Anthology - Realms of Magic Part 1

REALMS OF MAGIC.

by Brian Thomsen and J. Robert King.

PROLOGUE.

Tym Waterdeep Limited had been the publisher of Volothamp Geddarm ever since the day that the wandering rogue and the savvy entrepreneur had first struck a deal, each side convinced he had taken advantage of the other. Many volumes later, Volo was justifiably known as the most famous traveler in all the Realms, and Justin Tym as Faerun's most successful publisher.

In the intervening years, Volo had been handed off to numerous editors, each a bit more willing to take partial credit for the gazetteer's success, and it had been more than a few seasons since the great publisher and the n.o.ble rogue had had a "face-to-face." The recent dismissal of his last editor, coinciding with the master traveler's scheduled stopover in the City of Splendors, afforded an ample reason for a meeting between the two gentlemen.

As Volo remembered it, Justin had always been a late sleepera"no doubt a habit borne out of many nights of routinely wining and dining authors, agents, and booksellers (a practice the gazetteer wholeheartedly endorsed). So, needless to say, Volo was more than a little surprised to find a message at his accommodations moving their meeting up from the civilized hour of "noonish" (with the tacit promise of a gratis lunch) to the unG.o.dly hour of market opening, thus necessitating an early morning call that proved most inconvenient for both himself and his hostess, Trixie. Still, Justin's advances did indeed finance his extravagant accommodations, and so, slightly bleary-eyed, and not entirely rested, Volo set off for his publisher's office.

The streets were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with eager merchants en route to trade, peddlers hawking their wares from makeshift mobile markets, and laborers trotting off to their common jobs. Volo did not envy any of his fellow commuters, and quietly resented Justin's subjecting him to Waterdeep's legendary early-morning rush hour. Still, bills had to be paid. By this time tomorrow, with any luck, he would once again be flush with gelt and ready to enjoy the freedoms of the open road, where appointments were scheduled as "when you get there," and deadlines were set as "when the ma.n.u.script is done."

All told. Justin's advances were more than worth this temporary inconvenience.

The crowded storefronts along the thoroughfare soon save way to extravagant office s.p.a.ce for consulting wizards, high-priced solicitors, and even more high-priced tavern clubs. Volo was entering the district where Tym Waterdeep Limited had been situated since its origin as a print shop of "exotic pamphlets and t.i.tillating tomes'* years ago. As business had prospered, so had the neighborhood, and the shadowy warehouse district had become the new "in" place for professionals to set up shop.

Despite many buy-out offers from Kara-Turian interests and Cormyrian holding companies, Justin had steadfastly maintained his independence, and prosperity had followed him.

In Tym's words, "he hadn't traded up; everyone else had traded down," and that was the way he liked it.

A new floor had been added to the storefront offices, overhanging yet another section of the already narrow street. The road here was shadowy, not unlike some underworld back alley rather than a main Waterdeep thoroughfare.

Business must be good, Volo thought. I wonder when Justin will buy out his across-the-lane neighbor? Another expansion out and up, and he would undoubtedly overhang their property.

As he had expected, the door was open, and Volo proceeded upstairs without impediment. Knowing Justin, he thought, his office has to be on the top floor.

Four floors up, just beyond an unmanned reception desk with an office overlooking the busy thoroughfare below, sat a tall, bespectacled, and almost entirely bald rogue. The publisher was nattily dressed in the most fashionable attire gelt could acquire for his unathletic form. He took to his feet immediately to greet his star author.

"Volo, my boy, how long has it been?" he enthusiastically hailed.

"Longer than either of us would like to remember," the gazetteer responded, adding, "and since when have you become an early bird? I almost doubted that the message was really from you."

The publisher hesitated for a moment and then jibed, " 'Tis the early bird that catches the wyrm, in business as well as in dungeon crawling, I'm afraid."

Volo chuckled at the fellow's response, thinking to himself, Justin has never seen the inside of a dungeon in his life, let alone crawled around in one. Still the old coot is a queer bird, if not an early bird at that.

Justin motioned to a chair for the house's star author and quickly returned to his place behind the desk.

Volo took a seat, kicked it back on its rear legs, set booted feet against Justin's expensive desk, made himself at home, and asked absently, "So, how's business?"

"Couldn't be better," the publisher replied.

"Any new hot t.i.tles coming up?"

"Sure," Justin replied, pausing for just a moment till he had located a mock-up cover from the top of his desk. "We've got a really hot new book on Cormyr coming out. Here's the proposed cover."

Volo looked at the handsome ill.u.s.tration of a purple dragon against a mountainous landscape, framed at the top by the t.i.tle and below by the author's name.

"Cormyr: A Novel," Volo read aloud, "by Greenwood Grubb. Don't you think the t.i.tle is a little dull?"

