There was a sudden flash and a singing sound, and Belaur looked up, startled, into a gaze as frowning as his own. The mage royal of Athalantar stood beside the bed. Belaur cast a quick look down the room at the still-barred doors and back at the master of magelords before he roared, "What are you play¬ing at now, wizard?"
"We're under attack," Undarl snarled at the king. "Come! Up and out of here, if you would live!"
"Who dares—?"
"We'll have time to ask them who they are later. Now move, or I'll blast your head from your shoulders ... all I need to take is the crown!"
Face dark with fury, Belaur heaved himself up from the bed, spilling wenches in both directions, and snatched down the sword that hung on the wall. For an instant, he considered thrusting it into the back of the mage royal, who was striding down the room to a painting that could be swung aside to reveal a way up into the old castle. Undarl turned with more speed than the swiftest sword in Belaur's bodyguard, drawing aside from the extended point of the blade, and said in a cold, clear, menacing voice: "Don't. Ever. Even. Think. Of. Such. A. Deed." He leaned closer, and added in a harsh whisper, "Your daily sur¬vival depends on my magic."
The blade in the king's hand turned into a snake that reared up and hissed at him, throwing coils around his wrist.
As he stared at it in frozen horror, it slid back into sword shape, and flashed mockingly once. Belaur shuddered, reluc¬tantly turned his gaze to meet the hard points of the magelord's cold eyes, and managed a nod. Then he moved forward obedi¬ently as Undarl gestured at the passage door.
*****
"Ye know I must do this alone," Elminster said quietly as they stood together in the darkened passage.
Myrjala laid a hand on his arm, and gave him a smile. "I shall not be far. Call if you want me."
El saluted her with the stump of the Lion Sword and strode away down the passage, exchanging the remnant of his father's sword for a more serviceable blade.
The last prince of Athalantar had very few spells left, and lurched in weariness as he went. In his tattered tunic and breeches, drawn sword in hand, he could not have been a usual sight in the grand central rooms and halls of Athalgard as he made his way to the throne room. Servants he passed—and there were many—kept their eyes downcast and stepped smoothly out of his way, as if long used to making way for swag¬gering warriors. Courtiers tended to stare, and then quickly looked away or turned down another passage or hastened through the door and closed it behind them.
Save for many glances back over his shoulder, Elminster seemed out for a casual walk. Guards stiffened at their posts as he approached, but he'd cast a certain spell before parting from Myrjala. The guards tensed for battle . . . and then froze, held motionless by his magic as he strode past.
When El approached seven armsmen with their backs to high arched double doors, and drawn swords in their hands, he murmured an incantation that sent creatures slumping into slumber beneath a magical cloak that stilled all sound.
The blades raised against him fell to the floor in eerie silence, followed by their owners. El stepped calmly over the doorguards, drew one of the doors open a little, and slipped within.
The high room beyond was hung with banners and encircled by a high gallery; the walls were richly tapestried. Pillars flanked a carpet of deep forest green that ran straight from where he stood to a high seat alone at the other end of the room.
The Stag Throne. What he'd fought his way toward—not just the chair, he reminded himself, but a land around it free of magelords. Men and a handful of women were milling about just within the doors, all around him, talking and shifting their feet rather wearily: courtiers, merchants, and envoys nervously awaiting the return of the king for early court.
Elminster ignored their curious looks, stepped around sev¬eral in his path, and strode confidently along the green carpet.
The steps leading up to the Stag Throne were guarded by a mountain of a man in gleaming coat-of-plate, standing patiently with a warhammer as long as he was tall in his hands. He wore no helm, and his balding head gleamed in the flickering torch¬light as he glared coldly at the intruder, his gray mustache bristling. "Who art thou, stripling?" he asked loudly, taking a step forward, the warhammer sliding up to rest ready on one shoulder.
"Prince Elminster of Athalantar," was the calm reply. "Stand aside, if you would."
The warrior sneered. Elminster slowed his pace and ges¬tured with his blade for the armsman to step aside. The guard¬ian gave him a mirthless, disbelieving smile, and stood his ground, waving the hammer warningly.
El gave the man a brittle smile and lunged with his blade. The warrior smashed it aside with the warhammer, twisting his wrists so the mighty weapon's backspike would lay open this ar¬rogant fool's head on his return sweep. Elminster stepped smoothly back out of his reach and murmured something, rais¬ing his free hand as if throwing something light and fragile.
