Ed Greenwood - Elminster - The Making of a Mage

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Elminster: The Making of a Mage
By Ed Greenwood
Scanned, proofed and formatted by BW-SciFi
Release date: September, 10th, 2002
Version 1.0
Format: Rich Text Format
There are only two precious things on earth:
the first is love; the second, a long way behind it,
is intelligence. Gaston Berger
Life has no meaning but what we give it.
I wish a few more of ye would give it a little. Elminster of Shadowdale
verba volant, scripta manent
Prelude*
"Of course, Lord Mourngrym," Lhaeo replied, gesturing up the stairs with a ladle that was still dripping
jalanth sauce. "He's in his study. You know the way."
Mourngrym nodded his thanks to Elminster's scribe and took the dusty stairs two at a time, charging
urgently up into the gloom. The Old Mage's instructions had been quite—
He came to a halt, dust swirling around him mockingly. The cozy little room held the usual crammed
shelves, worn carpet, and comfortable chair . . . and Elminster's pipe was floating, ready, above the side
table. But of the Old Mage himself, there was no sign.
Mourngrym shrugged and dashed on up the next set of stairs, to the spell chamber. A glowing circle
pulsed alone on the floor there, cold and white. The small circular room was otherwise empty.
The Lord of Shadowdale hesitated a moment, and then mounted the last flight of stairs. He'd never dared
disturb the Old Mage in his bedchamber before, but...
The door was ajar. Mourngrym peered in cautiously, hand going to his sword hilt out of long habit. Stars
twinkled silently and endlessly in the dark domed ceiling over the circular bed that filled the room—but that
resting place hadn't been slept in since the dust had settled. The room was as empty of life as the others. Unless he
was invisible or had taken on the shape of a book or something of the sort, Elminster was nowhere in his tower.
Mourngrym looked warily all around, hairs prickling on the backs of his hands. The Old Mage could be
anywhere, on worlds and planes only he and the gods knew of. Mourngrym frowned— and then shrugged. After
all, what did anyone in the Realms— besides the Seven Sisters, perhaps—really know about Elminster's plans or his
past?
"I wonder," the Lord of Shadowdale mused aloud as he started the long walk back down to Lhaeo, "where
Elminster came from, anyway? Was he ever a young lad? Where . . . ? And what was the world like then?"
It must have been great fun, growing up as a powerful wizard....
Prologue
It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple
darkness and glittering stars across the sky. The day had been cool, and the night promised to be clear and
cold. The last rosy embers of day glim-mered on the long hair of a lone rider from the west, and length-ening
shadows crept ahead of her.
The woman looked around at the gathering night as she rode. Her liquid black eyes were large and framed
by arched brows— stern power and keen wits at odds with demure beauty. Whether for the power or the beauty
there, most men did not look past the honey-brown tresses curling around her pert white face, and even queens lusted
after her beauty—one at least did, of a cer-tainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride, only sadness. In
the spring, wildfires had raged across all these lands, leaving behind legions of charred and leafless spars in-stead of
the lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.
As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled some-where away to the north. The call was
answered from near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of
the hardened knights who dared ride this road only in large, well-armed patrols—and their wary surprise would
not have ended there. The lady rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her, time and again flapping around her hips
and hampering her sword arm. Only a fool would allow such a thing—but this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road
without even a sword at her hip. A patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress and
reached for their blades accordingly. They'd not have been wrong.
She was Myrjala 'Darkeyes,' as the silvern sigil on her cloak proclaimed. Myrjala was feared for her wild
ways as much as for the might of her magic, but though all folk feared her, many farmers and townsfolk loved
her. Proud lords in castles did not; she'd been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a
vengeful whirlwind, leaving blazing bodies in dark warning to others. In some places she was most
unwel-come.
As night's full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, twisted in her saddle, and did off her cloak.
She spoke a single soft word, and the cloth twisted in her hands, changing from its usual dark green to a
russet hue. The silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined
golden trumpets.
