Ed Greenwood: Elminster Enraged

He took all he could stow, along with a battered metal mug a cook had been using as a measuring cup and a wickedly sharp little carving knife as long as one of his newly gained little fingers, thrust everything into two shoulder sacks that rode one atop the other like ungainly bulging bladders, one of them half-full of someone’s huge, rock-dust-soiled, dark old cloak, and departed the ruined citadel, heading the way the glaragh had: with his face into that faint breeze that blew along the passage.

That Underdark wind just might be coming from the Realms Above, the lands he knew, and provided the only firm direction point in this endless subterranean labyrinth. Symrustar was right-

Of course .

Aye, and thank ye. Symrustar was right: he did not want to tarry overlong, and be caught there when more drow arrived and saw what had happened to their mighty fortress.

No, he wanted to be back in the surface lands, as swiftly as he could get there without blundering into death for his new body, or great delays. Not that he could call to mind any ways up that should be nearby.

He recalled the places he wanted to avoid, all right. Haunted Ooltul, with its phaerimm and beholders, and the patrols of giants that ranged out from Maerimydra. Yet if he stayed too distant from those perils, he risked walking right into the drow hunting bands that would become ever more numerous and frequent, the closer he got to Cormyr-and the drow city of Sschindylryn.

There were ways that rose-if they’d survived the initial tumult of the Spellplague, and the century or so since-up into caverns in the Stonelands, and some in the Storm Horns, too …

The Thunder Peaks routes might be best, if the dragons and dracoliches that laired in their uppermost caverns were gone, asleep, or preoccupied. Hah; if. Those ways would bring him to the surface on the easternmost border of Cormyr, where the Purple Dragon outposts were few and scattered. He had spells enough that he should be able to evade the notice of Cormyr’s soldiery and easily reach the heart of the realm, where he could begin to follow Mystra’s commands. Which he recalled precisely: “By any means you deem best-becoming their head or turning their leaders to my service-recruit Cormyr’s wizards of war. They must become the ready allies, helping hands, and spies for all my Chosen.”

If he conducted himself properly, El could do that without instantly coming to Manshoon’s attention. Oh, that malevolently twisted one would notice him soon enough, and would need dealing with sooner or later … but for now, if El could manage matters thus, let it be later. He’d seen too many men and women-and Fair Folk, too-fall into the folly of fighting a favorite rival, spending their lives seeking to thwart and eradicate a foe; ere long, that striving became all their lives held and accomplished.

And you haven’t taken that very same fall? Symrustar’s voice rang through his mind in challenge. Don’t tell me you’re such a fool that you can’t see that!

El sighed. “I see it all too clearly, lady. I’ve spent century after century being slapped across the face by such an obvious conclusion, after all.”

And so?

“And so, Elminster of Shadowdale has more important work to do than to hold hard to any one foe or task. Since I began to avenge my family by bringing down the magelords, and in doing so learned my gift for the Art, I learned I could be more than a skulking slayer, and that Divine Mystra desired my service. Since then, I have always had more important work to do.”

When we first met, I was drifting, seeing no fitting cause or reward, only corruption and decadence and a slow decline for my family and my city. That was part of my fascination with you: you had many things ahead of you; I could feel it .

El grinned. “All too often,” he told that inner voice, “I felt it, too. Usually the lash of a spell, but sometimes the kiss of a blade.”

All right, clevermouth. So, the Thunder Peaks?

“The Thunder Peaks,” he confirmed. Those routes appealed for another reason, too. They crossed and crisscrossed, and ultimately came to the surface in a dozen different caverns or more. There was always a good chance not all of those caves would be blocked, occupied, or guarded.

Aye, he’d seek them, to arrive in the borderlands of Cormyr and there, far from Suzail and the watchful eyes of Manshoon, or for that matter Vangerdahast or Glathra, seek to join the war wizards under another name. Either in this new body, explaining it away as the result of a magical mishap-a lost spell duel, perhaps-or in another one, if a human body somehow became available. Then he’d take the slower but better road, making friends among them so as to rise in respect and usefulness, and spread his influence that way.

You make it all sound so easy. I hope it proves to be .

“So do I,” El murmured, as he went cautiously on down the passage, well aware of the perils facing any lone creature on the move in the Underdark.

Surprisingly, he felt not the slightest foreboding, and his earlier rage had vanished. Now, he was almost merry; happier and more carefree than he’d felt in a long time.

Why so?

My, Symrustar was swift.

He grinned, and found himself saying, “Well, I’m back at work, serving Mystra-and that striving is what my life holds to, and accomplishes.”

He walked along humming silently to himself, utterly contented.

Though he’d been lonely and longing for someone-anyone-to visit, to speak with him, to just to say his name, Rorskryn Mreldrake was less than happy now that it had happened. He was scared.

Just one cowled man had entered Mreldrake’s prison, though he’d glimpsed-been shown-a man-high roiling darkness through the briefly half-open door that warned him his visitor was not alone.

It was one of the hooded wizards. He’d brought a sack heavy with cloth bags and small, fragile clay jars-no glass, nothing metal that could be used to cut or pierce-and set it down with the words: “The magical needs you so calmly requested.”

Mreldrake had flushed at that, remembering his own angry shouts through the locked and bolted door. He’d lacked this and that-and any measure of patience, too.

Yet any mage as excited as he was over his work would be impatient to get on with it. For the first time in his life, he was creating something useful and important. Something more than a mere clever variant of a spell crafted by someone else, centuries ago. Something … new. Something his captors were interested in, which confirmed his suspicion that they were magically spying on him.

His visitor leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest-his hands were male, and human, and looked strong but not young-and announced, “Time for a little demonstration, Mreldrake. Show us what you’ve accomplished thus far.”

Mreldrake found himself sweating. “It … it’s not much.”

His visitor sighed. “I do, as it happens, possess some nodding familiarity with magical experimentation and creation. I understand matters can proceed slowly, and achievements may be small. Nevertheless, I am interested in what little you may have accomplished. Impress me.”

“I … yes, of course.” Mreldrake went to his notes, wiped his forehead on one sleeve, drew in a deep breath, and blurted out, “Well, you know I’m seeking to make air hard, like the well-known wall of force, but to have a keen cutting edge. Eventually giving me an invisible blade that can strike from afar, but I do mean eventually, and-”

“Words I can hear anywhere,” the cowled man said softly. “Show me.”

Mreldrake nodded wildly, gabbled assent, and peered at his notes again. Then he pointed across the room to where he’d set up his threads, pulled from the hem of his robes and secured to the top and bottom of an open-frame chair back with drops of wax from the candle lanterns.