The Summoning (14 page)

They had been marching for what seemed hours, but might have been mere minutes or days unending, winding through a labyrinth of sinuous shapes and sharp-edged silhouettes. Galaeron’s mind had long since stopped trying to make sense of the patterns and

merely classified them as passing forms. If the lack of light troubled Melegaunt, he showed no sign of it He simply marched along, leading the way ever onward at the same brisk pace.

Vala, now recovered from her brush with the illithid, followed close on the wizard’s heels. Though she never complained, Galaeron could tell by the weariness of her stride and the way she craned her neck skyward that she missed the light as much as he did.

They seemed to be approaching some sort of shadow border, a curtain of utter darkness that Galaeron kept glimpsing at the far end of long shadowy channels, or looming up beyond hill shapes. Whenever the curtain came into view, the stretch he saw was longer. Sometimes he saw two stretches at once, one spanning a broad shadowbed, the other rising behind a nearby slope. Each time, the curtain seemed higher and darker and somehow deeper, as though it were not so much a barrier, but a vast expanse of pure, unlit darkness.

Finally, they rounded a corner and saw nothing but black curtain in any direction, its billowing crown silhouetted against the lighter purple of the shadow sky, its dark feet rooted in the swirling black ground mists. Vala’s shoulders slumped, and a sigh almost too faint to hear slipped her lips, and Galaeron knew he had to say something to Melegaunt before he and Vala went mad.

“Melegaunt, wait.”

The wizard spun on his heel, his dark eyes searching the dusky landscape behind his two charges. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, except I’m about to lose my mind,” said Galaeron. “Doesn’t this bother you?”

“This?” Melegaunt looked around. “After the Phaerlin? You must be joking.”

The wizard started toward the shadowy curtain ahead. Vala started after him, but stopped and looked back when she realized Galaeron was not following.

“Are you coming, elf?” she asked.

“Not in there.” Galaeron gestured at the blackness ahead. “I’m not going any deeper until I’ve had a few minutes of sunshine.”

Melegaunt turned. “Deeper?”

“Into the shadow.” Again, Galaeron pointed at the dark curtain. “Just a few minutes in the light—please?”

Vala nodded her agreement. “In truth, this gloom wears on the nerves. I could use a little sunshine myself—especially if we’re going deeper.”

“Deeper?” Melegaunt scowled and looked into the darkness ahead. “Deeper into what?”

“Shadow,” Galaeron said. “Even I can see that—”

“It’s a forest,” Melegaunt growled.

Galaeron frowned. Now that the wizard mentioned it, the curtain did resemble the gloomy edge of a deep wood, and the billowing crown was shaped like a forest’s outer canopy.

“The Forgotten Forest, to be exact,” said Melegaunt. “I’d never take you beyond the Fringe.”

“The Fringe?” asked Galaeron.

“The boundary between the worlds of light and the Shadowdeep.” Melegaunt waved his arm at the surrounding terrain. “Neither of you would last a hundred steps beyond the Fringe.”

Vala scowled and started to object, but Galaeron cut her off by asking, “Worlds of light?”

“There are many worlds, young elf. The Shadowdeep connects them all. It’s the one mirror that shapes their many lights.” Melegaunt started forward again. “And now, if you’d please start walking again, you will see your precious light again in Dekanter. I’d like to be there before the Shifting.”

Galaeron raised a questioning brow to Vala, who shrugged and started after the wizard, grumbling, “Better not to be left behind.”

Feeling no less distressed for the explanation, Galaeron started after his companions. Once they had formed a neat line again, Melegaunt turned his head a little so it would be easier for Galaeron and Vala to hear him.

“You have noticed how the shadows change as the sun crosses the sky?” Melegaunt asked. “And how they dance in the light of a candle?”

“Of course,” said Galaeron.

“What happens when the sun sets?”

“There is darkness.” It was Vala who said this.

“There is shadow,” corrected Melegaunt “The sun has not vanished, only sunk out of sight. If s light is blocked by the horizon.”

“A fine distinction,” noted Galaeron.

“But an important one,” said Melegaunt “On Faerűn, there is only shadow. Everything that people call ‘dark’ or ‘night’ is nothing more than light blocked by the world itself.”

“Even in caves?” asked Vala.

