The Making of a Mage Page 6

  The sky was blue and cloudless overhead. Elminster lay on his back on snowy rocks, stiff, cold, and aching. Gingerly, he rolled to one side and looked around. No sign of anyone or any movement—good, because his head swam and pounded and he had to duck down again to catch his breath. The darkness again rushed up to claim him … and it felt so good, his head so heavy.…

  A little later, he rolled over. Snow vultures flapped heavily into the air, circled over the ravine, and squalled complaints at him.

  The last armsman lay dead beside him, the Lion Sword in his face. Elminster winced at the sight, but put his hand to the blade, turned his head away, and pulled it free. Wiping it in the snow, he squinted at the dimming sky—steel-gray now, with the last light of day ebbing behind full clouds—and got up. He had a task to finish if he wanted to live.

  He felt weak and a little numb. Down the ravine in the open space in front of the Wind Cavern, eight or more armsmen and more than twice that many outlaws lay dead, quarrels protruding from most of the still forms. The vultures were circling overhead, and wolves would be here soon. Hopefully they’d find enough to feed on without entering the caves, where the weak would guard until armsmen came to hack them down. He’d have to slay more armsmen to prevent that … and he was getting sick of killing. El grinned weakly as he went down the ravine, averting his eyes from the sprawled dead he passed. Some brave outlaw warrior he was!

  At the mouth of the ravine was a large trampled area trailing off into tracks of horses coming and leaving. The armsmen must have given their fellows up for dead. Elminster’s shoulders sagged. He couldn’t outrun horses in this deep snow. He and the other survivors were doomed … unless he gathered all the bows and blades he could, took them to the last outlaws waiting in the darkness, and made the caves a deathtrap for the armsmen. Still, some would survive to identify the lair for later forays, and besides, what if they began by hurling a fire spell into the caves? No.

  Elminster flopped down onto a boulder to think. His sudden descent saved his life; a crossbow quarrel hummed just over his head to vanish into a snowbank close by. The youngest prince of Athalantar—perhaps the last prince of Athalantar—dived hastily off his boulder into the snow, face first, and floundered about in the chilly stuff until he was huddled behind the rock. He peered up whence the bolt had come.

  Sure enough. High on the shoulder of the ridge, overlooking the ravine, was one armsman. They’d left one behind to pin the outlaws in their lair—or track them if they burst out in numbers. Of course—that was why so many of the outlaws wore crossbow quarrels!

  Elminster sighed. Some crafty woods-warrior he was. Well, this armsman’s horse would be somewhere just below him, around the other side of the ridge. If he could get to it and ride out of bowshot, in time …

  Aye, and frogs might fly, too … Elminster frowned and tried to recall where the crossbows had fallen. That last armsman, who’d almost slain him … yes! He’d had three bows, and dropped them all after firing—in that thicket, there! El sighed once, and then started to crawl on his belly in the snow. A quarrel hissed past him again—close, but hopefully there’d be no time for a second shot.

  “Tempus and Tyche aid me; I feel the need of both of ye,” Elminster muttered, hurrying in the cold powdery snow. And then he was in the thicket, crouching low as a third crossbow bolt rattled snow off the trunks around him, cracked against a sapling, and fell broken into the snow somewhere off to the left. How different battle was from what the traveling minstrels sang about!

  That thought brought him to the first and second bows, lying in deep snow. They were wet—but if the gods smiled would still fire true until they dried; they’d doubtless twist a bit then. A belt-box and the scattered quarrels it had held were strewn beside the bows.

  Elminster calmly worked the dead man’s windlass. From the ridge above, he could hear the faint clatter of the living armsman’s own bow-winch. The third bow lay fallen a few paces in front of the thicket; Elminster didn’t dare go out to get it. When both bows were loaded and full-ready, Elminster started to worm his way sideways in the thicket.

  A quarrel dusted snow from a tree back where he’d been. Elminster grinned tightly and stepped forward for a good look. The armsman had just bobbed down to get his second bow. El set down one of his own and raised the other, aimed at where the man had sunk out of view

  The moment he saw movement there, he fired.

