The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

by Elaine Cunningham

  The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

  Elaine Cunningham

  Elaine Cunningham

  The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

  CONTENTS

  THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

  THE BARGAIN

  ELMINSTER'S JEST

  THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

  THE DIRECT APPROACH

  SECRETS OF BLOOD, SPIRITS OF THE SEA

  THE GREAT HUNT

  SPEAKING WITH THE DEAD

  STOLEN DREAMS

  FIRE IS FIRE

  POSSESSIONS

  A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

  GAMES OF CHANCE

  TRIBUTE

  ANSWERED PRAYERS

  THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

  17 Flamerule, the Year of the Enchanted Trail (925 DR) Griffenwing Keep, a mountain fortress near Ascalhorn

  The demon was not at all what Renwick Caradoon had expected.

  Massive bat wings, scales the color of molten lava, terror and evil incarnate-the grimoire had hinted darkly of such things. Renwick, given his admittedly small talent for magic, would have been content with a whiff of brimstone and a tentacle or two. To his surprise, the creature standing in a circle of painstakingly drawn symbols looked more like a mildly disgruntled scholar than an agent of evil.

  "Have I the honor of addressing the great incubus Yamarral, Lord of Chaos and Carnality?" Renwick inquired cautiously.

  In response, the demon held up the book he'd been perusing, displaying the scene vividly painted on night-black parchment. The illustration was moving, and a glance at the writhing figures was all the answer Renwick required.

  "You cannot summon a demon without speaking his true name," Yamarral observed as he tucked the book into his plain brown tunic. "Do you doubt the laws of magic, or is this your notion of polite conversation?"

  Common enough words, and the clipped cadence indicated a very human state of annoyance, but ah, the voice! Music lurked in those deep, rounded tones, and the accent, both charming and elusive, seemed strangely enhanced by the demon's nondescript human appearance. Renwick had heard it said that men were seduced by their eyes and women by their ears. By that measure, innocent and impressionable little Nimra was all but damned.

  No, Renwick told himself sternly. Nimra was descended from the Guardians of Ascalhorn. She was a true scion of her illustrious forebears, and a paladin's daughter. She had grown up at her grandsire's knee, her eyes shining with wonder as Maerstar spun tales of magical treasures the Caradoon family had collected for generations. The old bard had staggered out of the ruins of Ascalhorn with a single precious book, but his stories of the family legacy had set Nimra's soul aflame. Renwick had trained her for the coming task. She was resolved to see it through; she would survive with her virtue intact.

  "I wish to strike a bargain," Renwick began.

  Yamarral smirked. "And what boon do you offer me, little wizard? Perhaps you would teach me the art of patience? Clearly you have learned it well; while you labored over the summoning spell, Selune's crescent belly swelled with light three times, and three times did she give birth to moondark."

  Actually, Renwick had been working toward this moment for much longer than three months. Only through long, difficult striving could he cast spells other wizards tossed about with ease. Summoning demons was a tricky business for anyone, and he was justly proud of this accomplishment. Still, the demon's mockery stung.

  Renwick reached for the framed miniature on a nearby table and thrust it toward Yamarral's sneering face. "Save your insults for those who wish you ill, and save your pretty words for this."

  "This" was Nimra, a slender, doe-eyed beauty in the first bloom of maidenhood. Thick braids of glossy brown hair framed a sweet, sun-browned face, and her simple green gown bared her arms and clung to budding curves. The little smile curving her lips gave her the look of a dryad caught in the midst of some small mischief. The portrait was a true and skillfully rendered likeness, and it had the desired effect.

  Dark hunger flared in the demon's eyes. For one soul-staining moment, Renwick glimpsed the true nature of the summoned creature. He managed with difficulty to suppress a shudder.

  "My brother's daughter, the child of his dissolute youth," he said. To his relief, his voice did not shake too badly. "My brother is the paladin Samular Caradoon. His duties often take him far from home, so the girl looks to me for direction. She wishes to learn Mystra's Art. I have promised to find her a suitable teacher."

