Forsaken House tlm-1

by Richard Baker

  Human soldiers died screaming under the claws and fangs of the hellspawned monsters or staggered down into death, bodies charred, poisoned, or ruptured by demonic spells. Methrammar stood in the center like a shining silver tower, cutting down any fiendish creature who came against him and hurling blasts of his own magic at demons who avoided him. Around their high marshal the knights of Silverymoon rallied, and held.

  Gaerradh shot and shot until her quiver was empty, then she slung her bow across her shoulder and drew out her paired fighting axes, looking for a way to help. The furious melee around the Iron Guard dwarves and the demon-battle among the Knights in Silver were fights she wanted no part of. She was at her best with her bow, and did not wear anywhere near enough steel for that sort of brawling. She held back and waited, axes in hand. Sheeril growled anxiously at her side.

  "Patience, girl" Gaerradh told her.

  A streaking ball of fire arced down from overhead to detonate amid the Iron Guard dwarves and their orc adversaries. The vale thundered with the sound of the blast, and dwarves and orcs flew through the air like ninepins. The dwarves in their heavy armor and defensive enchantments fared better than their adversaries. More fireballs streaked down into the battle, filling the mouth of the valley with orange and red blasts of flame that charred the very rocks black. Gaerradh threw herself behind a big boulder and ducked under her cloak, trying to stay out of the worst of the flames.

  "Methrammar!" she cried. "The fey'ri are in the valley!"

  "Up and at them, lads!" called Silverymoon's champion.

  Shielded by his defensive magic, the fey'ri spells washed over Methrammar with no more effect than a gentle shower. Other Knights in Silver stood by as well, likewise protected by their spells and enchantments. Some of their comrades did not rise, but more stood than fell. Gaerradh quickly looked over to the open trail where the Iron Guards had been fighting. The dwarves lay in a great crumpled mound, scorched and still. She stood on the edge of black, dizzying despair, but then she saw the tangled mass of dwarves shift and move. Awkwardly, the heavily armored warriors of the Iron Guard contingent picked themselves up, disentangling themselves from their comrades, and set their shields and weapons right, reforming their turtle-like formation.

  "Is that your best?" cried one dwarf sergeant, shaking his axe at the sky. "Is that all you can do?"

  Gaerradh looked up, waiting for the fey'ri reply. A great company of the bat-winged demonspawn descended into the gorge, hurling spells and iron javelins at the Argent Legion troops below. There were hundreds of them, and the air between the walls of Daelyth's Dagger seemed to broil with magical energy and supernatural power. Dressed in armor of scarlet and gold, the daemonfey wheeled overhead like sinister angels.

  Exactly where they were supposed to be.

  "Let's see how you like the marksmanship of the wood elves," Gaerradh murmured.

  A clear horn call echoed high up in the rocky walls of the vale, and the air between the gorge's sides was filled with a black storm of arrows. From a hundred perches high up on the cliffs overlooking the narrow valley, wood elf archers-including a score of Evermeet's best spellarchers, brought to the Lost Peaks only hours before-threw aside their concealment and loosed a terrible fusillade of arrows against the flying fey'ri warriors. Many of the archers were actually shooting down on the airborne fey'ri, as the daemonfey company had descended past the uppermost shelves of hidden archers in their rush to eradicate the dwarves and humans who held the valley mouth.

  Fey'ri wheeled and fluttered in desperation, pierced again and again by the merciless onslaught. More than a few arrows blazed with holy spells or crackled with whispered enchantments as they sped on their way, finding fey'ri chests and throats. In a single deadly volley scores of the fey'ri died in midair, wings folding as they plummeted to the boulder-strewn floor of the valley.

  Those who survived the first volley searched wildly for escape from the killing zone, but even fey'ri flying over the center of the valley were not more than one hundred yards from one wall or the other, and that was well within the wood elves' range. To descend was to brave even more arrows, to climb would be murderously slow, and to seek cover on either wall was to simply come closer to one nest of archers or another. So the fey'ri struggled and flew east along the vale, fleeing for the mouth of Daelyth's Dagger as they ran the terrible gauntlet. A few quickly worked spells to turn themselves invisible, or cover themselves in obscuring darkness, or simply teleport to safety. But with every beat of their wings, more daemonfey warriors crumpled and fell to the hard boulders below.

