Forgotten Realms - Realms of Magic Part 13

It was this awareness that, at last, gave to the earth-mother a true sense of pa.s.sing time. She knew seasons, and in the course of changing climes she learned the pattern of a year. She came to measure time as a man might count his own breaths or heartbeats, though to the G.o.ddess each heartbeat was a season, each breath the cycle of the annum.

As the years pa.s.sed by the tens and hundreds and thousands, she grew more vibrant, stronger, and more aware.

The hot blood of earlier eons cooled further; the eruptions from the sea ultimately were capped by solid stone.

That firm bedrock, where it jutted above the waves, was layered everywhere in forest, meadow, glade and moor. Seas and lakes intermixed with the land, keeping the G.o.ddess always cool, both fresh waters and brine nurturing the growing populations of living creatures.

Still the G.o.ddess maintained communion with the beings of warm blood dwelling in the depths, who swam to the surface and returned, sharing their mind-images of a vast dome of sky, of the sweet kiss of a sea breeze and the billowing majesty of lofty clouds. Her favorite of these sea creatures was one who had been nourished at her breast from time immemorial, feeding upon the kelp and plankton that gathered to her warm emissions, slumbering for decades at a time in her embrace. She came to know him as the Leviathan, the first of her children.

He was a mighty whale, greater than any other fish or mammal that swam in these seas. His soul was gentle, his mind observant, keen and patient-as only one who has lived for centuries can know patience. Great lungs filled hispowerful chest, and he knew life with a rhythm that the G.o.ddess could understand. Sometimes he took a breath of air and settled into the depths, remaining there for a pa.s.sage of several heartbeats by the reckoning of the G.o.ddess-a time of years in the more frenetic pace of the other warm-blooded creatures.

In long, silent communication with the G.o.ddess who was his mother, the Leviathan lay in a deep trench on the bottom of the sea, sensing the lingering warmth of her fiery blood as it pulsed and ebbed below the bedrock of the ocean floor. During these times, the great whale pa.s.sed images he had beheld above the waves, pictures of growing verdancy among the earthmother's many islands, of the teeming array of creatures swarming not only sea and land, but now even flocking in the skies.

And he shared, too, his memories of clouds. These more than anything else stoked the fires of the earthmother's imagination, brought wonder to her heart, and caused curiosity to germinate in her being.

As she communed with the Leviathan, sharing his memories of the things he had beheld, she began to sense a thing about herself: The G.o.ddess, unlike so many of the creatures that dwelled upon her flesh, was utterly blind. She lacked any window, any sense through which she could view the world of life flourishing upon her physical form.

The only visual pictures that she knew came from the memory of the great whale, and these were pale and vaporous imitations of the real thing. The G.o.ddess wanted to see for herself the sky of cloud and rain and sun, to know the animals that teemed among her forests and glades, the trees that sank their roots so deeply into her flesh.

From the Leviathan, the G.o.ddess earthmother had learned about eyes, the orbs of magic that allowed the animals of the world to observe the wonders around them. She learned about them, and desired them . .. and devised a plan to create an eye for herself.

The Leviathan would aid her. The great whale drank from an undersea fountain, absorbing the power and the magic of the earthmother into himself. With easy strokes of his powerful flukes, he drove toward the surface, swimming through brightening shades of water until again his broad back rolled above the waves, felt the kiss of sunlight and breeze.

Swimming strongly, the Leviathan swam to a deep bay, stroking between rocky necks of land into ever narrower waters, toward the western sh.o.r.e of one of the earth-mother's cherished isles. Mountains rose to the north, a stretch of craggy highlands crested with snow as the spring warmth crept only slowly upward from the sh.o.r.e. To the south was a swath of green forest, woodlands extending far from the rocky sh.o.r.eline, blanketing this great extent of the island.

In the terminus of the bay, the land came together from north and south, the waters remaining deep enough for the Leviathan to swim with ease. He came to the place the G.o.ddess had chosen, and brought the warm and magical essence of herself through his body. With a great, spuming explosion, he cast the liquid into the air, shooting a shower of warm rain. Precious water splashed onto the rocks of the sh.o.r.eline, gathered in many streams, flowed downward to collect in a rocky bowl near the gravel-strewn beach.

The essence of the G.o.ddess gathered into that pool, milky waters of potent magic. Her presence focused on the skies, on the vault of heavens she had so long imagined. The first thing that came into view was a perfect orb of white, rising into the twilight skies, coursing ever higher, beaming reflected light across the body and blood of the earthmother.

