The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  Othglar spat thoughtfully into the night, shifted his aching behind on the stump, and then grunted in sudden impatience and got to his feet, kicking at the air to ease the stiffness in his legs. These wizards were all crazed—who in Athalantar would dare to attack almost four thousand swords? Out here in the proverbial chill back of beyond, too, weary miles of marching away from Hastarl and the lower river posts.

  Othglar shook his head and walked to the edge of the stone bluff, looking down. Scores of campfires glimmered in the vale below. He reflected on how depressingly familiar they looked as he scratched at his ribs, spat into the night, and then unlaced his codpiece, leaning his halberd against a tree.

  He was thoughtfully watering the unseen trees below when someone gave his halberd back to him, swinging it hard into his ear. Othglar’s head snapped to one side, and he toppled forward into the night without a sound.

  A slim hand propped the halberd back where it had been as the brief, rolling thudding of the guard’s landing began, far below.

  The owner of the hand drew her dark cloak around herself against the chill of the night and peered out at the same view Othglar had been so unimpressed with. Elmara’s magesight found only three small points of blue light—possibly enspelled daggers or rings. None was near, or moving about.

  Good. She counted campfires and sighed soundlessly. There were enough armsmen here to start a war against the elves that might ruin both Athalantar and the High Forest. She must act … and that meant using one of the most powerful, lengthy, and dangerous prayers she knew.

  Crawling cautiously on hands and knees, Elmara found a hollow a little way down the cliff, a place where someone coming to the guard’s post wouldn’t immediately fall over her. She knelt in it and undressed, putting everything that had metal in or about it in her pack, and then setting her pack well back behind her.

  She faced the campfires, softly whispered a supplication to Mystra, spread bare feet for better balance, and began her spell.

  Taking up the least favored of her several daggers, she pricked the palms of both her hands so they bled and held the dagger out horizontally before her, pinioned between her bloody palms.

  As she murmured the incantation, she could feel blood running down to drip off her elbows and strength ebbing out of her as it was stolen by the spell.

  Trembling with weakness, Elmara held the dagger up higher so it gleamed in the moonlight and watched it darken and begin to crumble. When it dissolved into rusty shards, she brushed off her hands and sank down, satisfied. Before dawn, every piece of metal between her and the forest would be useless, powdery rust. That would give the magelords something to think about. If they decided elven magic was the cause, the attack on the High Forest might never come.

  Elmara curled her hands into fists and stared up at the moon as she whispered another prayer to Mystra, to heal her slashed flesh. It did not take long, but she was numb with weariness when she was done. She turned back to her pack. Put on cloak and boots, at least, and then best be gone from here, before …

  “Oho! What’ve we here, eh?”

  The voice was rough but delighted, pitched low so as not to carry far. “Heh,” it chuckled, as its owner reached out of the night-shadows by the trees to clutch her firmly by the arm, “I c’n see why Othglar was in no great hurry to report in … come here, lass, and give us a kiss.”

  Elmara felt herself dragged into an embrace. The unseen lips that kissed her were ringed by rough, prickly stubble, but when she could breathe again she did not pull away. At all costs, she must keep this man from raising the alarm.

  “Oh, yesss,” she moaned, the same way that girl in Hastarl had done so long ago. “He sleeps, now, leaving me so lonely.…”

  “Ho-ho!” the armsman chuckled again. “Truly, the gods smile tonight!” His arms tightened around her.

  El fought down a rush of panic and murmured, “Kiss me again, Lord.” As those bristled lips sought her own, Elmara put one arm around the corded muscles of his back, shuddered at the taste of the horrible ale the guard had been drinking—and found what she’d been seeking: the dagger sheathed at his belt. She slid the blade free and held the man’s lips with her own as she swung the hilt of the dagger as hard as she could against his head.

  The armsman made a surprised sound and fell away from her, landing heavily in the brush. The hilt of the dagger was wet and sticky; Elmara fought down a sudden urge to be sick and threw the weapon down. Rolling the senseless man across the rock was hot work, even naked as she was. “Ye were great,” she hissed fiercely in his ear as she rolled him over the edge.

