Once Around the Realms (single books)

by Brian Thomsen

  "Mister Volo," the thespian offered, "I remember when I was once working on a show with my parents, Idle and Catinflas, the famous thespians, that I helped out with some of the set decorations.

  The set designer was an elf, and he used hot air to inflate bags of colored paper, which would then float in the air around the stage. Perhaps we could do something similar here."

  "If we can get the ship aloft and on an even keel," Curtis asserted, "I'm sure I can helm her back toward the east."

  "Capital idea!" Volo exclaimed. "Curtis, you and I will unfoul the rigging so that the sailbag can continue to inflate evenly. Once it appears to be full, we can use the paint and glue that Passepout found below to make a sealing paste to take care of any slow leaks or ruptures in the sail skin."

  "What do you want me to do?" Passepout asked, instantly regretting that he had spoken up.

  "I want you and Grumby to find something to cover that hole in the hull. Once the sailbag is inflated, we have to be able to stopper it. So scout around the immediate area… and hurry. I might have been overly optimistic about the amount of time we have, volcanically speaking, that is."

  The thespian and the dwarf grumbled as they took off for their assignment, as much about their assigned companion as about the duty itself. Passepout decided they should follow a path through the brush that would circle around the ship so that at least he would not fall prey to retracing his steps.

  "Superstitious, are you," the dwarf commented upon hearing the thespian's concern about doubling back.

  "Something like that," he replied, not wanting to further explain. He did not trust the dwarf and had no desire to supply him with any information that could be used against him or Volo.

  "You know, that kid Curtis is pretty smart," the dwarf continued, purposely trying to provoke the overweight and out-of-shape thespian, who was having a difficult time getting though the hot, humid rain forest brush that occupied the jungle side of the volcanic mountain.

  "Well, I was the one who figured out about the sailbag, and the hot air!" the thespian contended indignantly.

  "I would have expected you to be an expert on hot air," replied the belligerent dwarf, "since you are so full of it."

  Passepout was about to reply with a similarly discourteous remark about the dwarf's body odor when he heard the approach of footsteps in the brush.

  "Quiet!" the thespian whispered, then, indicating a break in the shrubbery, ordered, "Let's hide here."

  The fat thespian and the foul-odored dwarf crammed into the small break in the foliage that, despite the mutual discomfort of the two explorers, nevertheless managed to safely hide their combined bulk while providing them with a clear line of vision at the source of the overheard footsteps.

  "Look!" Grumby ordered.

  "Hush!" Passepout replied.

  Walking along the path they had taken no less than seconds before were several lizard men. Obviously native to the jungle, the four in the lead were at least ten feet tall, with tiny scales covering their bare, olive-green torsos they trudged along on talon-clawed feet. They were carrying what appeared to be the appendages of a recently slaughtered thunder lizard, the meat still left on the bone for the upcoming meal causing their razor-toothed mouths to water. Bringing up the rear was the runt of the litter, only six feet tall, who was struggling with the silvery-gray hide of the recently slaughtered prey.

  "Lizard men," Passepout whispered to his cramped companion of the moment.

  "Kinda funny-lookin', though," Grumby responded in a similar tone. "Where are their tails?"

  Passepout, ignoring the dwarfs question, whispered as the hunters passed, "I bet we could use that hide to both seal the rupture in the hull and reflect the sun's rays upward to keep the air hot in the sailbag itself."

  Grumby couldn't control himself, and started to laugh. "I've never heard such rubbish," the dwarf howled.

  The runt of the lizard men stopped in his tracks and, without notifying his brethren but still bearing the skin, returned to the spot he thought he heard the laughter coming from.

  Both the dwarf and the thespian hushed. Unfortunately, Passepout had to sneeze and couldn't hold it any longer. "Atchoo!" he roared, scaring the native, who dropped the thunder lizard's skin and took off after his comrades.

  "Well, that was easy enough," the thespian commented.

  "Oh, yeah," the dwarf retorted. "I bet he's just gone to bring back company."

