Elminster: The Making of a Mage.

By Ed Greenwood.

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 p.r.i.c.kling on the backs of his hands. The Old Mage could be anywhere, on worlds and planes only he and the G.o.ds 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 G.o.ddess 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 glimmered on the long hair of a lone rider from the west, and lengthening 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 l.u.s.ted after her beauty-one at least did, of a certainty. 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 instead 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 somewhere 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 unwelcome.

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 suddenly 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 behind 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 Athalantar. 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 arrows 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 herald'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 puzzlement. 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 splendid ... 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 forester. 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 behind 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 unthinkingly, 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 helplessly 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. Elminster gulped; his mouth was suddenly dry. The man had dismounted 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 feeling 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 rippled 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 gra.s.s, helpless against the driving magic, stumbling in haste, charging down the gra.s.sy slope to where the meadow ended-in a sheer drop into the ravine.

As he churned along through the weeds and tall gra.s.s, 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 terrible 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. Sometimes-please, G.o.ds, 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. Elminster 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.

G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 shoulders 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 sc.r.a.ped over sharp rocks. A terrible fear was rising inside him, almost choking him.

At last he reached the gra.s.sy 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 neighbors, running south down the road, past him. Some were weeping 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 proudest 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 la.s.s 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 answered 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 villager 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 surrounded by an unruly mane of jet-black hair. Elminster, with all his loneliness, seriousness, and homeliness, and with his secret, the mind-powers the G.o.ds gave few folk in Faerun. Perhaps the G.o.ds 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 knowing that hope vain-Elthryn lifted his head to curse the man, speaking the slow, heavy words he'd been taught so long ago.