He looked around the room. His job as serving boy was practically over for the day, but that meant a long evening of clean up was ahead of him. At least it was quiet now, and he felt he could make some headway into the mess. In fact, there were only three patrons left, a regular couple of farmers arguing over some old dispute, and a figure that was nearly wedged into the stonework corner where the chimney butted the wall. He wore a thick woolen cloak, with the hood wrapped around his head, despite the heat radiating through the stonework.

Faral sighed, and began to sweep some of the broken glass from the floor into a dustpan. He wished they would leave, so he could go to Alan, the owner, and try to persuade him to close. If he could wake him. The last couple of hours were usually Faral’s own if the inn emptied. Alan expected him to clean the place spotless, but never helped. Just because the man was his uncle seemed to mean that he thought Faral was his slave, and worked him hard. At least, that’s how the boy saw it.

Asking rarely worked, but Faral lived in hope that at least one day something would happen to change the monotony of the daily cleaning ritual. Sighing, he reached down to pick up a broken glass and felt a sharp stinging pain in his thumb, interrupting his self pity. He looked down stupidly at the shard of glass embedded in the pad. Blood welled around it and dripped to the floor. Faral swore loudly, and pulled the glass out, giving rise to a small gout of blood. He instinctively sucked on the wound, wincing.

“You should be careful there, boy. That’s precious stuff, and you surely don’t have enough to allow it to go to waste,” hissed the hooded figure across the room.

Faral turned quickly. “It’s just a cut.” He mumbled around his thumb, an action which made him look far younger than his fourteen years should have done.

The hooded figure nodded. “Indeed. Let me see, boy.”

Faral hesitated a moment, and then trotted across obligingly. The man was a paying customer, after all. He held out his hand, and the man leaned forward to look at it. The pale face peered at it, and then the figure removed a small vial from within the folds of his robe. It contained what appeared to be a viscous colorless liquid. The man unstoppered it, and dripped one single drop onto the wound, which he rubbed in with an outstretched finger.

It burned like fire, then like ice, and then not at all. The youngster looked down to see that the wound had vanished, leaving just a smear of blood, which the stranger rapidly wiped away with his finger, leaving the flesh untouched.

“There, see?” said the man softly. “No harm done.”

Eyes bulging, Faral peered at the digit, wondering what sort of magic the man had done. “Are you a mage?” he asked wonderingly.

The man chuckled. “It’s how I apprenticed as a boy, if that’s what you mean.”

This was a novelty to the serving boy. Mages were very rare indeed, and it was even rarer to see one alone. They were more commonly part of adventuring groups; and there hadn’t been one of those in this inn in living memory. They were usually far too rich to bring themselves down to the level of this rough house. He glanced around the room, wondering what on earth would bring a powerful mage to this place.

The mage smiled, a twinkle in his eye, “I’m a little down on my luck at the moment,” he said, sounding completely unapologetic about it. “This inn had prices I could afford.”

Faral stepped back in shock. “You can read my mind?”

“Not exactly. More I can read the expression on your face better than you might imagine,” commented the mage wryly. “My last adventure didn’t turn out very well.”

Faral frowned. “You adventure alone?” he asked. Even the inexperienced young boy knew that this was considered a bad idea. Many a tale was told of the lone adventurer, often finishing with a rather gruesome end.

The figure in the hood shrank a little, and sat in silence for so long that Faral began to wonder if the man had fallen asleep. Eventually, the mage stirred again. “No. At least, I didn’t. I was part of the Company of the Shining Paladin. I doubt you have heard of it.”

The man paused, and shot Faral an expectant glance, to which the boy felt obliged to respond to. He gave a shake of his head.

The man nodded, and steepled his thin hands together. “Five was the number of the company. Elehan, the ‘Shining Paladin’ after which we named ourselves. There was Hakkor, a disreputable gentleman, with notable skill in locksmithing. Zorilanar filled the role of warrior. I always was amazed at her grace and skill wielding a sword. Of course Cloaval was also amazing with his weapons – he came from the warrior tribes that live on the arctic tundra. I was the last member of the group: Ancar the Red, and a mage of no little worth I have been told.”

