The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  “That’s the last of the Athalantan envoys put to flight. Their masters have certainly noticed us by now,” Myrjala said with some satisfaction as they settled into a corner booth with their tankards.

  “On to the magelords, then,” Elminster said, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully. He leaned forward. “Ye’ve warned me often against charging in with fireballs blazing in both hands … so do we spread a few rumors of plots and unrest, sit back in hiding, and let them kill each other for a while, trying to see who’ll sit in the best spell-tower?”

  Myrjala shook her head. “While we sat, they’d destroy Athalantar along with each other.” She sipped her ale, winced, and gave the tankard a dark look. “Besides, that’d work only if we’d destroyed the most powerful archwizards, the leaders of the magelords … thus far, we’ve only foiled the buffoons and the most reckless fools.”

  “What next, then?” Elminster asked, taking a deep drink of ale.

  Myrjala arched one shapely eyebrow. “This is your vengeance.”

  Ehminster set down his tankard and licked foam from the beginnings of a mustache. Myrjala looked amused, but her companion was intent on his thoughts.

  “I never thought I’d feel this,” he said slowly, “but after Ilhundyl and those slave-sorcerers … I’ve had a bellyful of vengeance.” He looked up. “So how should we work it? Attack Athalgard, trying to slay all the magelords we can before they know a foe’s come calling?”

  Myrjala shrugged and told her tankard, “Some folk get a thrill out of destroying things. With most, the delight fades quickly. The gods don’t suffer the others to live all that long—if a mage goes about just hurling spells, he eventually runs into someone else doing the same thing, with just a few more spells up his sleeve.”

  She lifted her eyes to meet Elminster’s. “If you tried a hurl-all-fireballs attack on the magelords, bear in mind how much countryside you’d destroy—and all of it’d be Athalantar, the realm you’re fighting for. They won’t all obligingly challenge you one after another, each one politely awaiting his turn to die.”

  Elminster sighed. “Stealth and years in the doing, then.” He sipped from his tankard. “So tell me how ye think we should go about this. Ye’re the elder of us two; I’ll do as ye say.”

  Myrjala shook her head. “It’s past time to think for yourself, Elminster; look at me as your teacher no more, but an ally in your fight.”

  El looked at her grave expression, nodded slowly, and said, “Ye’re right, as always. Well … if we’re to avoid huge spell battles, magelords must be lured into situations where we can fight them alone and they won’t be able to call on all their fellows for aid. We’ll have to lay some traps—and if just the two of us go up against them, sooner or later we will end up in a mighty spell contest. If we and the magelords both hurl flames at each other, there’s going to be a fire.”

  Myrjala nodded. “And so?” she asked quietly.

  “We need allies to fight with us,” El said, “but who?” He stared at the table in frowning silence.

  Myrjala took up her tankard again and stared thoughtfully at her reflection in it. “You’ve said more than once you wanted fitting justice to befall the magelords,” she said carefully “What could be more right than calling on the elves of the High Forest, and the thieves in Hastarl, and Helm and his knights? ’Tis their realm you’re fighting to free, too.”

  Elminster started to shake his head, then grew very still, as his eyes slowly narrowed. “Ye’re right,” he said in a small voice. “Why am I always so blind?”

  “Lack of attention; I’ve told you before,” Myrjala said crisply—and when he looked at her in irritation, she grinned at him and extended gentle fingers to stroke one of his hands. After a moment, El smiled back at her.

  “I’ll have to travel about the realm cloaked in magic and speak to them,” he said slowly, thinking it through, “because they know ye not.” He sipped ale again. “And as a magelord may notice me and ’tis never wise to reveal all one’s strengths too soon, ye’d best stay out of sight.”

  The dark-eyed sorceress nodded. “Yet in case the magelords come down on you in earnest, I’d best accompany you—in other shapes than my own, of course—to fight at your side if need be.”