  "Ah." Yamarral nodded sagely. "And you would release me into your world so that I might… school her, in exchange for magic that would set your thoughts in proper order and place the mastery of magic within your grasp."

  As summaries went, the demon's was flawless.

  Renwick simply did not see things as other men did. To his eyes, symbols turned this way and that upon the page, rearranging themselves into unintelligible patterns that required long study to decrypt. His mind demanded that certain runes be written in certain colored inks or they would be perceived as something altogether different. There was nothing wrong with his memory, but his spells, once learned, were still unreliable, for he was likely to invert words and gestures. None of these troubles, however, lessened his ambition or dimmed his conviction that he was destined for great things. The notion of gaining mastery over his malady through a demon's magic pained him, as did the role he must play to convince Yamarral that he was a "worthy" ally, but some paths toward the greater good must needs pass through dark and dangerous places.

  "A fair exchange, for you will not soon tire of the girl," Renwick promised. "She is as quick-witted as she is fair. Under your tutelage, she could become a wizard of great power. Through her, your dominion over these parts would be assured for many years to come."

  "This has possibilities," Yamarral admitted. "And what form would your payment take?"

  "A blood token."

  The demon's brows flew upward. "Long years have passed since a mortal bound himself and his bloodline to my service! I had thought this knowledge lost since before the Ilythiiri took to tunneling into the dirt like badgers and calling themselves drow. But since you know something of my history, I assume you also know what befell those who treated with me?"

  "Of course."

  "Of course," Yamarral echoed with mock gravity. "And you hope to avoid this… how?"

  "I am twin-born."

  For long moments, demon and wizard regarded each other in silence. "Either you are not quite the fool you appear," Yamarral said softly, "or your folly exceeds all boundaries previously known to me."

  A frisson of unease ran up Renwick's spine, but he refused to entertain doubt. Some mystical force bound the twin-born, inclining them toward a shared purpose. This was common knowledge; the demon assumed, as Renwick had intended him to, that Renwick meant to transfer any ill effects of this magic, as well as the legacy of demonic bondage, to Samular and his descendants. But Renwick had made long study of the twin-born tie and was confident in his knowledge of its strengths and weaknesses. If any man could stretch them in ways never before tested, it was he.

  He cleared his throat. "You will have the traditional safeguards, naturally. Our bargain is void if you are returned to the Abyss by me or any other. I will possess whatever magic our bargain yields until the day you return to the Abyss, but any new spells or magical devices I might wish to create in the future will require either your consent, or the will of your blood-bound servants."

  "By which you mean the paladin's pretty daughter and the demonspawn I intend to get on her." Yamarral lifted one brow, and his lascivious smile turned sly. "Since you know something of my history with mortals, you are no doubt aware that I breed only twin-born son
s. They will look alike, but one will favor his sire. You won't know which one, of course. We are tossing the dice, you and I, with much riding on the outcome."

  This was the moment Renwick had dreaded. Was it possible to lie to a demon? Could Yamarral hear the nervous quickening of his heart, smell the stench of falsehood in his sweat?

  Renwick fashioned a smirk and set it firmly upon his lips. "Where it is written that the blood token must be held by only one heir at a time? And is it not possible that kinsmen, as well as descendants, could be bound by the blood-token pledge? Why could I not share the burden and the benefits with two others of my blood?"

  Yamarral thought it over. "The thing has never been done, but I see no reason why it could not be as you say."

  "Then let the token reside in three parts. I will claim one third of the token and derive from it the power I need for my daily work. The three parts, wielded with the agreement of three blood-bound, must unite to realize the token's full power. We will also divide among us the consequences of that power." Renwick shrugged. "Hardly the legacy the good paladin might desire, but no doubt his faith will sustain him through the dark times ahead."

  Yamarral laughed delightedly. "You surprise me, Renwick Caradoon! I did not expect such vile treachery, and I mean that as a compliment."

  "Taken as such," Renwick lied. He set Nimra's portrait down and picked up the ready parchment and quill. "Now, shall we discuss the particulars?"

