Troy Denning - The Summoning

In the courtyard outside, a mangled elf with no fingers was kicking and flailing at a single mind flayer, trying in grim desperation to pull one of the thing's tentacles out of a small round hole in his skull.

"By the Weave, Laeral!" Khelben thrust a hand toward his namesake staff and, in the same instant, felt the familiar comfort of its polished wood. "I think that's Gervas Imesfor down there!"

24 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

It seemed a lifetime since Galaeron had last felt the glaring sun of the Desert Border on his face, or bathed in the moon's milky light, or glimpsed even a star's blue twinkle, and he felt hungry for light- not the flat, toneless white radiance of these endless shadowlands, but real light. Light he could feel, hot and stinging against his skin, light that would make him thirsty and burn the musty smell of sweat from his cloak. Light that would give him some sense of direction, that would mark the passing time by its ebbing and flowing.

They had been marching for what seemed hours, but might have been mere minutes or days unending, winding through a labyrinth of sinuous shapes and sharp-edged silhouettes. Galaeron's mind had long since stopped trying to make sense of the patterns and merely classified them as passing forms. If the lack of light troubled Melegaunt, he showed no sign of it He simply marched along, leading the way ever onward at the same brisk pace.

Vala, now recovered from her brush with the illithid, followed close on the wizard's heels. Though she never complained, Galaeron could tell by the weariness of her stride and the way she craned her neck skyward that she missed the light as much as he did.

They seemed to be approaching some sort of shadow border, a curtain of utter darkness that Galaeron kept glimpsing at the far end of long shadowy channels, or looming up beyond hill shapes. Whenever the curtain came into view, the stretch he saw was longer. Sometimes he saw two stretches at once, one spanning a broad shadowbed, the other rising behind a nearby slope. Each time, the curtain seemed higher and darker and somehow deeper, as though it were not so much a barrier, but a vast expanse of pure, unlit darkness.

Finally, they rounded a corner and saw nothing but black curtain in any direction, its billowing crown silhouetted against the lighter purple of the shadow sky, its dark feet rooted in the swirling black ground mists. Vala's shoulders slumped, and a sigh almost too faint to hear slipped her lips, and Galaeron knew he had to say something to Melegaunt before he and Vala went mad. "Melegaunt, wait."

The wizard spun on his heel, his dark eyes searching the dusky landscape behind his two charges. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, except I'm about to lose my mind," said Galaeron. "Doesn't this bother you?"

"This?" Melegaunt looked around. "After the Phaerlin? You must be joking."

The wizard started toward the shadowy curtain ahead. Vala started after him, but stopped and looked back when she realized Galaeron was not following. "Are you coming, elf?" she asked.

"Not in there." Galaeron gestured at the blackness ahead. "I'm not going any deeper until I've had a few minutes of sunshine." Melegaunt turned. "Deeper?"

"Into the shadow." Again, Galaeron pointed at the dark curtain. "Just a few minutes in the light-please?"

Vala nodded her agreement. "In truth, this gloom wears on the nerves. I could use a little sunshine myself-especially if we're going deeper."

"Deeper?" Melegaunt scowled and looked into the darkness ahead. "Deeper into what?" "Shadow," Galaeron said. "Even I can see that-" "It's a forest," Melegaunt growled.

Galaeron frowned. Now that the wizard mentioned it, the curtain did resemble the gloomy edge of a deep wood, and the billowing crown was shaped like a forest's outer canopy.

"The Forgotten Forest, to be exact," said Melegaunt. "I'd never take you beyond the Fringe." "The Fringe?" asked Galaeron.

"The boundary between the worlds of light and the Shadow-deep." Melegaunt waved his arm at the surrounding terrain. "Neither of you would last a hundred steps beyond the Fringe."

Vala scowled and started to object, but Galaeron cut her off by asking, "Worlds of light?"

"There are many worlds, young elf. The Shadowdeep connects them all. It's the one mirror that shapes their many lights." Melegaunt started forward again. "And now, if you'd please start walking again, you will see your precious light again in Dekanter. I'd like to be there before the Shifting."

Galaeron raised a questioning brow to Vala, who shrugged and started after the wizard, grumbling, "Better not to be left behind."

Feeling no less distressed for the explanation, Galaeron started after his companions. Once they had formed a neat line again, Melegaunt turned his head a little so it would be easier for Galaeron and Vala to hear him.

"You have noticed how the shadows change as the sun crosses the sky?" Melegaunt asked. "And how they dance in the light of a candle?" "Of course," said Galaeron. "What happens when the sun sets?" "There is darkness." It was Vala who said this.

"There is shadow," corrected Melegaunt "The sun has not vanished, only sunk out of sight. If s light is blocked by the horizon." "A fine distinction," noted Galaeron.

"But an important one," said Melegaunt "On Faerun, there is only shadow. Everything that people call 'dark' or 'night' is nothing more than light blocked by the world itself." "Even in caves?" asked Vala.

"Even caves. If they weren't surrounded by rock, the sun would light them," the wizard explained. "But there are places- other planes-where there is no sun or any light There, no shadow exists, only darkness-true, black, darkness." "And this has what to do with the Shifting?" asked Vala.

"Only this," said Melegaunt "Darkness is by nature motionless and without life, but shadows are all motion and vigor. They dance and swirl and flicker and continually beget strange creatures, and only light ever fixes them in place."

"So when the sun goes down, they lose form and go into motion," surmised Galaeron. "The Shifting."

Melegaunt nodded. "One could almost say they become motion." He craned his neck around to smile at Galaeron. "Well make a shadow shaper of you yet, elf." "I'm sure the Hill Elders will like that," said Vala.

Though she made no complaint, Galaeron could tell by how she dogged Melegaunt's heels that she had realized the same thing he did. If they wanted to feel any sunlight on their faces in Dekanter, they had to hurry.

As they approached the forest, the darkness resolved itself into a fence of charcoal depths, laced by black tangles of undergrowth, striped by the ebony columns of impossibly thin tree trunks. Knowing it to be the forest, or more accurately the absence of one, Galaeron began to feel a little more at ease. Elves, even those who dwelled in cities, were at home in the woods. If he could feel safe any place in the Fringe, it would be there. He moved closer behind Vala and spoke to Melegaunt over her shoulder. "Is Dekanter where well find the help you promised?"

"Sadly, no," said Melegaunt "My, uh, friends are a few days farther north-and west, I believe. But I've always wanted to see Dekanter, and as it happens to be on our way, I thought it would be a good place to rest for the night."

Dekanter was the last place in Faerun-that Galaeron knew of, at least-where the ruins of ancient Netheril could still be visited. Little more than a few towers and dozens upon dozens of holes in the ground, the city was not much to see and even less of a camping spot, but Galaeron suspected the goblins and gargoyles who normally plagued visitors there would quickly see the wisdom in giving any camp of Melegaunt's a wide berth.

"It would ease my mind to know who these friends of yours are, Melegaunt," said Galaeron. "What makes you so certain they can stop the phaerimm when Evereska's high mages could not?"