Forgotten Realms - Anthology 02 - Realms of Infamy

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CONTENTS

SO HIGH A PRICE

Ed Greenwood

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

Elaine Cunningham

THE MEANING OF LORE

Barb Hendee

RAVEN'S EGG

Elaine Bergstrom

THE THIRD LEVEL

R. A. Salvatore

BLOOD SPORT

Christie Golden

GALLOWS DAY

David Cook

A MATTER OF THORNS

James M. Ward

STOLEN SPELLS

Denise Vitola

THE GREATEST HERO WHO EVER DIED

J. Robert King

TWILIGHT

Troy Denning

THE WALLS OF MIDNIGHT

Mark Anthony

AND WRINGING OF HANDS

Jane Cooper Hong

THIEVES' HONOR

Mary H. Herbert

LAUGHTER IN THE FLAMES

James Lowder

VISION

Roger E. Moore

CONTRIBUTORS' NOTES

SO HIGH A PRICE

Ed Greenwood

So high a price

So willingly paid

Hot blood flows

And a ruler is made.

Mintiper Moonsilver

Ballad of a Tyrant

Year of the Turret

Sunlight flashed from the highest towers of Zhentil Keep and flung dazzling

reflections through nearby windows. It was a hot Mirtul day in the Year of the

Blazing Brand.

A ledgebird darted past one window, wheeled on nimble wings, and called

like a carefree trumpet. But then, it did not know how little time it had left to

live.

Manshoon smiled slightly and crooked a finger. The bird exploded in a puff

of green flame. Humming the latest minstrel tune, the wizard watched

scorched feathers drift away. Trust a bird of Zhentil Keep to fly unwittingly to

its doom, singing off-key. Well, things might not be that way much longer....

The first lord of Zhentil Keep smiled as he caught sight of himself in an oval

mirror floating upright in a corner. The image, jet-black hair gleaming, returned

the expression. Its robes were of the finest purple silk, worked with rearing

behirs in gold. The sleeves were the latest flaring fashion, and the upswept

collar was cut in the style of city lords.

With the faintest of rustlings, Taersel drew a hanging tapestry aside and

murmured, "The one you expected is here, Lord."

Manshoon signaled for his servant to bring the guest and withdraw, but

then to wait unseen behind a tapestry. To show he understood, Taersel

touched the hilt of the throwing knife hidden in his ornate belt buckle.

"Arglath," Taersel announced, then bowed out. The cloaked guest moved

forward with a strange gliding motion, as if his feet didn't quite touch the floor.

"Yes?" Manshoon asked coldly.

His guest shrugged off his cloak and replied in tones just as glacial, "I

presume you're finally ready to move?"

"I believe so," Manshoon said flatly.

His guest had soft, unfinished features. On second glance, most folk would

have guessed him a mongrelman—something not quite human—and have

drawn back, muttering and reaching for weapons. They'd have acted rightly.

Hair melted and fell away as the man's features swam, glistened, and split

to reveal a single green, liquid eye. That unblinking orb grew until Manshoon

looked into a giant eye that swayed at the end of a long, snakelike neck. The

body beneath hung shrunken and empty, like discarded clothes drooping from

a wall peg.

"Speak, then," the strange visitor's cold voice came again. "I've little

patience for humans who enjoy being mysterious."

Manshoon gave his guest a wintry smile. "There will be open slaughter at

the next council meeting. Those who oppose me will die there. When Zhentil

Keep is mine, your kind will have what they desire: a powerful city full of

hands to do your bidding, fresh meat to feed you, and men who fear and

kneel before you."

"Do not presume to understand my kind so well," the creature responded,

drifting slightly nearer. "More than that, Manshoon, do not presume to

understand—or imagine that you can command—me." Writhing worms of

flesh sprouted from its spherical body.

A gasp of horror came from behind a nearby tapestry. Then a crossbow

bolt burst out of that same curtain, whipped across the chamber, and was

driven sharply aside by an unseen magical force just in front of the floating

eye. The bolt ended its flight in a splintering crash against a wall.

Eyes opened in the ends of the monster's still lengthening stalks. One

blinked.

The tapestry drew aside by itself to reveal the mouth of a passage—and

Taersel, who was now sprawled on his face, crossbow still in his hands. Thin

wisps of smoke rose from his body.

