by Ed Greenwood
When they were all gone, he ventured past them, to lie atop the boulder that pinned the strange monster, reaching down again and again to stab at the helpless body beneath. His blade never felt anything, but the frantic whispering from beneath him grew slowly fainter and fainter, until at last it stopped, and the boulder settled against the rocks beneath with a clacking sound.
Elminster straightened slowly, bruised but satisfied, and looked back up at the lip of the gorge.
A man was standing there. A man in robes whom he’d never seen before—but who seemed to know him. He was smiling as he looked down at Elminster of Athalantar, as he raised his hands and made the first careful gestures of what Elminster recognized as a meteor swarm. But the smile wasn’t friendly at all.
El sighed, waved to the man in sardonic greeting—and with that gesture released his waiting spell.
When the four balls of raging fire raced down into the gorge and burst, the last prince of Athalantar was gone.
The wizard who’d followed Elminster so far clenched his fists as he watched the fire he’d wrought roar away down the gorge, and cursed bitterly. Now he’d have to spend days over his books, casting tracing spells, and trying to find the young fool again. You’d think the gods themselves watched over him, the way luck seemed to cloak him like a mage-mantle. He’d avoided that slaying spell at the inn … old Surgath Ilder had hardly been a fitting alternative. Then he’d somehow trapped the magekiller—and that spell had taken days to find components for.
“Gods, look down and curse with me,” he muttered, his eyes still murderous, as he turned away from the gorge.
Behind him, unseen, pale shapes rose from half a dozen places in the gorge—stone cairns that the fire had scorched in its passing.
They drifted in eerie silence to where a certain massive boulder lay among the stones, and moved their hands in gestures of spellcasting, though they uttered not a word. The boulder rose unsteadily. The wraithlike, floating forms thrust impossibly long tendrils of themselves into the revealed darkness beneath the lifted stone, and plucked forth a many-eyed something that still clawed at the air with feeble talons.
The muttering wizard heard the boulder thunder back into place, and lifted an eyebrow. Had the Athalantan managed only a short jump spell and now set off something nearby in the gorge? Or had the magekiller finally won free?
He tuned around, pushing back his sleeves. He still had a chain lightning spell, if the need arose …
Something was rising out of the gorge—or rather, several somethings. Wraiths—ghostly remnants of men, their legs trailing away into wisps of white mist, their bodies mere white shadows in the shade.
They could slay, yes, but he had the right spell to … he peered at them again. Elves? Were there elven wraiths? And held between them, still waving its talons as they dragged it along—his magekiller!
It was at that moment that Heldebran, last surviving apprentice to the magelords of Athalantar, felt the first touch of fear.
“And you are?” one of the spectral elves asked, as they swept toward him.
“Keep your distance!” the wizard Heldebran snapped, raising his hands. They did not slow in the slightest, so he hastily spun the spell that would blast all undead to harmless dust, forever, and watched it flash out to enfold them like a web.
And fade away, unheeded.
“Stylish,” another of the wraithlike elves commented, as they settled down to the earth in a ring around him. Their feet remained indistinct, and their bodies seemed to pulse, shifting continuously in and out of brightness.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said a third spectral elf, in heavily accented Common. “These humans always make such a noise and show of things. A simple word and a look would have been enough. They always exult so, in the unleashings of their power—like children.”
“They are children,” a fourth replied. “Why, look at this one.”
“I don’t know who you are,” Heldebran of Athalantar snapped, “but I—”
“See? All threats and bluster!” the fourth elf added.
“Well, enough of it,” the first elf said commandingly. “Human, fire magics are not tolerated here. You have roused the unsleeping guardians of the Sacred Vale, and must pay the price.”
Nervously Heldebran glanced around. The ring did seem tighter, now, though the elves still regarded him calmly, and made no move to lift their arms from their sides. He spat out the words he’d need and raised his hands in hasty claws.
