The Wyvern's Spur Read online

  Also by Novak and Grubb:

  AZURE BONDS

  THE WYVERN’S SPUR

  Book Two: The Finder’s Stone Trilogy

  ©1990 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, AD&D, Spelljammer, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

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  Cover art by: Clyde Caldwell

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6320-1

  640-A1477000-001-EN

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  v3.1

  To Tracy and Laura—

  our family in Wisconsin

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by These Authors

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1: Homecoming

  Chapter 2: Family

  Chapter 3: Olive and Jade

  Chapter 4: Night on the Town

  Chapter 5: Mistaken Identities

  Chapter 6: The Guardian

  Chapter 7: Cat

  Chapter 8: Steele’s Rescue

  Chapter 9: Drone’s Last Message

  Chapter 10: Cat’s Master

  Chapter 11: Selune’s Stair

  Chapter 12: The Ass’s Pocket

  Chapter 13: Olive’s Investigation

  Chapter 14: Breakfast Talk

  Chapter 15: Drone’s Lab

  Chapter 16: The House of the Lady

  Chapter 17: The Spur

  Chapter 18: Mother Lleddew’s Tale

  Chapter 19: Wyvern and Wizard

  Chapter 20: Flattery’s Treachery

  Chapter 21: The Final Battle

  Chapter 22: Coming Home

  About the Authors

  Homecoming

  From the journal of Giogioni Wyvernspur:

  The 19th of Ches, in the Year of the Shadows

  Late last night I returned home from my duties as royal envoy, to find my kin in a greater uproar than the southern city I had left behind. Ten months of Westgate’s problems shrivel to insignificance when compared to the tragedy that has befallen the clan of the Wyvernspurs of Immersea.

  How could the flattening of an entire neighborhood by a dragon corpse, followed by an earthquake and an underworld power-struggle, hope to compete with the theft of a family heirloom no larger than a zucchini and uglier than three-week-old sa usage?

  “A hunk of junk” is what Uncle Drone has always called the wyvern’s spur (said heirloom), and, considering all the trouble it has been, I am inclined to agree with him. No doubt the family would have donated it to a church rummage generations ago if not for the detestable prophesy that came with it.

  According to family legend, the wyvern who presented it to old Paton Wyvernspur, way back when, promised that the family line would never die out as long as we held on to the gruesome chunk of mummified beastie. Logically it doesn’t follow that losing the dratted thing guarantees our demise, but we’ve always been a superstitious lot, we Wyvernspurs, so there is a family conclave tonight in Aunt Dorath’s lair at Redstone Castle. Although I have not yet unpacked from my journeys on behalf of the crown, I am expected to attend.

  Someone will need to comfort Aunt Dorath. An oldest nephew’s lot is never easy.

  Giogi laid his quill pen on the writing table and left the journal open for the ink to dry. He didn’t feel it necessary to add that his great-aunt would find his presence comforting only insofar as it would give her something else to criticize. He planned to leave his journal to posterity someday, and there were some things posterity just didn’t need to know.

  As far as Aunt Dorath was concerned, Giogi had dishonored the Wyvernspur family last year with his disgraceful—but, as Giogi would put it, dead-on—imitation of King Azoun IV, which had resulted in Giogi’s near assassination by the cursed sell-sword Alias of Westgate and the disruption of an entire wedding reception. Nor had Dorath, the matriarch of clan Wyvernspur, been impressed by her nephew’s tale of his subsequent hair-raising encounter with a red dragon named Mist. To her mind, any young man who could not avoid entanglements with assassins and monsters needed to be sent far away for an extended period. Aunt Dorath had assumed that His Majesty Azoun had exiled Giogi in disgrace for those transgressions.

  What Dorath, and most of the general population, had not known, was that King Azoun actually had assigned Giogi a secret mission, to discover the whereabouts of Alias of Westgate, the king’s potential assassin.

