by Ed Greenwood
Helm nodded. “Wise talk. Let us meet again among the living.” He raised his blade in salute—Elminster lifted his bow in response—and spurred away as the snow began to fall again.
Soft flakes drifted down endlessly. Elminster ate a handful of snow to get a drink, recovered his bows and readied them, and set out over the hills toward the camp. He walked in a wide curve to the right, hoping to come on it from the other side … though with spells, couldn’t wizards see in all directions?
Well, no doubt they run out of magic the same way armsmen run out of quarrels. He’d just have to count on their not scrying for a lone boy on foot in the snows. If he saw this night through, El reflected, he’d owe the gods much, indeed.…
Tripods of halberds held the flickering storm lanterns high. Snow whirled endlessly down into their bright radiance where, at the heart of the camp, the wizard Caladar Thearyn frowned down at a sphere of glowing light that hung in the air before him. Though the night was cold, sweat beaded his brow from the effort of keeping the sphere in existence—and in a breath or two, he’d have to hold it together while he cast another spell into it … a spell of many leaping lightnings that, if he managed the casting, would burst forth from the distant sphere linked to this one, a sphere bobbing like a pale ghost over the snow-clad hills not far away, just in front of the hard-riding outlaw band.
The magelord muttered the incantation that would link the two spells and felt the power rising within him. He spread his hands in exultation and noted without looking the awed faces and hasty retreat of his bodyguards.
He almost grinned as he began calling up the lightnings. Two intricate gestures, a grand flourish, and the speaking of a single word. Now for the taking up of the pins, then a rub of the rod of crystal with the fur, and last, the crowning incantation.… His hand swept down.
The crossbow bolt intended for his heart struck him in the shoulder, numbing his arm and spinning him around. The sphere collapsed in a crackling burst of lightnings that drowned out the magelord’s startled scream of pain. The wizard sank down, clutching at his shoulder as another quarrel hissed past him. An armsman flung himself headlong in the well-trodden snow to avoid it, and his fellows drew their blades and ran toward the source of the quarrels.
Coolly, Elminster watched them come, his last bow raised. There, as he suspected … out of a tent came another robed man; not much older than he was but with a wand in his hand, looking around for the source of all the commotion. Carefully Elminster put his last ready quarrel in the man’s throat. Then he dropped his bow, unbuckled the bulky belt-box of quarrels and let it fall, and drew his own steel.
Angry armsmen were rushing to meet him. Elminster charged them, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. The first man tried to beat his blade aside and run him through, but Elminster locked their blades together, pushed until they were face to face, steel shrieking in their ears, and drove his dagger into one of the man’s eyes.
Shoving the convulsing corpse away, the prince ran on toward the next man, shouting, “For Athalantar!” This armsman stepped to the left, yelling to a companion to head to the right and close. El flung a dagger at the second man’s face. Helm was right; some of these warriors weren’t much good. This one threw up both gauntleted hands to shield his face, and Elminster’s low thrust left him groaning over the blade in his guts. As El tugged his steel free, the next armsman approached warily. Elminster bent, plucked a dagger from the belt of the feebly moving man he’d just felled, and ran to one side. The surviving foe was still circling when Elminster sped away, back toward the camp.
A man in gleaming armor met him just inside the circle of light, a halberd in his hands. Elminster ran for the blade, batted it aside with his own, and stabbed. The armor turned his point aside, but then he was past, charging right into a tripod of halberds. They toppled, and the lantern they held shattered and set a tent ablaze with a sudden roar.
Men shouted. In the intense, leaping light, El saw the magelord stagger away, the quarrel still in his shoulder, but men with gleaming swords were running toward him, between him and the wizard.
Elminster snarled and turned sharply to the right, dodging between tents and away from the light. He blundered right into a man coming out of one tent and stabbed frantically; the surprised armsman toppled onto the canvas without a sound. Wearily, Elminster headed out into the night. If he could circle back to his bows, and … but armsmen were close behind him and running hard. Well, at least there were no bowmen in camp, or he’d be dead already.
