The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Two

"D ried tulip of Rokhana," the old woman said in her raspy voice, pointing to the smoke-colored bottle. Never in her life had she seen so many rare, wonderful herbs collected in a single place. The sheer quantity and selection astounded her. She watched anxiously, as a greedy child might, while the man in the two-colored robe took the fragile bottle down from the shelf. He carefully placed it into the saddlebag alongside the others. The woman smiled, revealing the absence of several teeth.

"And sneezeweed!" she added gleefully, clapping her hands together. She pointed to another container. "We must have sneezeweed!" Again the man complied.

The small, thatched cottage they were plundering was in the Hartwick Woods, just east of the town of Florian's Glade, in the south of Eutracia. An ancient herbmistress lived there. At the moment she cowered within the glowing wizard's warp the man in the robe had conjured after breaking into her home.

"What about this one?" he asked casually. He held a small, fluted bottle of shredded blue leaves before the light of the fireplace.

"Bah!" the old woman grunted with a disparaging wave of her ancient hand. "What you now hold is a bottle of the ground flowers from a shammatrass tree. They bloom only once every twenty-three years, and must be picked within hours of their appearance, or they are no good. It is used for medicinal purposes only-not at all something that we need."

She smiled wickedly. "It is, however, exceedingly difficult to come by," she continued. "It probably took the herbmistress there her entire life to collect the meager amount you now hold in the palm of your hand." Turning, she cast a jealous eye to the woman trapped behind the azure bars of the cage.

"Really?" the man asked nastily. "How interesting." With that he removed the cork and cast the bottle's contents into the fire. The flames roared colorfully for a moment before finally settling down again. The herbmistress cried aloud and slumped to the floor.

Smiling, the man in the two-colored robe looked over at her. "After I have finished here, I will visit the lead wizard," he said softly. "I will gladly give him your regards." He began to laugh, but his laugh quickly decayed into an all-consuming cough.

Hacking relentlessly, he placed a cloth before his mouth. When he took it away, it was covered with blood that was moving across the cloth, tracing his endowed blood signature. His lips twisting angrily, he stuffed the rag back into his robes. He stood there quietly for a moment, trying to reclaim his breathing.

"Are you sure there is nothing in this place that would help me?" he whispered to the crone as she went about selecting more of the precious bottles.

At last she stopped her search and turned her green eyes to him. "As I have told you before, Krassus, there is nothing of this world that can help you now. As you yourself have said, your illness is of the craft. What you have swirling inside was given to you by your previous master, the dead son of the Chosen One. What shall be shall be." She turned her attention back to the shelves. "The items we take today should, however, help me locate the scroll you seek. And hopefully before it is too late," she added softly.

Hours after they had gone, the wizard's warp finally dissolved, leaving the crying herbmistress free to face the task of cleaning up her smashed, looted home.