The Summoning, page 10
This time, the phaerimm were quicker to recover—far too quick for Galaeron’s liking. A dozen whirled around, flinging every manner of magic at Melegaunt. Whether the attacks troubled the wizard was impossible to say, for the instant the spells touched the Sharn Wall, they exploded into searing heat. Those attacks aimed into the breach simply vanished into the whirling shaft of shadow, then came spinning back out a few seconds later.
The remaining phaerimm turned their attention to Galaeron’s side of the chamber, flinging meteor swarms and ice storms toward the bone cage. The brunt of the attack vanished into the shadow net spinning off the end of the shadow column, but enough of the spells penetrated to fill the air with the stench of scorched flesh and half-lucid elf screams.
Galaeron flowed across the floor and took a position on the wall opposite the door, ready to attack when the phaerimm tried to pass through the net of shadow. Through the mesh of dark tendrils, he could just make out the figure of Lord Imesfor struggling with his fingerless hands to shove sick elves into the mouth of the shadow tunnel. Kiinyon was helping as much as possible, but trapped as he was against the ceiling, he was even less efficient than the high mage.
Galaeron started to wonder where Vala’s humans were, but his question was answered when he saw a pair of thick hands pulling a sick elf into the mouth of the tunnel. The other two men were, of course, continuing to wrestle with his body and Vala’s.
Realizing their magic was no more able to pass through the Sharn Wall from the outside than the inside, the phaerimm on Melegaunt’s side of the chamber concentrated on the whirling column of shadow. As before, their spells simply vanished into the blackness, then came spinning back out. One of the phaerimm even tried to break into the shaft. He lost two arms to the whirling darkness. Another created a blazing orb that illuminated the whole chamber in brilliant silver light, but of course where there was light, there was shadow. The shaft became a writhing, snake-like thing weaving along through the dark corners of the cavern, bowing up behind the moving phaerimm, then disappearing into the dust beneath their floating bodies.
The phaerimm on Galaeron’s side of the chamber were more successful. A pair floated alongside the shaft and paused before the cage. The polished bones fell away from each other, collapsing into a heap on the floor and leaving only the shadowy mesh that had spun off the end of Melegaunt’s tunnel. One dared push a finger through the mesh. When it passed through without being torn off, the creature pushed an entire hand through—and promptly lost it to Vala’s darksword.
The phaerimm’s reactions were far quicker than they should have been, at least by elf standards. The creature simply lashed out with its remaining hands and caught hold of the sword hilt, easily jerking it free of Vala’s shadowy grasp. The creature trilled at the weapon’s icy touch, but held on as its companion blasted the wall with lightning and magic.
Galaeron was on the thing in an instant, flowing across the tunnel ceiling and slashing his own blade across the width of its body. The phaerimm all but exploded, spraying the tunnel with a green ichor and dropping to the floor in a heap of thorny flesh.
It was harder to kill than that. The thing rolled to its back, spraying the ceiling with a long stream of fire. Galaeron shrieked as the heat struck his leg. He flowed down the wall and along the floor, placing the other phaerimm between himself and the one he had just wounded.
Whistling in anguish, the creature on the floor dragged itself away through the dust. Galaeron searched the walls and floor for Vala, but she was as hidden to him as to the phaerimm.
Coward! accused the phaerimm he was hiding behind. Switching Vala’s sword from one hand to the other, the creature pushed through the icy net toward the fleeing elves. They’re just shades!
Galaeron brought his darksword up and severed the hand holding Vala’s weapon, then caught the darksword as it fell. He whipped the blade around and plunged it deep into the yelling phaerimm. The creature reacted by spraying the floor with raw magic. Galaeron flowed up the wall, screaming at Kiinyon and Imesfor in High Elvish.
“That’s it! We’ve saved all we can.”
The wounded phaerimm turned toward his voice and blasted the wall with lightning, but Galaeron was already back on the floor, slashing at the thing’s underside with both swords to hold its attention. Kiinyon and Imesfor did not make things any easier. There were only three elves left in the cage, and the high mage paused to snatch one up in his dismembered hands before hurling himself into the shadow tunnel. Kiinyon grabbed the other two by their collars and slowly kicked his way across the ceiling, dragging them along behind him.
