The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  it takes the life of a few ambitious, grasping men, and the more of those the Realms is rid of the better.

  THALDETH FAEROSSDAR

  THE WAY OF THE GODS

  YEAR OF MOONFALL

  Their swords crashed together, ringing loudly. Both men reeled back from the numbing impact, and Elminster carefully declaimed words that echoed and rolled around the room. The two men were suddenly encircled by a wall of white radiance that seemed to be a whirlwind of flashing phantom swords.

  Belaur sneered. “More magic?”

  “It’s the last I’ll unleash in Faerûn until ye’re dead,” Elminster told him calmly, and strode forward.

  They met in a whirling clash of steel. Sparks flew as king and prince tried to hack through each other’s guard, teeth set and shoulders swinging. Belaur was a heavy-shouldered warrior of long years, run to fat but wary as a wolf. His challenger was younger, smaller, lighter, and quickly on the defensive, as Belaur used his weight to smash through Elminster’s parries. Only the young prince’s swiftness kept him alive, ducking, dodging, and diving aside from thirsty steel as the furious king rained a flurry of sword blows on his foe.

  When Elminster’s arms grew too numb to take the onslaught, he was forced to give way. He stepped back and circled to the right. Belaur turned to press him, grinning savagely, but Elminster spun away and ran, heading behind the throne.

  “Hah!” Belaur shouted triumphantly, striding forward. He was only a few steps away when Elminster stepped out from behind the throne to hurl a dagger at the king.

  Belaur’s blade flashed up to smash whirling death aside. The unharmed king did not even slow his rush, He sneered in triumph as he charged in to cut his enemy down.

  Elminster parried desperately, dodging around in front of the throne again. The king leaped after him and lunged, but his swifter foe slid out from under the blade. The king snarled, bent to his boot, plucked a dagger from it, and threw it all in one swift flurry and grunt. Elminster ducked away—too slowly. The dagger burned across his cheek and spun on its way … and Belaur was at him again, blade flashing.

  El’s parry was almost too late. The impact jarred his hand, and he shook it to banish numbness and then hastily put both hands to his blade, thrusting it up just in time to smash aside the king’s next attack. Belaur’s leaping steel seemed to be everywhere.

  The Sword of the Stag, Elminster had heard it called—a new-forged blade said to be enchanted by magelords. El was beginning to believe that. Their weapons crashed together again. Sparks flew as steel shrieked and then caught, guard to guard.

  The two men snarled into each other’s eyes, shoving, both refusing to leap back. Belaur’s shoulders, now glistening with sweat, rippled and bunched … and Elminster’s blade was slowly forced back and around. Belaur bellowed exultantly as his greater strength forced the locked blades into Elminster’s neck, and blood flowed. Gasping, Elminster dropped suddenly to the floor, wrapping his legs around Belaur’s as their blades flashed over his head.

  Overbalanced, the king crashed heavily to the tiles, elbows smashing down hard. The locked swords spun far away as Elminster kicked himself free. They were on the floor on their sides now, face to face. Belaur rolled and reached for Elminster’s throat. Elminster tried to knock those strong hands aside, and the two men grappled for a moment. Then the prince was overpowered again.

  Hard, gouging fingers stabbed at his throat. Spitting in Belaur’s face, El arched his head away, struggling. The king smashed his fist against Elminster’s forehead, then got a good firm hold on the prince’s throat. El clawed vainly at the hairy arms that were choking him and tried to wrench himself free by kicking on the slippery tiles. He managed only to drag the king a little way. Belaur bore down, grunting triumphantly. Elminster’s lungs were burning now. The world slowly began to spin and grow dim.

  His desperately scrabbling fingers touched a familiar hardness—the Lion Sword! Carefully, as the darkness rushed up to claim him, Elminster drew out the sharpened stub of his father’s blade and slid its uneven edge across Belaur’s throat. He closed his eyes as the king’s hot blood drenched him. Then Belaur was gurgling and thrashing feebly, hands falling from Elminster.

  Free to rise at last! Elminster rolled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, coughing weakly for air, and peering about to make sure no armsmen were near,

  A courtier was just retreating from his barrier, hissing in pain from a webwork of cuts welling forth bright fresh blood. Another man who’d tried to breach the barrier lay on his face on the tiles, unmoving. The prince shook his head and turned away.

