Realms of Magic a-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Shandt was my friend!" he cried. "I would have died to save him!"

  Moonlight, sifting down from the cloudless sky, struck the glass dome and streamed down into the garden. It fell upon the fallen body of Lelanda, the druid's fresh grave, and the silver axe that sought to avenge its owner's death. Two pinpoints glinted brightly in the shaft of moonlight, one the blade edge and the other the pendant.

  VI

  Orlando stepped back from the wall. He had returned Talon to its place and cocked his head left and right to make sure it was positioned properly. He reached out and lifted the hilt an imperceptible fraction of an inch.

  "Don't worry," said Lelanda from the couch on which she lay. "You've got it right."

  Orlando nodded and turned back to the table behind him. With his right hand, he reached tentatively for the great battle-axe Kesmarex, but something stopped his fingers just short of its haft. His other hand slipped to his neck and touched the silver pendant that hung from its recently repaired chain.

  His thoughts drifted back to the battle in Jolind's garden. He remembered the great blade falling toward his head, the hollow sound of his voice as it filled the silent garden, and the flash of light that came when the holy symbol was presented. Somehow, the battle-axe recognized the amulet and knew that the silver symbol belonged to the same warrior whose hands had once wielded it. Knowing that anyone who wore that particular crossed battle-axe medallion must be a friend of its owner, it had fallen inert. As far as Kesmarex was concerned, its mission was completed.

  He returned to the present as a delicate hand touched his shoulder. He turned and found the emerald eyes of Lelanda scant inches away from his own. The gold band on her finger reflected a greatly distorted image of his own countenance.

  "You shouldn't be up," he said, urging her gently back to the couch.

  "I'll be okay," she said, "the wound's almost healed. Hang up the axe and come to bed."

  Orlando nodded and lifted the magical weapon from its resting place. He turned and elevated it to a place of honor above the hearth. Next to it, he hung the amulet that had saved his life.

  "Rest quietly, old friend," said the crimson-haired witch.

  Orlando said nothing, but in his heart he knew that Lelanda's wish had been granted.

  THE WILD BUNCH

  Tom Dupree

  The robe shimmered seductively as the young apprentice held it up to the candlelight. Its color was a brilliant royal blue, and it was fashioned from a shiny, silky, luxurious fabric that the student had never seen before. It was soft and cool to the touch, but bespoke great elegance and power.

  It was commandingly beautiful, but the fascination was not in its color or texture. The apprentice could not tear his eyes away from the symbols that were inscribed on the robe, either sewn in or painted on the fabric, he couldn't tell which. There were signs and sigils emblazoned everywhere-hundreds of them. Intricate handwork covered every bit of free space on the garment's surface: calligraphy, runes, drawings, letters, shapes, and forms whose mysteries were far beyond the young man's understanding.

  He was entranced.

  He lifted the robe closer to get a better look.

  "Put that down, lad. And sit yourself down." The voice was calm, controlled, but it came from right next to the boy's ear-almost from inside it-and made him flinch in startlement. How did he do that? How did the master move so quietly? The boy turned to face his wizened tutor, the man whose esoteric knowledge had drawn him here. With a reluctance that surprised him, the young man handed the robe to his master and sat.

  "The most important thing I will ever teach you comes here, now, on your first day. It is simply this: you have a great deal to learn. The magical art may appear effortless to the uninitiated; a bit of waving, a bit of mumbling, and POOF! — whatever one's heart desires. But each conjuration, each illusory spectacle, requires agonizing hours of study and concentration. There is no shortcut, no easy way to make yourself the wizard you want to be. Your art will demand work, my lad. If you cannot pledge to accept this sacrifice, then leave me now. A mage should be regarded with awe, not mirth.

  "That robe is remarkable, isn't it? The last time I saw it worn, another young student of the conjurative arts had recently arrived in this village. He appeared at the door of the Ale amp; Hearty tavern one rainy afternoon, dripping wet. He strode to the bar and announced that he was a magic-user, in search of fame and fortune."