  El smiled at her. “I’d not want to be parted from ye now, to be sure. Should we try to raise the common folk of the realm to our cause?” Then he answered his own question. “Nay, they’d flee before the first spell hurled against them, and once roused would strike out blindly until as much ruin is spread across the realm as if enraged magelords were using spells without restraint … and whether we won or lost, they’d die by the hundreds, like sheep led to slaughter.”

  Myrjala nodded. “You were first trained in magic by the elves … they would seem the most important allies to gain.”

  El frowned. “They use their magic to aid, nurture, and reshape, not to blast things in battle.”

  Myrjala lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “If all you’re seeking in allies is folk to stand beside you and add battle-spells to your own, much of the realm will be riven in the struggle. You need to find folk with strengths you lack … and their decision to aid you or not will shape everything; you need to know if they’ll stand with you before you contact the others. Moreover, you know where to find the elves … with less likelihood of a magelord watching than in Hastarl or the Horn Hills.”

  Elminster nodded. “Good sense. When should we begin?”

  “Now,” Myrjala replied crisply

  They traded grins. A moment later, two tankards settled onto an empty table. The tavernkeeper, frowning anxiously, hurried over to the sound—and glumly collected the two tankards from the bare board. They rattled.

  He peered in. A silver coin lay at the bottom of each. He brightened, shrugged, and tipped the coins, sticky with beerfoam, into his hand. Juggling them, he headed back for the bar. These wizards’ coins’d spend as well as any … and as fast, more’s the pity …

  El stopped when he came to the little knoll in the heart of the High Forest, knelt and murmured a prayer to Mystra, and then sat down on the flat stone beside the little pool. Almost immediately his spell-shield flickered as something unseen—an elf, no doubt—tested it, seeking to learn who he was. El stood, looking around at the duskwood, shadowtop, and blueleaf trees that pressed close about the knoll. “Well met!” he called cheerfully and sat down again.

  In patient silence he waited, so long a time that even an elf could grow restive. From the gloom beneath the trees strode a silent elf in mottled green, a strung bow in his hand. His face was still, but his eyes were not friendly.

  “Magelords aren’t welcome here,” he said, setting a shaft to his bow.

  Elminster made no move. “I am a mage, but no magelord,” he replied calmly.

  The elf did not lower his bow. “Who else would know of this place?” As he spoke, seven more elven archers stepped out of the trees all around the knoll. The points of their aimed arrows glowed a vivid blue—too much magic for even the strongest shield to withstand.

  “I dwelt here a year and more,” El replied, “learning magic.”

  The silvery eyes hardened. “Not so,” came the swift reply. “Speak truth, man, if you would live!”

  “Yet I dwelt here as I told ye, and what is more, six elves swore to aid me should I try to destroy the magelords.”

  The elf’s eyes narrowed. “I swore such aid, but to a woman, not to a man.”

  “I am that woman,” Elminster said firmly, and kept to his seat amid the merry laughter that followed.

  Then he looked mildly around at their scoffing faces. “Ye use magic mightier than most mages but don’t believe a wizard can take the shape of a man or a maid?”

  The elf’s eyes flickered. “Not can’t—won’t,” came his reply. “Humans never do such things for more than a night’s lark, or a desperate escape. ’Tis not in their natures to be so strong in themselves.”

  Elminster spread his empty hands slowly �
��Tell Braer—Baerithryn—that I am stronger now than I was then … and the master of a few more spells.”

  The elf’s eyes flickered again before he turned his head. “Go,” he said to one of the other archers, “and bring Baerithryn to us. If this man is who he claims to be, Baerithryn will know it—and tell us all we need to know of him, too.” The archer turned and slipped back into the mushroom-studded dimness under the trees.

  El nodded and peered into the depths of the crystal-clear pool. For a moment, he thought he saw a pair of thoughtful eyes looking up at him … but no, there was nothing there. He sat calmly, ignoring the arrows trained tirelessly on him, until his spell-shield flickered again. He let it drop deliberately, and immediately felt a feather-light touch in his mind. Then the probing contact was gone, and Braer was striding out from under the trees, looking just as he’d done when El had last seen him.

  “Time seems to have wrought some small changes in you, Elmara,” he said dryly.

