“What of Hillsfar, my lord?”
“Why, wait and watch, my dear Scyllua. The mere fact that they seek to treat with me indicates that they fear defeat. And as our Great Lord teaches us, to fear something is to give it power over you.” Fzoul motioned for her to rise, and turned away from the fire. “Bring in the Hillsfarian,” he told the sergeant of his guards.
They waited together in silence for a short time before the guards returned, leading a short, stocky man with broad shoulders, a shaven head, and a dark, pointed goatee. He wore a fine red coat with a broad lace collar, and his wide mouth was set in a carefully neutral expression. “Lord Fzoul,” he said with a bow. “I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I have come to request your terms.”
“Terms?” the tyrant replied. He arched an eyebrow. “I do not see the need to bargain with you, High Warden. I will obtain everything I require in a few days anyway.”
The Hillsfarian remained calm, though a small trickle of perspiration beaded on his brow. “Then we might as well make the best resistance we can. You may indeed be able to take our city, but if we have nothing to lose by fighting to the last man, you may find the price of your victory steeper than you like.”
“I am not without compassion,” Fzoul said, baring his teeth in a predatory grin. “Should you submit absolutely and immediately, I will spare the lives of Hillsfar’s citizens.”
“We are hesitant to throw ourselves on your mercy, Lord Fzoul. Most of my compatriots would frankly rather die than be dispossessed of everything they own and sold into slavery. In the absence of reasonable terms on your part, we cannot capitulate.” Gearas licked his lips, and added, “It is customary to offer something in exchange for being spared the costs involved in a siege or assault.”
Fzoul stroked his chin, studying the shorter man intently. “That is true,” he admitted. “Very well, then. First, I require the dismissal of the Red Plumes from Hillsfar. You will be allowed to retain a small city guard and constabulary, under the supervision of my officers. Second, Hillsfar must cede all claims to the coastal lands from ten miles west of this spot to Zhentil Keep, including the ruins of Yûlash. Third, your city will pay me tribute once per year … two hundred thousand gold crowns should suffice. Fourth, the former First Lord’s Tower is to be rebuilt as a temple to the Great Lord Bane. I will appoint its high priest and clergy. Finally, I require the immediate delivery of First Lord Maalthiir. I will appoint a regent to govern in his place.”
“I am afraid that we cannot comply with your last condition, Lord Fzoul.”
The tyrant of Zhentil Keep scowled furiously, deadly wrath awaking in his eyes. “Are you certain of that?” he asked in a cold voice.
“Maalthiir has decamped. He left the city almost a tenday ago. I do not think that he intends to return.”
Fzoul snorted in dark amusement. “I suppose that does not surprise me. So who governs Hillsfar in his stead, High Warden?”
“The Council of Lords is the acting authority in the city, Lord Fzoul. They share power with the remaining Red Plumes.”
“I see. So which of those powers do you serve?”
“I am a lord of Hillsfar.”
“Weren’t you high in Maalthiir’s service? Why did you not follow your master into exile, Lord Gearas?”
The high warden grimaced. “The First Lord departed abruptly, Lord Fzoul. He did not give me that opportunity.”
“And so your fellow lordlings have rewarded you for your faithful service to Maalthiir by making you their envoy to me.” Fzoul’s dark eyes danced with malice. “Go back to your council of lords then, and convey to them my terms. You have one day to indicate your acceptance.”
The high warden knew when he had been dismissed. He bowed again in silence, and left the Golden Manticore. Fzoul watched him go.
“A pity that I shall not have the opportunity to banter with Maalthiir one more time. But I suppose that he has chosen a fate for himself almost as hopeless as anything I might have concocted. The knowledge of what he has lost will consume him alive, and he will spend the rest of his days waiting for the time when he is found out.”
“Should I make ready to attack tomorrow, my lord?” Scyllua asked.