  Grumby was right, and by the time the two novice explorers, the thunder lizard's skin carried between them, could see the inflated sailbag floating above the plateau clearing before them, they could hear the footsteps of the lizard hunter and his buddies in hot pursuit.

  The incline of the terrain, the humid climate, the bulky lizard hide, and the less-than-athletic physiques of both Grumby and Passepout all succeeded in slowing the duo. With the balloon in sight and with one last thicket blocking their way back to the ship, the lizard men had almost caught up with them.

  Rumble! Rumble!

  The ground beneath them began to shake, and Grumby and Passepout were pitched forward into the clearing.

  Barooooom!

  The humid mists that enshrouded the plateau instantaneously cleared as the volcano above started to erupt, spewing flames, molten rock, and clouds of ash down the mountainside.

  Volo leaned over the side of the ship to help Passepout aboard. "Back in the nick of time," Volo gratefully professed.

  "Hope so," the out-of-breath thespian replied. "The lizard skin… we can use it to stop the hole…"

  "Perfect," Volo answered. "Curtis, take the skin and seal the hatch above where the rupture is."

  "Skin… shiny side up," Passepout panted.

  "As he says," Volo ordered. "Grumby take the helm, and get us out of here!"

  "Aye, aye, you…" the dwarf replied, mumbling an inaudible curse.

  In the time it took for the patch to be fixed in place and for Grumby to take the helm, the tailless lizard men, having regained their balance after the initial tremor, broke into the clearing.

  "Take off now!" Passepout yelled.

  … and the Minnow, with Grumby at the helm, responded, leaving the plateau surface, which was quickly cracking in two, volcanic fissures reaching out from the spot where the first geyser had appeared.

  Looking down at the plateau below, Volo noticed the scrambling forms of the lizard men, who were trying to avoid falling into the recently formed crevices. "Who are they?" he asked his quickly recovering companion.

  "The owners of the thunder lizard's skin that we borrowed," Passepout replied.

  "Borrowed?"

  "In a manner of speaking," the thespian answered. "It's not like we stole it or anything. The runt dropped it, and we appropriated it."

  "I see," the master traveler replied, looking back at the plateau's surface. "You mean the smallest one of the group-the one who is only now sprouting wings to join the others, who are flying after us."

  "What?" the shocked thespian responded, ignoring his vertigo and joining Volo in staring back from whence they came.

  The lizard creatures, having recovered from the shock of the volcanic eruption, had taken to the air, and in the process had polymorphed into a form for flying, with wings that stretched fifteen feet from point to point.

  Kwaaaahk! the leader screamed.

  "Those weren't lizard men," Volo yelled. "They were pteramen. Grumby, get us out of here as fast as possible. Everyone else, battle stations."

  Passepout and Curtis joined in a chorus of aye-ayes, while the disgruntled dwarf could be heard grumbling something about being suitable to navigate the ship under these circumstances.

  Passepout and Volo armed themselves with oars and proceeded to bludgeon any of the pteramen who tried to board the ship in midflight. The lizards' bodies were surprising light, easily thrown back over the side of the ship, where they fell to the ground. Curtis had armed himself with one of the ship's anchors, which he proceeded to throw through the air
, conking the approaching flyers in midair and throwing them off-course.

  The battle was going fine until three pteramen reached the deck at the same time. The master traveler and the thespian did their best to fight off the intruders. Volo managed to throw one overboard, but another had locked the chubby thespian in an embrace and was threatening to drag him over the side as well.

  Thinking quickly, Curtis lassoed Passepout with the anchor rope seconds before he and his attacker went overboard. When the rope went taut upon reaching its end, the vibration separated the two attackers, and the pteraman fell to the ground below, while the thespian hung, panicking, in midair. "Help! Help!" the thespian screamed. "The rope is going to break."

  The rope held fast while the battle with the final attacker on board continued.

  The last of the pteramen, the runt, had poly-morphed back to his terrestrial form and was trying to reclaim the hide, which was being used as a plug. Curtis threw a net over him, as Volo subdued him with the last remaining oar.

  The pteramen, wrapped in the net, passed into unconsciousness.

  "I'm glad that's over," Curtis remarked.