  "It worked!" Gaerradh cried, elated.

  She had thought Methrammar was insane to offer his soldiers as bait to draw the fey'ri spellcasters, but the high marshal's plan was proving to be nothing less than pure genius. Broken and pierced, the demonspawned warriors littered the valley floor.

  Avoiding the arrows and debris clattering down from the ambush overhead, Gaerradh sprinted over to where Methrammar stood. Sheeril flashed at her heels, growling. The Knights in Silver had beaten off the worst of the demon assault, though a few savage skirmishes still continued around the edges of the company. Methrammar watched the fighting in the air, blood streaming from a nasty bite on his left arm and a sword-slash on his thigh.

  "Great work, friends!" he cried. "That will teach them some wisdom!" He looked down as Gaerradh reached his side, and he offered her a fierce grin. "I knew that all we had to do was to get the fey'ri in front of wood elf bows!"

  "What now?" Gaerradh called.

  "We finish this," Methrammar said. "We can drive these orc marauders all the way to Hellgate Keep if we strike now." The son of Alustriel laughed with delight, and whirled away to dash up the road, brandishing his blade.

  "To me! To me!" he cried. "We're taking this fight out of the valley and into their teeth, lads!"

  The Knights in Silver rallied to Methrammar's cry, and the dwarves of the Iron Guard as well. With a deafening clamor of battle cries and roars of challenge, the warriors of Silverymoon and Adbar clattered forward, battering their way back down the Dagger's trail to meet the oncoming orcs head-on. Gaerradh shouted in martial fury and followed, axes in hand, Sheeril snapping and slashing to guard her back.

  At dawn the orcs broke and fled.

  Araevin plumbed the lambent depths of the Nightstar for what seemed like hours, examining the spells Saelethil had stored within, cataloging the deep reaches of hidden lore for later study, confronting the fiery secrets of high magic and mythalcraft preserved by the Dlardrageth high mage. He could sense Saelethil's cruel persona graven in the very substance of the high loregem, observing his fumbling explorations with a sneer of disdain, though he decided he did not care what the sinister apparition happened to think of his efforts. It would take some study yet before he could master many of the secrets waiting within the selukiira, but he knew enough to comprehend mythals and other such wards of high magic in a way he had never dreamed possible. Araevin suspected that some at least of the things Saelethil taught him had been forgotten-or shunned-by other high mages for many centuries.

  More importantly, the Nightstar offered him the chance to turn the tables on his captors. Nurthel had likely thought that he posed no threat so long as his spellbooks remained out of his hands, but like the telkiira, the Nightstar itself also served as a spellbook. The three telkiira stored twenty spells between them, and the Nightstar by itself recorded more than seventy. Of course, many of the spells were difficult or impossible for him to cast until he acquired the correct materials-pinches of reagents, herbs, tiny charms carefully readied under the right conditions-but Araevin had found a number that he could manage. An hour's study sufficed to fill his mind with spells, ranging from insignificant cantrips to mighty dweomers he never could have managed before Saelethil's lore had burned itself into his brain. He was as well-armed as he could possibly hope, and then some.

  When he was finally ready, Araevin touched the portal design in the Nightstar's chamber and instant
ly transported himself back to the silver hall of the ghost. The selukiira lay over his heart, the purple crystal embedded in his flesh and fused to his breastbone. He had considered leaving it exactly where he'd found it, but there was too much in the gemstone that he needed to know, and so he risked bringing it with him.

  A moment of dizziness and darkness, and he stood by the wall in the mist-wreathed hall of the silver pillars. He felt strong and certain in a way that frightened him, doubting as he did the source of his strength. It was not simply a physical vitality, his mind was sharper, clearer, more focused, and the spells the high loregem had taught him girded his very thoughts like eldritch armor. He turned and faced the hall.

  The daemonfey waited for him. Apparently the sudden operation of the portal had caught them off guard. Two of the fey'ri warriors cursed as they drew their blades, and the hissing mezzoloths rose up from crouches, seizing their iron tridents. Nurthel Floshin spun to face him, his single remaining eye alight with ire.