"It is not wise," the eye tyrant said silkily, "to threaten 'my kind.'"

Manshoon stared into the beholder's many eyes and replied steadily, "I am

too useful for you to slay—and too wise to attempt an attack upon you." He

nodded at his sprawled servant. "This man acted of his own accord to protect

me. Foolhardy, yet he is as useful to me as I am to you. I trust he has not

been harmed."

"Not overmuch." The beholder drew nearer, its many eyes yellow with

displeasure. "When next you speak in council, we shall be there. Yet know

this, Lordling: unless you and your minions take greater care, a day of harm

may soon come to you all." *****

"Unless we take great care," Lord Chess said in an inner room of another

tower not far from Manshoon's home, "a day of harm may soon come to us

all."

The other nobles at his table shifted in their seats. Most of the city's young

noblemen were present. Some hid nervousness by taking flamboyant sips of

the Mulhorandan lion-wine in their goblets. Others assumed superior smiles

and settled into even more indolent poses in their great, finely carved chairs.

"We do not fear upstart mages," one said with a practiced sneer. "Our sires

and our grandsires smashed such foes. Why should we quail? The least of

our guards can destroy these Zhentarim."

"Aye," another rumbled amid murmurs of agreement. "Let the graybeards in

council yap and snap all the day long! I see naught to threaten Zhentil Keep or

to prevent our coins piling up. The council responds whenever those dolts in

Mulmaster dare another challenge, or a Thayan wizard deludes himself into

thinking he's mighty enough to rule us. On most days, the council simply

keeps our fathers and the rest of the dotards busy—and keeps their noses out

of our affairs!"

"And just how many affairs have you had, Thaerun?" one noble asked slyly.

"Aye, this tenday?" someone added through the general mirth.

Chess frowned. "Have you no care for the snakes in our midst? Agents of

Thay, of the Dragon Cult—even of Sembia and Calimshan—are unmasked

every month! Their dagger points are always closer than you credit."

"Ah," Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in triumphant

emphasis. "That's the point, Chess. They are unmasked—by the watchful

wizards Manshoon commands, and by Fzoul's tame priests. That's why we

tolerate these haughty longrobes in the first place! They watch our backs so

we can get on with the business of getting rich!"

"And wenching," someone murmured.

"Drinking," another added. "What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?"

"The finest Mulhorandan vintage," Chess said dryly. "Not that you'd

recognize it, Naerh."

Naerh spat on the table. "That for your pretensions! My family's as old as

yours!"

"And as debauched," Thaerun murmured.

Chess smiled thinly. "You do well to enjoy your ease while you can, Lords.

'Tis a precious luxury, lost if just one of our foes decides to make war on us."

Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. "I do enjoy it... and I shall.

Every luxury has its price—but our ease costs us only the blood of a few fool

altar-kneelers and hireswords from time to time. That's a fee I'll pay willingly.

Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one—and one I'm

always ready to defend." Twinkling points of light burst forth around his hand.

They coalesced into an ornate scepter whose tip pulsed and glowed.

A noble sighed. "Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You're always trying to prove

how battle-bold you are, and showing instead your utter lack of subtlety.

We've all got one or more of those! You think yourself the only one in Zhentil

Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we must all hang our blades by

the door at feasts?"

Another noble scratched the untidy beginnings of a beard and added, "Aye,

and if you ever use it, Blackryn, 'tis the blood of one of us that'll spill. Then the

bloodfeuds'll begin again. That is too high a price for the liking of the council.

They'd probably put you in beast-shape to spend your days as a patrol-hound

north of Glister... for the few days before you met death."

He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and added, "Enough

hard words. More wine, Chess, and tell me of the maid with green hair you

were with last eve! I'd not laid eyes on her before. Where've you been hiding

her?"

Chess smiled as a silver tray bristling with bottles and decanters rose from

the polished wood in front of him and floated slowly down the table. "Yes, her

hair was green last night. The Shadowsil, she's called. One of Manshoon's

mages—so don't even think of wenching her, Eldarr. She could slay us all with

one wave of her hand."

"And that, Thaerun," Naerh said dryly, "would also be too high a price for

your liking!"

A well-fed man in robes of the latest slashed, counter-folded Calishite finery

spoke for the first time that night. "I have been long away," he said, "but word

has spread far of the Zhentarim: dark wizards, ruthless mage-slayers who

gather ever more mighty magic. I would know more. Tell me plainly: what

befalls in our city? What lies ahead that you fear?"

