The Summoning, page 26
Aubric clambered over the rocks toward Rocnest, searching the sky for the last two creatures. The booming voices of the high mages continued unabated, as did the cries of the wounded and the rumble of shifting stone, but an ominous pause had descended over the battle itself. By the time he reached the base of the cliff, the dust cloud had thinned to a mere haze.
Dureth came up beside him. “Aubric, you look in a bad way.”
Aubric nodded and searched the landslide below. “Did you see what became of the last two phaerimm?”
A worried look came to Dureth’s eye. “No.”
“Then tell those who can to hurry.” Aubric turned toward the cliff. There was perhaps fifty feet of vertical face, then another hundred of steep bowl where the avalanche had caved away. He sheathed his sword and looped a coil of rope over his shoulder. “I’ll see you above.”
Dureth caught his arm. “You can’t do this, my friend,” he said. “Not alone.”
“How can I not?” Climbing as nimbly as a spider despite his wound, Aubric started up the cliff. “I doubt there is anyone left who can keep up.”
“Aubric, no one expects the blademajor to—”
But Aubric was already twenty feet up, his fingers and toes moving quickly from one hold to another. Dureth began to yell at the others to regroup, asking if anyone had a spell of flight. By the time the high lord had everyone gathered, Aubric was pulling himself off the vertical face onto the treacherous slope left by the landslide. He yelled for the others to stand clear and scrambled up through the loose stone, twice falling and nearly sliding to his death.
The high mages continued their spellcasting, their voices rising to a fevered pitch as they neared completion. When the top of the slide basin came into view, Aubric began to think Rhydwych had killed the other two phaerimm herself—and that, of course, was when the crackle of a war spell rumbled over the crest of the slope. He tied the rope off to a spar of rock and tossed the free end to the others, then drew his sword and scrambled into the saddle.
At the top, Aubric dropped to his belly and peered into Rocnest. All that remained of the ancient fortress were a few sections of elf-raised wall along the jagged rim. But down in the basin stood a rectangle of lustrous black stone, still shining with the magic that had drawn it from the ground. In front of the block stood a gossamer-robed Gold elf female, her voice ringing heavenward as she plucked strands of Weave from the air and plaited them into the dark monolith. She was fashioning an elegant keel arch, its purple depths growing ever darker and richer. With every fiber she laid, the mage herself seemed to grow wispy, translucent, as though she were braiding herself into her work. Aubric thought it so, for though the high mages kept their art to themselves, he had heard that their magic often involved the binding of their own spirits.
Arrayed around the elf woman were three male mages, their bodies as black and opaque as the female’s was translucent. They held their arms spread skyward, spraying shimmering arcs of magic into the circle. Their voices were booming to a crescendo, each calling out a separate spell of support, yet weaving their incantations together in music-like harmony.
The slope directly below Aubric was more dirt than rock, strewn with bodies both human and elf—many writhing in agony, none able to stand. Halfway down hovered the two phaerimm, still swaddled in Rhydwych’s magic webs and flinging spells at a scintillating dome of colors. Though Aubric recognized the dome as one of the most powerful defenses taught by Evereska’s Academy of Magic, he could not understand why the phaerimm were wasting their time destroying it when the high mages were so close to completing the gate.
Khelben Arunsun stepped out of the dome, hurled a spell at one of the creatures, and dived back into his sphere. The stricken phaerimm froze and began to sink into the ground. Whistling in alarm, the other floated around the sphere and dispelled the magic drawing its fellow down into the stone.
In the basin below, the voices of the high mages rose to a thunderous roar. The archway glowed deep purple, and the female elf faded to a shimmer.
Khelben popped out of the dome again and cast a ray of black death at the second phaerimm, only to have the magic reflected back at him. He tried to bring his black staff down to intercept the spell, but even Mystra’s Chosen could not catch their own spells. The bolt took him in the chest, hurling him a dozen paces up the slope. He landed in a heap, brown vapor rising from the puckered hole in his chest.
