Troy Denning - The Summoning

The silhouette of Karse Butte was just beginning to loom above the treetops when a chirrupy voice sounded inside his mind. Elminster, haven't… Khelben… days… should… try Rocnest… twenty… wizards.

Garbled as the sending was by wild magic, Elminster understood enough that he forgot to watch his feet and tripped. He landed sprawled on his hands and knees, huffing for breath and shaking with fatigue. Only twenty, Laeral?

If Laeral answered, it was lost in the cacophony of clanging and banging that erupted around him. Elminster rolled and found himself being buried under an avalanche of cake steel. Heavy as the ingots were, they merely bounced off his body shield and piled around him, but he was more concerned to find Wulgreth standing outside the shower, ready to attack the instant it was safe. The touch of a lich could paralyze even one of the Chosen, which would instantly trigger his evasion magic and-under normal circumstances-whisk him to his Safehold to recover. Given the wild magic in the area, however, he doubted even Mystra herself could say where he would find himself.

Better to try something over which he might have more control. Elminster envisioned the vine-tangle he had left a few moments earlier, then uttered a single mystic word.

There was a brief moment of black timeless falling, then he found himself staring at an overgrown street through a tangle of thin-leaved vines. He was familiar enough with the afterdaze of teleporting to recognize the effects instantly and trust that he would remember where he was and why he was there in a moment, but something seemed especially strange about this time. He felt both hugely large and unable to move, and for some reason he seemed to be holding his arms spread wide.

He saw a pair of phaerimm come floating past about a dozen feet below his nose and remembered if not what he was, at least where he was-in a wild magic area in the Dire Wood, fighting a running battle against Wulgreth and trying to escape an army of pursuing phaerimm-and something had gone wrong.

The phaerimm were about a quarter the size they should have been, and the overgrown street was no wider than a foot path, and the petrified trees looked no larger than a man. One of the huge dragonflies buzzed past, snatching a small black finch that looked no larger than a mosquito, and Elminster had a sinking feeling in his… no, it wasn't his stomach. It was more like his trunk. He tried to turn his head and discovered he could not.

The dragonfly buzzed back by and landed on an outspread branch, its mandibles popping as it consumed the black finch. Elminster let out a sigh too deep to be heard by any creature that was not a tree, then saw the phaerimm zip past in the wrong direction and vanish into the tangled wood.

Elminster stood motionless and quiet for a moment-it was about all he could do-trying to imagine what kind of magic a mere lich could possibly have summoned that would frighten two phaerimm so. Then he heard a murky voice call his name and realized Wulgreth had not frightened the creatures at all. Another voice called for him, then yet a third. He recognized a little of Melegaunt's accent and timbre in both, but they were deeper and more powerful, and more assured of themselves-far more assured.

Too wise to reveal himself in his present condition, Elminster did not even try to speak. He could escape with a mere thought, so the tree seemed a safe enough place to hide for now The deep voices continued to call out, drawing closer each time, and twelve murk-swaddled figures soon marched into view.

They looked vaguely human, but with the grotesque features he had long ago learned to associate with shadow magic, and they were by far the largest, most powerful looking men he had ever seen. Most wore the dress of warriors, several the cloaks of wizards, and two were shrouded in clerical robes. They all had the brightly-colored eyes of creatures from the lower planes, and an aura of darkness seemed to swirl around them like fog.

The largest, a copper-eyed brute as tall as an ogre, stopped and turned to the others. "If he is here, he is hidden well. I see nothing in the shadows."

A figure in a horned helm spread his palms in resignation. "Then we must make him find us."

"How so, Rivalen?" asked the first. "He is not one to be so easily manipulated, and we have other problems to attend to."

"Let three of us go to Evereska, and three to Hidden Lake," said Rivalen. "That will leave six for Shadowdale. I am sure Elminster will find us then."

It had to be the loneliest camp in Faerun, a single tent in the heart of a barren salt pan, a young father staring across the horizon at the white winter sun, a haggard mother dripping water into her children's mouths one sip at a time, a bony camel so sick and weary it did not even groan. Earlier in the day, the camel had collapsed on the waterskin, and the children had pressed their faces to the salt and made themselves sick trying to lap up the last drops of water. The mother had walled and beat her husband's chest, and the husband had struck her and turned away to hide his tears. That much the princes had read in the twilight shadows, and they could guess what would come tomorrow. Even in winter, no one crossed the Shoal of Thirst without water.

The irony was not lost on the three princes. To the east, a mantle of shadowy clouds was already coalescing out of the empty twilight. They were bringing water-enough to mire the camel, enough to sweep away the tent and all it contained-but water would not save the family Quite the opposite. Even if these desert nomads knew how to swim, they could not swim for miles.

The princes rolled to their sides, peeling themselves out of the tent's shadow, then rose to their feet in a silent motion. There was a deep bristling as their bodies returned to shape, followed by the cold nausea that always accompanied a flight through the shadow deep.

It took only an instant for the feelings to pass, but by then the camel had raised its nose to test the air, and that was the only alarm the family required. The mother called her children and disappeared into the tent, and the husband leaped to his feet, his scimitar clearing its scabbard.

Brennus spread his palms to show they were empty. "By the Little Gods, friend, we mean no harm."

The nomad looked past the three princes across the darkening salt pan, then peered around the other side of the tent to make certain no accomplices lurked there. Only then, when he was sure they were alone, did he speak.

"What would you have of me, djinn? As you can see, I have nothing worth stealing-save my daughter, and I will slay her myself before I let you make her a slave."

"That won't be necessary." Brennus bent at his waist "We beg your forgiveness, but a small party cannot be too careful in a place such as this."

The nomad eyed the trio warily. "You do not have the look of those who need worry."

Brennus avoided the temptation to smile, knowing his ceremonial fangs would alarm the nomad. "It is often a mistake to judge men by their appearance. We are not djinn."

"I have no desire to argue the point," the nomad replied. "Name your business or be gone."

"You would do well to curb that tongue," said Brennus's brother Lamorak. With night almost upon them, Lamorak's swarthy face had assumed an almost spectral murkiness. "It makes no difference to us whether you live or die."

The knuckles on the nomad's sword hand whitened, and Brennus realized the threat angered the man more than frightened him.

"We are not here to hurt you, only to warn you," Brennus said. "Pack your things quickly This place will soon be a mire."

"The Shoal of Thirst? A mire?" The nomad looked at the first stars twinkling in the west. "1 do not think so. The heavens themselves do not hold that much water."