Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  The ettin set the tray of chalices on a bench, then started down the arcade. Masud and most of the other giants followed at once, but Nicias and Vilmos lingered behind.

  “We will not let you bear Othea’s wrath alone.” The cloud giant’s voice was as soft as breath. “We shall stay.”

  “I have asked you to leave Bleak Palace,” Lanaxis said, struggling to remain patient. “Will you not honor my wishes?”

  “If you ask that way, we have no choice,” Nicias said. “But we are not happy-”

  “I don’t care!” Lanaxis pointed down the arcade. “Go!”

  Nicias’s mouth dropped open, and he was too astonished to move. Lanaxis grabbed Vilmos’s hand and guided it to the cloud giant’s arm. The titan shoved them both after the other giants, who had already reached the end of the arcade.

  “Take him away!” Lanaxis yelled. The Mother Queen was so close that he could feel the floor buck with each of her steps.

  Vilmos nodded, his admiring eyes fixed on Lanaxis’s face. “As you wish.” The storm giant turned away, dragging the astounded cloud giant along. “But we will not forget what you have done today, my brother.”

  “I know you won’t.” The titan slipped his hand into his robe pocket. He grasped the vial he had spent all night preparing, then whispered, “No one will.”

  Lanaxis waited only until Nicias and Vilmos had turned away before taking the tiny bottle from his pocket. The colonnade’s columns now shook constantly from the power of Othea’s footfalls. If not for the massive bulk of Bleak Palace interposed between them, the titan suspected she would already be looking down on him.

  Lanaxis pulled the cork from the vial and dumped a stream of tiny blue crystals into the bubbling waters. A few wisps of turquoise vapor rose from the pool, then the steam returned to its normal color and the titan knew his poison had dissolved.

  The colonnade began to shake so hard that the water sloshed from the well. Lanaxis saw a great bulk step from behind the corner of Bleak Palace and move swiftly toward the end of the arcade.

  “Stop, cowards!” boomed Othea’s voice. “Come back and stand with your brother!”

  Nicias and Vilmos, who had just reached the last column of the arcade, stopped and knelt near the ettin. Farther out on the frozen plain, Lanaxis saw his other brothers turn and reluctantly begin retracing their steps.

  A purple, dusklike shadow crept down the arcade as Othea’s mountainous shape trundled into full view, eclipsing the red disk of the sun. Though the Mother Queen remained as large as ever, her long abstinence from food had rendered her features jagged and sheer, and even the draughts she drank from the Well of Health had not stopped her skin from turning as gray as slate.

  Lanaxis called to the ettin, “Fetch Othea’s cup. She must be thirsty after her journey.”

  The ettin bowed to the Mother Queen, then scrambled down the length of the arcade to do as Lanaxis commanded.

  Othea studied Lanaxis with her black eyes. She said nothing, waiting for the titan’s brothers to return and kneel at her side. Even the runt, Dunmore, appeared-though he took care to stay well away from his brothers.

  Masud was the last to return. “My brothers and I are not cowards,” the fire giant sputtered. He cast an accusatory eye at the titan. “Lanaxis sent us away because we don’t deserve your wrath. We have done nothing wrong, save hear him out.”

  “That is not what Dunmore told me,” the Mother Queen replied. Her rumbling voice seemed to reverberate from the colonnade’s stone pillars and granite floor. “He said you all intended journey onto the Great Glacier. He said you all hoped to uncover Ulutiu’s burial place.”

  “Dunmore left early,” said Ottar. The frost giant avoided looking toward Lanaxis. “He was not there to hear us later.”

  Othea turned her black eyes upon Lanaxis. “Is this true?”

  “It’s true enough.” As the titan spoke, Julien and Arno returned with Othea’s enormous chalice and knelt at the edge of the well to fill it. Lanaxis continued, “It was my idea to deceive you. All the others did was listen.”

  The titan locked gazes with the Mother Queen and remained silent. An icy tranquility had settled over him. He felt nothing, no fear, no anger, not even impatience. It did not matter what punishment Othea chose for him. Soon, she would drink, and then Ostoria would be saved.

  The corners of Othea’s craggy mouth twitched, as though she were about to smile. Then, as the ettin rose and carried her chalice down the arcade, she looked down at the titan’s brothers. “Lanaxis shall bear the punishment for you all.”