"Not at all, my boy," Justin replied with a smile that bespoke all of the sincerity of an orcish grifter. "Besides, the editor-in-chief and the author picked the t.i.tle. I picked the art."

"I see," said Volo, surprised at the hands-off manner the controlling rogue seemed to have adopted.

"Still," the publisher added, "I did just fire the editor-in-chief. Maybe 1 should reconsider...."

"Why did you fire him?"

"You mean her," Justin corrected. "She was a ninny and a bit of a flake, even for a gnome, if you know what 1 mean."

"In what way?" the author asked, realizing that editors, good or otherwise, might truly be the most endangered species in all Toril.

"She kept changing the spelling of her name. I was going to go broke if I had to keep printing new letterhead and business cards for her."

"I see," the gazetteer replied.

"She also kept trying to take credit for books she had nothing to do with. Once she even claimed to have discovered you, and signed you up for your first book. Of course, I knew she was lying, but everyone else didn't. When I pressed her to clear the matter up in public, she claimed she had meant that she landed Marcus Wands, also known as Marco Volo. Ever hear of him?"

"On occasion," Volo replied, wishing that the scurrilous scoundrel would change his name and avoid this ongoing confusion, which had already caused him much inconvenience.

"Needless to say, Marco Volo is no subst.i.tute for the real Volo, Volothamp Geddarm."

"Of course," the gazetteer replied, glad his publisher was taking the time to b.u.t.ter him up.

"But enough of this chitchat," Justin said. "What wonderful new volume do you have for us today? I want a good strong t.i.tle to follow up on our expected success with Volo's Guide to the Dalelands ,.. like, maybe, Volo's Guide to the Moonsea. Ever since that big blowup at Zhentil Keep, the market has just been clamoring for information."

"Moonsea is already in the works," Volo replied confidently, "in fact, I'm on my way to Mulmaster after I finish my business here in Waterdeep. I figure a few more months of research, tops, and it will be done."

Justin furrowed his brow. "That's fine, I guess," he replied hesitantly, "but I was sort of hoping for something we could publish a little sooner."

"But, of course," Volo replied, adding seductively, "that's why I've brought along another project."

"Good," the publisher agreed, " a little something to tide us over between guide books."

"No," the author contradicted adamantly. "Something that will outsell all the guides, combined. Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, & Expanded Edition."

Before the author had even gotten out the word "magical", Justin was already shaking his head no.

"Sorry, old boy," the publisher insisted. "There's just no way. The Guide to All Things Magical almost put this company six feet under, for good. When Khelben and company ban a book, they ban a book. Every copya"poof!a"disappeared without ever a mention of refund for production costs or lost sales revenues. I have no desire to play that game again."

"Neither do I," the author replied confidently. "That's why it's revised."

"How?"

"This time it is all based on interviews, stories, and legends that I have gathered from the far corners of Faerun. Nothing pilfered or stolen, which is not to say that there was anything improperly obtained the last time."

"But, of course," the publisher conceded absently, while trying to concentrate on coming up with a diplomatic reason why refusing this volume would not const.i.tute the breaking of an option, thus allowing his star author to go elsewhere. He concluded that there wasn't a diplomatic alternative.

"Volo," the publisher said firmly, "I can't do it. Even a revised tome of secret spells and such would get us in trouble. The text would once again be suppressed, and who knows what Khelben would do to a repeat offender."

"I'm not scared of old Blackstaff," the c.o.c.ky gazetteer replied. "He owes me one for saving his b.u.t.t and all of Faerun during that doppleganger conspiracy1."

"I wasn't thinking of you," Justin replied. "I was referring to me."

"Afraid he still remembers that hatchet-job unauthorized biography by Kaeti Blye you published?"

"It was supposed to be a solid piece of investigative journalism," he justified. "How was I to know that that dwarf was more adept at turning out fiction than turning up facts?"

A wide smile crossed Volo's face.

"Well you don't have any such worries this time, I a.s.sure you," he stated in his still-c.o.c.ky tone. This time, Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, etc., is no notorious expose of the arcane and dangerous, but a we 11-researched compilation of doc.u.mented second-hand accounts of various magic subjects in all the Realms. After all if people told me these tales, they would have told anyone. Ergo, they're all accessible to the public, depending on one's travels, and contacts . . . and as you well know, no one travels better or has better contacts than Volothamp Geddann."

Justin leaned back in his chair and scratched his ear as if it had been tickled by the almost nonexistent fringe that remained of his once-full head of hair.

"Go on," the publisher pressed. "What type of accounts would be in it?"

"Basically anything magical from AioZ. Magic items, places, and spells, both the famous and the obscure. Enchanted artifacts from the past, spectral creatures, and famous feats. Personalities like Elminster and Khelben ... nothing to offend, mind you . .. notorious mages and lowly apprentices ... you know, stories about student wizards ..."

"I see, " interrupted the publisher, "but. . ."

