Once Around the Realms (single books)

by Brian Thomsen

  "That's easy for you to say, O great gazetteer. You are not already feeling the pangs of hunger of too many missed meals," bemoaned the portly Passepout.

  Volo stopped in his tracks, and turned around to face his complaining bond servant, who had fallen several paces behind.

  "Passepout, we are less than one day's trot from Suzail and less than an hour from the tavern we lunched at, and if I am not mistaken, you partook of more than your share of the venison stew they served."

  "Maybe more than my share, but nowhere near my fill," he countered. "Besides, one must be careful to amply fill one's self with provisions when one doesn't know where or when one's next meal will be."

  "Don't concern yourself with such mundane matters," Volo instructed. "Just look at me. A life on the road, yet I'm still as well fed as Lord of Waterdeep. I've never gone hungry when I could avoid it, and I avoid it at all costs. Now hop to. We're burning daylight, and the faster we get there, the faster we can get back to Cormyr."

  "Get where?"

  "A little place I know that is a bit north of here."

  "But I thought that we had to go all around the world."

  "We do… but I know a shortcut that will enable us to unload our gems over the vast globe of Toril, and still allow us to get back to Cormyr in enough time for me to finish my research, write the book, and hand it over to my publisher, before he wants his money back or my head on a pikestaff, both alternatives of which I assure you, I consider to be completely unacceptable."

  With a sigh of resignation, the portly thespian joined the master traveler and continued on the road northward from Suzail.

  After four days' journey northward, the two travelers' path intercepted that of a caravan bound for the grazing lands of the Storm Horn peaks with a herd of cows, sheep, and goats. The wagon master was a strong silent type fellow, reluctant to give his name (if he even had one), let alone engage anyone in conversation. The cook of the caravan, Stew Bone by name, more than made up the difference in gregariousness, and invited Volo and Passepout to join them for meals for as long as the drive and they shared the same road.

  Needless to say, Passepout and Stew Bone became quick friends. Volo, on the other hand, made himself indispensable as a storyteller around the campfire, swapping stories with the herders well into the wee hours each night.

  The journey proceeded quickly and almost painlessly for all parties concerned, until someone noticed when Passepout dropped the requisite gem at a certain spot along the road.

  "Hey, Pudgy!" the rogue called. "If you have enough treasure of your own that you can throw it away, why don't you share it with your trail buddies?"

  "That's Passepout, son of…"

  Volo intercepted the conversation before Passepout could continue his correction. "My good sir, he is throwing only those gems away that have gone bad."

  "What do you mean, gone bad?" demanded the rogue whom the others called Elam Jack. The others had already warned Volo of his dubious character and rumored stint for thievery in the dungeons of Suzail.

  "Well," started Volo, "surely a man of such breeding as yourself knows quality in all things and obviously has no desire to partake of ale that has gone sour or an apple that has gone rancid or a jewel that has gone bad. Passepout is carrying home to his widowed mother up in Shadowdale…"

  "Idle, the actress," Passepout interjected.

  "That's right, Idle the actress," Volo conceded, "a sack of garden jewels. No real value for anyone except a farmer, really. You see, they only look like jewels. In reality, they are seeds for planting. That's why they are green. The red ones have turned and must be discarded before they spoil the rest in the sack. It's as simple as that."

  Elam scratched his chin, and tried to consider the explanation for a moment, but then quickly dismissed it, saying, "I don't believe you, and even if you are telling the truth, I don't care. Why don't you just hand over to me the so-called rancid jewels?"

  Passepout clutched the sack, fearing the inevitable.

  Volo quickly jumped in once again. "He can't do that, you see, he is a… a druid. Yes, that's right, he is a druid, and is bound by his faith to return to the soil the remnants of its bounty even when it has already passed from green to red."

  "What in the name of Bane is the reason for that? I ain't never heard of such a thing before. Religion or no religion, I want you to…"

  Just then an unfamiliar voice lent itself to the discussion, saying, "I want you to drop it. A man's religion is sacred to him, no matter how crazy it might seem to everyone else."

