Brian Thomsen - Forgotten Realms - Realms of Magic

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REALMS OF MAGIC
Edited by Brian Thomsen and J. Robert King
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Brian Thomsen
GUENHWYVAR
R. A. Salvatore
SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS
Jeff Grubb
THE MAGIC THIEF
Mark Anthony
THE QUIET PLACE
Christie Golden
THE EYE OF THE DRAGON
Ed Greenwood
EVERY DOG HIS DAY
Dave Gross
THE COMMON SPELL
Kate Novak-Grubb
THE FIRST MOONWELL
Douglas Niles
THE LUCK OF LLEWELLYN THE LOQUACIOUS
Alien C. Kupfer
TOO FAMILIAR
David Cook
RED AMBITION
Jean Rabe
THIEVES' REWARD
Mary H. Herbert
SKOFSWORDS
William W. Connors
THE WILD BUNCH
Tom Dupree
A WORM TOO SOFT
J. Robert King
GUNNE RUNNER
Roger E. Moore
THE DIRECT APPROACH
Elaine Cunningham
EPILOGUE
Brian Thomsen PROLOGUE
Tym Waterdeep Limited had been the publisher of Volothamp Geddarm ever since the day that the wandering
rogue and the savvy entrepreneur had first struck a deal, each side convinced he had taken advantage of the other.
Many volumes later, Volo was justifiably known as the most famous traveler in all the Realms, and Justin Tym as
Faerun's most successful publisher.
In the intervening years, Volo had been handed off to numerous editors, each a bit more willing to take partial
credit for the gazetteer's success, and it had been more than a few seasons since the great publisher and the noble
rogue had had a "face-to-face." The recent dismissal of his last editor, coinciding with the master traveler's scheduled
stopover in the City of Splendors, afforded an ample reason for a meeting between the two gentlemen.
As Volo remembered it, Justin had always been a late sleeper—no doubt a habit borne out of many nights of
routinely wining and dining authors, agents, and booksellers (a practice the gazetteer wholeheartedly endorsed). So,
needless to say, Volo was more than a little surprised to find a message at his accommodations moving their meeting
up from the civilized hour of "noonish" (with the tacit promise
of a gratis lunch) to the ungodly hour of market opening, thus necessitating an early morning call that proved
most inconvenient for both himself and his hostess, Trixie. Still, Justin's advances did indeed finance his extravagant
accommodations, and so, slightly bleary-eyed, and not entirely rested, Volo set off for his publisher's office.
The streets were brimming with eager merchants en route to trade, peddlers hawking their wares from makeshift
mobile markets, and laborers trotting off to their common jobs. Volo did not envy any of his fellow commuters, and
quietly resented Justin's subjecting him to Waterdeep's legendary early-morning rush hour. Still, bills had to be paid.
By this time tomorrow, with any luck, he would once again be flush with gelt and ready to enjoy the freedoms of the
open road, where appointments were scheduled as "when you get there," and deadlines were set as "when the
manuscript is done."
All told. Justin's advances were more than worth this temporary inconvenience.
The crowded storefronts along the thoroughfare soon save way to extravagant office space for consulting
wizards, high-priced solicitors, and even more high-priced tavern clubs. Volo was entering the district where Tym
Waterdeep Limited had been situated since its origin as a print shop of "exotic pamphlets and titillating tomes'* years
ago. As business had prospered, so had the neighborhood, and the shadowy warehouse district had become the new
"in" place for professionals to set up shop.
Despite many buy-out offers from Kara-Turian interests and Cormyrian holding companies, Justin had steadfastly
maintained his independence, and prosperity had followed him.
In Tym's words, "he hadn't traded up; everyone else had traded down," and that was the way he liked it.
A new floor had been added to the storefront offices, overhanging yet another section of the already narrow
street. The road here was shadowy, not unlike some underworld back alley rather than a main Waterdeep
thoroughfare.
Business must be good, Volo thought. I wonder when
Justin will buy out his across-the-lane neighbor? Another expansion out and up, and he would undoubtedly
overhang their property.
As he had expected, the door was open, and Volo proceeded upstairs without impediment. Knowing Justin, he
thought, his office has to be on the top floor.
Four floors up, just beyond an unmanned reception desk with an office overlooking the busy thoroughfare below,
sat a tall, bespectacled, and almost entirely bald rogue. The publisher was nattily dressed in the most fashionable attire
gelt could acquire for his unathletic form. He took to his feet immediately to greet his star author.
"Volo, my boy, how long has it been?" he enthusiastically hailed.
"Longer than either of us would like to remember," the gazetteer responded, adding, "and since when have you
become an early bird? I almost doubted that the message was really from you."
The publisher hesitated for a moment and then jibed, " 'Tis the early bird that catches the wyrm, in business as
well as in dungeon crawling, I'm afraid."
Volo chuckled at the fellow's response, thinking to himself, Justin has never seen the inside of a dungeon in his
life, let alone crawled around in one. Still the old coot is a queer bird, if not an early bird at that.
Justin motioned to a chair for the house's star author and quickly returned to his place behind the desk.
Volo took a seat, kicked it back on its rear legs, set booted feet against Justin's expensive desk, made himself at
home, and asked absently, "So, how's business?"
"Couldn't be better," the publisher replied.
"Any new hot titles coming up?"
"Sure," Justin replied, pausing for just a moment till he had located a mock-up cover from the top of his desk.
