“Araevin, come on!” Maresa hissed.
He turned and ran after the genasi, while his companions joined him. Abandoning stealth for speed, they ran down the passageway until they reached the intersection, perhaps fifty yards past the plaza of the speaking stone. He took a quick glance at the lay of the Waymeet around him, and pointed to his right.
“That way,” he told his friends.
The third portal was already waking as they skidded to a halt in front of the alcove sheltering it. This time the mists forming in place of the blank doorway had an ugly, roiling red-orange hue to them.
“I don’t like the looks of that,” Jorin said quietly. “Is this the right doorway, Araevin?”
Araevin quickly examined the portal. He could feel the tug of the third shard, a constant pressure in his consciousness whenever he focused on it. There was no mistaking it. It was the right door.
Behind them, something gave voice to a shrill, furious scream. Araevin glanced around at the cry, searching the crystalline corridors for the pursuers that must be following by now.
“I think they’ve found my work at the speaking stone,” he said to his friends. “This way, quickly! And may the Seldarine protect us.”
He stepped into the angry portal and vanished.
The smoke of countless fires choked the Vale of Lost Voices.
Fflar couldn’t remember how any of the blazes began, really. Most likely it was a simple consequence of fire spells and lightning blasts hurled recklessly across the field after a long, hot summer. But even if the daemonfey and their infernal legions had set the grass of the vale alight through the pure accident of battle, the wildfires had become one more enemy for the Crusade to contend with. Walls of blinding smoke partitioned the battlefield into dozens of furious skirmishes, most of which were being decided outside Fflar’s sight or knowledge. The horses of the elven cavalry and the Sembian dragoons were growing so panicked and skittish that many riders had been forced to fight afoot. And Fflar had seen too many elves and humans who had perished horribly in hungry red flames, too badly wounded to escape.
He stumbled into a clear space in the fighting, and took a moment to wipe the hot, stinging sweat from his brow. His arms quivered with fatigue, and he was not as steady on his legs as he would have liked, but so far he had avoided any serious injuries. On the other hand, he had lost sight of the banner again. Fflar took a slow, careful look around his surroundings, trying to peer through the hot embers and billowing gray smoke that danced and streamed wildly in the hot breeze. “We might as well fight in a burning house,” he muttered to himself.
“Starbrow! Another war-golem!”
Fflar wheeled at the call. He fought alongside a small band of spellarchers for the moment. In the early afternoon Seiveril had sent him to the aid of the Deepingdalesfolk, hard-pressed on the far left of the fight. Fflar had killed several demons and yugoloths while aiding Theremen Ulath and his warriors, but it seemed to be taking the moon elf champion the whole of the rest of the day to fight his back across the vale.
“Aim for the legs!” he shouted. “Immobilize the thing!”
He didn’t know where the daemonfey had found scores of battle-constructs, but the ancient devices certainly hadn’t made the fight any easier. They were ponderous and slow, so heavily armored that it would take a siege engine to wreck one. And they crackled with electricity, hurling lightning across the battlefield with abandon. But he’d discovered that they could be brought to the ground much more easily than they could be destroyed, and once on the ground, sword blades and spear shafts jammed into their joints prevented them from rising again.
Of course, we’ll have to get around to dealing with all the immobilized ones sooner or later, he told himself. But for the time being, the war-golems were a threat best avoided. While warriors worked to bring down the daemonfey machines, demons and fey’ri were all too likely to launch sudden vicious attacks against the distracted elves and humans.
The archers near him whispered their spells and sent their enchanted arrows winging into the ancient iron war-golem. The thing simply continued ahead, insensitive to whatever damage the arrows caused. Metal groaned and creaked.
“Keep at it,” he told the spellarchers, but he kept a wary eye on the fuming smoke nearby.
There! A pair of black, slimy babau demons appeared in the smoke, silently rushing the archers while they concentrated their fire on the war-machine.
“Behind you!” Fflar called to them, and he raced over to intercept the monsters.
