Once Around the Realms (single books)

by Brian Thomsen

  "Calm down!" ordered Nordhoff. "We'll throw you a line!"

  "Hurry!" Passepout screamed, taking in a full mouthful of seawater, which he spit out to add, "… and a pair of pants, too!"

  The weight of the pirate's iron accoutrements had pulled him down into his watery grave from whence there was no return. His final lunge at the struggling Passepout had just missed its mark, it didn't hook the panicking thespian in the flesh but nonetheless snagged him at the belt line and that was enough to pull the pirate under. Even a belt that had managed to maintain order on the thespian's massive gut could not take the extra strain of the added weight of the equally corpulent pirate and eventually gave way, allowing the hook to lay claim and drag Passepout's pants along to the pirate's watery death, while allowing the thespian himself to bob safely up to the surface.

  The Brotherhood of the Red Tide, formerly under the command of Ahib Fletcher, had no desire to serve under the captaincy of the rotund and soggy thespian who had apparently bested their captain, and a deal was cut where the two ships would agree to part and never mention the incident that had transpired.

  As the pirate ship disappeared toward the horizon, Passepout, swathed in towels and blankets, had returned to his former self.

  "Did you see that? Did you see that? No pirate is a match for the son of Idle and Catinflas," he crowed to his former master.

  "None, indeed," Volo replied jovially, helping the thespian towel off. "Something should be left to mark the location of this august event."

  Passepout nodded.

  "I agree, Mister Volo," he replied, "and are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "But of course," the master traveler answered.

  Passepout nodded again, and opened the bag of now-wet gems, which he had managed to grab off his belt just before it gave way.

  "Wet, but safe and sound," the thespian observed. Upon opening the bag, he noticed that indeed one of the gems had changed from green to red. He tossed it overboard in the general vicinity of the area in which the duel to the death had taken place.

  The story of Passepout's brave and victorious battle with a fierce pirate captain spread from ship to ship along the coast, fueled by the lack of actual details of who was involved and how it occurred as in accordance with their agreement with the Brotherhood of the Red Tide. All along the Vilhon Reach stories true (Passepout won a hand-to-hand battle to the death, more or less) and false (a secret agent of King Azoun himself, using the disguise of an out-of-shape thespian, had infiltrated the dreaded Brotherhood of the Red Tide and crushed it from within) were being bantered about, giving the chubby thespian quite a reputation as a hero.

  While traveling off the coast of Chondath, just a day out from their destination of Arrabar, Volo and Passepout were watching the shoreline as they passed by.

  "Starbuck says that he heard that the people of Arrabar plan on offering you the command of their navy," Volo offered. "It's in a rebuilding phase after their recent war with the evil mage Yrkhetep."

  "Sounds like a nice cushy job," Passepout answered. "Perfect for a soon-to-be-retired hero such as myself. Any idea how much the job pays? Just out of curiosity, I mean, after we've finished our trip, of course."

  "Of course," Volo concurred, "but somehow I didn't think you would be interested in it at any price. All of the peoples of Chondath, particularly those in their port city of Arrabar, are highly lawful, and intolerant of pirates. I think that they see you as their savior, a warrior of the high seas willing to dedicate his life to wiping away the bloody scourge of piracy from their coastal ways."

  Passepout chuckled.

  "I think I'll pass," the thespian replied. "I don't think this legendary hero business is all it's cracked up to be. Besides, Idle and Catinflas would never forgive their only son if he forsook the stage for a life of bravery, heroism, and that sort of thing."

  "Ah," replied Volo, "Arrabar's loss is the art's gain."

  "Indeed!" the corpulent thespian responded, puffing up his chest almost enough to match his stomach. "It isn't easy being a man of many talents."

  "Indeed!" Volo replied.

  The Amistad's Bounty pulled into harbor at Arrabar without any fanfare whatsoever: no parades, no banners, no job offers for Passepout from the Lord of Arrabar who ruled the allied city-states of Chondath, nothing out of the ordinary at all. Apparently the rumors of the thespian's heroism were only outdone in their outrageousness by the rumors of the public's response to them.

