©1994-2001 Ian A. Ralph & Kelly C. Naylor Chapter V: Witch's Brew Flashes of lightning illuminated a rider as he approached the inn, his house running at a gallop in a vain effort to arrive before the pounding rain at the lonely building along the long, dark trail. The rider pulled up on the reins as he approached the building, and with the grace of one accustom to the saddle, he slid off his mount as it came to a stop in front of the building, looking more like a witch's hovel in the occasional bright flash of light. Flickering yellow light streamed out of the windows as a grimy, wet youth appeared, and the rider passed the reins and a couple of coppers to the boy, and watched from the slim protection of the porch overhang as the stableboy led the horse around the side of the building. He grunted satisfactorily to himself, and turned to the ill-fitting door of the tavern, outlined clearly by the light coming through between the door and the walls. Conversations ceased as he entered, then resumed as the other occupants scattered around the large common recognized him as a regular comer. Roark glanced around the tavern, looking for his friend Timor, and failed to spot him among the diners. His usual seat was vacant, so he approached and sat himself, as a robust, middle-aged woman appeared from the back room, hands full of food, and a towel draped over one arm. "Well, Dorner said that you arrived, Roark," she said as she slid a steaming bowl of stew, thick with meat chunks and potatoes, in front of him. "Will ye be stayin' the night?" She produced a thick roll of bread, and placed it on the table next to the bowl. "Well, that depends, Fenn. Is your husband gonna be out all night?" asked Roark with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. Fenn playfully slapped his head with her towel. "Oh, you. Eat. I'll fetch you a bottle." Roark's mouth opened, but she guessed his question. "I know, the good stuff, and no, Timor isn't here, but I'm sure that he'll be along. You know elves. No time sense at all." Roark smiled at Fenn's retreating backside. She was a wonderful hostess, and usually knew what he wanted. 'Am I getting that predictable?' he thought to himself. He shook his head and bent down to work on his stew, when the door flew open and crashed into the wall, blown open by the wind of the storm outside. Roark glanced up to see if it was Timor arriving, but instead of his friend, She appeared. 'Aristocrat', thought Roark, judging from her slim and graceful stance and quality of her cloak, but as she entered the building and forced the door shut, the wind blew her cloak hood off her head, and then he saw the symbol resting on her forehead. 'A damn witch-mage. What is she doing out here?' he thought to himself. Jehane struggled with the heavy door, pushing it closed against the unremitting wind of the storm. Her slight frame was inadequate to the task, so she pushed lightly with her mind against the wood. When she turned to face the room, the hood slipped from her head, revealing not only her long wavy golden hair, but the silver circlet on her brow that signified her standing in the Guild of Mages. Most of the customers simply ignored her. It wasn't unusual for Mages to be seen here in town, what with the College only half a league away. The innkeeper's wife, Fenn, nodded in her direction as she carried a tray of drinks to a table of farmers happily drinking away thoughts of the foul weather. She felt eyes on her, though. She scanned the room and saw the man near the corner of the room. From Timor's description, this must be Roark. It was obvious he cared little for those in her profession... his dark eyes blazed with fury when he saw her. Timor had hinted at a past that made Roark's hated of Mages reasonable, yet Jehane was unprepared for the intensity of the man's feelings. Still, if her mission was to be successful, this was the man who would have to help her. Crossing the room to Roark's table, she kept her eyes lowered. Despite the anger in his face, he was a strikingly good-looking man, and Jehane did not want her eyes to linger too long on the face framed by damp curls. "Stop it, girl," she thought to herself. "You're here to hire this man to help you retrieve the Goddess Stone, not drag him off to your bower." As she approached his table, she looked up at him, her deep blue eyes meeting his brown ones. Roark's mood didn't improve as she started heading in his direction. He glanced out to the corners of his eyes to see if there was anyone else she was heading for, but there was none. As she came up to his table, he decided that even for a witch, her lithe form was rather attractive, and while small, had an athletic grace. Her blond hair was an odd shade, and he idly wondered if she used her magics to make it that way. Her voice was low and melodious when she spoke. "I have need of your assistance, Roark of Darthmon. Timor of Eldandor Forest has told me of your strength and courage." She paused as a minute smile crossed her lips. "I am Journeyman Mage Jehane. How may I convince you to help me?" His look darkened as she addressed him in a way that he hadn't heard in years, and hoped never to be refered to again, but he couldn't help returning her smile, as her eyes and voice matched the rest of her body in beauty. He pondered her question for a moment, his silence calculated to make her uncomfortable, but she waited patiently