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city without resistance would mean his magnificent Orcs would not have their numbers greatly reduced by tonight’s Adventure. That pleased Dimsbury and, for a moment, he thought of conquering a bit more of the world.
    Ah, but ambition would wait until he had isolated the very source of Magic. And this attack would grant him the peace and quiet he needed. One good long push at the end, and he felt confident he would have it within his grasp. Everything, really. For who could resist a man with limitless power?
    But tonight. A respite from his labors. His feet carried him south. He knew of a place–not the finest establishment, or even reputable by the standards of a privileged Mercian upbringing, it is true–but as he had been living on things grown in a cave, it would do.
    Yes, a fine roast leg of lamb. Then a pleasant walk to a hilltop from which to watch the city burn. The only thing he regretted was that he would not have good company to enjoy such a delightful evening with. The sacrifices he made for his work were many.

5
    Boltac dragged the unconscious Farm Boy out of his shop. He looked around for a place to ditch the kid. Across the street, he saw an empty bench in front of The Bent Eelpout Tavern. Perfect, thought Boltac. He’ll be just another drunk on a bench, sleeping it off.
    As he dragged the lad across the street, Boltac muttered to himself, “What were you thinking? Loan you a sword? Are you crazy? Well, of course you’re crazy. Forget I asked.” With much grunting, Boltac propped the lad up on the bench. He looked up at the hideous, twisted fish on the Tavern’s faded sign and a longing for ale filled him.
    “Look kid,” he said to the gently snoring Farm Boy on the bench, “It’s for your own good. I mean, if you didn’t see that coming, you’re not going to see anything else coming. And that wasn’t even tricky. You know what’s tricky? Adventures are tricky.” Boltac sighed heavily. “Believe me, go back to the farm.”
    Boltac watched the sleeping boy for a moment. Unconscious he seemed even younger. “Okay, no charge for the concussion. And you’re welcome,” Boltac said. Then he went inside.
    “Asarah, my love!” Boltac bellowed before the door had even had a chance to close behind him, “I have come to rescue you from all of this.”
    The harried, hard-working, beautiful mistress of the inn turned away from the table she was clearing. She flung a lock of dark hair out of her face and saw that it was Boltac. Her professional smile fell from her face and she asked, “And who’s going to rescue you?”
    Boltac climbed up on a bar stool and said, “No, no. I mean it this time. I have come to sweep you away from all this pointless drudgery. We shall journey to a far Kingdom where I am Lord and Master, and you will be my Queen.”
    Asarah walked behind the bar and set her hands on the well-worn wooden top. “Whattaya want, Boltac?”
    Eying the beautiful, dark-haired woman before him, Boltac had the courage to tell the truth because it would play as a joke. “Only you, my love.”
    “Yeah, well, all you’ve got is money, Boltac. And I ain’t for sale. Now what are you having?”
    “Asarah, can I borrow an ale?”
    “What? Borrow an ale?”
    “My point exactly!”
    “Borrow?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who asks such a thing?”
    “Precisely!” said Boltac, pounding his fist on the bar. “Who asks such a thing? But people do. I swear to the Gods they do. A young man, not 20 minutes ago, walked into my store and had the nerve to ask me if he could borrow a sword.”
    “What? You mean like you’d ask a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar?”
    “Yes, exactly. Except when you borrow a cup of sugar, you don’t go off and use it to get yourself killed trying to save some damn fool Priestess of Dar.”
    “Oh, virgin love,” she said as a moony look crept into her eye.
    “En-henh,” said Boltac. “How about I just rent an ale?”
    “Comin’ right up.” Asarah drew a tankard of ale