  Her cloak was around her and her pack on her back by the time she heard the body crash through branches below and start to roll.

  El stepped into her boots and carefully went forward onto soft moss before she stamped them firmly onto her feet. Then she crept into the darkness, heading back the way she’d come, hoping no new guardposts or patrols had been set. She’d a few spells left, aye, but scarce the strength to stand and cast them. She dare not try to go through this encamped army to reach the forest—elven patrols might slay her before they knew who she was, even if by some gods-sent miracle she got past all the armsmen.

  No, ’twould be best to go back to the place of the goddess, that little pool, and seek Braer from there. It lay well west of here.

  Stumbling with weariness, Elmara made her slow way down through the night, wondering how far she’d get before she passed out. It would be interesting to see.…

  By the end of her second day in the loft, Elmara was still as weak as a newborn kitten. She’d fallen twice on the ladder, and finally struggled up here hissing in pain from a bruised or broken forearm. It was healed now, but the working of that prayer had left her with a splitting headache and a sick, empty feeling within, and she’d lain dreaming for a long time.

  She didn’t feel ready to move even yet. “Mystra, watch over me,” she murmured, and sank again into slumber.

  “Gods above!”

  The awe-struck voice jerked her awake. Elmara turned her head.

  The bearded head of an astonished farmer was staring at her from an arm’s reach away, a candle-lantern trembling in his hand. She struggled not to laugh at his expression; she supposed she’d look something like that if she found a lass wearing only a cloak and boots and lying in her hayloft. He handled it well, she thought.

  As she burst into helpless giggles, he wiped a hand nervously across his mouth, found it was open, closed it, and cleared his throat with the same sort of sound sheep made in the meadow above Heldon. Fresh giggling seized Elmara.

  The farmer blinked at her, clearly finding her mirth almost as startling as her presence, and said, “Uh … er … aghumm. Fair even, uh … lass.”

  “Fair fortune to this farm and all in it,” she said formally, rolling over to face him. Redness stole across his face, and he dragged his eyes reluctantly away and hastily descended the ladder.

  Oh, aye—these. Elmara pulled the cloak over herself and rolled up to one knee to peer over the edge of the loft. The farmer looked up at her as if he expected her to change shape of a sudden into some sort of forest cat and leap down on him. He caught up a pitchfork and brandished it uncertainly.

  “Wh-Who are you, lass? How came you here? Are … are you all right?”

  The slim, sharp-nosed lady smiled wanly down at him, and said, “I am an enemy of the magelords. Hide me, if you will.”

  The farmer stared at her in horror, gulped, drew himself up, and said, “Ye’ll be as safe here as I can make it.” Then he added awkwardly, “If there’s anything I … or my men … can do … uh, we daren’t fight them, with their magic an’ all.…”

  Elmara smiled at him. “Ye’ve given me shelter and friendly words, and for me that’s enough. It’s all most of us need, and lack, in Athalantar.”

  The man grinned up at her suddenly, as delighted and proud as if she’d knighted him, and shifted his feet. “Be back, Lady,” he said hesitantly.


  “Tell no one I’m here!” Elmara hissed urgently.

  The farmer nodded vigorously and went out. Not long after, he returned with a cup of fresh milk, an end of bread, and a slab of cheese.

  “Did anyone see ye?” Elmara asked, chin on the edge of the loft.

  The farmer shook his head. “Think you I want armsmen or magelords crawling all over my farm, burning down what they don’t tear apart, and using magic to make me tell things? No fear, lass!”

  Elmara thanked him. He didn’t see her hand, glowing with gathered fire inside her cloak, fade again to its normal appearance. “Gods keep ye this night,” she said huskily, moved.

  The man shifted his feet, bowed a little in embarrassment, and answered, “An’ ye, lass. An’ ye.” He gave her the raised-hand salute that men in fields use, one to another, and hurried out.

  When he was gone, Elmara clutched the cloak to her and stared out the loft window, eyes very bright. She watched the moon riding high in the sky, and thought about many things.

  She was gone from there before dawn—just in case.