  29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

  Waterdeep

  To a man whose height could be measured by a single hand-span, even a paladin's library was a dark and dangerous place.

  Algorind stood at the edge of the writing table, glumly measuring the drop to the thick Calishite carpet. Six, perhaps seven times his current height. He could jump, but not without injury. And to what purpose? Where would he go, and how could he defend himself against the dangers his new size brought? The mouse that had scavenged a few stray crumbs from the floor before disappearing into the paneled wall was, relatively speaking, the size of a dire wolf.

  Algorind has been left on the table earlier that afternoon to await the arrival of his host-or perhaps more accurately, his jailor. To occupy the time, he'd studied his surroundings with eyes that measured familiar things in new and often disturbing fashion.

  Tapestries covered the walls with scenes from famous battles, woven in realistic hues of red and bronze. Whenever a draft rippled these hangings, the depicted figures seemed to quiver with impatience, as if eager to resume their slaughter. Twin gargoyles crouched atop the marble fireplace, demonic statues so skillfully carved that Algorind half expected to hear the sudden snap of unfurling bat wings. He was not much given to grim flights of fancy, but given his current size, everything in the luxurious study was monstrous in scale, and therefore slightly ominous.

  The grim aspects, however, were less disturbing to Algorind than the opulence. The table on which he stood was fashioned from a single plank of Halruaan bilboa. That rare and costly wood also paneled the walls, frequently in exquisitely carved scenes. Leather-bound tomes filled tall bookshelves. A painting depicting the rollicking afterlife to be found in Tempus's fest hall covered the high ceiling. The silver drinking bowl on the table smelled of sugared wine and was big enough for Algorind to bathe in. The dainty spoon next to it, even though it was large enough to serve Algorind as a credible spade, looked ill suited to a warrior's hand. Algorind, raised and trained by the Knights of Samular in the austere fortress known as Summit Hill, found such riches puzzling and unseemly.

  But who was he, of all men, to judge?

  On impulse, Algorind knelt beside the spoon and peered into its polished silver bowl. He was slowly returning to his natural size, but did his disgrace leave a lingering stain? Was it written upon his countenance for all men to read?

  His reflection stared somberly back, a miniature version of his former self, slightly distorted by the curve of the spoon but still the face he'd seen mirrored in the polished metal of his lost sword: a man not yet twenty years of age, with a steady, blue-eyed gaze and close-cropped hair nearly as curly and fair as a lamb's fleece. He was broad and strong from years of training and stern discipline, clad as simply as any farm lad. Out of respect, Algorind had set aside the pure white tabard bearing the Order's symbol: the scales of Tyr's justice, balanced upon the hammer of his judgment.

  Tyr's judgment.

  A new thought struck Algorind, one strange and powerful enough to rock him back on his heels. By Tyr's grace, even a fledgling paladin could learn the truth of a man's nature-including, perhaps, his own?

  Algorind had never sought to weigh his own heart. He was not even sure this was possible! The Knights of Samular were a military order, not a monastic one. Action, not introspection, was the business of Summit Hall.

  The need to know swept away all reservations. Algorind bowed his head in fervent, silent supplication. As he prayed, a sense of peace and quiet joy settled over him, as palpable as incense in a cloister. The troubling events of the last tenday faded into insignificance. Tyr was with him still.

  As Algorind sank deeper into the healing calm, a strange image flooded his mind. Stunted fields brooded beneath a dark and lowering sky. Briars and noxious weeds grew in profusion, slowing choking out the last few wholesome plants. Brackish water collected in dips and hollows, and black-winged scavenger birds circled overhead in patient silence, awaiting their own grim harvest.

  The vision jolted Algorind from his devotions. As he leaped to his feet, an enormous hand-a warrior's hand, gnarled with age and seamed with the scars of many battles-closed around him.

  The young man instinctively reached for his sword but found only the mockery of an empty scabbard. Defenseless, he was jerked off the table and swept up to a great height.

