Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [144]
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 gods' 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.