Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor

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Elminster in Myth Drannor

Ed Greenwood

Prologue

It was a time of mounting strife in the fair realm of Cormanthor, when the lords and ladies

of the oldest, proudest houses felt a threat to their glittering pride. A threat thrust forward by the

very throne above them; a threat from their most darkling youthful nightmares. The Stinking

Beast That Comes In The Night, the Hairy Lurker who waits his best chance to slay, despoil,

violate, and pillage. The monster whose grasp clutches at more realms with each passing day: the

terror known as Man.

Shalheira Talandren, High Elven Bard of Summerstar

from Silver Blades And Summer Nights:

An Informal But True History of Cormanthor

published in The Year of the Harp

"I did indeed promise the prince something in return for the crown," said the king, drawing himself

up to his full height and inhaling until his chest trembled. He adjusted the glittering circlet of gems and

golden spires that adorned his brows a trifle self-consciously, smiled at his own cleverness in providing

himself with this dramatic pause, and added, voice dropping to underline the nobility of his words, "I

promised I'd grant his greatest desire."

Those gathered to watch drew in awed breaths in a chorus that was mockingly loud. The fat

monarch paid them no heed, but turned away in a gaudy swirl of cloth of gold and struck a grandly

conquering pose, one foot planted on an obviously false dragonskull. The light of the purple-white

driftglobes that accompanied him gleamed back from plainly visible wire, where it coiled up through the

patchwork skull to hold the royal sword that had supposedly transfixed bone in a mighty, fatal blow.

Every inch the wise old ruler, the king looked out over vast distances for a moment, eyes flashing

gravely at things only he could see. Then, almost coyly, he looked back over his shoulder at the kneeling

servant."And what, pray tell," he purred, "does he most want? Hmmm?"

The steward flung himself full length onto the carpet, striking his head on the stone pave in the

process. He rolled his eyes and writhed briefly in pain-as the watchers tittered-ere he dared to lift his

gaze for the first time. "Sire," he said at last, in tones of wondering doom, "he wishes to die rich."

The king whirled about again and strode forward. The servant scrambled up on one knee and

cowered back from the purposeful monarch-only to freeze, dumbfounded, at the sight of a merry smile

upon the regal face.

The king bent to take his hand and raised him up from the carpet, slapping something that jingled

into the steward's palm as he did so.

The servant stared down. It was a purse bulging with coins. He looked at the king again, in

disbelief, and swallowed.

The royal smile broadened. "Die rich? And so he shall-put that into his hands and then slide your

sword through him. Several times is the current fashion, I believe."

The titters of the audience broke into hoots and roars of mirth, laughter that quickly turned to

applause as the costume spells cloaking the actors expired in the traditional puffs of red smoke, signaling

the end of the scene.

The watchers exploded into motion, swooping and darting away. Some of the older revelers

drifted off more sedately, but the young went racing through the night like furious fish chasing each other

to eat-or be eaten. They exploded through groups of languid gossipers and danced in the air, flashing

along the edge of the perfumed spell field. Only a few remained behind to watch the next coarse scene of

The Fitting End of the Human King Halthor; such parodies of the low and grasping ways of the

Hairy Ones were amusing at first, but very 'one note,' and above all elves of Cormanthor hated to be

bored-or at least, to admit their boredom.

Not that this wasn't a grand revel. The Ereladden had spared no expense in the weaving of the

field-spells. A constant array of conjured sounds, smells, and images swirled and wafted over the

revelers, and the power of the conjured field allowed everyone to fly, moving through the air to wherever

they gazed, and desired to be. Most of the revelers were floating aloft now, drifting down occasionally to

take in refreshments.

This night the usually bare garden walls bristled with carved unicorns, pegasi, dancing elven

maidens, and rearing stags this night. Every statuette touched by a reveler split apart and drifted open, to

reveal teardrop decanters of sparkling moonwine or any one of a dozen ruby-hued Erladden vintages.

Amid the spires of the decanters were the shorter spikes of crystal galauntra whose domes covered

figurines sculpted of choice cheese, roasted nuts, or sugarstars.

Amid the rainbow-hued lights drifting among the merry elves were vapors that would make any

true-blood light-hearted, restless, and full of life. Some abandoned, giggling Cormyth were dodging

through the air from cloud to cloud, their eyes gleaming too brightly to see the world around them. Half a

hundred giggles rolled amid the branches of the towering trees that rose over all, twinkling magestars

winking and slithering here and there among their leaves. As the moon rose to overwhelm such tiny

radiances, it shone down on a scene of wild and joyful celebration. Half of Cormanthor was dancing

tonight.