The transformation did not end with the cloak. Myrjala's long curls darkened and shrank about her
shoulders—shoulders sud-denly alive and broadening with roiling humps of muscle. The hands that donned the
cloak again had become hairy and stubby fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the pack be-hind the
saddle and belted it on. Thus armed, the man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly shaped herald badge could
be clearly seen, listened to the wolf howl again—closer now—and calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one
last hill. Ahead lay a castle where a spy dined this night—a spy for the evil wizards bent on seizing the Stag Throne of
Athalan-tar. That realm lay not far off to the east. The man in the saddle stroked his elegant beard and spurred his
horse onward. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with ar-rows and ready blades, a lord
herald was always welcome. Yet magic was the best blade against a wizard's spy.
The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the her-ald's horse clottered over the wooden
drawbridge. The badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by
the gate guards. A bell tolled once within, and the knight of the gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast.
"Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace."
The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.
" 'Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald; ye must know hunger," the knight added less formally, helping
him down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps, awkward with saddle stiffness, and smiled thinly.
Startling dark eyes rose to meet those of the knight. "Oh, I've come much farther than that," the herald
said softly, nodded a wordless farewell, and strode away into the castle. He walked like a man who knew his
way—and welcome—well.
The knight watched him go, face expressionless in puzzle-ment. An armsman nearby leaned close and
murmured, "No spurs ... and no esquires or armsmen. What manner of herald is this?"
The knight of the gate shrugged. "If he lost them on the road or there's some other tale of interest, we'll
know it soon enough. See to his horse." He turned, then stiffened in fresh surprise. The herald's horse was
standing near and watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. It nodded and took a half
step to bring its reins smoothly to the armsman's hand. The men exchanged wary glances before the
armsman led it away.
The knight watched them for a moment before shrugging and striding back to the mouth of the gate.
There'd be much talk on watch later, whatever befell. Out in the night nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the
horses snorted and stamped nervously.
Then a window in the castle above flickered with sudden light—magical light from a battle spell, and the battle
was joined. There was a terrific commotion within, scattering plates and overturned tables, shrieks of serving maids
and roars of flame. Next moment, these sounds were joined by the shouts of the knights in the courtyard below.
That had been no herald, and from the sound and smell of it, others within the castle were not what they
seemed, either. The knight gritted his teeth and clenched his sword, starting for the keep. If Morlin fell to
these wicked spell-slingers, would the Stag King fall next? And if all Athalantar fell, there would be years
upon years of sorcerous tyranny. Aye, there would be ruin and misery ahead.... And who could ever rise to
oppose these mage-lords?
One
DRAGON FIRE—AND DOOM
Dragons? Splendid things, lad—so long as ye look upon them only in tapestries, or in the masks worn at revels, or
from about three realms off. . .. Astragarl Hornwood, Mage of Elembar
said to an apprentice
Year of the Tusk
The sun beat down bright and hot on the rock pile that crowned the high pasture. Far below, the village,
cloaked in trees, lay under a blue-green haze of mist—magic mist, some said, conjured by the mist-mages of the
Fair Folk, whose magic worked both good and ill. The ill things were spoken of more often, of course, for many folk in
Heldon did not love elves.
Elminster was not one of them. He hoped to meet the elves someday—really meet, that is—to touch smooth
skin and pointed ears, to converse with them. These woods had once been theirs, and they yet knew the secret places
where beasts laired and suchlike. He'd like to know all that, someday, when he was a man and could walk where he
pleased.
El sighed, shifted into a more comfortable position against his favorite rock, and from habit glanced at the
falling slopes of the meadow to be sure his sheep were safe. They were.
Not for the first time, the bony, beak-nosed youth peered south, squinting. Brushing unruly jet-black hair
aside with one slim hand, he kept his fingers raised to shade his piercing blue-gray eyes, trying vainly to see
the turrets of far-off, splendid Athalgard, in the heart of Hastarl, by the river. As always, he could see the faint
bluish haze that marked the nearest curve of the Delimbiyr, but no more. Father told him often that the castle
was much too far off to be seen from here—and, from time to time, added that the fair span of distance between it
and their village was a good thing.
Elminster longed to know what that meant, but this was one of the many things his father would not speak
of. When asked, he settled his oft-smiling lips into a stony line, and his level gray eyes would meet
Elminster's own with a sharper look than usual
... but no words ever emerged. El hated secrets—at least those he didn't know. He'd learn all the secrets
someday, somehow. Someday, too, he'd see the castle the minstrels said was so splen-did ... mayhap even walk its
battlements ... aye....
