The Siege (15 page)

“That is no affair of yours,” Malik said, face contorting as his curse compelled him to continue speaking. “Except that my friends are the ones leaving, not I. The One demands my presence in this city so that its denizens may bathe in the light of the Black Sun.”

“Ah.” Aris nodded as though this made perfect sense. “My behorned friend, I know too much of your god to wish you success, but duty I understand. Your assistance will be missed at the shapings.”

Galaeron continued to feel betrayed but knew better than to think he could argue the Seraph of Lies out of obeying his god’s will.

“Do as you must, Malik. Can we trust you to keep our secret?”

“Of course,” Malik answered. “I am sure I could profit handsomely by running to Hadrhune the moment you are gone and announcing your escape, but in truth Aris’s talent has already made me a wealthy man, and I have learned enough of his art to continue the business until his departure is discovered. You may be sure that I will be as loyal to you as I am to my own god and for the sake of my own profit remain silent on the subject of your departure … at least until someone tricks me into revealing it against my will.”

“We can ask no more,” Aris said. “With luck, we will be far out in the desert by then.”

“Desert?” Ruha asked. “You will try to cross Anauroch… on foot?”

“I do not think Galaeron has the magic to carry us across any other way,” Aris replied, looking to Galaeron for confirmation.

Galaeron shook his head. “That is beyond me.”

“And it would be unwise for him to push his limits,” Vala added.

“Wiser than trying to walk across Anauroch,” Ruha said. “You know nothing of the desert”

“No matter—they must leave, and the sooner the better.” Vala took his hand. “You have been scaring me, Galaeron. I was beginning to think you meant to hold me to my promise.”

Galaeron barely heard this last part The word “they” was still reverberating through his head. “They?” he demanded.

“I can’t go with you,” Vala said. “I’m due to leave with Escanor at midnight. If I don’t show, he’ll know something is wrong—and we all know they’ll never let you leave willingly, not with Melegaunt’s knowledge still locked inside your head.”

“Then we’ll wait until you return,” Galaeron said. It was all he could do not to accuse her of wanting to leave with Escanor. “That’s simple enough.”

Vala shook her head. “It’s not I may hate what Telamont is doing to you, but the Granite Tower’s debt to Melegaunt is not yet discharged.”

“Melegaunt is dead,” Galaeron objected.

“So his duty becomes my duty,” Vala said. “And there is the matter of my men trapped in Evereska. I can’t return to Vaasa until I know what has become of them.”

“A convenient excuse,” Galaeron said.

Vala’s face clouded with anger. “Convenient?”

“So you can spend time with the prince,” Galaeron said. He didn’t really believe this, but the words were spilling from his mouth anyway. “If I were gone—”

“Galaeron, don’t do this.” Vala’s expression turned from angry to sad. “You have to go.”

“And leave you to Escanor?”

“Galaeron,” Aris began, “she would never—”

Vala raised a hand. “Yes, I would, Aris.” She turned to Galaeron. “You’re right, Galaeron—I haven’t felt anything for you since the mythallar.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Galaeron said. Who was this speaking, he wondered, because it did matter. “You made a promise.”

Vala’s eyes narrowed. “And now I’m breaking it.” She turned away from him and started for the interior of the villa. “I’m going with Escanor. Do us both a favor, Galaeron, and don’t be here when I get back.”

15 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic

Piergeiron arrived in Castle Waterdeep’s unadorned Chamber of Common Command to find the captain of the City Watch and his senior armmaster and wizards-commander already in conference with their counterparts from the City Guard. Brian the Swordmaster was also present, hidden behind his Lord’s cloak and helm. Even the Master of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was there. Strictly speaking, the order was a civilian guild and not subject to military edict, but these were extraordinary times, and Piergeiron had often called private citizens to service when the security of the city was threatened. The question was, when the threat lay five hundred miles distant at Boareskyr Bridge, would they answer?

Piergeiron stepped over to a free seat—there was no head at the circular table—but did not sit. “You heard?”

Rulathon, the wiry, gray-haired captain of the watch, nodded grimly, waved a hand vaguely in the direction of his armmaster, and said, “Helve received a sending himself.”

Piergeiron turned to the scarred veteran. “Lassree?” he asked.

