Ilsevele, as the most wood-wise of the party, took the lead, bow in hand. Araevin followed her, leading both his horse and hers so that she could watch the trail ahead without tending a mount. Maresa and Grayth followed, and the young swordsman Brant brought up the rear, leading the packhorse along with his own mount.
The trail was much as Araevin remembered it, climbing steeply up and down as it wandered eastward over a series of fingerlike ridges stretching north from the nearby Troll Hills. The forest was soggy and cold, with swift, narrow rivulets of water rushing down in hundreds of nameless little brooks that crossed their path, and when the trail reached the ravine and valley floors between the ridges, it usually met a loud, swift, and cold stream.
At the boulder-strewn bank of one such stream about an hour’s walk from the tower, Araevin found Ilsevele crouched over the trail.
“Tracks?” he asked.
She glanced up as he approached and said, “How often do people come this way?”
“It’s not really on the way to anywhere. Adventuring companies searching for the Warlock’s Crypt might pass this way. I suppose there are a few who might seek out the watchtower, hoping to find some lost elven treasure or maybe make use of the portal, as we did. What do you see?”
“Troll sign, not more than a few hours old. At least four or five of them, I think. They’re following the trail ahead of us.” Ilsevele straightened and brushed off her hands. “I’ve seen tracks both coming and going. We may meet these fellows if they come back this way.”
The company pressed on, fording the stream and climbing back up the heavily overgrown ridge on the far side. They marched for another two hours, as the overcast slowly descended and a cold rain began to fall, lightly at first but growing more steady as the afternoon wore on. The going was even more difficult than Araevin remembered. At no point did the trail open up enough for them to mount their horses, and finding ways to get the animals across the treacherous broken streambeds took far more time than he had supposed. By dusk Araevin guessed that they still had three or four more miles before reaching the forest’s edge. He began to consider the question of whether they should push on, or make camp. A shrill cry from ahead interrupted his thoughts.
“Trolls!” shouted Ilsevele. “Trolls!”
Araevin looked up from the trail, only to realize that Ilsevele had gotten far enough ahead of him that he could not see her through the dense underbrush. He cursed himself for allowing his attention to narrow to the trail right in front of his feet, and hurriedly threw the reins of his horse over a nearby branch.
“Trolls ahead!” he called over his shoulder, just in case the others had not heard Ilsevele’s cry, and he sprinted down the trail. Ilsevele’s bow thrummed twice, then twice again. From somewhere out of his sight, a wet, burbling voice howled in pain, and others joined in with cries of anger and bloodlust.
Aillesel seldarie, he thought as he dashed over the difficult trail. Let her be safe! Let me reach her before the trolls do.
He knew that Ilsevele was a highly trained warrior, as good with a bow as any he’d ever seen, but still the thought of her standing alone against blood-maddened trolls made his heart ache with terror as if a cold iron knife twisted in his chest.
He topped a sharp rise in the trail, and found the scene laid out before him. Ilsevele stood beside a gnarled oak, calmly firing arrow after arrow into a gang of half a dozen trolls who thrashed up the path toward her, loping along with their knuckles dragging on the ground at the end of their long, gangly arms. The vile creatures roared and bellowed in challenge, their mouths filled with rotten black fangs. One troll had fallen writhing on the rain-wet boulders, transfixed by five arrows, but one by one it plucked the arrows out of its body. Its spurting green blood slowed to a trickle and halted as its warty flesh puckered and healed around the injuries. Trolls were not so easily killed.
Araevin hurried down toward Ilsevele, leaping from boulder to boulder. He heard Maresa at his heels, swearing like a Calishite sailor, and behind her the heavy footfalls of the two humans as they thundered toward the fight. Ilsevele’s bow sang like a harp, and her arrows hissed angrily through the air.
Head-sized rocks hurled back up the hill in response as the trolls pelted Ilsevele with anything they could get their hands on.
“Elf-meat! Elf-meat!” they cried, scrambling up the hillside.
