"They know of me?"
Helm gave him a pitying look. "Ye are a lamb to the ways of court, indeed. The wizard ye saw over Heldon doubtless had or¬ders to eliminate Prince Elthryn an' all his blood before the son they knew he'd sired could grow old and well-trained enough to have royal ambitions of his own."
There was a little silence as the knight watched the youth grow pale. When the lad spoke again, however, Helm got another surprise.
"Sir Helm," Elminster said calmly, "Tell me the names of the magelords and ye can have my sheep."
Helm guffawed. "In faith, lad, I know them not—an' the others I run with'll have thy sheep whate'er befalls. I will give thee the names of thy uncles; yell need to know them."
Elminster's eyes flickered. "So tell."
"The eldest—thy chief enemy—is Belaur. A big, bellowing bully of a man, for all he's seen but nine-and-twenty winters. Cruel in the hunt and on the field, but the best trained to arms of all the princes. He's shorter of wits than he thinks he is, an' was Uthgrael's favorite until he showed his cruel ways an', o'er and o'er again, his short temper. He proclaimed himself king six summers ago, but many folk up and down the Delimbiyr don't recognize his title. They know what befell."
Elminster nodded. "And the second son?"
" 'Tis thought he's dead. Elthaun was a soft-tongued woman¬izer whose every third word was false. All the realm knew him for a master of intrigue, but he fled Hastarl a step ahead of Be¬laur's armsmen. The word is, some of the magelords found him in Calimshan later that year, hiding in a cellar in some city—an' used spells to make his death long and lingering."
"The third." Elminster was marking them off on his fingers; Helm grinned at that.
"Cauln was killed before Belaur claimed the throne. He was a sneaking, suspicious sort an' always liked watching wizards hurl fire an' the like. He fancied himself a wizard—an' was tricked into a spell-duel by a mage commonly thought to be hired for the purpose by Elthaun. The mage turned Cauln into a snake—fitting—an' then burst him apart from within with a spell I've never recognized or heard named. Then the first magelords Be¬laur had brought in struck him down in turn, 'for the safety of the realm.' I recall them proclaiming 'Death for treason!' in the streets of Hastarl when the news was cried."
Helm shook his head. "Then came your father. He was always quiet an' insisted on fairness among nobles and common folk. The people loved him for that, but there was little respect for him at court. He retired to Heldon early on, an' most folk in Has¬tarl forgot him. I never knew Uthgrael thought highly of him—¬but that sword ye bear proves he did."
"Four princes, thus far," Elminster said, nodding as if to nail them down in memory. "The others?"
Helm counted on his own grubby fingers. "Othglas was next—a fat man full of jolly jests, who stuffed himself at feasts every night he could. He was stouter than a barrel an' could barely wheeze his way around on two feet. He liked to poison those who displeased him an' made quite a push through the ranks of those at court, downing foes an' any who so much as spoke a word aloud against him, and advancing his own sup¬porters."
Elminster stared at him, frowning. "Ye make my uncles seem like a lot of villains."
Helm looked steadily back at him. "That was the common judgment up an' down the Delimbiyr, aye. I but report to ye what they did; if ye come to the same judgment as most folk did, doubtless the gods will agree with ye."
He scratched himself again, took a pull from his flask, and added, "When Belaur took the throne, his pet mages made it clear they knew what Othglas was up to an' threatened to put him to death before all the court for it. So he fled to Dalniir an' joined the Huntsmen, who worship Malar. I doubt the Beastlord has ever had so fat a priest before—or since."
"Does he still live?"
Helm shook his head. "Most of Athalantar knows what befell; the magelords made sure we all heard. They turned him into a boar during a hunt, an' he was slain by his own underpriests."
Elminster shuddered despite himself, but all he said was, "The next prince?"
"Felodar—the one who went off to Calimshan. Gold and gems are his love; he left the realm before Uthgrael died, seeking them. Wherever he went, he fostered trade betwixt there and here, pleasing the king very much—an' bringing Athalantar what little name an' wealth it has in Faerun beyond the Delimbiyr valley today. I think the king'd have been less pleased if he'd known Felodar was raking in gold coins as fast as he could close his hands on them . . . trading in slaves, drugs, an' dark magic. He's still doing that, as far as I know, at least chin-deep in the intrigues of Calimshan." Helm chuckled suddenly. "He's even hired mages an' sent them here to work spells against Belaur's magelords."
