Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [3]
"Dragon at the gate," Elminster whispered the oath unthinkingly, as that gigantic head tilted a little, and he found himself gazing full into the old, wise, and cruel eyes of the great wyrm.
Deep they were, and unblinking; pools of dark evil into which he plunged, sinking, sinking…
The dragon's claws bit deeply into the rock pile with a shriek of riven stone and a spray of sparks. It reared up twice as high as the tallest tower in the village, and those great wings flapped once. In their deafening thunderclap Elminster was flung helplessly back and away, head over heels down the slope as sheep tumbled and bleated their terror around him. He landed hard, rolling painfully on one shoulder. He should run, should-
"Swords!" He spat the strongest oath he knew as he felt his frantic run being dragged to a halt by something unseen. A trembling, quivering boiling arose in his veins-magic! He felt himself turning, being pulled slowly around to face the dragon. Elminster had always hoped to see magic at work up close, but instead of the wild excitement he'd expected, El found he didn't like the feel of magic at all. Anger and fear awoke in him as his head was forced up. No, did not like it at all.
The dragon had folded its wings, and now sat atop the rock pile like a vulture-a vulture as tall as a keep, with a long tail that curled half around the western slope of the meadow. Elminster gulped; his mouth was suddenly dry. The man had dismounted and stood on a sloping rock beside the dragon, an imperious hand raised to point at Elminster.
Elminster felt his gaze dragged-that horrible, helpless feeling in his body again, the cruel control of another's will moving his own limbs-to meet the man's eyes. Looking into the eyes of the dragon had been terrible but somehow splendid. This was worse. These eyes were cold and promised pain and death… perhaps more. El tasted the cold tang of rising fear.
There was cruel amusement in the man's almond eyes. El forced himself to look a little down and aside, and saw the dusky skin around those deadly eyes, and coppery curls, and a winking pendant on the man's hairless breast. Under it were markings on the man's skin, half-hidden by his robe of darkest green. He wore rings, too, of gold and some shining blue metal, and soft boots finer than any El had ever seen. The faint blue glow of magic-something Father had said only Elminster could see, and must never speak of-clung to the pendant, the rings, the robes, and the markings on the man's breast, as well as to what looked like the ends of smoothed wooden sticks, protruding from high slits on the outside of the man's boots. That rare glow rippled more brightly around the man's outstretched arm… but Elminster didn't need any other secret sign to know that this was a wizard.
"What is the name of the village below?" The question was cold, quick.
"Heldon." The name left Elminster's lips before he could think. He felt spittle flooding his mouth, and with it a hint of blood.
"Is its lord there now?"
Elminster struggled, but found himself saying, "A-Aye."
The wizard's eyes narrowed. "Name him." He raised his hand, and the blue glow flared brighter.
Elminster felt a sudden eagerness to tell this rude stranger everything-everything. Cold fear coiled inside him. "Elthryn, Lord." He felt his lips trembling.
"Describe him."
"He's tall, Lord, and slim. He smiles often, and always has a kind w-"
"What hue is his hair?" the wizard snapped.
"B-Brown, Lord, with gray at the sides and in his beard. He's-"
The wizard made a sharp gesture, and Elminster felt his limbs moving by themselves. He tried to fight against them, whimpering, but already he was wheeling about and running. He pounded hard through the grass, helpless against the driving magic, stumbling in haste, charging down the grassy slope to where the meadow ended-in a sheer drop into the ravine.
As he churned along through the weeds and tall grass, El clung to a small victory; at least