Farthest Reach

by Richard Baker

  “I am Lady Senda Dereth,” she told the guard captain. “Lord Maalthiir does not expect me, but I believe he will wish to see me.”

  The guard captain consulted his order book, then looked up sharply. “The first lord will be notified of your arrival,” he said. “You will await him in the banquet room.”

  He gestured to four of the red-plumed guards, who led Sarya and Xhalph through the keep’s winding passages and broad halls to a large room with a great table of oak and dozens of chairs arrayed neatly behind it. The windows were mere slits only a hand’s-breadth wide, and the two sets of doors leading into the chamber were made of four-inch thick oak bound with iron bands.

  “Do they think this will hold us, if we should choose to leave?” Xhalph muttered to her, as the door closed behind the guards.

  “I doubt it,” Sarya said. “Maalthiir at least knows that I am a mage. I suspect that the first lord simply wants to remind us of where we are.”

  To Sarya’s surprise, Maalthiir did not keep her waiting. After only ten minutes, the first lord threw open the doors and strode into the banquet room, flanked as before by the four pale swordsmen with the dead black eyes, as well as two more Red Plumes. There was another lord with him, a heavyset man with an exquisitely trimmed mustache and goatee to go along with his long, curled locks of black hair and dark, narrow-set eyes. Sarya decided that he had the look of a warrior who’d let himself go. Despite his evident paunch, the man’s shoulders were broad, and his hands were large and strong beneath the delicate lace cuffs of his tunic.

  Maalthiir paused on entering, studying Sarya intensely, and motioned to more guards stationed in the hall. The thick oak doors swung shut, and the first lord smiled coldly.

  “Good evening, Lady Senda,” he said. “You left without answering my questions last time you visited my tower. I hope you will not do so again tonight.”

  Sarya inclined her head to the human lord. “I hope I will not need to, Lord Maalthiir,” she said, ignoring the threat. “May I present my captain-at-arms Alphon? He advises me on military matters.”

  Maalthiir studied Xhalph for a moment, and his lips twisted into a small, humorless smile.

  “Captain Alphon,” he answered, then indicated the dark-bearded lord who had accompanied him into the room. “This is High Master Borstag Duncastle of Ordulin. He represents Sembian interests concerned with trade, settlement, and industry in the Dales and the Moonsea.”

  Sarya nodded to the Sembian lord—more likely nothing more than a jumped-up merchant, she reminded herself—and looked back to the First Lord of Hillsfar.

  “I hope you have had an opportunity to confirm for yourself the incursion of Evermeet’s army to these lands?”

  “I have indeed. The elven army was exactly where you’d said I would find them.” Maalthiir crossed the room to the head of the large, empty table, kicked out the chair there, and sat down in an unconcerned slouch. The oddly pale swordsmen who accompanied the first lord moved to stand behind him. “My spies added some important details you neglected to mention, Lady Senda. They spoke with Dalesfolk who in turn spoke with emissaries of the elven army, and they learned that the leader of the elves—a Lord Miritar, I believe—has discovered that an ancient enemy of elf-kind has occupied Myth Drannor. Apparently these foes of the elves recently waged a furious war in the vales of the Delimbiyr, attacking elven kingdoms in the High Forest, but fled to Myth Drannor when they were defeated a month or two ago.”

  High Master Borstag folded his thick arms in front of his chest. “My own spies confirmed the first lord’s report,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “In fact, I learned a name for these adversaries of the elves: The daemonfey.”

  “You are well-informed, Lord Maalthiir.”

  “Perhaps more well informed than you think, Lady Senda.” Maalthiir raised a hand and pointed at his own eyes. “I took the liberty of casting a spell of true seeing before I entered the room. You, dear lady, are not what you appear to be. Nor is your Captain Alphon, for that matter. In fact, were I to hazard a guess, I believe that I am speaking to a pair of Lord Miritar’s daemonfey at this very moment.”

  Xhalph shifted beside Sarya, and his hand stole down to the sword at his side. The four mysterious swordsmen behind Maalthiir mirrored his move in unison, swiveling to direct their dark, dead gazes at Xhalph.

  Sarya glanced up at him in irritation and said quietly,

  “Not yet.”

