“Fifteen,” Laeral said. “On each side.”
Khelben considered this for a moment, then growled, “The bastards! The slippery, shadowy, betraying bastards!”
“I wouldn’t go so easy on them.”
Laeral had already done the math. After the battle in the Vine Vale, they had estimated that there could only be a hundred phaerimm left inside the shadowshell. Over the past few days, they had hunted down and killed another twenty, which meant there were only about eighty thornbacks left in the entire Sharaedim.
Somehow, most had converged on the relief army’s camp within a few hours of the departure of the Shadovar. Clariburnus and Lamorak had not only abandoned their allies, they had invited the enemy to destroy them.
“What now, Khelben?” Laeral asked. She saw an elf reaching for his sword and waved her wand, turning him into a sleek hart. “Start dispelling and hope for the best?”
Khelben shook his head. “This requires something more … wondrous. Can you distract the phaerimm while I raise a sphere?”
“Of course,” Laeral said, pulling a second wand from her belt. One of Khelben’s favorite spells, the sphere of wonder created an area in which only one type of magic—chosen by the caster—would function. “But that won’t hold forever.”
“I’ll open a teleport circle from inside,” Khelben said.
“Good,” Laeral said. “We’ll meet at the Halfway Inn.”
“Meet?”
“Somebody has to bring the rest of the army.”
Laeral started across the assembly square, using one wand to paralyze anyone shouting and the other to turn those holding weapons into rabbits and raccoons.
“Quiet!” she called. “I have heard quite enough of this bickering!”
No one obeyed, of course, and several people were actually foolish enough to guarantee a shake of a wand in their direction by turning to argue. The distraction seemed to work, holding the phaerimm’s attention so Khelben could raise his arms in the necessary circles and voice what was really rather a long and drawn-out incantation—an incantation that most of the Chosen except him agreed could use some editing.
Laeral paralyzed and polymorphed so many warriors that they were actually beginning to take notice of her commands and fall into a grudging silence, which all but guaranteed that the thornbacks would have to attack openly instead of using mind-slaves to goad the others into doing it for them—and that Laeral would be their first target.
Finally, a dome of faintly shimmering golden light rose up in the middle of the assembly square, prompting the phaerimm to reveal themselves by vainly hurling magic bolts and flame strikes against its wall. The dazed warriors stopped arguing and looked around with stunned expressions and arched brows. Leaving it to Khelben to help them recover, Laeral turned toward her tent and opened another translocational gate.
There was the familiar instant of falling before she emerged adjacent to the worst battle din she had ever heard. Blades were clanging off armor in mad cacophony and anguished voices were shrieking their pain. The air reeked of blood and opened guts, and warriors were streaming past in a torrent of dark silhouettes. A few were doubled over and some were missing limbs or pieces of limbs, but none had weapons in their scabbards or hands.
Still struggling with afterdaze and unable to make sense of what she was seeing, Laeral nevertheless responded instantly. She pulled a vial of granite dust from her cloak pocket and sprinkled it over her head, speaking the words of an armoring spell. Her skin grew cold and numb and as hard as rock. She turned toward the furor and found herself looking across the body-strewn cloth of a collapsed camp tent and finally recalled where she was and what she had come to do.
She was too late.
A whirling tornado of blades was coming across the tent toward her, plucking the swords and daggers from the hands and scabbards of the soldiers fleeing before it. A handful of brave warriors stopped to fire crossbow bolts or hurl spears into the heart of the vortex, but these were plucked up with the rest of the weapons and came flying back around to slash the brave souls into a spray of blood and shredded armor. There had to be a thousand weapons in the storm already, with a dozen more flying into it every second, and the whirling cloud of steel was so thick that Laeral could not see to its heart.
The edge of the blade-storm reached her side of the tent. Swords and daggers began to shatter against her spell-hardened skin. The shards were sucked back into the tornado, more deadly than before. Laeral waded into the tempest, staggering under the constant hail of weapons slamming into her from the side. The tent cloth was slick with blood and strewn with bodies and pieces of bodies, some still animated enough to reach out and clutch her ankles. Several times, she stumbled and nearly fell, and once she had to kick herself free of a blood-soaked half-elf who managed to wrap both arms around her legs begging for her to save him.