* * * * *

"Surprisingly, I still remembered the words that would bring me here."

The voice came out of the night without warning. Its welcoming tone dared him to recall earlier

days. He'd been expecting it, and was even unsurprised to hear its low, melodious tones issuing from

the shadows in the deepest part of the bower, where the bed stood.

A bed he still found most restful, even with age beginning to creep into his bones. The Coronal of

all Cormanthor turned his head in the moonlight, looking away from the mirror-smooth waters that

surrounded this garden isle, and said with a smile that managed to be happier than his heart felt, "Be

welcome, Great Lady of the Starym."

There was silence for a moment in the shadows before the voice came again. "I was once more

than that," it said, almost wistful.

Eltargrim rose and held out his hand to where his truesight told him she stood. "Come to me, my

friend." He stretched out his other hand, almost beseechingly. "My Lyntra."

Shadows shifted, and Ildilyntra Starym came out into the moonlight, her eyes still the dark pools

of promise that he recalled so vividly in his dreams. Dreams that had visited him down all the long years

to this very night. Dreams built on memories that could still unsettle him... .

The Coronal's mouth was suddenly dry, and his tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Will you-?" he

mumbled, gesturing toward the Living Seat.

The Starym held themselves to be the eldest and most pure of the families of the One True

Realm-and were certainly the proudest. Their matriarch glided toward him, those dark eyes never leaving

his. The Coronal did not have to look to know that the years had not yet touched her flawless white

skin, the figure so perfect that it still took his breath away. Her blue tresses were almost black, as always,

and Ildilyntra still wore them unbound, falling at her heels to the ground. She was barefoot, the spells of

her girdle keeping both hair and feet inches above the dirt of the ground. She wore the full, formal gown

of her house, the twin falling dragons of the Starym arms bold in glittering gems upon her stomach, their

sculpted wings cupping her breasts in a toothed surround of gold.

Her thighs, revealed through the waist-high slits in the gown as she came, were girt in the

black-and-gold spirals of a mantle of honor. The ends of the mantle drew together to support the

intricately carved dragontooth scabbard of her honor blade, bobbing like a small lamp, wrapped in the

deep, solemn red glow of its awakened power. The Ring of the Watchful Wyvern gleamed upon her

hand. This was not an informal visit.

The moon was right for a chat between old friends, but no matriarch comes aglow in all her

power for such things. Sadness grew in the Coronal. He knew what must lie ahead.

And so, of course, she surprised him. Ildilyntra came to a halt before him, as he'd known she

must. She drew apart her gown, hands on hips, to let him see the light of the full, gathered power of her

honor blade. This also he expected, and likewise the deep, shuddering intake of breath that followed.

Now the storm would come, the snarled words of sarcastic fire or cold, biting venom for which

she was famous throughout Cormanthor. The twisted words of harmful spells would lurk among them, to

be sure, and he'd hav-

In smooth silence, the matriarch of the Starym knelt before him. Her eyes never left his.

Eltargrim swallowed again, looking down at her knees, white tinged with the slightest shade of

blue, where they were sunk into the circle of moss at his feet. "Ildilyntra," he said softly. "Lady, I-"

Flecks of gold had always surfaced in her dark eyes when she was moved to strong emotion.

Gold glinted in them now.

"I am not one used to begging," that melodious voice came again, bringing back a flood of

memories in the Coronal, of other, more tender moonlit nights in this bower, "and yet I've come here to

beg you, exalted lord. Reconsider this Opening you speak of. Let no being who is not a trueblood of the

People walk in Cormanthor save by our leave. Let that leave be near-never given, that our People

endure!"

"Ildilyntra, rise. Please," Eltargrim said firmly, stepping back. "And give me some reasons why I

should embrace your plea." His mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. "You can't be unaware that I've

heard such words before."

The High Lady of the Starym remained on her knees, cloaked in her hair, and looked into his

eyes. The Coronal smiled openly this time. "Yes, Lyntra, that still works on me. But give me reasons to

weigh and work with ... or speak of lighter things."

Anger snapped in those dark eyes for the first time. "Lighter things? Empty-headed revelry, like

those fools indulging themselves over at Erladden Towers?" She rose then, as swift as a coiling serpent,

and pulled open her gown. The blue-white sleekness of her bared body was as much a challenge as her

level gaze. Ildilyntra added coldly, "Or did you think I'd come for dalliance, lord? Unable to keep myself

one night longer from the charms of the ruler of us all, risen to such aged wisdom from the strong and

ardent youth I knew?"

