It was a good omen for the coming battle. “The daemonfey approach, Lord Seiveril,” Edraele Muirreste said. The girlish moon elf seemed far too small and frail to wear a warrior’s arms, but appearances could be deceiving—behind those enchanting eyes lay a fierce determination and an uncanny capacity for bold, daring maneuvers and inspired leadership. Riding at the head of the Silver Guard, the great company of cavalry that had followed Seiveril out of Evermeet, Edraele was more dangerous than a full-grown dragon.
“I am afraid your eyes must be keener than mine, Edraele. I do not see them yet,” Seiveril admitted.
The young captain pointed up into the clear skies above the lake, and Seiveril followed her gaze to a distant dark cloud of tiny winged figures … a darting, roiling stream that grew closer with every heartbeat. “You were right, my lord,” Edraele said. “They are here, just as you predicted.”
“The Seldarine favored my divinations. I only passed along Corellon’s warning.” Seiveril quickly inspected his armor of elven steel plate, more than a little battered and scored from months of campaigning against the daemonfey and their evil hordes. Then he glanced back to Edraele and touched his brow in salute. “Good luck to you, captain. Remember, you’re not a rider tonight. It’s not as easy to get out of trouble when you’re fighting afoot.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Edraele sighed.
The moon elf was a rider of superb skill, the best Seiveril had ever seen. It seemed a waste to not allow her or her Silver Guard to mount up. But the daemonfey and their demons, devils, and such things were all winged, and even Edraele couldn’t lead her lancers into the skies.
Seiveril hurried over to the place where Vesilde Gaerth and the battle-mage Jorildyn waited. Every company of the Crusade waited deep in the tree shadows, concealed from the flying foes winging toward them. Only a handful of volunteers remained among the lanternlit tents and shelters of the Semberholme encampment, doing their best to look like half-awake sentries who had no idea the daemonfey were about to descend on them.
“Are your mages ready, Jorildyn?” Seiveril asked.
The battle-mage—actually a half-elf, with enough human blood to sport a silver-streaked black beard—nodded once without taking his eyes from the menacing shapes descending from the sky. “My mages know their task,” he said. “Whether the others will do as well, I cannot say.”
“They will,” Seiveril promised him.
He returned his gaze to the daemonfey. They had come close enough that he could make out the gleam of moonlight on their steel, and the larger and more ungainly shapes of vrocks and nycaloths scattered among the fey’ri warriors. The ancient magical wards guarding Semberholme kept infernal creatures from simply teleporting into the middle of the elven camp, and so the raid descending on them necessarily had to come from the skies. Otherwise the daemonfey and their demonic allies would have had to fight their way through miles of forest to get to Seiveril’s army, losing any hope of surprise.
Not that they’ve caught us off our guard tonight, Seiveril reminded himself. “Thank you, Corellon, for your guidance this night,” he whispered. “May our arrows fly swift, may our blades strike true, may our spells smite our foes and shield us from harm.”
“As the Seldarine will,” Vesilde said, finishing the ancient prayer.
“As the Seldarine will,” Jorildyn answered too. The battle-mage took a deep breath, and said, “Here they come.”
The fearsome shapes overhead wheeled and plummeted down toward the camp. Many of the fey’ri were deadly sorcerers, and they announced the beginning of the attack by launching a terrible barrage of spells—searing fireballs, deadly purple bolts of lightning, and black rays of destruction that pierced soul and body alike. Demons and devils among the fey’ri scoured the ground below with their own deadly blasts of hellfire and abyssal plagues, enveloping scores of tents and shattering stones and trees like the hammer blows of titans. Thunderclaps split the night, echoing across the water. Flames roared and crackled, and overhead demons shouted in glee.
Even though Seiveril had expected it, he was momentarily appalled by the sheer ferocity of the attack. Some of those who had volunteered to play the role of sentries managed to send a few paltry arrows speeding up into the black ranks above. Others simply vanished in searing blasts of fire or were thrown like broken toys across the ground. But he set his horror and surprise aside for later, and barked out, “Now, Jorildyn! Now!”