Galaeron escaped another flurry of fire and ice by flowing onto the ceiling, then glanced back to see half a dozen phaerimm floating through the shadow net. Realizing he would never stop them all with his swords, he slipped the weapons into his belt—or, rather, where his belt would have been—then plucked off a lock of his shadowy hair. Moving along the ceiling to avoid being impaled by a spear of golden light, he opened himself to his fear as Melegaunt had taught him.
With so many phaerimm approaching, fear was an easy commodity to come by. It flooded into him, bringing with it that eerie, cold energy he had felt earlier. He tossed the tress of hair at the phaerimm and uttered an improvised wind spell.
A howling gale tore through the cage, blasting the phaerimm with a solid wall of dust. The spell was hardly enough to injure them, but it made them pause in a moment of caution. That was all Kiinyon needed. Carried along by the gust, he floated past the blindly slashing claw of the last phaerimm and vanished into the shadow tunnel.
Thinking to make the best of the opportunity, Galaeron drew his swords again and swung around to finish off his wounded enemy—then felt a shadowy hand grab his wrist.
“Time to go, elf,” Vala called. She jerked him into the shadow tunnel. “And give me my sword!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
24 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
Galaeron’s body hung on him like human armor, heavy and hot and painfully ill-fitted. His shoulders ached, his head throbbed, his neck wouldn’t turn. The hand holding his corner of the floating litter was so frozen he doubted the fingers would unbend, and still he counted himself lucky. Dexon, who had been holding him down, had two black eyes, a missing tooth, and so many bruises that they looked like camouflage in the dusky realm.
A gurgling shriek rose from the center of the litter. Galaeron and the other stretcher bearers—Kiinyon, Vala, and her three men—stopped and spun toward the sound. A catatonic elf was thrashing about, coughing, choking, and clubbing fellow patients. Even from the edge of the platform, an arm-sized phaerimm larva could be seen writhing about under his skin, flickering across his breast as it worked its way up into the elf’s throat. Galaeron instinctively stretched out a hand, as did Kiinyon on the other side, but the victim was surrounded by a dozen fellow patients and well beyond reach.
“Keep him quiet!” Melegaunt rushed back and vaulted onto the litter, paying no attention to those he stepped on, then slapped a hand over the elf’s mouth. “Put us down.”
Galaeron and the others obeyed. By the time Melegaunt dragged the warrior off the litter, only the larva tail remained visible, a fingerlike cord worming up toward the gullet. The wizard dropped a knee across the elf’s chest, then slipped his dagger tip under the skin and exposed a spine-covered tentacle as big around as Galaeron’s arm. He pulled the thing out of its victim and pinned it down while he sliced off the tiny mouth atop its body.
The wizard was not quite finished when the elf’s foot swung into the murk alongside their path. He started to slide into the darkness, but was too weak to do more about it than whimper. Galaeron lunged for his arm—then was nearly knocked off his feet by one of Melegaunt’s huge arms.
“Don’t!”
“Something has him!” Galaeron tried to push past.
Melegaunt held him back. “And it will have you, if you’re fool enough to challenge it!”
As the warrior was dragged off, his glassy eyes rolled toward the wizard’s face and remained there until he vanished into the shadows. The wizard turned away, his own expression as hard as it was unreadable.
“Take up your friends and keep moving.” He motioned to the big shadow stretcher. “We must go before more shadator come.”
Only Kiinyon did not reach for his corner. “We can’t leave him.”
“We can and we must.” Melegaunt started forward again. “Shadator seldom come alone.”
Kiinyon did not move. “Elves are not cowards. We do not abandon the spirits of our dead to places such as this.”
Melegaunt turned, this time with an expression of genuine sorrow. “I am sorry for your friend, but there is truly nothing we can do. When the rest of the shadator arrive, they will strike at more capable prey. They’ll attack from below, at first taking only one or two of us. But the feeding frenzy will start quickly, and all our spirits will be left to the dark. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.” Kiinyon’s face was silver with rage. “But I’ve seen enough of your magic to know you can do something.”
Melegaunt’s eyes went dark. “Sadly, you are mistaken.” The wizard started to walk again. “You may stay if you wish. It is all the same to me.”
