The Summoning (38 page)

Melegaunt opened his hands and bowed so deeply that his brow touched the silvery pond. “My Princes, welcome back to Faerűn.”

“Stand, young brother.” The largest, a copper-eyed brute nearly three heads taller than Vala, motioned Melegaunt upright. “That is the heavy magic?”

“It is,” said Melegaunt.

Paying no mind to the others in the chamber, the rest of the princes waded to Melegaunt’s side. Galaeron and the others followed, but stopped a respectful distance away.

“All has gone according to plan?” asked the copper-eyed figure. “We are ready to proceed?”

Melegaunt’s face betrayed the barest hesitation. “All has gone well, my lord Escanor, but one matter may trouble us.”

The horn-helmeted prince cast an admonishing glance at Galaeron’s hip. Galaeron looked down, but did not realize what the dark warrior was staring at until he felt Takari pull his hand away from his sword.

“I think that would be foolish, my princep,” she whispered.

The murky warrior looked back to Melegaunt without comment.

The one called Escanor said, “Yes, young brother?”

“I have spoken of one called Elminster,” said Melegaunt.

“The gray-bearded Chosen,” said the horned warrior. “We have observed him. A powerful ally—or an inconvenient enemy. Which?”

“That is yet to be decided, my lord Rivalen, but I fear unexpected events have turned him a little against us. As you know, his parents were slain by a shadow mage, and that has made him suspicious of us. Only two days ago, he tried to stop us from entering the Dire Wood, and I have been informed by a darksentry that even now he comes after us. I fear he would think to interfere with the Return—and he has the power to do it.”

Rivalen and Escanor glanced at each other.

“We will need to set matters straight with him before proceeding, that is all,” said Escanor. “And these unexpected events?”

Melegaunt motioned Galaeron into the circle. “Galaeron Nihmedu is in a shadow crisis and losing badly” Several princes cast knowing looks at each, and Melegaunt continued, “He has done much to aid our cause. Through no fault of his, he and I opened the Sharn Wall in Evereska instead of Hartsvale.”

“The phaerimm are out already?” gasped Rivalen.

Melegaunt hung his head. “My fault entirely. I chose a poor place to meet my darkswords, and Galaeron’s patrol took us for tomb robbers. They were not to blame.”

“There is no blame here,” said Escanor. “We will adjust

our plan, that is all.” He looked to Galaeron. “We cannot undo the anguish your people have already suffered, but your home will be saved—have no fear of that.”

“The war will be farther south,” Rivalen said. “Unfortunate, but no great disaster.”

“Evereska has a mythal,” warned Melegaunt.

Rivalen shrugged. “And it will take a little longer than planned.” He clasped Galaeron’s shoulder. “But it will be won. On that, you have the word of the Twelve Princes of Shade.”

Galaeron’s first thought was of what the prince left unsaid. “At what cost to Evereska? It is well and good to slay the phaerimm, but not if you mean to fight the war on elf lands.”

Rivalen exchanged a concerned look with the others, then a third prince, the square-chinned one who had arisen in front of Galaeron, stepped forward.

“I know it is difficult during your shadow-struggle, but you must trust us. Evereska will suffer—it has already suffered, as you must know—and we will do what we can to help. But it is the phaerimm who attack your land, not us. We did not set them to it any more than you did.”

“But
did,” Galaeron said, nearly collapsing beneath the weight of his mistake. “I ordered the wrong spell,”p>

“You did your duty,” said the prince. “You would have been remiss not to attack to your best judgment. Any blame you feel comes from your shadow, no one else. You must ignore it, or you are lost.”

The prince’s words lifted the burden from Galaeron’s heart a little—but not as much as when Takari slipped her arm through his.

“Listen to the murky one, my princep. He is telling you what everyone who was there already knows.”

Galaeron nodded. “I’ll try”

“Good,” said Melegaunt. “And well be there to help—so long as you stop casting spells.”

“And I will see to that,” said Vala, coming to take Galaeron’s other arm.

Rivalen smiled, baring a pair of fangs that would not have looked out of place on a vampire. “Good. Now, we must be off.”