for his response. In the long silence, during which she was sure Roark was trying to make her feel uncomfortable, Jehane remained outwardly calm. Timor had broadly hinted that there was something in Roark's past that the man was trying to forget; had further hinted that an adventure such as the one she might propose would be just the thing to help Roark forget... whatever it was that he was forgetting. So she wasn't unduly disturbed by the man's silence. No, it was those eyes...and the smile. She could easily get lost in his magic, and then where would she be? Finally, swallowing his displeasure at meeting yet another mage (more out of respect for his friend, he thought to himself, and not because she was so damnably cute), he stood up and offered her a seat. "Well met, journeyman Jehane. I admit to some confusion. Timor, in his usual self, has neglected to inform me as to any details, no doubt intending on telling me them when he arrived, but apparently you beat him here." He sat back down and waved at Fenn to get her attention, then looked back at Jehane. "So, If you're the one that Timor set up the meeting with, why not tell me what you need, then I'd be happy to tell you how you can convince me to help you, or even if it's possible to be helped." When he spoke, inviting her to sit with him, she noted his voice, too, was full of that same magic. To be sure, it wasn't the kind of magic taught at the College, but Jehane would not have been the least bit surprised to find Roark had left a sea of broken hearts across the country in his wake. Jehane, Journeyman Mage, finest student of Master Adept Gunstov, vowed to herself that she would not be one of those broken hearts. She would either hide her feelings from the man, or they would come together as equals, twining their magics together. And from Roark's initial reaction to her badge of office, she felt it would be safer to remain reticent about her attraction to him. "Ah, Timor...." she said with a smile as she gracefully took a seat at the table. "While his honor is above reproach, his talent as a messenger is, perhaps, less than one might hope for." She paused, trying to decide how much to tell this man. Timor trusted him, and she trusted Timor. Over the years that they had known each other, they had grown as close as brother and sister. While Roark probably didn't need to know about all the political machinations at the college, Jehane decided to tell him the true story. "What I need, friend Roark, is a great swordsman. Timor tells me you are the man I seek." She lowered her voice, not wishing the other patrons to hear her story. "Another apprentice of my master stole a powerful talisman and poisoned my Master. I've discovered the boy had been in the thrall of an agent of Gretmak, and has taken the talisman to that evil one." Jehane shuddered at the thought of the dragon, lying in his lair someplace, in possession of the Goddess Stone. "My Master weakens, and his body is failing him. I seek to restore the Goddess Stone to him, because he has been a father to me and I love him... but also because I fear what Gretmak may do should he realize the full power of the Stone." Jehane's small white hand trembled slightly as she placed it on Roark's arm. "Wilt thou assist me in this, Roark?" Her blue eyes held his, her face plainly showing the hope that he would accept. Roark leaned back, resting his back against the wall of the inn as Jehane told her story. His face remained impassive, changing only when an eyebrow lifted at the mention of Timor's honor. As she finished and touched his arm, he tensed, but refrained from pulling his arm back. Her touch was warm and soft, and vanished as Fenn appeared, carrying another bowl of stew, and two bottles. "Here ya go, Jehane," she said as she slid the bowl in front of the magess. "It's not your usual, but we're out of the herbs you like." Fenn set the bottles down in front of them, and dug in her voluminous apron pocket for a bottle opener. She found it, along with two small loaves of bread, still steaming from the oven. She put the loaves on the table, opened the bottles, and stood up. She glanced briefly at each of them, and nodding approvingly. "Jes' yell if you two need anythin' else." She chuckled to herself, and went off to assist another patron. Jehane thanked Fenn, and ate quietly while Roark watched her for a few minutes. The stew was good, the bread fresh and warm and the ale cold. The tale she'd told the swordsman was certainly not one to inspire someone of his intelligence to agree immediately to the task. It seemed almost suicidal, and there _was_ the matter of Gretmak... Roark noticed that particular aspect rather quickly. It was too bad Gretmak had such a reputation for being unpleasant. It didn't matter that most of the tales told about him were quite untrue. All that mattered was that people believed them. Obviously, Roark had heard his share of the stories. Roark's other eyebrow went up as he realized that this girl was known to Fenn. Fenn rarely showed initiative in a customer, except for himself, Timor, and a couple others. Apparently this witch-girl was also a regular, and if Fenn liked her then there must be something worth liking. He turned his gaze back to the magess, his expression dead-pan once again. And Timor's instincts were generally pretty good, so there was one thing left that really bothered him. "A Dragon?" Roark sat