Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  Reaching my good hand out, I felt in the darkness for the intersection of the twisted wood design of the door. Gouging my fingers into the deep recess, I pulled out the small bottle of Spring Tonic I had hidden there.

  Revenge smudges the sensibilities Nothing matters except getting even, and as far as I was concerned, I would hurt Bareen Tykar. He would suffer a thousand times for what he did to me.

  My hand had been mangled. The cleric with all his healing magic wasn’t sure I’d ever get full use of it again. I was lucky to have a storehouse of goods to sell, so while I tried to recover my mobility, I could at least earn a living. After hearing the prognosis, I returned to my lair in the Sunset Mountains.

  The moon courted me as I rode toward the wall of shrubs and boulders hiding the entrance to my retreat. A stream-fed waterfall spilled over the granite face of the mountain’s upper brow, and I angled toward its gentle sound.

  Stealth stepped into the wide groove formed by several huge rocks and stopped when he neared the lair’s door. I paused in dismounting to breathe in the cold, fresh air, filling my lungs and reviving my spirit as no spell-slicked Spring Tonic could. My horse nickered, seeming to agree. Grunting when the wrappings on my hand snagged on a saddle buckle, I slipped off, slapping Stealth gently on the rump. He made for the overhang of his stone barn.

  My lodge was situated in a deep cave on the ridge overlooking Oak Island, a spit of land breaching into a high, wide lake. Here, in snacks and shanties, were the remains of the village where I grew up. I returned here often, though the mountaintop had long turned toward ghosts and memories. The people were all gone, my family included, trading the freedom of alpine life for a living in the lowlands.

  A rock slab set on a swinging pinion served as the door to the lair. Tipping back the recessed handle, I entered, immediately comforted by familiar surroundings.

  I lit the lantern on the shelf by the door, tapping the stone portal closed with my shoulder. My mood brightened as the flame glow picked up the wondrous things I had stored in my burrow. I moved into the room, and as always, lingered to touch these ancient magical objects. Many had been created in the Heartlands and many had come to the Sunset Mountains by the old trading routes.

  I’d stolen artifacts from peasants and aristocrats, alike The gentry had rare, fanciful items that I loved and used to adorn my home, collectibles such as the banquet board cut from northern wood and fashioned in the Year of the High-mantle, when Azoun IV took the throne of Cormyr. It was rubbed to an exquisite luster by some craftsman of long ago, and the spell, too, was laid on like silk. Three short, lyrical words pronounced while standing at the long end of the table made the magic come together and the finest, tastiest foods appear.

  Such classic antiques were in great demand, but high in price. The merchant class of the Heartlands couldn’t yet afford them, so they settled on buying those more homespun objects I collect from the peasants. Their particular fancies were spell-sewn quilts that kept a person warm on the chilliest days, and cinnabar leaves once grown in the long-dead city of Shoon and used by their magicians to conjure feng shui-good luck.

  I flamed up another lantern and flooded the cave with soft, orange light. There was one item here for which I had come specifically. Opening the top drawer of my storage chest, I unwrapped the delicate packing paper surrounding my favorite possession. I carefully removed it from its parchment nest, lifting out the ancient, hand-sewn shawl.

  Spun through with gold and platinum, and strung with tiny bronze beads, it was shaped like an arrowhead, lacking fringe or ruffle-edging to mar the simplicity of its lines. The weaving’s antiquity and worth? Beyond comprehension.

  I stole it and the incantation from a mountain wizard who used the shawl to capture his enemies. With a little ingenuity, it was possible to trap a person’s life-force in the very fibers of the weaving. When I claimed the shawl as my own, I discovered that it had imprisoned many people already. By reversing the spell, I released them whole and complete. They went away thankful for their freedom and the chance to retaliate against the man who had done them wrong. Emptied, the cloak was packed away, though I knew that one day I would have an opportunity to try its magic on someone like Bareen Tykar.

  Thieves can be masters of disguise It helps to deflect the possibility of being recognized when out and about on business, and I, for one, take such things seriously. I move around too much in the towns and cities of the Heartlands to risk being recognized by my many enemies.

