Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [139]
"I destroyed the archmage who ruled the Calishar not so very long ago," El said calmly.
"We've heard several tales as to how he met his end-even the magelords have claimed to have worked his destruction, though they say several of them had to work together to do it," said another elf. "With respect, we must see your powers for ourselves."
El did not sigh. "What sort of a test d'ye have in mind?"
"Slay a magelord for us," another elf said firmly, and there was a murmured chorus of agreement.
"Any magelord?"
"One-Taraj, he's called-keeps watch over our forest and amuses himself by taking beast-shape to hunt. He slays for the love of killing, and mauls not only his prey, but any creatures of the forest he meets. He seems to have some protection against our spells and arrows. If you could destroy Taraj, most of the People would feel beholden to you… and you'd gain more aid than the bows and veiling spells of a handful of foresworn."
"Take me to where Taraj hunts, and I will destroy him," El-minster promised. "What does he like to hunt?"
"Men," Braer replied quietly, as he set off down the slope into the forest. Without ceremony the other elves followed. Elminster rolled his eyes once, but kept pace among them, feeling a strange exultation rising in him. The familiar weight of the Lion Sword bumped against his chest, and El's fingers sought it and gripped it almost fiercely. At last-at long last-the scouring of Athalantar had begun…
*****
"Release him," the magelord ordered, swirling the dregs of the wine in the depths of his goblet.
"Sir," the servant said with a bow and hurried away. Taraj watched him go and smiled. He was the magelord who'd come the farthest to rule in this splendid land of forests and grass-girt hills… lovely hunting country. If only Murghom had been like this, he'd never have to endure these accursed winters.
He went to the window to watch the terrified peddler from far Luthkant flee across the courtyard into the brush beyond. Sometimes he hunted his prisoners as if they were stags, felling them with lances hurled from horseback. He scorned armor, but always rode shielded with warding spells. Today though, he felt like a beast run. He'd take the shape of a lion, perhaps, or… yes, a forest cat! 'Panther,' they were called back home.
Taraj set down the empty goblet, threw off his robe, and strode naked into his spell-chamber to study the shape-change spell. It would give the man more time to run.
* * * * *
The spell coiled and burned comfortably in his mind. Taraj felt the same quickening excitement he always did when a hunt was about to begin. He bowed to his reflection in the wall-glass. "Taraj Hurlymm from far Murghom, magelord and cruel man," he introduced himself to an imaginary feasting-company, smirking. His image smirked back, looking just as satisfied as he was. Taraj winked and moved his arms so the corded muscles of his shoulders rippled. He admired them for a moment, then slid on a robe and rapped with his knuckles on a wall-gong. The servant was slow; Taraj told himself to remember to rake her with a claw when he returned, to put a little fear into her.
"See that a feast awaits me at my return," he said, "at moon-rise. And at least four women I've not seen before, to share it."
He waved a hand in dismissal, and watched her bow and hurry away. Well, now… make her this night's fifth consort, and teach her fear that way. Being abed with a man who can change his shape has its own delights-and dangers.
Taraj grinned and strode down the steps to the garden. He liked to begin every hunt here, under the watchful statue of the Beastlord. As usual, he hung his robe over its snarling head and strolled down the many-flowered grassy paths, speaking the spell slowly, savoring the moment when his body would flow, surge, and change. The moment came. Teeth lengthened to fangs, thighs sank and thickened, shoulders shifted powerfully,