The Summoning (34 page)

Huge webs of yellow-green filaments began to appear in the branches. Galaeron kept watch for ball-shaped silhouettes and sticklike legs. Instead of spiders, he started to see slender leaves and moldy pods clinging to the tendrils. As they climbed away from the river, the vines grew longer and the vegetation thicker, until it became difficult to see more than a few paces. It was impossible to walk without brushing against the vines, and soon after their hands and faces erupted into white boils. Aris used his prayer magic to powder a stone and create an ointment that reduced the sores to an itchy rash, though Malik refused the salve out of fear of offending his god. To the amazement of all, he continued at as strong a pace as anyone, even when the blisters began weeping and he had to cut his eyelids to keep them from swelling shut.

The vines began to grow in broken squares and straight meshwork, taking the shape of the ruins beneath. Jhingleshod walked more quietly and carefully now, prompting Galaeron to send Takari ahead to scout and take a position beside Vala. Malik and Melegaunt remained in the center, with Aris in the rear. As they advanced deeper into the city, the patterns grew more regular and even, arranging themselves into crooked streets and sunlit meadows that had once been plazas.

Vala kept her hand on her sword, her eyes following Takari’s stealthy figure with remarkable ease for a human. After a time, she said to Galaeron, “You shouldn’t have said that to Takari. She’s only trying to protect you—and me.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.”

“Maybe not,” said Vala. “But then, you didn’t hear what she told Jhingleshod about why she wanted to cross the bridge.”

“Whatever she said, it is not her place to protect me from our relationship.” Galaeron glanced over at Vala. “Not that there is a relationship.”

“No?” Vala glanced at him sidelong, her mouth cocked in a crooked smile. “Then why should you care what she says about it?”

“I prefer to make those choices myself,” said Galaeron. “As I’m sure you do.”

“We have a saying in Vaasa,” she said. “In love and death, only the gods choose.”

“It sounds a handy excuse,” said Galaeron.

Vala gave him a roguish smile. “One that makes life interesting.” She watched Takari poking her sword into a tangled mass of vine, then asked Galaeron, “When you told Jhingleshod you were seeking pardon for your mistake, was that the truth?”

“More than I knew,” Galaeron said. “It had to be, or I doubt Jhingleshod would have let me pass.”

“I thought so.” Vala remained quiet for a moment, then said, “I had to think carefully, but Takari didn’t hesitate.”

“I take it the answer concerned me?”

Vala nodded. ‘Takari said she had to cross because you’re her spirit-deep mate … and you refused to see it”

“She …” Galaeron closed his eyes. “She knows I don’t return her affections.”

“Because of your father’s pain,” Vala said carefully “Or so she says.”

“That’s part of it,” said Galaeron. “Moon and Wood elves

live different lives. When they join, sooner or later there will always be sadness.”

“Of course.” Vala sounded almost irritated with him. “Sooner or later, every joy comes to an end—but that is a poor reason to turn your back on the gifts the gods do send your way.”

“I’m just being prudent,” said Galaeron. “I’m not turning my back on any gift from the gods.”

“Oh, I think you are.” Vala’s voice turned teasing. “And you will be sorry. There is no fury worse than Sune’s when she has been rejected!”

“Fortunately, I am an elf,” laughed Galaeron. “I doubt our Hanali Celanil is so vengeful as your Sune,”

“Maybe, but Takari isn’t the only woman I’ve been talking about, you know.”

An owl hoot rang out ahead, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end. Galaeron drew his sword and saw a vine web fluttering as Takari vanished into the trees. Jhingleshod was continuing up the street, paying no heed to whatever had alarmed Takari. Galaeron suspected their guide of betraying them—until a half-rotten corpse dashed out of a side lane and hurled itself headlong into the iron knight’s flank.

Jhingleshod rocked up as though he might fall, then brought his axe down and split the ghoul through the side. He turned to Galaeron and pointed down the lane.

“Beware those dead, elf.” There was a hint of mockery in the knight’s bleak voice. “They have a hatred of the living.”

Vala at his side, Galaeron started forward to block the attack, but heard a warning chirp from Takari’s tree and turned in the opposite direction. He found himself staring at an alley full of monks, their eyes sunken and their robes in tatters, but looking as alive as Galaeron. Behind him, Vala’s sword hissed through the air on the opposite side of the street. There was a wet slash, the thud of a falling body, another slash, another thud.

