by Ed Greenwood
He waved an imperious hand, and stone spikes suddenly erupted from the air to his right. He pointed, and obediently they flew toward the armored figure. Long before they reached it some force dragged them aside—to smash through the many-curved glass figures. Ilhundyl’s wind sculptures toppled into ruin, and the Mad Mage’s eyes blazed in fury.
“Seven months to fashion those!” he snarled. “Seven months!”
Rays of amber radiance leaped from the archwizard’s outthrust hands toward the armored figure. His target abruptly vanished, and the rays stabbed past where it had been, to touch the far wall of the chamber. The stones of the wall seemed to boil briefly as the rays sheared through them, opening a large hole, and continued on across empty air to bore through the distant wall of the north tower in the same manner. Outside, an unseen guard shouted a startled warning to his fellows.
The furious ruler of the Calishar was still staring at the destruction he’d caused when the armored figure winked into view a little behind him and well to the right, at the spot the stone spikes had appeared from—and its armored fists swung down, striking apparently empty air with solid smacks. The visible Ilhundyl fell to the floor without a sound and winked out of existence. An instant later, the Mad Mage reappeared at the far end of the gallery in a blind, snarling fury. “You dare—?”
He growled out a stream of words that echoed and rolled with power, and the Castle of Sorcery shook around him. Impaling spikes shot up from the floor, transfixing the armored figure from below, and then with a thunderous roar, a score of stone blocks crashed down from the high ceiling and smashed the intruder flat. As the dust of their landings rolled lazily across the floor, wall panels opened all along the gallery. From behind the panels drifted three dead-looking, rotting beholders, eyestalks questing stiffly back and forth for a foe. A glowing cage on a chain plunged down from a ceiling trapdoor, burst open as its spell-glow faded, and six winged green serpents boiled out of it, jaws snapping angrily as they swooped around the gallery, seeking prey. Here and there on the gallery floor, stone blocks turned over with slow uneasiness to reveal glowing magical glyphs.
The hard-eyed Mad Mage waited with hands raised to unleash more destruction as the chamber settled into slow silence. The undead eye tyrants floated menacingly about, finding nothing to turn their beams on, and the flying snakes darted excitedly here and there. One snake dived at Ilhundyl, and he crisped it in the air with a single muttered word. Silence fell again. Perhaps he really had managed to destroy the intruder.
The Mad Mage spoke another spell to raise the stone blocks from the shattered armor. They drifted upward obediently—and then rose to one side. Ilhundyl’s jaw dropped. He watched in horror as the blocks, undead beholders, snakes, glass shards, and all began to move in a slow spiral before him.
“Cease!” Ilhundyl cried, and called up the strongest shatter-spell he knew. The spiral’s rotation faltered for one breath-stopping moment … and then resumed, quickening until things were whirling rapidly around the chamber.
Ilhundyl backed away, for the first time in years knowing the cold taste of fear. More wind-sculptures shattered as the aerial maelstrom swept blocks or undead beholders through them. Their shards glittered in a rising circle to join the spiral, now sweeping down the gallery at Ilhundyl.
The Mad Mage backed away, then turned and ran, hands flashing through hasty and intricate spell-passes. Abruptly there were running Ilhundyls all over the chamber, flickering here and there in a complex dance. The whirlwind swept them all up. One body was promptly dashed against a wall; it crumpled like a broken doll and was gone. Another Ilhundyl suddenly appeared on a balcony high in the gallery, and cast a glowing crystal down into the storm below. The gem flashed once—and in that flash of radiance it and all the whirling items vanished, leaving the chamber empty save for the shattered glass spires on their pedestals.
Ilhundyl looked down on them and said coldly, “Be revealed.”
The hawk-nosed mage melted into view—on the balcony beside him, inside his protective spellshields!
Ilhundyl recoiled, frantically trying to think of a spell he could safely use against a foe so close. “Why have you come here?” he hissed.
The intruder’s eyes met his own coldly. “Ye tricked me, hoping to send me to my death. Like the mages of Athalantar, ye rule by fear and brutal magical might, using thy spells to slay or maim folk—or entrap them in beast-shape.”