Faral gazed into space, trying to imagine the group. The paladin with the shining armor, backed up by the hulking barbarian and the lithe swordswoman. They would be a formidable combat team backed by a thief and a mage. “What was the quest?” he queried, settling himself onto the quilted bench near the mage. There was little fear that the dozing Alan would complain about him being a sluggard. Besides, the floor could wait. This was fascinating.

The hood nodded. “So the tale does interest you.”

“Of course. What other news comes through here other than that told by travelers such as yourself?”

Ancar toyed with his wineglass. Faral tried not to fidget as the mage gathered his thoughts. “We were after an evil wizard. He had set himself up with some ogre scum from Darkdale, near the town of Winston Glade. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Faral smiled to himself. “Of course I have. It’s a trading port south of Allwinter. Most anyone that trades that way comes through Allwinter at some time or another.”

Once again the hood dipped a slow nod. “I see. You are wise beyond your years, young one.”

Faral couldn’t help smiling. He rarely was even acknowledged by such as Ancar, let alone praised.

“Well, as I was saying, Evard had set up a tower on the edge of the dale, and the town council asked our group to investigate. I think by investigate, they meant chase the evil lord out of the area. Or better, out of this life into the next.” The wizard gave a soft chuckle. “We were ambitious, and the money was good. We took the job. Of course we fought about it first. We always fought about it first…”

Cloaval’s large and calloused fist smacked onto the table.  “I say we walk away. Why we have to take every job that’s handed to us I don’t know. This one frankly stinks. Worse than the time we were asked to find the missing mayor and he turned out to be in a troll swamp. Stinks. Stinks. Stinks.” He thumped the table again to emphasize the point.

Hakkor leaned in. “Cloaval, without putting it too delicately, if we don’t take some kind of job soon, we’re all going to starve. This seems like a reasonably easy run. Down to the vale, tell the guy to get lost and back here for the nosh in a warm inn. A warm bed is worth a couple of days work.” The little man had a habit of fighting with Cloaval, as though the larger steppes warrior offended him. Few could tell by looking at them that they were closely bonded friends.

Cloaval rounded on him. “Always thinking of your stomach.” He shook his head in disgust.

Zorilinar sighed. “Yes Cloaval, you’re right, the man is always thinking of his stomach, but he does have a point this time. We’re out of gold, and silver and copper won’t stretch to feeding us forever. The gold is good, the job is ridiculously small. I rather think they have never hired an adventuring party—if they had they wouldn’t be offering so much. We should take it, get the job over with and get out of here before they realize how much they overpaid.”

Cloaval glowered at her. “I don’t like that mayor. He knows something.”

“Doubtless he does,” she responded. “I don’t care. My weapons need repairs. My stomach growls. I for one would be happy to take some time in a warm place.”

Hakkor piped up again. “Oh come on Cloav, you wouldn’t mind a good meal in a good inn would you? You must be as fed up with the trail as the rest of us.”

Once again Cloaval rounded, but Elehan silenced him by gripping the warrior’s shoulder. “Enough Cloaval. You revel in the battle when it comes, yet you always seek to avoid it when someone tries to pay us.” The paladin looked down at himself. “My equipment needs tending to as well. It will not be cheap. We should take this task upon ourselves.”

Elehan, the “Shining Paladin” we all rallied around was often the voice of reason in the group. This time I think his motives might have been further from pure—he loved his armor, and spent time, effort and money on keeping it as rust free as possible. On that day, it had been a while since he had tended to the metal, and it was showing distinct signs of wear. He was always wary of being demoted to the “Lackluster Paladin” I think.

“You and your damned armor!” It seemed that Cloaval was in a particularly belligerent mood. “If we didn’t have to keep that in such high and fine order we wouldn’t need the money so badly!”

