The Summoning, page 23
“Nor do I seem troubled by the leeches—but seeming does not make a thing so.” He raised a foot out of the water to display the bloated black forms dangling to his ankle. “If we can find a stone, I can ask Skoreaus Stonebones to make it warm for us.”
Galaeron eyed the petrified trees they were passing, but decided not to suggest using one of them. The magic that had stolen their lives seemed as corrupt as the shadow trying to steal his.
Aris weaved through the petrified tangle until he caught the others, then placed Galaeron behind Takari and Melegaunt behind Vala, leaving Malik and his horse to bring up the rear. Recalling that Cyric was the human god of strife and murder, Galaeron was not so certain he liked the idea of having Malik behind everyone else—but a few stumbling steps convinced him he was too weak to assume the post himself.
Conscious that the phaerimm and beholders—or perhaps even Elminster—would soon be coming up behind them, they continued westward at their best pace, Aris now assuming the duty of watching for foes behind. The strength continued to drain from Galaeron’s body, and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Vala sheathed her sword and carried him in her arms long enough to strip him out of his wet clothes, then volunteered her own cloak to keep him warm instead. When that did not work, Takari volunteered hers, and even Malik produced a heavy woolen cape. The extra weight only seemed to tire Galaeron all the more. He began to feel queasy and lethargic, and it became a regular duty for Vala to catch him by the arm.
Melegaunt and Aris fared better, though the swamp had clearly taken its toll on them as well. The archwizard stumbled along mumbling to himself about hearts and heavy magic, and even became muddled enough to explain a little of his shadow magic to Malik. Aris simply started to slow, pausing now and again to brace himself against a petrified tree and check back for enemies.
The sun was high overhead when the trees finally vanished and the bog became a broad river that seemed to flow one direction on the near side and the opposite way along the other side. The far bank sloped up from the water in a gentle slope covered with gnarled black oaks—no doubt as petrified as the bog trees—but at least standing on dry ground.
Takari laid the shadow path perhaps halfway across the river and started across, only to watch the swirl of a dark eddy catch it near the end and sucked it beneath the surface. She saved them all by flipping the sword around and severing the trail with a flash from the bright side of the blade, then quickly laid another path and tried again. This time, the eddy caught the trail only a dozen paces ahead, barely giving her time to flip the blade.
The horse whinnied from the back of the line, and Malik called, “Keep going! There is an eel behind us large enough to eat Kelda!”
Takari laid a trail along the edge of the river and, when the shadowy ribbon did not swirl away in a new eddy, raced forward to give the others room.
“Given what the bog did to Galaeron, I don’t fancy taking a swim in the river,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ve another way to cross, Melegaunt?”
“Cer … tainly.”
Melegaunt’s voice was so weak and thick-tongued that Galaeron hazarded a glance over his shoulder—prompting Vala to extend a guiding hand as the trail rounded a bend in the river.
“Why don’t we use that bridge?”
“Bridge?” Galaeron asked, confused.
“There’s always a bridge,” said Vala, pointing past Galaeron’s nose.
Galaeron looked forward again and saw the river purling over a stretch of dark, submerged stone. At each end of the stretch stood ruined bridge towers, their crowns jagged and broken, their windows black and unbarred. In front of the near tower stood a hazy figure in plate armor, his hands wrapped around the hilt of a huge two-handed sword resting tip-down in front of him.
“And a knight,” called Malik. “There is always a knight.”
Galaeron drew his sword and heard the others doing the same, but Takari waved their weapons down. As they drew closer to the knight, it grew apparent he stood ankle deep in the river, water gurgling around his feet and mist swirling around him. His armor was coated in rust, while the face peering out from his raised visor seemed nothing but moldering bone and watchful, coal-dark eyes.
As they approached, he unsheathed his great sword and held it before him, the tip pointed at Takari. She stopped in her tracks and lowered her own sword.
“Well met, old Jhingleshod,” she said. “Oft have I watched your wanderings from the Pale Ring.”
“And there you should have stayed, elf. You have no business in the land of death.”
