The Summoning (30 page)

He entered the icy river headfirst and pulled himself down through the riffle with two quick strokes, then caught a handful of hair and continued to kick deeper. It would do no good to save Vala if he allowed the darksword to sink with her soul. He drew himself down by her hair, stretching his free hand toward the glass sword—then suddenly found the point driving up through the water toward his heart.

Still holding onto her hair, Galaeron rolled behind her and changed hands, then reached around her shoulder to grab her sword arm from behind. Vala whirled and kicked, trying to spin free, but managing only to drive them a few feet upward before they began to sink again. Galaeron released her hair and slipped his arm around her throat, using the crook of his elbow to clamp down on the vulnerable veins in her neck.

Vala went limp almost instantly Her head tipped to one side and her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the hand holding the darksword came open even before Galaeron could twist the weapon free. He caught it by the hilt and kicked for the surface, already so cold he barely noticed its freezing touch.

Had he been fresh, or had Vala’s scale armor been as light as elven chain, he might have pulled them both to the surface. As it was, he barely had the strength to keep from sinking deeper—and that strength was fading fast. Slipping her darksword back into her scabbard, he drew his dagger and began to cut the buckles on her heavy breast plate.

Galaeron had just finished one side when he saw Malik’s chubby silhouette drift past above. He thought for a moment that he was merely imagining things, or that the cold water had finally taken him. The little human did not strike him as the heroic type, but there had been that time in Thousand Faces, and now here he was again, his turban unwinding behind him as he dived for them from above. Not taking the time to sheathe his dagger, Galaeron let it fall and raised his hand.

Malik ignored it and circled around behind them, trailing a thin rope. Galaeron felt the human pushing something under his arm and took the line from his grasp, then passed it around Vala and back to his rescuer. Malik tied a quick knot, then the current began to pull at them as the cord caught. Wrapping his legs around Vala for extra security, Galaeron grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled-He had barely begun before the rope jerked them to the surface, and his breath returned in a series of cold coughs. He felt Malik clinging to his belt, crying out in terror and all but dragging him back beneath the surface as he struggled to reach the rope. Galaeron caught hold of the little man’s collar and pulled him up.

“Malik! Our thanks!” Galaeron guided his hand to the rope. “That was a brave thing you did.”

“Think nothing of it,” coughed the little man. “I have a bad habit of doing brave things in bad causes.”

Unsure of just how to take this, Galaeron rolled Vala onto her back, then finally looked upstream, to where the other end of the rope was attached to Kelda’s saddle. The mare was just trotting into the archway beneath the bridge tower, pulling them diagonally across the current as she moved. Takari and Melegaunt were slipping and sliding along the bridge as they scrambled after her, while Aris, having somehow freed himself of the two shades, was kneeling at the edge of the bridge, stretching a long arm out to grab the line.

He finally succeeded, then pulled them to the side of the bridge and hoisted them to safety. Malik whistled Kelda to a stop, and Galaeron set to work on Vala. Her armor was scorched and dented from the spell that had launched her into the river, but any injuries the blast had caused her appeared less important than her near drowning. He turned her on her side and, bracing her between his knees, pushed on her back to force out the water. She began to cough, spewing cold river water from her lungs, and started to breathe on her own.

“Shell live,” pronounced Aris.

“But not recover.” This from Jhingleshod, who was stepping around Aris’s far side. “Not until she is free of this river.”

Galaeron glared up at the ghostly knight, barely able to restrain his dark anger. “You might have warned us.”

“And what would you have learned by that?” Jhingleshod looked away and continued forward, following Melegaunt and Takari into the shadows beneath the next bridge tower. “Were you not strong enough to defeat the servants, I do not think you would have been strong enough to defeat the master.”

Galaeron glared after the rusty knight for a moment, then scooped Vala up and started after him. As they passed into the shadows beneath the bridge tower, she began to stir, her arm slipping around his neck, her eyes fluttering open.

“G-Galaeron?” She seemed barely conscious, hardly able to utter his name. “You … came after me?”

“Did you think I would let you drown?”

“Then we’re alive?”

“At the moment, yes.”

