The Siege by Troy Denning Page A

staggering, so weakened by fever and fatigue that the army could barely slog three miles a day, much less join battle at the end of the march.
    Yet fight they must. Telamont’s cowled head looked toward the High Moor, and the scene in the world-window shifted to a horde of bugbears being herded through a waterfall of rain by a troop of beholder officers. Supporting them were two companies of illithids and another of Zhentilar battle mages—though why the enemy would need human spell-flingers with five phaerimm overseeing their attack was beyond Galaeron.
    Telamont’s gaze shifted again, this time to a rocky ridge of ground that stood along the Trade Way opposite the High Moor. Laeral Silverhand and her sister Storm already stood atop the ridge, their long tresses streaming in the gale wind as they laid magic traps. Though it was far from certain that their army would cover the mile and a half remaining to it before the phaerimm’s bugbears covered the eight remaining to them, the ridge meant everything. The army that controlled it would have the advantages of both height and solid ground, while the one that did not would be forced to wade into battle through a muddy morass.
    Withdrawal was not an option for either force, not with
     
    the kind of magic that five phaerimm or two Chosen of Mystra could call down on an army mired in the mud. There would be a battle that evening, perhaps the fiercest of the war, one that would annihilate both sides no matter who remained alive to claim the field—and why?
    Telamont’s attention turned to the phaerimm themselves, and the scene shifted yet again. Accustomed to the Most High’s rapid changes of focus, Galaeron turned his own attention to the thornbacks and began to let his thoughts wander over the question of why so many had gathered in one place. He had been coming to the palace every day since their initial meeting, spending most of that time peering into the world-window and trying to get in touch with whatever Melegaunt had passed on to him during those last few moments of life. Sometimes it worked, and he was able to divine the enemy’s intentions in time to save a few dozen—or even a few hundred— lives. More often, he had no more to offer than anyone else.
    Regardless, Telamont Tanthul spent part of each day—sometimes most of it—with Galaeron, never teaching him directly, but always approaching the subject obliquely, as if concentrating too bright a light on his shadow self would only send it into hiding. No matter how long these sessions lasted, Galaeron always returned to Villa Dusari exhausted, numb, and irritable— so much so that Vala was beginning to question whether Telamont was helping him control his shadow or the other way around. Though she was not allowed into the war room—even Escanor had not been able to prevail on the Most High to allow her inside—she insisted on coming to the palace each day and waiting out in the throne room’s whispering murk. Given how peevish that was making her, Galaeron was beginning to think
     
    she was the one struggling with a shadow crisis.
    Telamont stepped away from the rim of the world-window and fixed his platinum eyes on Galaeron, and— as always—Galaeron felt the question on the Most High’s mind.
    “I can’t see the sense in forcing this battle,” he admitted. “When we raised the shadowshell, there were only ten phaerimm outside—”
    “The figure is now twelve,” Hadrhune corrected from the other side of Telamont. “Our agents located one in Baldur’s Gate, and another in … that little kingdom south of the Goblin Marches—”
    “Cormyr?” Galaeron asked.
    Hadrhune nodded, his thumbnail digging into the deeply worn groove atop his ever-present staff. “In what was once the city of Arabel.”
    “Still, that is nearly half of their number outside the shell,” Galaeron said. “Why risk so much to stop an army that may well die of the ague before it ever reaches the Sharaedim?”
    “To slay a pair