“You haven’t needed me in a long time, Araevin-and my place is here, at least for now.” She touched the side of his face, and she drew back. “I think I should go now. Good luck in your journeys. I will pray for your success.”
“Ilsevele, wait-” Araevin began, but she just shook her head and left him standing in the doorway.
“This,” snarled Sarya Dlardrageth, “is an abomination.” She paced fretfully, her eyes aglow with hate. Sarya’s face was heartbreakingly beautiful, her supple figure the very image of desire, but in her anger-and Sarya was indeed angered-her demonic heritage was inescapable. Ruby skin and great black wings overwhelmed her noble elf’s features, and her slender serpentine tail coiled and uncoiled with agitation. “Tell me, Mardeiym, why haven’t you destroyed it yet?”
Mardeiym Reithel was a lord of the fey’ri, and Sarya’s most trusted general. Unlike many of Sarya’s minions, he knew her well enough to sense that her anger was not directed at him, and he did not quail before her rage.
“Strong old magic guards it, my queen. I would not presume to destroy something of such antiquity without consulting you first.”
“Antiquity?” Sarya snorted. “I am four times as old as this shameful stone. Don’t speak to me of its antiquity!”
The daemonfey queen stood before the old monument the humans called simply the Standing Stone. It stood thirty miles south of Myth Drannor, at the spot where the road leading south to Sembia met the Moonsea Ride. Twenty feet tall, the gray obelisk was covered with old runes and hidden Elvish script that proudly — proudly! Sarya marveled-described how the great elven realm of Cormanthyr had given over the governance of its unforested lands to dirt-grubbing human squatters.
The flyspeck lands known as the Dales dated back to that day, growing up in and among the vales of the mighty forest… and the coronals of Myth Drannor had given the humans their blessing. Of course, time had demonstrated the folly of that decision. The coronals of Myth Drannor were dead, and their kingdom was no more. But Sarya could see clearly that this shameful monument in front of her marked the day that the elves’ decline in Cormanthor had begun.
“Dlardrageth coronals would never have descended to such degrading pacts with humans,” she spat. With a flick of her wings, she turned her back on the Standing Stone and confronted her chief general. “You have now consulted me. Have it pulled down and broken into rubble. Use whatever power is necessary to overcome its wards. I never want to see this… emblem of weakness again.”
“It shall be as you say, my queen.” Mardeiym bowed his horned head in acknowledgment. He paused, and added, “The drow emissary still awaits.”
“I absolutely will not receive him standing in front of that,” she said, flicking her tail at the Standing Stone. “He is at the ruined keep?”
“He is, my lady,” Mardeiym affirmed.
“Come with me, then,” Sarya said.
She reached out and took Mardeiym’s hand, then teleported away from the road. There was an instant of darkness, of cold, and she stood in the courtyard of a ruined human keep, long abandoned. The place stood atop a rocky hill a few miles from the Standing Stone, overlooking the road. Less than a month before Seiveril Miritar had used that very keep for his headquarters while he hesitated on the doorstep of Myth Drannor, but since then the leader of Evermeet’s Crusade cowered in the supposed safety of Semberholme, a hundred miles to the south. Well, she would deprive him of that refuge soon enough.
A party of four drow waited for her, surrounded by her fey’ri and yugoloths. It was a blazingly hot day, but the dark elves wore long hoods to shade their eyes. Bright sunlight was more than a little uncomfortable to them; they much preferred the gloom of the forest, or better yet, the cool darkness underground. Sarya could have invited them to step into the shadows of the keep’s remaining buildings, but she decided that she had no particular need to make the drow comfortable.
She approached the dark elves, and studied them for a time. “I am Sarya Dlardrageth,” she said. “To whom am I speaking?”
One of the drow limped forward. A brace of leather and iron encased his left leg. “I am Jezz, of House Jaelre,” he answered. “Sometimes called Jezz the Lame, for reasons which should be obvious. These are my kinsmen Tzarrat, Dreszk, and Zilzin.”
