The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  Elmara saw the innkeeper, emerging from the kitchens with a steaming platter on his shoulder, come to a shocked halt as he heard the magelord’s words.

  The wizard smiled silkily around the room. “Is anyone here foolish enough to try to stop me?”

  “Yes,” Elmara said quietly from her corner, as she broke the strangling spell. Her hands were already moving again as she stepped aside into deeper shadows. The table of magelords—El suspected they were in truth apprentices of little power, here to escort a caravan or do some such lesser work—peered into the darkness, trying to catch sight of her. Then her casting was done. She strode forward, addressing the standing wizard. “Those who wield powerful magic should never use it to bully those who have none. D’ye agree?”

  “You are mistaken,” the magelord sneered, and raised his hands to work another spell.

  Elmara sighed and pointed. The wizard stiffened in midincantation and clutched at his throat.

  “Your own spell,” Elmara informed the choking wizard pleasantly. “It seems quite effective … but then, perhaps I am mistaken.”

  Her words brought a roar of rage from six throats as the self-styled magelords erupted from their seats, snatching at wands and spilling bottles and flagons in their haste. Elmara watched glass topple and roll, smiled, and said the word that brought her waiting spell down upon them.

  Wands were leveled and angry hands shaped gestures in the air. Words were spat and strange items flourished as the six able magelords bent malicious magic on their lone foe.

  And nothing happened.

  Elmara announced calmly to the room, “I can prevent these men from using their magic—for a time. I would enjoy a good spell battle, but I’d rather not destroy this inn doing it. If ye’d care to deal with them … ?”

  There was a moment of shocked silence. Then chairs scraped back, and men reached for daggers—and the magelords fled. Or tried to. Outthrust boots tripped magelings not used to watching where they walked, and enthusiastic fists laid low apprentices not used to brawling with anything less than fireballs. One wizard’s dagger slashed a merchant across the face, and the snarling man hauled out his own knife and made good use of it.

  The crash of the mage’s body going to the floor amid overturning chairs brought the room to silence again. Only the one magelord was dead; the rest lay senseless, strewn about amid the disarranged tables and chairs.

  The innkeeper was the first to say what many of the diners were thinking. “That was all too easy—but who among us will live when their fellow mages come down on us for revenge?”

  “Aye—they’ll turn us all to snails and grind us under their boots!”

  “ ‘They’ll blow the inn apart with flame, and us in it!”

  “Mayhap,” Elmara said, “but only if some tongues here wag too freely.” She calmly raised her hands and cast a spell, and then went about the room touching the wizards. Men backed out of her way in haste; it was easy to see they viewed wizards as swift and deadly trouble.

  When she was done, she murmured a word, and suddenly, seven stones sat where the sprawled bodies had lain. Elmara made a gesture, and the rocks were gone, leaving only a small, dark pool of blood behind to mark that they’d ever been there.

  The nearest merchant turned to Elmara. “You turned them to stones?”

  “Aye,” she said, and a sudden smile crossed her face. “Ye see—ye can get blood from stones.” Amid a few uncertain chuckles, she turned to the minstrel. “Have ye breath enough to sing?”

  The man nodded uncertainly. “Why?”

  “If ye will, I’d like to hear the rest of the tale about King Uthgrael.”

  The minstrel bowed. “My pleasure, Lady—?”

  “Elmara,” Elmara told him. “Elmara Aumar—er, descendant of Elthryn of Heldon.”

  The minstrel looked at her as if Elmara had three heads and crowns on each one. “Heldon is ashes these nine winters past.” El did not reply, and after a moment, the man asked curiously, “But tell me: where did you send the stones?”

  Elmara shrugged. “A good way offshore near Mystra’s Dance, where the water is deep. When my spell wears off and they regain their true forms, they’ll have to swim to the surface to survive. I hope they have large and strong lungs.”

  Silence fell on the room at these words. The minstrel tried to break the mood by beginning the Ballad of the Stag again, but his voice was raw. After it broke the second time, he spread his hands and asked, “Can you wait, Lady Elmara, until the morrow?”