  A hush came over the traveling band. The silent caravan master with no name had spoken.

  He continued to speak.

  "Master Volo, you were told that we were only going as far as the Storm Horn peaks. Well, by my recollection, we should be there about right now. Now, I've enjoyed your stories, and all, but I'm afraid it's time for folks to go their separate ways, if you know what I mean."

  "Yes," Volo assented, "we knew that there would be a limit on the amount of time that we would be able to bask in your hospitality."

  "And a man must know his own limitations," the previously silent leader added.

  "Indeed," Volo agreed. "Passepout, leave us be on our way."

  Passepout gathered up his pack and hastened to Volo's side. The caravan master walked with them until they had reached the end of the camp.

  "Tomorrow, me and my boys will set the herd up grazing. Where are you fellas heading?"

  "North," Volo replied.

  "Well, take care of yourselves and watch out for brigands. Elam isn't the only one of his kind around here. I know a lot like him. Grew up with many like him in the woods east of here. There but for the grace of Eo go I. Perhaps that's why I'm kinda close-mouthed. People jump to conclusions when they hear my accent, and expect some thug, sort of like him."

  "I'd like to know the name of an honest man such as yourself, given the scarcity of your kind," asked Volo delicately.

  "You can just call me Malpasso"

  "Thank you, Malpasso."

  "Now git. I don't want to leave my gang of wranglers for too long, especially Elam. He's a badun."

  And with that, the caravan master rejoined his crew at the campfire.

  "Nice guy, but kinda quiet," said Passepout.

  "Men of few words are rarer than the words they speak."

  "Now what?"

  Volo put his arm around the thespian's shoulders and assured, "Worry not. We'll make our own camp over yonder, and tomorrow we head north."

  Passepout fell in step with his master, paused for a moment, and inquired, "Still north? Where are we going?"

  "Oh, didn't I tell you?" Volo replied. "To a great city I know."

  "What great city? I thought we were going to take a shortcut."

  "We are."

  "So what city is this, that is also a shortcut?"

  "It's called Myth Drannor."

  Passepout was awakened from his sound sleep by the cold metal of a knife blade held against his neck, and a whiskey voice that demanded that he hand over all of his jewels… even the rancid ones.

  During the night, Elam had tracked his way to their campsite and had already made plans to retire from trail riding on Passepout's pouch of jewels.

  Passepout clutched the pouch closer to his bosom, as if his life depended on them… because it did.

  Elam, now that he had abandoned the goat wranglers for good, was not about to take no for an answer, and reached across Passepout's rotund body, snatching the pouch from the thespian's hands, and in doing so, spilling its contents on the ground, forming a colorful pile of gems that reflected green in the campfire light, with a tiny glimmer of red on top.

  "I should slit your throat just for the heck of it," the brigand snarled.

  "I wouldn't do that," said Volo, who had awakened at the commotion.

  "What are you going to do about it?" snarled Elam. the blade of his knife digging deeper into Passepout's double chin.

 
; This," Volo said, waving his hands in the air.

  "Hah," said the brigand when nothing happened-only to slump to the ground, dropping the knife safely into Passepout's lap.

  Malpasso emerged from the shadows behind Elam, a bloodstained club in hand.

  "He shouldn't give you any more trouble. I'll tie him behind my horse and drag him back to the camp. That should teach him a lesson."

  And with that, the trail boss hoisted the rogue over his shoulder, and returned to the shadows.

  Passepout cried in gratitude, "Oh, thank you, Master Volo. You were wonderful, distracting that brigand while Malpasso gave him the whomp."

  "Uh, yes," Volo replied with a touch of uncertainty in his voice. He quickly changed the subject. "Well, another gem has turned so it's time to move on. I suggest we leave by the dawn's early light and put more space between ourselves and Elam. I'm not too sure even a good two-mile draggin' will show him the error of his ways."

