The archer looked at Braer, nodded, and then said to Elminster, "The People will fight at your side for Athalantar, if you hold to the pledge you made to us when we swore aid to you."

"I will," Elminster said, and extended his hand.

After a long moment, Ruvaen took it, and they clasped forearms firmly, as one warrior to another. Around them, the gathered elves of the High Forest shouted in exultation-the loudest sound of celebration any elf of Athalantar had made in many a year.

Old, wise eyes watched the elves and humans dwindle into the depths of the crystal, and then slowly fade. What to do?

Aye, what? The lad was just one more young spell weaver with glory in his eyes, but the woman. .. . He'd not seen spell-mastery like that since . . . his eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged.

There was no time for idle memories. There never is.

He had to warn everyone, and then s-but no. No. Let these two destroy Seldinor first.

Sixteen.

WHEN MAGES GO TO WAR.

A star rushes past, to crash upon the sh.o.r.e But the first of many many more Stoke the fire and stout bar the door For this is the night mages go to war.

Angarn Dunharp from the ballad When Mages Go to War Year of the Sword and Stars Leaves rustled. At that slightest of sounds, Helm whirled, hand going to hilt. Out from behind the tree stepped the silent elven warrior he'd come to know as Ruvaen, the gray cloak that was so hard to see swirling around him. There was another elf with him. Their still faces somehow betrayed a mood darker than usual.

"What news?" Helm asked simply. None of the elves or the knights were wont to waste words.

Ruvaen held out something that filled his hand-something clear and smooth-sided and colorless, like a fist-sized diamond. A few clumps of moss clung to it. Helm looked down at it and raised his brows in an unspoken question.

"A scrying crystal. Used by human wizards," Ruvaen said flatly.

"The magelords," Helm said grimly. "Where did ye find this?"

"In a dell, not far from here," said the other elf, pointing off into the forest gloom.

"One of your men hid it under moss," Ruvaen added. "When he wasn't using it."

Helm Stoneblade let out his breath in a long sigh. "So they may know all our plans and be laughing at us now."

The two elves did not need to answer. Ruvaen put the crystal gently into Helm's callused hand, touched his shoulder, and said, "We'll wait above, in the trees ... should you need us."

Helm nodded, looking down at the crystal in his hand. Then he lifted his head to stare into the forest. Who most often went off into the woods to relieve himself in that direction?

His battered face changed, hardening. Helm thrust the crystal into the breast of his tunic, turned, and made a short barking sound. One of his men, cutting up a deer some distance away, looked up. Their eyes met through the trees, and Helm nodded. The man turned and barked in his turn.

Soon they were all gathered around: the score or so knights he'd brought with him into the depths of the High Forest. All who still dared swing a blade in defiance of the magelords, clinging to the thin shield of elven mystery and providing the Fair Folk a front line of blades and bows to keep the woodcutter's axes from hewing out a new and larger Athalantar unopposed.

The magic of the elves cloaked them from the wizards who ruled Athalantar, but was ill suited to spell-battle . . . beyond quenching fires and hiding Folk, that is. The threat of greater elven spells had kept the magelords largely at bay, thus far, at least. Lending Helm time to plan a rising that might-just might, with the G.o.ds' own luck-shatter this rule of wizards, and give him back the carefree Athalantar he'd fought for and loved, so long ago. So they'd fought, by night and the quick blade, and vanished back into the trees or perished under spell-torment, while the long years dragged on and Helm became ever more desperate ... as the Athalantar of his youth slowly faded away.

The hard winters and the dead friends had hardened him and taught him patience. This crystal, now, changed things. If the magelords knew their numbers, names, schemes, and camps, they'd have to strike swiftly, now, or not at all... to have any chance at anything more than an unmarked grave and feeding the wolves.

He waited, silent, stone-faced, until the most restless of his men-Anauviir, of course-spoke. "Aye, Helm, what is it?"