“Not I, but my friends.” Takari stepped aside and gestured to Galaeron. “They come in need of your aid.”
“My aid?” Jhingleshod’s black eyes shifted to Galaeron. “What aid can I give thee but a quick death?”
From the end of the line came a pair of splashes, then a startled whinny and hissed curse as the shadow vanished beneath Malik and his horse. Jhingleshod lifted his chin at the sound, but kept his attention—and his great sword—fixed on Galaeron.
“We have need of Karsus’s magic,” Galaeron said. “If you can show us—”
“Not we.” Jhingleshod jabbed his sword at Galaeron’s chest. “You. What come you seeking?”
“I come to save—”
“Think well, elf,” Jhingleshod warned. “To answer wrong is worse than death.”
Galaeron paused to consider the question. He had been about to say he came to save Evereska, but Jhingleshod’s reaction left little doubt that the answer would not have been the one the dead knight wished to hear. Another splash came from the end of the line, and this time it was Melegaunt’s voice that cried out.
Jhingleshod paid the noise no attention and kept his dead gaze fixed on Galaeron. “Your answer? You have come far, elf—you must know what you are seeking.”
“I do.” Galaeron glanced at Takari, then over his shoulder to Vala. “Absolution. I seek pardon for my mistake.”
A black light flared in Jhingleshod’s eyes, and his skeleton’s jaw opened as though smiling. “There is a boon I would ask for my help, elf. Will you give it?”
Galaeron started to ask what the boon was, then thought better of it. Jhingleshod would not react well to pointless barter. He demanded unflinching honesty of those who sought his help, and the truth was that Galaeron would pay anything to absolve his mistake. He simply nodded.
Jhingleshod’s eyes shifted to Takari as though to ask something, but seemed to find the answer they were seeking in her frightened expression and looked back to Galaeron.
“Go,” the knight said. He pointed through the rusted-out remains of a portcullis to the submerged bridge. “If you have the strength to reach the other side, I will do what can be done to help you.”
Galaeron left the shadow trail and stepped through the portcullis without hesitation, but stopped on the other side. “My friends—”
Jhingleshod whirled on him, bringing his great sword around so swiftly that Galaeron could not have blocked the rusty weapon had he tried. The flat of the blade caught him full in the shoulder and slammed him into the musty tower wall.
“Go!” Jhingleshod motioned again toward the bridge. “My bargain with you is done.”
Galaeron felt an angry darkness well up inside him and gathered himself to spring, but Takari desperately shook her head and flicked her eyes toward the bridge. Galaeron remained crouched, trying to fight down the black fury within. Together, he and his companions might be able to destroy Jhingleshod, but what then? Takari had said he could guide them to Karse, and Galaeron had seen enough of the Dire Wood to know how valuable such assistance would be. He gathered himself, and letting his aching arm dangle at his side, staggered through the cold water.
Jhingleshod turned to Aris next, and as Galaeron passed through the shadowed archway asked, “What seek you?”
Galaeron stepped out of the tower onto the mossy surface of a submerged bridge. Though no more than three inches of water ran over the surface, the river’s purling drowned out Aris’s answer. Reluctant to anger Jhingleshod by tarrying, Galaeron continued forward.
The stone was as slick as ice, so that even the shallow flow threatened to sweep his feet from beneath him. He sheathed his sword and dropped to a low crouch, carefully sliding one foot ahead of the other and twisting it into the mossy surface. He could feel the heat of his body rushing down through his feet into the water. A light fog rose around him, veiling the far shore behind a pale haze, and he grew dizzy from the cold.
As Galaeron crossed the midpoint of the bridge, the river changed direction and began to flow across from the other side. The effect was more than a little disorienting, making him feel he had somehow gotten himself turned around and was now approaching the wrong tower. He closed his eyes and continued blind until the current’s new direction felt right.
Galaeron was nearly across when the purling changed pitch, and the water began to surge over his feet erratically. A flicker of dark motion next to the bridge caught his attention, then he saw the bloated body of a drowned human floating on the surface, bobbing in place as the current pitched him repeatedly against the bridge.