  "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Where is the Nightstar?"

  Araevin stepped away from the wall, carefully noting the positions of Nurthel and his band: A fey'ri spellblade and two more fey'ri swordsmen, standing close by Nurthel; the two surviving vrocks, skulking in the shadows to his right; and the two mezzoloths, standing up on his left.

  Eight of them, he thought. And only one of me.

  "Where have I been? The vault of Ithraides," he answered. "And as for the Nightstar, I have it."

  Nurthel bared his pointed teeth and held out his tal-oned hand.

  "Come here and give it to me," he hissed.

  "No, I don't think I will," Araevin replied.

  He looked over at the vrocks, gestured, and calmly spoke the words of a spell, banishing them back to the foul Abyss from which they had been summoned. The creatures clacked and hissed in rage, starting toward him, but before they had even taken wing azure fire flickered over their hideous forms and hurled them into their native dimension.

  "He has broken the dominion spell. Subdue him at once!" Nurthel screamed.

  He began a spell of his own, barking out the magical words, while the mezzoloths charged at Araevin from his left side and the fey'ri swordsmen approached more carefully from his right, sword points weaving in lazy circles before them.

  Araevin darted to his right, avoiding the mezzoloths. One of the insectile creatures hurled its trident at him. The heavy weapon struck him on his left shoulder blade, spinning him around with the impact and throwing him to the floor. But the trident rebounded from his flesh, which was hardened to the denseness of granite by the spell he had cast on himself before activating the portal to return to the silver hall. He rolled to his hands and knees, looking up at the two fey'ri warriors closing in on him, and he spoke a word of power that blasted both swordsmen off their feet. Streaming blood at ears and nose, the armored daemonfey skidded across the floor and groaned, both struck senseless by the spell.

  Nurthel finished his own casting and conjured a great golden hand of magical force that lunged for Araevin, seeking to seize hold of him. The second of Araevin's hastily prepared defenses came into play. As the mighty hand closed on him, Araevin's turning spell triggered, deflecting the glowing apparition back at Nurthel. The fey'ri sorcerer cried out, startled, as his own spell grappled him, fingers like a giant's arms curling around his golden armor and pinning him in place.

  "Kill the paleblood!" he screamed in frustration.

  Araevin gained his feet just in time for the other fey'ri spellcaster to hurl his own spell, an enchantment intended to mire his body and mind in a dolorous lethargy, dulling his reactions and slowing his efforts. He fought off the spell with a gesture and a thought, turning his attention to the two mezzoloths who stalked him. The creatures clawed at him, their foul talons scraping across his hardened skin and tearing gashes in his clothes without causing him serious injury. Still, Araevin knew that he could not ignore them for long. Sooner or later his spell would wear out, or the mezzoloths would give up on trying to tear him to pieces and instead just tackle him, and he could not allow the powerful creatures to pin him. He dodged back and immobilized one with a spell of holding, rooting it to the spot. The other stayed after him.

  The fey'ri spellblade hurled a bolt of fire at Araevin that burned away the last of his turning spell. The creature was clever enough to anticipate the return of his own spell, ducking out of the way as his fire-bolt struck Araevin's spell shield and rebounded. In return, Araevin charred the fellow to a black husk with a terrible bolt of purple lightning. The smell of burning flesh and smoke filled the room. Nurthel continued to struggle against his own spell, snarling vile curses the whole time.

  "I will dismember you myself!'' he hissed. "Your woman shall pay for your treachery, paleblood!"

  With a tremendous effort, Nurthel managed to slip one arm free of the magical hand holding him. He brought it to his face to raise his eye patch, and Araevin glimpsed a bright green stone in the socket. Nurthel looked down at the golden force around his body and snarled a word. From his eye-gem leaped out a green ray that instantly disintegrated the hand holding him. He stumbled awkwardly to the ground, then looked up and grinned at Araevin, already beginning another spell.

  The remaining mezzoloth finally managed to catch Araevin by the arm, its horrid pincers seizing him in an inescapable grip. Araevin cried out in dismay, not really hurt yet since his spell still protected him. The creature's mandibles clacked and dripped before his face, and it wrenched him half around as it sought to catch hold of his other arm. But Araevin steadied his mind with a conscious effort, and set his free hand on the monster's chitinous torso.

