The Siege (21 page)

Laeral returned his bow with one of her own. “Yes … well, I was beginning to think you Shadovar would never stop coming to our rescue.”

Lamorak frowned in confusion, but Clariburnus’s grin was broad and appreciative. “Your long march was a ruse?”

Laeral glanced over her shoulder at the weary warriors spilling out of the teleportation circle. “Don’t tell them,” she said in a low voice, “but after the debacle at Rocnest, we decided it would be best to draw the remaining phaerimm out of the way before trying to bring another army in. According to my scouts, the last three free phaerimm are rushing down out of the Trielta Hills with their hobgoblins and illithids as we speak.”

“By the time they realize that you are no longer in the Forest of Wyrms, your warriors will be resting in dry tents behind a screen of Shadovar pickets,” Clariburnus offered. “My compliments. A sly plan well-executed.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” Laeral said, “but I fear I must decline your offer of protection.”

Lamorak’s eyes flashed crimson. “Surely, you do not believe the slander spewed against us in Waterdeep?”

“Only half,” Laeral said, making light. “Tempus

knows, we need the rest, but Evereska’s mythal is failing.”

The two Shadovar glanced at each other, their eyes full of mistrust and suspicion.

“I heard from Khelben,” Laeral explained. “He’s in the city.”

“Of course,” Clariburnus said, nodding in comprehension. “The phaerimm deadwall has begun to fail—the shadowshell is working.”

A terrible thought occurred to Laeral. “Are you sure? If the shadowshell is blocking their access to the Weave, it would be blocking Khelben’s, too. I wouldn’t have been able to hear him.”

“We’re sure,” Lamorak said, addressing Laeral as though she were a several-hundred-year-old child. “There is still Weave magic inside the shell, and it takes far less energy to carry words than to maintain the dead-wail.”

Clariburnus’s eyes grew distant. He fell quiet and turned toward the shadowshell. Not familiar enough with the Shadovar to recognize what was happening, Laeral remained silent herself and looked to Lamorak.

“My brother?” Lamorak asked. “What is it?”

Clariburnus turned back to Lamorak, then slid his eyes in Laeral’s direction and shook his head ever so slightly.

Laeral frowned and said, “If something’s troubling you, Prince, tell me. The last thing we need right now is to start mistrusting each other.”

Clariburnus thought for a moment, then said, “Very well. Your story can’t be true. The shadowshell would have turned Khelben’s communication spell back on him.”

Laeral nodded, recalling how all of the spells they had tried after establishing contact had failed. “As a matter of

fact, it did,” she said, “and not only the sending spells. We tried transferring items, opening dimensional doors, and about a dozen other things. Nothing worked.”

“Then how could you hear him?” Lamorak asked.

“It wasn’t a spell—it’s a gift to the Chosen from Mystra.” She waited until a look of acceptance came to the prince’s faces, then said, “Now, I must ask you to allow my army into the Sharaedim. We are not going to let that mythal fall.”

Clariburnus looked to his brother, who raised a hand and turned away to think.

“Prince Lamorak, your brother Aglarel assured Lord Piergeiron that we would be given access,” Laeral said. “If you refuse to honor that promise …”

“Have no fear, we will honor the promise.” Lamorak glanced back at the burgeoning relief army, then returned his gaze to Laeral and gave her an icy, fang-filled smile. “With your permission, we will do even more. We will help you destroy the phaerimm.”

“Of course, I welcome the help of the Shadovar.” Laeral returned his smile with one just as cold. “You might even say I’ve been counting on it.”

•Š• •Š••€>• •Š••Š•

As secret passages went, the one leading into the subbasement of the Irithlium was a masterwork. Concealed beneath the only false column among the thousands of real ones supporting the floor above, the entrance was nearly undetectable, with the door seams concealed by the column’s base stone and the hinges hidden in the capital twenty feet overhead. Had Vala not seen the two-foot centipede crawling out from beneath the base as she approached, it was doubtful that she would have noticed anything unusual about the pillar at

all. It looked just like every other support column she had passed, complete with mildew and moss-filled cracks. The elf builders had even taken the precaution of concealing the latch in a crack on the opposite side of an adjacent column.

