The Making of a Mage Page 5

  It was a good place, furnished with heaped blankets and old cloaks. Dwarves had shown it to Helm Stoneblade long ago, and from time to time the outlaws still found firewood, prepared torches, or cases of quarrels left in the deeper side passages, next to the privies the outlaws used. The wrinkled old outlaw woman Mauri had told El once that they’d never seen the dwarves, “But they want us here. The Stout Folk like anything that weakens the wizards, for they see their doom in men growing overstrong.… We already outbreed them like rabbits, an’ if ever we o’ermatch elven magic, they’ll be staring at their graves.…”

  Now she looked up through her warts and bristles at the arriving band, grinned toothlessly at them, and said, “Food, valiant warriors?”

  “Aye,” Engarl joked, “and when we’ve feasted, we’ll give ye some to replace it.” He chuckled at his jest, but the dozen or so ragged outlaws awake around them only snorted sourly in reply; they’d no food left but four shriveled potatoes Mauri had kept safe in the filthy folds of her gargantuan bosom for the last two days, and had taken to chewing on the bitter glow-fungi to still aching stomachs while they waited for one of the bands to bring back meat.

  Now they hustled to get a fire going and drag out the cooking frame of rusting sword blades woven together in a rough square. The band stamped the last snows from their boots and unwrapped their bloody bundles. Mauri leaned forward, slapping outlaw hands away to see what had been brought to her table.

  Sargeth’s band was the best; all of them knew that. El, the worst blade in it but the fastest on his feet, was glad to be a part of it and kept silent when his fellows fought or blustered. They were too cold and exhausted most of the winters to afford dispute among themselves. Once a wizard had found Wind Cavern and died in a hail of crossbow quarrels—but otherwise, Elminster had seen the hated mages of Athalantar little in the passing years; the outlaws struck at patrols of armsmen so often that the magelings had stopped riding with them.

  A smiling, red-bearded rogue they all knew as Javal blew to make the fire catch and said with satisfaction, “We caught another two coming from Daera’s earlier this night.”

  “That’d best be enough for a time,” Sargeth grunted in reply as he and his companions shed gauntlets, headgear, and the heaviest of the furs and scraps of scavenged leather they wore, “or they’ll think her night-comfort lasses are working with us an’ burn them out, or lie ready with a mage to work our own trap on us.”

  Javal’s smile went away. He made a face and nodded slowly. “Ye see the right road as usual, Sar.”

  Sargeth merely grunted and held his hands to the growing warmth of the kindling fire. Armsmen from Heldreth’s Horn, the outermost fortress of Athalantar, had gone out to buy the favors of village lasses for as long as the keep had stood. A dozen summers back, some maids had converted an old farm into a house of pleasure and sold their guests wildflower wine besides; the outlaws had slain more than a few armsmen riding home from there drunken and alone. “Aye, ‘tis best we leave the lustlorn alone for a time, an’ catch ’em again in spring.”

  “What, and leave them to slay and pillage until spring? How many more warriors can you afford to lose?”

  The wizard’s voice was cold—colder than the chill battlements where they stood, looking out over the ice-cloaked waters of the Unicorn Run. The swordmaster of Sarn Torel spread strong, hairy hands and said helplessly, “None, Lord Mage. That’s why I dare send no more—every man who rides west out of here’s going to his death and knows it. They’re that close to open defiance now … and I’ve the law to keep in the streets here, too. If caravan merchants and peddlers are fool enough to go from realm to realm in the deep snows, let ’em look to their own hides, I say—and leave the bandits to freeze in the Hills without our swords to entertain ’em.”

  The wizard’s gaze then was even colder than his voice had been.

  The swordmaster quailed inwardly and firmly took hold of the stone merlon in front of him to keep from stepping back a pace or two and showing his fear. He dropped his own gaze to the frozen moss clinging to cracks and chips in the stone and wished he were somewhere else. Somewhere warmer, where they’d never heard of wizards.

  “I do not recall the king asking for your view of your duties—though I’ve no doubt he’ll be most interested to find how … creatively … they cleave from his own,” came the mage’s voice, silken soft now.