“Even caves. If they weren’t surrounded by rock, the sun would light them,” the wizard explained. “But there are places— other planes—where there is no sun or any light There, no shadow exists, only darkness—true, black, darkness.”

“And this has what to do with the Shifting?” asked Vala.

“Only this,” said Melegaunt “Darkness is by nature motionless and without life, but shadows are all motion and vigor. They dance and swirl and flicker and continually beget strange creatures, and only light ever fixes them in place.”

“So when the sun goes down, they lose form and go into motion,” surmised Galaeron. “The Shifting.”

Melegaunt nodded. “One could almost say they become motion.” He craned his neck around to smile at Galaeron. “Well make a shadow shaper of you yet, elf.”

“I’m sure the Hill Elders will like that,” said Vala.

Though she made no complaint, Galaeron could tell by how she dogged Melegaunt’s heels that she had realized the same thing he did. If they wanted to feel any sunlight on their faces in Dekanter, they had to hurry.

As they approached the forest, the darkness resolved itself into a fence of charcoal depths, laced by black tangles of undergrowth, striped by the ebony columns of impossibly

thin tree trunks. Knowing it to be the forest, or more accurately the absence of one, Galaeron began to feel a little more at ease. Elves, even those who dwelled in cities, were at home in the woods. If he could feel safe any place in the Fringe, it would be there. He moved closer behind Vala and spoke to Melegaunt over her shoulder.

“Is Dekanter where well find the help you promised?”

“Sadly, no,” said Melegaunt “My, uh, friends are a few days farther north—and west, I believe. But I’ve always wanted to see Dekanter, and as it happens to be on our way, I thought it would be a good place to rest for the night.”

Dekanter was the last place in Faerűn—that Galaeron knew of, at least—where the ruins of ancient Netheril could still be visited. Little more than a few towers and dozens upon dozens of holes in the ground, the city was not much to see and even less of a camping spot, but Galaeron suspected the goblins and gargoyles who normally plagued visitors there would quickly see the wisdom in giving any camp of Melegaunt’s a wide berth.

“It would ease my mind to know who these friends of yours are, Melegaunt,” said Galaeron. “What makes you so certain they can stop the phaerimm when Evereska’s high mages could not?”

“Have you heard nothing I’ve told you?” snapped Melegaunt. “I’m certain because ridding Faerűn of this evil is what they have prepared themselves to do. Ifs unfortunate they will have to do it in Evereska instead of Anauroch, but they will succeed nonetheless.”

“Unfortunate?” Galaeron had visions of his beloved vale being reduced to a ruin of shadow and smoke. “How?”

Melegaunt’s voice grew impatient. “How do you think? The phaerimm have already killed hundreds of Tel’Quess and may well kill thousands more.” The wizard reached the forest edge and continued forward, then suddenly began to grow translucent. “But there is no need to fear for Evereska itself. We will not allow …”

The wizard’s voice grew softer as his body grew more transparent, then finally faded altogether when he vanished.

Vala pulled up short, and Galaeron stumbled into her from behind, nearly knocking her into the forest after Melegaunt.

“Mighty One?” she called.

Galaeron shouted, “Melegaunt?”

When no answer came, they drew their swords. Galaeron’s first instinct was to look for shadators—as though he could actually see one—and illithids and beholders or any of the other deadly creatures of wickedness he was beginning to associate with Melegaunt and their phaerimm enemies. Vala’s reaction was more direct and to the point. She grabbed Galaeron and started forward into the forest.

“Vala! Are you …” Galaeron made it only that far before he realized she was doing exactly the right thing. “All right, I’m coming!”

A cold afternoon wind began to whip his hair about his ears, then he found himself standing ankle deep in cold Nightal snow, staring at the winter skeletons of a thick forest of oak, walnut, and shadowtop. Melegaunt was no more than three paces ahead, surrounded by a semicircle of eight trees, all still holding their leaves. The largest of the trees, a twenty-foot oak, was blocking their path, shaking a gnarled branch at Melegaunt and rumbling at him in a voice as deep as thunder.

“Through my wood, Melegaunt Tanthul, you do not go!”

“But it is the shortest path, Great Fuorn,” Melegaunt protested, “and the only one I know.”

“Matters not,” said the tree.

