Forsaken House tlm-1

by Richard Baker

  "Your will is strong. I should have expected that," Sarya observed. She glanced at Nurthel. "Kill the human dog."

  The fey'ri lord drew a dagger of black iron at his belt and strode over to Grayth. He knelt behind the Lathanderite and seized the semiconscious cleric by his hair. Araevin watched in horror, still battling against Sarya's spell, as the fey'ri fixed his remaining eye on Araevin's face and buried the knife in Grayth's throat. Bright blood poured from the wound. Grayth's eyes opened wide, and an awful gagging sound came from his mouth as blood drowned him.

  "Grayth! " cried Ilsevele.

  She wrenched herself free of the fey'ri gripping her shoulders and surged to her feet, only to be knocked down again. Maresa swore a vile oath and struggled as well, her hair streaming with her fury.

  Grayth's feet clattered against the stone, and he shook, as if trying to free his bound hands. Then his eyes drooped, and he sank down to the cold marble, face down in the spreading pool of crimson. Nurthel jerked out the dagger, and held its bloody edge in front of him.

  "I've soiled my blade with a dog's blood," he complained. Til never get the stink off it now."

  Twenty years and more he has been my friend, Araevin thought. This is the end he comes to for leaving his temple and helping me.

  He thought of the sons Grayth had mentioned, and wondered how he could ever apologize to them for their father's death. And that moment of black despair was all that Sarya's spell required. As swiftly and surely as the fey'ri had clapped him in irons, the deadly shackles of the sorceress's will enchained his mind.

  "That's better," Sarya said pleasantly. She looked to the demons behind Araevin. "Unbind him, let him stand. He is under my dominion."

  The vrocks clacked and hissed behind Araevin, but they undid his fetters. He found himself on his feet, without knowing exactly how he had stood.

  "We could play some very entertaining games," Sarya said. "I could command you to do terrible things to your companions… or to yourself. However, I must indulge myself another day."

  Araevin stood motionless, unable to move his limbs. His thoughts were unimpaired-he reviewed spell after spell that he could hurl to blast Sarya and her minions or free Ilsevele and Maresa-but he could not join them to any action. Sarya took the third telkiira and placed it in his hand.

  "Decipher this stone, as you did the others," she commanded.

  He held the telkiira up to his eye, helpless to do otherwise, and sent his mind into its dark depths, seeking out its secrets. As before, he spied a fearsome glyph in the gemstone's facets, barring any deeper approach as surely as a rampart defended a castle. But he still remembered the name of the sigil from the vision he invoked in his workroom in Tower Reilloch, when he'd investigated the second stone.

  "Larthanos," he whispered, and the telkiira opened to him.

  Information poured into his mind: glimpses of distant memories, arcane formulae, dazzling vistas of elven cities long fallen and swallowed by forest. Again he saw the scene of the moon elf Ithraides giving his three telkiira to his younger colleagues, and the image of the sun elf with the bright green eyes and the cruel smile, who contemplated a thumb-sized crystal of purple, its surface covered with intricate runes. Saelethil Dlardrageth, the Dlardrageth high mage, and the Nightstar, the telkiira's frozen memories told him. Then Araevin's vision whirled and shifted, as arcane formulae and complex patterns flashed before his eyes, the record of spell after spell contained in the telkiira.

  He recognized several of the spells, as he had before-a spell for seeking out hidden things, a spell to reflect an enemy's spell back at him or her, a spell that would transfer one to a different plane of existence. And he viewed the mysterious spell, the one left incomplete in the first two gemstones. In his mind's eye he saw the three parts of it merge, the missing symbols arranging themselves, organizing into a pattern he could decipher and recognize. It was unique, he could see that at once. It could only be cast in one place, for one result.

  It was the spell that would pass Ithraides' wards.

  Araevin blinked, starting to lower the gemstone, but then his vision blurred again and a quick, final vision imposed itself on his sight. He glimpsed a spherical chamber of perfect white stone, in which the Nightstar hovered. Then he saw a mist-filled hall of silver pillars, and an old elven tower half buried by the forest. He sensed the tower, as if he followed the path of a lighthouse's searching beam across dark and unseen waters to a distant goal.

