The Making of a Mage Read online

  PRAISE FOR ED GREENWOOD

  “An old wizard with the power to delight youngsters and horrify adults reveals his early beginnings in this strong fantasy, which traces the evolution of a mage’s powers. This joins others in the Forgotten Realms series: readers with a prior familiarity will be the best bets for this strong winner.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  (on Elminster: The Making of a Mage)

  “With memorable characters and unforgettable settings, Ed Greenwood will take you on an adventure you will not soon forget.”

  —BC Books Review

  (on The Annotated Elminster)

  “A nonstop adventure story filled with life lessons.”

  —Fantasy Book Critic

  (on Elminster: The Making of a Mage)

  “… this is sword and sorcery at the next level.”

  —John Ottinger III, Grasping for the Wind

  (on Swords of Dragonfire)

  SAGE OF SHADOWDALE

  Elminster, the Old Mage, the Chosen of Mystra. Across the face of Faerûn and throughout her history, the Sage of Shadowdale, by whatever name, has always stood firm against the tide of darkness.

  Elminster: The Making of a Mage

  Elminster in Myth Drannor

  The Temptation of Elminster

  Elminster in Hell

  Elminster’s Daughter

  The Annotated Eliminster

  Elminster Ascending

  Elminster Must Die

  Bury Elminster Deep

  [August 2011]

  THE KNIGHTS OF MYTH DRANNOR

  From the pastoral village of Espar to a road fraught with danger, magic, and the dubious attentions of villains and royalty alike, the rise of the Knights of Myth Drannor is a remarkable adventure.

  Book I

  Swords of Eveningstar

  Book II

  Swords of Dragonfire

  Book III

  The Sword Never Sleeps

  ALSO BY ED GREENWOOD

  The City of Splendors: A Waterdeep Novel

  (with Elaine Cunningham)

  The Best of the Realms, Book II

  The Stories of Ed Greenwood

  Edited by Susan J. Morris

  Elminster: The Making of a Mage

  ©2010 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Other trademarks are property of their respective owners.

  Cover art by Jeff Easley

  Map by Todd Gamble

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5961-7

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  DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  To Jenny

  For Love

  And Understanding

  And Being There

  … As Always

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Prelude

  Prologue

  Part I - Brigand Chapter One - Dragon Fire—and Doom

  Chapter Two - Wolves in Winter

  Chapter Three - All Too Much Death in The Snows

  Part II - Burglar Chapter Four - They Come Out at Night

  Chapter Five - To Chain a Mage

  Chapter Six - Squalor Among Thieves

  Part III - Priest Chapter Seven - The One True Spell

  Chapter Eight - To Serve Mystra

  Chapter Nine - The Way of a Mage

  Part IV - Magus Chapter Ten - In the Floating Tower

  Chapter Eleven - A Blue Flame

  Chapter Twelve - Hard Choices, Easy Dooms

  Chapter Thirteen - Spells Enough to Die

  Chapter Fourteen - No Greater Fool

  Part V - King Chapter Fifteen - And the Prey Is Man

  Chapter Sixteen - When Mages Go to War

  Chapter Seventeen - For Athalantar

  Chapter Eighteen - The Price of a Throne

  Epilogue

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF

  UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  There are only two precious things on earth:

  the first is love; the second, a long way behind it,

  is intelligence.

  —Gaston Berger

  Life has no meaning but what we give it.

  I wish a few more of ye would give it a little.

  —Elminster of Shadowdale

  verba volant, scripta manent

  PRELUDE

  Of course, Lord Mourngrym,” Lhaeo replied, gesturing up the stairs with a ladle that was still dripping jalanth sauce. “He’s in his study. You know the way.”

  Mourngrym nodded his thanks to Elminster’s scribe and took the dusty stairs two at a time, charging urgently up into the gloom. The Old Mage’s instructions had been quite—

  He came to a halt, dust swirling around him mockingly. The cozy little room held the usual crammed shelves, worn carpet, and comfortable chair … and Elminster’s pipe was floating, ready, above the side table. But of the Old Mage himself, there was no sign.

