Farthest Reach lm-2

by Richard Baker

  “That assumes perfect organization and timing,” Ilsevele added. “Better count on twice that time, to be safe.”

  “But there is no enemy waiting for us in the Semberholme portal?” Seiveril asked.

  “No, Father. At least, we spent the night in the woods outside the mausoleum two nights ago, and no one troubled us.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter if it takes us two days or a tenday. The Semberholme gate is clearly the best choice available to us.” Seiveril fixed his eyes on the unseen dangers ahead, looking away to the east as if he could see the spot where he meant to move his army despite the intervening mountains, deserts, and forests. “Summon the captains, Starbrow. I must explain to them what I propose to do- all of what I propose to do-so that those who choose to come with me can begin to march as quickly as possible.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  24 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

  After resting a night in the company’s improvised quarters, Araevin spent the next two days instructing the half-elf mage Jorildyn and several other high-ranking wizards of the Crusade in the pass phrases and spells necessary to use the old portal network. The mages retraced Araevin’s steps through the mountain fortress and the forest crypt to the woods of Semberholme, and confirmed that the door leading to Myth Drannor was beyond repair.

  “A shame,” Jorildyn muttered as they stood in the vault beneath the mausoleum. “It would have been useful to be able to slip spies directly into the city through that door.”

  Araevin shook his head. “The daemonfey were waiting for us when we sought to return. If the portal was working, they would guard it heavily with spells and infernal monsters.” He thought for a moment then added, “Also, I would not discount the possibility that Sarya might prepare deadly spell traps in the city’s mythal. When my friends and I entered the city before, there were spells to prevent me from inspecting the mythal. If Sarya could do that, she might be able to weave other spells into the mythal-for example, curses to afflict anyone who isn’t a daemonfey.”

  “Lord Miritar means to move on Myth Drannor and attack the daemonfey in their lair, if they don’t come out to fight,” Jorildyn said, frowning. “How will Sarya’s control of the mythal effect a battle in Myth Drannor’s streets?”

  “Consider the effect that Evereska’s mythal had against the phaerimm a couple of years ago, once the city’s high mages repaired it. Certainly the daemonfey army didn’t attempt to enter the mythal during their attack two months ago, but they probably just didn’t have the opportunity.”

  The battle mage looked at Araevin, his face troubled, and asked, “Does Sarya have sufficient skill and ability to do that with the mythal?”

  “I don’t know,” Araevin replied. “I don’t believe she has the ability to sculpt the mythal as she pleases, at least not yet. But a month ago I was able to best her at Myth Glaurach, and three days ago I could not do so at Myth Drannor. Either she was simply careless the first time I attemped to contest her access to a mythal-something that doesn’t really seem to be in her nature-or she has learned something new about mythalcraft in a very short time. That possibility terrifies me.”

  “I don’t care for the idea of marching our army into Sarya’s mythal and hoping for the best,” Jorildyn said.

  “Nor do I.”

  Araevin narrowed his eyes, thinking. The magical might and lore of the Crusade was formidable indeed, but would it be enough if things came to a battle for Myth Drannor?

  He set aside the question for a time, as he and Jorildyn charted out the other portals from the mountain fortress. First they blocked the trapped portal and marked it as such, so that there would be no mistakes while moving soldiers through. Then they examined the other two functioning portals. One led to a sunlit glen in a warm, southerly forest, with thick moss hanging from the trees and the humming of countless insects in the air. The other opened into a ruined wood elven watchtower, a great tree that had once been a living fortress. Araevin guessed that that portal likely opened in the forests of the Great Dale, though none of the other wizards assisting in the task knew for certain.