  It still exists, he knew. And I know where it is.

  "Well?'' demanded Sarya, calling him back to awareness.

  "Tell me what you have seen! Do you know where the Night-star lies? Can you find it?"

  "Yes," Araevin said. "It is buried in a stronghold in Cormanthor. I can show you where it lies, but you will be unable to approach it. Powerful wards will bar your entry."

  Sarya's face grew dark, and she whirled away, frowning. Araevin watched her fuming, wondering if she would slay him out of hand or perhaps indulge herself by murdering Maresa or Ilsevele first. But then Sarya halted, her eyes thoughtful. She turned back to him slowly.

  "What about you?" she asked. "Could you reach it?" "Saelethil's High Loregem will destroy anyone not of your House who touches it. It would burn out my mind and take possession of my body in order to have itself carried to a suitable wielder, one of House Dlardrageth."

  "But you could reach it and bring it out to us?" Sarya asked, her eyes avid and hungry.

  Araevin felt himself nodding, and was appalled.

  The Lost Peaks were aptly named. So dense was the forest cover on their lower slopes that the soldiers marching under Silverymoon's banner could not see the mountain-tops towering over them as they ascended the steep river valleys climbing up into the peaks. Every now and then a break in the trees permitted a glimpse of green, mist-wreathed mountains high overhead. The trail from time to time skirted a great mossy wall of stone or traversed a jumble of boulders and rubble that had slid down through the trees from the unseen slopes above. Even elves could not march swiftly over such rugged terrain.

  Methrammar led his horse a few steps from the trail to let his soldiers continue past. Dressed in his armor of mithral mail and forest-green cloak, he resembled an elf warlord of old. He waited for Gaerradh and Sheeril to follow him off the trail.

  "How much farther is Daelyth's Dagger?" he asked her.

  "Seven miles. If we push hard, we can reach it tonight." "Will your folk be there?"

  "I can't be certain, but I think it's likely," Gaerradh replied. "It's a deep dell, with old fortifications overlooking the valley floor. There's a narrow trail alongside a swift stream winding between two huge shoulders of rock, so that any foe pursuing you must come single file along a treacherous path. It won't discourage the fey'ri, of course, but they'll have to leave their orc allies outside."

  "Is there any exit?"

  "There is a hard trail at the top of the dell that climbs steeply up the valley head, leading to the higher slopes of the mountains. And there is a secret way through the caverns in the valley walls, leading to the neighboring valleys."

  Gaerradh watched the soldiers march past, while Sheeril pranced anxiously about. The wolf was uncomfortable with so many humans and dwarves in her forest.

  "If there is any place to stand against an attack," Gaerradh finished, "that is it."

  Methrammar studied the sheer cliffs rising above them on their right, and the rugged slope falling away from the trail.

  "This will be hard ground to fight on," he said. "Mounted troops will be useless, but the dwarves will like it well enough."

  "Lord Methrammar!" A half-elf officer approached, walking back against the direction of the march, calling, "There is a party of wood elves here to speak with you, my lord."

  "Bring them," Methrammar called back.

  He and Gaerradh waited a few minutes and the officer returned, leading a small band of wood elf archers who trotted along the trail, mixing with their moon elf cousins from Silvery
moon or slapping human soldiers on the back, grinning and laughing.

  Gaerradh recognized several and raised her hand, calling out a greeting of her own: "Well met, Silverbow! Fomoyn! It is good to see you!"

  Among the archers, she saw Morgwais, the Lady of the Wood, who wore the green leather of a wood elf ranger. Sheeril bounded up to Morgwais with a happy yip, tail wagging like a pup.

  "Well met, Gaerradh-and Sheeril," Morgwais said. She ruffled the thick white fur of the wolfs neck, one of the very few people who could try that without losing a hand. "I see you have brought us help from Silverymoon."

  "Lady Morgwais," said Gaerradh. She gestured to the Marshal at her side. "This is Methrammar Aerasume, the commander of Silverymoon's army."

