“Can you call them out?” Galaeron asked, not bothering to conceal the panic in his voice.
“That will not be necessary,” said the gravely voice of Prince Rivalen. “We are not afraid to lose a life or two in defense of our allies, and the scaly ones will lose an army.”
Galaeron looked up and saw Rivalen’s horn-helmed figure coming down the balcony, then found himself shaking his head. “There’s more to this battle than we’re seeing,” he said. “You’re the ones who lose—and to the warrior, unless you act quickly.”
Escanor asked, “You know this?”
Galaeron nodded. “I do.”
“How?” demanded Rivalen.
Galaeron could only shrug. “I don’t know how I know, only that I do.”
Escanor and Rivalen exchanged glances, and Escanor asked, “As you did at the Splicing?”
Galaeron considered this, then reluctantly shook his head. “It’s a feeling, but not as strong. It just makes sense—lizardmen don’t fight like that. Something must be driving them.”
“Phaerimm?” asked Rivalen. “We always expected a few would be outside the shell when Escanor raised it.”
“I am the one who raised it,” Galaeron said, angry that the Shadovar kept slighting the role he had played in the Splicing. “And it’s not the phaerimm. This is too direct for them.” The words seemed to be spilling from his mouth of their own accord. “They prefer to remain hidden and work through intermediaries. It must be a beholder, or maybe a squad of illithids.”
Both princes turned toward the Most High. Astonished at having won the argument so easily, Galaeron did likewise—and found Telamont Tanthul standing only a few paces away, his platinum eyes glaring down out of the depths of his cowl. Galaeron still could not make out the shape of his face, or even whether the Most High was bearded like Melegaunt or clean-shaven like most of the other princes.
Telamont looked over Galaeron’s head to the princes and said, “Our question as been answered.”
No sooner had he spoken than the Shadovar company began to bleed into the flashing shadows of the lightning storm, leaving the astonished lizardmen free to overrun the position—and the beholder that suddenly grew visible behind their lines so angry that it began to spray its disintegration ray around at random. Galaeron glared at the scene for a moment, then turned to find Telamont Tanthul still staring down at him with those platinum eyes.
“You were with Melegaunt when he died,” Telamont said. “Something passed between you.”
“I blanked out,” Galaeron gasped, recalling the confused battle in which Melegaunt perished. “When I came to, he was gone.”
“Not gone.” Telamont drifted closer, until he was near enough to raise a murky sleeve and lay something dark and cold on Galaeron’s shoulder. “Through you, he still serves.”
“That’s why you brought me here?” The air was so cold and still that Galaeron was finding it difficult to breathe. “Because Melegaunt passed his knowledge of the phaerimm to me?”
“That is not a bad thing,” Escanor said. “Partners in need forge the strongest alliances.”
CHAPTER FIVE
14 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic
In the dark sky, the sun was but an ashen disk peering over Eastpeak’s craggy shoulder, too weak to burn through the dusky mantle Evereska’s enemies had drawn over the Sharaedim, too pale to feed the few light-starved buds dauntless enough to emerge on the scorched and withered stalks of the Vine Vale. Murky as the morning was, it was bright enough for Keya Nihmedu’s elf eyes to make out the faint swirl of ash and dust drifting down the other side of the Meadow Wall. A couple of lance-lengths from her hiding tree, it was moving slowly, quietly and carefully, bouncing along Evereska’s protective mythal, trying again and again to cross the boundary into the untouched fields beyond.
Every instinct screamed at Keya to throw off her camouflage and flee for the cliff gates. She stayed. The mythal would protect her, and she had promised to be there when Khelben and the Vaasans returned. If they returned. Keya looked at the pale disk in the sky and wondered if even the Chosen of Mystra could be that good. A full night among the phaerimm.
