I scanned around the tavern hopefully. With my only trustworthy
friend missing, I was especially suspicious. Maybe someone in
this noisy place would have some of the information I sought
about the Staff of Iru.
The two Alhadim women at the bar in yellow and red might be
interesting to talk with, but this was no time for that. The
barbarians swilling tankards of Galenese ale couldn’t be
any help tonight. Could I get any direction from the black-clad
woman with the two short swords on her belt? She shot me a glance
that told me to forget it.
Smoke from the village sage’s pipe curled up lazily,
tempting me toward him, but just then my eyes fell on a dark,
hooded figure sitting at a corner table. Shadows from the fire
danced across the stranger’s bearded face. His hand played
on the rim of a half-full wine glass.
"Hello sir, may I join you?" I asked quietly.
"Please. Be my guest," he responded coolly, gesturing
to the empty chair with his gloved hand. People who wore gloves
in taverns made me nervous. I liked that.
"Barkeep, could you bring this man a drink?" he
said slowly.
"What’ll ya have, son?" barked the stout man
behind the bar.
"Ale," I replied, keeping my eyes on my table mate.
"My name is Dirk, Dirk Penderon, sir. Well met," I
said extending a handshake. He didn’t need to know my real
name.
"Well met," he said without giving his name.
After talking for a quarter of an hour, I still hadn’t
begun to drink -- one can’t be too careful. After some niceties
I began to probe about the Staff.
"You say it’s got gems along its length . . . is
it
magical?" he said, leaning out from a shadow. Before
I could respond I noticed his hood had fallen back a bit, revealing
dark runes on his forehead. My face betrayed my panic.
"What, uh . . . what is that writing on your head, sir,
may I ask?"
"It seems you already have," he responded, and discreetly
pulled the hood back into place. "They are protective runes.
Nothing to fear," he said quietly.
Suddenly the tension was broken when the barkeep waddled over
to us. "Son, you haven’t even touched that drink. Wassa
matter?" I shook my head casually. "Oh, not good enough
for ya? Ah you don’t know good ale when ya taste it,"
he laughed, picking up the tankard and downing the contents.
"Haaa," he smiled, "now that’s good ale!"
he said slapping my back so hard I nearly fell out of my seat.
"I’m just not thirsty," I said dryly. I glanced
across the table, and my nervousness was beginning to return
when the tavern door burst open.
"It’s coming this way! It’s coming! Run!"
yelled a hysterical youth. He was holding his bleeding arm in
hand. "It’s that black, winged creature! It’s
back! Run!" he yelled, eyes wide. A white-haired man stood
up creakily from his place by the fire.
"Easy, easy there. Now let me see your arm," the
old shaman squawked. Waving his hand, he said an incantation
and healed the gash. "Now let’s get out of here."
The youth barely took in the old man or the healing, "He’ll
kill you all! You’ve got to run!"
I’d seen the creature’s white claws rip a man into
kabob chunks before. I was on my way out the back door (along
with the other people in the tavern) before he finished. But
I happened to look back over my shoulder as I left, and what
I saw confused me: the hooded man was putting his feet up onto
the table and leaning his chair back . . .