Lord Chess sipped at his wine. "Manshoon, leader of these Zhentarim, has

become first lord of the council. He plans to do much more than chair the

debates of squabbling merchants. He speaks of Zhentil Keep as 'his,' as if he

were king over it!"

More than one noble laughed in derisive dismissal, but Chess held up a

quelling hand. "Manshoon is a mage of power. He's gathered wizards great

and small who think as he does. He's slain or driven out many of the mages

who might oppose him. These Zhentarim work together. Think on that, my

lords, and consider how you'd fare if twenty came to your feast, drank less

than they pretended, then attacked you with spells!"

There were dark murmurs. Chess looked around grimly. "Worms you may

think them, but they can slay us all. Have you not noticed how many of our

great lords—even our last battlelord—are ill and keep to their beds? Old age,

aye.... But what if they're being helped to their graves? Before you scoff,

consider: spells may not slip past all the expensive wards and amulets we

wear, but there are other ways. I know Manshoon well. We grew up together.

He is a master of slow, wasting poisons that deal gradual death and raise no

alarm. He killed his parents thus, to gain their gold."

Chess set down his goblet, and his voice grew more urgent. "Each day the

Zhentarim grow more haughty. I fear they'll seize power soon, using spells to

sway the council. Manshoon must act before the council approves the open-

ing of the wizard-school that the Beldenstones are sponsoring, which will draw

independent mages by the score to our city. And final approval for that is to

come when the council next meets."

"Aghh! Enough of this fear-talk!" Thaerun snarled. "We've heard you spout

this before, Chess! How can any wizard—even a band acting together—break

the spell-shields and the priests' scrutiny? Those blackrobes grow rich by

keeping all of us striving against each other. Priests don't like rivals! They'll

slap these Zhentarim into the dust as soon as the mages dare to act openly!"

"Think you so?" Lord Chess leaned forward. "What if I told you Manshoon

meets often with the most powerful of the priests? Aye: Fzoul, the master of

the Black Altar, himself."

Shocked silence fell, and Chess added with more calmness than he felt, "It

is the 'impartial' priests' vigilance that keeps council meetings free of spell-

deceit. Mayhap that is only a fancy-tale." He reached for his goblet again,

bejeweled fingers trembling.

"There's more, isn't there?" Naerh asked, eyes on his host's face.

Lord Chess nodded. "Taersel tells me Manshoon meets with someone

more powerful in magic than he—someone he keeps secret from High Priest

Fzoul. You've heard rumors of beholders prowling the city by night...."

He looked around at the silent, pale faces. "Now are you afraid, my lords?"

He drained his goblet and added, "As the next council meeting is on the

morrow, it may be too late to do anything but be afraid."

*****

The beholder bit down. Blood spattered, and a suddenly headless body

twisted and flopped like a landed fish.

Lord Rorst Amandon, battlelord of Zhentil Keep, passed a hand over his

scrying crystal. The bloody scene faded.

"So passes Lord Hael's hope," he murmured. "Hardly a surprise—and

probably not the only uninvited visitors to Manshoon's Tower who'll meet their

gods this night. Such feeble attacks won't stop the Zhentarim now. Still...

Hael's thieves got farther than I'd expected."

The old lord's hand trembled as he reached for a decanter beside the bed.

As always, Etreth was there to put a drink into the palsied grip.

Possession of a scrying crystal that could pierce spell-shields meant death

if either the city's priests or wizards learned of it—but Lord Amandon was past

caring. He lay on his deathbed, and knew it. By the time Manshoon's poison

had been detected, its ravages had gone too far in his aged body for magic to

mend. The most expensive sages knew no antidote, once the poison took

hold. The first lord had been thorough. Enough, at least, to slay Lord

Amandon.

The old warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, gazing at his

favorite broadsword and the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven

years. He might join her before morning, whatever befell the mad wizard's

schemes.

"I... can wait no longer, Etreth," he muttered. "My body fails. I can barely

drink without your aid, now."

Looking up, he saw bright, unshed tears in his loyal servant's eyes. Rorst

turned his head away, moved. Years they'd been together, as he'd led the

armies of Zhentil Keep to rule Thar and the northern coast of the Moonsea

with brutal efficiency—something he was less and less proud of, as the years

passed. He'd never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth's hair, and the

man's moustache was white!

