he
scraped up a handful of dirt from the tent's floor and added that as well. He stoppered
the bottle tightly and then shook it vigorously to mix the strange concoction within.

“What in the name of Reorx do you think you're doing, Jastom?” Grimm demanded, his gray
eyes flashing. "Have you gone utterly mad? I suppose I should have known the strain of all
this would be too much for

you.“ ”No, Grimm, I haven't gone mad," Jastom said annoyediy, and