Joel Rosenberg - Omnibus 01 - The Guardians of the Flame

The Guardians of the Flame

Table of Contents

The Sleeping Dragon

Vol. 1 of

The Guardians

of the Flame

PART ONE:

The Student Union

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

PART TWO:

Lundeyll

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

PART THREE:

Pandathaway

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART FOUR:

Bremon

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART FIVE:

And Beyond

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Sword and the Chain

Vol. 2 of

The Guardians

of the Flame

PART ONE:

Metreyll

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART TWO:

The Valley

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART THREE:

The Middle Lands

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

PART FOUR:

Melawei

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART FIVE:

Home

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Silver Crown

Vol. 3 of

The Guardians

of the Flame

PROLOGUE

PART ONE:

The Forest of Wehnest

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

PART TWO:

Home

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART THREE:

Enkiar

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART FOUR:

Bieme

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

The Guardians of the Flame

by Joel Rosenberg

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original Omnibus

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3589-3

Cover art by Monty Moore

First omnibus printing, February 2003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rosenberg, Joel, 1954–

The guardians of the flame / by Joel Rosenberg

p. cm.

Contents: The sleeping dragon—The sword and the chain—The silver crown.

ISBN 0-7434-3589-3

1. Role playing—Fiction. 2. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Title.

PS3568.O786 G83 2003

813'.54—dc21 2002034185

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

The Sleeping Dragon

Vol. 1 of

The Guardians

of the Flame

For Felicia

Acknowledgments

I want to thank the people who helped me through this: Allan Schmidt, who gave me the crazy idea in

the first place and helped to make the gaming aspects work; Cara Herman, who gave much needed

encouragement as I struggled through the first draft; Harry F. Leonard, who annoyed the hell out of me

by quibbling endlessly over minor flaws until I saw the light and corrected them, much to the betterment

of the story, if not my disposition; Robert Lee Thurston and Judith Heald, who gave me good criticism

and better friendship; Doug Kaufman, who put his money where his mouth was; Barry B. Longyear,

whose advice always helps when I'm wise enough to take it; Kim Tchang, who told me to relax and write

the damn thing; my agent, Cherry Weiner, whose help and support went beyond the call of duty; my

editor, Sheila Gilbert, who not only knew a good thing when she saw it, but knew how to make it better;

and the members of Haven: Deborah Atherton Davis, Mary Kittredge, Mark J. McGarry, and Kevin

O'Donnell, Jr., who gave this book the line-by-line, word-by-word examination and dissection that a first

novelist so desperately needs.

And, most particularly, I'd like to thank Robert Anson Heinlein, whose work has been both example and

inspiration, for Thorby, Colonel Baslim, Oscar Gordon, and so much more.

The great problems of life . . . are always related to

the primordial images of the collective unconscious . . .

The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also

the source of the highest good: not only dark but also light, not only bestial, semihuman, and

demonic,

but superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense

of the word, "divine."

—Carl Gustave Jung

. . . for every human being there is a diversity

of existences . . . the single existence is itself an

illusion . . .

—Saul Bellow

It seems to me that there might well be the equivalent, with regard to the collective unconscious,

of the concept in physics of "critical mass." Are we approaching it? Quite possibly—consider the

resurgence of spiritualism, in all its guises, and don't neglect the function of

the fantasy role-playing games. The characters, the situations . . . all seem to touch something

that is basic and fundamental.

But where would the locus of crisis be? And how can

it be exploited? The Elder Edda, The Song of the Harper, The Book of the Dead, even The Great

Hymn to the Aten offer only hints, suggestions, intimations.

Perhaps the best approach would be neither induction nor deduction, but, rather, empirical

experimentation. Perhaps . . .

