Elminster Must Die

“You mock me, old man. I say again, you stand in Cormyr and are subject to my authority, and I-”

“Nay. Not even the lowliest Cormyrean is subject to thine authority. If ye’d said ‘our authority,’ bothering to include the good knight who stands beside ye-”

“Enough bandying words. You dare not use your magic, I’m told, so you’ll surrender to us now or we’ll kill you.”

“And how ‘lawful’ is that, young Ironstone?”

The war wizard smiled thinly. “You can stand where you are; you can advance, and so fall within reach of Sir Hawkblade’s sword; or you can flee, giving me the right to kill a fugitive seeking to escape our custody.”

“I see. Victory at all costs.”

Ironstone shrugged. “Nothing matters in a fight-except winning.”

Elminster’s eyes were cold and steady on him, blue blazing up among the gray. “Oh? If nothing matters, lad, there’s nothing worth fighting for.”

“I tire of this,” the war wizard snapped. “Hawkblade, take him!”

El promptly flung the something in his right hand into Ironstone’s face. It exploded in a little burst of black powder that sent the mage sobbing to the floor in a frenzy of agonized helplessness, clawing at his face as he tried to gargle and shriek through his weeping.

“Black pepper!” the highknight snarled, snatching out and hurling a dagger at Elminster’s throat. “You won’t catch me with old Harper tricks!”

He sprang forward, his sword singing out of its scabbard-as Elminster plucked the thrown knife out of the air, whirled, and flung it hard into the throat of a second wizard of war, who was stealing cautiously up behind the Old Mage with a wand held ready. It struck pommel first, stunning the young newcomer into a wheezing inability to breathe. He toppled to the passage floor, clutching his throat.

Elminster kept on turning, coming round to face Hawkblade again in time to duck his left hand just under the sweep of the knight’s reaching sword-and almost delicately lob the something in his left hand up into the highknight’s face.

It burst with the same instantaneous ease as the pepper bomb, but its effects were very different. A sudden, blinding blaze made Hawkblade shriek and warmed Elminster’s face as he ducked aside, eyes shut tight against the short but brilliant explosion. He kept on going until he fetched up against the passage wall. Then he turned and opened his eyes to survey the ruin he’d caused.

Two young fools of wizards of war writhed on the floor, fighting just to breathe, Ironstone’s blinded face wet with streaming tears. Hawkblade-just as blind and in far more pain from the dazzle powder, to boot-was slashing the air with desperate, brutal savagery. He was also turning toward the sounds El had made coming up against the wall, so Elminster lost no time in ducking down to pluck Ironstone’s handy dagger from its belt sheath in case he needed something to parry with.

It was a nice toy-enchanted to glow upon command, and so could buy him one hurled spell this side of insanity-and he smiled at it as he hastened on into the palace.

Behind him, Hawkblade tripped over the third member of the foreguard, the wizard who’d held the wand-ah, and that useful thing should be retrieved, too! — and crashed headlong to the floor, hacking so hard behind himself as he went down that sparks rang from the stones.

Elminster turned to look for the wand-and another dagger came whirling out of the darkness to strike and rebound off the one he’d just purloined, so hard that it numbed his fingers and made a sound like a bell.

“Hold, intruder!”

That new voice belonged to another highknight-or at least a knight-at the head of four or five heavily armored fellows. They had another wizard of war with them, too. Safely at the back of the group, of course.

Elminster sighed. If he turned back, they’d have the gods alone knew what sort of guards and traps and wards waiting to greet him, the next time he tried.

The knights rushed forward, swords out and spreading out as they came. A telltale glow moved with them, a starlight sheen in the darkness that warned any mage they were magically protected.

El sighed again. If, that is, there was a next time.

One spell would have to do it, then he’d be scrabbling in his pouches for the last few Harper tricks. If he was still alive enough to do anything.

“Hold, men of Cormyr! Down steel, all! Wizards of war, stay your spells! This is a royal command!”

That voice was as hard as swung steel and as cold as the winter wind, and it came from behind the highknights, who swung their heads around to see whence those orders had come.

A pale glow lit the darkness of the cellars, a cold and flickering halo around a striding woman in full plate armor. Helmless and wild-haired she came, with eyes like two dark flames and arms flung wide.

The Steel Regent, looking for all the realm like her huge portrait in the Hall of Approach before the Throne Chamber; Princess Alusair Obarskyr, as she’d been in the prime of her life, long before.

She was dead, of course-must be-and a moment later the knights realized they could see through her in places, as she strode toward them.

“ ’Tis a trick!” one of them snarled. “A false seeming, cast by yon villain!” He pointed one gauntleted finger at Elminster and turned to resume his charge at the old man.

“Highknight Morlen Askalan,” the princess snapped, still striding hard and fast, “are you loyal to the Dragon Throne or not? You heard me! Throw down your weapon, and stand where you are!”

“You’re a ghost or a spell cast by this enemy mage!” the knight growled, waving his sword at her. “My oath is to the king!”

“Do none of you know me?” the apparition demanded, striding among them. A highknight swung his sword through her; it passed through her arm and breast as if through empty air, earning him only her scowl.

“You’re Alusair, you are,” another knight muttered. “Bedder of nobles, war-leader of the realm, fiery daughter of the Purple Dragon himself.”

“And you’re a ghost,” Highknight Askalan repeated. “You wander the haunted wing of the palace, and moan how the realm has fallen since your day!”

Alusair strode right up to him, a bitter smile twisting her lips. Despite himself, Askalan flinched back from her dark gaze.

“My, my,” she remarked. “Overheard and spied upon, as usual-what must a girl do to get a little privacy around here?”

And she strode right through him. In her wake he toppled to the passage floor with a crash, numbed and helpless, sword skittering away across the stones.

Alusair never slowed but stepped right through the weakly struggling Lorton Ironstone-who collapsed onto his face with a sigh and lay still-and walked on to Hawkblade. His struggles, too, ceased, and she dealt with the war wizard who’d come at Elminster from behind, ere she turned back to the thoroughly cowed highknights and said quietly, “I gave an order. Swords down, men. Now.”

One highknight hesitated, and another burst forward to swing his blade at Elminster.

Alusair became a rushing wind that met him half a pace away from the Old Mage and sent him face-first to the floor, white-faced and shivering uncontrollably.

Stepping away from his twitching limbs, she faced the few knights who were left and gave them a glare that lasted until sword after sword was dropped.

When the clatter of the last one had died, she said, “Sit down here and await the recovery of your fellows. Do not follow the Sage of Shadowdale as he enters Our home, for it is also his home. He is always welcome here.”

She bent her stare upon them until the last knight had sat himself down, then gave Elminster a wry smile.

“Thank ye, lass,” he said quietly, bowing low to her. She held out her hand, and he bent and kissed it, never flinching from the cold that made the nearby watching highknights wince.

Then he rose, waved a hand at her in salute, and turned to trudge on into the undercellars.

“You’re welcome,” Alusair told his back. “Many have defended Cormyr. You, Elminster-more than me; more than my father; more than Vangey, damn him; more than anyone-are the one who’s defended Cormyr against