Eltargrim let her words fall into silence, as hurled daggers that miss their target spin into empty air.

He ended it calmly. "This spitting fury is the High Lady of the Starym I have grown familiar with these

past centuries. I admire your taste in undergarments, but I had hoped that you'd set aside some of what

your junior kin call your 'cutting bluster' here; there are only the two of us on this isle. Let us speak

candidly, as bents two elder Cormyth. It saves so much . . . empty courtesy."

Ildilyntra's mouth tightened. "Very well," she said, planting her hands on her hips in a manner he

well remembered. "Hear me then, Lord Eltargrim: I, my senior kin, and many other families and folk of

Cormanthor besides-I can name the principals if you wish, Lord, but be assured they are neither few nor

easily discredited as youths or touch-headed-think that this notion of Opening the realm will doom us all,

if it is ever made reality."

She paused, eyes blazing into his, but the Coronal silently beckoned at her to give him more

words. She continued, "If you follow your mad dreams of amending the law of Cormanthor to all

non-elves into the realm, our long friendship must end."

"With the taking of my life?" he asked quietly.

Again silence fell, as Ildilyntra drew breath, opened her mouth, and then closed it. She strode

angrily away across the moon-drenched moss and flagstones before whirling around to face him once

more. "All of House Starym," she said firmly, "must needs take up arms against a ruler so twisted in his

head and heart-so tainted in his elven bloodlines-as to preside over, nay, eagerly embrace the

destruction of the fair realm of Cormanthor."

Their gazes met in silence, but the Coronal seemed carved of patiently smiling marble. Ildilyntra

Starym drew in a deep breath and went on, her voice now as imperious as that of any ruling queen. "For

make no mistake, Lord: your Opening, if it befalls, will destroy this mightiest realm of the People."

She stalked impatiently across the garden, flinging her hands up at the trees, shrubs, and sculpted

banks of flowers. "Where we have dwelt, loved, and nurtured, the beauties of the forests we have tended

will know the brutal boots and dirty, careless touch of humans." The Starym matriarch turned and pointed

at the Coronal, almost spitting in her fury as she advanced upon him, adding a race with each step. "And

halflings." She came on, face blazing. "And gnomes." Her voice sank with anger, trembling into a harsh

whisper as she delivered the gasp of ultimate outrage: "Even . . . dwarves!"

The Coronal opened his mouth to speak, as she thrust her face forward almost to touch his, but

she whirled away again, snapping her fingers, and turned back immediately to confront him again, hair

swirling. "All we have striven for, all we have fought the beast-men and the orcs and the great wyrms to

keep, will be diluted-nay, polluted-and in the end swept away, our glory drowned out in the clamoring

ambitions, greater numbers, and cunning schemes of the hairy humans!"

That last word rose into a ringing shout that tore around their ears, setting the blue glass chimes in

the trees around the distant Heartpool singing in response.

As their faint clamor drifted past the Living Seat, Ildilyntra stood facing the Coronal in silence,

breast heaving with emotion, eyes blazing. Out of the night a sudden shaft of moonlight struck her

shoulders, setting her agleam with cold white light like a vengeful banner.

Eltargrim bowed his head for a moment, as if in respect to her passion, and took a slow step

toward her. "I once spoke similar words," he said, "and thought even darker things. Yet I have come to

see in our brethren races-the humans, in particular-the life, verve, and energy we lack. Heart and drive

we once had; we can only see now in the brief glimpses afforded by visions of days long gone sent by

our forebears. Even the proud House of Starym, if all of its tongues spoke bare truth, would be forced to

admit that we have lost something-something within ourselves, not merely lives, riches, and forest

domains lost to the spreading ambition of others."

The Coronal broke into restless pacing as Ildilyntra had done before him, his white robe swirling

as he turned to her in the moonlight and said almost pleadingly, "This may be a way to win back what we

have lost. A way where for so long there has been nothing but posturing, denial, and slow decline. I

believe true glory can be ours once again, not merely the proud, gilded shell of assumed greatness we

cling to now.

More than that: the dream of peace between men and elves and dwarves can at last be upon us!

Maeral's dream, fulfilled at last!"

The lady with blue-black hair and darker blazing eyes moved from her stillness like a goaded

beast, striding past him as a forest cat encircles a foe it remains wary of... for a little while yet. Her voice,

when it came, was no longer melodious, but instead cut like a lustily waved razor.