Lightning crackled from the tips of his fingers, dancing bright lines of hungry sparks into the spectral elves. It shot through them, to claw vainly among the trees beyond. Smoke curled up from bark here and there.
One elf turned his head to regard it, and the lightning abruptly vanished, leaving only a few wisps of smoke behind.
The ring stood unchanged. The elves looked, if anything, slightly amused.
“Worse than that,” the first elf said sternly, as if the interruption had never occurred, “you created something that feeds on magic and sent it to the very heart of our oldest castings. This.”
The ghostly guardian’s tone was one of utter disgust. His chest bulged, gave off small streams of bright radiance, and then burst as the magekiller drifted into view through it, claws waving feebly at the elves all around. Heldebran felt a sudden, wild surge of hope. Perhaps his creature could be set against these elf-wraiths, and he might yet defeat them, or …
“Let the punishment be fitting and final, nameless human,” the stern elf added, as the magekiller tuned its head, and saw its creator.
Darkness swam in the many orbs Heldebran stared into, and claws scratched the air with sudden vigor. Whispering faintly, the tattered remnant of his creature drifted forward purposefully.
“No!” the apprentice Magelord shrieked, as those feeble claws cut at his eyes. “Noooo!”
The ring of elven guardians was solid around him now, and their eyes were cold. The human wizard rushed at them, and found himself striking a solid, very hard wall of unseen force. He threw himself along it, sobbing. Then the seeking claws reached him, and dragged him down.
“Anyone important?” one of the elves asked, as the sounds died and they stretched out their hands to drain the magekiller away to nothingness.
“No,” another replied simply. “One who might have become a magelord of Athalantar, had their rule not been broken. His name was Heldebran. He knew nothing of interest.”
“Was there not another intruder, fighting this hungry thing?” the third guardian asked.
“One of our folk; one who wore a lore-gem.”
“And this human was hunting such a one, in our vale?” The spectral elf looked down, eyes sudden flames in the ever-present tree gloom, and said, “Call him back to life, that he can be slain again. More slowly.”
“Elaethan,” the stern elf said, in shocked reproof. “I shall do the reading spells next time. In touching the mind of this human, you become too much like him.”
“It’s something we all had to guard against, Norlorn, when first they came to the forests where I first saw the sun. Humans always corrupt us; that is their true danger to the People.”
“Then perhaps we should destroy any human who passes this way,” Norlorn said, drawing himself up into a tower of cold white flame. “That other, who used a spell to escape the flames; he may have borne a lore-gem, but he was human, or seemed so.”
“And that is the true danger of such beasts, to themselves,” Elaethan said softly. “Many of them seem human, but never manage to become so.”
He stood in front of the familiar root. The scepter was beneath it, invisible under the earth and its scattering of twigs, leaves, and clumps of moss he’d arranged so hastily. Elminster peered along the line of crags for nearby danger, found nothing, and used the powers of the lore-gem to check on his spell. Memories swirled briefly, but he wrestled them back from his mind and stood shaking his head to clear it.
He could come back here—or rather, to th
e scepter—twice more. Not that he wanted to … so how to avoid attacks that would drive him here?
The mysterious wizard, or any magekillers he chose to send would be bound to find a certain Chosen of Mystra stupid enough to follow the same route he’d originally taken from this place. So his way from here now would lie east along the crags, then south along the first creek he found heading in that general direction, until it strayed too far from where the trees grew tallest.
In the woods, the light tread and heightened senses of an elf outstripped those of a human, and any elven patrols he encountered would be less likely to attack Iymbryl Alastrarra than an intruding human … unless Iymbryl was some personal foe of theirs. Yet he’d seen no trace in the lore-memories, thus far, of Iymbryl being a particular foe of anyone.
It was the work of but a moment to slide into Iymbryl’s shape, this time. Elminster thought briefly of the spellbook lost in his saddlebag, and sighed. He was going to have to get used to the lesser, often odd elven spells stored in the gem, which had evidently served the Alastrarran heir as a personal spellbook. He hadn’t time to study them now; ’twas best to get well and promptly away from the scepter, in case his wizardly foe came seeking him here.