"We've got a really hot new book on Cormyr coming out. Here's the proposed cover."
Volo looked at the handsome illustration of a purple dragon against a mountainous landscape, framed at the top
by the title and below by the author's name.
"Cormyr: A Novel," Volo read aloud, "by Greenwood
Grubb. Don't you think the title is a little dull?"
"Not at all, my boy," Justin replied with a smile that bespoke all of the sincerity of an orcish grifter. "Besides, the
editor-in-chief and the author picked the title. I picked the art."
"I see," said Volo, surprised at the hands-off manner the controlling rogue seemed to have adopted.
"Still," the publisher added, "I did just fire the editor-in-chief. Maybe 1 should reconsider...."
"Why did you fire him?"
"You mean her," Justin corrected. "She was a ninny and a bit of a flake, even for a gnome, if you know what 1
mean."
"In what way?" the author asked, realizing that editors, good or otherwise, might truly be the most endangered
species in all Toril.
"She kept changing the spelling of her name. I was going to go broke if I had to keep printing new letterhead and
business cards for her."
"I see," the gazetteer replied.
"She also kept trying to take credit for books she had nothing to do with. Once she even claimed to have
discovered you, and signed you up for your first book. Of course, I knew she was lying, but everyone else didn't.
When I pressed her to clear the matter up in public, she claimed she had meant that she landed Marcus Wands, also
known as Marco Volo. Ever hear of him?"
"On occasion," Volo replied, wishing that the scurrilous scoundrel would change his name and avoid this
ongoing confusion, which had already caused him much inconvenience.
"Needless to say, Marco Volo is no substitute for the real Volo, Volothamp Geddarm."
"Of course," the gazetteer replied, glad his publisher was taking the time to butter him up.
"But enough of this chitchat," Justin said. "What wonderful new volume do you have for us today? I want a
good strong title to follow up on our expected success with Volo's Guide to the Dalelands ,.. like, maybe, Volo's
Guide to the Moonsea. Ever since that big blowup at Zhentil Keep, the
market has just been clamoring for information."
"Moonsea is already in the works," Volo replied confidently, "in fact, I'm on my way to Mulmaster after I finish my
business here in Waterdeep. I figure a few more months of research, tops, and it will be done."
Justin furrowed his brow. "That's fine, I guess," he replied hesitantly, "but I was sort of hoping for something we
could publish a little sooner."
"But, of course," Volo replied, adding seductively, "that's why I've brought along another project."
"Good," the publisher agreed, " a little something to tide us over between guide books."
"No," the author contradicted adamantly. "Something that will outsell all the guides, combined. Volo's Guide to
All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, & Expanded Edition."
Before the author had even gotten out the word "magical", Justin was already shaking his head no.
"Sorry, old boy," the publisher insisted. "There's just no way. The Guide to All Things Magical almost put this
company six feet under, for good. When Khelben and company ban a book, they ban a book. Every copy—poof!—
disappeared without ever a mention of refund for production costs or lost sales revenues. I have no desire to play that
game again."
"Neither do I," the author replied confidently. "That's why it's revised."
"How?"
"This time it is all based on interviews, stories, and legends that I have gathered from the far corners of Faerun.
Nothing pilfered or stolen, which is not to say that there was anything improperly obtained the last time."
"But, of course," the publisher conceded absently, while trying to concentrate on coming up with a diplomatic
reason why refusing this volume would not constitute the breaking of an option, thus allowing his star author to go
elsewhere. He concluded that there wasn't a diplomatic alternative.
"Volo," the publisher said firmly, "I can't do it. Even a revised tome of secret spells and such would get us in
trouble. The text would once again be suppressed, and who knows what Khelben would do to a repeat offender."
"I'm not scared of old Blackstaff," the cocky gazetteer replied. "He owes me one for saving his butt and all of
Faerun during that doppleganger conspiracy1."
"I wasn't thinking of you," Justin replied. "I was referring to me."
"Afraid he still remembers that hatchet-job unauthorized biography by Kaeti Blye you published?"
"It was supposed to be a solid piece of investigative journalism," he justified. "How was I to know that that dwarf
was more adept at turning out fiction than turning up facts?"
A wide smile crossed Volo's face.
"Well you don't have any such worries this time, I assure you," he stated in his still-cocky tone. This time, Volo's
Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, etc., is no notorious expose of the arcane and dangerous, but a
we 11-researched compilation of documented second-hand accounts of various magic subjects in all the Realms. After
all if people told me these tales, they would have told anyone. Ergo, they're all accessible to the public, depending on
one's travels, and contacts . . . and as you well know, no one travels better or has better contacts than Volothamp
Geddann."
Justin leaned back in his chair and scratched his ear as if it had been tickled by the almost nonexistent fringe that
remained of his once-full head of hair.
"Go on," the publisher pressed. "What type of accounts would be in it?"
"Basically anything magical from AioZ. Magic items, places, and spells, both the famous and the obscure.
Enchanted artifacts from the past, spectral creatures, and famous feats. Personalities like Elminster and Khelben ...
nothing to offend, mind you . .. notorious mages and lowly apprentices ... you know, stories about student wizards ..."
"I see, " interrupted the publisher, "but. . ."
"I even have a few stories about 'smoke powder', the latest
1 See Once Around the Realms-
forbidden substance, which everyone is talking about."