He smiled, and, as they stepped out onto the dry road, Vala’s lips were suddenly pressed to his, her warm tongue dancing softly against his. Surprised as he was, he would not have minded, were it not for the guilty shame in Melegaunt’s eyes—or the hurt in Takari’s.

30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

J\ bevy of meadow quail broke from the grass some miles distant, two dozen plump flecks scattering into the air. The sight of so many juicy birds brought the water to Aubric Nihmedu’s mouth—as it did to the mouths of all the Noble Blades and Lordly Wands tucked into their spider holes across the sun-baked hillside. For a nearly tenday now, the Swords of Evereska had subsisted on crisped lizard and spell-baked mouse, forsaking even cacti and wolfroot for fear that the phaerimm would notice any plant-gathering. It was hardly the ordeal proud aristocrats envisioned when they joined the Swords of Evereska, but no one complained. Since forsaking open combat for ambushes and surprise attacks, they had cut their losses from staggering to merely heavy, and they had killed more than twenty

phaerimm. By Aubric’s estimate, the Swords would need only ten lives apiece to eradicate the remaining phaerimm from the Shaeradim.

Two hundred paces ahead of the quail, a pair of moon foxes darted across a stream, herding four young kits along between them. There was something out there, slinking into the eastern end of the Blazevale—the broad, sand-scoured valley that separated the Sharaedim from the Greycloak Hills to the north. Though curious, Aubric resisted the temptation to augment his keen elf sight with magic. Not two hours before, sentries had sent the Swords scrambling for cover with news of an approaching company. Aubric had to settle for staring out across the plain with his naked eye, waiting patiently for the next hint of the creature’s presence.

Soon enough, he noticed a narrow riffle in the grass. The disturbance was advancing steadily toward a high, bowl-shaped outcrop known as Rocnest, a natural citadel that had housed elf garrisons for nearly a thousand years during the Crown Wars. Though the fortress had been abandoned after the fall of Aryvandaar, its location between Evereska and the Greycloak Hills had lately prompted talk of reclaiming it as a watch post.

Aubric’s heart began to pound faster. The riffle was easily half a mile front to back, too long to be caused by an animal and far too straight. It advanced steadily toward the natural fortress, pausing neither to search for prey or check for predators. There was only one creature that traveled so efficiently, so confidently in the open plain. Aubric flipped the top off his spider hole and turned up the hill, flashing the signal to prepare for battle.

Rhydwych Bourmays, the company artmaster, poked her sable-tressed head out of the next hole. “You cannot be thinking to attack!” she hissed. ‘Ten thornbacks is too many— especially with illithids and beholders to back them up.”

‘Tell your wands to prepare themselves,” Aubric said, sidestepping the argument. “There is help for Evereska out

there, and I won’t stand idle while the phaerimm ambush it.”

Rhydwych arched her thin eyebrows and looked across the plain. “Invisible is good.” She studied the line a few seconds longer, then said, “And fast, I’ll give them that. But help is an exaggeration. There can’t be two hundred riders in the column.”

“We don’t know who those two hundred are, Artmaster— or what they intend.” His tone was sharper than he intended, perhaps because of the disappointment Rhydwych’s question had engendered in his own heart. By the Swords’ best estimate—an estimate they had been unable to communicate to Evereska or anyone else—there were two hundred phaerimm in the Sharaedim. “Will you signal your wands, or must I?”

“No need to get nasty, Lord Nihmedu,” snipped Rhydwych. “I know the ladder of authority—though you may be sure the House of Swords will review it if matters go badly.”

“If matters go badly, they will have no need.”

He shooed Rhydwych off with a wave, then turned to find a watchman bounding down the shoulder of the hill. Aubric signaled his Noble Blades to hold steady, then began to tighten his armor. By the time he finished, the sentry was beside him, and a hundred Swords stood scattered across the hill.

“The phaerimm weren’t hunting us, Aubric.” As a superior noble, it would have been beneath the Gold elf to address Aubric by his title. “They’re on the move.”

“Down the Blazevale, Lord Dureth?”

Dureth nodded. “How—”

“Someone is trying to reach Rocnest.” Aubric pointed toward the grass riffle. “It may be help.”

The elf looked in the direction indicated. “If it is, it’s not much.” Dureth narrowed his eyes, then said, “Unless …”

“Your thoughts do me no good unless you speak them.”

