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Elminster in Myth Drannor
Ed Greenwood
Prologue

It was a time of mounting strife in the fair realm of Cormanthor, when the lords and ladies
of the oldest, proudest houses felt a threat to their glittering pride. A threat thrust forward by the
very throne above them; a threat from their most darkling youthful nightmares. The Stinking
Beast That Comes In The Night, the Hairy Lurker who waits his best chance to slay, despoil,
violate, and pillage. The monster whose grasp clutches at more realms with each passing day: the
terror known as Man.

Shalheira Talandren, High Elven Bard of Summerstar
from Silver Blades And Summer Nights:
An Informal But True History of Cormanthor
published in The Year of the Harp

"I did indeed promise the prince something in return for the crown," said the king, drawing himself
up to his full height and inhaling until his chest trembled. He adjusted the glittering circlet of gems and
golden spires that adorned his brows a trifle self-consciously, smiled at his own cleverness in providing
himself with this dramatic pause, and added, voice dropping to underline the nobility of his words, "I
promised I'd grant his greatest desire."
Those gathered to watch drew in awed breaths in a chorus that was mockingly loud. The fat
monarch paid them no heed, but turned away in a gaudy swirl of cloth of gold and struck a grandly
conquering pose, one foot planted on an obviously false dragonskull. The light of the purple-white
driftglobes that accompanied him gleamed back from plainly visible wire, where it coiled up through the
patchwork skull to hold the royal sword that had supposedly transfixed bone in a mighty, fatal blow.
Every inch the wise old ruler, the king looked out over vast distances for a moment, eyes flashing
gravely at things only he could see. Then, almost coyly, he looked back over his shoulder at the kneeling
servant.
"And what, pray tell," he purred, "does he most want? Hmmm?"
The steward flung himself full length onto the carpet, striking his head on the stone pave in the
process. He rolled his eyes and writhed briefly in pain-as the watchers tittered-ere he dared to lift his
gaze for the first time. "Sire," he said at last, in tones of wondering doom, "he wishes to die rich."
The king whirled about again and strode forward. The servant scrambled up on one knee and
cowered back from the purposeful monarch-only to freeze, dumbfounded, at the sight of a merry smile
upon the regal face.
The king bent to take his hand and raised him up from the carpet, slapping something that jingled
into the steward's palm as he did so.
The servant stared down. It was a purse bulging with coins. He looked at the king again, in
disbelief, and swallowed.
The royal smile broadened. "Die rich? And so he shall-put that into his hands and then slide your
sword through him. Several times is the current fashion, I believe."
The titters of the audience broke into hoots and roars of mirth, laughter that quickly turned to
applause as the costume spells cloaking the actors expired in the traditional puffs of red smoke, signaling
the end of the scene.
The watchers exploded into motion, swooping and darting away. Some of the older revelers
drifted off more sedately, but the young went racing through the night like furious fish chasing each other
to eat-or be eaten. They exploded through groups of languid gossipers and danced in the air, flashing
along the edge of the perfumed spell field. Only a few remained behind to watch the next coarse scene of
The Fitting End of the Human King Halthor; such parodies of the low and grasping ways of the