by Ed Greenwood
“What if that was the gorget?” Merlar asked hesitantly. “Being destroyed, I mean?”
“Then their lives are forfeit,” Kelgantor said flatly. “Slay them at all costs and by any means, no matter what they threaten or offer. Move.”
The Cormyreans hastened, crashing through leaves and branches. Someone rather tunelessly chanted, “Another bold night in brave Cormyr,” a line from the old ballad popular with the soldiers of the realm. Smiling at that, Storm faded back, seeking to drop behind them all and get clear.
“Not now,” a highknight muttered beside her ear in the impenetrable darkness, mistaking her for one of the war wizards. “You should have emptied your bladder two ridges back, when Kelgantor gave the order. If we—”
Storm knew that cautious growl and allowed herself a thin smile. Eskrel Starbridge was a grizzled old veteran … and one of the few highknights she’d trust to defend Cormyr. Or do much of anything, for that matter.
So she turned and struck him senseless almost gently.
Catching him in her arms before he could thud heavily to the damp leaves underfoot, she thrust the forefinger she’d dipped in her longsleep herb mix up Starbridge’s nose to keep him down and slumberous. Stretching him out gently on the sodden forest floor made no more noise than the boots of his nearest oblivious fellows ahead of them … and passed unnoticed.
As silently as she knew how, Storm set off through the trees in a wide, swift circle. She had to get to Elminster and Alassra before the Cormyreans did.
The gorget flickered feebly once as Elminster whispered the last word of the incantation. Then it tingled, dark once more, and started to sink into nothingness under his fingertips, melting amid a few wisps of smoke as its ancient magics flowed into Alassra.
She stirred in her sleep, frowning, probably dreaming of someone throttling her, as the tips of El’s fingers touched her throat through the fading metal … then smiled, her body seeming to grow more lush and strong under him as the magic fed her.
Her eyelids flickered, and she purred like a satisfied cat, stretching and arching under him, ere murmuring, “Tremble, all, for the Witch-Queen is truly back …”
Her eyes opened, and her arms reached up to encircle him. “Oh, my Aumar,” she said delightedly, “You’ve—”
The spell that struck them then flung them a few feet, wreathed in snarling flames that clawed at them but could not scorch. So it tore them apart, to tumble away side by side, unharmed but furious. As if heeding a cue, the moon burst through the scudding clouds and flooded the tumbled rocks of Tethgard all around with cold, clear light.
Elminster cursed as he felt the soundless burst of sparks that meant the enspelled badge he’d recovered from a Sembian burial vault had just been destroyed, consumed in shielding Lass and himself from the attack. Which meant he had just one enchanted item left.
Without Storm’s aid, he could withstand only one more hostile magic. Or hurl just one spell.
For her part, the Simbul was on her feet and glaring into the trees whence the attack had come, eyes afire. “Who dares—?”
“We dare, witch!” came the cold reply, as a dozen men strode just clear of the trees, some in dark war-leathers and bearing drawn swords. “You stand in Cormyr and are subject to the king’s justice! In his name we call on you to surrender, working no magic and offering no defiance, and submit to our will!”
“Submit to your will? Nay, I choose my own lovers,” the Simbul told them coldly. “I do not submit to armed men who threaten me in the forest. You strike me as brigands, not men of the Crown. Those who uphold justice call polite parley from a distance, rather than hurling spells without warning at couples they espy in the night.”
“You are the mages Elminster and the Simbul, and we have orders to arrest you and obtain from you the Royal Gorget of Battle, stolen from the Crown of Cormyr. We are wizards of war and highknights of the realm, not brigands, and we call again upon you to surrender! Lay down all weapons and work no spells, and you will be dealt with accordingly.”
The men were moving again, spreading out and advancing more swiftly at either end of their line, as if to encircle the couple amid the rocks.
“Where’s Starbridge?” one of them muttered, looking suddenly to right and left along the line, but the man beside him—the one who’d called out to Elminster and the Simbul—waved a silencing hand, swiftly and imperiously.