"Like all who fall into the grip of elder years, Eltargrim," she snarled, "you begin to long for the

world as you want it to be, and not as it is. Maeral's dream is just that-a dream! Only fools could think it

might become real, in this savage Faerun we see around us. The humans rise in magecraft-brutal,

grasping, realm-burning magecraft-with each passing year! And you would invite these-these snakes into

our very bosoms, within our armor . .. into our homes!"

Sadness made the Coronal's eyes a little bleak as he looked at what she'd become, revealed now

in her fury-far and very far from the gentle elven maid he'd once stroked and comforted, in the shy tears

of her youth.

He stepped into the path of her raging stride and asked gently, "And is it not better to invite them

in, win friendship and through it some influence to guide, than it would be to fight them, fall, and have

them stalk into our homes as smashing, trampling conquerors, striding amid the streaming blood of all our

people? Where is the glory in that? What is it you are striving to keep so sacred, if all our people perish?

Twisted legends in the minds of the humans and our half-kin? Of a strange, decadent people with pointed

ears and upturned noses, whose blinding pride was their fatal folly?"

Ildilyntra had been forced to halt, or her angry progress would have carried her into him. She

stood listening to his rain of questions almost nose to nose, white-clenched fists at her sides.

"Will you be the one to let these-these beast -races into our secret places and the very seat of

our power?" she asked now, her voice suddenly harsh. "To be remembered with hatred by what few of

our People will survive your folly, as the traitor who led the citizens he was pledged to serve... our very

race... into ruin?"

Eltargrim shook his head. "I have no choice; I can see only the Opening as a way in which our

People may have a future. All other roads I've looked down, and even taken this realm a little way along,

lead- and speedily, in the seasons just ahead-to red war. War that can only lead to death and defeat for

fair Cormanthor, as all the races but the dwarves and gnomes outnumber us twenty to one and more.

Humans and orcs over-muster us by thousands to one. If pride leads us to war, it leads us also to the

grave-and that is a choice I've no right to make, on behalf of our children, whose lives I'll be crushing

before they can fend, and choose, for themselves."

Ildilyntra spat, "That fear-ladling argument can be made from now until forever grows old.

There'll always be babes too young to choose their own ways!"

She moved again, stepping around him, turning her head to always face him as she went, and

added almost casually, "There is an old song that says there is no reasoning with a Coronal of firm

purpose . . . and I see the truth of it now. There is nothing I can say that will convince you."

There was something old and very tired in Eltargrim's face as his eyes met hers. "I fear not,

Ildilyntra ... loved and honored Ildilyntra," he said. "A Coronal must do what is right, whate'er the cost."

She gave an exasperated hiss, as he spread his hands a little and told her, "That is what it means

to be Coronal-not the pomp and the regalia and the bowing."

Ildilyntra walked away from him across the moss, to where a thrusting shoulder of stone barred

her way and gave a home to lavender creepers. She folded her arms with savage grace, and looked

south out over the placid water. It was a smooth sheet of white now in the moonlight. The silence she left

in her wake grew deep and deafening.

The Coronal let his hands fall and watched her, waiting patiently. In this realm of warring prides

and dark, never-forgotten memories, much of a Coronal's work consisted of waiting patiently. Younger

elves never realized that.

The High Lady of the Starym looked out into the night for what seemed a very long time, her

arms trembling slightly. Her voice was as high and as soft as a sudden breeze when she spoke next.

"Then I know what I must do."

Eltargrim raised his hand to let his power lash out and trammel her freedom-the gravest insult one

could give to the head of an elven House.

Yet he was too late. Sudden fire blossomed in the night, a line of sparks where his power met

hers and wrestled just long enough to let her turn. Her honor blade was in her hand as her eyes met his.

"Oh, that I once loved you," she hissed. "For the Starym! For Cormanthor!"

Moongleam flashed once along the keen edge of her blade as she buried it hilt-deep in her breast,

and with her other hand thrust its dragon tooth scabbard into the bright fountaining blood there. The

carved fang seemed to flicker for a moment, and then, slowly, melted away into the river of gore. More

blood was pouring from her than that curvaceous body should have been able to hold.

"Eltar ..." she gasped then, almost beseechingly, her eyes growing dark as she swayed. The

Coronal took a swift step forward and raised his hands, the glow of healing magic blazing along his

fingers-but at the sight of it she snatched forth the glistening blade and drove it hard into her throat.

He was running now, across the little space that remained between them, as she choked,

stumbled forward-and swept her gore-soaked arm up once more to drive the blade of her honor deep

into her own right eye.