  This night I walked through Kendil wearing coarse, brown linen. My long blond hair and tight beard were stained dark. I had added the tracks of a false scar along my cheek and an eye patch to balance the look. Sporting a limp, I hoped to distract attention from the filthy bindings wrapping my bad hand.

  I entered Bareen Tykar’s shop just before closing time, waiting silently by the door until he’d finished with a customer. The old man stared at me, and it looked as though he was going to summon his thugs.

  Lowering my voice and wheezing a little, I spoke before he could call them. “You’re the owner of this store?”

  “Aye. So?”

  “I just came to town and there be people here who tell me you like to buy old things.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Some moon elf over at the inn. He was into his cups, but I thought I’d check it out. The year’s been hard and funds are down. I’m selling off my personals, you see.”

  He stared at me-silent, calculating, distrustful. After a moment, his curiosity won over his caution. “What do you have?”

  I shuffled up to the counter and grinned, making sure I breathed on him as I leaned close. The smell of onions and brown bread made him flinch. “What I have is a shawl,” I said in a conspiratorial tone. “Struck through with powerful mountain magic.”

  “Let me see it,” he said.

  I opened my carry sack and gently pulled out the shawl, spreading it on his stone counter. The weaving glistened in the shop’s candlelight. Bareen Tykar’s eyes grew wide for a moment, then, as if he remembered his bargaining stance, he pasted on a bland expression.

  “What does it do?” he asked.

  “It’ll mint you coins’ gold and silver and platinum and copper.”

  His mouth came open a bit on those words, but after a sputtering inhale, he shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing as this shawl. It’s a fake.”

  “No, it’s not. See these filaments in the weaving itself? Look how bright they are with the metals. It’s through these fibers that the magic works to make the coins. I can’t do much with it anymore, though.”

  “Why?”

  “With each speaking of the incantation, the shawl’s power wanes. It’ll give up only so much gold, silver, and platinum per owner. I’ve used my turn, you see, and all I get now are copper pieces and not many of them.”

  He leaned in again and touched the shawl lightly. “You say this shawl is old? How old and from where does it come?”

  “It belonged to a dwarf living in the Sunset Mountains and was made before the first Orcgate Wars in Thay.”

  “That old, then, is it?” Bareen Tykar asked. “Do you have letters of authenticity?”

  I laughed. “From a dwarf? Are you mad?” I smoothed my chuckling into a glaring frown.

  He snorted and crossed his arms, propping them on his huge stomach. “I’ll require a demonstration. If copper is all you can make, then do it so I can see if this shawl really does what you say.”

  I counted to ten before nodding. Straightening. I took the shawl from the counter and placed it over my shoulders. It was a gossamer delight, so soft and billowy. How it sparkled against my linen shirt. I twisted slightly to pick up the candlelight as I slowly wrapped myself in it. The man’s nostrils flared in response.

  Being the careful man I am, I’d spent time planning out this encounter. I made a small, leather bag, designing it so it would easily fall open after pulling a slender, almost invisible thread attached to the clasp. T
his delicate task took me days with my bad hand, but in the end it worked well. I could place several coins inside it and by regulating the tension on the string, I could dump a few at a time. Before coming to Bareen Tykar’s shop, I had slung the pouch over my shoulder and packed it beneath my coat.

  Standing in the middle of the room, I muttered a useless incantation and released the copper pieces. Three fell clear and rolled across the floor.

  The old merchant frowned. “Do it again,” he said.

  I repeated the motions and the nonsense words, dropping the rest of the contents from my bag. It looked good, like the shawl actually worked.

  “I’ll try it now,” he said. “Give it to me.”

  I did as he commanded, watching him as he fitted the cloak around his body.

  “What are the words I need to speak to make gold?” he demanded.

  Digging into my britches pocket, I pulled out a small tear of parchment. I had written down the incantation that triggered the shawl’s real power. “Can you read?”

  His response was to grab the paper and whisper the ancient words to the spell.

