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"Why, rule Athalantar, of course."

"Now that the throne comes into my reach," Elminster said slowly, "I find myself wanting it less and less."

The arms around him tightened. "That's good," Myrjala said quietly. "I've grown weary waiting for you to grow up."

Elminster looked at her and frowned. "Outgrowing blind vengeance? I suppose… why go through with it all, then?"

Myrjala looked at him steadily in the darkness, her dark eyes large and mysterious. "For Athalantar. For your dead mother and father-and all who lived and laughed in Heldon before the dragon came down on them. For the folk in the taproom of the Unicorn's Horn, and those in Narthil… and for your outlaw comrades who died in the Horn Hills."

Elminster's lip's thinned. "We'll do it," he said with quiet determination. "Athalantar shall be free of magelords. I swear before Mystra: I'll do this or die in the trying."

Myrjala said nothing as she held him, but he could feel her smile.

Fifteen

AND THE PREY IS MAN

In mighty towers they quake with fright

for the man who kills mages is out

tonight.

Bendoglaer Syndrath, Bard of

Barrowhill,

from the ballad Death to All Mages

Year of the Bent Coin

Eleasias was a wet month that year. On the fourth successive stormy night, Myrjala and Elminster were thankful to duck out of the rain into a tavern on a muddy back street in Launtok.

"That's the last of the Athalantan envoys put to flight. Their masters have certainly noticed us by now," Myrjala said with some satisfaction as they settled into a corner booth with their tankards.

"On to the magelords, then," Elminster said, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully. He leaned forward. "Ye've warned me often against charging in with fireballs blazing in both hands… so do we spread a few rumors of plots and unrest, sit back in hiding, and let them kill each other for a while, trying to see who'll sit in the best spell-tower?"

Myrjala shook her head. "While we sat, they'd destroy Athalantar along with each other." She sipped her ale, winced, and gave the tankard a dark look. "Besides, that'd work only if we'd destroyed the most powerful archwizards, the leaders of the magelords… thus far, we've only foiled the buffoons and the most reckless fools."

"What next, then?" Elminster asked, taking a deep drink of ale.

Myrjala arched one shapely eyebrow. "This is your vengeance."

Elminster set down his tankard and licked foam from the beginnings of a mustache. Myrjala looked amused, but her companion was intent on his thoughts.

"I never thought I'd feel this," he said slowly, "but after Ilhundyl and those slave-sorcerers… I've had a bellyful of vengeance." He looked up. "So how should we work it? Attack Athalgard, trying to slay all the magelords we can before they know a foe's come calling?"

Myrjala shrugged and told her tankard, "Some folk get a thrill out of destroying things. With most, the delight fades quickly. The gods don't suffer the others to live all that long-if a mage goes about just hurling spells, he eventually runs into someone else doing the same thing, with just a few more spells up his sleeve."

She lifted her eyes to meet Elminster's. "If you tried a hurl-all-fireballs attack on the magelords, bear in mind how much countryside you'd destroy-and all of it'd be Athalantar, the realm you're fighting for. They won't all obligingly challenge you one after another, each one politely awaiting his turn to die."

Elminster sighed. "Stealth and years in the doing, then." He sipped from his tankard. "So tell me how ye think we should go about this. Ye're the elder of us two; I'll do as ye say."

Myrjala shook her head. "It's past time to think for yourself, Elminster; look at me as your teacher no more, but an ally in your fight."

El looked at her grave expression, nodded slowly, and said, "Ye're right, as always. Well… if we're to avoid huge spell-battles, magelords must be lured into situations where we can fight them alone and they won't be able to call on all their fellows for aid.