  Xhalph growled softly deep in his throat, but he took his hand from his sword hilt and subsided. Sarya looked back at Maalthiir, who still lounged in his chair at the head of the table.

  “You are more astute than I had thought you would be, First Lord,” she said. “I am Countess Sarya Dlardrageth, of House Dlardrageth. This is my son Xhalph. I hope you will forgive me for taking steps to keep my identity a secret in order to avoid any undue alarm on your part.”

  “I am by nature a suspicious man,” Maalthiir replied. “There is no such thing as undue alarm. Now, with all that behind us … what precisely do you want with Hillsfar, Lady Sarya?”

  “I want to drive Seiveril Miritar out of Cormanthor entirely. As I said in our previous meeting, it seems to me that you might share that desire. Hillsfar would not profit from an elf coronal in Myth Drannor.”

  “It is not at all clear to me that Hillsfar would profit from a demon-queen in Myth Drannor, either.”

  “Well, among other things, I certainly have no interest in guaranteeing the Dales against the natural and logical growth of Hillsfar’s power … or Sembia’s. On the other hand, Miritar will stand in your path. If you ever hope to raise Hillsfar’s banner over Harrowdale or Battledale—or if the high master here ever hopes to see Featherdale or Tasseldale under Sembia’s dominion—you would be well-advised to make sure that Lord Miritar does not establish himself in Cormanthor.”

  “Whereas you would gladly stand aside while we seized the Dalelands that lie all around your forest city?”

  Sarya walked over to the banquet table and seated herself a few chairs down from Maalthiir, ignoring the flash of irritation in the human lord’s eyes.

  “I mean to rule over most, if not all, of the old realm of Cormanthyr. That means the woods of the Elven Court, Semberholme … much of the forest Cormanthor, in fact. But the Dales were never a part of Cormanthyr, and I could care less what becomes of them. In fact, to help secure your assistance against my foe, I am willing to help you arrange matters in the Dalelands as you see fit.”

  “An elflord in Cormanthyr—whether you or Miritar—is not something that Sembia wishes to see,” said High Master Borstag. “The southern Dales are Sembia’s in all but name anyway. What I need are furs, timber, game, lands to clear and to settle …”

  “Trees are trees,” Sarya said. “I won’t let you cut the whole forest, but I see no reason why I could not sell you a concession for logging and clearing a good portion of it.” She smiled coldly. “Trust me, High Master, no such offer will be forthcoming from Seiveril Miritar.”

  Borstag narrowed his eyes, and Sarya nodded to herself. She could almost see the human merchant prince counting coins in his head. Someone would have the right to exercise those concessions. Whether she permitted the Sembians to take as much as they wanted or at the price they offered was something she could determine for herself later, but she had little use for a few miles of forest on her southern border.

  Maalthiir stirred in his seat. “So you want my Red Plumes to help you defeat Miritar’s army,” he said. “In exchange, you are offering me the northern Dales, and High Master Borstag the southern. I am afraid it is not so simple, though. You have omitted three important factors from your calculations: Cormyr, Zhentil Keep, and the Sage of Shadowdale.”

  “Cormyr is in no condition to contest aggressive moves in the Dalelands,” Borstag pointed out. “Between the death of Azoun, the goblin incursions, and the Shades in Anauroch, Cormyr is as weak as it has been in a hundred years. Lady Sarya has chosen an auspicious time to recla
im Myth Drannor.”

  “And I can aid you against Zhentil Keep and the Chosen of Mystra,” Sarya said. “I may lack in sheer numbers, but through my control over Myth Drannor I wield great magical power. I can dispatch hundreds of sorcerous warriors against my foes, striking anywhere within hundreds of miles, with dozens of powerful demons or devils to lead the attack.”

  “If that is the case, I find myself wondering why you need me at all,” Maalthiir observed.

  Sarya leaned back in her chair and studied the first lord. “I am not entirely certain that I do,” she said with a deceptively pleasant tone. “I believe that I could hoard my strength inside Myth Drannor and defy Seiveril Miritar forever. But I am not willing to take the chance that the powerful human lands surrounding Cormanthor might join forces with Miritar. That is why I have chosen to come to you, Lord Maalthiir, and through you your friends in Sembia. It is worth my while to make sure that you, at least, understand what you stand to lose from an elven Return to Cormanthyr. If you were to help Miritar overthrow me, I would simply melt away again, and you would be left with that army of elves to deal with. How many more centuries do you wish to spend under the shadow of elven power?”