Elminster sighed again and set out. Would it be best to travel by night, in mist form, and use the daylight hours to study spells? Hmm … something to think on as he walked. It could be days before he saw Cormanthor. Did he have days to spend, or did this gem eat at the vitality or mind of its wearer?
If it was eating away at him … He smote his elven forehead. “Mystra defend me!” he groaned.
Of course. The unexpected voice in his mind sent him to his knees in thankful awe, but the goddess spoke only eight words more: The gem is safe. Get on with it.
After a moment of shocked silence and then a few more spent chuckling weakly, Elminster did so.
The strange purplish light of the musky grove of giant mushrooms gave way to rising ground at last, and Elminster trudged up it with a full load of spells and a weary heart. He’d been walking for days, and met with no one more exciting than a giant stag, with whom he’d been eyeball-to-eyeball at dusk two days ago. He’d come a long, long way from the modest wharves and towers of Hastarl, and even from holds where farm folk had heard of the realm of Athalantar, but he was getting close to the elven city now, judging by the tinglings of warding spells and the occasional glimpses of elven knights in the sky. Splendid they were, in fluted armor that gleamed purple, blue, and emerald as they swooped past in the saddles of flying unicorns whose hides were blue, and who had no wings nor reins to guide them.
Several such patrols banked close to the lone walking elf, staring closely at him, and El got a good look at their ready javelins and small hand-crossbows. Unsure of what to do, he gave them silent, respectful nods without slowing his travel. All of them nodded back and soared away.
Ahead now, in these trees, there were open clearings cloaked in moss and ferns. Rising silently up from concealment among them, was the first foot patrol he’d seen. Their armor was magnificent, and every one of them held a ready longbow as he stepped toward them, not changing his pace. What else could he do?
One, who was taller than the rest, let go of his bow as El approached. It stayed where he’d released it, floating in the air. The elf stepped forward to meet Elminster, hand lifting in a ‘stop’ gesture.
Elminster stopped and blinked at him. Best to seem weary and dazed, lest his ignorance put his tongue wrong.
“For some days you’ve been walking this way,” the elven patrol leader said, his voice gentle and melodious, “and yet you give no call of passage to patrols … as you have offered none to us. Who are you, and why do you journey?”
“I …” Elminster faltered, swaying slightly. “I am Iymbryl Alastrarra, heir of my House. I must return to the city. While on patrol, we were beset by ruukha, and I alone survived—but my spells attracted a human wizard. He set a magekiller on me, and I am … not well. I seek my kin, and healing.”
“A human mage?” the elven officer snapped. “Where did you meet with such vermin?”
Elminster waved his arm, gesturing back to the northwest. “Many days back, where the land rises and falls much. I … I have walked too long to recall clearly.”
The elves exchanged glances. “And what if something came upon Iymbryl Alastrarra as he walked, and devoured him, and took his shape?” one of them asked softly. “We’ve met with such shapeshifters before. They come to prowl in our midst, and feed.”
Elminster stared at him with eyes that he hoped looked dull and tired, and raised his hand very slowly to his forehead. “Could one who was not of the People wear this?” he asked, letting weary exasperation sharpen his voice, as the lore-gem faded into view on his brow.
A murmur passed around the patrol, and the elves stepped back without a word from their leader, making way for him to pass. El gave them a weary nod and stumbled forward, trying to look exhausted.
He did not see the patrol leader, behind him, look hard at one of the elven warriors and nod deliberately. The warrior nodded back, knelt in the ferns, touched his hand to the breast of his armor—and faded away.
Now that he was among elves who were afoot, unhurt, and not rushing about in battle, El thought with a shiver, he’d best see how they moved. Did he stand out as an impostor? Or do all who walk upright stagger alike, when weary?
