The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  “But—how?” Peeryst called after him desperately.

  “Use yer shirt, man!” Darrigo snarled.

  “But, but—’tis new, and—”

  “Then use yer hose, stonehead,” Darrigo roared back, as he took a flight of stairs three at a time.

  He was wheezing and stumbling by the time he reached the bottom, but he caught up with the hurrying noble there. His quarry was just raising his blade, looking for all the world like he was going to plant it in the ribs of another dandified fellow a little farther along the halt. Darrigo smacked him across the back of the head with his sword. Thankfully, the dainty weapon didn’t break. The dandy whirled, the reek of his perfume swirling about him.

  “You dare to touch me, old man?” The noble’s blade was darting at his throat before Darrigo could have uttered any reply.

  Snarling, the old farmer beat it aside and shouldered forward. “Set steel to a Trumpettower lass, would you? And her unarmed, yet! You don’t deserve to live three breaths longer!”

  Jansibal leaped backward just in time. The old man’s ornamental sword hissed past his nose. His urge to laugh died abruptly … this graybeard was serious!

  Then a clear laugh rang out from behind him: Thelorn, damn him before all the gods! Jansibal snarled and slid aside, forcing his way past the old man to get his unprotected back away from the reach of his rival.

  “Attacking old men now, Jansibal? Younger ones starting to refuse you?” Thelorn called interestedly. In sudden fury, Jansibal lunged at Darrigo. Their blades crashed together—once, twice, and thrice … and Janisbal’s codpiece clanged to the floor, both of its tiny straps cut.

  The old man gave him a mirthless smile. “ ‘Thought perhaps you’d be able to move a mite faster without all that weight down there,” he remarked, advancing again.

  Jansibal stared at him in astonishment, and then that little blade was sliding in at him again, and he was forced into a desperate flurry of parries. Thelorn laughed again, enjoying his rival’s humiliation. Jansibal snarled and attacked, and almost casually the old man’s blade floated in over his guard and drew a line across his nose and cheek.

  Jansibal spat out a startled oath and backed away. Darrigo lumbered after him, and the perfumed dandy turned and ran down the dark hall, away from them all. The old man raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Fleeing a challenge? And you think yourself noble?”

  Jansibal Otharr made no reply but a gasp, and a moment later Darrigo saw why. A blade was protruding from his back, dark with the nobleman’s blood. The blade shook, a booted foot kicked, and Jansibal Otharr slid down to his knees on the floor and sagged back into a silent heap.

  “That’s an Athalantan noble?” said the battered old warrior who held the bloody blade. “We should have cleaned out this place earlier!”

  Thelorn Selemban strode forward, past the staring Darrigo. “Just who are you?” he demanded.

  Helm Stoneblade eyed the noble’s ruffed open-to-the-waist silk shirt, its puffed sleeves adorned with many crawling dragons.

  “A knight of Athalantar,” he growled, “but by the looks of you, it seems I’d’ve done better down the years as your tailor.”

  “A knight? What idiocy is this? There are no—” Selemban’s eyes narrowed. “Are you loyal to King Belaur and the magelords?”

  “I fear not, lad,” Helm said, striding forward. There were ten or more warriors in motley armor behind him.

  Thelorn Selemban flourished his blade. It glittered in the torchlight as he said excitedly, “Come no farther, rebels, or die!”

  “ ’Tis certainly a day for grand speeches,” Helm responded, moving steadily forward. “Let’s see if you’re any better with that blade than your aromatic friend was …”

  “Friend?” Thelorn snorted. “He was no friend of mine—despite anything you may have heard. Now stand back, or—”

  “Or you’ll wave your sword at me?”

  Helm’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, but it trailed away as Thalorn jerked something from around his neck, raised it to his lips, and sneered, “Or I’ll slay you traitors with this! I’m told i—”

  It was then that Darrigo Trumpettower made his decision. He took two shuffling steps forward and thrust his blade into the young nobleman’s ear.

  Thelorn gurgled, dropped blade and bauble, reeled, and fell on his face.

  Darrigo peered past him at the grim-faced men beyond. “Helm?” he asked, squinting. “Helm Stoneblade?”

