Anthology - Realms of Valor Part 28

"You know my name?" By the G.o.ds, he even p.r.o.nounced it correctly.

"I have heard great tales of Drizzt Do'Urden, and of Bruenor Battlehammer and the fight to reclaim Mithril Hall," he replied, and again, his command of the proper inflections of the language was astounding. "It is common talk among the farmers of the lower valleys, all of them hoping that the new dwarven king will prove generous with his abundant wealth."

I sat back from him. He just continued to stare blankly at the flames, his eyes lowered. I do not know exactly how much time pa.s.sed in silence. I do not even know what I was thinking.

Nojheim was perceptive, though. He knew.

"I accept my fate," he replied to my unspoken question, though there was little conviction in his voice.

"You are no ordinary goblin."

Nojheim spat on the fire. "I do not know that I'm a goblin at all," he answered. If I had been eating at the time, I surely would have choked once more.

"I am like no goblin I've ever met," he explained with a hopeless chuckle. Always resigned, I thought, so typical of his helpless predicament. "Even my mother ... she murdered my father and my younger sister." He snapped his fingers to mock his next point, to accentuate the sarcasm in his voice. 'They deserved it, by goblin standards, for they hadn't properly shared their supper with her."

Nojheim went silent and shook his head. Physically, he was indeed a goblin, but I could tell already by the sincerity of his tone that he was far different in temperament from his wicked kin. The thought shook me more than a little. In my years as a ranger, I had never stopped to question my actions against goblins, never held back my scimitars long enough to determine if any of them might possibly be of a different demeanor than I had come to know as typical of the normally evil creatures.

"You should have told me that you were a slave," I said again.

"I'm not proud of that fact."

"Why do you sit in here?" I demanded, though I knew the answer immediately. I, too, had once been a slave, a captive of wicked mind flayers, among the most evil of the Under-dark's denizens. There is no condition so crippling, no torment so profound. In my homeland, I had seen a contingent of a hundred ores held under complete control by no more than six drow soldiers. If they had mustered a common courage, those ores could surely have destroyed their keepers. But while courage is not the first thing to be stripped from a slave, it is certainly among the most important.

"You do not deserve this fate," I said more softly.

"What do you know of it?" Nojheim demanded.

"I know that it is wrong," I said. "I know that something should be done."

"I know that I would be hung by my neck if I tried to break free," he said bluntly. "I have never done any harm to any person or any thing. Neither do I desire to harm anyone. But, this is my lot in life."

"We are not bound by our race," I told him, finding some conviction finally in remembering my own long trail from the dark ways of Menzoberranzan. "You said that you have heard tales of me. Are they what you might expect of a dark elf?"

"You are drow, not goblin," he said, as if that fact explained everything.

"By your own words, you are no more akin to goblins than I am to drow," I reminded him.

"Who can tell?" he replied with a shrug, a helpless gesture that pained me deeply. "Am I to tell Rico that I am not a goblin in heart and action, just a victim of merciless fate? Do you think that he would believe me? Do you think that sort of understanding is within the grasp of these simple farmer folk?"

"Are you afraid to try?" I asked him.

"Yes!" His intensity was surprising. "I'm not Rico's first slave," he said. "He's held goblins, ores, even a bugbear once. He enjoys forcing others to do his own work, you see. Yet, how many of these other slaves did you see when you came into Rico's compound, Drizzt Do'Urden?"

He knew that I had not seen any, and I was not surprised by his explanation. I was beginning to hate this Rico Pengallen more than a little.

"Rico finished with them," Nojheim went on. 'They lost their ability to survive. They lost their usefulness. Did you notice the high cross-pole beside the front gate?"

I shuddered when I pictured what use that cross-pole might have been put to.

"I'm alive, and I'll stay alive," Nojheim declared. Then, for the first time, the determined goblin allowed his guard to slip down, his sullen expression betraying his words.

"You wish that the raiding ogres would have killed you," I said to him, and he offered no argument.