  "Well," said the slightly discouraged Passepout, who was putting his pack in order after the long ocean voyage, "I said I was going to turn it down anyway… but it would have been nice to be asked."

  "Look at it this way, my friend," Volo offered. "I remember the story of a hero whose reputation had spread so far and wide that he was never able to go anywhere without being recognized. As a result he was never able to get any rest, as he was always besieged by petitioners wanting his help. Likewise, he was never able to rest, because there were an equal number of fellows who wanted him dead just so that they could claim his murder as another highlight of their infamous reputation. Rumor has it that eventually he had to sleep sitting up with his back to the wall of the farthest corner in any inn's accommodation so that he always would be prepared for whatever the fates threw at him."

  "Whatever happened to him?" the thespian inquired.

  "He joined up with six other heroes to save a small town that was being besieged by bandits."

  "So what happened?"

  "The bandits were routed, but he was killed. They buried him in the town cemetery. A last he had a place to rest. The local children still put flowers on his grave."

  Passepout shivered.

  "I guess being a hero isn't all it's cracked up to be," the thespian observed. "The theater is my true calling."

  "… and the other heroes of the world rejoice at hearing your decision," piped in Harper Nordhoff, who had just joined the two in their cabin. "I just came by to wish you both luck on your journey. Remember, Passepout: It takes all kinds to make a world, and a hero is as a hero does."

  "Amen," said Volo.

  The two travelers shook hands with Nordhoff, left the cabin, which would now return to being an above-deck storeroom, and disembarked from the ship to the harbor of Arrabar.

  Chapter 10

  The Golden Road And Beyond or Farther South to the Shining South

  Centuries ago, Chondath had been one of the leading trade empires of all Faerun, and Arrabar had been the golden apple of its eye. Opulence led to decadence, and decadence to decline. Soon war was followed by war. First, foreign predators lay siege in hopes of sharing in the bastion of wealth. This was followed by petty disputes from within, culminating in numerous civil wars. War was accompanied by famine, plague, pestilence, and the sisters of ruin, leaving the once golden apple a mere husk of its former self.

  Arrabar was now in a period of rebuilding, and its streets were a bit more sleepy and subdued than Passepout would have expected of the capital of the allied city-states of Chondath. New construction was underway, and traders and merchants flocked the harborside to claim their recently delivered goods, and engage in commerce. (The Amistad's Bounty had undergone a discreet name change before heading into port so as not to incur the wrath of the intended recipients of its former- living-cargo, and was now called the Balding Quaestor.)

  "Where to now, Mister Volo?" Passepout asked.

  "Farther south," Volo replied. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

  The two travelers took a room for the night at an inn just beyond the city wall. During years prior, the building had been a plague house for those denied entrance to the city during its self-imposed quarantine. None of the city dwellers ever stayed there, and few travelers stayed for the second night of the inn's two-night minimum upon finding out about the building's heritage. As a result, the proprietor always had rooms to spare, and figured that he was making twice the profit for half the bother on each guest. He sometimes liked to jok
e that the only second-day boarders in the history of the inn were those waiting to be carried off by the plague cart.

  As luck would have it, the inn was also boarding a group of mercenary adventurers who were headed south to Ormpetarr in hopes of finding work. Volo and Passepout entertained the band with tales of travelogue, adventure, and tourism from Volo's vast catalogue of experiences, and numerous monologues and jokes and mercifully few songs from Passepout's ever-growing repertoire.

  As the entertainment lasted late into the night, a deal was struck whereby the gazetteer and the thespian would be allowed to travel with the mercenary band as long as they paid their own way and treated the band with a bit of entertainment each night. The travelers agreed, and the following morning Volo and Passepout joined the long roll of one-night-stand guests of the inn.