  “Darrigo! You old lion! Well met!”

  A moment later they embraced, keeping their swords out of the way with the ease of old veterans.

  “I heard you were an outlaw … what’ve you been doing, Helm?”

  “Killing armsmen,” the knight said, “but I’ve found killing magelords more fun, so I’m doing that right now. Care to join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Darrigo Trumpettower growled. “Thank you—I will. Lead the way.”

  Helm rolled his eyes. “You nobles,” he said in disgust, and strode forward.…

  The magelords stared at the Old One and then at each other. There was reluctance in their words of agreement, and suspicious looks in plenty were exchanged. These pleasantries were yet incomplete when the tall window at the far end of Ithboltar’s vast spell chamber shattered from top to bottom.

  Through the opening strode the grand figure of a mage as tall as two men, white bearded and crowned with fire. He moved purposefully toward them, walking on air and holding high a staff as tall as he was. Its shining length glowed with pulsing, moving radiances. Every magelord shouted out a spell, as one—and the very air seemed to shatter.

  The end of the Old One’s chamber vanished, raining dust down into the inner courtyard of Athalgard. Unseen behind them all, Ithboltar’s crystal winked into life.

  El let the crystal Tass had taken fade into darkness once more. “Beautifully done, Myr … each one wasted a powerful spell.”

  Myrjala nodded. “We’ll not catch them that way again, though—and they’re together now, whisked away from their chambers where the knights and Farl’s folk could outnumber them.”

  El shrugged. “We’ll just have to do this the hard way, then.”

  Armsmen clattered up the stairs by the score. Tass wasn’t that good with a crossbow, but it wasn’t easy to miss striking something in that river of armored humanity. As they watched, an elf spread his hands in a spell, and the foremost armsmen stumbled, clutched at their eyes, and ran on blindly into the wall. Their fellows running right behind them tripped over the sightless, falling armsmen. Curses arose, and a thief leaned out from his perch high on a stair to slip a dagger into one open helm and bellow, “We’re under attack!” Another thief uttered a gurgling scream from somewhere near the head of the stair. A breath later, the entire stairway was a tumult of slashing blades and screaming men, Farl watched it with a widening grin on his face.

  “How can you smile at that?” Tassabra said, waving down at the men mistakenly killing each other.

  “Every one dead is one less guard to chase us, Tass—men I’ve itched to strike down for years, and dared not for fear of magelords’ seeking magic. And here they are chopping and hacking at each other—they’ve no one to blame for their deaths but themselves. Let me enjoy it, will you?”

  Braer smiled thinly but kept silence. The tall elf felt much the same way, though he didn’t like to admit it even to himself. Whatever befell hereafter, they’d got in a few good sword thrusts right through the might of the magelords this night. Nay … this day, by now.…

  Braer looked up out the great window into the gray sky of breaking dawn—and stiffened. A warning spell he’d set three days ago had just been triggered, sending its cry into his mind. He stepped back in haste; as his battle comrades turned startled faces his way, he waved at them to keep away from him.

  “My own battle begins, I fear,” he murmured, and started to grow taller, his body darkening swiftly. Wings sprouted and spread, scales shone silver in the flickering
torchlight, and a dragon shifted its bulk experimentally for a breath before bounding up through the window. Glass and timber flew in all directions, and a long tail switched once as it slid out of the room.

  Tassabra stared openmouthed as those great wings beat once, and the dragon that had been Braer surged up into the sky out of their sight. She turned her head a little to catch the last possible glimpse of him, and then her eyes rolled up in her head, she gave a little sigh, and toppled sideways.

  Farl gathered her against him with one long arm. “She never used to do this,” he complained to no one in particular. One of the elves—Delsaran was his name, Farl thought—leaned over and stroked her hair tenderly, just once.

  Undarl Dragonrider’s face was set in anger as Anglathammaroth flew swift and strong across the realm, heading for Athalgard. Something was seriously amiss. magelords fighting magelords, a rebel mob inside the castle … didn’t those fools know hated rulers will be attacked by commoners the moment they show weakness? This is what comes of letting ambitious magelings do as they pleased.… If it hadn’t been for Ithboltar, Undarl could have kept them all in a tight harness!