The swirl halted in front of Keya’s tree, so faint she began to doubt she was seeing it. Perhaps the whorl had been just a breeze stirring up ash as it rolled down the Meadow Wall. Not every dust devil dancing down a scorched terrace was an invisible phaerimm—but a lot of them were. Had she been at her post inside one of the city towers, Keya could have waved a wand and known at once what she was looking at, but the thornbacks could see mystic energy the way dwarves saw body heat, and so the Long Watch did not use any magic—did not even carry it—this close to the boundary.
The swirl vanished, but Keya could still hear dead vine stalks stirring in the breeze and the distinct sibilation of air moving over the stones of the Meadow Wall, and she knew. The phaerimm were surrounded by an aura of moving air, which they used to communicate among themselves in a strange language of whistles and roars. There was not just one invisible thornback pausing on his circuit of the mythal—there were two, whispering quietly, lurking directly in front of Keya’s tree—the same tree she had told Khelben Arunsun and the Vaasans to mark as their rendezvous point when they returned to the city.
Keya remained in her hollow in the linden’s thick trunk, standing behind her screen of bark, hardly daring to breathe. She spent the next few minutes wondering why the phaerimm had picked this particular place on this particular morning to hold a conversation and what she was going to do if—when—Khelben and the Vaasans returned. She could not speak the word of passing with two thornbacks lurking outside—not even for one of the Chosen, not for her Vaasan friends, not even if her own brother Galaeron were to suddenly appear outside Meadow Wall. When an elf opened a gate in the mythal, she could not control who used it. Once the phaerimm were inside, it would take only a moment to cast the same life-draining magic that had already withered the vineyards of the Vine Vale and denuded the once-majestic spruce stands of the Upper Vale, and that was something Keya could not permit—not when the mythal was already growing weak.
It took Keya a moment to realize it when the phaerimm fell silent, for the difference between stillness and the sibilation of their whispering voices was no more than the flutter of a moth’s wings. She thought for a moment the phaerimm had moved on, but when she looked along the Meadow Wall, she saw no swirling ash or any other sign of their departure. The thornbacks had fallen quiet for the same reason they were invisible, because they wanted to keep their presence secret, and their prey was close enough to hear them.
It had to be Khelben and the Vaasans, as invisible as the phaerimm, but walking into a trap. Keya knew Khelben would have his detection magic up and—assuming he was still with the group—see the enemy as soon as he came into range. The thornbacks would know that as well. The war around Evereska had become one of stealth and magic, with the combatants sneaking through the barren landscape, silent and invisible, searching for foes who were just as silent and just as invisible. More often than not, the victor was the one who detected his enemy first—and the phaerimm had obviously already detected Khelben and Vaasans.
Keya knew she could warn Khelben simply by speaking his name, for he had told her that the Chosen heard a few words whenever their names were spoken anywhere on Faerûn, but that was really not much different from a magic sending. She had to assume that the phaerimm would detect it just as easily. No, she needed to startle the thornbacks, to confuse them for just the half-second it would take Khelben and the others to discern the trap and react.
Assuming they were really out there.
Keya wished she had her wand of seeing—really wished she had it. Instead, she fixed her eye on the Meadow Wall and grabbed the shaft of her spear. It was a plain one with an oak shaft and a head of mithral steel, and it weighed almost a third what she did. She whispered a prayer to Corellon Larethian, then kicked her screen of bark aside and burst from her hiding place.
Two swirls of ash and dust went up behind the Meadow Wall as the startled phaerimm reacted. She angled toward the one on the right for no other reason than it was half a step closer than the other. The thing reacted by instinct, spraying bolts of golden magic in Keya’s direction and growing instantly visible. The bolts blossomed harmlessly against the mythal, then Keya was at the Meadow Wall, shoving her spear through the magic barrier to strike at the creature’s scaly midsection.
The phaerimm’s magic defenses turned her spear as easily as the mythal had turned its golden bolts. A ball of Khelben’s silver spellfire exploded into the thing from behind, pinning it against the mythal and holding it there as it was incinerated by the special magic of the Chosen.
