Farthest Reach

by Richard Baker

  The Aglarondan reached his blade and pulled it out of the briars, but not without a good armful of scrapes.

  “Are there more gray renders in the forest than before, or are the ones that were always here just growing more aggressive?” asked Ilsevele.

  “There are more of them, I’m sure of it. But I certainly wonder where they’re coming from. Some infernal plot of Thay, I suppose.” Jorin wiped his sword on the mossy trailside, and sheathed it. “I am sorry that I failed to spot that one before we wandered into its path. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Make sure you don’t!” Maresa said. “I don’t ever need to see a gray render any closer than that.”

  Donnor Kerth tended their injuries—mostly Jorin’s and his own—with a few healing prayers, and they continued on their way. They pressed on through the afternoon, encountering no more gray renders, though on one occasion Jorin pointed out troll-sign on the trail, and led them on a long, circuitous detour by a streambed to skirt the trouble if they could. The detour evidently worked, for they saw no trolls and ran across nothing else dangerous.

  They camped for the night in the high branches of a great shadowtop overlooking a swift, cool stream. Some of Jorin’s folk had built a small, railless platform in the tree’s middle branches, a good sixty feet above the forest floor, and a tug on a well-hidden lanyard brought down a rope ladder to reach the lower branches, from where other concealed ladders led up to the hiding place. Kerth’s packhorse they had to leave on the ground, but Araevin wove a skillful illusion to hide the animal’s makeshift corral and keep any forest predators from finding it.

  The next morning dawned hot, still, and clear, the forest sweltering in the humidity left by the previous days’ rain and mist. They descended from their aerial camp, found the packhorse unmolested, and set off again. But only a couple of hours into the march, the trail broke out into a large, grassy glade in the heart of the forest, a clearing the better part of a hundred yards wide. Bright sunlight flooded the open spot, and the air hummed with darting insects. In the center of the clearing stood an old ring of standing stones, each almost ten feet tall, arranged in a lopsided circle. Thick moss mantled the ancient stones, and Araevin sensed at once the presence of old and potent magic in the clearing.

  “What is this place, Jorin?” he asked. “The doorway to Sildëyuir,” the half-elf answered. He led them between the leaning menhirs, into the center of the old ring, where a large square block stood like a great altar. “This is your last chance to turn aside, all of you. Once I take you through the door, there is no guarantee that you will be permitted to return. The folk of Sildëyuir are not cruel, but they do not tolerate intrusion, and they will not permit a stranger to carry their secrets back to the realms of humankind. Araevin and Ilsevele will likely have little trouble, since they are both ar Tel’Quessir. But this is a perilous journey for Donnor and Maresa.”

  Maresa gazed at the old stones leaning in the sun. Despite the warmth of the day, it was cool and quiet within the circle.

  “I’ve walked in Evermeet,” she said, her manner serious. “I think I want to see what’s on the other side of this stone ring.”

  Donnor Kerth stood holding the reins of his packhorse. He glanced up at the bright sky, shading his dark face with a hand, and nodded once to the half-elf.

  “Donnor, you don’t have to follow us here,” Araevin said in a low voice.

  “If you go, I’ll go,” the human rasped. He glanced back at the dense wall of green behind them, then looked back to Araevin and flashed a startlingly bright smile. “Besides, it’s a long, hot walk back from here.”

  Jorin indicated the square stone altar in the center of the circle and said, “All right, then. Everybody set a hand on the stone and keep it there. Donnor, hold your mount’s reins in your other hand, there. Now be still a moment.”

  The half-elf hummed a strange tune under his breath, and Araevin felt the magic of the place waking, stirring, shaking off its sun-drowsed slumber as cool shadows began to grow within the ring.

  He looked across the altar stone at Maresa, who stood with her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth bared.

  She still doesn’t trust magic of this sort, he thought with a smile. You would think that she’d become accustomed to it sooner or later.

  Then strange silver shadows seemed to burst out of the great old stones, whirling and darting all around the company, and the sunny clearing in the Yuirwood whirled away into nothingness.