From the waters of her newly made well, the G.o.ddess beheld the moon. Alabaster light reflected from the shoals and waves of the sh.o.r.eline and blessed the land all around. The earthmother saw this light, and she was pleased.

Yet still there was a dimness to her vision, an unfocused haze that prevented her from fully absorbing the presence of the world. The Leviathan lay offsh.o.r.e, rolling in the heavy swell, but the pool was remote from him, bounded as it was by dry ground and rocks. She knew then that it was not enough to have her children in the sea.

The G.o.ddess would require a presence on the land, as well.

The wolf, gray flanks lean with hunger, s.h.a.ggy pelt worn by the ravages of a long hibernation, loped after a mighty stag. The buck ran easily through the spring growth, exhibiting none of the wide-eyed panic that might have driven a younger deer into headlong-and ultimately disastrous-flight. Instead, this proud animal bounded in graceful leaps, staying well beyond the reach of hungry jaws, veering only when necessary to maintain a clear avenue of flight.

In the midst of the keen, lupine face, blue eyes remained fixed upon the lofty rack of antlers. Patience, counseled the wolfs instinct, knowing that the pack could accomplish what one strong hunter could not. As if in response to their leader's thought, more wolves burst from concealment to the side, rushing to join the chase. But the stag had chosen its course well; a long, curving adjustment took it away from the newer hunters, without allowing the big male to draw appreciably closer.

A low cliff loomed ahead, and though no breeze stirred in the depths of the glen, the buck sensed another ambush, canine forms concealed in the thickness of ferns lining the shady depths of the bower. Now the stag threw itself at the limestone precipice, leaping upward with catlike grace, finding purchase for broad hooves on ledges and mossy outcrops.

With snorting exertion and flaring nostrils, the first outward signs of desperation, the buck scrambled up a rock face three times its own height. A trio of wolves burst from the ferny camouflage below, howling in frustrated hunger as the antlered deer reached the level ground above the cliff and once again increased its speed. Hooves pounded and thundered on the firm ground as, with a flick of a white-feathered tail, the stag raced toward open terrain.

But the leader of the small wolf pack would not, could not, admit defeat. Throwing himself at that rocky face, pouncing upward with all the strength of powerful rear legs, the wolf clawed and sc.r.a.ped and pulled, driven by the desperation of the starving hunter. At last, broad forepaws crested the summit, and the carnivore again loped after theprey, howls echoing after the gasping, thudding noise of the stag's flight.

Others of the wolves tried to follow, though most fell back. Still, a few young males and a proud, yellow-eyed b.i.t.c.h made the ascent. Their baying song added to the din of flight and gave the rest of the pack a focus as smaller wolves raced to either side, seeking an easier way to the elevation above the limestone shelf.

Weariness began to drag at the leader, bringing to his step a stumbling uncertainty that had been utterly lacking before. Yet the scent of the prey was strong, and mingled with that acrid odor came the spoor of the stag's own weariness, its growing desperation. These signals gave the wolf hope, and he raised his head in a braying summons to the rest of the pack, a cry of antic.i.p.ation that rang like a prayer through the silent giants of the wood, along the verdant blanket of the cool ground.

But the powerful deer found a reserve that surprised and dismayed the proud hunter. The predator raced through the woods with belly low, s.h.a.ggy tail extended straight behind. Those bright blue eyes fixed upon the image of the fleeing stag, watching antlers brush overhanging limbs and leaves. Straining, no longer howling as he gasped to make the most of each desperate breath, the wolf pursued in deadly silence.

And in that silence he began to sense his failure. The loping forms of his packmates whispered like ghosts through the fern-lined woodland behind him, but neither were they able to close the distance to the fleeing prey. Even the yellow-eyed female, long jaws gaping in a fang-lined grin of hunger, could not hold the pace much longer.

Then, with an abrupt turn, the stag darted to the left. Cutting the corner of the angle, the leading pair of wolves closed the distance. Soon the male was racing just behind the prey's left quarter, while the powerful b.i.t.c.h closed in from the opposite side. The twin hunters flanked the prey, blocking any attempt to change course.

But the stag continued its flight with single-minded determination, as if it had found a goal. The antlered deer ran downward along the slope of a broad ridge, plunging through thickets, leaping large boulders that would be obstacles only to lesser creatures. The woods opened still more, and now the vista showed a swath of blue water, a bay extending between twin necks of rugged land.

Finally the stag broke from the woods to gallop across a wide swath of moor. Soft loam cushioned the broad hooves, and though the deer's tongue flopped loosely from wide jaws and nostrils flared madly with the strain of each breath, the animal actually increased the speed of its desperate flight.