  Within hours of their return, Seiveril summoned all the captains of the Crusade to his headquarters: Jorildyn, master of the battle mages; Edraele Muirreste, the captain who had succeeded the fallen Elvath Muirreste as leader of the Silver Guard of Elion; Ferryl Nimersyl, commander of the Moon Knights of Sehanine Moonbow; Daeron Sunlance, ranking Eagle Knight of the small company of aerial warriors; and Rhaellen Darthammel, the Blade-Major of Evereska, who led a stout company of Evereskan Vale Guards in order to repay the warriors of Evermeet for their stand on Evereska’s behalf. They were joined by Keldith Oericel, who had taken over as leader of the infantry of Leuthilspar after Celleilol Fireheart’s death at the Battle of the Cwm. A dozen lesser captains from smaller companies, orders, clans, houses, and societies came as well, each the leader of anywhere from a couple of dozen to a few hundred elf warriors. Finally, Seiveril also invited a score of the most prominent heroes and champions. Even though they led no companies of soldiers, powerful wizards and noted bladesingers wielded great influence over the opinions of many warriors in the Crusade.

  The commanders and heroes filled the great hall of Myth Glaurach’s ruined library, gathered together beneath soft lanternlight. The night was clear, cold, and breezy, with stars glimmering above the roofless white ruins, and a constant cool murmur of wind in the branches of the surrounding forest. Araevin and his companions stood near an open arch leading out to the overgrown balcony beyond.

  When the leaders of the Crusade stood assembled, Seiveril strode to the front of the room and climbed three steps up the remains of the grand staircase that had once swept down into the room from the missing upper floors.

  “Welcome, friends,” he began. “I have summoned you here because our next campaign is at hand. As you have no doubt heard by now, we have learned that the daemonfey legion has retreated to the ruins of Myth Drannor in ancient Cormanthor. I propose to bring our might against the Dlardrageths there, and finish the daemonfey once and for all.

  “You may wonder how we will get to the forests of Cormanthor from the ruins of Myth Glaurach without months of difficult and dangerous marches. There is a simple answer: We will pursue the daemonfey through the same portal network they used to make their escape. We cannot follow them into Myth Drannor itself-that last portal has been destroyed-but, thanks to the efforts of Mage Araevin Teshurr and his companions, we can move our army swiftly and safely to Semberholme, which is only a hundred miles or so from our destination.

  “My friends, I hold no one here sworn to join me in Cormanthor. You and your warriors came to Faerun to defend Evereska and the High Forest from invasion, and we have succeeded in doing that. But I want you to consider the question of whether we should content ourselves with having defeated one daemonfey attack, or should seek to eradicate forever the threat they pose to realms of the People here in Faerun, as well as Evermeet itself-for we should not forget that this war began when the daemonfey attacked Tower Reilloch.”

  “Leuthilspar is with you, Seiveril!” called the moon elf Keldith Oericel. “We will not allow the daemonfey to escape unpunished!”

  Seiveril conceded a hard, thin smile, and nodded toward Keldith. “Do not be too quick to answer, my friends,” he cautioned the others. “You must lay this choice before all who serve under your banner. I asked Evermeet’s warriors to follow me to Evereska, but I will not take them farther without asking again.”

  “I, for one, do not like to leave a job half-done,” said a sun elf swordsman that Araevin didn’t know by name. “You have my answer, Seiveril.”

  “For those who choose to follow me to Cormanthor, then, I have another question to ask you,” Seiveril said, raising his hands to still any more outbursts. “So far you have regarded this campaign as a Crusade, a war against the daemonfey. I want you to consider this: Are we engaged in a Crusade, or a Return? For myself, this is my Return. I will remain in Faerun,
even after the daemonfey are defeated, and seek to rebuild a realm on this shore that will prove strong enough to prevent threats such as House Dlardrageth from rising unchallenged for generations to come.”

  The assembled captains and heroes looked to one another, as if to confirm that they had heard Seiveril’s words right. Some shouted out their approval, raising fists and bared blades in the air. Some remained silent and thoughtful, weighing the meaning of Seiveril’s words. Others were openly troubled, frowning or whispering to their neighbors.

  “Has the queen given her blessing to this?” called a bladesinger who stood near Araevin.

  “The Council of Evermeet frankly opposes it,” Seiveril said, “but Amlaruil has not forbidden me from asking you-each of you-whether you would consider aiding me in rebuilding a lasting elven presence in Faerun.”

  “Where will you raise this realm?” asked the Eagle Knight Daeron Sunlance. “Here, in Myth Glaurach?”

