“They’ve got courage,” Starbrow said. “I’ll say that for them. And that’s at least two full companies over there.”
“I see them.” Seiveril watched the battle for only a moment before glancing back to Adresin. “Captain, let’s see if we can lend a hand. This looks to be a closer thing than I’d thought.”
Adresin nodded behind his visor. “We’ll do what we can, sir,” he said.
He motioned for two of his soldiers to remain close to Seiveril then he gathered the rest of the guards and raced off to join the skirmish. Seiveril approached more cautiously, anxious to lend his guards’ help to the battle, but not sure of where he could make himself most useful.
The fight raged on. The Zhentarim cavalrymen fought furiously, keeping their heads and working to cover their allies as best they could. Their armor was substantially heavier than the elf knights’, but the elves were faster and more nimble, and they fought with a skill and élan that the humans were hard-pressed to match. Time and again, elf riders danced close to their foes to slash with silver sabers or lash out with long-pennoned lances, only to parry the cuts of heavy broadswords or spur away from hard-driven lance-thrusts. Elf warriors with some skill at magic peppered the skirmish with darting blasts of golden magic or confused the human horsemen with shifting illusions and quick enchantments, confounding the Zhentilar’s efforts.
That’s a season of fighting the daemonfey, Seiveril thought with a fierce burst of pride. Our warriors have become a well-tempered blade indeed! He angled toward the right flank, drew his silver mace, and spurred forward to join the fight, shouting a wordless battle cry.
He crossed the last hundred yards in the blink of an eye, his mount’s hooves flashing like silver fire in the dusk, and Seiveril found himself in the fray. He batted aside a Zhentish lance and hammered the warrior out of the saddle with a great overhand swing, then wheeled his horse to meet another Zhentilar behind him in a furious rain of ringing blows as their weapons met with shock after shock, their horses stamped and whinnied, and cries of anger, pain, and triumph filled his ears. Seiveril dueled his swordsman to a standstill and was about to hammer down his guard, but an elf lancer took the man from behind and knocked him out of the saddle. The elflord spun around, searching for the fight. Starbrow battled close by, cutting an awful swath through the Zhentilar ranks with Keryvian’s pure white blade.
A shrill, terrible sound tore through the twilight, and the black earth around Seiveril erupted in a great blast. His horse was thrown sideways and fell, but Seiveril managed to hurl himself clear of the saddle before the animal rolled over him. Ears ringing, he found his feet and looked up.
Overhead a sinister, bat-winged shadow swooped down low over the battlefield. The monster’s long, blunt snout held a blind, gaping smile, and a long lashing tail twisted behind it. Between its humpbacked wings a black-clad human wizard sat in an ornate saddle, hurling down blasts of scorching fire as the huge monster winged over the fight. It opened its mouth again, and another shrill shriek flayed a pair of elf riders with an awful blast.
“What kind of abomination is that?” snapped Starbrow. He ducked away from a fiery bolt, and turned against another horseman nearby.
Seiveril didn’t have an answer for Starbrow, but he quickly intoned the words of a holy prayer to Corellon, invoking the divine power with which he was entrusted. Holy power seethed around his hand, and he hurled a blast of supernal light up at the monster. The brilliant white ray chewed into the flying monster’s flank, charring it, and the creature croaked in pain and awkwardly reeled away. But then a second flying monster appeared, also with a battle-mage riding between its wings. The wizard hurled a great blast of fire down at Seiveril.
Seiveril threw himself flat as the fireball burst over him and searing heat washed across his body. His cloak and surcoat smoking, he slowly picked himself up. All around him Zhentilar and elves alike had been scorched and scoured by the attack of the wizards on their flying beasts. With heavy, slow beats of their vast wings, the creatures circled for another pass, spurred on by their riders.
“Archers!” called Edraele Muirreste. “Get some arrows on those accursed wizards!”
The Silver Guards were outfitted for lance-work and sword play, but they were elves; every one of them carried a shortbow in a saddle holster, and knew how to use it. Many of the guards were still busy with the melee, but dozens quickly spurred clear of the fighting and drew their bows. As the flying monsters turned back toward the fray, elven bows began to thrum, and white arrows soared up into the crimson sky—at first a few, then a heavier and more accurate storm.
With another great croaking cry, the flying beasts turned away and flapped off, but not before their riders raised a long line of green fire across the trampled fields. Behind the leaping wall of magical fire, the Zhentilar horsemen quickly mustered, and retreated from the field, leaving dozens of dead and wounded behind.
Edraele rode up beside Seiveril, and took in his scorched clothing with a quick glance. “Lord Seiveril, shall we pursue?” she asked.
Seiveril watched the flapping beasts drawing away. “No, I think we’ve done enough for tonight. We’ll need to keep some Eagle Knights nearby from now on, just in case the Zhents have more of those flying wizards. And more archers among our troops would be a good idea.”
Starbrow also rode up, his eyes fixed on the departing wizards. “I am thoroughly tired of fighting flying creatures armed with magic,” he declared. “I had enough of that with Sarya’s daemonfey legion and their demons.”
“I agree,” Seiveril said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “At least this is a threat we know how to face—one more thing that Sarya Dlardrageth has taught us this year.” He looked around at the field of the skirmish, and frowned. Many of the Zhentilar had fallen, but so too had more than a few of the Silver Guards. “See to the army’s camp tonight, Starbrow. I will join you after I have done what I can for the wounded.”
