The Lost Library of Cormanthyr

by Mel Odom

  “Aymric, Baylee,” a young lad called from behind a tree. “Filston sent me to gather you if I could.” He was tall and slender limbed, his hair springing about his freckled face.

  “What is it?” Aymric asked.

  “He said you would want to hear Vaggit’s re-telling of the rise and fall of Myth Drannor,” the young boy said. “Hurry. Vaggit is only now starting.”

  Aymric glanced at Baylee. “Shall we?”

  Baylee grinned in anticipation. “How could we not?” He filched a slice of plum and pear pie from a heavily laden table and cupped it in his hand.

  They followed the boy, taking a meandering path around the central campfire that blazed taller than a man. Spits hung with roasting venison and fowl still turned as volunteer cooks manned them, dripping honey glazes and pepper seasons across them.

  Vaggit sat on a limb ten feet above the ground, resting on the soles of his bare feet with his arms wrapped around his knees. An audience of forty and more men and women, young and old, had already gathered for the telling. Baylee knew the forest runner had only just begun the lengthy telling because Vaggit wasn’t yet pacing along the thick branch like a stage orator from a house of arts in Waterdeep or other civilized areas.

  Short and scrawny, looking near to flesh leaned out over bone, the forest runner wore gray and green splashed garments that blended in with the night and his chosen environment. His leather armor stayed supple and loose, moving without a sound. In his profession as heckler of the aristocratic greedy in and around Zhentil Keep, moving quietly was a necessity. His gray hair and long gray beard testified to the experience he had, and the scars and way he carried himself spoke of the skills he’d learned. A long bow occupied a space beside him on the branch, an arrow resting at the ready on the bowstring.

  Baylee took up a position against a gnarled elm with low sweeping branches. Winged animal companions and some possessing climbing skills sat in the trees surrounding the small pocket clearing of the forgathering. Occasional cries or cawing as they shifted chased through the cool breezes coming down from the Dragonspine Mountains.

  “And lo,” Vaggit said in his deep basso voice that was so surprising from so little a man, “wise and mighty Eltargrim, himself a warrior and experienced in many battles, looked out over this city that had become known as the Towers of Song, and he listened to the counsel of Elminster even though it cost him the support of the Starym and other families who left the Elven Court.”

  A young girl of no more than five or six summers walked forward and held up a stone cup of mead. Her blond hair whipped in the breeze, almost touching the ground when the wind died down.

  Amazingly, a section of the branch above Vaggit’s head shifted liquidly. The color changed as Baylee watched, becoming the red-brown skin of a pseudodragon that fell from the branch in a loose sprawl.

  For a moment, the pseudodragon looked certain to smash against the child. Then it opened its wings and deftly took the cup from the little girl’s hands. She laughed gaily, then turned and ran back to her mother.

  Vaggit held out a hand, never bothering to check for the cup. The pseudodragon put the cup gently in his hand.

  “The old scoundrel has had a good year from all accounts I’ve heard,” Aymric whispered at Baylee’s side. “He’s emptied the purses of several Zhentil nobles in his pursuit of justice in his woods, then spread the wealth back among the people those nobles robbed under the statutes of the law. Though why he didn’t keep enough for a good set of clothes to wear to the concourse this year is beyond me.”

  Baylee smiled. He respected and admired the old forest runner. “If Vaggit cared about material possessions, he’d never be the man he is. Should he have wanted a new suit of clothes, I’m sure one of the lonely ladies around Zhentil Keep who think so highly of him would have made a set for him just for the asking.”

  “To hear him tell it, mayhap.”

  “I’ve been in Zhentil Keep,” Baylee said. “The people there who struggle against the tyrants talk well of Vaggit.”

  Aymric waved the comment away. “I meant no disparaging remark, old friend. In truth, the matter I was referring to was how many of the children in those homes that Vaggit himself might have fathered during his adventures. You forget, I’m older than you are. I remember Vaggit when he was your age.”

  Baylee smiled at the thought. Of all the rangers gathered at the concourse, old Vaggit indeed did have the least problem finding someone to care for his tent and precious few belongings.