One archer spun and fired arrows blazing with holy white fire at the nearest of the demons. The silver shafts stuck quivering in the thing’s gaunt ribs, searingly bright. Demonflesh withered and smoked, and the thing shrieked in agony. Plucking at the arrows embedded in its body, it stumbled to the ground. Its companion sprang forward in one quick leap and gored the archer on its single curved horn, burying the point in the elf’s belly. It shook its head free of the dying spellarcher, fangs bared in the pleasure of the kill—and Fflar reached it. He ducked under one wild swing of its taloned hand and severed its leg at mid-thigh, and when the demon screeched and toppled over, he smashed Keryvian across its chest. The baneblade’s blue fire flashed and burned with cold, blinding light.
“Die, hellspawn!” the moon elf roared.
He wrenched his blade free of the smoking corpse. Behind him, the war-golem lurched to a halt and fell over, its legs pinioned by elf arrows buried in the knees and hips. Two of the elf warriors ran up with broken spear shafts and jammed them into the golem’s shoulder joints, immobilizing its arms as well.
“Well done!” Fflar called.
The smoke parted for a moment, and he glimpsed the twin banners of Seiveril Miritar and Miklos Selkirk flying a short distance away. Ranks of elf and human warriors waited there for the next demonic assault, a rampart of defiant steel against the setting sun. That had been the way of the battle all day long; islands of desperate soldiers gathered around the champions, bladesingers, battle-mages, wizards, or clerics who could stand against the hellspawned servants of Sarya Dlardrageth.
Not much daylight left, he decided. Against any other foe, the end of a day of hard fighting might have brought some small respite. The warring armies would break apart, withdraw to their respective camps, and gather their strength for the next day. But Sarya’s demons and battle-constructs were tireless, and they would allow the allied armies no rest. We’ll still be fighting when the sun comes up again … if we don’t break during the night.
“Rally to the banner!” he told the archers who followed him. “Pass the word along if you see anyone else.”
“We’re behind you, Starbrow,” one of the spellarchers answered. “Lead the way.”
With five of the archers at his back, Fflar made his way toward the two standards flying side by side, picking through the smoke and burning brush. Fey’ri and winged demons darted and swooped in the skies overhead, but not too low—they’d learned to be wary of elven bows, at least during daylight. When darkness fell, it would be a different story.
Not far from the small rise where the heart of the Crusade stood gathered, he found Ferryl Nimersyll and many of the Moon Knights of Sehanine Moonbow. Most were torn by demon claws or burned by sinister magic. But others carried fearsome wounds across their faces, flesh deeply scored in the same strange pattern over and over again. Ferryl himself had the same wound as his warriors, but the thin hole punched in his breastplate looked like a sword thrust to Fflar. Crumpled yugoloths and a few broken fey’ri completed the scene.
“By the Seldarine,” the first of the spellarchers said, her face white and sick. “The Moon Knights. They’re all dead.”
“Ferryl,” Fflar said. A skilled warrior, but also a compassionate one, wise beyond his years … Fflar would miss his wry smile and quick humor. He knelt and composed Ferryl’s features as best he could, arranging his arms over his breast. So many of the Moon Knights slain? he thought dully. Thirty knights of Evermeet, o
verwhelmed in the middle of battle. Fflar sighed, wondering how many more such tales the day held for the Crusade.
“At least they did not fall alone, Starbrow,” the archer said. “There must be a dozen dead mezzoloths here.”
“Ferryl was slain by no mezzoloth,” Fflar said grimly. He looked around, taking in the wreckage of the Moon Knights. They had been among the Crusade’s finest, but it was clear they had met an enemy beyond their skill. He had seen such things during the Weeping War, when some mighty fiend or another had taken the field against the army of Myth Drannor. “A lord of the Nine Hells, I think. Sarya Dlardrageth has emptied the lower planes against us.”
“How can we defeat foes of such power, Starbrow?” the spellarcher asked him.
“We will find a way, I promise you.”
They searched among the last of the Moon Knights in case any of the knights still lived, but to no avail. With his heart as dull and cold as lead, Fflar quietly gathered his small band and led them the last couple of hundred yards to the twin banners. He expected some new enemy to lunge at them out of the smoke at any moment, but to his surprise they reached the battered ranks of the main body without any more fighting.