  "On to Myth Drannor?" asked the bond servant, anxious to further separate himself from the disturber of his dreams.

  "Yes," Volo replied. "To Myth Drannor, City of Gates and Shortcuts."

  "Whatever you say, wonderful Master Volo." The two lofted their packs and continued their journey on foot, as rosy-fingered dawn made her appearance on the horizon. Passepout continued his praise for Volo's help in saving his life, while Volo was noticeably silent, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that he had only recently realized existed.

  Chapter 5

  Myth Drannor or When All Things Magical Don't Always Work

  "Between Storm Horn peaks and Hillsfar lies a vast unbroken forest older than all mankind. There lie the legendary ruins of Myth Drannor. Also called the City of Crowns, Myth Drannor rises out of the Elvenwood like the forester's ax-head that its shape resembles: flaring blade to the west, narrow back running to the southeast. Its western edge is composed of lush, rolling meadows known rather obviously as the Westfields, the east is more forested and parklike, and to the north is a small glade that comprises the Burial Glen, a cemetery."

  "A cemetery! Great!" said Passepout unenthusiastically. "Save me a plot. This place looks creepy."

  Volo, undaunted, continued his travelogue. "The surrounding woods are filled with the usual dangers one would encounter in the wilds, with a particularly large contingent of orcs and bugbears prevalent. It is within the city, however, that the real danger lurks."

  "Wait a minute! Master Volo, I know I agreed to be your bond servant in exchange for your saving me from a beating at the gates of Suzail," the discouraged Passepout interrupted, stopping both travelers in their tracks. "And I know that your good name demands that we follow through on this silly folly to go all around Toril, and that part of the agreement is that I accompany you, but enough is enough. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am scared. I've been attacked in the night, pressed beyond the endurance of a normal thespian, and starved for hours on end."

  "We ate when we left camp, an hour ago."

  "It's only been a hour? It feels like an eternity!"

  "Cheer up, my good Passepout. Our problems will soon be solved."

  "How?"

  "At Myth Drannor."

  "I didn't ask where. I asked how."

  "And I was explaining it all to you when you interrupted."

  "I don't need the introduction to the tourist's guide to Myth Drannor, though I know that is your specialty."

  "Not really. Tourists are a rather fickle lot. In my guides I always try to…"

  "How is a ruined city going to help us distribute these accursed jewels?" cried the exasperated Passepout.

  "Let me try to explain in a shorter, simpler way," Volo offered, once again taking to the road. The resigned thespian belatedly followed. "I believe it was Elminster who first pointed out that Myth Drannor is linked to many other places all over Faerun, and beyond, by almost a thousand gates."

  Passepout perked up. "You mean all we have to do is use these gates to teleport ourselves all over, delivering the gems until they run out, so that we can return home to the Dragon's Jaws Inn?" "Sort of," Volo replied.

  "So it's just a simple matter of garden-variety teleportation. Well be done in no time!"

  "Not quite," the master traveler responded. "You see, no normal teleportation or translocation magics work properly within the city, or into or out of its confines. You see, the magic is bent by the mythal, so that a traveler might find himself transported to some rather inhospitable destinations without a guaranteed way back."

  "So how does this help us, then?" Passepout implored.

  Volo continued, once again lapsing into his guidebook narrator's voice. "Aside from Elminster, masters of mythal are few. Learning to guide the mythal correctly requires much magical research, an aptitude for handling it, and at least a bit of on-site practice." "So?"

  "Well, I am the author of Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, a not too undistinguished conjurer, and I have passed this way before. Don't worry, son of Idle and Catinflas. We should do just fine."

  Despite the ever-present threat of brigands and savage beasts, the two travelers journey to the legendary city passed relatively quietly with the sole exception of the feral growls of hunger that emanated from Passepout's stomach. The woods soon gave way to a meadow. In the distance the skeletal shapes of stone structures that had once comprised the greatest city in the known world soon came into view.

  "Isn't it grand!" exclaimed Volo.