Adding a stumble or two, lest the patrol be watching him, El went on through the trees; huge forest giants soared to the sky, their canopy a hundred feet above him, or more. The ground was rising, and there was an open, sunlit area beyond.
Perhaps here he could …
And then he stopped, dumbfounded, and stared. The sun was bright on the fair towers of Cormanthor before him. Their slender spires rose wherever no gigantic tree stood—and there were many such—and stretched away farther than he could see, in a splendor of leaping bridges, hanging gardens, and elves on flying steeds. The blue glows of mighty magic shone everywhere, even in the brightness of full day, and gentle music wafted to him.
El let out a deep sigh of admiration as the music swelled around him, and started walking again. He’d have to be on his guard every moment that he walked amid the Towers of Song.
Now that was a change, eh?
FOUR
HOME AGAIN THE HUNTER
More than one ballad of our People tells of Elminster Aumar of Athalantar gawking at the splendors of beautiful Cormanthor upon his first sight of them, and how he was so breathtaken that he spent an entire day just walking the streets, drinking in the glories of the
Cormanthor that was. Sometimes ’tis a pity that ballads lie a lot.
SHALHEIRA TALANDREN, HIGH ELVEN BARD OF SUMMER-STAR
FROM SILVER BLADES AND SUMMER NIGHTS:
AN INFORMAL BUT TRUE HISTORY OF CORMANTHOR
PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR OF THE HARP
In the floating dome of varicolored glass, sunlight shot the air through with beams of rose-red, emerald, and blue. A helmed head, turning, flashed back purple, and that burst of light was enough; its wearer did not have to speak to bid his comrade come and look.
Together the two elven guards peered down at the northern edge of the city, beneath their floating post. A lone figure trudged into the streets with the air of dazed weariness usually displayed by captives or exhausted messengers who’d lost their winged steeds days ago, and been forced to continue afoot.
Or rather, not so “lone;” not far behind the staggering elf came a second figure, following the first. This one was a patrol warrior cloaked in magical invisibility that might well serve to fool the eyes of anyone not wearing helms like those of the two watching guards.
Guards who now exchanged meaningful glances waved together at a crystal sphere that floated near at hand, and leaned forward to listen.
The crystal chimed softly, and there was suddenly noise in the dome: a hubbub of various musical airs, soft voices chattering, and the rumble and clatter of a dist
ant cart. The guards inclined their heads intently for a time, and then shrugged in unison. The weary elf wasn’t talking to any of the folk hurrying past him. And neither was his shadow.
The guards exchanged glances again. One of them spread his hands in a “what can we do?” gesture. The intruder—if it was someone not of Cormanthor—had an escort already. That meant some patrol leader who’d had a chance to speak with the lone elf, and see him more clearly, had been suspicious. Perhaps two senior members of the Watchful and Vigilant should be too.
Yet this could be no more than a private intrigue, and the lone elf had walked straight through the veil of revelation spell without it reacting in the slightest.
The other guard answered the spread-hands gesture with a dismissive wave, and turned to the querph tree behind him, plucking some of the succulent sapphire-hued berries. The first guard held out his open hand for some, and passed over the duty-bowl of mint water. A moment later, the elf with the invisible escort was forgotten.
He knew what he was looking for. The lore-gem showed it to him: a mansion cloaked in dark pines (“broody affectations,” according to the maids of some rival houses, Iymbryl knew), whose tall, narrow windows were masterpieces of sculpted and dyed glass, girt with enchantments that periodically spun ghostly images of minstrelry, dancing unicorns, and rearing stags across the moss-carpeted chambers within. Those casements were the work of Althidon Alastrarra, gone to Sehanine some two centuries and more, and there were no finer in all Cormanthor.
The grounds of House Alastrarra had no walls, but its hedges and plantings spun themselves out to form a continuous barrier along paths marked by irndar trees that bore the falcon sigil of the House. After dusk, these living blazons glowed blue, clear to the eye—there were many such across the proud city—but by day a certain disguised human mage would just have to wander until he found a place that matched the image in his mind.
