by Ed Greenwood
Farl shook his head. “I want to—gods, I want to!—but … all those armsmen …”
“Ye would not be fighting alone,” El told them. “Beside ye, when it comes to open battle, will stand the Knights of the Stag.”
“The lost knights of Athalantar?” Tass gasped.
Farl shook his head in disbelief. “More children’s legends! I—this seems a dream … you truly intend this.…” He shook his head again to clear his wits, and asked, “How did you manage to get the elves and the knights to follow you?”
“They are loyal to Athalantar,” El said quietly, “and answered a call from its last prince.”
“Who’s that?”
“Me,” El said flatly “Eladar the Dark is also—Elminster, son of Prince Elthryn. I am a prince of Athalantar.”
Farl and Tass stared at him, and then, shakily, Farl swallowed. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, “but oh, I want to! A chance to live free, and not have to fear and bow to wizards anywhere in Athalantar …”
“We’ll do it,” Tassabra said firmly. “Count on us, El—Eladar. Prince.”
Farl stared at her. “Tass!” he hissed. “What’re you saying? We’ll be killed!”
Tassabra turned her head to look at him. “And what if we are?” she asked quietly. “We’ve made a success of things here, yes … but a success that could be swept away in an instant at a magelord’s whim.”
She rose. Moonlight outlined her bare body, but she wore dignity like a grand gown. “More than that,” she went on, “we can be satisfied about what we’ve done … but Farl, for once in my life I want to be proud! To do something that folk will always respect, whatever befalls! To do something that … matters. This may be our only chance.”
She looked out the window, stiffened as she saw the elves standing on a nearby rooftop, and then made what might have been a sob as they waved to her in salute. Solemnly feeling her heart rising within her, she waved back, and spun from the window in sudden fierceness. “And what better cause can there be? Athalantar needs us! We can be free!”
Farl nodded, a slow smile building on his face. “You speak truth,” he said quietly, and looked up at Elminster. “El, you can depend on the Velvet Hands.” He raised his blade in salute; it flashed as moonlight leaped down its steely length. “What will you have us do?”
“Tomorrow even,” El said, “I’ll call on ye. I need Tass to make contact with the knights—’tis best if she looks like a pleasurelass, to go to the camp outside the walls by the burning pit. Then, all the night through, I’ll need your folk to work with the elves … stealing magic items and the small things they use to work spells—bones and rust flakes and gems and bits of string, ye know—from magelords all over the city. The elves’ll cloak ye and guide ye as to what to take.”
All three of them grinned at each other. “This is going to be fun,” Farl said, eyes shining.
“I hope so,” Elminster replied quietly “Oh, I hope so.”
“Have they attacked us yet, Old One?” Malanthor’s tone and raised eyebrow were sardonic. “Or did I miss it? I did spend a few moments in the jakes this morn.”
Ithboltar’s smile was thin and wintry. “The threat is real, and remains so. You would do well to set aside a trifling amount of that arrogance, Malanthor. Pride usually precedes disaster, especially for mages.”
“And old men start to see things, until the shadows of their dreams seem more real than what is truly around them,” Malanthor replied cuttingly, “if we’re trading platitudes.”
Ithboltar shrugged. “Just be sure to prepare yourself with spells, wands, and the like as if for battle against mage-foes, in the days ahead.”
“Athalantar under attack again?” Chantlarn’s tone was breezy as he strode into the room. “Armies at our gates and all that?”
“I fear so,” Malanthor said, putting a hand to his brow and affecting the broken tones of a hysterical matron. “I fear so.”
“And I do too,” Chantlarn said heartily. “How does the morning find you, Ithboltar?”
“Surrounded by idiots,” the old wizard said sourly, and turned back to the spellbook on the table in front of him. The two younger magelords exchanged amused glances.
“How do I look?” Tassabra asked, lifting her arms and twirling. Small brass bells chimed here and there on the web of leather straps that displayed, rather than clothed, her body. Strips of ruby-hued silk proclaimed her trade to any eye; even her thigh-high boots were trimmed with red.
Elminster licked his lips. “I should never have gone away,” he said sadly, and she laughed delightedly.