  Many of the giants sighed in relief, and Masud asked, “Are we free to leave, then?”

  “You are,” Othea replied. She reached down and took her goblet from the ettin’s hands. “But it may be some time before Lanaxis can invite you to drink from the Well of Health again. Perhaps my son Julien and Arno should fill your chalices before you leave.”

  As the ettin turned to fetch their cups, Lanaxis’s mind filled with a white haze, his thoughts sailing through his head like wind-driven snow. He could not let his brothers drink and yet could not stop them without revealing his plan. The titan looked at Othea’s goblet: she had not raised it. Did she know it was poisoned? Was she waiting to see if he let his brothers drink?

  Lanaxis fought to regain control of his mind, to clear the blizzard of doubts clouding his thoughts. To save Ostoria, he had to play the game to the end, regardless of the consequences. He could not be like his brothers, afraid of sacrifices or risk. If Othea emptied her cup before the Sons of Annam, the titan would stop them. If not, he would rule Ostoria alone, without foolish and cowardly monarchs between him and his subjects.

  Julien caught Lanaxis’s eye and, as he and Arno carried the tray of chalices to the well, raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  Lanaxis took the largest cup off the tray. “I’ll fill the chalices for my brothers,” he said, dipping the mug in the bubbling waters.

  As the titan filled each goblet, icy beads of sweat ran down Ws face and his flanks beneath his robe. He ignored this discomfort and kept a polite smile frozen on his lips, nodding to each giant as he filled the appropriate chalice.

  Once the titan finished, he looked back to the ettin. “You may serve the Sons of Annam.”

  Arno’s face went pale, but Julien managed to retain his composure and carry the tray to the other end of the arcade The ettin walked among the giants, allowing them to take their cups off the tray. The Sons of Annam quaffed the poison down, each anxious to leave Bleak Palace as quickly as possible. They did not gag or make sour faces or show any sign of tasting the venom.

  The titan was the only one who exhibited illness. Othea still had not raised her chalice, and the fear that he was killing his brothers for naught had crept into his mind. His legs trembled, an icy nausea filled his stomach, and his face felt as cool as snow. As each giant emptied his chalice, the titan grew weaker. By the time Dunmore finally lifted the last chalice off the tray, Lanaxis was swaying.

  Dunmore poured the contents of his chalice upon the ground. Lanaxis’s knees nearly buckled with shock. He stumbled to a pillar to brace himself. “Dunmore, why do you waste the water of the Well?” The titan feared he already knew the answer: Othea had told the thane not to drink, just as she had not drunk herself. “You insult your host.”

  The wood giant shook his head. “My intent is quite the opposite. I am the one who brought Othea’s punishment upon you. It is not fitting that I drink from your well.”

  “You were honest in your opposition; for that I thank you,” Lanaxis said. “Julien, Arno, fetch him another chalice.”

  Dunmore shook his head. “No. All the Sons of Annam must suffer with you,” he said. “For my part, I will not drink of the Well of Health until you are free to invite me.”

  The titan’s feet and hands grew clammy, and a cold ache seeped into his limbs. He did not believe Dunmore for an instant. The thane would not drink because the Mother Queen had told him about the poison.


  Othea shifted her gaze from Lanaxis to his brothers. “Now you may leave, my children,” she said. “It seems Lanaxis is growing ill in anticipation of his punishment. If we make him wait any longer, I fear he’ll collapse.”

  The giants filed out of the colonnade, disappearing one after the other behind the Mother Queen’s bulk. Othea paid them no attention, and raised her goblet to her cavernous mouth She poured the contents down in one gulp. A craggy smile of contentment crossed her lips, and she belched, as she always did when she drank from the Well of Health.

  To his surprise, Lanaxis experienced no joy. It seemed to him there was a lump of ice where his heart should have been, and it was not pumping blood through his veins, but half-frozen slush. He began to shiver uncontrollably, his skin growing icy and numb, and the tears rolling down his cheeks stung like windblown sleet. He had saved Ostoria.

