Forgotten Realms - Realms of Magic Part 21

"I know," he said.

Two steps brought the witch to the edge of the b.l.o.o.d.y pool, another to the place where Jolind's severed head had come to land. She looked back at Orlando, flashed him an uncomfortable smile, and raised the hood of the shroud above her head. Instantly, it became difficult for the warrior to focus his eyes on her. Even knowing where she had been standing only a few seconds earlier, he could discern nothing but the faintest impression of the shrouded figure.

The magical energies of death and darkness answered Lelanda's urging. She spoke words of power whose sounds had no meaning to Orlando's untrained ears. He felt the strange tugging of death at his spirit and knew that something stood nearby, hungering for the taste of his soul, contained only by the power of Lelanda's will. If her concentration failed, the consequences could well be disastrous. Then, with a cry of agony from the unseen mage, the spell was completed.

Orlando steeled his nerve as the eyes on Jolind's severed head snapped open. The thin-lipped mouth did likewise, and a hissing, hollow scream filled the garden. Unable to stand the sight, Orlando turned his head away. He felt the need to vomit, but retained control of his traumatized body by remembering that a deadly enemy might lurk nearby.

Jolind, said the spectral necromancer, can you hear me?

"Yesss," responded an empty, lifeless voice. "Who are you? Your voice is familiar ... but distant."

Jolind, this is Lelanda. I'm here with Orlando. We've come to help you.

At that, the disembodied head released a humorless, rasping laugh. "You're a little late for that, old friend."

Orlando's nerve buckled, but did not fail him.

I know. We're sorry. But we want to find the person who did this to you. He murdered Jaybel and Gwynn, too.

Can you help us? Did you recognize your killer?

"Yes, I know who killed me," whispered Jolind.

Then tell me, Jolind. Be quick; the spell is failing fast, urged Lelanda.

Orlando couldn't decide which was more macabre, the living but unseen spirit of the wizard or the dead, but substantial head of the druid.

"Kesmarex," hissed the head as the eyes slipped quietly shut and the jaw went slack. The spell had ended, and the spirit of the druid had gone to rest with those of her ancestors.

Orlando hoped she would find peace there. In his heart, he said a last farewell to the woman who had meant somuch to him so long ago. It seemed a crime to have drifted away from her. He wondered what mysteries had died with her. A single tear slipped down his bronze cheek.

Kesmarex? said the witch, slipping the hood of the shroud from around her locks and emerging beside the fallen druid. "Who is that?"

"It's not a who," said Orlando. "It's a what. That was the name given to Shandt's battle-axe by the dwarves who forged it. It mean's something like 'Vengeance of the King,' but the words don't translate perfectly into our language."

"But Shandt is dead," said the witch, her voice trailing off into a haunting silence.

"I know." Orlando exhaled. "He couldn't have survived." After a moment of reflection, he continued. "Tell me more about the wards around this place. Just how certain are you an undead creature couldn't have gotten in here . . .

An hour or so later, Orlando still hadn't made sense of Jolind's warning. "If it was Shandt, he'll be back to get us,"

said Orlando. "He wasn't one to leave a job undone."

Rather than answer, Lelanda merely poked at the campfire that now burned at the heart of Jolind's tower.

In the last few hours, her beauty had begun to look worn and haggard. Orlando studied her face, which was still delicate and gentle, with innocent features that belied the cunning viper that lurked within. Still, there was something human showing through the facade she maintained. "How did you ever become a wandering adventurer?"

"I don't really know," said the witch. "It just happened, I guess. I was studying in Waterdeep, the usual courses they force on a child of a merchant prince, but they just weren't enough to keep my attention. One of the other students said he was being tutored in magic by an old woman on the outskirts of town. I followed him one day and learned where his teacher lived. When he left, I paid her a visit and demanded she teach me magic. She looked me over carefully and refused.

"I was furious. I guess I was more than a little spoiled in those days. When I tried to pay her for the lessons, she wouldn't take my money. I'd never .met anyone like her before, anyone that gold couldn't buy. It took me weeks of pestering her, but she finally agreed. I guess she wanted proof of my devotion.