For some time we sat in silence, silence that weighed heavily on both of us. I knew that I could not let this injustice stand, could not turn my back on one-even a goblin- who so obviously needed help. I considered the courses open to me and came to the conclusion that to truly remedy this injustice, I must use what influence I could. Like most of the farming villages in the region, Pengallen was not an independent community. The people here were within the general protection of, and therefore, under the overseeing law of the greater cities nearby. I could appeal to Al.u.s.triel, who ruled Silverymoon, and to Bruenor Battlehammer, the nearest king and my dearest friend.

"Perhaps some day I will find the strength to stand against Rico," Nojheim said unexpectedly, pulling me from my contemplations. I remember his next words vividly. "I am not a courageous goblin. I prefer to live, though oftentimes I wonder what my life is truly worth."

My father could have said those very words. My father, Zak'nafein, too, was a slave, though a slave of a different sort. Zak'nafein lived well in Menzoberranzan, but he detested the dark elves and their evil ways. He saw no escape, though, no way out of the drow city. For lack of courage, he lived his life as a drow warrior, survived by following those same codes that were so abhorrent to him.

I tried to remind Nojheim again that I had escaped a similar fate, that I had walked out of a desperate situation. I explained that I had traveled among peoples who surely hated me and feared me for the reputation of my heritage.

'You are drow, not any goblin," he replied again, and this time I began to understand the meaning behind his words. "They will never understand that I am not evil in heart, as are other goblins. I don't even understand it!"

"But you believe it," I said firmly.

"Am I to tell them that this goblin is not an evil sort?"

"Exactly that!" I argued. It seemed reasonable enough to me. I thought that I had found the opening I needed.

Nojheim promptly closed that door, promptly taught me something about myself and about the world that I had not previously considered.

"What is the difference between us?" I pressed, hoping he would see my understanding of the truth.

"You think yourself persecuted?" the goblin asked. His yellow eyes narrowed, and I knew that he thought he was being shrewd.

"I no longer accept that definition, just as I no longer accept the persecution," I declared. My pride had suddenly got in the way of understanding what this pitiful wretch was getting at. "People will draw their own judgments, but I will no longer accept their unfair conclusions."

"You will fight those that do you wrong?" Nojheim asked.

"I will deny them, ignore them, and know in my heart that I am right in my beliefs."

Nojheim's smile revealed both an honest happiness that I had found my way, and a deeper sorrow-for himself, I came to know.

"Our situations are not the same," he insisted. I started to protest, but he stopped me with an upraised hand. "You are drow, exotic, beyond the experiences of the vast majority of people you meet."

"Almost everyone of the surface has heard horrible tales of the drow," I tried to reason.

"But they have not dealt directly with drow elves!" Nojheim replied sharply. "You are an oddity to them, strangely beautiful, even by their own standards of beauty. Your features are fine, Drizzt Do'Urden, your eyes penetrating. Even your skin, so black and l.u.s.trous, must be considered beautiful by the people of the surface world. I am a goblin, an ugly goblin, in body if not in spirit."

"If you showed them the truth of that spirit..."

Nojheim's laughter mocked my concern. "Showed them the truth? A truth that would make them question what they had known all of their lives? Am I to be a dark mirror of their conscience? These people, Rico included, have killed many goblins-probably rightly so," he quickly added, and that clarification explained to me everything Nojheim had been trying to get through my blind eyes.

If these farmers, many of whom had often battled goblins, and others who had kept goblins as slaves, found just one creature who did not fit into their definitions of the evil race, just one goblin who showed conscience and compa.s.sion, intellect and a spirit akin to their own, it might throw their whole existence into chaos. I, myself, felt as though I had been slapped in the face when I'd learned of Nojheim's true demeanor. Only through my own experiences with my dark elven kin, the overwhelming majority of whom well deserved their evil reputation, was I able to work through that initial turmoil and guilt.

These farmers, though, might not so easily understand Nojheim. They would surely fear him, hate him all the more.

"I am not a courageous being," Nojheim said again, and though I disagreed, I held that thought private.

"You will leave with me," I told him. 'This night. We will go back to the west, to Mithril Hall."

"No!"

I looked at him, more hurt than confused.

"I'll not be hunted again," he explained, and I guessed from the faraway, pained look he gave me that he was remembering the first time Rico had chased him down.

