The Temptation of Elminster

beyond herself to aid him, for fear of tales being carried back by those among the she-shadows who might well, after a hard winter, want to win warmth and fine clothes and good food enough to betray someone they scarcely knew.

His grin broadened when she told him that as far as she'd heard no sorcerer or even priest dwelt in Fox Tower or anywhere near the Starn and that the Fox commanded no magic himself.

Immeira told Wanlorn, or whatever his name truly was, where the guards were posted and how soon the six men would be missed. The half dozen Foxlings were lying in the trees with their helms tossed into the Larrauden and their mounts…plus one unfamiliar dapple gray horse…tethered nearby. She told him as much as she knew…of how the Iron Fox spent his evenings, where his four hunting dogs and the crossbows, lanterns, and horses at Fox Tower were kept, and of life in the Starn both these days and before the fall of the Talons…until she was quite weary of answering questions.

Wanlorn asked her if there were any haystacks in the Starn that could be approached unseen from these woods and that would escape being disturbed by farmers in the next day or two. She told him of three such, and he asked her to guide him to the best of them as stealthily as possible, to hide his bundle of seized weapons.

'What then?' she asked quietly.

''Twould be safest, Immeira,' Wanlorn said directly, his eyes very steady on hers, 'if ye then went to wherever ye're supposed to dwell…not out in the woods where angry armed men with hunting dogs may search… and never went near this hollow or the haystack again until the Fox is gone from the Starn, whatever befalls me.'

'And if I refuse?' she almost whispered.

He smiled thinly and said, 'I'm no tyrant. In the Faerun I want to see, lads and lasses should be free to walk and speak as they please. Yet, if ye follow me or step forth to aid me, I cannot protect thee … for I am alone in this, with no god to work miracles when battle turns against me.'

'Oh, no?' Immeira asked, lifting a hand that trem bled rather less than she'd feared it would, to indicate where the Foxling patrol had barred the road. 'Was that not a miracle?'

'No,' Wanlorn replied, smiling. 'Miracles mostly grow when deeds are told of, through years of retelling. If ye speak too freely, it may become a miracle yet'

Who was this man, and why had he come here?

Immeira met those calm blue-gray eyes for a moment…just now, they seemed rather more blue than her mind told her they were…and asked simply, 'Who are you, really? And why … why do you want to face death here? What does the Starn matter to you? Or seek you revenge on the Iron Fox?'

Wanlorn shook his head slightly. 'I first heard of him less than a tenday ago. I do as my heart leads me to do, wherefore I am here. I wander to learn and to make the Realms be more as I desire them to be. Unless the Starn proves to be my grave, I cannot stay here but must needs wander onward. I am a man, thrust onto this road by my birth and … choices I have made.' He fell silent, and as her brows rose and she parted her lips to ask or say more he raised a hand as if to still her and added, 'Take me as ye find me.'

Immeira held his gaze in silence for a handful of very long moments, then replied, 'So then I shall, crazy man…and feel honored to have met you. Come, the haystack awaits.'

She turned her back on him…she trusted no other man to so turn her gaze from him, especially one who stood close and armed behind her…and led the way along trails only she and the beasts who'd made them knew. He followed, clanking slightly.

It would be so easy to clear the feast hall of Fox Tower with a fireball and strike down the few stray Foxling armsmen with lesser magics, but that was just the temptation Elminster was here to resist. It had been a long summer since he'd talked with a god on a hilltop, but the habit of calling on spells to answer every need or whim. without thinking, was slowly crumbling. Slowly.

The cruelty and butchery of these men of the fox head were so freely and so often practiced that he need not worry about slaying them out of hand. If he could.

One man, fighting fairly and in the open, would have little chance against such dark battle dogs as these.

Hmmm, yes, he thought, those dogs …

It was a little shy of highsun now, and the lass Immeira was still at his shoulder. She was a skulking shadow with no less than a dozen daggers strapped and laced all about her and his heavy chain in her hands. Surely the men he'd slain this morn would be found in a very short time, and warning horns would blow. At just about that time a trio of Foxlings would arrive from Fox Tower to relieve this guard post, here at the opposite end of the valley from where he'd met with such a warm and bloody morning reception.

'Relieve' … an apt choice of word, that. One of the bored Foxlings who'd been sitting in the roadside shade across the way was now up on his feet, unlacing his codpiece as he headed across the hot, dusty road to this side to answer a call of nature.

This time nature was going to have a little extra to say to him.

Elminster rose out of the shrubbery with unhurried grace and threw one of his knives the moment the man stopped and took up a stance. He cursed soundlessly and hauled out another blade, knowing he'd misjudged his throw. The Foxling lifted his head in sudden alarm as the first knife flashed past…and the second missed the eye it had been meant for, sinking hilt-deep in the man's cheek instead.

As a thick, wet scream arose, El snatched the chain out of Immeira's grasp and sprinted at the man, knowing he hadn't enough time to manage this but had no choice but to try it anyway.

The man was flailing his way blindly back toward the road that both of his fellow Foxlings were crossing now, heading in the direction of the sounds of his distress with drawn swords and wary frowns.

They slowed as they moved out of the bright sun into the dappled shade of the trees, not wanting to be struck down by a ready foe. The two stopped as their fellow Foxling staggered into view. El, running hard, came up right behind him, using his lurching body as a shield as he swung the chain out over it, hard, smashing a sword arm down, then rushing to close with its stunned owner and drive a knife at the man's face.

The man sprang away before El could strike, shaking his numbed arm and shattered fingers. The last prince of Athalantar saw the angry face of the other Foxling glaring at him across the man he'd first wounded, so he threw his knife hard into it.

The man went down with a yell, more startled than hurt, arid El brought the chain up to smash the man he'd disarmed across the face. Blood flew, a head lolled loosely, and the man went down…followed by Elminster, who had to hurl himself into the dirt to avoid the desperate swings of a broadsword wielded by the man he'd first injured at this guard post.

The man had torn El's dagger free and was spitting blood, half-blinded by the tears of pain streaming down his face, but he could see enough to know his danger and mark his foe.

El rolled, trying to get away from the sword that kept slashing at him. As he wallowed in the dust with his assailant staggering and hacking after him, he wondered when the third Foxling would reach him. He knew he'd have to use one of his spells then, Mystra or no Mystra, or die.

The man overbalanced after a particularly vicious swing and stumbled. El put his shoulder into the dirt and spun around, kicking out with both feet. That cursedly persistent sword clanged and bounced by his ear as its owner fell heavily, grunting as the wind was driven from him. El kept spinning, bringing his feet under him and running four paces away before he dared turn to look at his foes. Where was that third Foxling?

Lying still and silent on the road, it seemed, with a white-faced, panting Immeira rising from beside him, bloody dagger in hand. Her eyes met El's through the dust, and she tried to smile … not very successfully.

El gave her a wave, then pounced on the man who had chased him with the sword. He stabbed down thrice with his own dagger, and when he looked up again, El saw that both he and Immeira were dusty, sweating, panting, and alive. They traded true smiles this time.

'Lass, lass,' El chided her, as they swung each other into an exultant embrace, 'I can't protect ye!'

Immeira kissed his cheek, then pushed him away making a face at him through her wild-tangled hair and the Foxling blood spattered across her face. 'That's fair enough,' she told him. 'I can't protect you, either!'

El grinned at her and shook his head. He strode to the shade where the three Foxlings had been sitting and chuckled in satisfaction.