  Tyche was with him. The man rose right into the path of the quarrel; Elminster heard his startled gasp, saw him throw his hands up, and watched the man’s crossbow crash and cartwheel down the snow-clad slope into the ravine. A moment later, thudding heavily, the body of the armsman followed it.

  Elminster unloaded his second bow, fired it empty to leave its workings loose, then snatched up all three bows and the belt-box of quarrels and hurried around the ridge.

  There was the horse—alone and unguarded, thank the gods! In a few breaths, Elminster had tied his gear to a seemingly endless collection of saddle straps and thongs, and was in the saddle, urging the patrol mount to follow the armsmen’s trail. It went willingly enough, but slipped and slid in the snow in something a little faster than a trot and a lot slower than a gallop. The tracks ahead were clear and easy to follow so Elminster kicked his heels at the horse’s flanks and urged it on. He had to get to Heldreth’s Horn before any wizard there caught sight of him by some sort of scrying spell and dealt death from afar.

  Soon he was riding hard, the crossbows bouncing bruisingly at his back, and the mist of his breath streaming back behind him into the darkening air. Night was coming down fast over the hills. He had to succeed; the lives of the outlaws trapped back at Lawless Castle depended on it.

  As he rode, he smiled at a sudden memory: his father’s careful lessons on the duty of every man and maid in the kingdom, from farmer to king. If Elthryn had dwelt longer on the duties of king and prince than on those of a farmer or miller, Elminster had thought this only right—the duties were so much grander, the power mightier, the responsibilities heavier than those of all others. He’d not for a moment suspected that he was a prince or would become one when Elthryn died. He recalled clearly his father’s words: “A king’s first duty is to his subjects. Their lives are in his hands, and he must always look to their brightest, surest future in what he does. All depend on him—and all are lost if he neglects his duties, or governs by whim or willful heart. Obedience is his due, aye, but he must earn loyalty. Some kings never learn this. And what are princes but young willful lads learning to be kings?”

  “What indeed, Father?” Elminster asked the wind of his passing as he rode hard for the Horn. The wind did not deign to reply.

  THREE

  ALL TOO MUCH DEATH IN THE SNOWS

  If in winter ye walk

  When snow is deep

  Beware when ye talk—

  For afar echoes creep.

  OLD SWORD COAST SNOW-RUNE

  Tyche, at least, had heard his prayers. As Elminster rode down a dusky valley along the clear trail the armsmen had left, he caught sight of them gathered below, building fires—and the trails in the snow made it clear they’d met with and joined another patrol instead of going down to the keep … which was still a good ride away. Night would find them very soon, deep in the hills, and they’d halted to make camp.

  “Thankee, Tyche,” El told the wind wryly, as he pulled his weary mount to a halt. All his foes were gathered together and would soon halt within his reach.

  As with all the gifts of Lady Luck, this one was double-edged. All he had to do was kill the five armsmen who’d fled from Lawless Castle—and all the others they’d met with down there. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were some great mage to send swift death screaming down upon the gathered camp below—or to ride a dragon down to rake, burn, and scatter.

  Elminster shivered at that memory of Heldon and touched the Lion Sword where it rode on its thong inside his jerkin. “Prince Elminster is a warrior,” he told the wind wi
th grand dignity—and then chuckled. More soberly, he added, “He kills a man to warm up, helps cut up his horse and eat it, and then goes out into a battle and slaughters eight more. As if that’s not enough, he’s now about to sweep down alone on a score or more ready-armed armsmen. What else could he be but a warrior?”

  “A fool, of course,” a cold voice answered from very near. Elminster whirled around in his saddle. A dark-robed man was standing watching him—standing on empty air, booted feet well above the unbroken snow.

  El’s hand stabbed to his belt, found one of the salvaged daggers he’d thrust there, and hurled it. It spun end over end, flashing as it caught the light of the newly kindled campfires below, and plunged straight through the man to bury itself deep in the snows beyond.

  Only half the man’s mouth smiled. “This is but a spell-image, fool,” he said coldly. “You come riding hard, following the trail to our camp—who are you and why come you here?”