"About a year later, I showed up for my lesson and found her dead. She had been murdered by a pack of thieves-a.s.sa.s.sins, really, in the service of a dark priest. I vowed to avenge her death. That took me another year. By then, I'd gotten used to life on the road, and returning to Waterdeep just didn't seem very palatable to me. I never went back to school or to see my family. I suppose they a.s.sumed I'd been killed while trying to avenge my mentor.

Somehow, it just didn't matter anymore."

A gust of wind swirled through the tower, twisting the flames that danced above the hearth and lifting a cloud of glowing embers into the air. Lelanda gazed silently at them as if there might be some hidden meaning in their traces.

"How about you?" she asked.

"Ever been a farmer?" he asked in answer.

"No," she said.

"Well, if you had been, you'd understand perfectly."

Lelanda laughed, a clear and sweet sound that Orlando never would have expected from her. There, in the garden where they had once slain a black dragon and had recently buried an old friend, he saw a side of her he had never thought existed. His hand, as if it had a will of its own, reached out and rested atop hers. Her laugh faded away, and her green eyes shifted to meet his.

"Orlando," she said, and then a shock went through her body. Every muscle was rigid for a second, and her eyes bulged. As suddenly as the spasm had struck her, it pa.s.sed. She went limp and toppled forward, the blade of the great axe Kesmarex buried in her back.

The warrior, his rekindled reflexes already in action, sprang back. Without conscious thought, he brought the enchanted sword Talon into play, interposing it between himself and whoever might wield the ancient battle-axe.

"Shandt," he cried, "is that you?"

There was no answer, but in a second Orlando knew none would be forthcoming. With a swift and sudden motion, the axe Kesmarex lifted into the air. Lelanda's blood dripped from the blade, but no living hand wielded the weapon.

At last, Orlando understood. He had always known Shandt's blade was enchanted, but had never realized the full extent of its power. Now, years after the death of its owner, the weapon had tracked down the people it blamed for Shandt's death.

Describing a great arc in the air, Kesmarex swept toward the warrior. He fell back, uncertain how to attack a weapon that had no wielder. He jabbed feebly with Talon, but found that the axe was every bit as maneuver-able as it had been in Shandt's hand.

"You don't understand," Orlando cried. "We had no choice!" The battle-axe chopped at his legs, causing him to leap backward. When his feet touched the ground, he felt the soft earth shift and give way. He had landed squarely on Jolind's grave. Unable to retain his balance, Orlando toppled over and thudded hard on his back. The blade of the axe flashed through the air inches above his nose. Had he still been standing, it would certainly have severed his leg at the knee.

"Shandt was buying us time to escape!" he yelled. The axe, unheeding, swept upward as if it were being held aloft by its departed master. For a brief second, it hung there. Then, like the blade of a headsman at the block, Kesmarex plunged downward. Orlando tried to roll aside, but the enchanted blade sensed his intention and twisted to follow him. With a metallic crash, it smashed into the warrior's bronze breastplate, tearing through the amber metal and biting into the soft flesh beneath.Pain burned through Orlando's body as clouds of red rolled across his vision. Talon fell from a nerveless hand, making no sound as it landed atop Jolind's newly dug grave. As the vengeful weapon drew back for its fatal strike, Orlando's hands clutched at the searing wound. His fingers touched jagged metal, exposed flesh, and warm, flowing blood.

And something else. Something smooth and warm and comforting: the amulet of Clanggedin Silverbeard. His fingers closed upon the medallion, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it clear of his neck. The silver chain upon which it hung stretched and snapped. As the great weapon began to sweep downward, Orlando held the holy symbol high.

"Shandt was my friend!" he cried. "I would have died to save him!"

Moonlight, sifting down from the cloudless sky, struck the gla.s.s dome and streamed down into the garden. It fell upon the fallen body of Lelanda, the druid's fresh grave, and the silver axe that sought to avenge its owner's death.

Two pinpoints glinted brightly in the shaft of moonlight, one the blade edge and the other the pendant.

VI.

