The Siege

by Denning, Troy

  She would have to call her sister … again.

  “Storm.” Laeral did not bother to use magic. Like all the Chosen of Mystra, when Storm’s name was spoken anywhere on Faerûn, she always heard it, and the next few words. “Need help. I’m in—”

  Laeral was still speaking when Storm appeared, reeling from teleport afterdaze and plummeting toward the ground. Laeral barely caught hold of her wrist in time to keep her from falling into the morass of bugbears and gnolls clamoring to get past the fiery wall below.

  “If you’d have let me finish,” Laeral said, rising above the range of the bugbears’ slings, “I would have said ‘in the air.’ ”

  “By the bleeding stars, where do they find so many brutes?” Storm asked, getting her bearings and staring down on the horde below. Having been warned about the crossing, she was fully armed and armored. “No help from Shade this time, I see.”

  “The Shadovar may have better things to do than look after me,” Laeral said. “That doesn’t mean they’re betraying us.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Storm activated her own flying magic, then drew a pair of wands and cocked her brow. “Heard from Khelben yet?”

  “The Shadovar didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance.” Laeral pointed her sister toward the opposite end of the battle line, then added, “They weren’t even here, yet.”

  “One of them was,” Storm added. “Do you think we ought to call some more sisters?”

  “Absolutely not,” Laeral answered, diving toward her own end of the battle. “You’re bad enough.”

  They spent the next quarter hour flying back and forth over the battle lines, blasting beholders and illithids with magic from on high, occasionally resorting to more powerful magic like sunburst spells and incendiary clouds when they fell behind and the enemy creatures broke through in numbers larger than the battle mages could stop. Once, Storm was caught in a beholder’s antimagic ray when an illithid mind-blasted her, and Laeral had to use time-stopping magic to rescue her. After being restored to capacity by one of Tempus’s war clerics, Storm returned the favor twice, once enclosing Laeral in a protective sphere of scintillating colors and the other time creating a magic hand that beat would-be attackers away until she arrived to carry her sister to safety.

  Eventually, they simply ran out of beholders and illithids to kill. Laeral’s plan for defeating the flank attacks against the raft convoys also worked, and the bugbears and gnolls were forced to stand idle while the relief army hauled itself to shore behind its protective wall of fire. The sisters knew by the simple fact that their monstrous foes remained to fight that there were still phaerimm somewhere in the horde, but they also knew that the creatures would be careful not to reveal themselves in the presence of Mystra’s Chosen. The special weapon of the Chosen, silver fire, was one of the few forms of magic that was sure to harm thornbacks, and the creatures were nothing if not cautious.

  Once the last of the rafts was across, Laeral and Storm descended to join the commanders of each of the different companies in a war council. It was raining harder than ever, their warriors were exhausted from the crossing, and their foes were both fresher and stronger. On the other hand, they had a slight advantage in numbers and a large advantage in magic, and Laeral felt confident they could carry the day.

  Though the wall of flame was a good twenty paces behind her, Laeral could feel its heat chasing the dampness from her rain-soaked clothes.

  “What do you think, gentlemen?” she asked. “Attack now or rest the night behind our wall of fire and take the battle to them in the morning?”

  “We elves will be no fresher in the morning,” said Lord Yoraedia, who commanded Evermeet’s five hundred warriors and mages. He glanced at Laeral with an unmistakable expression of scorn, then turned to the black-haired leader of the Black Lion Uthgardts, Chief Claw, and said, “I cannot imagine that even your tribesmen would sleep well this night.”

  Claw shrugged. “Sleep or not, it is nothing to us,” he said, “but night favors the yellow hides and the walking dogs. We will take more to the death fires with us by attacking before dark.”

  Uncertain whether she was more surprised or alarmed by the fatalism in their voices, Laeral scowled and started to rebuke the commanders—then caught herself and forced a smile.

  “You gentlemen are letting the weather cloud your judgment,” she said. “There are two of Mystra’s Chosen here. Do you really think we can be defeated by a few thousand gnolls and bugbears?”