“What of Wulgreth?” Jhingleshod shoved his way into the circle and glared at Melegaunt. “Do not think—”

“1 would not think of it,” said the archwizard. He turned to Escanor. “There is the matter of a small promise I made to this spirit. Can you dispel all the magic in the room above?”

Escanor eyed the iron knight, then motioned the other princes toward the ceiling exit. “As you wish.” He started to rise after the others. “We’ll do it on our way out.”

“On your way out?” Melegaunt waved a hand at the Karsestone.

“We must deal with these little problems,” said Rivalen. “And from the sound of it, the sooner the better.”

“But what of the Return?”

Escanor smiled broadly, baring a mouthful of needle-thin fangs. “That honor is for you, young brother. Levitate the boulder into the sky, then use your magic to call our people home.”

“Me?” Melegaunt gasped. “I am the lowest of us all!”

“But the most worthy,” said Escanor. “You cannot have forgotten the words.”

“Never.” Now it was Melegaunt who smiled. “Hear me now, people of Shade. Follow me now, for the Return is at hand!”

30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

j\ hoarse phaerimm whistle rasped through the stone trees above Elminster, prompting him to hurl his ample bulk through a tangle of the Dire Wood’s poison vines. He rolled out the other side with astonishing grace for a man of his considerable age, then spun around to find a cascade of harmless gray spiders fluttering to the ground before him. The archmage spied a pair of fiery lich-eyes peering over a vine-shrouded wall opposite him and countered with a swarm of meteors that turned into a colony of bees, then the phaerimm—there were two of them, floating through the treetops above the street— unleashed their own flurry of magic. Three silver rays disintegrated into scintillating rainbows, two black death beams became winged snakes and flew off, and one spell actually worked, a lightning bolt

that dissipated against Elminster’s spellguard in a silver flash.

Such was any battle in a wild magic area, nine parts futility and one part danger. Seeing Wulgreth starting to rise into view—with a fringe of coarse hair, noseless rotting face, and lipless skeleton’s mouth, the lich looked much the same as the hundreds Elminster had disposed of during his long lifetime—the archmage spun around and crashed down a vine-choked ally. At the corner, he turned toward the center of the city, hoping to circle back to the main road and follow the trail of mangled corpses to Melegaunt and the others.

That the shadow wizard had destroyed so many undead in the middle of the largest wild magic area on Faerűn spoke volumes to Elminster. It also raised some disturbing questions—many, many disturbing questions. He had faced enough shadow mages to know they drew their magic from some dark power that slowly corrupted them, inexorably twisting them into monstrous mockeries of themselves. He had long suspected that the dark power was not part of the Weave, a suspicion now confirmed by the fact that Melegaunt’s magic worked well in an area where the lingering effects of Karsus’s madness had twisted the Weave into an unpredictable snarl.

What Elminster did not know and hoped to learn before this day ended was the exact nature of that other source of magic—and which god controlled it. He had his suspicions, of course. As Mystra’s enemy, Cyric would go to great lengths to create a source of magic other than the Weave, and Talos the Destroyer had long been attempting to wrest a part of the Weave from her control. The now certain knowledge that someone had succeeded was enough to make even Elminster’s silver fire-warmed blood run cold. There was already more than enough evil in the world to keep the Balance— even without its own special source of magic.

Elminster darted down a vine-choked lane back to the main street, and stepping over the cleaved body of a wight, renewed his pursuit. After his fight against the phaerimm

outside the Dire Wood and the running battle he had been waging against Wulgreth since crossing the bridge, there was nothing he would have enjoyed more than nice spell of flying—he just didn’t want to turn into a butterfly. He continued down the road in a heavy-footed jog, keeping one hand close to his wand belt and hazarding a glance over his shoulder every ten paces.

The silhouette of Karse Butte was just beginning to loom above the treetops when a chirrupy voice sounded inside his mind. Elminster, haven’t… Khelben … days … should… try Rocnest… twenty… wizards.

Garbled as the sending was by wild magic, Elminster understood enough that he forgot to watch his feet and tripped. He landed sprawled on his hands and knees, huffing for breath and shaking with fatigue. Only twenty, Laeral?

