“I know a dwarf when I see one,” Yarl stated indignantly. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“The old man’s wearing robes. He looks like a wizard. Let’s see your hands, Old Man,” said Gnash, reaching toward his saber.
The human held his hands out, so that the two could see that he had no weapons. The dwarf did the same.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the old man greeted them.
He walked forward, his hands in plain sight, his gray robes trailing in the mud. The dwarf remained behind, near the wagon.
The two brothers each fingered their sabers nervously.
“You’re cold and wet,” said the old man in friendly tones. “You must be hungry, as well. Am I right?”
Gnash was taken aback. He’d expected the old man to run off screaming at the sight of two such fearsome warriors. Gnash could have drawn his sword and just sliced the old man in two at that point and taken what he wanted. But what did the old wizard have up his sleeve besides bread? He was acting so nice to them that Gnash felt obligated to talk to him.
“Uh, what’s that smell?” Gnash asked.
Yarl nodded and licked his lips.
“I’m baking bread, and I’ve got a pot of beans on,” said the old man. “You are welcome to share supper with my associate and myself. You like spicy food?”
Gnash watched the old man warily. He should be afraid of them, for he must know that they would steal his food and his horses and probably kill him in the bargain. But the man didn’t appear to be afraid of them at all, and that made Gnash even more nervous.
“You got a weapon on you, Old One?” Gnash asked, motioning at the man’s cloak. “Or maybe stuff for spellcastin’?”
“No weapons on me,” the old man responded, shaking his head. He pulled back the cloak to show that he had no weapons or bags of bat wings attached to his belt. “I do have a lot of weapons over here near the wagon, though. Perhaps you’d like to see them?”
The old man motioned toward the wooden crates piled beside the wagon. At his gesture, the dwarf clomped down the stairs and opened the lid on one of the crates. Suspecting a trap, Gnash moved forward slowly. He kept his distance, peering inside the box.
“By the Queen! How many swords you got in there?” Gnash demanded, astonished. “Hey, Yarl. Come look at this!”
“There’s gotta be a hundred swords!” Yarl added, awed. “Enough for an army.”
The old man smiled. “No, only forty, with another forty daggers or dirks. They’re not in very good shape though. I can still use them, however.”
“Use them? You got an army we should know about, Old One?” Gnash glared at him.
The old man glanced at the dwarf. Both of them seemed amused. “An army?” the old man repeated, chuckling. “Oh, dear, no. When I say I use them… well, I can show you, if you’re interested. You need to come into the wagon to see. There’s food for you here, too.”
The man turned and walked back up the three steps into the back of the wagon. He flipped up the left flap of canvas, then stepped in. After a penetrating look at the two brothers, the dwarf followed.
“Wait here and be ready for anythin’,” Gnash said in low tones.
“In the rain? While you get to go inside with the food?” Yarl demanded.
“I’m the one walking into danger,” Gnash returned with a swagger. “You stay outside where it’s safe.”
“In the rain,” Yarl muttered, but under his breath.
Gnash marched up the steps and entered the back of the wagon. He maintained a grip on his blade, not knowing what to expect.
The inside of the wagon was lit by a lantern hanging from one of the spines holding up the canvas. The smoke came from a small field forge, such as the one an army blacksmith used on the battlefield to make weapons or repair armor.
“You some sort of weaponsmith, Old One?” Gnash asked. “Maybe serving with the Solamnic army?”
The old man struggled out of his cloak, hung it from another hook on the same spine as the lantern. The dwarf shook himself like a dog, raining water from his heavy beard.
“My name is Flannery. This is my associate Digger Cutterstone. We’re not with the army. We’re from Palanthas, and I assure you that we mean no harm to you or your friend.”
“Brother. Yarl’s my brother,” Gnash corrected. He grinned in a nasty sort of way. “We know you don’t mean us no harm, Old One. And we don’t mean you any harm, although we’re the ones with the swords. Swords in our hands,” he added quickly, thinking of all the swords in the box.
“Oh, he’s your brother.” Flannery said, with a significant glance at the dwarf. “We should have guessed. Should have seen the resemblance. Won’t you invite your brother in? We’ll eat soon. The beans are almost done.”
Gnash looked around the wagon. A pot of beans bubbled onto a steel plate that had been mounted over the top of the forge. To the side of the forge were bread loaf tins and two ladles. Some sort of strange machine stood at the back of the wagon. The machine looked like a leather punch, only much bigger, with a handle that pulled down a cylinder. On the other side of the wagon were two beds that had been covered with planks so that they turned into benches. At the back of the wagon stood a large chest with a heavy iron padlock. Gnash eyed the chest.
“All right, Old One. I guess I trust you. But no funny stuff. We’re sergeants with the army of the Knights of the Takhisis, so don’t you mess with us. We don’t take kindly to no messin’ from no one from Palanthas.”
Gnash backed up his warning with a threatening look. He stroked the hilt of his saber blade menacingly, then whistled to his brother.
“Come on in, Yarl. He’s going to give us some food,” Gnash said.
Yarl entered the wagon. He looked at Gnash, who winked. Yarl knew that wink from their childhood. It meant that there was going to be some fun later on.
The two sat down on the bench. The dwarf rolled over a large barrel for them to use as a table.
Flannery served four bowls of beans that had been flavored with a hint of cinnamon in a brown tomato sauce. He gave each of the brothers a small loaf of fresh-baked bread.
“Usually, Digger and I eat alone,” Flannery explained. “Tonight we’re happy to share our food with you.”
“Why are you out here digging graves?” Gnash asked, eyeing the food in his bowl, but not touching it yet. “Are you sure you don’t work for one of the armies?”
“No, I don’t work for any army-” Flannery began.
“Did you find any valuable jewels on the bodies?” Yarl interrupted, looking greedily at the chest with the iron padlock.
Flannery smiled. “No jewels. I’m not really looking for jewels. I look for armor and weapons.”
“Grave robbers, huh,” said Gnash.
“Dear me, no!” Flannery was shocked. “We don’t rob the dead. We make a pact with them. The standard contract.” He glanced at the dwarf, who shoveled beans in his mouth and nodded his agreement.
“Contract for what?” Gnash asked, after waiting what seemed like an eternity for the old wizard to continue.
“For their armor and their weapons. In exchange, we give them a proper burial. You see, we work this way: My associate and I search for battlefields, particularly those where the dead haven’t been properly buried in the afterhaste of battle-those where the bodies are just flung into a pit or maybe never buried at all. We dig up the bodies and remove their armor and weapons.”
“Grave robbers,” said Gnash indignantly.
“Not really,” Flannery argued. “The dead aren’t using their armor or their swords anymore. They don’t mind giving them to us, especially when we explain that we’re providing a service. Product given for services rendered.”
“Service for product,” said Digger, the first words the dwarf had uttered. Yarl’s eyes widened suspiciously.
“In return,” Flannery continued smoothly, “we bury the dead and perform the proper rituals so that they may