El rolled his eyes and settled her ruby-red cloak around her shoulders. As he’d suspected, it was pierced by many daring cutouts, and trimmed with lace. Tass strutted, bare knees peeking through the cloak as she approached him.
“Ye’re supposed to look as if ye can’t make enough coins in Hastarl, and have to go to the traders’ camp,” El protested, “not bring the whole city to a tongue-dangling halt!”
Tass pouted. “This was supposed to be fun, remember?”
El sighed and took her in his arms. Her eyes widened, and then she reached up her head eagerly and kissed him. Their lips were about to touch when he whispered the word that whirled them away from the dim room to behind a pile of barrels in the garbage-strewn alley along the walls.
Tass clung to him, wrinkled her nose, and then teased, “I’ve never been kissed like that before!”
“Let it be a first, Lady,” El said with a bow, as his form faded from view. “My likeness of Helm—’tis still clear in your mind?”
Tass nodded. “Vivid … a wonderful spell, that.”
“Nay, lass; it takes years to learn magic enough to cast it—and the teleport, too. Tyche smile upon ye … try not to get yourself killed or half-crushed under the rush of amorous men before ye find Helm and his knights.”
Tass made a very rude gesture in his direction, and then strutted oft through the gathering dusk.
Elminster watched her go and then shook his head. He hoped he’d not be looking at her again sometime soon—and seeing a contorted corpse.
He sighed and turned away. There was much else to do tonight.
Tass absently slapped aside another groping hand and snapped, “Coins first, great lord.”
A rueful chuckle answered her. “Three silver, sister?”
“Your sister is all you’ll get for three silver,” Tass agreed pleasantly, moving on. This way and that she peered in the gathering shadows, seeking the face Elminster had left hanging in her mind. He wasn’t a noble-looking man, this Helm Stoneblade.
“Swords from Sarthryn, Lady?” a voice whined at her.
She looked scathingly in that direction. “What would I want with a sword, man?”
“To go with your tongue, lass?” another voice rumbled in quiet amusement. Tass turned to glare across a campfire at its owner—and stopped dead. This was the man. She looked quickly around at the ill-garbed men oiling and sharpening blades. Of course … what better way to account for many weapons, without warriors boldly bearing them?
“It’s you I’ve come for,” she said calmly, striding toward Helm. The battered old warrior looked her up and down—and the blade in his lap swept up like a striking snake to touch her breast. Tass came to a sudden halt, swallowing. She’d never seen a sword wielded so fast—and the steel was very cold and firm against her flesh.
“Stand back,” its owner ordered, “and tell me who you are, an’ who sent you.”
Tass stepped smoothly back and parted her cloak to put her hands on her hips. One of the men craned his head for a good look at what she was displaying, but Helm’s eyes were fixed on her hands, and his blade was raised and ready.
“I speak for Elminster … or for Farl,” Tass told him calmly.
The blade flashed in the firelight as it dipped smoothly away. “Well,” Helm rumbled, taking up a tankard and offering it to her, “why don’t you decide which one, an’ we’ll talk?”
“The mage royal is elsewhere,” Farl whispered, face glistening with sweat. “Or I’d never have kept my life.” He was trembling.
“Easy,” Elminster said. “Ye did, that’s the important thing.”
“For now,” Farl hissed back. “Who knows if that mage left spells that capture my looks, for him to view later—and come after me?”
The elf beside them shook his head in silence. Elminster indicated the silent elven mage with a nod. “I’d trust him to sense anything this Undarl could cast.”
Farl shrugged, but seemed more at ease as he thrust a varied assortment of gems, vials, and pouches into Elminster’s hands. “Here. He’s got something built into his bed, too, but I couldn’t find the way to it, and forgot to bring my axe with me.”
“Next time,” El replied soothingly, and after a breath or two, Farl grinned at him.
“There were so many thieving apprentices trying to get past Undarl’s ward to steal spell scrolls that I kept falling over them! I still don’t know how they missed seeing me … this shadow of mine must be good.” He frowned. “How—how’re my Hands doing?”