  “If it proves the wisest course, then yes, I will come back to Myth Glaurach to found a realm here,” Seiveril said. “But first we have unfinished business with the daemonfey in Cormanthor. Once we have driven them out of our fathers’ lands, we might find that old Cormanthyr is the place to which we will Return.”

  “What of the humans? Their kingdoms surround Cormanthor. They may fight to keep us from our ancient homelands,” Sunlance said.

  “We would be better neighbors than the daemonfey, wouldn’t we?” More than one elf laughed at Seiveril’s words. The sun elf lord raised his arms again. “As I said before, I ask for no one to swear allegiance to a new realm tonight. The Crusade has work to do before the Return can truly begin. But I hold this dream in my heart, my friends, and it is long past time for me to share this vision with you, in the hopes that it will kindle the same passion and determination in your hearts that it has kindled in mine.

  “Now, go back to your warriors, and tell them what you have heard here tonight. Starbrow, Thilesil, and I will begin to order our march through the portal to Semberholme under the assumption that most or all will follow us against the daemonfey, if no farther. Sweet water and light laughter, friends.”

  Seiveril descended from his steps, and was promptly surrounded by several of the captains, besieging him with questions or demanding to march first.

  Araevin, Ilsevele, and their companions moved onto the balcony nearby as the captains and commanders walked out into the starlight, many already engaged in arguments about whose company should march first, how and when to break camp, or whether it was even possible to contemplate a march on Myth Drannor. The sun elf mage looked over to where Seiveril, Starbrow, and Vesilde stood, besieged by others who were unwilling to leave without seeking more answers.

  “Your father has a talent for making trouble, doesn’t he?” Maresa asked Ilsevele, with a mischievous grin. “Didn’t any of it rub off on you?”

  “It’s a skill he’s learned late in life,” Ilsevele retorted. She looked up to Araevin, who simply stared off into the dark skies to the east, his hands on the ruined balustrade. She moved up beside him, and laid her hand on top of his. “Something troubles you?”

  “I think my path lies elsewhere, Ilsevele.” Araevin glanced back at his companions, and touched his hand to his breastbone, feeling the hard form of the Nightstar beneath his robes. “I have to decipher the last of Saelethil’s lore in this selukiira. If Sarya turns the mythal into a weapon, Saelethil’s magic may be the only answer we have.”

  “What do you propose, then?” she asked, her voice small against the sounds of the night.

  “To find out who the star elves were, and where they lived, and whether some record of what Morthil brought back from Arcorar still exists. There is a rite I must master before the Nightstar will open the rest of its knowledge to me.”

  “That might be the work of years, Araevin! You are speaking of secrets that were hidden five thousand years ago. That is a terribly long time, even by our standards.”

  “It might also be the work of months, or days,” he replied. He looked back up at the starry sky, watching the dance and flicker of lanternlight bobbing in the breeze. “I can always seek to invoke a vision if I turn into a blind alley. My heart tells me that Saelethil’s lore will be the key to any battle in Myth Drannor. There are many skilled wizards marching in your father’s army, but I am the only one who can do this. Even if it proves to be fruitless, I have to make the attempt.”

  She sighed and looked down at her hand atop his. “Are you asking me to choose between going with you or going with my father?”

  “I do not mean to.” He allowed himself a small smile. “But there is more of Faerun to see, if you haven’t gotten your fill of it yet.”

  Ilsevele pulled her hand away from his, and drifted away across the cracked and weathered stone of the old balcony. She stared off into the green shadows beneath the trees, hugging her arms against her body. Araevin gazed at her back, waiting. Finally she seemed to give herself a small shiver, and turned back to him.

  “All right. Now that I have seen Myth Drannor with my own eyes, I find that I cannot argue against doing everything in our power to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the city’s mythal. But I fear for you, Araevin. I think it is a perilous path you intend to walk. I will come, if only to guard you from yourself.”

  Araevin started to reply, but then he thought better of it, and kept his argument to himself.

  Instead he looked over to Maresa and asked, “What of you?”