  Seiveril Miritar stood in the heart of a grove of mighty shadowtops at dusk, and prayed earnestly to the Seldarine for guidance, as he had every night at star rise since he had embarked on his great crusade against the foes of the People. He was distantly aware of the ring of vigilant guards who stood nearby, watching in case his enemies tried to strike at him while he walked alone in the forest. But the knights of the Golden Star respected his communion with Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine. They waited a short distance out of sight, giving Seiveril the silence and privacy to speak to his gods with his whole heart.

  Here, in the heart of old Cormanthor, Seiveril felt the presence of Corellon Larethian almost as clearly as he did when he stood in Evermeet’s sacred groves, but at the same time, doubt darkened his heart. His divinations whispered of disaster and warned him that a narrow way indeed threaded the perils that lay before him.

  Three days now, and the same shadows of danger hover in my auguries, Seiveril thought. Our army stands motionless while our enemies move against us, and still Corellon warns me that to march on Myth Drannor now courts terrible danger. “I cannot remain in Galath’s Roost while my enemies encircle me, Corellon, and yet you warn me against marching from this place,” Seiveril said aloud, speaking up at the silver starlight that glimmered in the treetops far above. “I am afraid that I do not see what it is you want me to do.”

  A soft breeze sighed in the high branches, but no answer came to Seiveril. The gods of his people had bestowed many blessings upon the elf race, but they wished for the elves to find their own path through life. While Corellon and the rest of the Seldarine were unsparing in the divine magic they placed in the hands of priests such as Seiveril, they had the habit of keeping their silence even when great matters were at hand, so that elves’ hearts and minds might reach their full flowering and growth by striving to set right the griefs of the world and overcome the challenges life offered. To do otherwise would be to diminish the People, to make them something less than they otherwise could be, and that the Seldarine—wise even among gods, or so it was said—would not do.

  “I am reaching the point at which I wouldn’t mind a little help,” Seiveril said.

  At his order, the Crusade had held its position near Galath’s Roost and the Standing Stone for several days. Myth Drannor lay only forty miles to the north, not far beyond the Vale of Lost Voices, but as long as the auguries against marching onward were so dark and dire, Seiveril hesitated to advance, or to even share with his captains the reason he chose not to march.

  One more day, he decided. If nothing changes, then I will have to confide in Vesilde and Starbrow, at the very least.

  With a weary sigh, he bowed before the glimmer of early stars, then shrugged his chasuble from his shoulders and rolled it carefully, slipping it into his tunic.

  “Corellon, if there is something I am supposed to be doing, I hope you will find a way to tell me,” he said to the dusk. Then he straightened his shoulders and strode back toward the place where his guards waited.

  To his surprise, Seiveril found several of his guards hurrying up the path to meet him, led by Starbrow.

  “Seiveril?” called the moon elf. “I apologize for disturbing your prayers, but Storm Silverhand has returned with news from Shadowdale. She wants to speak with you at once.”

  “It is fine, my friend,” Seiveril answered. “I have just concluded my devotions for the evening anyway. Please, take me to her.” He fell in alongside Starbrow as they hurried back to the camp. “Did she say an
ything more?”

  Starbrow nodded. “She told me that we’ve got a new enemy to deal with.”

  Is that why you wanted me to wait here, Corellon? Seiveril wondered. To hear what Storm Silverhand has to tell me tonight?

  There was no answer within his own heart, but Seiveril still felt comforted by the thought, even as he dreaded whatever dire new development had brought Storm back to his encampment with such urgency. Perhaps there is a design at work here after all, he thought. I was meant to be here at this hour, whatever trials await me, and all who followed me from Evermeet as well.

  Starbrow led him back to the large pavilion that served Seiveril as both headquarters and personal quarters, and held the tent flaps aside as the elflord strode in. Two guests waited inside: Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale, dressed in gleaming mail and dark leather with her long, silver hair bound from her brow by a slender circlet, and a tall, stern-looking human lord of middle years with dark silver-streaked hair.

  “Ah, there you are,” Storm said. She indicated her companion with a curt nod. “This is Mourngrym Amcathra, the Lord of Shadowdale.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Lord Miritar,” said the Lord of Shadowdale. Mourngrym offered his hand to Seiveril, who remembered to take it in a firm clasp.