It raced from those delicately spread fingers, and the guard¬ian of the throne blinked, shook his head as if disagreeing vio¬lently with something, and crashed to the polished stone tiles beside the carpet. Elminster calmly walked past him and sat on the Stag Throne, laying his blade across his knees.
A murmur arose from the stunned court, then broke off in a fearful hush as sudden light blazed into being from above. In the heart of the pulsing purple-white radiance, the mage royal appeared in the hitherto-empty gallery—flanked by a dozen armsmen or more, loaded crossbows in their hands.
Undarl Dragonrider's hand chopped down. In response, seven crossbow bolts sped at the man on the throne.
The young intruder watched calmly as those bolts cracked and shivered in the air in front of him, striking something un¬seen and falling aside.
The magelord's hands were moving in the flourishes of a spell as the senior armsman ordered, "Ready bows again!"
Elminster lifted his own hands in quick gestures, but the folk watching saw the air around the throne flicker and dance with sudden light. El knew no magic would take hold where he sat now; he could raise no barrier to stop missiles or blades seeking his life.
The mage royal laughed and ordered the armsmen who hadn't fired their quarrels yet to loose them. Elminster sprang to his feet.
A fat merchant standing under a pillar suddenly flickered and became a tall, slim woman with bone-white skin and large, dark eyes. One of her hands was raised in a warding gesture— and the crossbow bolts leaping toward the Stag Throne caught sudden fire as they flew. They flared and were gone.
The senior armsman turned and pointed at Myrjala. "Shoot her down!" he ordered, and two crossbows cracked as one.
Dodging around the throne, deciding which spell to use when he got far enough away from Undarl's magic-rending field, El¬minster watched those bolts streak across the throne room at his onetime tutor. They glowed a vivid blue to his mage-sight.
He stared in horror; spells flared out angry radiance around them. Undarl laughed coldly as a sudden burst of light marked the destruction of a shield spun around the sorceress. It was fol¬lowed by a second flash, an instant later, as an inner shield failed—and Myrjala staggered, clutched at her breast where one bolt stood quivering, turned sideways so he saw the second bolt standing in her side—and fell. Undarl's harsh laughter rang out loudly. Elminster started down the steps at a run, his own safety forgotten. He was still three running paces short of Myrjala's sprawled form when she vanished.
The green carpet where she'd lain was empty. Elminster turned from it, eyes blazing, and spat a spell. He was a single snarled word away from the end of the incantation when the mage royal's cruel eyes, fixed triumphantly on his own, faded away into empty air. The wizard had vanished, too.
Elminster's completed spell was already taking effect. Sud¬den fire raged along the gallery, and armsmen screamed hol¬lowly inside their armor, writhing and staggering. Crossbows crashed down over the rail, followed by one guard, armor black¬ened and blazing, who toppled over the gallery rail and crashed down atop a merchant, smashing him to the flagstones. There were fresh screams from the courtiers as they rushed for the doors.
The portals they sought were flung open then, bowling over more than one hurrying merchant, and into the throne room strode King Belaur, naked but for a pair of breeches. His face was dark with anger, and a drawn sword glittered in his hand.
Folk fell back before him—and then fled in earnest as they saw who was behind the king. The mage royal was smiling coldly as he walked, his hands weaving another spell. Elmin¬ster went white and spat out a word. The air flashed, and that end of the throne room shook, but nothing happened . .. except that a little dust drifted down from above.
Undarl laughed and lowered his hands. His shield had held.
"You're on my ground now, Prince—and fool!" he gloated. Then his face changed, he gasped—and fell forward with a howl of pain.
Behind him, belt knife red to the hilt, stood a certain baker, brows trembling in fury. Hannibur had come to Athalgard to find his wife. Courtiers gasped. Hannibur reached down to cut the magelord's throat, but Undarl's hand darted out in a ges¬ture.
The air pulsed and flowed, and the baker's raised dagger shattered. From the whirling sparks of its destruction rays of light leapt out in all directions: a protective spell-cage flashed into being around the fallen mage.
Elminster glared at Undarl and spoke a clipped, precise in¬cantation. A second cage, its glowing bars thicker and brighter than Undarl's, enclosed the first. The mage royal struggled up to one elbow, face pinched in pain, and his hand went to his belt.