"Not one to turn thy back on, for even a quick breath?" El¬minster asked wryly, and Helm grinned and nodded.
"Last, there's Nrymm, the youngest. A timid, frail, sullen little brat, as I recall. He was brought up by women of the court after the queen's death, an' may never have stepped outside the gates of Athalgard in his life. He disappeared about four sum¬mers ago."
"Dead?"
Helm shrugged. "That, or held captive somewhere by the magelords so they have another blood heir of Uthgrael in their power should anything happen to Belaur."
Elminster reached for the flask; Helm handed it over. The youth drank carefully, sneezed once, and handed it back. He licked his lips, and said, "Ye don't make it sound a noble thing to be a prince of Athalantar."
Helm shrugged. "It's for every prince, himself, to make it a noble thing; a duty most princes these days seem to forget."
Elminster looked down at the Lion Sword, which had some¬how found its way into his hands again. "What should I do now?"
Helm shrugged. "Go west, to the Horn Hills, and run with the outlaws there. Learn how to live hard, an' use a blade—an' kill. Your revenge, lad, isn't catching one mage in a privy an' running a sword up his backside—the gods have set ye up against far too many princes an' wizards an' hired lickspittle armsmen for that. Even if they all lined up and presented their behinds, your arm'd grow tired before the job was done."
He sighed and added, "Ye spoke truth when ye said it'll be your life's work. Ye have to be less the dreamy boy an' more the knight, an' somehow keep well clear of magelords until ye've learned how to stay alive more'n one battle, when the armsmen of Athalantar come looking to kill ye. Most of 'em aren't much in a fight—but right now, neither are ye. Go to the hills and offer your blade to the outlaws at least two winters. In the cities, everything is under the hand—an' the taint—of wizards. Evil rules, and good men must needs be outlaws—or corpses—if they're to stay good. So be ye an outlaw an' learn to be a good one." He did not quite smile as he added, "If ye survive, travel Faerun until ye find a weapon sharp enough to slay Neldryn—and then come back, and do it."
"Slay who?"
"Neldryn Hawklyn—probably the most powerful of the mage-lords."
Elminster eyed him with sudden fire in his blue-gray eyes. "Ye said ye knew no names of magelords! Is this what a knight of Athalantar calls 'truth'?"
Helm spat aside, into the darkness. "Truth?" He leaned for¬ward. "Just what is 'truth,' boy?"
Elminster frowned. "It is what it is," he said icily. "I know of no hidden meanings."
"Truth," Helm said, "is a weapon. Remember that."
Silence hung between them for a long moment, and then El¬minster said, "Right, I've learned thy clever lesson. Tell me then, O wise knight: how much else of all ye've said can I trust? About my father and my uncles?"
Helm hid a smile. When this lad's voice grew quiet, it beto¬kened danger. No bluster about this one. He deserved a fair an¬swer, well enough. The knight said simply, "All of it. As best I know. If ye're still hungry for names to work revenge on, add these to thy tally: Magelords Seldinor Stormcloak and Kadeln Olothstar—but I'd not know the faces of any of the three if I bumped noses with them in a brothel bathing pool."
Elminster regarded the unshaven, stinking man steadily. "Ye are not what I expected a knight of Athalantar to be."
Helm met his gaze squarely. "Ye thought to see shining armor, Prince? Astride a white horse as tall as a cottage? Courtly manners? Noble sacrifices? Not in this world, lad—not since the Queen of the Hunt died."
"Who?"
Helm sighed and looked away. "I forget ye know naught of your own realm. Queen Syndrel Hornweather; your granddam, Uthgrael's queen, an' mistress of all his stag hunts." He looked into the darkness, and added softly, "She was the most beautiful lady I've ever seen."
Elminster got up abruptly. "My thanks for this, Helm Stoneblade. I must be on my way before any of thy fellow wolves return from plundering Heldon. If the gods smile, we shall meet again."
Helm looked up at him. "I hope so, lad. I hope so—an' let it be when Athalantar is free of magelords again, an' my 'fellow wolves,' the true knights of Athalantar, can ride again."