Wordlessly, Helm turned to Halidar, holding out the scrying crystal. Halidar's face went white. He sprang to his feet, whirling to flee-and then gasped and sagged slowly back against Helm. The old knight stood unmoving as the traitor slid slowly down his chest to tumble onto the forest floor. Anauviir's dagger stood out of Halidar's throat, just beneath his contorted mouth. Helm bent to pull it out without a word, wiped it clean, and handed it back to its owner. Halidar had always been quick . . . and Anauviir had always been swifter. Helm held up the crystal for them all to see.

"The magelords have been watching over us," he said flatly. "Mayhap for years." Faces were pale all around him now. "Ruvaen," Helm asked, holding the crystal up, "have ye any use for this?"

Some of his men looked up, involuntarily, though by now they all knew they'd see nothing but leaves and branches, as a quiet, musical voice replied, "Properly used, it can burn out one magelord's mind."

There was an approving murmur, and Helm tossed the crystal straight up, into the branches overhead. It did not come down.

Hand still raised, Helm looked around at his men. Dirty, dark-eyed, and armed like the sort of mercenary bodyguards short, fat men hire to give them grandeur. They looked back at him, haggard and grim. Helm loved them all. If he had another forty blades such as these, he could carve himself out a new Athalantar, magelords or no magelords. But he did not. Forty blades too few, he thought, not for the first time. Nay-forty-one, now...

"Stand easy, knights," Ruvaen's lilting voice came unexpectedly from the trees above them. "A man approaches who would speak with you. He means no harm."

Helm looked up, startled. The elves never suffered other humans to venture this far into the woods.... And then something faded into view behind a nearby tree. Anauviir saw it even as Helm did and hissed warningly as he raised his blade. Then the shadowy figure stepped forward and mists of magic fell away from it.

The old knight's jaw dropped.

"Well met, Helm," said a voice he'd never thought to hear again.

Out of sight for so long . . . surely the lad had died at the hand of some magelord or other ... but no.... Helm swallowed, lurched, and then went to one knee, proffering his sword as he did so. There were mutters of amazement from his men.

"Who's this, Helm?" Anauviir asked sharply, blade up, peering at the thin, hawk-nosed newcomer. Only a wizard or an upperpriest could step out of empty air like that.

"Rise, Helm," Elminster said quietly, putting a hand on the old knight's forearm.

The old knight got up, turned to his men, and said, "Kneel if you be a true knight of Athalantar ... for this is Elminster son of Elthryn, the last free prince of the realm!"

"A magelord?" someone asked doubtfully.

"No," Elminster said quietly. "A wizard who needs your help to destroy the magelords."

They stared at him unmoving-until, one by one, they caught Helm's furious glare, and went to their knees.

Elminster waited until the last knee-Anauviir's-touched the leaf-strewn ground, and then said, "Rise, all of ye. I am prince of nothing at the moment, and I need allies, not courtiers. I've learned magic enough to defeat any magelord, I believe-but I know that when any magelord gets into trouble, he'll call on another . .. and in a breath or two I'll have forty or more of them on my hands."

There were mirthless chuckles, and the knights unconsciously moved forward. Helm saw it in their faces and felt it himself: for the first time in years, real hope.

"Forty magelords is too many for me," Elminster went on, "and they command far too many armsmen for my liking. The elves have agreed to fight with me in the days ahead, to cleanse this land of the magelords forever-and I hope to find other allies in Hastarl."

"Hastarl?" Anauviir barked, startled.

"Aye ... before this tenday is out, I plan to attack Athalgard. All I'm lacking is a few good blades." He looked around at the scarred, unshaven warriors. "Are ye with me?"

One of the knights raised hard eyes to meet his. "How do we know this isn't a trap? Or if it isn't, that your spells are strong enough not to fail once we're in that castle, with no way out?"

"I held that same view," Ruvaen's voice came to them from overhead, "and demanded that this man prove himself. He's slain two magelords so far this day-and another mage works with him. Have no fear of their magic failing."

"An' look you," Helm added roughly, "I've known the prince since the day the mage royal's dragon slew his parents, an' he vowed to me-a boy an' all, mind-that he'd see the magelords all dead someday."

"The time has come," Elminster said in a voice of iron. "Can I depend on the last knights of Athalantar?"

There were murmurs and shufflings. "If I may," Anauviir said uneasily, "one question . . . how can you protect us against the spells of the magelords? I'd welcome a chance to hew down a few magelings and armsmen-but how'll any of us ever get close enough to have that chance?"