“Leave us be,” Elminster warned the Cormyreans, then cast a swift glance over his shoulder at a faint sound behind him. Storm was hastening up through the rocks to join them, crawling like a swift jungle cat. Heartened, he went to stand beside his lady, facing into the closing ring of men with her.
Seeing no signs of his quarry fleeing, the Cormyrean commander waved a hand, and two men strode forward from the closing ring. El recognized one almost immediately: Sir Ilvellund Nordroun, the head highknight of Cormyr. The other was a young war wizard he’d seen striding haughtily around the palace, whose name he didn’t know.
“A parley, or are these two sent to wrestle us down?” Alassra mused calmly.
Elminster shrugged. “Perhaps thy reminder of proper courtesy stung them into this gesture. I’ve no doubt it will end in violence.”
“I find myself less than surprised,” the Simbul replied dryly, as the highknight and the mage came to a halt a careful four paces away.
“Yield the gorget,” the young war wizard demanded. “Now.”
“Youngling,” Elminster said gravely, “ye stand in the presence of a queen. Can ye not manage a trifling minimum of courtesy?”
“This is courtesy,” the mage flung back. “We could have just blasted you down.”
“You could have tried,” the Simbul replied almost gently, meeting his sneer with a look of disdain that made him flush and look away.
“You’ve heard our orders to you,” he told them almost sullenly. “Obey, or face our lawful wrath—and your doom.”
“Doom,” Elminster murmured. “Villains always seem to love that word. I wonder why?”
“Villains? You’re the villains here! We are lawkeepers of Cormyr and stand for justice and good!”
The Old Mage sighed. “Are ye still such a child as to divide all the folk ye meet into ‘good’ and ‘bad’? Lad, lad, there are no good people and bad people—there are just people, doing things others deem good or bad. If ye serve most of the gods well, ye should end up doing more good than bad. I try to do good things. Do ye?”
“I’m not here to bandy words with you, old man. Give us the gorget, and surrender yourselves into our custody. I warn you, we’ll have it from you peacefully—or the other way.”
Elminster and his lady traded calm looks then faced the young war wizard together and said in unison, “No.”
Shuldroon looked almost gleeful. “You seek to defy all of us? I remind you that you are overmatched sixfold by we wizards of war, and again by the highknights, the best warriors of the realm. See sense, man, and surrender.”
Elminster scratched at his beard, looking almost bored. “So ye can slay me without a battle, is that it? Nay, loud-tongue, I’ve not lived so long by abandoning all my principles. Here’s one ye younglings would do well to live by: if ye’ve done the right thing, stand thy ground.”
“Sir Nordroun,” the wizard commanded, “take and bind the woman. We’ll see then if the old man wags his tongue quite so defiantly.”
The highknight sighed. “That is less than wise, Shuldroon. I will take orders from Kelgantor, but not from you.”
The young war wizard turned in swift rage. “Are my ears actually hearing—”
“They are,” Storm Silverhand said in a level voice, rising up between Elminster and the Simbul with her sword in her hand. “And you should heed Sir Nordroun’s wisdom, Wizard of War Shuldroon, and abandon any schemes of taking and binding anyone. A few loyal guardians of Cormyr might live longer that way.”
“And just who are you?”
“Storm Silverhand is my name.�
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“Another liar using a name out of legend?” Shaking his head and sneering anew, Shuldroon put one hand behind his back and gestured.
Behind him, the ring of Cormyreans started to tighten around the three standing amid the rocks. All save one man. Wizard of War Kelgantor, it seemed, had decided to hang back and watch, wands in both of his hands, ready to unleash magic when necessary.
Storm shook her head. “So it’s to be another bold night in brave Cormyr,” she murmured. She laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder, finding it atremble with rage, and added, “Don’t blast them just yet, Lass. We should warn them once more; give them another chance.”
The Simbul’s answer was a low, feline growl.
“We know you’re scared to use your paltry magic,” Shuldroon told Elminster. “And that you have taken to not using it in favor of menacing folk and trading on your fearsome—and borrowed—reputation. Unfortunately for you, old charlatan, we don’t scare.”
He took a step forward and struck a defiant pose, his shoulders squared and his hands on his hips, to add, “I’m not scared.”
