Elminster - The Making Of A Mage Part 32

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 out-flung 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 G.o.ds!" a carter swore. Folk around him followed his incredulous gaze, and there was more than one shriek of terror. One man fell 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 Undarl 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 leapt out-and there was a flash as it struck a hitherto unseen barrier, a sphere around Undarl that . . . G.o.ds!

The mage royal roared out in helpless fear as the rebounding bolt crashed into him. Faerun 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, G.o.ds, 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 floor 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 fireb.a.l.l.s, 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. Mage-lords 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 b.l.o.o.d.y, 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."

The vortex struck the mages-and whirled through them to the back wall of Ithboltar's spellchamber. It smashed into those old stones, the tower shuddered . . . and slowly, with terrible purpose, the shattered room folded in on itself and collapsed, bringing down the upper reaches of Ithboltar's tower in a t.i.tanic crash and roar of falling stone.

An earsplitting explosion burst from where the chamber had been, flinging stones out of the avalanche of falling rock, and among them, one magelord was dashed across the courtyard like a rag doll. He was still struggling weakly to work a spell as his body smashed into another tower. The face of a servant, watching in fascinated horror from a window, was spattered with the wizard's gore. What was left of the mage slid limply down the stone wall. . . and then vanished in a little cl.u.s.ter of winking lights as a last contingency magic awoke. Too late.

Stones were cascading down the walls of the riven tower when the courtyard itself rocked and shuddered. Gratings, paving stones, and dust leapt aloft, borne on sudden geysers of magical radiance, as something exploded in the unseen dungeon depths of the castle.

The shattered stump of Ithboltar's tower swayed, sagged sideways, and crashed into utter ruin. Flames leapt up here and there about the courtyard, amid the frantically running arms-men. The soldiers of Athalantar stumbled on through smoke and dust vainly waving their halberds about as if cleaving the air would fell some invisible foe and set all to rights again. Somewhere a raw screaming arose and went on and on, amid fresh rumblings.

"Come," Myrjala said, taking Elminster's hand and slipping up to the balcony rail. Elminster followed, and she stepped calmly off it into the air. Hands clasped, they drifted slowly down through the tumult. Athalgard was erupting with running, shouting soldiers. The two mages were still a few feet above the paving-stones when a band of armsmen sprinted around a nearby corner and swept down on them.

The guardcaptain saw wizards in his path and slowed, throwing his arms out to signal his men. "What befell?" he bellowed.

Elminster shrugged. "Ithboltar got a word or two of a spell wrong, methinks."

The officer stared at them, and then at the fallen tower, and his eyes narrowed. "I don't know you!" he said sharply. "Who are you?"

Elminster smiled. "I am Elminster Aumar, Prince of Athalantar, son of Elthryn."

The guardcaptain gaped at him. Then with a visible effort, he swallowed and asked, "Did you-cause this?"

Elminster gave the wreckage around a pleasant smile, then shifted his gaze to the halberds blocking his way and said, "And if I did?"

He raised his hand. Beside him, Myrjala had already raised her own. Small lights spun and twinkled above her cupped palm.

The armsmen cried out together in fear . . . and an instant later were in full flight, flinging down their halberds and slipping and sliding on the stones underfoot in their headlong haste to get back around the corner.

"You may go," Myrjala grandly told the empty courtyard where they'd stood. Then she chuckled. After a moment, Elminster joined in.

"We can't hold on much longer!" Blood from a gash left by the axe-stroke that had split his helm was dripping into Anauviir's eyes as he shouted desperately at Helm.

The old knight roared back, "Tell me something I don't know!"

Beside him, a red-faced Darrigo Trumpettower was panting as he swung a heavy blade he'd s.n.a.t.c.hed from a dead hand. The old farmer was protecting Helm Stoneblade with his faltering right arm and his life. That was a price, it seemed, soon to be paid.

The surviving knights stood together on the slippery, blood-smeared cobbles of Athalgard's outer courtyard. Armsmen were charging in at them from all sides now, streaming in the gates from barracks and watchtowers. A few old men in motley armor couldn't stand against such numbers for long.

"We can't hold!" one knight cried despairingly, hurling an armsman to the ground and wearily stabbing the man in the face.

"Stand and fight!" Helm roared out, his raw voice rising above them all. "Even if we fall, every armsman we take with us is one less to lord it over the realm! Fight and die well for Athalantar!"

A First Sword got through Darrigo's guard, laying the old man's cheek open with the point of his blade. Helm lunged forward and ran the man through, his sword buckling against the man's spine and the armor plate behind it. He let go of his weapon and tore the man's own blade out of failing hands to fight on. "Where are you, Prince?" he muttered as he slew another armsman. Aye, the knights of Athalantar couldn't hold out much longer....