Aubric was already bounding down the rocks, his knees quivering with weakness, his breath coming in hot, wet wheezes. As he passed Khelben, he was relieved to see the edges of the hole already closing, but it seemed clear the archmage would be of no further use in this battle. The closest phaerimm spun to meet Aubric’s charge, its barbed tail tangling in its skirt of elven ropes. The second creature extracted itself from the ground and started down the slope toward the high mages.
Aubric sprang six feet to the right, then right again, as though trying to work his way around the first creature. When he gathered himself for a third leap, his foe took the bait, spraying his path with sizzling black acid. Aubric jumped left, drawing on the Weave’s magic to launch himself into a glorious flying somersault, his sword whirling about him as his panicked target filled the air with flashing magic.
In the basin below, the voices of the high mages fell silent. The female vanished in a brilliant burst of purple radiance, and the gateway glowed with a magic so deeply violet it was black.
A magic bolt caught Aubric in the shoulder, but he twisted around, launched himself off the phaerimm’s fleshy lip—one of the few areas not covered with magic web—and dived over the scintillating dome. The startled creature whistled an alarm, and its fellow spun on its tail, splicing the air with a sheet of scything magic.
Aubric was already on the ground, rolling to his feet and dancing toward the phaerimm in a tornado of flashing steel. The creature called to its fellow and moved to block the elf’s path across the hill. Aubric feigned an attempt to circle above it, then saw the weary mages below lower their arms and knew the gate was complete. He changed directions, barely escaping as a nest of tentacles sprang from the ground to snatch at his legs. The second phaerimm streaked by, trilling in anger as it swept down into the basin.
“Watch yourselves!” Weak and croaking as it was, the call sent Aubric into a spasm of coughing. Bright blood sprayed from his mouth, taking with it what little remained of his strength. He dropped to his knees, then tried again to warn the high mages.
“Behind you!”
Whether or not they heard the cry was impossible to say, for the elves turned almost sedately to look up the slope. Their golden faces had gone sallow and gaunt with exhaustion, and when they raised their arms, it almost seemed they were trying to ward off a blow instead of preparing to cast a spell.
The phaerimm was faster. Still wrapped in its amorphous cocoon of magic web, it stopped at the bottom of the slope and struck the ground with its tail. A deafening crash shook the entire Rocnest, then a network of magma-belching fissures shot across the basin floor toward the black gate.
The high mages crossed their arms in front of them and calmly awaited the assault. The fissures shot to within a dozen feet of the trio, then turned aside and scribed a fiery loop around the floor of the basin. The phaerimm warbled its frustration and struck the ground again, causing a blinding ring of magma to roar dozens of feet into the air.
The archway’s black silhouette remained visible through it all, but when the fiery curtain sank back into its crevices, all that remained of the three mages were fuming black robes, lying rumpled and empty along the edge of their circle.
Though it seemed minutes had passed, Aubric knew by his labored breathing and trembling muscles it could only have been seconds. He looked away from the receding fires more disheartened than awed. The gate had been raised—but to what purpose? Even if others wanted to help, Evereska remained as alone as ever. Any forces sent by Evermeet or Waterdeep would be destroyed the instant they left the gate—or, worse, added to the ranks of the phaerimm mindslaves.
A shadow fell across the ground before Aubric, then he heard something wispy and sibilant inside his mind. Come along quietly, and you will live.
It was all Aubric could do to find the strength to look at the dusty, web-swaddled mass before him. “I doubt it.”
Do not. I have a fondness for you brave ones. You hatch strong larvae.
Aubric heard a soft rustle and brought his sword up beside him, catching the phaerimm’s tail just above the barb as it came whipping in at his flank. There was a wet slashing sound, then the feel of hot blood as the severed tail sprayed his face.
Leaving his pain to come flooding into him, Aubric called upon his last tiny reserve of strength to launch himself into a mad, cart wheeling attack.