  Her way west bad been swift, as she fled to get well away from any report of her. Far Torel was emptying of troops, the armsmen returning to safer posts to the south. It seemed the magelords’ plans to spill elven blood were abandoned … for now at least. That news gave Elmara great satisfaction as she went, earning blisters she healed when she could bear them no more.

  She traveled mainly at dawn and at dusk, across country. When she turned north toward Heldon, she found her way blocked by several encampments of armsmen, and a band of magelings being trained by several watchful magelords—and with a weary sigh, decided to go west into the Haunted Vale, and try to reach the High Forest from that direction. She’d never thought fighting magelords would involve so much walking.…

  It was late one day when she found battle again. She trudged up a hill, frowned curiously at a trampled, fresh-broken gap in a farm fence, and went through it. The field was empty, but the hilltop in the field beyond it was a crowded place. A large band of Athalantan armsmen stood in a large ring about a lone figure—a woman in robes—firing at her with crossbow quarrels.

  A farmer stood leaning on a stout cane at the gate where the two fields met. His lips quivered in anger as he watched, eyes blazing. He turned his head like an angry lion as Elmara came up beside him, and put out his cane to block her path.

  “Stay back, lass,” he warned. “Yon dogs are out for blood—and they won’t care who they slay. They’d not have dared when I was younger, but the gods and the passing years have taken all from me but my smart mouth and this farm.…”

  The woman on the hilltop knew sorcery; crossbow quarrels were bounding aside from unseen shields, and she was conjuring small balls of fire, and hurling them to consume some of the bolts leaping at her. Her shoulders sagged in weariness, and when she tossed long, tangled hair out of her eyes, the movement was tired. The armsmen were wearing her down fast.

  Elmara patted the old man’s arm, stepping around his cane—and strode briskly off into the field, heading for the ring of armsmen. As she approached, a bolt took the sorceress through the shoulder. The woman reeled and then fell to her knees with a sob, clutching at the dark, spreading stain where the quarrel protruded.

  “Take her,” the battlelord outside the ring snapped, waving at his warriors with one imperious gauntlet.

  The armsmen rushed in, but the sorceress was muttering something and gesturing hastily with one bloody hand. The trotting soldiers slowed, and one slumped bonelessly to the trodden turf; followed by another. Then a third, and a fourth.

  “Back!” the battlelord roared. “Back, before she has all of you asleep!” When the armsmen were back in an unsteady ring, leaving many of their fellows sprawled on the ground, the commander glared around at them, and snarled, “Shoot her down, then. Bows ready!”

  The sorceress knelt with bleak eyes, watching helplessly as crossbows were wound, loaded, and made ready all around her.

  Elmara sat down hastily on the muddy ground and spoke one of the most powerful prayers she had, timing it carefully.

  “Loose!”

  At the battlelord’s command, the armsmen let fly their quarrels, and Elmara bent forward, eyes blazing, to watch her spell take hold. Abruptly the battlelord was standing in the midst of the ring, and the sorceress was slumped on the ground where he’d stood, outside it. A score of bolts thudded home. Not a few pierced the opulent armor and found the face that the raised visor did not cover. The battlelord staggered, roared, transfixed by many shafts, lifted his hand—and then slowly toppled onto his face, and lay still.

  The arms men were still gaping at the body of their commander when Elmara’s hasty second prayer-spell took effect. All around the field, armor glowed a dull red, and men began to grunt, squirm, and cry out, dancing in frantic haste and clawing at their armor.

  Hotter it glowed, and hotter. Men were screaming now. The stink of burning flesh and hair joined the metallic reek as armsmen flung their armor desperately in all directions, howling and rolling about naked in the field.

  Elmara turned and walked back to the farmer. He flinched at her approach, clutching his cane up in front of his chest like a warding weapon, but stood his ground.

  “Ye should be able to deal with them now,” she said calmly, looked back at all the writhing, shrieking men, and added, “I fear I’ve ruined much of your planting.”

  From empty air she plucked a handful of gems, put them into the astonished old man’s hand, and embraced him. Into one large and hairy old ear she murmured, “Ye seem a good man. Try to stay alive; I’ll need thy service when this land is mine.” Then she turned away.

