Paul Kemp - Realms of War

"I know."

Men hurried along the dock as yet another ship-showing obvious scars from recent battle-limped back into port.

Rytagir looked into Irdinmai's silver eyes. "The old fears and distrust the surface dwellers have had of the sea folk are going to have to change. And your people will have to change, too. If we hope to survive this, we have to forge new friendships."

"I know," Irdinmai agreed. "The word has already started to spread among my people."

"I'm spreading it among mine. I've already drafted letters and have sent them out to scholars and merchant guildsmen whose ears I have. It will take time."

"Then let us hope it doesn't take too much time." Irdinmai reached out for his hand and took it gently in hers. She pulled him close to her. "I'm tired, and I don't want to be alone. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Lady." Rytagir felt her lean against him as they sat with their backs to a crate. After a time she slept and he felt her breath, feather-soft against his arm.

As he sat there, Rytagir knew things were going to change. Some things would be better and others would be worse. War always brought those changes, and he had no doubt that war was coming to the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Charlatan. Trickster. Blasphemer.

In Amn, the only thing worse than hurling magic is pretending to hurl it. They laughed at me, said I'd never be worth spit to my people. Then the monsters came. When the ogres marched on the cities, I was the one whistling the merry tune. I had a purpose again. If you don't have it in you to live an honest life, the least you can do is plan a heroic death.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

11 Hammer, the Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

"Ten in coin says I make a pikeman drop his stick! Who'll take an honest wager?"

Devlen Torthil smiled, raking his long brown hair out of his eyes. He rolled up his dirty sleeves and surveyed the line of men guarding the camp. Easy plucking.

A plain-faced sentry named Kelsn stepped forward. "I'll take that bet."

"Splendid, man, come here, then! The problem is distraction, see?" Flipping his palm to the torchlight, Dev flourished a red scrap of cloth in the sentry's face.

"Is that blood?" The sentry was tall, his blond hair thin under his helmet. Warily, he clutched his pike against his collarbone. Behind him, the foothills of the Small Teeth rose in a jumbled wreck, purple with the setting sun.

"Not a bit, not… a… bit. Ogre tears, that's what they are." Dev wadded the red cloth into a ball, completely encasing it in his right fist. Twisting his wrist, he came up under the sentry's nose, fingers waggling above an empty palm. The scrap of cloth had disappeared.

"Wizardry." The sentry spat on the ground, dark already with mud.

Like a good soldier of Amn, Dev thought, and bit back his sharp smile. He looked up and wiped rain from the bridge of his blunt nose.

Thunder rolled across the plain, a guttural, urgent murmur that seemed to carry words into the camp and had the sentry turning north on a muttered prayer. More of the wizardry Amn feared.

Dev sighed. Wasn't right, stealing a man's audience.

"Look here, Kelsn, pay attention. You think I'd be hanging around with this bunch if I had even a breath of wizardry?" Dev waggled his fingers again. The sentry reluctantly tore his gaze from the horizon. "The problem was you were looking at my hand. You should have been putting your eyes elsewhere."

The sentry snorted. "Where then, down yer breeches?"

"Later, sunshine." This time it was Dev who spat. "Watch this first."

Dev drew a knife from his belt and laid the bare blade against his own right thumb. He held it up so Kelsn could see.

"Oh, Dev, don't be playing at that. You know we lost our holy man in the last raid-"

The torchlight flickered and succumbed to the rain, taking the sentry's words with it. In the instant before the light died, he saw Devlen cleanly sever the tip of his thumb. The appendage fell to the ground.

"Godsdamnit, I knew you were some sick bastard!" The sentry took a jerking step back from the severed digit, as if it might leap up and bite him. His pike slipped and sank, forgotten in the mud.

Dev howled with laughter. The commotion drew the attention of Breck, head of the night watch.

"Shut yer flapping mouths, the both of you!" He squatted in the mud and fished out the thumb. Angrily, he plucked up the sentry's pike and slapped the muddy weapon against the man's chest, nearly throwing the sentry off balance. "It's a fake, you idiot! I saw him do the same trick to Fareth two nights ago."

Dev tried to contain his laughter while the sentry examined the fake digit. He pulled the red cloth from the hollow end where it had been hidden all along. Comprehension wormed its way slowly over his face.

Dev waited for the rest. Anger? Wonder? Without fail, folk had one or the other reaction to his tricks.

"Rotten cheat," the sentry growled. Dev was entirely unsurprised. "I'm not putting up good coin for trickster's wizardry-"

"Part the way!"

The shouts came from beyond the perimeter of the camp. The remaining torches snapped up, illuminating a trio of men striding slowly up the hill. They carried a litter among them. In their wake, figures scuttled across the plain, bodies riding low to the ground.

Moves like an animal, Dev thought, except the beasts carried swords, and their eyes gleamed with feral cunning.

"Kobolds!" The blond sentry hefted his pike in one hand. With the other, he drew a short blade from his belt. He tossed it at Dev. "Move, trickster!"

Breck intercepted the toss. He spun the blade and planted it in the mud. "Lady Morla's orders. No weapons for this one. You know that, Kelsn, you damn fool!"

Reprimanded, the sentry jerked his head in acknowledgment and sprinted down the hill, where guards were already assembling a line to meet the charging creatures.

The litter bearers crossed into the relative safety of the camp. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion. The man draped across the litter was dying. Dev could tell by the pallor of his skin and the steaming trail he left on the cold ground. Dev didn't know his name, but he knew the man was a scout.

A cold, sharp thrill went through Devlen's body. That meant it was time for him to shine again.

On the hill, the raiding party slammed into the Amnian defenders, their hairy bodies impaled and wriggling on the pikes. Squeals of dying animals shivered through the night air. Hearing the sound, the kobolds in the back of the party broke ranks and fled.

Dev observed the whole spectacle with detached curiosity. Weaponless, he trailed behind the litter up the hill to the commander's tent. His mind was too busy to be disturbed by the screams. He was already planning his next trick.

I work alone. That's the only rule. When you have more than one mouth along on a mission, it doubles your chances of slipping the charade. And whatever you do, never pair up with a priest in war, unless he swears by his god to heal you first and even then, I've never seen anyone so twitchy as a priest on a battlefield.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

Morla was field commander of the Amnian Watch Tower Guard, affectionately named for their mission in the Small Teeth.

Morla's task had been to reclaim the watch towers being garrisoned by the monster army, led by the ogre mages Sythillis and Cyrvisnea. With those precious eyes in the foot shy;hills, Syth and Cyr could see armies marching across the land, to say nothing of what scrying spells might reveal of such a force. Armed with superior reconnaissance, the monster army had stalled or thwarted outright Amn's attempts to relieve the besieged city of Murann on the coast. Amn needed her towers back, and it was for Morla, a lone woman on the darker side of fifty, to do.