  The mage royal snarled in frustration as the great black dragon dived down over Hastarl, and then gaped in utter astonishment as the breaking dawn showed him a dragon rising to meet them!

  A silver dragon … Undarl’s eyes narrowed. This must be some trick set by a magelord who knew the mage royal would come to the city on dragonback … a trap to intercept him. Undarl smiled tightly and cast the strongest spell he carried. Spheres of black, chilling deathflame rolled out from his outflung hands, expanding as they rolled through the air.

  The silver dragon sheared away to one side, and Undarl’s death flames vanished. The mage royal stared at the empty air in disbelief, and then snatched out one of his wands and fired it. A green bolt of ravening radiance tore along the silver wyrm’s side. It shuddered and circled away. With a short laugh of satisfaction, Undarl urged his own dragon after it.

  “By all the gods!” a carter swore. Folk around him followed his incredulous gaze, and there was more than one shriek of terror. One man felt to his knees on the cobbles and began babbling a prayer; many others decided to pray on the run, sprinting away down the street—away from the battle raging in the air overhead as two mighty dragons circled and roared in the first bright rays of morning.

  Magic flashed, and the carter snarled a bitter oath. Of course one of the two would be the mage royal, not caring if death rained down on the citizens below—but who was the other? A silver wyrm, now! The carter peered up into the sunlight, seeing the black dragon breathe out acid in a curling cloud. That would fall as a stinging rain on … the docks, he judged, and wondered if he should be elsewhere, somewhere safer.

  But where? There was no place that the two battling wyrms might not imperil … no safe place to run to. The carter stared helplessly at the house and shops all around as more screams broke out from their windows. Down on the street folk began to run. He looked at them sprinting in all directions, and then turned his gaze back up to the sky. He shrugged. If fleeing won no safety, he might as well stay here and see all he could. He’d never see such a thing again … and if he lived to tell about it, he could always say he’d been there, and watched it through to the end.

  The black dragon roared out a challenge. Baerithryn of the High Forest wasted no breath in reply. He was working a magic as he rose in a tight spiral, banking and curling his tail to avoid the bolts of death the wizard was firing repeatedly from his wand.

  “Stand and fight!” Undarl snarled. A moment later, a bolt caught the wheeling silver dragon’s tail. It convulsed and plunged down below him, wind rippling in its wings, followed by the mage royal’s triumphant laughter.

  Something flickered in the air around him, but Undari felt no pain: A failed spell, he thought, dismissing it with a shrug, and urged Anglathammaroth into a dive. If its claws could rake the silver wyrm’s wings, this battle could be ended right now.

  The black wyrm’s shoulders surged powerfully. Undarl exulted in its might as the wind streaming past his ears rose into a wail. Aye, let it be now!

  The silver wyrm was beating its wings frantically, trying to evade Anglathammaroth’s dive. Undarl snarled at his steed to turn, turn, and not let their foe escape … but the smaller, lighter silver dragon was turning tightly back in and under them. They were going to plunge past it.…

  Anglathammaroth twisted violently; only the harness kept Undarl from falling helplessly out of his high saddle. The black dragon’s limbs curled as he tried to rake or bat at their foe with at least one cruel claw, but the silver wyrm was arching away from them. It was going to slide completely clear! As the rooftops of Hastarl rushed up to meet them, Undarl snarled in anger and triggered his wand again, aiming at the silver dragon’s face. Its eyes, proud and sorrowful, met his own: it knew he could not miss.

  The green bolt leaped out—and there was a flash as it struck a hitherto unseen barrier, a sphere around Undarl that—gods!

  The mage royal roared out in helpless fear as the rebounding bolt crashed into him. Faerûn seemed to explode around him. The torn ends of harness straps slapped his face and shoulders, he spun in agony and felt a new, greater pain as one of the other wands in his sleeve exploded, blasting that arm to nothing and flinging him out of the saddle.… Then, mercifully, Undarl Dragonrider lost all sight of sky and twisting dragons and rooftops below.…

  The black dragon screamed, a raw sound of horror and agony that echoed back from the city below, awakening every citizen of Hastarl who still slept. The wyrm arched and writhed, but its back was broken, the torn flesh where the saddle had been streaming gore into the wind. Nerveless wings trembled helplessly. Unable to turn, Anglathammaroth dived on toward Athalgard.

