The Summoning (39 page)

The princes rolled to their sides, peeling themselves out of the tent’s shadow, then rose to their feet in a silent motion. There was a deep bristling as their bodies returned to shape, followed by the cold nausea that always accompanied a flight through the shadow deep.

It took only an instant for the feelings to pass, but by then the camel had raised its nose to test the air, and that was the only alarm the family required. The mother called her children and disappeared into the tent, and the husband leaped to his feet, his scimitar clearing its scabbard.

Brennus spread his palms to show they were empty. “By the Little Gods, friend, we mean no harm.”

The nomad looked past the three princes across the darkening salt pan, then peered around the other side of the tent to make certain no accomplices lurked there. Only then, when he was sure they were alone, did he speak.

“What would you have of me, djinn? As you can see, I have nothing worth stealing—save my daughter, and I will slay her myself before I let you make her a slave.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Brennus bent at his waist “We beg your forgiveness, but a small party cannot be too careful in a place such as this.”

The nomad eyed the trio warily. “You do not have the look of those who need worry.”

Brennus avoided the temptation to smile, knowing his ceremonial fangs would alarm the nomad. “It is often a mistake to judge men by their appearance. We are not djinn.”

“I have no desire to argue the point,” the nomad replied. “Name your business or be gone.”

“You would do well to curb that tongue,” said Brennus’s brother Lamorak. With night almost upon them, Lamorak’s

swarthy face had assumed an almost spectral murkiness. “It makes no difference to us whether you live or die.”

The knuckles on the nomad’s sword hand whitened, and Brennus realized the threat angered the man more than frightened him.

“We are not here to hurt you, only to warn you,” Brennus said. “Pack your things quickly This place will soon be a mire.”

“The Shoal of Thirst? A mire?” The nomad looked at the first stars twinkling in the west. “1 do not think so. The heavens themselves do not hold that much water.”

“The heavens hold more water than you know.” Brennus pointed east, where a wall of purple clouds was already sweeping in from the dusky mountains. “Enough to fill the Shoal of Thirst and sweep away your tent. Enough to drown your camel and your children, too.”

“There is no reason to believe it will all fall here,” the nomad said stubbornly. “Only a djinn would claim to know otherwise.”

“Call us what you will,” growled Lamorak. “We know.”

“Surely you noticed the casting,” said the third prince, Yder. “You could hardly have missed it.”

“That was your doing?” The nomad’s swarthy face grew sallow and yellow. “That ground-shaking thunder, and the black bolt that tore the sky?”

“We didn’t know you were camped in Hidden Lake.” As Brennus spoke, whirling clouds of salt-laden air began to skip through the camp, drawing an alarmed groan from the camel and gasps of surprise from inside the tent. “You must hurry. The rain will soon be falling in sheets.”

“Sheets of rain?” The nomad looked east and saw the black wall of rain. “By the light of Elah!”

The wife pushed her head out of the tent, her face veiled by a purple scarf, her eyes rimmed in kohl. “Shall I pack, my husband?”

“What good would it do?” the nomad gasped. “We cannot

outrun the wind! Better to wait in the khreima while it passes.”

“If you wait in your khreima, you will drown in your khreima,” said Brennus.

The nomad narrowed his eyes. “Surely, those who can summon the rains can send them back?”

“Do you think such magic is easy to work?” demanded Lamorak. “A matter of a few syllables and a handful of powdered silver?” He turned to the woman, pointing a talonlike finger at her veiled face. “If you wish to live, pack your things.”

The woman’s eyes grew round, and she looked to her husband for instruction. He glared at Lamorak. “What would you have us do? Fly to the Sister of Rains?”

Brennus interposed himself between the man and his brother. “And if you could?”

“Men do not have wings, berrani.”

“They do not need them.” Brennus took a strand of shadow silk from his pocket and shaped it into a small ring, then tossed it on the ground and spoke a single mystic word. The circle swelled to the size of small wagon, then darkened and floated off the ground. “There are other ways.”

“Not for the Bedine.” The nomad brought his scimitar down on the flying disk, slicing it down the center. “The Bedine do not abide the magic of devils!”

