The Summoning (21 page)

Melegaunt shrugged. “You were warned.”

The wizard pulled a scrap of shadow silk from his cloak and traced a shadowy maze on the snow When he finished, he and Galaeron cast flying spells on everyone in the group— including Malik’s astonished horse—and the companions streaked off toward the High Forest. The beholder avoided Melegaunt’s shadow maze by circling wide, then became an ominous presence that appeared on the horizon now and again to remind them of their approaching danger.

Finally, they reached the High Forest and slipped into the woods. The beholder stopped behind a hill and hovered there with one eyestalk peering over the summit. Several of the other stalks flitted in and out of view, looking in all directions in search of help.

“Now we have them,” said Melegaunt. He pulled a piece of shadow silk from his cloak and tore off a strand, then strung it between two trees. “We’re almost to Karse.”

“Karse?” gasped Malik. “Why are we going there?”

“We are not.” Melegaunt handed Galaeron a second piece of shadow silk and motioned for him to begin stringing strands. “Once we have finished here, it will be safe to part ways. I’m sure you’re as eager to be about your business as we are ours.”

“I have no business.” Malik paused as though that was all he meant to say, then slowly cocked his head to one side and added, “Except you.”

“Us?” Melegaunt continued to string shadow strands between trees. “And what would your business be with us?”

Malik paled and said, “Nothing… except—”

The rest of the explanation was lost to a tremendous crashing from the forest behind them. Galaeron spun around to see an enormous oak stomping up, its branches waving madly and a huge trunk cavity twisted in an angry snarl.

“No!” the tree boomed. It swept a branch down past Galaeron’s head at the strands he had been stringing between tree trunks. The limb passed through the shadowy fibers

without effect. A fierce shudder ran through the oak’s crown of golden leaves, and it shook a bough in Galaeron’s face. “Not in my wood!”

“We mean no harm to the f-forest,” Galaeron stammered. Now that he had recovered from his surprise, he recognized the oak as the oldest treant he had ever seen, with a long beard of green moss and a trunk easily a dozen feet around-Realizing the creature would view Aris’s wooden club with a dim eye, Galaeron motioned the giant to keep watch at the edge of the forest, then turned back to the treant. “We must take measures to protect ourselves. We’re being pursued by beholders.”

“By one beholder. Eyes 1 have.” To prove it, the treant blinked a pair of knotholes more than fifteen feet up his trunk. “And your welfare is no concern of mine. There is a wrongness to your magic, and in my wood I will not have it.”

“It is, indeed, magic of a different sort,” said Melegaunt, “but that does not make it wrong.”

“That makes it wrong for the High Forest.” The treant tried again to drag down the shadow web, then turned to Galaeron when he failed. ‘Take this down.”

Galaeron began to gather the shadow silk into a ball, drawing a disapproving scowl from Melegaunt.

“What are you doing?”

“This is Turlang’s home,” said Galaeron, guessing at the treant’s identity. Only Turlang, the renowned ruler of the High Forest, could be so huge and old. “We must respect his wishes.”

Melegaunt rolled his eyes. “You do know that means they’ll catch us?” He glanced at Turlang, then added, “And there would be a battle.”

“Fuorn’s whispers spoke of your gift to the Forest Forgotten, Duskbeard, so one threat I will forgive.” The treant creaked down to peer into Melegaunt’s eyes. “His whispers also spoke of the trouble that hunts you, and I will have no magicgrubs in my forest.”

“Then you would do well to help us.” Melegaunt waved his hand at Galaeron and the others. “We have all sworn to return the phaerimm to their prison, and the help we need lies inside your forest, in the temple of Karse.”

Turlang drew himself to his full height. “What help can you need from Wulgreth? That you count a lich your friend only proves the evil I taste in your air.”

A chill ran down Galaeron’s spine. “Lich?” he echoed, finally understanding the reason Melegaunt had been so secretive about the help they were seeking. “What other lies have you been telling us?”

Melegaunt wagged a finger at Galaeron. “Be careful of that shadow, my friend.” Looking back to Turlang, the wizard said, “Wulgreth is no friend of mine, but every treasure has its guardian, and I do mean to deal with him—though not in the way you believe.”