Dressed in knee high boots and black leather armor, the man was bearded and large, with a crooked nose and skin as blue as his open eyes. There were no signs of any wounds or broken bones, though the absence of a helm and weapons belt suggested there had been time to shed both before drowning. Galaeron shuddered, wondering if the fellow had fallen victim to the river’s life-stealing waters and simply fell in. The man’s eyes rolled toward Galaeron, then a blue hand rose out of the water, stretching out as though reaching for help.
Galaeron cried out and sprang back, landing on his seat when his feet slipped out from beneath him. The current immediately threatened to sweep him into the riffle on the other side of the mossy bridge. He rolled to his stomach and flung his arms out, catching hold of the bridge on the upstream side. The current whirled him around, spinning him so that his feet hung over the downstream edge. The river poured over his head and down his throat, chilling him to the bone and threatening to fill his lungs. He clamped his jaw shut and felt the water bubbling into his nose, a mad, animate killer determined to have his life. Already his body was growing weary and stiff, the life draining out of him everywhere the river touched. He blew the air from his lungs, forcing the water out through his mouth and nose, then drew a stiff leg up so he could stand—and felt the dead man’s hand clamp his wrist.
Screaming, Galaeron shook the water from his head and found himself staring into the man’s undead eyes. The fellow’s lips drew back in a gruesome grin, displaying a mouthful of broken fangs and a black wagging tongue. A dozen spells leaped at once to Galaeron’s mind. As a tomb guard recruit, he had been well-drilled in the weaknesses of the undead—almost as well-drilled as he had been in horrors awaiting those who fell to them. He thrust a hand into the creature’s face and opened himself to the Weave—then felt the icy ache of shadow magic rushing into him instead. Galaeron let the spell drop, and holding onto the bridge only with his free hand, rolled his wrist around against the creature’s thumb.
A living man would have released Galaeron’s arm and pulled his hand away in pain. The ghoul continued to hold, trying to use strength against leverage. So weak was Galaeron that the tactic nearly succeeded. The first time he tried, the strength simply left his arm, and his hand stopped halfway through the motion, hanging palm up between him and his blue-faced attacker.
Galaeron shoved the arm forward, jabbing a fingertip into the creature’s eye. Even a dead man had to flinch, and Galaeron finished his motion, bringing his hand over and down behind the ghoul’s. The thing’s thumb snapped with a sharp crack, folding over backward to expose a jagged spear of coal black bone.
Galaeron shot his hand up behind its neck and caught it by the back of the skull. He slammed its head into the side of the bridge, at the same time pulling himself back onto the walkway and swinging his feet up beneath him.
The ghoul lashed out madly with both arms, catching Galaeron behind the ankles and trying to sweep his feet from under him. The elf drew his knees straight up, and reaching across his body for his sword, came down kicking. One heel caught the ghoul in the back of the head. The other landed on the mossy bridge and slipped free, dropping Galaeron to a knee directly in front of the beast. His sword cleared his scabbard and struck the ghoul’s face in the same motion, its gleaming elven steel slicing through the head just above the jawline.
Galaeron followed through gracefully, his head turning to follow the sweep of his blade tip, and saw a second creature springing out of the water in front of him. This one was smaller than the first, with a female’s rounder curves, long black claws, and the yellow eyes of a wight. She was also much faster, stomping Galaeron’s sword arm down on the bridge and pinning it there as she snapped her other foot around in a vicious kick.
Thinking to trap her foot with a hook block, Galaeron caught the blow on his forearm—but he was simply too tired and weak. The impact knocked him to his back, then the current spun his feet downstream again, leaving him affixed to the bridge only by his pinned sword arm.
The wight crouched down above his head and grabbed his throat, her icy claws piercing his flesh in so many places he was surprised not to see warm blood spurting up before his eyes. She bared two long rows of sharp teeth and pulled him toward her, twisting her head around to bite.