The publisher was perplexed. Obviously a collection of stories on "all things magical" was a poor substitute for
the wonderfully desirable toine that had been suppressed . . . but since no one had ever gotten to read the original, no
one would have a basis for comparison. Who's to say it wasn't just another collection of stories?
"You'd be willing to call it Void's Guide to All Things Magical, etc., etc.," the publisher pressed.
"Of course," Volo replied, glad to see that he had hooked his publisher and would be dining high that evening on
the advance that was sure to be handed over. "So we have a deal?"
"Not so fast," Justin replied shrewdly. "You don't expect me to buy a pegasus in the clouds do you?"
"Of course not," Volo replied, feigning indignation at the inference that he might try something less than
above-board. "Would you like to see the manuscript?" he added, removing a sheaf of pages from his pack.
"Hand it over," the publisher replied, leaning forward, his arm reaching across the desk to accept the pile of
pages.
"Careful," Volo instructed, handing over the manuscript. "It's my only copy."
Justin began to rifle through the pages.
"What are you doing?" asked the impatient author.
"Looking for the good parts,™ the publisher replied.
Volo fingered his beard in contemplation. He didn't want to be here all day waiting for Justin to peruse until he
was satisfied. Suddenly a solution occurred to him.
"Justin," Volo offered, "I know you are a busy man. Why don't I just tell you some of the good parts."
Justin set the manuscript in front of him on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "You always were a good
storyteller, Geddarm," he replied, "so do tell."
Volo rubbed his hands together, took a deep breath, and began to tell the tales.
GUENHWYVAR
R. A. Salvatore
Josidiah Starym skipped wistfully down the streets of Cormanthor, the usually stern and somber elf a bit giddy
this day, both for the beautiful weather and the recent developments in his most precious and enchanted city. Josidiah
was a bladesinger, a joining of sword and magic, protector of the elvish ways and the elvish folk. And in Cormanthor,
in this year 253, many elves were in need of protecting. Goblinkin were abundant, and even worse, the emotional
turmoil within the city, the strife among the noble families—the Starym included—threatened to tear apart all that
Coronal Eltargrim had put together, all that the elves had built in Cormanthor, greatest city in all the world.
Those were not troubles for this day, though, not in the spring sunshine, with a light north breeze blowing. Even
Josidiah's kin were in good spirits this day; Taleisin, his uncle, had promised the bladesinger that he would venture to
Eltargrim's court to see if some of their disputes might perhaps be worked out.
Josidiah prayed that the elven court would come back together, for he, perhaps above all others in the city, had
the most to lose. He was a bladesinger, the epitome of what it meant to be elven, and yet, in this curious age,
those definitions seemed not so clear. This was an age of change, of great magics, of monumental decisions. This
was an age when the humans, the gnomes, the halflings, even the bearded dwarves, ventured down the winding ways
of Cormanthor, past the needle-pointed spires of the free-flowing elvish structures. For all of Josidiah's previous one
hundred and fifty years, the precepts of elvenkind seemed fairly defined and rigid; but now, because of their Coronal,
wise and gentle Eltargrim, there was much dispute about what it meant to be elvish, and, more importantly, what
relationships elves should foster with the other goodly races.
"Merry morn, Josidiah," came the call of an elven female, the young and beautiful maiden niece of Eltargrim
himself. She stood on a balcony overlooking a high garden whose buds were not yet in bloom, with the avenue
beyond that.
Josidiah stopped in midstride, leapt high into the air in a complete spin, and landed perfectly on bended knee, his
long golden hair whipping across his face and then flying out wide again so that his eyes, the brightest of blue,
flashed. "And the merriest of morns to you, good Felicity," the bladesinger responded. "Would that I held at my sides
flowers befitting your beauty instead of these blades made for war."
"Blades as beautiful as any flower ever I have seen," Felicity replied teasingly, "especially when wielded by
Josidiah Starym at dawn's break, on the flat rock atop Berenguil's Peak."
The bladesinger felt the hot blood rushing to his face. He had suspected that someone had been spying on him at
his morning rituals—a dance with his magnificent swords, performed nude—and now he had his confirmation.
"Perhaps Felicity should join me on the morrow's dawn," he replied, catching his breath and his dignity, "that I might
properly reward her for her spying."
The young female laughed heartily and spun back into her house, and Josidiah shook his head and skipped
along. He entertained thoughts of how he might properly "reward" the mischievous female, though he feared that,
given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah
could not become involved in—not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.
The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of
Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted
there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he
loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out
here there was ever a sense of danger—might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him
down?—that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.
Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom
Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given
Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat
tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about
his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves
of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find
his way back to it without Anders's help.
And Josidiah held no illusions about it—if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the
cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.
This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to
follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.
"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen
candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"
given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah
could not become involved in—not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.
The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of
Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted
there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he
loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out
here there was ever a sense of danger—might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him
down?—that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.
Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom
Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given
Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat
tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about
his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves
of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find
his way back to it without Anders's help.
And Josidiah held no illusions about it—if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the
cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.
This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to
follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.
"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen
candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"
A feral growl put the bladesinger on his guard; his swords were in his hands in a movement too swift for an
observer to follow.
"Anders?" he called again, quietly, as he picked his way along the corridor, his feet moving in perfect balance,
soft boots gently touching the stone, quiet as a hunting cat.