Now that he had recovered from his astonishment, Galaeron could make out the twisted bark faces of the eight trees. They had knotholes for eyes, jagged hollows for mouths, crooked limb stubs for noses. Their lips and brows were formed of gathered bark, their cheeks by lumpy burls. Galaeron’s mother had once introduced him to a treant in the High Forest, and he recognized these plants as creatures of the same kind.

“Your magic is a thing cold and dark,” said Fuorn, “and this wood it shall not enter.”

“If my magic feels strange to you, it is because you have never seen its like or power before.” Melegaunt pointed east toward Anauroch. “1 employ it in a good cause, against the wicked creatures that turned the old forests into barren sand.”

Fuorn looked east. “Yes, I recall the magicgrubs.” His crown of scarlet leaves swayed back and forth in a sort of nod. “Little larger than men, but with a bite like dragons. We have seen a pair sniffing around our forest, peering into the shadows beneath our branches.”

Melegaunt’s shoulders squared. “The very ones. The phaerimm. I have come to undo what they have done.”

Again, Fuorn seemed to nod. “Then well I wish you—but not here. I will have no battles in my forest.”

“1 thank you for the warning, tree,” said Melegaunt. “You have my promise that no harm will come to your forest.”

The wizard lowered his arm and cupped his hand beneath his sleeve, and Galaeron knew something terrible was about to happen. He clipped Vala’s heel with the arch of his foot and knocked her to the ground with a sweep of his arm, then slipped forward and used the same technique to knock the wizard off his feet.

Melegaunt bellowed and started to raise the suspicious hand, but stopped when Galaeron’s foot pinned his arm to his chest.

“No, my human friend,” said Galaeron, “not even for Evereska.”

Though he still held his sword, Galaeron was careful to hold the blade away from Melegaunt—and not only because he knew it would never pierce the wizard’s magic. Vala had already leaped to her feet and was stepping toward him, darksword ready to strike.

“Have you lost your mind, elf?” Though there was a hint of grief in her expression, the set of her jaw and the hardness in

her eyes left no doubt of her intentions. “You know I’m sworn to defend him.”

“A little late for that, my dear,” chuckled Melegaunt, “but no harm done.”

The wizard motioned her to stand down, then brought his hand out of his sleeve and displayed a large black kernel.

To help the treants protect their wood in the battles to come.” Melegaunt handed it to Galaeron, then his voice grew pained. “You couldn’t have thought I meant to attack them.”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Noting that the treants were watching them with expressions ranging from bewilderment to suspicion, Galaeron sheathed his sword and examined the seed. It was about the size of an acorn, but as shiny as coal and full of swirling darkness. “I apologize. What is this?”

“Shadowstorm seed.” Melegaunt heaved himself up and faced Fuorn. “Hurl it down, and any being not rooted to the ground will be swept into the shadowdeep. There will be wind and lightning, but any battle likely to be waged near your forest would be stopped at once—or at least moved to where it could do no harm.”

Fuorn considered this, then asked, “And rain?”

“If you throw it into the air,” said Melegaunt “But do so only in great desperation. The deluge it brings will quench even the fiercest fire, but the waters will be black and cold— tar colder than any ice storm.”

This drew a leafy shudder from the treants, for only burning was considered a more awful death than being split down the trunk by the weight of an ice-crusted crown. Fuorn lowered a twisted bough, and Galaeron laid the seed in the cusp of his woody palm.

“With your gift, I will be very careful.” Fuorn tucked the kernel into a fold of bark. “And in return give you the favor of a warning word. Of late, the northern shadows have often taken the shape of great wings and long tails.”

“Shadow dragons,” surmised Melegaunt. “Shimmergloom?”

Fuorn’s leafy crown quivered in a contrary sign. “It is sung on the winds that the longbeard Battlehammer slew the great wyrm when he reclaimed Mithral Hall, but it may be that Shimmergloom’s seeds have begun to sprout and show themselves. You would do well to walk the shadow way carefully after you round the forest.”

“Round the forest?” echoed Melegaunt “You still refuse us?”

“We thank you for the shadowstorm seed,” said Fuorn, “but what did you risk in its giving?”

Without waiting for an answer, Fuorn stepped back among his fellows. He stretched upright and stood motionless, not so much staring at the travelers as waiting for them to make their decision. Not wishing Melegaunt to come to the wrong one, Galaeron reached for his arm—and felt Vala’s strong grasp on his own.

“You surprise me once,” she said.