The Siege Page 9

  When Galaeron was finally looking at only the thornbacks themselves, he shifted from one to the other, studying each one in turn, looking for scars or scale patterns or anything that might trigger one of Melegaunt’s memories. Had the world-window been capable of carrying sound, he would have cast the spell that Melegaunt had taught him to understand their languages, but even the Shadovar could not eavesdrop without sending a spy. The Most High had already made clear to Galaeron that until he grew adept enough with shadow magic to find and pass on the knowledge that Melegaunt had entrusted to him, he would not be allowed to risk his life in any manner. For a Tomb Guard princep accustomed to chasing cutthroat crypt breakers down narrow passages strewn with magic death traps, the restriction was not an easy one to observe.

  After several minutes of allowing his thoughts to wander over the phaerimm, Galaeron finally looked away from the world-window.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t summon anything.”

  Telamont accepted the failure with a patience uncharacteristic toward anyone except Galaeron.

  “Do not let it concern you,” he said. “I’m sure it is just your shadow interfering. The harder you try to control it, the stronger it becomes.”

  “I’m not trying to control it,” Galaeron said. “I’m just letting my mind wander.”

  Telamont’s eyes twinkled beneath his cowl, and there was a flash of what might have been a white-fanged grin. “You are always trying to control your shadow, elf. You are the kind who must control what he fears.”

  “What I fear is becoming a monster,” Galaeron insisted. “Of course I want to control my shadow.”

  “As I said,” Telamont replied. His sleeve rose, then a cold weight settled on Galaeron’s shoulder. “It is no matter. The princes have their orders.”

  The world-window filled with a foggy expanse, which gradually grew less hazy as the Most High brought into focus what he wanted to see. Even after the scene stopped shifting, it took Galaeron a moment to notice a series of faint bluish lines that he recognized as crevasses in the High Ice.

  The crevasses broadened into the dagger-shaped ribbons of deep, icy canyons, and Galaeron began to notice an odd patchwork of vapor columns rising off some sections of the massive glacier. One of these columns expanded to fill the world-window, and a square plot of snow gradually darkened from white to gray to ebony as it continued to grow larger. Finally, Galaeron found himself looking at something that appeared to be a huge, black carpet being unrolled by a company of ant-sized Shadovar.

  “A shadow blanket,” Telamont explained, answering Galaeron’s question sooner than he could voice it. “A square mile of pure shadowsilk.”

  Galaeron frowned, as puzzled by what the Shadovar were doing as why Telamont was showing it to him. At the end of the blanket already laid out, a thickening vapor haze was beginning to rise into the air, while tiny rivulets of crystal water were flowing out from beneath the edge, braiding themselves into sparkling streams that merged into broad creeks and vanished down the blue crevasses in silver horsetails of falling water.

  “You’re melting it!” Galaeron gasped.

  “Yes.” If Telamont noticed the alarm in Galaeron’s voice, his tone did not betray it. “The shadow blankets absorb all of the light that falls on them, then trap it below in the form of heat. We have already laid hundreds along the edge of the High Ice.”

  “Hundreds?”

  Galaeron concentrated on a larger area of the High Ice. Sensing his change of focus, Telamont yielded control of the world-window, and the scene drew back to show the hundreds of vapor columns rising off the ice.

  “You’re changing Faerûn’s weather!”

  “We are rejuvenating what the phaerimm destroyed,” Telamont corrected.

  The scene changed again, this time to the southern edge of the High Ice, where dozens of huge rivers were gushing out of blue-tinged caves in the base of a mountainous wall of snow and ice. The water was pouring into enormous basins that had been dry for a thousand years, recreating the lakes that had once lain along the northern fringes of Netheril.

  “Cold air is rolling down from the High Ice and picking up moisture as it sweeps across the lakes and grows warm,” Telamont explained. “As the effect grows stronger, the winds will carry rain and fog farther south into Anauroch, forcing the hot desert air to rise and draw more winds down from the High Ice. The system feeds on itself. We are already seeing showers as far south as the Columns of the Sky.”