  "Thank you for your help, Lord Methrammar," Morgwais said. "There are no words to express our gratitude. We need all the swords and bows we can muster."

  "I only wish we could have brought more soldiers to aid you," the high marshal replied. He bowed deeply to Morgwais. "Unfortunately, these daemonfey and their orc minions threaten Everlund and the towns of the Rauvin Vale as well as the High Forest. We had to leave a strong force behind to guard our homeland in case they turned north."

  "Where are the fey'ri now?" Gaerradh asked.

  "Mustering at the Rivenrock, about twenty miles south of here. We've gathered the warriors of a dozen villages at Daelyth's Dagger. We've already fought off one assault, which is why they're drawing together now. They hope to overwhelm us at a place where we have decided to stand." The Lady of the Wood looked over the Silvaeren company and said, "Lord Methrammar, I know your troops must be weary after such a long march and a bitter fight, but you must join us at Daelyth's Dagger as soon as you can. The daemonfey will certainly try to cut you off and keep you from reinforcing us, and if their whole army came upon you here, it would go poorly for you."

  Methrammar nodded and said, "We will do as you ask, my lady. The swords of Silverymoon are at your service."

  CHAPTER 16

  8 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms

  An early spring had come to the great woodland of Cormanthor. The endless dreary rains from the Sea of Swords that kept the western forests cold and wet vanished as they passed over the great desert Anauroch. Warmer winds from the Drag-onmere carried gentle showers that draped the eastern forest in a green so deep and vivid that even by the pale light of the crescent moon its color leaped to the eye. Araevin tasted the warm rain on his face and breathed in the fragrance of the new blossoms, and for an instant he could almost forget the misery of his situation.

  "Come along, paleblood," sneered Nurthel. "You have work to do."

  Araevin complied, turning to follow the fey'ri sorcerer without any effort of his conscious mind. He fell in behind Nurthel, arms still shackled behind his back, ribs aching from the blow Grimlight had dealt him. Behind him half a dozen fey'ri warriors and a pair of foul vrock-demons marched, watching him carefully for any sign that Sarya's compulsion might be fading. The daemonfey queen was not present, having left to return to her army, but she had ordered Araevin to obey any command given him by Nurthel, instantly and without resistance, and the malignant compulsion she had used to crush his will was sufficiently strong to force Araevin to do exactly as she commanded.

  Sooner or later he knew that he would be able to shake off the insidious spell-especially if Nurthel ordered him to do something he could not help but revolt against, like injure himself-but for the time being Araevin was merely a spectator in his own body, unable to conceive of refusing Nurthel's orders, even though he knew exactly how Sarya's spell had affected him. He had never cared for enchantment spells and rarely used them himself, because he'd always found it distasteful to enslave another's will, even if the subject was an enemy and the enslavement nothing more than a temporary assault to halt an attack or sow confusion among his foes. Having personally experienced the effects, he had no intention of ever using such a spell again. It was simply abominable to have one's volition stolen away.

  "Which way?" Nurthel asked.

  The ruined remnant of an old elven highway intersected their path, a ribbon of pale white stone buried beneath leaf mould and moss. Araevin and his captors had been walking for several hours, after teleporting from the Dlardrageth stronghold to Cormanthor's forests. The telkiira had warned Araevin that magic was unpredictable in the area surrounding the Nightstar's crypt, and he had duly warned the fey'ri of the danger of teleporting too close to the selukiira^ hiding place.

  Araevin examined the path, and consulted the inner beacon guiding him onward.

  "To the left," he replied. "It's less than a mile from here."

  He wondered whether Ilsevele and Maresa still lived. The daemonfey had separated them as an additional guarantor of Araevin's cooperation, promising a fate worse than death for the women if he should lead Nurthel astray.

  The demonic company hurried along the ancient white stones of the elfroad. Alternating showers and moon shadows made the scene eldritch and unreal. That portion of Cormanthor was the fabled Elven Court, a woodland of cathedral-like shadowtops that had once been home to countless elven palaces, temples, and towers. From time to time they passed old ruins, jumbled heaps of pale stone that seemed to glow beneath the soft touch of Selune's light. Then he spied the tower, a slender finger of white rising up beneath the mighty trees like a silver ghost.