  “Of course,” El replied, taking a seat at the just-righted table where the wizards had been. “How are ye?”

  “Alive, thanks to you,” the minstrel said quietly. “May I pay for your dinner?”

  “If ye allow me to buy all we drink,” Elmara replied. After a moment, they both chuckled.

  Elmara set down their third bottle, empty. She eyed it gravely, and asked, “Are any princes left alive?”

  The minstrel shrugged. “Belaur, of course, though I’ve heard he styles himself ‘king’ now. I know of no others, but there could be, I suppose. It hardly matters now that the magelords rule openly, issuing decrees as if they were all kings. The only entertainment we have is watching them try to outwit each other. I don’t go back often.”

  “How so?” Elmara stared at the last few swallows in her glass. Treacherous stuff.

  “It’s not a safe land for any who speak openly against the magelords—and that includes minstrels whose clever ballads may not be to the liking of any passing wizards or armsman.”

  The minstrel thoughtfully drained his own glass. “Athalantar doesn’t see any visiting wizards, now, either … unless one has the power to defeat all the magelords, why go there? If any mage of power comes to Athalantar, the magelords’d doubtless see it as a threat to their rule and all rise up together against him!”

  Elmara laughed quietly. “A prudent mage would go elsewhere, eh?”

  The minstrel nodded. “And speedily.” His eyes narrowed. “You wear a strange look, Lady.… Where will you go on the morrow?”

  Elmara looked at him. Fire smoldered deep in eyes gone very dark, and the smile the mage gave the minstrel then had no mirth in it at all. “Athalantar, of course.”

  TWELVE

  HARD CHOICES, EASY DOOMS

  Choosing what road to walk in life is a luxury given to few in

  Faerûn.

  Perhaps lack of practice is why so many who do have that choice

  make

  such a gods-cursed mess of it.

  GALGARR THORMSPUR, MARSHAL OF MALIGH

  A WARRIOR’S VIEWS

  YEAR OF THE BLUE SHIELD

  The first sign of trouble was the empty road.

  At this hour of a bright morning, the way to Narthil should have been crowded with groaning carts, snorting oxen pulling wagons along, any number of peddlers leading mules, laborers and pilgrims trudging along under the weight of their packs, and perhaps even a mounted messenger or two. Instead, Elmara had the road to herself as she topped the last rise and saw that her way was barred by a log swing-gate across the road. In all her days in Hastarl, there’d been no gates on the roads into Athalantar—or she’d surely have heard of it from the tired merchants who complained about every little thing on their journeys.

  The guards lounging on benches behind the gate heaved themselves to their feet and picked up their halberds. Armsmen of Athalantar, or she was a magelord. They looked bored and brutal.

  Elmara shifted her pack to better conceal the small spell-things she’d taken into her palm, and trudged up to the gate.

  “Halt, woman,” the swordcaptain of the guard said offhandedly. “Your name and trade?”

  Elmara faced the officer across the gate and said politely, “The first is none of thy affair; as to the second, I work magic.”

  The armsmen drew back, their boredom gone in an instant. Halberds flashed as they came down over the gate to menace the lone woman. The swordcaptain’s brows drew together in a
frown that had made lesser men turn and run, but the stranger stood her ground.

  “Mages who do not serve our king are not welcome here,” said the swordcaptain. As he spoke, his men were moving steadily sideways around the ends of the gate, weapons at the ready, moving to encircle Elmara with steel.

  El ignored them. “And what king might that be?”

  “King Belaur, of course,” the swordcaptain snapped, and Elmara felt the cold point of a halberd prodding her lower back.

  “On your knees, now,” the swordcaptain snapped, “and await our local lord mage, who will demand to know further of your business. Best you use a more respectful tongue with him than you did with us.”

  Elmara smiled tightly and raised one empty hand. She made a small gesture and replied, “Oh, I shall.”

  Behind him, the first gasps began; and the point probing at her spine was suddenly gone. All around, the guardsmen staggered, cried out or vomited, white-faced, and sank to their knees. One kept going, bonelessly, to the turf, his halberd dropping from loose, empty hands.