  "Let go of me!" he snarled, and cast a disintegrating spell of his own at the yugoloth.

  A brilliant flare of green energy gleamed from within the mezzoloth's thick carapace, shining forth at joints and eyes, and the creature abruptly vanished into a gray, stinking haze of dust.

  Araevin shook himself free of the mezzoloth's drifting ash and spun to face Nurthel. The fey'ri lord hissed out the last sibilant whispers of his own spell and raised a globe of shimmering colors around himself. Araevin recognized the spell at once as a potent ward against many magical attacks. Nurthel advanced a couple of steps, and the crawling globe of color moved with him.

  "You have done well to eliminate my warriors and demons," the fey'ri said. "You surprised me. I admit it. I don't know how you found the opportunity to conceal so many spells, but you will find that I am not so easily overcome as my fellows."

  "Your confidence is misplaced," Araevin replied.

  "Is it?" Nurthel smiled. "Not many spells can pierce this defense, as I am sure a mage of your accomplishment must know. And I observe that, while you may still have spells at your command, you are unarmed." He drew a short sword of dark, rune-scribed iron from a sheath at his side, and advanced another two steps toward Araevin. "Now, before I kill you, where is the Nightstar?"

  Araevin did not bother to reply. Instead he began another spell, one he had learned from the telkiira stones. Speaking the words loudly and swiftly as he moved, he turned his hands in the proper manner.

  Whatever Nurthel's confidence in his spell shield, the fey'ri sensed danger. He scowled and leaped forward, charging close to reach Araevin before the elf mage finished his spell.

  Nurthel fell three steps short. Araevin completed his casting and seized the fey'ri's spell shield, inverting the magical protection on its caster. The magical power swirling around Nurthel froze, motionless, and contracted in upon him. Brilliant flashes of green and blue wrapped around him as the spell shield turned on its master, flaying his flesh with crawling arcs of power. Nurthel screamed and staggered one more step before collapsing at Araevin's feet, charred and smoking.

  Araevin knelt slowly and took the fey'ri's sword from his crumbling fingers. He tugged open his shirt, and showed the dying sorcerer the Nightstar embedded in his chest.

  "As I told you before," he grated, "I have the selukiira.
" Then he took Nurthel's own sword, shoved it through the fey'ri's throat, and watched as the daemonfey lord died. "That was for Grayth, you black-hearted hellspawn."

  He took his wands back from the corpse, then strode out of the mist-filled hall. Ilsevele and Maresa were still in Sarya's hands, and more importantly, Sarya had control of a mythal stone. Saelethil had known many things about what could be done with unattended mythals. Thanks to the selukiira, Araevin did too.

  The battle on the Lonely Moor began an hour before sunset.

  It had taken the army of Evermeet most of the afternoon to climb up to the plateau and form themselves in their battle-order. As he had feared, the ground was too difficult for his cavalry to make much use of their mobility. They could fight mounted, but they could not use their speed to much effect, not without crippling their horses in unseen soft spots and deep, narrow gulches.

  "I don't understand why the daemonfey did not defend the hillsides climbing up to the moor," Seiveril said to Fflar as the army advanced.

  The enemy had chosen to make his stand several miles inside the boggy highland. The daemonfey army, only a thousand yards distant, waited before them, divided into a large center and two sweeping wings. Most of the soldiers in the ranks were orcs and ogres, a serried line of dark figures who hooted and jeered and shook their weapons at the approaching elves. Seiveril spotted numerous demons waiting amid the savage warriors, flexing terrible claws and snarling with needle-fanged jaws. The fey'ri waited behind their orc allies, a glint of gold and scarlet shining through the surging mass of tribal warriors.

  "Maybe they just wanted us to have to walk a few more miles to get to them," Fflar suggested. "Better to fight a tired soldier than a fresh one. Or maybe they were afraid that we would encircle them by climbing up a different route while they were engaged in the defense of the old road." The big moon elf shrugged. "It hardly matters now. This is where the battle will be."