up straight, and his right hand wrapped around the bottle. "You expect me to go toe to claw with Gretmak? For a talisman?" He lifted the bottle and drained half of it, then set it down, without any of the brew escaping his lips. "And how much are you willing to pay for the army that I'm gonna have ta hire? At triple danger bonuses? Timor has got to be totally off his nut this time." He lifted the bottle and drained it, then set it on the edge of the table so Fenn would know that he needed a refill. "Ah, 'tis a bit of a problem that we'll not be having an army with us, but I know things about the Dragon that aren't generally spoken of." She raised her eyes to meet his. "As for the matter of your pay..." Her smile was radiant and, perhaps, just a little playful. "Name your price. If I find it fair, you shall have it." Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment before she turned her attention back to her food. She stirred the stew with her fork as a small sigh escaped her lips. "Perhaps Timor could explain these things better than I. But it must be a small group that will recover the Stone... it would not do to advertise our presence to Gretmak with an army. And, no, I do not believe Timor to be foolhardy in this matter. As I said, I have information about the Dragon... but I'll not speak of it in a public place. And the talisman is... more than it seems. More than that, I cannot say." Once again, her eyes found his face. 'Ah, Roark, what you do not know is that I fear your answer,' she thought to herself, 'whatever it might be. For how can I recover the Goddess Stone without your help should you decline? And how shall I keep my feelings to myself should you accept?' He hadn't dismissed her request.... perhaps.... hope began swelling in her heart. "A dragon, and no army," said Roark to himself. He stared at the magess, and shook his head. He was about to tell this little snooty aristocratic witch, Timor or no Timor, that there was nothing that could get him to go up against Gretmak, when the door popped open again, banging against the wall from the force of the storm outside. Roark recognized the stained green cloak as the person entered. He smiled pleasantly at Jehane. "Pardon me one minute." He got up and headed quickly for the newcomer. The newcomer pulled his hood down, revealing Timor's fair face, surrounded by the strands of his drenched blond hair. His blue eyes twinkled and he smiled as he saw Roark approaching. "Ah, thea you are, my freeeee...erk," he exclaimed as Roark grabbed his upper arm and dragged him back outside into the black and windy night. There was a squawk as the flikat launched himself from Timor's shoulder, from where he had been hiding from the storm, and headed for the rafters of the inn. Roark slammed the door shut behind them, and confronted Timor, towering over the elf's slender form. "A Dragon!" roared Roark, his voice challenging the storm in volume. "What are you doing, trying to get me killed?!" "No, no, not at all," replied Timor, the faint light coming from the windows causing faint highlights to his smile. "It's not that bad, really." "Not that bad, huh?" Roark glowered at his friend. "You set up a meeting with a witch, knowing how I feel about them, and she casually mentions that all she wants is to go up against the nastiest beast in the wilds, for some sort of magical trinket. Sure it's not that bad. It's outrageous." Timor's smile got wider as Roark vented his steam. He had expected this, and had wanted to be here sooner to prep him for the meeting but Fiji got distracted by something, and delayed him. "Noaw calm down. Ya don't mind it when ah use my tricks, do ya?" "It's not the same. You're not dedicated to that stuff. You don't spend all your time cooped up in a tower deciphering old books. You've got a life. You're not one of them." Roark thrust his thumb in the direction of the magess, sitting on the inside of the inn. "True, true, but ah don't think you're thinking this through, ma friend. Gretmak is dormant, right noaw, and the two of you can easily sneak up to his lair and snatch the talisman, and be back here, sipping a nice cold brew, before he even notices it's gone." "Two of us? Uh-uh. You're coming with me on this one." Timor started to look a little nervous. "Ya don't need me on this one, my friend. Jehane knows all the tricks." His mouth twitched a little. "Trust me." "Trust you? Not on my life. You're coming with us on this one." Roark grabbed the front of Timor's cloak. "I came with you the last time. I warned you, but you didn't listen. And remember where that got us." Timor gently removed Roark's ham-like hand from his front. "That was different. You're so confident about the dragon being asleep. Show me," demanded Roark. "Well, " said Timor. "He's not so much asleep as dormant. Still, it won't be a problem. Really." "Then what are you afraid of, huh? If it's not the dragon, then what is it. . ." Comments that Jehane had made came back to Roark, and he looked down on his smaller friend. "Oh, I see. She's your ex-girlfriend, isn't she." Timor straightened out his cloak. "It jus wouldn't work out. It's been a while, but the pain still persists. It wouldn't be wise to open old wounds." Roark smiled and opened his mouth to respond, when an ear-splitting scream erupted from the interior of the inn. In a flash, both men had their swords ready, and Roark shoved the door open.