A breeze ghosted gently over the meadow, bending the weed heads briefly. It was the Year of Flaming
Forests, in the month of Eleasias, a few days short of Eleint. Already the nights were turning very cold. After
six seasons of minding sheep on the high meadow, El knew it'd not be long before leaves were blowing about,
and the Fading would truly begin.
The shepherd-lad sighed and shrugged his worn, patched leather jerkin closer about him. It had once
belonged to a for-ester. Under a patch on the back, it still bore a ragged, dark-stained hole where an arrow
—an elfin arrow, some said—had taken the man's life. Elminster wore the old jack—scabbard buckles, tears from
long-gone lord's badges, and worn edges from past adventures—for all the dash its history made him feel. Sometimes,
though, he wished it fit him a little better.
A shadow fell over the meadow, and he looked up. From be-hind him came a sharp, rippling roar of wind
he'd never heard before. He spun around, his shoulder against the rock, and sprang up for a better view. He
needn't have bothered. The sky above the meadow was filled with two huge, batlike wings—and between them,
a dark red scaled bulk larger than a house! Long-taloned claws hung beneath a belly that rose into a long, long neck,
which ended in a head that housed two cruel eyes and a wide-gaping jaw lined with jagged teeth as long as Elminster
was tall! Trailing back far behind, over the hill, a tail switched and swung....
A dragon! Elminster forgot to gulp. He just stared.
Vast and terrible, it swept toward him, slowing ponderously with wings spread to catch the air, looming
against the blue northern sky. And there was a man on its back!
"Dragon at the gate," Elminster whispered the oath unthink-ingly, as that gigantic head tilted a little, and
he found himself gazing full into the old, wise, and cruel eyes of the great wyrm.
Deep they were, and unblinking; pools of dark evil into which he plunged, sinking, sinking....
The dragon's claws bit deeply into the rock pile with a shriek of riven stone and a spray of sparks. It reared
up twice as high as the tallest tower in the village, and those great wings flapped once. In their deafening
thunderclap Elminster was flung help-lessly back and away, head over heels down the slope as sheep
tumbled and bleated their terror around him. He landed hard, rolling painfully on one shoulder. He should run,
should—
"Swords!" He spat the strongest oath he knew as he felt his frantic run being dragged to a halt by
something unseen. A trembling, quivering boiling arose in his veins—magic! He felt himself turning, being pulled
slowly around to face the dragon. Elminster had always hoped to see magic at work up close, but instead of the wild
excitement he'd expected, El found he didn't like the feel of magic at all. Anger and fear awoke in him as his head was
forced up. No, did not like it at all.
The dragon had folded its wings, and now sat atop the rock pile like a vulture—a vulture as tall as a keep,
with a long tail that curled half around the western slope of the meadow. Elmin-ster gulped; his mouth was suddenly
dry. The man had dis-mounted and stood on a sloping rock beside the dragon, an imperious hand raised to point at
Elminster.
Elminster felt his gaze dragged—that horrible, helpless feel-ing in his body again, the cruel control of another's
will moving his own limbs—to meet the man's eyes. Looking into the eyes of the dragon had been terrible but
somehow splendid. This was worse. These eyes were cold and promised pain and death . . . perhaps more. El tasted
the cold tang of rising fear.
There was cruel amusement in the man's almond eyes. El forced himself to look a little down and aside,
and saw the dusky skin around those deadly eyes, and coppery curls, and a winking pendant on the man's
hairless breast. Under it were markings on the man's skin, half-hidden by his robe of darkest green. He wore
rings, too, of gold and some shining blue metal, and soft boots finer than any El had ever seen. The faint blue
glow of magic—something Father had said only Elminster could see, and must never speak of—clung to the pendant,
the rings, the robes, and the markings on the man's breast, as well as to what looked like the ends of smoothed wooden
sticks, protruding from high slits on the outside of the man's boots. That rare glow rip-pled more brightly around the
man's outstretched arm .. . but Elminster didn't need any other secret sign to know that this was a wizard.
"What is the name of the village below?" The question was cold, quick.
"Heldon." The name left Elminster's lips before he could think. He felt spittle flooding his mouth, and with it
a hint of blood.
