by Ed Greenwood
After a few hurried, unseeing paces, of course, he stumbled on something underfoot, and fell hard on his behind. Taraj leaped at him, jaws opening wide for that first playful bite, but the man kicked out with frantic savagery—and the magelord felt sudden tearing pain. He snarled and recoiled, bounding away and then whirling back to face his victim.
Gods curse the man! The trader’s boots had suddenly sprouted toe daggers. Vicious little blades; one gleamed at him as the exhausted man stayed on his back, feet up—and the other was wet and dark with Taraj’s blood.
The magelord snarled again and loped off into the nearest tall grass. Dragon at the gate! You couldn’t even trust fat Calishite merchant traders to fight fair these days! Well, you’d never been able to, he admitted wryly as the panther’s body fell away, flowing and changing again. A brief visit to the Luthkantan in the shape of an acid-spitting snake should do away with the man’s weapons so he could be killed slowly and enjoyably afterward. The snake reared up, coiling experimentally, shaking as the magelord settled into this new shape.
A black crow that had been scudding along unseen behind the panther dived earthward, starting to change even before it struck the grassy ground below.
Something huge and dark rose up out of the grass where it landed, batlike wings unfolding and long tail switching … a black dragon crouched amid the crushed grass, leaning forward over the suddenly hissing, coiling snake.
The snake spat. The smoking acid struck the dragon’s snout and dripped; black dragons are never harmed by acids. The dragon smiled slowly and opened its own jaws. The acid that streamed from the dragon’s maw consumed a tree and left the snake itself smoking and writhing in the scorched grasses beyond, throwing coils about in its agony. The dragon strode forward, slowly, heavily … and tauntingly.
From somewhere in the trees ahead came a despairing scream as the Calishite trader saw the dragon, and crashing sounds as he struggled through trees and thick brush in frantic flight.
The snake grew larger and darker, and wings began to sprout from it. As its shape built and stretched, it grew a human hand and mouth for an instant. The ring flashed, and the mouth cried, “Kadeln! Kadeln! Aid me! By our pact, aid me!”
The dragon lumbered forward, extending claws to rend the snake that was rapidly becoming another black dragon. Another pace, and another … and the dragon that was Elminster reached out and slashed with one black-taloned claw to rend still-forming scales. Blood spattered, and the magelord-turned-dragon squalled in pain.
Elminster extended his head to bite down hard on the other dragon’s neck and end this wizard for good—but suddenly a mage stood beside the still-growing dragon, where the only crushed grass had been a moment before. Elminster had a glimpse of this new magelord’s dark, glittering eyes as he reared and backed hastily away. The wizard was already casting a spell; there was no time to shift shape into something else.
Elminster beat his wings once to hurl the man off his feet and ruin his spell, but tree limbs got in the way. He was still struggling to lunge forward and bite down on the newcomer when something streaked from the mage’s outthrust hand, and roaring fire erupted on all sides and rolled over him.
El’s curse of pain came out as a rumble as he hastily backed away, turned, and lashed out with his tail so the magelord had to dive ingloriously into the dirt to avoid being struck. El grunted and bounded aloft.
This body was heavy and ungainly, but the large wings beat strongly. He put some effort into flight, and the wind was whistling past his head when he turned and plunged back down through the air in a dive, waiting for just the right moment to spit acid.
The other dragon was almost fully formed now, but thrashing about in pain, all tangled up under the trees. El could deal with this fire-hurling wizard first!
Snarling, Elminster roared down out of the sky, teeth flashing.
The wizard’s hands were making complicated passes—and then he leaped back to watch in triumph … and Elminster knew sudden fear. He tried to unfold a wing and veer away—but couldn’t! His wings were bound by magic!
Helplessly he plunged down into the trees, bracing himself for the crash he knew would come. The wind whistled past him. And then he saw his true doom. Before him a shimmering wall of bright, swirling colors was growing; a rainbow of deadly magic directly in his path. El could only turn his eyes in horror to look at the magelord who stood watching as he fell to death.
“Aid me, Mystra,” he whispered, as the swirling colors rushed up to meet him.
