Realms of Magic a-3

by R. A. Salvatore

"And the grave is already dug," Anders boasted.

  The second giant had seen enough, and started for the side of the hill, but Josidiah would not let it get away so easily. The bladesinger sprinted right behind, sheathing: ne sword. He let the giant get far enough down the hillside so that when he leapt for it, he came in even with the monster's bulbous nose. He held fast and brought his swordarm in hard around the other side, slashing deep _ato the monster's throat. The giant tried to reach up and grab the elf, but suddenly it was gasping, stumbling, skid-img to its knees, and sliding down the hill.

  Josidiah's sword arm pumped furiously, widening the wound, tearing at the brute's arteries and windpipe. He pushed away as the giant tumbled facedown, coming to a standing position atop the monster's back. It was still alive, still gasping, but the wound was mortal, Josidiah knew, and so he turned back for the hilltop.

  Anders's self-congratulatory smile was short-lived, dissipating as soon as the mage looked to the battered panther. The cat had done her work well-the giant lay dead on the ground-but she had been battered in the process and lay awkwardly, breath coming in forced gasps, backbone obviously shattered.

  Anders ran to the panther's side; Josidiah joined him there a moment later.

  "Do something!" the elf pleaded.

  "There is nothing I can do," Anders protested.

  "Send the cat back into the figurine," Josidiah said. "She should be whole again when she returns."

  Anders turned on the elf, grabbed him by the front of his tunic. "I have not completed the spell," he cried, and only then did it hit the mage. What had brought the panther out here? Why would a panther, a wild panther, run to the aid of an elf?

  "I never got close to finishing," the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. "I just let her go."

  Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

  "We must get her back to my tower," Anders said.

  Josidiah's expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

  But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

  Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat's tail had disappeared into the cloth!

  "Lift her as I pass this over her," Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

  "Extradimensional hole," the mage explained, slipping it forward to engulf the cat's head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. "She is quite fine," he said. "Well, except for the giant's wounds."

  "Wondrous toys, wizard," Josidiah congratulated.

  "Spoils of adventuring," Anders replied with a wink. 'You should get out more."

  The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

  Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

  "Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment," Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah". "Be gone," he said, "for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully."

  Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this most wondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders's magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

  Josidiah looked once more into the cat's eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders's preparation.

  Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. "You will take the figurine," he said to Josidiah.

  "I cannot," the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

  Anders did not argue-there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat's head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther's eyes.

  "I name you Whiskers," he began, putting his dagger against the animal's throat.

  "No!" Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man's hand and pulling the dagger away. "Not Whiskers, never that!"

  Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. "Shadow," he declared.

  "No, not shadow," said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. "The high elvish word for shadow." He looked right into the cat's eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther's name all along.

  "Guenhwyvar."

  As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders's lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

  Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything-panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

  "What did you do?" Josidiah asked the mage.

  "I?" balked Anders. "What did you do?"

  Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement. "Guenhwyvar," the elf called nervously.

  A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

  This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

  "How did you do this?" the elf asked.

  "I know not," Anders replied. "And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!" The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. "Send her away to heal," he bade.

  Josidiah looked to the cat. "Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise."

  The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

  "That is the joy of magic," Anders said. "The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, per-naps the magic of the hole-ah, yes, my dear, lost hole! — perhaps the combination of all these things.

  "The joy of the mysteries," he finished. "Very well, then, give it to me." And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.

  "Never," the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.

  "Indeed," said the mage, hardly surprised. "But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort."

  "Gladly," said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.


  SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS

  Jeff Grubb

  On reflection, Jehan Wands realized why most adventures begin in taverns. It takes a combination of noise, bustle, the late hour, wrong-headed opinions, and ale, all in specific amounts, to convince otherwise rational people to do stupid things like go on quests and slay dragons. And only a tavern could bring all this together in one spot.

  The tavern in question was the Grinning Lion, located in the northern, well-monied reaches of Waterdeep, gem of the north, City of Splendors, and great jewel of the Shining Sea. The Lion was no wharf-side dock or adventurer's dive in the lower quarters of the city, but a clean, softly lit watering hole frequented by locals and the most recent generation of the city's noble families. Here, individuals who would flee in terror from the common room of the Bloody Fist or Selune's Smile farther down the city could quaff a few with others of similar social station and disposition.