Araevin shoved his lightning wand into his belt and fished in his bandolier for the reagents for a spell. He knew from long practice what each pocket held without even looking. As he rolled a pinch of sulfur between the fingers of his left hand he quickly barked out the words of a fire spell. From his right forefinger a single gleaming bead of orange streaked out toward the charging trolls, only to detonate in a thunderous burst of flame. Trolls shrieked and scattered, flames clinging to their malformed bodies.
“Well done, Araevin!” Grayth exclaimed.
The priest drew up abreast of Araevin and unsheathed his hand-and-a-half sword with a ringing rasp. Then he skidded down the path to meet the trolls in front, less than twenty yards from Ilsevele’s perch. Brant followed half a step behind him. The hulking monsters screeched in rage, their mossy hides smoking from the flames of Araevin’s fireball.
“For Lathander’s glory!” the warrior-priest cried.
He leaped in close to the first troll, taking off its arm at the elbow before ducking under its snapping jaws to ram his sword deep into the creature’s gizzard. Brant fought at his side, guarding Grayth’s back as he fended off another troll with a flurry of shining steel.
“You need fire to kill them!” Araevin called. “They’ll just keep healing until we burn them!”
“Right,” Ilsevele replied.
She whispered the words to a spell of her own, and suddenly the arrow in her bow blazed with brilliant white flame. She took careful aim, and shot the troll flailing at Brant through the throat. The creature’s knees buckled, and it went to all fours, pawing at the burning missile lodged in its neck, at which point Brant hewed off its foul head.
Araevin felt the brilliant chill of magic rippling in the air behind him. He glanced back to see Maresa aiming a wand of her own at the trolls trying to circle around the two swordsmen holding the path. A jet of roaring flame sizzled out from the genasi’s wand and she seared one of the trolls into a lump of black, burning meat.
“Hah! Take that!” she called at her foes, leaping down after them with her rapier in one hand and her wand in the other. “Who wants to play next, eh?”
Three trolls were down, and the remaining monsters wavered in confusion. Araevin chose to make their decision easy for them. He conjured up a globe of swirling green acid and hurled it at the biggest troll left. The orb arched through the air and caught the troll across the head and chest even as it tried to twist out of the way, raising one long arm to fend it off. The creature shrieked in agony and staggered back as its flesh smoked and sizzled. The other two trolls broke and ran as their leader shambled off. Grayth and Brant pursued them a few steps, slashing at their backs as they loped away.
“I’m not done with you yet!” Grayth called after them.
Ilsevele took aim at the acid-burned troll staggering blindly away, and put it down with two arrows in its misshapen skull.
“Should I take the other two?” she asked.
“No, let them go,” Araevin said. “They might serve to warn off any other trolls in the area.”
“Or they might go round up some friends,” Maresa said. She tucked her wand into her belt and sheathed her rapier. “How many more fireballs can you cast?”
“Quite a few,” Araevin answered. “I knew we intended to travel the Trollbark today, and made suitable preparations.” He glanced at the genasi. “By the way, you didn’t mention that you knew some magic.”
“It didn’t come up before. Besides, I like to keep you guessing.”
Maresa grinned fiercely and turned away to pick her way back toward the horses.
The elf mage shoo
k his head. He glanced over at Ilsevele, and took her hand.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Of course. It will take more than a few trolls to frighten me. You should know that by now.”
“I can’t help it. I fear that something might happen to you.”
“I can look after myself, thank you,” Ilsevele replied. “You keep an eye on yourself, my betrothed. I have too many years invested in you to start over again with some other thickheaded fellow.”
CHAPTER 8
10 Ches, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cold and heavy, the rain arrived in the hour before sunrise and lasted all day. Ribbons of icy water cascaded down from the green canopy far above, turning the snow mantling the forest floor into frigid slush. Gaerradh could feel the first stirrings of spring in the High Forest—after all, it was raining, not snowing—but that did not mean the day was at all pleasant. Her woolen cloak was sodden and useless, her feet were wet and cold, and she could not stop shivering.
She reached a boulder-strewn streambed and scrambled up onto a large, flat rock that had been washed clean of snow, her eyes on the band of open sky above the creek. She searched long and carefully before giving a small wave of her hand.
“It’s clear,” she called softly.
