*****
And so, a grumbling goodman of Narthil found himself bending over the dead prince. He reached out to take the warrior's sword for his own—and then hissed in fear, stumbling back¬ward. The sword shivered, moving by itself. The runes on the steel pulsed and rippled with sudden light. Then the blade rose from the ground as if taken up by unseen hands, hung for a mo¬ment in front of the terrified townsman's eyes, and flew away, sliding slow and smoothly through the air, point-first and straight, like an arrow shot from a bow. Northeast it went, to¬ward the grazing hills.
The man watched it go, swallowed, and muttered a prayer to Tempus, Lord of Battles. What were things coming to, when even swords held magic? And in the end, what good had that fancy blade done this carrion at his feet? Nay, magic wasn't something to be trusted, ever. The townsman looked down. The dead warrior stared unseeing at the sun. The townsman shook his head, spat on his hands, and took hold of the Athalantan's feet. Hmm ... the blade might be gone—but those boots, now?
Unseen, the enchanted blade crested a certain hill and flew on, northeast. A spell from afar was bidding it rejoin the being whose blood it had last spilled, a young sorceress hitherto un¬known to the magelords. A woman who defied armsmen, her¬alds, magelords, and princes of Athalantar alike—and for that, she must die. The blade flew on, seeking blood.
Thirteen
SPELLS ENOUGH TO DIE
Think on this, arrogant mageling: even the mightiest archmage has no spells strong enough to let him cheat death. Some take the road of lichdom ... a living death. The rest of us find graves, and our dust is no grander than that of the next man. So when next you lord it over some farmer with your fireballs, remember: we all master spells enough to die.
Ithil Sprandorn, Lord Mage of Saskar
said to the prisoner wizard Thorstel
Year of the Watching Wood
Flamerule had been warm and wet in this Year of Bloodflow¬ers, and if the gods sent rain sparingly in the fall, a plentiful har¬vest could be expected all down the River Shining.
Phaernos Bauldyn, keeper of the Ambletrees Arms, leaned against his doorpost and watched the last light of the setting sun fade over the hills to the west. A beautiful land, this . .. though he'd be happier if it weren't ruled by wizards who swaggered wherever they went, treating folk as slaves or cattle ... or worse.
He sighed. So long as they didn't get foolish or arrogant enough to face the elves of the High Forest spell to spell or of¬fended some god sorely enough to all be struck down on the spot, there was no way he could see that Athalantar would ever be free of the magelords. Phaernos frowned, sighed again, and turned back for his candle. It was fast growing dark now. He reached up, with the ease of long habit standing clear of the dripping wax, and lit the over-door lamp. As he drew the candle down and blew it out, he saw her coming wearily up the road to his door: a lone girl, tall, dark haired, slim, and drenched, with her clothes clinging to her and her sodden cloak trailing river water behind.
"Fall in, lass?" he asked, coming forward to offer his arm.
"I had to swim the river," she replied shortly, and then raised her head and smiled at him. She was thin and hollow-eyed, but her blue-gray eyes were keen and bright above a sharp nose.
Phaernos nodded as he turned to lead the way in. "A bed for the night?"
"If I can get dry by a fire," she answered, "but my coins are few. Are ye master of this house?"
"I am," Phaernos said, pulling open the wide front door. His guest peered at the old shields nailed to it and seemed almost amused.
"Why d'you ask?" he asked her as they came into the low-beamed taproom. A few farmers and village folk were sitting by the fire, cradling tankards of ale and mugs of broth. They looked up with mild interest.
"I can pay ye with spells," the wet girl said calmly.
Phaernos drew away from her in the sudden silence and said shortly, "We haven't much use for mages hereabouts. Most wiz¬ards in this land don't use their magic to help anyone but them¬selves."
"Then their magic should be stripped from them," she replied.
"And just how d'ye think anyone could do that, lass?" one of the drunker farmers demanded from his seat by the fire.
"Take their lives swift enough, and they've seldom any will left to work spells, I've found," the woman said calmly. "I'm no friend of magelords." The silence that followed her words was broken only by the faint, steady drip of river water from her clothes.