Finally, Laeral began to glimpse the heart of the storm, where the cone-shaped silhouette of a phaerimm was floating toward her at an oblique angle. She raised her hand and loosed her silver fire. In the same instant, the terrain opened beneath her feet as the thornback tried to suck her into the ground. Quick as the counterattack came, the tactic was a tired one against which Laeral had long ago developed a magic immunity. The Weave simply kept her suspended over the hole until it closed.
In all likelihood, the phaerimm never knew its attack had failed. It was engulfed in silver fire and spent the next few seconds whirling around madly as it disintegrated into ashes. The blade-storm came to a sudden halt, covering Laeral’s collapsed tent in a steel carpet as a thousand swords clanged to the ground.
By the light of the fires raging in every camp, Laeral could make out the broad swath of motionless silhouettes and writhing forms the phaerimm had cut through her army. It was a broad belt beginning over by Silvery-moon’s Knights of Silver and curving steadily inward, razing the entire camp of the Bloodaxe mercenaries sent on behalf of Sundabar and tearing a broad tract through the tents of the Slugsmashers representing Citadel Adbar before spiraling through the Waterdhavian encampment and coming up the hill to Laeral and Khelben’s tent.
Nor was this phaerimm the only one to attack the outlying camps while its companions prepared the main ambush. There were firestorms and lightning squalls everywhere, another blade-storm, and more mind-enslaved warriors fighting each other than the phaerimm. Heart sinking with sorrow and despair—and more than a little guilt at having failed to foresee the Shadovar betrayal—Laeral removed a silver thimble from her pocket, then uttered a spell and held it to her lips like a miniature horn.
“The Shadovar have betrayed us. Take who you can save and flee.” Though she spoke softly, Laeral’s voice would be heard by every commander and wizard in her army, save those who had fallen under the mental sway of the enemy—she had designed the spell with the phaerimm in mind. “We’ll form again at the Halfway Inn. May the gods speed you.”
From behind her came the sound of chiming steel as someone approached across the carpet of fallen blades. She turned and glimpsed the hulking form of a Vaasan running in her direction—then cried out in confusion as his sword came tumbling at her. She twisted away and instinctively raised her arm, but trying to block a darksword was a bad idea even for one of the Chosen.
A wave of searing cold shot up her arm, and the limb went numb below the elbow. She cried out more in shock than pain and dropped to her knees and nearly fainted when she saw her hand and forearm lying on the carpet of swords in front of her. The black blade that had severed her arm lay a pace or so away, wet with her blood. The darksword rose into the air and started to float back in the direction from which it had come.
Laeral turned her head and saw Burlen’s hulking form striding toward her, his hand stretched toward the floating sword. Too dazed to understand why he had attacked her, she nevertheless knew that she had to stop him before he did it again. She reached into her cloak for a spell component—then experienced a wave of excruciating pain and recalled she was r
eaching with a stump. She reached with her other hand, but the angle was awkward and the movement unfamiliar. Burlen was almost on her by the time she found what she was searching for.
The Vaasan raised his darksword and said, “Your fault.”
Laeral pulled the iron bar from her pocket and pointed it in his direction. The steel carpet chimed again as another hulking form came rushing up behind the Vaasan. Burlen dropped to a crouch and started to spin, only to have his guard kicked aside by a big Vaasan boot.
“Kuhl?” Burlen gasped. “What are you—?”
The pommel of Kuhl’s sword caught Burlen at the base of the jaw, lifting him off his feet and dropping him flat on his back in the carpet of swords. Kuhl took a moment to make sure his comrade was out cold, then turned to Laeral—who, still in shock and uncertain of what was happening—was pointing the iron bar at him.
“My apologies, Lady Arunsun. There are infiltrators everywhere.” He tucked a pair of phaerimm tails into his belt, then picked up Burlen’s sword and sheathed it in his own scabbard. “Can you stand?”
