by John Shirley
Alan Dean Foster is the New York Times best-selling, award-winning author of more than 110 books. Having spent time in more than a hundred countries, he is most comfortable when writing about strange places, climes, and characters.
TALLFOLK TALES
A TALE OF THE FORGOTTEN REALMS
LISA SMEDMAN
So it’s a guide you’re wanting, is it? Well, if it’s Araumycos you’re going to, that guide won’t be me. Regardless of the rumors you may have heard around town, I’ve had my fill of that place. Why, even the smell of mushroom wine—
Now hold on, elf. Don’t be so hasty to leave. I didn’t say there wasn’t a guide to be had. You’ve come to the right person. I know someone who’s as familiar with the twists and turns of Araumycos as that barkeep over there is with this tavern. And best of all, she won’t cost you a sack of coin, the way someone from the guides’ guild will—assuming they’d even take you there. No, she won’t charge a thing. And reliable? Well, listen to my tale and you’ll see that Rook is the person you want one pace ahead of you, if you’re venturing into Araumycos. And I’m the one who can tell you how to find her.
Fetch me some ale and sit down here at my table, and I’ll tell you my tale. But none of that spitfroth the humans try to pass off as lager, mind. Nor any of that honeyed cider you elves seem to love so much. Make it dwarven Samman ale, bitter and brown.
Ah. That’s the stuff. A meal in a glass, as they say.
You’ll be wondering at my taste in drink and my thick red beard. I’ve seen you note the silver hammers braided into it and my iron bracers. The star on them, just above the wrist, is part of my clan name. It’s Morndin you’re talking to, son of … well, son of Moradin, you might say. It was the Dwarffather who forged my soul anew, after whoever I was in my last lifetime died. He took my dwarf soul and cast it in a human mold, this time. Although if you ask me, it’s likely Vergadain had a hand in it too. They don’t call him the trickster god for nothing.
So here I am in this lifetime, a human. That’s why my shield brothers call me Morndin. Compared to them, I’m high as a mountain.
Now don’t raise that eyebrow. Just because it’s odd doesn’t mean it isn’t so. The Dwarffather must have decided there’s something I had to learn in this lifetime, something I could only discover in this body. Or perhaps there was some deed he wanted done. Something it would take this towering, narrowchested human body to accomplish.
I see that smile you’re trying to hide. I know what you’ll be asking next: how is it I came to believe such foolishness. You’ll be wondering if someone cast a befuddlement spell on me, or some such. The short answer is no. The long answer has to do with that footman’s mace leaning against the wall beside me here.
My parents—also human—had a provisions store in Hammergate, down by the Rift. They often took items in trade. I’m told that, a year or two before I was born, a creaky old longbeard said his adventuring days were behind him, and asked my father if he’d like to buy this mace. It’s pretty battered looking, isn’t it, with that slight bend in the handle and one of the flanges missing from the head? My father thought so, too. He didn’t want to take it in trade, but the longbeard said coin would comfort him in his final years more than any weapon would. And so my father bought the mace, tucked it away in the storeroom, and forgot all about it.
Turns out it was a magical weapon forged by the Ironstar clan—light as a feather, and capable of dealing a blow that calls down Moradin’s thunder, if you know the right word to say. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Years later, when I was seven, a half-orc tried to rob the store. He held my mother at knife-point and demanded all the coin in the lockbox. I was in the storeroom, and heard the commotion out front. The mace was the closest weapon to hand. I rushed into the shop, swinging it like a kuldjargh—that’s Dwarvish, by the way, for “beserker.” They say I wielded the weapon like I was born with it in my hand. And here’s the part that will lift that other eyebrow of yours. As the mace cracked against that half-orc’s head, I shouted a word that filled the room with magical, booming thunder. The crack of it split his head wide open.
Once I recovered from the surprise, I wondered how I’d done it. I knew a little Dwarvish; I’d grown on the Rift’s edge, in a shop that catered to dwarves, after all. Both of my human parents spoke Dwarvish, if a bit brokenly, and could read a little. But there was no explaining how I knew what word to shout that day. It wasn’t a word you’d expect, like corl or raugh or rorn. It—
Yes, yes, I’ll tell you about the guide in a moment. It’s just that you need to know this piece of it, so you’ll understand all that follows.