Shielding her eyes from the silver brilliance, Keya stumbled away and turned to see the other phaerimm coming apart beneath the Vaasans’ darkswords. One of the black blades was emitting a sort of musical purr—a brisk tune that sounded almost like someone humming. The song sent a shiver down Keya’s spine. She had heard Dexon’s sword talking while he slept and seen Kuhl’s grow pallid because he had neglected to plunge it into a vat of mead that day, but this was the eeriest oddity of all. The melody was joyful and light, as though the weapon enjoyed its bloody work.
The three Vaasans finished the phaerimm quickly, then cut off its tail barb and fell to arguing as only Vaasans could about who deserved the trophy. Khelben appeared behind the trio and silenced them with a sharp word before turning to Keya with a grateful bow.
“Quick wit and brave deeds, Keya Nihmedu,” he said. Tall and dark-bearded, Khelben had a grim manner that lent a sullen dignity to even his simplest acts. “You have our gratitude.”
“It was nothing.” Keya spoke the word of passing, then motioned the wizard and the others over the Meadow Wall. “I was never in danger.”
“But we were,” said Dexon, the darkest of the dark and burly Vaasans. “They would surely have taken us by surprise. I could kiss you.”
This caused Keya to cock her brow. “Really?”
Weighing somewhat less than a rothé and possessed of a flashing white smile, Dexon was the handsomest of the Vaasans. She whispered the word of closing to seal the mythal behind them, then smiled up at the human. “Well, why don’t you then?”
Dexon’s jaw dropped, and he began to leer at her with that hungry look that seemed to come to the Vaasan eye at the slightest flash of skin. Though Keya knew her friends on the Long Watch were revolted by humans in general and by being ogled by them in particular, she did not withdraw her smile. The truth was that once a person got to know them, humans were really rather fun. She had even come to enjoy the glances that they cast her way—at least those Dexon cast her way—whenever they went to bathe in Dawnsglory Pond.
When the Vaasan seemed too shocked to do more than stare at Keya, Burlen stepped forward to take his place. “What’s wrong with you, Dex? You can’t keep our hostess waiting.”
Burlen spread his burly arms wide and closed his eyes … and suddenly found himself holding a glowering Khelben.
“Keya is the one who deserves the reward, Burlen, not you.”
Keya giggled at this, causing the archmage to turn his glower on her.
“And you, young lady, should be careful of baiting bears. I’m sure Lord Nihmedu would take a dim view of you kissing something with more wool on his face than a thkaerth.”
Keya raised her chin. “I’m sure he would, Sir Blackstaff, but Galaeron is neither here nor my keeper.” She sneaked a glance at Dexon, then added, “Now, pray tell how your scouting mission went?”
Something like humor may have flashed in Khelben’s dark eyes, but it was gone before Keya could be certain. Speaking over his shoulder, he turned and started across the meadow toward the cliff gates.
“Lord Duirsar has reason to be concerned about the shadow sky,” he said. “The Vale is dying outside the mythal even faster than it is inside.”
Keya stumbled and, were it not for the speed with which Dexon’s hand leaped out to catch her, would have fallen. The life of the Vale, both inside the Meadow Wall and beyond it, was what sustained the mythal.
“We must find a way to tear that shadow from the sky, and quickly,” Khelben continued, “or we will soon be fighting phaerimm in the streets of Evereska.”
Galaeron stood in the cold stillness at the Most High’s side, peering down into the world-window, watching a miles-long column of mixed volunteers trudge along the knee-deep mud trough that had once been the Trade Way. There were folk from all over the northwest—Evermeetian elves, Adbarrim dwarves, Waterdhavian men—but only the Uthgardt barbarians seemed untroubled by the blizzards and constant downpours that had been plaguing western Faerûn all spring. The rest of the volunteers were coughing and staggering, so weakened by fever and fatigue that the army could barely slog three miles a day, much less join battle at the end of the march.