The Evereskan Vale Guards and Silver Ravens of Sembia still ringed Seiveril’s banner, along with the Silver Guard of Elion—Seiveril had summoned the reserves into the battle long ago. Fflar parted from the spellarchers and made his way to the banner.
Seiveril and Ilsevele stood there. Both seemed tired but otherwise unhurt. Fflar gave a sigh of relief that he didn’t even realize that he had been holding, and moved up to clasp Seiveril’s arm.
“I’m back,” he said simply. “The left is holding, but the Dalesfolk have had a hard time of it. I don’t think they can do much more than stand their ground for now.”
“Starbrow!” Ilsevele looked up to him, and reached up to kiss him softly, holding him as tightly as she could in their armor. “I was beginning to fear that something had happened to you. You were gone for an age!”
“The fortunes of battle,” he told her. “How has it been here?”
“We have been standing around the sapling,” Seiveril answered. “The daemonfey and their fiends tried to break us five times this afternoon, but we fought them back each time.” The elflord looked exhausted, but a fierce light still glowed in his eyes. “I expect they’ll try again soon. On the right, several of the Sembian companies broke early in the day, but Lord Selkirk rallied the rest. They’re standing for now, too. But the wood elves tell me that warbands of drow are gathering in the forest nearby. I think they’re waiting for darkness to join the daemonfey assault.”
“Drow, too?” Fflar grimaced. He should have expected that after the attempt on Ilsevele’s life in Tegal’s Mark. Clearly, Sarya had reached some accommodation with the drow clans lurking in the Elven Court. Just when it seemed that the battle might be in hand, Sarya came up with another arrow to shoot … which reminded him of something else that Seiveril needed to know. “Seiveril, I have some more bad news. Ferryl Nimersyl has fallen, along with many of the Moon Knights. I came across them just a few minutes ago. I think a new foe has taken the field against us—a lord of fiends, perhaps.”
“Do you think the one Araevin spoke of is here?” Ilsevele asked.
“So Sarya’s mysterious ally has finally shown himself,” Seiveril said. He glanced up at his smoke-blackened banner, hanging limply overhead. “Perhaps that explains why we are fighting demons and devils at the same time, when they are the fiercest of enemies. Some prince of the nether planes commands the creatures to serve together.”
“Is there some way to turn them against each other?” Ilsevele mused. “If we can slay or banish the leader, will the devils abandon Sarya’s cause?”
“That won’t be easy.” Fflar looked out over the smoldering fires of the vale and set a hand on the hilt of Keryvian. He’d challenged an infernal lord once before, hadn’t he? Of course, he did not know if the Army of Darkness had disintegrated after he had pierced Aulmpiter’s heart with Demron’s last baneblade. Myth Drannor had been destroyed anyway. But this was a different time and a different enemy. Maybe there would be a different outcome.
“Lord Seiveril!” Jorildyn called. The grim battle-mage had his left arm in a bloodstained sling but still carried his tall staff in his right. “The daemonfey are gathering to our front!”
The elflord glanced at Fflar and Ilsevele, then drew a deep breath. “So it begins again,” he said softly. “Let us hope that the Seldarine smile on us for a sixth time today.”
A little more than one hundred miles north of the battle in the Vale of Lost Voices, the army of Zhentil Keep was encamped around the walls of Hillsfar. Near the cold waters of the Moonsea, the rain had been steady all day, leaving the roads outside the barred gates rivers of ankle-deep mud. It was not enough to hinder the movements of armies—it was not the spring melting, after all—but it was certainly sufficient to make the common footsoldiers miserable and preclude any attempts to fire the city for at least a short time.