From a hundred places scattered around the outskirts of the camp, elf sorcerers, wizards, war-mages, and clerics shouted out battle spells of their own, launching a ferocious barrage right back at the daemonfey. And alongside each mage or cleric, another elf armed with a wand, a staff, or even a scroll to read joined the effort. While only a few score elves in the Crusade were mages of any skill, many more had dabbled in the Art at least a bit—and even a raw apprentice could employ a wand. At Jorildyn’s instruction, all the battle-mages under his command had shared their arsenals with any elf who could help, tripling the Crusade’s magical power for at least a short time.
The night vanished in the brilliant blue glare of lightning bolts and the sullen red glow of fire-fountains burning through the daemonfey ranks. Scores of fey’ri burned and died in the skies over the empty camp, their blackened corpses tumbling to the ground or splashing into the lake.
“Well done, Jorildyn!” Vesilde cried. “Well done! Now it’s our turn.”
The Golden Star knight raised a horn to his lips and blew a single high note that echoed over the thunderclaps and roaring of the flames … and in response, more than a thousand archers bent their bows and let fly at the staggered fey’ri. More of Sarya’s infernal warriors screamed and died in the silver storm of death rising up to rake them.
Fey’ri spellcasters threw a haphazard volley of slaying spells of their own back down at the elves below, while beating desperately for altitude. Many of Seiveril’s wizards and clerics had necessarily given away their hiding places by hurling their spells up at the flying foe, and more than a few did not long survive after dealing their surprise blow against Sarya’s legion. Half a dozen acid bolts and fireballs streaked down toward the clearing where Seiveril and his captains had gathered, but Seiveril had been waiting for that moment. In the space of an instant he raised a barrier of null magic, shielding his companions in a temporary cocoon in which magic, any magic, simply could not work. It shut off their own spellcasting, of course, but Seiveril decided it was easily worth the cost as spell after spell simply died a few feet before reaching him.
“Watch out for the demons and devils,” Vesilde warned. “They’ll simply attack with fang and claw if they realize you’ve taken away our spells as well as theirs.”
“That’s why I wanted your Knights of the Golden Star around me, Vesilde,” Seiveril answered.
He watched anxiously for a short time as the fey’ri dueled his spellcasters and archers, trading spell for spell and arrow for arrow—but it was not a fair exchange, not by a long measure. The elves on the ground were hidden among the trees and ruins of Semberholme, and they outnumbered their attackers by three or four to one. The daemonfey had hoped to surprise a sleeping camp with a lightning-swift raid. They hadn’t come to fight an army that was awake, alert, and ready for them.
Harsh voices cried among the ranks of the flying warriors, and the fey’ri turned away and sped back out into the night.
“It seems they’ve had enough,” Vesilde said. The sun elf grinned, and clapped Seiveril on the shoulder. “Our camp is something of a mess, but other than that, your ploy was brilliant, my friend. I do not think the fey’ri will be quick to try our strength here again.”
Seiveril breathed a deep sigh of relief, and allowed his null magic spell to end. “It’s one thing to repel an enemy you expect,” he said. “But we will not win this war by defending Semberholme. We will have to defeat the daemonfey on their chosen ground before this is all over, and I fear that will be a much more difficult task.”
&nbs
p; CHAPTER EIGHT
8 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Araevin and his companions did not encounter any more of the pallid, hunched giants and didn’t see the pale sphere again as they descended from the ledge into the deeps below. Araevin’s legs felt stiff and numb, and no longer answered to him as well as he would have liked, but as exhausted as he felt, his friends seemed worse off. Every time he glanced back up over his shoulder at the comrades following him, grimaces of pain and concentration met his gaze.
How many days to climb back up to the top? he wondered. Faerzress or no, he’d be sorely tempted to try a teleport spell rather than face the daunting task of making their way back up the miles and miles of stairs on foot.
