by Ed Greenwood
“Nay! I’ll not sit here like some old woman while others pick over all the coins and goods, only to be left fighting with wolves over the refuse.”
“Go then, Bellard. I stay here.”
“Aye—with the sheep.”
“Indeed. That way there may be something for you to eat—besides cooked villager—when you’re done … or were you going to herd them all down there an’ watch over them as you pick through the rubble?”
There was a disgusted snort, and someone else laughed. “Helm’s right, as usual, Bel. Now belt up; let’s go. He’ll probably have some cooked for us by nightfall, if you speak to him as a lover would instead of always wagging the sharp tongue … what say, Helm?”
The grim voice answered, “No promises. If I think something’s lurking that might be drawn by a smoke plume, the meat’ll be cold. If any of ye sees a good cauldron there—big and stout, mind—have the sense to bring it back, will ye? Then I can boil enough food for us to eat all at once.”
“And your helm’ll smell less like beans for a while, eh?”
“That, too. Forget not, now.”
“I’ll not waste my hands on a pot,” Bellard said sullenly, “if there’s coins or good blades to be had.”
“No, no, helmhead—carry thy loot in the pot, see? Then ye can bring that much more, nay?”
There were chuckles. “He’s got ye there, Bel.”
“Again.”
“Aye, let’s be off.” Then there came the sounds of scrambling and scuffling; stones turned and rolled by the mouth of the cave, and then clattered and were still. Silence fell.
Elminster waited for a long time, but heard only the wind. They must have all gone. Carefully he rose, stretched his stiff arms and legs, and crept forward in the darkness, around the corner—and almost onto the point of a sword. The man at the other end of it said calmly, “An’ who might ye be, lad? Run from the village down there?” He wore tattered leather armor, rusty gauntlets, a dented, scratched helm, and a heavy, stubbly beard. This close, Elminster could smell the stench of an unwashed man in armor, the stink of oil and wood smoke.
“Those are my sheep, Helm,” he said calmly. “Leave them be.”
“Thine? Who be ye herding them for, with all down there dead?”
Elminster met the man’s level gaze and was ashamed when sudden tears welled up in his own eyes. He sprang back, wiping at his eyes, and drew the Lion Sword out of the breast of his jerkin.
The man regarded him with what might have been pity and said, “Put that away, boy. I’ve no interest in crossing blades with ye, even if ye had proper steel to wield. Ye had folk down”—he pointed with a sideways tilt of his head, never taking his eyes from Elminster—“in Heldon?”
“Aye,” El managed to say, voice trembling only a little.
“Where will ye go now?”
Elminster shrugged. “I was going to stay here,” he said bitterly, “and eat sheep.”
Helm’s eyes met the young, angry gaze calmly. “A change of plans must needs be in order, then. Shall I save ye one to get ye started?”
Sudden rage rose up inside Elminster at that. “Thief!” he snarled, backing away. “Thief!”
The man shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
Elminster found his hands were trembling; he thrust them and the ruined sword back into the front of his jerkin. Helm stood across the only way out. If there were a rock large enough …
“You’d not be so calm if there were knights of Athalantar near! They kill brigands, you know,” Elminster said, biting off his words as he’d heard his father do when angry, putting a bark of authority in his tone.
The response astonished him. There was a sudden scuffling of boots on rock, and the man had him by the throat, one worn old gauntlet bunching up the jerkin under Elminster’s nose. “I am a knight of Athalantar, boy—sworn to the Stag King himself, gods and goddesses watch over him. If there weren’t so gods-cursed many wizards down in Hastarl, kinging it over the lot of us with the hired brigands they call ‘loyal armsmen,’ I’d be riding a realm at peace—an’ doubtless ye’d still have a home, an’ thy folks an’ neighbors’d be alive!”
The old gray eyes burned with an anger equal to Elminster’s own. El swallowed but looked steadily into them.
“If ye’re a true knight,” he said, “then let go.”
Warily, with a little push that left them both apart, the man did so. “Right, then, boy—why?”
Elminster dragged out the sword hilt again and held it up. “Recognize ye this?” he said, voice wavering.