  The mercenaries were a fun bunch, led by a former captain in Azoun's Purple Dragons who deserted after finding the peace that followed the successful routing of the Horde invasion too boring. The others in the group included a dark-skinned half-giant with a bad attitude, a good-looking elven marksman who was also a bit of a con artist, and a wayward cleric halfling who fell prey to bouts of chaotic madness. All four were on the run from someone (Azoun, the Lords of Waterdeep, the Zhentarim, whatever) and fiercely loyal to each other, or whomever they accepted employment from.

  All along the way Volo treated the heavily armed band of protectors to descriptions of the wonders of Faerun, stories of various encounters, and legends and lore of days gone by. He had just finished relating the tale of Shandaular, the legendary city outside time, when the group noticed that they had reached their destination of Ormpetarr, where his and Passepout's path would diverge from theirs.

  Hannibal, the former captain in the Purple Dragons, shook hands with the two travelers who had provided them with so much entertainment.

  "I love it when a plan comes together," he said, "and never have I felt so well compensated for merely sharing the road with other travelers."

  "And never have I felt so well protected," replied Volo.

  "Nor I," added Passepout.

  "Fin expecting mention in one of your upcoming guides," Hannibal quipped.

  "Guaranteed," replied the grateful gazetteer.

  "And you, Passepout, what can I say? Don't give up your day job," the mercenary jibed, then added, "Just kidding."

  The mercenaries and the travelers waved farewell and parted company. Volo and Passepout entered the city of Ormpetarr, leaving the familiarity of the Vilhon Reach, for the Shaar, the northern boundary of the Shining South.

  From Ormpetarr, the two travelers joined an ever-changing caravan that was headed south along the Golden Road. Initially, it had been composed primarily of merchants from Nimpeth and farther north but now seemed to be composed primarily of nomadic herders and their families, going south in search of greener pastures. Volo and Passepout had made a few acquisitions before joining, including a change of clothing into more suitable 'native' gear, and a few beasts of burden to support the provisions that they would require for the journey farther south.

  Passepout was amazed that Volo never seemed to run out of gold, no matter how many purchases he made. No matter where they were he always had the appearance of a man of means, and initially the thespian thought that perhaps he was exercising some magical power that had been left untouched by the dampening spell. After the pre-caravan shopping trip, Passepout finally asked him about his curious abilities at procurement.

  "There really isn't anything to explain," Volo replied. "My travelers' guides have been popular all over, and most merchants are more than willing to allow me the use of a certain ration of their supplies in exchange for some goodwill, advertising, and an occasional mention in print."

  Passepout accepted this as an answer that pertained to the merchants, and acknowledged that the master traveler was also a master of persuasion and self-promotion, but wondered what he would do if such perks failed.

  Passepout then recalled the two-dragoned coin back in Cormyr and chuckled to himself, thinking, I guess no matter what the situation, Volo will think of something.

  Five days later, Passepout's assessment of Volo's non-magical abilities was once again put to the test.

  The latest group to join the caravan southward was a quartet of wizards returning to Halruaa after a long trip abroad. Though magically powerful, the four magic-wielders were also rather old and infirm, with wits slightly feeble. They soon became the laughingstocks of the caravan until Volo and Passepout intervened, declaring themselves the quartet's bodyguards in order to discourage future attacks, either verbal or physical, on the wizards whose only wrongdoing was to grow old.

  The caravan had made camp for the night in a mountain canyon. The sun was setting, and dinner was being prepared at a half-dozen campfires when the roar of thundering hooves split the peace and quiet of the approach of twilight.

  Out of a cloud of dust in the distance roared a gang of bandits who had been lying in wait for a caravan to settle for the night, boxed in by the canyon wall.

  The leader of the band was a tall halfling, balding and badly in need of shave, with a wide-brim hat that had been blown off his head and now rested against his back, held in place by a string at his neck. He quickly dismounted from his horse and began to strut around their camp.