  New mages are a fairly rare sight in Schamedar, and the aforementioned one did not go unnoticed, not even in this undistinguished tavern. He was of tall, if slim, human build, with an overly erect bearing that was hardly required by either the venue or the company. His clothing was less than modest, and drenched, at that. He carried nothing except for a small pack and a walking staff, which he set at his feet. Never mind fame; this was a person in severe need of fortune.

  "Why, Mystra be praised!" growled a swarthy little cut-purse with a wide, gap-toothed grin, who was sitting at a table with two other morally impaired citizens. "A mage! If you aren't the answer to a prayer! Come and wet your throat with us!"

  The stranger ambled over.

  "Sit, sit," implored the thief, gesturing obsequiously at the empty chair beside him. "I am Tuka Phardeen, great admirer of the fraternity of magic-users. And I have the blessed good fortune to be addressing my Lord-"

  "Evertongue, friend Phardeen. Wiglaf Evertongue." This last as if he were introducing Mystra herself.

  "Hmmm," from one of Tuka's companions, a muscular, tanned goddess whose brilliant blonde hair cascaded past a necklace made of animal fangs to reach the hilt of a well-nicked broadsword. "Evertongue. I seem to remember such a family over in Calimport. But these Evertongues were bakers."

  "Sasha," chided Tuka.

  Wiglaf sat and returned the magnificent warrior's gaze. "Maybe I'm the first member of my family to raise my hands out of the dough," he said. "But what's past is best left past, and my past can stay in that oven. I'm tired of spellbooks and teachers and studying. I don't want to ruin my eyesight. At this rate, 111 be old and gray before I even get close to my potential. There's got to be a better way. A quicker way. I want to use magic out there in the real world. I want to live. I want to learn."

  "I want to vomit," said Sasha. The Evertongues earned their family name honestly. Is that flour on your fingers?"

  As Wiglaf jerked his hands up to check, Tuka glared at his companion, and spoke. "Sir Evertongue, fortune has brought us together today. You wish to rise in power like, mm, the mighty loaf. We count our accomplishments in other ways. We are humble traders, businesspeople. Importers/exporters, you might say. Working together to bring back a better life for those loved ones we have left behind."

  The filthily dressed human to his left belched wetly.

  "Our consortium embraces all kinds of artisans, including mages such as yourself. In fact, it was only yesterday that we lost the very talented conjurer who was our traveling colleague in a bizarre… accident. We are here in this tavern tonight to mourn his loss." The belching ruffian at the table removed his cap and bowed his head. An unkempt cloud of hair matched his clothing for foulness.

  "Accident?"

  "He stood between us and a horrible creature best left undescribed. Bravely threw himself in harm's way. Walked right in front of us, he did."

  "Or did we shtep back?" slurred the third as Sasha looked a dagger into his brain.

  "Gosh, I don't know if I could help you in a situation like that. I'm new to all this, you see; just starting out."

  Tuka poked his colleague in the ribs. "What did I tell you, Fenzig? Ha! The moment you walked in the door, my lord, I said, now here is a man who can use friends like us. Here is a man who wants to be somebody, to go someplace in life, but he doesn't have time to wait around for the carriage, eh?"

  "Right!" Wiglaf beamed. Somebody understood.

  "Well, fortune has smiled on you today. We have a friend and associate, a very experienced wizard. He has been called away
for a short while, some kind of a special teaching assignment. But he has many items of great power that I'm sure he would be willing to let you borrow."

  "Well, I don't know…"

  "One sorcerer to another? He always makes it a point to get youngsters like you off to a fine start. Don't even need to ask him. Come. Well take you there tonight."

  "I don't know…"

  "Big bad magic man," teased Sasha. "What's stopping you? That pan of rolls for tomorrow morning?"

  "Nothing's stopping me. Nothing at all. Let's go."

  The moon was bright that evening as the four new comrades arrived at the door of a modest dwelling, the only structure in a dark clearing surrounded by forest. Tuka rapped loudly on an ancient door knocker, but there was no answer.

  "Isn't that just like him? Didn't even leave us a key. He's so preoccupied, all he thinks of are his spells. Fenzig, why don't you give us a hand?" The belching thief approached the door lock, did some expert twisting and jamming, and it sprung free. Tuka extended his hand. "See? It's perfectly all right. You first, Sir Evertongue, in case there are any trap-any magic items of which we should be aware."