The battlelord sat up, cushions tumbling. "The time is come," he growled. "I

have one last command, good Etreth: go and summon the one I told you of."

"Now, Lord? And ... leave you? What if—?"

"I'll do without," the lord said firmly, "until the one I must deal with is here.

Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons."

He set down his goblet. It clattered in his trembling hand. Rorst frowned

down at it, then raised fierce eyes. "Go," he said roughly, "if you care for me at

all."

The old servant stood looking at him a moment, turned with what sounded

like a sob, and hurried out.

Rorst Amandon glanced at the darkened scrying crystal and wondered if

he'd last long enough to see this final battle through. His eyes wandered to

Desil's portrait, drank in her familiar painted beauty, and turned again to the

scrying crystal. I am a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching

to be part of the fight until the very last.

*****

The well-oiled door to the chamber's secret exit closed behind the last

guest, and Lord Chess sat alone. A full goblet rested forgotten before him as

he idly turned a plain ring around and around on his finger.

Nothing short of an angry god could stop Manshoon now. The first lord was

as powerful in sorcery as he was a master of strategy. He'd be ruler of Zhentil

Keep before the snows came. That would have been unthinkable only a year

ago, with all the wily, battle-hardened nobles of the Keep between the

arrogant mage and mastery of the city.

Then old Iorltar had named Manshoon his successor as first lord—under

magical compulsion, many thought. Within a tenday, many of the proudest

nobles—those who had no love for the upstart first lord or commanded strong

magic—fell ill. No cause could be found, but the tavern-rumors carried the

truth. Now those same taverns housed talk of the Zhentarim slaying rivals

openly. And when the uproar began, Manshoon was supposed to have some

secret weapon to wield, one beyond the spells of his ever-growing band of

gutter wizards.

The monied among the work-a-day Zhents fiercely opposed every plan and

deed of the swift-rising Zhentarim, but that mattered little. The merchants

learned early there was no safety to be bought after one opposes a magic-

wielder. As for the rest of the populace—well, the rabble never played much

of a role in politics, apart from being swayed to one cause or another by well-

staged public spectacle. Not much different from the other folk of the

Heartlands, really.

The ring Chess had been turning gleamed and caught his eye. He

regarded it thoughtfully. The plain band had cost him his best hireswords; he'd

paid very expensive assassins to kill them after they'd refused to part with it.

But it was worth the bloodfees and the loss of their service. He wore it

constantly these days.

Manshoon wasn't the only one in the Keep with secret weapons. Chess

could call forth a loyal dragon from the ring whenever the need might come.

That might be as soon as tomorrow, he thought grimly as he reached for his

goblet once more. *****

"We've been foes more years than I can remember," Lord Amandon said,

rising. His guest had arrived swiftly, indeed.

Sweat from the effort of standing sprang out on the old lord's brow. A

moment later, he felt himself borne on unseen hands back to bed, to settle

once more among the cushions. The pain and trembling eased—but all his

will could not entirely stifle a whimper.

"Be at ease, Lord Amandon," said his guest, standing cloaked in shadow.

"Greeting me should not bring ye death."

The old lord raised an eyebrow. "Myrkul stands ready at my door... 'tis why

I sent for you. I need Manshoon stopped, but not slain."

"When, and how?"

"As soon as next highsun, I fear... at the meeting of the ruling council."

"A meeting so guarded by spells that my approach would call forth all the

mages, priests, and armsmen Zhentil Keep can muster."

"There is a way in," Lord Amandon replied. "Take the shape of a being who

is expected, and you'll be free to enter."

"I smell a trap."

"Aye," Amandon said. "There is.... But not for your skin. Certain secret

names I've learned, coupled with your power, can entrap a being, to its death.

I give you my word—as battlelord of Zhentil Keep and as an Amandon: I

mean no attack against you."

"I believe ye," came the voice from the shadows.

Lord Amandon sighed. "You show more trust than most in this city, these

days."

"Lack of trust is a more widespread problem than ye may think, Lord," was

the dry reply. "Now, these secret names...."

*****

At the heart of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was a vast, echoing room.