  "If you say so," Passepout begrudged, "but if you ask me, there's not much there, except some overgrown ruins, a few cellars without buildings, and…"

  Volo interrupted, "… gates to more places than we have gems to distribute. I think we should be on our way home by nightfall if we play our cards right."

  The expert traveler paused for a moment, put down his pack, and got his bearings.

  "Now, if I remember correctly, the first gate that we can access is over by that staircase of stone. On the other side lies Halruaa. I sort of wish we weren't in such a hurry. You'd love it there, and they'd love you, too. A full appreciation of the arts is enjoyed by all there. You, the master thespian, would be in great demand."

  "Perhaps we can tarry there just a little bit?"

  "Maybe later. Right now we just want to cover as much ground as possible. Now, let me see." Volo paused another moment and then rushed closer to the staircase, Passepout in tow. "If I remember correctly, the gate is right here. Mmmm, I love the scent of mythal in the air."

  "I don't smell anything."

  "Of course you don't, but no worry."

  Volo concentrated as if going into a trance, and muttered a few words under his breath.

  There! The way to Halruaa should be clear," he exclaimed, then, motioning to his bond servant to take the lead, he offered, "After you, master thespians. The people of Halruaa await."

  "Thank you, good sir," Passepout responded, eager to see the glory of a living city after so many days on the road, and hear the roar of an appreciative crowd, even if only for a few minutes.

  The son of Idle and Catinflas brushed off some of the dust of the journey from his less than regal robes, spit a spat into his hand, slicked back a lock of hair that was creeping down his forehead, and boldly took a step forward, feeling the power of the gate envelop him, until he felt himself once again on firm ground, where he stopped in his tracks.

  Instead of a booming city of wonders, he was standing on a fiery cavern's floor, a ravenous beholder's eye-stalks turning their attention toward him as the gaping maw of its bulbous, levitating body floated in for the lunch that had just arrived.

  As panic set in, the paralyzed Passepout heard a voice in the far-off distance from whence he came.

  "You're blocking the gate," Volo called from the other side. "I can't get through with you in the doorway. Go on through!"

  Passepout could maintain himself no longer and fainted dead out… falling backward, back through the gate, which promptly closed behind him, leaving the beholder lun
chless.

  "Get up!" Volo ordered, pouring a bucket of water from a nearby well over his traveling companion. "Wake up! We're burning daylight. This is no time to take a nap. I've seen people with a variety of reactions to teleporting, but passing out? Well, I guess there is a first time for everything."

  Passepout groaned as he began to come around. Slowly he sat up, shaking his head to clear away the fuzziness, then quickly bolted upright and let loose with a scream of terror.

  "Mommy!" he cried, his eyes darting back and forth looking for a place to escape to.

  "What is the matter?" the master traveler asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

  Passepout cowered, eyes still searching for the monstrous disembodied eye that he had met on the other side of the gate.

  "No, not a ghost," he said cautiously, slowly gaining his composure as the threat failed to materialize. "A beholder, and a hungry one at that!"

  "That's odd," Volo responded. "I don't recall ever hearing of a beholder in Halruaa."

  "Well, unless Halruaa is located in a fiery, sulphurous cavern, I don't think that was where we were headed."

  "But I am sure that was the gate I used to get to Halruaa."

  "Maybe something went wrong. Maybe that mythal stuff got in the way."

  "I don't understand it," Volo said, a quiver in his voice. "Something like this has never happened to me before."

  An idea popped into the master traveler's head.

  "Relax," Volo ordered, "I need to scry your mind of the experience you just had in order to get a clearer idea of what is going on."

  Volo placed his hand on his bond servant's forehead and concentrated with all of his might.

  After a few seconds, the master traveler gave up.

  "Nothing," he said. "I concentrate on your thoughts, and I find nothing."

  "Thanks!" Passepout answered sarcastically.

  "I didn't mean any slight, I just couldn't see anything. It's as if I am suddenly psionically blind."