—Arthur Simpson Deighton

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Karl Cullinane/Barak dilettante and acting major/warrior Andrea Andropolous/Lotana English

major/novice wizard James Michael Finnegan/Ahira Bandylegs computer sciences major/dwarf

warrior Doria Perlstein/Doria of the Healing Hand domestic arts major/master cleric Walter

Slovotsky/Hakim Singh agricultural sciences major/journeyman thief Jason Parker/Einar

Lightfingers history major/master thief Louis Riccetti/Aristobulus civil engineering major/master

wizard Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. Associate Professor of Philosophy, gamemaster Wen'l of

Lundescarne peasant and freefarmer Frann of Pandathaway innkeeper Lordling Alahn Lund heir

to the throne of Lundeyll Marik, Arno men-at-arms Avair Ganness captain and owner of the Ganness'

Pride Airvhan ip Melhrood customs official Challa man-at-arms Callutius Junior Librarian of the

Great Library of Pandathaway Oreen Specializing Librarian of the Great Library of Pandathaway

Ellegon a young dragon Tommallo owner of the Inn of Quiet Repose Khoralt ip Therranj

Winesellers Delegate to the Pandathaway Guilds' Council, Games official Ohlmin master slaver

Blenryth master wizard The Dragon at the Gate The Matriarch of the Society of the Healing

Hand

PART ONE:

The Student Union

CHAPTER ONE

The Players

Karl Cullinane reached out his fork and speared the last stick of asparagus from the stainless-steel

serving plate in the middle of the table, not bothering to set the asparagus on his own plate before taking

a bite. It was cold and mushy, almost tasteless; he swallowed quickly.

"Karl, you're a pig. A skinny one, granted, but a pig." Andrea Andropolous' smile took most of the sting

out of her words, pitched low enough so that nobody else in the crowded cafeteria would have been able

to hear her over the clatter of dishes and the chatter of a hundred or so students.

Karl put it down to a natural gentleness. Hell, she'd been able to make him like it—almost—when she'd

turned him down. Usually, the let's-just-be-friends routine drove him into a silent, stomach-churning rage.

"I gotta rush, Andy-Andy. There's a game tonight." He took another bit, added a mouthful of lukewarm

black coffee, and swallowed quickly. "If I'm late, sure as hell they'll start without me, put Barak out to

pasture for the night."

"You mean that they'll put him out to stud." She chuckled, revealing a mouthful of even, white teeth.

Karl liked her laugh, her smile. He had always thought that the notion of somebody brightening a room

with a smile was just a fantasy. Until he had met Andy-Andy, that is. Not that he had anything against

fantasy, quite the—

"It's bullshit, Karl," she said, smiling sweetly. "Just an absurd male power fantasy." She reached out and

stroked his skinny forearm with a long, dark finger. Was it tanned, or not? Andy-Andy always seemed to

find something better to do during afternoon tanning hours than loll in the sun like some well-oiled,

roasting slug. Probably the olive tone of her skin was natural coloration. Maybe not. Of course, there

was a way to tell. Trouble was, Karl had never had the chance to check her for bikini marks.

Damn."No, it's just a game. A way to spend a little time, have a little fun."

"A little fun?" She arched an eyebrow. "You call pretending to chop up a pixie, rape a virgin or three,

slice an ogre—you call that fun?" Quirking a smile, she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms almost

defensively over her blue velour pullover. Which was amply filled out, but not tight. Karl liked that;

Andy-Andy was more than a little pretty, but not an exhibitionist.

"First of all"—he tapped his index finger on the table, forcing himself to pay attention to the

conversation—"you're missing the point. Pretending isn't the same thing as really doing it. I mean—take

last week's session, for instance. Barak strangled an elf, chopped a half-orc in two—hey, now the

critter's really two halves of an orc. Or should that be quarter-orces? Never mind, the point is that he

took three points of damage. One's a light wound, two's more serious, going up to five, which is certainly

lethal. Three's the equivalent of getting sliced up pretty bad." He reached for his shirt's top button. "Care

to check for scars?"

"Some other time." She tossed her head, sending shoulder-length black hair whipping around her face.

"Maybe." A strand came to rest on her slightly too long, slightly bent nose. She blew it off. "Then again,

maybe not."

"Teaser."

"That's only half the word, Karl. You don't have to use that bullshit with me."

