by Ed Greenwood
He reached his horse, scrambling back down onto the road, and used his borrowed dagger to cut free his saddlebag and the loop that held his scabbard. Snatching up both of them, he ran hard along the road, seeking to win a little distance before he’d have to try some other trick.
Another arrow hummed past his shoulder, and he swerved abruptly into the forest on the far side of the road. So much for that brilliant tactic.
He was going to have to stand and fight. Unless …
In frenzied haste he dropped his burden and snatched out his sword, the daggers from both boots, and the knife sheathed down his back, its hilt hidden under his hair at the nape of his neck. They joined the borrowed dagger on a clump of moss, clattering into a heap—and he added his fire-blackened cooking fork and broad-bladed skinning knife to them even as he began the chant.
Men were leaping and running through the trees, fast approaching, as Elminster muttered his way through the spell, taking each blade in turn and carefully nicking himself so that drops of his blood fell on the steel. He touched each blade to the tangle of feathers and spiderweb strands he’d scooped out of his pouch-lined baldric, thanking Mystra that she’d whispered to him to mark each pouch so he knew their contents at a glance, and then clapped his hands.
The spell was done. Elminster snatched up his saddlebag to use as a shield against any swift arrows that might come his way, and crouched low behind it as the seven weapons he’d enchanted rose restlessly into the air, skirled against each other for a moment as they drifted about as if sniffing for prey—and then leaped away, racing points-first through the forest air.
The first brigand shrieked moments later, and El saw the man spin around, clutching at one eyeball, and fall down the bank onto the road. A second man spat out a curse and swung his blade in frantic haste; there was a ringing of steel on steel, and then the man reeled and fell, blood spurting from his opened throat.
Another man grunted and clutched at his side, snatching out the cooking fork and flinging it down with a groan. Then he joined the frantic retreat, out-paced by some of his fellows who were sprinting desperately to stay ahead of blades that were rushing hungrily after them.
Whenever steel drew blood, his enchantment fled from it. Elminster dropped his saddlebag and went forward cautiously to retrieve his daggers and fork from the men who’d fallen. It would be easy to slip away now, but then he’d never know how many survived to stalk him—and he’d never get his blades back.
The two El had seen fall were both dead, and a heavy trail of blood told him that a third man wouldn’t run much farther before the gods gathered him in. A fourth man made it back to Elminster’s horse before the young Athalantan’s sword plunged itself into his back, and he fell over it onto his face and lay still.
Elminster retrieved all but his borrowed dagger and one of his belt knives, finding two more bodies, before he gave up the grim task and resumed his journey. Both of the dead men had weapons marked with the crudely scratched serpent symbol. El scratched his jaw, where his unshaven stubble was beginning to itch, and then shrugged. He had to go on; what did it matter which gang or fellowship claimed these woods as its own? He was careful to take all the bows he saw with him, and thrust them inside a hollow log a little farther on, startling a young rabbit out of its far end into bounding flight through the trees.
El looked down at the cluster of bloody blades in his hand and shook his head in regret. He never liked to slay, whatever the need. He cleaned the blades on the first thick moss he found and went on, south and east, through the darkening wood.
The skies soon tuned gray, and a chill breeze blew, but the rain that smelled near never came, and Elminster trudged on with his saddlebag growing heavier on his shoulder.
It was with weary relief that he came down into a little hollow just before dusk, and saw chimney smoke and a stockade wall and open fields ahead.
A signboard high on the cornerpost of what looked like a paddock, though it held only mud and trampled grass just now, read: “Be Welcome At The Herald’s Horn.” Underneath was a bad painting of an almost circular silver trumpet. Elminster smiled at it in relief and walked along the stockade, past several stone buildings that reeked of hops, and in through a gate that was overhung with someone’s badly forged iron replica of the looped herald’s horn.
This looked to be where he’d be spending the night. El strode across a muddy yard to a door where a bored-looking boy was peeling and trimming radishes and peppers, tossing his work into water-filled barrels, and keeping watch for guests at the same time.