  “Braer!” El sprang to his feet and rushed down the slope to embrace his old teacher, who kissed him as if he’d still been a maid and then slipped free of Elminster’s arms and said, “Easy there, Prince! Elves are far more refined—and delicate—than men.”

  They laughed together, and the watching elves put away their shafts. Braer looked keenly into Elminster’s eyes—and then nodded as if he’d seen something there. “You’ve come for our aid against the magelords. Sit and tell us your desires.”

  When they returned to the stone, El found himself surrounded by almost a score of silently watching elves. He looked around at them, found no answering smile to his own, and drew a deep breath. “Well,” he began—but got no farther.

  The elf who’d first challenged him held up a hand. “First, Prince, be aware that Braer and we who pledged to thee hold it our duty to do whatever you ask of us … but we are reluctant indeed to hazard others of the People. Outside the forest, elves are all too easily slain, and when we die, so do the last of our folk in this fair corner of Faerûn. Men—even mages—spring up like so many weeds in spring. Elves are rarer flowers … and so the more precious. Do not expect a marching army, or a score of elven archmages flying at your shoulder.”

  Elminster nodded and looked at Baerithryn. “Braer, d’ye feel the same way?”

  His old teacher inclined his head. “I would not like to lead a march on Hastarl under the open skies of day, with mounted hosts of armsmen and dragon-riding magelords waiting to harry us … that is not our way of war. What have you in mind?”

  “That you shield folk—primarily myself and another mage, but also a few knights and street folk of Hastarl—from slaying spells cast by the magelords … and perhaps a few seeking and farspeaking magics too. Shield us, and we’ll fight.”

  “How powerful are you?” one of the archers asked. “There are a lot of magelords, and it would be folly indeed to support you in an attack on Athalgard … only to find ourselves beset by all the angry wizards after you’ve fought one or two—and then fallen.”

  “I destroyed the archmage who ruled the Calishar not so very long ago,” El said calmly.

  “We’ve heard several tales as to how he met his end—even the magelords have claimed to have worked his destruction, though they say several of them had to work together to do it,” said another elf. “With respect, we must see your powers for ourselves.”

  El did not sigh. “What sort of a test d’ye have in mind?”

  “Slay a magelord for us,” another elf said firmly, and there was a murmured chorus of agreement.

  “Any magelord?”

  “One—Taraj, he’s called—keeps watch over our forest and amuses himself by taking beast-shape to hunt. He slays for the love of killing, and mauls not only his prey, but any creatures of the forest he meets. He seems to have some protection against our spells and arrows. If you could destroy Taraj, most of the People would feel beholden to you … and you’d gain more aid than the bows and veiling spells of a handful of foresworn.”

  “Take me to where Taraj hunts, and I will destroy him,” Elminster promised. “What does he like to hunt?”

  “Men,” Braer replied quietly, as he set off down the slope into the forest. Without ceremony the other elves followed. Elminster rolled his eyes once, but kept pace among them, feeling a strange exultation rising in him. The familiar weight of the Lion Sword bumped against his chest, and El’s fingers sought it and gripped it almost fiercely At last—at long last—the scouring of Athalantar had begun.

  “Release him,” the magelord ordered, swirling the dregs of the wine in the depths of his goblet.

  “Sir,” the servant said with a bow and hurried away. Taraj watched him go and smiled. He was the magelord who’d come the farthest to rifle in this splendid land of forests and grassgirt hills … lovely hunting country. If only Murghôm had been like this, he’d never have to endure these accursed winters.

  He went to the window to watch the terrified peddler from far Luthkant flee across the courtyard into the brush beyond. Sometimes he hunted his prisoners as if they were stags, felling them with lances hurled from horseback. He scorned armor, but always rode shielded with warding spells. Today though, he felt like a beast run. He’d take the shape of a lion, perhaps, or … yes, a forest cat! ‘Panther,’ they were called back home.

  Taraj set down the empty goblet, threw off his robe, and strode naked into his spell-chamber to study the shape-change spell. It would give the man more time to run.