Galaeron pointed his sword at the first monk, now less

than a dozen paces away “Stand and name yourselves!”

The entire company of monks stretched their arms out, turning their hands palm up as though begging alms. When they continued forward without speaking, Galaeron whistled the clear tee-yeer of a meadowlark. He was answered by the hum of a bowstring, and a warning arrow appeared in the dirt in front of the leading monk.

The monks stopped, their gazes following the angle of the arrow into the nest of vines from which it had come, but Galaeron knew without looking that Takari was already gone. He quietly pulled a ball of sulfur wax from his pocket.

“Name yourselves or go.”

The first monk responded to the challenge with an incomprehensible moan. Behind Galaeron, Vala’s sword continued its gruesome work, and now he heard Aris’s mighty club and Melegaunt’s bellowing voice as well. Malik remained as silent as usual during battle, but the elf had no doubt the little man would appear when needed most.

The lead monk cautiously stepped around the arrow and continued forward, his cupped hands still stretched before him. Finally convinced he was looking at undead impostors, Galaeron tossed his sulfur ball into the group and spoke his incantation. The cold magic filled him for an instant, and the alley erupted into black fire. Galaeron backed away from a long tongue of dark flame, then beheaded a pair of blazing monks as they staggered from the alley.

A powerful hand clamped Galaeron’s shoulder. Surprised, he jammed his elbow back and drove his attacker off a step, then spun with sword flying. By the time he realized it was Melegaunt, his edge was an inch from the wizard’s head. Galaeron tried to pull the attack, but to no avail. The blade caught Melegaunt square in the temple.

There was a black flash and dull ping as the edge stopped. Pain sizzled up Galaeron’s arm, then his hand opened and let the sword fall to the ground.

Melegaunt touched three fingertips to his head and came

away with a thin smear of blood. “Is this how you repay my gift? By defying me at every turn?”

“1 can hardly be blamed for your stupidity” Still trembling, Galaeron stooped down to retrieve his sword. “Grabbing a warrior in the middle of a fight—what’s wrong with you?”

Melegaunt stepped on Galaeron’s sword. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I used the magic, yes. It was necessary.”

Behind Melegaunt, a ghoul slipped past Vala. One of Takari’s arrows took it square in the forehead and knocked it off its feet, but the creature merely rolled to its knees and snapped off the shaft.

Galaeron tried to jerk his sword free, but found the wizard’s foot impossible to move. “The magic hasn’t hurt me. I’m more in control than before.”

“Yes, I have seen how well you are mastering your shadow” Melegaunt touched his head again, then flung a hand in the ghoul’s direction and blasted it into a dozen pieces. “Leave the magic to me.”

The wizard started up the street after Jhingleshod, calmly directing Vala and Aris against individual ghouls and wights while he blasted larger concentrations with shadow magic. Galaeron gathered his sword and followed behind, quietly venting his anger on any creatures foolish enough to come his way The undead continued to assault them in erratic fits, occasionally stopping a short distance away to attack with a spell, screech, or gaze. Sneaking along through the treetops, Takari prevented such attacks from succeeding, usually by distracting the creature with an arrow until Melegaunt could blast it. Twice, Malik saved the company by appearing out of nowhere to harry a lurking wight or ghoul until someone more adept could destroy it.

Eventually, the attacks grew less frequent, then, when an enormous butte of red stone began to loom over the treetops, ceased altogether. Jhingleshod guided them to a barren plaza near the head of the butte. There was no sign of the black

pyramid he had described Wulgreth entering.

“1 believe that is what you seek.”

“It is,” said Melegaunt “The fallen body of Karsus.”

The butte did resemble a body—albeit a broken and twisted one. The small knoll closest to them looked like a head resting on its side, with a round oversized forehead, hooked nose, and thin-lipped mouth over a weak chin. There was a bent and crooked arm coiled at an unnatural angle, a sunken chest and the round swell of a pot belly—at nearly a hundred feet above the surrounding ground, easily the butte’s highest point. From the side of the chest at about heart level, gushed the source of the Heartblood River, a frothy red spring that flowed away in a meandering stream.