  When he found breath and balance, and stood wiping Belaur’s blood from his face, Elminster saw that the courtiers were huddled back along the walls under the gallery. A few had swords out, but none of them wore the faces of men eager for battle. The king made a last wet, rattling sound … and then it died away, and he lay still, facedown in his own blood. Elminster drew a deep, trembling breath and turned, the Lion Sword in his hand. It seemed a long way down the green carpet to where Undarl Dragonrider, who’d obviously managed a spell to heal himself, was trying everything he knew to break Elminster’s spell cage.

  A spell flashed out from the caged wizard, clawed vainly at the radiant cage, and then rebounded on him. The mage royal shuddered. Elminster smiled tightly and waded into the cage he’d spun. Its energies raged briefly along his limbs like hungry lightning, surging through him until he trembled uncontrollably.

  Undarl’s hands were flicking faster than those of any mage El had ever seen, but Elminster had a very short distance to reach. The Lion Sword stabbed down into the wizard’s fast-muttering mouth. Undarl made a choking sound, then Elminster leaped on him, sobbing, and stabbed the mage royal repeatedly.

  “For Elthryn! For Amrythale!” the last prince of Athalantar cried. “For Athalantar! And—for me, gods blast you!”

  The body beneath his blade started to flow and twist. Suddenly fearful of contingencies, Elminster sprang clear. The blood that sprayed from his dripping weapon as he did so was … black!

  El stared in horror at the bloody ruin of the master of the magelords. The wizard Undarl swayed up to his feet, took one sagging step, and clawed weakly at Elminster—with hands that were suddenly scaled and taloned. His pain-twisted face lengthened into a scaled snout as the wizard fell, and a long, forked tongue flopped onto the tiles before his writhing body was suddenly surrounded by twinkling tights. Amid those lights, the scaly thing slowly and quietly faded from view, leaving behind only a black pool of blood on the tiles.

  Elminster stared down at where his greatest enemy had lain, feeling suddenly so weary that he could scarce … stand.… The prince toppled to the floor, the jagged stub of blade that had slain both the king and the mage royal clattering from his hand, The glowing barrier of blades faded swiftly.

  Silence fell. It was several long, still moments before a courtier hesitantly stepped out from behind the pillars, warily drawing his slim court sword. He took a cautious step forward, and then another … and raised his blade to stab the fallen stranger.

  Steel flashed at his throat, and the courtier leaped back with a scream. The king’s blade gleamed in the light as the baker who held it glared around the throne room. “Keep back!” Hannibur snarled, “all of ye!”

  Merchants and courtiers alike stared at the stout, disheveled figure standing over the fallen stranger, waving the Sword of the Stag a little uncertainly but with fierce determination … until a great light streamed into the room. Their staring faces turned to it, only to goggle all the more.

  Through the open double doors walked the source of the radiance: a tall, slim, regal lady with bone-white skin, dark eyes, and a confident manner. She was leading another woman by the hand, a bewildered, barefoot maid wearing a fine gown that did not fit her, who shrieked as she saw the baker and burst into a headlong run. “Hannibur! Hannibur!”

  “Shan!” he roared, and the Sword of the Stag clattered forgotten to the
floor. Sobbing, they rushed into each other’s arms.

  A bright glow seemed to shine from the regal lady’s body as she smiled at the embracing couple and walked calmly along the bloodstained carpet to where Elminster lay on the tiles. She waved her hand, and something suddenly shimmered and sang in the air around them both. Standing there in the light she’d conjured, the woman looked like some sort of sorcerous goddess as she lifted her chin and stared around the chamber with those dark, mysterious eyes. Folk who met that gaze fell still and stared helplessly; Myrjala looked around the chamber until all the watching folk were in her thrall.

  Then she spoke, and every man and maid there swore until their dying day that she’d spoken to them, and to them alone.

  “This is the dawn of a new day in Athalantar,” she said. “I want to see folk who were welcome in this hall when Uthgrael was king. Bring them here to the throne before night falls. If Belaur and his magelords suffered any to live this long, bring them, and bid them fair welcome! A new king summons them!”