They marched on and passed another switchback. As they turned back, Araevin decided that there was no doubt about it—some faint luminescence danced in the darkness below. In a short time, the light had grown bright enough that they could descry a strange city of sorts below. Like the watchpost on the ledge far above, the city rested on a great shelf in the side of the abyss. Its towers and buildings were square and squat, many with a distinct inward slant so that they seemed like flat-topped pyramids. The gray light emanated from dozens of strange pillars, each capped by a round sphere of crystal in which a faintly luminescent liquid swirled sluggishly.
“At last,” grunted Donnor. Carrying fifty pounds of steel and sixty more of pack down the miles-long stairs had brought the human warrior to the very end of his strength, and he literally swayed with fatigue. “I am sick and tired of these damned steps. Anything would be better than more of this.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Maresa told him. “The stairs might not look so bad once we get to the bottom.”
The staircase began to cut through a serried row of terraces that overlooked the city proper. Araevin found something profoundly out of place. In the terraces stood the bare skeletons of trees, pale and leafless. He turned aside from the continuous descent, though it took a surprising effort of will to do so, and stiffly walked over to the nearest of the dead trees. He brushed his fingers over the desiccated bark.
“Apple trees,” he breathed. “Impossible.”
Jorin joined him, his face set in a thoughtful frown. “How in the world did these get here?”
Araevin glanced at the terraces, stretching for hundreds of yards to each side before vanishing into the dark. “I think they grew here.”
“In this cold and lightless sepulcher? I can’t believe that,” Jorin replied. He shook his head. “They must have been brought down from the surface and planted here. But why go to such trouble to plant so many trees in a place where they would only die?”
“Because this place may not have always been as cold and lightless as it is now. Maybe it was not always like this.”
“Then what happened to it?” Maresa asked.
Araevin shrugged. “I suspect we’ll find out below,” he said. He smoothed his hand over the dry, crumbling bark of the dead tree one more time and turned back to the steps. “Come on, we are almost there. Not many more steps now.”
From the terraces overlooking the city, the great stair finally ended in a small plaza or square where one of the city’s boulevards met the wall. Even with the gray light to lessen the darkness, the place was uncannily still and cold. They staggered out onto the square, stumbling and lurching as legs inured to step after downward step fumbled for the feel of level ground again. Araevin set his hands on his knees and rested for a long time before he decided he was ready to look around.
Jorin was right to call this place a sepulcher, Araevin decided. The place had all the animation and warmth of a thousand-year-old tomb. Empty black windows and doorways yawned on all sides, silent streets and alleyways rambled off into the shadows, and the pale and broken limbs of dead trees jutted up over the stone streets. The stonework was strange to him. Like the pillars marking the steps and the way posts on the road far, far overhead, they were marked with intricate geometric patterns—zigzags and squares, triangles and trapezoids.
“Is this dwarven stonework, Araevin?” Maresa asked.
“None that I recognize, not that I am any expert in such things.”
“Who else would live down here?” the genasi asked. “Who were these people?”
“I don’t know, Maresa. It’s beyond my experience.”
“They were humanlike, at least,” Nesterin observed. “They cut steps to suit the legs of people five or six feet tall. And the windows and arches in the buildings look like they’re proportioned for humans, orcs, or elves.”
“Not the giants, then,” said Donnor. “They would have built the place to suit their own size, not ours.”
“Well, which way from here?” Maresa asked Araevin.
The sun elf surveyed the silent boulevards leading off into the shadows. Arbitrarily, he decided to follow the largest of the boulevards their staircase met. It marched off into the darkness as if the maddening descent above simply continued straight on in a level road.
With a few creaking joints and stifled groans, they set off into the cold ruins of the city. But they had only traveled a block or two when two of the pallid, crouching giants padded into the road ahead. Araevin set his hand on the wand holster at his hip, and his companions rustled softly as they eased weapons from sheaths and spread out, ready for a fight.
“Do we strike first?” Maresa asked.
“No,” Araevin decided. “Let’s see what they do.”