  The spell coiled and burned comfortably in his mind. Taraj felt the same quickening excitement he always did when a hunt was about to begin. He bowed to his reflection in the wall-glass. “Taraj Hurlymm from far Murghôm, magelord and cruel man,” he introduced himself to an imaginary feasting-company, smirking. His image smirked back, looking just as satisfied as he was. Taraj winked and moved his arms so the corded muscles of his shoulders rippled. He admired them for a moment, then slid on a robe and rapped with his knuckles on a wall gong. The servant was slow; Taraj told himself to remember to rake her with a claw when he returned, to put a little fear into her.

  “See that a feast awaits me at my return,” he said, “at moonrise. And at least four women I’ve not seen before, to share it.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal, and watched her bow and hurry away. Well, now … make her this night’s fifth consort, and teach her fear that way. Being abed with a man who can change his shape has its own delights—and dangers.

  Taraj grinned and strode down the steps to the garden. He liked to begin every hunt here, under the watchful statue of the Beastlord. As usual, he hung his robe over its snarling head and strolled down the many-flowered grassy paths, speaking the spell slowly, savoring the moment when his body would flow, surge, and change. The moment came. Teeth lengthened to fangs, thighs sank and thickened, shoulders shifted powerfully, and a glossy black panther leaped away into the tall grasses at the end of the garden.

  At the garden door, the watching servant shivered. The magelord liked to hunt down and devour men who’d displeased him … and deal with women in other ways. She was sure he’d withdrawn from the intrigues of Hastarl to make his home here in far Dalniir at the edges of the realm because it offered him a countryside to hunt in. That peddler was doomed, and any woodcutters or hunters her master met with, too. She hoped he’d find none, and be a long, wearying time at his chase.

  She sighed and went in to order the feast made ready … and then to the south wing to personally choose the maids who might die tonight. More than once she’d seen that bed and the carpet beneath it awash in blood and torn to shreds … sometimes with a gnawed foot or other remnant left tauntingly for the staff to find. She shuddered and prayed silently to whatever gods might be watching that Taraj Hurlymm would meet his own doom this night.

  Folk would pray much harder to the gods, she thought to herself as she got up off her knees, if they gave proof that they listened to the fervent desires of mortals more often. Tonight, for instance.


  She sighed. That peddler was doomed.

  The Calishite’s fine silk shirt was soaked through with sweat; it stuck to him, dark and slick, as he puffed wearily up a slope, forced a way through bushes that clawed and tore at his finery, and hurried on, gasping for breath. The man wasn’t in very fine form … and now, covered with sweat and grime and with his long mustache drooping with sweat and smudged with dust, the magelord liked his looks even less.

  The man’s appearance had been the reason Taraj had ordered this trader seized in the first place. That and the appeal of the exotic; merchants from as far away as Luthkant found Athalantar seldom and ventured out of Hastarl even more rarely. This exotic prey, however, didn’t look to be able to provide him with much sport at all … already the trader was wobbling along in exhaustion, his breath coming in fast, sobbing gasps.

  Skulking along a ridge not far behind the terrified man, Taraj decided he was becoming increasingly bored. Time to make his kill.

  He bounded down into the brush, a sleek black panther feeling fast and deadly and alive! Exulting in his power, he leaped across a narrow, deep gully, his paws scrabbling in crumbling earth for one exciting moment on the far side before they gripped … and then he was safely across and into the thicket beyond.

  Bursting out of cover atop a bank, he soared right over the Luthkantan, who howled in fear and snatched out a belt knife, slashing uselessly at the air, well in his wake.

  So that was the only fang the man had? Well, then … Taraj turned, sleek coat rippling, and rushed back at the man, dead leaves rustling as his racing paws hurled them aside.

  The Calishite dodged, eyes wide and white with terror, slashed wildly at Taraj’s nose—and then turned and ran.

  Taraj gave him a throaty snarl and bounded after him. The man heard and spun around to prevent being hamstrung, that tiny blade gleaming again as he brandished it desperately. Taraj snarled and kept coming, not slowing … and the terrified man backed away.