Yet fight they must. Telamont’s cowled head looked toward the High Moor, and the scene in the world-window shifted to a horde of bugbears being herded through a waterfall of rain by a troop of beholder officers. Supporting them were two companies of illithids and another of Zhentilar battle mages—though why the enemy would need human spell-flingers with five phaerimm overseeing their attack was beyond Galaeron.
Telamont’s gaze shifted again, this time to a rocky ridge of ground that stood along the Trade Way opposite the High Moor. Laeral Silverhand and her sister Storm already stood atop the ridge, their long tresses streaming in the gale wind as they laid magic traps. Though it was far from certain that their army would cover the mile and a half remaining to it before the phaerimm’s bugbears covered the eight remaining to them, the ridge meant everything. The army that controlled it would have the advantages of both height and solid ground, while the one that did not would be forced to wade into battle through a muddy morass.
Withdrawal was not an option for either force, not with the kind of magic that five phaerimm or two Chosen of Mystra could call down on an army mired in the mud. There would be a battle that evening, perhaps the fiercest of the war, one that would annihilate both sides no matter who remained alive to claim the field—and why?
Telamont’s attention turned to the phaerimm themselves, and the scene shifted yet again. Accustomed to the Most High’s rapid changes of focus, Galaeron turned his own attention to the thornbacks and began to let his thoughts wander over the question of why so many had gathered in one place. He had been coming to the palace every day since their initial meeting, spending most of that time peering into the world-window and trying to get in touch with whatever Melegaunt had passed on to him during those last few moments of life. Sometimes it worked, and he was able to divine the enemy’s intentions in time to save a few dozen—or even a few hundred—lives. More often, he had no more to offer than anyone else.
Regardless, Telamont Tanthul spent part of each day—sometimes most of it—with Galaeron, never teaching him directly, but always approaching the subject obliquely, as if concentrating too bright a light on his shadow self would only send it into hiding. No matter how long these sessions lasted, Galaeron always returned to Villa Dusari exhausted, numb, and irritable—so much so that Vala was beginning to question whether Telamont was helping him control his shadow or the other way around. Though she was not allowed into the war room—even Escanor had not been able to prevail on the Most High to allow her inside—she insisted on coming to the palace each day and waiting out in the throne room’s whispering murk. Given how peevish that was making her, Galaeron was beginning to think she was the one struggling with a shadow crisis.
Telamont stepped away from the rim of the world-window and fixed his platinum eyes on Galaeron, and—as always—Galaeron felt the question on the Most High’s mind.
“I can’t see the sense in forcing this battle,” he admitted. “When we raised the shadowshell, there were only ten phaerimm outside—”
“The figure is now twelve,” Hadrhune corrected from the other side of Telamon
t. “Our agents located one in Baldur’s Gate, and another in … that little kingdom south of the Goblin Marches—”
“Cormyr?” Galaeron asked.
Hadrhune nodded, his thumbnail digging into the deeply worn groove atop his ever-present staff. “In what was once the city of Arabel.”
“Still, that is nearly half of their number outside the shell,” Galaeron said. “Why risk so much to stop an army that may well die of the ague before it ever reaches the Sharaedim?”
“To slay a pair of Chosen?” Hadrhune asked.
Galaeron shook his head. “The phaerimm know better than that,” he said. “The Chosen can be defeated but not slain—at least not by Mystra’s magic.”
Eyes sparkling at this last correction, Telamont said, “Whatever their purpose, this is a battle we cannot permit.” He turned to where Escanor and Rivalen had appeared without any apparent summons, then raised a murk-filled sleeve toward the world-window. “You will take your brothers and your best legions and save those sick fools if you can. Leave the phaerimm until we understand their game.”
“It shall be done.”
Both princes placed their palms to their breasts, then turned and were gone.
Galaeron felt the weight of Telamont’s unspoken question and knew that something was being demanded of him that had, until now, only been asked. He turned to the world-window and focused his attention on the High Moor, then on the horde of tiny figures swarming over it, then on the five figures drifting along behind it between the two companies of illithids. Each time, the window responded to his will, the image shifting and growing larger to show him what he wished to see.
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