Ed Greenwood: Elminster Must Die

“A long-ago fool, that’s who. Your older colleagues tell me it was called Tethgard. Some fallen fortress from the bygone days of the realm, back when this Elminster-if he really is as old as all the legends say he is-was young. You know: when gods walked the earth and Anauroch was all empty desert and a dragon laired on every hilltop.”

Ah. War wizards paired with highknights. Far more of them than just this pair and probably led by Kelgantor, because that was what the battle-mage Kelgantor did. All of them out in the deep forest, creeping through the night, seeking Elminster and the Simbul. Knowing El and Lass were here, somewhere.

There came the faintest of rustlings from the far side of the duskwoods.

“That was someone, to be sure,” the second voice snapped. “When I-”

“Aye,” a third voice growled disgustedly. “ ’Twas me . Can’t you two move through the Hullack without hissing like a pair of chambermaids hard at their gossip? Merlar, I know wizards of war can’t take six steps without talking about it, but I expect better of you. I trained you.”

“Sorry,” the first whisperer muttered, so close to Storm that she could have reached out and slapped him without fully straightening her arm.

“Come,” the third voice breathed, soft and deep, and Storm heard the faintest of footfalls on damp dead leaves underfoot. The newcomer was advancing straight toward Tethgard.

Straight toward El and Lass.

Merlar and the mage who’d been up in the tree moved to follow, and Storm moved with them, hidden amid their noise.

“Who’s that?” another voice hissed out of the darkness on the other side of the three Cormyreans.

“Nordroun,” the third voice replied flatly, “and who are you to be issuing challenges, Shuldroon? As I recall, you’re supposed to be over on our other flank, with Kelgantor between us.”

“I am between,” came a new voice, cold and level. “The land rises to our east, and its slope seems to have brought Shuldroon and his three straying back this way, bringing us all together. So halt, everyone, before someone’s blundering ends in a blade finding friendly flesh in the dark. Sir Nordroun, call your roll.”

“Merlar?” came the prompt whisper.

“Here,” that highknight replied from right in front of Storm. “Therlon is with me, and Starbridge our rear guard.” Two nearby murmurs came out of the night as those men confirmed their presence.

“And I,” Nordroun continued, “stand near enough to touch Merlar. My mage is Hondryn-”

“Here,” a thin and unfriendly voice put in.

“-and Danthalus is my rear guard.” Another murmur.

“Rorsorn?” Nordroun asked.

“I’m here, accompanying ranking Wizard of War Kelgantor and the mages Tethlor and Mreldrake. Jusprar’s our rear guard.”

Kelgantor gave his name with prompt, cold clarity, and the other three muttered theirs dutifully in his wake.

Shuldroon did not wait for Nordroun, highest ranking of all highknights in the realm notwithstanding. His tone of voice made it clear that he considered all highknights lackeys whose proper place was behind and beneath every wizard of war-and the sooner they all learned that, the better. “I am here, the knight Athlar is with me, and the knight Rondrand follows behind us.” He was echoed by the two highknights confirming their presence.

“Anyone else?” Kelgantor asked, and a little silence fell.

“Good, we don’t seem to have acquired any eavesdroppers,” the leader of the force announced a few breaths later, his voice too flat and cold for anyone to dare to laugh. “Therlon, report.”

“My spells can’t detect the two we seek-or anyone else-ahead of us. The warding spells around Tethgard have decayed into an utter chaos of moving, ever-changing Art that foils all scrying magic. In both directions, I’d judge.”

“I am less than surprised,” Kelgantor replied. “Tethlor reported the same conditions. Enough delay. Rear guards, maintain your positions; all other knights, advance three paces, forming a front line as well as you can in this murk. We wizards will follow behind you. Rear guards, when you hear us start to move, follow on. No need for delay and little enough for caution, I’d say. Parley if it is offered, but strike back to slay without hesitation if magic is sent against us. Any queries?”

“Kelgantor,” Tethlor said quietly, “Ganrahast warned us to be very careful. ‘Beware Elminster,’ he said. ‘He’s more formidable than he seems.’ ”

Kelgantor’s voice came back a shade colder. “I’ve not forgotten that advice. Yet heading up the wizards of war does something regrettable but inescapable to every mage who’s tried it; every Royal Magician I’ve known or read about has come to see lurking shadows behind every door and whispering conspirators beneath every bed in the realm. Let me remind you that no lone wizard-no matter how old, crazed, or infamous-can hope to match us in battle.”

“For my part,” Shuldroon put in, “I don’t think this Elminster is the one in the legends at all. I think a series of old men, down the passing years, have used the fell name of a long-dead mage to cloak their own lesser wizardries. And this self-styled Elminster who thieves magic from us now is the least of them all, an old hedge wizard who avoids casting every spell he can, bluffing his way into getting what he wants through fear of what the mighty Elminster of old might do if roused. I’ve heard he dare not cast the simplest spell, because he goes mad.”

“We’ve all heard that,” Nordroun said heavily. “I hope it’s true.”

Storm listened as they all started to speak. Kelgantor was the calm, levelheaded, coldly ruthless commander of this force, a veteran war wizard, smart and decisive. Tethlor was competent, wary, and loyal. Therlon she knew well: a good sort, along for his local knowledge, far less of a spellhurler than the others. Shuldroon was a zealous, overconfident killer, a youngling out to make his mark, with Hondryn his echo and crony. Mreldrake was a pompous, cowardly ass, a measure of how far the wizards of war had fallen these latter decades.

Aside from Eskrel Starbridge, whom she respected, the highknights she knew less well. Nordroun was head of them all, and well-regarded; Merlar was an able, amiable youngling, widely liked … and the rest were just names to her.

“Well, I think we’d best curl our line forward at both ends like a fork,” Shuldroon was saying, “to surround the ruins, or we’ll end up huffing and puffing through these trees until dawn, with the two we seek fleeing just ahead of us. Or they’ll climb trees or hide amongst the trunks, and we’ll blunder right past, and-”

He broke off, then, as the air around them all seemed to smite the ears with a heavy blow that was felt more than heard, a surge of flaring unseen force that came charging soundlessly out of the trees to wash over them and race on, away through the forest behind them, trees creaking here and there as if bent in a gale, though no leaves stirred.

Wizards cursed. “Strong magic!” Hondryn snarled. “Flaring as if uncontrolled, just unleashed …”

“I felt it,” Kelgantor snapped. “The old man has unbound an enchanted item. Forward! Quick, before he destroys another!”

Storm moved with them, knowing what that flare of magic had been. Elminster had just destroyed the gorget.

Its magic was flowing into someone, either the Old Mage or the Simbul … but if ’twas Lass, that flood had been so smooth and quiet, with the darkness unbroken ahead, that she must be asleep or unconscious, not her raving, seething, exulting self.

“No doubt he’s stealing magic for himself,” the war wizard commander added as they hastened on, heedless of the din of snapping branches and rustling footfalls. “Know this secret of the realm, all of you: Elminster does indeed need magic to recover after every casting, or he goes a little mad for a while. Not mere rumor, but observed and confirmed truth. He always heals himself in the end-but each time he works a spell, he goes erratic if it’s a minor magic and barking madwits if he’s unleashed something mightier. So all we need do is survive his first spell, and our foe will be a staggering madman, too far gone to work a second magic on us. So when you hear my owl hoot in your minds-not with your ears; anything you hear will be a real owl-spread out and advance very quietly. We can’t be far from him now.”