But so, too, did the wolves. More and more of the pack burst from the woods, trailing across the spongy gra.s.sland, running now in grim and purposeful silence. If the great male had looked back, he would have noticed a surprising number of canine predators, more by far than had belonged to his pack when they had settled into the den for a winter's rest. And still more wolves came along the sh.o.r.es, gathering from north and south, highland and coast, drawn toward the scene of the hunt, hundreds of gray forms ghosting toward a single point.

The stag finally faltered, but not because of fatigue. The animal slowed to a regal trot, proud antlers held high.

The sea was very near now, but the buck did not strive for the sh.o.r.eline. Instead, the forest monarch turned its course along that rocky beach, toward a pool of liquid that rested in the perfect shelter of a rocky bowl.

The pond was too high to be a tidal pool, nor did the water seem like a collection of mere rain or runoff. Instead, the liquid was pale, almost milky-white in color, and it swirled in a hypnotic pattern. The sh.o.r.eline was steep, but in one place a steplike progression of rocks allowed the buck to move carefully downward.

Wolves gathered on the rocks, surrounding the stag and the pool, knowing that the prey was trapped. Yet some silent compulsion held the hungry predators at bay. Glittering eyes watched with keen intelligence as the stag's muzzle touched the surface of the water; long, panting tongues flopped loosely as the carnivores waited for their prey to drink.

For a long time, the great deer lapped at the waters of the Moonwell, and when finally it had drunk its fill it stepped away, mounting the steps toward the leader. The stag raised its head, baring the s.h.a.ggy throat, uttering a final, triumphant bellow at the powdery clouds that had gathered in the sky.

When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, he did so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and clean, the predator ignoring the red blood that warmed his jaws, that should have inflamed his hunger and pa.s.sion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf raised his own head, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seen by the mighty stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader was joined by the rest of his pack in a song of joy and worship, in music that hailed their mother and their maker.

When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood of the stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers. Though the wolves numbered an uncountable throng, now, there was meat for them all. With a sense of powerful satiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters of the pool.

The feasting went on for more than a day, and at last the brightness of the full moon rose above the glimmering waters. Pups were born under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a mighty gathering.

The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell, and the G.o.ddess saw and celebrated with her children.

The bold sacrifice of the stag was, to her, a thing of beauty-and with the mighty animal's blood was the water of her Moonwell consecrated.

And the balance of her living children maintained.

THE LUCK OF LLEWELLYN THE.

LOQUACIOUS.

Alien C. Kupfer.

"The vagabond has lied to us!"

Llewellyn the Loquacious felt the cold waters of the River Ghalagar soak through his clothes, through his black-brown hair, and through his narrow, all-too-human frame.

"Drown him like the rodent he is!"

A halfling heel pressed down on the side of his neck. Water splashed onto his face, into his eyes and mouth.

"Lie to us, will you? Hold him under the water. Let the fish swim in his lungs!"

He thought this might be the end. This time, he feared, there would be no way out, no escape. Not with this adventuring band of halflings thirsty for revenge. No, indeed!

The hair-covered foot on his neck was joined by another on the side of his head. The weight forced his head into the sand at the river's bottom. Other weights-several other halflings-pinned the rest of his body down. As the water rushed into his ears, he could no longer hear the voices calling out. And though he struggled, the combined weight of the halflings was too great for him.

He could hold his breath no more, and bubbles full of life-breath escaped from his lungs, exited through his mouth and nostrils, rose in the water, and burst at the surface of the river. Wide-eyed and terrified, he watched their ascent.

Perhaps, he thought, I shouldn't have sent this band of adventurers to seek the silver key. Perhaps I could have acquired Zalathorn's amulet on my own, without trying to distract these halflings; after all, Zalathorn, great and beneficent wizard-king that he is, said I could keep the amulet for my very own if I chose to. Perhaps sending them off into the Swamp of Ahklaur so that I could search their camp was not a good idea-no, not a particularly smart notion at all-even if I did find the amulet, which I now have in the pocket of my very wet robe. ...

Water filled his lungs, and the weight en various points of his body seemed to lessen. He thought it must have been the relief of death.

But strong fingers grabbed the long hair on his head and yanked him up over the surface of the water. He coughed up the water in his lungs, and the cold evening air brought him back to full consciousness. That was when he noticed the halfling shouting had ceased; in fact, once the water dripped from his ears, he could hear only one voice, that of the band's leader: Black Indio.

