Small Favour (The Dresden Files, #10)

by Jim Butcher

Thump. Thump. This was just getting ridiculous, now. Thump. Thump. And Eldest Gruff appeared in the opening. He was five feet tall. Five-two, tops. He wore a robe with a cowl, pulled back so that I could clearly see his curling ram’s horns, the goatlike features, the long white beard, the yellow eyes with their hourglass pupils. And in his right hand he carried a wooden staff carved with runes that looked almost precisely like my own. He took a limping step forward, leaning on his staff, and when he planted the tool on the ground, it flickered with green light that then splashed out onto the earth beneath it, spreading outward in a resonating wave. Thump. The floorboards creaked beneath him, and he came to a cautious stop and faced me quietly, both hands on his staff. His robe was belted with an old bit of simple rope. There were three stoles hanging through it - purple ones, faded and frayed with the passage of time. Those were the mantles worn by members of the Senior Council, the leaders of the White Council of Wizards. They were, generally speaking, the oldest and strongest wizards on the planet. And Eldest Brother Gruff had, evidently, killed three of them in duels.