Elminster - The Making Of A Mage Part 31

"Aye," one of the knights said, spitting into the water. "How do thieves ever steal anything in Hastarl? Do they only rob deaf folk?"

The apprentice let out a little shriek. Alarashan frowned. He preferred willing wenches, but Undarl had forced this one idiot male youth on him . . . doubtless a spy, and the man was hopeless at magic. When he wasn't breaking things, he was busily miscasting spells all over the place, and ...

The magelord looked into the jakes. Ortran was slumped over on the seat, trousers around his ankles, and ...

Alarashan stiffened. His apprentice was being thrust aside, by something-someone!-underneath. He strode forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing a wand from his belt, as Ortran's body fell against the wall and the b.l.o.o.d.y blade that had slain him withdrew down the privy hole.

Alarashan aimed the wand, then stopped. What was to stop someone thrusting a blade into his face, if he showed himself over the hole? No, let them emerge, and slay them as they appear. ... He crouched low, waiting.

And part of the wall behind him slid smoothly aside. Alarashan had time to whirl around and gape at the secret panel he'd never known about, before the cudgel came down on his shoulder with numbing force, and his wand fell from nerveless, burning fingers.

Briost didn't waste any time being shocked when the man in filthy armor burst out of his garderobe, sword raised. He lifted a hand, triggered his ring, and stepped smoothly aside to give the dying man room to fall.

The second attacker brought a surprised look onto the mage-lord's face, but his ring winked a second time. Something flashed over the falling man's shoulder, though-G.o.ds! The hurled dagger nearly took out Briost's eye. He ducked aside and felt a numbing blow on his cheek. The dagger spun on, and as he straightened to meet the men now pouring out of the jakes, he felt wetness on his face.

He'd put his hand up to feel, and brought it away with the fingertips crimson with his own blood, when he realized he hadn't time for such luxuries....

And by then, as the blades came at him from all sides, it was much too late.

The scrying crystal flashed. Ithboltar looked over at it and waved an imperious finger at the thoroughly frightened apprentice, bidding her sit. Nanatha sat in hasty silence as the Old One, one-time tutor of most of the magelords, got up and glared at his crystal.

Obligingly, it flashed again. "Either ... no ..." Ithboltar growled and leaned forward to touch something Nanatha could not see, on the underside of his desk. He uttered one soft word, and the room rocked under the sudden tolling of a great bell.

"We're being attacked," the Old One hissed fiercely as a chorus of bells echoed and boomed all over the castle. "Briost? Briost, answer me!" He leaned forward over the crystal, muttering-and then his eyes widened at what he saw in its depths, and he thrust a hand into the breast of his robes, tearing them open in his frantic haste. Nanatha saw white grizzled hair on a sunken chest as Ithboltar found what he was seeking-some sort of gem-adorned skullcap-and pulled it onto his head, hair sticking out wildly in all directions. At another time the apprentice might have giggled inwardly at the old archwizard's ridiculous appearance-but not now. She was too terrified ... of whatever might put such fear into the Old One, mightiest of all magelords.

Ithboltar fumbled speedily through the gestures of a spell he'd hoped he'd never have to use, and the room whirled amid the ringing sounds of shattering crystals. Nanatha gasped.

Ithboltar's chamber was suddenly full of five startled magelords.

"What did y-?"

"How did you brin-?"

"Why-?"

Ithboltar held up a hand to quell them all. "Together, we stand a chance against this threat. Alone, we are doomed."

The bells boomed again, and the armsmen rose with a chorus of curses. "This never happens," Riol protested, his boots scattering dice underfoot as he skidded past the table and raced for the stair.

"Well, it's happening now," First Sword Sauvar growled, from right behind him. "And you can bet that anything that can scare a dozen or more magelords is going to be something we should be scared about, too!"

Riol opened his mouth to answer, but someone reached out of a dark side-pa.s.sage and put a sword into it. The blade glistened as it came out of the back of Riol's head; Sauvar ran right into it before he could stop, and reeled back with a startled oath.

"Who in all the-?" he started to ask.