  Darrigo Trumpettower stood with the gems glittering in his hand like so many fallen tears, and stared after her.

  The slim woman in the tattered cloak strode off across the field, walking west. The bleeding sorceress floated along in the air behind her, as if she were being towed on an invisible, weightless bed.

  Only one armsman moved to stop her, winding his bow into readiness, loading it, and setting it to his shoulder. He felt the hand that struck his bow aside but never felt the stout cane that smashed him to the ground, or anything else. His quarrel leaped toward the sun, and no one saw whether it reached there or not.

  Darrigo Trumpettower stood fierce-eyed over the dead armsman and growled, “At least I can be proud of something before I die. Come on then, Wolves! Come and cut down an old man, and tell yerselves what mighty heroes ye are!”

  This was the time to use a prayer she’d always wanted to try but had never found the right occasion for. Mystra’s dictates were quite strict: her priestesses could never call on her for their own benefit, and Braer had warned her how few riches he’d made ready for her to call on. Yet she felt that now was the right time.

  The bloodstanch litany was not one Elmara used often, so she had to take time to pray to the goddess for it. Night had come to the Haunted Vale when Elmara took the fallen sorceress in her arms and said the words of her last useful prayer, the one that would transport them both to the only enclosed refuge she could think of: the cave below the meadow, overlooking ruined Heldon.

  As the moon-drenched hills vanished and familiar earthy darkness was suddenly all around, Elmara smiled wearily. She’d never heard of a female magelord, nor were armsmen likely to dare turn on one. If this lady sorceress lived, she could be the teacher and ally El would need in her fight to free Athalantar.

  “All alone, I cannot defeat the magelords,” she murmured, admitting it at last. “Gods above know, I can barely deal with one enchanted sword!”

  Much later, Elmara sighed despairingly. The sorceress hadn’t awakened, and her newly healed flesh felt burning hot under El’s fingers. Had the crossbow bolt been poisoned? El’s prayers had melted that dart away, stopped the bleeding, and drawn together the woman’s torn shoulder … but in truth, she knew few healing charms—the prayers Mystra gave her faithful included many barriers and
spells that blasted foes apart and hurled things down, but were shy on magics that mended and healed.

  Still unconscious, the woman lay on a bed of cloaks. Her fevered flesh was drenched with sweat, and from time to time she murmured things El couldn’t catch, and moved her limbs feebly about on the sodden cloaks. Her skin—even to her lips—was bone white.

  Elmara’s best efforts to gather her will and force healing into the body of the sorceress failed utterly. El might be able to turn memorized prayer-spells into healing energy for herself … but Mystra hadn’t given her the means to aid anyone else.

  The sorceress was dying. She might last until morn or a little longer, but … perhaps not. Elmara didn’t even know her name. The woman’s body moved restlessly again, wet with a sheen of sweat that returned however often El wiped it away.

  Elmara stared at the woman she’d rescued, and wiped moisture from her own forehead. She must do more, or she’d be sharing her cave with a corpse in the morning. With sudden resolve, she took the woman’s purse—which held a good handful of coins—and crawled out of the cave, casting a ward against wolves across its mouth.

  There had been a shrine to Chauntea, Mother of Farms and Fields, south of Heldon. Perhaps for wealth enough the priest who tended its plantings could be persuaded to come hence and heal. It was too much to hope he’d keep his mouth closed about the cave and the two women; whatever befell, she’d have to find a new lair.

  Elmara sighed grimly and hastened down from the meadow, hurrying as much as she dared in the nightgloom. From days when she’d played here often, her feet easily found gaps in the trees. Just how long ago had those days been?

  Then she was out of the trees, into the ruins of Heldon—where she came to an abrupt haIt. There were lights ahead: torches burning where there should be none. Not moving as if held by men searching for something, but held fast on high, as if they blazed here always. What had befallen the ashes of Heldon?

  Weariness gone, Elmara stole forward in cautious silence, keeping to the deepest shadows. A palisade rose in front of her, a dark wall that ran for a long way, enclosing—what? Looking along it, she saw a helmed head at a corner where the wall turned.