The boy’s face sharpened with interest as he surveyed Elminster, but he made no move to strike the gong by his elbow, merely giving the weary, hawk-nosed youth an expressionless nod of acknowledgment. El returned it and went inside.
The place smelled of cedar, and there was a hearthfire somewhere ahead to the left, and voices. Elminster peered about, his shoulder-borne saddlebag swinging, and saw that he stood in the midst of yet another forest—this one a crowded tangle of treetrunk pillars, dim rooms, and flagstones strewn with sawdust, complete with scurrying beetles. Many of the planks around him bore the scars of old fires that had been put out in time, long ago.
And by the smell of things, the place was a brewery. Not just the sour small beer that everyone made, but the source of enough brew to fill the small mountain of barrels El could see through a window whose shutters had been fastened back to let in a little light and air—and a face that stared in at him, wrinkled bushy brows, and growled, “Alone? Afoot? Want a meal and a bed?”
Elminster nodded a silent reply and was rewarded with the gruff addition, “Then be at home. Two silver a bed, two silver for meals, extra tankards a copper apiece, and baths extra. Taproom’s on the left, there; keep your bag with you—but be warned: I throw out all who draw steel in my house … straightaway, into the night, without their weapons. Got it?”
“Understood,” El replied with some dignity.
“Got a name?” the stout owner of the face demanded, resting one fat and hairy arm on the windowsill.
For a brief moment El was moved to reply merely “Aye,” but prudence made him say instead, “El, out of Athalantar, and bound for the Rapids.”
The face bobbed in a nod. “Mine’s Drelden. Built this place myself. Bread, dripping, and cheese on the mantel. Draw yourself a tankard and tell Rose your wants. She’s got soup ready.”
The face vanished, and as the grunts and thuds of barrels being wrestled about floated in through the window, Elminster did as he’d been bid.
A forest of wary faces looked up as he entered the taproom, and watched in silent interest as the youth quietly adorned his cheese with mustard and settled into a corner seat with his tankard. Elminster gave the room at large a polite nod and Rose an enthusiastic one, and devoted himself to filling his groaning belly and looking back at the folk who were studying him.
In the back corner were a dozen burly, sweaty men and women who wore smocks, big shapeless boots, a lot of dirt, and weary expressions. Local farmers, come for a meal before bed.
There was a table of men who wore leather armor, and were strapped about with weapons. They all sported badges of a scarlet sword laid across a white shield; one of them saw Elminster looking at his and grunted, “We’re the Red Blade, bound for the Calishar to find caravan-escort work.”
Elminster gave his own name and destination in reply, took a swig from his tankard, and then held silence until folk lost interest in him.
The conversation that had been going on in a desultory way before his entrance resumed. It seemed to be a “have ye heard?” top-this contest between the last two guests: bearded, boisterous men in tattered clothes, who wore stout, well-used swords and small arsenals of clanging cups, knives, mallets, and other small tools.
One, Karlmuth Hauntokh, was hairier, fatter, and more arrogant than the other. As the young prince of Athalantar watched and listened, he waxed eloquent about the “opportunities that be boilin’ up rig
ht now—just boilin’, I tell thee—for prospectors like meself—and Surgath here.”
He leaned forward to fix the Red Blades with wise old eyes, and added in a hoarse, confidential whisper that must have carried clear out back to the stables, “It’s on account o’ the elves, see? They’re moving away—no one knows where—jus’ gone. They cleared out o’ what they called Elanvae … that’s the woods what the River Reaching runs through, nor’east o’ here … last winter. Now all that land’s ours for the picking. Why, not a tenday back I found a bauble there—gold, and jools stuck in it, clear through—in a house that had fallen in!”
“Aye,” one of the farmers said in a voice flat with disbelief, “and how big was it, Hauntokh? Bigger’n my head, this time?”
The prospector scowled, his black brows drawing together into a fierce wall. “Less o’ that lip, Naglarn,” he growled. “When I’m out there, swingin’ m’blade to drive off the wolves, it’s right seldom I see thee stridin’ boldly into the woods!”