Could I have another Samman? My ale cup’s gone dry.
Ah. That’s better.
You’re obviously an elf of the surface realms, judging by that longbow you carry. That won’t be much use to you, down here in the Underchasm. And that leafmottle cloak won’t be much use either. Not here in Gracklstugh, where the buildings are as gray and gloomy as the duergar who built them. Nor will it aid you within the musky embrace of Araumycos. Most of the fungus is gray-white, dotted with orange puffballs. That’s what you have to watch out for, by the way. Blunder into one of those, and you’ll die a slow, choking death with spores that clog your nostrils and fruit deep in your lungs. Even a little whiff of it’s enough to scar the lungs for life. And a man whose body is erupting from the inside out with puffballs is a shuddersome sight, I’ll tell you.
But Rook will steer you clear of those.
You obviously have some passing familiarity with the Underchasm, to have made it this far down. And I see by that shield ring on your finger that you know a little about Araumycos’s strange pull. The closer you get to Araumycos, the more vivid those nightmares become. Even with magical protection, they root in your mind by night and fill it with strange whispers by day, telling you to join with … something. Whatever’s at the heart of the thing. Some say it’s a patch of the fungus that’s afire with spellplague and needs live fuel to stoke it. I couldn’t say if that’s true, myself. I just know you have to beware of the golhyrrl’fhaazht.
I see that frown. You’re wondering why I speak Drow. Short answer is, I don’t. They’re a race that’s evil through and through—cruel and depraved—but that word they coined is the best fit I know.
“Dream trap.” That’s Araumycos, all right.
Given their fear of it, the drow normally avoid Araumycos like the spellplague. That’s why we never expected to—
Yes, yes, I’m getting to the part where I tell you about Rook. But first I have to set the stage.
I won’t ask why you want to venture into Araumycos. Your reasons are your own affair. The reason we went in, my shield brothers and I, is best told by what’s in this pocket, here.
You ever seen one of these? It’s a rock gourd—a tiny one, no bigger than a walnut. They’re usually much bigger, at least the size of your head. Shake ’em like this … and there you go. See the water dripping from the stone? That’s what makes a rock gourd so valuable. Get lost in the Labyrinth, or trapped by a cave-in—or, I suppose, get lost in one of those deserts you have up there on the surface—and you’ll at least have all the water you need until you find your way out again.
’Course, this one’s too little to be worth much. Takes half a day to fill a thimble. But you get the idea.
Sad thing is, it’s the only one I was able to bring back with me.
Rock gourds are the reason we ventured into Araumycos. A patch of Araumycos had died off, and Gamlin and Farrik—two dwarves I once counted as shield brothers—figured they’d make their fortune before it grew back again.
Gamlin was the one who knew there’d be rock gourds there. He can sense things like that. He’s spellscarred, you see. Blundered into a patch of spellplague a few years back, and came out with feet that crackle with blue fire. Turned out to be a blessing in disguise. That spellscar roots him to the earth—roots him deep. Most of the time it just lets him st
and firm on stone—long as he’s barefoot—and not be pushed around. But stone whispers to stone, as they say, revealing secrets buried deep.
Anyhow, Gamlin talked his brother Farrik into venturing into Araumycos. Told him they could carry out their own weight in rock gourds several times over and be set for life. Which is where I came into the scheme.
After I came north, looking for my clan, I apprenticed as a stonemason. Swinging a mallet all day’s what gave me these arms. I was still living on the surface, in those days—still saving up for these darkvision goggles. One day, as I watched two earthmotes grind together, casting off a drift of splinters that thudded to the ground in their wake, I found myself wondering why the broken-off pieces lost their magic and fell, rather than staying aloft. I wondered if there might be some way to restore their magic.
I thought of an earth node I’d heard about—one that, if you enter it, creates an invisible, floating disk that follows you around. Handy, if you’ve got a heavy load you need to move. Trouble was, the magical energy fizzles out after about a day, so the node isn’t much use unless you live close by.
