Farthest Reach lm-2

by Richard Baker

  She decided to change the subject before Teryani carried on her coquettish little act any further.

  “You need to increase your pace, Lord Duncastle. Events are moving quickly in Battledale and Mistledale. I would not want you to miss out.”

  “Do not fear, Lady Senda,” the Sembian lord said with a broad smile. “We’ve already got five full squadrons of cavalry in Essembra. We won’t miss our date in Mistledale.”

  “The sooner your whole army reaches Essembra, the better,” Sarya answered. “We have to halt Miritar’s host and draw them into a fight in open ground. You are in a race, Lord Duncastle.”

  In Essembra, the Sembian force would threaten Miritar’s right flank. If the elven army continued north from Mistledale’s borders toward Myth Drannor, Duncastle’s Sembians could move west on the Essembra-Ashabenford trail and cut Miritar off from his base in Semberholme, as well as any aid from his human allies in Mistledale and Deepingdale. In fact, Sembia’s army would be ideally positioned to crush those allies if Miritar chose not to meet Duncastle’s threat. Meanwhile, the Red Plume army from Hillsfar descending the Moonsea Ride could come in to block him from a move to the north. And Fzoul Chembryl’s Zhentish army was sweeping far to the west, marching from Voonlar toward Shadowdale to seal the western side of the trap as Duncastle’s Sembians sealed the eastern side.

  Sarya had been absolutely enraged to find that the first lord of Hillsfar had presumed to allow yet another petty human tyrant to ally with him, but she had made herself wait one full day before attacking the First Lord’s Tower with a hundred devils and fiends and a thousand fey’ri. After considering exactly how to raze Maalthiir’s tower and execute the first lord of Hillsfar in an appropriately gruesome manner, a few hours for thought had helped her to see that Fzoul Chembryl’s grandiose ambitions and Maalthiir’s underhanded dealings played perfectly into her hands.

  Maalthiir is too clever for his own good, she reflected. Either he is foolish enough to think that dealing with another power proves that he is not beholden to me, or he thinks himself prudent in providing himself with an ally whom he might turn against me if we should have a falling out. The question, of course, is who will betray whom first?

  Sarya was an old and practiced hand at that particular game.

  “Bane’s brazen throne,” Borstag Duncastle muttered, disturbing her from her ruminations. “What is he doing here?”

  Sarya followed the direction of the Sembian lord’s glance, and spotted a small party of well-appointed horsemen riding over the bridge alongside the columns of Duncastle soldiers. The man at the head of the company was a handsome lord with hair of close-cut black ringlets, attired in a fine doublet of dove-gray under which mail glinted. A score of armored riders followed him, all wearing surcoats or doublets that featured at least a splash of the same dove-gray.

  “Who is this?” she asked, intrigued by Lord Duncastle’s reaction.

  “Miklos Selkirk and his accursed Silver Ravens,” Duncastle growled. “He is the overmaster’s son, and his chief agent and defender in any enterprise that catches his eye.” He looked at Sarya, and scowled. “He’ll be here to spy on our every move and carry tales back to his father, mark my words.”

  “Does this overmaster have the power to recall your soldiers, Duncastle?” Sarya asked with icy calm.

  “He can certainly call my actions into question, and perhaps persuade the Great Council to issue such an order.”

  “Then I suggest you avoid giving this Selkirk offense.” Sarya folded her arms and watched the riders in gray approach.

  Miklos Selkirk and his company passed abreast of the inn. The overmaster’s son caught sight of Borstag Duncastle and turned his horse aside. He dismounted with easy grace and handed his reins to one of his Silver Ravens.

  “Ah, there you are, Duncastle!” he called. “I’ve been riding all up and down this column looking for you.”

  “Selkirk,” Duncastle said. He made a shallow bow, never taking his eyes from the younger lord’s face. “I was not expecting you, or else I would have left word that you were to be brought up to me.”

  “No matter. The ride gave me a good opportunity to size up your army.” Miklos Selkirk turned to Sarya and Teryani, and he offered a deep flourish and bow. “I am afraid I have not had the pleasure, dear ladies. I am Miklos Selkirk, of the House Selkirk.”

  “Lady Senda Dereth,” Sarya answered. “This is my lady-in-waiting, Terian.”

  Sarya offered her hand, and despite her deep-rooted loathing of humans and all their works, she had to admit that Miklos Selkirk was a handsome fellow, gifted with almost elven grace and self-possession. She looked into his eyes, and saw nothing but keen steel there.