Behind her, a long column of marching elves threaded their way along the trail. More than a hundred of Rheitheillaethor’s folk followed her. Unlike those who had fought at the village, they were not all warriors. Children and untrained youths, artisans or craftsmen who did not trust their martial skills, mothers of young children, and those rare elves hindered by age or injury, made up three-quarters of the company. A short string of pack animals—mostly elk and branta, temporarily held to their tasks with the urging of druids—carried the light shelters and furnishings the elves needed as well as a small number of wounded, but each elf also carried a pack of provisions. Two dozen archers, scouts, and mages flanked the marching line of folk who could not be expected to fight in their own defense.
Gaerradh kept her bow at hand and maintained her watch as the first of the marching elves lightly leaped from stone to stone across the stream. So far, they’d avoided additional battles with the demon-elves or their orc marauders, but only by fleeing deeper into the forest. All across the western High Forest, the wood elves were in flight, abandoning their camps and villages to seek shelter in the trackless depths of the immense woodland. Not all of the elven villages had managed to escape the invaders. In four days Gaerradh’s company had found one band of refugees slaughtered in a burned glade, and a village that had been surrounded and systematically exterminated. She still saw the flayed bodies every time she closed her eyes.
“Rillifane Rallathil, Master of the Forest, hide us from our enemies,” she prayed under her breath. “Spread your branches out over your People, and conceal us from our foes.”
Somewhere ahead they would find sanctuary. The High Forest was simply too large a hiding place, and even the most determined pursuer couldn’t hope to run all the fleeing bands to ground.
But they might catch up to a few.
A low whistle caught Gaerradh’s ear. She looked back at the column beside her. Lady Morgwais stood nearby, speaking words of encouragement to each elf passing by.
“We will halt for a short time on the other side of the stream,” she called out. “Move well under the trees, so that we will be hidden from any foes flying over the riverbed. Take care to build smokeless fires, but build them anyway. We all need a hot meal and a little warmth after this dreary day.”
Morgwais watched the last of the elves cross the stream. Small and sprightly, she had passed up and down the marching band constantly for days, her light laughter an instant cure for fatigue or despondency. The Lady of the Wood seemed indefatigable, and her unwavering confidence had done wonders for keeping the band moving in the face of the waning winter. She gazed after the company, and Gaerradh caught a glimpse of utter exhaustion as the lady’s energetic mask crumbled.
The ranger quickly slid down the boulder to the trail. Sheeril followed, leaping down beside her.
“Lady Morgwais, are you well?” Gaerradh asked.
Morgwais rallied with a smile and replied, “As well as any of us.”
“Nonsense. You’ve marched twice as far as anyone, and you’ve kept a song for us all and a laugh on your lips for days now. You must make sure to rest, too.”
“I’ll thank you to keep that thought to yourself. Besides, you and the rest of our scouts have covered far more ground than I have,” Morgwais said. She moved a short distance under the spreading boughs of a blueleaf and found a reasonably dry log to sit on. “Come, you’ve earned a break as well.”
Gaerradh started to decline, but then she realized that Morgwais might need some encouragement of her own. She agreed with a nod, and joined the lady on the stump, Sheeril curled up at her feet. They sat together in silence, listening to the voice of the stream and the rainwater dripping through the branches.
“Do you think they’ll follow us all the way to the Lost Peak strongholds?” Gaerradh said finally. “It’s nearly two hundred miles from Rheitheillaethor to the mountains.”
“I don’t know,” Morgwais said with a sigh, “but I fear so. Look around you. What do you see?”
“The forest. A stand of blueleafs here. The Ilthaelrun, there. There’s a nest of snow owls above us in this tree. The female is watching us with no small alarm.”
“It’s a pretty spot. We could raise a camp here and stay a season or two, and we wouldn’t lack for anything,” Morgwais said. “The whole of the High Forest is more or less the same to us, isn’t it? Our people have no need to till a river plain, or trade at a crossroads, or build a town to house our craftsmen and merchants. We could easily settle anywhere in the forest. In fact, there is no reason we couldn’t march another hundred miles farther south and hide among the Starmounts. One place in the forest is much the same as any other, so why not abandon the eastern reaches for a time? Let the orcs and the tainted ones have it.”