Sarya frowned in distaste. Before the ancient quarrel of House Dlardrageth with the rulers of Arcorar, before the war of great Aryvandaar against the lesser elf nations, all other elves had stood against the drow. Daemonfey and drow had rarely met, as far as she knew, but she had no reason to think well of the traitorous dark elves.
“I see you have earned the special disapproval of your spider-goddess,” she said, looking at the clumsy brace. Any highborn drow should have had the resources to have such an injury healed with magic.
Jezz gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose Lolth doesn’t think well of me at all, or any of my kin, for that matter. We turned our backs on the Spider Queen centuries ago, and follow Vhaeraun instead.”
“Ah. You are the drow who hide in the Elven Court, then.”
“We are. The cursed light-elves abandoned this realm; we decided to claim it for our own.”
“I think you will find that I have already done so.”
Jezz shrugged. “We are a practical race, Lady Sarya. We recognize strength when we see it. You are clearly the master of Myth Drannor, at least for now.”
“For now, and for centuries to come.” Sarya folded her arms and flicked her tail in irritation. “Now what is it that you want with me, drow?”
“We want to come to some understanding with you,” Jezz answered. “We share a common enemy, after all. Should the Crusade succeed in evicting you from Myth Drannor, we have no illusions about who would be next. It would seem to be simply logical to agree to leave each other in peace… or, possibly, to consider how we profitably might work together against our mutual foes.”
Sarya snorted. “In other words, you have determined that I hold the winning hand, and so now you hope to share in the spoils.”
Jezz inclined his head. “As I said, Lady Sarya-we are a practical race.”
“Why should I share my conquests with you, drow? Why should I not have you thrown from the battlements for your presumption?”
“How many more enemies do you need, Sarya Dlardrageth?” the drow countered. “We do not have your strength, but we have some strength, and I think you would find us a more difficult conquest than the fat human farmers of Mistledale. If you are so strong that you can crush us at the same time that you fight against Sembia, Hillsfar, the Dales, and Seiveril Miritar’s army, then you should do so, and dictate your terms to us. If, perhaps, you think it might be prudent to save just a little more of your strength for your true enemies, then hear me out.”
The daemonfey queen measured the drow lord, thinking. Mardeiym would certainly advise her to avoid starting more wars, at least until they successfully concluded one of the wars they already had. The forest drow were not as strong as her fey’ri legion, but they could muster hundreds of skilled and stealthy warriors… at the very least, it would seem to make sense to leave them alone in the eastern forest, if they were willing to concede the rest of Cormanthor to her.
Besides, agreements could always be amended later, she reminded herself. She would not permit the drow to remain in Cormanthor unless they accepted her suzerainty, but that was a question she did not have to resolve that day.
“I agree that we need not fight each other,” Sarya told the drow. “I will not send my legions against your holds in the Elven Court. And I admit that I am intrigued by the possibilities of cooperation.”
Jezz sketched an awkward bow. “Then may I suggest that we find some place out of the sun to further develop our arrangement?”
From Highmoon, Araevin and his small company rode north, to a lonely mausoleum in the depths of the Sember woods. Seven tendays past they had discovered the place while exploring a network of magical portals whose entrance was burie
d under the former daemonfey stronghold at Myth Glaurach. Seiveril Miritar had used the portals to traverse a thousand miles in the course of a few short days, bringing the Crusade from the Delimbiyr Vale to the deep woods of Cormanthor. Araevin retraced their steps, passing back to the long-abandoned City of Scrolls by means of the magical doorways that he and his friends had explored.
They found Myth Glaurach guarded by a company of wood elves from the nearby High Forest, reinforced by several wizards of Silverymoon’s spell-guard. The daemonfey had shown no sign of returning to their original stronghold, but the folk of the High Forest and the Silver Marches intended to make sure that evil did not return to the old city.