  The crash shook all Hastarl. Flying raggedly, curled around his own weary agony, Braer saw those black wings crumple like those of a crushed insect—and the castle tower they’d struck shifted, cracked, and with a thunderous roar, toppled over into the courtyard below. Doomed armsmen screamed as they saw death coming down on them; Braer closed his eyes so as not to see the destruction.

  Pain ruled him now. Braer felt his magic failing, his torn and bleeding body shifting and dwindling. As his wings receded back into the slim shoulders of an elf, he began to fall.

  The rooftops were very close; he hadn’t much time for a last prayer “Mother Mystra,” he gasped, fighting to open his eyes. He had a brief glimpse of smoke trailing from his own limbs, and then he was caught by something and cradled gently, the rushing wind around him slowing. Tears were blinding him. Furiously Baerithryn blinked them away and stared up into the face of his rescuer.

  Dark eyes glowed with power in the face bent so close over his own. It was Elminster’s colleague, Myrjala, and yet—Braer’s eyes widened in recognition and awe. “Lady?”

  It was dark and cold this deep in the dripping cellars of Athalgard. Here below the sewers, the solid stone walls sweated water, and things long undisturbed scuttled or slid away as the sudden fire blazed in their midst. Blood and formless flesh curled and flowed at its heart; flesh that blurred and coiled and spasmed, as all that was left of Undarl Dragonrider fought to rebuild his body. A long time the mage royal struggled, the light flickering and waning as the man shaped one arm onto the shoulder, head, and back that had survived. Then he fought with all his will, panting, to give himself legs again.

  Several times he slipped toward his true form, but each time regained the semblance he wanted—a taller, more regal Undarl. The pain ebbed as his confidence grew.… He was winning.… He could weave all matter to his will, given time enough.

  A second arm lengthened into a hand and fingers. Undarl fought to control its thrashing, but could not. Not yet. Give me, gods, just a little more time.…

  The magelords were arguing bitterly as Elminster rose like a vengeful wraith from Ithboltar’s crystal. Bits of the ceiling broke off here and there to fall and shatter on the f
loor below. Proud wizards stepped back hastily. El’s hard eyes were on the Old One as he whispered the last careful words of a mighty incantation.

  It ended—and the stone floor of the chamber split from end to end with a crack that deafened them all. Gems, blazing like tiny fireballs, flew in all directions from the Old One’s crown.

  Ithboltar staggered, screamed in pain, and clutched his head.

  A few of the magelords saw Elminster as he vanished back into the crystal, but their angry and disbelieving gazes were caught by the flickering forces spiraling out from the shattered skullcap on Ithboltar’s head. Smoke was rising from their staggering ex-tutor’s eyes. The crown pulsed, spinning a vortex of gathering force out into the chamber.

  Hasty incantations were being chanted all over the shattered chamber as the vortex shivered, throwing off roiling waves of force that swept the wizards into each other and dashed them against the walls … and the crown exploded, white bolts of destruction stabbing out in all directions. Magelords wailed and flickered in and out of visibility as contingencies took effect.

  Watching the scene from a balcony across the courtyard, Myrjala murmured the last words of a spell of her own. A bloody, disheveled Elminster appeared out of the air beside her, gasping.

  They stared together into the shattered chamber. Ithboltar’s headless body swayed for a moment, took one unsteady step forward and fell. Over against one wall, a magelord was gibbering on his knees, and another of the mages had become a smoking heap of bones and ashes.

  The other wizards were struggling to escape, hands moving in frantic spellcastings. The vortex, adorned with the swirling bolts the crown had spat into it, gathered speed and strength like an angry cyclone as it swept across the chamber toward them. A roar like a deep, unending roll of thunder grew and moved with it, throwing back echoes from the walls and towers of Athalgard. The entire castle began to shake.

  Myrjala frowned and made a pulling motion with her hands. The seeing eye she commanded slid through the ragged gap in the wall to hang just outside the tower “The crown,” she murmured, “must be holding them in the room.”