Elminster scratched his nose. “The headstrong lass—Jannath, d’ye call her?—ran into a servant and slew him before she gave herself time to think … but her elven shadow flew the body out and gave it to the river. Otherwise, all is quiet, unfolding as we foresaw.”
“Who’s left to do?”
“We leave the tower of Ithboltar alone,” Myrjala’s voice came quietly out of the night beside them. “So that leaves only Malanthor for you.”
Fan nodded. “Right … where’s Tass?”
Eiminster grinned. “I made her change out of her ruby-red costume—”
“I’ll bet you did,” Farl and Myrjala said in unison, and then looked at each other and laughed.
“—so she was a trifle late getting started,” Elminster continued smoothly, as if the interruption hadn’t occurred. “She’s in Alarashan’s turret now; her shadow hasn’t reported anything amiss.”
Farl sighed in relief, and sprang to his feet. “Lead me to this Malanthor, then.”
Myrjala raised her eyebrows, and gestured at Elminster to cast the first spell. Obediently El stepped forward, pointing across the dark rooftops of the city “See ye that turret, there? We’re going to fly you across to the window … the smaller one; it’s his jakes, whereas the other is sure to have alarm spells and probably traps.”
“Fly me?” Farl said, and rolled his eyes. “I’m still not quite used to you being a mighty mage, El—or a prince, for that matter.”
“That’s all right,” Myrjala said soothingly “El’s not really used to being either of those things himself, yet.”
“You surprise me,” Farl said dryly, striding to the edge of the roof. Behind him, the two mages exchanged an amused glance.
Farl reached for the ring. This was almost too easy. “The wine’s all gone,” a pettish female voice complained, from the bath on the other side of the curtain.
“Well, get some more,” the magelord replied from the other end of the bath. “You know where it is.”
Water splashed. Farl’s fingers closed on the ring—and a wet, long-fingered hand reached through the curtain, closing on … Farl’s knuckle! Farl snatched his hand away and spun. The time for stealth was past. The woman screamed piercingly. Yes, long past.
Farl heard the magelord’s startled curse as he sprinted for the jakes. “Get me out of here!” he snarled, vaulting a low chair. “Now!”
There was a chorus of splashing sounds from behind him, and a man’s voice, chanting quickly.
Farl cursed despairingly. “Elminster!” he cried, dodging around a table. Then he felt a tingling in his limbs. He faltered, saw light flickering around him like dancing flames, and then fell through the door into the jakes. Lie still, a calm elven voice said in his mind. Farl shivered, and did so. What other chance did he have?
“Shielded!” the magelord spat in disbelief. “A spell-shielded thief in my own chambers! What’s this realm coming to, anyway?”
Dripping, he strode across the room, tiny blue lightnings playing between his hands. “Well, I think I’ll get a few answers before he dies … Nanatha, bring me some of that wine too!”
Oh, gods help me, Farl prayed, forehead on the floor. El, where are you? I knew this would h—
There was a sudden burst of light, and then a disgusted sigh. “Right in the chamberpot,” Elminster told the room angrily. “It’s not that small a room, but I have to appear right in the—”
“Who in the Nine Blazing Hells are you?”
Malanthor was flabbergasted; there were not one, but two intruders in his jakes, and with no sign of how they got there. He shook his head, but decided not to wait for a reply. Blue lightnings spat from his fingertips. They struck the hawk-nosed man—wait! This was one of the mages Ithboltar had been gibbering about!—and rebounded, leaping back at the magelord before he had time to do anything. They struck home. Malanthor grunted as his body was hurled back, jerking and spasming uncontrollably, and fell backward over a couch. Nanatha screamed again.
“Alabaertha … shumgolnar,” he gasped, writhing on the carpet. Chantlarn’d demand a high price for this aid, but it was call on their pact-link or die!
“Myr?” El called. “Are ye ready?”
“I’ll come for him,” was the soft reply. “We’ve got a patrol of armsmen up here.”
“Is that why I’m visible?” El said, suddenly realizing that the magelord had seen him instantly.
El stepped out of the chamberpot, deciding not to look down at whatever mess he must be making, and strode toward where the magelord had vanished. A bottle sailed across the room at his head; he ducked, and it touched his shoulder and shattered against the door behind him.
