time bear young that resemble sea elves in all things but their rapacious nature. These are called 'malenti,' after their forefather. Sometimes such young are reared and trained to live among the sea elves as sahuagin spies; more commonly they are slain at birth. The sahuagin have learned that this is prudent-the malenti are considered dangerous even by their vicious kindred, for in them, the spirit of Ka'Narlist lives on.
As for Mbugua, some say that his spirit was released to its reward many long centuries past. And yet it is also said that on a stormy night, one can still hear a wemic's roar of despair among the many voices of the sea.
And so, my elven captor, you have the story, as it was passed to me by my grandsire, who had it from his.
Why would the lion-folk tell such a tale, you ask? Perhaps because the elves will not. Yes, there is danger in speaking of such magic. It is true that for every wise wemic who hears the warning in this tale, there will be a fool who sees in it the glittering lure of a dragon's hoard. So regard it as myth, if such pleases you. And indeed, it may well be this story was not built upon the solid stone of fact.
But remember this, elf, and write it upon your scroll: oftentimes there is far more truth to be found in legend than in history.
Bread Storm Rising
'A vacation?'
The scowl on the mage's wizened face looked even craggier than usual, and Wiglaf Evertongue nearly lost his nerve then and there. Perhaps it was the legacy of his family name that urged him onward, for Wiglaf had spent much of his boyhood outracing his brain with his mouth. But there it was, the word was out, and nothing could be done but to follow where it led. He began to draw breath, but his mentor went on.
'Young Evertongue, you are supposed to be studying the magical arts. No, more: you are privileged to learn the mageways. This is not some cozy craft hall where we wash our grime away and lock up once darkness falls. Magic is not something we do; it is something we are. I thought you had agreed to absolute commitment when you began your training, and now I am made to believe that you wish to prance off on a holiday?'
'Maybe Vacation' was the wrong word, sir.' Wiglaf shuffled his feet and fussed with an imaginary dirt-spot on his robe. 'It's just… it's been more than a year since I left Calimport, and I only need a short while to go back home, and I know my family would want to see what's become of me, and it's not like I haven't worked hard these past months, haven't I, Master Fenzig? Haven't I?'
'Your crude imitation of a puppy is noted, Wiglaf,' the mage's voice sliced as he knotted his hands behind his back and turned away. 'I remind you that it was your own choice that brought you here. It was you who asked for my guidance and instruction. You understood the sacrifices I would demand. Furthermore, as you well know, I have kept your family apprised of your progress, modest though it has been. Your request is baseless and without merit.' He gazed for a moment at the cluttered studio where the two had toiled together for so long that he had to strain to remember another condition. Then he turned back to face his pupil. Wiglaf was still studying the wood grain on the floor. 'However… you may go.'
'I… what?' Wiglaf squeaked joyfully.
'Even ancient ones like me can yet remember what it felt like to relinquish the past in service to a greater goal. There is more than one kind of calling, Wiglaf. Go and answer yours. I give you one week in Calimport. And I give you… this.' He laid a heavy, bronze-clasped book in the student's hands. 'Call it your homework assignment. We can still be productive, even when we rest. And I want the verbal components of three new spells recited to me without error in one week's time.'
Wiglaf's newly minted euphoria melted slightly.
'And just to make sure you practice while you're gone, I'm going to send a companion with you.' The mage made a quick movement with his hands, then cupped them in front of his mouth and whispered a word that Wiglaf couldn't hear. And a few minutes later, while Wiglaf was packing the last of his travel items, an amazon appeared.
Taller than Wiglaf by two full hands, the blonde, tanned warrior filled the doorway of the magician's studio as fully as she filled the most pleasant dreams of almost every man who looked upon her. A battle-beaten broadsword draped her magnificent frame and crossed luxurious thighs below the line of her brown leather skirt, toward long, lithe, athletic legs that looked as if they were equally able to pirouette or to kick in the face of an enemy.
'Oh, it's you, Sasha,' said Wiglaf.
'You called, Master Fenzig?' the vision inquired in a soft but authoritative voice.
'Yes, please escort this whelp to Calimport and try to keep the inevitable trouble to a minimum.'
'Come on, magic man.' Sasha smiled at Wiglaf, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that handsomely completed the dazzling picture. 'Let's see if you can put one foot in front of the other without falling down.'
Their trip was brief and pleasant, combining the soft serenity of sandy plains and the occasional wooded glade with the bracing salt air and rhythmic pounding of the nearby seashore. Wiglaf felt as if he had been imprisoned forever and now finally set free. He didn't even mind Sasha's presence, for to hazard the journey alone would be to invite the perils of another kind of company. Not that any small-time cutpurses along the way would find anything of value on Wiglaf's wiry frame-these brigands could hardly read a trespassing notice, much less a spellbook-but Wiglaf had heard that their disappointment could often manifest itself in actions yielding bodily harm. He would have made the trip anyway, counting on luck and an inventive tongue as his only assets, but Sasha was admittedly a more effective deterrent. No thief could ever mistake her for a cringing female; only the dimmest among them could fail to realize there were far easier ways to make a living than to oppose this woman.
In the rare moments when Sasha did relax, however, she indulged herself in her favorite recreation: teasing Wiglaf. She had been part of a confidence team under Fenzig's secret instruction, which last year had imparted Wiglaf's first lesson: magical power was the result of study and labor, not a jackpot won instantly. He had fallen for it like a stone and made a fool of himself in front of crowds of people, and Sasha meant to make sure the lesson was well learned. Wiglaf flattered himself that Sasha thought him cute, for her stream of torment was never meanspirited, even though she pursued it with relish. Yet, despite her taunts, somehow Sasha's delightful smile always wound up producing its twin on Wiglaf's own face.
'So, magic man, what great feats have you learned lately? Plague of bunions? Oatmeal levitation? Speak with lint?'
'I've been working night and day to prove that the wand is mightier than the sword. You can ask Fenzig.'
'I don't have to,' Sasha replied. 'The look on his face tells me everything.'
'That expression hasn't changed since the day I got here. He wouldn't know a joke if it lifted up his robe.'
'He deals with a joke all day long. And now I've got the duty.'
'Laugh all you want, milady muscles. One of these days, you'll be getting free ale when you tell people you knew the great mage Wiglaf Evertongue.'
'Hey, I do already.'
Wiglaf brightened.
'I can make a tavern crowd spit ale out of their noses by telling about you.'
'Very funny, Sasha. But I'll get there one day. I'll get there.'
'That day is today, magic man. You got there. Look.' She pointed toward a curling wisp of chimney smoke wafting inland on the gentle sea breeze. 'Calimport. It's showtime.'
As they walked into the main square in the late afternoon light, Wiglaf noticed how little had changed in the year since he left. Natives of Calimport tended to be simple, good people who believed in an honest day's work: the smiths, cobblers, farmers, and other crafts-people who provided the common sundries and services that so many took for granted. Chief among those who took things for granted was the ruling pasha of the lands of Calimshan, a
