by James Lowder
The butler had been handsome once, in a mundane sort of way. Some women found him attractive still, though only those favoring a more exotic lifestyle. A spell, cast five years ago by a young dandy from Waterdeep who'd had too much to drink and too little training in magic, had misfired rather spectacularly. The dandy had, in a fit of unoriginality, decided to punish the butler for refusing to refill his glass by giving him an ass's head, albeit temporarily. It hadn't quite worked that way.
Uther had suffered many indignities at the hands of the younger members of the society, and he took this all in stride. He shrugged and went laconically about his business when it was discovered the dandy's spell had made him rather resistant to any further magic, especially any aimed at restoring his mundane good looks. The huge trust established by the dandy's family-the extremely wealthy Thanns of Waterdeep-helped him adjust somewhat. Truth be told, though, Uther secretly enjoyed his new appearance. To discourage gate-crashers, all he need do was narrow his slitted yellow eyes and arch one wicked eyebrow. He'd never been forced to use the pair of twisted horns atop his head, the black claws that capped his gnarled fingers, or the pair of fangs protruding from his thin lips. Their very existence was enough to stop any brawl that broke out in the club's gaming room.
This particular afternoon, the butler was in high spirits. He placed Artus's cloak inside on a table. Then, letting his breath puff into the chill air like a snorting bull, he snarled menacingly and took a half-dozen quick steps toward the children. They dropped the sticks they'd been using as mock horns and scattered. Their whoops of fright could be heard echoing from the alleys all around the club.
Uther smiled-a terrible thing to see-and turned back to the door. A thin man in a black, hooded cloak was trying to sneak in through the open doorway.
"Are you a member, sir?" Uther asked blandly. He already knew the answer, but etiquette demanded he not directly confront the stranger with his questionable conduct.
The hooded man stiffened, then leaped for the door. Etiquette neatly put aside, Uther dashed forward to defend his post, grabbing the gate-crasher with one hand. The butler had the strength to match his intimidating visage, though even he was startled to hear a crack when he clamped down on the fellow's shoulder. The man didn't react as if his bone had been broken, but he was as cold as a frost giant's nose.
Spinning the intruder around, Uther was not surprised in the least to find his face hidden by the cloak's sizeable hood. "You are either a very, very stupid thief or an amazingly bold assassin," the butler said. His voice was now little more than a rumble. "Or, perhaps, an attorney of some sort. In any case, you're not welcome here."
Without a word, the dark-cloaked figure slid out of Uther's grip and dashed away at a stiff-legged gait. The butler watched him until he ducked down an alley a few buildings away. Satisfied that he had once again deterred an unwelcome guest to the club, he securely bolted the front door.
Once inside, the butler noted with some amusement that Artus hadn't even got past the entryway. At the end of the long corridor leading to the heart of the club, a young Cormyrian nobleman had cornered the explorer. The man-or, more precisely, the half-elf-was just over six feet tall, with striking black hair and gently pointing ears. In his hands he held a book and a long sheet of parchment. He energetically waved them both in Artus's face as he spoke.
"All I want is for you to sign my petition," the nobleman said. His voice was high with enthusiasm, and it rang in the otherwise silent hallway. "This dratted book of lies has branded my poor departed father incompetent. Imagine the fourteenth Lord Darstan, berated by a commoner! I want the king to know the Stalwarts won't stand for this sort of shoddy history, especially when it slights one of our ranks." He thrust the book-A History of the Crusade Against the Tuigan-into Artus's face.
The explorer stared blankly at the massive tome. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the young Lord Darstan's blathering, for he was undoubtedly on a rampage again about his father. The previous Lord Darstan had led a disastrous cavalry charge during Azoun's crusade against the barbarians. All the histories agreed upon that. The young half-elf would not be placated, though. He regularly roamed the halls of the club, jabbing his petition into everyone's face, demanding they help restore his father's good name.
The half-elf was a friend and a powerful political ally, but even that couldn't ease the growing annoyance Artus felt. "Didn't I sign this before, Darstan?" he asked irritably.