Turlang fell silent and motionless, presumably weighing Melegaunt’s words against the evil “taste” of their party. As suspicious as Galaeron was of Melegaunt, he feared the malevolence the treant sensed lay in his own dark spirit. Try as he might, the elf could not help attributing the most selfish motives to every action. Melegaunt hoped to strike a bargain with an evil lich. Malik wanted to steal the secret of shadow magic. Turlang refused to help them because he feared the wrath of the phaerimm. Galaeron was losing the fight against his shadow

He stepped forward and placed himself squarely in front of the treant. “The Turlang my mother speaks of would never turn away a tree-friend.”

“Nor would the one standing before you,” said the treant. “Were he certain they were tree-friends.”

“Then you will not turn us away.” When Galaeron waved a hand at his companions, he found only Melegaunt, Vala, and, still standing watch at the edge of the forest, Aris. Malik and his horse were nowhere to be seen, apparently having decided to accept Melegaunt’s advice and depart. “On my life,

I promise no one here will harm the High Forest, nor allow any harm to come to it through anything he does or does not do.”

Turlang regarded him for a long time, then said, “Your life means nothing to me. I know you for an Evereskan by your dress and speech, but there is a darkness in you I do not trust.”

“There are more eye-devils coming,” Aris called from the edge of the forest.

“How many?” Vala called back, ever the battle chief.

‘Too far to say,” said the giant. “They are only specks, but there’s also something that resembles a dust devil.”

Galaeron and Vala exchanged nervous glances, and Melegaunt ran out of patience.

“We’re out of time, tree,” the wizard growled. “There is more at risk than your forest, and we will pass through—

“What we will do is abide by Turlang’s will,” Galaeron interrupted. Even were Melegaunt powerful enough to defeat Turlang and his many allies—and Galaeron suspected the battle would be closer than the wizard knew—for an elf to defy a treant in his own forest would be an act of wickedness as terrible as treason. Galaeron turned back to the treant. “If the great Turlang places no value in my promise, I am certain he will value my mother’s.”

“You would offer your mother’s life in place of your own?” Turlang’s voice was condemning. “Who is this lucky elf?”

Galaeron had to bite back a wave of anger. “Morgwais Nightmeadow.”

The burls above Turlang’s eyes rose. “Morgwais?”

Galaeron nodded. “Known to the people of the High Forest as Morgwais the Red.”

Vala and Melegaunt looked to each other with expressions of surprise. The treant considered Galaeron’s claim for a long time, during which Aris kept up a running account of what he saw.

“They’re tiny circles … six of them, and something like a

funnel with a tail. The one behind the hill is flying back to join them…”

Finally, Turlang spoke. “If you are lying about this, your lives are forfeit.” He glanced to Vala and Melegaunt, then added, “All of them.”

“Agreed,” said Galaeron.

Vala and Melegaunt were quick to nod their own agreement, and Arts said, “My life is Galaeron’s to pledge.”

“Then we have a bargain.” Turlang lowered two branches. “I will need your weapons… and your pledge not to use your dark magic until you enter the Dire Wood.”

Galaeron removed his scabbard and laid it into a tangle of gnarled sticks. “As you wish.”

Vala removed her belt and wrapped it around the hilt of the weapon to prevent the black blade from slipping free, then laid it next to Galaeron’s sword. Melegaunt pulled his sheathed dagger from its place, but hesitated before laying it alongside the other weapons.

“The dagger 111 yield happily,” said the wizard, “but the magic I may need to confuse our foes.”

“They will be confused,” said Turlang. “I will see to that.”

‘These are no ordinary beings,” Melegaunt warned. “The phaerimm will not be fooled by normal magic, and the beholders can dispel it with a glance.”

“It will not be magic that misleads them.” Turlang’s tone was uncharacteristically peevish for a treant. “Will you promise or not?”

Melegaunt gave Galaeron a hesitant look.

“Decide now,” said Galaeron. “It will mean my mother’s life if you lie.”

At the edge of the forest, Aris called out, “They’re spreading out, and turning invisible—the cowards!”

Melegaunt continued to look at Galaeron. “You’re sure?”

“It’s the only way,” Galaeron answered.

Melegaunt shrugged. “Very well, I promise.”

Turlang studied the wizard for nearly a minute before

shifting his gaze to Aris. “Are you ready, giant?”

For a moment, Aris continued to stare across the valley his lip curled into a hateful snarl. When he finally nodded and stepped into the forest, his gray eyes were as cold as ice.

