The Summoning (13 page)

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. “1 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 saving 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. “Ill 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. “1 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.

Galaeron stayed. Melegaunt masked Kiinyon’s departure with a shadow illusion, and the illithids did not seem to notice until much later, when the illusory shapes of the missing party members finally faded into wisps of black fog. Even then, the creatures seemed rather confused, sending a trio of scouts to search for their missing’ quarry. Two of the scouts vanished into the shadows and never returned. The third met some horrible end, as evidenced by the hissing screech that came from the direction it had gone.

The sound was more than enough to convince the rest of the illithids that the time for stealth was past. More than a dozen tentacle-faced silhouettes materialized out of the darkness, seeming to float forward in their long robes. Neither Galaeron nor Imesfor needed to be told to run. The creatures considered thousand-year-old elf corpses something of a delicacy, and the tomb guard was always having to fight them off.

Vala, on the other hand, did not seem to understand what the creatures could do if she allowed them to see her eyes. She drew her darksword and turned to face them—then screamed, grabbed her ears, and collapsed in a quivering heap.

Melegaunt spun and attacked without looking at the creatures, spraying a long chain of ebony bolts in every direction. “Get her!”

Galaeron was already scooping the woman into his arms. In her heavy scale armor, she weighed half again as much as he did, but there was no time to cast a spell to levitate her.

Once the creatures were close enough, they could blast the thoughts from a victim’s mind without making eye contact.

As Galaeron hefted Vala over his shoulder, the darksword slipped from her grasp and disappeared on the dark ground. Knowing what she would do to him if he rescued her but not her sword, he dropped to a knee and ran his hand through the shadow mist until he hit something and felt his fingers go cold.

“What are you doing?” Melegaunt let loose with a long chain of black lightning bolts. Something hissed and fell, and he growled, “Hurry!”

Galaeron grasped the sword by the blade and lifted it out of shadows. Trying not to notice he had just sliced the pads off two fingertips, he tossed the weapon into the air and managed to catch it by the hilt His palm began to sting with cold.

“Got it!”

He turned to flee toward Lord Imesfor, who stood a dozen paces ahead shaking his useless hands in anger. Melegaunt caught Galaeron by the shoulder and guided him past the high mage.

“This way!”

Melegaunt paused to make certain Lord Imesfor was keeping up with them, then ducked down a corridor of shadow. They ran no more than twenty paces before the first illithid rounded the corner behind them, its breath hissing down the dark gorge. Melegaunt flung a finger over his shoulder and unleashed a storm of black meteors behind them.

Burdened as Galaeron was with Vala’s armored body, he was breathing so hard he barely heard the illithids’ strangled shrieks. Melegaunt led the way around a bend in the dark passage and came to an intersection, one route veering off between two hill shapes toward a distant wedge of light, the other snaking deeper into the darkness.

Melegaunt pushed Lord Imesfor toward the light. “That way, no more than a hundred paces! You’ll come out near the Marsh of Chelimber.”

The lord’s eyes grew wide. “We’ve come that far?”

“Yes!” The soft sound of hissing began to sound around the corner behind them. Melegaunt pushed the high mage toward the light. “Run, and cast your spell the instant you see the marsh.”

Lord Imesfor sprinted for the light, groaning in pain as he pumped his mangled hands. Galaeron turned to flee in the opposite direction, but was surprised to feel a beefy hand catch him by the shoulder. He turned to see Melegaunt holding a finger to his lips, then watched in growing puzzlement as the wizard drew a veil of shadow down in front of them.

The illithids reached the intersection a moment later. Galaeron was so frightened he barely noticed the icy numbness creeping up the hand that held Vala’s sword, but the creatures turned away and rushed after Lord Imesfor.

As Galaeron listened to the procession hiss past, he began to feel steadily sicker and more revolted. He kept waiting for Melegaunt to spring his trap, to step from behind the shadowy screen and spray the horrid creatures with some immensely powerful spell that would slay them all instantly. Melegaunt remained silent and motionless, save that he reached over to take Vala’s sword when he noticed how white Galaeron’s hand was growing.

