Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 1 - The Making of a Mage.pdf - Ed Greenwood - Planetar81

Elminster: The Making of a Mage

By Ed Greenwood

Scanned, proofed and formatted by BW-SciFi

Release date: September, 10 th , 2002

Version 1.0

Format: Rich Text Format

There are only two precious things on earth:

the first is love; the second, a long way behind it,

is intelligence.

Gaston Berger

Life has no meaning but what we give it.

I wish a few more of ye would give it a little.

Elminster of Shadowdale

verba volant, scripta manent

Prelude*

"Of course, Lord Mourngrym," Lhaeo replied, gesturing up the stairs with a ladle that was still dripping jalanth

sauce. "He's in his study. You know the way."

Mourngrym nodded his thanks to Elminster's scribe and took the dusty stairs two at a time, charging urgently up

into the gloom. The Old Mage's instructions had been quite—

He came to a halt, dust swirling around him mockingly. The cozy little room held the usual crammed shelves, worn

carpet, and comfortable chair . . . and Elminster's pipe was floating, ready, above the side table. But of the Old Mage

himself, there was no sign.

Mourngrym shrugged and dashed on up the next set of stairs, to the spell chamber. A glowing circle pulsed alone

on the floor there, cold and white. The small circular room was otherwise empty.

The Lord of Shadowdale hesitated a moment, and then mounted the last flight of stairs. He'd never dared disturb

the Old Mage in his bedchamber before, but...

The door was ajar. Mourngrym peered in cautiously, hand going to his sword hilt out of long habit. Stars twinkled

silently and endlessly in the dark domed ceiling over the circular bed that filled the room—but that resting place hadn't

been slept in since the dust had settled. The room was as empty of life as the others. Unless he was invisible or had

taken on the shape of a book or something of the sort, Elminster was nowhere in his tower.

Mourngrym looked warily all around, hairs prickling on the backs of his hands. The Old Mage could be anywhere,

on worlds and planes only he and the gods knew of. Mourngrym frowned— and then shrugged. After all, what did

anyone in the Realms— besides the Seven Sisters, perhaps—really know about Elminster's plans or his past?

"I wonder," the Lord of Shadowdale mused aloud as he started the long walk back down to Lhaeo, "where

Elminster came from, anyway? Was he ever a young lad? Where . . . ? And what was the world like then?"

It must have been great fun, growing up as a powerful wizard....

Prologue

It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness and

glittering stars across the sky. The day had been cool, and the night promised to be clear and cold. The last rosy

embers of day glim-mered on the long hair of a lone rider from the west, and length-ening shadows crept ahead of her.

The woman looked around at the gathering night as she rode. Her liquid black eyes were large and framed by

arched brows— stern power and keen wits at odds with demure beauty. Whether for the power or the beauty there,

most men did not look past the honey-brown tresses curling around her pert white face, and even queens lusted after

her beauty—one at least did, of a cer-tainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride, only sadness. In the

spring, wildfires had raged across all these lands, leaving behind legions of charred and leafless spars in-stead of the

lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.

As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled some-where away to the north. The call was answered from

near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of the hardened knights who

dared ride this road only in large, well-armed patrols—and their wary surprise would not have ended there. The lady

rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her, time and again flapping around her hips and hampering her sword arm.

Only a fool would allow such a thing—but this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road without even a sword at her hip. A

patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress and reached for their blades accordingly.

They'd not have been wrong.

She was Myrjala 'Darkeyes,' as the silvern sigil on her cloak proclaimed. Myrjala was feared for her wild ways as

much as for the might of her magic, but though all folk feared her, many farmers and townsfolk loved her. Proud lords

in castles did not; she'd been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a vengeful whirlwind,

leaving blazing bodies in dark warning to others. In some places she was most unwel-come.

As night's full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, twisted in her saddle, and did off her cloak. She

spoke a single soft word, and the cloth twisted in her hands, changing from its usual dark green to a russet hue. The

silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined golden trumpets.

The transformation did not end with the cloak. Myrjala's long curls darkened and shrank about her

shoulders—shoulders sud-denly alive and broadening with roiling humps of muscle. The hands that donned the cloak

again had become hairy and stubby fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the pack be-hind the saddle

and belted it on. Thus armed, the man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly shaped herald badge could be

clearly seen, listened to the wolf howl again—closer now—and calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one last

hill. Ahead lay a castle where a spy dined this night—a spy for the evil wizards bent on seizing the Stag Throne of

Athalan-tar. That realm lay not far off to the east. The man in the saddle stroked his elegant beard and spurred his

horse onward. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with ar-rows and ready blades, a lord

herald was always welcome. Yet magic was the best blade against a wizard's spy.

The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the her-ald's horse clottered over the wooden drawbridge. The

badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by the gate guards. A bell

tolled once within, and the knight of the gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast.

"Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace."

The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.

" 'Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald; ye must know hunger," the knight added less formally, helping him

down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps, awkward with saddle stiffness, and smiled thinly.

Startling dark eyes rose to meet those of the knight. "Oh, I've come much farther than that," the herald said softly,

nodded a wordless farewell, and strode away into the castle. He walked like a man who knew his way—and

welcome—well.

The knight watched him go, face expressionless in puzzle-ment. An armsman nearby leaned close and murmured,

"No spurs ... and no esquires or armsmen. What manner of herald is this?"

The knight of the gate shrugged. "If he lost them on the road or there's some other tale of interest, we'll know it

soon enough. See to his horse." He turned, then stiffened in fresh surprise. The herald's horse was standing near and

watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. It nodded and took a half step to bring its reins

smoothly to the armsman's hand. The men exchanged wary glances before the armsman led it away.

The knight watched them for a moment before shrugging and striding back to the mouth of the gate. There'd be

much talk on watch later, whatever befell. Out in the night nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the horses snorted and

stamped nervously.

Then a window in the castle above flickered with sudden light— magical light from a battle spell, and the battle

was joined. There was a terrific commotion within, scattering plates and overturned tables, shrieks of serving maids

and roars of flame. Next moment, these sounds were joined by the shouts of the knights in the courtyard below.

That had been no herald, and from the sound and smell of it, others within the castle were not what they seemed,

either. The knight gritted his teeth and clenched his sword, starting for the keep. If Morlin fell to these wicked

spell-slingers, would the Stag King fall next? And if all Athalantar fell, there would be years upon years of sorcerous

tyranny. Aye, there would be ruin and misery ahead.... And who could ever rise to oppose these mage-lords?

Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 1 - The Making of a Mage.pdf

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