  “You? No,” Chief Claw replied, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the army, “but the rest of us are not Chosen. The rest of us will die.”

  Laeral heard a nervous murmur building in the ranks but ignored it and kept her attention focused on the commanders.

  “Even Chosen die,” she said, “but this army is not going to die—not today.”

  “Forgive me if I find your judgment somewhat clouded,” Lord Yoraedia said.

  “Clouded?” Laeral was growing angry—and the rising murmur in the ranks was not helping matters. “In what way is my judgment clouded?”

  “You fear for your man.” Chief Claw glanced over his shoulder, then looked back to Laeral just as she found herself clenching her fists to keep from doing something she would regret. “Your devotion does him honor, but it blinds you to our danger.”

  Laeral felt as if she had been struck. Yoraedia, Claw, all of the commanders were looking at her as though they truly believed she had led them all to their deaths for Khelben’s sake alone.

  “I am not the blind one here,” she said. “If you can’t see—”

  “Laeral, wait,” said Storm.

  She pointed upriver, to where a flight of dozens of huge, scaly wings was just appearing out of the rain. They were as large as sails and blue enough to show their color in the gray light, and even had the sisters never before seen a Rage of Dragons, they would have known what was coming by the sight of so many fang-filled mouths.

  Storm said, “Maybe they have a point.”

  Through the world-window in Telamont Tanthul’s palace in Shade Enclave, the dragons looked like an expanse of blue sea shining up through a hole in the clouds, their great wings undulating like waves, their blue scales flashing like light on water—all but the leader. The leader was naked bone, with blue embers gleaming in the empty eye sockets of its skull and claws large enough to grasp the heads of even its biggest followers.

  It could only be Malygris, the foolish blue who had traded his soul to the Cult of the Dragon in order to slay his hated ruler, Sussethilasis, and claim for himself the title of the Blue Suzerain of Anauroch. Though Galaeron had never met the dracolich himself, the younger blues who came to the edge of the desert to feed on tomb thieves and their horses often made a show of defiance by speaking of their suzerain’s folly. They were not too rebellious, though—several of the smallest wyrms in the Rage were the very ones who had taken such delight in deriding their ruler to Galaeron.

  A tilted plain of brown appeared before the dragons, with an orange half-circle of fire lighting the top edge and thousands of tiny flecks blackening the surrounding ground. Galaeron recognized the specks as warriors, but he didn’t identify the brown plain as a river in flood until a few moments later, when the diving dragons drew near enough for him to see the current pouring over a barn’s roof.

  Galaeron focused his attention on the fire wall, and the specks resolved themselves into two armies. The greater one, composed of larger figures as well as superior numbers, was being held at bay by the crackling wall of fire. The smaller army was trapped against the river, with a flotilla of log rafts beached on the muddy shore behind them and the much larger army in front of them. They were, by all appearances, aware of the dragons swooping down behind them, for their orderly ranks were dissolving into chaos, bleeding into the river or bunching against the wall of fire.

  The image in the world-window began to grow blurry and coarse, with wisps of shadow closing in around the edges. Galaeron focus
ed his attention in the center of the panicking army, where a small knot of figures stood looking up toward the dragons in relative calm. The world-window struggled to obey his will, but whatever was interfering with it was too powerful. He glimpsed a pair of women with familiar faces and long silver tresses, a frightened Gold elf, and a black-bearded, blue-eyed Uthgardt barbarian. Then the image became an unrecognizable blur and the shadows rolled in, and there was nothing but darkness.

  A cold and familiar stillness settled over Galaeron. He turned and found the platinum eyes of Telamont Tanthul shining out at him from beneath his shadowy cowl.

  “That’s the relief army from Waterdeep!” Galaeron said. “What are you trying to hide?”

  Telamont’s sleeve rose, and Galaeron sensed a wispy finger wagging in front of his nose. “You mustn’t allow your shadow self to draw your conclusions for you, elf.”

