Fetlin checked the small crossbow and loaded his only bolt. Stynmar adjusted his white robes and then aided Grantheous in tucking away his chest-length beard.
“Best not to allow the enemy any advantage,” he said solemnly.
Grantheous and Stynmar stopped in the middle of the street to do a few stretches, limbering up their calves, thighs, and chests.
“Nothing worse than getting a leg cramp in the midst of chasing down evil and pummeling it,” said Grantheous.
Fetlin could have sat down and wept.
Exercises completed, the two strolled, with strides of importance and purpose, the final distance to the warehouse.
“Nothing can overcome the stuff our courage is made of,” announced Stynmar.
“Hops and barley,” Fetlin muttered.
The two stopped outside the warehouse door. They turned to one another and shook hands.
“We will win today,” said Grantheous, exuding confidence.
Cool and levelheaded, Stynmar agreed. “Even if we die, we will win, for this day we fight Evil.”
“Evil that is the bane of the existence of mankind-”
“Oh, get on with it, sirs!” Fetlin pleaded.
Stynmar took a few steps back and then, putting his shoulder into it, charged the door at ramming speed, just as the sinister man opened it.
Stynmar was almost halfway across the warehouse before he could stop himself. Turning, regaining his dignity, he looked about to see that he was standing in a dusty warehouse confronting a black-cloaked old man who was laughing at him.
The old man had a face that hadn’t laughed at much, seemingly-a face that was so wrinkled that his wide open, laughing mouth broke the face into mismatched laughing pieces. Stynmar closed his eyes, hoping that if he opened them again, the old man would turn out to be an illusion.
That didn’t happen.
“Gerald!” Stynmar gasped. He sidled over to stand beside Grantheous.
Grantheous didn’t say anything at all. He simply stared, his mouth open.
“Since when do you call your superiors by their first name?” growled Gerald, scowling. “You will call me Archmagus, as you used to do.”
“Yes, Archmagus,” said the two mages, cringing.
“We heard your were dead, Archmagus,” Stynmar added.
“You sound disappointed,” replied Gerald.
“Well, maybe a little,” Grantheous admitted.
“No, no,” Stynmar babbled, stepping on his friend’s foot. “We’re glad you weren’t eaten by ogres-”
“Oh, shut up,” snapped the Archmagus. He waggled a bony finger at them. “You two have been disobedient. Broken all the rules. Using magic to sell beer!” He snorted. “Come now. Speak up and be quick about it. I am not getting any younger.”
“You stole our scroll!” Grantheous cried.
Gerald scowled. “Of course.”
“But why?” Stynmar wailed. “We worked over a year on that recipe.”
Gerald shook his head. “I don’t care if you worked a hundred years on it. It was foolish, and I will not abide by such behavior.” He adjusted his robes and, almost as if it were an afterthought, said, “And tell that scrawny apprentice to come out from his hiding place.”
Fetlin crawled through a side window and stood there, crossbow in hand, feeling foolish.
Grantheous twisted his beard and shuffled his feet. His voice rose an octave. He might have been the young student again. “Master, begging your pardon, but what we do with our magic does not concern you.”
“We want our scroll back. Now,” said Stynmar with a blustering attempt at defiance that was spoiled by the fact that he kept trying to suck in his sagging gut.
“Please,” Grantheous added.
“You must give them back the scroll, sir,” said Fetlin sternly, and he raised the crossbow.
Archmagus Gerald laughed. He hacked and wheezed until he nearly fell over. “Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “the scroll is gone.”
“What?” Simultaneous gasps of horror and shock.
Gerald wagged his finger again. “I tried to instill certain lessons into these two over-grown children, but all my teachings seem to have fallen on deaf ears. I should have held them back, to be honest.”
Grantheous and Stynmar bowed their heads and shuffled their feet.
“That scroll was their work and my work,” said Fetlin. “You have no right to it, Black Robe!”
“Black robe?” Gerald glanced down at his cloak. “Oh, this. Nonsense.” He whipped off the black cloak to reveal dingy white robes. “I have every right to the scroll, Apprentice. I taught Grantheous and Stynmar everything they knew when they were no older than you.”
“But that doesn’t make you responsible for everything they do!” Fetlin protested.
“You’d think so,” said Gerald with a sigh. “But life doesn’t work that way. If they were to slay a dragon or solve the riddle of the dying magic, they would be proclaimed heroes. Would anyone say of them, ‘Heroes taught by the great Archmagus Gerald himself? No. Not a word. But if they had gone through with this dunderheaded plan, all you would hear would be: ‘What do you expect? They were taught by that supreme idiot, Archmagus Gerald.’ “
Grantheous and Stynmar both protested, but a cold look from Master Gerald sealed their lips.
“I told them this Immortal Truth many years ago, and I will repeat it again, for apparently these two are slow at learning. Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “you listen, too, and remember. Magic is serious business to be pursued by serious-minded people. The last thing a proper wizard should do is go about magicking beer. And as for you”-he pointed a bony finger at Srynmar- “keep to the courage of your convictions. You knew this was wrong, yet you let yourself be persuaded by a mixture of self-righteous claptrap and filthy lucre.
“And you.” The bony finger went to Grantheous. “ ‘I’ll die when the magic dies,’ he whines. Bosh! You’ve other talents, inner resources. I can’t think what they are, right now, but you must have something.”
Grantheous and Stynmar hung their heads.
“Wh-what did you do with our scroll, Archmagus?” Stynmar asked meekly. “Did you rip it up or burn it?”
Gerald shook his head. “No, no. I told you that I wanted to teach you a lesson.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I cast the spell.”
“Where? On what?” The two gasped.
“The Palanthian City well, of course,” said Archmagus Gerald. He pointed to the window. “And it seems to be having quite an interesting effect.”
That day, in the city of Palanthas, something strange and wonderful began to happen. It was as if the gods had cast down a fiery mountain of revelry, a Cataclysm of Hope, directly on the city of Palanthas.
And none could escape its effects.
Children ran through the streets, giggling and playing. Adults ran through the streets, laughing and cavorting with the children. The rich decided that they owned too much for their own good and opened their doors to the poor. Gnomes made sense. Render emptied their pouches. Innkeepers erased debts. Politicians spoke the truth. Dark Knights of Neraka played hopscotch. Everyone began dancing in the streets. Mages forgot that their beloved Art was dying and joined in the celebration. With what little power they had left, they tossed magical fireworks into the air to mark the festivities with a shower of blue and gold sparks and images of water lilies and lilacs.
And while everyone was in the streets having the time of their lives, the members of the Thieves Guild sneaked into the empty houses-but only to return items they’d stolen in the past with little notes of apology.
The two mages and their apprentice wended their way through the mob and finally, after much hugging and kissing and pounding on the back, Grantheous, Stynmar, and Fetlin reached their house. Racing inside, they bolted the door and, then and there, took a solemn vow to destroy their notes for their recipe for hope, distilled into the perfect pint.