"The elves will go to war beside you," Ruvaen's voice came again. "Our magic will hide or shield you whenever we can, so you can stand blade-to-blade against your foes at last." There were rumbles of approval at this, but Helm stepped forward and raised his hand for silence.

"I've led you, but in this every man must choose freely... . Death is all too likely, whatever grand words we toss back and forth here." The old knight spat thoughtfully into the leaves at his feet, and added, "Yet think you: death is coming for us if we say no and go on cowering in the forest. The magelords're wearing us down, man by man . . . Rindol, Thanask; you know all of us who've fallen .. . and not a tenday pa.s.ses that the armsmen aren't seeking us in every cave and thicket we run to. In a summer, or two at most, they'll have hunted down us all. Our lives are lost anyway-why not spend them to forge a blade that might actually take a magelord or two down with us?"

There were many nodding heads and raised blades among the knights, and Helm turned to Elminster with a grin that held no mirth at all.

"Command us, Prince," he said.

El looked around at them all. "Are you with me?" he asked simply. There were nods, and muttered "Ayes."

Elminster leaned forward and said, "I need ye all to go to Hastarl-in small groups or pairs, not all together where ye may attract notice or be all slain together by a vigilant mage-lord. Just outside the wall, upriver, is a pit where they burn bodies and refuse; traders often camp near it. Gather there before a tenday's out and seek me or a man who gives his name to you as Farl. Dress as peddlers or traders; the elves have mint wine for you to carry as wares. . . ." El grinned at them and added dryly, "Try not to drink it all before ye get to Hastarl."

There were real laughs this time and eagerness in their eyes.

"There's a supply train bound for the eastern fortresses just leaving the fort at Heldon," Helm said excitedly. "We were debating whether to risk striking at it... it'll gain us clothes an' mounts an' pack beasts an' wagons!"

"Good!" Elminster said, knowing he couldn't hold them back now if he wanted to. A hunger for battle was alight in their eyes; a flame he'd lit that would burn now until they-or the mage-lords-were all dead. There were shouts of eager approval. Helm collected the gazes of all the knights with his own eyes, turning as he drew his old sword and thrust it aloft.

"For Athalantar, and freedom!" he cried, voice ringing through the trees. Twenty blades flashed in reply as they echoed his words in a ragged chorus. And then they were gone, running hard south through the trees with their drawn swords flashing in their hands, Helm at their head.

"My thanks, Ruvaen," Elminster said to the leaves overhead. "Watch over them on their way south, won't ye?"

"Of course," the musical voice replied. "This is a battle no elf or man loyal to Athalantar should miss . . . and we must keep sharp watch in case there are other traitors among the knights."

"Aye," Elminster said soberly. "I hadn't thought of that. Well said. I go." He wove a brief gesture with one hand and vanished.

The two elves descended from the tree to make sure one of the knights' cooking-fires was truly out. Ruvaen looked south, shook his head, and rose from the last drifting tendrils of smoke.

"Hasty folk," the other elf said, shaking his own head. "No good ever comes of hot haste."

"No good," Ruvaen agreed. "Yet they'll rule this world before our day is done, with recklessness and neverending numbers."

"What will the Realms look like then, I wonder?" the other elf replied darkly, looking south through the trees where the men had gone.

Eight days later, the golden sun of evening saw two crows alight in a stunted tree just inside the walls of Hastarl. The branches danced under the weight of the birds for a moment- and then were suddenly bare. Two spiders scuttled down the scarred and fissured tree trunk, and into cracks in the wall of a certain inn.

The winecellar beneath the streets was always deserted at highsun-which was a good thing, for the two spiders crawled out into a musty corner, moved a careful distance apart ... and suddenly two short, stout, pox-scarred women of elder years stood facing each other. They surveyed each other's tousled white hair, rotting clothing, and sagging, rotund bodies-and in unison reached to scratch themselves.

"My, but ye look beautiful, my dear," Elminster quavered sardonically.

Myrjala pinched his cheek and cackled, "Oh, you say the sweetest things, la.s.s!"