  Borstag glanced at Maalthiir, who simply studied Sarya in silence, a deep scowl etched on his face.

  Then the Sembian looked back to Sarya and asked, “So how do you propose to go about removing Miritar’s army from Cormanthor?”

  “As you might expect, I have given that some thought.” Sarya straightened in her seat, and focused her emerald gaze on Maalthiir of Hillsfar. The first lord brooded, leaning against the arm of his chair, one hand under his jaw. “The key, I think,” Sarya began, “is the land of Mistledale.”

  From the shores of Lake Sember, the Crusade marched north for three days on long-disused elfroads that few other armies could have found, let alone followed, through the heart of southern Cormanthor. The weather, which had been fine for the days of the portal transit, turned cold and wet, with sullen gray skies and a strong, gusty wind out of the north that seemed to carry the chill of the Moonsea down into Cormanthor’s green, mossy heart.

  Seiveril’s army had come to include a small company of rangers and archers from Deepingdale, many of them moon elves or half-elves descended from those who had chosen not to Retreat from Cormanthor when the last leaders of the Elven Court had finally decided to abandon the great woodland thirty years ago. The Deepingdale elves knew Cormanthor intimately, the secret paths and lore of rock, water, and leaf, and they helped Jerreda’s wood elf scouts guide the army northward toward the Standing Stone and Myth Drannor beyond that. Lord Ilmeth of Battledale had no strength to spare for such work, and little inclination to do so in any event. The lord of Essembra had fewer than a hundred men under arms in his whole demesne. Lord Mourngrym Amcathra of Shadowdale had more strength than that, but his land was much closer to Myth Drannor, and Storm Silverhand informed Seiveril that Mourngrym would not bring any soldiers to join the army of Evermeet until Evermeet’s soldiers were in sight of Myth Drannor.

  Seiveril sent a company of bladesingers and battle-mages ahead of his marching host to help the folk of Mistledale fend off the marauding demons and devils that harried their small land, and another company ahead to Shadowdale for the same purpose. He did not like to part with any of the Crusade’s magical strength, especially when there was always the chance that hundreds of Sarya’s fey’ri warriors might appear in the skies overhead at any moment, but the daemonfey lurked out of sight and out of reach, letting their conjured hellspawn do their work for them.

  “I don’t understand the point of harassing the Dalesfolk,” Seiveril remarked to Starbrow on the morning of the third day. The sun elf lord and the moon elf champion stood on the banks of the Ashaba, which was running deep and swift after several days of rain, and watched the lead companies of Seiveril’s host crossing the river on three bridges of glimmering magic, conjured by Jorildyn and the elf wizards under his command. “Shadowdale and Mistledale could lend us a couple of hundred trained fighters at best. Sending devils to harry them takes almost nothing away from our strength, and makes my quarrel with Sarya Dlardrageth their quarrel too.”

  “The demons and devils who have been prowling about in the forests around Mistledale and Shadowdale might not be a part of Sarya’s army,” Starbrow replied. “Lord Theremen of Deepingdale says that monsters of the infernal realms have haunted the ruins of Myth Drannor for centuries now. Sarya’s seizure of the city’s mythal might have damaged the wards that held them trapped in the city, which would mean that this might be an unintended consequence of Sarya’s actions, not a deliberate act on her part.”

  “Or … she might be doing nothing more than testing the strength of the humans who might ally with us,” Seiveril said, thinking out loud. “If Sarya doesn’t know these lands well, she might be worried about whether the folk of the Dales can give us as much help as Silverymoon’s knights did in the High Forest.”

  Starbrow glanced up at the clouded sky above the river, then sighed and looked back to the elflord. “If you’re right, it’s a bad sign,” he said. “It suggests to me that Sarya doesn’t think she needs to hoard her demons for battle against our army. Either she’s got an inexhaustible supply of the monsters, or she doesn’t think we’re going to be able to do anything about her stronghold in Myth Drannor. I don’t know about you, but I certainly wonder why she’d think that.”