King Belaur was wont to partake of evenfeast at about the time lesser men sought their morning meal. He would dine heavily on fresh fish slathered in fresh-frothed cream, and then turn to venison and hare cooked in spiced wine. When he felt full to bursting, he'd retire to the royal chambers to sleep his belly's load off. He awoke now, stretched, and strolled naked into his larger, more public bedchamber. Belaur expected to find there fresh minted wine and warmer, livelier entertainment.

This day, rising to the waking world amid the thunders of a strange dream of shakings and rumblings, he was not disappointed. In fact, he was pleased to see two women waiting in the ornate and gigantic bed. One was the woman who'd led that Moonclaws thieving band. Isparla 'Serpenthips' glittered, languorous and dangerous, amid the cushions. Smiling at him in her collar and hip-string of jewels, she looked like a cat strung with diamonds, and trembling beside her was the new wench he'd noticed the evening before outside a midtown bakery. Unclad, the new arrival was even more entrancing than he'd hoped. She wore only the spell-chains magelords used to make defiant prisoners more biddable, and for the occasion someone had polished the links and the collars encircling her wrist, ankles, and throat so they gleamed as bright as Isparla's jewels.

Belaur met her eyes with a savage grin, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a goblet and a decanter from the shining row atop a nearby board, and expressed his approval with a long, rumbling snarl as he strode to the bed. Like a purring lion he lowered himself between them, quaffing wine lazily, and wondered which pleasure to enjoy first. The new treasure ... or save her, turning first to familiar delights?

Isparla gave a low, throaty purr of her own, and moved her body against him. The king cast a look at Shandathe, lying anxious and still in her chains, and then smiled and turned away from her. He laid a cruel hand on a rope of jewels, and pulled. Serpenthips hissed in pain as the stones cut into her and she was dragged against him. Belaur bent his mouth to hers, intending to bite. He remembered earlier tastes of her warm, salty blood....

There was a sudden flash and a singing sound, and Belaur looked up, startled, into a gaze as frowning as his own. The mage royal of Athalantar stood beside the bed. Belaur cast a quick look down the room at the still-barred doors and back at the master of magelords before he roared, "What are you playing at now, wizard?"

"We're under attack," Undarl snarled at the king. "Come! Up and out of here, if you would live!"

"Who dares-?"

"We'll have time to ask them who they are later. Now move, or I'll blast your head from your shoulders ... all I need to take is the crown!"

Face dark with fury, Belaur heaved himself up from the bed, spilling wenches in both directions, and s.n.a.t.c.hed down the sword that hung on the wall. For an instant, he considered thrusting it into the back of the mage royal, who was striding down the room to a painting that could be swung aside to reveal a way up into the old castle. Undarl turned with more speed than the swiftest sword in Belaur's bodyguard, drawing aside from the extended point of the blade, and said in a cold, clear, menacing voice: "Don't. Ever. Even. Think. Of. Such. A. Deed." He leaned closer, and added in a harsh whisper, "Your daily survival depends on my magic."

The blade in the king's hand turned into a snake that reared up and hissed at him, throwing coils around his wrist.

As he stared at it in frozen horror, it slid back into sword shape, and flashed mockingly once. Belaur shuddered, reluctantly turned his gaze to meet the hard points of the magelord's cold eyes, and managed a nod. Then he moved forward obediently as Undarl gestured at the pa.s.sage door.

"Ye know I must do this alone," Elminster said quietly as they stood together in the darkened pa.s.sage.

Myrjala laid a hand on his arm, and gave him a smile. "I shall not be far. Call if you want me."

El saluted her with the stump of the Lion Sword and strode away down the pa.s.sage, exchanging the remnant of his father's sword for a more serviceable blade.

The last prince of Athalantar had very few spells left, and lurched in weariness as he went. In his tattered tunic and breeches, drawn sword in hand, he could not have been a usual sight in the grand central rooms and halls of Athalgard as he made his way to the throne room. Servants he pa.s.sed-and there were many-kept their eyes downcast and stepped smoothly out of his way, as if long used to making way for swaggering warriors. Courtiers tended to stare, and then quickly looked away or turned down another pa.s.sage or hastened through the door and closed it behind them.

Save for many glances back over his shoulder, Elminster seemed out for a casual walk. Guards stiffened at their posts as he approached, but he'd cast a certain spell before parting from Myrjala. The guards tensed for battle . . . and then froze, held motionless by his magic as he strode past.

When El approached seven armsmen with their backs to high arched double doors, and drawn swords in their hands, he murmured an incantation that sent creatures slumping into slumber beneath a magical cloak that stilled all sound.

The blades raised against him fell to the floor in eerie silence, followed by their owners. El stepped calmly over the doorguards, drew one of the doors open a little, and slipped within.

The high room beyond was hung with banners and encircled by a high gallery; the walls were richly tapestried. Pillars flanked a carpet of deep forest green that ran straight from where he stood to a high seat alone at the other end of the room.