Usually it stood empty. Today every seat was taken, and those who could not

find seats in the council chamber, but had importance enough to force

admittance, stood on the stairs, anxious at what might occur—and even more

anxious not to appear so. Rumors about the rise of the Zhentarim and the

growing anger of the nobles enfolded the city like a cloak on a chill night.

Would the cold-faced priests of Bane stop the wizards' grab for power with

spells of their own? That might plunge the city into spell-battle and ruin. Or

would they remain as impartial as they'd always claimed to be?

Through the murmur of excited talk, bright morning light fell past the

shoulders of standing citizens into the oval well of concentric benches to

splash the central debating floor with sun-fire. Lord Chess looked grimly down

from his seat into that pool of light and stroked one of his rings.

One man stood alone in the brightness—a man in rich robes, who surveyed

the chamber as if he owned it and every person there; a man hated more than

most, in a city of many hatreds: Manshoon of the Zhentarim, first lord of

Zhentil Keep.

He gave the crowded benches that soft half-smile many had learned to

fear, then said, "There is just one matter more."

Manshoon took a thick sheaf of parchment from a front bench and waved it.

One scrip escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but

Manshoon crooked an eyebrow and let his hand fall open. The papers began

circling his head in a slow, stately ring.

"These reports cite increased aggressions by our foes," he said, his voice

carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. "See how many there

are?"

He indicated one paper. "Here we read of citizens slain by villainous,

deluded followers of the discredited high imperceptor."

He pointed at a group of parchments. "There we read of unfair fees and

taxes heaped upon our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Dragon

Reach."

Manshoon's finger moved again. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to report of open

assaults on our caravans by the brigands who style themselves the Cult of the

Dragon!"

The first lord spread his hands. "Is this not monstrous? Should we not

sharpen our swords and ready our spells?"

"No," someone replied flatly from the middle benches. There was a murmur

of laughter.

Manshoon let it run its course and die. "Yet there's more. Much more. The

survival of our very city is at stake!"

"It always has been," someone called.

"Aye, show us something new to back up those old words!"

Manshoon replied, "Very well. Look, all! Look well!"

He waved a hand and stepped back. The debating floor darkened. Motes of

light winked and sparkled in that magical gloom, swirling suddenly into the

ghost-form of a robed man. The stranger sneered, then raised one hand to

shape an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that

hand into the upper benches. Councilors cringed back—and then gaped as

images of three Zhentarim wizards well-known in the city suddenly appeared

among the benches. These ghost mages hurled back magics of their own.

The harmless shadows of sparking, slaying spells flashed and leapt.

Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of their silent fury and said, "I call on the

high priest of the Black Altar!"

Fzoul rose and bowed gravely. His flowing red hair and moustache stood

out like frozen flames against the dark splendor of his robes.

Manshoon asked in loud, solemn tones, "Are these images false?"

Fzoul held up a gem that filled his fist and glowed with magical radiance.

He peered through it at the spell-phantoms, then shook his head. "No. These

images record what truly befell." He bowed again and sat down.

"Behold," Manshoon said triumphantly, pointing at the image of the

stranger-phantom. "A Red Wizard of Thay!" He surveyed the dumbfounded

councilors and added, "Confronted as you see, in this very chamber, two

nights ago!"

Silent spells splashed and grappled. Sudden green flames raced up the

Red Wizard's limbs. The struggling man's flesh dissolved in the inferno until

only black, writhing bones remained. The watching councilors saw those

bones collapse into ash.

In the hushed silence that followed, Manshoon's voice carried clearly. "Saw

you the scroll at his belt?" The smoking image faded as he waved at it, but

many councilors nodded.

"I recognized it," the first lord said grimly, "and checked our records

chamber. The naval treaty we recently signed with Thay is missing! We are

defenseless against Thayan piracy—but the concessions we surrendered to

get that agreement are still lost to us."

Manshoon raised his arms and voice together as he looked around at the

benches. "And this is but a piece of paper! What if this wizard had come with

killing spells, seeking your money? Or your throat? Or your children, to sell

into slavery?"

There was an excited, angry buzz, as councilor looked to councilor.

Manshoon let it grow into a roar, then waved for silence.