Helve nodded. “She wanted to fight at Laeral’s side.”

Piergeiron’s heart rose into his throat. Lassree was Helve’s daughter, a watch-wizard who often fought at her father’s side during major disturbances.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to the others. “What can we do?”

“Against a Rage of Dragons?” asked Thyriellentha Snome. The commander of the watch-wizard forces, she was a dusky woman of proud bearing and uncertain age who had been Mage Civilar since long before Piergeiron assumed office. “Not much, I am sorry to say.”

Though Helve’s eyes were watering, he nodded. “Lassree said they were trapped against a wall of bugbears and gnolls, with all the blues of Anauroch dropping out of the clouds behind them. It’s ending as we speak, I’m sure.”

“Be that as it may,” the Open Lord said, “we must do what we can.”

Piergeiron ran his gaze around the table, pausing at each of the commanders to search for any hint of disagreement. They were brave soldiers all, but their duty was to Waterdeep, and if it was necessary to spell out how saving a relief army bound for Evereska contributed to the security of the city, he needed to know that.

With Waterdeep still buried under a constant wave of blizzards and ships in the harbor capsizing under the weight of their ice-crusted masts, no one present needed

any reminder of the danger posed to their city since the phaerimm had escaped their prison in Anauroch. He found no questions in the eyes of the gathered commanders.

“Good,” Piergeiron said. “As we speak, Maliantor is calling Force Grey to my palace. She will begin a scrying to determine what she can about the course of the battle. What I would like from you is to send a force of volunteers—a hundred battle mages and two hundred swordsmen—to meet her at the palace within the quarter hour. I have a store of teleport scrolls—”

“That won’t be necessary,” rasped a voice in the corner.

Piergeiron turned to find Prince Aglarel’s swarthy form stepping out of the shadows beside the fireplace, his black cape and purple tabard almost seeming to solidify out of the darkness.

“How dare you!” Piergeiron demanded. What he really wanted to know was just plain “how.” The room was supposed to be shielded against magic intrusions of any kind, though this obviously did not seem to apply to Shadovar shadow magic. “This is a private council.”

“Forgive me,” Aglarel said, stopping to bow, “but I wanted to save you the trouble of teleporting a company to rescue your relief army.”

“I want to know how you can know our intentions,” said Brian the Swordmaster. While it was customary for Piergeiron to speak for the other lords in the Court Hall, they usually spoke for themselves in less formal gatherings. The helm’s magic transformed his voice into a hollow, anonymous baritone that even Brian’s oldest friends would not recognize. “We have barely formed them ourselves.”

Aglarel fixed a silver-eyed glare on the lord. “A short time ago, many of your citizens received farewell

sendings from their relatives accompanying the Chosen.” The prince did not bother to explain how he knew this. “Knowing the kind of men you Waterdhavians are, it only stood to reason that you would want to do something to help. I called at the palace and was told that Lord Paladinson had left to attend to an urgent matter of state.”

“Which begs the question of how you slipped past the invader wards that guard the castle,” said Thyriellentha, “or knew to look for Lord Paladinson in this chamber.”

“I will be happy to demonstrate later,” Aglarel said, dismissing the questions with a flip of his hand. “For the moment, I suggest we concentrate on the matter at hand.”

He stepped to the circular table and stretched forward to circle his hand over the surface. A shadow fell over the center, then opened like a hole in the clouds to reveal a battle raging far below. The scene expanded to fill the entire table, and Piergeiron soon recognized Laeral’s relief army trapped against the shore of a muddy lake that could only be the Winding Water in high flood. Much to his surprise—and relief—they were standing in good formation behind a wall of guttering flame, shields raised and weapons drawn but engaged in no combat more serious than swatting the flies and mosquitoes swirling around their heads.

The scene on the other side of the burning wall was far different. Dozens of blue dragons were tearing into an army of bugbears and gnolls, swooping down to gather up great clawfuls of warriors, then wheel out over the flooding river and drop them into the muddy waters. Despite the gaps being ripped in their lines, the monsters were holding ranks, doing their best to fend off the attacks with axes and flails better suited to smashing human heads than piercing draconian scales.