"Oh, that was a petition against that other book about the crusade. In that one, my father-"
Uther seemed to materialize at Lord Darstan's side. The butler clamped a clawed hand firmly over the nobleman's head and lifted him from the floor. "Lady Elynna has asked you to refrain from circulating the petition in the club, sir," the butler noted. He removed the book and the blank parchment from Darstan's hands. "And since she is the president of the society, I'm afraid I must enforce her word. I do so with the greatest regret, of course."
Artus recognized a rescue when he saw one, and he smiled gratefully at Uther before hurrying down the corridor and into the maze of rooms that led to the heart of the club.
In a long dining hall, a small crowd of dwarves flipped gold coins at the fifteen chandeliers, trying to make the disks land flat atop the candles, snuffing them out. The room was darker than one had any right to expect; either the dwarves were very good at the game or had been at it for days. The ringing of coins as they fell noisily to the floor, as well as the empty ale mugs and dirty dishes stacked haphazardly on all the flat surfaces, suggested the latter.
"Well met, Artus," one of the dwarves shouted. "Nice to see you back to size!"
Artus groaned and hurried through the shower of coins. Pontifax had obviously been regaling everyone with tales of their trip to the Stonelands and their misfortune with the statue.
The next room was filled with a tangle of exotic plants, so full, in fact, the walls and ceiling were completely obscured. This was the work of Philyra, the ranking druid of the Stalwarts. She didn't particularly like visiting the city and had created this riot of green as a hideaway. As Artus walked along the narrow path between the tangles of vines and bushes, a blur of color caught his eye. The growl from behind a frond-heavy plant made it clear the president's leopard had gotten loose again. The cat, like the druid, favored this room above all others.
Making a mental note to send one of the servants to collar the harmless, if somewhat grouchy, beast, Artus hurried on.
Through laboratories filled with bubbling, gurgling beakers of odd-colored liquids and sizzling arcs of magical energy, tranquil halls lined with white marble pillars where various clerics quietly debated matters both spiritual and mundane-through these and other more unusual rooms Artus passed. He'd never given much thought to the design of the club; like many things in Suzail, it had been created largely through the use of magic. If its architecture seemed out of the ordinary, its floor plan labyrinthine, then the builders had merely succeeded in creating something new to Faerun.
At last he came to the library, the largest room in the club and the central gathering spot for both old and new members. The high walls were fined with books and scrolls of every description, bound in every type of leather or hide imaginable. Ladders reached the highest shelves. There was always at least one person balanced precariously atop them, reaching for some desired tome. A winged monkey and a giant owl fluttered through the air, carrying scrolls they'd retrieved for their masters. Memorabilia of the members' exploits filled every other available spot on the walls-shields, swords, regimental colors, medals, and plaques. There were trophies of rare beasts throughout the room, the most awe-inspiring being the red dragon's head perched over the doorway. Its eyes seemed to watch the proceedings in the room with eternal malevolence.
A magnificent thousand-candled chandelier dominated the ceiling, casting bright light throughout the room. Its candles, brought from magical Halruaa, never needed to be replaced. On the ceiling around the chandelier were
painted portraits of four of the five founders of the society, each in a different, remote part of the world. The fifth founder, and first president of the Stalwarts, was immortalized in a life-sized bronze statue in the room's center, directly below the magical chandelier.
Artus's eyes were drawn to this statue of Lord Rayburton whenever he entered the library. Explorer, historian, warrior, Rayburton had been all of these and more. Twelve hundred years past, when Cormyr had been little more than a rough collection of wilderness outposts, he had blazed trails to the interior of the Anauroch Desert and the heart of the Great Glacier. He'd been among the first Westerners to cross the dangerous Hordelands to the ancient kingdom of Shou Lung. His books filled three shelves, and all of them were classics in their field, the basis for a hundred other derivative works.
