Elminster Must Die

CHAPTER TWO

Hold! What was that?”

The hoarse whisper came out of the night, not much more than twice her arm’s reach in front of her, where a cluster of duskwoods stood dark and tall. Storm Silverhand froze.

“Some scuttling furry thing. What else’d be creeping around the heart of the Hullack at this time of night?” The second voice was thinner and sharper. It was also higher up, coming from somewhere in one of the trees in front of her.

“Elminster and the Simbul?”

“Very funny.”

Storm heard a faint scuffling as the second speaker clambered down to the ground before adding, “Well, I can’t trace a thing. We’re too close to the ruin. What’s left of the tower’s wardings won’t keep a mouse at bay, but their decay is like a great seething hearth-cauldron in front of us, roiling and echoing. It may be silent and unseen, but it’s all too stlarning effective at foiling my scrying magic. Trying to find those two with spells, if they’re anywhere in front of us, is impossible.” There followed a gusty sigh, then, “Heard anything more?”

Storm stood right where she was, thankful it was dark enough in the hollow that it was easier for the men to move by feel than by sight.

“No,” said the first whisperer, a little doubtfully.

“Well, I’m not telling Kelgantor we heard a little rustling we can’t identify, just once, and only for a moment.”

Kelgantor. These were war wizards. Storm kept very still.

“What ruin?” the first whisperer hissed. “What sort of fool would build in the heart of the Hullack?”

“A long-ago fool, that’s who. Your older colleagues tell me it was called Tethgard. Some fallen fortress from the bygone days of the realm, back when this Elminster-if he really is as old as all the legends say he is-was young. You know: when gods walked the earth and Anauroch was all empty desert and a dragon laired on every hilltop.”

Ah. War wizards paired with highknights. Far more of them than just this pair and probably led by Kelgantor, because that was what the battle-mage Kelgantor did. All of them out in the deep forest, creeping through the night, seeking Elminster and the Simbul. Knowing El and Lass were here, somewhere.

There came the faintest of rustlings from the far side of the duskwoods.

“That was someone, to be sure,” the second voice snapped. “When I-”

“Aye,” a third voice growled disgustedly. “ ’Twas me. Can’t you two move through the Hullack without hissing like a pair of chambermaids hard at their gossip? Merlar, I know wizards of war can’t take six steps without talking about it, but I expect better of you. I trained you.”

“Sorry,” the first whisperer muttered, so close to Storm that she could have reached out and slapped him without fully straightening her arm.

“Come,” the third voice breathed, soft and deep, and Storm heard the faintest of footfalls on damp dead leaves underfoot. The newcomer was advancing straight toward Tethgard.

Straight toward El and Lass.

Merlar and the mage who’d been up in the tree moved to follow, and Storm moved with them, hidden amid their noise.

“Who’s that?” another voice hissed out of the darkness on the other side of the three Cormyreans.

“Nordroun,” the third voice replied flatly, “and who are you to be issuing challenges, Shuldroon? As I recall, you’re supposed to be over on our other flank, with Kelgantor between us.”

“I am between,” came a new voice, cold and level. “The land rises to our east, and its slope seems to have brought Shuldroon and his three straying back this way, bringing us all together. So halt, everyone, before someone’s blundering ends in a blade finding friendly flesh in the dark. Sir Nordroun, call your roll.”

“Merlar?” came the prompt whisper.

“Here,” that highknight replied from right in front of Storm. “Therlon is with me, and Starbridge our rear guard.” Two nearby murmurs came out of the night as those men confirmed their presence.

“And I,” Nordroun continued, “stand near enough to touch Merlar. My mage is Hondryn-”

“Here,” a thin and unfriendly voice put in.

“-and Danthalus is my rear guard.” Another murmur.

“Rorsorn?” Nordroun asked.

“I’m here, accompanying ranking Wizard of War Kelgantor and the mages Tethlor and Mreldrake. Jusprar’s our rear guard.”

Kelgantor gave his name with prompt, cold clarity, and the other three muttered theirs dutifully in his wake.

Shuldroon did not wait for Nordroun, highest ranking of all highknights in the realm notwithstanding. His tone of voice made it clear that he considered all highknights lackeys whose proper place was behind and beneath every wizard of war-and the sooner they all learned that, the better. “I am here, the knight Athlar is with me, and the knight Rondrand follows behind us.” He was echoed by the two highknights confirming their presence.