  Not that I needed to be assigned, Giogi thought. I seem destined to run into the woman—or her relatives—wherever I roam. Yet, after Giogi had spotted her near Westgate that summer, she seemed to have vanished from the Realms entirely.

  Giogi rose from his writing desk and stretched. His fingertips brushed against one of the overhead chandeliers. He was a very tall young man, a legacy from both his father and his mother. Last year he’d been slender and clean-cut, but his travels had left him gaunt and his hair in desperate need of a trim. His sandy-brown locks straggled down his sunburned neck in back and into his muddy brown eyes in front. His long face made his features seem less plain than they were. He bore no resemblance, however, to the other living members of the Wyvernspur family, who all had thin lips, hawklike noses, blue eyes, pale skin, and dark hair.

  Taking up his goblet of mulled wine, Giogi crossed the parlor to the fireplace, where he warmed his fingers by the flames. It would take a day or two of blazing fires to chase the last of the winter chill and damp from the parlor. Uncertain as to his master’s return, Thomas, Giogi’s manservant, had decided not to waste wood and effort heating an empty house. Giogi shuddered to think of the effect that ten months of such neglect had on the plush wool Calimshan carpeting, the brilliant Sembian satin furniture coverings, and the Cormyrian duskwood paneling. At least, it being the month of Ches, the returning spring sunshine kept ice from forming on the leaded glass windows. It had come as quite a shock to Giogi, though, to find no candle burning in those windows upon his return, neither literally nor figuratively.

  The young noble wondered whether a mere fire laid in the hearth could burn off the strange and unwelcome feeling he now sensed in his home. Everything was familiar and in its proper place, but the townhouse felt empty. After months spent at inns, aboard ships, and in traveling with strangers, now being alone left Giogi disquieted. He took a long swig of wine to shake off his gloom.

  On the mantlepiece lay the most interesting souvenir of his travels: a large yellow crystal. Giogi had found it in the grass outside Westgate, and he was sure there was something special about the stone beside
s its beauty and financial value. The crystal shone in the dark like a great firefly, and Giogi felt quite comforted whenever he held it. He considered showing it to his Uncle Drone, but he decided against the idea, afraid that the old wizard would tell him the stone was dangerous and take it away.

  Giogi polished off his drink and placed the empty silver goblet on the mantlepiece, then picked up the yellow crystal. Cradling it in both hands, he flopped back into his favorite stuffed chair and propped his feet up on a cushioned footstool. He turned the crystal over in his hands, watching the firelight sparkle in each facet.

  The crystal was roughly egg-shaped but far larger than any bird egg—smaller, though, than a wyvern’s egg. It was the color of the finest mead and faintly warm to the touch. Where the facets met, the edges were not sharp but beveled smooth. Giogi held the stone at arm’s length, closed one eye, and tried to divine if it held some secret within its depths, but he could make out only the firelight shining through it and his own reflection broken by the facets.

  “Now, what would be the best way to display you?” he asked the crystal. There was no sense in having a case made for it, he realized. Taking it out every time he wanted to handle it would be a bother, but it was too large to wear from a neck chain. On the road, he had kept it tucked in the top of his boot, where most adventurers kept their daggers.

  The boots would have to suffice this evening, he decided at last. Although he didn’t plan to show it to Uncle Drone and the rest of his family, he very much wanted to show the stone to his pals at the Immer Inn. With any luck, Aunt Dorath would dismiss him from the family gathering early enough for him to slip back into town before closing hour.

  That matter resolved, Giogi bounced back to his feet and wandered from the parlor to his home’s entrance. With the stone tucked awkwardly in his belt, he rummaged through the hall closet under the stairs. He’d left his boots in the front of the closet, but they had somehow vanished. He rustled about the cloaks and capes hanging from their separate hooks, and kicked through a number of shoes that littered the floor. Then he began pulling from the closet all manner of walking sticks, abandoned clothing, and curios—which were gifts from relatives, and so could not be thrown away, but which were too ugly to place anywhere but in the relative darkness of the closet.

