"Who rules here?" she asked.
The man snarled at her wordlessly.
Elmara raised an eyebrow and a hand at the same time.
"M-Mercy," the man gasped.
"There is no mercy for mages," Elmara told him quietly. "I've learned that much." She turned away. "I ask again: who rules?"
"I—ah ... we hold Narthil for King Belaur."
"Thank you, sir," Elmara murmured politely, and started back to her seat.
The man in robes, suddenly released from magical restraint, lurched and almost fell, took three quick steps toward the door, and then spun around and snarled a spell, his dagger flashing into his hand. The watching townsfolk gasped. The robed wiz¬ard's blade and all the discarded swords on the floor leapt up in unison and hurtled through the air toward Elmara's back in a deadly storm of steel. Without turning, El murmured a soft word. The steel points so close to claiming her life swerved away, flying back at the mage.
"No!" the robed wizard cried frantically, snatching at the handle of the door. "Wha—"
The blades thudded home in a deadly rain, lifting the man's body off his feet and carrying him past the door. He fell, kicked once, and then lay still, the blades a shining forest in his back.
Elmara took up her cloak and pack. "Ye see? Mercy contin¬ues in short supply. Nor among mages, I've learned, is there overmuch trust," she added and went out into the street.
Watching faces were pressed against the windows of the inn as Elmara walked calmly out into the road and began to peer into shop windows, as if she had coins to spare and a whim to spend them. She had not been strolling long before there was the sound of a horn from north up the road—from the small stone pile of Narthil Keep. A sally port in the keep gate opened, and the clatter of hooves was heard. An old man in a ceremonial tabard rode out, two full-plated armsmen with lances behind him. Elmara watched them turn toward her, saw no signs of crossbows, shrugged, and turned away, heading back to the inn.
The street was rapidly filling with curious townsfolk. "Who are ye, young lass?" asked one scar-nosed man.
"A friend ... a traveling priestess of Mystra, from Athalan¬tar," said Elmara.
"A magelord?" another man asked, sounding angry.
"A renegade magelord?" the woman beside him offered.
"No magelord at all, ever," Elmara replied, and turned to a big-bosomed, weary-looking woman in apron and patched skirts, who stood gaping at her as if she were a talking fish. "How goes it here in Narthil, goodwoman?"
Taken aback by her words, she stammered for a trice, and then said bitterly, "Bad, lass, since these Athalantan dogs came and took the keep for their own. Since then, they've seized our food and daughters an' all without so much as asking!"
"Aye!" several folk agreed.
"More cruel than most warriors?" Elmara asked, waving a hand at the keep.
The woman shrugged. "Nae so much cruel, as ... proud. These young bucks'd not prance so free nor be so fast to smash things and upset all, if they had to spend a tenday in my—or any maid's!—place, cleaning up and setting to rights and mending!"
" 'Ware!" a man said warningly, and all around Elmara folk drew back as the three horsemen came trotting up. The young woman stood calmly awaiting them.
At her unmoving stance, the old man in the tabard of purple adorned with silver moonflowers reined in his mount and said, "I am Aunsiber, lord steward of Narthil. Who are ye, who here work spells against lawful armsmen and mages of the realm?"
Elmara nodded in polite greeting. "One who would prefer to see wizards help folk, not rule them—who would prefer a king whose rule meant peace, stability, and help in harvesting, not taxes, ceaseless strife, and brutality."
Not surprisingly, there was a murmur of agreement from the watching townsfolk all around. The steward uneasily eyed the crowd, sidestepping his restless mount. His voice, when it came, was derisive. "A dream."
Elmara inclined her head. "As yet, 'tis—and not my only one."
The old man looked down from his high saddle and asked, "And your others, young dreamer?"
"Just one," Elmara replied mildly. "Revenge." She raised both her hands as if to cast a spell—and the old man's face paled. He jerked at his reins, wheeled his mount in a nervous flurry of snorts and hooves, and set off back to the keep at a gal¬lop. There were some hoots and exultant yells from the crowd, but Elmara turned away without another word and went back into the inn.
"What'd she say?" one man was asking as she stepped through the door.
A woman sitting nearby leaned forward and said loudly, "Did ye not hear? Revenge."