“Some of us,” Naglarn replied in a voice that dripped scorn, “have honest work to do, Hauntokh … but then, y’wouldn’t know what that was, now would you?” Many of the farmers chuckled or grinned in tired silence.
“I’ll let that pass, farmer,” the prospector replied coldly, “seein’ as I like the Horn so well, an’ plan to be drinkin’ here long after they look at thy weed fields an’ use thy own plow to put thee under, in a corner somewheres. But I’ll show thee not to scoff at them as dares to go where thee won’t.”
One hairy hand darted into Hauntokh’s open shirt-front with snakelike speed, and out of the gray-white hair there drew forth a fist-sized cloth bag. Strong, stubby fingers thrust its drawstrings open, and plucked into view all it held: a sphere of shining gold, inset with sparkling gems. An involuntary gasp of awe came from every throat in the room as the prospector proudly held it up.
It was a beautiful thing, as old and as exquisite as any elven work Elminster had ever seen. It was probably worth a dozen Herald’s Horns, or more. Much more, if that glow betokened magics that did more than merely adorn. El watched its inner light play on the ring the prospector wore—a ring that bore the scratched device of a serpent rising to strike.
“Have ye ever seen the like?” Hauntokh gloated. “Aye, Naglarn?” He turned his head, gaze sweeping across the Red Blade adventurers, who were leaning forward so far in their hunger and wonder that they were almost out of their chairs, and looked at his rival prospector.
“And thee, Surgath?” he charged. “Have ye brought back anything to match half o’ this, hey?”
“Well, now,” the other bearded, weatherbeaten man said, scratching his head. “Well, now.” He shifted in his seat, bringing one booted foot up onto the table, while Karlmuth Hauntokh chuckled, enjoying his moment of clear superiority.
And then the ragtag prospector drew something long and thin out of his raised boot, and grew a grin to match Karlmuth’s own. He hadn’t many teeth left, El noticed.
“I wasn’t goin’ to lord it over thee, Hauntokh,” he said jauntily. “No, that’s not Surgath Ilder’s road. Quiet and sure, that’s my way … quiet and sure.” He held up the long, thin cylinder, and laid his hand on the crumpled black silk that shrouded it. “I’ve been in the Elanvae too,” he drawled, “seein’ what pelts—an’ treasure—might come my way. Now years ago—probably afore you were born, Hauntokh, I wouldn’t doubt—”
The larger prospector snarled, but his eyes never left the silk-shrouded object.
“—I learned that when you’re in a hurry, and in elven woods, you can generally find both those things, beasts and loot together, in one place: a tomb.”
If the room had been hushed before, that last word made it strainingly silent.
“It’s the one place that hunting elves tend to leave be, y’see,” Surgath continued. “So if y’don’t mind fighting for your life every so often, you might—just might—be lucky enough to find something like this.” He jerked the silk away.
There was a murmur, and then silence again. The prospector was holding a chased and fluted silver rod. One of its ends tapered into a wavering tongue like a stylized flame, and the other ended in a sky-blue gem as large as the gaping mouth of the nearest Red Blade adventurer. In between, a slender, almost lifelike dragon curled around the barrel of the scepter, its eyes two glowing gems. One was green, and one amber—and at the tip of its curling tail was yet another gemstone, this one ale-brown in hue.
Elminster stared at it for some seconds before remembering to raise his tankard and cover the eagerness in his face. Something like that, now, if he had to duel with elven guards, would come in very handy indeed … It was elven work, had to be, that smooth and beautiful. What powers did it have, now?
“This here scepter,” Surgath said, waving it—there was a gasp and a clatter, then, as Rose came into the room with a platter of hot tarts, and dropped them on her own toes in startled amazement—“was laid to rest with a lord of the elves, I’m thinking, two thousand summers ago, or more. Now, he liked to play at impressing folk—just like certain lazy, loose-tongued retired prospectors I can rest my eyes on, right now! So he could make this here rod do things. Watch.”
His awed audience saw him touch one of the dragon’s eyes at the same time as he touched the large gem in the butt of the scepter. A light flashed as he pointed it at Karlmuth Hauntokh—who whimpered and dived for the floor, shivering in fear.
