Curnil found himself standing with Ingra and two of the other four Riders, staring in disbelief at the evidence of the archery around them.
“Someone has an excellent sense of timing,” he said.
He ventured out onto the porch, looking to see who or what had just saved his life.
Arrayed around the farmhouse stood dozens of elf archers, some kneeling behind the undergrowth, others standing in the shadow of tree trunks. With easy grace they glided forward, loosing arrows at the fleeing devils as they came, until the skirmish line swept past the farmhouse and into the fields beyond.
“Who are they?” Ingra asked. “I thought I knew most of the wood elves of Cormanthor, but I’ve never seen these fellows before.”
“Nor have I,” Curnil said. He limped out into the open—somehow, during the fighting in the farmhouse door, he seemed to have been slashed across the leg without even noticing it—and raised a hand in greeting to the archers’ captain, who trotted up to the house. “Well met, friend!” Curnil said in Elvish. “My companions and I owe you our lives!”
The captain—a wood elf whose silver-green garb seemed to shimmer and shift as it constantly adjusted for the green and dappled shadows the elf passed through—looked at Curnil in surprise.
“You speak Elvish!” he said. “And not very badly, either. You must know some of the Tel-Quessir!”
“I do. My name is Curnil Thordrim. I spent several years in the service of Lord Dessaer of Elventree.”
“Are these his lands?” the elf asked.
Definitely not from around here, Curnil noted. “No, Elventree lies a hundred miles or more to the north and east. You are near the human settlement of Mistledale.”
“Ah, I think I have heard of it,” the elf answered. His eye fell on the dead or dying devils sprawled on the farmhouse’s stoop and doorway, and he nodded. “I am glad we were able to help. You fought with great valor against more numerous foes.”
“Not to seem ungrateful, sir, but—who are you? And what are you doing in Mistledale?”
The elf looked back to Curnil, and inclined his head. “I have forgotten my manners. I am Felael Springleap. My warriors and I belong to Lord Seiveril Miritar’s host. We have come from Evermeet to destroy the daemonfey in Myth Drannor.”
“Lord Seiveril? Daemonfey?” Curnil shrugged. “Do you mean to tell me that an army from Evermeet is in Cormanthor?”
“I mean that very thing.” The elf—Felael, Curnil reminded himself—turned away for a moment to quickly confer with some of the others, who trotted off after the rest of the company. Then he turned back to the weary Riders. “Have you seen many of these hellspawn here, Curnil Thordrim?”
“For a tenday or more they’ve been raiding our settlements and slaughtering our people. We always knew there were creatures like this lurking in Myth Drannor, but they have never escaped to the larger forest to trouble us before.”
“Then it may be that we can help each other,” Felael said. “We are here to defeat these creatures and their masters, and it seems to me that you must know much about the lands and happenings nearby. Do you think your leader would be willing to meet with us?”
Curnil took in the skilled and graceful company with a glance. How many more companies of elf archers were roaming around Cormanthor, looking for devils to slay? he wondered. Whatever the answer, it was certainly the best news Mistledale had heard in quite some time.
“Yes,” he said. “I think he would.”
Donnor Kerth seemed a grim and serious traveling companion, putting Araevin in mind of some dwarves he’d known in his day. But his gruff and fierce manner had a way of melting away whenever he addressed Ilsevele or Maresa. Donnor hailed from southern Tethyr, the son of a mid-ranking noble, and he had been brought up with an exacting sense of chivalrous behavior, particularly in regards to the opposite sex. Some of the more conservative sun elf houses embraced similar romantic ideals, but humans had a way of fixing their minds on something and carrying it to extremes that elves would never practice.
At Myth Glaurach, they joined in with the stream of elves passing from the Delimbiyr Vale to Semberholme. Since Araevin was perfectly capable of navigating the portal network by himself, they didn’t have to wait for an elf mage to lead them through, as the rest of the warriors did. They rested for the night in the growing camp by the shores of Lake Sember, surrounded by the lanternlight and cookfires of Lord Seiveril’s army.