  Finally, having moved half the closet’s interior into the hall, the young noble gave up and let out a bellow.

  “Thomas!” he shouted toward the back hallway. “Where are my boots?”

  Alerted by the sound of chests, shoes, and walking sticks being thumped about, Thomas had already decided to investigate the racket and had put aside the silver tureen he’d been polishing. He was just coming out from the kitchen as Giogi called his name. Beneath the archway separating the front hall from what Giogi termed “Servant Land,” the gentleman’s gentleman paused.

  Thomas looked askance at the closet’s contents strewn about the hallway and tried not to blanch. He wasn’t more than three years Giogi’s senior, but many more years of responsibility had given him an aged, wiser-than-thou look. It was a look that the servant used now on his employer.

  “Is there something that Sir requires?” Thomas asked evenly.

  “I can’t find my boots,” Giogi declared. “I know I left them in here.”

  From the chaos before him, Thomas drew out a pair of recently polished black boots with narrow heels and sharp, pointed toes. “Here you are, sir,” he said without a trace of annoyance.

  “Not those things. I won’t wear them ever again. They pinch my feet. Take them away and burn them. I want the boots I bought in Westgate. The knee-high, brown-suede clodders with wide brims. They’re the most comfortable boots in the Realms.”

  Thomas raised a single eyebrow. “Comfortable they may be, sir, but they are hardly a gentleman’s boot.”

  “Tish! I’m a gentleman, and they’re my boots, ergo, argumentum ab auctoritate,” came Giogi’s riposte. “Et cetera,” he added.

  “I thought, sir, now that your travels are through, that you would wish to dispense with the accoutrements of your journey. I have already retired the boots.”

  “Well, bring them out of retirement, and please hurry. I need to leave for Redstone.”

  “I understood that your Aunt Dorath was not expecting you until after supper.”

  “That’s right, and since I thought I would walk to Redstone and would like to arrive on time, I need to leave now.” Giogi sat on the hall bench and kicked off his silk slippers, anticipating that Thomas would produce his boots out of thin air.

  Thomas surveyed his master with disbelief. “Walk, sir?”

  “Yes. You know, one foot in front of the other,” Giogi explained patiently.

  “But what about your own supper, sir?”

  “Supper? Oh, sorry, Thomas. Write supper off. After that magnificent lunch and all those wonderful raisin cakes at tea, I’m completely full up. Couldn’t eat another thing. Thanks anyway.”

  Thomas’s look of incredulity turned to one of concern. “Are you feeling all right, sir?”

  “Splendid, except that my feet are getting cold,” Giogi said with a grin.

  Without another word, Thomas spun about and disappeared through the archway into Servant Land.

  Giogi twisted sideways on the bench to keep his stockinged feet off the chilly floorboards. He ran a finger along the smooth parquetry worked into the wooden bench’s high back. One of his earliest childhood memories was of his father explaining to him the picture in the bench. It depicted the moment the family had gotten its patronymic, “way back,” as his father used to say, “in the days before we knew which spoon to use for the soup course.” In the design, Paton Wyvernspur, the family founder, stood before a great female wyvern. Two tiny hatchling wyverns played at the monster’s feet, and behind her lay the corpse of her mate. Bandits had killed her mate and stolen her eggs from her nest, but Paton had tracked down and vanquished the thieves and restored the young wyverns to their mother. In gratitude, the female wyvern had sliced off her mate’s right spur and conferred it upon Giogi’s forefather with the promise that his family line would never dwindle while the spur remained in the family’s possession.

  Later, when he was older and had learned that wyverns weren’t considered very nice beasts, Giogi often wondered why Paton had helped the female wyvern. By that time, though, Giogi’s father and mother were both dead, and Giogi couldn’t bring himself to ask Aunt Dorath or Uncle Drone. He sensed instinctively that it would be branded a question only a fool such as himself would ask.