“I’m wondering about the Rocnest,” explained Dureth. “Why trap yourself there—”

“Unless you’ll be able to fight your way out—”

“But you need to defend yourself until you can,” finished Dureth. “Could they be erecting a gate?”

Aubric nodded. “It’s all that makes sense.”

Dureth pointed toward the hill’s western shoulder, which descended gently to the plain near the mouth of the Blazevale. “We’d better hurry. They’ll be closing on the Deadwall.”

Aubric signaled the Swords to follow Dureth. “Lead the way—and quickly.”

The Noble Blade started forward at a steady jog, and Aubric hurried after him. The Deadwall was the intangible barrier the phaerimm had erected around the Sharaedim and Greycloak Hills. It had earned its name not because it killed everything that tried to walk or fly through it—though it did—but because it blocked all magical communication and travel with the outside world. Rhydwych and her mages spent every spare hour trying to defeat the barrier, but had yet to succeed.

The Swords bounded up the slope in utter silence. At the top of the ridge, Dureth, Aubric, and Rhydwych crawled to the crest and peered into the Blazevale.

They found themselves a few hundred paces above the phaerimm, who were advancing toward Rocnest. In addition to the ten thornbacks, there were a dozen illithids, a like number of beholders, and two hundred mindslaves. The slaves were a mixed bunch, mostly humans and bugbears, but with an alarming number of elves as well. A fair number of elves wore the elaborate, beast-head helmets favored by Evereskan nobles. It filled Aubric with despair to recognize a gilt hawk and two stylish lions as the helms of Noble Blades.

Leaving Dureth to skulk along behind the crest and watch the enemy, Aubric and Rhydwych slipped down the slope and led the Swords along a parallel course. Soon enough, the ridge fell to a bare seven feet, and the enemy company streamed out beyond the shoulder to the line of decomposing birds and rabbits that marked the Deadwall. Aubric signaled his company to wait.

On the plain, the ruffle had closed to within four hundred paces of Rocnest. Though it was impossible to tell whether the invisible newcomers had seen the enemy, the phaerimm were making no secret of their presence. They stopped at the Deadwall only long enough for one of their number to run his four hands through a spell, creating a shimmering half-disk of greenish light.

“Four hands! No wonder we couldn’t find the spell!” whispered Rhydwych.

The first two phaerimm pressed themselves to the shimmering doorway and melted through it, their bodies spreading across one side, then oozing out the other. Aubric grimaced. The slow process precluded a mad dash to take the enemy from behind. They would have to fight for the doorway and hold it, like an army claiming a crucial bridge.

The other phaerimm floated through the portal one after the other, leaving the illithids and beholders to herd the mindslaves through. Arrogant as always in their power within the Sharaedim, they were not even worried about being attacked from behind—an unfortunate testament, Aubric realized, to how little damage the Swords had truly inflicted on their enemies.

By the time the last phaerimm had crossed the barrier, the fast-moving newcomers had reached the base of Rocnest—or at least their riffle had. In front of the tor, a steady progression of birds began to take wing as invisible warriors fanned out to set up an advanced defense line.

The phaerimm huddled together arguing, filling the air with strange whistles and angry gestures. After a few wasted moments, they returned to the Deadwall and created nine more shimmering portals. The beholders and illithids began to shove mindslaves through en masse, while the thornbacks worked frantically to arrange them into battle ranks. Aubric could not help smiling. It was the first time he had seen anyone disrupt a phaerimm plan.

The newcomers seemed eager to press. A dozen golden

meteors arced away from Rocnest, landing short of the phaerimm lines, but exploding into huge curtains of amber fire.

“That’s Vhoorflame!” hissed Rhydwych.

Aubric raised a finger to his lips, drawing an irritated—but silent—scowl. He did not take offense, for he understood the excitement that had led to her exclamation. Vhoorflame was a specialty of Evermeet’s fleet mages, invented for the rare occasions when the island nation found it necessary to defend itself at sea.

A stiff wind—no doubt magical—rose behind the flames and drove it toward the Blazevale. The mindslaves grew agitated and more difficult to arrange, angering the phaerimm enough that they killed a handful as an example. That only sent the others into a panic, and several dozen turned to flee through the portals back into the Sharaedim.