  A moment passed before he made sense of the huge, craggy visage before him. He was staring into the bright blue eyes of Sir Gareth Cormaeril, one of the greatest paladins of living memory.

  "You were invoking Tyr."

  The old knight's voice smote Algorind's ears like peals of thunder, like the judgment of Tyr Himself. Algorind's first impulse was to confide all to the great paladin-the unorthodox prayer, the disturbing vision that followed. But some instinct Algorind did not know he possessed urged him to keep his own council.

  "I was praying," he admitted. The suspicion on Sir Gareth's face, magnified past the possibility of subtlety, required more, so he added, "I am deeply troubled by my recent failings."

  Algorind's stern conscience rebelled at this evasion, but Sir Gareth seemed satisfied. He lowered Algorind to the table, then pulled up a deep chair and seated himself so that they were still eye to eye.

  "You will have need of the god's counsel, and mine as well, if you hope for a favorable decision from the masters of Summit Hall," he said briskly. "We have much to discuss before your hearing, and scant time to prepare."

  Puzzlement furrowed Algorind's brow. Preparing for a trial? What strange notion was this? The truth was told and judgment was passed; what more could there be?

  "I trust in Tyr's justice."

  Sir Gareth inclined his head piously, leaving Algorind to marvel at the flicker of impatience on the old knight's face.

  "So do we all, but your trial touches upon great matters, things that concern the deeper mysteries of the Knights of Samular. You will be allowed to answer the charges brought against you, but some things, for the sake of the Order, must remain unsaid."

  "But surely nothing is secret from Master Laharin!"

  "The master of Summit Hall will not be the only man at the counsel table. Harper representatives will be present, as will witnesses from among the common folk."

  Algorind nodded reluctantly. "What would you have me say?"

  "Your task was to deliver Cara Doon, a child of Samular's bloodline, to the protection of the Order. To that end, you brought her to Waterdeep. She was stolen away by a Harper known as Bronwyn, who is sister to the child's fathe
r-a priest of Cyric who calls himself Dag Zoreth. The child was spirited away to Thornhold, a fortress of the Order, recently taken in battle by Dag Zoreth and held by Bronwyn and her dwarf allies."

  The young man's confusion grew as he listened to this partial recitation of fact. "Bronwyn said she rescued the child from a south-bound slave ship."

  "What of it? She is a Harper, one who meddles in the affairs of her betters! She is a treasure hunter who despoils the crypts of the ancient dead. She does business with the Zhentarim, and she handed one of the rings of Samular over to Dag Zoreth. She professes no god, at least not openly. She is a light-skirt who has known many men and wed none. By any measure I know, the woman is not to be trusted."

  "That may be so," Algorind said carefully, for he had seen enough of Bronwyn to suspect that the truths Sir Gareth spoke did not tell the whole tale of the woman, "but the fifty dwarves she freed from the slave ship will claim otherwise."

  Sir Gareth's smile was grim. "We cannot keep the Harper wench from speaking at your trial. The dwarves, however, may find themselves otherwise occupied."

  A chill ran down Algorind's spine. Was it his imagination, or did those words hold an ominous ring?

  He forced himself to listen respectfully as Sir Gareth outlined the points Algorind should cover and those he should avoid. At last the old knight nodded, satisfied with the young man's recitation of carefully selected facts.

  "All will be well, my son," he said warmly. "I am certain you will be restored to your place in Summit Hall. I will speak for you. Nay, more than that-I will sponsor you on a new paladin quest!"

  This was a generous offer, but Algorind's sense of unease deepened. The proper response would be to draw his sword and offer it in fealty. For the first time, Algorind did not regret his empty scabbard.

  Fortunately, Sir Gareth did not seem to require a response. He removed Algorind from the writing table to "suitable quarters"-a large birdcage, outfitted with a folded linen towel for a cot and an acorn cap for a chamber pot. A snuffbox served as a table, and on it was a thimble-full of ale and thick slivers of cheese and bread. The cage sat upon a small, round table, one that was even higher off the floor than the writing table.