Laeral tried and nearly passed out. “No.” She pocketed the iron bar, then extended her hand. “Set me over there with Burlen and hold us tight.”
“Hold you, Milady?”
Laeral nodded. “For your life.” She pointed at her amputated arm. “It could be a rough ride to the Halfway Inn.”
A raw potato in one hand and a drawn throwing dagger in the other, Galaeron stepped off Aris’s upraised palm directly onto the sill of the third-story lodging chamber Vangerdahast was using as a council room. The half-dozen war wizards gathered around the table cried out in surprise and reached for spell components, and one actually stood, pointing at the window and opening his mouth to loose a spray of magic bolts. Galaeron bounced the potato off the fellow’s head, shocking more than knocking the wizard back into his seat, then turned his attention toward a large blonde woman holding a finger-length cylinder of glass.
“You don’t want to point that in my direction,” he said, raising his throwing dagger. “This is my good hand.”
Vangerdahast, sitting with his back to the window, sighed heavily. He motioned his war wizards to their seats, then braced his elbow on the armrest and turned to look at Galaeron.
“Surely, you can see we’re in a conclave?”
Galaeron lowered the dagger. “So the door guards informed me, but the interruption will be a short one. I have only one question: is it true?”
A murmur of alarm rustled around the table, and Vangerdahast closed his eyes and nodded. “I fear so.”
Galaeron’s heart sank. He could not bear to think of Vala in that place, being abused in that manner. He stepped to Vangerdahast’s side.
“Why wasn’t I told?” he demanded. “Why did I have to find out through palace gossip? If this is another of your bids to inveigle me into using shadow magic …”
“That would be your fourth question, if a question it is,” Vangerdahast interrupted. He pointed at the wall, and a chair walked over to place itself behind Galaeron. “Have a seat and explain what you mean by palace gossip. Surely, the whole palace can’t know so soon?”
“The whole city knows, as far as I can tell. I heard it from a gate guard.” Galaeron ignored the chair. “What I want to know is why wasn’t I told? Were you afraid I’d go back to the enclave?”
Vangerdahast cocked his bushy brow. “Actually, that’s the last thing I would have expected from you,” he said, “but the fact of the matter is that we only found out ourselves a few minutes ago. I was about to send for you to see if you might have any thoughts on their departure.”
“Departure?” Galaeron asked. “Whose departure?”
A twinkle of comprehension came to Vangerdahast’s eyes. “Then you didn’t know,” he said. Several of the wizards sighed in relief. “The Shadovar have left the Sharaedim—sneaked out in the middle of the night. Laeral’s relief army was decimated, and she was horribly wounded.”
Galaeron sat—fell, actually—into the chair. “What?” he gasped. “Is Keya—?”
“The mythal wasn’t breached,” offered the woman Galaeron had threatened with the throwing dagger. “Your sister and everyone inside Evereska are no worse off than before—better, in fact, since they’ve been reinforced and resupplied—but with the relief army decimated and Laeral wounded, the phaerimm will be free to focus their attention on the city again.”
Vangerdahast laid a wrinkled hand on Galaeron’s arm. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what the shadowshell is doing to the mythal. If you know of anything Storm and the other Chosen can do to breach it.… ”
“The magic must be renewed,” Galaeron said. “All they need do is keep the Shadovar away from the Splicing. The bonds will weaken over time, and Weave magic will start to flow into the Sharaedim again.”
Vangerdahast sighed in relief. “Good. Then our only problem is the additional magic the extra troops will require when the Heartland Alliance attacks the flying city.” He looked around the table. “I think we can take this redeployment as Telamont Tanthul’s answer to our demand that he stop the melting of the High Ice.”
“Actually, no,” Galaeron said. “This is about me.”
The looks that came to the faces of the war wizards made clear what they thought of the theory.
“It is,” Galaeron insisted. “I came here because there are rumors about that Vala has been made Escanor’s bed slave. They abandoned Evereska to punish me for leaving Shade.”
“You have an awfully high opinion of your worth,” said the wizard Galaeron had hit with the potato. “I don’t suppose they could be consolidating their forces to defend against an attack from the Heartland Alliance?”