Araevin and Ilsevele went to see Seiveril when they had settled on a place to camp. They found him sharing the evening meal with Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves, who sang and danced with abandon as if to show the elflord that their high spirits were sufficient for the whole army. The wood elves greeted both Araevin and Ilsevele warmly, and it was some time before the three sun elves managed to disentangle themselves from the songs, games, and bawdy wit of the wood elf encampment.
As they walked back to Seiveril’s pavilion, Ilsevele took her father’s arm. “Did you feel in need of some song and dance tonight?” she asked.
“A little music never hurt anyone,” Seiveril replied. “I try to make it a point to take at least half my meals with the troops, choosing a different company each time. I want to know what’s on their minds, and take some time to remind them why they’re here. But I have to say, the wood elves don’t give one much of a chance to talk, do they?”
Araevin smiled. Wood elves were notoriously garrulous, but then again sun elves were supposed to be distant and reserved. He suspected that his wood elf friends went out of their way to act the part when he came to visit, simply because he was a sun elf.
“Their spirits seem high, anyway,” he observed.
“It cheers me to pass an hour with them, I’ll admit,” Seiveril said. “So, you have returned much sooner than I expected. Did you forget something?”
“We’re only passing through,” Araevin told him. “We need to head south from here, toward the ports in Sembia or Cormyr. We’ll be taking a ship to Aglarond.”
“Aglarond?” Seiveril paused, his eyes thoughtful. “That makes sense. The People have lived there for a very long time, perhaps even as long ago as the dawn of Arcorar. But it is so far away! Do you really think you will find what you are looking for there?”
“I don’t know,” Araevin admitted. “But it is the best guess I have at the moment.”
“What of you, Father? Have you found any sign of the daemonfey yet?” asked Ilsevele.
“We have companies already marching north and east toward the Standing Stone. I have heard from some of our scouts that they have met demons and devils of various sorts in the forest. Apparently the human folk who live in the forest verge have been greatly troubled in the last few tendays by the fiends that Sarya has released from Myth Drannor, or summoned on her own.”
Ilsevele frowned. “I do not like the idea of bringing our own war into the middle of their homeland,” she said.
“Sarya made that decision, not I,” Seiveril said. “Even if we had chosen not to follow her here, the Dalesfolk would still have to reckon with the daemonfey army and Sarya’s summoned hellspawn—and they would not have our swords and spells to help them.” They reached Seiveril’s pavilion, and the elflord stopped and kissed Ilsevele on the cheek. “I am afraid I have to set our marching orders for tomorrow, and make ready to meet with some human emissaries from the nearby lands who want to know why an army of elves has suddenly returned to this ancient forest. If you like, I will have Thilesil provide you with mounts to speed your journey.”
They thanked Seiveril, and Ilsevele kissed her father again. Then they returned to their camp.
The next morning, they found Seiveril’s aide Thilesil and obtained riding horses for the four of them—not the elven coursers from Evermeet itself, of course, since they did not know if they would be able to embark the horses when they reached Cormyr’s ports. Then they set off for the human lands south of Cormanthor.
From the wilderness of Semberholme, they made their way s
outh for a day to the land of Deepingdale and its chief town Highmoon. The next morning, they rode to the town of White Ford at the northern end of Archendale, and passed along the length of the dale to the town of Archenbridge in a long, hard day of riding made a little easier by fine weather and good roads. Two more days of riding brought them across Sembia’s broad farmlands and well-ordered hamlets to the great old city of Saerloon, on the shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
Saerloon had long ago over-spilled its city walls, and for miles outside the old city, inns, taverns, stockyards, and stables lined the road. The aroma of the place was overpowering, a mix of cookfires, animal dung, and industry such as tanning, papermaking, and smelting. Busy humans everywhere were noisily engaged in their trades with little regard for their neighbors. Few passersby took any notice of the four riders approaching the city, but those who did looked hard at Araevin and Ilsevele, saying little.
“Why do they stare at us so?” Ilsevele asked Araevin in Elvish.