  "I am Eli of the Wallachs," he announced, "and you have entered my territory. But that is all right, for I am a reasonable man and not the vicious bandit that rumor has promulgated. I know you have no wish to cause trouble, and you will therefore be more than willing to pay tribute to me for permission to pass through my land."

  With that the other bandits dismounted and began to raid the caravan of its valuables.

  "We have no desire to kill anyone," Eli continued, "and we greatly appreciate your cooperation."

  Passepout thanked Eo that the gems were safely obscured from view by the bag that Storm had provided, and since both he and Volo had been traveling light, didn't really anticipate any great losses since the bandits seemed interested only in objects of value rather than supplies of provisions.

  The caravan members all complied with the bandits' wishes, until one of the old wizards refused to give up an amulet that he wore around his neck.

  "No!" he screamed. "I will never give it up!"

  This wanton act of defiance infuriated Eli, who prepared to backhand the wizened old magic-user. Volo intervened.

  "Eli of the Wallachs," Volo begged, "please forgive this old man. He is an enfeebled mage, as are all of his fellow travelers, and they are all poor, but honest, men of learning."

  Eli laughed a fiendish laugh.

  "Mages!" he crowed. "We don't need no stinkin' mages, particularly old and senile ones." The bandit leader drew out a dagger and prepared to throw it at the enfeebled old man who wouldn't give up his amulet.

  Volo dove to try to intercept Eli's hand before he could throw the dagger, only to fall against an invisible wall that separated him from the bandit. Momentarily stunned by his collision with the invisible obstacle, the master traveler shook his head to try to clear the haziness from the concussion, and looked up in time to see the bandit Eli, dagger still in hand, burst into flame. In less than ten seconds, Eli had been reduced to a pile of soot and ash.

  The other bandits panicked, dropped their loot, and took off for the hills, leaving their steeds and the ill-gotten gain from previous extortions back at the caravan's camp.

  Slowly Volo got to his feet and turned around to face the wielder of the fireball that had taken out the fiendish bandit. There stood the other three wizards with their arms folded, stern expressions on their faces as they watched the rest of the outlaw gang heading for the hills. In the meantime Passepout had helped the mage with the amulet to his feet, and was now leading him back to the rest of his group.

  The youngest of the four elderly wizards approached Volo.

  "I would like to thank you for your kindness and heroism, but as you see, it rea
lly was quite unnecessary. It would have been rude for us to turn down your offer to be our bodyguards, but under no circumstances could we allow you to unnecessarily risk your life on our behalf. As you can see, we can more than take care of the whole caravan, let alone ourselves."

  Passepout had now reached Volo's side and queried the youngest of the mages, "But why did you stand for the others' insults and allow yourselves to be thought of as feeble old men?"

  "It is true that we are not as young as we used to be, but no one is," he answered. "Insults are cheap, and when you get to our age, one sometimes gets selectively hard of hearing so as to make it easier to ignore the callous remark that is occasionally thrown our way. Daggers, however, are another matter entirely, and require a much different course of action, as you have just observed."

  The youngest wizard offered his hand in thanks to Volo and Passepout for their unnecessary but appreciated assistance, and gave each of them a medallion that had been forged in ancient Netheril.

  "Please accept this as a token of our gratitude," the oldest wizard, who had refused to give up his amulet, said. "Tomorrow we will leave the caravan to travel on our own. It is not meant as insult, but I'm afraid that the rest of you will slow us down. The medallion will protect you and the others until you reach your destination. If you are ever in Halarahh, please look us up at the Porter's Shop, at the corner of William and Henry. If not, just think of us kindly whenever you remember the gift mages."

  The following morning, when Volo, Passepout, and the rest of the caravan arose from a sound night's slumber, the four old mages were nowhere to be seen.

  Though Volo undoubtedly picked up numerous details and anecdotes to be used in some later Volo's Guide to the Shining South, the rest of their journey southward continued uneventfully, and the caravan was disbanded upon reaching Halarahh.

  "So let me get this straight," said Passepout. "This is a city of wizards, right?"