Kadeln Olothstar, magelord of Athalantar, laughed coldly. “Ah, I love a good fight! Taming a mageling, too! My thanks, Taraj!”
The dragon hurtled helplessly down into his prismatic wall. Kadeln threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the blast he knew would come as the huge beast passed through his spell and they destroyed each other.
It came. The world rocked, and a blinding flash clawed at his eyes even through his tightly shut lids. Kadeln landed hard on his back and spat a curse at the gods for putting a hard tree root under his spine. Then he blinked his eyes until he could see again and rolled to his feet. Broken trees and smoking grass surrounded him, with nary a dragon in sight … and stumbling sightlessly out of the smoke came a fat Calishite in tattered silks, a dagger clutched in one trembling hand.
Hah! He could even rob Taraj of his quarry this night! Kadeln smiled a thin, cruel smile and raised his hand to slay the man. It would take only the least of his spells. Then a dark form melted out of the air in front of him—Taraj, tattered and blackened with soot.
“Out of my way, Hurlymm,” Kadeln said coldly, but his dazed fellow magelord seemed not to hear him … perhaps an accident might befall Taraj here, with no watching eyes to speak later of Kadeln’s treachery. Or would it be wise to fell this lazy, blood-hungry idiot, and have perhaps a stronger mage rise to take his place in the councils of magelords?
Kadeln made his decision, sighed, and stepped around the bemused Taraj, raising his hand again to hurl a death bolt at the sobbing merchant. As he passed, the dark tatters seemed to ripple. Kadeln Olothstar had been a magelord for many years. He turned to see what shape Taraj was taking—just in case.
Cold blue-gray eyes swam out of the melting form to meet his own, around a hawk-beak of a nose, and a mouth that smiled at him without warmth or mirth.
“Greetings, Magelord,” that mouth said, as one dark arm rose up to strike aside Kadeln’s raised hand. The dark form’s other arm streaked up to his mouth. “I am Elminster. In the name of my father Prince Elthryn and my mother Princess Amrythale, I slay thee.”
Kadeln was gabbling the words of a desperate spell as the stranger, still smiling that steely smile, thrust a finger into the magelord’s mouth. Flame burst forth in a sphere that rolled down the magelord’s throat, and found no ready room to expand.
A moment later, Kadeln Olothstar burst apart in flames that briefly outshone the sun … and then swiftly died away into drifting smoke. Silence fell—followed a moment later by the Calishite, who gave a despairing moan as his eyes rolled up and he thudded limply to the scorched turf.
The lady who glided into view atop the nearest ridge made a face at the blood covering Elminster. He looked up at her quickly, raising a hand to blast another foe if need be—and then relaxed, and called, “My thanks—again—for my life?”
Myrjala smiled as she came up to him and spread her hands. “What, after all, are friends for?”
“How did ye do it this time?” El asked, striding forward to embrace her. She whispered something and made a small sign with one hand—and the magelord’s gore was abruptly gone. Elminster looked down, shook his head, and then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.
“Let me breathe, young lion,” Myrjala said at last, pulling her head back. “To answer you—I used that spell you’re so fond of, switching folk about. Taraj was the dragon who struck the wall-spell, and I guided you into his semblance.”
“I needed ye after all,” Elminster said,
looking into her dark, mysterious eyes.
Myrjala smiled at him. “There’s much more to do for Athalantar yet, O Prince … and I need you whole to do it.”
“I’m—losing my thirst for killing magelords,” Elminster said. Myrjala’s arms tightened around him.
“I understand, and respect you the more for that, El—but once begun, we must take them all … or all we’ll achieve for the folk of Athalantar is changing the names and faces of those who rule them iron-hard. Is that all you want to have done to avenge your mother and father?”
When Elminster looked up at her, his eyes were bright and hard. “Who’s the next magelord we should slay?” he snapped.
Myrjala almost smiled. “Seldinor,” she said, turning away.
“Why he, of them all?”
Myrjala turned back. “You have been a woman. When I tell you his latest schemes, you will understand why, better than most brash young men who call themselves wizards.”