Eyes bulging, Kiinyon started after him. “You … will … not!”
Realizing the tomb master had been robbed of self-control—and perhaps even his wits—by the past few days of death and defeat, Galaeron blocked his way.
“Master Colbathin, if Melegaunt says he has done everything possible, he has. It’s only because of him that you are here at all. I was ready to give you up for dead, but he insisted it was possible to rescue you.”
Kiinyon’s fiery gaze shifted to Galaeron—a definite improvement, since Galaeron was not likely to grow impatient and blast the tomb master into shadows.
“Why am I not surprised?” Kiinyon said. “You and your lazy magic—I should’ve known you were a coward, too.”
“That’s enough.” Vala stepped to Galaeron’s side.
Though her tone was calm, the blow that followed was not. The tomb master was rocked back into Burlen’s waiting grasp, where his arms were pinned to his side. Vala produced a black cord and tied his hands.
“Galaeron deserves this abuse no more than does Melegaunt.” Whether she was speaking to Kiinyon or Lord Imesfor was unclear. She was looking past the tomb master toward the high mage, whose glassy eyes barely seemed to notice the confrontation. “Nor do we have time for it.”
“Do as you must.” Lord Imesfor held his arms crossed in front of him, his mangled hands pressed to his chest. “The tomb master will understand when he returns to his senses.”
The high mage inclined his head toward their backtrail.
Galaeron looked and saw a ghostly silhouette crossing the light between two shadow hills, four short tentacles where there should have been a nose. He looked away casually, then asked, “Illithids?”
“They’ve been following us for some time,” said the high mage. “I was wondering if they’re native to this plane.”
“No.” Despite the softness of his voice, Melegaunt sounded angry. “They’re servitors to our enemy. The phaerimm, I fear, have figured out how to track us.”
He gestured in Burlen’s direction. The warrior gasped in surprise, then blinked in confusion.
“You will grow accustomed to it soon enough,” said Melegaunt. “Someone must keep watch behind us.”
Burlen waved a cautious hand behind his helmet. “You might have warned me. This is … unnatural.”
Melegaunt waved at the maze of shadow and light around them. “Four eyes are as natural as anything here.”
The wizard nodded to Vala, then started to walk away. She tossed Kiinyon onto the shadow litter with the patients, then Galaeron and the others took up their positions and followed.
Lord Imesfor scurried to catch Melegaunt. “Perhaps we should tarry. If the shadators are attracted by sound, we might use them to spare ourselves the trouble of ambushing the illithids later.”
Melegaunt continued to walk, and quickly. “A good plan, but one we’ve no time for. Now that the phaerimm have finally discovered where we are, they’ll move to cut us off.”
“Finally?” asked Lord Imesfor. “The high mages did try shadow walking.”
Earlier in the journey, Imesfor had related how Evereska’s army had stumbled into a phaerimm ambush, then been unable to escape via teleport spells, magical gates, or dimension doors. Each time, they ran headlong into another trap, until all that remained were handfuls of scattered survivors. The final blow came when Imesfor attempted to planewalk to Evermeet, only to emerge where they had found him.
“I’m sorry,” said Imesfor. “We won’t escape through the shadows.”
“If we hurry,” said Melegaunt. “The shadows are a big place, and there are only two ways to track someone through them.”
“Of course. One is to follow physically.” Lord Imesfor craned his neck meaningfully toward the rear. “The other is far easier. Track their magic.”
“Exactly.” Melegaunt’s smile managed to be both patient and condescending. “Tracking elven magic is easy, but mine is another story.”
Galaeron resisted the urge to look back, for he saw what the wizard was planning. As long as they believed themselves unobserved, the illithids would bide their time and wait for the phaerimm to attack. If Melegaunt and the others could slip away before then, they could reach Evereska unmolested.
Lord Imesfor did not share Galaeron’s faith. “You’re telling me the phaerimm cannot see your magic?”
“It’s true,” Galaeron said, speaking from his place near the front of the litter. “Nor can they defend themselves from it. You saw how the darkswords cut through their shieldings.”
