Realms of the Arcane a-5 Read online

  Realms of the Arcane

  ( Anthologies - 5 )

  Brian M. Thomsen

  Wes Nicholson

  David Cook

  Elaine Cunningham

  Tom Dupree

  J. Robert King

  Mark Anthony

  Monte Cook

  Ed Greenwood

  Philip Athans

  Jeff Grubb

  Brian M. Thomsen, Wes Nicholson,David Cook, Elaine Cunningham, Tom Dupree, J. Robert King, Mark Anthony, Monte Cook, Ed Greenwood,Philip Athans, Jeff Grubb

  Realms of the Arcane

  Contents

  Wes Nicholson… Prologue

  David Cook…Wishing You Many More

  Elaine Cunningham…Secrets of Blood, Spirits of the Sea

  Tom Dupree…Bread Storm Rising

  Wes Nicholson…Interlude

  J. Robert King…When Even Sky Cities Fall

  Mark Anthony….The Grotto of Dreams

  Monte Cook…A Narrowed Gaze

  Ed Greenwood….The Whispering Crown

  Wes Nicholson…Interlude

  Philip Athans…The Lady and the Shadow

  Brian Thomsen…Shadows of the Past

  Jeff Grubb….Tertius and the Artifact

  Wes Nicholson…Epilogue

  Prologue

  Most of the time, Wes enjoyed living at Candlekeep. He was serving a year's probation before becoming a novice monk, and as a result, was one of the keep's most junior inhabitants. He and his fellow probationers got the jobs no one else wanted.

  Wes didn't mind. If he could get through this first year, everything would start looking better.

  Slight, a shade over five-and-a-half feet tall, and rather plain in appearance, Wes turned nary a head. Like many eighteen year olds, he was gangly and all out of proportion. His eyes had a deep sparkle, but the rest of his face didn't match them, and his hair was as brown and tangled as a scullery mop.

  It was not a mop but a broom that he now pushed slowly across the floor of the common room. He sighed, contented in his work… and in his daydreams.

  There were only two things in life that Wes was discontented with. The first was the pall that had descended over the library in the last few weeks. The very stones of the place seemed sullen. The monks were on edge; something was amiss. Wes prayed to all the gods to put it right.

  The other unlikable thing made its baleful appearance even now, stomping to a halt in front of the broom.

  Brother Frederick-Wes's personal bane.

  Wes stopped his sweeping and stood on the hard stone floor of the common room. His shoulders shook in dread of what was to come.

  Brother Frederick's boots dispersed the dust pile Wes had collected, and the angry old monk glared at him from less than a foot away.

  "You'll never amount to anything, boy! It's taken you too long to clean up after morningfeast-again. You're lazy and incompetent. I don't understand why the abbot hasn't thrown you out. A slovenly boy like you should reap the harvest of his sloth. You want to be a novice monk? Never! There hasn't been a less likely candidate since Jeffrey, almost two centuries ago. And you know what happened to him!

  "Now, get on with sweeping the floors before I find some real work for you to do-like emptying the midden!"

  Brother Frederick stormed off, leaving Wes to his thoughts: I'm not lazy, just a little slow. One day, I'll show Brother Frederick and the others that I'm worthwhile.

  "… you know what happened to him!"

  The story of hapless Jeffrey had been used countless times to frighten Wes and the other probationers. Jeffrey was a novice who was so incompetent that he got lost in the library and never found his way out. Nor had anyone ever discovered his remains. He got lost… or snatched, by someone-or something.

  It was a labyrinthine place, the library-labyrinthine and spooky.

  Of their own accord, Wes's feet wandered from the common room, through the archway that led to the library. His hand gently leaned the broom against the corridor wall.

  Ah, the library…

  Wes's reverie was interrupted by a polite cough.

  He spun around to see the abbot standing behind him. He was a tall, gaunt man, with wisps of gray hair poking out from under his monk's cowl.

  "Probationer Wes, I don't suppose you could spare me a few minutes of your time."