Araevin and his friends enjoyed a fine lantern-lit dinner under the sighing firs of the wood elf camp on Myth Glaurach’s forested shoulders, and spent no small amount of time telling the tale of the Crusade’s efforts in Cormanthor. After that, Araevin asked the wood elves about the best way to the old stronghold of Nar Kerymhoarth. They did not answer right away, but instead summoned a slender elf huntswoman to the feast. She was lithe and handsome, with copper skin and the russet hair of her people, which she wore in a single long braid behind her.
“I am Gaerradh,” the wood elf said to Araevin. “You are Araevin? The mage who took this mythal from the daemonfey?”
“I am,” Araevin answered. “These are my companions Maresa, Donnor, Nesterin, and Jorin. I understand you know the way to Nar Kerymhoarth?”
Gaerradh nodded. “I know the place well. I’m the one who discovered what the daemonfey did there.”
“You were there?”
“Yes. That was several months ago, of course. The daemonfey magic ripped the place in half. It looked like a mountain giant had struck off a whole hillside with his axe.”
“Did you see the daemonfey assault on the dungeon?”
“No, I came upon the scene about two days after they had left.”
Maresa leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you found a big magical crystal lying around, did you?”
Gaerradh looked at her blankly. “I am afraid I saw no such thing. What sort of crystal?”
The genasi sat back. “It was worth a try,” she sighed. “It is about this long-” Araevin held up his hands, six inches apart-“and pale white, with a hint of violet light in its depths.”
“Is it important?
“I think so,” said Araevin. He went on to sketch out what he knew of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal, explaining how he hoped to use it to put an end to the manipulations of the daemonfey. “So, we hope to find a shard of the crystal somewhere near Nar Kerymhoarth. Can you tell us where to start?”
Gaerradh shook her head. “We keep people away from the place because it has always been dangerous. But your efforts speak for you, Araevin. If you need to go to Nar Kerymhoarth, I’ll take you and your companions there.”
“Thank you.” Araevin bowed.
Gaerradh returned such a stiff and formal parody of a sun elf bow that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Sun elves are so solemn about everything,” she said with a smile. Then she hurried off while Maresa and Nesterin were still holding their sides, and even dour Donnor was laughing softly.
In the morning, they set out toward the southwest, leaving the tree-grown ruins of Myth Glaurach behind them. They left their mounts in the care of the elves there, since the terrain was better suited to travel afoot. For most of the day they picked their way through the steep foothills and stream-filled gorges of the Talons, the swift cold mountain streams that formed the headwaters of the mighty Delimbiyr River. Then they veered west and skirted the forest verge, staying well to the north of the fuming crevasse where Hellgate Keep once stood.
“Turlang the Treant stands watch over the place, but it isn’t safe to go any nearer,” Gaerradh explained. “The Scoured Legion of Kaanyr Vhok lurks in the pits deep below the ruins of the keep.”
Gaerradh led them to a well-hidden wood elf shelter, concealed high in the branches of a mighty shadowtop, where they camped for the night. Then, a little after sunrise, they continued on their way. Satisfied that they’d circled far enough around Hellgate Keep, the wood elf turned southward and led them into the depths of the High Forest. Araevin was struck by how different the woodland was from the forests of Evermeet or even Cormanthor. The High Forest was old, with a high, thick canopy so dense that sunlight did not reach the forest floor. While summer in Cormanthor had been humid, even sweltering at times, the air beneath the mighty boles was so chilly and damp that he could not believe the month was Flamerule.
“The trees don’t like us,” Donnor muttered when they halted for a brief rest. “I can feel it.”
“They sleep more deeply here than they do in the Yuirwood, but they dream of dark things,” Jorin agreed. “If I were you, I would avoid giving them offense.”
The Lathanderite grimaced and wrung out the hood of his cloak. “I won’t speak ill of them if they extend the same courtesy to me.”
Shortly before sunset, they finally reached the rocky tor of Nar Kerymhoarth, the Nameless Dungeon. A low hill of ancient stone rose up through the forest mantle, its sides draped with young evergreens. Without Gaerradh’s aid, they might easily have missed it altogether. Approaching from the north, there was nothing to indicate that a buried vault lay beneath the hill. The wood elf led them around the base of the tor and finally brought them out into a valley between two arms of the hill.