  Though Galaeron had no idea where the Columns of the Sky were—the name had a Netherese ring—he needed no explanation of what the shadow blankets meant for western Faerûn. He had already seen it in the blizzards plaguing Waterdeep and the deluges that had turned most of the farms south of the Ardeep Forest into hip-deep marshes.

  “That is well and good for Shade,” he said, “but what about the rest of Faerûn?”

  Telamont’s gloom-cloaked shoulders rose and fell. “Every good thing has a bad side. For Shade to reclaim its birthright, others must suffer.”

  “This is too much,” Galaeron said.

  He looked toward the west, and the scene shifted to Daggerford, where the River Delimbyr’s frigid waters had risen into the streets, and residents kept boats tied outside their second-story windows.

  “Surely, you could pursue a more gradual approach, one that would not force so many into homelessness and hunger.”

  Telamont seized control of the world-window from Galaeron, bringing the shadowy dome over the Sharaedim into view. “I thought your concern was for Evereska.”

  “The two are hardly related,” Galaeron said.

  “Aren’t they?” Telamont asked. “Shade must be strong if it is to prevail. So whose people do you want to save, elf? Yours, or theirs?”

  “That isn’t the choice,” Galaeron said. “Even at the rate you’re melting the High Ice, Anauroch will take decades to restore. Evereska will be saved or lost in a year.”

  Telamont’s murk-filled cowl tipped down toward Galaeron. “It is the choice I have given you, elf. Which will perish—Evereska, or the West?”

  “I—I can’t believe you would ask me such a thing!” Galaeron stammered.

  He thought he had to be misinterpreting what he was hearing, missing some important nuance that would make clear what the Most High was really asking of him.

  Something cold and angry rose inside him, and he understood. The Shadovar were trying to trap him, trying to corrupt him, perhaps, or test him, or move the burden of all those deaths from their heads to his.

  Galaeron shook his head. “I see your game, and it won’t work on me.”

  “You think this is a game?” Telamont lifted a sleeve toward the world-window. “Look and think again.”

  The scene had returned to the High Moor, where the princes of Shade and their legions were just rising from the dusky ground, thousands upon thousands of silhouettes peeling themselves out of the shadows and growing whole as they charged, flinging spells of umbral death and waving weapons of indestructible black glass.

  Caught from the rear and the flank, the bugbears were roaring in confusion and fighting their beholder masters with far more ferocity than they were the Shadovar. One company of illithids was already under the black sword, while the other was rushing to fan out behind their battle lines and find the most powerful spell-flingers to target with their mind blasts. The search was proving a difficult one, for most warriors of Shade Enclave fought with both spell and blade, often slipping from one to the other with a grace that even an elf bladesinger would envy.

  No more eager to engage the princes than the princes were to engage them, the five phaerimm hung back, assailing their enemy’s ranks with fireballs, lightning bolts, and sheets of burning light that felled whole ranks of Shadovar. Though this last spell was one that Galaeron had never seen before, it bore a semblance to certain elements of a prismatic wall, and he felt sure it was little more than a simple modification the thornbacks had developed especially for com
bat against shades.

  That was when it hit him. “This battle is a diversion.”

  “An army that large may be many things, but a diversion is not one of them,” said Hadrhune. “A force that size requires resources that our agents assure us the phaerimm dare not waste lightly.”

  “Your agents don’t know the phaerimm well enough to make that judgment,” Galaeron replied, somewhat surprised to discover he felt he did. He pointed at a flickering fan of azure light. “That spell is a new one, designed for battle against Shadovar.”

  “Even if you could know that,” Hadrhune began, “I fail to see—”

  “I can know it, and you do fail to see,” Galaeron interrupted, confident of his judgment. “If the phaerimm were expecting to do combat with the Chosen, they would not clutter their minds with spells designed for Shadovar—and they would not announce their presence by floating into battle fully visible.”

  All of Anauroch and western Faerûn appeared in the world-window, clouds stripped away to reveal the swollen rivers beneath.

  “What are they trying to hide?” Telamont asked.