Elminster nodded, not smiling. “I was afraid ye’d say something like that.”
Elves were suddenly all around them, seeming to melt out the trees. Braer met Elminster’s eyes, and asked, “Who is this lady mage?”
Myrjala spoke for herself. “Al hond ebrath, uol tath shantar en tath lalala ol hond ebrath.”
El looked at her. “What did ye say?”
“A true friend, as the trees and the water are true friends,” Myrjala translated softly, her eyes very dark.
The elf who’d first challenged Elminster by the pool said, “A proud boast, lady, for one who lives and then is gone, while the trees and streams endure forever.”
Myrjala turned her head, as tall and as regal as any elf and said, “You may be surprised at my longevity Ruvaen, as others of your folk have been, before.”
Ruvaen drew back a pace, frowning. “How is it that you know my name? Who—?”
“Peace,” Braer said. “Such things are best spoken of in private, one to another. Now we have much to plan and prepare. The test has been set and passed. Elminster may not have prevailed alone, but two magelords are no more, not one. Do any challenge this?”
Silence answered him, and he turned wordlessly to Ruvaen. The archer looked at Braer, nodded, and then said to Elminster, “The People will fight at your side for Athalantar, if you hold to the pledge you made to us when we swore aid to you.”
“I will,” Elminster said, and extended his hand.
After a long moment, Ruvaen took it, and they clasped forearms firmly, as one warrior to another. Around them, the gathered elves of the High Forest shouted in exultation—the loudest sound of celebration any elf of Athalantar had made in many a year.
Old, wise eyes watched the elves and humans dwindle into the depths of the crystal, and then slowly fade. What to do?
Aye, what? The lad was just one more young spell weaver with glory in his eyes, but the woman.… He’d not seen spellmastery like that since … his eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged.
There was no time for idle memories. There never is.
He had to warn everyone, and then s—but no. No. Let these two destroy Seldinor first.
SIXTEEN
WHEN MAGES GO TO WAR
A star rushes past, to crash upon the shore
But the first of many many more
Stoke the fire and stout bar the door
For this is the night mages go to war.
ANGARN DUNHARP
FROM THE BALLAD WHEN MAGES GO TO WAR
YEAR OF THE SWORD AND STARS
Leaves rustled. At that slightest of sounds, Helm whirled, hand going to hilt. Out from behind the tree stepped the silent elven warrior he’d come to know as Ruvaen, the gray cloak that was so hard to see swirling around him. There was another elf with him. Their still faces somehow betrayed a mood darker than usual.
“What news?” Helm asked simply. None of the elves or the knights were wont to waste words.
Ruvaen held out something that filled his hand—something clear and smooth-sided and colorless, like a fist-sized diamond. A few clumps of moss clung to it. Helm looked down at it and raised his brows in an unspoken question.
“A scrying crystal. Used by human wizards,” Ruvaen said flatly.
“The magelords,” Helm said grimly “Where did ye find this?”
“In a dell, not far from here,” said the other elf, pointing off into the forest gloom.
“One of your men hid it under moss,” Ruvaen added. “When he wasn’t using it?”
Helm Stoneblade let out his breath in a long sigh. “So they may know all our plans and be laughing at us now.”
The two elves did not need to answer. Ruvaen put the crystal gently into Helm’s callused hand, touched his shoulder, and said, “We’ll wait above, in the trees … should you need us.”
Helm nodded, looking down at the crystal in his hand. Then he lifted his head to stare into the forest. Who most often went off into the woods to relieve himself in that direction?
His battered face changed, hardening. Helm thrust the crystal into the breast of his tunic, turned, and made a short barking sound. One of his men, cutting up a deer some distance away, looked up. Their eyes met through the trees, and Helm nodded. The man turned and barked in his turn.
Soon they were all gathered around: the score or so knights he’d brought with him into the depths of the High Forest. All who still dared swing a blade in defiance of the magelords, clinging to the thin shield of elven mystery and providing the Fair Folk a front line of blades and bows to keep the woodcutter’s axes from hewing out a new and larger Athalantar unopposed.