"Tharl Bloodbar, knight of Athalantar," came the crisp reply from a wild-bearded old man whose armor seemed to be made of cast-off, flapping remnants scavenged from a dozen battlefields, which is what in truth it was. "Sir Tharl to you."

The bright blade in the old knight's hand skirled against Sauvar's own steel and then leapt over it-and the First Sword joined his fellow armsman on the pa.s.sage floor. The thunder of hurrying boots coming up the stairs slowed, and the old man grinned fiercely down into the gloom and snarled, "Right then- which one o' you heroes is most eager to die?"

Jansibal Otharr sighed in perfumed exasperation. "Why, in the name of all the G.o.ds, does this have to happen now?"

He finished at the chamberpot, turned with his elaborate codpiece dangling to look longingly at the woman waiting on the bed, and then sighed and reached down to buckle himself up. He knew what the penalty would be if one of the magelords discovered he'd ignored their precious warning bell for a little rutting.

"Stay," he ordered, "but avail yourself not over-heavily of the wine, Chlasa. I'll be back soon." s.n.a.t.c.hing up his bejewelled blade, he strode out.

The torchlit pa.s.sage beyond, in the part of the castle reserved for n.o.ble visitors, was usually deserted except for the occasional scurrying servant. Right now it was crowded with hurrying bodyguards in livery, an envoy in full Athalantan tabard, and Thelorn Selemban, his hated rival. Thelorn was striding along toward him, his slim-filigreed blade drawn.

Jansibal's face darkened, and he struggled to belt on his own blade and get it out into his hand before Selemban reached him-in such chaos, "accidents" could all too easily happen.

Thelorn's eyes were dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt as he bore down on Jansibal. "Fair even, lover mine," he said lightly, knowing his reference to that little embarra.s.sment in the Kissing Wench would enrage the only scion of the n.o.ble house of Otharr.

Jansibal snarled and jerked his blade free-but Thelorn was past him with a mocking laugh, and hurrying down a broad flight of stairs toward the guard room below. A twisted, sneering smile slid onto Jansibal's face, and the perfumed dandy hurried after his rival. Accidents could happen, yes, especially from behind...

"What befalls?" Nanue Trumpettower set down her gla.s.s, real alarm in her eyes. Ah, thought Darrigo delightedly, the la.s.s is such a delicate little flower . . . wasted on young Peeryst, come to think of it...

The old farmer stumped to his feet. "Well, now," he growled, "them's the alarm bells, calling out the guard. I'll just have a-"

"No, uncle," Peeryst interrupted grandly, drawing his blade with a flourish. "I've brought my steel with me. . . . I'll go and look. Guard Nanue until I return!"

He shouldered past Darrigo without waiting for a reply, jaw set and eyes bright. Aye, trust him to leap on any chance to show off before his wife, Darrigo thought, and reached out to keep the door from banging into a table the magelords might be rather fond of, as Peeryst flung it wide.

Almost immediately, he gave a startled cry. Darrigo saw a rus.h.i.+ng armsman crash into the youth, reel, and keep on running. Peeryst wasn't so lucky; he hit the wall nose-first and groaned.

Darrigo groaned. Of course blood was leaking from the idiot's over-delicate beak when he got up ... and of course, little Nanue would have to get up and rush out to see what had befallen her light-o'-love. . . . On cue, Nanue rushed past him, skirts rustling, and shrieked in earnest.

Darrigo peered out in time to see a well-dressed n.o.ble shove Nanue off his blade, snarling, "Step aside, wench! Can't you hear the alarm?" Nanue fell back against the doorway with a sob of fear. The man's blade had gashed her arm, and blood was running freely down her skirts. That was enough for Darrigo.

Two strides took him to Peeryst. With one hand he s.n.a.t.c.hed the dainty little blade out of his nephew's hand. With the other, he shoved the young hope of the Trumpettowers at his wife. "Bind her wounds," he snarled, setting off down the pa.s.sage after the hurrying n.o.ble.

"But-how?" Peeryst called after him desperately.

"Use yer s.h.i.+rt, man!" Darrigo snarled.

"But, but-'tis new, and-"

"Then use yer hose, stonehead," Darrigo roared back, as he took a flight of stairs three at a time.

