Forgotten_Realms-Elminsters_Saga_02 - Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood

VIP免费
2024-12-05 0 0 1.22MB 147 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
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
摘要：

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

展开>> 收起<<
Forgotten_Realms-Elminsters_Saga_02 - Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood.pdf

共147页,预览10页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：147 页 大小：1.22MB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-05

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 147
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注