  Othea stooped over to return her goblet to the ettin. The morning sun shone over her back, casting a rosy wash over Lanaxis’s pale skin. The rays felt surprisingly warm and comforting, and the titan began to hope the horrible decision he had made that morning would not bring the death of all that was warm and good in him.

  “You don’t have to share Lanaxis’s punishment,” Othea said to the ettin. “You can stay with Vilmos or Nicias.”

  “Make own kingdom,” Arno answered. “Tired of being servant.”

  That cannot be,” Othea said. “You’re too hideous. Even on Toril, there is no place for an entire race of your kind.”

  ‘Then we will stay,” said Julien. The head cast a wistful glance after Dunmore, the last of the departing giants, before he and Arno started back toward the titan. “Lanaxis has always been good to us.”

  “As you wish,” Othea said. The Mother Queen drew herself up to her full height. Once again her immensity eclipsed the sun’s rays, plunging the Well of Health into cold dusk. “Now will I tell Lanaxis his punishment.”

  The titan stood, strengthened by his brief exposure to the sun, and by knowing he had saved Ostoria.

  “I am ready,” he said. “But first, may I speak?”

  Lanaxis knew he could not influence the Mother Queen’s decision. He was stalling to let his poison take effect before Othea punished him. By now, his brothers were dying, and it would not be long before the Mother Queen followed.

  You may speak,” Othea said. “But it will do no good. Already have I laid my curse upon you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you not feel my shadow?” asked Othea. “When I leave here, it shall remain behind. As long as you stay within it, you will be as you are now, cold and sick with regret for speaking against me. You are free to leave at any time-but when you do, you will no longer be eternal monarch of titans. You will become mortal, growing old and infirm, and dying. The choice is yours: to wait in the cold twilight, hoping I will take mercy and release you one day, or to leave and-”

  Othea ended her sentence with a gasp. The Mother Queen clutched at the buttress that was her breast and dropped to the ground. The impact shook the entire colonnade. Half the water in the Well of Health sloshed out of the pool and spread, still bubbling, over the arcade floor.

  “What have you done?” Othea gasped. She slumped forward, her head hanging over the colonnade like some immense boulder that had been ready to fall for centuries.

  “He’s murdered you,” said Dunmore. The wood giant stepped into the small gap between her hip and the first pillar of the colonnade. “And all of his brothers, as well.”

  Othea’s face paled to the color of milky quartz, and ashen clouds began to gather about her head. “Dead?”

  “Save for me, yes,” Dunmore replied, glaring into the colonnade. “The Sons of Annam lie scattered on the snowy plain, as still and lifeless as Ulutiu upon his death raft.”

  The Mother Queen moaned in agony-whether from Dunmore’s news or the pain of dying, Lanaxis did not know. Then she looked down with hazy eyes as gray as the snow clouds whirling around her head. To the titan’s surprise, she looked more sad than angry. “Why?”

  ‘To save Ostoria,” Lanaxis answered.

  With the little strength remaining to her, Othea shook her head. “Foolish child. Ostoria could never be what you-or Annam-wished.” She spoke with the voice of sloughing snow, gentle and rumbling, so soft that Lanaxis heard her words more with his chest than with his ears. “An empire of giants would dominate the world, and that is notToril’s destiny.”

  Othea’s eyes went as white as snow, then she sat bolt upright and threw her head back. A deep, booming cry broke from her lips and roared into the sky with such fury that it tore the clouds asunder and silenced the wind. The Mother Queen pitched over backward, crashing so hard that the foundations buckled beneath Bleak Palace. Fissures shot through the colonnade, swallowing the spilled waters of the Well of Health, and the pillars began to topple.

  “Come, All Father!” Arno pleaded, yelling at the sky.

  “Othea is dead!” added Julien. “Help us! Save Ostoria!”

  “Fools! The All Father will not come for you1” It was Dunmore’s voice, ringing down from far above. “Without the Sons of Annam, Ostoria is already lost-and so are the races of giant-kind. Without their immortal kings, they will fall into eternal chaos and savagery, as surely as you will sink into the everlasting darkness of your own cold hearts.”