  "Good flying, Crumby," Volo called to the dwarf, who muttered something unintelligible in return.

  "Help!" Passepout cried, still hanging a good fifteen feet below the boat.

  "I guess we should drag him in," Volo replied.

  "Yeah," agreed Curtis, "but you should have seen the one that got away."

  The master traveler and the teenage urchin continued to laugh as they hauled in their heavy shipmate.

  No sooner had he reached the deck than Passepout passed out, only to open his eyes moments later to find himself staring into the eyes of the net-bound pteraman.

  Once again he screamed… and passed out.

  By nightfall they had put the subcontinent of Chult well behind them, as they proceeded to fly farther eastward and to the north.

  Passepout was cheered for his heroic exploits. Not only did he procure the reflective thunder lizard skin, assist in the defense of the ship, and hold on to the anchor line until the others were able to haul him in, but he also took the time, while suspended in midair, to fling one of the recently turned gems into the mouth of the erupting volcano. He had earned a tourist's rest and was taking advantage of it.

  Curtis was a fast learner and soon was a better master of the helm than Grumby.

  Volo charted their progress over the deserts, towns, and cities of Faerun by posting the enchanted map that Khelben had given them, so as to notice if they veered off course at the earliest possible dropping of a gem (a maneuver that would have saved their side trip to Chult had he thought of it earlier).

  Grumby, surprisingly, spent all of his time either practicing macrame or conversing (if it could be called that) with the captive pteraman, who had settled into a quiet existence of a prisoner on board ship. Grumby also took responsibility for the caring and feeding of the creature, who, without the support of its allies, was extremely docile and well-behaved.

  "Now, eat this, little buddy," Grumby would instruct it at feeding time. "Do what Grumby says."

  The pteraman was also the only one on board who didn't seem to mind the dwarfs odor, and during times of rain, it was allowed to share the dwarfs cabin.

  One morning, Curtis, who was scheduled for morning duty, woke Volo and Passepout with a start. "Mister Volo, Mister Passepout!" he shouted. "Grumby and the pteraman are gone."

  The master traveler and the thespian rushed to the side to see if they could see the missing duo. Volo spied a moving dot in the distance. Using his traveler's spyglass, Volo focused on the dot.

  Flying through the air in the distance was Grumby, astride the pteraman, a makeshift harness and bridle fashioned from the dwarfs macrame.

  "Son of a golem!" Volo exclaimed in disbelief.

  "He left this note," Curtis revealed.

  Volo took the note and read its contents out loud. "Volo (if that is your real name) and deadweight, I've trained the pteraman as my mount and plan on flying it to Tantras, where I can put it on exhibition. With the loss of the ship's magic, our bond is null and void. So long, suckers. You'll never make it to Kara-Tur."

  "A charmer to the end," Passepout commented. "… but how did he manage to train it? I thought dinosaurs were wild and untrainable monsters."

  "Not true," Volo replied. "I remember reading about a race of albino dwarves who spent their lives mining in the mountains of Chult. Perhaps it was in the writings of Artus Cimber…"

  "But what does that have to do with…" the impatient thespian demanded as the dot grew smaller and smaller to the naked eye.

  "I was getting to that," Volo replied. "These dwarves supposedly had domesticated smaller dinosaurs to do hauling work in and out of the mines. Perhaps dwarves just have some sort of ability in this area."

  "Well, good riddance," the thespian replied.

  "… and nothing but more fragrant air space ahead," concluded the master traveler.

  Chapter 13

  Flying over Faerun or Watch Out for That Fireball!

  Life on board the eastbound airship Minnow quickly fell into an agreeable routine for all concerned. Curtis manned the wheel, maintaining a northeasterly course over Faerun as charted by Volo, who used the enchanted map, with its illuminated trail that maintained the path of their journey. Volo also made use of his handy portable charts and maps, the very necessary kit pack of a master traveler. Passepout became the nominal cook of the trio, spending most of his time preparing (and consuming) a variety of tasty dishes from the rather bland stocks and stores of the ship. Occasionally he would also go fishing for fowl with the net that had formerly confined the pteraman of Chult, he would scoop up an occasional member of a flock that ventured too close to the side or below the passing airship.