The two halves dropped to the ground and melted into the twilight darkness. Brennus watched the pieces disappear, then looked back to the nomad.

“As you wish.”

The winds arrived in a whistling flurry of salt and mist, and Brennus signaled his brothers. They backed away from the camp, fading into the darkness with silent acts of will.

“We Princes of Shade are hardly devils,” Brennus said. “Not even close.”

Elminster returned to find Shadowdale blanketed in war smoke. Exhausted as he was by his long fight against Wulgreth, the archmage circled the village, reconnoitering the battle before joining himself. The clang and crackle of hard-fought combat rose from a dozen places along a great circle scribed by Toad Knoll, Castle Krag, and Harper’s Hill. Golden bolts of magic flashed back and forth along the length of Shadow Ridge, silver lightning limned the walls of Castle Krag, swarms of meteors flew over the Ashaba down by Mirrorman’s Mill.

Much as he longed to swoop to the defense of each embattled townsman, Elminster bided his time. His battle against Wulgreth had left him exhausted physically and magically He had used half his spells before becoming trapped in the tree, and most of the rest—including his emergency evasion spell, the last of his teleports, and both worldwalking spells—escaping Wulgreth (again) in the wild magic area. He left the Dire Wood with only three magic-dispelling spells, a single set of golden bolts, three speed enchantments, and the ability to fly.

These last four spells he had expended on a triple-hasted flight across Anauroch—with a long detour around the Shoal of Thirst, where the most furious storm he had ever seen was pouring water into the ancient lake bed—and a breakneck descent into the Dales… where nothing made sense. Elminster had expected to find Rivalen and five other princes attacking Shadowdale, yet he could see a dozen separate batties raging in the woods. Moreover, he saw no sign of shadow magic, only the standard bolts and blasts, with a little bit of arrow-and axe-work for good measure. If Rivalen and his brothers were here, they were disguising themselves well.

Finally, Elminster spied the blinding swarm of bolts for which he had been searching and dropped through the trees onto Mistledale Mount, where a small line of warriors were working their way through the undergrowth toward a charred phaerimm. In their midst ran the tall, smoky, as-always-stunning figure of Storm Silverhand.

Too weary to run, Elminster called, “Storm, lass! Wait for me.”

Storm whirled, eyes flashing and ready to fling fire. “Elminster, there you are!” Her voice was not exactly joyful, and she was slow to lower her spell-ready hand. “Would you please tell me what in the Nine Hells you’re doing?”

“Me?” Elminster gasped. “I’ve been in the Dire Wood chasing a shadow mage—or twelve, as it happens—too long a story to tell now.” He waved at the phaerimm’s crisped form. “What’s this? Have the phaerimm decided Evereska is not enough to chew in a bite?”

“I doubt they care what is happening in Evereska.” Storm was looking as puzzled as Elminster felt. “These phaerimm came from Myth Drannor, demanding that you stop your assassinations.”

“What?” Elminster jammed his pipe into his mouth. “These killings, do they continue?”

“I assume so, since the phaerimm continue to attack.” Storm sounded less angry than intrigued. “There’ve been seven so far.”

Elminster cocked a brow. “Been doing well, have 1 not?”

“I thought so,” Storm answered cautiously.

Elminster lit his pipe with the flick of a finger. “How are matters here?”

“Not bad,” she said. “Between Sylune, Mourngrym, and myself, we have killed nearly a dozen, and I don’t think the phaerimm want this any more than we do.”

“I imagine not” Elminster took a long puff, then extinguished his pipe with a word. “Well, let’s put a stop to it then. Stay out of sight and follow me.”

“Follow you where?” Storm asked.

But Elminster was already in the air, streaking toward his tower to collect a few necessaries for the upcoming battle. The princes were clearly trying to lure him to Myth Drannor, no doubt reasoning it would be wiser to attack him away from his home territory. With a little luck, their ambush would be

set up along the Ashaba somewhere near Shadowdale, and he and Storm would be gone only a short time.

Given his luck over the past couple of days, Elminster should have known better. As he approached his tower, a half dozen murky figures stepped out of the shadows and arrayed themselves before the entrances. There was the horn-helmed one called Rivalen, a square-chinned one in wizard robes, a cleric with a face as round as a dark moon, and three more swaddled in dark tabards that might have been covering armor or mere flesh.