I leaned back in my chair, and watched the ebb and flow of the argument. It was always the same. Either Cloaval or Hakkor started it, and Zorilinar had to take the opposite side. Eventually someone would complain about Elehan’s armor. It was, to be fair, a very fine set of armor—plate mail, with gold trim and beautiful scrollwork that took the edge of a sword away from its owner at the sacrifice of itself. It had saved his life on several occasions, I could not doubt that. He insisted it was magic; though considering the number of replacement parts it had had over the years, I would be hard pressed to tell you which was the magic bit that was left. Surreptitious magic designed to detect exactly that had come up empty. Thus, unless it was some sort of aid from his deity, I rather suspected the magic armor to be another affectation of the paladin. Nevertheless, Elehan insisted on perfect repair almost constantly, consequently giving us our name. Can you imagine it—an adventuring group named after an overly vain paladin because he was fond of polishing his armor!

 Faral chuckled at that, and then interrupted the flow. “You didn’t have an opinion on the task?”

Ancar paused to lift his glass to his lips, and instead stared into the depths of the red wine as though seeing his soul laid out before him. “Of course I did. A wizard is never without spellbooks my boy, and any mage would give his eyeteeth to get hold of another mage’s spells. I was all for it from the start. I was just careful to keep my reasons for it to myself.” Ancar shook his head, the hood crinkling as it tried to follow the movements of the head within it. “The journey to the dale was particularly uneventful. I was busy with my spellbook – probably wondering what magics I could steal, but that’s no excuse. Still, when their attempt at an ambush came, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Four goblins dropped onto us from the escarpment, while a lone archer tried to shoot at us.”

Faral tried to imagine the scene. He didn’t think a good adventuring group should be troubled by a mere five goblins though. “Surely…” he began.

Within the folds of his hood, Ancar coughed, and then laughed. “No. We were fine. Cloaval suffered a nasty arrow wound before my magic cut down the archer. The other goblins were dead practically before they hit the ground.

“Hakkor stabbed one through an eye as it landed on him. Zorilanar clove two as they landed. Cloaval… well, I think the arrow wound offended him. He threw the goblin at the archer. True, my missile spell had sealed his fate, but having the broken body of one of your companions thrown thirty feet at you certainly adds insult to the injury.”

Faral breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back. “So you made it to the tower?”

“Of course. Though such an easy victory made us overconfident. Be warned my boy, never be overconfident. Danger lurks everywhere, and if you are not wary of it, you’re doomed.”

The mage broke off as the last log on the fire broke and crumbled into the glowing embers, sending a whoosh of sparks up the chimney, and intensifying the smell of smoke around the fireplace. The loss of light in the room made the inn seem less cozy, and more mysterious as the shadows drew in. Across the room the two farmers settled down to more mundane chat. Faral could hear them discussing the upcoming fair. It sounded as though they were getting ready to break up. The serving lad heaved a sigh of relief—perhaps he could get an early night after all.

The mage watched him closely, and when Faral turned back to him, there was an intensity to his look that startled the boy, but as the mage continued his story, he relaxed and leaned back against the wall.

 “There was another small encampment of goblins, but we decided to go around them and not alert the tower that we were coming. It was dark by the time we got there – the tower was on a small hill, and made of old, old stone. I was a little alarmed – how could something that we were told had been set up as a forward encampment only recently be so old? Was it strong magic, or were we being lied to?”

Ancar sighed. “I rather suspect the latter now. I think the townspeople tried to make the quest seem easier, to tempt us to take it.” The mage waved a thin pale finger. “Anyway, I digress. If you want to hear the whole tale before the cock crows, you shouldn’t let me get distracted.” He settled a little against the warm stone, and continued. “We approached the tower under cover of darkness in order to avoid being spotted…”

“Hurry up.” hissed Elehan, peering into the darkness.

Hakkor gave the paladin a disgusted look, and shot me a gleeful one. “Locked,” he commented, reaching into his belt pouch for his small tool case. “I’ll have this open in a jiffy.”