If Laeral answered, it was lost in the cacophony of clanging and banging that erupted around him. Elminster rolled and found himself being buried under an avalanche of cake steel. Heavy as the ingots were, they merely bounced off his body shield and piled around him, but he was more concerned to find Wulgreth standing outside the shower, ready to attack the instant it was safe. The touch of a lich could paralyze even one of the Chosen, which would instantly trigger his evasion magic and—under normal circumstances—whisk him to his Safehold to recover. Given the wild magic in the area, however, he doubted even Mystra herself could say where he would find himself.

Better to try something over which he might have more control. Elminster envisioned the vine-tangle he had left a few moments earlier, then uttered a single mystic word.

There was a brief moment of black timeless falling, then he found himself staring at an overgrown street through a tangle of thin-leaved vines. He was familiar enough with the afterdaze of teleporting to recognize the effects instantly and trust that he would remember where he was and why he was there in a moment, but something seemed especially strange about this

time. He felt both hugely large and unable to move, and for some reason he seemed to be holding his arms spread wide.

He saw a pair of phaerimm come floating past about a dozen feet below his nose and remembered if not what he was, at least where he was—in a wild magic area in the Dire Wood, fighting a running battle against Wulgreth and trying to escape an army of pursuing phaerimm—and something had gone wrong.

The phaerimm were about a quarter the size they should have been, and the overgrown street was no wider than a foot path, and the petrified trees looked no larger than a man. One of the huge dragonflies buzzed past, snatching a small black finch that looked no larger than a mosquito, and Elminster had a sinking feeling in his … no, it wasn’t his stomach. It was more like his trunk. He tried to turn his head and discovered he could not.

The dragonfly buzzed back by and landed on an outspread branch, its mandibles popping as it consumed the black finch. Elminster let out a sigh too deep to be heard by any creature that was not a tree, then saw the phaerimm zip past in the wrong direction and vanish into the tangled wood.

Elminster stood motionless and quiet for a moment—it was about all he could do—trying to imagine what kind of magic a mere lich could possibly have summoned that would frighten two phaerimm so. Then he heard a murky voice call his name and realized Wulgreth had not frightened the creatures at all. Another voice called for him, then yet a third. He recognized a little of Melegaunt’s accent and timbre in both, but they were deeper and more powerful, and more assured of themselves—far more assured.

Too wise to reveal himself in his present condition, Elminster did not even try to speak. He could escape with a mere thought, so the tree seemed a safe enough place to hide for now The deep voices continued to call out, drawing closer each time, and twelve murk-swaddled figures soon marched into view.

They looked vaguely human, but with the grotesque features he had long ago learned to associate with shadow magic, and they were by far the largest, most powerful looking men he had ever seen. Most wore the dress of warriors, several the cloaks of wizards, and two were shrouded in clerical robes. They all had the brightly-colored eyes of creatures from the lower planes, and an aura of darkness seemed to swirl around them like fog.

The largest, a copper-eyed brute as tall as an ogre, stopped and turned to the others. “If he is here, he is hidden well. I see nothing in the shadows.”

A figure in a horned helm spread his palms in resignation. “Then we must make him find us.”

“How so, Rivalen?” asked the first. “He is not one to be so easily manipulated, and we have other problems to attend to.”

“Let three of us go to Evereska, and three to Hidden Lake,” said Rivalen. “That will leave six for Shadowdale. I am sure Elminster will find us then.”

It had to be the loneliest camp in Faerűn, a single tent in the heart of a barren salt pan, a young father staring across the horizon at the white winter sun, a haggard mother dripping water into her children’s mouths one sip at a time, a bony camel so sick and weary it did not even groan. Earlier in the day, the camel had collapsed on the waterskin, and the children had pressed their faces to the salt and made themselves sick trying to lap up the last drops of water. The mother had walled and beat her husband’s chest, and the husband had struck her and turned away to hide his tears. That much the princes had read in the twilight shadows, and they could guess what would come tomorrow. Even in winter, no one crossed the Shoal of Thirst without water.

The irony was not lost on the three princes. To the east, a mantle of shadowy clouds was already coalescing out of the

empty twilight. They were bringing water—enough to mire the camel, enough to sweep away the tent and all it contained—but water would not save the family Quite the opposite. Even if these desert nomads knew how to swim, they could not swim for miles.