  Elminster frowned, feigning ignorance as his thoughts raced. “Have I reached Athalantar yet?” He eyed the mage and added, “I seek a magelord, to pass on a message. Are ye such a one?”

  “Unfortunately for you, I am,” the man replied, “Prince Elminster. Oh, yes, I heard your proud little speech. You are Elthryn’s son, then, the one we’ve been seeking.”

  Elminster sat very still, thinking. Could a wizard send a spell through his image? A cold inner voice answered: Why not?

  Best keep moving, in case … He urged the horse with his knees until it trotted ahead, then turned it, circling. “That is the name I have taken to bring doom down on a certain magelord,” he said, passing the image. It turned in the air and watched him in easy silence. Hmmm …

  “Other magelords,” Elminster added darkly, “have plans of their own.”

  The watching wizard laughed. “Well, of course they do, boastful boy—always have had. See me shiver at your sinister words? Do you dance and play cards, too?”

  Elminster felt himself flush with anger. To ride so hard only to be taunted by a wizard from afar while armsmen no doubt rode out to encircle him and bring him down at leisure … He spurred away from the wizard, flinging only the calm reply, “Yes, of course I do,” over his shoulder as he went.

  He rode hard back the way he’d come but turned up the nearest easy slope to gain a height to look back. The wizard’s image hadn’t moved—but as he watched, it winked out and was gone, leaving behind only the circle of beaten snow where he’d ridden around it. Aye, there, below—two bands of mounted armsmen were setting out, riding hard in different directions to curve about and ring him in with swords and bows.

  Full night was falling, but the stars were bright overhead, and Selûne would rise all too soon. How far could that wizard see him?

  Two plans sprang to mind: somehow ride wide around them all on his weary mount and sweep down on the camp, hoping to find the wizard and take him with quarrels before he could loose a spell. That’s what a bard or teller-of-tales would expect him to do, to be sure. It sounded the work of a reckless fool even to his own ears.

  The other plot was to get into the path of one band, dig into the snow with all his bows ready, and let his horse run free. If one band of armsmen followed it—he’d have time, perhaps, to take those coming toward him down with his bows, somehow get one of their mounts, and then attack the camp. Then, somehow victorious over a wizard who knew he was coming, he’d set forth on the trail of the other armsmen and take them down one by one with quarrels … it sounded almost as wild.

  He quoted a line of a ballad he’d once heard, “Princes rush in, shouldering fools aside, and find glory,” and turned his horse to the right to intercept the band of armsmen he could see better. He thought he counted nine riders, no telling how many were in the other group.

  His tired horse stumbled twice on the ride and nearly fell when they blundered into a pocket of deep, loose snow.

  “Gently,” El murmured to it, suddenly feeling his own aches and weariness in full. All he could do in his mind was numb the pain for a time, and—he touched his chin thoughtfully—stop bleeding. He was no invincible warrior.

  So? This attack required a fool, not an invincible warrior … but then, riding away would be a fool’s act, too, without even the comfort of standing up for the memory of his mother and father and for a day when wizards would not rule Athalantar, and the knights would ride again.…

  “The knights will ride again,” he told the wind; it whirled his words away unheard behind him as he came to a good place for the ambush he planned, a narrow gully on the lee slope of a snow-swept rise, and brought his horse to a halt.

  Getting down stiffly—he’d not been on a horse much since Heldon burned, and his legs were reminding him of that all too sharply—El unslung his bows and took what he’d need. “Grant me luck,” he told the wind, but as before, it made no reply. Taking a deep breath of the sharp air, he slapped the horse’s rump and roared. The beast bolted, paused to look back, and then trotted off into the snow. Elminster was alone in the night.

  Not for long, by the gods. Nine armsmen in full armor were riding this way, after his blood. Elminster knelt in the snow just below the crest of the rise and worked his windlass like a frenzied-wits.

  By the time he had all three bows loaded and ready, he was gasping for breath and could hear the creak of leather and jangle of metal on the wind. The armsmen were coming down upon him. Lying in the snow, breath streaming back over his shoulder, he arranged the bows, planted four daggers in the snow for ready snatching, and waited.