“You will not need to, my dear. I have offered generous terms, and Hillsfar has no choice but to capitulate.” Fzoul folded his arms over his chest. “For more than one hundred years Hillsfar has been the fiercest rival of Zhentil Keep. Now we have laid them low, Scyllua. Whatever else comes out of this season of chaos, I am already content with my gains.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
18 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Araevin stepped into a world of stinging dust and baking heat. He started coughing immediately and threw one arm over his eyes as he staggered away from the gate. The portal stood in a broken wall of black stone on the side of a steep hill. He reached out to steady himself, and found that the stones were hot to the touch. Overhead, the skies churned with black clouds, lit from within by searing flames. A harsh wind like the blast of a furnace scoured the landscape, driving streamers of the bitter dust past the shattered ruins around him.
“Where am I?” he muttered between coughs.
The ruins might have been some sort of keep or watchtower long ago, but had become little more than a foundation of heavy stones abraded smooth by dust and wind. He had to wonder who had thought to raise a portal in such a place. Jorin and Maresa staggered through the portal next.
“They’re right behind us, Araevin!” Maresa called.
She drew her rapier and took up a position by the side of the portal, while Jorin hurried a few steps away and turned back to face the gate with an arrow on his bowstring. Nesterin appeared next, blade already in hand. He staggered away from the portal, and dragged Donnor through by one arm, catching the knight in mid-swing.
“Nycaloths pursue us!” the star elf shouted.
“Stand aside. I’ll deal with the portal,” Araevin answered.
He backed away a few more steps and chanted the words of a spell to temporarily seal the portal behind them. Refusing to allow the hostility of their surroundings to distract him, Araevin fixed his attention on the portal and hurried to complete the spell. The gray misty space between the portal’s framing stones shimmered, as if something were about to emerge … and he finished the portal seal. In an instant the roiling mists of the gate reverted to cold, dead stone, bound under a glowing spiderweb of silver magic.
Maresa breathed a sigh of relief and sheathed her rapier. Then she glanced around the ruins of hot black stone and volcanic dust. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” the genasi muttered.
“Will we be able to retreat through that portal when the time comes?” Jorin asked Araevin, eying the spiderweb of magic with concern in his gaze.
“Yes, I can dismiss the spell any time I want.”
“Will the devils pursuing us be able to find another way to get through?”
“I don’t know, Jorin. They might not know where this portal leads, and they can’t find out as long as my seal holds. But I have no way of knowing if there are other portals nearby that they might use to follow us. Just in case, we would be wise to move on soon. My spell might have been noticed.”
The Yuir ranger nodded. He slipped his bow over his shoulder and checked his paired short swords in their sheaths. “Do you know where we are?”
“I do not know much about the lower planes.” Araevin rummaged in his vest for a handkerchief and tied it around his mouth and nose to help keep the grit out. “Donnor is a better guide than I am here.”
“What’s there to know?” Maresa said. “They’re all hells of one kind or another, aren’t they? Hostile, poisonous, and filled with supernatural terrors that can kill you in a dozen different ways. I think I understand.”
“Trust me, there are important differences,” the Lathanderite said. “Each lower plane has its own perils.”
“So what is this place, then?” said Jorin.
Donnor studied the landscape beyond the black ruins. Jagged peaks marched along the horizon, and the angry red sky overhead flashed with fire and thunder. “It might be Avernus, first of the Nine Hells. Or perhaps the Blood Rift, an unstable plane that aligns with other infernal realms from time to time. But I think we are in the Barrens of Doom and Despair, an infernal plane that lies near the Nine Hells.”
Araevin followed the cleric’s gaze. “I think you are right, Donnor. The appearance of the place matches what I have read about the Barrens.”
“And who or what resides here?” Maresa asked.
The Lathanderite wiped his brow with one gauntleted hand. The gray dust stuck to his sweat and left a broad smudge across his forehead. “Several dark gods have their domains here, Bane first and foremost,” he said. “We would be wise to avoid those places if we can.” Maresa rolled her eyes at that but did not interrupt him. “Other than the gods’ realms, the Barrens of Doom and Despair are home to the fiends we call yugoloths or daemons. Expect to encounter things such as mezzoloths, canoloths, nycaloths … perhaps some devils outcast from the Nine Hells, too.”