  "Wait," he said. "We're here."

  "In there?" Nurthel demanded. The fey'ri sorcerer studied the place, and nodded. "Fine. You will lead. Inform me when we are at risk."

  Araevin led the way to the tower's door, a blank archway of stone. No door or gate stood there. The portal was filled with a smooth, unbroken wall of stone. But Ithraides had recorded the secret of the door in his telkiira. Araevin spoke a simple password, and the stone sealing the arch became ethereal and vanished from sight.

  "On the other side of the doorway there is a powerful sigil that will destroy any who enter without speaking this password: sillevi astraedh," Araevin said. "Then we will find stairs leading down to a misty hall, guarded by a powerful watch ghost. You must fight it if you wish to proceed."

  He did not point out that the daemonfey could simply remain outside the tower, since the watch ghost would not attack him. Nurthel had instructed Araevin to lead and to warn him of the dangers they encountered, but he had not asked Araevin to be explain how each peril could be avoided. It was not much of a victory, but Araevin was determined to exploit every misstep in the instructions the fey'ri gave him.

  They passed the sigil on the far side of the doorway, and found themselves in the tower's ground floor.

  It seems to be my destiny to look for crystals in old ruins, Araevin thought bleakly.

  He indicated a stone staircase leading to unseen levels beneath the tower, and led Nurthel's party down the smooth steps. At the bottom the fey'ri sorcerer stopped him.

  "Remain here, and make sure you do not get hurt," Nurthel said. "We will need you once we deal with this guardian." He gestured to the fey'ri warriors and the demons who accompanied them. "Destroy the guardian."

  Nurthel stayed on the steps beside Araevin, watching his soldiers prowl into the room below, curved swords in their taloned fists. The vrocks followed, their vulture heads swinging from side to side on their long, wattled necks as they looked for their foe. The chamber was exactly as Araevin remembered it from the telkiira's vision, a large misty hall with shining silver pillars.

  A sheet of purple lightning crackled out of the swirling fog, blasting through a vrock and two of the fey'ri. Crawling arcs of violet energy coruscated around the demonspawn, charring great black burns across their flesh. The fey'ri shrieked and fell writhing to the floor. The vrock attempted to teleport itself away from the deadly spell, only to reappear in a terrible burst of black gore, materializing in the exact same spot as one of the bright argent pillars.

  "I see that you did not lie when you warned us of teleporting here," Nurthel hissed. "Is there anything you
have kept from me, Araevin?"

  Araevin opened his mouth to reply, but the mists parted, revealing a bright and terrible figure of silver light. Ghostly and yet powerful, the guardian seemed to be a beautiful moon elf maiden, her dark hair streaming around her head, her white robes fading into translucent starshine.

  "Depart!" she demanded in Elvish, her clear voice strangely high and distant, as if she were speaking from far away. "Depart, fiends! I will not suffer you to pass this chamber."

  In answer two of the fey'ri drew out wands of bronze and blasted the ghostly sorceress with crimson darts of magical power. The sorceress's features twisted with a cry of dismay, and her substance seemed to boil away from the holes punched by the fey'ri spells. She countered by seizing one of the wand-wielders in a viselike grip of unseen force and hurling him against the wall, leaving him crumpled across the chamber. At the same time she chanted out a piercing melody of her own, her arms weaving in the gestures of a spell, and she threw a charging mezzoloth screaming back into its native hells.

  A second mezzoloth stalked close and rammed its brazen trident through the center of the ghost's torso, but the infernal weapon passed through her ethereal substance without so much as a ripple. She turned on the creature and wove a spiraling spell chain around it that sliced deep into its evil flesh, slowly cutting it to pieces. But the fey'ri with the wand struck again, riddling her with more of the crimson darts, while another fey'ri warrior-one with a sword glowing with enchantment-darted close to slash at her, tearing great rents in her misty form.

  Araevin took half a step forward, intending to help her in some way, but Nurthel set a hand on his shoulder.

  "Oh, no," the fey'ri captain said. "You are not to interfere."