  Myrjala snapped her fingers, and her eyes darkened. Suddenly folk were moving, pushing toward the doors in urgent haste.

  When she snapped her fingers again, only Hannibur and Shandathe, smiling through their tears, were still in the room to turn and see an ornate coffer obediently appear from empty air.

  Myrjala looked up, smiled, and waved at them to stay as she drew a flask from the coffer. As she knelt beside Elminster and unstoppered it, the bright glow began to fade from her skin.

  The streets were soon full of curious folk, some still smelling of hastily abandoned evenfeast. Hesitantly entering the gates of Athalgard, they skirted a battle between the magelords’ armsmen and some unfamiliar warriors and crowded on into the hall of the throne by the score. There were children peering excitedly at everything, shopkeepers looking about warily, and bright-eyed old men and women who tottered and shuffled about, leaning on sticks or the arms of younger folk.

  Proud and lowly alike they pushed into the throne room, gawking at the blood and the blackened, dangling bodies of the armsmen, and most of all at King Belaur, sprawled bloody and half-naked by the Stag Throne.

  A young, hawk-nosed man they did not know sat on that throne, and a tall, slender woman whose eyes were very large and dark stood beside him. He looked like an exhausted vagabond despite the Sword of the Stag across his knees—but she looked like a queen.

  When the room grew so crowded that the press of bodies drove Shandathe up against the shimmering barrier and she gave a little cry of alarm, Myrjala judged the time was right. She stepped forward and gestured at the weary-looking man on the throne. “Folk of Athalantar, behold Elminster, son of Prince Elthryn! He has taken his father’s throne by right of arms—do any here deny his right to sit on the Stag Throne and rule the realm that was his grandfather’s?” Silence answered her. Myrjala looked around the chamber. “Speak, or kneel to a new king!”

  There were uneasy stirrings, but no one spoke. After a moment, Hannibur the baker knelt, drawing Shandathe down with him. Then a fat wine-merchant went to his knees, and then a horse-trader … and then folk were kneeling all over the room.

  Myrjala bowed her head in satisfaction, a long labor ended, and said, “So be it.”

  On the throne, Elminster sighed. “At last, ’Tis over?” Sudden tears spitted down his face.

  Myrjala looked out over the kneeling crowd, at the older folk at the back of the chamber, searching among the faces—until she suddenly smiled and raised her hand in greeting.

  “Mithtyn,” she said to an old, bearded man, “you were herald in Uthgrael’s court. Be it so recorded that none contested Elminster’s right to the throne.”

  The old man bowed and said in a voice dry from little use, “Lady, it shall be … but who art thou? Ye know me, and yet I swear I’ve ne’er seen thee before.”

  Myrjala smiled and said, “I looked different, then. You said once, after you saw me, that you had not known I could dance.”

  Mithtyn stared at her and turned very pale. He found his mouth had fallen open, swallowed, and staggered back a pace, overcome with awe. Then he fell to his knees, trembling. Myrjala smiled at him and said, “You do remember. Be not afraid, good herald. I mean you no harm. Rise, and be at ease.”

  She turned back to the throne. “As we agreed, El?”

  He nodded, smiling through his tears. “As we agreed.”

  Myrjala nodded, and strode down the green carpet until she was in the center of the room. The folk of Hastarl parted before her as if she were preceded by a row of leveled lances. “Stand back, folk of the court!” she said pleasantly. “Clear a space, here before me!”

  Their retreat became a hasty rush … and when a large area of tiles was clear, Myrjala snapped her fingers and spread one hand.

  The empty space was suddenly filled. Some twenty sweating, bleeding armed men were standing before her, reddened blades raised, looking around wildly.

  “Peace!” Myrjala said. She seemed suddenly taller, and a white radiance pulsed and played again around her. Such was the force of her voice that the warriors did not move. They stood silent, staring around in unmoving wonder at each other and at the halt around them.

  “Behold, folk of Hastarl!” Myrjala said. “Here stand men who have remained true to Athalantar—men who want freedom for their realm and an end to the rule of cruel magelords. They are the knights of Athalantar, and mark he who leads them—Helm Stoneblade, a true knight of Athalantar!”

  Elminster rose from the throne and came to stand beside her. The two glanced at each other, smiled, nodded—and the hawk-nosed man strode into the midst of the dumbfounded armed band. Blades swung to point his way, but no one struck a blow.