The growl came again, and that is exactly when Josidiah knew what he was up against: a hunting cat. A big one,
the bladesinger recognized, for the deep growl resonated along the stone of the hallway.
He passed by the first doors, opposite each other in the hall, and then passed the second on his left.
The third—he knew—the sound came from within the third. That knowledge gave the bladesinger some hope that
this situation was under control, for that particular door led to Anders's alchemy shop, a place well guarded by the old
wizard.
Josidiah cursed himself for not being better prepared magically. He had studied few spells that day, thinking it too
fine and not wanting to waste a moment of it with his face buried in spellbooks.
If only he had some spell that might get him into the room more quickly, through a magical gate, or even a spell
that would send his probing vision through the stone wall, into the room before him.
He had his swords, at least, and with them, Josidiah Starym was far from helpless. He put his back against the wall
near to the door and took a deep steadying breath. Then, without delay—old Anders might be in serious trouble—the
bladesinger spun about and crashed into the room.
He felt the arcs of electricity surging into him as he crossed the warded portal, and then he was flying, hurled
through the air, to land crashing at the base of a huge oaken table. Anders Beltgarden stood calmly at the side of the
table, working with something atop it, hardly bothering to look down at the stunned bladesinger.
"You might have knocked," the old mage said dryly.
Josidiah pulled himself up unceremoniously from the floor, his muscles not quite working correctly just yet.
Convinced that there was no danger near, Josidiah let his gaze linger on the human, as he often did. The
bladesinger hadn't seen many humans in his life—humans were a recent addition on the north side of the Sea of Fallen
Stars, and were not present in great numbers in or about Cormanthor.
This one was the most curious human of all, with his leathery, wrinkled face and his wild gray beard. One of
Anders's eyes had been ruined in a fight, and it appeared quite dead now, a gray film over the lustrous green it had
once held. Yes, Josidiah could stare at old Anders for hours on end, seeing the tales of a lifetime in his scars and
wrinkles. Most of the elves, Josidiah's own kinfolk included, would have thought the old man an ugly thing; elves did
not wrinkle and weather so, but aged beautifully, appearing at the end of several centuries as they had when they had
seen but twenty or fifty winters.
Josidiah did not think Anders an ugly sight, not at all. Even those few crooked teeth remaining in the man's mouth
complemented this creature he had become, this aged and wise creature, this sculptured monument to years under the
sun and in the face of storms, to seasons battling goblinkin and giantkind. Truly it seemed ridiculous to Josidiah that
he was twice this man's age; he wished he might carry a few wrinkles as testament to his experiences.
"You had to know it would be warded," Anders laughed. "Of course you did! Ha ha, just putting on a show, then.
Giving an old man one good laugh before he dies!"
"You will outlive me, I fear, old man," said the bladesinger.
"Indeed, that is a distinct possibility if you keep crossing my doors unannounced."
"I feared for you," Josidiah explained, looking around the huge room—too huge, it seemed, to fit inside the tower,
even if it had consumed an entire level. The bladesinger suspected some extradimensional magic to be at work here,
but he had never been able to detect it, and the frustrating Anders certainly wasn't letting on.
As large as it was, Anders's alchemy shop was still a
cluttered place, with boxes piled high and tables and cabinets strewn about in a hodgepodge.
"I heard a growl," the elf continued. "A hunting cat."
Without looking up from some vials he was handling, Anders nodded his head in the direction of a large,
blanket-covered container. "See that you do not get too close," the old mage said with a wicked cackle. "Old Whiskers
will grab you by the arm and tug you in, don't you doubt!
"And then you'll need more than your shiny swords," Anders cackled on.
Josidiah wasn't even listening, pacing quietly toward the blanket, moving silently so as not to disturb the cat
within. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and, moving safely back, tugged it away. And then the bladesinger's jaw
surely drooped.
It was a cat, as he had suspected, a great black panther, twice—no thrice—the size of the largest cat Josidiah had
ever seen or heard of. And the cat was female, and females were usually much smaller than males. She paced the cage
slowly, methodically, as if searching for some weakness, some escape, her rippling muscles guiding her along with
unmatched grace.
"How did you come by such a magnificent beast?" the bladesinger asked. His voice apparently startled the
panther, stopping her in her tracks. She stared at Josidiah with an intensity that stole any further words right from the
bladesinger's mouth.
"Oh, I have my ways, elf," the old mage said. "I've been looking for just the right cat for a long, long time,
searching all the known world—and bits of it that are not yet known to any but me!"
"But why?" Josidiah asked, his voice no more than a whisper. His question was aimed as much at the magnificent
panther as at the old mage, and truly, the bladesinger could think of no reason to justify putting such a creature into a
cage."You remember my tale of the box canyon," Anders replied, "of how my mentor and I flew owl-back out of the
clutches of a thousand goblins?"
Josidiah nodded and smiled, remembering well that
amusing story. A moment later, though, when the implications of Anders's words hit him fully, the elf turned back
to the mage, a scowl clouding his fair face. "The figurine," Josidiah muttered, for the owl had been but a statuette,
enchanted to bring forth a great bird in times of its mas-ter's need. There were many such objects in the world, many in
Cormanthor, and Josidiah was not unacquainted with the methods of constructing them (though his own magics were
not strong enough along the lines of enchanting). He looked back to the great panther, saw a distinct sadness there,
then turned back sharply to Anders.