The thirty or so people in the library were divided into five clusters, with a few of the more studious hunched over books in the far corners. The younger members mostly told tales of their adventures, competing in both volume and exaggeration with everyone else in the room. One group had toppled a table to clear room for a makeshift battlefield. They were reenacting an old skirmish from Cormyrian history with tiny, enchanted soldiers wrought from lead. In the mock war, a line of ogres and orcs charged in a ragged line toward an arrow-straight formation of miniature human infantrymen.
"There he is now," someone shouted. "A giant among us!"
"Better clear the room in case his body swells to fit his ego again."
Artus forced a smile and headed straight for Pontifax.
The older members of the club, white-haired and pompous, encircled Sir Hydel. Their discussion rarely ranged to their own exploits-all were expected to know the merits of their elders in the society, so they had no need to brag. The senior members discussed the glories of long-dead Stalwarts and the foolishness of the youngsters. Artus knew their topic to be his own misfortunes even before he reached the circle of comfortable chairs.
"Well met," he said as he arrived. The half-dozen men and women murmured their greetings over glasses of Tethyrian brandy. In more than a few faces lurked hints of knowing smiles. "Sir Hydel… if you don't mind?"
"Any word on the medallion?" the mage asked as soon as they moved away from the others. He gestured to the silver disk. "I see you still have the dratted thing."
The look of genuine concern on his comrade's face lessened Artus's irritation. "I'm stuck with it for now," he replied. "Look, Pontifax, I wish you wouldn't tell everyone about what happened. I mean, the curse on this-"
The mage looked genuinely hurt. "I am the very soul of discretion," he said. "I could hardly call myself a good soldier if I ran off at the mouth about such things."
"Then how did the Raephel and the other dwarves know about me growing? What about all the comments I've been hearing since I came in?"
"Ah," Hydel said, clearing his throat. "I must admit I did tell an edited version of the story, leaving out anything about the curse. Replaced it with a misfired spell, you see. The story got quite a chuckle over lunch, if I do say so myself. Why, Lady Elynna even asked if I'd write it up for the society's journal!"
"Congratulations," Artus said, frowning. He wasn't sure if it bothered him more that the mage had told everyone about the embarrassing mishap or that he would never get a chance to tell his own, much livelier version of the battle. "Any luck selling the artifacts?"
Hydel puffed out his chest. "I've secured an offer of three times the amount you estimated. The society will buy all the coins and the spearheads we took from the ruins, and the sergeant of the Royal Historical Office offered to buy everything else for the king's personal collection."
Removing a thin book bound in wyvern hide from his pocket, Artus took a seat at one of the nearby desks. He opened to a page filled with columns of items and numbers, then recorded the exact amount they'd been offered for each of the objects recovered.
"You're not keeping anything from this expedition?" Hydel asked. "You usually take something as a memento."
"I have this," Artus said, holding op the medallion. "Skuld-that's his name by the way-is reminder enough for me, thank you." He clapped the thin book shut and buried it in a pocket. The journal was a prize stolen from the libraries of Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of Thay. No matter how many pages Artus filled, more appeared without ever adding to the volume's weight or thickness. The book also opened automatically to whatever page he wished to see.
"Skuld?" the mage asked. His puffy eyebrows rose in shock. "You mean the dratted thing's alive? Why, Artus, you should-"
A roar, followed swiftly by a chorus of astonished gasps and a few quite colorful curses, drowned out the rest of Pontifax's suggestion. There was a mad scramble to get away from the miniature battlefield as the reason for the disruption-a fist-sized dragon wrought of lead and painted bright crimson-circled into the air. It screeched and dove back toward the miniature armies, a stream of liquid flame shooting from its jaws.
"Foul!" cried the owner of the Cormyrian infantry. The leaden soldiers were now only so much molten slag burning its way through the expensive Shou carpet. "I say, tins is really bad form!"
The other would-be general folded her arms across her chest. "Hardly, Jarnon. The rules clearly state…"
Sir Hydel glanced around the room, taking stock of the other members. "Looks like I'm senior," he sighed. "Better settle this before the dimwits burn the place down." The mage waded into the heart of the conflict and, with a casual gesture, cancelled the enchantment on the leaden armies. The remaining soldiers, which had scattered throughout the room to avoid the dragon, froze in place, dull metal once more. The rampaging wyrm screeched, then dropped to the floor with a clatter.