  Wiglaf swallowed hard and entered the doorway. He walked for a few feet in utter darkness, then thought he could make out a warm glow ahead of him. Heart pounding in his head, he cautiously followed the light down a corridor for what seemed like minutes. Finally the light grew brighter, and he stepped through into a large open space. Then he stopped short in amazement.

  A soft, welcoming, dark-orange light issued from the walls as he entered, to reveal an interior that was, incredibly, much larger than it should have been. The ceiling of the vast studio appeared to be at least thirty feet high- many times taller than the outside of the house. He looked back, and was shocked to see an open door just a few steps away, with Tuka peering in. He shook off his confusion and whirled back around. What was behind him was not important. Before him, his good fortune was boundless.

  For the room was full of magic.

  Wiglaf s jaw was slack as he slowly turned in a circle. He had come to the right place. His eyes simply couldn't take in all the fabulous magical arcana. Here, on a mammoth rack of ironwork, hung row after row of staves and weapons, several of which seemed to glow faintly. On this mantel of gorgeous dark wood stood dozens of vials containing a dizzying array of potions that glittered and smoked in their confinements. Above him and ringing the room, handsome shelves bulged with spellbooks of all shapes and sizes. Most curious, there was the finest collection of material components Wiglaf had ever seen, an oddball flea market seemingly stored at random, the mundane joining the thrilling. Carefully arranged locks of hair were set next to a box brimming with jewels, lumps of coal were stored beside ornate wax sculptures, vials of brightly multicolored sand rested next to cupfuls of soot.

  There was a curious painting, a forest glade, that poly-morphed slowly through all four seasons as Wiglaf watched in stupefaction. He picked up a small hand mirror and was astonished to see a wizened, ancient face staring back at him-much older, but still recognizably his own. A wand swirled and roiled with colored mist down its length, and softly pulsated as he turned it with his fin gers. More and more, on and on, everywhere he turned, the marvels continued. This was a lifetime's worth of collecting-and the potential beginning of Wiglafs accelerated studies program. He was overcome with the immensity of the opportunity. The fraternity of magic was so incredibly generous: what a grand gesture by the old mage, to lend a helping hand like this.

  Then he saw it. Hanging regally from a very tall coat-rack was the most marvelous robe there could possibly be. Wiglaf motioned the others inside, but absently: he could not take his eyes off the garment. It was surely the old man's own, like the rest of the wonders in this room, but still it called to Wiglaf. He took the robe into his hands. It flowed through his fingers like fine-grained sand, an immensely pleasurable sensation. It was surprisingly light, considering that it appeared to be several sizes too large for him, and wonderfully soft. He lifted it closer to his face to inspect the signs and sigils that covered its surface. Some were simple, childlike scrawls; others, intricate forms that may have had meaning in some exotic language. One he even recognized: the seven stars in a crescent around a wisp of mist, familiar even to a beginner, the symbol of Mystra herself. This was truly powerful magic.

  Wiglaf noticed a full-length mirror and saw himself with the robe. He could resist no longer. They were a perfect match. He swallowed once and wriggled into the garment.

  Of a sudden, he felt a tingling: not unpleasant, but definitely unusual. The robe that had seemed much too long for Wiglaf now felt as if it were stirring around him, clinging and conforming to his size and shape. He looked at the mirror and saw that it was true: the robe was alive, pouring itself around him, fitting to his contours like a sleepy cat in his lap. The hem slowly rode off the floor as he watched. The symbols themselves were now moving: crawling across the robe's surface and giving off a warm glow that reached inside Wiglaf, soothing and comforting him. It was glorious. He felt his senses heightened somehow: his sight seemed to be sharper, his hearing more acute. And just now he heard Tuka and Sasha appraising the collection.

  "Delightful," said Tuka. "Now how selfish can one be to hoard all these lovely baubles oneself?"

  "You're not suggesting we take them?" asked Wiglaf.

  "Theft? From a friend? Don't insult us. But why don't you borrvw a few things and use them to get some practical experience? Bring them back when you're through- maybe with a little something extra for interest?"

  "Do you think he would mind?"