Together they waddled through the cellars, seeking the stairs up into the stables.

Seldinor Stormcloak sat in his study, thick tomes on shelves all around him, and frowned. For two days now he'd been trying to magically graft the cracked, severed lips of a human female- all that was left of the last wench he'd seized for his pleasure-onto the unfinished golem standing before him. He could make them knit with the purple-gray, sagging flesh around the hole wherein he'd set the teeth, yes. ... To make them move again, as they should and not of themselves, though, was proving a problem. Why now, after so many successful golems? What had cursed this one?

He sighed, swung his legs down from the desk, and sprang to his feet. If he left the fleshcreep spell hanging and brought it down as he sent lightnings through the thing . . . well, now. He raised his hands and began to speak the complicated syllables with the swift sureness of long practice.

Glowing light flashed, and he leaned forward eagerly to watch the lips bind themselves to the raw, knotted flesh of the faceless head. They trembled. Seldinor smiled tightly, remembering the last time he'd seen them do that... she'd pleaded for her life....

He brought down his most special spell of all-the one that mated the golem with the intellect of a limbless familiar he'd prepared last night. Hanging in its cage, it stared at him in helpless, mute horror for an instant before the spell took hold and the lights in its eyes went out. Now if things were right at last....

The lips moved on the otherwise blank face, shaped a smile that Seldinor matched delightedly, and breathed the word, "Master!"

Seldinor stood before it triumphantly. "Yes? Do you know me?"

"Well enough," was the breathy, whistling reply. "Well enough." And the arms of the golem came up with frightening speed to grasp his throat. Strangling for air, hands frantically shaping spells out of the air, Seldinor had time for one last horrified glimpse of a magical eye appearing on the blank face of the golem and winking at him, before the golem snapped his neck like a twig-and then, unleashing its awful strength for a moment, tore the wizard's head from his shoulders in a b.l.o.o.d.y rain of death....

Old, wise eyes watched Seldinor's head sail across his study. The lips of their owner thinned in a smile of satisfaction. He pa.s.sed a hand of dismissal over his scrying crystal and walked away. It was time to prepare against this threat to them all, now that his hated foe was gone, and in such a fitting manner, too....

He chuckled, whispered a word that kept guardian lightnings at bay, and grasped the k.n.o.b atop a ma.s.sive wooden stair. It swung open at his touch, and from the hollow within he drew two wands, slid them up his sleeves into the sheaths sewn into his undertunic, and then drew out a small, folded sc.r.a.p of cloth. Carefully he unfolded it and lowered it onto his head: a skullcap set with many tiny gems. He went back to stand over the crystal, closed his eyes, and gathered his will. Tiny motes of light began to sparkle and pulse in the web of jewels.

Lights played back and forth among the gems as the old man mouthed silent words and traced unseen sigils ... and the skullcap slowly faded into invisibility. When it was entirely gone, he opened his eyes. The pupils had become a flat, brightly glowing red.

Staring unseeing into the distance, the old man spoke into the crystal. "Undarl. Ildryn. Malanthor. Alarashan. Briost. Chantlarn."

Each name brought an image into the air above his head. Looking up, he saw six mages approach their own crystals and lay hands on them. They were his, now. He smiled, slowly and coldly, as the magic of his crown reached out to grip their wills.

"Speak, Ithboltar," one wizard said abruptly.

"What befalls, Old One?" another asked, more respectfully.

"Colleagues," he began quietly, and then added, "students." It never hurt to remind them. "We are endangered by two stranger-mages." From his mind rose images of the young, hawk-nosed one and the tall, slim woman with the dark eyes.

"Two? A boy and a woman? Old One, have you plunged asudden into your dotage?" Chantlarn asked scornfully.

"Ask yourself, wise young mage," Ithboltar said, his words mild and precise, "where Seldinor is now? Or Taraj? Or Kadeln? And then think again."

"Who are these two?" another magelord asked curtly.

"Rivals from Calimshan, perhaps, or students of Those Who Fled from Netheril and flew far to the south... though I've seen the woman a time or two before, riding the lands west of here."

"I've seen the boy," Briost said suddenly, "in Narthil. .. and thought him destroyed."