“Anyone else?” Kelgantor asked, and a little silence fell.

“Good, we don’t seem to have acquired any eavesdroppers,” the leader of the force announced a few breaths later, his voice too flat and cold for anyone to dare to laugh. “Therlon, report.”

“My spells can’t detect the two we seek-or anyone else-ahead of us. The warding spells around Tethgard have decayed into an utter chaos of moving, ever-changing Art that foils all scrying magic. In both directions, I’d judge.”

“I am less than surprised,” Kelgantor replied. “Tethlor reported the same conditions. Enough delay. Rear guards, maintain your positions; all other knights, advance three paces, forming a front line as well as you can in this murk. We wizards will follow behind you. Rear guards, when you hear us start to move, follow on. No need for delay and little enough for caution, I’d say. Parley if it is offered, but strike back to slay without hesitation if magic is sent against us. Any queries?”

“Kelgantor,” Tethlor said quietly, “Ganrahast warned us to be very careful. ‘Beware Elminster,’ he said. ‘He’s more formidable than he seems.’ ”

Kelgantor’s voice came back a shade colder. “I’ve not forgotten that advice. Yet heading up the wizards of war does something regrettable but inescapable to every mage who’s tried it; every Royal Magician I’ve known or read about has come to see lurking shadows behind every door and whispering conspirators beneath every bed in the realm. Let me remind you that no lone wizard-no matter how old, crazed, or infamous-can hope to match us in battle.”

“For my part,” Shuldroon put in, “I don’t think this Elminster is the one in the legends at all. I think a series of old men, down the passing years, have used the fell name of a long-dead mage to cloak their own lesser wizardries. And this self-styled Elminster who thieves magic from us now is the least of them all, an old hedge wizard who avoids casting every spell he can, bluffing his way into getting what he wants through fear of what the mighty Elminster of old might do if roused. I’ve heard he dare not cast the simplest spell, because he goes mad.”

“We’ve all heard that,” Nordroun said heavily. “I hope it’s true.”

Storm listened as they all started to speak. Kelgantor was the calm, levelheaded, coldly ruthless commander of this force, a veteran war wizard, smart and decisive. Tethlor was competent, wary, and loyal. Therlon she knew well: a good sort, along for his local knowledge, far less of a spellhurler than the others. Shuldroon was a zealous, overconfident killer, a youngling out to make his mark, with Hondryn his echo and crony. Mreldrake was a pompous, cowardly ass, a measure of how far the wizards of war had fallen these latter decades.

Aside from Eskrel Starbridge, whom she respected, the highknights she knew less well. Nordroun was head of them all, and well-regarded; Merlar was an able, amiable youngling, widely liked … and the rest were just names to her.

“Well, I think we’d best curl our line forward at both ends like a fork,” Shuldroon was saying, “to surround the ruins, or we’ll end up huffing and puffing through these trees until dawn, with the two we seek fleeing just ahead of us. Or they’ll climb trees or hide amongst the trunks, and we’ll blunder right past, and-”

He broke off, then, as the air around them all seemed to smite the ears with a heavy blow that was felt more than heard, a surge of flaring unseen force that came charging soundlessly out of the trees to wash over them and race on, away through the forest behind them, trees creaking here and there as if bent in a gale, though no leaves stirred.

Wizards cursed. “Strong magic!” Hondryn snarled. “Flaring as if uncontrolled, just unleashed …”

“I felt it,” Kelgantor snapped. “The old man has unbound an enchanted item. Forward! Quick, before he destroys another!”

Storm moved with them, knowing what that flare of magic had been. Elminster had just destroyed the gorget.

Its magic was flowing into someone, either the Old Mage or the Simbul … but if ’twas Lass, that flood had been so smooth and quiet, with the darkness unbroken ahead, that she must be asleep or unconscious, not her raving, seething, exulting self.

“No doubt he’s stealing magic for himself,” the war wizard commander added as they hastened on, heedless of the din of snapping branches and rustling footfalls. “Know this secret of the realm, all of you: Elminster does indeed need magic to recover after every casting, or he goes a little mad for a while. Not mere rumor, but observed and confirmed truth. He always heals himself in the end-but each time he works a spell, he goes erratic if it’s a minor magic and barking madwits if he’s unleashed something mightier. So all we need do is survive his first spell, and our foe will be a staggering madman, too far gone to work a second magic on us. So when you hear my owl hoot in your minds-not with your ears; anything you hear will be a real owl-spread out and advance very quietly. We can’t be far from him now.”

