The half-elf frowned. “The paths to Sildëyuir have grown wild and strange in recent years, Lady Phaeldara. And the star elves might not welcome the Dawnmaster and the genasi.”
“We will answer for them, if need be,” Ilsevele said. “Maresa has walked in Evermeet and Evereska, and Donnor Kerth has sworn by Lathander to accompany us wherever our quest takes us. They will not betray your trust.”
Phaeldara nodded. “I believe you, Ilsevele Miritar.”
Jorin shrugged and stepped forward to clasp Araevin’s hand. “I’ll meet you at the Greenhaven an hour after sunrise. Be ready for a couple of days of walking.”
The city of Yûlash had been a ruin for decades. It sprawled atop a great, shield-shaped plateau overlooking the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white-tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.
The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, beside her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yûlash’s greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yûlash’s old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city’s great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.
Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan’s Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.
“You may put up your sword, Scyllua,” the Chosen of Bane said amiably. “This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won’t fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door.”
“This place is dangerous,” Scyllua replied. “I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord.”
“It’s neutral ground, Scyllua. It’s the best we could do.” Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.
The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord’s express permission.
Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. “Trying to impress me, Fzoul?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. “Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir’s Tower a good middle ground.”
“Indeed,” the first lord said. “It does not escape my attention that your army still occupies half of Yûlash to deny Hillsfar control of this place.”
“I might say the same thing about your Red Plumes, Maalthiir. And I’ll add that Yûlash lies much closer to my city than it does to yours.” Fzoul held up his hand to forestall Maalthiir’s retort, and continued, “Let us agree to disagree about Yûlash for the moment. I did not ask you here to discuss this dilapidated ruin, First Lord. I wished to speak to you about Cormanthor and the Dalelands.”
“I am a busy man, Fzoul, so make your point quickly.”
Fzoul smiled humorlessly. “You are busy these days, Maalthiir. I have learned that a strong force of your Red Plumes is even now marching down the Moonsea Ride toward Mistledale and Battledale. And your Sembian friends are moving whole armies of mercenaries up Rauthauvyr’s Road through Tasseldale and Featherdale. I take it you have decided to seize those lands before the elven army in Cormanthor contests your actions?”
Maalthiir scowled. “I am simply taking steps to defend our commercial interests in these lands, Fzoul. I can’t have the elves throw humans out of the forest for another thirteen hundred years.”
“I certainly wonder what possible interests you might have in Mistledale or Battledale,” said Fzoul, “but I suppose your exact motives are not as important to me as the facts of your military movements.”
“The last time I looked, there weren’t any Zhentish outposts in those lands,” the first lord said. “I do not have to justify myself to you, Fzoul!”
“If you intend to build yourself an empire in the Dalelands, you certainly do,” Fzoul said. “Why should I stand aside and let you seize for yourself a prize that I have long desired?”
“Do you think you can take those lands from me?” Maalthiir demanded.
“Whether I can or I can’t, I am fairly certain that I can make sure you don’t get them, Maalthiir. If I can’t have them, you and your friends in Sembia can’t either.”
The lord of Hillsfar gave Fzoul a look so black that Scyllua took half a step forward, prepared to draw her blade in Fzoul’s defense. But Maalthiir controlled his anger with a visible effort.
“The Dales are incidental to my first purpose, Fzoul. I intend to drive the elven army out of Cormanthor. Neither you nor I will benefit from the return of elven power to the forest.”
The lord of Zhentil Keep nodded. “On that point I do not disagree. Do you really believe you have the strength to beat an elven army in Cormanthor?”
“I have acquired some useful allies lately.” Maalthiir shrugged. “They have a long and bitter quarrel with the elves.”
Fzoul measured the first lord, and he grinned fiercely. “Why, you have struck a deal with those fiendish sorcerers who have appeared in Myth Drannor! That is why you think you can risk a battle against the elves.”
“And you, if need be,” Maalthiir said.
“Do not threaten the Chosen of Bane!” Scyllua snapped, stepping close to Maalthiir.
The pale, silent swordsmen who stood beside the first lord fixed their cold gazes on her, hands dropping to sword hilts as one.
“Enough, Scyllua,” Fzoul said. “I must consider this.”
“As I said, Fzoul, I do not need your approval to act in Hillsfar’s best interests.” Maalthiir sketched a small bow, and without any other cue or command, his swordsmen gathered close around him. “I agreed to a parley because you have never troubled me with such a request before. Do not expect me to come at your beck and call in the future.”
“A moment, Maalthiir,” the high priest of Bane said. Fzoul raised a hand, palm outward. “If Hillsfar and Sembia insist on fighting Evermeet’s army to seize Cormanthor and the Dales, then I will have no choice but to make sure you fail. If I must choose Hillsfar or an elf coronal to be master of the Dales, I will choose the elves.”