  Telamont waited, and as usual Galaeron felt the weight of the question without hearing it. “I apologize, Most High. When the world-window closed, I naturally assumed you had taken control.”

  “Because I wished to hide something from you.”

  Galaeron nodded.

  Galaeron’s skin prickled beneath Telamont’s sigh. “Not everything is my doing, elf. The fear of the Chosen’s army is to blame. The fools are sending thoughts to their loved ones, and the magic they use to carry them is interfering with that of the world-window. The image will clear in a few minutes.”

  And show us what, Galaeron wondered. He felt the weight of another question but could not quite sense what the Most High wished to know.

  “Your attention is elsewhere today, Galaeron,” Telamont said. “It is dangerous to let it wander. Your shadow will take advantage.”

  Galaeron nodded. “We have been watching them prepare for the crossing for some time now,” he said. “I was wondering why you have still failed to send aid.”

  “You were wondering what I hope to gain by failing to send aid,” Telamont corrected. “You must know your own thoughts, Galaeron, or you will never live at peace with your shadow.”

  Galaeron nodded. “Very well—what do you hope to gain by not sending help?”

  Telamont’s eyes brightened with approval. “Better, elf. The answer is nothing. I sent help.”

  Galaeron glanced at the world-window. The picture remained a black fog, but he knew better than to insult the Most High by questioning the veracity of his words.

  “The relief army’s losses will be small. They may even reach Evereska someday—though I can’t see what good they can do there. It’s you we must be concerned about, Galaeron. I do not like this preoccupation I sense. It’s dangerous.” Telamont lifted a sleeve to wave Galaeron toward his private sitting room, and together they went into the gloom. “What is it that troubles you?”

  Galaeron was so astonished to hear the question asked aloud that the answer began to spill out before he was conscious of formulating it.

  “You know that Escanor has asked Vala to accompany him on the assault against the Myth Drannor phaerimm.”

  “She is a fine warrior, and her darksword has power,” Telamont said. “It is a good choice.”

  “I want you to keep her here.”

  “Vala is not the kind to hide from death,” Telamont said. “Even were such a thing possible, she would think less of herself for it.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Galaeron said. “She can take care of herself, even in a cave full of phaerimm, but I need her here.”

  “Ah, the promise.”

  They reached an archway and passed through into a small corner chamber with windows of thin-sliced obsidian on two walls. Beyond the windows, the customary murk that swaddled the enclave appeared to be almost nonexistent, allowing a spectacular—if rather darkened—view of Anauroch’s sands rolling past below.

  Telamont motioned Galaeron to a chair next to one of the windows and took the one opposite, then said, “The promise she made was to kill you if your shadow self takes over.”

  Galaeron nodded. “I need to know she’s there to keep it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Hadrhune appeared unbidden at the Most High’s side, again running his thumbnail along the deep groove in his staff. Telamont ordered wine for himself and Galaeron, and the seneschal dug into the groove so deeply that the tip of his thumb paled to light gray.

  Telamont continued, “Vala will never need to keep that promise, not while you are in my company.”

  Galaeron inclined his head. “You are capable of many things, Most High, but even you cannot solve my shadow crisis for me, as you have said—”

  “Many times myself.” Telamont raised a sleeve to silence him, and Galaeron saw the translucent form of a withered claw silhouetted in gray against the faint light of the obsidian windows. “But if you are going to lie, lie to me, not yourself.”

  Galaeron frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “You know what I am saying,” Telamont said. “At least your shadow does.”

  “That I don’t want Vala to go because I’m jealous?”

  Telamont remained silent.

  Galaeron rose and strode across the room, nearly bumping into a small writing table before he noticed it floating in the murk. “Elves don’t get jealous.”

  “Nor do they fall asleep,” Telamont replied, “or dream like humans.”

  Galaeron swallowed his rising anger, then turned to face the Most High. “What if I am jealous? I still want you to keep her here.”