  There were no dusty Dalesmen here, no Red Wizards in mufti, and no axe-wielding dwarves. Most of the crowd were local, young, and in varying degrees of inebriation, their numbers mixed with a smattering of the wealthy merchants who catered to the wealthier families. A bois terous game of darts dominated one corner, a high-stakes Talis game another, and a third had been commandeered by a wag of middling years telling "Volo stories" to a crowd of younger sports.

  The fourth corner held a quiet table of three young apprentice wizards. These were new mages, just trained in their first cantrips, whose lives were still filled with the inglorious grunt work of wizards' assistants-cleaning kettles, running errands, fetching spell components, sweeping the summoning room floor, and other odious tasks their mentors assigned. Like employees of every stripe, regardless of profession, they were taking this opportunity of temporary freedom to complain about the masters they had just left behind.

  "Familiars get treated better than we do," said Jehan Wands. He was the tallest of the three, a youth with dark hair gathered in a ponytail behind a golden earring (the latter worn only when he was away from his magical master-his granduncle, Maskar Wands).

  His friend Anton, a russet-headed youth, grunted an agreement. "I've seen spell components that were better handled than apprentice wizards. Don't these old husks remember when they were young?"

  "They probably do," said Gerald, a gangly blond boy with short hair and a scowling demeanor, "and they want to treat their apprentices just as badly as they themselves were treated." Gerald was supposedly Anton's friend, but Jehan had drunk with him only a handful of times in the past few months.

  "And I have it doubly bad," said Jehan, "for I'm working for the family patriarch himself. He's so old we call him Maskar the Mummy. Practically embalmed, and as stiff-necked as they come. If I make the slightest mistake, he pays a 'social call' on my father, and I get one of the Tour mother and I are very disappointed in you' talks. I hear he used to change his apprentices into frogs and newts. It would be an improvement over listening to my folks complain."

  "Huh. I can triple that misfortune" challenged Anton. "My master claims to have studied under Elminster him self. Everything is "Elminster this' and "Elminster that' and 'When I was your age and worked for Elminster.' I don't think he's been farther west than the Rat Hills, but don't let him hear me say that. He would turn me into a frog."

  Gerald shook his head. "I beat your ill curses fourfold. I serve the great and powerful Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun, who's just plain crazy. He's been involved in so many plots, he's stone-cold paranoid, and borderline violent to boot. If he thinks you're a danger to Waterdeep in any way, shape, or form, poof!" The blond youth grabbed his forehead with his hand, fingers splayed. "He throws a feeblemind spell on you and burns out your brain cells."

  Anton put in, "Ah, but at least you have Laeral, Khel-ben's prize student, hanging around. I hear she's most easy on the eyes."

  Gerald sniffed. "You think she'll give an apprentice the time of day? No, she worships the ground Blackstaff levitates over." He took a pull on his mug for effect and, realizing it was empty, signaled for another round.

  "I bet he doesn't tell your parents on you," said Jehan. "And you don't have to live up to your family name. Just once I'd like to have old Maskar treat me like a rational, thinking being instead of his nephew's youngest whelp. Maskar thinks everyone else in this city is a lower form of life, especially his students."

  Gerald nodded. "And rival mages are barely worth their notice. Khelben calls your master 'the Old Relic.'"

  Jehan sniffed in turn. "And yours reminds me of a skunk, what with that white stripe in his beard. I've heard my master call him 'the Old Spider.'"

  The blond youth flashed a sly, toothy grin, his first of the evening. "Everyone calls him that, and he likes it that way, I think. Blackstaff and the other big-name wizards revel in the illusion of their power and wear it like a fur-trimmed cloak. Threatening the help is part of the deal. One of the perks, I suppose."

  "It wouldn't be such a problem," said Anton, "if they were at least listening to new ideas."

  "Don't get me started on that," said Jehan, getting starting on precisely that. The subject was a favorite of the young mage, particularly since it showed the shortcomings of the elder wizards. "They're paranoid enough about their powers getting into the hands of inexperienced pups like us. New magic is beyond their aged brains, and it scares them."

  "New magic?" asked Gerald.