  The vanguard made camp for the night in the shadow of Galath’s Roost, an old abandoned keep that stood little more than a mile from the Moonsea Ride. The rocky heights on which the old keep had been built offered a commanding view of the northern end of Mistledale and the great green sea of trees that rolled north, east, and south from the end of the open dale. Starbrow had the Crusade’s companies set out a double guard, fearing a sudden attack of marauding fey’ri or yugoloths, but no enemies showed themselves.

  Seiveril greeted star rise with the customary devotions to Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine, celebrating the rites he had observed for so many years as a high priest of the elven faith. He spent an hour praying for guidance, trying to catch a glimpse of what waited if he continued on his way north. Myth Drannor was only three days’ march away, and he would soon test the strength of his host against Sarya’s demonic power. But Sarya’s mythal wards obscured his efforts to scry her fortress, and he had to content himself with minor auguries that promised little besides danger and uncertainty.

  As he descended from the hilltop, still grappling with the incomplete visions he had seen, Seiveril found Thilesil waiting near his pavilion.

  “Lord Seiveril,” the cleric said with a small bow. “An emissary from the human city of Hillsfar is waiting for you.”

  “Hillsfar?” Seiveril said. He knew of the city, having walked in Cormanthor many years before, but from what he had heard, the city of Hillsfar wanted nothing to do with elves since the final Retreat from Cormanthor. “Very well, show him into my pavilion.”

  Seiveril stepped into his personal quarters, doffed his ceremonial mantle, and washed his hands in a basin of water. Then he emerged into the pavilion’s sitting area, which doubled as his reception room. He did not have long to wait. Two of the guards standing watch by his door—both seasoned veterans of Vesilde Gaerth’s Knights of the Golden Star—showed the human ambassador into his room, and unobtrusively took up their posts just inside the door.

  The human was a surprisingly short man, so stocky and thick-shouldered that Seiveril found himself wondering whether the fellow had any dwarf blood in him. His head was shaven, but he wore a long, pointed goatee under his wide mouth, and his eyes were sunk deep beneath beetling brows. The Hillsfarian wore the elegant dress one might expect of a courtier in a lordly palace, a well-tailored garment of scarlet that did not conceal the supple links of golden mail he wore beneath his shirt.

  “Welcome, sir,” Seiveril said. “I am Seiveril Miritar, lately lord of Elion and high priest of Corellon’s Grove. I speak for the hos
t of Evermeet.”

  The human offered an obsequious grin that struck Seiveril as more than a little false. “And I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I speak for my master, the First Lord Maalthiir.”

  Seiveril deliberately set aside his dislike of the high warden’s facetious manner, and gravely offered his hand in the human fashion.

  “Would you care for any refreshment, High Warden? Wine, or something to eat?”

  “Not necessary, Lord Seiveril. I am anxious to get to business.”

  The elflord nodded. “As you wish, then, High Warden. What can I do for the First Lord of Hillsfar?”

  The human crossed his powerful arms and looked up at Seiveril. “The first lord would dearly love to know what you intend to do with this army, Lord Seiveril. It does not escape Lord Maalthiir’s notice that you are drawing closer to Hillsfar with every march.”

  Human diplomacy may take different forms than I am used to, Seiveril reminded himself. I must be patient, even in the face of discourtesy. “Lord Maalthiir need not worry, High Warden. I am bringing my army to Myth Drannor in order to finally root out the evil that has taken hold there. I do not expect to come within thirty miles of Hillsfar.”

  “Some things are better left alone,” Hardil Gearas answered. “Your people haven’t seen fit to do anything about Myth Drannor for six full centuries, but now you seem to have stirred up much evil in a land you abandoned thirty years ago. Evermeet might be far enough from Myth Drannor to ignore the depredations of the city’s fiends, Lord Seiveril, but Hillsfar is not.”

  “You have the course of events confused, High Warden. We are here to deal with the evil that has stirred in Myth Drannor. We did not cause it to stir with our approach.”

  The human snorted. “So you say now, anyway.”

  Seiveril studied the human emissary. If this is the way humans conduct their diplomacy, the elflord thought, it is no wonder that they get into so many wars. “Did Maalthiir of Hillsfar have anything else to say to me?” he asked.