The first lord glared at Fzoul. “Then I suppose it is a good thing that I have not put the choice in your hands,” he grated. “If that is all … ?”
Fzoul swept an arm at the ruins around them and said, “Consider these ruins, Maalthiir. Is the lesson of this place lost on you? Two factions vying for rule over this city accomplished nothing but their own destruction, and neither side won.”
“Make your point swiftly, if you have one!”
“I will not let you have Cormanthor and the Dales to yourself. But I am willing to collaborate with you and your newfound friends in return for a share of the prize.” Fzoul stepped forward, and allowed ambition to creep into his voice. “For thirty ye
ars we’ve been waiting to carve up the Dales, but no one has made a move because of the threat posed by the other powers. Now Cormyr’s attention has been drawn westward by the Shadovar of Anauroch, and you have reached an understanding with Sembia. The two of us are now in the position to apportion these lands as we see fit, are we not?”
“Perhaps,” the first lord admitted. “Your proposal?”
“You take the eastern Dales, I’ll take the western, and Sembia can have the southern Dales. The great human powers of this land acting in concert present a threat that the elf army cannot hope to overcome. None of us gets all of what we want, because the others would not stand for it. But we could all wind up with significant gains, and more importantly we’d send the elves back to Evermeet empty-handed.”
Maalthiir hesitated, studying Fzoul. “Even if events fall out as you suggest, I think we will have a difficult time in sharing the Dales.”
“That is a problem for some other day.” The Chosen of Bane grinned again, his red mustache framing a predatory smile. “But that is a problem for the two of us to decide between us. We do not need any elven armies to complicate the question.”
The first lord nodded slowly and said, “Very well. I must confer with my allies, Fzoul, but in principle I agree to what you suggest. If you wish to help in our campaign, you should plan on marching against Shadowdale and Daggerdale as soon as possible. Your armies on the western flank of the Dales will draw crucial strength away from the center, where the decisive blow must fall.”
“Excellent. High Captain Darkhope and her army can march with a day’s warning. I am eager to know more about your plan for the campaign, and what Zhentil Keep can do to help.” Fzoul motioned to the guards who stood nearby, and two of the soldiers brought up a folding camp table and a couple of large chairs. “Now, why don’t we see if we can agree on which Dales clearly fall in whose sphere of influence, and how we can bring them under civilized rule?”
As promised, Jorin Kell Harthan met Araevin and his friends at the Greenhaven an hour after sunup. The half-elf had replaced his well-tailored tunic with leather armor studded with copper rivets and a long gray-green cloak he wore thrown over his shoulder. He had his long, dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail, and he carried a curved bow and a quiver-full of green-feathered arrows on his back. Jorin took one glance at Araevin and his friends, arrayed by the inn’s courtyard, and nodded.
“I see you’re no stranger to travel,” he observed. “Good. The Yuirwood can be difficult.”
The half-elf looked over to Donnor Kerth, and frowned. The Lathanderian wore his mail shirt over his thick arming-coat, keeping his heavier plate armor on a pack horse.
“Are you sure you want to wear all that iron?” Jorin asked. “You’ll be swimming in sweat within an hour. Once we enter the forest, you won’t have the sea breeze to cool you off.”
The Lathanderian shrugged. “I grew up in Tethyr,” he said. “I’m accustomed to wearing armor in warm weather.”
“Suit yourself,” Jorin said. “We may have to set free your pack horse before we cross to Sildëyuir, though. Do you want to leave the rest of your armor here?”
“If I have to, I’ll wear it,” Donnor said.
Araevin opened his own tunic another handspan, thankful that the mail shirt he wore was made of elf-wrought mithral, so light and fine that he hardly noticed its weight or its warmth. In bright sunlight it sometimes grew hot, but he did not expect much of that within the Yuirwood’s bounds. Ilsevele’s armor was somewhat heavier than his, since she wore a more complete suit, but it was also made of elven mail, and she was more accustomed to the weight of her armor than he was to his.
They followed the coastal road south and west out of Velprintalar, marching for an hour before they reached the River Vel. There they turned aside onto a dusty cart-track that followed the river south, toward its headwaters in the forest beyond. In a long, hard day of marching, they reached the small town of Halendos, hard under the eaves of the Yuirwood, and stayed the night in a comfortable roadside inn.
In the morning, they resumed their march, but Jorin soon led them away from the Vel, turning eastward on a narrow footpath that soon vanished into the warm green gloom of the Yuirwood. It was hot and still in the great forest, and Araevin was surprised to find that the undergrowth was exceedingly dense and difficult. It embarrassed him to admit it, but he would quickly have become lost without a track to follow or Jorin Kell Harthan as a guide.