Vangerdahast cleared his throat and said, “The elf may have a point. There are certain, um, secrets in his possession that they may desire to recover.”
Vangerdahast and Alusair had elected to hold close the fact that Melegaunt had imbued Galaeron with a vast knowledge of the phaerimm, lest the thornbacks have spies in the Arabel palace.
“The damage he caused them by revealing the shadow blankets was immeasurable,” the royal magician continued. “They may very well be doing this to punish him—and to force him to return to Shade.”
“Or to force you to turn me over,” he said, “and to punish you for harboring me—and daring to threaten them.”
Vangerdahast scowled. “Punish us? They couldn’t possibly—”
“They could,” Galaeron insisted. “When was the last time you checked on matters in Tilverton?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
26 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic
Ruha had crossed the Shoal of Thirst once before. It had been a long, thirsty journey over a salt-pan as flat as a mirror, rife with tragedy and hardship, and she had considered herself lucky to reach the other side. Such a journey would have been impossible, save by ship or wing. Where once she had feared death because a camel collapsed and burst a waterskin, there lay an entire lake, vast beyond the belief of most Bedine and blanketed beneath the shadows of an evening rain.
“It is a different desert than when you left, Ruha. Better,” said Sheikh Sa’ar.
A powerfully-built man of fifty who wore a gray keffiyeh over his graying hair, the sheikh was lying on a ridge crest, looking out over the lake along with Ruha and a Cormyrean war wizard named Caladnei.
“The lake has already brought us good hunting,” he added.
The sheikh pointed down the shore, to a broad sweep of desert blossoms with a few young date palms already pushing their crowns above the foliage. Ruha did not see what he was indicating until a herd of gazelle emerged from an expanse of tall grass and began to drink. Apparently, whatever magic had made a lake of the Shoal of Thirst had also removed its salinity, for gazelle did not drink brackish water.
“Easier, perhaps, but not better,” Ruha said.
Though it had been many years since Ruha lived in Anauroch—much less crossed the Shoal of Thirst—she felt viola
ted. Undeniable as was the lake’s beauty, it was already changing the surrounding desert, bringing with it an abundance and leisure that would destroy the Bedine’s nomadic way of life.
“Those waters,” she said, “are poison to the Bedine.”
The sheikh furrowed his brow. “How can that be? I have drank from its waters many times myself, and you see for yourself that I am stronger than ever.”
“So you are,” Ruha said, “but how long has it been since your khowwan left the lake?”
Sa’ar’s face grew stormy. “We are leaving soon.” He looked in the direction opposite the gazelles, to where a flight of veserabs were frolicking in a small bay. “Upon the heels of our raid, in truth.”
“Stealing mounts from the Shadovar is not very safe, Sheikh,” said Caladnei. “Their magic is strong.”
An unveiled woman with striking amber eyes and a tall willowy build, she insisted on dressing in a deliberately male fashion, with long tresses of red hair spilling out from beneath her keffiyeh and a slender sword hanging from her belt.
“Then it is good I have you.” Sa’ar looked away from the lake and locked gazes with the war wizard. “Your magic must be very strong as well, for you to dress as you dare.”
Caladnei’s eyes flared. “We did not come to Anauroch to help nomads steal—”
“Take only the young veserabs, Sheikh—those still too small to ride.” As Ruha spoke, she looked past Sa’ar to scowl at Caladnei. “The others will only spit in your face, and their breath is worse than that of ten camels.”
“That awful?” The sheikh’s bushy brow rose. “Then they must be fine mounts, indeed.”
“So it seems to me,” Ruha said, “but Shadovar magic is different from that of the Zhentarim. You must not blame us if the raid goes awry.”
Before the sheikh could answer, Caladnei said, “Ruha, did you not tell me that the Bedine don’t use magic? If we help, the Shadovar may realize we’re here.”
“Anauroch is a large desert, wizardess,” Sa’ar said, “and the city of Shade well-hidden. By the time you find it on your own, the Shadovar will certainly know you are looking for them.”
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