No one bothered her—or even spoke to her—after that. Phaernos led her wordlessly into the kitchen, pointed her to a bench by the hearth-fire, and brought her a cloak. The kitchen-women bustled over with rags for her to scrub dry with and food to eat, but then went on about their business. Elmara welcomed the peace; she was exhausted. Two hills away from Narthil, she'd made the mistake of using a spell that took her in a single step from where she'd stood to the most distant hilltop she could see. The magic had drawn on her own energy to do its work, leaving her exhausted. After that, the swim across the river hadn't helped—and it'd left her too chilled to just roll herself in her cloak and go to sleep in the open.
Elmara dried off as best she could, wrapped herself in the cloak, and dozed off, dreaming of shivering in a dripping hedge while magelords in the shape of wolves howled and bounded past, seeking her with sharp and hungry jaws agape.
It was much later when, at a gentle touch, she awoke; the innkeeper was bending over her. His guest tensed and looked up alertly as if she might spring up in a moment to give battle or flee.
Phaernos gazed down at her expressionlessly and said, "The house is closed for the night and the drinkers've gone home ...you're the only guest to sleep here tonight. Tell me your name, and what you meant about. . . paying me with magic." At his words, two of the women drew nearer to listen.
"I'm Elmara," his guest said, "a traveler from afar. I'm no mage, but I can work a few spells. Would ye like a larger storage cellar?"
Phaernos looked at her silently for a breath or two, and then the beginnings of a smile crept onto his face. "A larger cesspit would be more useful."
"I can do that, or both," Elmara said, rising, "if ye'll let me sleep here this night."
Phaernos nodded. "Done, lady ... if you'll come with me, I'll show you a bed where no magelord will find you."
The woman gave him a sharp look and asked softly, "What d'ye know of me?"
The innkeeper shrugged. "Nothing ... but a friend asked me to watch out for Elmara, if she should pass this way."
"Who was this friend?"
"He goes by the name of Braer," answered the innkeeper, looking steadily into her eyes.
El smiled and relaxed, her shoulders slumping wearily. "Show me the cellar and the pit first," she said. "It may befall that I'll have to slip away before daybreak."
Phaernos nodded again, saying nothing, and they went out together. As the door swung closed, the two kitchen-women ex¬changed looks—and with one accord made the warding sign against Tyche's disfavor, and turned back to their dishes.
In the morning, Elmara awoke to find her wet things had been dried and hung, and atop her battered pack sat a cloth bun¬dle. It proved to contain sausage, dried fish, and hard bread. She smiled, dressed swiftly, and went out, to find the innkeeper slumped asleep in a chair by the bedchamber door, an old sword across his knees.
Swallowing to drive down the sudden lump in her throat, El¬mara slipped down the stairs and out by the kitchen door, past the cesspit and into the trees behind. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have said anything about magelords or spells last night... but she'd been wet and exhausted, and it was done.
It would be best to be well away from Ambletrees before any word of a sorceress spread. Elmara kept to the trees as long as possible before stepping out into the back fields, heading north toward Far Torel. She took care to keep well out of sight of the road. Phaernos had said many armsmen had marched up it this last tenday, gathering for he knew not what—an attack on the elves of the High Forest, he half-hoped and half-feared.
Elmara doubted the magelords would risk themselves as the innkeeper hoped. No, they'd more likely order the woods set afire, and tell their armsmen to use crossbows to fell any elves who came to fight the flames. She sighed and strode on. She might have to spend years slipping across Athalantar like a shadow, evading the clutches of the wizards and their swagger¬ing armsmen while learning all she could of what magelords ruled where. If she were ever to avenge her parents and free the realm, she'd have to find some way to fell a few of the stronger magelords in the backlands so watching eyes would be fewer and she could make their deaths seem the work of enemy magelords or ambitious apprentices.
Perhaps she could seduce a magelord to gain his confidence and learn all he knew before destroying him. Elmara sighed, came to a thoughtful halt for a moment, and then went on. Not only did the idea make her stomach heave, she hadn't the faintest idea of how to act enticing... enough that a wizard who could have any maid he wanted would spare her more than a passing glance. A spell to change her shape might be noticed, and she wasn't particularly beautiful. She slowed her customary brisk stride and swayed her hips, gliding along with the lynxlike allure of an evening-lass she'd once seen in Hastarl, and then burst into high, helpless laughter at the very feel of it, shaking her head at how she must look.