Galaeron tried to break free and roll away. He was too weak even to push his free hand into the crook of the wight’s arm. He tried to kick his feet up to wrap her head in a leg-lock, but his legs felt as numb and heavy as gold. His life was seeping out by the second, being sucked out by the spirit-stealing touch of the undead, being robbed from him by the vigor-draining waters of the shadowed river.
The wight pressed her teeth to Galaeron’s throat. He spun toward her with the little strength remaining to him, thrusting his free hand into her face and summoning the incantation to a spell of light. A surge of icy power flooded Galaeron’s body as it filled with coldmagic, but he had more pressing worries than his shadow at the moment. He called out the mystic syllable, and a brilliant beam of silver light shot from his palm.
The wight screeched madly and spun away, leaving Galaeron to float across the bridge. He rolled after the wight, digging the numb fingers of his free hand into the cold moss and whipping his sword across the back of the creature’s feet with the other. The thing stumbled two steps forward before crashing into the water with a pair of severed heels. Galaeron pulled himself to his knees and brought his sword down across the wight’s back. The blow was clean and, had there been any strength to it, he would have cleaved the thing in half. As it was, his elven steel bit deep enough to maim even a beast of the undead.
The wight stiffened and tried to roll toward her foe, but succeeded only in twisting her torso open along the wound. As she looked down in bewilderment, Galaeron raised a hand and spoke a single mystic syllable. This time, he barely noticed as the coldmagic flooded his body, nor did he care that the bolts shooting from his hand were as black and frigid as shadow. It only mattered to him that the undead thing before him had finally gone limp and lost her hold on the bridge, and that the murky current was at last carrying her away over the riffle.
The gate tower stood only a dozen paces away, the dry ground beyond its shadowed archway offering warmth and refuge, or at least an escape from the cold battle on the bridge. Galaeron staggered to his feet and discovered he did not feel nearly as weak as he had several minutes before. To the contrary, while he felt tired and cold, his strength seemed to be returning. There was a peculiar ardor burning inside him, not so much anger as resolve, not so much brutality as ruthlessness.
When no more undead appeared to attack him, he started toward the gate tower, no longer concerned about the slick moss underfoot, thinking only of the battles to come and the magic he would find in Karse—then he recalled Melegaunt following behind, and the others he was traveling with, all following in his footsteps, all trying to cross the dark bridge behind him.
Galaeron spun on his heel and saw Takari slipping and sliding toward him, pushing her sword into its scabbard. Twenty paces behind her, Vala was spinning and whirling across the bridge, her black blade weaving a dark mesh around her and Melegaunt as she slashed at the translucent figures of two withered, shrewish-looking ghosts trying to dart past her flashing defenses. Beyond them, a pair of inky silhouettes were flitting around Aris’s steam-shrouded head, darting in to slash at his eyes and ears with black talons. Malik and his horse were nowhere to be seen, of course, but Jhingleshod was not far behind the others, a hazy glimmer of orange that appeared briefly every time the stone giant took a step.
Galaeron pointed his sword over Takari’s shoulder. “The others!” He staggered a few steps back across the bridge, his numb legs and weary body stirring themselves for another fight. “They need help!”
“Are you mad?” Takari intercepted him and pressed her hand to where the wight had clasped his throat. Her palm was as hot as fire against his skin. “The humans can take care of themselves. We need to get you to shore.”
“Shore? What do you take me for?” Galaeron jerked her hand down. “A coward?”
Takari’s eyes flashed. “Only a fool.” She thrust her palm into his face, displaying a coating of blood so dark it was almost black. “Half your throat is ripped away, your face is as pale as glass, and all you can think about is a human minx with wild eyes and milkbags the size of a thkaerth’s!”
Too stunned to reply, Galaeron raised a hand to his throat and felt a gash four fingers wide. How the wound had missed his veins he could not imagine, any more than he could understand how he had the strength to continue standing. There was no pain, no dizziness, no sign of the injury except an overwhelming sense of cold, and even that seemed to be fading.
Takari drew her sword and, grasping Melegaunt’s arm, turned back to help the others. “Let’s go, then—but I’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed over a human.”
