Overbalanced, the king crashed heavily to the tiles, elbows smashing down hard. The locked swords spun far away as El¬minster kicked himself free. They were on the floor on their sides now, face to face. Belaur rolled and reached for Elmin¬ster's throat. Elminster tried to knock those strong hands aside, and the two men grappled for a moment. Then the prince was overpowered again.
Hard, gouging fingers stabbed at his throat. Spitting in Be¬laur's face, El arched his head away, struggling. The king smashed his fist against Elminster's forehead, then got a good firm hold on the prince's throat. El clawed vainly at the hairy arms that were choking him and tried to wrench himself free by kicking on the slippery tiles. He managed only to drag the king a little way. Belaur bore down, grunting triumphantly. Elmin¬ster's lungs were burning now. The world slowly began to spin and grow dim.
His desperately scrabbling fingers touched a familiar hard¬ness—the Lion Sword! Carefully, as the darkness rushed up to claim him, Elminster drew out the sharpened stub of his fa¬ther's blade and slid its uneven edge across Belaur's throat. He closed his eyes as the king's hot blood drenched him. Then Be¬laur was gurgling and thrashing feebly, hands falling from El¬minster.
Free to rise at last! Elminster rolled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, coughing weakly for air, and peering about to make sure no armsmen were near.
A courtier was just retreating from his barrier, hissing in pain from a webwork of cuts welling forth bright fresh blood. Another man who'd tried to breach the barrier lay on his face on the tiles, unmoving. The prince shook his head and turned away.
When he found breath and balance, and stood wiping Be¬laur's blood from his face, Elminster saw that the courtiers were huddled back along the walls under the gallery. A few had swords out, but none of them wore the faces of men eager for battle. The king made a last wet, rattling sound ... and then it died away, and he lay still, facedown in his own blood. Elmin¬ster drew a deep, trembling breath and turned, the Lion Sword in his hand. It seemed a long way down the green carpet to where Undarl Dragonrider, who'd obviously managed a spell to heal himself, was trying everything he knew to break Elmin¬ster's spell cage.
A spell flashed out from the caged wizard, clawed vainly at the radiant cage, and then rebounded on him. The mage royal shuddered. Elminster smiled tightly and waded into the cage he'd spun. Its energies raged briefly along his limbs like hungry lightning, surging through him until he trembled uncontrol¬lably.
Undarl's hands were flicking faster than those of any mage El had ever seen, but Elminster had a very short distance to reach. The Lion Sword stabbed down into the wizard's fast-mut¬tering mouth. Undarl made a choking sound, then Elminster leapt on him, sobbing, and stabbed the mage royal repeatedly.
"For Elthryn! For Amrythale!" the last prince of Athalantar cried. "For Athalantar! And—for me, gods blast you!"
The body beneath his blade started to flow and twist. Sud¬denly fearful of contingencies, Elminster sprang clear. The blood that sprayed from his dripping weapon as he did so was ... black!
El stared in horror at the bloody ruin of the master of the magelords. The wizard Undarl swayed up to his feet, took one sagging step, and clawed weakly at Elminster—with hands that were suddenly scaled and taloned. His pain-twisted face lengthened into a scaled snout as the wizard fell, and a long, forked tongue flopped onto the tiles before his writhing body was suddenly surrounded by twinkling lights. Amid those lights, the scaly thing slowly and quietly faded from view, leav¬ing behind only a black pool of blood on the tiles.
Elminster stared down at where his greatest enemy had lain, feeling suddenly so weary that he could scarce . . . stand ... The prince toppled to the floor, the jagged stub of blade that had slain both the king and the mage royal clattering from his hand. The glowing barrier of blades faded swiftly.
Silence fell. It was several long, still moments before a courtier hesitantly stepped out from behind the pillars, warily drawing his slim court sword. He took a cautious step forward, and then another . . . and raised his blade to stab the fallen stranger.
Steel flashed at his throat, and the courtier leapt back with a scream. The king's blade gleamed in the light as the baker who held it glared around the throne room. "Keep back!" Hannibur snarled, "all of ye!"
Merchants and courtiers alike stared at the stout, di¬sheveled figure standing over the fallen stranger, waving the Sword of the Stag a little uncertainly but with fierce determina¬tion ... until a great light streamed into the room. Their staring faces turned to it, only to goggle all the more.