  Elminster walked up to Helm. “Surprised, old friend?”

  Helm nodded, unspeaking. His dirt-smudged, sweating face wore a look of astonishment and a little awe. Elminster smiled at him, and then looked around at the crowd and said loudly, “By right of arms, and my lineage; the Stag Throne is rightfully mine! Yet I know well that I am not suited for it. One better suited to rule stands here before you! Folk of Athalantar, kneel and do homage to your new king—Helm of Athalantar!”

  Helm and his men stood amazed. A ragged cheer rose and then died away again. Even in Hastarl, clasped most tightly in the fist of the magelords, folk had heard of the daring rebel of the backlands.

  Elminster embraced Helm, tears in his eyes, and said, “My father is avenged. The land I leave to you.”

  “But—why?” Helm asked in disbelief. “Why give up yer throne?”

  Elminster laughed, traded glances again with Myrjala, and said, “I’m a mage, now, and proud of it. Sorcery is … well, it feels right to me. Working with it is what I do, and was meant to do. I’ll have little time for the care a realm needs, and even less patience for intrigue and pomp.” He smiled crookedly and added, “More than this: I think Athalantar’s had enough of wizards ruling things for a long time.”

  Heartfelt murmurs of agreement were heard all around the chamber, as the doors burst open and a band of ruffians stared into the chamber, swords glittering in their hands. Farl and Tassabra stood at the head of the thieves of the Velvet Hand. El waved merrily to them; Helm shook his head, as if seeing troubles in the days ahead, sighed—and then, as if he could not stop himself, smiled.

  “There is one thing we would like before we go,” Myrjala purred as she stepped up to them both.

  Helm eyed her warily. “Aye, Lady?”

  “A feast, of course. If you’re of like mind, I’ll work a spell that forces all cold iron out of this hall, so that none need fear weapons—eyen arrows—here tonight, and we can all make merry!”

  Helm stared at her. Then he suddenly threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “Of course,” he roared, “ ’Tis the least I can do!”

  Mithtyn was pushing through the crowd toward them, leading a young, trembling page, who bore the crown of Athalantar on a cushion. Elminster smiled, took up the circlet with
a bow, and placed it on Helm’s head. Then he cried, “Kneel, folk of Athalantar, before Helm Stoneblade, Lord of Athalantar, King of the Stag Throne!” There was a thunder of movement as everyone in the hall—except Elminster and Myrjala—knelt.

  Helm bowed his head, grinned at the two of them in thanks, and clapped his hands. “Rise, all!” he roared. “Bring food and wine and tables! Call out the minstrels from all over this city, and let us make merry!” His men threw down their swords and roared back their approval, and the great chamber was suddenly full of happy, shouting people. They wavered in Elminster’s sight … and he found his face was wet with tears again. “Mother … Father …” he whispered, unheard in the tumult, “I have done the right thing.”

  Myrjala’s arms were suddenly around him, warm and comforting, and he leaned his face into her bosom and wept. It is a glorious thing to be free at last.

  More food had vanished than Helm had thought possible. He grinned around at snoring folk sprawled on the benches … and his smile broadened as he looked down the carpet to where most of his men were dancing, whirling flush-faced lasses of Hastarl around the floor as weary minstrels played on and on. Among them, the dark-eyed sorceress who’d accompanied Elminster was treading the measures, dancing with first one of his men and then another. She still looked as fresh and as serene as if she were a queen newly arrived from her chambers of a morning.

  There on the floor, as they whirled and stepped to the music, a stubbled and dirty warrior bowed over Myrjala’s hand and turned her through the intricate steps of the sarad. As he dipped past her, he asked curiously, “Lady, I mean no offence—but why did ye not kneel to the new king?”

  “I kneel to no man, Anauviir,” Myrjala said and smiled. “If you would know why, ask Mithtyn in the morning.”

  She left the warrior wondering how she knew his name, and turned away through the dancing folk to find Mithtyn.

  He was standing with most of the older folk by the pillars, watching the dance. As she glided toward him out of the whirling dancers, the old man went pale and turned to hasten away, but found himself surrounded by folk pressed forward for a good look. He had nowhere to go.