"I even have a few stories about 'smoke powder', the latest 1 See Once Around the Realms- forbidden substance, which everyone is talking about."

The publisher was perplexed. Obviously a collection of stories on "all things magical" was a poor subst.i.tute for the wonderfully desirable toine that had been suppressed . . . but since no one had ever gotten to read the original, no one would have a basis for comparison. Who's to say it wasn't just another collection of stories?

"You'd be willing to call it Void's Guide to All Things Magical, etc., etc.," the publisher pressed.

"Of course," Volo replied, glad to see that he had hooked his publisher and would be dining high that evening on the advance that was sure to be handed over. "So we have a deal?"

"Not so fast," Justin replied shrewdly. "You don't expect me to buy a pegasus in the clouds do you?"

"Of course not," Volo replied, feigning indignation at the inference that he might try something less than above-board. "Would you like to see the ma.n.u.script?" he added, removing a sheaf of pages from his pack.

"Hand it over," the publisher replied, leaning forward, his arm reaching across the desk to accept the pile of pages.

"Careful," Volo instructed, handing over the ma.n.u.script. "It's my only copy."

Justin began to rifle through the pages.

"What are you doing?" asked the impatient author.

"Looking for the good parts,a" the publisher replied.

Volo fingered his beard in contemplation. He didn't want to be here all day waiting for Justin to peruse until he was satisfied. Suddenly a solution occurred to him.

"Justin," Volo offered, "I know you are a busy man. Why don't I just tell you some of the good parts."

Justin set the ma.n.u.script in front of him on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "You always were a good storyteller, Geddarm," he replied, "so do tell."

Volo rubbed his hands together, took a deep breath, and began to tell the tales.

GUENHWYVAR.

R. A. Salvatore

Josidiah Starym skipped wistfully down the streets of Cormanthor, the usually stern and somber elf a bit giddy this day, both for the beautiful weather and the recent developments in his most precious and enchanted city. Josidiah was a bladesinger, a joining of sword and magic, protector of the elvish ways and the elvish folk. And in Cormanthor, in this year 253, many elves were in need of protecting. Goblinkin were abundant, and even worse, the emotional turmoil within the city, the strife among the n.o.ble familiesa"the Starym includeda"threatened to tear apart all that Coronal Eltargrim had put together, all that the elves had built in Cormanthor, greatest city in all the world.

Those were not troubles for this day, though, not in the spring sunshine, with a light north breeze blowing. Even Josidiah's kin were in good spirits this day; Taleisin, his uncle, had promised the bladesinger that he would venture to Eltargrim's court to see if some of their disputes might perhaps be worked out.

Josidiah prayed that the elven court would come back together, for he, perhaps above all others in the city, had the most to lose. He was a bladesinger, the epitome of what it meant to be elven, and yet, in this curious age, those definitions seemed not so clear. This was an age of change, of great magics, of monumental decisions. This was an age when the humans, the gnomes, the halflings, even the bearded dwarves, ventured down the winding ways of Cormanthor, past the needle-pointed spires of the free-flowing elvish structures. For all of Josidiah's previous one hundred and fifty years, the precepts of elvenkind seemed fairly defined and rigid; but now, because of their Coronal, wise and gentle Eltargrim, there was much dispute about what it meant to be elvish, and, more importantly, what relationships elves should foster with the other goodly races.

"Merry morn, Josidiah," came the call of an elven female, the young and beautiful maiden niece of Eltargrim himself. She stood on a balcony overlooking a high garden whose buds were not yet in bloom, with the avenue beyond that.

Josidiah stopped in midstride, leapt high into the air in a complete spin, and landed perfectly on bended knee, his long golden hair whipping across his face and then flying out wide again so that his eyes, the brightest of blue, flashed. "And the merriest of morns to you, good Felicity," the bladesinger responded. "Would that I held at my sides flowers befitting your beauty instead of these blades made for war."

"Blades as beautiful as any flower ever I have seen," Felicity replied teasingly, "especially when wielded by Josidiah Starym at dawn's break, on the flat rock atop Berenguil's Peak."

The bladesinger felt the hot blood rushing to his face. He had suspected that someone had been spying on him at his morning ritualsa"a dance with his magnificent swords, performed nudea"and now he had his confirmation. "Perhaps Felicity should join me on the morrow's dawn," he replied, catching his breath and his dignity, "that I might properly reward her for her spying."

The young female laughed heartily and spun back into her house, and Josidiah shook his head and skipped along. He entertained thoughts of how he might properly "reward" the mischievous female, though he feared that, given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved ina"not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.

The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he pa.s.sed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of dangera"might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down?a"that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.

Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders's help.

And Josidiah held no illusions about ita"if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.

This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.

"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"

given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved ina"not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.

The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he pa.s.sed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of dangera"might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down?a"that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.

Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders's help.