Then she saw Elmara was in the room and fell silent, a si¬lence that suddenly hung tense and expectant over the whole room. El gave the woman a gentle smile and went to the bar. "Is that beer ready yet?" she asked calmly, and was pleased to hear at least one man behind her dare to chuckle aloud.
* * * * *
Briost was not having a good day. He burst out of his grand council chamber the moment the messenger had gone. The ap¬prentice who'd been trying to eavesdrop by means of a just-per¬fected spell stiffened guiltily; his master's face was dark with anger.
"Go and practice hurling fireballs," Briost snapped, "or what spells you will. I'm called away on the king's business. Some mad traveling wizard's had the temerity to slay all of Seldinor's ap¬prentices at an inn west of Narthil—and he's 'too busy' to avenge them. So I'm going to reap the idiot's head for the greater glory of the magelords!"
*****
The hand that shook Elmara was soft but insistent. She came awake in the best bed in Myrkiel's Rest and peered at the woman bending over her. The innkeeper wore but a blanket, clutched about her. "Lass, lass," she hissed, hovering over El in the darkness, "ye'd best be gone from here right speedily, out into the woods. Word's come that armsmen are riding here to take thee!"
Elmara yawned, stretched, and said, "My thanks, fair lady. Would there be such a thing as hot cider about, and some sausage?"
The innkeeper stared at her. Then what might almost have been a smile flashed across her face as she turned and hurried out, bare feet flashing in the gloom.
*****
The road fairly shook under their hooves in the gray gloom that comes before dawn. Sixty mounted knights of Athalantar, gleaming dark and deadly in their best battle armor, headed west, bent on battle. In their midst, the man whose helm bore the plumes of a commander turned his head to the man riding beside him.
"Suppose you tell me, mage," he ordered, "what urgent be¬falling brings us to ride through half the night."
"We go to work revenge, Prince," Magelord Eth snapped. "Is that good enough, or would you question my orders further?"
Prince Gartos appeared to consider the matter for a moment, and then said, "No—revenge is the best reason to make war."
There was a shout from ahead, and the horses broke stride. "Stay on the road, damn you!" Gartos ordered wearily, as the knights' mounts bunched up and snorted and tossed their heads all around him. The band of knights came to an uneasy halt.
"What?" he roared.
"The Narthil road-gate, Lord Prince—and no guard stands here."
Gartos snapped, "Helms on, all! Blades out!" and waved im¬periously. The knights around him obeyed, and urged their mounts forward at speed. A breath later, they were thundering down into Narthil.
The gloom-shrouded road ahead was empty and in darkness; no lights glimmered in the houses and shops on either side. The foremost knights slowed their mounts, peering around uncer¬tainly. The town looked asleep, but they'd all heard of knights tumbled from their mounts after riding into cords stretched stiff across streets. There were no cords ... and no leaping arrows ... and no one defying them at all. Unless ...
A lone figure was trudging up the street toward them: a youngish, thin woman in nondescript garb, who held a steaming mug of cider in one hand. She halted calmly in their path and stood sipping and watching. They slowed to a trot and then, in a patter of hooves, swept up to and flowed around her.
Elmara found herself looking up into the hard eyes of a battle-worn warrior who wore magnificent armor and was flanked by a cold-eyed man in robes that bore no device, but somehow had "magelord" limned all over them.
"Fair morn," she offered them mildly, sipping cider. "Who are ye who come in arms to Narthil when honest folk are still abed?"
"I'll ask, and you will give swift answer," the warrior snapped, turning his mount to one side so he could lean down right over Elmara. "Who are you?"
"One who would see proud mages and cruel armsmen taken down," El replied, and at the word 'down' her spell went off. Shards of shimmering force flashed out from her in all direc¬tions. Where they touched metal, it burst into crackling blue flames—and the man within the armor or holding the blade con¬vulsed and toppled from his saddle.
For a brief instant, the world seemed full of bright light and rearing, crying horses, and then the terrified, riderless mounts were gone in a wild thunder of hooves, leaving Elmara facing just two riders, who sat white-faced in their saddles, a hastily raised protective spell glowing in the air around them.
"My turn," Elmara said, eyes glinting. "Who are ye?"