  Telamont looked out over the passing desert. “And who wants this?”

  Galaeron considered a moment and realized he was thinking only of his own needs and not Vala’s. She would feel diminished to think that he didn’t trust her—and he still didn’t want her to go.

  “Does it matter?” Galaeron asked.

  Telamont’s cowled head bobbed in approval. “You are beginning to understand, but I will not interfere with Escanor’s mission.” He turned away from the window and fixed Galaeron with his platinum glare. “Forget this woman. Your shadow will use your love against you, and such emotional attachments can only interfere with your studies.”

  Galaeron’s head was swirling. He had, of course, been aware of his growing attraction to Vala but had never called it love, even in his mind. Elves had to know each other for years—sometimes decades—before they felt anything close to what humans described as love, and he had only known Vala for a few months. To say that he loved her … well, most elves didn’t sleep or dream, either. Galaeron felt the weight of a question and looked up to find Telamont’s gaze still fixed on him.

  “Studies?” he asked, hoping to cover what was really going through his mind.

  Telamont’s eyes twinkled. “Your magic studies,” he said. “You are quite a gifted innatoth. Once you are at peace with your shadow, I will begin to teach you in earnest.”

  “Truly?” Even to Galaeron, the response sounded less than enthusiastic, but he kept seeing Vala in Escanor’s arms, and that was an image he never wanted to feel comfortable with. “This comes as something of a surprise. Melegaunt warned me to stop using magic altogether.”

  “Melegaunt was ever the cautious one,” Telamont returned. “A fine attribute for spies … but limiting.”

  Hadrhune emerged from the gloom with the wine. He served Telamont first, then crossed the room to offer Galaeron a glass of some vinegary black swill that would not have been used to pickle thracks in Evereska. Galaeron raised his hand to decline and bowed to Telamont.

  “You have given me much to think about,” he said. “If I may, I should return to Villa Dusari to meditate.”

  Telamont’s eyes dimmed, but he raised a sleeve and dismissed Galaeron with a wave. “If you think that best. Perhaps Hadrhune will join me in your place.”

  “I would be honored, Most High.” Hadrhune glared fire at Galaeron, then spun toward the window so fast that the goblet flew off the tray and spilled. “What a pity—I’ll have to fetch another.”
<
br />   Galaeron left the sitting room with the hair prickling on his neck and his thoughts roaring like one of the sandstorms that occasionally forced the city to rise into the cold air miles above the desert. Like Melegaunt before him, the Most High clearly had plans to help Galaeron realize his full potential as a magic-user—and no hesitation about what it might cost Galaeron or those around him. Given the price he had paid merely for learning how to draw on the Shadow Weave, he was not at all eager to increase the depth of his knowledge—especially considering what Telamont had just said it would cost him. He was still enough of an elf to balk at the idea of giving up his emotions, but losing Vala was unthinkable—especially losing her to Escanor.

  Galaeron arrived at Villa Dusari angry and determined. He found his companions gathered in the courtyard, sitting on cushions on the ground so they could share the evening meal with Aris, who was reclining along one side of the courtyard with his head propped on a palm as large as a saddle.

  “Galaeron, what a surprise,” Vala said.

  There was no real enthusiasm in her voice. She had yet to forget the sharp words he had spoken to her after the battle at the mythallar, and every time Galaeron thought to apologize, the shadow in him seemed to turn the moment into something awkward or bitter.

  “Fetch yourself a plate and mug,” she said. “There’s plenty to eat.”

  Instead of stepping into the shadowed colonnade to do as Vala suggested, Galaeron crossed straight to the group. Ruha glanced from him to Vala, then back again, and rose with ghostlike grace. Malik kept his seat, watching the witch with narrow eyes. Aris nodded a welcome to the elf.

  “You sit,” the witch said. “I’ll go.”

  She vanished into the building. Vala reluctantly moved over to make a place for Galaeron, but he stopped at her side and remained standing, ignoring Malik and the giant altogether.