"Is its lord there now?"
Elminster struggled, but found himself saying, "A-Aye."
The wizard's eyes narrowed. "Name him." He raised his hand, and the blue glow flared brighter.
Elminster felt a sudden eagerness to tell this rude stranger everything—everything. Cold fear coiled inside
him. "Elthryn, Lord." He felt his lips trembling.
"Describe him."
"He's tall, Lord, and slim. He smiles often, and always has a kind w—"
"What hue is his hair?" the wizard snapped.
"B-Brown, Lord, with gray at the sides and in his beard. He's—"
The wizard made a sharp gesture, and Elminster felt his limbs moving by themselves. He tried to fight
against them, whimpering, but already he was wheeling about and running. He pounded hard through the
grass, helpless against the driving magic, stumbling in haste, charging down the grassy slope to where the
meadow ended—in a sheer drop into the ravine.
As he churned along through the weeds and tall grass, El clung to a small victory; at least he'd not told
the wizard that Elthryn was his father.
Small victory, indeed. The cliff-edge seemed to leap at him; the wind of his breathless run roared past his
ears. The rolling countryside of Athalantar, below, looked beautiful in the mists.
Headlong, Elminster rushed over the edge—and felt the ter-rible trembling compulsion leave him. As the rocks
rushed up to meet him, he struggled against fear and fury, trying to save his life.
Sometimes, he could move things with his mind. Some-times—please, gods, let it be now!
The ravine was narrow, the rocks very near. Only last month a lamb had fallen in, and the life had been
smashed from it long before its broken, loll-limbed body had settled at the bottom. El-minster bit his lip. And
then the white glow he was seeking rose and stole over his sight, veiling his view of rushing rocks. He clawed
at the air with desperate fingers and twisted sideways as if he'd grown wings for an instant.
Then he was crashing through a thornbush, skin burning as it was slashed open a dozen times. He struck
earth and stone, then something springy—a vine?—and was flung away, falling again.
"Uhhh!" Onto rocks this time, hard. The world spun. El gasped for breath he could not find, and the white
haze rose around his eyes.
Gods and goddesses preserve ...
The haze rose and then receded—and then, from above, came a horrible snapping sound.
Something dark and wet fell past him, to the rocks unseen in the gloom below. El shook his head to clear
it and peered around. Fresh blood dappled the rocks close by. The sunlight overhead dimmed; Elminster
froze, head to one side, and tried to look dead. His arms and ribs and one hip throbbed and ached ... but he'd
been able to move them all. Would the wizard or the dragon come down to make sure he was dead?
The dragon wheeled over the meadow, one limb of a sheep dangling from its jaws, and passed out of his
view. When its next languid circle brought it back over the ravine, two sheep were struggling in its mouth. The
crunching sounds began again as it passed out of sight.
Elminster shuddered, feeling sick and empty. He clung to the rock as if its hard, solid strength could tell
him what to do now. Then the rippling roar of the dragon's wings rose again. El lay as still as possible, head
still twisted awkwardly. Letting his mouth fall open, he stared steadily off into the cloudless sky.
The wizard in his high saddle gave the huddled boy a keen look as the dragon rushed past, and then
leaned forward and shouted something Elminster couldn't catch, which echoed and hissed in the mouth of the
ravine. The dragon's powerful shoul-ders surged in response, and it rose slightly—only to drop down out of
sight in a dive so swift that the raw sound of its rushing wings rose to a shrill scream. A dive toward Heldon.
El found his feet, wincing and staggering, and stumbled along the ravine to its end, hissing as every
movement made him ache. There was a place he'd climbed before . . . his fingers bled as they scraped over
sharp rocks. A terrible fear was rising inside him, almost choking him.
At last he reached the grassy edge of the meadow, rolled onto it, gasping, and looked down on Heldon.
Then Elminster found he still had breath enough to scream.
******
A woman shrieked outside. A moment later, the incessant din of hammering from the smithy came to a
sudden, ragged stop. Frowning, Elthryn Aumar rose from the farm tallies in haste, scattering clay tiles. He
sighed at his own clumsiness as he snatched his blade down from the wall and strode out into the street,
tearing the steel free of the scabbard as he went. Tallies that wouldn't balance all morning, and now this ...
what was it now?