Imesfor glanced at Galaeron, then back to Melegaunt. “How?” His tone was not as disbelieving as thoughtful, but there was a hint of condemnation to it. “I don’t understand.”
Melegaunt’s voice grew harsh. “What is there to understand? All you need know is that I can get you past the phaerimm. Do you wish that, or not?”
“Of course.” Lord Imesfor kept his voice carefully level. “But there is no sense returning to Evereska. Perhaps you could guide us to Waterdeep?”
“Waterdeep?” This from Kiinyon. “You would ask humans for help?”
Imesfor looked back, sneaking a glance toward their pursuers. A flash of concern suggested he had seen one.
“I mean to ask help of whoever will give it,” said the high mage.
“Human help comes at a dear price,” Kiinyon said.
Imesfor’s eyes narrowed. “I am sure our companions—no, our rescuers—understand the strain you have been under.”
“We do,” said Melegaunt. “Regardless, we cannot take you to Waterdeep.”
“I thought as much,” said Kiinyon. “Just like a human to open the floodgates of hell and run for high ground.”
Finally losing patience, Melegaunt wagged a crooked finger back at the tomb master. “The place I am running is to call the only help that will save your miserable kingdom, which is more than your kind …” Melegaunt let the sentence trail off, then his face turned as dark as his hair. “Elves! You are too full of tricks for your own good.”
“Perhaps so,” said Lord Imesfor. “But then again, your kind have always seemed to measure what is good for others by what is best for yourselves.”
Melegaunt’s bushy brows came together. “My kind?”
Now it was Imesfor’s turn to smirk. “Whatever that may be. No normal human would have the power—or reason—to live so long in the caverns of the phaerimm.”
Melegaunt studied the high mage a moment longer, then glanced at Kiinyon, and finally looked to Vala. “You may as well cut Master Colbathin free and let him pull his share. He and Lord Imesfor have been playing us a little bit for fools, I think.”
Vala drew her darksword, and without breaking stride, slashed the tomb master’s bonds off. “We have a saying in my home,” she said darkly. “The fur of the clever fox is the finest.”
Kiinyon smiled and jumped off the litter. “Then I shall have to take care you don’t skin me.”
Melegaunt turned to Lord Imesfor. “I’ll see you safely out of the Sharaedim, then you can teleport to Waterdeep or wherever you like to ask for help.”
“I see.” Imesfor’s golden eyes betrayed his disappointment. “I thank you for that much, at least.”
“Thank me later, when I return to Evereska with the only help that will save it,” said Melegaunt.
“Very well, I will thank you then.” The high mage still did not sound convinced. “Unfortunately, there are a few minor complications …”
The complications were anything but minor. First, there was the matter of teleporting. Even with his fingers torn off, Lord Imesfor was capable of casting the spell, as it required nothing more than a complicated string of mystic syllables. Unfortunately, he had used all such enchantments in the attempt to save Evereska’s army and could not teleport himself or anyone else until he studied the spell again.
Melegaunt solved this problem—rather reluctantly—by lending his own spellbook to the high mage. This occasioned hard feelings when he caught the elf puzzling over other spells, especially since Imesfor’s accusatory manner in defending his actions suggested the enchantments were of a dangerous—if not outright corrupting—nature. Melegaunt’s only response was to nod curtly and turn back to the spell Imesfor was supposed to be studying.
The second problem proved more difficult. Even at his best, Imesfor could not teleport all of the wounded elves to Waterdeep. Galaeron suggested a detour to drop them off at Evereska, but when they turned in that direction, the illithids rushed to catch up. Melegaunt veered away from the vale. When the illithids fell back, he gave Kiinyon a small light, telling him to take Vala’s men and the litter and follow the light to safety in the Secret Gate. Eager to look after Keya and find out how his father and the Swords of Evereska were faring, Galaeron volunteered to accompany Kiinyon on the perilous journey back to the Vale. Melegaunt had other ideas, asking for Galaeron to accompany him so he would be able to reenter the Vale when he returned with help. This arrangement did much to reassure Lord Imesfor, who approved the plan wholeheartedly, sternly announcing that if he could sacrifice a son to the war, Galaeron could stand not knowing the fate of his father and sister for a few tendays.