Orlando stepped back from the wall. He had returned Talon to its place and c.o.c.ked his head left and right to make sure it was positioned properly. He reached out and lifted the hilt an imperceptible fraction of an inch.

"Don't worry," said Lelanda from the couch on which she lay. "You've got it right."

Orlando nodded and turned back to the table behind him. With his right hand, he reached tentatively for the great battle-axe Kesmarex, but something stopped his fingers just short of its haft. His other hand slipped to his neck and touched the silver pendant that hung from its recently repaired chain.

His thoughts drifted back to the battle in Jolind's garden. He remembered the great blade falling toward his head, the hollow sound of his voice as it filled the silent garden, and the flash of light that came when the holy symbol was presented. Somehow, the battle-axe recognized the amulet and knew that the silver symbol belonged to the same warrior whose hands had once wielded it. Knowing that anyone who wore that particular crossed battle-axe medallion must be a friend of its owner, it had fallen inert. As far as Kesmarex was concerned, its mission was completed.

He returned to the present as a delicate hand touched his shoulder. He turned and found the emerald eyes of Lelanda scant inches away from his own. The gold band on her finger reflected a greatly distorted image of his own countenance.

"You shouldn't be up," he said, urging her gently back to the couch.

"I'll be okay," she said, "the wound's almost healed. Hang up the axe and come to bed."

Orlando nodded and lifted the magical weapon from its resting place. He turned and elevated it to a place of honor above the hearth. Next to it, he hung the amulet that had saved his life.

"Rest quietly, old friend," said the crimson-haired witch.

Orlando said nothing, but in his heart he knew that Lelanda's wish had been granted.

THE WILD BUNCH.

Tom Dupree.

The robe shimmered seductively as the young apprentice held it up to the candlelight. Its color was a brilliant royal blue, and it was fashioned from a shiny, silky, luxurious fabric that the student had never seen before. It was soft and cool to the touch, but bespoke great elegance and power.

It was commandingly beautiful, but the fascination was not in its color or texture. The apprentice could not tear his eyes away from the symbols that were inscribed on the robe, either sewn in or painted on the fabric, he couldn't tell which. There were signs and sigils emblazoned everywhere-hundreds of them. Intricate handwork covered every bit of free s.p.a.ce on the garment's surface: calligraphy, runes, drawings, letters, shapes, and forms whose mysteries were far beyond the young man's understanding.

He was entranced.

He lifted the robe closer to get a better look.

"Put that down, lad. And sit yourself down." The voice was calm, controlled, but it came from right next to the boy's ear-almost from inside it-and made him flinch in startlement. How did he do that? How did the master move so quietly? The boy turned to face his wizened tutor, the man whose esoteric knowledge had drawn him here. With a reluctance that surprised him, the young man handed the robe to his master and sat.

"The most important thing I will ever teach you comes here, now, on your first day. It is simply this: you have a great deal to learn. The magical art may appear effortless to the uninitiated; a bit of waving, a bit of mumbling, and POOF!-whatever one's heart desires. But each conjuration, each illusory spectacle, requires agonizing hours of study and concentration. There is no shortcut, no easy way to make yourself the wizard you want to be. Your art will demand work, my lad. If you cannot pledge to accept this sacrifice, then leave me now. A mage should be regarded with awe, not mirth.

"That robe is remarkable, isn't it? The last time I saw it worn, another young student of the conjurative arts had recently arrived in this village. He appeared at the door of the Ale & Hearty tavern one rainy afternoon, dripping wet.

He strode to the bar and announced that he was a magic-user, in search of fame and fortune."

New mages are a fairly rare sight in Schamedar, and the aforementioned one did not go unnoticed, not even in this undistinguished tavern. He was of tall, if slim, human build, with an overly erect bearing that was hardly required by either the venue or the company. His clothing was less than modest, and drenched, at that. He carried nothing except for a small pack and a walking staff, which he set at his feet. Never mind fame; this was a person in severe need offortune.

"Why, Mystra be praised!" growled a swarthy little cut-purse with a wide, gap-toothed grin, who was sitting at a table with two other morally impaired citizens. "A mage! If you aren't the answer to a prayer! Come and wet your throat with us!"