I shook my head at his enthusiasm. He was always diving into puzzles and challenges. He loved mysteries. The idea of a locked door was just typical. I’m quite sure if it had been unlocked, he would have been positively miserable.

There was a long, cold, nervous wait as he poked at the heavy lock with his tools.

“It seems to be stuck. Funny, did the idiots ever oil this thing?” He gave an oath, and dug into his backpack for some oil, while we waited and shivered. I could see him pumping oil from a can into the lock. At least the moonlight gave us plenty of light to work by.

Hakkor reached into his tool pouch, and pulled out a heavier metal prod, which he slipped into the lock. Cloaval moved in from the side. “Are you going to be all night with that?” he said, acerbically.

Hakkor shook his head, tongue between his teeth. “No, in fact, I’ve… OW!” he leaped back from the door, shaking his hand. “Damn thing bit me!” He held out his hand, and in the moonlight, we could see blood well up around a metal needle embedded firmly into the palm of his hand.

We looked at one another nervously. “Elehan!” I called. “I think this could do with your touch.”

Elehan came out of the shadows, approaching the three of us huddled together in the doorway. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and then looked at the damaged hand. “Oh” he said, slowly. “Right. Hakkor, hold still, I’ll ask my goddess for help.” The paladin held out his hand over the wound, and began to pray.

He never had time to complete it however. Whether Hakkor had set off an alarm or whether it was just the noise we made or just bad luck, I’ll never know. But in that instant the door was shoved open, and all four of us went flying. I landed, somewhat stunned, next to the thief. I couldn’t see where Elehan was, but I did see Cloaval climb to his feet to bury his axe into the chest of the ogre that had barged the door open into us. As he tried to withdraw it, a second ogre charged across the collapsing body of the first, and beheaded Cloaval with a greatsword. Zorilinar charged in from the left, and was a demon in the night fighting, slashing and cutting as the ogres poured out of the doorway.

My head hurt, and I couldn’t remember any spells. I knew I should be casting, but with my head pounding, I wasn’t good for it. I reached up and felt wetness on my head. All I could do was watch as Cloaval’s headless body twitched on the floor, and Hakkor shuddered and gasped as the poison ate him from within. And grimly, Zorilinar fought a losing battle.

She fell with two ogres remaining. An impressive feat of sword work, but not impressive enough. The nearest approached me, cowering behind the doorway next to Hakkor’s stiffening corpse.

I slashed at the creature with my dagger, but he jumped back and laughed at me. I thought all was lost.

Ancar lifted his head, and his deep gaze locked with Faral. Faral saw the sadness there, the pain, and found it difficult to draw himself out of those depths. “I’m sorry.” He sympathized. He it was hard to imagine what the loss of friends, and despair in that circumstance would be like.

Across the room the two farmers gave each other cheery goodbyes that sounded wrong in the light of the tale that the mage was telling. When they clumped noisily to the door and left, slamming it shut behind them, leaving only silence in their wake, Faral felt a surge of anger. How dare they break such a moment with their happy calls, and slam the door on the dead adventurers like that. He turned to give a sympathetic glance to the magic user, but Ancar was once again lost in his wineglass. He seemed to be trying to make a decision, and having a hard time of it as the fluid sloshed a slow circle around the vessel.

Faral waited as the mage toyed with the wine glass, until the silence stretched into an interminable length for the boy. He had, however, become aware of the introspective moments that Ancar seemed to need, and tried his best to remain quiet and still.

Eventually, he was rewarded. “Are you sure you want to hear the end of this boy? It’s not a happy tale. It might be better if I just left you to cleaning up, eh?”

Faral shook his head. “I want to hear what happened! I want to know about Evard and why he consorted with goblins and ogres.”

The mage sighed, and sloshed the wine around in a circle, watching it. The fire had now died down to faint embers, and the only light in the corner was from moonlight coming in the windows. The mage’s eyes were about all the boy could see of him.

“If you’re sure,” he said quietly, “if you are quite sure, then I will tell the rest of the tale. But I can’t promise that you will like it.”

