Realms of Valor
( Anthologies - 1 )
Douglas Niles
Ed Greenwood
Christie Golden
Elaine Cunningham
David Cook
Scott Ciencin
Mark Anthony
James Lowder
Jean Rabe
Troy Denning
R.A. Salvatore
Jeff Grubb
Douglas Niles, Ed Greenwood,Christie Golden,Elaine Cunningham,David Cook,Scott Ciencin,Mark Anthony, James Lowder,Jean Rabe, Troy Denning, R.A. Salvatore, Jeff Grubb
Realms of Valor
Contents
Douglas Niles………………….The Lord of Lowhill
Ed Greenwood………………….Elminster at the Magefair
Christie Golden…………………One Last Drink
Elaine Cunningham…………..The Bargain
David Cook……………………….Patronage
Scott Ciencin…………………….A Virtue by Reflection
Mark Anthony………………….King’s Tear
James Lowder…………………..The Family Business
Jean Rabe…………………………Grandfather’s Toys
Troy Denning…………………. The Curse of Tegea
R.A. Salvatore…………………..Dark Mirror
Jeff Grubb………………………..Afterword
THE LORD OF LOWHILL
Douglas Niles
Pawldo emerged from his burrow to bask in the air of a rare summer morn: not too hot, neither windy nor cloudy, with just a kiss of warm breeze to carry the scent of ripening grapes and lush, well-watered pastures. A mile away, the waters of Corwell Firth gleamed in the sunlight, the barely rippled surface casting a million diamond-spots of reflection between encircling arms of verdant land.
The stout halfling stood before his sturdy, whitewashed wooden dwelling. In typical halfling fashion, it was buried halfway into a grassy hillside, but the burrow was unquestionably the largest house in Lowhill The air of affluence extended to the occupant of the burrow as well.
Pawldo's long hair, slightly gray, curled below his ears and just touched the edge of his elegant silken collar Even this early in the day he wore well tailored, expensive clothing Any observer would know immediately that he was a halfling who knew the finer things in life.
Below and beyond a stretch of lush pastureland, nestled against its sheltered harbor, Corwell Town awakened to the businesslike bustle of the Ffolk going about their human activities. The curraghs of fishers already bobbed beyond the breakwater, while the clanging of hammer and tongs told of an early-rising blacksmith tending his forge. Carts of fresh produce and milk, some drawn by small ponies and others by long-legged, shaggy hounds, rumbled into Corwell through its open gates.
High on the knoll overlooking the town, Pawldo saw the squat form of Caer Corwell, the wooden-walled fort that served as home to Earl Randolph and, for those weeks when Tristan and Robyn visited, as the summer quarters of the high king and queen themselves. He thought of his good friends with a flash of pleasant anticipation, remembering that in a little less than a fortnight the royal family would return to Corwell for their summer holiday.
Finally the stocky halfling's eyes drifted closer to home, to the cozy warren of cottages and burrows built around this small, rounded hill. Barely a mile removed from Corwell Town, Lowhill provided a pastoral setting for the little halfling community of which Pawldo served as honorary lord mayor.
Nearby bloomed the lush vineyards, and to these fertile hedges Pawldo now sauntered, inspecting with pleasure the clumps of unripened grapes growing plump and sweet in the sun. To his bare feet, covered on the tops with a coat of silky hair, the grass felt softly cool and inviting. Pleasantly reminded of the many good wines he'd sampled from these very vines, he settled himself to a comfortable seat on a patch of shady grass.
I'll have to cart a load of last year's vintage over to Kings-bay, Pawldo reflected. The prospect of that trip interested him, in a lackadaisical sort of way. He wouldn't go today or tomorrow, and probably not the day after that either, but it was something to think about. In fact, he remembered a cute little barmaid there, a cherubic-faced halfling wench with whom he could certainly strike a profitable deal.
Indeed, if she remained as friendly as he remembered, he would be strongly tempted to wile away a few days in that pleasant fishing town.