  The swordmaster forced himself to turn and stare into dark eyes that glittered with malice. “ ’Tis your wish then, Lord Mage,” he asked, stressing the word just enough that the wizard would know that the swordmaster thought the king a wiser warrior than all his strutting magelords, and would have no such view of his swordmaster’s prudence, “that I send more armsmen to patrol from the Horn?”

  The wizard hesitated, then as softly as before, asked, “Let me know your wish, Swordmaster. Perhaps we can come to some agreement.”

  The swordmaster took a deep breath and held those dark, deadly eyes with his own. “Send to the Horn a cutter full of mages, apprentices even, providing that one mage of experience commands them. Twenty armsmen—all I dare spare—ride with them to the Horn, and from there act as necessary to hunt these outlaws with magic and destroy them.”

  They stared at each other for a long, chill moment, and then, slowly, Magelord Kadeln Olothstar smiled—thinly, but the swordmaster had wondered if the man knew how. “A stout plan, indeed, Swordmaster. I knew we could agree on something this day.” He looked north over the snow-clad farms across the river for a moment, then added, “I hope a suitable sledge can be speedily found rather than one that comes not or must be built and finds us still preparing come spring.”

  The swordmaster pointed down over the battlements with one gauntleted hand. “See the logs there by the mill? One of those cutters beneath ’em can be free by tonight, and a pair of the huts we use to cover the wells lashed atop it before morn.”

  The wizard smiled softly, a snake contemplating prey that cannot escape. “Then in the morn they’ll set out. You shall have twelve mages, Swordmaster—one of them Magelord Landorl Valadarm.”

  The warrior nodded, wondering privately whether Landorl was a fumbling dolt or someone who had simply earned Kadeln’s displeasure. He hoped for the latter. Then this Landorl might at least be useful if the gods-cursed outlaws attacked the cutter.

  The two men smiled tightly at each other, there on the battlements, and then both turned their backs deliberately to show they dared to and strode slowly away with a show of casual unconcern. Their every step told the world they were strong men, free of all fear.

  The battlements of Sarn Torel stood still and silent, unimpressed, as they would stand when both men were long in their graves. It takes a lot to impress a castle wall.

  Elminster was happily blowing on scorched fingers, licking the last scraps of horseflesh from them, when one of the watchers burst into the cavern and gasped out, “Patrol! Found the way in—killed Aghelyn, an’ prob’ly more. Some o’ them ran straight back to tell where we lair!”

  All over the cavern men swore and scrambled to their feet, shouting. Sargeth cut through the din with a bellow. “Crossbows and blades; all but Mauri. The lads and the wounded, stand guard in the glowcavern—all others with me, now!”

  As they ran through the darkness, swearing and ringing their weapons off the unseen stone in their haste, Sargeth added, “Brerest! Eladar! Try to get clear of the fight here and go after those who’re running back to the wizards—you’re the fastest afoot of all here old enough to swing a real blade. I need those armsmen all dead—or we will be.”

  “Aye,” Elminster and Brerest panted, and went through the mouth of Wind Cavern in a roll. The quarrel that sought their lives hissed past and struck the rock within easy reach of Sargeth’s head. The second one missed entirely—but Elminster came to a stop behind a snow-cloaked boulder in time to see the third take Sargeth in the eye, and drive him back like a crumpled bag of bones, to slide down the rock wall, twitching.<
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  Elminster laid his drawn dagger beside him in the snow, snatched up the old, mended crossbow that had fallen from Sargeth’s hands, and cranked at it for all he was worth. The windlass clattered loudly, but outlaws were rushing past and firing their own bows now, and shouts told him that some of their bolts were finding their marks.

  Loaded at last. “Tempus aid my aim,” Elminster murmured, scratching his finger on his dagger tip until blood came to seal the prayer to the war god. Then he laid the ready bow down, whipped off the helm he wore, and waved it on one side of the boulder.

  A quarrel hissed past. Elminster scooped up the bow and was around the boulder in an instant. As he’d expected, the armsman was standing to watch his target die—so Elminster had a clear shot at his face, past a knot of howling, hacking outlaws and coolly slaying armsmen.