“As the ogre stood over me, I looked up to see his greatsword swing upward… and then his head was removed. It all seemed so unreal. The body fell on me, spewing blood. I was soaked in the stuff. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so disgusted and relieved at the same time before.”

“Elehan heaved the body off me. His shining armor was also slick with blood. He looked like a silver-cased demon, in fact. I didn’t even recognize him for a moment. He pulled me to my feet in silence. I saw why a moment later. As I looked around at the carnage, I saw quickly that the other ogres had perished – the one that nearly got me was the last. However, everyone in our party except the two of us had also perished. One moment we were a group, and within a few minutes, three of our number were dead and gone.

“I turned to Elehan. ‘We could make it back to the town if we go carefully.’ I told him. He just smiled grimly at me, and nodded to the open door. ‘We go in, and get that bastard.’ He said firmly. ‘I owe this Evard for my companions. Don’t you?’ I wasn’t happy about it, but had little choice. I followed him into the base of the tower.” What I didn’t dare tell him was that I wasn’t entirely sure if I could remember my spells.

Faral wiped away a tear at the sadness that the mage’s tale was evoking. The warriors cut down in mid fight – yet dying as they lived, by the sword. Was that not an honorable warrior’s death? Faral considered it. From Ancar’s account of it, neither of the warriors nor the thief had died honorably. He wondered if any death was honorable. Faced with evidence of the risks of adventuring, his dreams of becoming a noble adventurer were drying up like morning dew in a desert.

“What happened next?” squeaked the boy, almost afraid to ask.

“The tower wasn’t a complex design. There was a main staircase, a small kitchen with an associated larder and a small storage room. Clearly the ogres had been in the food recently. It stank. There was little on the shelves; most of the food was rotting on the floor, with rats scurrying into the shadows as we looked in. Still, we weren’t there for rats – and all the rooms were deserted of any danger. We went up to the upper level, and found it to have one main room, a large wizard’s laboratory. Evard was there waiting for us of course.” Ancar gave a slow shake of his head. “Evard was a tall, thin man, with pale skin. He was wearing a red robe disturbingly similar to my own. That’s as much as I had time to notice before Elehan charged at him. I hadn’t even assessed the situation. The paladin always was one to act first and think later.

“Of course, Evard knew we were coming long before we got to the top of the tower, and he was ready. He waved his hands in a complex motion, and began to cast a spell. It was one I recognized, designed to capture and hold someone. Thinking quickly, I began a similar spell intended to counter his. Perhaps it was fatigue, or maybe I made a mistake, but he got to the end first though, and Elehan froze motionless, still five feet from his target.”

Faral grimaced. “Did you counter it?”

“I was so much slower. Yes, eventually I countered it on my second try, but not before Evard had cast another spell. A terrible spell – he pointed his finger and a black ray shot towards my companion. He was disintegrated in absolute silence, just as I broke the first spell. Elehan wasn’t even able to move enough to scream.”

The serving boy slumped. “By Abdara!” he breathed, invoking the name of the goddess. The figure next to him shuddered silently, and Faral looked at him in sympathy. Reliving this tale must be horrific for the poor mage.

“I was amazed at his speed and power. When he turned to face me, I suddenly realized what I was facing - the reason why he was so powerful. He had had hundreds of years to perfect his art, and his speed was… preternatural. Evard was a vampire. As I looked into his eyes, I felt my will draining away, and then more as he approached me. I knew that unless I could come up with some plan, I was doomed. I racked my brain trying to think of a spell that would give me more time, or better yet, one that would get me out of there. I don’t think I’ve been so afraid in all my life.”

Faral, eyes wide practically squealed, and leaned in close to the hooded figure, putting a reassuring hand on the mage’s arm. “And how did you escape?” he queried.

Ancar turned, and leaned towards the boy, giving him another piercing gaze. “I didn’t,” he hissed, and Faral had time to register a bright flash of sharp teeth before his world faded to red.