"The cat must be killed at the moment of preparation," the bladesinger protested. "Thus her life energies will be
drawn into the statuette you will have created."
"Working on that even now," Anders said lightly. "I have hired a most excellent dwarven craftsman to fashion a
panther statuette. The finest craftsman . . . er, craftsdwarf, in all the area. Fear not, the statuette will do the cat justice."
"Justice?" the bladesinger echoed skeptically, looking once more into the intense, intelligent yellow-green eyes of
the huge panther. "You will kill the cat?"
"I offer the cat immortality," Anders said indignantly.
"You offer death to her will, and slavery to her body," snapped Josidiah, more angry than he had ever been with
old Anders. The bladesinger had seen figurines and thought them marvelous artifacts, despite the sacrifice of the
animal in question. Even Josidiah killed deer and wild pig for his table, after all. So why should a wizard not create
some useful item from an animal?
But this time it was different, Josidiah sensed in his heart. This animal, this great and free cat, must not be so
enslaved.
"You will make the panther ..." Josidiah began.
"Whiskers," explained Anders.
"The panther ..." the bladesinger reiterated forcefully, unable to come to terms with such a foolish name being
tagged on this animal. "You will make the panther a tool, an animation that will function to the will of her master."
"What would one expect?" the old mage argued. "What else would one want?"
Josidiah shrugged and sighed helplessly. "Independence," he muttered.
"Then what would be the point of my troubles?"
Josidiah's expression clearly showed his thinking. An independent magical companion might not be of much use
to an adventurer in a dangerous predicament, but it would surely be preferable from the sacrificed animal's point of
view.
"You chose wrong, bladesinger," Anders teased. "You should have studied as a ranger. Surely your sympathies
he in that direction!"
"A ranger," the bladesinger asked, "as Anders Beltgar-den once was?"
The old mage blew a long and helpless sigh.
"Have you so given up the precepts of your former trade in exchange for the often ill-chosen allure of magical
mysteries?"
"Oh, and a fine ranger you would have been," Anders replied dryly.
Josidiah shrugged. "My chosen profession is not so different," he reasoned.
Anders silently agreed. Indeed, the man did see much of his own youthful and idealistic self in the eyes of
Josidiah Starym. That was the curious thing about elves, he noted, that this one, who was twice Anders's present age,
reminded him so much of himself when he had but a third his present years.
"When will you begin?" Josidiah asked.
"Begin?" scoffed Anders. "Why, I have been at work over the beast for nearly three weeks, and spent six months
before that in preparing the scrolls and powders, the oils, the herbs. Not an easy process, this. And not inexpensive, I
might add! Do you know what price a gnome places on the simplest of metal filings, pieces so fine that they might be
safely added to the cat's food?"
Josidiah found that he really did not want to continue along this line of discussion. He did not want to know
about the poisoning—and that was indeed what he considered it to be—of the magnificent panther. He looked back to
the cat, looked deep into her intense eyes, intelligent so
far beyond what he would normally expect.
"Fine day outside," the bladesinger muttered, not that he believed that Anders would take a moment away from
his work to enjoy the weather. "Even my stubborn Uncle Taleisin, Lord Protector of House Starym, wears a face
touched by sunshine."
Anders snorted. "Then he will be smiling this day when he lays low Coronal Eltargrim with a right hook?"
That caught Josidiah off his guard, and he took up Anders's infectious laughter. Indeed was Taleisin a stubborn
and crusty elf, and if Josidiah returned to House Starym this day to learn that his uncle had punched the elf Coronal,
he would not be surprised.
"It is a momentous decision that Eltargrim has made," Anders said suddenly, seriously. "And a brave one. By
including the other goodly races, your Coronal has begun the turning of the great wheel of fate, a spin that will not
easily be stopped."
"For good or for ill?"
"That is for a seer to know," Anders replied with a shrug. "But his choice was the right one, I am sure, though not
without its risks." The old mage snorted again. "A pity," he said, "even were I a young man, I doubt I would see the
outcome of Eltargrim's decision, given the way elves measure the passage of time. How many centuries will pass
before the Starym even decide if they will accept Eltargrim's decree?"
That brought another chuckle from Josidiah, but not a long-lived one. Anders had spoken of risks, and certainly
there were many. Several prominent families, and not just the Starym, were outraged by the immigration of peoples that
many haughty elves considered to be of inferior races. There were even a few mixed marriages, elf and human, within
Cormanthor, but any offspring of such unions were surely ostracized.
"My people will come to accept Eltargrim's wise council," the elf said at length, determinedly.
"I pray you are right," said Anders, "for surely Cormanthor will face greater perils than the squabbling of
stubborn elves."
Josidiah looked at him curiously.
"Humans and halflings, gnomes and, most importantly, dwarves, walking among the elves, living in Cormanthor,"
Anders muttered. "Why, I would guess that the goblinkin savor the thought of such an occurrence, that all their hated
enemies be mixed together into one delicious stew!"
"Together we are many times more powerful," the bladesinger argued. "Human wizards oft exceed even our own.
Dwarves forge mighty weapons, and gnomes create wondrous and useful items, and halflings, yes, even halflings, are
cunning allies, and dangerous adversaries."
"I do not disagree with you," Anders said, waving his tanned and leathery right hand, three-fingered from a
goblin bite, in the air to calm the elf. "And as I have said, Eltargrim chose correctly. But pray you that the internal
disputes are settled, else the troubles of Cormanthor will come tenfold from without."