Through the open double doors walked the source of the ra¬diance: a tall, slim, regal lady with bone-white skin, dark eyes, and a confident manner. She was leading another woman by the hand, a bewildered, barefoot maid wearing a fine gown that did not fit her, who shrieked as she saw the baker and burst into a headlong run. "Hannibur! Hannibur!"
"Shan!" he roared, and the Sword of the Stag clattered forgotten to the floor. Sobbing, they rushed into each other's arms.
A bright glow seemed to shine from the regal lady's body as she smiled at the embracing couple and walked calmly along the bloodstained carpet to where Elminster lay on the tiles. She waved her hand, and something suddenly shimmered and sang in the air around them both. Standing there in the light she'd conjured, the woman looked like some sort of sorcerous goddess as she lifted her chin and stared around the chamber with those dark, mysterious eyes. Folk who met that gaze fell still and stared helplessly; Myrjala looked around the chamber until all the watching folk were in her thrall.
Then she spoke, and every man and maid there swore until their dying day that she'd spoken to them, and to them alone.
"This is the dawn of a new day in Athalantar," she said. "I want to see folk who were welcome in this hall when Uthgrael was king. Bring them here to the throne before night falls. If Belaur and his magelords suffered any to live this long, bring them, and bid them fair welcome! A new king summons them!"
Myrjala snapped her fingers, and her eyes darkened. Sud¬denly folk were moving, pushing toward the doors in urgent haste.
When she snapped her fingers again, only Hannibur and Shandathe, smiling through their tears, were still in the room to turn and see an ornate coffer obediently appear from empty air.
Myrjala looked up, smiled, and waved at them to stay as she drew a flask from the coffer. As she knelt beside Elminster and unstoppered it, the bright glow began to fade from her skin.
*****
The streets were soon full of curious folk, some still smelling of hastily abandoned evenfeast. Hesitantly entering the gates of Athalgard, they skirted a battle between the magelords' arms-men and some unfamiliar warriors and crowded on into the hall of the throne by the score. There were children peering excit¬edly at everything, shopkeepers looking about warily, and bright-eyed old men and women who tottered and shuffled about, leaning on sticks or the arms of younger folk.
Proud and lowly alike they pushed into the throne room, gawking at the blood and the blackened, dangling bodies of the armsmen, and most of all at King Belaur, sprawled bloody and half-naked by the Stag Throne.
A young, hawk-nosed man they did not know sat on that throne, and a tall, slender woman whose eyes were very large and dark stood beside him. He looked like an exhausted vagabond despite the Sword of the Stag across his knees—but she looked like a queen.
When the room grew so crowded that the press of bodies drove Shandathe up against the shimmering barrier and she gave a little cry of alarm, Myrjala judged the time was right. She stepped forward and gestured at the weary-looking man on the throne. "Folk of Athalantar, behold Elminster, son of Prince Elthryn! He has taken his father's throne by right of arms—do any here deny his right to sit on the Stag Throne and rule the realm that was his father's?" Silence answered her. Myrjala looked around the chamber. "Speak, or kneel to a new king!"
There were uneasy stirrings, but no one spoke. After a mo¬ment, Hannibur the baker knelt, drawing Shandathe down with him. Then a fat wine-merchant went to his knees, and then a horse-trader... and then folk were kneeling all over the room.
Myrjala bowed her head in satisfaction, a long labor ended, and said, "So be it."
On the throne, Elminster sighed. "At last, 'tis over." Sudden tears spilled down his face.
Myrjala looked out over the kneeling crowd, at the older folk at the back of the chamber, searching among the faces—until she suddenly smiled and raised her hand in greeting.
"Mithtyn," she said to an old, bearded man, "you were her¬ald in Uthgrael's court. Be it so recorded that none contested El-minster's right to the throne."
The old man bowed and said in a voice dry from little use, "Lady, it shall be ... but who art thou? Ye know me, and yet I swear I've ne'er seen thee before."
Myrjala smiled and said, "I looked different, then. You said once, after you saw me, that you had not known I could dance."
Mithtyn stared at her and turned very pale. He found his mouth had fallen open, swallowed, and staggered back a pace, overcome with awe. Then he fell to his knees, trembling.
Myrjala smiled at him and said, "You do remember. Be not afraid, good herald. I mean you no harm. Rise, and be at ease."
She turned back to the throne. "As we agreed, El?"
He nodded, smiling through his tears. "As we agreed."
Myrjala nodded, and strode down the green carpet until she was in the center of the room. The folk of Hastarl parted before her as if she were preceded by a row of leveled lances. "Stand back, folk of the court!" she said pleasantly. "Clear a space, here before me!"