  “What—what’re you doing?” the swordcaptain gulped, face tightening in pain. “Magic—?”

  “A small spell that makes ye feel what it is to have a sword sliding through your guts,” the young, hawk-nosed maid said calmly. “But if it confuses thee …”

  The swordcaptain felt a sudden twinge in his stomach, and in the same instant there was a flash in the air before him. He stared down—to see a shining steel blade standing forth from his belly, his own dark red blood running down the blade. He choked, clutched a vain hand to quell the wrenching, searing pain in his stomach—and then the sword and the pain both vanished.

  The warrior stared down in astonishment at the unmarked leather over his belly. Then his eyes rose slowly, reluctantly, to meet those of the young woman, who smiled at him pleasantly and raised her other hand.

  The guardcaptain paled, opened his mouth to say something, jaw quivering, and then fled, followed a moment later by the rest of the guard. Elmara watched them go, smiling a little, and then walked on along the road, toward the inn.

  The sign above the door said Myrkiel’s Rest, and merchants had told her it was the best (near the only) inn in Narthil. Elmara found it pleasant enough, and took a chair against a wall at the back of the room, where she could see who came in. She ordered a meal from the stout proprietress and asked if she could use a room for a few breaths, offering a regal if she could do it undisturbed.

  The innkeeper’s eyebrows rose, but without a word she took Elmara’s coin and showed her a room with a door that could be barred. When Elmara returned to her seat, humming the verse “O for an iron guard!” her meal was waiting, hot butter-bread and rabbit stew.

  It was good. She was most of the way through it when the front door of the Rest burst open, and armsmen with drawn swords pushed in. An angry-looking man in robes of red and silver strode in their midst.

  “Ho, Asmartha!” the splendidly garbed man snapped. “Who is this outlaw you shelter?” With an imperious jerk of his head, he indicated the young woman sitting in the corner. The innkeeper turned angry eyes on Elmara, but the hawk-nosed maid was calmly licking the last sauce from a rabbit bone, and paid no heed.

  Motioning his armsmen to stay around him, the man in robes strode grandly toward Elmara’s table. Other diners stared and hastily shifted their seats to be well out of the way—but close enough to see and hear all they could.

  “A word with you, wench!”

  Elmara raised her eyes, over another bone. She inspected it, set it aside, and selected another. “Ye may have several,” she decreed calmly and went on eating. There were several sniggers and chuckles from around the tables—quelled by the cold and steady glare of the finely robed man as he turned on one boot heel to survey the room.

  “I understand you style yourself a mage,” he said coldly to the seated woman.

  Elmara put down another bone. “No. I said I worked magic,” she replied, not bothering to look up. After a few long breaths more, as she unconcernedly gnawed at a succession of bones, it became clear she had no intention of saying anything more.

  “I’m speaking to you, wench!”

  “I had noticed, aye,” Elmara agreed. “Say on.” She picked up another bone, decided it was too bare to suck on a second time, and put it down. “More beer, please,” she called, leaning to look past the crowd of armsmen. There were more sounds of mirth from the watching diners.

  “Raztan,” the robed man said coldly, “run your blade into this arrogant whore.”

  Elmara yawned and leaned back in her chair, presenting an arched belly to Raztan, who did not fail to miss it, his steel sliding in so smoothly that he overbalanced and fell on his face in the young woman’s bowl of stew. Everyone in the suddenly silent room heard the point of the blade scrape the plastered wall behind the young woman. Elmara calmly pushed her plate and bowl aside and selected a toothpick from the pewter holder before her.

  “Sorcery!” one of the armsmen spat, and slashed Elmara across the face. No blood spurted—and the blade swung freely through the hawk-nosed face, as if it were only empty air. The watchers gasped.

  The robed man curled his lip. “I see you know the ironguard spell,” he said, unimpressed.

  Elmara smiled up at him, nodded, and wiggled a finger. The drawn swords around her twisted, sang, and became gray serpents. Horrified armsmen watched the fanged heads turn and arch back to strike at the hands that wielded them! With one accord, the armsmen flung down their weapons and leaped back. One man charged for the door, and his run became a thundering rush of booted feet as his comrades joined him. All around the guards, their blades, normal swords once more, clattered to the floor.