“So? What do you want of me?”
“Such a question is more appropriately asked before attacking,” Elminster replied dryly, and then answered, “Thy destruction. I would put an end to all mages who behave as ye do.”
“Then you’ll have to live a long, long time,” said Ilhundyl softly, “and I’ve no interest in your doing so.”
He spoke three words, his fingers moved—and lightning leaped from a shield set high on the far wall of the gallery. Its bright, many-stroked crackling web raked the balcony. Ilhundyl pulled at his magical shieldings as the blue-white bolts danced and spat around him, dragging them aside to expose his foe to the furious energies. The edge of the shield rolled back, lightnings snapping over it viciously, and the Mad Mage saw Elminster stagger.
The ruler of the Calishar roared in triumph and leveled his left hand to unleash a bolt from the ring on his middle finger. There was no way he could miss this upstart wizard, barely three paces away. His life-leeching bolt stabbed out—and rebounded!
Ilhundyl screamed as his own spell tore at his innards, and tried to flee, struggling toward the archway that led off the balcony. Then Elminster’s hand touched the stone floor—and the balcony broke off and plunged down the wall. Ilhundyl fell with it, roaring out a desperate word.
A few feet from the floor, his magic took effect; their crashing plummet slowed to a gently drifting descent. In the tumult, neither man noticed a glowing, floating pair of eyes appear low down at one end of the gallery, to calmly survey the battle.
Ilhundyl turned to the wall and raised his hand again. Another ring winked. And the wall slowly sprouted a massive arm, reaching out for Elminster with stony fingers. Elminster spat out a spell, and the hand shuddered in a burst of force and rock shards that hurled the hawk-nosed mage out of the settling balcony. He skidded across the floor, toppling another glass sculpture.
Ilhundyl snarled out an incantation, stabbing his thumbs forward at Elminster. The prince felt himself plucked up from amid the glass and thrown across the room. El spread his hands in a grand, sweeping gesture, and an instant before he would have smashed with bone-shattering force into the gallery wall, the wall suddenly wasn’t there any more. With a grinding rumble, the ceiling began to fall. Ilhundyl stared up at tumbling stone blocks for a moment, and then broke into a run, gabbling the words of another spell.
Outside the Castle of Sorcery, Elminster drifted to the ground, upright and alert. His feet touched the stones of the terrace, he turned toward the north tower, and then felt slashing pain as something unseen cut him across the ribs!
It felt like spreading fire! El sprang back, doubling up in agony, and threw up his hands to protect his face. The next sweep of the invisible blade took the tip off one of his fingers. He could see its edge now, a shimmering line of force edged with his own blood. Ilhundyl faded into view behind it, grinning, and slashed down with his conjured blade again at Elminster’s hands.
“A handless man casts few spells,” the Mad Mage laughed cruelly, chopping and slashing. Elminster hissed out a spell as he dodged and ducked, and with a wild, tortured shriek, the sorcerous blade shattered into bright stars of force.
The blast sent him rolling helplessly away, head ringing. El writhed and groaned. For a breath or two the hawk-nosed prince could do no more than lie on the stones twisting in pain.
Ilhundyl shuddered and wrung his hands, willing away the pain the blast had wrought in them. When he’d mastered control of his trembling fingers again, he raised a shield-spell around himself and stalked forward. His lips curved from a
thin line of pain into a cold smile of anticipation.
When he was close enough to touch the writhing intruder, the Mad Mage carefully cast the most powerful and complex spell he knew—and leaned forward to hook one finger into Elminster’s ear.
If the soul-drain succeeded, he would gain all the spells and knowledge this intruder possessed. Entering the helpless man’s mind, Ilhundyl bore down through the roiling pain he found there, seeking to find and break this upstart’s will. Instead, he felt his probe pounced on and slashed at. He threw back his head, hissing in pain, but did not break the contact … yet. It would take hours to memorize this spell again, and if his prisoner died, it would all be for nothing—or if the mage recovered, the fight would begin anew.