Artus shook his head. The Society of Stalwart Adventurers had been founded as a place for stout-hearted explorers and renowned world travelers to gather in camaraderie and share their findings. To be invited to join, a prospective member had to achieve some noteworthy feat and have it recognized by the society's committee. Over their thousand-year history, though, the Stalwarts had been infiltrated by Cormyr's wealthy. These men and women were often more pedigreed than brave. Their patronage financed the expeditions of the legitimate members, but they lessened the prestige of the society. Artus referred to these members as Warts, not Stalwarts.
It was at that moment, as Artus silently lamented the foolishness around him, that one of the most obvious Warts made the worst mistake of her life.
"Here, old fellow," an elfmaid drawled. "I hear tell Theron is back from Chult. Had another breakdown, don't you know." She detached herself from a small group of sniggering nobles and sauntered toward Artus. "It wouldn't surprise me if his mind's gone for good this time." As an afterthought, she added, "Poor fellow."
Fighting to hide his surprise at the news of Theron Silvermace's return, Artus said coldly, "The only thing that could drive someone like Theron mad would be to spend too much time around the likes of you, Ariast."
He turned his back on the woman. The eldest daughter of a family that could trace its roots back to the rulers of fabled Myth Drannor, Ariast prided herself on being haughty. She held the workaday members of the club in as little regard as they held her. Like many Warts, she gloried in any gossip that tarnished an older explorer's reputation. Theron Silvermace, in particular, was a favorite target, especially after the crusty old soldier had suffered a mental collapse after escaping from a drow prison in the nightmarish underground city of Menzoberranzan.
"There's no need to be so rude, Artus," the elfmaid said, her sweet voice full of contempt.
Artus heard her stifle a chuckle. This will be trouble, he noted angrily. Ariast was known for casting cantrips on those who slighted her; the minor spells were mostly harmless, intended to embarrass the victim more than harm him. He turned to face her, hoping to give her pause before she made him belch or trip or laugh uncontrollably.
What he saw was not the pretty young elfmaid in the midst of an incantation, but the muscled back
of a four-armed man standing well over seven feet tall.
"Skuld, no!"
He was too late. Before either Artus or Ariast could react, the spirit guardian grabbed the elfmaid by the wrists. "You will now know better than to harm my master, witch," Skuld hissed through filed teeth. With a quick flex, he crushed both her wrists.
Ariast's wail of pain brought the room to a standstill, but only for an instant. Within seconds, a dozen mages had launched spells meant to contain the spirit. Glowing spheres of blue and gold energy pelted the silver-skinned giant. A snaking band of light wrapped around him, then fell harmlessly away. Skuld's laughter at the magical onslaught was like the jingling of his earrings, high and musical. He tossed Ariast aside like a broken doll and prepared to defend himself against two swordsmen who were moving warily toward him.
All this time, Artus tried frantically to make the spirit return to the amulet. He shouted orders. When that didn't work, he clasped his hands together and hammered Skuld's back. The spirit guardian did nothing to stop Artus, but he didn't follow his commands either. It was only when Uther appeared at Artus's side that Skuld paused.
"Please step aside, Master Cimber," the butler warned. His slitted eyes were narrowed as he approached the spirit. He lowered his magnificent horns and prepared to charge. "I will take care of this ruffian."
Skuld dropped his four hands to his sides, a look of surprise on his face. "You, a beast from the pit, call this little worm master?" The spirit looked at Artus and bowed respectfully. "I have underestimated you, O mighty one. Forgive this humble slave."
That said, the spirit guardian faded into a silver cloud and flew into the medallion.
Swords found their sheaths, and mages carefully placed the components for spells back into their pockets. Uther calmly righted a table and went to help Ariast. "Hey," one of the Stalwarts said to the butler, "that thing thought you were from the Abyss!"