Not too long, he reminded himself, since the king and queen will arrive in Corwell for the Midsummer holiday, and I'll have to be home by then. After all, this was not just any summer holiday-this marked the tenth year of Tristan's reign and the tenth year of his marriage to Robyn. All in all, the occasion called for some kind of appropriate acknowledgment.
At this thought, the halfling's round-cheeked face darkened in a momentary scowl. He wanted to give them a wondrous gift, something appropriate to the grand occasion. Yet, whatever his gift to the royal couple would be, Pawldo doubted that he could find something sufficiently unique or fabulous in either Corwell or Kingsbay. What to do? This question had nagged at him, off and on, for the last several weeks, yet the stout halfling had not let his lack of solutions cause him undue distress. Sooner or later something would come up.
Of course, he could have sailed for the Sword Coast when he first faced the problem. He would be on his way back by now with some fabulous and rare token of his friendship and respect. Yet such decisive action was not the halfling way, and now, of course, he didn't have enough time to make the trip and still return for the festival. Mildly irritated-with the calendar, not himself-Pawldo shook away the concern and continued his inspection of his eyelids.
"Lord Mayor! Mayor Pawldo!"
The high voice came to his ears from beyond the hedges-a young halfling, male by the sound of it.
"Over here!" Pawldo replied, sitting up with a grunt of annoyance. He climbed to his feet slowly, aware that he no longer moved as nimbly as he had a decade or so before. Peering over the nearby hedge, he looked to see who had disturbed his meditations.
A red-haired halfling skidded to a stop before Pawldo and hastily doffed his cap. Cheeks glowing from exertion, shoulders bouncing as he struggled to regain his breath, the stranger could only pant for a moment as the lord mayor looked him over. The young halfling was a Hairfoot, not quite an adult, dressed in plain country garb and carrying a satchel over his shoulder. The newcomer smiled in a hopeful sort of way, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand. True to the Hairfoot tradition, he wore no shoes.
"What is it?" Pawldo inquired, suspecting that his quiet morning would remain so no longer. In spite of himself Pawldo felt a measure of curiosity.
"Cafwort the barrelmaker… told me that… I'd find you here," said the younger halfling, still panting.
"As you did. And who might you be?"
"Oh. I'm terribly sorry!" The youth looked chagrined. "I'm Stefanik of Llyrath Downs," he explained hastily. Pawldo knew that community of Hairfeet, which was located several days travel to the east, in the fringes of Llyrath Forest. "And, well, I found this-and I didn't know where else to take it. I mean, every halfling on Gwynneth knows about you and your adventures! Why, if it wasn't for you, the Darkwalker would have-"
"Enough!" cried Pawldo, raising both his hands in mock surrender. 'Tales have a way of being exaggerated-though I did play a small role in the defeat of that menace. In fact, there's a certain element of truth …" He shook h
is head, forcing away the pleasant wave of nostalgia. "But enough of that. You have something to show me, it would seem?"
"Oh, yes." The halfling thrust the satchel, still unopened, toward Pawldo. "Here! What is it? Where did it come from? How did it get to be in the forest?"
"Right now you've got about ten questions for each of my answers," the mayor chuckled, taking the leather sack. It proved to be surprisingly heavy, containing a large object made of metal-and a lot of it. "Let's see what you've got."
Pawldo casually stretched the mouth of the satchel wide, but when he looked inside, he could not suppress a gasp of astonishment. Shiny metal gleamed even in the shadowy confines of the leather pouch, too pure for silver-it must be platinum! He reached for the item's blunt, rounded end, allowing the satchel to fall to the ground and reveal a long-bladed dagger.
The lord mayor held the weapon by the hilt, thinking that it was much too heavy to be an effective weapon, yet that hardly mattered. Sunlight reflected in dazzling patterns from the gleaming surface, twinkling in brilliant colors where it struck the facets of a multitude of gems. A straight blade, sharpened on both sides, extended nearly a foot from the impractical, jewel-encrusted hilt.
