The Temptation of Elminster

told you 'twas elves, all along…'

The elf sighed, threw off his cloak with the word that made the world dark, and backed his snorting mount to one side. Its sudden jerk told him one of the javelins had found a mark even before it reared up, spilling him out of his saddle, and came crashing down heavily on its side…inches away from Ilbryn. The elf rolled away as hard as he'd ever done anything in his life. A stray hoof numbed his good hip and had probably laid it open, too.

Bloody humans! Can't even ride along woodland trails without getting jumped by idiot adventurers arrogant enough to pitch their encampments right across the trail itself.

Ilbryn found his feet, stumbled awkwardly away until he ran into a tree, and propped himself against it. The humans were blundering around in the little corner of nightfall he'd made, hacking at each other…of course, the fools!..shouting in alarm, and generally despoiling their camp and the woods immediately around them. If these were the Slayers, they were more than inept … no, these must be one of the bands of hireswords…hah! They thought he was the Slayer!

Right, then …

Cloaked in darkness only he could see through, Ilbryn watched the fray rage for a time as he caught his breath and peered around, seeking mages or priests who might have the wits and power to end his spell. Once he unleashed another, his darkness would fall like a dropped cloak…so he wanted that spell to be a good one.

Two of this benighted band of adventurers were dead already at the hands of their fellows, and as Ilbryn watched, a third met a screaming end spitted on two javelins. The stronger of his slayers ran him back against a tree and left him pinned to it and vomiting his lifeblood away. The elf shook his head in disgust and kept looking … there!

That man by the tent, bent over the scrolls. Ilbryn readied his spell, then plucked up a stone from beside his tree, measured the throw with narrowed eyes…and threw. The stone bonged off the pot and spilled it into the fire.

The man with the scrolls whipped his head around to see what had befallen, and two other adventurers came loping back through the trees, employing that most favorite of human words, 'What?' in the midst of many oaths.

A goodly group. Now, before they all ran off again! Ilbryn steadied himself against the tree, cast the spell as quietly as he could but with unhurried care, and was rewarded, an instant before its end, with the human mage hissing, 'Hoy, all…be still! Listen!'

The seven-odd adventurers obediently stopped their shouting and rushing about, and they stood like statues as the darkness fell away…and waist-high whirling shards of steel melted out of the empty air and cut them all in half. A few of them even saw the elf standing against a tree sneering at them.

The crouching mage was beheaded, his blood exploding all over the scrolls as he slumped forward into the dirt. Seeing that, Ilbryn didn't bother to survey the slain any longer, he was listening hard now for the sounds of the living. At least two, and possibly as many as four, were still lurking close by.

One of them ran right past him, shrieking in horror as he sprinted into the bloody camp. Sweet trembling trees, were all humans this stupid?

Evidently they were, two others joined the first, weeping and yelling. Ilbryn sighed. It wouldn't be long before even fools such as these noticed a motionless elf standing against a tree. Almost regretfully he sent forth the spellburst that slew them.

Its echoes were still ringing off the trees around when he heard the slight scrape of a boot that made him spin around…to stare at a lone, horror-struck human warrior three paces away, coming toward him with sword raised.

'You're the Slayer?' the man asked, face and knuckles white with fear.

'No,' Ilbryn told him, backing away around the tree.

The man hesitated, then resumed his cautious advance. 'Why did you kill my sword brothers?' he snarled, snatching out a dagger to give himself two ready fangs.

Ilbryn took another step back, keeping the tree between them, and shrugged. 'You made a mistake,' he told the human, as they started to slowly circle the tree, watching each other's eyes. 'I was riding along the trail, at peace and intending no harm to you…and you attacked me, more than a dozen to one. Brigands? Adventurers? I'd no time to parley or see who you were. All I could do was defend myself. A little thought before swinging swords could have saved so much spilled blood.' He smiled mockingly. 'You should be more careful when you go out in the woods. It's dangerous out here.'

That evoked the rage he'd hoped it would, humans were so predictable. With a wordless roar the warrior charged, hacking furiously. Ilbryn let the tree take most of the blows, waited until the blade got caught, then darted forward to snatch the man's dagger hand aside with one of his own hands…and press the other to the man's face, delivering the spell that would take his life.

Flesh smoked and melted, gurgling, the man went to his knees. By the despairing moan he made thereafter, he knew he was dying, even before he started clawing at his own flowing flesh, trying to get air.

'Not that I was unhappy to slay you all,' Ilbryn told him lightly, 'seeing as how you cost me a perfectly good horse.' He stepped back and shot a look all around, in case other surviving adventurers…or the Slayer, whoever that might be…was approaching. No such peril seemed at hand.

The warrior made a last choking noise, then seemed to relax. 'After all,' Ilbryn told him, 'This is the Dead Place, I'm told.'

The elf turned away to walk through the camp and see if there was anything he might put to his own use. A few paces along he stopped, looked around again for foes, and bent rather stiffly and plucked up a good, slender blade from among the trodden leaves.

'Just in case,' Ilbryn told the torn body of its dead, staring owner, whose fingers would forever be stretched out now toward the blade he'd let fall, the blade that now was no longer there. As the elf reached out with his own sword to cut free the scabbard from amongst the gory, tangled harness, he added almost merrily, 'You never know when you'll need a good blade, after all.'

Sixteen: If Magic Should Fail

If magic should fail, Faerun shall be changed forever… and not a few folk would welcome those changes. For one thing, the very land itself might tilt under the hurrying weight of the oppressed and aggrieved, chasing down now-powerless mages to settle old scores. I wonder what a river of wizards' blood would look like?

Tammarast Tengloves, Bard of Elupar, from The Strings of a Shattered Lyre published in The Year of the Behir

'Begone! Mighty events shake all Faerun, and the holy ones within cannot come out to speak to you now! For the love of Mystra, begone!'

The guard's voice was deep and powerful, it rolled out over the gathered crowd like a storm-driven wave crashing across the sands of a beach … but when it died away, the people were still there. Fear made their voices high and their faces white, but they clung to the front steps of the House of the Ladystar as if for their very lives and would not be moved.

The guard made a last grand 'get hence' gesture and stepped back off the balcony. 'I'm sorry, Bright Master,' he murmured. 'They feel something is very wrong. It'd take the hounding spells of Mystra herself to shift them now.'

'Do you dare to blaspheme here, in the holy place itself?' the high priest hissed, eyes blazing with fury. He drew back his hand as if to strike the guard…who stood a head taller than he, despite his own great height…then let it fall back to his side, looking dazed. 'Lost,' he said, lips trembling. 'All is lost….'

The guard enfolded the Lord of the House in a comforting embrace, as one holds a sobbing child, and said, 'This shall pass, lord. Wait for nightfall, many shall leave then. Wait, know peace, and watch for some sign.'

'You have some guidance for this counsel?' the high priest asked, almost desperately. He could not keep a