Elminster hurried over a hill and dropped down out of sight of the raging flames that now marked the camp. Looking back, he could see two men following. He slowed to a walk, and began his wide circle. Let them draw nearer, and save him the breath. Panting, he topped another ridge and saw men gathered below, and horses: Helm’s band. Some of them looked up and started toward him with swords drawn, but Helm saw him and waved. “Eladar! Done?”
“One wizard dead, but the other just wounded,” El managed to gasp. “Half … the camp … is after me too.”
Helm grinned. “We were resting our horses—and looting armsmen. Some o’ them were wearing armor much too good for ’em. Change yer mind about that charge?”
El nodded wearily. “Seems … a better idea … now,” he said, breathing heavily.
Helm grinned, turned and gave quick orders, and then pointed out a horse. “Take ye that one, Eladar, and follow me.”
Leaving four outlaws behind with the loot and extra horses, the ragged knights of Athalantar rode along the way Elminster had come. One had scrounged a short horse bow; as they crested the bill, he drew and loosed, shoulders rolling smoothly, and one of the armsmen who’d been following Elminster clutched at his throat and fell over in the snow, kicking.
The others turned and fled. With a whoop one of the knights broke into a gallop, waving his sword as he urged his horse on, riding an armsman down and chopping another with his blade. The man fell and did not rise.
“Ye seem to bring us luck,” Helm shouted as they rode. “Care to lead us to break down the walls of Hastarl?”
Elminster shook his head. “I grow tired of death, Helm,” he shouted back, “and I fear the better ye do, the more the wizards’ll hurl this way come spring. A few dead outlander merchants are one thing; entire patrols of armsmen slaughtered are another. They dare not let it go unpunished, or folk all o’er the realm will know, and remember, and get ideas.”
Helm nodded. “All the same, it feels good to hit out an’ really do some damage to these wolves. Ah, ye did quite a job!” He delightedly pointed ahead at the blazing tents. “Hope ye left the food tents alone!”
Elminster could only chuckle as they galloped in among the running, shouting defenders. The knights hacked armsmen as their horses reared, trampled the wounded and the fleeing—and the camp soon grew quiet.
Helm shouted for order. “Let us have watchguards there an’ there an’ there, in pairs an’ in the saddle, well out beyond the light. The rest of ye: six to a tent, an’ report back what ye find. No destroying stuff, mind. If ye find a live wizard or someone else to fight, call it out!”
The knights bent willingly to work. There were glad shouts when the kitchen tent was found to have several full metal sledges of meat, potatoes, and keg beer. Grim-faced knights also brought Helm some spellbooks and scrolls, but of the wounded wizard there was no sign, and there was no man who served magelords left alive in the camp.
“Right … we stay here this night,” Helm said. “Picket all the horses ye can find, and let’s make a feast and eat. In the morn we’ll take all we can, scuttle back to the castle, and rig these tents in the ravine by Wind Cavern, as shelter for the horses. Then, all pray to Auril and Talos for fresh snows to cover our tracks!”
There was a general roar of approval, and Helm leaned close to Elminster and said, “Ye wanted to leave the hills, lad—an’ I can’t help but think ye’ve read the wizards aright. I need these books an’ other mage-stuff hidd
en, an’ I was thinking of that cavern in the meadow above Heldon. There’s loose stones enough to wall ‘em in, there—ye know where … an’ ye can hunt deer and the like until summer, when I’ll come looking for ye again. If armsmen sniff about, go into the High Forest an’ hide there; they never dare go very far in.”
He scratched his chin. “Ye’ll never carry the brawn to be a horse warrior, lad, an’ I’d say ye’ve done better than most at learning to shoot quarrels an’ swing swords an’ shiver in caves as an outlaw … P’raps the alleys and crowds of Hastarl’ll do ye better as a place to hide, now—an’ be closer to magelords who aren’t alert for yer blood, to learn what ye can of ’em before ye decide ye must strike out.” The knight turned keen eyes on the young prince. “What say?”
Elminster nodded slowly. “Aye … good plan,” he murmured.