"I know you've traded all sorts of things-rare weapons and treasures!" Stefanik continued breathlessly. "You've been to Waterdeep, and Baldur's Gate, and lots of places. I bet more than any other halfling in the Moonshaes! Why, even in Llyrath Downs we've heard how you rescued the king from the firbolg giant-kin! When I tried to think of who could answer my questions, well, there was just no one else who even came close!"
"Aye," whispered Pawldo, too overcome by the object's splendor to even acknowledge the praise.
"It's some kind of knife," Stefanik noted unnecessarily. "But how did it get there? Whose is it?"
"Some kind of thief's dagger," Pawldo observed with a silent whistle. "It's a blade of little utility, but truly exceptional worth. Quickly, lad, where did you find this?"
"In the forest! Llyrath Forest!" stammered Stefanik. "I was hunting well into the woods. I found the dagger at a place I camped, where two streams flow together. It was lying there beside the stream, just like this, so shiny I couldn't possibly have missed it!" He noticed Pawldo's scowl of concentration. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, not that I can see." Pawldo couldn't take his eyes from the silvery surface. He identified the gems-here was a plump ruby on each handguard, there an array of emeralds around the base of the hilt, in the middle of the handgrip a huge diamond! With difficulty, he kept his hands from trembling. Never had he held an object of such worth, such splendor! "So it looked like it hadn't been there long?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
"No. But that's the funny thing, since no one had been there before me-at least, not for a long time. I'm a pretty fair tracker," Stefanik added with bucolic honesty. "I'd have known."
The lord mayor turned the dagger over in his hands, examining the blade. Platinum there, too, polished and honed to the sharpness of a razor. Then a small imperfection caught his eye, near where the blade met the hilt. Raising the knife so that full sunlight fell on the blemish, he looked closely-and felt a sudden chill of apprehension.
The image was no flaw in the polished surface. It was a tiny etching of a leering, fleshless skull.
"What is it?" asked the youngster, following Pawldo's gaze. He gulped audibly when he got a close look. "I never noticed that before! What does it mean-a skull?"
"You say you found this in the depths of Llyrath Forest?" Pawldo inquired meaningfully.
"Yes! But I don't-"
Stefanik stopped abruptly, his face blanching, his eyes growing to saucers in sudden suspicion. "The Palace of Skulls?" he whispered.
"It's one explanation … the only one," Pawldo concluded grimly. "It's supposed to appear in Llyrath Forest only once a generation … and then, only for the waxing of the summer solstice moon!"
"The new moon was but four days past," Stefanik said, his tone full of wonder.
"And the knife-when did you find it?" Pawldo pressed.
"Three days ago!" the younger halfling exclaimed with a shudder. Then he squinted, a surprisingly mature skepticism appearing in his expression. "But I thought the tales of the skull fortress were just legends! Sure, my grandmother used to frighten us with stories of evil Prince Ketheryll and his curse-but now that I'm a grown-up I can't take them seriously.*"
"Can't you?" inquired the mayor of Lowhill archly. "Don't you think there might be some basis to the tales?"
Again Stefanik suppressed a shudder. "I know the stories-that Ketheryll still dwells there, but he's no longer a man. Just some kind of shadow that can suck the soul and the life right out of you!"
"What about the other stories?" Pawldo grew increasingly excited as he considered the possibilities. "Tales of treasure beyond your wildest dreams, mountains of wealth, glories such as you've never seen, all there for the taking-but only until the rising of the full moon___"
"You mean treasures like this?" Stefanik asked, his eyes dropping to the dagger. "You think the dagger comes from the Palace of Skulls?"
"Ouch!" Pawldo declared, abruptly dropping the weapon and blowing on his palm. "It got hot!"
"Look!" hissed Stefanik, pointing to the dagger as it twisted on the ground.
The blade had fallen on its tip, and for a second it wavered back and forth, as if it might stick into the ground. Then it bounced into the air, flopped onto its side, and flipped around so that the blade pointed just a little south of due east. The platinum surface glowed with a brightness greater than the sun's reflection.
"It's… it's like it heard me," Stefanik said softly. "As soon as I said the name of the place, it heated up."
"And look at the way it's pointing," Pawldo said. The glow subsided, and he reached out to touch the weapon's already cooling hilt. "Straight into Llyrath Forest."