Elminster replied dryly, “Ye should be.”
CHAPTER
THREE
SPELLDOOM AND BLOOD-DRENCHED BATTLE
Shuldroon’s only answer was another sneer, as the ring of men closed in.
“Don’t force this,” Elminster warned them, looking past the young war wizard at the other Cormyreans. “There will be death. And I am more than tired of killing.”
“Huh,” another young mage—the one called Hondryn—replied, flexing his fingers. “We can end your weariness forever, old man.”
“Aye, but should ye? If, that is, ye care for Cormyr.”
“Ah, this will be the ‘if ye knew the dark secrets I do, ye’d not be so foolish’ proclamation,” Shuldroon said mockingly. “Wherein you pose as the hidden guardian of the Forest Kingdom, its lone defender against all manner of dark creeping menaces we are too callow to know about, let alone understand.”
“I see ye know the script.” Elminster’s smile was wry. “Do ye also dismiss how those plays usually end?”
The young war wizard shrugged. “Everyone dies, so what boots it? Perhaps I’m a harsher critic of such sad amusements than you are—you who have seen and caused so many.”
“The savagery of a young cynic never rests,” Storm murmured and drew her sword.
That earned her one of Shuldroon’s sneers, but she had already turned to cast another swift look over her shoulder.
Tethgard’s tumbled stones hindered the closing of the ring behind the three former Chosen, but the Cormyreans stood close in front of them. Kelgantor, too, was advancing, though well behind his fellows. Storm saw him glance warily over his own shoulder, seeking unseen foes in the dark forest at his back, and she smiled bitterly.
They were here for blood, these men of Cormyr. It was all too clear how this would end.
“One last chance, old man,” Shuldroon said to Elminster. “Know that your own continued defiance has cost you much leniency on our part. We now have another demand: surrender to us she who was once the Witch-Queen of Aglarond. She is a danger and a peril to all Cormyr, and the king has commanded her apprehension!”
Elminster raised one eyebrow. “Ye seem to think she is my dog, rather than a person who chooses for herself. Count thyselves fortunate she’s kept her temper thus far, and be warned that her patience is not eternal.”
“You command here, do you not?”
“No one ‘commands’ here, lad. She’s under my protection, aye, and I’ll defend her freedom and her person—but she is no slave. Neither I nor anyone else owns her, wherefore no one can surrender her but the lady herself. Make such demands to her, not of me.”
“You seek to duel me with words, old man. She’s a drooling idiot, chained like a dog—and you hold the other end of the chain!”
Elminster looked at Nordroun and asked mildly, “Was this the most, ah, diplomatic wizard of war the Crown could find? A youngling so hot-tongued that he needs ye to walk at his side as his bodyguard?”
Nordroun kept stone-faced and silent, but Shuldroon went purple and snarled, “Yield to us yon woman—we’ll not ask again!”
“Good,” El replied. “Then we can have some peace and quiet once more? Marvelous!”
“Mock me not, old man! I speak with the full authority of the Crown!”
“Methinks it weighs rather too heavily upon thy brains, youngling. All this wild shouting and rude, imprudent demanding! Are ye truly rash enough to try to force me to choose between the land I love and my lady?”
“I care nothing for your loves, Elminster. I care only about your defiance, your refusal to obey. Nor is the woman our only demand; I remind you that we require the immediate surrender of the Royal Gorget of Battle that you stole from the royal palace. Yield up both of these to us, in the name of the king’s justice!”
“The gorget I retrieved from the palace, ye mean,” Elminster replied, wagging a reproving finger. “I loaned that bauble to the first Palaghard when he was but a prince, to keep him alive through a rather perilous youth. He was not then king, and it was not a gift to him—nor to the Crown of Cormyr, nor yet the Forest Kingdom. He let his Enchara wear it when needful, a generosity I approved of. However, ’twas my loan and mine to take back and use whenever I deemed the time right or the occasion needful.”
“You lie!” Shuldroon shouted.
“I do not lie,” Elminster replied flatly. “Thy bluster notwithstanding.”