Something the cleric said caught at Araevin’s mind. He frowned, puzzling out the thought. From his very first encounter with the daemonfey in the halls of Tower Reilloch, they had relied on yugoloths of different sorts. At the time he had thought it nothing more than the expedience of summoning the creatures. Yugoloths were notorious as bargainers and mercenaries, easily persuaded to serve in a variety of evil causes. But Sarya had also rallied devils and demons to her banner, creatures that normally loathed each other. She was blood kin to demons, so it must have been Malkizid who brought his devils to her service. If Malkizid was an exiled archdevil, as Quastarte had told him, he might very well have established himself as a lord in some other infernal domain … accompanied by those devils who followed him into exile.
Just as he had known from the moment he beheld Lorosfyr that the second shard waited in its depths, he could sense the truth: The third shard was in Malkizid’s domain.
“Malkizid,” he murmured. “He seeks to subjugate the Waymeet. Of course the Gatekeeper’s Crystal will be useful to him. At the very least, he would want to make sure that no one assembled the crystal and used it against him. So the Branded King keeps one shard safe in his domain.”
“Araevin?” Maresa asked. “What are you muttering about?”
“Malkizid, Sarya’s infernal ally. He has the third shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. This is his kingdom.”
Donnor looked down and scuffed his boot in the dry, gray dust. “I haven’t ever read of any such power in the netherworlds. But I recall hearing that there are many nameless devil princes or yugoloth lords who rule kingdoms in these planes. I would not be surprised if Sarya’s ally is one of them.”
“Does this alter your intentions, Araevin?” Nesterin asked. The star elf had followed Araevin’s example and tied a cloth across his lower face to help against the burning dust in the air.
“No, I don’t think so. We need to get to the shard and make our escape. But Malkizid certainly knows the importance of the crystal, so we must expect it to be well-guarded.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” Maresa said. “The sooner we find the last shard, the sooner we can get out of this place.”
The sun elf consulted the shards in his possession, seeking for the resonating tone of the third. He felt it almost at once, a clear and distinct ringing that seemed to come from somewhere not too far away. Checking his bearings against the sharp hilltop behind them, Araevin pointed across the dusty, cracked plains below.
“Then I think our path lies that way,” he said.
To Seiveril’s surprise, the battle slackened early in the night. The fey’ri legion withdrew from the field, the few surviving war-golems pivoted and strode away from the allied ranks, and the depredations of the demons and devils came to a grudging halt. Some of Sarya’s infernal minions prowled the night, seeking out the wounded and the stragglers, and from time to time shrieks of horror and mortal agony rang out of the smoke and darkness. But the daemonfey did not test the allied lines again and did not come within the influence of the Tree of Souls.
Seiveril stood at the head of his troops, staring into the darkness. The daemonfey were up to some sinister ploy, he was certain of it. But his soldiers were absolutely exhausted. They’d been fighting since shortly after sunrise. For that matter, he was no better off himself. He’d channeled every spark of divine power he could manage throughout the course of the long, bloody day, and when he exhausted his spells, he’d wielded his mace against the hellish horde until his arm trembled with fatigue.
He felt a presence behind him, and glanced around. Starbrow and Miklos Selkirk approached.
“Good evening, Miritar,” the human lord said. “I am glad to see that you are still with us. Too many aren’t.”
“I am glad that you have survived, too, Lord Selkirk. I am afraid I did not see much of the fighting over on your front. We were kept busy all day long.”
“As were we. So much for the idea of fighting in concert. It’s said that one’s battle plan is the first casualty of any engagement, and I see now that it’s true.” Selkirk had started the battle by Seiveril’s banner, but the fighting on the right had demanded his presence for most of the day. The Sembian shook his head. “If we didn’t have some of your archers to help keep those flying sorcerers at bay, I think we would have been overwhelmed long ago.”
