Douglas Niles: Realms of Valor

I could not wait, and so I bade the guards farewell, explaining that I would return within a tenday or two. Then I set off, back the way I had come. Bruenor would have to act.

The return ride was both exhilarating and tormenting to me. The greeting at Silverymoon, so different from what I had come to expect, had given me an almost giddy hope that the wrongs of the world could be defeated. At the same time, I felt as though I had abandoned Nojheim, felt as if my desire to follow proper etiquette was a cowardly course. I should have insisted that the goblin accompany me, should have taken Nojheim from his pain and then tried to mend the situation diplomatically.

I have made mistakes in my life, as I knew I had made one here. I veered back toward Pengallen instead of traveling straight to Bruenor's court at Mithril Hall.

I found Nojheim hanging from Rico's high cross-pole.

There are events forever frozen in my memory, feelings that exude a more complete aura, a memory vivid and lasting. I remember the wind at that horrible moment. The day, thick with low clouds, was unseasonably warm, but the wind, on those occasions it had to gust, carried a chilling bite, coming down from the high mountains and carrying the sting of deep snow with it. That wind was behind me, my thick and long white hair blowing around my face, my cloak pressing tightly against my back as I sat on my mount and stared helplessly at the high cross-pole.

The gusty breeze also kept Nojheim's stiff and bloated body turning slightly, the bolt holding the hemp rope creaking in mournful, helpless, protest.

I will see him that way forever.

I had not even moved to cut the poor goblin down when Rico and several of his rugged cohorts, all armed, came out of the house to meet me-to challenge me, I believed. Beside them came Tharman, carrying no weapon, his expression forlorn.

"Damned goblin tried to kill me," Rico explained, and for a fleeting moment, I believed him, feared that I had compelled Nojheim to make a fateful error. As Rico continued, though, claiming that the goblin had attacked him in broad daylight, before a dozen witnesses, I came to realize that it was all an elaborate lie. The witnesses were no more than partners in an unjust conspiracy.

"No reason to get upset," Rico went on, and his smug smile answered all my questions about the murder. "I've killed many goblins," he quickly added, his accent changing slightly, "probably rightly so, too."

Why had Rico hedged by using the word "probably"? Then I realized that I had heard those exact words spoken before, in exactly the same manner. I'd heard Nojheim say them, and, obviously, Rico had also heard! The fears the goblin had expressed that night in the barn suddenly rang ominously true.

I wanted to draw my scimitars and leap from the horse, cut Rico down and drive away any that would stand to help this murderer.

Tharman looked at me, looked right through my intentions, and shook his head, silently reminding me that there was nothing my weapons could do that would do anybody, Nojheim included, any good.

Rico went on talking, but I no longer listened. What recourse did I have? I could not expect Alustriel, or even Bruenor, to take any action against Rico. Nojheim, by all accounts, was simply a goblin, and even if I could somehow prove differently, could convince Alustriel or Bruenor that this goblin was a peaceful sort and unjustly persecuted, they would not be able to act. Intent is the determining factor of crime, and to Rico and the people of Pengallen, Nojheim, for all my claims, remained only a goblin. No court of justice in the region, where bloody battles with goblins are still commonplace, where almost everyone has lost at least one of his or her kin to such creatures, could find these men guilty for hanging Nojheim, for hanging a monster.

I had helped to perpetrate the incident. I had recaptured Nojheim and returned him to wicked Rico-even when I had sensed that something was amiss. And then I had forced myself into the goblin's life once more, had spoken dangerous thoughts to him.

Rico was still talking when I slid down from my borrowed mount, looped Taulmaril over my shoulder, and walked off for Mithril Hall.

Sunset. Another day surrenders to the night as I perch here on the side of a mountain, not so far from Mithril Hall.

The mystery of the night has begun, but does Nojheim know now the truth of a greater mystery? I often wonder of those who have gone before me, who have discovered what I cannot until the time of my own death. Is Nojheim better off now than he was as Rico's slave?

If the afterlife is one of justice, then surely he is.

I must believe this to be true, yet it still wounds me to know that I played a role in the unusual goblin's death, both in capturing him and in going to him later, going to him with hopes that he could not afford to hold. I cannot forget that I walked away from Nojheim, however well-intentioned I might have been. I rode for Silverymoon and left him vulnerable, left him in wrongful pain.

And so I learn from my mistake.

Forever after, I will not ignore such injustice. If I chance upon one of Nojheim's spirit and Nojheim's peril again, then let his wicked master be wary. Let the lawful powers of the region review my actions and exonerate me if that is what they perceive to be the correct course. If not,…

It does not matter. I will follow my heart.

The Realms is a world crafted by many gods. I'm not talking about the everyday, common gods, the ones you usually hear about in fantasy stories. No, these beings are the secret gods, the gods that move behind the scenes, creating, crafting, and presenting the world of Toril to the world at large. They have arcane names like Greenwood, Salvatore, Niles, Denning, Lowder, and a host of others, and they wield mighty powers. They are the writers who have combined forces to create the Realms that all of you know and love today.

But who are these individuals and how did they come together under one creative roof? Where did this marvelous land come from, and where is it heading? That's the secret history of the Realms.

The Realms began in the fertile mind of Ed Greenwood, and predates DUNGEONS amp; DRAGONS role-playing itself. As a young boy, Ed was inspired by the works of many fantasy writers, including Lord Dunsany and Fritz Leiber. Ed loved the fact that most of Leiber's high-fantasy stories shared common characters and a common world. With each new story, familiar faces and places reappeared, creating a long-standing, fully-developed, living world.

Ed's own nascent writing sought to string together his adventure stories in a similar setting. Ed reports that his first story attempt (written at the tender age of eight winters) was situated on the Sword Coast, a lost epic titled "One Comes, Unheralded, to Zirta." It was, by Ed's own description, a horrible example of the bronzed-barbarian school of writing, and both the story and Zirta itself have long-since disappeared (the latter falling into the sea). This was in 1967, long before the fantasy role-playing phenomenon began.

Ed continued to develop the Realms in pieces of short fiction, but with the introduction of the DUNGEONS amp; DRAGONS role-playing game, his world took the first of many giant leaps forward. As opposed to a solitary creation, his setting became the basis for a gathering of friends and associates who all put in their two cents worth and took the characters they created in directions Ed neither anticipated nor controlled. The efforts of the Company of Crazed Venturers and the Knights of Myth Drannor did much to establish the early Realms and transform it into its present incarnation.