Anthology
Realms of Valor
Contents
Douglas NilesThe Lord of Lowhill
Ed GreenwoodElminster at the Magefair
Christie GoldenOne Last Drink
Elaine CunninghamThe Bargain
David CookPatronage
Scott CiencinA Virtue by Reflection
Mark AnthonyKing’s Tear
James LowderThe Family Business
Jean RabeGrandfather’s Toys
Troy Denning The Curse of Tegea
R.A. SalvatoreDark Mirror
Jeff GrubbAfterword
The Lord of Lowhill
Douglas Niles
Pawldo emerged from his burrow to bask in the air of a rare summer morn: not too hot, neither windy nor cloudy, with just a kiss of warm breeze to carry the scent of ripening grapes and lush, well-watered pastures. A mile away, the waters of Corwell Firth gleamed in the sunlight, the barely rippled surface casting a million diamond-spots of reflection between encircling arms of verdant land.
The stout halfling stood before his sturdy, whitewashed wooden dwelling. In typical halfling fashion, it was buried halfway into a grassy hillside, but the burrow was unquestionably the largest house in Lowhill The air of affluence extended to the occupant of the burrow as well.
Pawldo's long hair, slightly gray, curled below his ears and just touched the edge of his elegant silken collar Even this early in the day he wore well tailored, expensive clothing Any observer would know immediately that he was a halfling who knew the finer things in life.
Below and beyond a stretch of lush pastureland, nestled against its sheltered harbor, Corwell Town awakened to the businesslike bustle of the Ffolk going about their human activities. The curraghs of fishers already bobbed beyond the breakwater, while the clanging of hammer and tongs told of an early-rising blacksmith tending his forge. Carts of fresh produce and milk, some drawn by small ponies and others by long-legged, shaggy hounds, rumbled into Corwell through its open gates.
High on the knoll overlooking the town, Pawldo saw the squat form of Caer Corwell, the wooden-walled fort that served as home to Earl Randolph and, for those weeks when Tristan and Robyn visited, as the summer quarters of the high king and queen themselves. He thought of his good friends with a flash of pleasant anticipation, remembering that in a little less than a fortnight the royal family would return to Corwell for their summer holiday.
Finally the stocky halfling's eyes drifted closer to home, to the cozy warren of cottages and burrows built around this small, rounded hill. Barely a mile removed from Corwell Town, Lowhill provided a pastoral setting for the little halfling community of which Pawldo served as honorary lord mayor.
Nearby bloomed the lush vineyards, and to these fertile hedges Pawldo now sauntered, inspecting with pleasure the clumps of unripened grapes growing plump and sweet in the sun. To his bare feet, covered on the tops with a coat of silky hair, the grass felt softly cool and inviting. Pleasantly reminded of the many good wines he'd sampled from these very vines, he settled himself to a comfortable seat on a patch of shady grass.
I'll have to cart a load of last year's vintage over to Kings-bay, Pawldo reflected. The prospect of that trip interested him, in a lackadaisical sort of way. He wouldn't go today or tomorrow, and probably not the day after that either, but it was something to think about. In fact, he remembered a cute little barmaid there, a cherubic-faced halfling wench with whom he could certainly strike a profitable deal.
Indeed, if she remained as friendly as he remembered, he would be strongly tempted to wile away a few days in that pleasant fishing town.
Not too long, he reminded himself, since the king and queen will arrive in Corwell for the Midsummer holiday, and I'll have to be home by then. After all, this was not just any summer holiday-this marked the tenth year of Tristan's reign and the tenth year of his marriage to Robyn. All in all, the occasion called for some kind of appropriate acknowledgment.
At this thought, the halfling's round-cheeked face darkened in a momentary scowl. He wanted to give them a wondrous gift, something appropriate to the grand occasion. Yet, whatever his gift to the royal couple would be, Pawldo doubted that he could find something sufficiently unique or fabulous in either Corwell or Kingsbay. What to do? This question had nagged at him, off and on, for the last several weeks, yet the stout halfling had not let his lack of solutions cause him undue distress. Sooner or later something would come up.
Of course, he could have sailed for the Sword Coast when he first faced the problem. He would be on his way back by now with some fabulous and rare token of his friendship and respect. Yet such decisive action was not the halfling way, and now, of course, he didn't have enough time to make the trip and still return for the festival. Mildly irritated-with the calendar, not himself-Pawldo shook away the concern and continued his inspection of his eyelids.
"Lord Mayor! Mayor Pawldo!"
The high voice came to his ears from beyond the hedges-a young halfling, male by the sound of it.
"Over here!" Pawldo replied, sitting up with a grunt of annoyance. He climbed to his feet slowly, aware that he no longer moved as nimbly as he had a decade or so before. Peering over the nearby hedge, he looked to see who had disturbed his meditations.
A red-haired halfling skidded to a stop before Pawldo and hastily doffed his cap. Cheeks glowing from exertion, shoulders bouncing as he struggled to regain his breath, the stranger could only pant for a moment as the lord mayor looked him over. The young halfling was a Hairfoot, not quite an adult, dressed in plain country garb and carrying a satchel over his shoulder. The newcomer smiled in a hopeful sort of way, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand. True to the Hairfoot tradition, he wore no shoes.
"What is it?" Pawldo inquired, suspecting that his quiet morning would remain so no longer. In spite of himself Pawldo felt a measure of curiosity.
"Cafwort the barrelmaker… told me that… I'd find you here," said the younger halfling, still panting.
"As you did. And who might you be?"
"Oh. I'm terribly sorry!" The youth looked chagrined. "I'm Stefanik of Llyrath Downs," he explained hastily. Pawldo knew that community of Hairfeet, which was located several days travel to the east, in the fringes of Llyrath Forest. "And, well, I found this-and I didn't know where else to take it. I mean, every halfling on Gwynneth knows about you and your adventures! Why, if it wasn't for you, the Darkwalker would have-"
"Enough!" cried Pawldo, raising both his hands in mock surrender. 'Tales have a way of being exaggerated-though I did play a small role in the defeat of that menace. In fact, there's a certain element of truth …" He shook his head, forcing away the pleasant wave of nostalgia. "But enough of that. You have something to show me, it would seem?"
"Oh, yes." The halfling thrust the satchel, still unopened, toward Pawldo. "Here! What is it? Where did it come from? How did it get to be in the forest?"
"Right now you've got about ten questions for each of my answers," the mayor chuckled, taking the leather sack. It proved to be surprisingly heavy, containing a large object made of metal-and a lot of it. "Let's see what you've got."
Pawldo casually stretched the mouth of the satchel wide, but when he looked inside, he could not suppress a gasp of astonishment. Shiny metal gleamed even in the shadowy confines of the leather pouch, too pure for silver-it must be platinum! He reached for the item's blunt, rounded end, allowing the satchel to fall to the ground and reveal a long-bladed dagger.