  Mourngrym shrugged and dashed on up the next set of stairs, to the spell chamber. A glowing circle pulsed alone on the floor there, cold and white. The small circular room was otherwise e
mpty.

  The Lord of Shadowdale hesitated a moment, and then mounted the last flight of stairs. He’d never dared disturb the Old Mage in his bedchamber before, but …

  The door was ajar. Mourngrym peered in cautiously, hand going to his sword hilt out of long habit. Stars twinkled silently and endlessly in the dark domed ceiling over the circular bed that filled the room—but that resting place hadn’t been slept in since the dust had settled. The room was as empty of life as the others. Unless he was invisible or had taken on the shape of a book or something of the sort, Elminster was nowhere in his tower.

  Mourngrym looked warily all around, hairs prickling on the backs of his hands. The Old Mage could be anywhere, on worlds and planes only he and the gods knew of. Mourngrym frowned—and then shrugged. After all, what did anyone in the Realms—besides the Seven Sisters, perhaps—really know about Elminster’s plans or his past?

  “I wonder,” the Lord of Shadowdale mused aloud as he started the long walk back down to Lhaeo, “where Elminster came from, anyway? Was he ever a young lad? Where … ? And what was the world like then?”

  It must have been great fun, growing up as a powerful wizard.…

  PROLOGUE

  It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness and glittering stars across the sky. The day had been cool, and the night promised to be clear and cold. The last rosy embers of day glimmered on the long hair of a lone rider from the west, and lengthening shadows crept ahead of her.

  The woman looked around at the gathering night as she rode. Her liquid black eyes were large and framed by arched brows—stern power and keen wits at odds with demure beauty. Whether for the power or the beauty there, most men did not look past the honey-brown tresses curling around her pert white face, and even queens lusted after her beauty—one at least did, of a certainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride, only sadness. In the spring, wildfires had raged across all these lands, leaving behind legions of charred and leafless spars instead of the lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.

  As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled somewhere away to the north. The call was answered from near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of the hardened knights who dared ride this road only in large, well-armed patrols—and their wary surprise would not have ended there. The lady rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her, time and again flapping around her hips and hampering her sword arm. Only a fool would allow such a thing—but this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road without even a sword at her hip. A patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress and reached for their blades accordingly. They’d not have been wrong.

  She was Myrjala “Darkeyes,” as the silvern sigil on her cloak proclaimed. Myrjala was feared for her wild ways as much as for the might of her magic, but though all folk feared her, many farmers and townsfolk loved her. Proud lords in castles did not; she’d been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a vengeful whirlwind, leaving blazing bodies in dark warning to others. In some places she was most unwelcome.

  As night’s full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, twisted in her saddle, and did off her cloak. She spoke a single soft word, and the cloth twisted in her hands, changing from its usual dark green to a russet hue. The silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined golden trumpets.

  The transformation did not end with the cloak. Myrjala’s long curls darkened and shrank about her shoulders—shoulders suddenly alive and broadening with roiling humps of muscle. The hands that donned the cloak again had become hairy and stubby fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the pack behind the saddle and belted it on. Thus armed, the man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly shaped herald badge could be clearly seen, listened to the wolf howl again—closer now—and calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one last hill. Ahead lay a castle where a spy dined this night—a spy for the evil wizards bent on seizing the Stag Throne of Athalantar. That realm lay not far off to the east. The man in the saddle stroked his elegant beard and spurred his horse onward. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with arrows and ready blades, a lord herald was always welcome. Yet magic was the best blade against a wizard’s spy.

  The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the herald’s horse clottered over the wooden drawbridge. The badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by the gate guards. A bell tolled once within, and the knight of the gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast.

  “Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace.”

  The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.

  “ ’Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald; ye must know hunger,” the knight added less formally, helping him down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps, awkward with saddle stiffness, and smiled thinly.

  Startling dark eyes rose to meet those of the knight. “Oh, I’ve come much farther than that,” the herald said softly, nodded a wordless farewell, and strode away into the castle. He walked like a man who knew his way—and welcome—well.

