The Second Generation

There were many this evening who found themselves in those straits, apparently, for almost every room in the inn was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human, since this was in the days before the War of the Lance, when elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved themselves. There were no goblins this night, however, though there were some humans who might have been taken for goblins—so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was this large party that had taken several of Slegart’s rooms (and there weren’t many in the small, shabby place), leaving only two empty.

Just about the time when the first evening star appeared in the sky, to be almost immediately overrun by the advancing column of clouds, the door to the inn burst open, letting in a chill blast of air, a warrior in leather armor, and a mage in red robes. From his place behind the dirty bar, Slegart frowned. It was not that he disliked magic-users (rumor had it that his inn existed by the grace of the wizards of the tower), but that he didn’t particularly like them staying in his place.

When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young man, as both Slegart and the others in the common room noted) slapped down a coin and said, “Dinner,” Slegart’s frown broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man added, “and a room for the night,” however, the smile slipped.

“We’re full up,” growled Slegart, with a significant glance around the crowded common room. “Hunting moon tonight...”

“Bah!” The big warrior snorted. “There’ll be no moon tonight, hunting or otherwise. That storm’s goin' to break any moment now and, unless you’re partial to hunting snowflakes, you won’t shoot anything this night.” At this, the big man glanced around the common room to see if any cared to dispute his remark. Noting the size of his shoulders, the well-worn scabbard he wore, and the nonchalant way his hand went to the hilt of his sword, even the rough-appearing humans began to nod their heads at his wisdom, agreeing that there would definitely be no hunting this night.

“At any rate,” said the big man, returning his stern gaze to Slegart, “we’re spending the night here, if we have to make up our beds by the fire. As you can see”—the warrior’s voice softened, and his gaze went to the magic-user, who had slumped down at a table as near the fire as possible—“my brother is in no condition to travel farther this day, especially in such weather.”

Slegart’s glance went to the mage and, indeed, the man appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion. Dressed in red robes, with a hood that covered his head and left his face in shadow, the magic-user leaned upon a wooden staff decorated at the top with a golden dragon’s claw holding a faceted crystal. He kept this staff by him always, his hand going to it fondly as if both to caress it and to reassure himself of its presence.

“Bring us your best ale and a pot of hot water for my twin,” said the warrior, slapping another steel coin down upon the bar.

At the sight of the money, Slegart’s senses came alert. “I just recollect”— he began, his hand closing over the coin and his eyes going to the warrior’s leather purse where his ears could detect the chink of metal.

Even his nose wrinkled, as though he could smell it as well—“a room’s opened up on the second floor.”

“I thought it might,” the warrior said grimly, slapping another steel piece down on the bar.

“One of my best,” Slegart remarked, eyeing the warrior.

The big man grunted, scowling.

“It’s goin' to be no fit night for man nor beast,” added the innkeeper and, at that moment, a gust of wind hit the inn, whistling through the cracked windows and puffing flakes of snow into the room. At that moment, too, the red-robed mage began to cough—a wracking, choking cough that doubled the man over the table. It was difficult to tell much about the mage—he was cloaked and hooded against the weather. But Slegart knew he must be young, if he and this giant were, indeed, twins. The innkeeper was considerably startled, therefore, to catch a glimpse of ragged white hair straying out from beneath the hood and to note that the hand holding the staff was thin and wasted.

“We’ll take it,” the warrior muttered, his worried gaze going to his brother as he laid the coin down.

“What’s the matter with 'im?” Slegart said, eyeing the mage, his fingers twitching near the coin, though not touching it. “It ain’t catchin', is it?” He drew back. “Not the plague?”

“Naw!” The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the inn keeper, the big man said in a low voice, “We’ve just come from the Tower of High Sorcery. He’s just taken the Test”