  The floor crumbled beneath Lanaxis’s feet, and dark walls of sheer stone rose around him. He felt himself sinking and realized he was descending into the frozen plain, pulling Bleak Palace and all of Ostoria down after him. Soon, nothing would remain of the empire of the giants except the toppled columns and scattered buttresses of their ancient palaces, and for causing that, it seemed to Lanaxis that even the eternal cold of Othea’s shadow would never be punishment enough.

  Snow began to fall. The flakes were large and heavy, almost like sleet. In the sky, Lanaxis saw, as Dunmore had promised, nothing but cold twilight.

  The Walls of Midnight

  Mark Anthony

  And with a single spell, Ckai-el-Ckaan forged a tower of shadow from the cold bones of the mountain. He named it Gurthang, which in the old tongue is “midnight,” and within its onyx walk he hid away his greatest relic of power, the Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan. It is written in prophecy that he who tries to climb the walls of Gurthang and fails will lose his life, but that he who tries and succeeds will lose his soul…

  From Talfirian Eddas, circa 342 DR

  The warrior stood before a dark fortress, her indigo gaze calculating, her fine hands resting with easy strength against her hips. Sunlight glanced off her short, pale hair and soaked into the close-fitting black leather she wore.

  After a time she swore, her breath conjuring ghosts on the autumn high-country air. The dark fortress soared above the granite walls of the remote mountain basin, a jagged onyx knife biting into a cold, windswept sky. Its outer wall looked as slick as glass. This was not going to be as simple as she had believed. Yet she had her mission, and she intended to complete it. The warrior’s name was Ravendas, and long ago she had vowed to do whatever it took to be strong.

  A tenday ago, she had pounded a fist against the gates of Darkhold, the western keep of the Zhentarim, seeking to become an agent of the Black Network. The dark confederation of power-hungry wizards, cruel warriors, and priests dedicated to wicked gods was constantly scheming to extend its dominion over the Heartlands. Thus the Zhentarim were always seeking likely new recruits eager to advance their lots in life. Deadly-looking guards had taken her inside, and she had been granted an audience with Sememmon, the lord of Darkhold.

  ‘To be accepted into the Zhentarim, you must first prove your worth,” Sememmon had spoken from the gloom of his subterranean council chamber. He had given her a task: journey deep into the Sunset Mountains, to a tower called Gurthang, and return with a magical object imprisoned there, the Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan.

  Now Ravendas reached out to touch the cold, black stone of the fortress. It felt stra
ngely smooth against her fingers, almost oily, though it left no residue on her skin. The wall’s surface was flawless, without cracks or wind-worn pock marks. Gurthang itself was starkly simple in design. A circular curtain wall a hundred feet high surrounded the central tower-a sharp, jagged splinter of obsidian that seemed to pierce the sky.

  Ravendas bit her lip in a frown. The absence of any handholds was going to make this difficult. However, she had come prepared. Shrugging her pack from her broad shoulders, she pulled out rope, pitons, and gloves. She held one of the steel spikes against the wall, then hefted a small sledge, striking the spike hard to drive it into the stone.

  “Malar’s balls!” she swore loudly, dropping the hammer and piton to clutch her stinging hand. By all the bloodiest gods, that had hurt. She examined the wall. Her blow had not left so much as a scratch.

  Laughter rang out like a bell tolling on the cold mountain air.

  With feral grace Ravendas drew her sword. The sun had slipped behind the western rimrock of the basin, and she gazed into the gathering gloom. How had someone come upon her unaware?

  “You’ll have no need of that sword,” a voice called out, echoing off the boulders all around.

  Ravendas did not lower the blade. The deep blue shadows swirled beside a granite outcrop. A man walked toward her, clad in a purple cloak, holding a gnarled walking staff. By the pouches, feathers, and animal claws dangling from his belt, she could see he styled himself some sort of mage. However, given his obvious youth, she doubted he was a wizard of much worth.

  “You might not want to make a habit of spying on people,” she snapped. “Unless you’re curious to learn what a sword sliding through your guts feels like.”

  He bowed gracefully in apology. “And you might not want to make a habit of battling stone walls,” he replied. His voice reminded her of a lute. “Unless, of course, you believe your head to be harder than the rock.”

  Ravendas scowled. Suspicion left a metallic taste on her tongue. “So, apprentice, have you stolen your master’s spell-book and slipped away from his tower before your seven years were up?”