“I don’t care for the idea of giving such murderous beasts leave to poison our homeland.”
“Nor do I, but that is not the mark I was shooting at. Nothing in the lands we hold in the eastern reaches of the forest is particularly valuable to us, really, which suggests to me that territory in the forest is not particularly important to the daemonfey, either, at least not for its own sake. Oh, there are plenty of old ruins they may have an interest in, but we only guard a handful of those places.” Morgwais met Gaerradh’s gaze and said, “They are here for us, Gaerradh. Not our lands, not our possessions. They intend to break our strength and scatter us, perhaps drive us out of the forest all together. And that means they will follow us wherever we flee.”
Gaerradh drew in a breath. She had been looking forward to the refuges of the Lost Peaks, the secret glens and hidden vales in the heart of the forest, long since prepared as havens and strongholds in times of trouble. But if Lady Morgwais was right….
“We will have to stand and fight, then,” she said quietly. “Not yet, perhaps, and not here. But soon.”
The lady nodded and said, “We are not prepared for an enemy like this. There are a hundred or more bands and companies of our folk scattered over this forest, but only a handful of those can muster even fifty warriors. Until we gather our strength somewhere, we will be harried and hunted. Somehow I must summon all the companies, all the clans and villages, together, and build an army to meet these foes. And I must pray that we have the strength to defeat them.”
“I cannot remember any such gathering of the People in this forest.”
“It hasn’t happened since the days of Eaerlann, and Eaerlann fell almost five hundred years ago—long before your time, and even a little before mine.”
“What of our kinfolk in Evereska or Evermeet? Have we heard from them?” Gaerradh asked. “We have no experience in raising armies, but they do.”
Morgwais looked away.
; “Evereska is endangered, too,” she said. “I have spoken to Turlang the treant, and he tells me that armies of evil creatures, including more of the demonspawn, are marching south through the Delimbiyr Vale toward the Shaeradim. After the war against the phaerimm, Evereska has no strength to spare for us.”
“Well, what of Evermeet, then?”
“I do not know. I have sent word to Amlaruil’s court, but I have heard no response.”
“Do you think they would refuse us help?” Gaerradh asked with alarm.
“No, I doubt that. But I do think it is entirely possible that Evermeet might take months to decide how to help, and we might not have that much time for the sun elves to think over our situation for us.” Morgwais stood and dusted off her seat, shaking her head. “You know sun elves. Anything worth doing deserves ten years of second-guessing before they’ll agree to it. Sometimes I wonder how they manage to pick out their clothes in the morning.”
Gaerradh looked up at Morgwais and asked, “Were you not married to a sun elf?”
“Yes, long ago. It took him fifty years to propose to me,” Morgwais said with a laugh. “Listen, Gaerradh, there is something I want you to do. Go north to the Silver Marches and tell Alustriel of Silverymoon what is happening here in the forest. I have no doubt that she knows much of it already, but you have followed and fought this new foe for days now. She will want to know what you have seen, and what you think.”
“Do you think she will help us?”
“I don’t know. The cities of the Silver Marches have enemies of their own to guard against. But she and her sisters have always been friends of the People, and she is a Chosen of Mystra.” Morgwais rested a hand on Gaerradh’s shoulder. “And … if we are driven from our refuges, then Silverymoon must know that they could face this peril next. If I cannot contain the daemonfey, it will fall to Alustriel and her confederation to do it.”
The galleries of the Dome of Stars were crowded with elves waiting on the high council. Seiveril studied the spectators with a smile of satisfaction. For the last two days he had spoken to dozens of friends, acquaintances, and allies, asking them to attend the open session and pass the word along to anyone they knew. Many of the onlookers were men and women of the Queen’s Guard, the Spellarchers, the Eagle Knights, and other elite companies of Evermeet’s armies. The clerics of Corellon Larethian and the other deities of the Seldarine were well represented too, and with them many of the temple knights and holy champions of the elven faith. Seiveril also noted no small number of nobles and merchants whose sympathies belonged to Lady Durothil and her faction. Apparently Durothil and Veldann had heard of his call to his adherents and allies, and they had made sure to summon their own supporters to the day’s council meeting.
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