"In my neighborhood,mother was only half a word." That might sound good, but it wasn't true: Karl was

a product of middle-class suburbia. "And besides, I was . . . kind of pointedly told to watch my language

around—women." If you consider having your mouth liberally washed out with Lifebuoy to be a pointed

telling. Which it was, after a fashion. "But to get back to the point, it's all just a fantasy, a game. No harm;

no damage. Anyway, Barak isn't that sort of character—he'll violate alaw, but he's no rapist." That was

true, but omitted a new character Doc Deighton had helped him roll up, one Lucius of Pandathaway.

Lucius was not a nice person. Not at all. "The trouble with you is that you feel perfectly free to judge

something you haven't tried. How many times since the start of the semester have I invited you—ten?

Twenty?"

She shook her head. "I don't have to jump out a window to decide that I'm not going to like it."

"Irrelevant. If you try role-playing and you don't like it, you quit. Period. No scars—not even on your

psyche. Which is part of the fun." He shrugged. "Besides, it's probably beneficial. You get to work out

some aggressions without hurting anybody. Not yourself, not anybody else."

"Stop trying to sound like a psych major. You're supposed to be studying to be an actor, these days."

"I used to be a psych major—"

"—and a poli sci major. Plus American lit, engineering, philosophy, sociology—am I missing something?"

"Prelaw. And two weeks of premed, back when I was a freshman. What's your point?"

"You're a dilettante, Karl. This role-playing stuff is just another one of your temporary obsessions.

Remember last year, when it was bridge? You spent a whole semester nattering about Stayman

conventions and South American Texas transfers, whatever the hell they are—"

"South African Texas, not South American." He dipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a

cigarette, then lit it with his shiny new Zippo. Karl let the flame flare for a moment before snapping the

cover shut. He figured that he might as well enjoy it while he could; he'd lose it soon. Karl could never

seem to keep track ofthings; the Zippo was the third lighter he'd bought that semester. "I still play

bridge," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "It's just that this is more fun—particularly with this group.

Sometimes . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"Yes?"

"Sometimes, when you get the mechanics of the game out of the way—rolling the dice, keeping track of

what you're carrying—it's almost like you're there." He lifted his head and smiled. "And that'ssomething.

How often do you think I'm going to get the chance to, say, rescue a princess or slay a dragon?" He

glanced down at his wrist. 6:48. Karl pushed himself to his feet.

"Well, I've got to run, if I'm not going to be late. See you later?"

Andy-Andy's brow furrowed. "How late are you going to be? Getting back, I mean."

"Mmmm, probably be back before midnight. If you want to meet me in the lounge, I'll help you go over

Deerslayer, if that's what you mean. It's a rotten book, though—I've got a Twain piece on it that pretty

much—"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm caught up with that, but I do have a quiz in astronomy tomorrow. If

you're sure we can be back by twelve, I'll come along, give it a try. If the invitation's still open." She

stood, taking her bulky yellow ski jacket from the back of her chair and slipping it on.

"You know it is."

She sighed. "Yes, I do." Andy-Andy shook her head slowly. "Which is part of the problem. Never mind;

let's get going, shall we?"

* * *

James Michael Finnegan was the first player to get to Room 109 in the Student Union. It was a matter

partly of habit, but mainly of pride. The others, well, they'd wait for him, sure.Only for him, dammit.

They wouldn't wait for him because he was now the most accomplished player in the group. Davy

Davidson had been the best in the group until he'd dropped out last year, and nobody would wait for

Davy and his character, Erik of the Three Bezants, on the not infrequent occasions that he'd arrive late.

James Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hands limp in his lap.

No, they wouldn't wait for him because he was a nice person to be around, with a dry sense of humor

and an always friendly smile. That monomaniac flake Karl Cullinane cracked better jokes; that hick jock

Walter Slovotsky always seemed to have a grin pasted on his face—and everybody alwaysliked being

around Doria. But if one ofthem showed up late, it was

well-too-bad-it-seems-your-character-is-down-with-a-cold-tonight. Just last week, Doria had fluttered

in breathless, just five minutes after they'd started, and even Riccetti had ignored her implied promises

and threats; Doc Deighton had just turned a very cold eye her way and suggested that lateness was an

implicitly hostile act.

He spun his chair in a tight circle and swore softly under his breath.