  “There you are,” a feminine voice said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Aymric and Baylee turned together. “Serellia,” Baylee said with a smile, opening his arms. “And how are you?”

  The woman came into Baylee’s arms with a flurry of leather. She was as tall as he, her garments crafted of purple-dyed leather, and her raven’s-wing black hair cut short around her face. The one-piece skirt/tunic allowed a view of generous cleavage and an expanse of toned, healthy thigh. A short sword hung upside down from her back in a quick release sheath.

  The hug lasted long enough to make Baylee feel uncomfortable in the presence of so many other people. He politely broke the hold and stepped back, his hands resting on Serellia’s shoulders.

  “I am fine,” Serellia said.

  “The last I saw of you,” Baylee said, “there was the matter of a certain Red Wizard of Thay who’d sent a dozen or so sellswords after you to return a bauble you stole from him.”

  Serellia’s eyes widened playfully, and she looked around behind Baylee. “Surely, they’re not still in pursuit. It’s been months.”

  “They gave up?” Baylee asked.

  Serellia nodded. “After I killed three of them in their sleep, over the course of five days.”

  “Dear lady,” Aymric said, “I can’t believe any man would cease to chase after you.” He took Serellia’s hand and kissed her fingers delicately. “It would take death to still a man’s heart after he’s looked upon your beauty.”

  Serellia laughed out loud as she took her hand back from the elf. “What a bag of offal.” She looked around the crowd. “Has someone got a camp spade?”

  Baylee laughed as well when he saw the pained grimace flicker across Aymric’s aristocratic features.

  Why couldn’t you be more interested in someone like Serellia? Xuxa asked. Now here’s a human female even an azmyth bat can appreciate. Other men think she’s beautiful. I’ve read their thoughts while they’ve been around you and her. Even Aymric appears smitten.

  It’s the wine, Baylee said.

  Faugh! Look at her. She is beautiful, and I know she cares about you because I’ve read her mind on more than one—

  Xuxa!

  “Who’s your friend with the quick compliments?” Serellia asked.

  “You two haven’t met?” Baylee asked, surprised. Sometimes it seemed that Aymric knew everyone, and everyone knew him.

  “No,” Aymric answered. “I’ve never had the … pleasure.”

  “No,” Serellia said, “you haven’t. Otherwise you’d know not to try to mire me in such an approach.”

  Baylee managed the introductions. “Aymric, I’d like to introduce Serellia Oparyan, an explorer like myself.”

  “For profit or play?” Aymric asked.

  “For knowledge,” Serellia replied without rancor. “And a chance to see all of Toril.”

  “Ambitious,” Aymric said.

  “Very,” Serellia agreed.

  “And this is Aymric Tailpuller,” Baylee said. “A falconer without equal.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Serellia said. “Your birds are among the best in all of the Heartlands.”

  A shadow of a smile returned to Aymric’s face. “Then I am to assume that you’ve not traveled much further than there. Otherwise, you would have learned that the birds I have trained are the best in other lands as well.”

  Baylee noted the disapproving looks they gathered from nearby people who were listening to Vaggit�
�s tale of Myth Drannor’s fall. He ushered his two friends out of the group and toward a campfire that had been all but abandoned. A small knot of men surrounded one of the tables, trading goods scattered across folded cloths as they bartered.

  “Ill go get some wine,” Baylee offered as Aymric and Serellia took up seats at the table. He guessed that would take the edge off for the elf, and Serellia liked wine as well.

  Maybe it would be in your interest to try to spend more time with Serellia, Xuxa said.

  At the closest wine cask, Baylee took up three clay cups and filled them. No.

  She could fill those nights when you’re lonely for companionship.

  There is some concern about the past that is between us. Baylee took his cups back to his friends, finding them deeply engaged in a conversation regarding the care and handling of doves aboard sailing ships.

  “They took doves aboard ships because they were far more trainable,” Aymric was saying.

  “Not according to Dakilinan,” Serellia objected.

  “And, pray tell, who was this Dakilinan?”