Hannibur stared down at the purposeful magelord and the radiances that had just consumed his only blade, shook his head in slow anger, and turned away. It was only two steps to the nearest courtier. A quick jerk freed the startled man's sword from its jeweled scabbard. Holding it like a toy, the baker turned slowly to survey the room, like a heavy-helmed knight peering about in search of foes. Then, implacably, he started down the green carpet toward the king.
A courtier hesitated, and then followed, drawing his own belt knife. Elminster spoke a soft word, and the man froze in midstep. Overbalanced, the motionless man fell over on his face. A second and third courtier, who'd also reached for their blades, stepped back, suddenly losing interest in defending their king.
Elminster sat down again on the Stag Throne to watch his angry uncle come for him. It seemed a fitting place to wait.
King Belaur was furious, but not so rash as to rush right onto the unwavering point of Elminster's waiting sword. He advanced with menacing care, his own blade held high, ready to sweep down and smash aside Elminster's steel. "Who are you?" he snarled. "Get off my throne!"
"I am Elminster, son of Elthryn—whom you had that caged snake over there murder," Elminster replied crisply, "and this seat is as much mine as yours." He sprang down the steps, sword flashing, and went to meet Belaur.
Eighteen
THE PRICE OF A THRONE
How much does a throne cost? Sometimes but one life, when sick¬ness, old age, or a lucky blade takes the life of a king in a strong kingdom. Sometimes a throne costs the life of everyone in a king¬dom. Most often, it takes the life of a few ambitious, grasping men, and the more of those the Realms is rid of, the better.
Thaldeth Faerossdar
The Way of the Gods
Year of Moonfall
Their swords crashed together, ringing loudly. Both men reeled back from the numbing impact, and Elminster carefully declaimed words that echoed and rolled around the room. The two men were suddenly encircled by a wall of white radiance that seemed to be a whirlwind of flashing phantom swords.
Belaur sneered. "More magic?"
"It's the last I'll unleash in Faerun until ye're dead," Elmin¬ster told him calmly, and strode forward.
They met in a whirling clash of steel. Sparks flew as king and prince tried to hack through each other's guard, teeth set and shoulders swinging. Belaur was a heavy-shouldered war¬rior of long years, run to fat but wary as a wolf. His challenger was younger, smaller, lighter, and quickly on the defensive, as Belaur used his weight to smash through Elminster's parries. Only the young prince's swiftness kept him alive, ducking, dodging, and diving aside from thirsty steel as the furious king rained a flurry of sword-blows on his foe.
When Elminster's arms grew too numb to take the on¬slaught, he was forced to give way. He stepped back and circled to the right. Belaur turned to press him, grinning savagely, but Elminster spun away and ran, heading behind the throne,
"Hah!" Belaur shouted triumphantly, striding forward. He was only a few steps away when Elminster stepped out from be¬hind the throne to hurl a dagger at the king.
Belaur's blade flashed up to smash whirling death aside. The unharmed king did not even slow his rush. He sneered in tri¬umph as he charged in to cut his enemy down.
Elminster parried desperately, dodging around in front of the throne again. The king leapt after him and lunged, but his swifter foe slid out from under the blade. The king snarled, bent to his boot, plucked a dagger from it, and threw it all in one swift flurry and grunt. Elminster ducked away—too slowly. The dagger burned across his cheek and spun on its way... and Be¬laur was at him again, blade flashing.
El's parry was almost too late. The impact jarred his hand, and he shook it to banish numbness and then hastily put both hands to his blade, thrusting it up just in time to smash aside the king's next attack. Belaur's leaping steel seemed to be everywhere.
The Sword of the Stag, Elminster had heard it called—a new-forged blade said to be enchanted by magelords. El was be¬ginning to believe that. Their weapons crashed together again. Sparks flew as steel shrieked and then caught, guard to guard.
The two men snarled into each other's eyes, shoving, both re¬fusing to leap back. Belaur's shoulders, now glistening with sweat, rippled and bunched . . . and Elminster's blade was slowly forced back and around. Belaur bellowed exultantly as his greater strength forced the locked blades into Elminster's neck, and blood flowed. Gasping, Elminster dropped suddenly to the floor, wrapping his legs around Belaur's as their blades flashed over his head.