He did not make it, of course. The phaerimm floated aside and let him tumble down the slope, and the searing spray of green vapor came sizzling down on him from above.
Aubric hardly noticed, for the strength had fled from his body. He felt the sword slip from his grasp, and the last thing he saw was the luminous face of the female mage watching him from the mouth of the black gate, and he was struck by how much her smile looked like that of his beloved Morgwais.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
To Galaeron’s eye, Malik looked a touch ill at the prospect of letting Melegaunt cast any spell on him, much less a spell involving a darkdagger and rope. His gaze kept darting from the bridge into the black wood beside them, where the others were breaking camp after a dry night’s rest around a magic-heated boulder.
“Have no fear, my friend,” said Galaeron, knotting his elven rope around Malik’s wrists. “You may trust Melegaunt.”
Malik looked over his shoulder. “You may, but I heard what he said to Jhingleshod before crossing the bridge.”
Galaeron wanted to ask for an explanation, but saw Melegaunt approaching with his darkdagger and knew there was no time. He leaned closer to Malik’s ear. “Then you may trust me, human. I do not allow those who save my life to be murdered—even if they are Cyric worshipers.”
“That is little enough reassurance,” said Malik, “considering who is the student and who is the master.”
Melegaunt stopped before them and glowered down at the little man. “I could not find you in the dawn shadows.” He paused, allowing Malik to consider the implications. “If you don’t wish to continue—”
“Oh no, you are not leaving me!” Malik glanced at the darkdagger, then raised his chin. “Do what you must.”
Melegaunt cast an inquiring look in Galaeron’s direction, and receiving a curt nod, kneeled at Malik’s feet. Beginning a long incantation, he laid a small pair of braided shadow-silk manacles in the little man’s shadow. The shadow instantly grew broad of chest and slender of waist, with a strange pair of what looked like antlers on its head and a blurry area of white in the center of its chest. Malik’s teeth ground together loudly, but he did not try to flee as the shadowmage had warned he might.
Melegaunt cocked a bushy brow. Still chanting his spell, he drew his dagger along the edge of Malik’s feet. The shadow came free, peeling itself off the stones to stand looming over them all, brown sky showing through the hazy-edged hole in its chest.
Malik gasped and would have collapsed, had Galaeron not been there to slip his hands under the little man’s arms.
A pair of crimson eyes appeared in the shadow’s head and peered at Melegaunt. “I am bound to your will.” Its voice was as resonant as Malik’s was nasal. “Though you do me a grave disservice. I know your purpose and would aid it gladly.”
“All the same, we will keep matters as they are.” Melegaunt pointed across the bridge. “I wish you to keep watch. You know our enemies?”
“The phaerimm—or Elminster?” the shadow asked.
“Both, and their servants as well,” replied Melegaunt. “When you see any of them, return to Malik and give us warning.”
The shadow inclined its head. “As you command.”
Melegaunt studied the silhouette for a moment, then turned back toward camp. Galaeron started after him, pulling an awestricken Malik along beside him. The little man glanced at his feet and back to the shadow, then turned to Galaeron.
“That demon cannot be anything of mine!”
“Exactly.” Doubtful he could explain the shadowself as well as Melegaunt, Galaeron did not even try. “You don’t seem very disturbed. The first time I saw my shadow, I was terrified.”
“Oh, I have seen things worse than my own shadow,” scoffed Malik. “After all, I am much favored of the One.”
They joined the others in camp, where Vala and Takari stood over a half-sized relief Aris had sculpted into an expanse of bedrock. Depicting Malik’s rescue of Galaeron and Vala, the work was amazingly fluid and detailed. Malik’s character looked more confused than resolute, and perhaps a little angry at himself for being foolish enough to jump into the river. Vala was unconscious in the crook of Galaeron’s arm, more dead than alive. Galaeron was holding the rope and glancing down at Vala, his expression leaving no doubt that the terrible fear in his eyes was for her alone.
Takari and Vala were huddled together on the opposite side of the work, talking quietly and studying the relief so intently they did not see the others approach.