  Here is a worthy adversary, Sarya thought. She would have to amend Teryani’s instructions, if Selkirk was going to be near the head of the Sembian army for any time at all.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Senda,” the human said. A flicker of interest crossed his face-a moment’s glance as Selkirk fixed her face in his mind, perhaps, and reminded himself to find out more about her later-then he looked back to Lord Duncastle.

  “My father asked me to accompany you for a while, Lord Duncastle,” he said. “As you know, the council has expended no small sum in adding to the forces at your command, and they want to make sure that their investment is in good hands.” Selkirk glanced toward the south and shrugged, as if to imply that he thought it was all nonsense, but Sarya did not mistake the sharp calculation in his eyes. “The expedition is entirely in your hands, I assure you. My only function is to ensure that accurate and timely reports reach Ordulin.”

  Duncastle’s scowl deepened, but he held his temper in check. “Very well,” he rumbled. “You are, of course, welcome to observe as long as you feel necessary, Selkirk.”

  “Good,” said the younger noble. “I knew you would be reasonable about this, Duncastle. Now, if I may be so bold… might I ask you to explain your plan of march? I see thousands of Sembian soldiers invading the Dalelands, and I find that I am not at all sure I understand why.”

  Duncastle fumed, thunder gathering on his brow, but Sarya intervened. “The plan, Lord Selkirk, is to bring three armies against one, and demonstrate to Seiveril Miritar and the rest of Evermeet’s army that the days of elves dictating terms to human kingdoms are over. Now, do you have the steel for the game, or not?”

  Miklos Selkirk’s easy manner froze on his face. He looked back to Sarya, and studied her more closely.

  “You are playing with dangerous powers, Lady Senda,” he said in a more serious voice. “I don’t pretend to know what sort of old elven spells might still be sleeping in Cormanthor, or what the heroes who defend the Dalelands might do about a concerted threat such as that we’re offering them now, and so I fear the remedying of my ignorance. But yes, I agree that the stakes are… enticing.”

  “I do not know what to tell you about any heroes defending these lands,” Sarya said, “but I can tell you this, Miklos Selkirk: I wield Cormanthor’s magic, and as long as Sembia’s army is moving against my enemies, you need have no fear of old elven spells.”

  Jorin Kell Harthan’s prediction proved uncannily accurate. Araevin and his comrades passed a cold and rainy night in the ruins of an old elven tower buried deep in the forest, and when they pressed forward from the place in the morning, the drizzle followed them, soaking the party in a dripping fog that quickly became a bright, steaming bath when the sun burned through the clouds overhead. The normal sounds of the forest died away over the course of the first three miles of walking, replaced with the insistent dripping of water from countless branches and leaves. Soon it seemed they were passing through a world of emerald and silver-gray, a silent world that resented their presence.

  They hiked on in single-file, following the Aglarondan along the narrow trail. Araevin fell into the rhythm of the walk, his thoughts drifting. How long will it take Sarya Dlardrageth to detect the approach of Evermeet’s army? he wondered. And what will she do
when she does? Sarya might attempt to sabotage the army’s march by striking at the portal nexus in the frozen fortress. He frowned, wondering if he should have advised Seiveril and Starbrow to keep the windswept mountaintop guarded against a sudden demonic assault. Or was there some other way for Sarya to strike at the host of Evermeet? He paused in mid-stride, examining the thought.

  “Araevin! Look out!” Ilsevele reached forward and jerked at his arm, dragging him back from his reflections. Something crashed through the dense underbrush not more than a dozen yards from where he stood, a hulking gray mass of hairless flesh that grunted and thrashed furiously through the thorn-studded vines, snapping arm-thick saplings in half as it charged toward the small company.

  “Aillesel Seldarie! Where did that come from?” Araevin gasped.

  He quickly backstepped, trying to keep out of the thing’s reach while he considered the spells he held ready.

  It went on two thick legs, with a hunched-over posture and a blunt snout that held row after row of sharp black teeth. A double row of small, yellow eyes dotted the front of its head, and its forelimbs were long, powerful arms that ended in strong crushing claws. The thing snuffled loudly, and roared in bestial rage.

  No one offered an answer to his question, but beside him Ilsevele’s hands blurred as she sent a pair of arrows winging at the monster. The arrows sank into the side of its thick neck, but there was nothing but muscle there-the creature swatted at the arrows like they were insect bites, and bellowed with such anger that the leaves shook overhead.