Helm squinted at it, shook his head—and then froze. “The Lion Sword,” he said roughly. “It should be in Uthgrael’s tomb. How came you by it, boy?” He held out his hand for it.
Elminster shook his head and thrust the ruined stub of blade back into his jerkin. “ ’Tis mine—it was my father’s, and …” He fought down a tightness of unshed tears in his throat, and went on, “… and I think he died wielding it, yestereve.”
He and Helm stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then El asked curiously, “Who’s this Uthgrael? Why would he be buried with my father’s sword?”
Helm was staring at him as if he had three heads, and a crown on each one. “I’ll answer that, lad, if ye’ll tell me thy father’s name first.” He leaned forward, eyes suddenly dark and intent.
Elminster drew himself up proudly and said, “My father is—was—Elthryn Aumar. Everyone called him the uncrowned lord of Heldon.”
Helm let out his breath in a ragged gasp. “Don’t—don’t tell anyone that, lad,” he said quickly. “D’ye hear?”
“Why?” Elminster said, eyes narrowing. “I know my father was someone important, and he—” His voice broke, but he snarled at his own weakness and went on “—he was killed by a wizard with two wands, who rode on the back of a dragon. A dark red dragon.” His eyes became bleak. “I shall never forget what they look like.” He drew out what was left of the Lion Sword again, made a thrusting motion with it, and added fiercely, “One day …”
He was startled to see the dirty knight grin—not a sneering grin, but a smile of delight.
“What?” El demanded, suddenly embarrassed. He thrust the blade out of sight again. “What amuses ye so?”
“Lad, lad,” the man said gently, “sit down here.” He sheathed his own sword and pointed at a rock not far away. Elminster eyed him warily, and the man sighed, sat down himself, and unclipped a stoppered trail-flask of chased metal from his belt. He held it out. “Will ye drink?”
Elminster eyed it. He was very thirsty, he realized suddenly. He took a step nearer. “If ye give me some answers,” he said, “and promise not to slay me.”
Helm regarded him almost with respect and said, “Ye have my word on it—the word of Helm Stoneblade, knight of the Stag Throne.” He cleared his throat and said, “An’ answers I’ll give, too, if ye’ll favor me with just one more.” He leaned forward. “What is thy name?”
“Elminster Aumar, son of Elthryn.”
“Only son?”
“Enough,” Elminster said, taking the flask. “Ye’ve had your one answer; give me mine.”
The man grinned again. “Please, Lord Prince? Just one answer more?”
Elminster stared at him. “D’ye mock me? ‘Lord Prince’?”
Helm shook his head. “No, lad—Prince Elminster. I pray ye, I must know. Have ye brothers? Sisters?”
Elminster shook his head. “None, alive or dead.”
“Thy mother?”
Elminster spread his hands. “Did ye find anyone alive down there?” he asked, suddenly angry again. “I’d like my answers now, Sir Knight.” He took a long, deliberate drink from the flask.
His nose and throat exploded in bubbling fire. Elminster choked and gasped. His knees hit the stony ground, hard; through swimming eyes he saw Helm lean swiftly forward to rescue him—and the flask. Strong hands helped him to his seat and gently shook him.
“Firewine not
to thy liking, lad? All right now?”
Elminster managed a nod, head bowed. Helm roughly patted him on the arm and said, “Well enough. Seems thy parents thought it safest to tell ye nothing. I agree with them.”
Elminster’s head came up in anger—but through swimming eyes he saw Helm holding up one gauntleted hand in the gesture that meant “halt.”
“Yet I gave my word … an’ you are a prince of Athalantar. A knight keeps his promises, however rashly made.”
“So, speak,” Elminster said.
“How much d’ye know of thy parents? Thy lineage?”
Elminster shrugged. “Nothing,” he said bitterly, “beyond the names of my parents. My mother was Amrythale Goldsheaf; her father was a forester. My father was proud of this sword—it had magic—and was glad that we couldn’t see Athalgard from Heldon. That’s all.”