I could not force Nojheim to comply, but I could not allow this injustice to stand. Was I to openly confront Rico? There were implications, potentially grave, to that course. I knew not what greater powers Pengallen held fealty to. If this village was sponsored by a city not known for tolerance, such as Nesme, to the south and west, then any action I took against its citizens could force trouble between that city and Mithril Hall, since I was, in effect, an emissary of Bruenor Battlehammer.

And so I left Nojheim. In the morning I secured the use of a fine horse and took the only route left open to me. I would go to Silverymoon first, I decided, since Al.u.s.triel was among the most respected rulers in all the land. Then, if need be, I would appeal to Bruenor's strong sense of justice.

I also decided then and there that if neither Al.u.s.triel nor Bruenor would act on Nojheim's behalf, I would take the matter unto myself-whatever the cost.

It took me three days of hard riding to get to Silvery-moon. The greeting at the Moorgate, on the city's western side, was uncommonly polite, the guards welcoming me with all the blessings of Lady Al.u.s.triel. It was Al.u.s.triel that I needed to see, I told them, and they replied that the Lady of Silverymoon was out of the city, on business with Sundabar, to the east. She would not return for a fortnight.

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.

"d.a.m.ned 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 Al.u.s.triel, 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 Al.u.s.triel 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

Afterword.

The (Not-So) Secret History of the Realms

Jeff Grubb

The Realms is a world crafted by many G.o.ds. I'm not talking about the everyday, common G.o.ds, the ones you usually hear about in fantasy stories. No, these beings are the secret G.o.ds, the G.o.ds 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 & 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 t.i.tled "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 & 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 a.s.sociates who all put in their two cents worth and took the characters they created in directions Ed neither antic.i.p.ated 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.

DRAGON magazine took the Realms to the next stage. Ed was, and is, at heart a tinkerer, a crafter who delights in making myriad clockwork creations-monsters, tomes, magical items, dungeon doors, and all manner of minutia. Ed found a ready market for these items in the pages of DRAGON as early as 1979. To introduce his newest creations he chose a powerful mage known to his players as the "spokesman" for the Realms. Elminster appeared publicly for the first time in 1981, and has since grown to become a readily recognizable and eminently popular fantasy figure. Another giant leap had been made.

The Realms continued along this path, existing primarily as the setting for Ed's home campaign and appearing in articles for DRAGON, until 1986. By that time, the DRAGONLANCE shared world had blossomed, an epic setting dominated by great adventures both in games and novels. The cry went up within the hallowed halls of TSR that we should ready another world for development, should the excitement toward the DRAGONLANCE world fade (something that has yet to happen). After much discussion, a lowly game designer (who shall remain the writer of this afterword) hit on the idea of contacting Ed Greenwood and finding out if there was truly a world behind all those articles. And if there was, would he be interested in letting the Realms become the basis for new stories and adventures?

Well, there was and he would. Correspondence began between Lake Geneva and Colborne, Ontario. This exchange of many, many file folders resulted in the establishment of the most familiar parts of the Realms, the true heart of the shared world.

A delightful chaos ensued, as a double handful of creative individuals all began to erect the structure that was to become the Realms. Building was not as much planned as guided, everyone intent on creating a useful and intriguing world. Like Ed back in the sixties, these collected creators were hunting for a place where they could tell stories. A lot of stories-all happening at the same time. In this way the Realms set itself apart from the tightly focused DRAGONLANCE series.

The pieces of the newborn world drifted into place as often by accident as by design. Doug Niles had a half-written novel with strong Celtic ties, so an island chain was redrawn on the Realms maps-and the Moonshaes were born. Bob Salvatore proposed a sequel to the first Moonshae novel, but later changed its setting and introduced his own heroes-including the now-popular Drizzt Do'Urden. Steeped in Realms lore and freed of creating the initial setting for the games department, Ed roamed Shadowdale in Spellfire, while Kate Novak and I introduced Alias and Dragonbait to the world.

And the Forgotten Realms continued to grow. On the gaming end, a dozen individuals began to explore, define, and expand the Realms. Kara-Tur appeared in the Far East. Computer games were developed, tied in with the novels, first by Jim Ward and Jane Cooper Hong, later by Jim Ward and Anne Brown. Work began on comic books, miniatures, and board games.