He held out his hands. The flask was in one, and the bread in the other.
"Go west, to the Horn Hills," he said roughly, "an' take care not to be seen. Move at dusk an' dawn, and keep to fields and for¬est. 'Ware armsmen at patrol. Out there, they slay first, an' ask thy corpse its business after. Never forget: the blades the wiz¬ards hire are not knights; today's armsmen of Athalantar have no honor." He spat to one side thoughtfully and added, "If ye meet with outlaws, tell them Helm sent ye, an' ye're to be trusted."
Elminster took the bread and the flask. Their eyes met, and he nodded his thanks.
"Remember," Helm said, "tell no one thy true name—an' don't ask fool questions about princes or magelords, either. Be some¬one else 'til 'tis time."
Elminster nodded. "Have my trust, Sir Knight, and my thanks." He turned with all the gravity of his twelve winters and strode away to the mouth of the cavern.
The knight came after, grinning. Then he said, "Wait, lad— take my sword; ye'll need it. Best ye keep that hilt of thine out of sight."
The boy stopped and turned, trying not to show his excite¬ment. A blade of his own! "What will ye use?" Elminster asked, taking the heavy, plain sword that the knight's dirty hands put into his. Buckles clinked and leather flapped, and a scabbard fol¬lowed it.
Helm shrugged. "I'll loot me another. I'm supposed to serve any prince of the realm with my sword, so ..."
Elminster smiled suddenly and swung the sword through the air, holding it with both hands. It felt reassuringly deadly; with it in his hands, he was powerful. He thrust at an imaginary foe, and the point of the blade lifted a little.
Helm gave him a fierce grin. "Aye—take it, and go!"
Elminster took a few steps out into the meadow ... and then spun around and grinned back at the knight. Then he turned again to the sunlit meadow, the scabbarded blade cradled care¬fully in his hands, and ran.
Helm took a dagger from his belt and a stone from the floor, shook his head, and went out to kill sheep, wondering when he'd hear of the lad's death. Still, the first duty of a knight is to make the realm shine in the dreams of small boys—or where else will the knights of tomorrow arise, and what will become of the realm?
At that thought, his smile faded. What will become of Atha¬lantar, indeed?
Two
WOLVES IN WINTER
Know that the purpose of families, in the eyes of the Morninglord at least, is to make each generation a little better than the one be¬fore: stronger, perhaps, or wiser; richer, or more capable. Some folk manage one of these aims; the best and the most fortunate manage more than one. That is the task of parents. The task of a ruler is to make, or keep, a realm that allows most of its subjects to see better in their striving, down the generations, than a single improvement.
Thorndar Erlin, High Priest of Lathander
Teachings of the Morning's Glory
Year of the Fallen Fury
He was huddled in the icy white heart of a swirling snow¬storm, in the Hammer of Winter, that cruel month when men and sheep alike were found frozen hard and the winds howled and shrieked through the Horn Hills night and day, blowing snows in blinding clouds across the barren highlands. It was the Year of the Loremasters, though Elminster cared not a whit. All he cared about was that it was another cold season, his fourth since Heldon burned—and he was growing very weary of them.
A hand clapped him on one thick-clad shoulder. He patted it in reply. Sargeth had the keenest eyes of them all; his touch meant he'd spotted the patrol through the curtain of driving snow. El watched him reach the other way to pass on another warning. The six outlaws, bundled up in layers upon layers of stolen and corpse-stripped cloth until they looked like the fat and shuffling rag golems of fireside fear-tales, kicked their way out of the warmth of their snowbank, fumbled to draw blades with hands clad in thick-bound rags, and waddled down into the cleft.
Wind struck hard as they came down into the narrow space between the rocks, howling billowing snow around and past them. Engarl struggled to keep his feet as the wind tugged at the long lance he bore. He'd taken it from an armsman who'd needed it no more—Engarl had brought him down with a care¬fully slung stone before the leaves had started to fall.
The outlaws chose their spots, flopped down to kneel in the snows, and dug in. Snow streamed around and past them, and as they settled into stillness, it cloaked them in concealing whiteness, making them mere lumps and billows of snow in the storm.
"Gods damn all wizards!" The voice, borne by the winds, seemed startlingly close.
So did the reply. "None o' that. Ye know better than such talk."