  The shawl began to shimmer. From where I stood, I could feel the warmth coming off it as the magic surrounded him. In the candle glow, I saw a distinct, woven texture forming on the skin of this encasing bubble. It sparkled and glittered. At one point I had to glance away from the brightness. A minute passed and it was, then, too late for the merchant to escape without my help.

  He realized he was trapped. His growing panic fed the constricting power of the cloak and he began to beg for mercy, but the shell around him muffled his voice. I watched as the tears of anguish rolled down his fat cheeks, then finally, he squeezed his hands against his temples and opened his mouth to scream. Before he could, the shawl captured him.

  He disappeared in sparks and glitter, the cloak falling to the floor with a soft flutter. I picked it up and felt the heaviness as the man’s very being settled into the threads. Throwing it about my shoulders, I sagged beneath this weight, but after another moment slid by, the weaving grew delicate and silky again. Turning a slow circle, I smiled, then laughed. Such sweet revenge!

  Bareen Tykar will remain in this filament prison for years, aware, yet helpless. It’s only after I’ve grown old and think I’ve seen my last blue moon that I’ll finally release him. When I do, I’ll make him watch as I drink his precious Spring Tonic.

  The Greatest Hero Who Ever Died

  J. Robert King

  The stormy winds that swept up from the Great Ice Sea often brought unwanted things to lofty Capel Curig. Tonight, in addition to pelting snow and driving gales, the wind brought a hideously evil man.

  None knew him as such when he tossed open the battered door of the Howling Reed. They saw only a huge, dark-hooded stranger haloed in swirling snow. Those nearest the door drew back from the wind and the vast form precipitating out of it, drew back as the door slammed behind the dripping figure, slammed and shuddered in its frame. Without discharging the ice from his boots, the stranger limped across the foot-polished planks of the Reed to a trembling hearth fire. There he bent low, flung a few more logs on the flames, and stood, eclipsing the warmth and casting a giant shadow over the room.

  The rumble of conversation in the Reed diminished as all eyes in the tiny pub turned furtively toward the ruined figure.

  Silhouetted on the hearth, the stranger looked like some huge and ill-formed marionette. He lacked an arm, for his right sleeve was pinned to the shoulder and his left hand did all the adjusting of his fetid form. Deliberately, that widowed hand now drew back some of his robes, but the sodden figure beneath looked no less shapeless. For all his shifting, he did not remove the hood from his head, a head that appeared two sizes too small for his body. Beneath the hood, the man’s face was old and lightless, with cold-stiffened lips, a narrow black beard, and a hooked nose. In all, his form looked as though a large man hid within those robes, holding some poorly proportioned puppet head to serve as his face.

  He spoke then, and his hollow voice and rasping tongue made the patrons jump a bit. “Can any of you spare a silver for a bowl of blood soup and a quaff of ale?”

  None responded except by blank, refusing stares. Not even Horace behind the bar would offer this stranger a glass of water. Apparently, all would rather dare his wrath than know their charities had provided sustenance to him.

  The man was apparently all too acquainted with this response, for he shook his head slowly and laughed a dry, dead-leaf laugh. A few staggering steps brought him to a chair, vacated upon his arrival and still warm from its former occupant. There he collapsed with a wheeze like a punctured bellows.

  “In the lands of Sossal, whence I hail, a man can earn his blood and barley by telling a good tale. And I happen to have such a tale, for my land gave birth to the greatest hero who ever lived. Perhaps his story will earn me something warm.”

  Those who had hoped to dismiss him with bald glares and cruel silence now tried turning away and speaking among themselves. Horace, for his part, retreated through a swinging door to the kitchen, to the gray dishwater and the piles of pots.

  Unaffected, the shabby wanderer began the telling of his tale with a snap of his rigid blue fingers. Green sparks ignited in air, swirled about him, and spread outward like a lambent palm in the heavy darkness. The sparking tracers lighted on all those seated in the taproom, and each tiny star extinguished itself in the oily folds of flesh between a patron’s knotted brows.