Suddenly he was falling, plunging into a dark void in the other man’s mind, and out of nowhere and everywhere a blade of white flame was stabbing and cutting him, shearing through his very self. Screaming, Ilhundyl fell away from the sprawled mage, breaking contact. Gods, the pain! Shaking his head to clear it, he crawled away through a yellow haze.
When it cleared, he turned … and saw Elminster struggling to his own knees, vainly raking through his own gore to recover a ring with fingers that had been chopped away. Angrily, Ilhundyl hissed the words of a short, simple spell and stepped back to watch his foe die.
The spell manifested. Bony claws coalesced out of empty air into sudden, harsh reality, and swarmed over Elminster—a score or more of them, raking and gouging with needle-sharp talons.
Ilhundyl smiled as they did their gruesome work … and then his jaw dropped. They were fading away! The claws were ebbing back into the air, leaving the bloody wreck of a man still living.
“What befalls?” the Mad Mage angrily asked Faerûn at large as he strode forward.
“Doom,” said a low voice from behind him. Ilhundyl whirled.
A dark-eyed woman was growing from his own front door, stepping smoothly out of the dark wood to confront him. She was tall and lithe, and wore robes of dark green. Black, liquid eyes under arched brows met his own … and Ilhundyl saw his death in them. The Mad Mage was still stammering an incantation when white fire, brighter than anything he’d ever seen, leaped from one of her slim-fingered hands at him.
Ilhundyl stared helplessly at her beautiful, merciless face. And then the roaring flames swept into and through him, and her bone-white face and the sky behind it darkened in his failing gaze.
Through the blood dripping into his eyes, Elminster saw the Mad Mage swept away and consumed in a single roaring moment.
“Wha-What spell was that?” El croaked.
“No spell, but spellfire,” Myrjala told him crisply. “Now get up, fool, before all Ilhundyl’s rivals arrive to seize what they can. We must be gone by then.”
She turned and blasted the Castle of Sorcery with that same all-consuming fire. The Great Gate vanished, and the halls beyond collapsed in flames.
Elminster struggled to his feet somehow, spitting blood. “But his magic! Lost, now, all—”
Myrjala turned back to him. The slim hands that had hurled magical fire an instant before now held a thick, battered old book. She thrust it into Elminster’s mangled hands; the pain of the contact nearly made him drop it. “His important work is here—now we must go!”
Elminster’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her; somehow her tone seemed different. But perhaps he was just too hurt to hear aright … he nodded wearily.
Myrjala touched his cheek, and they were suddenly elsewhere: an echoing cavern. Fungi on its walls glowed a faint blue and green here and there.
Elminster stumbled and with an effort caught his balance, cradling the spellbook. “Where—are we?”
“One of my hideaways,” Myrjala said, peering around alertly “This was once part of an elven city. We’re deep under Nimbral, an island in the Great Sea.”
Elminster looked around and then down at the book in his hands. When he raised his watery eyes to meet hers, they held a strange look. “Ye knew him?”
Myrjala’s eyes were very dark. “I know many mages, Elminster,” she said, almost warningly. “I’ve been around a long time … and I did not live this long by recklessly challenging every archmage I heard of.”
“Ye don’t want me to go to Athalantar yet,” Elminster said slowly, eyes on hers.
Myrjala shook her head. “You’re not ready. Your magic is still unsubtle, brutal, and predictable—doomed to fail when greater force contests against you.”
“Teach me wisdom, then,” Elminster said, swaying on his feet.
She turned away. “Separate paths, remember?”
“Ye were watching over me,” Elminster said to her back, desperately. “Following me … why?”
Myrjala turned back to him slowly. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Because … I love you,” she whispered.
“Stay with me, then,” Elminster said. The book fell forgotten from his hands, but it took all his strength to stride forward and put his ravaged arms around her. “ ‘Teach me.”
She hesitated, her dark eyes seeming to look deep into him.
Then, almost shuddering, she nodded.
A dark, triumphant fire rose in his eyes as their lips met.
Mirtul was a dry, windy month in the Year of the Wandering Leucrotta—especially in the hot, dusty lands of the east.