“The dragons weren’t sent by the phaerimm?” Piergeiron gasped, unable to tear his eyes from the tabletop.

“Even in Anauroch, there are some things the phaerimm do not control,” Aglarel said.

The wings of one dragon went limp, and it plunged toward the ground, tumbling end over end and tangling itself into a knot of tail, neck, and wing. Piergeiron glimpsed a huge black hole in its chest and realized that it had been killed by some very powerful death magic.

In the next instant, the polished bones of a huge dracolich dived down out of the clouds, discharging a thunderstorm’s worth of blue lightning at a tiny, cone-shaped figure near the back of the bugbear ranks. A salvo of crackling red meteors streamed up to blast it in the flank, dislodging two ribs the size of trees and sending the skeletal dragon rolling through the air in a crackling ball of flailing claws and forks of flashing blue energy. Thyriellentha gasped at the mighty magic being hurled about in the battle—the magic required to send a two-hundred-foot dracolich tumbling would have reduced any normal wizard to a smoking cinder—then the thorny shape of a second phaerimm appeared behind the gnolls.

The first dragon had barely crashed to the ground before four long-tressed women rose into the air above the relief army’s ranks. They streaked toward the visible phaerimm, balls of the Chosen’s silver fire streaking from their hands. The two thornbacks vanished in a blinding explosion of light.

“Four Sisters,” Aglarel said, clearly awed. “That was unexpected. When last I looked, there were only Storm and Laeral.”

“The Chosen stick together,” Brian said from behind his helm. “You Shadovar would do well to remember that.”

Aglarel smiled tolerantly. “You seem to think we would have reason to fear them.”

The bugbears and gnolls finally lost their courage and turned to flee, drawing the dragons down after them. Piergeiron had to look away from what came next.

“I think we’ve seen enough, Prince,” he said.

Aglarel waved his hand over the scene, and the table returned to its normal brown surface.

“You’re welcome,” Aglarel said, assuming the thanks Piergeiron had deliberately omitted. “I’m sure Waterdeep has many genuine problems with which to concern itself.”

“No more than we can handle,” Piergeiron said.

He did not like this Shadovar, and because of that he did not trust him. Still, even he had to admit that aside from its part in releasing the phaerimm in the first place, so far the city of Shade had done nothing but help Waterdeep, Evereska, and their allies.

“Are we to take it that the dragons were your city’s doing?” Piergeiron asked.

Aglarel nodded, then, without being invited, took a seat at the council table. “Our riposte force is occupied with other problems, so we had to call upon our ally Malygris to watch over your relief army.”

“Malygris?” Brian demanded. “You would ally with the Cult of the Dragon?”

Aglarel turned and craned his neck to look up at the helmed lord. “Our alliance is with Malygris. His relationship with the cult is none of our concern.”

“But you have allied yourself with a dracolich?” Thyriellentha clarified.

Aglarel nodded. “We hope to reclaim our home in Anauroch. It seemed wiser to ally with the Blue Suzerain than to fight him.” He waved his hand at the blank tabletop and added, “I am sure Laeral and her sisters will

attest to the wisdom of that decision … just as I’m sure that Waterdeep and its allies would benefit from a similar arrangement. Shade Enclave has demonstrated the benefits of working with us twice already.”

“You let the Chosen speak for themselves,” Brian said. He turned his helm toward Piergeiron. “There may be more to this than is apparent… or less.”

“What are you saying, Lord?” Piergeiron asked. “That the prince misled us?”

Brian shrugged. “I’m saying it’s possible. He could have shown us an illusion as easily as a scrying.” The helm turned briefly toward Thyriellentha, who could only shrug and spread her hands, then he demanded, “How do we know those dragons aren’t tearing Laeral’s army apart right now?”

“Because you must have half a wit somewhere inside that helmet,” Aglarel said, growing exasperated. “Why would we save the army at the High Moor, only to summon a flight of dragons to destroy it later?”

“I don’t pretend to know the ways of shadow,” Brian said, “but I do know better than to trust those who bargain with dracoliches.”

Aglarel rose, then—to Piergeiron’s amazement— responded in a civil voice. “Your point would be better taken, Masked Lord, had Shade Enclave not proven more reliable than any of your other allies.”