  El aimed carefully—and missed. Cursing, he leaped back—but Brerest came past him with a loaded crossbow of his own, set himself, and fired carefully.

  The armsman had started to turn away, seeking cover. His face sprouted a quarrel, his head spun around, and he staggered back and fell.

  Elminster threw down his bow, snatched up his dagger, and sprinted through the snow, dodging desperately fighting men. He was still a few hard-running paces short of the first rock large enough to shelter behind when an armsman rose from behind the second rock, ready crossbow in hand, to aim into the fray in front of the cavern. Seeing Elminster, he swung his weapon around hurriedly. There was no way he could miss.

  Elminster skidded to a desperate stop, then changed direction and dived into the nearest snowbank. He landed hard in a flurry of snow, slid across unseen smooth rock, and flipped over, expecting to feel the thump of death striking home at any moment.

  It didn’t come. El wiped snow from his face and looked up.

  Brerest or one of the other outlaws had been lucky The armsman was curled over the top of his rock, barehanded and groaning, a shaft through his shoulder.

  “Thankee, Tempus,” Elminster said with feeling, took two running steps, and flung himself right over the top of the first boulder, heels first, to crash down on whomever might be there. The armsman was on his knees, struggling with a jammed windlass; Elminster’s landing smashed him to the ground like a rag doll, and El dragged his dagger across the man’s throat a breath later. “For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!” he whispered, and found himself blinking back sudden tears as his father’s face came to mind.

  Not now, he told himself desperately, and ran on toward the next boulder. The wounded man saw him and struggled to get aside, groaning. Elminster drove his dagger home and snarled, “For Amrythale, his princess!” Then he ducked down, scooped up the man’s loaded bow from where it had fallen—and looked up in time to fire it into another armsman, who had just risen from cover with a spear in his hand. Ahead, another armsman took an outlaw quarrel in the hand, screamed, and fell back behind his rock, sobbing.

  The clash of arms back by the cavern had ceased. El risked a look back and saw only dead men. They lay in bloody heaps in front of the cavern … and just a few paces away lay Brerest, both hands clutching forever at a quarrel that stood out of his heart.

  Gods! Sargeth and Brerest both … and everyone, if those armsmen got word back to the wizards. How many armsmen were there? Four dead, for sure, Elminster thought as he ran forward, crouching low, plus all those by the cavern. The hail of quarrels hissing up and down the ravine had ceased—was everyone dead?

  No, the sobbing armsman and perhaps two more lay ahead, somewhere in these rocks. There had to be at least two patrols here, and they’d not have sent more than three from each patrol—perhaps only three in all—to report to the wizards. To have any hope of catching them, he had to find the horses these’d come on, and … of course! Some of the missing armsmen, two at least, were holding the horses below.

  Elminster crawled around the boulder, keeping low, and took four daggers and a spear from the two dead men. An outlaw quarrel hissed out of the cavern and almost took him from behind; he sighed and crawled on in the snow.

  He had almost reached the sobbing armsman when another rose from behind a rock to aim carefully at the cavern mouth. Elminster cast the spear; it was in the air before the man caught sight of him.

  The armsman didn’t have time to change his aim. His bow hurled a quarrel harmlessly down the ravine as the spear took him in the breast, plucking him away from his rock, and flung him back to crash down on his shoulders in the snow, bouncing and arching in agony.

  Elminster’s charge took him onto the armsman’s bloody chest, and he stabbed down again with his bloody dagger. “For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!” he snarled as he dealt death, and the warrior under his knees managed a startled look before all light fled from behind his eyes.

  Elminster flung himself aside in a roll. Quarrels and spears from both ends of the ravine crossed in the air above the dead warrior where he’d been kneeling. Scrabbling in the snow, Elminster slew the man who was still clutching his bleeding hand. “For my mother, Amrythale!”

  Panting, he took up the man’s bow and ducked behind a rock to catch his breath and ready the weapon. His boots bristled with spare daggers now, and the bow was soon loaded. He crouched low, cradled it in his arms, and came around the last rock with his finger on the trigger.