The warrior slowly and menacingly drew his sword, and El¬mara saw magical runes flash and glow down its steely length. "Prince Gartos of Athalantar," he said proudly, "the man who'll slay thee, sorceress, as sure as the sun will rise in the sky o'er Narthil before long." As the warrior spoke, the hands of the silent magelord beside him were moving quickly—but in the next moment his eyes widened: Elmara had suddenly vanished.
Then Magelord Eth's mount was rearing and plunging, and there was a heavy weight behind him. He had just begun to turn when one hand slapped across his nose and mouth, bringing tears—and then another hand came up to punch him hard in the throat.
Gurgling, fighting for air, Magelord Eth reeled in his saddle, and felt something torn from his belt before the dark ground came up hard to hit him in the side of the head, and the Realms spun away from him, forever....
Elmara leapt away from the horse even before the wizard toppled from the saddle; Gartos was very quick. He'd realized where El's magic had taken her, wheeled, and his blade was al¬ready cutting the air above the magelord's high-cantled saddle.
Elmara landed hard, jumped to one side to still the speed of her leap, and peered at the wand she'd snatched. Ah, there! Hooves were thudding toward her as Elmara looked up, pointed the wand, and carefully spoke the word that was scratched on its butt-end. Light pulsed and hissed away from the wand in a pair of bolts that swerved in the air to strike Prince Gartos full in the face. He threw back his head, snarled in pain, and slashed blindly with his blade as his horse galloped forward. Elmara leapt and rolled, and came up well to one side. She pointed the wand at the armored figure rushing past and spoke the word again.
Light flashed again and sped to its target. The gleaming ar¬mored arms jerked in pain. The warrior's sword spun away to the turf as his mount bucked under him and then galloped away, fleeing in earnest now. Elmara saw sleepy-eyed folk gaping at her out of their doorways as she dropped the wand to the road at her feet, pointed her hands at the horse, and spoke a few soft words.
The prince fell from his saddle, rolled over once with a mighty crash, and lay still. The horse sped on into the rising dawn.
El retrieved the wand, cast a quick look around for other foes, saw none, and stalked over to where the warrior lay. Gartos lay on his back, face dark with pain and fury.
"I have other questions, warrior," Elmara said. "What brings armsmen of Athalantar to Narthil?"
Gartos snarled angrily and wordlessly up at her. Elmara raised her eyebrow, and lifted her hands warningly to begin the gestures of a spell.
Gartos watched her fingers move, and rumbled, "S-Stay your spell. I was ordered to find the one who slew some magelings at the Unicorn's Horn, west of here ... you?"
Elmara nodded. "I defeated them and sent them away; they may yet live. How is it that a prince of the realm gets ordered anywhere?"
The warrior's lips twisted wryly. "Even the king does the bid¬ding of the elder magelords—and the king made me a prince."
"Why?"
The fallen man shrugged. "He trusted me . . . and needed to give me the right to command armsmen without having any young fool of a magelord strike down my orders or slay me out of spite."
Elmara nodded. "Who was the wizard with ye?"
"Magelord Eth—my watchdog, set by the magelords to make sure I don't do anything for Belaur that might work against them."
"Ye make Belaur seem a prisoner."
"He is," Gartos said simply, and Elmara saw his eyes dart aside, this way and that, looking for something.
"Tell me more of this Magelord Eth," Elmara said, taking a step forward and drawing the wand from her belt. It would be best to keep this warrior talking and give him no time to plot an attack.
Gartos shrugged again. "I know little; the magelords don't care to say much about themselves. He's called 'Stoneclaw;' he slew an umber hulk with his spells when he was young . . . but that's about all I... Thaerin!"
At the warrior's shout, magical radiance pulsed. Elmara turned hastily—in time to see the rune-carved blade flashing to¬ward her, point first.
She leapt aside. The warrior snarled, "Osta! Indruu hathan halarl! and the blade veered in the air, darting straight at El¬mara.
She let go the wand and raised her hands desperately—and the blade cut right through them, searing aside her fingers to plunge deep into her. Elmara screamed. The dawn sky whirled around her as she staggered back, blood welling up, fought to speak, and fell back onto the turf, greater pain than she'd ever known hissing through her.
She heard a cold chuckle from Gartos as darkness rolled in, and fought with all her will to cling to something . . . anything ... With her last breath she gasped, "Mystra, aid me ..."