“Scout, why are you stopped?” The demand came from ten paces back, where Parth Gal—Vala refused to call the Shadovar a lord, even in her own mind—stood peering out from behind a column. “Have you found something?”

“A secret door,” Vala said, motioning him forward.

Parth raised a hand to halt the rest of the patrol and remained where he was. “Open it.”

“This place was built by elves,” she said. “It’ll be trapped, and I don’t have the word of passing.”

Parth shrugged and did not come out from behind his column. “That is what scouts are for.” He paused, then said, “Unless you would rather contact Prince Escanor and tell him where your friends are?”

Vala glared daggers at him. “One of you must have a spell for disarming traps.”

“Of course—we are a reconnaissance patrol,” Parth said. “Which means we should be locating phaerimm, not assaulting them. If you will just contact the prince, I am sure we will all live longer. Until then, I am afraid I must insist that you perform your duties.”

A muffled thump sounded in the darkness somewhere behind Parth, then a strangled voice cried out in alarm. There was the sharp crack of a dark blade slicing through a thick carapace, followed by a sort of buzzing snarl and a wet crunch. Vala glimpsed a handful of Shadovar slipping through the columns toward the struggle, but the sounds died away almost as quickly as they started, and the warriors arrived too late to help their comrade.

“Balpor,” someone announced. “Gone, except for his head and one arm.”

It was the patrol’s fifth casualty, and they had not even seen a phaerimm. Vala felt a sudden chill. Though the sensation seemed likely to be her own reaction to another casualty, she took the precaution of glancing around the immediate area to make certain nothing was creeping up on her. She thought she glimpsed a gray figure slipping behind the pillar where the latch was hidden but found only empty darkness when she stepped around the other side.

“What is it?” Parth called.

“My imagination,” Vala answered. “Still want me to open that door?”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind about telling the prince what he wishes to know,” he replied.

“Sorry.” Vala dropped to her haunches and slipped the tip of her dagger into the crack where the latch was hidden. “Listen, if this goes bad for me, send word to Sheldon that I died for my word.”

“Sheldon?”

“My son,” Vala said.

“Ah … that would not be necessary, if only you would—”

“Can’t do it,” Vala interrupted. She had to suppress a shiver. The chill she had experienced earlier just wouldn’t go away. “One more thing—if this leads to a treasury instead of a phaerimm lair, don’t touch anything. There’s nothing elves hate more than artifact thieves.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Parth replied.

“I wasn’t thinking of you,” Vala said, “but you know how fond I am of elves.”

She took a deep breath, then, stretching her arm as far as she could, crouched down around the side of the pillar and flicked the latch.

Eltargrim.

So softly came the word that Vala was not even sure she had heard it She spun on her heels and saw nothing behind her, but the chill remained. If anything, the cold felt deeper than before, though perhaps only because of the icy sweat running down her chest and sides.

“Vala?” Parth sounded as frightened as she was.

“Still here,” she said. “Watch yourselves.”

Vala rose slowly and went to the column. Half-expecting the Shadovar to tell her to wait for him to send someone forward to check for traps, she took a deep breath, then gave it the gentlest of pushes. The entire shaft swung aside, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into the darkness beneath its false base. When no clouds of poison gas came billowing out, she waved the tip of her darksword around the entrance to check for motion activated traps, then pushed down on the first stair.

Nothing happened.

“Well?” Parth called.

“No traps so far,” she reported, “and no cobwebs. Something comes down here, and it doesn’t leave tracks.”

The Shadovar stepped out from behind his hiding place and motioned her down the staircase. “We’re right behind you.”

“Sure you are,” Vala muttered.

Deciding Parth and his comrades deserved no warning about the gray figure she might or might not have glimpsed and the whispered word she might or might not have heard, Vala crouched on her heels and dropped to the fifth step down.