“Here,” said Gaerradh. “This is the place where the daemonfey opened Nar Kerymhoarth.”
Araevin frowned. All he saw was a desolate clearing in the forest between the rocky arms of the hillside. But then he realized that the defile in which they stood was not a natural valley, but instead a titanic bite taken out of the hillside. Clover and blackberries covered much of the bare dirt, but shorn tree trunks marked the edges of the vast wound, and great boulders lay tumbled out of place all around them. The defile ended in a deep cleft in the hillside, where a dark cave mouth awaited.
“Let me guess,” Maresa said. “In there? That would be our luck. Trolls, demons, devils, whatever in the Nine Hells that monster Grimlight was… I just can’t wait.”
“It may not be inside,” Araevin told her. “The crystal might be lying on the forest floor a mile or two away.”
The genasi eyed the beckoning darkness under the hill. “Care to wager on that?”
Nesterin looked to Araevin. “You said that this was an old elven stronghold,” the star elf said. “Who delved it, and why? What is the story of this place?”
“Its name is Nar Kerymhoarth. My people do not like to speak of it,” Gaerradh answered for Araevin. “Because we don’t tell its name to outsiders, the place became known as the Nameless Dungeon. It’s one of the Seven Citadels of ancient Siluvanede.
“Long ago, three elven kingdoms shared this forest: Eaerlann, Siluvanede, and Sharrven. Siluvanede was the strongest of the three realms. It was a sun elf kingdom whose people hoped to build a realm to rival long-lost Aryvandaar.
“But a new shadow fell over Siluvanede. The sun elves grew proud and ambitious. Many were seduced into swearing allegiance to the daemonfey-though the Dlardrageths remained hidden for a long time, guiding the kingdom’s affairs in secret. Finally war broke out among the three kingdoms; Eaerlann and Sharrven stood together against Siluvanede. That was the Seven Citadels’ War.” Gaerradh glanced at Donnor and Maresa, hesitating, but then she continued. “In the last years of the war, the fey’ri legions appeared. The foulness of the daemonfey was revealed for all to see. But Eaerlann and Sharrven together overcame Siluvanede.
“My ancestors bound the fey’ri and their masters in timeless magical prisons, buried beneath their ancient strongholds. The people of Eaerlann and Sharrven vowed to keep an eternal watch over these places.”
Araevin picked up Gaerradh’s tale. “Sharrven fell not long after Siluvanede,” he said. “Eaerlann endured for many centuries more but was overthrown five hundred years ago, when demonic hordes emerged from H
ellgate Keep and destroyed all the lands nearby.”
Gaerradh nodded. “Our watch failed. By the time my people returned to this part of the forest, we’d forgotten the story of the old prisons. We knew that something old and evil slept in the secret strongholds of the forest, and so we kept watch. But we didn’t know why.”
“You seem to have pieced it all together now,” Jorin observed.
“Only because the daemonfey showed us what we’d forgotten.” Gaerradh shrugged. “I only learned the beginning of the story-the story of the fey’ri and the Seven Citadels’ War-after speaking with the sages and scribes of Silverymoon this summer.”
“So Sarya Dlardrageth’s fey’ri army was imprisoned right in there-” Donnor Kerth nodded at the ruined hillside-“after some ancient elven civil war?”
“Yes, you are right,” the wood elf answered.
“Any idea of what lies buried here? What sort of magic or guardian monsters we might find?”
Gaerradh shook her head. “We never set foot in the deeper halls of the Nameless Dungeon. They were sealed so thoroughly we didn’t even know they existed.”
Araevin checked the wands he carried holstered on his left hip, and studied the dark opening in the hillside. “I suspect that Sarya emptied the place when she freed her legion. But there’s only one way to be sure, isn’t there?”
CHAPTER THREE
25 Flamerule, the Year of Lightning Storms
Maresa peered down each of four branching hallways, keeping her crossbow pointed in the direction she was looking. The deep halls of Nar Kerymhoarth were still as death, and the air was heavy with a damp, musty scent.
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