He was wheezing and stumbling by the time he reached the bottom, but he caught up with the hurrying n.o.ble there. His quarry was just raising his blade, looking for all the world like he was going to plant it in the ribs of another dandified fellow a little farther along the hall. Darrigo smacked him across the back of the head with his sword. Thankfully, the dainty weapon didn't break. The dandy whirled, the reek of his perfume swirling about him.

"You dare to touch me, old man?" The n.o.ble's blade was darting at his throat before Darrigo could have uttered any reply.

Snarling, the old farmer beat it aside and shouldered forward. "Set steel to a Trumpettower la.s.s, would you? And her unarmed, yet! You don't deserve to live three breaths longer!"

Jansibal leapt backward just in time. The old man's ornamental sword hissed past his nose. His urge to laugh died abruptly ... this graybeard was serious!

Then a clear laugh rang out from behind him: Thelorn, d.a.m.n him before all the G.o.ds! Jansibal snarled and slid aside, forcing his way past the old man to get his unprotected back away from the reach of his rival.

"Attacking old men now, Jansibal? Younger ones starting to refuse you?" Thelorn called interestedly. In sudden fury, Jansibal lunged at Darrigo. Their blades crashed together-once, twice, and thrice ... and Janisbal's codpiece clanged to the floor, both of its tiny straps cut.

The old man gave him a mirthless smile. "Thought perhaps you'd be able to move a mite faster without all that weight down there," he remarked, advancing again.

Jansibal stared at him in astonishment, and then that little blade was sliding in at him again, and he was forced into a desperate flurry of parries. Thelorn laughed again, enjoying his rival's humiliation. Jansibal snarled and attacked, and almost casually the old man's blade floated in over his guard and drew a line across his nose and cheek.

Jansibal spat out a startled oath and backed away. Darrigo lumbered after him, and the perfumed dandy turned and ran down the dark hall, away from them all. The old man raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Fleeing a challenge? And you think yourself n.o.ble?'

Jansibal Otharr made no reply but a gasp, and a moment later Darrigo saw why. A blade was protruding from his back, dark with the n.o.bleman's blood. The blade shook, a booted foot kicked, and Jansibal Otharr slid down to his knees on the floor and sagged back into a silent heap.

"That's an Athalantan n.o.ble?" said the battered old warrior who held the b.l.o.o.d.y blade. "We should have cleaned out this place earlier!"

Thelorn Selemban strode forward, past the staring Darrigo. "Just who are you?" he demanded.

Helm Stoneblade eyed the n.o.ble's ruffed open-to-the-waist silk s.h.i.+rt, its puffed sleeves adorned with many crawling dragons.

"A knight of Athalantar," he growled, "but by the looks of you, it seems I'd've done better down the years as your tailor."

"A knight? What idiocy is this? There are no-" Selemban's eyes narrowed. "Are you loyal to King Belaur and the mage-lords?"

"I fear not, lad," Helm said, striding forward. There were ten or more warriors in motley armor behind him.

Thelorn Selemban flourished his blade. It glittered in the torchlight as he said excitedly, "Come no farther, rebels, or die!"

" 'Tis certainly a day for grand speeches," Helm responded, moving steadily forward. "Let's see if you're any better with that blade than your aromatic friend was ..."

"Friend?" Thelorn snorted. "He was no friend of mine-despite anything you may have heard. Now stand back, or-"

"Or you'll wave your sword at me?"

Helm's voice was heavy with sarcasm, but it trailed away as Thelorn jerked something from around his neck, raised it to his lips, and sneered, "Or I'll slay you traitors with this! I'm told i-"

It was then that Darrigo Trumpettower made his decision. He took two shuffling steps forward and thrust his blade into the young n.o.bleman's ear.

Thelorn gurgled, dropped blade and bauble, reeled, and fell on his face.

Darrigo peered past him at the grim-faced men beyond. "Helm?" he asked, squinting. "Helm Stoneblade?"

"Darrigo! You old lion! Well met!"

A moment later they embraced, keeping their swords out of the way with the ease of old veterans.

"I heard you were an outlaw . . . what've you been doing, Helm?"