  He wasn’t fool enough to part with the bench, though. It had been a wedding gift from his mother to his father, and while the other Wyvernspurs scorned the wealthy carpenter’s daughter that Cole Wyvernspur had wed, they all coveted the bench. The carpentry was solid, and the parquetry picture positively hypnotic. Aunt Dorath had suggested a number of times that the bench ought to sit in the hall of Redstone, the family manor, and last year, before his marriage to Gaylyn Dimswart, Giogi’s second Cousin Frefford had hinted it would make a lovely wedding gift, but Giogi declined to part with it.

  Bored by inactivity, Giogi bounced to his stocking feet and began tossing back into the closet all the things he’d tossed out.

  Thomas appeared in the archway, holding out the knee-high, brown-suede clodders, which, by his master’s own declaration, were the most comfortable pair in the Realms. “Please, sir,” the servant requested, “don’t trouble yourself with putting those things away. I’ll be happy to do it.”

  Giogi halted in midtoss of a lone wool mitten. Something in Thomas’s tone revealed the servant’s anxiety. Giogi noticed that the inside of the closet was now as untidy as the outside. “Sorry, Thomas,” he apologized meekly.

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” Thomas said, setting the boots beside the bench.

  “Ah, my boots! Excellent!” Giogi sat back down on the bench and pulled the right boot on, then slipped the stone into the brim.

  “Are you certa
in, sir, you wouldn’t rather ride?” Thomas asked.

  Giogi, one foot still unshod, looked up at his manservant. “It may surprise you to know, Thomas, that when I was on my mission for the crown, I often walked great distances.” Giogi did not feel it necessary to add that he had walked great distances whenever forced to because some scurrilous cove had stolen his horse or some equally evil beast had devoured his mount.

  “Indeed, sir. I did not mean to suggest you weren’t up to the task. I just thought that after your strenuous journey you might prefer the luxury of riding. If not in the carriage, I can saddle Daisyeye.”

  “No, thank you, Thomas,” Giogi said, finally pulling on the other boot. “Daisyeye deserves a good, long rest, and I really want to walk.” He rose, whipped his cloak about him with a flourish, and stomped to the front door. “Don’t bother to wait up for me,” he suggested. “I expect I’ll be quite late. Good night,” he called out before he plunged outside.

  In town, everything was brown; the buildings, the grass, the muddy roads, the wooden carts, even the horses and oxen, were shades of umber and tan. Townhouses blocked out the late afternoon sun and cast long chocolate shadows on the earth. Women shouted out the windows at dirt-caked children in the streets. It was as if the gods had run out of other colors by the time they reached that part of Immersea, left it etched in one shade, then hadn’t bothered to mix new paint to fill in the color.

  Giogi walked east, away from the center of town, then turned south onto a trail that led from town to the Wyvernspur estate. A low wall surrounded the land, and the lanky noble swung his legs over it easily and entered another world, one that the gods had colored. Stalks of winter rye glittered like jade in the setting sunlight; purple-specked crocuses sparkled with gemlike raindrops; a great flock of wild geese honked overhead in the deepening blue sky. Giogi felt his spirits rise and shook off the gloom that had gripped him in his own house.

  He struck out along the path through the fields. As the town founders, the Wyvernspurs held title to nearly all the land south of town. Most of the land was set aside for hunting and riding. The highest hill was dedicated to the goddess Selune, and the temple at its peak was left to the administration of her priestess, ancient Mother Lleddew. The Wyvernspurs resisted, however, cultivating much of the land, felling many trees, or clearing many fields for cattle. They were nobles, not farmers or foresters or ranchers. The Cormaerils—the only other titled family in Immersea—regularly planted nearly a hundred acres, but had been nobility for only four generations. Giogi feared that, after fifteen generations, the Wyvernspurs were too entrenched in relying on the family fortune as their only source of revenue.