Jastom's bulging purse was ten coins heavier. And Grimm kept his mouth shut.
It was midafternoon when Jastom sold the last of the potions. The corpulent merchant who bought it gripped the purple bottle tightly in his chubby fingers and scurried off through the streets, a gleam in his eye. The fellow hadn't seemed to want to discuss the exact nature of his malady, but Jastom suspected it had something to do with the equally corpulent young maiden who was waiting for him in the door of a nearby inn, smiling and batting her eyelids in a dreadful imitation of demureness. Jastom shook his head, chuckling.
Abruptly there was a loud whoop! Jastom turned to see an old woman throw down her crooked cane and begin dancing a spry jig to a piper's merry tune. Other folk quickly joined the dance, heedless of the aches and cares that had burdened them only a short while ago. One shabbily-dressed fellow, finding himself without a partner, settled for a spotted pig that had the misfortune to be wandering through the town square. The pig squealed in surprise as the man whirled it about, and Jastom couldn't help but laugh aloud at the spectacle.
This was the work of the elixirs, of course. Jastom wasn't altogether certain what Grimm put in the small purple bottles, but he knew the important ingredient was something called dwarf spirits. And while dwarf spirits were not known to possess any curative powers, they did have certain potent and intoxicating effects.
Jastom had no idea how the dwarves brewed the stuff. From what little he had managed to get out of Grimm, it was all terribly secret, the recipe passed down from generation to generation with ancient ceremony and solemn oaths to guard the formula. But whatever was in it, it certainly worked. Laborers threw down their shovels, goodwives their brooms, and all joined what was rapidly becoming an impromptu festival. Respected city elders turned cartwheels about the square, and parents leapt into piles of straw hand-in-hand with their laughing children. For now, all thoughts of the war, of worry and of sickness, were altogether missing from the town of Faxfail.
But it couldn't last.
'They won't feel so terribly well tomorrow, once the dwarf spirits wear off,' Grimm observed dourly.
'But today they do, and by tomorrow we'll be somewhere else,' Jastom said, patting the nearly-bursting purse at his belt.
He slammed shut the wagon's side panel and leapt up onto the high bench. Grimm clambered up after him. At a flick of the reins, the ponies started forward, and the wagon rattled slowly out of the rollicking town square.
Jastom did not notice as three men — one with a sword at his hip and the other two clad in heavy black robes despite the day's warmth — stepped from a dim alleyway and began to thread their way through the spontaneous celebration, following in the wagon's wake.
Jastom whistled a cheerful, tuneless melody as the wagon jounced down the red dirt road, leaving the town of Faxfail far behind.
The road wound its way across a broad vale. To the north and south hulked two slate-gray peaks that looked like ancient fortresses built by long-vanished giants. The sky above was clear as a sapphire, and a fair wind, clean with the hint of mountain heights, hissed through the rippling fields of green-gold grass. Sunflowers nodded like old goodwives to each other, and larks darted by upon the air, trilling their glad melodies.
'You seem to be in an awfully fine mood, considering,' Grimm noted in his rumbling voice.
'Considering what, Grimm?' Jastom asked gaily, resuming his whistling.
'Considering that cloud of dust that's following on the road behind us,' the dwarf replied.
Jastom's whistling died.
'What?'
He cast a hurried look over his shoulder. Sure enough, a thick plume of ruddy dust was rising from the road perhaps a half mile back. Even as Jastom watched, he saw the shapes of three dark horsemen appear amidst the blood-colored cloud. No… one horseman and two figures running along on either side. The sound of pounding hoofbeats rumbled faintly on the air like the sound of a distant storm.
Jastom swore loudly. 'This is impossible,' he said incredulously. 'The townsfolk couldn't have sobered up this soon. They can't have figured out that we've swindled them. Not yet.'
'Is that so?' Grimm grunted. 'Well, they're riding mighty fast and hard for drunken men.'
