The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

Algorind stood at the edge of the writing table, glumly measuring the drop to the thick Calishite carpet. Six, perhaps seven times his current height. He could jump, but not without injury. And to what purpose? Where would he go, and how could he defend himself against the dangers his new size brought? The mouse that had scavenged a few stray crumbs from the floor before disappearing into the paneled wall was, relatively speaking, the size of a dire wolf.

Algorind has been left on the table earlier that afternoon to await the arrival of his host-or perhaps more accurately, his jailor. To occupy the time, he'd studied his surroundings with eyes that measured familiar things in new and often disturbing fashion.

Tapestries covered the walls with scenes from famous battles, woven in realistic hues of red and bronze. Whenever a draft rippled these hangings, the depicted figures seemed to quiver with impatience, as if eager to resume their slaughter. Twin gargoyles crouched atop the marble fireplace, demonic statues so skillfully carved that Algorind half expected to hear the sudden snap of unfurling bat wings. He was not much given to grim flights of fancy, but given his current size, everything in the luxurious study was monstrous in scale, and therefore slightly ominous.

The grim aspects, however, were less disturbing to Algorind than the opulence. The table on which he stood was fashioned from a single plank of Halruaan bilboa. That rare and costly wood also paneled the walls, frequently in exquisitely carved scenes. Leather-bound tomes filled tall bookshelves. A painting depicting the rollicking afterlife to be found in Tempus's fest hall covered the high ceiling. The silver drinking bowl on the table smelled of sugared wine and was big enough for Algorind to bathe in. The dainty spoon next to it, even though it was large enough to serve Algorind as a credible spade, looked ill suited to a warrior's hand. Algorind, raised and trained by the Knights of Samular in the austere fortress known as Summit Hill, found such riches puzzling and unseemly.

But who was he, of all men, to judge?

On impulse, Algorind knelt beside the spoon and peered into its polished silver bowl. He was slowly returning to his natural size, but did his disgrace leave a lingering stain? Was it written upon his countenance for all men to read?

His reflection stared somberly back, a miniature version of his former self, slightly distorted by the curve of the spoon but still the face he'd seen mirrored in the polished metal of his lost sword: a man not yet twenty years of age, with a steady, blue-eyed gaze and close-cropped hair nearly as curly and fair as a lamb's fleece. He was broad and strong from years of training and stern discipline, clad as simply as any farm lad. Out of respect, Algorind had set aside the pure white tabard bearing the Order's symbol: the scales of Tyr's justice, balanced upon the hammer of his judgment.

Tyr's judgment.

A new thought struck Algorind, one strange and powerful enough to rock him back on his heels. By Tyr's grace, even a fledgling paladin could learn the truth of a man's nature-including, perhaps, his own?

Algorind had never sought to weigh his own heart. He was not even sure this was possible! The Knights of Samular were a military order, not a monastic one. Action, not introspection, was the business of Summit Hall.

The need to know swept away all reservations. Algorind bowed his head in fervent, silent supplication. As he prayed, a sense of peace and quiet joy settled over him, as palpable as incense in a cloister. The troubling events of the last tenday faded into insignificance. Tyr was with him still.

As Algorind sank deeper into the healing calm, a strange image flooded his mind. Stunted fields brooded beneath a dark and lowering sky. Briars and noxious weeds grew in profusion, slowing choking out the last few wholesome plants. Brackish water collected in dips and hollows, and black-winged scavenger birds circled overhead in patient silence, awaiting their own grim harvest.

The vision jolted Algorind from his devotions. As he leaped to his feet, an enormous hand-a warrior's hand, gnarled with age and seamed with the scars of many battles-closed around him.

The young man instinctively reached for his sword but found only the mockery of an empty scabbard. Defenseless, he was jerked off the table and swept up to a great height.

A moment passed before he made sense of the huge, craggy visage before him. He was staring into the bright blue eyes of Sir Gareth Cormaeril, one of the greatest paladins of living memory.

"You were invoking Tyr."

The old knight's voice smote Algorind's ears like peals of thunder, like the judgment of Tyr Himself. Algorind's first impulse was to confide all to the great paladin-the unorthodox prayer, the disturbing vision that followed. But some instinct Algorind did not know he possessed urged him to keep his own council.