"Can it be from that place?"
"Like I said, it's the only explanation!" Pawldo's mind worked furiously. The fortress meant treasure beyond belief. And that might mean a suitable present for the king and queen! "Can you find your campsite again?"
"Of course!" Stefanik proclaimed. "I'm a good scout, too! I know that woods like the inside of my own burrow!"
"Splendid! Let's see, we'll need some supplies and a couple of ponies. It'll take me a few hours to get ready. You can rest up at my house, and we can leave in the afternoon."
His estimate proved conservative. In actuality the two halflings rode down the King's Road sometime before lunch, a fact that the road-weary Stefanik regretted but was too timid to mention. They spent the night at a comfortable inn in Cantrev Koart and made such good time the next day that by early evening Stefanik led them southward from the road until they reached the very fringe of the forest There, amid a sparse scattering of dry-needled fir trees, they found a grassy meadow for their camp.
During their journey, Pawldo found himself developing an avuncular affection for the young halfling. Stefanik's blatant hero worship did nothing to impair the relationship, and the lord mayor's restrained silence only served to inflate the youngster's somewhat exaggerated assessment of his skills and exploits.
As twilight fell on their little camp, they passed some time in more serious conversation, comparing the tales they'd heard about the Palace of Skulls. Among the Ffolk of the Moonshaes and their halfling neighbors the place was a common setting for tales of heroism, though few believed that it really existed. Pawldo found that the version of the legend told in the village of Llyrath Downs differed somewhat from the stories he'd heard elsewhere in the Moonshaes. Yet, since that little village of halflings was nearer to the ancient structure's reputed location, he placed strong credence in that folklore.
"Llyrath Downs," Pawldo remarked as he settled down near the crackling embers of their fire. "There aren't many who live there, true?"
Stefanik shrugged. "Until I saw a great city like Lowhill, I would have disagreed with you. But, truth be told, we are b
ut a dozen families, scattered over a wide hilltop."
Pawldo suppressed a smile-the "great city" of Lowhill, indeed! "You live in the forest proper?" he asked.
"Only the fringe. No one lives in the middle of that dark wood. We won't pass through my village, though-Llyrath Downs is another day's journey east of here. It's not on the way to the place where I found the dagger."
"And the legends you've heard, they hold the Palace of Skulls to be in this part of Llyrath?"
"Yes. It's said that mad Prince Ketheryll built the great fortress in Llyrath with the heads of his enemies. That was at the time when Gwynneth and the rest of the Moonshaes were only a lot of small principalities. Ketheryll made war on all of his neighbors. They say his cruelty was surpassed only by his might." The youth shrugged. "He must have been pretty tough, since he eventually drove all the other humans from southern Gwynneth."
"All the tales claim that he was a ruthless master," Pawldo agreed. "His conquests are matters of history, though I'd always presumed his reputation for bloodshed to be exaggerated. Still, no one seems to doubt the tales of his Doomed Legion." At Stefanik's puzzled look, Pawldo added, "At least no one outside of Llyrath. The legion was made up of his lieutenants, each magically branded with the skull that was their master's symbol."
"I'd heard that each of the prince's men had sworn to give his life to protect him," Stefanik admitted, "but never anything about them being branded. It's not surprising, though, since the prince was always so interested in magic."
Pawldo laughed. "It's so ironic that the wizard Flamsterd and his spellcasting finally proved Ketheryll's undoing, since he was so taken with sorcery himself."
"Aye-the wizard and the Earthmother. The humans say the goddess exacted revenge against Ketheryll because he distressed the Balance." Stefanik nodded seriously.
"The tales I've heard all over the Moonshaes include the Earthmother," the older halfling said. "Had you heard that Ketheryll dedicated his gruesome fortress to the new moon of the summer solstice? He held a great celebration with his most loyal followers. They killed hundreds of captives in a grim arena-called the Circus Bizarre, I seem to remember-simply for the amusement of the prince and his evil band. It's said that he captured the young king and queen of a human realm and put them to death along with the rest"
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