Creep up on magelords like a thief, then. .. . Aye, that she still knew how to do, though this lighter, softer body, with its breasts and hips, balanced differently and lacked some of the strength she'd had as a man. She'd need to practice skulking again.
Soon, she thought suddenly. If Far Torel was an armed camp, they'd have patrols and watchers ... and she'd blunder right into them if she went on walking in the open without a care. On the other hand, if she were seen, someone skulking along would look suspicious indeed, where a traveler who trudged openly would not. Time to walk in and embrace doom again, Elmara thought to herself and smiled wryly. Out of habit she glanced all around, and so saved her life one more time.
A gleaming rune-carved sword was speeding through the air toward her from behind, a sword she'd never forget. The horrible memory of her impalement flashed into her mind, and through the steely taste of fear that rose into her mouth, Elmara shouted the words she'd never forget. "Thaerin! Osta! Indruu hathan halarl!"
The blade shivered to a halt, turned aside, and darted uncer¬tainly around in the trees. It reached an open space as El watched, her thoughts racing desperately, and then slowly turned until its glittering point was toward her again.
As the blade leapt at her face, she stammered out the only prayer to Mystra she had left that might work.
"Namaglos!" she shouted its last word desperately—and the blade burst into flashing shards right in front of her. Elmara shuddered in relief and sank to her knees, discovering that tears were running down her cheeks. In angry haste she wiped them away and gasped the words of another prayer.
Tyche smiled upon her, too, it seemed. There was no mage¬lord near. This blade must have been sent after her by someone back in Narthil, or even a wizard distant from that town, per¬haps in Athalgard. Whatever its origin, there was no magical scrying upon her, and no intelligent being within spell-sight.
El thanked both goddesses because it seemed the right thing to do, then rose from her knees and went on cautiously. Perhaps she'd best seek a place to hide and pray to Mystra for spells.
*****
Othglar spat thoughtfully into the night, shifted his aching behind on the stump, and then grunted in sudden impatience and got to his feet, kicking at the air to ease the stiffness in his legs. These wizards were all crazed—who in Athalantar would dare to attack almost four thousand swords? Out here in the proverbial chill back of beyond, too, weary miles of marching away from Hastarl and the lower river posts.
Othglar shook his head and walked to the edge of the stone bluff, looking down. Scores of campfires glimmered in the vale below. He reflected on how depressingly familiar they looked as he scratched at his ribs, spat into the night, and then unlaced his codpiece, leaning his halberd against a tree.
He was thoughtfully watering the unseen trees below when someone gave his halberd back to him, swinging it hard into his ear. Othglar's head snapped to one side, and he toppled forward into the night without a sound.
A slim hand propped the halberd back where it had been as the brief, rolling thudding of the guard's landing began, far below.
The owner of the hand drew her dark cloak around herself against the chill of the night and peered out at the same view Othglar had been so unimpressed with. Elmara's mage-sight found only three small points of blue light—possibly enspelled daggers or rings. None was near, or moving about.
Good. She counted campfires and sighed soundlessly. There were enough armsmen here to start a war against the elves that might ruin both Athalantar and the High Forest. She must act ... and that meant using one of the most powerful, lengthy, and dangerous prayers she knew.
Crawling cautiously on hands and knees, Elmara found a hollow a little way down the cliff, a place where someone coming to the guard's post wouldn't immediately fall over her. She knelt in it and undressed, putting everything that had metal in or about it in her pack, and then setting her pack well back behind her.
She faced the campfires, softly whispered a supplication to Mystra, spread bare feet for better balance, and began her spell.
Taking up the least favored of her several daggers, she pricked the palms of both her hands so they bled and held the dagger out horizontally before her, pinioned between her bloody palms.
As she murmured the incantation, she could feel blood run¬ning down to drip off her elbows and strength ebbing out of her as it was stolen by the spell.
Trembling with weakness, Elmara held the dagger up higher so it gleamed in the moonlight and watched it darken and begin to crumble. When it dissolved into rusty shards, she brushed off her hands and sank down, satisfied. Before dawn, every piece of metal between her and the forest would be useless, powdery rust. That would give the magelords something to think about. If they decided elven magic was the cause, the attack on the High Forest might never come.