  Across the Shining Plains, over the Sea of Fallen Stars, and far above Aglarond, the party made their way eastward with the occasional gem thrown overboard to mark their path on the enchanted map and on the surface of Toril far below. With high winds at their backs and a semi-regular current of thermals below, Volo anticipated smooth sailing ahead. Next stop: Kozakura in Kara-Tur, where provisions could be gathered before they continued their aerial journey eastward across the uncharted Eastern Sea. Unless, of course, Passepout had consumed their seemingly inexhaustible stores of foodstuffs prior to their arrival at their expected destination.

  As time passed, Volo witnessed a gradual change in the young beachcombing urchin, Curtis. Though still maintaining a certain degree of respectfulness toward the master traveler, the lad quickly became a thorn in Passepout's side, playing tricks on him, joking about his girth, and in general acting like a kid. Passepout responded in kind, promoting a misplaced sibling rivalry between the two for the attention of the well-traveled father figure.

  Curtis was also revealed to be quite knowledgeable about numerous subjects: not just geography, and navigation, but history, politics, and theater as well. Though Volo still doubted the veracity of his claim to noble birth, he nonetheless accepted the evidence that the youth was indeed the recipient of an incomplete education that was probably not indigenous to his beachcomber abode. The master traveler's skepticism only drove the lad to be more insistent on proving the veracity of his claims, particularly if he also succeeded in showing up the proud thespian son of Idle and Catinflas.

  One evening, somewhere over Westgate, Passepout was reminiscing about his exploits on the stage and treating his two companions to a few saucy tidbits about his past. "Why, I even kept company with the legendary bard Olive Ruskettle," the proud thespian boasted.

  "You mean Olav Ruskettle," Curtis corrected.

  Passepout ignored the correction and continued his tale.

  "Though only a fair singer and musician, her gift for the gab, glib tongue, and saucy red hair and hazel eyes worth dying for more than made up for her lack of true theatrical talent," the thespian pointed out. "Of course, I was willing to give her a few pointers and show he
r the old stage ropes, if you know what I mean. Normally, I'm not much fond of halflings, particularly tiny ones like her, but let it not be said that Passepout, the favorite son of the legendary thespians Catinflas and Idle, wasn't willing to make an occasional exception."

  Curtis became quite indignant.

  "I don't know who you were talking about," the teenager interjected, "but it sure doesn't sound like any legendary bard I've ever heard of, let alone Olav Ruskettle."

  "Well, then," the haughty thespian responded, "I guess that just goes to show how really little you really know, doesn't it?"

  "I know enough not to mistake some halfling guttersnipe pickpocket for the famed bard Olav Ruskettle," the youngster countered.

  Passepout-ignoring the fact that, now that he thought about it more clearly, he did recall having his pocket picked that night-nonetheless retorted, "Takes one to know one!"

  "Are you calling me a thief?" the youngster asked, getting very hot under the collar. He was more than willing to throw the chubby thespian over the side just to prove a point, as young men whose pride lacks the tempering of maturity are wont to do.

  "Well, now that you mention it," the thespian continued with his taunts, "it's not as if you really are the son of some noble or millionaire merchant from Suzail or some other highfalutin society town, now, is it?"

  "That's enough from both of you," Volo interrupted with a tone of finality. "Who cares if it's Olive Ruskettle or Olav Ruskettle? Perhaps there are two bards by that name. Perhaps one of them moonlights as a pickpocket. Who knows, and frankly, who cares? I'm sick and tired of your bickering and your one-upmanship. Men of the road such as ourselves have to live by our own code of honor. Accept another fellow traveler's tale with a discriminating grain of salt… but never call him a liar to his face or a charlatan to his crowd unless you are willing to risk not being the one to walk away in a one-on-one mortal match. Now shake hands and apologize."

  Begrudgingly, the pudgy thespian extended his hand and apologized. "I'm sorry that I implied you were a thief and a liar. I myself have been accused of such things at no other place than the gate of