Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [115]
"Lady?"
"If I am to battle magelords and their armsmen, face to face and spell to spell," El said softly, frowning, "I must become a mage in truth."
"You're not a sorceress?"
Elmara shook her head. "Not yet." Perhaps never, she thought suddenly, if I can't find a wizard willing to train me… and where in the world could she find one to trust? Not in Athalantar, where every sorcerer was a magelord… nor in the Calishar. There must be wizards in the other lands around, aye, but where to start looking?
Wh-Braer. Of course. Go to the High Forest and ask her teacher. Whatever he said, it would be an answer she could trust. "I must leave," El said, scrambling to her feet.
The world wavered and swam around her, and she swayed, but one of the men of Narthil put a steadying hand on her shoulder, and she stayed upright. "The magelords can find me with their spells," El said urgently. "Every moment I stay here, I endanger ye all." She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, reaching into the mists to uncoil another flame.
Asmartha drew back a pace as Elmara stiffened, and glowing white light emanated from her. Then it faded, and the innkeeper saw that the young, hawk-nosed woman stood at ease despite her blood-drenched clothing and the pale, drawn look on her face.
"My pack," she murmured, and turned back toward the inn. The innkeeper stepped hastily to her side to guard against her falling, but El smiled and said reassuringly, "I'm fine now… and happier than I've been in some time. Mystra smiles on me."
"That I can well believe," the stout woman said, as they went into the Rest. The door banged behind them.
*****
Elmara walked off as she had come, alone, her pack on her back, heading northeast over the rolling fields. The innkeeper watched her march out of sight, hoping no ill would befall her. Once Asmartha had dreamed of a life of adventure, seeing all the fabled sights of Faerun and befriending elves… and there went a lass who'd done just that.
The innkeeper smiled at the crest of a far-off hill as the tiny dark figure of her guest disappeared over it. She shook her head. Perhaps the gods would smile enough on the reckless maid to keep her alive through her fight against the mighty magelords, and she'd come back to Narthil one day with time enough to spare to tell a fat and aging innkeeper where she'd gone and what she'd seen… but more likely that would never happen.
Asmartha sighed, wiped her hands absently on her apron, and went back into the Rest. She'd best stir some of the men to drag those bodies away, or the whole street'd stink by nightfall, and beasts'd come down into Narthil to feed.
*****
And so, a grumbling goodman of Narthil found himself bending over the dead prince. He reached out to take the warrior's sword for his own-and then hissed in fear, stumbling backward. The sword shivered, moving by itself. The runes on the steel pulsed and rippled with sudden light. Then the blade rose from the ground as if taken up by unseen hands, hung for a moment in front of the terrified townsman's eyes, and flew away, sliding slow and smoothly through the air, point-first and straight, like an arrow shot from a bow. Northeast it went, toward the grazing hills.
The man watched it go, swallowed, and muttered a prayer to Tempus, Lord of Battles. What were things coming to, when even swords held magic? And in the end, what good had that fancy blade done this carrion at his feet? Nay, magic wasn't something to be trusted, ever. The townsman looked down. The dead warrior stared unseeing at the sun. The townsman shook his head, spat on his hands, and took hold of the Athalantan's feet. Hmm… the blade might be gone-but those boots, now?
Unseen, the enchanted blade crested a certain hill and flew on, northeast. A spell from afar was bidding it rejoin the being whose blood it had last spilled, a young sorceress hitherto unknown to the magelords. A woman who defied armsmen, heralds,