Elminster's Daughter

The Red Wizard smiled. "How thoughtful—but no, thank you. Not this time. You've been very helpful and useful, Rauthur—and I trust shall remain so." He clapped the War Wizard warmly on the shoulder and added, "For of course, to betray me is ... to die."

With that last whispered word ringing in Huldyl Rauthur's ears, the War Wizard found himself suddenly alone, staring at—the empty passage.

Mother Mystra, he's gone right through the wards! The wards it took Vangerdahast days of fighting just to modify!

Huldyl Rauthur shivered all over, like a wet dog, swallowed with an effort, and hurried back to the garden room, to restore the silence shield.

So this is what true fear feels like—and everything up to now has been mere . . . apprehension.

Gods, deliver me.

Sixteen

A BUSY DAY FOR WAR WIZARDS

Then my spell burst among them, and—behold!—there were flamebroiled WarWizards all over the place.

Morthrym of Selgaunt

Sixty Summers of Spellhurling:

My Career As A Mighty Wizard

Year of the Turret

The forest rocked again, and a flaming branch toppled into the trail, bounced once, and rolled over. Malakar Surth strode up to it, smiling confidently, and looked down at a curved shard of war-helm that was slowly spi

"This," he said, hefting the next gewgaw and admiring its gleam, "is—transcendent. Simply transcendent."

"Easy, too," Aumun Bezrar agreed from right behind him. "That's over a dozen now, hey?"

Surth looked up at the leaf-hidden heavens. "Fourteen," he said icily. "No thanks to you."

"Hey, now, b'gads! I blasted five of 'em!"

"Could you have done it had I not shown you how to vanquish these . . . these enchanted suits of armor? Bah, don't bother to parley and cavil—we must go forward."

"Uh, aye. Forward." Bezrar frowned as he watched Surth stride on down the trail into what seemed to be even deeper, gloomier stands of trees. Shadowtops and duskwoods, as old as realms and as large as cottages, soaring up into unseen gloom with moss-cloaked vines hanging here and there like gigantic spiderwebs . . .

"Uh, Surth, uh, just one thing: why?"

The tall, thin dealer in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs froze for a moment then said without turning, "I know not. We'll find out when we get there."

He walked on, and Bezrar hastily shuffled after him, wheezing along for a goodly way before he stopped and asked, "Uh, Mai?"

Surth rounded on him with a snarl. "Don't call me that!"

"Uh ... ah, aye, of course, Mai. I—just one more thing."

"What?" Surth snapped icily, hefting his shining oval device in his hand as if he meant to hurl it at his longtime partner.

Bezrar held up his own gewgaw. "Uh . . . ah . . what happens to us when we run out of these things?"

Malakar Surth opened his mouth angrily—but when he saw Bezrar's stare go fearful and rise up over his shoulder, he shut it again and wheeled around.

Three helmed horrors were floating in menacing unison through the trees ahead, converging on him. They bore huge battleaxes rather than swords this time, and they were holding them raised and ready to strike.

"Tymora and Mystra both, be with us now!" he snarled, and flung a gewgaw desperately. Malakar Surth didn't know what would happen to one of the shiny ovals if he ever missed with one of his throws—and as he saw more armored forms drifting out of the treegloom, he told both goddesses fervently that he never wanted to find out.

The world burst apart in blue fire—he knew enough to duck down and shield his eyes now—and one of the helmed horrors was gone. The other two flew on toward him as if nothing had happened.

Which was when a distant voice said severely, "Brorm? You know Old Thunderspells doesn't want us hurling spells here, so close to him! I don't know what you're blasting, but stop it!"

An armored form loomed up over Surth, a battleaxe gleamed as it swept down, and—Bezrar snarled, "Eat flaming death, metal pig!"

The world burst bright blue again, tumbling Surth back head-over-heels into a tanglethorn bush, this time.

He blinked at the sight of his own blood, glistening in red droplets in a line across his thorn-torn hand, and heard that voice, a little nearer and a lot more furious now, shout, "Right, Brorm, that does it! I don't care how much the Old Man dotes on your spinach pie—I'm going to flail your backside for you! Don't you try to run now—I may be older, but I'm wise to your tricks, and 'twill take a lot to surprise old Pheldemar of the Fireballs!"

Bezrar promptly blew up the third armored sentinel, and in the wake of the blast, the two stu

There followed a crashing of foliage off behind the trees to the right of the trail, where the forest cloaked some gentle hills, a vigorous, hard-striding man in battle-leathers marched into view, wearing a long leather overcloak that flared out behind him with the haste of his approach. His face resembled an old boot, his hair was steel-gray, and a long black rod bristling with tiny spires and spikes that flashed with a spectrum of winking radiances was clutched in his left hand. His right hand wore a long, flaring-cut white glove, and a flickering radiance like white fire surrounded it.

"Brorm?" he barked as he came up to the trail, peering suspiciously in all directions. "Where by the brass breastplates of Alusair are you?"

His eyes fell upon the riven shards of a helmed horror on the narrow dirt path right in front of him.

Pheldemar of the Fireballs gaped down at them in astonishment—a dumbfoundedness that deepened as he glanced along the trail and saw more chunks and shards that had recently been the very best sort of Cormyrean coat-of-plate battle armor. He could see pieces of at least two helms without taking another step.

"Mystra" he swore, softly but with feeling—and hurriedly called forth a shielding-spell around himself from his rod. Whoever or whatever had done this must still be lurking nearby. That last blast had been only moments ago. Yes, there!—some of the shards were still rocking in the wake of the force that had hurled them to where they now lay. The War Wizard shook his head, went into an alert crouch, and advanced carefully along the trail.

Almost immediately he caught sight of a boot. The leg wearing it belonged to a man clad like a downcoast merchant—breeches, boots, the hip-length tunic so little seen in the King's Forest or the uplands where smocks were for field-work and belt-tunics for riding or stalking in the forest—who was lying beside a tan-glethorn bush, eyes closed and one hand a-dew with fresh blood. He'd never seen the man before. His eyes fell to the belt—a long-knife, of the sort used in Marsember. Just a longknife. Whoever this man was, he'd had something to do with the destruction of the helmed horrors . . . but he certainly didn't look like a brigand or a wizard or any prepared foe of Cormyr. As for whether he was really senseless or not. . .

Pheldemar leaned closer, pointing his rod at the man. A blast of conjured water sho—

There was a sudden crash and rustle from right behind the War Wizard. He whirled, rod rising—but was still halfway through his turn when something large, hairy, fat and sweating smashed into him and ran right over him, trampling hard.

"Reeeeaaaaaaaagh!" Aumun Tholant Bezrar screamed, waving his arms wildly as he ran pell-mell through the forest, crashing into trees and saplings wherever the trail wandered and his frantic flight did not. "Rrrrruuhhhhh!"