Helm rolled his eyes, sighed, and said, “Well, then. Sit an’ learn. If ye’d live, keep what I tell thee to thyself. Wizards hunt folk of thy blood in Athalantar, these days.”
“Aye,” Elminster told him bitterly, “I know.”
Helm sighed. “I—my forgiveness, Prince. I forgot.” He spread gauntleted hands as if to clear away underbrush before him, and said, “This realm, Athalantar, is called the Kingdom of the Stag after one man: Uthgrael Aumar, the Stag King; a mighty warrior—an’ thy grandsire.”
Elminster nodded. “That much, I suspected from all thy ‘prince’ talk. Why then am I not in rich robes right now in some high chamber of Athalgard?”
Helm gave him that grin of delight again and chuckled. “Ye are as quick—an’ as iron of nerves—as he was, lad.” He reached an arm behind him, found a battered canvas pack, and rummaged in it as he went on. “The best answer to that is to tell things as they befell. Uthgrael was my lord, lad, and the greatest swordsman I’ve ever seen.” His voice sank to a whisper, all traces of his smile gone. “He died in the Year of Frosts, going up against orcs near Jander. Many of us died that wolfwinter—an’ the spine of Athalantar went with us.”
Helm found what he was looking for: a half loaf of hard, gray bread. He held it out wordlessly. Elminster took it, nodded his thanks, and gestured for the knight to say on. That brought the ghost of a smile to Helm’s lips.
“Uthgrael was old an’ ready to die; after Queen Syndrel went to her grave, he fell to grimness an’ waited for a chance to fall in battle; I saw it in his eyes more than once. The orc chieftain who cut him down left the realm in the hands of his seven sons. There were no daughters.”
Helm stared into the depths of the cavern, seeing other times and places—and faces Elminster did not know. “Five princes were ruled by ambition, an’ were ruthless, cruel men, all. One of these, Felodar, was interested in gold above all else an’ traveled far in its pursuit—to hot Calimshan and beyond, lad, where he still is, for all I know—but the others all stayed in Athalantar.”
The knight scratched himself for a moment, eyes still far away, and added, “There were two sons more. One was too young an’ timid to be a threat to anyone. The other—thy father, Elthryn—was calm an’ just, an’ preferred the life of a farmer to the intrigue of the court. He retired here an’ married a commoner. We thought that signified his renunciation of the crown. So, I fear, did he.”
Helm sighed, met Elminster’s intent gaze, and went on. “The other princes fought for control of the realm. Folk as afar from here as Elembar, on the coast, call them ‘The Warring Princes of Athalantar.’ There’re even songs about them. The winner, thus far, has been the eldest son, Belaur.”
The knight leaned forward suddenly to grip Elminster’s arms. “Ye must hear me in this,” he said urgently. “Belaur bested his brothers—but his victory has cost him, an’ all of us, the realm. He bought the services of mages from all over Faerûn to win him the Stag Throne. He sits on it today—but his wits are so clouded by drink an’ by their magic that he doesn’t even know he barks only when they kick him: his magelords are the true rulers of Athalantar. Even the beggars in Hastarl know it.”
“How many of these wizards are there? What are their names?” Elminster asked quietly.
Helm released him and sat back, shaking his head. “I know not—an’ I doubt any folk in Athalantar do, below swordcaptains of the Stag, except perhaps the house servants of Athalgard.” He cast a keen look at Elminster. “Sworn to avenge thy parents, Prince?”
Elminster nodded.
“Wait,” the knight told him bluntly. “Wait until ye’re older, an’ve gathered coins enough to buy mages of thy own. Ye’ll need them—unless ye want to spend the rest of your days as a purple frog swimming in some palace perfume-bowl for the amusement of some minor apprentice of the magelords. Though it took all of them to do it, an’ they had to split apart Wyrm Tower stone by stone, they slew old Shandrath—as powerful an archmage as ye’ll find in all the lands of men—two summers back.” He sighed. “An’ those they couldn’t smash with spells, they slew with blades or poison, Theskyn the court mage, for one. He was the oldest an’ most trusted of Uthgrael’s friends.”