She fell into his arms, then, lips frozen trying to whisper his name again, and the Coronal let her

down gently onto the moss, despite the growing roar of magic tearing past him, streaming up into the

night sky like bloody smoke from where the dragon tooth had been. Magic that he knew sought to claim

his life. "Oh, Lyntra," he murmured. "Was any dispute worth your final death?" He rose from her then,

looking at the blood glistening on his hands, and gathered his will.

Her gore was a weakness, a route the magic mustering above him could take past his gathered

power if he banished it too late.

As he stared at his spread hands, the dark wetness faded from them, until they blazed blue-white

with risen magic, racing along his skin like fire. The Coronal looked up, then, at the sudden darkness

above him-and found himself gazing straight into the open, dripping jaws of a blood dragon.

It was the most deadly spell of the elder Houses, a revenge magic that took the life of its

awakener. The Doom of the Purebloods, some called it. The dragon towered above him, dark, wet, and

terrible in the night, as silent as a breeze and as deadly as a rain of enchanted venom. Living flesh would

melt before it, twisting, withering, and shriveling into grey rot and tangled bones and sinew.

The ruler of all Cormanthor stood robed in his aroused power, and watched the dragon strike.

It crashed down around him, in a rain that shook the entire island, setting leaves to rustling all

around and shattering the stillness of the lake into a hundred racing wavelets. Rocks rolled and moss

scorched away into smoking ash where it touched. Thwarted in its strike by the dome of empty air his

risen power guarded, it swirled and roared, flowing in a hungry circle around the elven ruler.

Eltargrim stood unmoving, untouched in the circle his power protected, and watched it run into

oblivion. Once more it raised its head to menace him, a tattered shadow of its former self. He stood his

ground grimly, and it fell away to drifting smoke against the blue-white fire of the Coronal.

When it was all gone, the old elf ran a trembling hand through his white hair and knelt again at the

side of the sprawled lady. "Lyntra," he said sadly, bending to kiss lips where dark blood still bubbled

forth. "Oh, Lyntra."

Blood spat into smoke on her throat then, touched by his power just as the slaying spell she'd

called up had been. More smokes rose, as his tears began to fall in earnest.

He struggled against them, as the glass chimes sounded again, and the faltering of his shielding

spells let in a burst of distant laughter and wild, high music from the Erladden revel. He struggled because

he was the Coronal of Cormanthor, and his duty meant he had one more thing to say before the blood

stopped flowing, and she grew cold.

Eltargrim threw back his head to look once at the moon, choked back a sob, and managed to

say huskily, looking into the one staring eye that remained, "You shall be remembered with honor."

And if his grief overmastered him thereafter, as he cradled the body of the one who was still his

beloved, there was no one else on the island to hear.

Part I

Human

One

Savage Trails And Scepters

Nothing is recorded of the journey of Elminster from his native Athalantar across half a

world of wild forests to the fabled elven realm of Cormanthor, and it can only be assumed to have

been uneventful.

Antarn the Sage

from The High History of Faerunian Archmages Mighty

published circa The Year of the Staff

The young man was busy pondering the last words a goddess had said to him-so the arrow that

burst from the trees took him completely by surprise.

It hummed past his nose, trailing leaves, and Elminster peered after it, blinking in surprise. When

he looked along the road in front of him again, men in worn and filthy leathers were scrambling down

onto it to bar his way, swords and daggers in their hands. There were six or more of them, and none

looked kindly.

"Get down or die," one of them announced, almost pleasantly. El cast quick glances right and left,

saw no one charging him from behind, and murmured a quick word.

When he flicked his fingers, an instant later, three of the brigands facing him were hurled away as

if they'd been struck hard by the empty air. Blades flew spinning aloft, and startled, winded men crashed

into brambles and rolled to slow, cursing halts.

"I believe a more traditional greeting consists of the words 'well met,' " Elminster told the man

who'd spoken, adding a dry smile to his dignified observation.

The brigand leader's face went white, and he sprinted for the trees. "Algan!" he bellowed.

"Drace! A rescue!"

In answer, more arrows came humming out of the deep green forest like angry wasps.

El dove out of his saddle a scant instant before two of them met in his mount's head. The faithful

gray horse made an incredulous choking sound, threw up its forelegs as if to challenge an unseen foe, and

then rolled over onto its side to kick and die.

It came within a fingerlength of crushing its rider, who rolled away as fast as he could, hissing

curses as he tried to think which of his spells would best serve a lone man scrambling through ferns and

brambles, surrounded by brigands hiding behind trees with ready bows.