  "My lord, didn't I say he was a teacher? His mission in life is to educate young mages like yourself," said Tuka. "You'll be making him a happy man-and making him happy is the least you can do to repay his immense magnanimity."

  "The way you explain it, it makes sense."

  "It would," said Sasha.

  "Well, take what you need, and let's get out of here," Tuka said.

  Wiglaf paused to think. A few spellbooks, some components-what harm could it do? It wasn't as if anyone else was using them. And he wouldn't disturb the very rarest items. He scooped up his choices, stuffed them into his pack, and stepped out into the night. The robe had become such a comfortable part of him that he didn't realize he was still wearing it.

  As the others came out of the magician's studio, fiddling with their pockets, a soft growling sound made the hairs on the back of Wiglaf s head rise. "Wh-What was that?" he whimpered.

  "Wild dog," said Sasha. "They're everywhere at night. Hell taste steel if he gets closer."

  "Just so long as he doesn't taste as," said Tuka.

  The growl was punctuated by a piercing basso bark, and then the single sound became a din. Two, three, a whole pack of feral hounds rushed into the clearing and faced the adventurers, showing teeth, drooling with famished anticipation. There were more than ten of the huge, menacing beasts, and although Sasha and the others quickly had weapons drawn, they were clearly outnumbered. The largest of the pack, the leader, pawed its way slowly toward Wiglaf, snarling louder as it came, never taking its eyes off him, until it was only an arm's length away.

  Wiglaf had never been in such a situation. He was frozen to the spot. It would be only a matter of time until they were overrun, and he would be the first one to go.

  "Okay, Mister Magic," Sasha shouted, "here's your chance. Do something." The others laughed grimly and prepared for carnage.

  Wiglaf was terrified, but he forced himself to move. He reached into his battered pack and felt for his well-thumbed spellbook. There wasn't much of value written down, since study had always been difficult for him. Mostly drawings and doodles. Wiglaf had "studied" spells of alteration-the most impressive kind of magic, he'd always felt-and collected the requisite components, but the only spell he'd ever managed to memorize and use with any slight authority was one for burning hands, and it had never really worked properly; on his most successful practice run, he had on
ly singed his fingers. But with no time to think about it, this was his best shot. If he didn't try now, he would become not a magician but an entree.

  Wiglaf pulled back the sleeves of the robe, held his hands palms down, thumbs together, spread his fingers into a fan shape, and mumbled both an incantation and a quick prayer for good measure, just as the salivating hound tensed its legs and leaned back to spring.

  FOOM! A jet of superheated flame shot out from his fingertips and roared toward the dog. The startled animal leapt backward away from the magical fire, yelping and howling, spots of fur smoking as it retreated. The other dogs matched their leader's howls, eyes wide with panic and confusion. Wiglaf turned at the sound, his arms still extended, but the flame remained, pouring in an arc toward the other dogs. The area was lit as brightly as if it were noon. The lead dog was already darting away, tail between its legs, and the others did not hesitate to follow. In a few seconds, they were gone.

  Wiglaf curled his fingers into fists, and the flame stopped* instantaneously. It was dead quiet, except for the whining of the dog pack receding in the distance. He looked stupidly at his hands. He felt heat on his cheeks.

  Transfixed, Sasha dropped her sword and panted at the others. "By a gullyful of goblins! Did you see that? He bloody did it!"

  Tuka whirled to face Wiglaf. "My lord! I had no idea!"

  But Wiglaf didn't hear. He slumped to the ground like an emptied sack.

  His hands had been hot, but he was out cold.

  A while later, back in the Ale amp; Hearty, most of the regular patrons were wide-eyed over Wiglaf s story-which was becoming more and more colorful with each tankard that members of his star-struck audience provided. "This lad has a definite talent," boasted Tuka.

  "Dogs. Snarling. RrrrrOW OW OW," barked Wiglaf, and took another sip.

  By now Wiglaf was the toast of most, but still there were dissidents. "I don't know much about magic," growled a customer, "but I do know this: no young whelp shows up out of nowhere and starts mumbo-jumboing like an almighty sage. Impossible." A few emboldened others clanked their agreement on the tabletop.