  The man in robes drew back, face pale. “We shall speak again,” he said, his haughty voice a trifle uncertain, “and when we d—”

  Elmara raised both her hands to trace an intricate pattern in the air, and the man turned and strode hastily back across the room, toward the door. Halfway there he halted, swaying, and the watchers heard him snarl in fear and frustration. Sudden sweat moistened his brow as he strained to move … but could not advance another step. Elmara rose and walked around to face the frozen man. Frightened eyes swiveled to watch her come.

  “Who rules here?” she asked.

  The man snarled at her wordlessly.

  Elmara raised an eyebrow and a hand at the same time.

  “M-Mercy,” the man gasped.

  “There is no mercy for mages,” Elmara told him quietly. “I’ve learned that much.” She turned away. “I ask again: who rules?”

  “I—ah … we hold Narthil for King Belaur.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Elmara murmured politely, and started back to her seat.

  The man in robes, suddenly released from magical restraint, lurched and almost fell, took three quick steps toward the door, and then spun around and snarled a spell, his dagger flashing into his hand. The watching townsfolk gasped. The robed wizard’s blade and all the discarded swords on the floor leaped up in unison and hurtled through the air toward Elmara’s back in a deadly storm of steel. Without turning, El murmured a soft word. The steel points so close to claiming her life swerved away, flying back at the mage.

  “No!” the robed wizard cried frantically, snatching at the handle of the door. “Wha—”

  The blades thudded home in a deadly rain, lifting the man’s body off his feet and carrying him past the door. He fell, kicked once, and then lay still, the blades a shining forest in his back.

  Elmara took up her cloak and pack. “Ye see? Mercy continues in short supply. Nor among mages, I’ve learned, is there overmuch trust,” she added and went out into the street.

  Watching faces were pressed against the windows of the inn as Elmara walked calmly out into the road and began to peer into shop windows, as if she had coins to spare and a whim to spend them. She had not been strolling long before there was the sound of a horn from north up the road—from the small stone pile of
Narthil Keep. A sally port in the keep gate opened, and the clatter of hooves was heard. An old man in a ceremonial tabard rode out, two full-plated armsmen with lances behind him. Elmara watched them turn toward her, saw no signs of crossbows, shrugged, and turned away, heading back to the inn.

  The street was rapidly filling with curious townsfolk. “Who are ye, young lass?” asked one scar-nosed man.

  “A friend … a traveling priestess of Mystra, from Athalantar,” said Elmara.

  “A magelord?” another man asked, sounding angry.

  “A renegade magelord?” the woman beside him offered.

  “No magelord at all, ever,” Elmara replied, and turned to a big-bosomed, weary-looking woman in apron and patched skirts, who stood gaping at her as if she were a talking fish. “How goes it here in Narthil, goodwoman?”

  Taken aback by her words, she stammered for a trice, and then said bitterly, “Bad, lass, since these Athalantan dogs came and took the keep for their own. Since then, they’ve seized our food and daughters an’ all without so much as asking!”

  “Aye!” several folk agreed.

  “More cruel than most warriors?” Elmara asked, waving a hand at the keep.

  The woman shrugged. “Nae so much cruel, as … proud. These young bucks’d not prance so free nor be so fast to smash things and upset all, if they had to spend a tenday in my—or any maid’s!—place, cleaning up and setting to rights and mending!”

  “ ’Ware!” a man said warningly, and all around Elmara folk drew back as the three horsemen came trotting up. The young woman stood calmly awaiting them.

  At her unmoving stance, the old man in the tabard of purple adorned with silver moonflowers reined in his mount and said, “I am Aunsiber, lord steward of Narthil. Who are ye, who here work spells against lawful armsmen and mages of the realm?”

  Elmara nodded in polite greeting. “One who would prefer to see wizards help folk, not rule them—who would prefer a king whose rule meant peace, stability, and help in harvesting, not taxes, ceaseless strife, and brutality.”