  Wes bowed his head in respect. "Of course I could, my lord. How may I be of service?"

  "Well, first, you could strive not to upset Brother Frederick again. I was coming to fetch you when he stormed by me, muttering some very unmonkly words about you."

  "Yes, my lord. It seems the good brother is always looking to find fault with me."

  The abbot allowed himself a slight smile at this.

  "He has only your welfare at heart, Wes. But, I have a more immediate task for you, too. The reading room in the north corner of the library hasn't been used for a while, and there are some scholars arriving tomorrow. I'd like you to go make sure the room is ready for their use."

  Wes beamed at the abbot. "Yes, my lord. At once." He ran off toward the oldest part of the library.

  The abbot watched him go, a knowing look on his gaunt face…

  On his way, Wes stopped by a storeroom and grabbed another broom and some dusting cloths. He looked at the mop and bucket in the far corner, but quickly decided to leave them there.

  Cleaning tools in hand, he found his way to the disused reading room. He opened the door and coughed loudly as a cloud of dust rose. There were cobwebs everywhere, and Wes wondered where he should start.

  Right by the door seemed as good a place as any. He soon was busy sweeping and dusting and trying not to choke or sneeze, battling the flying dust for each breath of air. The room was starting to look like it might be usable by the morning.

  Brother Frederick stuck his head in.

  "What are you doing here, boy? I told you to finish cleaning up the dining room. Have you done that?"

  "Ah… no, Brother… but…"

  "But nothing. Go and do it, NOW!"

  Wes stood in the middle of the room, a stunned look on his face.

  Brother Frederick turned a deep shade of crimson. "I said, NOW! Are you deaf?"

  "B-B-B-But, the lord abbot told me to clean this room," Wes blurted out before Brother Frederick could interrupt again.

  Whatever response Brother Frederick was going to make was bitten back at the mention of the abbot. The monk's face returned to its normal florid hue. ~~

  "Very well. Once you have finished here, go straight to the dining room and get it clean."

  He stomped off without waiting for a reply.

  Wes got back to his cleaning and worked his way around the room. After almost an hour, he was very tired, and he leaned against a solid timber bookshelf mounted on the stone wall. The bookshelf and wall moved slightly under his weight.

  He leapt back with a start.

  Curious, Wes took a close look at the bookshelf. He glimpsed straight cracks in the stone wall behind it. A secret doorway leading… where?

  "Well," he thought aloud, "I need a break from cleaning. I'll just see what's behind the door, and then get back to it."

  He closed the reading room door, and then put his shoulder to the bookshelf and began to push. The shelf moved reluctantly at first, as though the door hadn't been opened for a long time. Wes pushed it far enough to squeeze through. Once inside, he blinked, finding himself in a small room lined with shelves. The shelv
es were stacked with books, scrolls, and more than a few piles of loose sheets.

  Wes was very careful not to disturb those.

  A wedge of light from the reading room illuminated a small reading desk and a solid oak chair, together in the center of the room. There was also a soft glow throughout the room, some sort of magical light.

  His cleaning tasks quickly forgotten, Wes glanced gleefully around the room, plucking up the courage to pick something up and read it…

  Wishing You Many More

  David Cook

  From the port of Luthcheq on the Bay of Chessenta

  Greetings Grand Conjurer Torreb, and a fine birthday to you!

  I cannot believe my fortune! To think that I should hear of you, fellow student, and upon your birthing day, too! It's me, Fannol Pavish from the Academy. I was 2nd initiate to your 1st. It has been so long ago, and after your injustice, we never kept in touch. In fact, I fear you may have forgotten me. I know that I, busy as I am, barely have time to relish the memories of those days. I am sure you, who were always so energetic and ambitious, can scarce find the time for idle reminiscing, especially on what must be such an unhappy topic.

  I remember how you chafed at our theorizing, always wanting to do something with your spells. Just remember, I was the one doused by that stink potion Chow-warth got when he tried to make sweetwater in the Alchemiologicia. I'm sure you remember puffy little Chowwarth.

