R. Salvatore: Realms of Magic

"Runecaster!" spat the barbarian woman scornfully. Her sword flashed up and batted the glowing sphere back in Liriel's general direction. To the drow's astonishment-and infinite relief-the fireball dissipated not with the expected rending explosion, but an apologetic fizzle.

A smug little smile lifted the corners of the warrior's mouth. "Your foul magics will avail you not," she exulted. "Know this and tremble: You cannot escape the justice of the Rus, though you flee through time itself! Return with me for trial, runecaster, or die now by my hand." The muscles in the barbarian's sword arm twitched eagerly, leaving little doubt as to which option she preferred.

But Liriel did not for one moment consider surrender or fear death. This woman might be bigger than an ogre's in-laws, but any drow wizard worthy of the name had at her command a variety of ways to dispose of unwanted visitors. Yet Liriel did not strike, for something in the woman's speech caught her interest.

"The Rus? Fleeing through time?" she repeated excitedly, her mind whirling with possibilities. Magical portals could give transport to distant places, through solid objects, even into other planes. Was it possible that they could span the centuries, as well? Was this woman truly an ancient warrior, and not some low-rent courtesan with bad fashion sense? "Just who in the Nine Hells are you?"

A scowl creased the woman's white brow. Her glacial blue eyes thawed just enough to register uncertainty, and she squinted into the shadows that hid her foe. "Have I not said? Did you not hear? I am Vasha the Red, daughter of-"

"Stow it," Liriel snapped, in no mood to swap genealogies. "You said, I heard. But where did you come from? And more important, when?"

"This is the twelfth year of the reign of King Hrothgar. The last year of his reign, as well you know! In the dark of the hunter's moon, Hrothgar was slain by your fell magics!"

The drow pondered this announcement. She had been extremely busy of late, but she was fairly certain she hadn't killed anyone by that name. Upon further consideration, she recalled that the adventures of a King Hrothgar were recounted in her book of rune lore. He'd been outwitted by a renegade runecaster of dark and exceptional power. But by Liriel's best calculations, that had happened nearly "Two thousand years ago!" she said, regarding the swordwoman with new respect. "I'll say this much for you: you can hold a grudge with the best of them!"

Vasha was neither flattered nor amused. Bellowing with rage, the barbarian hauled her sword high overhead, sighted down a spot between the shadowy figure's eyes, and slashed straight down toward it. The mighty blow would have riven Liriel neatly in twain, had it only connected. But the agile elf dived to one side, rolled twice, and was back on her feet in time to witness most of the sword's descent. It swooped down to slice cleanly through Liriel's rented bed. The coverlet, mattress, ticking-even the roping and wooden slats of the frame-gave way before Vasha's wrath. The bed collapsed in upon itself like a spent puffball mushroom, spewing feathers upward into the swordwoman's face.

The barbarian reeled back, sneezing violently and repeatedly. Liriel took advantage of this development to cast a spell of holding, effectively freezing Vasha in mid-sneeze. That done, the drow stalked over to the ruined bed, plucked her book of rune lore out of the drifting feathers, and shook it before the swordwoman's contorted, immobile face.

"This is what led you here, you blazing idiot! This book describes rune magic, of a sort that no one has cast for hundreds of years. You're chasing the wrong damned wizard!"

Liriel took a long, deep breath to compose her wits and calm her temper. Then she snapped her fingers, and at once the room's dim candlelight was eclipsed by floating globes of white faerie fire. In the sudden bright light, her delicate, elven face shone like polished ebony. She tucked her abundant white hair behind the elegantly pointed ears that proclaimed her race, then propped her fists on her hips.

"Tell me," the drow purred with silky sarcasm, "do I really look like a runecaster from the Red Bear Clan?"

Vasha did not offer an opinion, but some of the blood-lust faded from her trapped eyes. Liriel took this as a good sign. Nevertheless, she pried the sword from the barbarian's hands and hurled it into a far corner before releasing the spell of holding. She had an offer for Vasha, and, in her experience, people tended to bargain much more reasonably when they were unarmed.

"I tell you, Liriel, daughter of Sosdrielle, daughter of Maleficent, the runecaster is near," insisted Vasha. The vile Toth, son of Alfgar, misbegotten upon Helda, the goddess of boars, whilst she was in human form — or so Alfgar claims — is in this very city." The barbarian's voice was slightly fuzzy now, and her ruddy face glowed with the combined warmth of the tavern's fires and too much dwarven brew. Still, she spoke with a conviction that rattled the globe on their table's oil lamp.

The drow leaned back in her chair and signaled for another round of drinks. A half-ore servant hastened over with two more foaming mugs. Vasha threw back her head and quaffed her ale without once coming up for air. She slammed the empty mug on the table and ripped out a resounding belch.

Liriel sighed. The swordwoman had a prodigious thirst and an apparently endless capacity for dwarven ale. Although Vasha's tongue loosened a bit with each mug, Liriel feared that the barbarian would drain the tavern's cellars before giving up anything useful.

"Believe me, magical travel can be tricky, and in your case something went wrong," the drow explained for the eleventh time. After two hours of this, Liriel was clinging to her patience by her fingernails. Fate had handed her a priceless opportunity to learn of the Rus firsthand, but she found herself less grateful than she probably should have been. "Listen, Vasha: I'll try to help you get home, but first you must tell me more about your people's magic."

The swordwoman scowled and reached for her companion's untouched mug. "I am Vasha, daughter of Hani-gard-"

Liriel slammed the table with both fists. "I know who you are, for the love of Lloth! Just get to the blasted point!" ' "Some warriors of the Rus know rune magic. My family is not among them," the swordwoman said bluntly. "We spit upon magic, and those who wield it rather than honest weapons. Even the sword I carry, passed down to me upon the glorious death of Hanigard, queen of the ice water raiders-"

"What. About. The sword?" Liriel prompted from between clenched teeth.

"It cleaves through magic, as you have seen. That is all the rune lore I know, or care to know."

The drow slumped. Things were not turning out quite as she'd expected. In exchange for knowledge of rune magic, she had offered to shepherd Vasha around Skull-port. Vasha admitted that a guide might be useful, but she was adamant about finding this Toth before passing on any magical secrets.

"Let's go over this one more time," Liriel said wearily. "Why do you insist that your runecaster is in Skullport? And why did you promise me rune lore, if you have none to give?"

Vasha reached into a boot-the only garment large enough to yield much storage space-and pulled out two objects. One was a small leather-bound book, the other a broken bit of flat stone carved with elaborate markings. Liriel snatched up the book at once and gazed at its creamy vellum pages with something approaching reverence. This was an ancient spellbook, yet the pages were as white and the runes as sharp and clear as if they'd been inscribed yesterday.

"Those were written by Toth's own hand," Vasha said, "and the book is yours, in fulfillment of the word of Vasha, daughter of Hanigard, and so forth. According to the runecasters who sent me here, Toth escaped to a distant place of wicked rogues and fell magic, where such as he might walk abroad and attract no more notice than bear droppings in a forest."