Josidiah calmed and nodded; he really couldn't disagree with old Anders's reasoning, and had, in fact, harbored
those same fears for many days. With all the goodly races coming together under one roof, the chaotic goblinkin
would have cause to band together in numbers greater than ever before. If the varied folk of Cormanthor stood
together, gaining strength in their diversity, those goblinkin, whatever their numbers, would surely be pushed away.
But if the folk of Cormanthor could not see their way to such a day of unity ...
Josidiah let the thought hang outside consciousness, put it aside for another day, a day of rain and fog, perhaps.
He looked back to the panther and sighed even more sadly, feeling helpless indeed. "Treat the cat well, Anders
Beltgarden," he said, and he knew that the old man, once a ranger, would indeed do so.
Josidiah left then, making his way more slowly as he returned to the elven city. He saw Felicity again on the
balcony, wearing a slight silken shift and a mischievous, inviting smile, but he passed her by with a wave. The
bladesinger suddenly did not feel so much in the mood for play.
Many times in the next few weeks, Josidiah returned to Anders's tower and sat quietly before the cage, silently
communing with the panther while the mage went about his work.
"She will be yours when I am done," Anders announced unexpectedly, one day when spring had turned to
summer.
Josidiah stared blankly at the old man.
"The cat, I mean," said Anders. "Whiskers will be yours when my work is done."
Josidiah's blue eyes opened wide in horror, though Anders interpreted the look as one of supreme elation.
"She'll do me little use," explained the mage. "I rarely venture out of doors these days, and in truth, have little
faith that I will live much more than a few winters longer. Who better to have my most prized creation, I say, than
Josidiah Starym, my friend and he who should have been a ranger?"
"I shall not accept," Josidiah said abruptly, sternly.
Anders's eyes widened in surprise.
"I would be forever reminded of what the cat once was," said the elf. "and what she should be. Whenever I called
the slave body to my side, whenever this magnificent creature sat on her haunches, awaiting my command to bring life
to her limbs, I would feel that I had overstepped my bounds as a mortal, that I had played as a god with one
undeserving my foolish intervention."
"It's just an animal!" Anders protested.
Josidiah was glad to see that he had gotten through to the old mage, a man the elf knew to be too sensitive for
this present undertaking.
"No," said the elf, turning to stare deeply into the panther's knowing eyes. "Not this one." He fell silent, then, and
Anders, with a huff of protest, went back to his work, leaving the elf to sit and stare, to silently share his thoughts with
the panther.
*****
It was for Josidiah Starym a night of absolute torment, for Anders would complete his work before the moon had
set and the great panther would be slain for the sake of a magical item, a mere magical tool. The bladesinger left
Cormanthor, heedless of the warnings that had been posted concerning venturing out of the city at night: gob-linkin,
and enemies even greater, were rumored to be stalking the forest.
Josidiah hardly cared, hardly gave any thoughts to his personal safety. His fate was not in the balance, so it
seemed, not like that of the panther.
He thought of going to see Anders, to try one last time to talk the old human out of his designs, but the
bladesinger dismissed that notion. He didn't understand humans, he realized, and had indeed lost a bit of faith in the
race (and, subsequently, in Eltargrim's decision) because of what he perceived as Anders's failure. The mage, once a
ranger and more attuned to the elven ideals than so very many of his rough-edged race, should have known better,
should not have sacrificed such a wondrous and intelligent animal as that particular panther, for the sake of magic.
Josidiah moved through the forest, then out of the canopy and under a million stars, shining despite the
westering full moon. He reached a treeless hillock. He effortlessly climbed the steep slope through the carpet-thick
grass and came to the top of the hill, a private and special place he often used for contemplation.
Then he simply stood and stared upward at the stars, letting his thoughts fly to the greater mysteries, the
unknown and never-known, the heavens themselves. He felt mortal suddenly, as though his last remaining centuries
were but a passing sigh in the eternal life of the universe.
A sigh that was so much longer, so it seemed, than the remaining life of the panther, if the cat was even still alive.
A subtle rustle at the base of the hillock alerted the elf, brought him from his contemplations. He went into a
crouch immediately and stared down at the spot, letting his vision slip into the infrared spectrum.
Heat sources moved about the trees, all along the base of the hill. Josidiah knew them, and thus was not surprised
when the forest erupted suddenly and a host of orcs came screaming out of the underbrush, waving weapons,
charging the hill and the lone elf, this apparently easy kill.
The lead ores were right before the crest of the hillock, close enough for Josidiah to see the glistening lines of
drool about their tusky faces, when the elf released his fireball. The gouts of flame engulfed that entire side of the hill,
shriveling ores. It was a desperate spell, one Josidiah hated casting in the midst of grasslands, but few options
presented themselves. Even as those ores on the side of the hill fell away into the flames, charred and dying, they were
replaced by a second group, charging wildly, and then came a third, from the back side of the hill.
Out came the elf s twin swords, snapping up to the ready. "Cleansing flames!" the elf cried, commanding the
powers within his swords. Greenish fires licked at the metal, blurred the distinct lines of the razor-sharp blades.
The closest two ores, those two who had been right before the elf and had thus escaped the fury of the fireball,
skidded in surprise at the sudden appearance of the flaming blades and, for just an instant, let their guards drop.