  Galaeron studied the divination for several minutes, focusing on the area around the shadowshell, Rocnest, and the Greycloaks for the longest period. Finally, he shook his head.

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Perhaps because there is nothing to see,” Hadrhune said. “With these five in plain view, we know the locations of all twelve phaerimm who escaped the shadowshell.”

  “Your knowledge is current?” Telamont asked.

  Hadrhune’s amber eyes vanished behind their dark lids for a moment, then he nodded. “The shadow-watchers have seen them all within the quarter hour. Five are visible at this moment.”

  Galaeron nodded. “Of course. They would know we’re watching.”

  “Our watchers would know if they were simulacrums or magic images,” Telamont said. “Perhaps this is no diversion, after all.”

  “We cannot know what the phaerimm make of the shadowshell,” Hadrhune said, smirking down at Galaeron. “It may be that they fear it is the Chosen’s doing, and this army is part of their plan.”

  “Or it may be that the Myth Drannor phaerimm have a part to play in this,” said Lord Terxa, whom Galaeron had not even realized was listening from the shadows. “What remains of the mythal there interferes with the shadow-watchers, and they are not even certain they have found them all.”

  Galaeron recalled how Melegaunt’s shadow magic had failed inside Evereska’s mythal but frowned and shook his head. “A good thought, but phaerimm are not social. They work together only when each one benefits personally, and there’s no reason for the Myth Drannor phaerimm to think that helping the others would be worth their trouble.”

  Terxa’s expression grew uncomfortable, and he peered into the darkness under Telamont’s cowl. “Perhaps he should know, Most High?”

  “Know what?” Galaeron was instantly resentful. “Now you are keeping secrets from me?”

  Telamont’s eyes twinkled as though he was amused—or satisfied. “Have you told us all your secrets, elf?”

  He raised a sleeve, and a sleepy forest hamlet appeared in the world-window. Not too long past, a battle—or several—had been fought around it, for several new meadows had been burned into the woods around its boundaries. In front of a high tower not far from the heart of the village, a strange seam of distortion hovered in the air, emitting wisps of flame and dark fume.

  “Many things are better kept secret,” Telamont said. “Among them, deeds of shame done in moments of necessity.”

  Hadrhune moved to interpose himself in front of Galaeron and asked, “Most High, is this something—”

  Galaeron stepped forward to block Hadrhune. “It is, unless you wish to let the phaerimm have their way with your legions.”

  “He needs to know,” said Terxa.

  Telamont spread his sleeves. Flames and smoke sprang up in the charred clearings, and Galaeron began to see familiar cone shaped bodies drifting through the trees. A moment later, Elminster’s familiar figure appeared over the village and began to circle.

  “After Melegaunt summoned his brothers to the Karsestone,” Telamont began, “Elminster was proving most difficult to locate. In order to find him, the princes found it necessary to slay a few of the Myth Drannor phaerimm—”

  “And leave the smell of Elminster’s stinkweed in the air,” Galaeron finished.

  “As I understand, it was not necessary to leave anything,” Telamont said, almost chuckling. “The thornbacks could not imagine anyone else capable, and went to take their vengeance on Elminster.”

  “And when he returned to see what was happening, the princes ambushed him and sent him to the Nine Hells?” Galaeron demanded. “How could you—”

  “It was an accident,” Hadrhune said firmly.

  “In any case, its not relevant to the question at hand,” Telamont said. “What is relevant is that the Myth Drannor phaerimm may have learned who was actually responsible—”

  “And made a pact with their fellows to be rid of you,” Galaeron finished.

  He was growing angrier by the moment, and not just because of what they had done to Elminster. He saw how Telamont had manipulated him as well, deliberately drawing his shadow out by showing him the shadow blankets and telling him he must choose between saving Evereska or the whole west. Though Telamont remained silent, the force of his unspoken question pressed down like a boulder. So infuriated was Galaeron that he wanted not to answer, to deny what he saw so clearly, or lie about it, or do something to make the Shadovar pay—but he could not hold the knowledge inside. The pressure of the Most High’s will was insufferable, as though he had somehow brought the entire weight of Shade Enclave to bear on that one pressure point.