The Lion Sword, oldest treasure of Athalantar, shone its proud flame as he came out into the sunlight.
Strong magics slumbered in the old blade, and as always, it felt solid in Elthryn's hand, hungry for blood. It
flashed as he looked quickly about. Folk were shrieking and running wildly south down the street, faces white
in sheer terror. Elthryn had to duck out of the way of a woman so fat that he was astonished she could run at
all—one of Tesla's seamstresses—and turned to look north at the dark bulk of the High Forest. The street was full of
his neigh-bors, running south down the road, past him. Some were weep-ing as they came. A haze—smoke—was in
the air whence they'd come.
Brigands? Orcs? Something out of the woods?
He ran up the road, the enchanted blade that was his proud-est possession naked in his hand. The sharp
reek of burning came to him. A sick fear was already rising in his throat when he rounded the butcher's shop
and behind it found the fire.
His own cottage was an inferno of leaping flame. Perhaps she'd been out—but no ... no ...
"Amrythale," he whispered. Sudden tears blinded him, and he wiped at them with his sleeve. Somewhere
in all that roaring were her bones.
He knew some folk had whispered that a common forester's lass must have used witchery to find a bridal
bed with one of the most respected princes of Athalantar—but Elthryn had loved her. And she him. He gazed in
horror at her pyre, and in his memory saw her smiling face. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, the prince felt a black
rage build inside him.
"Who has done this thing?" he roared. His shout echoed back from the now-empty shops and houses of
Heldon, but was an-swered only by crackling flames . . . and then by a roar so loud and deep that the shops
and houses around trembled, and the very cobbles of the street shifted under his boots. Amid the dust that
curled up from them, the prince looked up and saw it, aloft, wheeling with contemptuous laziness over the
trees: an elder red dragon of great size, its scales dark as dried blood. A man rode it, a man in robes who
held a wand ready, a man Elthryn did not know but a wizard without a doubt, and that could mean only one
thing: the cruel hand of his eldest brother Belaur was finally about to close on him.
Elthryn had been his father's favorite, and Belaur had always hated him for it. The king had given Elthryn
the Lion Sword—it was all he had left of his father, now. It had served him often and well... but it was a legacy, not a
miracle-spell. As he heard the wizard laugh and lean out to hurl lightning down at some vil-lager fleeing over the
back fields, Prince Elthryn looked up into the sky and saw his own death there, wheeling on proud wings.
He raised the Lion Sword to his lips, kissed it, and summoned the lean, serious face of his son to mind:
beak-nosed and sur-rounded by an unruly mane of jet-black hair. Elminster, with all his loneliness,
seriousness, and homeliness, and with his secret, the mind-powers the gods gave few folk in Faerun.
Perhaps the gods had something special in mind for him. Clinging to that last, slim hope, Elthryn clutched
the sword and spoke through tears.
"Live, my son," he whispered. "Live to avenge thy mother ... and restore honor to the Stag Throne. Hear
me!" *****
Panting his slithering way down a tree-clad slope, still a long way above the village, Elminster stiffened
and fetched up breathless against a tree, his eyes blazing. The ghostly whisper of his father's voice was clear
in his ears; he was calling on a power of his enchanted sword that El had seen him use only once, when his
mother had been lost in a snow squall. He knew what those words meant. His father was about to die.
"I'm coming, Father!" he shouted at the unhearing trees around. "I'm coming!" And he stumbled on,
recklessly leaping deadfalls and crashing through thickets, gasping for breath, knowing he'd be too late....
*****
Grimly, Elthryn Aumar set his feet firmly on the road, raised his sword, and prepared to die as a prince
should. The dragon swept past, ignoring the lone man with the sword as its rider pointed two wands and
calmly struck down the fleeing folk of Heldon with hurled lightning and bolts of magical death. As he swept
over the prince, the wizard carelessly aimed one wand at the lone swordsman below.
There was a flash of white light, and then the whole world seemed to be dancing and crawling. Lightning
crackled and coiled around Elthryn, but he felt no pain; the blade in his hands drew the magic into itself in
angrily crawling arcs of white fire until it was all gone.