Finally, Galaeron’s shock gave way to the realization that the wizard had no intention of ambushing the illithids, that he had simply been using Lord Imesfor as a decoy. He dumped Vala’s limp form onto the shadow-misted ground, then drew his own sword and started past Melegaunt.

The wizard planted a hand in the middle of Galaeron’s chest, stopping him short. “Pick her up. You’ll attract a shadator.”

Galaeron shook his head. “I see how it is with you humans.” He pressed the edge of his blade to Melegaunt’s throat. “Save yourselves and sacrifice us!”

“You see less than I thought.” Melegaunt wrapped his free hand around Galaeron’s sword. Such were the wizard’s

protective enchantments that even its magic blade did not cut him. “Lord Imesfor will survive, so long as he does what I told him to do.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Can’t I?” He pushed Galaeron’s sword away “Even if I could not, would Lord Imesfor hesitate to use you as a decoy? Would you want him to, if it meant saving Evereska?”

Galaeron lowered his sword. “You should have warned him.”

“Would he have trusted me?” Melegaunt returned Vala’s sword to its scabbard, then picked her up himself. “Whatever you think, we are the ones who must reach our destination. Any help Imesfor finds in Waterdeep—or even in Evermeet— will do no more to stop the phaerimm than Kiinyon and his tomb guards. You, at least, have seen enough to know that is true.”

It was one those rare moments that were growing ever rarer, when Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun was both idle enough to join his lady Laeral for her highsun “nap” and relaxed enough to enjoy it—when his troubles were far from mind and no worldly problems weighed on his shoulders, and so he was most decidedly unhappy to hear the boots of an apprentice pounding up the stairs.

“Master Blackstaff!” It was young Ransford, the most excitable of the novices and—at that moment, at least—the most reckless. “Lady Silverhand!”

“Ouch.” Laeral turned her head and raised a dreamy green eye toward Khelben. “Gently, my dear.”

Khelben looked down and saw that the knuckles of his hands—the hands that had, until two seconds ago, been gently kneading Laeral’s shoulders—had gone white. He forced them open, then forced out a calming breath, then forced his voice to remain calm.

“Sorry, love.”

“Awake, my lord!” Ransford’s cry grew more urgent as drew nearer. “My lady, awake!”

Listening to crunch of his own grinding teeth, Khelben swung his knee over Laeral’s back and placed both feet heavily on the floor. “If this is about three-legged frogs again, IT! have that lad’s tongue for a potion of ventriloquism.”

He pulled on his black robe, then tossed Laeral’s silver shift to her.

Ransford reached the landing and pounded on the door. “My lord, wake—”

“Quiet, lad!” Khelben jerked the door open so quickly that Ransford came stumbling across the threshold all elbows and knees. “Don’t you know what ‘nap’ means?”

“I’m sorry, Master Blackstaff, but—” Ransford caught a flash of pale skin as Laeral slipped into her shift, then blushed and fell into a fit of stuttering. “B-b-but—”

“What?” Khelben grabbed the boy’s ear. “Out with it.”

Th-th-there’s an e-e-elf,” he stammered. “A-a-and an, an ill-ill-illillill … just come and see!”

Ransford took Khelben by the hand and led him over to the window, but the boy was so excited that Khelben had to speak the word of transparency himself. When he did, he was so surprised he nearly began to stutter himself.

In the courtyard outside, a mangled elf with no fingers was kicking and flailing at a single mind flayer, trying in grim desperation to pull one of the thing’s tentacles out of a small round hole in his skull.

“By the Weave, Laeral!” Khelben thrust a hand toward his namesake staff and, in the same instant, felt the familiar comfort of its polished wood. “I think that’s Gervas Imesfor down there!”

24 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

It seemed a lifetime since Galaeron had last felt the glaring sun of the Desert Border on his face, or bathed in the moon’s milky light, or glimpsed even a star’s blue twinkle, and he felt hungry for light— not the flat, toneless white radiance of these endless shadowlands, but real light. Light he could feel, hot and stinging against his skin, light that would make him thirsty and burn the musty smell of sweat from his cloak. Light that would give him some sense of direction, that would mark the passing time by its ebbing and flowing.