Realms of Magic a-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  "It's my turn, Gulner," I said.

  I shaped the air with my hands, mouthed a few words, pointed, and gave the invisible foul-mouthed gunner my own best shot.:

  The normal version of the spell called "phantasmal killer" has its merits. It takes the victim's most deeply buried nightmares and shapes them into a single illusory entity, a monster that exists only in the victim's mind. The victim, however, believes the monster is absolutely real, invulnerable, and unstoppable. And he sees the monster come for him. If he believes the monster has struck him, the victim dies of fright.

  After years of dealing with the sort of filth and scum that watchmen in Waterdeep know all too well, I had yearned for an improved form of that spell. I'd dearly wanted to pay back some criminal acquaintances for the suffering they had inflicted-on the public, on my friends, and on me.

  Last year, I'd created that spejl. But I had never cast it until now.

  Two things happened rapidly in sequence. First, the manlike form in the chair gasped aloud as the spell took effect. He had little chance to throw it off or resist its effects; it was extremely powerful. And it lasted for a full hour.

  Second, everything simply went weightless, including me.

  I banged my head against the ceiling and saw thousands of stars and comets. I felt I'd been tossed into the air by a giant. The room tilted as the roaring of the wind died outside.

  The figure in the chair cried out hoarsely, then screamed as if he were dying-which he was. I had only a glimpse of him through the smoke, trying to ward off something. I never saw him again.

  I felt now that I was falling. The wind's roar picked up, building rapidly to a great, bone-shaking thunder.

  I'd made a mistake. The big guy in the chair must have been controlling the flight of the pinnace. In the process of killing the big guy, my pet spell had killed me, as well.

  The pinnace rocked as it fell. Walls banged into me as I struggled to get out of the room, up to the deck. I still had my spell of levitation active, and I could drift down with the wind if I could get away.

  I have no clear recollection of how I got out and kicked away from the falling ship. I was able to slow myself down almost at once and hover in the air.

  Light from great Selune's silver orb fell upon cloud tops below me. I realized I must be miles and miles up. I had a last look at a tiny, dark ship dwindling rapidly away below me, a faint light shining from a door in its deck. It vanished into the distant clouds and was gone.

  But the duration of my levitation spell was running out. I could mentally shut the spell's power down, but I'd fall like a stone. I'd never been this high before, nor had I even heard of anyone who had been this high.

  "Okay," I said to myself, "I have one more levitation spell, so if I dispense with this one, I can cast the other one before I hit the ground, and everything will be fine. I just have to keep my head and hold on to the little leather bootstrap, and I can't forget any of the words or get the gesturing wrong or be too slow. It's been a grand night in Waterdeep, but I want to go home."

  I went on like that to myself as I reached into my pocket and felt for the material component. I had one tiny leather strap left and pulled it out.

  And dropped it.

  I grabbed for it but missed. I twisted around and stared down into the moonlit cloud tops, seeing no trace of it now.

  After I got my breathing under control again, I carefully pulled the leather cuff tie out of my left sleeve. I fashioned it into a loop, gripped it in my fingers until a bull could not have pulled it loose, and hoped the improvisation would not hurt the spell. I closed my eyes and dismissed the old levitation spell.

  I went into free-fall again, the wind whipping around my body into every part of my clothes. I managed to turn facedown, into the rush toward the clouds. My eyes ran with tears from the wind as I watched the cloud tops grow steadily larger. Then I panicked and tried to start the spell. The wind made speaking impossible.

  I tried to turn so that I fell on my back, faceup, but couldn't get it right and started to spin in the air. Nearly mad with fear, I shut my eyes and began the spell again. I must finish this spell, I thought, growing dizzy and nauseated from spinning. I made the gestures, uttered the words in a shout, and tossed the loop into the air. I opened my eyes at the same moment.

  I saw clouds above me-clouds with the moon looking through them. Instantly my body began slowing down. I'd done it!

  Then I rolled and saw a forest come up to hit me. I had been just a couple of seconds too slow.