"Killing armsmen," the knight said, "but I've found killing magelords more fun, so I'm doing that right now. Care to join me?"

"Don't mind if I do," Darrigo Trumpettower growled. "Thank you-I will. Lead the way."

Helm rolled his eyes. "You n.o.bles," he said in disgust, and strode forward....

The magelords stared at the Old One and then at each other. There was reluctance in their words of agreement, and suspicious looks in plenty were exchanged. These pleasantries were yet incomplete when the tall window at the far end of Ithboltar's vast spell chamber shattered from top to bottom.

Through the opening strode the grand figure of a mage as tall as two men, white-bearded and crowned with fire. He moved purposefully toward them, walking on air and holding high a staff as tall as he was. Its s.h.i.+ning length glowed with pulsing, moving radiances. Every magelord shouted out a spell, as one-and the very air seemed to shatter.

The end of the Old One's chamber vanished, raining dust down into the inner courtyard of Athalgard. Unseen behind them all, Ithboltar's crystal winked into life.

El let the crystal Ta.s.s had taken fade into darkness once more. "Beautifully done, Myr . . . each one wasted a powerful spell."

Myrjala nodded. "We'll not catch them that way again, though-and they're together now, whisked away from their chambers where the knights and Farl's folk could outnumber them."

El shrugged. "We'll just have to do this the hard way, then."

Armsmen clattered up the stairs by the score. Ta.s.s wasn't that good with a crossbow, but it wasn't easy to miss striking something in that river of armored humanity. As they watched, an elf spread his hands in a spell, and the foremost armsmen stumbled, clutched at their eyes, and ran on blindly into the wall. Their fellows running right behind them tripped over the sightless, falling armsmen. Curses arose, and a thief leaned out from his perch high on a stair to slip a dagger into one open helm and bellow, "We're under attack!" Another thief uttered a gurgling scream from somewhere near the head of the stair. A breath later, the entire stairway was a tumult of slas.h.i.+ng blades and screaming men. Farl watched it with a widening grin on his face.

"How can you smile at that?" Ta.s.sabra said, waving down at the men mistakenly killing each other.

"Every one dead is one less guard to chase us, Ta.s.s-men I've itched to strike down for years, and dared not for fear of magelords' seeking magic. And here they are chopping and hacking at each other-they've no one to blame for their deaths but themselves. Let me enjoy it, will you?"

Braer smiled thinly but kept silence. The tall elf felt much the same way, though he didn't like to admit it even to himself. Whatever befell hereafter, they'd got in a few good sword thrusts right through the might of the magelords this night. Nay ... this day, by now....

Braer looked up out the great window into the gray sky of breaking dawn-and stiffened. A warning spell he'd set three days ago had just been triggered, sending its cry into his mind. He stepped back in haste; as his battle comrades turned startled faces his way, he waved at them to keep away from him.

"My own battle begins, I fear," he murmured, and started to grow taller, his body darkening swiftly. Wings sprouted and spread, scales shone silver in the flickering torchlight, and a dragon s.h.i.+fted its bulk experimentally for a breath before bounding up through the window. Gla.s.s and timber flew in all directions, and a long tail switched once as it slid out of the room.

Ta.s.sabra stared openmouthed as those great wings beat once, and the dragon that had been Braer surged up into the sky out of their sight. She turned her head a little to catch the last possible glimpse of him, and then her eyes rolled up in her head, she gave a little sigh, and toppled sideways.

Farl gathered her against him with one long arm. "She never used to do this," he complained to no one in particular. One of the elves-Delsaran was his name, Farl thought-leaned over and stroked her hair tenderly, just once.

Undarl Dragonrider's face was set in anger as Anglathammaroth flew swift and strong across the realm, heading for Athalgard. Something was seriously amiss. Magelords fighting magelords, a rebel mob inside the castle . . . didn't those fools know hated rulers will be attacked by commoners the moment they show weakness? This is what comes of letting ambitious magelings do as they pleased.... If it hadn't been for Ithboltar, Undarl could have kept them all in a tight harness!

The mage royal snarled in frustration as the great black dragon dived down over Hastarl, and then gaped in utter astonishment as the breaking dawn showed him a dragon rising to meet them!