“Yes, that’s why,” Myrjala answered him calmly. “Next time, just pour me a glass, all right?”
El stared at the frightened woman who’d hurled the bottle—did all these magelords walk about naked? Nay, she was dripping wet, just as the man had been: bath time, then—and then turned back to see Myrjala touch Farl.
“Be back,” she said to El, and the two of them vanished. El looked back at the woman, and then over to where the magelord was struggling to his feet.
“For the deaths of my parents,” he said softly, “die, Magelord!” And a spell roared out of him. Silver spheres poured across the room and began to burst, one after another, shaking the room. The magelord tried to scream.
“My, what a dramatic speech,” said a new voice at El’s elbow. Elminster turned, and a smug-looking, mustachioed man in purple robes who hadn’t been in the room two breaths before smiled pleasantly at him and triggered the wand in his hand. The world went dark, then red. Dimly El heard a splintering crash, his own body striking a wall and demolishing a mirror. He heard bones shattering as he bounced back out into the room, half-crushed, and fell forward into oblivion.
Chantlarn of the magelords nodded in satisfaction and sauntered forward to inspect the stranger’s body. Perhaps there’d be some salvageable magic … he didn’t spare a single glance for the sobbing apprentice or the smoking ruin of the couch, where Malanthor’s contorted, blackened bones were still writhing in an eerie, futile struggle to stay upright.
“Elminster?” The voice from the doorway of the jakes was low and quiet, but definitely female. Chantlarn turned, and heard the speaker gasp. The other intruder Ithboltar had warned them of! He smiled tightly and triggered his wand again, aiming at her face. The wand flashed again, and Chantlarn opened his eyes. He’d have to stop firing at folk so close to him, or … it was his turn to gasp.
The woman still stood in the doorway, eyes alight in fury and grief. The magic had done nothing to her! Chantlarn gulped and triggered the wand again. She reached right through its blaze to touch him. Chantlarn had time for one strangled cry before his hurtling body crashed out through the balcony window. He was still high above the castle courtyard when he thrust the wa
nd into his own mouth, thrashing and struggling as he fought the terrible compulsion, and triggered it again.
The bloody explosion set the wand into a wild discharge. Its bolts burst in all directions, hurling flaming spell forces at the castle wall, and scattering a terrified patrol of armsmen.
The apprentice screamed again. Myrjala looked up at her tear-streaked face once, and then turned back to Elminster again, murmuring an incantation. A blue-white glow rose around her hands and flowed out to envelop Elminster’s twisted form. She gestured, and he rose into the air, lying limply as if on a bed. The blue-white glow brightened.
Nanatha backed away, moaning in fear. Myrjala turned again to face her … and smiled. The dumbfounded apprentice watched her features swim and flow, reshaping themselves into—the mage royal! Undarl Dragonrider sneered at her, dropped his cold gaze down her nakedness and then up again, and then waved a mocking salute. The light flared until it blinded her … and when she could see again, they were gone.
There was a pattering sound from across the room. Nanatha looked there in time to see Malanthor’s bones collapse and topple down into the ashes. It seemed like a good time to faint—so she did.
“You’ll be all right, my love,” Myrjala said softly.
El tried to nod … but seemed to be floating back from somewhere far away, on a succession of gently rolling waves that left him powerless to move.
“Lie still,” Myrjala said, laying a hand on his brow. Her fingers were cool.… Elminster smiled and relaxed.
“Did ye … clean my boots?” he managed to ask.
She exploded with laughter, mirth that ended in a sob that betrayed just how worried she’d been.
“Aye,” she said, voice steady again, “and more than that. I took the semblance of the mage royal and let Malanthor’s apprentice see me. She thinks the whole thing’s his work.”
“One magelord against another,” El murmured, satisfied. “I hear ye.…”
A moment later, it was obvious he didn’t. Sleep had claimed him, a deep, healing sleep that left him oblivious when Myrjala burst into tears and embraced him. “I almost lost thee,” she sobbed, her tears falling onto his face. “Oh, El, what would I have done then? Oh, why couldn’t your vengeance have been something lesser?”