  Maresa leaned against the old wall, her arms folded. Her hair drifted softly against the breeze, glimmering like silver in the starlight.

  “I see no reason to walk toward a battle when I’ve got an excuse to head away from one,” she said with a snort. “And I like the idea that your magic might be a stiletto we can stick in Sarya’s back while she’s watching Lord Seiveril march his army at her fortress. I’m with you, Araevin.”

  Araevin looked over to Filsaelene and asked, “And you?”

  The sun elf girl shook her head. “I think I should march with the Crusade. If Evermeet’s soldiers are heading into battle against the daemonfey, many will have need of healing. Lord Miritar needs every cleric he can find.” She frowned and raised her eyes to meet Araevin’s. “But… if you ask me to help you in this new quest, I will do so gladly. I can never repay you for saving me from captivity in Myth Glaurach.”

  “You helped us in the mausoleum of the ghost and in the fight at the portal glade,” Araevin pointed out. “I’m inclined to think you have little left to repay.”

  Ilsevele looked at her and smiled sadly. “Follow your heart, Filsaelene. You should serve as you think best, and I am afraid you are right about where you will be needed.” She stepped forward and embraced the young cleric. “Be careful. And do not be afraid to send for us if we are needed in Cormanthor. We will come if we can.”

  Maresa turned back to Araevin. “So, more portals leading into the godsforsaken wilderness? Maybe a dragon’s lair this time?”

  The sun elf mage shook his head. “No, no portals this time. If you’re willing, I will teleport us to where we need to go.”

  Sarya climbed the steps of the First Lord’s Tower, and tried not to allow crawling disgust to mar her composed features. Hillsfar was a city of humans, a hundred miles north of Myth Drannor, on the shores of the Moonsea. It was filled with the reek and clamor of humankind, and everywhere she looked humans carried on with their senseless commerce, bickering, squabbling, and bullying each other.

  She was shrouded in a magical disguise, a simple spell of appearance-changing that made her resemble a human woman-perhaps somewhat slighter of build than normal, but graceful and beautiful nonetheless, with hair of deep auburn and eyes of bewitching green. She wore a pleated emerald dress of human design, decorated with delicate gold embroidery. She had entered Hillsfar in a small coach driven by disguised fey’ri, and passed through its crowded streets unnoticed until her carriage clattered to a stop before the stern, tall citadel that s
tood at the heart of the city.

  She glanced up at the banners and pennants snapping overhead, and frowned despite herself. In her day the humans had known their place. None dared challenge the power of the great elven realms. They had been a race of simple barbarians, suitable for use perhaps as mercenaries in the wars of greater races. Yet it was an inescapable fact of the age in which she found herself that humankind must be reckoned with.

  That can be set right, she told herself. Soon I will be able to hurl an army of devils, yugoloths, and demons at any foe who dares to challenge me. I will lay this city under tribute-or have it torn down stone by stone and its people driven away from the borders of my new realm.

  Six stern warriors in heavy armor with red-plumed helmets stood by the archway leading into the tower. It was more properly a small keep, really, with an interior courtyard and high, strong walls.

  “Halt and state your business,” the guard sergeant demanded.

  “Why, I seek an audience with First Lord Maalthiir,” Sarya said, her voice and smile cold and dripping with contempt. “I am Lady Senda Dereth. I believe he expects me.”

  The man-at-arms-actually a woman-at-arms, though one could hardly tell beneath the heavy armor-turned her back on Sarya and glanced at an orders book on a standing desk in a small alcove by the doorway.

  After consulting the book for a moment she grunted and said, “You’re to be shown to the Conservatory, and await the first lord there. Come with me.”

  Sarya inclined her head without allowing her cool smile to slip, though the ill manners of the guard sergeant deserved a sharp rebuke indeed. She followed the stocky woman as she clomped along in her armor, passing through barren, cheerless halls that were almost devoid of decoration. Another guard followed at her back, a good three paces behind her.

  “Is this truly necessary?” she asked.

  “No one goes into this tower without a Red Plume escort,” the guard sergeant replied. “The first lord has made that absolutely clear. It is a standing order.”