“Let’s go.”

Turlang stretched a branch toward the giant’s wooden club. “Your weapon.”

Aris passed the club over. The treant held it at limb’s length and inspected it for a moment, then he seemed to realize that it had been fashioned from an entire tree trunk. His face twisted into a strange expression of sadness and revulsion, and he dropped the weapon into the snow. The wood grew instantly brown and soft and crumbled into humus.

“Now we may go.”

Turlang started into the dark forest, his enormous bulk gliding through trees as gracefully as any elf. Galaeron motioned the others after him, then took a place beside Vala at the end of the line.

She leaned close to him. “Did you see what became of Malik?”

“Not a hoof print,” Galaeron replied. He glanced back and was not surprised to see a dozen trees arranging themselves into a boscage, while a like number of druids slipped quietly to and fro, eradicating all trace of the group’s passing and laying a false trail in the opposite direction. “But I do hope he didn’t go south.”

28 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

The scout and his hippogriff wheeled down out of the gray sky, a ghostly rider on a ghostly mount, almost impossible to see against the steely clouds even with detection magics fully raised. Khelben glanced over at Laerm Ryence, his counterpart and co-commander of the Swift Cavalry, and found the elf s silver eyes fixed on the trail ahead. Here they were, racing toward an army of phaerimm as fast as their spell-driven mounts could gallop, and the fool still had not bothered to cast his detection magic. Such negligence did not speak well for Evermeet’s expeditionary company

The scout swept up alongside the column, his hippogriff’s wings thrumming air as he slowed. Lord Ryence jumped visibly, his free hand dropping to his belt of wands, his neck craning to look over the wrong shoulder.

“No need for alarm,” Khelben yelled, his voice falling into the rhythm of his galloping mount. He wrapped his reins around his saddle’s pommel, then worked a spell to mute the thundering hooves of the four hundred horses behind him. “It’s my scout.”

Ryence’s fingers finally flashed through a detection spell. “So… 1… see.” like most of the elves, he seemed ill-at-ease on the powerful chargers Lord Piergeiron had selected for their journey. “I am not blind.”

Ignoring the testy reply, Khelben turned to his scout. “What is your report?”

The rider, a long-faced man with a two-day growth of beard, said, “About two miles ahead, the Winding Water bends within an arrow’s flight of the High Moor. Not a thousand paces beyond, the Serpent’s Tail forks north and blocks your way.”

“A good place for an ambush?”

“The best. You’d be trapped against the Winding Water, with the Serpent’s Tail blocking the way ahead.”

Khelben glanced at the steep slope flanking them to the north. Though the escarpment rose only a hundred feet to the High Moor, its face was soggy and slick—difficult climbing under the best of circumstances, impossible with arrows and lightning bolts raining down from above. Opposite the moor lay the Winding Water, easily two hundred paces across, with a dark central channel purling between two banks of solid ice.

“Well need to cross.” Khelben nodded toward the river. “I can bridge the distance with a space-folding door, but we’d have to feed riders through one at a time. It might be faster for your Selu’taar to fashion a good-sized bridge.”

Ryence tried to look surprised. “What makes you think there are high mages here?”

“You try my patience, Lord Ryence,” Khelben said darkly Were Laeral there, she would have been proud of him for not calling the elf a liar. “Now is a poor time to insist on polite little secrets.”

It was Ryence’s aide, a venerable Gold male named Bladuid, who answered, “A bridging spell would not be difficult. Half an hour would be sufficient.”

‘Too much time,” grouched Ryence, annoyed that Bladuid had betrayed his identity. The elf commander pointed his chin toward the wall of snow-caked trees along the river’s southern bank. “And we would only have to cross again, or have the Forest of Wyrms to worry us for the next hundred miles.”

“Better to lose an hour or two crossing rivers than half a company fighting an ambush.”

Ryence’s eyes flashed white, and he looked to Khelben’s scout. “Did you see any ambushers atop the moor?”

Somewhat reluctantly, the rider shook his head.

“He wouldn’t,” said Khelben. “Not if the phaerimm are using their magic.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“I’m not,” said Khelben. “There must be enough of us left to hold after we raise our end of the gate. If the phaerimm destroy it, it will take a month for the army to reach Evereska.”