[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]flashed, and that end of the throne room shook, but nothing happened . .. except that a little dust drifted down from
above.
Undarl laughed and lowered his hands. His shield had held.
"You're on my ground now, Prince
and fool!" he gloated. Then his face changed, he gasped and fell forward
with a howl of pain.
Behind him, belt knife red to the hilt, stood a certain baker, brows trembling in fury. Hannibur had come to
Athalgard to find his wife. Courtiers gasped. Hannibur reached down to cut the magelord's throat, but Undarl's
hand darted out in a ges-ture.
The air pulsed and flowed, and the baker's raised dagger shattered. From the whirling sparks of its
destruction rays of light leapt out in all directions: a protective spell-cage flashed into being around the fallen
mage.
Elminster glared at Undarl and spoke a clipped, precise in-cantation. A second cage, its glowing bars
thicker and brighter than Undarl's, enclosed the first. The mage royal struggled up to one elbow, face pinched
in pain, and his hand went to his belt.
Hannibur stared down at the purposeful magelord and the radiances that had just consumed his only
blade, shook his head in slow anger, and turned away. It was only two steps to the nearest courtier. A quick
jerk freed the startled man's sword from its jeweled scabbard. Holding it like a toy, the baker turned slowly to
survey the room, like a heavy-helmed knight peering about in search of foes. Then, implacably, he started
down the green carpet toward the king.
A courtier hesitated, and then followed, drawing his own belt knife. Elminster spoke a soft word, and the
man froze in midstep. Overbalanced, the motionless man fell over on his face. A second and third courtier,
who'd also reached for their blades, stepped back, suddenly losing interest in defending their king.
Elminster sat down again on the Stag Throne to watch his angry uncle come for him. It seemed a fitting
place to wait.
King Belaur was furious, but not so rash as to rush right onto the unwavering point of Elminster's waiting
sword. He advanced with menacing care, his own blade held high, ready to sweep down and smash aside
Elminster's steel. "Who are you?" he snarled. "Get off my throne!"
"I am Elminster, son of Elthryn
whom you had that caged snake over there murder," Elminster replied crisply,
"and this seat is as much mine as yours." He sprang down the steps, sword flashing, and went to meet Belaur.
Eighteen
THE PRICE OF A THRONE
How much does a throne cost? Sometimes but one life, when sick-ness, old age, or a lucky blade takes the
life of a king in a strong kingdom. Sometimes a throne costs the life of everyone in a king-dom. Most often,
it takes the life of a few ambitious, grasping men, and the more of those the Realms is rid of, the better.
Thaldeth Faerossdar
The Way of the Gods
Year of Moonfall
Their swords crashed together, ringing loudly. Both men reeled back from the numbing impact, and
Elminster carefully declaimed words that echoed and rolled around the room. The two men were suddenly
encircled by a wall of white radiance that seemed to be a whirlwind of flashing phantom swords.
Belaur sneered. "More magic?"
"It's the last I'll unleash in Faerun until ye're dead," Elmin-ster told him calmly, and strode forward.
They met in a whirling clash of steel. Sparks flew as king and prince tried to hack through each other's
guard, teeth set and shoulders swinging. Belaur was a heavy-shouldered war-rior of long years, run to fat but
wary as a wolf. His challenger was younger, smaller, lighter, and quickly on the defensive, as Belaur used his
weight to smash through Elminster's parries. Only the young prince's swiftness kept him alive, ducking,
dodging, and diving aside from thirsty steel as the furious king rained a flurry of sword-blows on his foe.
When Elminster's arms grew too numb to take the on-slaught, he was forced to give way. He stepped
back and circled to the right. Belaur turned to press him, grinning savagely, but Elminster spun away and ran,
heading behind the throne,
"Hah!" Belaur shouted triumphantly, striding forward. He was only a few steps away when Elminster
stepped out from be-hind the throne to hurl a dagger at the king.
Belaur's blade flashed up to smash whirling death aside. The unharmed king did not even slow his rush.
He sneered in tri-umph as he charged in to cut his enemy down.
Elminster parried desperately, dodging around in front of the throne again. The king leapt after him and
lunged, but his swifter foe slid out from under the blade. The king snarled, bent to his boot, plucked a dagger
from it, and threw it all in one swift flurry and grunt. Elminster ducked away
too slowly. The dagger burned
across his cheek and spun on its way... and Be-laur was at him again, blade flashing.
El's parry was almost too late. The impact jarred his hand, and he shook it to banish numbness and then
hastily put both hands to his blade, thrusting it up just in time to smash aside the king's next attack. Belaur's
leaping steel seemed to be everywhere.
The Sword of the Stag, Elminster had heard it called
a new-forged blade said to be enchanted by magelords.
El was be-ginning to believe that. Their weapons crashed together again. Sparks flew as steel shrieked and then
caught, guard to guard.
The two men snarled into each other's eyes, shoving, both re-fusing to leap back. Belaur's shoulders, now
glistening with sweat, rippled and bunched . . . and Elminster's blade was slowly forced back and around.
Belaur bellowed exultantly as his greater strength forced the locked blades into Elminster's neck, and blood
flowed. Gasping, Elminster dropped suddenly to the floor, wrapping his legs around Belaur's as their blades
flashed over his head.
Overbalanced, the king crashed heavily to the tiles, elbows smashing down hard. The locked swords spun
far away as El-minster kicked himself free. They were on the floor on their sides now, face to face. Belaur
rolled and reached for Elmin-ster's throat. Elminster tried to knock those strong hands aside, and the two
men grappled for a moment. Then the prince was overpowered again.
Hard, gouging fingers stabbed at his throat. Spitting in Be-laur's face, El arched his head away, struggling.
The king smashed his fist against Elminster's forehead, then got a good firm hold on the prince's throat. El
clawed vainly at the hairy arms that were choking him and tried to wrench himself free by kicking on the
slippery tiles. He managed only to drag the king a little way. Belaur bore down, grunting triumphantly.
Elmin-ster's lungs were burning now. The world slowly began to spin and grow dim.
His desperately scrabbling fingers touched a familiar hard-ness
the Lion Sword! Carefully, as the darkness
rushed up to claim him, Elminster drew out the sharpened stub of his fa-ther's blade and slid its uneven edge across
closed his eyes as the king's hot blood drenched him. Then Be-laur was gurgling and
Belaur's throat. He
thrashing feebly, hands falling from El-minster.
Free to rise at last! Elminster rolled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, coughing weakly for air, and
peering about to make sure no armsmen were near.
A courtier was just retreating from his barrier, hissing in pain from a webwork of cuts welling forth bright
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