“And if we didn’t have your valiant swordsmen to keep Sarya’s demons from teleporting into the midst of our archers, we would have fared poorly too,” Seiveril answered. It was a little bit of an exaggeration—the Sembians had needed the elves’ aid more than the elves had needed the Sembians’ help—but it was reasonably true. If Sarya had been able to concentrate all her forces against the Crusade alone, with no human allies on the field, she might have succeeded in breaking Evermeet’s army.
Selkirk gave a soft snort, understanding perfectly well who had helped whom. But he accepted the remark. “So what do we do now? I didn’t expect the daemonfey to draw back at the end of the day.”
“I don’t understand it, either,” Seiveril said. “We are at the end of our strength, and Sarya’s demons have ten times our stamina. Why aren’t they attacking now, when we are at our weakest?”
Starbrow limped up beside him. A fey’ri dart thrown from high overhead had pierced his foot in the last stand of the evening. With so many others in dire need of the clerics’ attention, the moon elf had declined to have it healed, and settled for washing and binding it as best he could.
“The fey’ri are mortal enough,” Fflar said. “They tire just like we do. If I had to guess, I’d say they withdrew to recover their strength. It doesn’t make sense for Sarya to send the demons and devils at us piecemeal. She’ll wait until the fey’ri and their drow allies are ready to resume the fight.”
“There are demons prowling all over the vale in the dark,” Seiveril observed.
“I can hear them,” Starbrow replied. “But if we keep a guard up, I think we won’t see another concerted attack until the fey’ri are ready.”
“When will that be?” Selkirk asked.
Starbrow shrugged. “Assuming they’ll recover their strength faster than we will, maybe three bells?”
Miklos Selkirk frowned. “Three bells won’t be enough for my men, not with half on watch. But I suppose it’s better than nothing. I’ll go give the order.” He offered a stiff bow—apparently, even the suave Sembian lord was at the end of his strength—and withdrew.
Seiveril watched him go and returned his attention to the darkened vale before him. “We seem stalemated, Starbrow. We can defend ourselves against the daemonfey attacks when we stand and hold our ground, but when we move, the fey’ri and their demons savage us. Sarya’s forces are simply much more maneuverable than ours.”
“The way you defeat a foe more mobile than you are is to make him defend something that doesn’t
move. The Army of Darkness pinned down the Akh Velar by striking for Myth Drannor. They made us fight the stand-up battle that favored numbers and ferocity over skill and mobility.”
“Yes, but if we ignore the fey’ri and strike north, I fear that they would lay waste to the lands behind us. We might be able to get along with what we can carry on our backs, but I doubt the Sembians could march for long without their supply train. And dividing our forces would invite Sarya to concentrate against one or the other.”
Starbrow rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Is there some other way we could counter the daemonfey advantage?” he wondered aloud.
The elflord considered the question. “What if we could contest their mastery of the sky?”
Starbrow looked at him sharply. “You have something in mind?”
“I think I do. You and I have an errand in the vale, Starbrow.”
The moon elf nodded. “Better speak to Vesilde, then. I don’t think the daemonfey will attack for a while, but if they do, the Crusade will need a commander.”
They hurried back to the banner, Starbrow keeping up well enough despite his injured foot. Seiveril found Vesilde Gaerth and told the knight-commander to take charge of the Crusade’s defenses while resting as many warriors as he could. Then he searched out Jorildyn, the battle-mage who led the Crusade’s spellcasters—there might be a need for arcane magic where Seiveril intended to go.
As Seiveril was waiting for Vesilde and Jorildyn to set the Crusade’s defenses in order, Ilsevele rode up on her gray destrier. She and Edraele Muirreste had managed to reform the Silver Guard of Elion as a reserve again, and the swift cavalry waited a few hundred yards behind the standard.
“Felael sent word that you are leaving the camp without your guards, Father,” she said. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Seiveril glanced at Felael Springleap, who made a point of looking elsewhere. Felael had had a hard enough day already with trying to keep Seiveril from getting killed. Seiveril supposed he did not blame the wood elf too much for asking Ilsevele to have a word with him.
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