Careless of the cold water streaming through her armor, Scyllua Darkhope stood by the edge of the growing camp and studied the city’s formidable walls. It would not be easy to storm Hillsfar. Death did not frighten her, and the casualties of any assault were simply of no concern, but she could not ignore the fact that zeal alone could not guarantee a successful attack. She did not like to admit that even in the silence of her own thoughts, but it was evident that the city’s fortifications were a significant obstacle. The Black Lord admired valor and rewarded devotion, but he demanded obedience. If she were ordered to take the city, she would have to take the city. Failure was not an option. Given the choice between valor and success, she must choose success. That was the lesson she had learned in the aftermath of her failure in Shadowdale earlier in the summer.
Even though the first lord’s tower was in ruins and the Red Plumes soundly beaten, the walls of Hillsfar were reasonably intact and held by better than a thousand of the city’s warriors—plus two or three times that number of poorly armed and ill-trained militia, who hardly counted. The ramparts towered almost sixty feet in height, and ringed the city’s hilltop so that any assault must first struggle up the hillside just to reach the foot of the wall. The gates were protected by strong gatehouses with flanking towers, and the Hillsfarians had been careful to keep their city’s immediate surroundings clear of anything that might offer cover. No, Hillsfar was best taken through siegecraft, treachery, or magic.
Or terror, Scyllua decided. Her pale nightmare could carry her over those walls. It might be instructive to the defenders of the city if she led a raid of sky mages and blades against Hillsfar in the dark of the night.
“High Captain?” Marshal Kulwarth trotted up to her elbow, ignoring the mud splashing around his feet. “The Hillsfarians have sent out an embassy. Lord Fzoul intends to receive them at the Golden Manticore. He requests your presence.”
“Very well. Take charge of the field fortifications. We have already lost one battle this summer through insufficient entrenchment. It will not happen again.”
Kulwarth struck his fist to his chest and strode off, barking orders at the soldiers who toiled in the rain. Scyllua turned her back on the forbidding walls and strode purposefully back toward the main road leading westward along the Moonsea’s shores. While no buildings stood within bowshot of the city walls, a few scattered outbuildings, farmhouses, and workshops hugged the roads leading away from the gates. The old inn house known as the Golden Manticore served as the Zhents’ command post.
Scyllua hurried up the steps to the inn’s common room and strode inside. She found Fzoul Chembryl warming his hands by the hearth, attended by six of his handpicked bodyguards. The Chosen Tyrant of Bane glanced to the door with a small, cold smile.
“Ah, there you are, Scyllua,” he said. “How do your preparations proceed?”
She knelt before him and lowered her head. “We have thrown a cordon around the city, Lord Fz
oul. I have ordered our soldiers to entrench for a siege.”
Fzoul nodded, looking back to the fire. “How long do you think it would take us to reduce the city by siege work?”
“It depends on the magic the Great Lord sees fit to place in my hands, my lord. With the spellcasters and monsters under my command now, we could undermine a wall or destroy a tower and mount an assault in a tenday. If we directed more powerful magic to the task—enslaving a dragon to destroy a gate, perhaps, or summoning earth elementals to pull down a wall—we could storm the city within a day. If our spies’ reports are accurate, we can overwhelm the garrison once we breach the walls.”
“I agree with your assessment.” Fzoul drew back from the fire and pulled on his heavy gauntlets. He wore a breastplate of black mithral emblazoned with the emerald fist of Bane and carried a large mace at his hip. From time to time he liked to take the field in command of his armies. “However, there is a new complication. I have learned that the daemonfey and their infernal legions are even now engaged in a great battle against the armies of Sembia and the Crusade of Evermeet.”
Scyllua looked up at his stern features, her attention sharply focused. “Who will win?” she asked.
“My divinations are inconclusive. The issue seems to be in doubt.” Fzoul flexed his hands in the gauntlets, working his fingers into the leather and steel. “I think that it would be useful to issue promises of support to whichever side wins. If Sarya defeats this attack, I do not think the Sembians will throw good coin after bad. They will abandon the middle Dales, and Sarya will remain the mistress of Myth Drannor for some time to come. If I show her that I mean her no harm, I think she will keep herself quite busy on her southern frontiers. On the other hand, if the elves triumph, it would be good to demonstrate that I have an interest in what happens in the middle Dales … and that I must be given a seat at the victors’ table when the fighting is done.”
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