The steps continued to spiral downward through another ten feet of solid stone, then opened up into a grand corridor running parallel to the base of the stairs. By crouching on her heels and craning her neck, Vala

could look far enough up the passage to see a series of arched doorways opening off to either side at irregular intervals, but the magic of her darksword did not allow her to see all the way to the end of the hallway. When nothing came charging up the stairs to meet her, she descended the first ten feet in two quick bounds, braced her hand on the banister, and leaped into the corridor facing the opposite direction she had been descending.

Vala found herself facing a large round silhouette with a wriggling crown of bulbous-ended tentacles. She had just enough time to recognize the silhouette as that of a large beholder before several eyestalks began to swing in her direction. Leaping into a foot-first slide underneath the thing, she flipped her darksword toward its huge central eye and grabbed for her dagger.

Vala hit the floor at about the same time her darksword found its mark—though, without the weapon in her hand, she could no longer see in the dark and knew that she’d hit the beholder only by the bloodcurdling screech that echoed down the corridor. She was showered in warm gore as she slid under the still-floating eye tyrant. Knowing better than to think even a perfect slash to the central eye could kill a monster this big, she reached up and caught the bottom of the cut with her free hand, then jerked its wounded side to the floor and smashed it into the stone. At the same time, she was bringing her dagger up behind it, driving the steel blade through its thick skull once, twice, half a dozen times, until the trapped beholder finally collapsed in a limp heap atop the arm that had been holding it pinned to the floor.

Vala pushed the thing aside.

“Vala?” Parth called down the stairs, then more loudly, “Vala?”

“No such luck, Parth,” she yelled back. “Still here.”

A deep rumble reverberated through the ceiling as the secret pillar was pushed back over the stairwell.

“Coward,” Vala muttered.

She extended her arm to call the sword back but felt its hilt under her knuckles already. Counting herself lucky she had not found the blade instead, she rolled to her knees and took the weapon in hand—and, once she could see in the darkness again, found herself looking into a huge, toothy mouth surrounded by four arms. Even at this unfortunate angle, she recognized it instantly as a large phaerimm.

“Tempus give me strength!” she gasped.

Why pray to Tempus, my dear? I am your god now. The raspy voice came to Vala inside her head, not like the single whispered Eltargrim she had thought she heard earlier but definitely inside her thoughts. Set aside your sword, and we will talk.

Vala gathered her legs beneath her and sprang to her feet—then found herself rolling head over heels down the dark corridor.

What don’t you understand, human? the voice demanded. Put down your weapon.

Showing no fear of the darksword whatsoever, the phaerimm continued to come down the corridor, two of its four arms pointing at the mossy floor. Puzzled by the thing’s strange behavior, Vala wavered between doing as it ordered and throwing her sword at it—though she felt sure it was ready with magic to bat the weapon out of the air the instant it left her hand.

She made no move to do either, and the phaerimm stopped just beyond her sword’s reach.

Obey!

Parth’s muffled voice began to reverberate down the stairwell, demanding explanations and shouting threats about what would happen if she didn’t open the door—

and suddenly Vala understood. The phaerimm did not want to kill her. It had trapped her alone, believing that it could turn her into one of its mind-slaves—but Vala’s helmet protected her against that.

“Y-yes,” she said. Moving very slowly, she dropped to her haunches and set the sword on the floor. “I want to talk.”

As soon as her hand left the hilt, she was plunged into blindness again. Unaware of the phaerimm’s presence, Parth and the others continued to yell for her to open the door. Silently cursing them for fools as well as cowards, Vala kicked her darksword away and backed down the corridor. She was so terrified that her whole body was shaking. Without the sword, she could no longer see what the phaerimm was doing.

A bony hand clamped her shoulder. That is far enough, child.

Vala stopped and prayed it would not remove the helmet Escanor had given her. Without it, she would become the thrall it believed she was. Unless she lulled it into a false sense of security, she had no chance of killing it anyway. The things could cast spells as fast as she could think—maybe faster.

You are not one of the Shadovar.

It was not a question. Did the phaerimm expect an answer?

What are you?

“V-Vaasan,” Vala replied. “My people owe them service.”

Vala? the phaerimm asked. The one Escanor favors to carry his egg?

Vala had to concentrate to keep from gasping and asking how the phaerimm knew such a thing; instead, she merely nodded.