“Do you not? Sages have filled books with your falsehoods and thefts down the centuries, old man!”
“So they have, and even told truth about some of them, too. Yet I have not stolen or lied about this gorget. And as for my thefts and lies, I recall very few of them taking place in fair Cormyr. Which means they lie beyond the concerns and reach of the wizards of war.”
“Not so!” several Cormyreans barked in untidy chorus.
Shuldroon added in a rush, “We follow thieves and liars wherever they go and wherever they seek to hide, even unto far and fabled lands! Just as you’ve always done!”
“Then it seems ye’re no better than I,” Elminster replied quietly. “So talk to me not of justice or being in the ‘right.’ Ye bring me no better argument than the menace of might: do as we command, or face our swords and spells. Well, I’ve a reply for that. Go and leave me and these ladies in peace, and I’ll let ye live to swagger around Cormyr with thy swords and spells a while longer.”
“You don’t scare us, old fool.” Shuldroon sneered. “Surrender the gorget, or you will die. Have you not noticed we have you surrounded?”
“So ye do. Well, there’s yet time for ye to show good sense and draw off. This has been one of the better kingdoms, down the years; I’d not want to strike it so hard a blow without giving fair warning.”
“We’ve heard you,” Shuldroon snarled. “Deluded old fool. For far too long you’ve skulked like a thief and a vagabond in the halls of the Dragon Throne, while we’ve watched and done nothing, out of respect for the good deeds of your yesteryears. Yet you’ve trampled on our patience and our good nature, time and again, stealing the greatest royal treasures and magics of the Crown. Our forbearance, old man, is at an end. Surrender the gorget, or die.”
“Ah,” El said mildly, spreading his hands. “As to that, the gorget has been destroyed; it is far beyond being surrendered to anyone, by anybody. So let us have peace, and—”
“Die, thief!” Shuldroon thundered, flicking his fingers and crying a word that hurled his mightiest spell.
Nor was he alone. Most of the other war wizards cast swift battle magics, hands and tongues moving as swiftly as Elminster and the Simbul.
Or faster.
The night promptly exploded in great gouts of white flame as the ground shook and Tethgard erupted toward the stars.
El, Storm, and the Simbul were dashed off their feet again, the air around them shrieking and bubbling as the spells c
lawed at each other.
Elminster’s last magic item was gone in an instant, consumed in keeping the three from being blasted to nothingness. Charging highknights were flung away in all directions—and the stones of Tethgard were hurled into the air, riven asunder.
In the rolling, shuddering aftermath of that blast, amid involuntary groans from those still alive enough to feel the pain of their ringing ears, the three former Chosen watched Tethgard crash down in a deadly cloud of ricocheting fragments that clacked and clattered off the shaking stones all around. In a trice, Wizard of War Kelgantor lost his head to one slicing shard. In the moments that followed, larger stones crushed his bouncing head and some of his limbs even before they could come to rest.
“Back!” Nordroun cried, spitting blood. “Highknights, back! Rally to me!”
“I’ll give the orders around here!” Shuldroon screamed, staggering up from his knees with blood on his face and more of it running out of his ears. “Men of Cormyr, rally to me!”
“Our turn,” the Simbul purred triumphantly. And she raised her hands like two avenging claws, Elminster at her side, and struck back.
The air shimmered, and out of that whirling chaos spun countless swords of force, sharp blades that lacked hilts and wielders but shone with purple-white, howling magic as they sliced and spun their way through screaming men.
Three wizards of war were diced in a blood-drenched instant, leaving only a drifting crimson mist where they’d stood.
Another two were hurled high into the air, ruining the spells they’d been working, and the Old Mage, who’d sent them aloft, roared a great, spell-augmented warning out over much of Hullack Forest: “Begone, or I’ll not be responsible for what happens to ye! There will be more death!”
“Yours, if you don’t surrender!” Shuldroon shouted back, clawing out a wand and raking the night with lightning—
—that rebounded from the heaped stones of Tethgard, ravaging a highknight caught among them.
Crouching in the lee of some of those stones, Elminster whimpered, biting through his lip and shivering violently. Storm ran to him.