  But, I haven't explained by what subtle machinations I suddenly came into possession of your whereabouts. It was pure Fate (blessed be the gods) that brought your name and place to me. I had just arrived here in Luthcheq-I'm on my way to Corsk near the border, so post any reply there-and took it in my head to go see Timrik, who's got a post out here. (At the Academy, he was the gnome one rank back, studying to be an artificer, remember?) He had news of how you had put down some dragon that was raiding farms in the mountains, was it? The gods only know how he got your name, but your adventure sounds quite dashing from what he told me. You must write and tell me about the entire thing. I burn for some excitement. Anyway, he gave me the name of the inn you were staying at, so I seized the opportunity to write you.

  Imagine, you a dragon killer! My own life seems horribly dull in comparison. I'm off to Governor Hamid's court, where I'll be the provincial magister. After you left the Academy, I had to bear the burden of being 1st initiate, and I learned why you were always so studious and solemn. I persevered through it all, though, and managed to pass with not-too stinging words from the dean magisters. That spurred me enough that after the Academy I studied for the ministerial exam and managed to place right over all the minor posts and start directly at the Learned rank.

  Well, it sounds like bragging, but what it really means is that I was assigned to something dreadfully dull and safe-assistant under secretary to the privy council's secretary of arcanum. I spent half my days in musty scrolls, reading arcane lore, and the other half explaining what I'd learned to puddle-wits who couldn't tell a flux contagious from a similarity-much less care. Thank Fortune my pleas for transfer were finally heeded, or I would have gone rather cracked like the Academy's old librarian, Avarle, clucking around my dusty shelves. Even so, it's not like I'll be out there chucking spells at dragons like you, eh?

  I think Fate gave me your whereabouts for another reason, too. I've been doing some research, and you could be a great help to me. While I was digging through the Arcanum's libraries, I came across one fascinating bit in all those dusty scrolls. Do you remember that epic, the Duel of Tromdarl and Greenwinter-the one Master Feurgond droned on about in Philosophic Lore? Well, I actually found some letters that I'm sure are the great artificer Greenwinter's very own. They are full of references to what I'm guessing was his last researched creation.

  You know the tale-in jealousy, Greenwinter binds his spirit to a mighty rod of godly fire and uses it to destroy his rival, Tomdarl. The whole thing ends with Greenwinter and his rod going off and never being seen again, which is the only proper way for a story like that to end.

  I'm sure if I can get all the pieces put together, I'll be able to find the artifact of the tale. Imagine the fuss there'd be if someone registered that in the imperial arcanum!

  Unfortunately, Greenwinter came from the mountains, and there certainly aren't any mountains around Corsk. From the clues I've gathered, I'm certain he hailed from your territory. What I was wondering was if you'd ever heard of something called the "snake-bound pattern." It is an important clue to finding the device-a map maybe. I haven't any information what it really looks like.

  Oh, dear, I almost forgot. You must give my greetings to your wife, Lady Marriana. Of course she is as beautiful and graceful as when we both courted her. I am still jealous (and a little crestfallen) that you wooed her so well. As hard as I tried, you still won her hand. What wizardly charms did you use on her?

  I should ask also how you are. You must tell me what you have been doing since the Academy days. Living out there in the wilderness must be a constant adventure. I can imagine all sorts of horrid deaths and daring escapades. From the way Timrik described things, you're quite respected in your village or town or whatever. How do you withstand the boredom?

  Now of course, I am being coy. Since this should reach you on your birthing day, you're also holding a package from me. It's a present. I did not want to send just anything. No one needs another wool scarf or gilt wand case. Instead, I have a real surprise for you. I researched it myself, and I know you will enjoy it.

  Farewell, for now. I'm relieved to hear you have overcome all the obstacles of the past and that something good has come of all that bitterness.

  Your old Academy fellow,

  Perfect and Absolute Magister of Corsk, Pavish

  P.S. Like the title? I've hardly gotten to use it yet, so forgive my little vanity.