Too long; Josidiah's left sword slashed across the throat of one, while his right plunged deep into the chest of the
second.
The elf spun about, deflecting wide a hurled spear, dodging a second, then picking off a third with a furious
down-cut. He dived into a roll and came up charging fast for the back side of the hill, meeting the rush of three
monsters, cutting at them wildly before they could get their defenses coordinated.
One fell away, mortally wounded; another lost half of its arm to the searing sweep of the elf s deadly blade. But
almost immediately Josidiah was pressed from all sides, ores stabbing in at him with long spears or rushing forward
suddenly to slash with their short, cruel swords.
He could not match weapons with this many, so he moved his flaming blades in purely defensive motions,
beginning the chant to let loose another spell.
He took a spear thrust on the side and nearly lost his concentration and his spell. His finely meshed elven chain
armor deflected the blow, however, and the elf finished
with a twirl, tapping the hilts of his swords together, crying out a word to release the spell. His swords went back
up straight, his thumbs came out to touch together, and a burst of flame fanned out from the elfin a half-circle arc.
Without even stopping to witness the effects of his spell, Josidiah spun about, swords slashing across and
behind. Ahead charged the bladesinger, a sudden rush of overwhelming fury that broke apart the orcish line and gave
Josidiah several openings in the defensive posture of his enemies.
A surge of adrenalin kept the bladesinger moving, dancing and cutting down ores with a fury. He thought of the
panther again, and her undeserved fate, and focused his blame for that act upon these very ores.
Another fell dead, another atop that one, and many went scrambling down the hill, wanting no part of this mighty
warrior.
Soon Josidiah stood quiet, at the ready, a handful of ores about him, staying out of his reach. But there was
something else, the elf sensed, something more evil, more powerful. Something calmed these ores, lending them
confidence, though more than a score of their kin lay dead and another dozen wounded.
The elf sucked in his breath as the newest foes came out onto the open grass. Josidiah realized then his folly. He
could defeat a score of ores, two-score, if he got his spells away first, but these three were not ores.
These were giants.
*****
The cat was restless, pacing and growling; Anders wondered if she knew what was to come, knew that this was
her last night as a mortal creature. The thought that she might indeed understand shook the old mage profoundly,
made all of Josidiah's arguments against this magical transformation echo again in his mind.
The panther roared, and threw herself against the cage door, bouncing back and pacing, growling.
"What are you about?" the old mage asked, but the cat
only roared again, angrily, desperately. Anders looked around; what did the cat know? What was going on?
The panther leapt again for the cage door, slamming hard and bouncing away. Anders shook his head,
thoroughly confused, for he had never seen the panther like this before—not at all.
"To the Nine Hells with you, elf," the wizard grumbled, wishing he had not revealed Whiskers to Josidiah until the
transformation had been completed. He took a deep breath, yelled at the cat to calm down, and drew out a slender
wand.
"It will not hurt," Anders promised apologetically. He spoke a word of command, and a greenish ray shot forth
from the wand, striking the panther squarely. The cat stopped her pacing, stopped everything, just stood perfectly
still, immobilized by the magic of the wand.
Anders took up the figurine and the specially prepared knife, and opened the cage door. He had known from the
very start that this was not going to be easy.
He was at the cat's side, the figurine in hand, the knife moving slowly for the creature's throat.
Anders hesitated. "Am I presuming to play the role of a god?" he asked aloud. He looked into those marvelous,
intelligent eyes; he thought of Josidiah, who was indeed much like a ranger, much like Anders had been before
devoting his life to ways magical.
Then he looked to the knife, the knife that his hand, his ranger hand, was about to plunge into the neck of this
most magnificent creature.
"Oh, damn you, elf!" the mage cried out, and threw the knife across the cage. He began a spell then, one that
came to his lips without conscious thought. He hadn't used this incantation in months, and how he recalled it then,
Anders would never know. He cast it forth, powerfully, and all the cabinet doors in his shop, and the door to the
hallway, and all the doors in the lower section of the tower, sprang open and wide.
The mage moved to the side of the cage and slumped to a sitting position. Already the great cat was stirring—
even the powerful magic of his wand could not hold such a
creature as this for long. Anders clutched that wand now, wondering if he might need it again, for his own
defense.
The cat shook her head vigorously and took an ambling step, the sensation at last returning to her limbs. She
gave Anders a sidelong glance.
The old mage put the wand away. "I played god with you, Whiskers," he said softly. "Now it is your turn."
But the panther was preoccupied and hardly gave the wizard a thought as she launched herself from the cage,
darting across the room and out into the hallway. She was long gone before Anders ever got to his tower door, and he
stood there in the night, lamenting not at all his wasted weeks of effort, his wasted gold.
"Not wasted," Anders said sincerely, considering the lesson he had just learned. He managed a smile and turned
to go back into his tower, then saw the burst of flame, a fireball, mushrooming into the air from the top of a hillock to
the north, a place that Anders knew well.
"Josidiah," he gasped, a reasonable guess indeed. That hillock was Josidiah's favorite place, a place Anders
would expect the elf to go on a night such as this.
Cursing that he had few spells prepared for a confrontation, the old man hustled back into his tower and gathered
together a few items.
*****
His only chance lay in speed, in darting about, never letting his enemies close on him. Even that tactic would only
delay the inevitable.