Not that he wanted to leave his saddlebag, anyway. Panting in his frantic haste, El reached the far

side of a stout old tree. He noticed in passing that its leaves were beginning to turn, touched gold and

brown by the first daring frosts of the Year of the Chosen, and clawed his way up its mossy bark to

stand gasping and peering around through the trees.

Crashings marked the routes of the hurrying outlaws as they ran to surround him. Elminster sighed

and leaned against his tree, murmuring an incantation he'd been saving for a time when he might be faced

with hungry beasts on a night he'd have to spend in the open. Such a night would never come, now, if he

didn't put the spell to more immediate use. He finished the casting, smiled at the first brigand to peer

warily around a nearby tree at him-and stepped into the duskwood he was leaning against.

The brigand's startled curse was cut off abruptly as El melded into the old, patient silence of the

forest giant, and threw his thoughts along its spreading roots to the next tree that was large enough. A

shadowtop, in that direction. Well, 'twould have to do.

He sent his shadowy body flowing along the taproot, trying not to feel choked and trapped. The

closed-in, buried feeling drove some mages mad when they tried this spell-but Myrjala had considered it

one of the most important things for him to master.

Could she have foreseen this day, years later?

That thought sent a chill through the prince of Athalantar as he rose inside the shadowtop. Was

everything that happened to him Mystra's will?

And if it was, what would happen when her will clashed with the will of another god, who was

guiding someone else?

He'd have been flying in falcon-shape over this forest, after all, if she'd not commanded him to

"ride" to the fabled elven realm of Cormanthor. A bird of prey would have been too high for the arrows

of these brigands to reach even if they'd felt like wasting shafts.

That thought carried Elminster out into the bright world again. He melted out of the dark, warm

wood into the bright sunlight with the Skuldask Road a muddy ribbon on his left-and the dusty leather of

a brigand not two paces away to his right. Elminster could not resist doing something he'd once delighted

in, years ago, in the streets of Hastarl: he plucked the man's belt dagger out of its sheath so softly and

deftly that the brigand didn't notice. Its pommel bore the scratched outline of a serpent, rising to strike.

Then he froze, not daring to take a step for fear of crushing dead leaves underfoot, and betraying

his presence. He stood as still as a stone as the man stalked away, moving cautiously toward where the

young mage had run to.

Could he get his saddlebag and flee without being noticed? Even if they hadn't had arrows and

some skill in firing them, he really didn't want to waste spells on a handful of desperate men, here in the

heart of the Skuldaskar. He'd seen bears and great forest cats and sleep-spiders already on his journey,

and heard tales of far more fearsome beasts that hunted men along this road. He'd even found the

gnawed bones and rotting, overturned wagons of a caravan that had met death along the road, some time

ago . . . and he didn't want to become just one more grisly trailside warning.

As he stood, undecided, another brigand strode around the tree, head down and hurrying, and

walked right into him.

They fell to the leaves in startled unison-but the young Athalantan already had a blade in his hand,

and he used it.

The dagger was sharp, and his slash laid open the man's forehead with a single stroke as El rolled

to his feet and sprinted away, making sure that he stomped on the bow that the man had dropped. It

snapped under his boots, and then he was running hard for the road, startled shouts following him.

The man he'd cut would be blinded by the streaming blood until someone helped him, and that

made one less brigand to chase Elminster of Athalantar. The Berduskan Rapids were still days

away-longer, now that he had to walk-and Elturel was an even longer trip back. He didn't relish going

either way with a band of cutthroats hunting him, day and night.

He reached his horse, scrambling back down onto the road, and used his borrowed dagger to

cut free his saddlebag and the loop that held his scabbard.

Snatching up both of them, he ran hard along the road, seeking to win a little distance before he'd

have to try some other trick.

Another arrow hummed past his shoulder, and he swerved abruptly into the forest on the far side

of the road. So much for that brilliant tactic.

He was going to have to stand and fight. Unless...

In frenzied haste he dropped his burden and snatched out his sword, the daggers from both

boots, and the knife sheathed down his back, its hilt hidden under his hair at the nape of his neck. They

joined the borrowed dagger on a clump of moss, clattering into a heap-and he added his fire-blackened

cooking fork and broad-bladed skinning knife to them even as he began the chant.

Men were leaping and running through the trees, fast approaching, as Elminster muttered his way

through the spell, taking each blade in turn and carefully nicking himself so that drops of his blood fell on

the steel. He touched each blade to the tangle of feathers and spiderweb strands he'd scooped out of his

pouch-lined baldric, thanking Mystra that she'd whispered to him to mark each pouch so he knew their

contents at a glance, and then clapped his hands.