Surgath threw back his head and guffawed. “Less fear, Hauntokh,” he laughed. “Stop your groveling. That’s all it does, y’see: throw off that light.”
Elminster shook his head slightly, knowing the scepter must be doing more than that—but only one pair of eyes in that room noticed the unshaven youth’s reaction.
As the rival prospector rose into view again, mounting anger in his eyes, Surgath added grandly, “Ah, but there’s more.”
He pressed the dragon’s other eye and the butt-gem in unison—and a beam leaped across the taproom and sent Elminster’s tankard spinning. The young man watched it clatter along the wall, smoking, and his eyes narrowed.
“We’re not done yet,” Surgath said gaily, as the beam died out and the tankard rolled out of the room. “There’s this, yet!”
He touched the tail-gem and the butt-gem, this time, and the result was a humming sphere of blue radiance in which small sparks danced and spun.
Elminster’s face tightened, and his fingers danced behind his cheese. He looked down, as if peering for his tankard, so that the others wouldn’t see him muttering phrases. He had to quell this last unleashing quickly, before real harm was done.
His spell took effect, apparently unnoticed by the other occupants of the taproom, and Elminster sank back in his seat in relief, sweat gathering at his temples. He wasn’t done yet; there remained the small matter of somehow getting the scepter away from this old man, too. He had to have that scepter.
“Now,” Surgath crooned, “I’m thinking that this little toy wouldn’t look out of place in a king’s fist—and I’m tryin’ to decide which one to offer it to, right now. I’ve got to get there, do the dickering, and get out again without being killed or thrown in a dungeon. I’ve got to choose me the right king first off, y’see … because it’s got to be one that can pay me at least fifty rubies, and all of them bigger’n’my thumb!”
The prospector looked smugly around at them, and added, “Oh, and a warning: I also found some useful magic that will take care of anyone who tries to snatch this off me. Permanently take care of ’em, if y’take my meaning.”
“Fifty rubies,” one of the adventurers echoed, in awed disbelief.
“D’ye mean that?” Elminster blurted out, and something in his tone drew every eye in the room. “Ye’d sell that, right now, for fifty rubies?”
“Well, ah—” Surgath sputtered, and his eyes narrowed. “Why, lad? You have that saddlesack o’ yours stuffed with rubies?”
“Perhaps,” Elminster said, nervously nibbling on
a piece of cheese and almost biting off the tips of his own fingers in the process. “I ask again: is thy offer serious?”
“Well, p’raps I spoke a mite hastily,” the prospector said slowly. “I was thinkin’ more of a hundred rubies.”
“Ye were indeed,” Elminster said, his tone dry. “I could feel it, clear over here. Well, Surgath Ilder, I’ll buy that scepter from ye, here and now, for a hundred rubies—and all of them bigger than thy thumb.”
“Hah!” The prospector leaned back in his chair. “Where would a lad like you get a hundred rubies?”
Elminster shrugged. “Ye know—other people’s tombs, places like that.”
“No one gets buried with a hundred rubies,” Surgath scoffed. “Tell me another, lad.”
“Well, I’m the only living prince of a rich kingdom,” Elminster began.
Hauntokh’s eyes narrowed, but Surgath laughed derisively. Elminster rose, shrugged, and reached into his saddlebag. When his hand came out, he was holding a wadded-up cloak—to conceal the fact that his hand was in fact empty—and to hide the single gesture that would release his waiting, “hanging” spell.
As the adventurers leaned forward, watching him closely, Elminster unrolled the cloth with a flourish—and gems, cherry-red, afire with the reflected flames of the hearth, spilled out across the table before him.
“Pick one up, Surgath,” Elminster said gently. “See for thyself that it’s real.”
Dumbfounded, Surgath did so, holding it up to the light of the whirling scepter. His hands began to shake. Karlmuth Hauntokh snatched one, too, and squinted at it.
Then, very slowly, he set it back on the table in front of the hawk-nosed youth, and turned to look around the taproom.
El dropped his gaze to the man’s hairy hands. Yes, his ring definitely matched the symbol borne by the brigands.