“1 see why the refugees took it for a dead god,” said Vala. “It certainly looks like a god’s body”

“It is a god’s body—though Karsus was a god for only an instant,” said Melegaunt.

“And this dead god will save Evereska how?” asked Galaeron, seeing no sign of the help Melegaunt had promised. “You can’t mean to resurrect him.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” said Melegaunt. “But first we must find the black pyramid.”

“First, you must find Wulgreth,” said Jhingleshod. “You cannot enter the pyramid until you keep your promise.”

“As you wish.” Despite Melegaunt’s words, his tone was impatient. ‘Tell us where to look.”

Jhingleshod ran his gaze over the plaza. “He should have made his presence known by now”

Melegaunt turned to Galaeron. “You’re the tomb guard. What’s Wulgreth planning?”

“Maybe nothing.” Galaeron turned to Jhingleshod and asked, “How long has it been since you last saw him?”

Jhingleshod looked at the sky. “Time is difficult to judge, but several winters. It might have been eight or nine—or a dozen. It is hard to know.”

“But it has been some time?” asked Takari.

Jhingleshod nodded. “Since before Tianna Skyflower and her ilk began to roam the Dire Wood.”

“That makes it nearly a decade,” said Takari. She looked to Galaeron. “What do you think?”

Galaeron shrugged, knowing without asking what she was thinking. Often, liches evolved into beings of pure spirit, forsaking their bodies to wander other worlds beyond Toril. When that happened, their corpses began to decay, until all that remained was a skull and some dust to which the lich had only the most tenuous attachment. It was often easier to destroy such creatures than younger liches, but Galaeron knew better than to think they would be that lucky—especially if Wulgreth had only been gone a decade.

Galaeron shook his head. “We’ll keep it in mind, but there’s too much that doesn’t make sense here. The Netherese Wulgreth is certainly old enough, but not the one Jhingleshod served—and there’s that time gap to consider.”

“So what do we do?” asked Malik.

“The only thing we can do,” said Galaeron. “Draw it out.”

30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

From atop the Karsus Butte, the ruins of Karse seemed one huge mold blossom, sickly yellow and reeking of decay, studded with shadowtop snags and crisscrossed by dragonflies the size of eagles. There was a tornado of crimson mist whirling down the Heartblood River and a curtain of smoking hail sweeping across the ruins, but Galaeron had been assured by Jhingleshod that such “wizard weather” had nothing to do with the lich. Strange storms had plagued the area since long before Wulgreth’s death. Galaeron and the others were standing on Karsus’s “chest,” outside a two-story pyramid of black marble. Though the building’s darkness and gloss were a stark contrast to butte’s coarse sandstone, the pyramid seemed melded to the rock, almost as though it had been grown instead of built Aris was

studying the workmanship, but everyone else was keeping watch for Wulgreth.

“Anything?” Galaeron asked.

“Flaming rain and green lightning,” reported Vala.

“Silver snow by the steaming lake,” said Takari. “It can’t be more than a couple of miles. Maybe a bath—”

“No!”

Melegaunt and Jhingleshod spoke over each other, the wizard declaring they had important business at hand and Jhingleshod claiming that distances within the Dire Wood were deceiving.

Takari pouted. “We’ve already wasted an hour.”

“An hour you do not have,” said a wispy voice.

Galaeron and everyone else spun toward the sound and found themselves looking at a pale, quivering Malik.

“On my life, I said nothing!”

Galaeron frowned—since the sunken bridge, it seemed people were always giving him reason to be suspicious—then he noticed a powerful-looking silhouette at Malik’s feet. Galaeron gestured with his sword.

“Malik, your shadow has returned.”

Malik looked down. “What a joy to have you back!”

“You must know I cannot say the same.” As the shadow spoke, its antlers grew thinner, and the fuzzy hole in its chest began to close. “It is bad enough to follow a man about like a slave one’s whole life, but when that man is the inept seraph of a—”

“Enough!” growled Melegaunt. “You have something to report, shadow?”

“I do.” The antlers grew as thin as twigs, and the crimson eyes turned pale. “There was a fight in the swamp, but only one creature survived.”

“Which one?”

“A human.” The shadow’s voice was soft and wispy, almost inaudible. “With the pipe and …”

“Elminster?”