Elminster stood hard-eyed atop a wind-scoured cliff glaring down at a castle of the sorcerer-kings far below. To reach it, he and Myrjala had ridden for a tenday or more past dead slaves stinking in the sun.
Here at last were their slayers. Through his eagle-eyes spell, Elminster watched bloody whips rise and fall in that courtyard, laying open the bodies of the last slaves. All life had fled already, but the sorcerers flailed on, weaving an evil magic with the fading life-forces of the men and women they’d slain.
In anger, El lashed out with spells of his own devising. The magics fell through the air in a bright web, and Elminster stepped off the cliff to follow them. He was striding along on empty air over the castle when it began to topple. He stopped to watch, standing angrily above the dust, screams, and tumult.
Something rose up out of a shattered window, with men in robes riding it. Elminster fired a bolt down to blast them. The enchanted flyer shattered amid explosive brightness; the men on it jerked like flung dolls and fell back into the ruins. They did not rise again. Stones tumbled to a halt, and the rumble of their falling slowly died. When the dust had settled, Elminster turned, face grim, and walked back through the air to join Myrjala on the heights.
Her dark eyes lifted from the ruined castle, and she asked softly, “And was that the wisest, least wasteful thing to do?”
Anger glinted in Elminster’s eyes. “Aye, if it’ll make the next band of fools think twice about using such fell magic.”
“Yet some wizards’ll do so anyway. Will you murder them too?”
Elminster shrugged. “If need be. Who is to stop me?”
“Yourself.” Myrjala looked down at the castle again. “Reminds one of Heldon, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly, not looking at him.
Elminster opened his mouth to refute her—and then closed his mouth again in silence, watching her step calmly off the height and walk steadily away, treading softly on the air. His gaze fell to the ruin below, and he shivered in sudden shame. Sighing, El turned from what he had wrought—and then looked helplessly down again at the castle. He did not know any spells to put it back up again.
It was a warm night in early Flamerule, in the Year of the Chosen. Elminster awoke drenched with sweat, flinging himself upright to stare with wild eyes at the moon. Myrjala sat up in bed beside him, hair flowing around her shoulders, eyes dark with worry. “You were shouting,” she said.
Elminster reached for her, and she folded him into her arms as a mother cradles a frightened child.
“I saw Athalantar,” El whispered, staring into the night. “I was walking the streets of Hastarl, and there were sneering wizards wherever I looked. And when
I stared at them, they fell over dead … terror on their faces.…”
Myrjala held him and said calmly, “It sounds as if you’re ready for Athalantar at last.”
Elminster turned to look at her. “And if I live through purging it of magelords—what then? This vow has driven me for so long … what should I do with my life?”
“Why, rule Athalantar, of course.”
“Now that the throne comes into my reach,” Elminster said slowly, “I find myself wanting it less and less.”
The arms around him tightened. “That’s good,” Myrjala said quietly “I’ve grown weary waiting for you to grow up.”
Elminster looked at her and frowned. “Outgrowing blind vengeance? I suppose … why go through with it all, then?”
Myrjala looked at him steadily in the darkness, her dark eyes large and mysterious. “For Athalantar. For your dead mother and father—and all who lived and laughed in Heldon before the dragon came down on them. For the folk in the taproom of the Unicorn’s Horn, and those in Narthil … and for your outlaw comrades who died in the Horn Hills.”
Elminster’s lip’s thinned. “We’ll do it,” he said with quiet determination. “Athalantar shall be free of magelords. I swear before Mystra: I’ll do this or die in the trying.”
Myrjala said nothing as she held him, but he could feel her smile.
PART
V
KING
FIFTEEN
AND THE PREY IS MAN
In mighty towers they quake with fright
for the man who kills mages is out tonight.
BENDOGLAER SYNDRATH, BARD OF BARROWHILL,
FROM THE BALLAD DEATH TO ALL MAGES
YEAR OF THE BENT COIN
Eleasias was a wet month that year. On the fourth successive stormy night, Myrjala and Elminster were thankful to duck out of the rain into a tavern on a muddy back street in Launtok.