Helm grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, and then caught him, as Elminster sagged over sideways into the snow, the world spinning in a sudden green and yellow haze again.… The darkness of utter exhaustion rushed up to claim him, and El felt himself swept away.…
“Damned soft ride, these armsmen have,” Helm commented briskly the next morning as they sat eating smoked beef and hard bread spread with garlic butter. Groans and satisfied belches from all around them told them that most of the long-hungry knights had gorged themselves. Snores from among empty casks betrayed how certain others had spent the dark hours.
Elminster nodded.
Helm looked at him sharply. “What’s on yer mind, lad?”
“If I never have to kill a man again, ’twill be too soon,” Elminster said quietly, looking around at bloodstains in the trampled snow.
The knight nodded. “I could see it in yer eyes last night.” He grinned suddenly and added, “Yet ye took care of more trained and ready warriors yestereve than many men manage to slay in a long career of soldiering.”
Elminster waved a hand. “I’m trying to forget it.”
“Sorry, lad. Feeling up to the trip afoot, or would ye rather ride? The one’s easier—as long as ye can find hay enough for the horse, an’ they eat like proper pigs, mind. But they’ll draw eyes yer way in a hurry, especially when ye cross the Run in Upshyn. Try to do that with a few wagons an’ look like ye’re part of the group, howe’er ye go. If anyone sees the spellbooks and scrolls ye’re carrying, ’twill mean yer death.” The knight scratched at his beard and went on. “The other way, though, is slow and hard, even if ye can keep warm—an’ mind; to get feet wet is death in this weather.…”
“I’ll walk,” Elminster said. “I’ll take a bow and as much food as I can stagger along with, as well … no armor, so long as I can get good gloves and a better scabbard.”
Helm grinned. “A legion of dead armsmen will graciously provide.”
Elminster could not manage to return the grin. He’d killed more than a few of them, men who should be riding proudly for Athalantar right now—free from the orders of wizards. It all came back to the magelords.
“They are the ones who have to die,” he whispered to himself, “for Athalantar to live.”
Helm nodded. “Nice phrase, that: “They must die, for Athalantar to live!’ A good battle cry; think I’ll use it.”
Elminster smiled. “Just be sure the folk hearing it know who the ‘they’ is.”
Helm gave back a twisted smile. “That’s a problem many have had, down the years.”
The fox that had followed him for the last few miles took a final look at Elminster, its dark eyes glistening, and then scampered away through frozen ferns. El listened to its retreat, wondering if the fox were a magelord spy, but somehow knowing it was not. When the creature was long gone, he moved on as quietly as he could through the trees, around the back of the inn paddock.
Seek the feed hatch by the haystack, Helm had said, and there was the hay, against the back wall of the stables. The structure kept out most of the snow by means of a long sagging roof on pillars that had only a nodding acquaintance with the word “straight.” Just as Helm had described it: the back way into Woodsedge Inn.
Elminster moved closer, hoping there were no dogs awake to sound an alarm. None yet. Elminster silently thanked the gods as he crept over the low gate on the inn side of the paddock, slipped around the haystack, and found the hatch. Only its own weight held it shut; he didn’t even have to put down his sword to open it and climb in.
When he’d drawn the hatch dosed behind him, the stable was very still, and warmer than the night outside. A horse shifted and kicked idly against the side of its stall. Elminster studied the stable and noted one stall filled with shovels, rakes, buckets, and hanging coils of lead-rein, another with straw. Sheathing his blade and taking down a long-tined fork, El probed carefully into it, but there was nothing solid beneath to wake or snarl, so he lifted the wooden pin and went in.
It was the work of but a few breaths to burrow into the straw. He settled himself so he was hidden from view and shielded against the cold by a thick blanket of hay. Relaxing, Elminster called on his will to take himself down to the floating place of whispers … to sink down amid white radiance, and sleep.…
Straw rustled and scratched his hands as he lurched up out of it. Elminster’s eyes flew open. He was rising up through the straw—flying! His head struck a beam overhead, hard.