The stranger ambled over.

"Sit, sit," implored the thief, gesturing obsequiously at the empty chair beside him. "I am Tuka Phardeen, great admirer of the fraternity of magic-users. And I have the blessed good fortune to be addressing my Lord-"

"Evertongue, friend Phardeen. Wiglaf Evertongue." This last as if he were introducing Mystra herself.

"Hmmm," from one of Tuka's companions, a muscular, tanned G.o.ddess whose brilliant blonde hair cascaded past a necklace made of animal fangs to reach the hilt of a well-nicked broadsword. "Evertongue. I seem to remember such a family over in Calimport. But these Evertongues were bakers."

"Sasha," chided Tuka.

Wiglaf sat and returned the magnificent warrior's gaze. "Maybe I'm the first member of my family to raise my hands out of the dough," he said. "But what's past is best left past, and my past can stay in that oven. I'm tired of spellbooks and teachers and studying. I don't want to ruin my eyesight. At this rate, 111 be old and gray before I even get close to my potential. There's got to be a better way. A quicker way. I want to use magic out there in the real world.

I want to live. I want to learn."

"I want to vomit," said Sasha. The Evertongues earned their family name honestly. Is that flour on your fingers?"

As Wiglaf jerked his hands up to check, Tuka glared at his companion, and spoke. "Sir Evertongue, fortune has brought us together today. You wish to rise in power like, mm, the mighty loaf. We count our accomplishments in other ways. We are humble traders, businesspeople. Importers/exporters, you might say. Working together to bring back a better life for those loved ones we have left behind."

The filthily dressed human to his left belched wetly.

"Our consortium embraces all kinds of artisans, including mages such as yourself. In fact, it was only yesterday that we lost the very talented conjurer who was our traveling colleague in a bizarre . . . accident. We are here in this tavern tonight to mourn his loss." The belching ruffian at the table removed his cap and bowed his head. An unkempt cloud of hair matched his clothing for foulness.

"Accident?"

"He stood between us and a horrible creature best left undescribed. Bravely threw himself in harm's way. Walked right in front of us, he did."

"Or did we shtep back?" slurred the third as Sasha looked a dagger into his brain.

"Gosh, I don't know if I could help you in a situation like that. I'm new to all this, you see; just starting out."

Tuka poked his colleague in the ribs. "What did I tell you, Fenzig? Ha! The moment you walked in the door, my lord, I said, now here is a man who can use friends like us. Here is a man who wants to be somebody, to go someplace in life, but he doesn't have time to wait around for the carriage, eh?"

"Right!" Wiglaf beamed. Somebody understood.

"Well, fortune has smiled on you today. We have a friend and a.s.sociate, a very experienced wizard. He has been called away for a short while, some kind of a special teaching a.s.signment. But he has many items of great power that I'm sure he would be willing to let you borrow."

"Well, I don't know ..."

"One sorcerer to another? He always makes it a point to get youngsters like you off to a fine start. Don't even need to ask him. Come. Well take you there tonight."

"I don't know..."

"Big bad magic man," teased Sasha. "What's stopping you? That pan of rolls for tomorrow morning?"

"Nothing's stopping me. Nothing at all. Let's go."

The moon was bright that evening as the four new comrades arrived at the door of a modest dwelling, the only structure in a dark clearing surrounded by forest. Tuka rapped loudly on an ancient door knocker, but there was no answer.

"Isn't that just like him? Didn't even leave us a key. He's so preoccupied, all he thinks of are his spells. Fenzig, why don't you give us a hand?" The belching thief approached the door lock, did some expert twisting and jamming, and it sprung free. Tuka extended his hand. "See? It's perfectly all right. You first, Sir Evertongue, in case there are any trap-any magic items of which we should be aware."

Wiglaf swallowed hard and entered the doorway. He walked for a few feet in utter darkness, then thought he could make out a warm glow ahead of him. Heart pounding in his head, he cautiously followed the light down a corridor for what seemed like minutes. Finally the light grew brighter, and he stepped through into a large open s.p.a.ce.