“… don’t want either of you hurt,” Takari was saying. “You’ve seen yourself why it can never be.”
“I have?” Despite her curtness, Vala’s voice was surprisingly mild. “When was that?”
“You met his father,” Takari explained. “You saw what became of Aubric when Morgwais returned to the forest.”
“We’re getting ahead of matters here, but I’m no Wood elf,” Vala said. “Were I to make a life pledge, I would honor it as my mother and father honored theirs.”
“And how long would that be?”
Vala raised her chin. “My parents have been sharing the fur for forty years and three.”
“A blessing for them both, but forty years and three is not the same to an elf.” Takari laid a hand on Vala’s arm. “Forty years from now, Galaeron will still be young, with four centuries before him.”
When Vala did not answer, Galaeron said, “There’s no need to poison her against me, Takari.” He waited for the pair to turn, then gestured at Aris’s relief. “It’s only art—and what business is it of yours? I’m your princep, not your nestmate.”
The flash that came to Takari’s eyes was more sorrowful than angry. “And no fun as either.” She turned and slipped through the black tree trunks. “Sorry to forget my place.”
Vala shot a scowl at Galaeron. “I only kissed you,” she growled, starting after Takari. “I have done more with half the men in my clan!”
This drew a crooked smile from Melegaunt, but he made no comment and turned to Jhingleshod, who stood studying the work with the enigmatic gaze of the dead.
“It appears we are ready to go,” Melegaunt said.
“You are ready,” said the knight. “But there is still the matter of my payment.”
Galaeron cast an anxious glance after the departing women. “If the bridge is any example, you are not worth much of a price,” the elf said.
“You learned what you needed to learn,” replied Jhingleshod. “If you recall what happened there, you may survive to claim what you seek.”
“I have no fondness for these games of yours,” said Galaeron. “If you would have something from us, then you must tell us what we need—”
Melegaunt stepped in front of Galaeron. “We have already agreed to your price, Sir Knight. If you wish to tell us what it is, we are listening.”
“I ask little,” said Jhingleshod. “Only your word that you will do what already you must.”
“Yes?” asked Melegaunt.
“Destroy Wulgreth, my master, as I once attempted.”
“As you once attempted?” Galaeron asked, more wary than before. “If you betrayed your master, how are we to know you won’t betray us?”
“I have no care for what you know or do not know, elf,” said Jhingleshod. “But I tell you this: I bear no small part of the blame for the evil here, and I am damned to wander the Dire Wood until what I should have done then is done at last.”
“How is Wulgreth’s crime your doing?” asked Melegaunt. “I sense no great evil in you.”
“But I relished the bounty of his shadow,” said Jhingleshod, “and so I stood by. After Wulgreth summoned the demons to Ascalhorn, for six decades I watched their evil and did not raise my voice against them. When the demons turned on him at last, I followed Wulgreth into the wilderness and sat in his shadow feasting on stolen bread and drinking the wine of murdered wayfarers. And after he came here to Karse, I was waiting outside the black crypt when he returned with its dark power.”
Jhingleshod let his chin fall.
“And yet, you found the strength to slay him,” prompted Melegaunt.
“It was despair, nothing more,” said Jhingleshod. “The power was twisted and evil, and it corrupted all it touched. First, the forest died and turned to black stone, then the ruins became a city of the dead. When I begged Wulgreth to send the monsters away and build a city for the living, he struck me blows, saying he would never be avenged on the demons with a living army. Seeing that my dream was not to be, I felt betrayed and vowed he would never again bring ruin to any city. I killed him in his sleep that night.”
“Which proved unwise,” surmised Melegaunt.
Jhingleshod nodded. “He caught me as I fled the city, a cackling dead thing of heinous power. He chased me through the forest, using his magic to flay me an inch at time, until I ran myself to death. I awoke as I am now, condemned to wander the Dire Wood until the vow I made is kept.” He turned to Galaeron. “And that is why I won’t betray you.”