“My apologies, Prince,” came a cold, familiar voice. “I fear I’ve wakened you.” Elminster felt himself being turned in the air to hang in emptiness facing the wizard, who stood in the corridor between the stalls, smiling darkly. The blue glow of magic pulsed brightly around the man’s hands and encircled a pendant at his throat.
Anger rose in Elminster as he tried to grab the Lion Sword but found his arms wouldn’t move. He was at the mercy of this magelord! He tried to speak and found he could. “Who are ye?” he asked slowly.
The mage sketched an elaborate bow and said pleasantly, “Caladar Thearyn, at your service.” Elminster felt himself being pulled forward in the air and at the same time saw a long-tined pitchfork rising from where it leaned against the side of the stall and turning one of its sharp points toward his left eye. Slowly, lazily, it drifted nearer.
Elminster stared past it at the wizard, fighting down an urge to swallow. “There is little of fairness in thy fighting, mage,” be said coldly.
The wizard laughed. “How old are you, Prince—sixteen winters? And you still expect to find this world a fair place? Well, you are a dolt.” He sneered. “You fancy yourself a warrior and fight with sharpened pieces of metal … well, then: I am a mage, and do my fighting with spells. Where’s the unfairness in that?”
The blue radiance of magic began to pulse strongly about the magelord’s hands, and the fork drifted closer. Elminster’s throat was unbearably dry now; he swallowed despite himself.
The wizard laughed. “Not so brave now, are we? Tell me, Prince of Athalantar, how much are you willing to do for me, to be allowed to live?”
“Live? Why won’t ye kill me, wizard? I know ye want to,” Elminster said, with more stern bravado than he felt.
“Other magelords,” the wizard quoted his own words mockingly, “have plans of their own.” He laughed coldly. “As a prince of Athalantar, you have great value. If anything happens to Belaur—or it becomes necessary that something should happen to him—it would be very handy to have my own pet princeling hidden away, for use in the … unpleasantness that would ensue.” The fork drifted a little nearer. “Of course, blindness won’t hamper you when I transform you into … a turtle, perhaps, or a slug. Even better, a maggot! You can feed on the gore of your frends the outlaws when we slay them. If we can’t catch any, of course, you’ll go hungry.…”
The mage’s taunting voice trailed off into cold laughter. Elminster found himself drenched with sudden sweat as cold fear wormed its way up into his throat. He hung in the air, trembling and helpless, and closed his eyes.
An instant later, he felt them being forced open—and turned in their sockets until he was starin
g helplessly at the wizard. He found he couldn’t speak any longer or make any sound short of the whistle of his breath.
“No screaming, now,” the wizard said pleasantly. “We don’t want you rousing the good folk of the inn—but I want to see your face when the fork goes in.” Elminster could only stare in horror at the tine of the fork, looming closer, closer.…
Behind the wizard, a side door swung silently open, and a stout man with a curling mustache leaned into the room, a heavy axe raised. He brought it down hard. There was a meaty thud, and the wizard’s head lolled sideways as it was split. Blood flew—and Elminster and the fork both fell abruptly to the floor.
He was up in an instant, the Lion Sword in his hand, hurrying—
“Back, my prince!” the man roared, throwing out one huge hand to ward him away. “He may have spells linked to his death!”
The man himself took a pace back and watched the body narrowly, the bloody axe ready on his shoulder. Elminster watched, too, and saw the faint blue glows faded from everything except the mage’s pendant. Then, slowly, he walked out of the stall. “That pendant is magical,” he said quietly, “but I can see nothing else. My thanks.”
The man bowed. “An honor, if you are what the magelord called you.”
“I am,” Elminster replied. “I am Elminster, son of Elthryn, who is dead. Helm Stoneblade said I could trust you … if you are the one called Broarn.”
The man bowed again. “I am. Be welcome in my inn—though I must warn you, lord, that six armsmen sleep under this roof tonight, and at least one merchant who tells all he sees to magelings.”
“This stable is palace enough,” Elminster said with a smile. “I’ve run from wizards and armsmen across half the Horn Hills, to here … and was beginning to wonder where in the world I could be free of them.”