“What if that was the gorget?” Merlar asked hesitantly. “Being destroyed, I mean?”

“Then their lives are forfeit,” Kelgantor said flatly. “Slay them at all costs and by any means, no matter what they threaten or offer. Move.”

The Cormyreans hastened, crashing through leaves and branches. Someone rather tunelessly chanted, “Another bold night in brave Cormyr,” a line from the old ballad popular with the soldiers of the realm. Smiling at that, Storm faded back, seeking to drop behind them all and get clear.

“Not now,” a highknight muttered beside her ear in the impenetrable darkness, mistaking her for one of the war wizards. “You should have emptied your bladder two ridges back, when Kelgantor gave the order. If we-”

Storm knew that cautious growl and allowed herself a thin smile. Eskrel Starbridge was a grizzled old veteran … and one of the few highknights she’d trust to defend Cormyr. Or do much of anything, for that matter.

So she turned and struck him senseless almost gently.

Catching him in her arms before he could thud heavily to the damp leaves underfoot, she thrust the forefinger she’d dipped in her longsleep herb mix up Starbridge’s nose to keep him down and slumberous. Stretching him out gently on the sodden forest floor made no more noise than the boots of his nearest oblivious fellows ahead of them … and passed unnoticed.

As silently as she knew how, Storm set off through the trees in a wide, swift circle. She had to get to Elminster and Alassra before the Cormyreans did.

The gorget flickered feebly once as Elminster whispered the last word of the incantation. Then it tingled, dark once more, and started to sink into nothingness under his fingertips, melting amid a few wisps of smoke as its ancient magics flowed into Alassra.

She stirred in her sleep, frowning, probably dreaming of someone throttling her, as the tips of El’s fingers touched her throat through the fading metal … then smiled, her body seeming to grow more lush and strong under him as the magic fed her.

Her eyelids flickered, and she purred like a satisfied cat, stretching and arching under him, ere murmuring, “Tremble, all, for the Witch-Queen is truly back …”

Her eyes opened, and her arms reached up to encircle him. “Oh, my Aumar,” she said delightedly, “You’ve-”

The spell that struck them then flung them a few feet, wreathed in snarling flames that clawed at them but could not scorch. So it tore them apart, to tumble away side by side, unharmed but furious. As if heeding a cue, the moon burst through the scudding clouds and flooded the tumbled rocks of Tethgard all around with cold, clear light.

Elminster cursed as he felt the soundless burst of sparks that meant the enspelled badge he’d recovered from a Sembian burial vault had just been destroyed, consumed in shielding Lass and himself from the attack. Which meant he had just one enchanted item left.

Without Storm’s aid, he could withstand only one more hostile magic. Or hurl just one spell.

For her part, the Simbul was on her feet and glaring into the trees whence the attack had come, eyes afire. “Who dares-?”

“We dare, witch!” came the cold reply, as a dozen men strode just clear of the trees, some in dark war-leathers and bearing drawn swords. “You stand in Cormyr and are subject to the king’s justice! In his name we call on you to surrender, working no magic and offering no defiance, and submit to our will!”

“Submit to your will? Nay, I choose my own lovers,” the Simbul told them coldly. “I do not submit to armed men who threaten me in the forest. You strike me as brigands, not men of the Crown. Those who uphold justice call polite parley from a distance, rather than hurling spells without warning at couples they espy in the night.”

“You are the mages Elminster and the Simbul, and we have orders to arrest you and obtain from you the Royal Gorget of Battle, stolen from the Crown of Cormyr. We are wizards of war and highknights of the realm, not brigands, and we call again upon you to surrender! Lay down all weapons and work no spells, and you will be dealt with accordingly.”

The men were moving again, spreading out and advancing more swiftly at either end of their line, as if to encircle the couple amid the rocks.

“Where’s Starbridge?” one of them muttered, looking suddenly to right and left along the line, but the man beside him-the one who’d called out to Elminster and the Simbul-waved a silencing hand, swiftly and imperiously.