“Not many human cities are as welcoming to our people as Silverymoon,” he replied. “The humans who settled these shores learned little from elves, unlike the human lands you passed through in the North. The Sembians have long regarded elves as rivals, perhaps even enemies.”
“Enemies? Why?”
“Long ago the Sembians were checked in their northward expansion by the might of elven Cormanthyr. Even after the fall of Myth Drannor, elves remained in the forest for centuries, enough that the Sembians still did not dare to defy them. The last Houses of Cormanthyr abandoned the Elven Court only within the last forty years or so.”
“Will the Sembians claim the forest, now that it has been abandoned?”
“I do not know. The Dalesfolk still stand in their way, even if they are no match for Sembia’s strength.” Araevin glanced at Ilsevele with a thin smile. “Besides, your father may have other ideas on the question now.”
They finally reached the old gates, so deeply buried within the city that there seemed to be no difference between the districts outside the walls and the ones inside the walls, and rode through. Now that they were in old Saerloon, the city’s native architecture became apparent. Great stone buildings centuries old rose high overhead, distinguished by needle-like spires, bladelike flying buttresses, high pointed arches, and an incredible wealth of statuary—crouching, leering gargoyles seemed to adorn every rooftop. It was magnificent in its way, but more than little sinister as well.
Araevin gazed up at the threatening, monstrous figures captured in stone, and wondered what had led the long-dead sculptors to adorn their city so.
“Let’s find a good inn,” he suggested, “and we’ll see what ships are in port and where they are bound.”
The waters of Lake Sember glowed with the golden sunset, and a dark line of storm clouds gathered around the distant Desertsmouth Mountains to the west, promising rain before long. Seiveril stood near the lakeshore, absently noting that the camp was smaller than it had been. Many of his companies were already well on their march to the north and east, and soon he too would be gone from there.
“Lord Miritar? The Dalesfolk emissaries are here,”
Thilesil told him.
The efficient sun elf was a priestess of Corellon Larethian, and one of the clerics subordinate to Seiveril in the hierarchy of Corellon’s Grove. But more importantly she had proved to be an exceptionally competent administrator and secretary, helping him to attend to the myriad details of moving, feeding, and planning for an army numbering in the thousands.
“Excellent,” Seiveril replied. “I will be there in just a moment.”
He would have liked Starbrow or Vesilde Gaerth to be present for the council, but the moon elf warrior was leading the vanguard of the march, and Gaerth was behind him, in charge of the main body.
Seiveril turned his back on the sunset and found his way back to an old, stone colonnade beneath the trees. The slender white pillars had once ringed a great table where the old lords of Semberholme had feasted on summer nights. Like many of Semberholme’s ruins, they were not really ruined at all, just abandoned for a time. Since Seiveril’s folk had had a few days to set things in order, golden lanterns hung once again from the branches overhead, and the table was set much as it might have been five hundred years ago. Three humans and a half-elf awaited him.
Thilesil stepped forward and announced, “Honored guests, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion. Lord Seiveril, this is High Councilor Haresk Malorn of Mistledale, Lord Theremen Ularth of Deepingdale, Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, and Lady Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale.”
“Welcome, friends,” said Seiveril. “I thank you for consenting to meet me here.”
He bowed, and took a moment to study his guests. He’d sent couriers to all the nearby lands after discovering the troubles besetting Mistledale, even dispatching mages with teleport spells to speed their journeys if necessary.
Haresk Malorn, High Councilor of Mistledale, was a tall, balding human with a heavy body, dressed in garb Seiveril might expect of a small town merchant, which was exactly what Malorn was. For all his evident lack of martial bearing, he had a surprisingly direct and strong look to his face, even if he seemed a little overwhelmed in the present circumstances.
Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, another tall human, was the second of Seiveril’s guests. He had a thick, dark beard and a grim, almost sullen manner to him. He also shifted his feet nervously, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest.