The spell was done. Elminster snatched up his saddlebag to use as a shield against any swift

arrows that might come his way, and crouched low behind it as the seven weapons he'd enchanted rose

restlessly into the air, skirled against each other for a moment as they drifted about as if sniffing for

prey-and then leapt away, racing points-first through the forest air.

The first brigand shrieked moments later, and El saw the man spin around, clutching at one

eyeball, and fall down the bank onto the road. A second man spat out a curse and swung his blade in

frantic haste; there was a ringing of steel on steel, and then the man reeled and fell, blood spurting from

his opened throat.

Another man grunted and clutched at his side, snatching out the cooking fork and flinging it down

with a groan. Then he joined the frantic retreat, outpaced by some of his fellows who were sprinting

desperately to stay ahead of blades that were rushing hungrily after them.

Whenever steel drew blood, his enchantment fled from it. Elminster dropped his saddlebag and

went forward cautiously to retrieve his daggers and fork from the men who'd fallen. It would be easy to

slip away now, but then he'd never know how many survived to stalk him-and he'd never get his blades

back. The two El had seen fall were both dead, and a heavy trail of blood told him that a third man

wouldn't run much farther before the gods gathered him in. A fourth man made it back to Elminster's

horse before the young Athalantan's sword plunged itself into his back, and he fell over it onto his face

and lay still.

Elminster retrieved all but his borrowed dagger and one of his belt knives, finding two more

bodies, before he gave up the grim task and resumed his journey. Both of the dead men had weapons

marked with the crudely scratched serpent symbol. El scratched his jaw, where his unshaven stubble was

beginning to itch, and then shrugged. He had to go on; what did it matter which gang or fellowship

claimed these woods as its own? He was careful to take all the bows he saw with him, and thrust them

inside a hollow log a little farther on, startling a young rabbit out of its far end into bounding flight through

the trees.

El looked down at the cluster of bloody blades in his hand and shook his head in regret. He never

liked to slay, whatever the need. He cleaned the blades on the first thick moss he found and went on,

south and east, through the darkening wood.

The skies soon turned gray, and a chill breeze blew, but the rain that smelled near never came,

and Elminster trudged on with his saddlebag growing heavier on his shoulder.

* * * * *

It was with weary relief that he came down into a little hollow just before dusk, and saw chimney

smoke and a stockade wall and open fields ahead.

A signboard high on the cornerpost of what looked like a paddock, though it held only mud and

trampled grass just now, read: "Be Welcome At The Herald's Horn." Underneath was a bad painting of

an almost circular silver trumpet. Elminster smiled at it in relief and walked along the stockade, past

several stone buildings that reeked of hops, and in through a gate that was overhung with someone's

badly forged iron replica of the looped herald's horn.

This looked to be where he'd be spending the night. El strode across a muddy yard to a door

where a bored-looking boy was peeling and trimming radishes and peppers, tossing his work into

water-filled barrels, and keeping watch for guests at the same time.

The boy's face sharpened with interest as he surveyed Elminster, but he made no move to strike

the gong by his elbow, merely giving the weary, hawk-nosed youth an expressionless nod of

acknowledgment. El returned it and went inside.

The place smelled of cedar, and there was a hearth-fire somewhere ahead to the left, and voices.

Elminster peered about, his shoulder-borne saddlebag swinging, and saw that he stood in the midst of yet

another forest-this one a crowded tangle of treetrunk pillars, dim rooms, and flagstones strewn with

sawdust, complete with scurrying beetles. Many of the planks around him bore the scars of old fires that

had been put out in time, long ago.

And by the smell of things, the place was a brewery. Not just the sour small beer that everyone

made, but the source of enough brew to fill the small mountain of barrels El could see through a window

whose shutters had been fastened back to let in a little light and air- and a face that stared in at him,

wrinkled bushy brows, and growled, "Alone? Afoot? Want a meal and a bed?"

Elminster nodded a silent reply and was rewarded with the gruff addition, "Then be at home. Two

silver a bed, two silver for meals, extra tankards a copper apiece, and baths extra. Taproom's on the left,

there; keep your bag with you-but be warned: I throw out all who draw steel in my house . . .

straightaway, into the night, without their weapons. Got it?"

"Understood," El replied with some dignity.

"Got a name?" the stout owner of the face demanded, resting one fat and hairy arm on the

windowsill.