I knew the node didn’t make regular stones float, but I got to wondering what would happen if I took a broken-off chunk of earthmote and carried it into that node. It worked—beautifully. The chip of earthmote began to float as soon as I entered the node—and kept on floating for more than a month! It’s probably bobbing around somewhere near the quarry, to this day.
The next step was to find an earthmote of flint or obsidian or chert—stone that would knap into nice, thin sheets. I needed the quarrymaster’s help with that one. Once we located one that was just right, I knapped off a big piece and rounded the edges, then carried it to the node. It floated on its own, just like one of those driftdiscs the drow are so fond of. But better, because I didn’t need magic to control it. Just a simple nudge of the—
That’s right. You’re talking to the man who invented the motedisc. Ryordin Hammerfist is the man who took credit for it—even though all he did was help me locate an earthmote of the right type and provide the labor to mine it. Hammerfist claimed the motedisc was all his idea, but it was actually me who dreamed it up, back when I was his apprentice. And did he give me anything for it? Hah! If he did, don’t you think I’d be the one buying the drinks?
Anyway, motediscs. One day, Gamlin and Farrik came to one of my master’s floating quarries. Not to buy—Farrik always keeps his coin pouch tightly tied, and Gamlin’s purse is seldom full for long—but to offer Ryordin a deal. Said they’d cut him in on a third of the profits if he’d fund their prospecting.
Ryordin turned them down stone cold. Actually laughed at them when they told him they were from the Ironstar clan. Said he supposed they were ghosts, then, since the last of the Ironstars had vanished centuries ago.
Ironstars. The same clan that made my mace.
Their meeting with Ryordin had been behind closed doors—protective of their future claim, Farrik and Gamlin were. I blundered into the room just long enough to hear them name their clan, and hear them ask for motediscs.
An elf like you might scoff, but I saw the hand of Moradin in it. Farrik, Gamlin, and I were fated to meet. And when I offered to slide a few motediscs their way if they told me more about my clan, they jumped at the chance.
There’s that eyebrow again. Of course you would think they were lying about being Ironstars, taking advantage of me. People often take me for a fool when I tell them my life story, but I know when someone’s tugging my beard. And they weren’t lying—not really. All dwarf are clan, when you go far enough back past the time of Bhaerynden.
What’s more important to my tale is this: I demanded a one-third share in the venture, in return for me “borrowing” as many motediscs from the quarry as I could spirit away. And I insisted on going along.
Yes, yes, I’m getting to the part where I tell you about Rook. Almost there, in fact. In the meantime, could I trouble you for just one more ale? Tale-telling’s such thirsty work.
Much obliged.
We went down into the Underchasm—Gamlin, Farrik, and I—and made our way to the spot where Araumycos had died back. We found a shaft that had, just days before, been filled to the rim with fungus. That shaft was deep, I’ll tell you, and of natural-worn stone—likely carved by a thundering waterfall long ago. A trickle of water still fell, starting from a point in mid air, just above the place where the shaft met the tunnel we’d followed in. Obviously a portal to the plane of water that had been shrinking for millennia. A portal that had all but closed by the time we found it.
As I was staring up at the spot the water fell from, I saw a flash of something black. I figured it was just one of the bats we’d stirred up earlier, on our way in. Only later did I realize it had been Rook.
What remained of Araumycos was a soggy mess at the bottom of the shaft. Foul-smelling muck. We slip-shuffled through it for the better part of a day, collecting the rock gourds Gamlin ferreted out with his spellscar.
Before I say what happened next, there’s a thing or two you should know about Farrik and Gamlin. They’re twins—that’s been commonplace, among the dwarves, since the time of the Thunder Blessing. But although Moradin cast them in the same mold, they’re different as the surface is from the Underchasm.
Both of them are black bearded and heavy browed. And both are fiercely proud of our race. But Farrik’s not the cleanest, to put it politely. You don’t want to stand downwind of him. He’s always covered in dust, even when he’s not prospecting, and his beard’s always a terrible tangle. He says he’s just too busy to tend to it. That a man who works hard should look like he works hard—dirt under the nails, and sweat stains. But you’d think he could at least take a bath, now and again.