  The faint crackling of magic gave way to a single, hushed sigh. In moments, the place fell silent again, and the tale began. “The lands of Sossal were once guarded by a noble knight, Sir Paramore, the greatest hero who ever lived-”

  Golden haired, with eyes like platinum, Sir Paramore strode in full armor through the throne room of King Caen. Any other knight would have been stripped of arms and armaments upon crossing the threshold, but not noble Paramore. He marched forward, brandishing his spell-slaying long sword Kneuma and dragging a bag behind him as he approached the royal dais. There the king and princess and a nervous retinue of nobles ceased their conference and looked to him. Only when within a sword swipe of His Majesty did Paramore finally halt, drop to one armored knee, and bow his fealty.

  The king, his face ringed with early white locks, spoke. “And have you apprehended the kidnappers?”

  “Better, milord,” replied Paramore, rising with a haste that in anyone else would have been arrogance. He reached into the bag and drew out in one great and hideous clump the five heads of the kidnappers he had slain.

  The king’s daughter recoiled in shock. Only now did King Caen himself see the wide, slick line of red that Sir Paramore’s bag had dragged across the cold flagstones behind him.

  “You gaze, my liege, on the faces of the hoodlums you sought,” the knight explained.

  In the throat-clenched silence that followed, the wizard Dorsoom moved from behind the great throne, where his black-bearded lips had grown accustomed to plying the king’s ears. “You were to bring them here for questioning, Paramore, not lop off their heads.”

  “Peace, Dorsoom,” chided the king with an off-putting gesture. “Let our knight tell his tale.”

  “The tale is simple, milord,” replied Paramore. “I questioned the abductors myself and, when I found them wanting of answers, removed their empty heads.”

  “This is nonsense,” Dorsoom said. “You might have simply cut the heads off the first five peasants you saw, then brought them here and claimed them the culprits. There should have been a trial. And even if these five were guilty-which we can never know now-we do not know who assigned these ruffians their heinous task.”

  “They were kidnappers who had stolen away the children of these noble folk gathered around us,” Paramore replied with even steel in his voice. “If anything, I was too lenient.”

  “You prevented their trial-”

  “Still the wagging tongue of this worm,” Paramore demanded of the king, leveling his might
y sword against the meddling mage. “Or perhaps these warriors of mine shall do the task first!”

  The great doors of the throne room suddenly swung wide, and a clamor of stomping feet answered… small feet, the feet of children, running happily up the aisle behind their rescuer. Their shrill voices were raised in an unseemly psalm of praise to Sir Paramore as they ran.

  Seeing their children, the nobles emptied from the dais and rushed to embrace their sons and daughters, held captive these long tendays. The ebullient weeping and cooing that followed drowned the protests of Dorsoom, who retreated to his spot of quiet counsel behind the throne. It was as though the sounds of joy themselves had driven him back into the darkness.

  Over the pleasant noise, the grinning Paramore called out to the king. “I believe, my liege, you are in my debt. As was promised me upon the rescue of these dear little ones, I claim the fairest hand in all of Sossal. It is the hand of your beautiful daughter, Princess Daedra, that I seek.”

  Paramore’s claim was answered by a chorus of shouts from the joyous children, who now abandoned their parents to crowd the heels of their rescuer. From their spot beside him, the children ardently pleaded the knight’s case.

  Daedra’s bone-white skin flushed, and her lips formed a wound-red line across her face. The king’s visage paled in doubt. Before either could speak, though, the children’s entreaties were silenced by an angry cry.

  “Hush now, younglings!” commanded a thin nobleman, his ebony eyes sparkling angrily beneath equally black brows and hair. “Your childish desires have no say here. The hand of the princess has been pledged to me these long years since my childhood, since before she was born. This usurping knight — ” he said the word as though it bore a taint ” — cannot steal her from me, nor can your piteous caterwauling.”

  “Tis too true,” the king said sadly, shaking his head. He paused a moment, as though listening to some silent voice whisper behind his throne. “I am pressed by convention, Paramore, to grant her hand to Lord Ferris.”

  Sir Paramore sheathed his sword and crossed angry arms over his chest. “Come out, wicked mage, from your place of hiding in the shadow of this great man. Your whisperings cannot dissuade my lord and monarch from granting what his and mine and the princess’s hearts desire.”