  No one was there. Elminster stood frozen for a moment, and then knelt down. Another outlaw quarrel hummed past to fall into the empty snows below the ravine. El watched it go, and then looked up. He could climb the shoulder of the ravine and from above see where the armsmen had gone; the snow had stopped falling and the wind had died, leaving the hills around white and smooth with fresh-fallen snow

  Everyone could see him as he climbed, too, aye—but then, Tyche put a little hazard into everyone’s life.

  Elminster sighed as he plucked the quarrel from its groove and slid it down into one of his boots. He left the bow cocked as he slung it across his back by the carry strap and scrambled up the slope.

  He’d not climbed more than his own height before a quarrel tore into the snow a handspan away from his head. El snatched at it, kicked himself free of the snowy rocks and frozen grass, and slid back down the slope, feigning lifelessness. The quarrel came with him as he crashed on his face in the snow, trying to keep his bow unbroken.

  Tears blinded him for a moment, but his nose didn’t seem broken. He blinked them away and spat out snow while he slid the bow free. It was unbroken; he loaded it, emitting a drawn out rattling groan to cover the sounds he made.

  An armsman with a second crossbow ready rose out of a snowy thicket nearby, looking for the man he’d hit. He and Elminster saw each other at the same instant. Both fired. And both missed. Elminster found his feet as the quarrel sang past him—would he forever be running around this ravine, panting and slipping?—snatched daggers from his boots, and ran toward the thicket, blades flashing in both fists. He was afraid the warrior had a third bow cocked and ready.…

  He was right. The armsman rose again with a triumphant smile on his face—and Elminster flung a dagger at him. The man’s smile tightened in fear, and he fired in haste.

  The quarrel leaped at Elminster, who flung himself desperately over backward. As he fell, his knife met the quarrel with a clang and a spark. The dagger spun wildly away, and the quarrel burned past Elminster, ripping open his chin and thrusting his head around.

  El roared in pain and fell on his knees, hearing the crunching of the armsman’s boots behind him as the warrior came running. Elminster turned, shaking his head to clear it and growling at the pain. The man was scant paces away, sword raised to slay, when El flung the dagger in his other hand into the man’s face.

  It clanged harmlessly off the nose guard of the armsman’s helm, but the man’s swing missed the diving youth, the sword striking the snowy ground and the rocks beneath. The warrior roared and fell heavily on top of Elminster’s left hand.

  Elminster screamed. Gods, the pain! The man rolled about atop
his hand, kicking at the snow to get a grip with his boots. Elminster sobbed, and the world turned green and yellow and swam fuzzily. He grabbed at his belt with his free hand. Nothing there. The man grunted; Elminster felt the hot breath of the armsman turning to face him and bring his blade down. His weight drove the hidden bulk of the Lion Sword, on its thong, bruisingly into Elminster’s chest.

  Desperate, Elminster tore at the throat of his jerkin. His fingers found the hilt of the sword. Over long nights in his first winter in the hills, he’d sharpened the broken stub of the blade until it had a keen, raw edge and point—but beyond the quillons, the weapon wasn’t even as long as his hand. Its puny length saved him now. As the armsman’s face glared into his, inches away, and his elbow swept his sword up for a gutting thrust, Elminster thrust the Lion Sword up and into his eye.

  “For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!” he hissed—and as the hot rush of blood drenched him, found himself sinking into red, wet darkness.…

  He was floating somewhere dark and still. Whispers rose and fell around him, half-heard through a slow, rhythmic thudding.… Elminster felt the pain of his hand and an answering ache all around. In his head? Yes, and the white glow was rising and pulsing, now—the one he saw when he gathered his mind. The glow grew, and the pain lessened.

  Ah, thus! Elminster pushed with his mind, and the white radiance faded. He felt a little tired, but the pain receded … he pushed again, and again felt weaker, but now the pain was almost gone.

  So. He could push pain aside. Could he truly heal himself? Elminster bent his will … and suddenly all his aches and hurts returned, and he could feel cold, hard ground beneath his shoulders, and the wet stickiness of sweat all over. From the place of whispers, he swam up, up, and burst out into the light.