Gamlin’s the clean one. He was the one taught me to braid my beard like this—and to develop a taste for the finer, oak-barrel ales. Gamlin’s coin pouch is pretty flat, most days, because when he has coin, he spends it. Doesn’t matter if you’re clan or not—if you’re someone he’s taken a liking to, Gamlin’s always ready to fill your cup.
He didn’t like me much at first. Nor did Farrik. I could see that. But the motediscs I got for them fixed that, soon enough.
So there we were at the bottom of the shaft, sliding around in ankle-deep rotting fungus, our noses filled with the stench, but grinning away because each stubbed toe was another prize in what turned out to be the motherlode of rock gourds. I’d been able to spirit out six motediscs from the quarry and each was heaped high with rock gourds.
The twins insisted we collect every last rock gourd, until the motediscs were sagging under the weight. I thought that was foolish, that it would slow us down—but they were the prospectors and I was the lowly apprentice, so I did as I was told.
Farrik was tying the last of the nets in place to hold the rocks down, and Gamlin was off in a fissure in the wall, relieving himself of some of the ale he’d drunk along the march. I was bending down to pick up the rock gourd I just showed you. After I got my share, I’d hang on to it as a keepsake, I figured, of our expedition.
I was tucking it into my pocket when a crossbow bolt whistled past my ear.
My first thought, I’m ashamed to say, was that the twins had betrayed me. Then I heard Farrik cry out in alarm and clasp his arm. He’d been hit by a bolt shot from above. Even though it was a shallow wound, little more than a graze, the poison took him in a matter of heartbeats. He twisted, sagged, and splashed flat on his back in the muck.
I glanced up and saw a lone drow, levitating perhaps a dozen paces overhead. She shifted her wristbow, aiming at me. I dived under an overhang and heard the bolt splinter against it. I fumbled for my mace, praying to Moradin that I’d live long enough to use it.
Then the light pellet went off.
I’d been hoping Gamlin might surprise the drow from behind when she landed, take her down. She hadn’t seen him yet, after all. But when the light pellet exploded with such brilliance, I knew it was all over. Gamlin
would be completely light-dazzled. Blind as a bat.
An apt comparison, as it turned out.
The overhang of rock blocked the drow’s aim; she couldn’t hit me without descending right to the floor. That would bring her within mace range, but trouble was, I still couldn’t see. My goggles were crackling with dazzle from the light pellet, and taking them off would leave me completely unable to see in the utter blackness. A dwarf I might be, but my eyes are still human, more’s the pity.
I wasn’t about to give up without a fight, however. As soon as I heard her squelch down into the muck, I leaped out of my hiding place. I swung my mace blindly in the direction the sound had come from.
I missed.
Her wristbow bolt took me in the thigh.
I staggered, my leg awash in pain. I crashed into the wall and my goggles were knocked off kilter. As my human vision returned, I spotted the faint blue glow of Gamlin’s spellscar; it crackled around his feet, which were buried in muck. He stood at the far side of the shaft, behind the drow, his eyes wide and staring. Streaks of blue fire raced across the floor as I watched, questing out the spot where the drow stood. Its light briefly silhouetted a large round object on the floor—a rock gourd we’d somehow overlooked. But that didn’t matter just then.
The drow spotted the streaks of blue fire just as Gamlin drew back his hand, preparing to throw a dagger. She whirled and shot a bolt. It plunged into Gamlin’s chest. His chainmail vest stopped it, but the point penetrated the links of chain just enough to let the poison enter his blood. He wavered, blinked—then fell and didn’t get up again.
His blue fire lasted a heartbeat more. Even with my weak human vision, the dim flicker was enough to show me where the drow was. I hurled my mace and shouted. Thunder filled the shaft as it connected with the drow’s head.
She died instantly, her skull shattering like lightning-struck stone.
I felt myself sagging. I managed to twist around just enough that I wouldn’t land face-down in the muck. That was no way for a dwarf to die, I thought. Then everything went black.