The Stag Throne. What he'd fought his way toward-not just the chair, he reminded himself, but a land around it free of magelords. Men and a handful of women were milling about just within the doors, all around him, talking and shifting their feet rather wearily: courtiers, merchants, and envoys nervously awaiting the return of the king for early court.

Elminster ignored their curious looks, stepped around several in his path, and strode confidently along the green carpet.

The steps leading up to the Stag Throne were guarded by a mountain of a man in gleaming coat-of-plate, standing patiently with a warhammer as long as he was tall in his hands. He wore no helm, and his balding head gleamed in the flickering torchlight as he glared coldly at the intruder, his gray mustache bristling. "Who art thou, stripling?" he asked loudly, taking a step forward, the warhammer sliding up to rest ready on one shoulder.

"Prince Elminster of Athalantar," was the calm reply. "Stand aside, if you would."

The warrior sneered. Elminster slowed his pace and gestured with his blade for the armsman to step aside. The guardian gave him a mirthless, disbelieving smile, and stood his ground, waving the hammer warningly.

El gave the man a brittle smile and lunged with his blade. The warrior smashed it aside with the warhammer, twisting his wrists so the mighty weapon's backspike would lay open this arrogant fool's head on his return sweep. Elminster stepped smoothly back out of his reach and murmured something, raising his free hand as if throwing something light and fragile.

It raced from those delicately spread fingers, and the guardian of the throne blinked, shook his head as if disagreeing violently with something, and crashed to the polished stone tiles beside the carpet. Elminster calmly walked past him and sat on the Stag Throne, laying his blade across his knees.

A murmur arose from the stunned court, then broke off in a fearful hush as sudden light blazed into being from above. In the heart of the pulsing purple-white radiance, the mage royal appeared in the hitherto-empty gallery-flanked by a dozen armsmen or more, loaded crossbows in their hands.

Undarl Dragonrider's hand chopped down. In response, seven crossbow bolts sped at the man on the throne.

The young intruder watched calmly as those bolts cracked and shivered in the air in front of him, striking something unseen and falling aside.

The magelord's hands were moving in the flourishes of a spell as the senior armsman ordered, "Ready bows again!"

Elminster lifted his own hands in quick gestures, but the folk watching saw the air around the throne flicker and dance with sudden light. El knew no magic would take hold where he sat now; he could raise no barrier to stop missiles or blades seeking his life.

The mage royal laughed and ordered the armsmen who hadn't fired their quarrels yet to loose them. Elminster sprang to his feet.

A fat merchant standing under a pillar suddenly flickered and became a tall, slim woman with bone-white skin and large, dark eyes. One of her hands was raised in a warding gesture- and the crossbow bolts leaping toward the Stag Throne caught sudden fire as they flew. They flared and were gone.

The senior armsman turned and pointed at Myrjala. "Shoot her down!" he ordered, and two crossbows cracked as one.

Dodging around the throne, deciding which spell to use when he got far enough away from Undarl's magic-rending field, Elminster watched those bolts streak across the throne room at his onetime tutor. They glowed a vivid blue to his mage-sight.

He stared in horror; spells flared out angry radiance around them. Undarl laughed coldly as a sudden burst of light marked the destruction of a shield spun around the sorceress. It was followed by a second flash, an instant later, as an inner shield failed-and Myrjala staggered, clutched at her breast where one bolt stood quivering, turned sideways so he saw the second bolt standing in her side-and fell. Undarl's harsh laughter rang out loudly. Elminster started down the steps at a run, his own safety forgotten. He was still three running paces short of Myrjala's sprawled form when she vanished.

The green carpet where she'd lain was empty. Elminster turned from it, eyes blazing, and spat a spell. He was a single snarled word away from the end of the incantation when the mage royal's cruel eyes, fixed triumphantly on his own, faded away into empty air. The wizard had vanished, too.

Elminster's completed spell was already taking effect. Sudden fire raged along the gallery, and armsmen screamed hollowly inside their armor, writhing and staggering. Crossbows crashed down over the rail, followed by one guard, armor blackened and blazing, who toppled over the gallery rail and crashed down atop a merchant, smashing him to the flagstones. There were fresh screams from the courtiers as they rushed for the doors.

The portals they sought were flung open then, bowling over more than one hurrying merchant, and into the throne room strode King Belaur, naked but for a pair of breeches. His face was dark with anger, and a drawn sword glittered in his hand.

Folk fell back before him-and then fled in earnest as they saw who was behind the king. The mage royal was smiling coldly as he walked, his hands weaving another spell. Elminster went white and spat out a word. The air flashed, and that end of the throne room shook, but nothing happened . .. except that a little dust drifted down from above.

Undarl laughed and lowered his hands. His shield had held.

"You're on my ground now, Prince-and fool!" he gloated. Then his face changed, he gasped-and fell forward with a howl of pain.