He rushed to the left but had to stop and spin, sensing the pursuit coming from close behind. Backing them off
with a sweeping cross of his blades, Josidiah turned and darted left again and, predictably, had to pull up short. This
time, though, the elf not only stopped but backtracked, flipping one sword in his hand and stabbing it out behind him,
deep into the belly of the closest pursuing ore.
His grim satisfaction at the deft maneuver couldn't hold, however, for even as the dead creature slid from his
blade, even as the other few ores scrambled away down
the side of the hill, Josidiah noted the approach of the three giants, fifteen-foot-tall behemoths calmly swinging
spiked clubs the size of the elf s entire body.
Josidiah considered the spells remaining to him, tried to find some way to turn them to his advantage.
Nothing; he would have to fight this battle with swords only. And with three giants moving toward him in
coordinated fashion, he did not like the odds.
He skittered right, out of the range of a club swipe, then went straight back, away from a second giant, trying to
get at the first attacker before it could bring its heavy weapon to bear once more. He would indeed have had the strike,
but the third giant cut him off and forced him into a diving roll to avoid a heavy smash.
I must get them to work against each other, the elf thought. To tangle their long limbs with each other.
He put his sword up high and screamed, charging straight for the closest brute, then dipped low, under the
parrying club and dived into a forward roll. He came to his feet and ran on, right between the giant's widespread legs.
Up thrust one sword, out to the side slashed the second, and Josidiah ran out from under the giant, meeting the attack
of one of its companions with a double-bladed deflection, his swords accepting the hit of the club and turning it,
barely, to the side and down.
Josidiah's arms were numbed from the sheer weight of the hit; he could not begin to counterattack. Out of the
corner of his eye, he noted the sudden rush of the third giant and knew his daring attack on the first had put him in a
precarious position indeed. He scrambled out to the side, threw himself into yet another roll as he saw the club come
up high.
But this giant was a smart one, and it held the strike as it closed another long, loping stride. Josidiah rolled right
over a second time and a third, but he could not get out of range, not this time.
The giant roared. Up went the club, high and back over its head, and Josidiah started a sidelong scramble, but
stopped, startled, as a huge black spear—a spear?—flew over him.
No, it was not a spear, the bladesinger realized, but a panther, the old mage's cat! She landed heavily on the
giant's chest, claws grabbing a firm hold, maw snapping for the stunned monster's face. Back the behemoth stumbled,
overbalanced, and down the giant went, the panther riding it all the way to the ground.
The cat was in too close for any strike, so the giant let go of its club and tried to grab at the thing. The panther's
front claws held fast, though, while her back legs began a running rake, tearing through the giant's bearskin tunic and
then through the giant's own skin.
Josidiah had no time to stop and ask how, or why, or anything else. He was back on his feet, another giant
closing fast. The one he had hit shuffled to join in as well. Out to the side rushed the bladesinger, trying to keep one
giant in front of the other, trying to fight them one at a time.
He ducked a lumbering swing, ducked again as the club rushed past from a vicious backhand, then hopped high,
tucking his legs as the giant came swiping across a third time, this time predictably low. And getting the club so low
meant that the giant was bending near to the ground. Josidiah landed in a run, charging forward, getting inside the
range of the coming backhand, and sticking the monster, once, twice, right in the face.
It howled and fell away, and its companion shuffled in, one hand swinging the club, the other clutching its torn
loins.A sudden blast, a lightning stroke, off to the side of the hill, temporarily blinded both elf and giant, but Josidiah
did not need his eyes to fight. He waded right in, striking hard.
*****
The giant's hand closed on the cat, but the agile panther twisted about suddenly, biting hard, taking off three
fingers, and the behemoth fostered no further thoughts of squeezing its foe. It merely shoved hard with its other hand,
pushing the cat from its chest. The giant rolled
about, grabbing for its club, knowing it must get to its feet before the cat came back in.
No chance of that; the panther hit the ground solidly, all four claws digging a firm hold, every muscle snapping
taut to steal, to reverse the cat's momentum. Turf went flying as the panther pivoted and leapt, hitting the rising giant
on the head, latching on, biting, and raking.
The behemoth wailed in agony and dropped its club again. It flailed at the cat with both arms and scored several
heavy blows. But the panther would not let go, great fangs tearing deep holes in the behemoth's flesh, mighty claws
erasing the features from the giant's face.
*****
Josidiah came up square against his one opponent, the giant bleeding from several wounds, but far from finished.
Its companion moved in beside it, shoulder to shoulder.
Then another form crested the hill, a hunched, human form, and the second giant turned to meet this newest
enemy.
"It took you long enough to get here," the elf remarked sarcastically.
"Ores in the woods," Anders explained. "Pesky little rats."
The human had no apparent defenses in place, and so the giant waded right in, taking up its club in both hands.
摘要：

REALMSOFMAGICEditedbyBrianThomsenandJ.RobertKingCONTENTSPROLOGUEBrianThomsenGUENHWYVARR.A.SalvatoreSMOKEPOWDERANDMIRRORSJeffGrubbTHEMAGICTHIEFMarkAnthonyTHEQUIETPLACEChristieGoldenTHEEYEOFTHEDRAGONEdGreenwoodEVERYDOGHISDAYDaveGrossTHECOMMONSPELLKateNovak-GrubbTHEFIRSTMOONWELLDouglasNilesTHELUCKOFLLE...

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