  Posted from Tyn's Rock Inn

  Greetings Magister Pavish (or should I address you Perfect and Absolute Magister Pavish?),

  I confess I had no intention of replying, so you can thank Marriana for this consideration. She will not abide my rudeness.

  I am sure you can imagine my surprise upon receiving your birthday wishes. I have gone to some trouble to avoid all ties to my previous Academy life, so your note was most unexpected. I do not even know how Timrik knew my whereabouts, though I am less than pleased for it-yes, I remember him perfectly. I remember everything from those days quite clearly-though I no longer wish to remember them.

  Timrik's information was a bit dated. By the time your package arrived, I had moved on. Travel is both a necessity and a habit in my life. It was only by chance that I came back through Tyn's Rock. The landlord is a honest fellow and held it for me in hopes I would return.

  Accept my obligatory congratulations on your posting. I must say I am amused. You were adamant about not entering politics behind your esteemed father and were set upon being an adventurer. I suppose now that you may have earned your position on your own merits, a political career holds more interest. Minister Pavish must be proud of his son. It is interesting how our lives change.

  One thing, though, has not changed-your dramatic sense. The fire sparkle dust you sent was ingenious. Fire sparkles indeed! Unfortunately, there was a slight accident. The inn's spit-boy prevailed on me to let him toss a pinch on the fire. Instead of sparkles we got a rushing blue fireball. The damned thing scorched off all his hair. Fortunately, his burns weren't too bad, and the adventuring life has taught me to dodge well, but the common room here was badly blackened. I would recheck the component proportions before making a new supply. It cost me the purse of the gold I'd earned off that dragon you were so curious about.

  Fortunately, he was an old brute with a considerable hoard. The locals called him Silverskin because they kept finding bits of old coins around his kills. It turned out he'd lain on his treasure so long it had embedded right into his skin.

  So you can see, from what I am telling you, I have no need or expectation of repayment.
I do not wish to be indebted to you. Still, I owe you some little amount for not standing against me like the others at the Academy.

  Perhaps in payment, I can offer you an answer to your business about Greenwinter. I believe I have seen the snake-bound pattern you asked about, though I did not know what it was at the time.

  I was high up in the mountains, in white drake country, as it is called around here. There was a rock shelf, bare of snow, that thrust out over a gorge. At first I thought what I saw was claw marks on a dragon perch, but when I got closer, the pattern was clearly carved and polished into the stone. I've enclosed a sketch of what I saw, as best I can render it from memory. I would not call it a map, really. That is all I can tell you. Any more you will have to learn on your own.

  However Marriana, who has always been kinder, will reproach me if I do not send some remembrance of your birthing day, just as you did of mine. I don't know when yours is, but I'm sure a few have passed over the years. Therefore I have enclosed a bauble taken from Silverskin's lair. Take this gift, a trinket from the dragon's trove, in the spirit of "Wishing you many more."

  Respectfully, Wizard Torreb

  P.S. The charms I used on Marriana were purely natural. Spells I leave to others.

  Perfect and Absolute Magister Pavish His Official Residence at Corsk

  Another special day greeting to you, Wizard Torreb!

  I grieve at this delay in replying to your letter and your gift, lest you think you've put me off with your testy tone. I am sending this to Tyn's Rock, in hopes it will find you. Perhaps old wounds are the hardest to heal, like they say, but I will not be dissuaded by your last letter. If you thought I would, you count me wrong.

  I delay only because this provincial posting is more effort than I had expected, especially since the governor is an overbearing ass. He really thinks he'll reach the imperial court someday, maybe even rise to a ministerial post. Of course, he hasn't a whit of talent or cleverness and relies on me for everything. He has had me scurrying about, casting this, researching that, and doing a score of sorcerous tasks to further his petty ambitions. Of late, he has gotten it into his head that if he can produce some wondrously powerful spell or magical gimcrack, it will buy him entry into the inner circle, as he calls it. Of course, that means I have to do all the work while he just grumbles about the time it's taking.