  "You've heard about Maztica, right? The land across the Shining Sea?" said Jehan. Gerald nodded. "They have a completely different flavor of magic out there, based on feathers and fangs. These Mazticans use it to move water through pipes, like a well-pump. Think about what such interior plumbing would do for Waterdeep. I tried to ask old Maskar about it and got a lecture about learning the basics first before getting involved in 'speculative' spell-casting. Speculative! There's another culture that can transform our world, and he's turning his back on it."

  "Aye, and you're seeing more wood-block printing around," said Anton. "But we're still writing spells out longhand."

  Gerald nodded. "And weapons technology is at the same level it was when the elves abandoned Myth Drannor, as if we haven't improved anything in the past thousand years."

  Jehan said, "You're talking about smoke powder, right?"

  Anton shifted uneasily in his chair, but Gerald nodded readily. "There are a number of things, but yes, smoke powder is Blackstaff s pet peeve."

  Jehan laughed. "Peeve? I hear the Old Spider is flat-out paranoid about the stuff, blowing it up wherever he finds it, and a good chunk of the city along with it. The way I hear it, the powder comes from other planets, other planes."

  Anton harrumphed into his mug. "I have to confess, I'm not comfortable talking about this. I hear smoke powder is dangerous."

  Jehan shook his head. Anton was so cautious sometimes, he thought. "Don't worry. It's not like the Old Spider is listening to us, waiting for us to speak treason about smoke powder. I mean, what is it? A magical mixture that explodes on contact with fire. They're already making arquebuses down south to use that explosive force to fire sling bullets, and cannons that fire iron-banded stones."

  Anton tried to shrug nonchalantly. "So it makes a big bang. Don't we have enough spells we can learn that create a big bang?"

  Gerald leapt in, "Yes, but those spells are only for wizards. Smoke powder, like printing, can bring that ability to the masses, eh?"

  "Exactly," said Jehan, warming to the subject as the most recent round of ale warmed his belly. "But the Old Hounds in the city, Maskar the Mummy and that skunk-maned Spider among them, don't see it, won't see it until it's too late. Keeping us from knowing too much about the stuff won't keep others from learning. But no, they're caught in the 'Fireballs and Lightning Bolts' mind-set, and nothing can dissuade them."

  Anton muttered something about the beer running through him, and he staggered off. Jehan and Gerald barely noticed his disappearance.

  Gerald said, "So you don't think we mages would be repl
aced if there were smoke powder freely lying around?"

  Jehan laughed. "No more than we'd be replaced when more people learn how to read. You still need mages to make the stuff. And not to mention that wizards would still be needed to make smoke powder safer, and improve the weapons that use it. The big problem for most arquebuses is that they sometimes explode. A wizard can strengthen the barrel, as well as improve the accuracy and distance. It's a whole new world, but the Old Hounds with all the power don't realize it, and they're keeping us, the next generation, in the dark about it."

  By the time Anton returned, Gerald and Jehan had moved onto other ideas, like golem-driven boats and clockwork familiars, which the Old Guard were either ignoring or blatantly quashing. The three apprentices agreed that the problem was that since the old wizards controlled what knowledge was being passed on, they controlled the advance (or lack of advance) of spellcasting.

  Gerald excused himself at this point, saying he had to get back to Blackstaff Tower or the Old Spider would send hell hounds out after him. Anton bought one last round, and the conversation switched to other matters, such as the purported easiness of the Fibinochi sisters. Then Anton had to leave as well, since his master mage was cooking up something noxious at dawn and expected the kettles to be spotless.

  Jehan swirled the last of his ale in his mug, thinking about how entrenched the old wizards had gotten. And the problem was, since they were all older than the Cold Spine Mountains, they kept anyone else from learning new things. Supposedly, they were fonts of information, but in reality they stood in the way of progress. Jehan resolved that when he attained the ancient and august title of wizard, he would never stand in the way of new ideas like Granduncle Maskar, Khelben, and the rest of the Old Hounds. In the meantime, he would have to sweep the floors, learn what he could, and keep his eyes out for new ideas. After all, there was nothing that kept him from a little independent study.

  A merchant intercepted Jehan as the young man was making for the door. "Excuse me?" the merchant said in an odd accent, touching Jehan softly on the shoulder. "Do I understand you are a wizard?"