The dark-eyed giants moved closer, eyes fixed on the small party but not a trace of expression on their faces. They wore sarks of small stone discs and carried enormous hammers like the giants Araevin and his companions had fought on the ledge watchpost. For a moment Araevin feared that they were simply going to lumber up and attack, but the creatures halted a good distance short of them and silently beckoned.
“It seems we’re expected,” Maresa observed. “Good. I think I’m too tired to fight anyway.”
The giants turned and led the way, guiding the mage and his companions through the empty streets of the city. They walked for a few hundred yards, following twists and turns of the road. Then the strange creatures brought them out into a square before a large, rambling palace. A whole row of columns carved in the likeness of ancient human warriors fronted the citadel, looking out over the city beyond like a phalanx of stone. And standing beneath the columns, a company of human-seeming guards stood quietly before their stone champions, imitating their impassive watch. Two more of the giants waited there as well, but the whole assemblage stood motionless, speechless, simply watching Araevin and his friends approach.
“I don’t like this at all,” Maresa murmured. The genasi scowled, searching all around for easy avenues of escape.
“Araevin, the guards are not alive,” Donnor Kerth said. The Lathanderite stared at the warriors in their ancient armor, his face set in a determined scowl. “They are undead of some kind, I am sure of it.”
“I can see it,” Araevin answered.
In fact, Araevin could clearly distinguish the necromancy that pulsed in their cold veins in place of living blood. He hesitated, unwilling to approach any closer. He had never held with necromancy, and in fact had avoided the study of the black arts for all the long years at Tower Reilloch. It was an unwholesome thing to make the dead answer one’s bidding. Yet having come so far, they did not have any choice other than to go on.
“I think that someone here wishes to parley, not fight,” he told the Lathanderite. “But remain on your guard nonetheless.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Donnor said with a snort.
They followed the two giants into the square before the palace, and there six of the cold warriors took up the task of escorting them into the palace proper. They climbed up a wide set of shallow steps leading to the palace’s gate, and followed them inside. The interior was resplendent. Columns of beautiful pale marble veined with gold marched through the halls, and richly appointed rooms gleamed in the d
im light of low-burning lanterns worked in the shape of flowering vines.
They came to another great hall, and found a pale queen waiting for them on a small dais.
She was white-skinned, with a complexion that reminded Araevin of snow on some distant mountaintop. Even Maresa was not so perfectly colorless, since the genasi possessed the faintest tinge of blue-white, like a high cloud in a springtime sky. The queen’s flesh, on the other hand, had a strange cold luster like polished marble. Her hair was long, black, and straight, bound by a simple fillet of silver on her brow. She wore a flowing gown of white that was gathered at the torso in an ornate silvered brocade, and a long, slender rod of black platinum lay across her lap.
“Welcome to Lorosfyr, Araevin Teshurr,” she said. Her voice was soft and rich, with a purring accent that Araevin had never heard anywhere else. “I am Selydra, whom some call the Pale Sybil. May I offer you refreshment? The Long Stair is a difficult path.”
“You are most gracious,” Araevin said carefully.
Apparently she had observed them through the medium of the white sphere they had encountered on the stairs. He was not at all sure that it would be wise to dine at her table, but he certainly did not wish to offend her within the first few moments of meeting her. He offered a slight bow.
Selydra smiled coolly, as if she were amused by his caution, and made a small motion with her hand. A lantern in the shadows at the side of the hall brightened, revealing a small banquet already set out. Divans and cushions were arranged nearby. She descended from her dais and led the way to the table.
“Please, eat and drink your fill,” she said over her shoulder. “Travelers are a rare treasure in this place, and I have always been fascinated by the World Above. I am eager to hear how you came to the Long Stair.”
Araevin hesitated. He was indeed hungry and thirsty, but he reminded himself of the deathless warriors who stood watch at Selydra’s door. “If you will allow us, my lady, my comrade Donnor would like to speak a small prayer before we eat,” he said to Selydra. “It is our custom.”
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