Like all good assassins, they wasted no time with preliminaries. The square-chinned wizard took the lead, launching himself straight at Elminster, his dark fingers already flashing through a spell to dismiss his foe’s magic shields. Elminster countered with his own dispelling enchantment, and Storm sent a ball of silver fire over his shoulder toward the wizard.

Elminster had a bare moment to wonder if that was a good idea, then the sphere of blazing raw magic struck the shadow mage’s spell shield. Instead of blasting through the barrier, as it would have any normal protection, the silver fire spread over the wizard’s shadowy shield, silhouetting his body in white radiance. The shadow mage howled and covered his eyes, then the silver fire imploded, crushing the fellow in its iron grip and shrinking to a brilliant orb barely the size of an eyeball.

The remaining shadow princes countered with a volley of dark bolts and black flame. For the first time in a century— perhaps twice that—Elminster actually cringed at the thought of what might happen next The attacks came roaring and thundering at him—then suddenly curved toward the silvery sphere and vanished from sight

A deafening rip filled the air, and the silvery orb stretched into a jagged line. Elminster pulled his thumb away from the ring it had been rubbing and pointed at the ground.

Too late. The blue ray extended only feet from his hand, then curved upward and vanished into the crooked streak of

brilliance—as did the lightning bolt Storm sent dancing over his shoulder. There was another zipping sound, so powerful Elminster felt it in his guts. The jagged line expanded into a rift—a deep, silver-sided crevasse with crimson flames at its bottom—and continued to expand.

“By all the holy gods, it’s—if s ripping!”

It took Elminster a moment to realize he was the one yelling—and even he was not sure exactly what was ripping-He knew only that he had seen those fuming swirls once before, when, searching for a lover as cherished as she was flawed, he had dared look where no man should.

And now those same flames were licking at Shadowdale, boiling out of the Nine Hells to lap at his beloved home. The raw magic of his silver fire had fused with the shadow mage’s dark magic and imploded, tearing a hole in the world fabric itself. It was, he realized, exactly what had happened when Galaeron’s magic bolt struck Melegaunt’s shadow magic at the Sharn Wall—but the things that might flee this breach would make the phaerimm look like mere cantrip-tossing goblins.

When the rift continued to open, the shadow princes drew their dark weapons and began to circle warily. Though hardly concerned about Shadowdale’s safety, they were as surprised by the breach as Elminster—and hardly eager to get themselves knocked inside. Storm took advantage of their hesitation to unsheathe her own sword and start forward.

Elminster raised an arm to stop her. “No.”

“But these shadow princes—”

“Are welcome to follow me, if they dare.” Elminster glared at the circling princes. Seeing no sign that any of them intended to accept his invitation, he shooed Storm away. “See ye to the phaerimm. Ill tend to this other trouble from the inside.”

“From the inside?” Storm stopped outside the circle of shadow princes and cast a wary eye toward the widening rift. “Elminster, tell me you’re not—”

“But 1 must, dear Storm.” Elminster started forward. “I can’t have the Nine Hells erupting beneath my own tower, can I?”

The flames leaped up, a lot like a lover’s arms reaching for an old friend, and Elminster flew into Hell.

30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

Galaeron spread the last coffer of gems across the table. Melegaunt passed first one hand, then the other over the stones. Finding nothing, he worked his way around the table, repeating the process from all sides to be certain his hand passed over every stone. Finally, he shook his head.

“No magic, no evil. If Wulgreth’s life-force is here, it’s undetectable by my best magic.”

Unable to control his frustration, Galaeron swept the gems onto the pile of scintillating wealth already heaped on the floor. Malik, kneeling half-buried in the heap, winced as they struck him, then began to sort with a expert eye, pitching the most valuable stones into the second of two large coffers he intended his beloved horse to carry back Vala, who had grown more distrustful since learning he

was the Seraph of Lies, eyed him suspiciously

“Have you taken anything that wasn’t checked?”

“I have touched nothing that did not come from the table,” Malik replied. “Do you think 1 am eager to keep a lich in the treasury of my new manor?”

“If you’re lying—”