Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [32]
"I'll slay ye, lad, if ye don't stop playing the fool," Helm growled, taking a step toward him.
"That's more or less what the magelord said to me," Elminster remarked mildly, "and look ye what befell him."
Helplessly, Helm started to laugh, and that set Broarn and the other outlaws off into roars of mirth while Elminster assumed an air of innocence over his bowl and ladled several spoonfuls into his mouth, fearing chances to do so later would be few.
"All right, lad," Broarn managed when he had breath enough, "give. Where to hide?"
"Among a lot of folk that wizards dare not slay or upset too many of, or they'll have no realm left. In Hastarl itself," Elminster said.
Helm-and alot of the outlaw knights behind him-stared at the youth with open mouths, aghast.
"But ye'll attack the first mage ye see when ye step inside the gates, and we'll all perish right then!" the battered knight protested.
Elminster shook his head. "Nay," he said. "Watching sheep taught me patience… and hunting wizards is teaching me guile."
"Ye're crazed," one of the other outlaws muttered.
"Aye," another agreed.
"Wait a bit," still another protested. "The more I think on it, the better it seems."
"Ye want death at yer elbow every day, whene'er ye go out?"
"I've got that now … an' if I go to Hastarl like the lad says, I might get me a warm house to sleep in o' winters."
Then they were all talking, arguing earnestly, until Broarn hissed, "You will be quiet!" to knight after knight, waving his axe under their noses for emphasis. When he had silence, the fat innkeeper said, "If you make that sort of noise, I'll have arms-men up from their beds and in here to see what fun they're missing. Anyone want that?"
He let silence stretch for a moment or two, and then went on quietly, "Some of you will want to remain in the hills or flee to other lands, but some may want to go with the lad here to Hastarl. Whatever you decide, do it well back in the woods; I want all of you away from here before dawn. Helm, bring Mauri and the home-stuffs she's got in by the back door. She stays here. Don't let anyone help you who can't move quietly. Now out, all of you-and may the luck of the gods cloak you and keep you!"
*****
The meeting was breaking up; the time to strike was now. This deed would surely win him a rank among the magelords! No more apprenticeship to fat old Harskur… and real power at last!
Saphardin Olen rose from the cold hillside, letting his eavesdropping spell fade away. He raised the wands in his hands, aiming at the hatch-best to strike now, before any of them left the place.
"Die, fools!" he said with a smile, and then pitched forward like a felled tree as a stone the size of a war helm smashed into the back of his head.
As the blood-spattered rock settled smoothly into the snow, the two fallen wands rose by themselves and glided in a gentle arc through the trees to the next knoll, where a tall, lean woman stood watching them come with large, dark eyes.
Her face was bone white, and her hair a curling honey-brown. At one glance, a farmer would have bowed to her as a lady. She put out a hand to take the wands as they glided up to her, and her dark green cloak swirled about her, as if moved by unseen hands. Silvern threads on its shoulders were worked in a mage-sigil of linked circles.
The sorceress watched the outlaws stride into the woods, and waved a hand. Her body faded, rippled, and became just another of the shifting shadows here in the winter-stripped trees- cloaked and unseen, save for her large, liquid black eyes.
They blinked once as they watched Elminster hug Helm in farewell before heading south, alone.
"The soul is strong in you, Prince of Athalantar," their owner said quietly. "Live, then, and let us see what you can do."