For a brief moment El was moved to reply merely "Aye," but prudence made him say instead,

"El, out of Athalantar, and bound for the Rapids."

The face bobbed in a nod. "Mine's Drelden. Built this place myself. Bread, dripping, and cheese

on the mantel. Draw yourself a tankard and tell Rose your wants. She's got soup ready."

The face vanished, and as the grunts and thuds of barrels being wrestled about floated in through

the window, Elminster did as he'd been bid.

A forest of wary faces looked up as he entered the taproom, and watched in silent interest as the

youth quietly adorned his cheese with mustard and settled into a corner seat with his tankard. Elminster

gave the room at large a polite nod and Rose an enthusiastic one, and devoted himself to filling his

groaning belly and looking back at the folk who were studying him.

In the back corner were a dozen burly, sweaty men and women who wore smocks, big

shapeless boots, a lot of dirt, and weary expressions. Local farmers, come for a meal before bed.

There was a table of men who wore leather armor, and were strapped about with weapons.

They all sported badges of a scarlet sword laid across a white shield; one of them saw Elminster looking

at his and grunted, "We're the Red Blade, bound for the Calishar to find caravan-escort work."

Elminster gave his own name and destination in reply, took a swig from his tankard, and then held

silence until folk lost interest in him.

The conversation that had been going on in a desultory way before his entrance resumed. It

seemed to be a "have ye heard?" top-this contest between the last two guests: bearded, boisterous men

in tattered clothes, who wore stout, well-used swords and small arsenals of clanging cups, knives,

mallets, and other small tools.

One, Karlmuth Hauntokh, was hairier, fatter, and more arrogant than the other. As the young

prince of Athalantar watched and listened, he waxed eloquent about the "opportunities that be boilin' up

right now- just boilin', I tell thee-for prospectors like meself- and Surgath here."

He leaned forward to fix the Red Blades with wise old eyes, and added in a hoarse, confidential

whisper that must have carried clear out back to the stables, "It's on account o' the elves, see? They're

moving away-no one knows where-jus' gone. They cleared out o' what they called Elanvae . . . that's the

woods what the River Reaching runs through, nor'east o' here ... last winter. Now all that land's ours for

the picking. Why, not a tenday back I found a bauble there-gold, and jools stuck in it, clear through-in a

house that had fallen in!"

"Aye," one of the farmers said in a voice flat with disbelief, "and how big was it, Hauntokh?

Bigger'n my head, this time?"

The prospector scowled, his black brows drawing together into a fierce wall. "Less o' that lip,

Naglarn," he growled. "When I'm out there, swingin' m'blade to drive off the wolves, it's right seldom I

see thee stridin' boldly into the woods!"

"Some of us," Naglarn replied in a voice that dripped scorn, "have honest work to do, Hauntokh

. . . but then, y'wouldn't know what that was, now would you?" Many of the farmers chuckled or grinned

in tired silence.

"I'll let that pass, farmer," the prospector replied coldly, "seem' as I like the Horn so well, an' plan

to be drinkin' here long after they look at thy weed fields an' use thy own plow to put thee under, in a

corner somewheres. But I'll show thee not to scoff at them as dares to go where thee won't."

One hairy hand darted into Hauntokh's open shirt-front with snakelike speed, and out of the

gray-white hair there drew forth a fist-sized cloth bag. Strong, stubby fingers thrust its drawstrings open,

and plucked into view all it held: a sphere of shining gold, inset with sparkling gems. An involuntary gasp

of awe came from every throat in the room as the prospector proudly held it up.

It was a beautiful thing, as old and as exquisite as any elven work Elminster had ever seen. It was

probably worth a dozen Herald's Horns, or more. Much more, if that glow betokened magics that did

more than merely adorn. El watched its inner light play on the ring the prospector wore-a ring that bore

the scratched device of a serpent rising to strike.

"Have ye ever seen the like?" Hauntokh gloated. "Aye, Naglarn?" He turned his head, gaze

sweeping across the Red Blade adventurers, who were leaning forward so far in their hunger and wonder

that they were almost out of their chairs, and looked at his rival prospector.

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ElminsterinMythDrannorEdGreenwoodPrologueItwasatimeofmountingstrifeinthefairrealmofCormanthor,whenthelordsandladiesoftheoldest,proudesthousesfeltathreattotheirglitteringpride.Athreatthrustforwardbytheverythroneabovethem;athreatfromtheirmostdarklingyouthfulnightmares.TheStinkingBeastThatComesInTheNig...

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Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor

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