Their retreat became a hasty rush ... and when a large area of tiles was clear, Myrjala snapped her fingers and spread one hand.
The empty space was suddenly filled. Some twenty sweating, bleeding armed men were standing before her, reddened blades raised, looking around wildly.
"Peace!" Myrjala said. She seemed suddenly taller, and a white radiance pulsed and played again around her. Such was the force of her voice that the warriors did not move. They stood silent, staring around in unmoving wonder at each other and at the hall around them.
"Behold, folk of Hastarl!" Myrjala said. "Here stand men who have remained true to Athalantar—men who want freedom for their realm and an end to the rule of cruel magelords. They are the knights of Athalantar, and mark he who leads them—Helm Stoneblade, a true knight of Athalantar!"
Elminster rose from the throne and came to stand beside her. The two glanced at each other, smiled, nodded—and the hawk-nosed man strode into the midst of the dumbfounded armed band. Blades swung to point his way, but no one struck a blow.
Elminster walked up to Helm. "Surprised, old friend?"
Helm nodded, unspeaking. His dirt-smudged, sweating face wore a look of astonishment and a little awe. Elminster smiled at him, and then looked around at the crowd and said loudly, "By right of arms, and my lineage, the Stag Throne is rightfully mine! Yet I know well that I am not suited for it. One better suited to rule stands here before you! Folk of Athalantar, kneel and do homage to your new king—Helm of Athalantar!"
Helm and his men stood amazed. A ragged cheer rose and then died away again. Even in Hastarl, clasped most tightly in the fist of the magelords, folk had heard of the daring rebel of the backlands.
Elminster embraced Helm, tears in his eyes, and said, "My father is avenged. The land I leave to you."
"But—why?" Helm asked in disbelief. "Why give up yer throne?"
Elminster laughed, traded glances again with Myrjala, and said, "I'm a mage, now, and proud of it. Sorcery is ... well, it feels right to me. Working with it is what I do, and was meant to do. I'll have little time for the care a realm needs, and even less patience for intrigue and pomp." He smiled crookedly and added, "More than this: I think Athalantar's had enough of wiz¬ards ruling things for a long time."
Heartfelt murmurs of agreement were heard all around the chamber, as the doors burst open and a band of ruffians stared into the chamber, swords glittering in their hands. Farl and Tassabra stood at the head of the thieves of the Velvet Hand. El waved merrily to them; Helm shook his head, as if seeing troubles in the days ahead, sighed—and then, as if he could not stop himself, smiled.
"There is one thing we would like before we go," Myrjala purred as she stepped up to them both.
Helm eyed her warily. "Aye, Lady?"
"A feast, of course. If you're of like mind, I'll work a spell that forces all cold iron out of this hall, so that none need fear weapons—even arrows—here tonight, and we can all make merry!"
Helm stared at her. Then he suddenly threw back his head and shouted with laughter. "Of course," he roared," 'tis the least I can do!"
Mithtyn was pushing through the crowd toward them, lead¬ing a young, trembling page, who bore the crown of Athalantar on a cushion. Elminster smiled, took up the circlet with a bow, and placed it on Helm's head. Then he cried, "Kneel, folk of Athalantar, before Helm Stoneblade, Lord of Athalantar, King of the Stag Throne!" There was a thunder of movement as everyone in the hall—except Elminster and Myrjala—knelt.
Helm bowed his head, grinned at the two of them in thanks, and clapped his hands. "Rise, all!" he roared. "Bring food and wine and tables! Call out the minstrels from all over this city, and let us make merry!" His men threw down their swords and roared back their approval, and the great chamber was sud-denly full of happy, shouting people. They wavered in Elmin¬ster's sight. . . and he found his face was wet with tears again. "Mother . . . Father ..." he whispered, unheard in the tumult, "I have done the right thing."
Myrjala's arms were suddenly around him, warm and com¬forting, and he leaned his face into her bosom and wept. It is a glorious thing to be free at last.
*****
More food had vanished than Helm had thought possible. He grinned around at snoring folk sprawled on the benches ... and his smile broadened as he looked down the carpet to where most of his men were dancing, whirling flush-faced lasses of Hastarl around the floor as weary minstrels played on and on. Among them, the dark-eyed sorceress who'd accompanied Elminster was treading the measures, dancing with first one of his men and then another. She still looked as fresh and as serene as if she were a queen newly arrived from her chambers of a morn¬ing.
