Anthology - The Search For Magic

“An unfortunate byproduct,” said Stynmar. “It was unavoidable.”

“But,” Grantheous added, “we never worried about it, because the scroll was always kept locked under a magic ward when not in use.”

He pointed to the broken lock, decorated with silvery runes.

“But, Masters, the thief would have to be a wizard to

break that-” Fetlin understood at last. “Oh! Oh, dear.”

“We have to get that scroll back,” said Grantheous.

The two mages were all for running out into the night in pursuit of the thief. Fetlin convinced them to allow him to investigate, suggesting that they might want to use their magic to find out more about the theft. Stynmar brightened at this and, digging into the drawer, brought forth an amulet. He held it to the light.

“This is a bloodhound,” he stated.

“I don’t see how your birthstone is going to help us,” said Grantheous irritably.

“I didn’t say bloodstone. I said bloodhound. It hunts magic. This will help us to track the scroll.

“It’s glowing red. What does that mean?”

“Red means the scroll isn’t here.”

“I can see that for myself,” said Grantheous, his lip curled in scorn.

“When we get close to the scroll, the amulet will glow green,” Stynmar said.

“So all we have to do is walk the length and breadth of Ansalon and wait for the amulet to turn green? Wonderful,” said Grantheous, turning back to patching the broken window.

“I guess I should have thought this out further,” said Stynmar, peering thoughtfully at the amulet.

“Masters!” Fetlin shouted, running inside the laboratory. “I may have something! I discovered a most suspicious character lurking in our alley. At first, he claimed he hadn’t seen anything, but after a bit of persuasion”-Fetlin blushed self-consciously-”he admitted that he did see someone tumbling out our window. The person hurt himself in the fall, apparently, for he limped as he ran away.”

“Where did he go?” Grantheous demanded.

“Into the sewers, Masters,” said Fetlin.

“Of course,” said Stynmar sourly. “Where else would he go?”

The Palanthian sewer system was an excellent one, its tunnels leading to all parts of the city. They provided not only excellent drainage, but also an excellent highway for the local Thieves Guild.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Grantheous, girding up his robes. “We must go after him.”

“Sirs!” said Fetlin, alarmed. “I think the man is a plant. He was placed there to lure you into following. He could be leading you into terrible danger!”

“Then we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?” said Stynmar.

Fetlin argued, but the two mages refused to listen to him. The sky was starting to lighten when they stalked out of their house, bent on recovering their scroll, armed with nothing but their waning magic, righteous indignation, and the glowing amulet. Fetlin was, himself, slightly better armed with a small crossbow.

The stranger still lurked in the alley. The moment the man sighted the two wizards, he took to his heels.

“Thank the gods he didn’t go into the sewer!” said Stynmar, wiping sweat from his face.

“Hurry, Masters,” said Fetlin, “if you want your scroll back, we must follow him!”

Not long ago, Fetlin had been known to the Palan-thian authorities as Fetlin the Felon, which was, in a roundabout way, how he had made the acquaintance of the two mages, who were now his masters and friends. Fetlin knew all the streets, corridors, and alleyways of Palanthas. He had skulked, slinked, and sneaked through every one of them. Although he now walked the straight and narrow path of honesty, he was pleased to find that he had not lost his touch for fast and fleeting furtive movements.

Unfortunately, he could not say the same for his masters.

Grantheous and Stynmar had not a sneaky bone in their bodies. They zigged when they should have zagged. They ran into carts, fell over garbage piles, small children, and their own feet. So inept were they that the stranger was forced on more than one occasion to halt so they could catch up. Deeply embarrassed, Fetlin hoped none of his old gang saw him.

The chase, such as it was, led up a lane and down several alleys, a left turn, a right turn, and then forward in the direction of the warehouse district and the docks.

The sinister man paused at the end of a street. He looked to make sure that the three saw him, then dashed across the street to a warehouse, where stood a man in flowing black robes. The man walked up to the black-robed figure. The two conferred, then both of them entered the warehouse, closing the door behind them. The one in the black robe walked with a decided limp.

“That’s… it,” said Stynmar, coming thankfully to a halt. He was gasping for breath, puffing and wheezing. “That… Black Robe… stole… our scroll.”

“Yes,” said Grantheous, gulping air. “We should go… get it back.”

The two looked at each other.

“When… we’ve rested,” said Stynmar, brightening. “Look! A tavern!”

“The very place,” said Grantheous. “We’ll come up with a plan, Fetlin. You stay here and keep watch. Let us know if he leaves.”

The two mages bolted for the tavern. They were in such a hurry that they did not notice the faded wood sign hanging above the entrance, nor did they notice the yellow pine floor stained with beer and blood.

Fetlin noticed. He would have warned them, but he’d been told to stand guard. He could only hope his masters figured it out before it was too late.

The two found a table near the back, as far from the windows as possible.

“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.

“Have a drink,” said Stynmar. “I can’t think when I’m thirsty. My dear?’” he sang, summoning the serving wench.

“I’m not your dear, old man. What do you two want?” she demanded, placing one hand on her hip. “Prune juice?”

“Beer,” said Grantheous with dignity. “Your best brew.” He pulled out a steel coin, one of the few they had left.

She eyed it suspiciously, then flounced off. She brought back two tall, almost-clean flagons. Chasing and sneaking and intrigue was thirsty work. The mages drank deeply.

“Wonderful stuff,” said Stynmar, chugging his flagon.

“Tastes vaguely familiar,” said Grantheous, wiping the foam from his beard.

“We’ll have another!” both called out.

“So what is our plan of action?” asked Grantheous.

Stynmar polished off his second beer. “We go in after him!”

Grantheous stared down into his own pint, as if the solution to the riddle lay somewhere in its bubbly, amber depths. “But we don’t know for certain that the Black Robe stole it.”

“He fits the description. I say we confront this mystery man and his sinister minion. See what they know.”

“Threaten them, you mean?” said Grantheous.

“He stole from our home,” said Stynmar. “We know he did. We go into the warehouse-”

“The warehouse across yonder?” asked the barmaid, plunking down two more beers.

“Yes,” said Stynmar, looking at the barmaid in doration. “You are the loveliest thing I’ve seen in years, my dear.”

“Bah! They all say that.” But she looked flattered.

“Have you seen a black-robed man sneak into that building?” asked Grantheous.

“Have I seen him? The ugly bastard’s been in here the past three nights.” She twirled a string of hair, coaxing it to curl, and leered at Stynmar.

“What’s he like?” Stynmar asked hesitantly. “Strong? Powerful? Fiery eyes? A dark smile?”

“Hah! He’s older than you two, skinny and bony. I could wring his neck like a chicken.”