  Serellia sipped her wine. “You’ve heard of Lantan?”

  “Dear lady,” Aymric stated, “I have lived there.”

  Serellia looked at Baylee, who only shrugged. Lantan lay a thousand miles south of the Moonshaes and was renowned for the maroon-sailed trading ships that plied the waters in the southern seas.

  “It’s true.” Aymric acted as if he took offense at the doubt and the lack of support. “And during that time, I’ve not heard of Dakilinan.”

  “He lived there as well,” Serellia announced.

  “Nowhere near me,” Aymric stated.

  “About a thousand years ago,” the beautiful ranger went on. “He was an historian of some repute.”

  “There are some who don’t think highly of his work,” Baylee supplied.

  “Did he ever write of precious metals or gems?” Aymric asked.

  “Only in passing,” Serellia said. “He was more concerned with peoples and countries. Particularly the sea-faring traders.”

  “All this has a point, I’m sure,” Aymric said, “that has something to do with doves.”

  “Dakilinan suggested that doves were taken aboard ships only because they were far easier to spot against the emerald expanse of the Trackless Sea and the blue sky. Trainability came in as a secondary reason. Domesticated doves were kept aboard ship and freed during different parts of the day. Wind directions were charted, as were ocean currents, anything that could offer a clue about an unexplored patch of sea.”

  “Your historian cites the people of Lantan as a race of explorers?” Aymric inquired.

  Serellia smiled and shook her head. “Never for a moment. They were a race of traders, always looking for a new trade route, new countries with which to trade. Profit has always spurred every new discovery made in our world. Ask any explorer worth her salt if that isn’t so. The first thing she’ll tell you about is the difficulty in securing funds for an expedition. You have to meet with such small-minded people, and the things they’re willing to search for are extremely limited.”

  So true, Xuxa added, and chirped woefully.

  “That’s why,” Aymric said with a sarcastic grin, “so many explorers have gone to the trouble in the past to create a treasure map that no one has ever found before.”

  “Not all explorers are that way,” Serellia replied. “Only enough to give the rest of us a bad name. I’ve never created such a map, nor has Baylee, or Fannt Golsway to name others.”

  “But treasure maps make such a pretty story,” Aymric said.

  “There are some out there,” the woman answered. “Particularly among people whose treasures are ill-gotten. And many of them are merely bait to bring the avaricious and curious to their doom. I’ve been on more than a few such expeditions myself. This is a very dangerous business. Make a mistake in one of the crypts and dungeons where all too often these treasures are kept, and you’re dead.”

  “Or undead, as the case may be,” Baylee pointed out. “Remember our trip to the Lonely Moor two years ago?”

  “Three years ago.” Serellia smiled at the memory. “Even Golsway didn’t think we were going to make it out of that one without becoming undead ourselves.”

  Aymric raised his eyebrows. “Really? Now this sounds like a tale to spend over a wine cup or five. You’ve not mentioned this before, Baylee.”

  “That’s because I’m generally listening to your stories,” the ranger replied.

  Aymric placed a hand over his heart. “You’ve lanced me ignobly.”

  “It is a good story,” Serellia agreed. “Perhaps before the concourse is over, I could tell it.”

  “I’d be enchanted, dear lady.” The elf nodded his head graciously.

  “And if you try to touch me, I’ll break your arms.”

  Baylee laughed, knowing that Serellia meant what she said, and seeing that Aymric was realizing that as well.

  Baylee … Xuxa began.

  No.

  “Getting back to the doves,” Aymric said. “I understand why the sailors used them. Loosing them as they did, the doves circled in all directions, but returned at some point in the day when they grew tired, to be with their mates.”

  “Exactly,” Serellia nodded. “The sailors used them as scouts. When a bird returned well fed and rested hours after it had taken off, they knew they were close to land. But Dakilinan also suggests this is why the early races view doves as a symbol of peace.”

  “How so?” Aymric asked.