  “It’s a gray render!” Jorin called from up ahead. The monster had broken onto the trail between the Aglarondan and the rest of the small company. “Be careful, it can crush an ogre with those arms!”

  The creature hesitated an instant, then turned its back on Jorin and thundered up the trail at Ilsevele and Araevin. The spellarcher fired several more times, trying for its eyes, but the front of the beast’s head held a mass of bone so dense that her arrows simply glanced away. The creature reared up, drawing back one huge taloned hand to crush Ilsevele-and Araevin barked out the words of a simple teleport spell and caught hold of the back of her tunic, whisking them both twenty yards aside.

  The render’s claws stripped a foot-wide row of furrows four inches deep through the trunk of a cedar next to the spot Ilsevele had been standing, and the beast screeched in frustration. Ilsevele stumbled, unprepared for the spell, but she looked back at him, eyes wide.

  “Good timing,” she managed.

  Jorin Kell Harthan sprinted down the trail behind the render, and skidded to a halt behind the monster, slashing at its hamstring with his long sword. The render howled again as its leg buckled beneath it, but it whirled with astonishing speed and batted the Aglarondan ranger into the underbrush with a single off-balance swing of one claw. Then Donnor Kerth, who had been behind Araevin and Ilsevele on the trail, charged the monster from the other side, mail jingling and armor rattling, his face hidden behind his heavy helm. He landed a heavy cut on the back of the monster’s shoulder, grunting with the force of his swing. The gray render wheeled drunkenly back toward the Lathanderian, and clubbed him with its other arm. Kerth caught the blow on his sturdy shield, but the monster was so strong that it drove him to his knees, and began to rain down mighty blows like the pounding of some berserk smith’s hammer.

  “Donnor’s in trouble!” Ilsevele snapped. She scrambled to her feet and drew her own long sword, gliding toward the fight with a rapid but balanced advance, ready to dart forward or give ground as she needed.

  “I see it!”

  Araevin snatched for the zalanthar-wood wand at his belt, and leveled the device at the monster, pausing only long enough to make sure none of his companions were in the way. The wand erupted in a hazy blue bolt of sonic disruption, blasting the render’s flank with a terrible crack! that echoed in the dripping wood. Behind Kerth, Maresa pointed her own wand at the beast over the shoulder of the kneeling human warrior, and scorched the monster with a jet of flame that caught it full in the face.

  The gray render hissed and reared back, raising its head and turning its face away from the searing flame-and Donnor uncoiled from beneath his shield and brought his heavy broadsword up under the render’s jaw, sinking the point of the weapon deep into the base of its throat. The Lathanderian warrior surged to his feet and wrenched his blade free, ripping open a terrible wound across the render’s throat.

  The render’s hissing rage drowned in a horrible gurgle of dark gore. It wheeled around and bolted back down the trail, away from Kerth and Maresa. Blood splattered the leaves and left a crimson trail in the creature’s wake. Ilsevele quickly backed away, giving the render plenty of room to flee, while Jorin Kell Harthan, who had been circling back in to attack again from behind the monster, literally threw himself into a dense briar bush to avoid being trampled.

  The creature went thrashing its way down the trail, burbling its misery, and vanished into the gloom of the forest.

  Donnor Kerth climbed to his feet and watched the monster flee. He shucked his helmet, and looked down at his sword, clotted with the render’s gore for a full two feet from its point. He stared in amazement, as the crashing and pained howls of the monster receded into the distance.

  “It’s still running,” he muttered. “By the Morninglord, what does it take to kill one of those things?”

  Jorin slowly picked himself up and began extricating himself from the briars. “Maybe a big dragon could manage it, but other than that, there isn’t much in the forest that a gray render fears. It’s best to avoid them.”

  Maresa blew out her breath, and sheathed her wand at her belt. “I’ll keep that in mind. Are there a lot of them around here?”

  “It seems there have been more of them about in the last year or two,” Jorin replied. “I used to go two or three years at a time without hearing of anyone running into a render, but I’ve heard of seven attacks already this year-not counting this one.”

  “Is that what you meant when you said that parts of the forest were growing more wild?” Ilsevele asked.

  “In part, yes.” Jorin spotted his sword lying under the briars, and with a grimace he knelt and reached his arm through the thorns, groping for the blade. “Gray renders aren’t natural beasts, really. They’re dimly intelligent, and foul-tempered beyond belief. They’ll tear down cabins and rip up trails on a whim, but then they can be devilishly patient when stalking prey.”

  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 makes
hift 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 Sildeyuir,” 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 Sildeyuir 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.