“I will avenge them all,” Elminster said quietly. “Before I die, Athalantar will be free of these magelords—every last one, if I have to tear them apart with my bare hands. This I swear.”
Helm shook his head. “No, Prince, swear no great oaths. Men who swear oaths are doomed to die by them. One thing hunts and hounds them—an’ so, they waste and stunt their lives.”
Elminster regarded him darkly. “A wizard took my mother and father—and all my friends, and the other folk I knew. It is my life, to spend how I will.”
Helm’s face split in that delighted grin again. He shook his head. “Ye’re a fool, Prince—a prudent man’d foot it out of Athalantar and never look back, nor breathe a word of his past, his family, or the Lion Sword to a soul … mayhap to live a long an’ happy life somewhere else.” He leaned forward to clasp Elminster’s forearm. “But ye could not do that an’ still be an Aumar, prince of Athalantar. So ye will die in the trying.” He shook his head again. “At least listen to me, then—an’ wait until ye have a chance before letting anyone else in all Faerûn know ye live or ye’ll not give one of the magelords more than a few minutes of cruel sport.”
“They know of me?”
Helm gave him a pitying look. “Ye are a lamb to the ways of court, indeed. The wizard ye saw over Heldon doubtless had orders to eliminate Prince Elthryn an’ all his blood before the son they knew he’d sired could grow old and well-trained enough to have royal ambitions of his own.”
There was a little silence as the knight watched the youth grow pale. When the lad spoke again, however, Helm got another surprise.
“Sir Helm,” Elminster said calmly, “Tell me the names of the magelords and ye can have my sheep.”
Helm guffawed. “In faith, lad, I know them not—an’ the others I run with’ll have thy sheep whate’er befalls. I will give thee the names of thy uncles; ye’ll need to know them.”
Elminster’s eyes flickered. “So tell.”
“The eldest—thy chief enemy—is Belaur. A big, bellowing bully of a man, for all he’s seen but nine-and-twenty winters. Cruel in the hunt and on the field, but the best trained to arms of all the princes. He’s shorter of wits than he thinks he is, an’ was Uthgrael’s favorite until he showed his cruel ways an’, o’er and o’er again, his short temper. He proclaimed himself king six summers ago, but many folk up and down the Delimbiyr don’t recognize his title. They know what befell.”
Elminster nodded. “And the second son?”
“ ’Tis thought he’s dead. Elthaun was a soft-tongued womanizer whose every third word was false. All the realm knew him for a master of intrigue, but he fled Hastarl a step ahead of Belaur’s armsmen. The word is, some of the magelords found him in Calimshan later that year, hiding in a cellar in some city—an’ used spells to make his death long and lingering.”
“The third.” Elminster was marking them off on his fingers; Helm grinned at that.
Helm shook his head. “Then came your father. He was always quiet an’ insisted on fairness among nobles and common folk. The people loved him for that, but there was little respect for him at court. He retired to Heldon early on, an’ most folk in Hastarl forgot him. I never knew Uthgrael thought highly of him—but that sword ye bear proves he did.”
“Four princes, thus far,” Elminster said, nodding as if to nail them down in memory. “The others?”
Helm counted on his own grubby fingers. “Othglas was next—a fat man full of jolly jests, who stuffed himself at feasts every night he could. He was stouter than a barrel an’ could barely wheeze his way around on two feet. He liked to poison those who displeased him an’ made quite a push through the ranks of those at court, downing foes an’ any who so much as spoke a word aloud against him, and advancing his own supporters.”
Elminster stared at him, frowning. “Ye make my uncles seem like a lot of villains.”
Helm looked steadily back at him. “That was the common judgment up an’ down the Delimbiyr, aye. I but report to ye what they did; if ye come to the same judgment as most folk did, doubtless the gods will agree with ye.”
He scratched himself again, took a pull from his flask, and added, “When Belaur took the throne, his pet mages made it clear they knew what Othglas was up to an’ threatened to put him to death before all the court for it. So he fled to Dalniir an’ joined the Huntsmen, who worship Malar. I doubt the Beastlord has ever had so fat a priest before—or since.”