Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [20]
The quarrel leapt at Elminster, who flung himself desperately over backward. As he fell, his knife met the quarrel with a clang and a spark. The dagger spun wildly away, and the quarrel burned past Elminster, ripping open his chin and thrusting his head around.
El roared in pain and fell on his knees, hearing the crunching of the armsman's boots behind him as the warrior came running. Elminster turned, shaking his head to clear it and growling at the pain. The man was scant paces away, sword raised to slay, when El flung the dagger in his other hand into the man's face.
It clanged harmlessly off the nose guard of the armsman's helm, but the man's swing missed the diving youth, the sword striking the snowy ground and the rocks beneath. The warrior roared and fell heavily on top of Elminster's left hand.
Elminster screamed. Gods, the pain! The man rolled about atop his hand, kicking at the snow to get a grip with his boots. Elminster sobbed, and the world turned green and yellow and swam fuzzily. He grabbed at his belt with his free hand. Nothing there. The man grunted; Elminster felt the hot breath of the armsman turning to face him and bring his blade down. His weight drove the hidden bulk of the Lion Sword, on its thong, bruisingly into Elminster's chest.
Desperate, Elminster tore at the throat of his jerkin. His fingers found the hilt of the sword. Over long nights in his first winter in the hills, he'd sharpened the broken stub of the blade until it had a keen, raw edge and point-but beyond the quillons, the weapon wasn't even as long as his hand. Its puny length saved him now. As the armsman's face glared into his, inches away, and his elbow swept his sword up for a gutting thrust, Elminster thrust the Lion Sword up and into his eye.
"For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!" he hissed-and as the hot rush of blood drenched him, found himself sinking into red, wet darkness…
*****
He was floating somewhere dark and still. Whispers rose and fell around him, half-heard through a slow, rhythmic thudding.… Elminster felt the pain of his hand and an answering ache all around. In his head? Yes, and the white glow was rising and pulsing, now-the one he saw when he gathered his mind. The glow grew, and the pain lessened.
Ah, thus! Elminster pushed with his mind, and the white radiance faded. He felt a little tired, but the pain receded… he pushed again, and again felt weaker, but now the pain was almost gone.
So. He could push pain aside. Could he truly heal himself? Elminster bent his will… and suddenly all his aches and hurts returned, and he could feel cold, hard ground beneath his shoulders, and the wet stickiness of sweat all over. From the place of whispers, he swam up, up, and burst out into the light…
The sky was blue and cloudless overhead. Elminster lay on his back on snowy rocks, stiff, cold, and aching. Gingerly, he rolled to one side and looked around. No sign of anyone or any movement-good, because his head swam and pounded and he had to duck down again to catch his breath. The darkness again rushed up to claim him… and it felt so good, his head so heavy…
*****
A little later, he rolled over. Snow vultures flapped heavily into the air, circled over the ravine, and squalled complaints at him.
The last armsman lay dead beside him, the Lion Sword in his face. Elminster winced at the sight, but put his hand to the blade, turned his head away, and pulled it free. Wiping it in the snow, he squinted at the dimming sky-steel-gray now, with the last light of day ebbing behind full clouds-and got up. He had a task to finish if he wanted to live.
He felt weak and a little numb. Down the ravine in the open space in front of the Wind Cavern, eight or more armsmen and more than twice that many outlaws lay dead, quarrels protruding from most of the still forms. The vultures were circling overhead, and wolves would be here soon. Hopefully they'd find enough to feed on without entering the caves,