The prince saw the wizard turn in his saddle and frown back at him. Holding the Lion Sword high so that
the mage could see it, hoping he could lure the wizard down to seize it—and know-ing that hope vain—Elthryn
lifted his head to curse the man, speaking the slow, heavy words he'd been taught so long ago.
The wizard made a gesture—and then his mouth fell open in surprise: the curse had shattered whatever spell
he'd cast at Elthryn. As the dragon swept on, he aimed his other wand at the prince. Bolts of force leapt from it—and
were swept into the en-chanted blade, which sang and glowed with their fury, thrum-ming in Elthryn's hands. Spells it
could stop . . . but not dragon fire. The prince knew he had only a few breaths of life left.
"O Mystra, let my boy escape this," he prayed as the dragon turned in the air with slow might and swept
down on him, "and let him have the sense to flee far." Then he had no time left for prayers.
Bright dragon fire roared around Elthryn Aumar, and as he snarled defiance and swung his blade at the
raging flames, he was overwhelmed and swept away....
*****
Elminster burst out onto the village street by the miller's house, now only a smoking heap of shattered
timbers and tum-bled stones. A single hand, blackened by fire that had breathed death through the house
and swept on, protruded from under the collapsed chimney, clutching vainly at nothing.
Elminster looked down at it, swallowed, and hurried on around the heap of ruin. After only a few paces,
however, his running steps faltered, and he stood staring. There was no need for haste; every building in
Heldon was smashed flat or in flames. Thick smoke hid the lower end of the village from him, and small fires
blazed here and there, where trees or woodpiles had caught fire. His home was only a blackened area and
drift-ing ashes; beyond, the butcher's shop had fallen into the street, a mass of half-burnt timbers and
smashed belongings. The dragon had gone; Elminster was alone with the dead.
Grimly, Elminster searched the village. He found corpses, tumbled or fried among the ruins of their homes,
but not a soul that yet lived. Of his mother and father there was no sign... but he knew they'd not have fled. It
was only when he turned, sick at heart, toward the meadow—where else could he go?—that he stepped on
something amid the ashes that lay thick on the road: the half-melted hilt of the Lion Sword.
He took it up in hands that trembled. All but a few fingers of the blade were burnt away, and most of the
proud gold; blue magic coursed no longer about this remnant. Yet he knew the feel of the worn hilt. El
clutched it to his breast, and the world suddenly wavered.
Tears fell from his sightless eyes for a long time as he knelt among the ashes in the street and the patient
sun moved across the sky. At some point he must have fallen senseless, for he roused at the creeping touch
of cold to feel hard cobbles under his cheek.
Sitting up, he found dusk upon the ruin of Heldon, and full night coming down from the High Forest. His
numb hands tingled as he fumbled with the sword hilt. Elminster got to his feet slowly, looking around at what
was left of his home. Some-where nearby, a wolf called and was answered. Elminster looked at the useless
weapon he held, and he shivered. It was time to be gone from this place, before the wolves came down to
feed.
Slowly he raised the riven Lion Sword to the sky. For an in-stant it caught the last feeble glow of sunset,
and Elminster stared hard at it and muttered, "I shall slay that wizard, and avenge ye all—or die in the trying.
Hear me ... Mother, Father. This I swear."
A wolf howled in reply. Elminster bared his teeth in its direc-tion, shook the ruined hilt at it, and started
the long run back up to the meadow.
As he went, Selune rose serenely over the dying fires of Hel-don, bathing the ruins in bright, bone-white
moonlight. Elmin-ster did not look back. *****
He awoke suddenly, in the close darkness of a cavern he'd hidden in once when playing seek-the-ogre
with other lads. The hilt of the Lion Sword lay, hard and unyielding, beneath him. El-minster remained still,
listening. Someone had said something, very nearby.
"No sign of a raid ... no one sworded," came the sudden grave words, loud and close. Elminster tensed,
lying still and peering into the darkness.
"I suppose all the huts caught fire by themselves, then," an-other, deeper man's voice said sarcastically.
"And the rest fell over just because they were tired of standing up, eh?"
"Enough, Bellard. Everyone's dead, aye—but there's no sword work, not an arrow to be seen. Wolves have
been at some of the bodies, but not a one's been rummaged. I found a gold ring on one lady's hand that shone at me
clear down the street."
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：162 页 大小：765.72KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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