  The knight watched him go, face expressionless in puzzlement. An armsman nearby leaned close and murmured, “No spurs … and no esquires or armsmen. What manner of herald is this?”

  The knight of the gate shrugged. “If he lost them on the road or there’s some other tale of interest, we’ll know it soon enough. See to his horse.” He turned, then stiffened in fresh surprise. The herald’s horse was standing near and watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. It nodded and took a half step to bring its reins smoothly to the armsman’s hand. The men exchanged wary glances before the armsman led it away.

  The knight watched them for a moment before shrugging and striding back to the mouth of the gate. There’d be much talk on watch later, whatever befell. Out in the night nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the horses snorted and stamped nervously.

  Then a window in the castle above flickered with sudden light—magical light from a battle spell, and the battle was joined. There was a terrific commotion within, scattering plates and overturned tables, shrieks of serving maids and roars of flame. Next moment, these sounds were joined by the shouts of the knights in the courtyard below.

  That had been no herald, and from the sound and smell of it, others within the castle were not what they seemed, either. The knight gritted his teeth and clenched his sword, starting for the keep. If Morlin fell to these wicked spell-slingers, would the Stag King fall next? And if all Athalantar fell, there would be years upon years of sorcerous tyranny. Aye, there would be ruin and misery ahead … And who could ever rise to oppose these magelords?

  PART

  I

  BRIGAND

  ONE

  DRAGON FIRE—AND DOOM

  Dragons? Splendid things, lad—so long as ye look upon them only in tapestries, or in the masks worn at revels, or from about three realms off.…

  ASTRAGARL HORNWOOD, MAGE OF ELEMBAR SAID TO AN APPRENTICE YEAR OF THE TUSK

  The sun beat down bright and hot on the rock pile that crowned the high pasture. Far below, the village, cloaked in trees, lay under a blue-green haze of mist—magic mist, some said, conjured by the mist-mages of the Fair Folk, whose magic worked both good and ill. The ill things were spoken of more often, of course, for many folk in Heldon did not love elves.

  Elminster was not one of them. He hoped to meet the elves someday—really meet, that is—to touch smooth skin and pointed ears, to converse with them. These woods had once been theirs, and they yet knew the secret places where beasts laired and suchlike. He’d like to know all that, someday, when he was a man and could walk where he pleased.

  El sighed, shifted into a more comfortable position against his favorite rock, an
d from habit glanced at the falling slopes of the meadow to be sure his sheep were safe. They were.

  Not for the first time, the bony, beak-nosed youth peered south, squinting. Brushing unruly jet-black hair aside with one slim hand, he kept his fingers raised to shade his piercing blue-gray eyes, trying vainly to see the turrets of far off, splendid Athalgard, in the heart of Hastarl, by the river. As always, he could see the faint bluish haze that marked the nearest curve of the Delimbiyr, but no more. Father told him often that the castle was much too far off to be seen from here—and, from time to time, added that the fair span of distance between it and their village was a good thing.

  Elminster longed to know what that meant, but this was one of the many things his father would not speak of. When asked, he settled his oft smiling lips into a stony line, and his level gray eyes would meet Elminster’s own with a sharper look than usual but no words ever emerged. El hated secrets—at least those he didn’t know. He’d learn all the secrets someday, somehow. Someday, too, he’d see the castle the minstrels said was so splendid … mayhap even walk its battlements … aye.…

  A breeze ghosted gently over the meadow, bending the weed heads briefly. It was the Year of Flaming Forests, in the month of Eleasias, a few days short of Eleint. Already the nights were turning very cold. After six seasons of minding sheep on the high meadow, El knew it’d not be long before leaves were blowing about, and the Fading would truly begin.

  The shepherd-lad sighed and shrugged his worn, patched leather jerkin closer about him. It had once belonged to a forester. Under a patch on the back, it still bore a ragged, dark-stained hole where an arrow—an elfin arrow, some said—had taken the man’s life. Elminster wore the old jack—scabbard buckles, tears from long-gone lord’s badges, and worn edges from past adventures—for all the dash its history made him feel. Sometimes, though, he wished it fit him a little better.