  At last, Galaeron had to ask, “You have a mythal?”

  The air grew even more still and cold than usual next to Telamont. “Of a sort. There is a mythallar here, as were found on all the enclaves of Netheril.”

  “That’s what they’ll attack.”

  “Impossible,” Hadrhune said. “They’d never make it through the shadow moats.”

  Galaeron shrugged. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Hadrhune looked to Telamont.

  The Most High turned to Galaeron and said, “You know our defenses. Can the phaerimm breach them?”

  “They already have, or your sentries would be sounding the alarms by now.” Then, in answer to what the Most High wanted to know next, Galaeron said, “It’s likely a small company of infiltrators. If it was only one or two, they would have relied on stealth instead of trying to lure your strength away.”

  “An entire company?” Hadrhune shook his gaunt head. “Impossible.”

  “It would not hurt to be certain,” Telamont said.

  Hadrhune’s amber eyes vanished beneath their lids, but Telamont was not waiting. He started for the throne room, motioning Galaeron to follow—and many others as well, judging by the cold swirl of darkness that accompanied them.

  Hadrhune appeared at Telamont’s side, his eyes opened again. “A veserab patrol did return unexpectedly, Most High. The officer cannot be found, and the mounts have burns where they were harnessed with Weave magic.”

  “Not impossible,” Telamont said. “Recall the princes.”

  They were in the throne room, striding through the whispering shadows toward the reception hall, surrounded by a throng of increasingly substantial figures. Several of the silhouettes drifted apart long enough for Vala to emerge and step to Galaeron’s side.

  “What happened?”

  “Phaerimm infiltrators,” Galaeron explained. “They’re after the mythallar.”

  Vala raised her brow, but said, “That’s not what I was asking about.”

  “No?”

  “You, Galaeron,” Telamont said, speaking from a dozen paces ahead. “She wants to know what happened to you.”

  Galaeron frowned. “My shadow?” He glanced over at her.
“You can tell just by looking?”

  Vala nodded. “Galaeron, I don’t even have to look anymore,” she said, “and I don’t much like that.”

  “Ready weapons!” Hadrhune called.

  Vala reached for her darksword and asked, “They’re coming here?”

  They were somewhere else, dropping out of the shadows into a huge obsidian basin, sliding down the glassy slopes with purple sheets of light burning all around them, voices screaming, bolts cracking, air reeking of charred flesh. It took Galaeron a moment to recall where he was and why, a moment longer to realize the pain in his arm was Vala’s free hand digging into his biceps, then he finally began to make sense of what he was seeing.

  At the bottom of the basin sat a huge ball of obsidian, easily a hundred and fifty feet in diameter, with pale, ghostly shapes gliding about inside and a halo of deepening darkness radiating from its surface. A flight of phaerimm were descending out of the gloom above, flinging spells of fire and light as they came, trying to fight their way through the swarm of teleport-dazed Shadovar tumbling and sliding down the slopes of the glassy basin along with Galaeron and Vala.

  An orb of darkness streaked up out of the basin and drilled a fist-sized hole through a creature close over their heads. It dropped onto the slope above and started to slide down toward them, roaring its pain in a swirling tempest of winds and lashing out with a wild flurry of lightning and burning light. Galaeron took a white fork of energy in the shoulder and went rigid, biting down on his tongue so hard that his teeth met through the flesh.

  Vala hurled her sword, slicing off one of the phaerimm’s arms and a good portion of its sinewy shoulder. The creature rolled away, then whistled something in the phaerimm wind language and vanished.

  Galaeron felt Vala catch him by the collar, then their descent began to slow as they reached the bottom of the basin and the slope lost its steepness. She called her darksword back to her hand, and only after it had returned did she turn her attention to the smoking hole in his shoulder.

  “How bad?”

  Galaeron managed to unclench his jaw and, with a mouthful of blood, said, “Stiff, but all right.”