Well, he rapidly discovered, none of it was labeled. Or particularly obvious.
There was certainly something magical about the sword-it glowed, it made no sound even when he clinked it against some of the tools, and it was far too light to be as hard and, well, made of metal, as it was-but he was darned if he could figure out anything on or about it that could unleash jets of flame, or anything else useful.
One of the daggers bore magic, too. If drawn and waved about and then released, it refused to fall to the ground, but hung motionless in the air, right where he'd let go of it, until he grasped it again.
On an impulse he hung a pouch on it, and it served as a rock-solid peg-stuck into nothing-but try as Rod might, he couldn't get it to do anything else. Maybe it didn't do anything else.
Likewise the powders in the little bags, and the rings. He could make four of the rings glow and tingle just by putting them on, but tapping and rubbing them did nothing, and none of them-unlike in his books-had helpful little words engraved on their inside curves, that could be read aloud to unleash their powers. He didn't leave any of them on his fingers.
The big rune-chain proved to be the one bright spot. It did have words graven on those morningstar-like spike-studded bars at both ends, and when you said one of them aloud, the chain snapped out to a rigid spear-like length that could take all his weight, even jumping and kicking at it-without bending. The other word made it collapse back into a clinking heap of chain again.
Pouch ye fourthe was the one he'd stuffed full of coins. They all looked a bit odd-weird shapes rather than round, for one thing-and certainly didn't bear the names or kingly faces of anything he'd ever written about, but only one of them had an inscription he could read: "Sarbrik."
When Rod said that aloud, the coin started to glow, and got so hot that he had to drop it or sear his fingers. It set the wet leaves underfoot to smoldering, until he hastily scuffed it all out with his boot and kicked the coin onto a rock. By the time he'd been through the last two pouches, it had lost its glow and its heat again.
So he had a firestarter. If he dared carry it.
He decided he did, and put it all alone in pouch five.
Whatever he'd put in that pouch-he had a vague memory of a cluster of gruesome-looking eyeballs, enclosed in a gold-encaged spherical glass or rock crystal egg; eyes that turned and focused on him as he'd stretched out his hand to pluck up the egg-had vanished, all by itself, right through the closed fastenings, leaving behind only a spicy smell.
The sixth and last pouch held two metal bracers-nicely-shaped metal armbands-that ought to be magical, but had no powers that he could awaken. Rod donned them anyway, spent some time shifting things around and tightening belts so he didn't feel in quite such a hopeless tangle, stood up, looked around at the endless trees, and sighed.
So whether or not he'd created Falconfar by writing books about it, or he'd just somehow dreamed about a world that had been there all along, here he was, lost somewhere in it.
Lost and helpless… and increasingly angry.
Nor was he the only one who could change it. He'd foolishly sold it to Holdoncorp, and their busy, bright-eyed computer designers-he always pictured fat, pale young men in food-spattered T-shirts, feet up on pizza-box-littered desks with keyboards in their laps, sneering at him through thick glasses as they rubbed self-consciously at tangled, pitiful attempts to grow beards-had given Falconfar Dark Helms and a lot more sinister wizards and super-powerful lorn and-and dragons, damn it, and-
— and none of this brooding was getting him one step closer to rescuing Taeauna. To finding her first, damn it.
Snatched from him by the wizard Malraun, younger and probably more dangerous than Arlaghaun.
So not only would he have to master all these baubles he was carrying, he'd need several hundred more. And the gods' own luck.
Whatever gods there were right now in Falconfar.
"Cue heavy sigh," Rod told the trees around him, as he tramped along-and then stopped, very suddenly.
Had that been a rustling, off to his right?
He peered and listened. Nothing.
After long moments of straining to hear something, he sighed heavily and strode on.
"SO," Narmarkoun asked himself, raising an eyebrow in challenge, "just why is the Raurklor hold of Ironthorn likely to become the most important battleground in all Falconfar, very soon now?"
"If true," his newly-fashioned false self replied, "that's a mystery to me. I'm sure all Galath would assume their kingdom is the most important land in Falconfar in any circumstances, just as the Stormar cities are sneeringly certain all Falconfar trembles before them."
"Indeed," Narmarkoun agreed. "So I'd better tell you."
"Why?"
Narmarkoun blinked. Well, now. The wench's undead mind had a little more sharp steel in it than he'd hitherto suspected. He could hardly tell the blunt truth-so you can yield this lore as a lure to Lorontar or anyone else powerful enough to destroy you, to bring them to Ironthorn and within reach of the traps I've prepared-so tactics would have to suffice.
"Because it's something I know, that's of importance right now, and it should inform your thinking."
A notion dangerous to the rest of his false selves, yet this one could obviously handle it. And all too much more. He'd best cast a few goading spells at the knights in Chainamund, to make them assault Sornspire again, the moment this one was installed there.
Or she just might seek alliances with them, to build herself into a challenge to the real Narmarkoun.
She was wearing a little smile right now that he liked no part of. Sun, stars, and Aumrarr, why was everything so complicated?
"Very well," she asked, "tell me: why is Ironthorn so important? As opposed to any other Raurklor hold, or Galathan castle, or waves wept isle in the Sea of Storms?"
Narmarkoun nodded approvingly. "There are places of magical power in Falconfar. Places that can renew waning magics on swords and wands and the like, or erupt in lightnings and other magical furies if the wrong magic is cast nigh them, or that can awaken magical powers in certain creatures who may not even be aware they possess them."
"Your oh-so-casual tone tells me it's the latter ability of the place that interests you now. So some magical innocents are going to awaken there? Perhaps shifting balances among the Dooms?"
Narmarkoun smiled. "The balances are shattered already."
"Lorontar."
It was not a question. Briefly Narmarkoun considered calling forth all the slumbering magics in his cold castle around them, and utterly destroying this false semblance of himself.
He decided against it. There was danger here, but not failure, yet. A powerful Narmarkoun would last longer against Galath, and do more harm to Lorontar when he at last reached out to slay. If the old Archwizard instead chose to mind-conquer and subvert, Narmarkoun's little trap would be waiting for him, and the harm would be inescapable.
"Indeed," he said again. "Some of those innocents may become Shapers, and thus players in their own right, or-"
"Or the most powerful weapons any Doom could hope to wield against another," his double interrupted.
Narmarkoun made himself nod and smile. "You see it all. Why Ironthorn is so important to the Dooms, and therefore why the strife that matters will soon erupt there."
"Do you know who these innocents are?"
"If I did, would I be just standing here, talking to you?"
"So how-"
Narmarkoun decided it was more than his turn to interrupt. "Aumrarr legends and certain writings of Stormar seers-the sort who had dream-visions, of old, and wrote them down-tell us there are all manner of these innocents. Falconaar-beasts as well as humans, but for the most part they will be human-who are ignorant of their magical powers but who, if ever awakened, may far outstrip any trained wizard in the hurling of magic. Beings who can feel the flows and webs of magical force, and wield them through sheer instinct, not painstaking experimentation and following the written spell-processes of others."