"... not hear me, my friend?" Black Indio, though a self-styled rapscallion, was no more daunting than any half-ling: fuzzy feet shadowed beneath a portly belly clothed in green homespun, wispy beard framing a face more fey than fanatic.

Llewellyn coughed out the last of the liquid.

"I said," Indio repeated, slapping the top of Llewellyn's head, "can you not hear me? Has your bath made you deaf?"

Indio's followers laughed. Llewellyn took a deep breath.

"No, I can hear you, you blackhearted, ungrateful cur!" he answered. Not having time to think about tactics- whether humility or boldness would be more appropriate at this time-Llewellyn opted for the latter. He silently prayed he wasn't creating even more trouble for himself.

"I am hurt, my friend!" Indio protested, his s.h.a.ggy hair glowing with the light of the halfling campfire.

"Blackhearted? Yes, no one can be more blackhearted than I when I choose to be. That's how I earned the t.i.tle Black Indio, or more correctly, Indio the Black! Right now, I don't choose to be. And ungrateful? You cut me to the quick!"

"Do I?" Llewellyn asked. "Do I? I do? Indeed! Your band of cutthroats try to drown me! And why? I ask you why? I told you where you could find the silver key in the swamp; just because you couldn't find it-couldn't follow directions, most likely-is no fault of mine, I do declare! Yet your band of..."

"But we did find it."

". . . hooligans throw me into the river . . ."

"I say, we did find it."

". . . and nearly bury my head in the . . . What? What did you say?"

"We found it. We found the charm."

"You did?" Llewellyn coughed out loud to cover his surprise. "Of course you did. Just as I said, exactly the way I told you you would." Can my luck be holding? he wondered. Can this be possible?

"I'm not sure I know how to work it, though," Indio exclaimed.

"May I see it?" Indio handed it to him as he finally rose to his feet, water dripping from every inch of him.

It was a rather large key with three holes forged in it, where gems should be ... but weren't. Llewellyn recognized the key immediately. Yes, the wheel of fortune was definitely turning in his favor. So much so that it worried him.

"I sent some of my troop back early," Indio explained. "The d.a.m.ned piranha were nibbling them away to nothing.

I'm afraid that by the time they got back here, they were a bit overzealous. Remember, we hadn't found the key at that time, and all of my band-myself included- wanted to stuff a few live piranha down your throat for sending us into that G.o.dless swamp for nothing."

"How charming! How positively charitable of you!"

"But the moment we found it, I hurried back to camp, fearing what might be done to you in my absence."

"Thank you so excessively much," Llewellyn said sarcastically. "I take it back. It was a most grievous error on my part. You're not ungrateful at all."

"But I am still... Black Indio!" he shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at the sky. His troop repeated the action, and in unison shouted, "Black Indio!""Come out of the water and sit by the fire, my friend," Indio said. "And tell me again of this key."

Llewellyn followed him to the campfire and sat close to it. In a few moments, its heat removed the chill from his bones.

"Bring our friend a drink," Indio commanded. Turning to Llewellyn, he continued: "This key, I believe you said, can unlock a chest of wealth somewhere in the mountains, just west of Zoundar. Am I correct?"

"Yes, that is, positively correct, I must say," Llewellyn responded, "and no, it is not. The key will not work without three stones set in the holes cut for them."

"Jewels?"

"No, not jewels, though that would be most attractive, perhaps even splendiferous. They are perfectly round jade stones, each with a dark stripe that runs around the perimeter."

The halfling whose foot had crushed Llewellyn's face into the mud of the river stepped forward and spoke.

"Indio! We have such a stone!"

"Do we? Bring it forward. In fact, bring the sack that contains all our treasures."

The halfling did as commanded and handed Indio the sack. The leader poured out the contents between himself and Llewellyn. Indio fingered through the various gold pieces, trinkets, and small gems until he spotted what he was looking for.

"Is this it?" he asked Llewellyn, holding the green piece between two ringers.

"Does it fit in the key?"

Indio placed the stone into one of the circles on the key.

"By all that is holy, it fits-perfectly," cried the halfling.

"So it does," Indio added, "but it will not work, as our friend has said, without the other two stones. So of what use is it to me?"

Llewellyn smiled wryly. "You are too pessimistic, Indio the Black, my good friend." Undoing the drawstring of the leather sack on his belt and reaching into it, he added. "I believe the adage, once spoken by some person of undeniable wisdom at some distant point in the past, is 'one good turn deserves another.'"

Whereupon he held up an identical jade stone.

Indio's eyes lit up. "The second stone. I must have it."