“Leave us be,” Elminster warned the Cormyreans, then cast a swift glance over his shoulder at a faint sound behind him. Storm was hastening up through the rocks to join them, crawling like a swift jungle cat. Heartened, he went to stand beside his lady, facing into the closing ring of men with her.

Seeing no signs of his quarry fleeing, the Cormyrean commander waved a hand, and two men strode forward from the closing ring. El recognized one almost immediately: Sir Ilvellund Nordroun, the head highknight of Cormyr. The other was a young war wizard he’d seen striding haughtily around the palace, whose name he didn’t know.

“A parley, or are these two sent to wrestle us down?” Alassra mused calmly.

Elminster shrugged. “Perhaps thy reminder of proper courtesy stung them into this gesture. I’ve no doubt it will end in violence.”

“I find myself less than surprised,” the Simbul replied dryly, as the highknight and the mage came to a halt a careful four paces away.

“Yield the gorget,” the young war wizard demanded. “Now.”

“Youngling,” Elminster said gravely, “ye stand in the presence of a queen. Can ye not manage a trifling minimum of courtesy?”

“This is courtesy,” the mage flung back. “We could have just blasted you down.”

“You could have tried,” the Simbul replied almost gently, meeting his sneer with a look of disdain that made him flush and look away.

“You’ve heard our orders to you,” he told them almost sullenly. “Obey, or face our lawful wrath-and your doom.”

“Doom,” Elminster murmured. “Villains always seem to love that word. I wonder why?”

“Villains? You’re the villains here! We are lawkeepers of Cormyr and stand for justice and good!”

The Old Mage sighed. “Are ye still such a child as to divide all the folk ye meet into ‘good’ and ‘bad’? Lad, lad, there are no good people and bad people-there are just people, doing things others deem good or bad. If ye serve most of the gods well, ye should end up doing more good than bad. I try to do good things. Do ye?”

“I’m not here to bandy words with you, old man. Give us the gorget, and surrender yourselves into our custody. I warn you, we’ll have it from you peacefully-or the other way.”

Elminster and his lady traded calm looks then faced the young war wizard together and said in unison, “No.”

Shuldroon looked almost gleeful. “You seek to defy all of us? I remind you that you are overmatched sixfold by we wizards of war, and again by the highknights, the best warriors of the realm. See sense, man, and surrender.”

Elminster scratched at his beard, looking almost bored. “So ye can slay me without a battle, is that it? Nay, loud-tongue, I’ve not lived so long by abandoning all my principles. Here’s one ye younglings would do well to live by: if ye’ve done the right thing, stand thy ground.”

“Sir Nordroun,” the wizard commanded, “take and bind the woman. We’ll see then if the old man wags his tongue quite so defiantly.”

The highknight sighed. “That is less than wise, Shuldroon. I will take orders from Kelgantor, but not from you.”

The young war wizard turned in swift rage. “Are my ears actually hearing-”

“They are,” Storm Silverhand said in a level voice, rising up between Elminster and the Simbul with her sword in her hand. “And you should heed Sir Nordroun’s wisdom, Wizard of War Shuldroon, and abandon any schemes of taking and binding anyone. A few loyal guardians of Cormyr might live longer that way.”

“And just who are you?”

“Storm Silverhand is my name.”

“Another liar using a name out of legend?” Shaking his head and sneering anew, Shuldroon put one hand behind his back and gestured.

Behind him, the ring of Cormyreans started to tighten around the three standing amid the rocks. All save one man. Wizard of War Kelgantor, it seemed, had decided to hang back and watch, wands in both of his hands, ready to unleash magic when necessary.

Storm shook her head. “So it’s to be another bold night in brave Cormyr,” she murmured. She laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder, finding it atremble with rage, and added, “Don’t blast them just yet, Lass. We should warn them once more; give them another chance.”

The Simbul’s answer was a low, feline growl.

“We know you’re scared to use your paltry magic,” Shuldroon told Elminster. “And that you have taken to not using it in favor of menacing folk and trading on your fearsome-and borrowed-reputation. Unfortunately for you, old charlatan, we don’t scare.”

He took a step forward and struck a defiant pose, his shoulders squared and his hands on his hips, to add, “I’m not scared.”

Elminster replied dryly, “Ye should be.”