  As I heard it later, I lived because a bride ran off on her wedding night. The groom and his family and the bride's family were combing the woods by their farm, searching for the bride (who was hiding in the hayloft with her old boyfriend instead) when I fell through a large pine tree and crashed practically at their feet. Half of those present ran off, thinking I was a monster, and the rest wanted to kill me for the same reason. Fight or flight, the ancient question.

  The one who approached me with a knife saw that I looked human enough and was very badly banged up, so they relented and merely tied me up to bring me back into Waterdeep, to deliver me to the watch in case there was a reward.

  I came to in my own house, two days later. Every part of my body ached abominably. Someone dabbed at my face with a wet cloth.

  "Excellent," said a familiar voice. "Bounces back like a professional. Once a watchman, always a watchman. Priestess, would you please wait outside for a moment?"

  "You," I said through bruised lips. It hurt to even think about speaking.

  The soothing wet cloth went away. Someone left the room as a pair of boots walked across a wooden floor, and Civilar Ardrum appeared in my vision. His face bore a number of pale scars across it, one of them crossing his right eye. "You'll be fine in a few days. The watch picked up the tab for the beetling spells. We found that little boat about two miles outside of town, to the east. Kindling. You wouldn't even recognize it. I didn't recognize the scattered remains of the guy in it, though he did have the most remarkable coded papers on him, which your associates in the order translated for us."

  "How is it," I managed, "that you are here? Alive?" Ardrum held up his right hand and carefully pulled off the glove. A bright silver ring shone out from his third finger. His entire hand and visible arm were covered with healed-over scars, like his face.

  "The Priceless Circlet of Healthful Regeneration," he said. "Found it in Turmish when I was younger. And your ring is…?"

  I licked my lips. "Unfailing Missile Deflector." "Ah, so that was why the trap gunne did nothing to you. We are lucky that we are careful shoppers." "What about the papers? From the flying ship?" "From the spelljammer, you mean. You know about spelljammers? No? We'll chat sometime when you're well. The half-ore priest in the ship-yes, a half-ore, with lots of disguising bits to look as human as possible-was the ringleader of a smuggling group. They were bringing gunnes and smoke powder into Waterdeep and selling them to unsavory groups. They were also trafficking disguised gunnes from Lantan to the Savage North, apparently to humanoid armies there. The Yellow Mage was about to stumble across their whole operation. Then he got the wrong delivery, one of the special gunnes being delivered from wildspace. The new guns fire several shots in rapid sequence using clever springs and mechanisms. You could call them 'machine gunnes,' I suppose. The half-ore's had been enchanted for absolute silence. He was the Yellow Mage's killer. We burned his body so no one can bring him back."

  I just stared at the halfling. "You're not serious."

  "Ah, but I am," Ardrum said. "You and I broke the back of the operation and nearly died in the process." He frowned. "Of course, we haven't found the exact source of their supply in wildspace, but we have contacted the

  Lords of Waterdeep, and one suggested that elements of a scro fleet left over from the Second Unhuman War might be in orbit around Toril. Sounds like a mission for someone else to handle, some burly heroic sorts but not us, the lowly foot soldiers against crime."
<
br />   Scro, unhumans, wildspace-I hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about. "I need to rest," I finally said.

  "But of course, and so you shall, good Formathio. So you shall. But do not be long about it. We will need your help in finding out how the gunne smugglers were disguising their shipments, and no one could tell us better than you, the expert in illusions. I'll be round tomorrow at noon. See you then."

  He started to go. "Oh." He came back and carefully placed a bottle on the small table beside my bed, looking at it with a faraway gaze. "And when I return, we shall finish off your bottle of Dryad's Promise, which you left behind elsewhere, and drink a quiet toast in memory of fallen comrades and deeds long ago."

  Civilar Ardrum looked back at me and actually smiled. "And a toast to those who have fallen-and survived." He patted the bedpost, then turned and quickly left me to the ministrations of the priestess and her fellows.

  I had a million questions, but I was very tired. It had been anything but a grand night in Waterdeep. I closed my eyes, and dreamed of nothing at all.