His third guest was the half-elf Lord Theremen Ulath of Deepingdale. Theremen evidently had some moon elf blood in him. He was quite fair of skin, with dark hair and a build that was almost elf-slender. He seemed somewhat more at ease than the Malorn, but Seiveril would have expected that from a lord whose demesnes included both human towns and elf settlements in the southern margin of Cormanthor. It helped that Seiveril and Theremen had spoken several times already in the days since the Crusade had emerged in the forests not far north of Deepingdale.
“It has been a long time since an elflord has invited Dalelords to his table in Cormanthor,” Theremen said. “I, for one, am honored to be here.”
Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, and turned his eyes to the fourth of his guests—none other than Storm Silverhand, one of the Seven Sisters, Bard of Shadowdale, Harper, Chosen of Mystra, and a dozen other things more. She stood watching him, her eyes dark and thoughtful in a face of tremendous beauty. She wore a mail shirt and a leather jacket, and a long sword rode at her hip. Her silver hair, long and straight, gleamed in the lanternlight. Seiveril had not expected her, believing Shadowdale would send its lord Mourngrym Amcathra or another representative, but he was not about to tell a Chosen of Mystra that she was not welcome.
“Well, Seiveril Miritar, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest in Myth Drannor,” Storm said. “I suppose I would like to know what in the world is going on there, and why a whole army from Evermeet has suddenly gated into this forest.”
“I will explain,” Seiveril said, glancing to Thilesil, “but first, I was expecting a representative from Archendale too.”
“The Swords declined to come,” Thilesil said. “They sent word that they are not concerned with ‘elven matters,’ but will not obstruct your movements in any way, as long as you do not approach their land.”
Malorn shook his head. “Trust Archendale to look out for itself first. You won’t get much from them, Lord Miritar.”
“In all fairness, High Councilor, the Swords are mightily concerned by Sembia, which sits at their southern doorstep,” Lord Theremen replied. “They do not want to give Sembia a reason to pick a quarrel with them.”
Seiveril shook his head. The human ability to ignore their own common good always astonished him, but he supposed that if the rulers of Archendale wanted to be left alone, he could certainly leave them alone. He looked back to Storm Silverhand, sensing that she was the one he would have to convince. The legendary Bard of Shadowdale might not hold any titles o
r govern any lands, but her words went a long way in the Dalelands.
“I promised to explain our presence,” he began. “We have spent the last three months marching and fighting in the Delimbiyr Vale, where we fought a bitter campaign against a legion of daemonfey—winged demons who wear the shapes of elves. They are an ancient evil long ago defeated and imprisoned in the High Forest. But earlier this year they mounted a raid on Evermeet itself, and freed a great legion of their kind to launch an attack against the elves of the High Forest and nearby realms.”
“Evereska,” Storm said.
Seiveril nodded. He hadn’t wanted to name the city, not knowing the Dalelords with whom he spoke well enough to speak of such a secret.
“Yes, Evereska,” he allowed. “In response, I gathered a host of warriors from Evermeet to go to the Delimbiyr Vale and destroy the daemonfey threat. We stopped them at the gates of Evereska and in the deep refuges of the High Forest, and broke their army on the Lonely Moor. But the daemonfey fled through hidden gates to Myth Drannor, where they are now rebuilding their strength.” He faced Councilor Malorn and spread his hands in apology. “In truth, we did not mean to drive an army of our foes into your lands. But now that they have fled here, we have come to finish what we started at the Lonely Moor.”
“That explains your army’s presence,” Storm Silverhand said, “but perhaps you can also tell me why the forest is suddenly thick with creatures of the infernal planes. Have these daemonfey of yours broken the wards trapping those monsters inside Myth Drannor?”
“We think so, yes.” Seiveril paused, to make sure that the Chosen understood him. “One of my mages, an expert on mythalcraft and the daemonfey spells, surveyed Sarya’s handiwork at Myth Drannor. He found that she has assumed control over the mythal, and is now working to twist it to her own purposes. In the High Forest she used the wards over Myth Glaurach to summon up a whole army of fiends. I fear she will do so again in Myth Drannor if we do not stop her.”
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