Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [22]
Soon he was riding hard, the crossbows bouncing bruisingly at his back, and the mist of his breath streaming back behind him into the darkening air. Night was coming down fast over the hills. He had to succeed; the lives of the outlaws trapped back at Lawless Castle depended on it.
As he rode, he smiled at a sudden memory: his father's careful lessons on the duty of every man and maid in the kingdom, from farmer to king. If Elthryn had dwelt longer on the duties of king and prince than on those of a farmer or miller, Elminster had thought this only right-the duties were so much grander, the power mightier, the responsibilities heavier than those of all others. He'd not for a moment suspected that he was a prince or would become one when Elthryn died. He recalled clearly his father's words: "A king's first duty is to his subjects. Their lives are in his hands, and he must always look to their brightest, surest future in what he does. All depend on him-and all are lost if he neglects his duties, or governs by whim or wilful heart. Obedience is his due, aye, but he must earn loyalty. Some kings never learn this. And what are princes but young wilful lads learning to be kings?"
"What indeed, Father?" Elminster asked the wind of his passing as he rode hard for the Horn. The wind did not deign to reply.
Three
ALL TOO MUCH DEATH IN THE
SNOWS
If in winter ye walk
When snow is deep
Beware when ye talk-
For afar echoes creep.
Old Sword Coast Snow-Rune
Tyche, at least, had heard his prayers. As Elminster rode down a dusky valley along the clear trail the armsmen had left, he caught sight of them gathered below, building fires-and the trails in the snow made it clear they'd met with and joined another patrol instead of going down to the keep… which was still a good ride away. Night would find them very soon, deep in the hills, and they'd halted to make camp.
"Thankee, Tyche," El told the wind wryly, as he pulled his weary mount to a halt. All his foes were gathered together and would soon halt within his reach.
As with all the gifts of Lady Luck, this one was double-edged. All he had to do was kill the five armsmen who'd fled from Lawless Castle-and all the others they'd met with down there. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were some great mage to send swift death screaming down upon the gathered camp below-or to ride a dragon down to rake, burn, and scatter.
Elminster shivered at that memory of Heldon and touched the Lion Sword where it rode on its thong inside his jerkin. "Prince Elminster is a warrior," he told the wind with grand dignity-and then chuckled. More soberly, he added, "He kills a man to warm up, helps cut up his horse and eat it, and then goes out into a battle and slaughters eight more. As if that's not enough, he's now about to sweep down alone on a score or more ready-armed armsmen. What else could he be but a warrior?"
"A fool, of course," a cold voice answered from very near. Elminster whirled around in his saddle. A dark-robed man was standing watching him-standing on empty air, booted feet well above the unbroken snow.
El's hand stabbed to his belt, found one of the salvaged daggers he'd thrust there, and hurled it. It spun end over end, flashing as it caught the light of the newly kindled campfires below, and plunged straight through the man to bury itself deep in the snows beyond.
Only half the man's mouth smiled. "This is but a spell-image, fool," he said coldly. "You come riding hard, following the trail to our camp-who are you and why come you here?"
Elminster frowned, feigning ignorance as his thoughts raced. "Have I reached Athalantar yet?" He eyed the mage