The Summoning (33 page)

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.

30 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

lo 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 1 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. 1 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 1 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.”

“1 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, 1 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, saving he would never be avenged on the demons with a living army. Seeing that my dream was not to be, 1 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 1 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 1 made is kept.” He turned to Galaeron. “And that is why I won’t betray you.”

“And if we fail you as Wulgreth did?” asked Galaeron. “Will you turn against us, too?”

Before Jhingleshod could answer, Melegaunt said, “What you say can’t be right Wulgreth was a Netherese arcanist, killed much earlier when a magical experiment went awry and Karsus had to push an orb of heavy magic off his enclave.”

“Heavy magic?” Galaeron asked. He knew “enclaves” to be the legendary floating cities of ancient Netheril, and Karsus was the deranged archwizard who had caused the empire’s fall by trying to steal Mystryl’s godhead, but Galaeron had never heard of “heavy magic.”

“A powerful sort of magic discovered by Karsus—and nothing 1 want you playing with until you bring that shadow under control.” Melegaunt fixed Galaeron with a disapproving eye. “It’s appallingly dangerous, a force-made-tangible that Netherese archwizards once used to heighten their other magic.”

“Once used?” asked Malik. “Then you do not have any of this ‘heavy magic’?”

Melegaunt glowered at the little man. “No. It vanished with the Netherese.” He turned back to Jhingleshod. “But it was Karsus’s heavy magic that turned Wulgreth into a lich, not your attack.”

“Netheril fell a thousand years before 1 lived,” said Jhingleshod. “And Wulgreth was much alive when 1 served him. One does not turn from a lich into a man and back to a lich again.”

“There is no record of such a thing in the Tomb Guard chronicles,” said Galaeron. Recalling Malik’s cryptic comment

about what Melegaunt had told Jhingleshod before crossing the bridge, he studied the wizard with narrowed eyes. “The Tomb Guard would have a record.”

Melegaunt’s eyes grew stormy “You accuse me of lying?”

“I ask for an explanation.”

“You—or your shadow?” Melegaunt countered.

“I have my shadow in hand,” said Galaeron. “It has not troubled me since the sunken bridge.”

“Why should it?” Melegaunt turned back to Jhingleshod. “1 am not mistaken about my dates. Wulgreth never forgave Karsus for the accident, and there are records of him plaguing Netherese enclaves for decades afterward. It’s the reason Wulgreth haunts the Dire Wood at all.”

“Wulgreth haunts this wood because I killed him here,” Jhingleshod insisted. “The Dire Wood did not exist before that.”

“But Karse did,” countered Melegaunt “The city was founded over sixteen centuries ago, a little after Karsus brought Netheril down. A refugee group was drawn to his corpse by dream visions and began to worship his dead body—and that really angered Wulgreth. He destroyed the entire city and moved into the ruins so it would never be rebuilt.”

Jhingleshod fixed his dead eyes on the sorcerer. “I know nothing about heavy magic and worshiping dead bodies. I killed Wulgreth, and he became a lich.”

“If I may, the answer is plain enough,” said Malik. “In a thousand years, there were certainly many wizards named Wulgreth. Does it seem so unlikely that two ended up here?”

Melegaunt raised his brow, then nodded thoughtfully, but Jhingleshod did not seem to hear the suggestion. In fact, Galaeron realized, though Jhingleshod’s gaze was fixed on the same point as Melegaunt’s—Malik’s face—the knight’s eyes were focused on the ground behind the little man, and the slight tilt of his helmet suggested he might be wondering what the wizard was looking at.

“I think we can trust Jhingleshod’s account of events.”

Galaeron chose his words carefully. “But we’d better be off before Takari and Vala get too far ahead of us.”

Jhingleshod’s dead gaze shifted to Galaeron. “Then you give your word?”

Galaeron nodded. “I will destroy Wulgreth, if we can find him.”

“He will find you,” said Jhingleshod.

The ghoulish knight walked across Aris’s sculpture, leaving the river stained with rusty footprints, into the trees. The forest here was dark, tangled, and dead—much the same as the bog, save that it stood on dry ground and did not drain their strength. The group soon caught up to Takari and Vala, and Jhingleshod took the lead, clinking and squeaking his way deeper into the tangled wood.