  THE DIRECT APPROACH

  Elaine Cunningham

  Skullport, an underground city hidden far below the streets and docks of the more respectable port of Water-deep, was one of the few places on the Sword Coast that offered wary welcome to the drow. Elsewhere, the dark elves' fearsome reputation earned them the sort of reception otherwise reserved for hordes of ravening ores; in Skullport, a drow's night-black skin merely guaranteed that she could walk into the tavern of her choice and not have to wait for a table.

  Dangerous and sordid though it was, Skullport appealed to Liriel Baenre. A few short months before, she'd been forced from her home in Menzoberranzan, that fabled city of the drow. She'd just finished a dangerous trek across the northlands and led a successful raid on the stronghold of a rival drow faction. The next part of her journey would soon begin, but Liriel had a few days' respite to relax and enjoy life. In her opinion, Skullport was a fine place to do just that. It boasted all the chaos of her hometown but lacked the inhibiting customs and the ever-vigilant eyes of its priestess rulers. Uriel's stay in the underground port had been brief, but long enough for her to learn that anything could happen in Skullport. And usually did.

  Even so, she was not prepared for her midnight visitor, or for the strange manner in which this visitor arrived.

  Earlier that evening, Liriel had retired to a comfortable chamber above Guts and Garters, a rather rough-and-tumble tavern renowned for its dwarf-brewed ale and its bawdy floor show. This was her first quiet evening since entering Skullport, and her first opportunity to study the almost-forgotten rune lore of an ancient barbarian race known only as the Rus. Liriel's interest in such magic was passionate and immediate, for in two days she would sail for far-off Ruathym. There lived the descendants of the Rus, and there Liriel would learn whether this rune magic could shape the destiny of a drow. Much depended upon her success, and she was determined to aid her chances by learning all she could about the people and their magic.

  After several hours of study, she paused and stretched, catlike. The sounds of the tavern floated up to her: the jaunty dance music, the mixture of heckling and huzzahs, the sound of clinking mugs, the occasional brawl-all muted by thick stone to a pleasant murmur. Liriel did not desire to join the festivities, but she enjoyed knowing that excitement was readily available should the spirit move her to partake. Besides, the noise made an agreeable counterpoint to her reading. With a contented sigh, the young drow lit a fresh candle and returned to her book, absently tossing back a stray lock of her long white hair as she bent over the strange runes.

  In any setting, dark elves survived only through constant vigilance. Liriel, although deep in her studies, remained alert to possible dangers. So, when the garish tapestry decorating the far wall shuddered and began to fade away, she responded with a drow's quick reflexes. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet, a dagger in one hand and a small, dangerously glowing sphere in the other.

  Before she could draw another breath, the wall dissolved into a vortex of shimmering light-a magic portal to some distant place. Liriel's first thought was that her enemies had found her. Her second thought was that her enemies were definitely getting better.

  She herself had been well trained in dark-elven wizardry and was no stranger to magical travel, but never had she seen anything like the silent storm raging before her. The colors of a thousand sunsets glimmered in the whirling mist, and pinpoints of light spun in it like dizzy stars. One thing was clear: whoever came through that portal would be worth fighting. A smile of anticipation set flame to the drow's golden eyes, and every muscle in her slight body tensed for the battle to come.

  Then the portal exploded in eerie silence, hurling multicolored smoke to every corner of the room. The magical gate disappeared and was replaced by the more mundane tapestry, before which stood a most peculiar warrior.

  Liriel blinked, wondering for a moment if a barbarian marauder had somehow stepped off the tapestry's battle scene. The figure before her was more like some ancient illustration, brought improbably to life, than any being of flesh and bone that Liriel had yet encountered.

  The drow stared up-way up-at a human female warrior. The woman was taller than the elven girl by more than a foot and was at least twice as broad. Fat braids of flame-colored hair erupted from beneath a horn-bedizened bronze helm and disappeared into the thick reddish bearskin draped over her shoulders. Apart from these garments and a pair of knee-high, shaggy-furred boots, the warrior was virtually naked. Leather thongs bound weapons to her person and held in place a few strategically placed scraps of metal-studded leather. The woman's skin was pale, her muscles taut, and her curves of the sort usually encountered only in the fantasies of untried youths and libidinous artists. In fact, the warrior's curves, costume, and theatrically grim expression suggested to Liriel that this woman was supposed to be part of someone's evening entertainment. Obviously, she'd missed a turn somewhere on magic's silver pathways.