  His life hung on the hope that they’d not have bows ready themselves—and wouldn’t see him in time. Elminster shook his head at his own recklessness and found his mouth suddenly dry. Well, whatever befell, it wouldn’t be long now.

  There was a sudden thunder of hooves, shouts, and the clash of arms. What could be—? And suddenly Elminster had no time for speculation as an armsman burst into view, galloping hard, crouched low over the neck of his horse. The prince of Athalantar raised his bow carefully, steadied it, and fired.

  The horse plunged on, rearing and giving a high grunt of alarm as it saw the steep descending slope. With no time to veer or slow, it felt the man on its back fall sideways, hard, pulling on its reins. It reared, fighting the reins that were tugging its head around. Its hooves skidded in the snow, and it crashed atop its rider. Together they slid down the hill. The horse sprang up and pranced away, shaking its head as if to clear it. The man lay still in the trampled snow.

  No more horsemen rode into view, and from over the brow of the snow-clad rise came the shouts and steely skirl of battle. Elminster frowned in puzzlement, and then took up his daggers, thrusting them back into his belt. Holding his second bow ready, he advanced cautiously until he could see over the crest.

  Mounted men were circling and hacking at each other in the nightgloom atop the hill. One group was clad in motley garb, the odds and ends of half a hundred mismatched armors it seemed, and where by all the gods had they come from? The other group were armsmen, outnumbered more than two to one and fast losing. As Elminster watched, one soldier of Athalantar broke free of the fray, spurring his horse desperately, and set off across the hills at a gallop.

  The prince of Athalantar set his feet in the snow, raised his bow, and fired. The quarrel passed over the armsman’s shoulder, and fleeing warrior galloped on. Elminster cursed and ran back for his third bow. Scooping it up, he sprinted along the edge of the hill. The distant armsman was smaller now, but coming into clear view as his horse climbed the unbroken snow of the next slope. Elminster aimed carefully, fired—and saw his quarrel speed true.

  The armsman threw up his arms, tried to clutch at his back with both hands, and fell out of his saddle. The horse went on without him.

  “I didn’t think we had any bowmen with us, this night!”

  Elminster turned in delighted recognition at that cheery voice. “Helm!”

  The leather-jawed knight wore the same tattered leather armor
, rusty gauntlets, dented helm, and stubbly beard El remembered—and probably, by the smell of him, hadn’t taken them off or washed any part of him since that day on the meadow above Heldon. He rode a mean-looking black horse that was as scarred as its rider, and the long, curved sword in his fist was nicked and shining darkly with fresh blood.

  “How came you here?” Elminster asked, grinning with the sudden hope that he might not die this night after all.

  The knight of Athalantar leaned forward in his saddle. “We’ve just come from Lawless Castle,” he said with raised brows. “Quite a few good men lying dead back there, but Mauri couldn’t find Eladar among them.”

  “When I ran out of armsmen to kill, I came here,” Elminster replied gravely. “They’d found the castle, and I had to slay the rest before they had a chance to report it. They went to a camp—those fires, there—and there’s another band of armsmen, probably larger than this one, over there somewhere.” He pointed into the night. “They were circling to take me.”

  Helm bellowed, “Onthrar! To me!” over his shoulder, and then said, “Join us, then, an’ we’ll ride ’em down together There’re empty saddles in plenty to spare!”

  Elminster shook his head. “My business lies yonder,” he said, pointing with a nod of his head toward the unseen camp. “With wizards.”

  Helm’s fierce grin faded. “Are ye ready yet?” he asked quietly. “Really, lad?”

  Elminster spread his hands, crossbow in one. “There’s one down there, at least, who knows who I am and what I look like.”

  Helm frowned and nodded, urged his mount forward, and clapped Elminster on the shoulder “Then I hope to see ye alive again, Prince.” As his horse circled, be asked, “Would a wild outlaw charge into camp be any help?”

  El shook his head. “Nay, Helm—just ride down those armsmen. If ye get every last one of them, Lawless Castle may be safe for a winter or two yet—so long as all outlaws have the sense to abandon it this summer. When the snows are gone, the wizards’ll be sure to scour these hills with all the spells and swords they can muster.”