The magic of the elves cloaked them from the wizards who ruled Athalantar, but was ill suited to spell battle … beyond quenching fires and hiding Folk, that is. The threat of greater elven spells had kept the magelords largely at bay, thus far, at least. Lending Helm time to plan a rising that might—just might, with the gods’ own luck—shatter this rule of wizards, and give him back the carefree Athalantar he’d fought for and loved, so long ago. So they’d fought, by night and the quick blade, and vanished back into the trees or perished under spell-torment, while the long years dragged on and Helm became ever more desperate … as the Athalantar of his youth slowly faded away.
The hard winters and the dead friends had hardened him and taught him patience. This crystal, now, changed things. If the magelords knew their numbers, names, schemes, and camps, they’d have to strike swiftly, now, or not at all … to have any chance at anything more than an unmarked grave and feeding the wolves.
He waited, silent, stone-faced, until the most restless of his men—Anauviir, of course—spoke. “Aye, Helm, what is it?”
Wordlessly, Helm turned to Halidar, holding out the scrying crystal. Halidar’s face went white. He sprang to his feet, whirling to flee—and then gasped and sagged slowly back against Helm. The old knight stood unmoving as the traitor slid slowly down his chest to tumble onto the forest floor. Anauviir’s dagger stood out of Halidar’s throat, just beneath his contorted mouth. Helm bent to pull it out without a word, wiped it clean, and handed it back to its owner. Halidar had always been quick … and Anauviir had always been swifter. Helm held up the crystal for them all to see.
“The magelords have been watching over us,” he said flatly. “Mayhap for years.” Faces were pale all around him now. “Ruvaen,” Helm asked, holding the crystal up, “have ye any use for this?”
Some of his men looked up, involuntarily, though by now they all knew they’d see nothing but leaves and branches, as a quiet, musical voice replied, “Properly used, it can burn out one magelord’s mind.”
There was an approving murmur, and Helm tossed the crystal straight up, into the branches overhead. It did not come down.
Hand still raised, Helm looked around at his men. Dirty, dark-eyed, and armed like the sort of mercenary bodyguards short, fat men hire to give them grandeur. They looked back at him, haggard and grim. Helm loved them all. If he had another forty blades such as these, he could c
arve himself out a new Athalantar, magelords or no magelords. But he did not. Forty blades too few, he thought, not for the first time. Nay—forty-one, now …
“Stand easy, knights,” Ruvaen’s lilting voice came unexpectedly from the trees above them. “A man approaches who would speak with you. He means no harm.”
Helm looked up, startled. The elves never suffered other humans to venture this far into the woods.… And then something faded into view behind a nearby tree. Anauviir saw it even as Helm did and hissed warningly as he raised his blade. Then the shadowy figure stepped forward and mists of magic fell away from it.
The old knight’s jaw dropped.
“Well met, Helm,” said a voice he’d never thought to hear again.
Out of sight for so long … surely the lad had died at the hand of some magelord or other … but no.… Helm swallowed, lurched, and then went to one knee, proffering his sword as he did so. There were mutters of amazement from his men.
“Who’s this, Helm?” Anauviir asked sharply, blade up, peering at the thin, hawk-nosed newcomer. Only a wizard or an upperpriest could step out of empty air like that.
“Rise, Helm,” Elminster said quietly, putting a hand on the old knight’s forearm.
The old knight got up, turned to his men, and said, “Kneel if you be a true knight of Athalantar … for this is Elminster son of Elthryn, the last free prince of the realm!”
“A magelord?” someone asked doubtfully
“No,” Elminster said quietly. “A wizard who needs your help to destroy the magelords.”
They stared at him unmoving—until, one by one, they caught Helm’s furious glare, and went to their knees.
Elminster waited until the last knee—Anauviir’s—touched the leaf-strewn ground, and then said, “Rise, all of ye. I am prince of nothing at the moment, and I need allies, not courtiers. I’ve learned magic enough to defeat any magelord, I believe—but I know that when any magelord gets into trouble, he’ll call on another … and in a breath or two I’ll have forty or more of them on my hands.”