  “And I, you, Lord Amcathra,” Seiveril answered. He glanced at Storm. For all her years, she hasn’t lost the human habit of haste, he noted. Still, if Storm Silverhand was in a hurry, that was good enough for him. “What it is, Lady Silverhand? What has happened?”

  “We’ve got trouble,” Storm said. “Zhentilar are marching on Shadowdale. A strong army out of Zhentil Keep started moving south yesterday, making for Voonlar. The companies garrisoning Yûlash have joined them, as well as mercenary bands of ogres and orcs from Thar.” Storm’s anger glittered in her eyes. “Better than five thousand soldiers are no more than five days from the Twisted Tower.”

  “Aillesel Seldarie,” Seiveril breathed. His stomach ached with cold dread.

  Behind him the Sembian army from the south was pressing up Rauthauvyr’s Road and had closed to within twenty miles of his camp, occupying Battledale in the process. Ahead of him, Red Plume soldiers from Hillsfar descended the Moonsea Ride, building their strength on the far side of the Vale of Lost Voices. And the Zhentarim were moving to close him on the west. Two armies he might hope to avoid through maneuver in the green fastness of Cormanthor, but three? Even his elves’ skill and swiftness in woodland marches would not suffice to avoid battle for long.

  “Sarya Dlardrageth had a hand in this, I know it,” he murmured. “Why do they aid her? Don’t they understand that if they help the daemonfey to repel Evermeet’s army, she will destroy them in turn?”

  “Maalthiir and Fzoul will turn on each other sooner or later, never you fear,” Storm promised. “It’s in their nature. But that doesn’t mean they won’t lay waste to half the Dales before they’re done.”

  Starbrow looked to Mourngrym Amcathra and asked, “How much strength do you have in Shadowdale, Lord Amcathra? Can you halt the Zhents?”

  “Three hundred men under arms, plus a thousand stout archers when I call out the militia. And I have no small amount of help from friends of the Dale such as Storm, here, or Those Who Harp.” Mourngrym sighed and shook his head. “But this is the strongest Zhentarim army we’ve seen since the Time of Troubles, and I don’t know if I can stop them.”

  “It certainly doesn’t help that Sembia and Hillsfar have decided to move at the same time,” Storm added. “If only one threatened the Dales, the Dalesfolk would set aside many of their quarrels and band together against the threat. But Harrowdale won’t do anything with Maalthiir’s army on the march. The folk of Tasseldale, Battledale, and Featherdale might have mustered against the Sembians given a little help, but Mistledale is sorely pressed by the fiends out of Myth Drannor, and Archendale is content to let the rest of the southern Dales hang.” She shook her head. “I’d never realized the extent to which the great powers bordering the Dalelands kept each other in check, but with Cormyr so weak now, the old balance of power is gone. The Dales Compact is dead as the stone it’s carved on.”

  Starbrow studied Seiveril, his strong arms folded across his chest. “Like it or not, Seiveril, we are going to have to bring these human armies to battle, or they will certainly bring us to battle at a time and place of their choosing. They simply aren’t giving us any choice. You can’t let them bring all three armies, along with whatever fiends and fey’ri Sarya Dlardrageth can muster, against us at the same time. That is a fight I do not think we can win.”

  “I do not want to spend our strength fighting humans instead of Sarya Dlardrageth’s daemonfey,” the elflord answered. “And I do not want to fight humans at all unless we absolutely must. Bloodshed between elf and human will stain these lands for centuries.”

  “Abandoning the smaller Dales to foreign occupation won’t win you many friends, either,” Storm pointed out.

  “I know.”

  Seiveril turned away, staring out into the lanternlit dusk that lay over the elven camp as he considered his path. He wanted nothing more than to take to the forest and simply march directly on Myth Drannor, leaving the Sembians behind him and circling the roadblock Hillsfar had thrown up ahead of him—but he could see at a glance that the Sembian army could turn west and fall on Mistledale behind him as soon as he marched, and he could not abandon Shadowdale to the Zhents. At least the Sembian army had simply marched through Tasseldale, Featherdale, and Battledale without devastating those lands. The Sembians were not so foolish as to provoke the southern Dalesfolk into full resistance against their army and its vulnerable lines of supply. But he had no such hopes for how the Zhentilar would treat Shadowdale, if Lord Amcathra’s warriors failed to stop them.