  "Nice entrance," Liriel observed dryly, "but the floor show is in the main tavern."

  The barbarian's sky-colored eyes flamed with blue heat. "Do you take me for a tavern wench?" she roared. The warrior batted aside a wisp of glowing smoke and squinted in Uriel's direction. With a slow, ominous flourish, she drew an ancient broadsword from its scabbard. Tossing back her helmed head, she took a long, proud breath-dangerously taxing the strength and expansion capacity of her scant leather garments-and lifted her sword in challenge. Remnants of the luminous smoke writhed around her, adding significantly to the overall effect.

  "Behold Vasha the Red, daughter of Hanigard, queen of the ice water raiders, captain of the Hrothgarian guard, and hired sword arm of the Red Bear Clan," the warrior announced in a voice that shook the windowpanes and promised doom.

  Liriel got the feeling that this introduction was usually met with groveling surrender, but she was not overly impressed by her visitor's credentials. That broadsword, however, was another matter entirely.

  Candlelight shimmered down the sword's rune-carved length and winked with ominous golden light along its double edge. Liriel's dagger, which was long and keen and coated with drew sleeping poison for good measure, seemed woefully inadequate beside it. The drow observed the furtive, darting path that the barbarian's eyes traced around the room, and assumed that the human had been temporarily blinded by the brilliant light of the magical portal. With a sword that size, however, precision was not vital to success in battle. The drow's wisest course would probably be to toss her fireball and settle the damages with the innkeeper later. It'd be messy, but there was something to be said for a quick resolution in such matters. So Liriel hauled back her arm for the throw and let fly.

  "Runecaster!" spat the barbarian woman scornfully. Her sword flashed up and batted the glowing sphere back in Liriel's general direction. To the drow's astonishment-and infinite relief-the fireball dissipated not with the expected rending explosion, but an apologetic fizzle.

/>   A smug little smile lifted the corners of the warrior's mouth. "Your foul magics will avail you not," she exulted. "Know this and tremble: You cannot escape the justice of the Rus, though you flee through time itself! Return with me for trial, runecaster, or die now by my hand." The muscles in the barbarian's sword arm twitched eagerly, leaving little doubt as to which option she preferred.

  But Liriel did not for one moment consider surrender or fear death. This woman might be bigger than an ogre's in-laws, but any drow wizard worthy of the name had at her command a variety of ways to dispose of unwanted visitors. Yet Liriel did not strike, for something in the woman's speech caught her interest.

  "The Rus? Fleeing through time?" she repeated excitedly, her mind whirling with possibilities. Magical portals could give transport to distant places, through solid objects, even into other planes. Was it possible that they could span the centuries, as well? Was this woman truly an ancient warrior, and not some low-rent courtesan with bad fashion sense? "Just who in the Nine Hells are you?"

  A scowl creased the woman's white brow. Her glacial blue eyes thawed just enough to register uncertainty, and she squinted into the shadows that hid her foe. "Have I not said? Did you not hear? I am Vasha the Red, daughter of-"

  "Stow it," Liriel snapped, in no mood to swap genealogies. "You said, I heard. But where did you come from? And more important, when?"

  "This is the twelfth year of the reign of King Hrothgar. The last year of his reign, as well you know! In the dark of the hunter's moon, Hrothgar was slain by your fell magics!"

  The drow pondered this announcement. She had been extremely busy of late, but she was fairly certain she hadn't killed anyone by that name. Upon further consideration, she recalled that the adventures of a King Hrothgar were recounted in her book of rune lore. He'd been outwitted by a renegade runecaster of dark and exceptional power. But by Liriel's best calculations, that had happened nearly "Two thousand years ago!" she said, regarding the swordwoman with new respect. "I'll say this much for you: you can hold a grudge with the best of them!"