  “The early explorers only went to trade,” Serellia said. “The conquerors arrived later, after the way had been thoroughly mapped. The traders brought the doves, and they brought goods to trade. The would-be conquerors who went to rape and pillage didn’t.”

  “And this is what Dakilinan bases his theory on?” Aymric asked.

  “It is as good as any other reason for why doves are so revered among so many cultures.”

  Aymric shifted his gaze between Baylee and Serellia. “How is it you two know each other? Through your various adventuring?”

  Baylee tried to signal to the elven ranger to stop his question, but Aymric either missed it or paid it no heed.

  Serellia sat back in her chair, her demeanor losing some of the cheer she’d possessed. “I was a student of Golsway’s before Baylee.”

  That’s why it could never work, Baylee chided Xuxa. In truth, Serellia had been Golsway’s first chosen, the best and the brightest of the pupils he sometimes apprenticed in order to ferret out a new associate for his expeditions. In the end, the old mage had selected Baylee over Serellia, but no explanations were offered. The event had left both of them wondering. Though Serellia apparently had no ill will toward either Golsway or Baylee, the ranger recognized that both of them were uncomfortable with the situation.

  “I see.” Aymric stroked his chin, obviously knowing there was more to the story. “Would you care to see some of the birds I brought for show at the concourse?”

  A wave of relief washed through Baylee. He drained the dregs of his wine cup as Serellia asked the elf about the birds.

  “Baylee.”

  The ranger looked up and spotted old Karg the Thunderer approaching.

  Karg was a massive man, shoulders a full axe handle and more across. His arms were as thick as most men’s thighs, and his thighs were strong enough to lift a table of ten men over his head. Baylee had also seen him crush small rocks in his callused bare hands, dropping nuggets and dust to the ground. The head of a huge, double-bitted dwarven axe poked up over his shoulders, incredibly nearly as wide across as his shoulders.

  “Well met, Karg,” Baylee called. “And how are you?”

  The big man’s face split into a grin. “There’s a few less stone giants roving these lands than there were last year, thank the Lady. I trust you’ve had an eventful year.”

  “I’ve had better,” Baylee replied, curious about why Karg would seek him out. Usually they only talk
ed in groups. Giant killers were notorious boasters, and at best only made good company for a limited time.

  “Have you been to Waterdeep lately?” Karg peered back across the concourse.

  “Not in months.”

  “Did you leave trouble there?”

  Even more curious now, Baylee asked, “What’s wrong, Karg?”

  “Interlopers,” the giant killer snorted. “We end up getting a few of them every year. Usually give ’em the bum’s rush if they start interfering with the festivities. Most of them pretend to be rangers, but they’ve never really had the calling. Or the talent. But we’ve a group here now that’s downright interesting.”

  “Why?” Baylee asked.

  “You know Tryklyss?” Karg asked.

  “Known as the Quick-Handed,” Aymric said.

  “The very same.” Karg nodded without enthusiasm. “Of course, he doesn’t do any stealing here, but after some of us got suspicious about this new group, we found Tryklyss and suggested he take a peek in their things.”

  Baylee was intrigued, wondering how all of this had sent the giant killer looking for him. His limited contact with Waterdeep had been only inquiries about Golsway. The last he’d heard, months ago, the old mage had been well.

  “Tryklyss didn’t get very far,” Karg said. “Their personal belongings are heavily warded. At least one of the group possesses extensive training in magic. What he did find out, though, was that this group is traveling under orders from the Waterdeep Watch.”

  “What are they doing here?” Serellia asked. “The Watch is concerned only with what goes on inside the walls. They’d have no power out here.”

  “What they want has yet to be determined,” Karg answered. “However, they have been asking questions about young Baylee. It seems they’ve come all this way to find you.”

  9

  “Baylee Arnvold? Yes, I believe I saw him only a short time ago. He was deep in his cups, wandering, you know, so I don’t really know where he might be at this moment. But you might try over at the axe throwing contest. That’s always been a favorite of his.”

  Cordyan Tsald listened to the explanation from the woman ranger with increasing irritation. She and her watch group had been led in circles for the last hour. “Thank you for your time,” she said politely.