'Maybe they're not after us,' Jastom snapped. But an uncomfortable image of a noose slipping over his neck went through his mind. Swearing again, he slapped the reins, urging the ponies into a canter. The boxshaped wagon was heavy, and they had just begun to ascend a low hill. The ponies couldn't go much faster. Jastom glanced wildly over his shoulder again. The horseman had closed the gap to half of what it had been only a few moments before. He saw now that two of them — the ones running — wore heavy black robes. Sunlight glinted dully from the sword that the third rider had drawn.
Jastom considered jumping from the wagon but promptly discarded the idea. If the fall didn't kill them, the strangers would simply cut him and the dwarf down like a mismatched pair of weeds. Besides, everything Jastom and Grimm owned was in the wagon. Their entire livelihood de pended upon it. Jastom couldn't abandon it, no matter the consequences. He flicked the reins harder. The ponies strained valiantly against their harnesses, their nostrils flaring with effort.
It wasn't enough.
With a sound like a breaking storm, the horseman rode up alongside the wagon. One of the dark-robed men dashed up close to the ponies. With incredible strength, he grabbed the bridle of the nearest and then pulled back hard, his feet digging into the gravel of the road. The dapples reared, whinnying in fear as the wagon shuddered to a sudden stop.
'Away with you, dogs!' Grimm growled fiercely, reaching under the seat for the heavy axe he kept there. The dwarf never managed to get a hand on the weapon. With almost comic ease, the second dark-robed man grabbed the dwarf by the collar of his tunic and lifted him from the bench. The dwarf kicked his feet and waved his arms futilely, suspended in midair, his face red with rage and lack of air.
Jastom could pay scant attention to the spluttering dwarf. He had worries of his own. A glittering steel sword was leveled directly at his heart.
Whoever these three were, Jastom was quite certain that they weren't townsfolk from Faxfail, but this did little to comfort him. The man before him looked to be a soldier of some sort. He was clad in black leather armor sewn with plates of bronze, and a cloak of lightning blue was thrown back over his stiff, square shoulders.
Suddenly, Jastom was painfully aware of the fat leather purse at his belt. He cursed himself inwardly. He should have known better than to go riding off, boldly flaunting his newly-gained wealth. The roads were thick with bandits and brigands these days, now that the war was over. Most likely these men were deserters from the Solamnic army, desperate and looking for foolish travelers like himself to waylay.
Jastom forced his best grin across his face. 'Good day, friend,' he said to the man who held the sword at his chest.
The man was tall and stern-faced, his blond, close-cropped hair and hawklike nose enhancing the granite severity of his visage. Most disturbing about him, however, were his eyes. They were pale and colorless, like his hair, but as hard as stones. They were eyes that had watched men die and not cared a whit one way or another.
The man inclined his head politely, as though he wasn't also holding a sword in his hand. 'I am Lieutenant Durm, of the Blue Dragonarmy,' he said in a voice that was steel-made — polished and smooth, yet cold and so very hard. 'My master, the Lord Commander Shaahzak, is in need of one with healing skills.' He gestured with the sword to the picture of the bottle painted on the side of the wagon. 'I see that you are a healer.' The sword point swung once again in Jastom's direction. 'You will accompany me to attend my commander.'
The blue dragonarmy? Jastom thought in disbelief. But the war was over! The dragonarmies had been defeated by the Whitestone forces. At least, that was what the stories said. Jastom shot a quick look at Grimm, but the dwarf was still dangling in midair from the darkrobed man's fist, cursing in a tight, squeaky voice. Jastom turned his attention back to the man who called himself Durm.
'I fear that I have an appointment elsewhere,' Jastom said pleasantly, his grin growing broader yet. He reached for his heavy leather purse. 'I am certain, lieutenant, that you can easily find another who is not so pressed for — ' — time, Jastom was going to finish, but before he could, Durm reached out in a fluid, almost casual gesture and struck him.
Jastom's head erupted into a burst of white-hot fire. He tumbled from the wagon's bench to the hard ground,