For all its difficulty, the forest possessed a green and wild beauty. Colorful birds soared and chattered in the higher branches, and from time to time the trail wandered into sun-dappled clearings free of the thickets and underbrush, or stone-bounded forest pools of cool, inviting water. The old forests of the North that Araevin knew were distant, in some ways reserved, majestic but deeply asleep. The Yuirwood’s slumber was not deep at all, and Araevin could feel its watchfulness, its wild wariness, lurking as close as the brambles that scratched their faces and the vines that seemed eager to trap their footsteps.
“This forest is restless,” Ilsevele said as they rested beside a forest pool, eating their midday meal. “I do not think I have ever walked in a forest so wakeful.”
“There are parts that are even more wild,” Jorin said. “Many of my people live within the forest, but even those of us with elf blood avoid the truly wakeful places. And I think things have been growing worse over the last few years.”
“Worse? How so?” asked Araevin.
“There have always been fierce beasts in the wood, things like barghests and gray renders, ettercaps and sword spiders, even a few bands of gnolls in the eastern parts, but the unnatural creatures have been growing more prevalent … and bloodthirsty.” Jorin gazed off into the woods, frowning. “I would give much to know what dark power is stirring in these woods.”
“Maybe the star elves know something,” Maresa remarked.
Jorin shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible,” he said. “But they do not walk in the same forest that we do. It might be different for them.”
“They don’t walk in the same forest? What does that mean?” the genasi asked. “Are they here, or not?”
“They’re here, all right. I can’t easily explain it, but you’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Jorin said. He stood up, brushing off his hands, and looked up at the forest canopy overhead. “We should keep moving—I want to get a few more miles behind us before it gets dark. We’re going to find ourselves in some of the more perilous parts of the forest before we reach Sildëyuir.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
16 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms
Company after company of Sembian soldiers marched over the Blackfeather Bridge, a disorderly river of steel-clad warriors, horses, and creaking wagons that stretched for miles over Rauthauvyr’s Road. The day was warm and heavy, drowsy under the morning sun. The summer was still young, and though the days were long and bright, the air held only a dim promise of the stifling heat and great thunderstorms that would come to the southern Dales in a few tendays.
Sarya Dlardrageth stood by the shaded porch of a large stone inn on the bridge’s northern end, with a small band of her fey’ri beside her: Teryani Ealoeth, one of her closer relations among the fey’ri Houses, and four more fey’ri who served Teryani as guards, spies, or messengers. Sarya wore her guise as the human Lady Senda, while the fey’ri had all likewise assumed human appearance. Borstag Duncastle certainly had half an idea of Sarya’s true nature, but none of the other Sembians did. The daemonfey queen deemed it best to let them continue in ignorance.
Teryani Ealoeth watched the marching soldiers with studied disinterest. She was short and slender, with a dark-eyed, heart-shaped face of exceptional beauty. One of the first spies Sarya had sent out into the human lands surrounding Cormanthor, Teryani’s task had been to insinuate herself into the councils of those Sembian lords who were most concerned with Cormanthor and the Dalelands. Unlike other fey’ri, who saw no reason to hide their he
ritage behind shapechanging tricks unless they had to, Teryani delighted in deceit as an end in and of itself. More than a few of the human soldiers passing by the inn yard leered at her or offered various lewd suggestions, which she simply ignored with a cold, scornful smile.
“Are these really worth the trouble, my lady?” Teryani asked Sarya. Her voice was girlish and sweet.
“They are,” Sarya said. “Remember, Teryani, I could hardly care less whether the army of Evermeet scatters them in an hour of fighting. The important thing is to set Sembia against Evermeet. If Miritar’s host butchers this army like bleating sheep, we will have our Sembian friends gather more swords and throw them at Miritar. Evermeet’s soldiers are precious, but I have no shortage of Sembians, do I?” She paused, and added, “In fact, it might not be bad if these companies blundered into an utter disaster in Cormanthor. Sembia is too strong for my liking, and I’d like to see it bled dry in these little flyspeck lands they call the Dales.”
“I will see what I can do,” Teryani promised, and she returned her attention to the human soldiers marching past.
The Sembian army wasn’t Sembian at all, really. Companies of Chondathan crossbowmen, Chessentan swordsmen, and Tethyrian cavalrymen in half-plate armor made up most of the army’s fighting power. All had been hired by a league of Sembian noble Houses with interests in the Dales and the Moonsea trade routes, headed up by House Duncastle. In fact, some of the mercenaries had been in the employ of Duncastle for years, engaged in such tasks as the occupation of Scardale and the protection of House Duncastle’s Moonsea caravans. Others had been quickly hired under the authorization of Sembia’s Great Council of merchant lords, ostensibly for the purposes of restoring good order and protecting Sembian investments in the Dalelands.
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