"Zhentil Keep needs strong guardians against such perils. You saw the

bravery and skill of three Zhentarim with your own eyes, preventing the

destruction of this hall—or worse. I can keep this city safe with more stalwart,

loyal mages such as these.... But I need your permission to do so." He

stepped forward grandly, so sunlight outlined him. "I must have the right and

the power to defend you!"

Then Manshoon continued more quietly, "I must be free to train and equip

forces to properly defend our city. I must have the authority to whelm and

direct them in emergencies. I move that the formal powers of the first lord of

Zhentil Keep—my powers—be so increased."

The chamber erupted. Red-faced old nobles pounded fists on their

benches and bellowed, "Never!" There were shouts of "Tyranny!" and others

of "Well said!" There were also cries of "Let the lord speak!" and "Wisdom at

last!"

From out of the tumult, somewhere in the upper benches, came the wink

and flash of a dagger spinning end-over-end through the air. Manshoon

calmly watched it come. At the last instant, after most councilors had seen the

whirling blade, the first lord waved his hand and muttered a word. The blade

blossomed into a small shower of sparks and was gone.

Fzoul Chembryl rose, dark robes swirling. His voice was loud and level.

"From chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we

must have order in this city, and the rule of law." He surveyed the hall slowly

and sternly before he added, "We have heard a proposal of some contro-

versy—and seen the clear urgency behind that proposal. Let us put this

matter to a vote. Let this council decide—now!"

One old nobleman protested, "Matters of import shouldn't be decided in

haste! This is not well done! This council never speaks or acts hastily!"

High Priest Fzoul answered coolly, "Daggers are never thrown in this

council chamber, either." He folded his robes around himself with dignity and

sat down.

A young lord rose and shouted over the angry talk that followed. "Let us

have a vote. Something must be done, or we all waste our time here!"

There were supportive cries of "A vote! A vote!" Most seemed to come from

the benches where wizards sat.

Manshoon nodded. "A vote has been called. Will any other councilor speak

for it?"

"Ispeak for it!" cried an excited young noble in the upper benches, to be

answered by a slithering of hisses.

Manshoon's voice silenced them all. "A vote has been twice called, and the

duty of this council is clear. Let us vote."

Fzoul stood again. "By rule, any vote for or against a first lord is called by

the senior priest present—yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane

to act so boldly in this purely secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor

Urathyl will honor us?"

The young noble who'd seconded the call rose, flushed with pride. "The

first lord asks this council to increase his powers and those of the Zhentarim

he commands. Who stands in support of this request?"

Here and there around the chamber councilors came silently to their feet.

There were not many. Urathyl counted them twice, including himself, and

called the count—nineteen—to Fzoul, who confirmed it.

Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, "Let all against the

request stand to be counted."

Benches scraped and echoed all over the chamber. Urathyl counted and

called forty-six councilors.

Fzoul bowed. "The count is correct, and has Bane's blessing. The request

is den—"

"Wait!" The strong, sour voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the high

priest's words. Fzoul bowed, surrendered the floor with a gesture, and sat

down.

The senior noble, known as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to

his feet. He was trembling, and his solemn face slipped into fleeting

contortions several times. His hands clutched at his bench for support. "I—I

think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, with too little regard

for the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us—myself included—"

Phandymm's eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his

voice cleared. "Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some see as

an arrogant, dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And

yet... if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we

not seen the perils lurking in the shadows of this very hall? Have w-w-weee—

?" The noble's face twisted and spasmed again. His body jerked about as if

buffeted by unseen hands. He passed trembling fingers over his face, and sat

down. "I—I cannot say more," he mumbled.

"Magic," a councilor shouted suddenly. "Someone's using magic on

Phandymm!"

"Magic! Through the spell-shields?"

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CONTENTSSOHIGHAPRICEEdGreenwoodTHEMORETHINGSCHANGEElaineCunninghamTHEMEANINGOFLOREBarbHendeeRAVEN'SEGGElaineBergstromTHETHIRDLEVELR.A.SalvatoreBLOODSPORTChristieGoldenGALLOWSDAYDavidCookAMATTEROFTHORNSJamesM.WardSTOLENSPELLSDeniseVitolaTHEGREATESTHEROWHOEVERDIEDJ.RobertKingTWILIGHTTroyDenningTHEWALL...

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Forgotten Realms - Anthology 02 - Realms of Infamy.pdf

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Forgotten Realms - Anthology 02 - Realms of Infamy

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