Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [28]
"They are the ones who have to die," he whispered to himself, "for Athalantar to live."
Helm nodded. "Nice phrase, that: 'They must die, for Athalantar to live!' A good battle-cry; think I'll use it."
Elminster smiled. "Just be sure the folk hearing it know who the 'they' is."
Helm gave back a twisted smile. "That's a problem many have had, down the years."
* * * * *
The fox that had followed him for the last few miles took a final look at Elminster, its dark eyes glistening, and then scampered away through frozen ferns. El listened to its retreat, wondering if the fox were a magelord spy, but somehow knowing it was not. When the creature was long gone, he moved on as quietly as he could through the trees, around the back of the inn paddock.
Seek the feed hatch by the haystack, Helm had said, and there was the hay, against the back wall of the stables. The structure kept out most of the snow by means of a long sagging roof on pillars that had only a nodding acquaintance with the word "straight." Just as Helm had described it: the back way into Woodsedge Inn.
Elminster moved closer, hoping there were no dogs awake to sound an alarm. None yet. Elminster silently thanked the gods as he crept over the low gate on the inn side of the paddock, slipped around the haystack, and found the hatch. Only its own weight held it shut; he didn't even have to put down his sword to open it and climb in.
When he'd drawn the hatch closed behind him, the stable was very still, and warmer than the night outside. A horse shifted and kicked idly against the side of its stall. Elminster studied the stable and noted one stall filled with shovels, rakes, buckets, and hanging coils of lead-rein, another with straw. Sheathing his blade and taking down a long-tined fork, El probed carefully into it, but there was nothing solid beneath to wake or snarl, so he lifted the wooden pin and went in.
It was the work of but a few breaths to burrow into the straw. He settled himself so he was hidden from view and shielded against the cold by a thick blanket of hay. Relaxing, Elminster called on his will to take himself down to the floating place of whispers… to sink down amid white radiance, and sleep…
*****
Straw rustled and scratched his hands as he lurched up out of it. Elminster's eyes flew open. He was rising up through the straw-flying! His head struck a beam overhead, hard.
"My apologies, Prince," came a cold, familiar voice. "I fear I've wakened you." Elminster felt himself being turned in the air to hang in emptiness facing the wizard, who stood in the corridor between the stalls, smiling darkly. The blue glow of magic pulsed brightly around the man's hands and encircled a pendant at his throat.
Anger rose in Elminster as he tried to grab the Lion Sword but found his arms wouldn't move. He was at the mercy of this magelord! He tried to speak and found he could. "Who are ye?" he asked slowly.
The mage sketched an elaborate bow and said pleasantly, "Caladar Thearyn, at your service." Elminster felt himself being pulled forward in the air and at the same time saw a long-tined pitchfork rising from where it leaned against the side of the stall and turning one of its sharp points toward his left eye. Slowly, lazily, it drifted nearer.
Elminster stared past it at the wizard, fighting down an urge to swallow. "There is little of fairness in thy fighting, mage," he said coldly.
The wizard laughed. "How old are you, Prince-sixteen winters? And you still expect to find this world a fair place? Well, you are a dolt." He sneered. "You fancy yourself a warrior and fight with sharpened pieces of metal… well, then: I am a mage, and do my fighting with spells. Where's the unfairness in that?"
The blue radiance of magic began to pulse strongly about the magelord's hands, and the fork drifted closer. Elminster's throat was unbearably dry now; he swallowed despite himself.
The wizard laughed. "Not so brave now, are we? Tell me, Prince of Athalantar, how much are you willing to do for me, to