  Storm is right, he realized. Refusing to help Dalesfolk defend their homes against tyrannical powers such as Hillsfar or Zhentil Keep is just as bad as refusing to help Dalesfolk standing against Sarya Dlardrageth and her hell-born marauders. This is the task I shouldered when I called for a Return to Cormanthor.

  He sighed and turned back to the others.

  “We cannot remain here and allow our enemies to gather against us while they subjugate the free Dales. If we have to fight, then it is clear that we must attempt to defeat our foes in detail. So which enemy do we confront first? Hillsfar, Sembia, Zhentil Keep, or Sarya Dlardrageth?”

  “If we attack Hillsfar in the Vale of Lost Voices, we’ll have to deal with Sembia too,” Starbrow said. “They’ll turn west behind us and cut across our lines of communication, which will bring Mistledale under their fist as well.”

  Seiveril replied, “The same is true if we try to avoid Hillsfar’s army and march straight against Myth Drannor, except we might be dealing with Sarya Dlardrageth, too. So we have to turn against Sembia’s army in Battledale or Zhentil Keep’s army in Shadowdale.”

  “The people of Battledale will fare better with the Sembians than the folk of Shadowdale will with the Zhents,” Storm said.

  “There is likely a better chance to negotiate a settlement with the Sembians, too,” Mourngrym added. “Their adventurism might reverse itself if they see that no one else is still in the game.”

  “That leaves the Zhents, then,” Seiveril said. He glanced at Starbrow, and smiled crookedly. “For what it’s worth, I think that a fast march to the west is the last thing our enemies expect. We’ll leave Hillsfar and Sembia miles behind us.”

  “They’ll certainly join forces by the time you can march back,” Starbrow warned. “And Mistledale will be exposed to attack.”

  “We’ll leave at least some strength here, to help the folk of Mistledale repel any attack. As for the combination of our foes, well … maybe turning west will give us an opportunity to bring more of the Dalesfolk to our banner.”

  Storm nodded slowly. “We might be able to talk sense into the Swords of Archendale, once they open their eyes and see the danger that Sembians in Battledale poses for their own
independence. And we might raise Tasseldale, as well.”

  “Then it is settled,” Seiveril said. He looked back to Mourngrym. “We will march before sunrise, Lord Amcathra. You can expect Evermeet’s soldiers at your side in three days’ time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  18 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

  The stars of Sildëyuir were brilliant and strange, so bright that the shadows beneath the great old trees were silver and luminous. The land beyond the stone circle’s mystic gate existed in a perpetual twilight, a magical hour of pale dusk that was cool and perfect. The sky above the tree crowns was a soft pearl-gray, as if the sun had set a short time ago and still brightened the world somewhere beyond the horizon, but in Sildëyuir there seemed to be no west or east. In any direction Araevin looked, the skies glimmered along the hillcrests and forest-tops with that same sourceless illumination. But as the eye roamed upward into the sky and approached the zenith, the skies darkened into true night, and countless brilliant stars danced in the firmament.

  He stood motionless for what seemed to be hours, drinking in the eldritch beauty of the place, his companions likewise silent beside him. Jorin Kell Harthan simply waited with a small smile on his handsome face, allowing them to sate their wonder.

  Araevin didn’t need his magesight to tell that they stood on another plane, a world that lay beyond the world he knew, and yet somehow remained bound to it. The starry realm’s forests and hills matched the landscape he remembered from the Yuirwood’s sunny glade almost perfectly. The forest was not as dense, taller and more majestic, but they stood in a starlit clearing instead of a sun-warmed one, and the ancient ring of standing stones seemed exactly the same. He looked again at the forest; the trees were tall and silver-trunked with very little undergrowth, a great living colonnade that stretched as far as the eye could see. Strange phosphorescent lichens clung like shelves to the trunks, and a sweet, rich odor hung in the air. The trees reminded Araevin of the mighty redwoods of the Forest of Wyrms, but how could they grow so tall and perfect with no sunlight?