It wasn't all that bad, not always. The one time he'd had to wait for the Special Student Services truck

(all the way muttering a spell to change the driver into a toad, a particularly small, unusually ugly

toad—with one eye) and had been wheeled into the elevator late, coming out on the first floorlate, his

car-battery-powered chair zipping down the tiled hall and into Room 109 LATE—

—nobody had said anything. Except, "Hi, James," and "Nice to see you, James," and "Let's play,

James."

The tolerance, the implied pity, was bad. Not playing would have been worse. Much worse.

All cripples fantasize, you see. They have to, just like normal people, although not always about the

things normal people do.

And when you've spent your whole life with muscular dystrophy, you're really lucky, in a way. There's

lotsmore things to dream about. Like being able to punch a computer keyboard at better than a scorching

ten words per minute. Like sleeping in a top bunk. Like feeding yourself quickly, wolfing down food so

you could run off somewhere. Like using a goddam bathroom without having someone else wipe you off.

Like not having to be so goddam cheerful all the time since because you're a feeb in a chair, people will

let you get away with anything as long as you don't touch them.

But the game . . . ah, there it was. All at once. "I'll walk across the room, heft my axe, and chop at the

ogre," you'd say, and everybody would react to it,just as though you'd really done it.

A miracle? Well, not quite. An addiction,yes.

James Michael lifted his right hand to the steering knob and wheeled himself over to the long table in the

middle of the bright room, getting himself so close that his chin was directly over the edge of the battered

mahogany surface. He reached into the denim bag on his lap, secured there by a long cloth loop around

his neck, and pulled out a large plastic bag, bringing it up to the tabletop.

And the whole . . . wonder of it depended on this little bag, and the dice inside it. Standard six-sided

dice for the attack tables. A twenty-sided die, generating a random number to compare to Ahira's

intelligence, or endurance, or strength. And Ahira wasstrong, although not terribly wise, perhaps, and

certainly not handy with anything except an axe or hammer.

And then there were the pyramidal four-sided dice, and the eight-sided ones to—but why bother

thinking about the mechanics of it? They didn't matter; the rules were soon learned and subsumed, the

way a normal person would learn to ride a bicycle by technique, and then forget the technique, to

ride . . .

James Michael closed his eyes and dreamed of riding a bicycle, seeing the ground slip by smoothly

beneath him. Sort of like riding in a car, but being there, and—

"James!"

His eyes snapped open like twin shutters. Doria Perlstein stood over him, concern creasing her

too-round, too-smooth face, her short blond hair only making her seem chubbier.

"James, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He smiled up at her, making a special effort to keep the traitor muscles of the right side of his

face under control. Doria . . . tried,that was it. The little dwarf in the chair revolted her and scared her, as

though his disability could rub off. But she tried to hide it.

He brought his hands down into his lap, out of sight. No shame, just a reflexive kindness, although he

really wanted to reach out and shake her.I'm not contagious. "I'm just fine. It's been a busy week; I

guess I was just dozing off."

She dropped into a chair, visibly considered the possibility that it would seem to him to be too far away,

took a half second to fight with her own fear of James Michael Finnegan, and compromised by wiggling

herself a scant inch closer.

Someday,he thought,I'm going to tell her that she doesn't have to sit next to me, if she's so uptight.

Then again, maybe this is better for her than sitting across the table from me; it's natural for her

to avoid my eyes, this way.

She forced a smile, drumming crimson fingernails against the tabletop. "I see I'm early this time."

"I'm glad you're here. We ran into a fairly heavy-duty goblin last time; could have used a cleric."

"How bad?"

"Both Barak and Ahira took quite a bit of damage. He got three points; I got away with just two."

"Wait a minute—where was Sandy?"

"Dropped out. Which leaves you as the only cleric around. The team's top-heavy with warriors."

"Ooo." She grimaced. "Sorry I was late last time." She tossed her head, brightening. "But don't worry.

Soon as Doc works me back into the campaign, I'll heal both of you up."

James Michael smiled. "Make that 'heal Barak up.' Ahira's just fine."

She wrinkled her forehead. "How? I know Barak had some healing draughts in his bag—but Ahira—"

"—persuaded him to fork them over."

Joel Rosenberg - Omnibus 01 - The Guardians of the Flame

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