Curnil leaned against the gray wheel of an old oxcart, exhausted beyond all endurance. The farmyard was littered with dead gnolls, but two of his Riders lay still on the ground. One band of bloodthirsty raiders would slay no more, but his squad was down to himself and Ingra. He looked over to Ingra, who sat holding a blood-soaked bandage to an arrow wound in her left arm.
“I hope to all the gods that things are better somewhere else,” he said. “We’re getting butchered out here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ingra replied. “So what do we do now?”
“Damned if I know.” For half a tenday, Curnil and his Riders had battled across the forest north of Mistledale, fighting their way right up to the very eastern edge of Shadowdale. He’d meant to turn back for home an hour ago, but the smoke of burning homesteads had caught his eye. The fighting had been fierce, but they’d saved the folk of one freehold from a death too terrible to contemplate. “Ride for Ashabenford, I suppose. We’ve done all we can here.”
Ingra started to nod in agreement, but then she looked up sharply. “Riders coming,” she hissed.
Curnil straightened and looked over the side of the cart. At first he couldn’t see anything through the green cornstalks, but then he glimpsed sunlight glinting on spear points. A double column of mailed horsemen came trotting into sight, led by a tall, slender woman whose long white hair was gathered in a single braid that trailed down to her waist.
“Grimmar,” he told Ingra. He raised one arm to catch their attention, and stepped out into the open.
The cavalrymen turned toward Curnil and rode into the farmyard, taking stock of the dead gnolls and fallen Riders. Their captain studied the scene for a moment, and doffed her helm, shaking the sweat and dust from her face.
Curnil looked up, and blinked. “You’re Storm Silverhand!”
“So I’m told,” the woman replied. She dismounted with an easy motion, hung her helm on the saddle horn, and turned to size up Curnil. “Riders of Mistledale?”
“Yes—though there were mo
re of us a few moments ago.”
“So I see,” Storm said with a sigh. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“We’ve been watching for Red Plumes or fiends from Myth Drannor passing north of Mistledale,” Curnil answered. He waved a hand at the dead gnolls. “We found their sign this morning, and followed them here. I … I didn’t know if any Grimmar were nearby to deal with these marauders, so I decided to take care of them.”
“I wish we’d been here a few minutes sooner,” Storm said. “I guess you couldn’t have known we were near. My thanks for what you and your companions did here, friend.”
“What else could we do?” Curnil sighed. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Silverhand—what are you doing out here? Aren’t the Zhentarim marching on Shadowdale?”
Storm gave him a sharp nod, and glanced off toward the west. “Yes. They’re not far off now. In fact, I should have turned back already, but I wanted to see for myself how things stood in the eastern part of the dale. I don’t like to leave such as these—” she toed a dead gnoll—“free to pillage and plunder in the east just because our eyes are fixed on the Zhentilar coming down from the north.”
“Will you be able to stop the Zhents, Lady Silverhand?” Ingra asked.
“We’re facing a hard fight tomorrow or the day after, but we’ve beat them before,” Storm said. Cold steel danced in her eyes as she gazed off toward the smoke-stained skies to the north. Then a weary smile crept back across Storm’s face. She held out her hand, and took Curnil’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Well, Riders of Mistledale, you might as well come back to Shadowdale with us. We’ll have work for you soon enough.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
21 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms
Jorin Kell Harthan led Araevin and his friends along the forest road for a day and a half more, leaving the circle of standing stones thirty miles behind them. It was hard to gauge the passage of time in Sildëyuir; the subtle darkening and lightening of the sky was no substitute for a true sunrise or sunset, and the hours simply had a way of slipping away. Araevin would find his mind turning to some thought or another as they traveled, only to come to himself with a start only to realize that miles had passed by under his feet while his mind was occupied. He began to wonder whether the great magic that had created this world beyond the world had also altered the flow of time in the place—but of course, he could not really test that without returning to the Yuirwood and Aglarond to find out how long he had been away.
On two more occasions they encountered strange creatures abroad in the woodland. The first time they met a wheeling, darting flight of great dragonflies whose gemlike bodies glowed in soft emerald and sapphire hues beneath the trees. Each insect was better than a foot long, which caused no small consternation on the part of Donnor’s horse, but the glittering swarm seemed merely curious about them, following the company for a time as they filled the air with whirring wing beats and soft light. On the second occasion, they sighted another one of the blue-black worm creatures crossing their path a couple of hundred yards ahead. It flew through the air on slick, gleaming wings, its spiraling motion twisting its flight into a strange aerial weave as it went. But the monster did not sight them, and simply continued on its way.
As the dimming hour approached and the skies began to darken again, they finally emerged from the great band of forest through which they had walked, finding themselves on the edge of a long stretch of low, rolling hills, crowned with waving silver grasses beneath the stars. There another large stone circle stood, which Jorin examined with great interest.
“I think I know where this place is,” he told Araevin. “Distance here correlates to distance in the Yuirwood. We’ve come more than forty miles to the south, as much as directions mean anything here.”
“Do you know where to find the star elves?”
Jorin nodded. “If I remember right, there is a citadel about ten miles in that direction.” He pointed over the bare, starlit hills. “It lies on the far side of this clear space.”
They made camp for the darkest hours within the circle of standing stones. Araevin could not detect any wakeful spells or magic within the circle, but he sensed old and powerful wards around the ring, and he judged them as good a defense as his own spells. He composed himself for Reverie, sitting cross-legged at the foot of a great stone with his back to the cold, smooth granite, and drifted off into strange dreams.
“Araevin.”
He roused to full wakefulness with a start, and found Ilsevele touching his shoulder.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A rider approaches. Two more of those dark creatures pursue him.”
Araevin climbed to his feet. Donnor Kerth stood beside one of the outer stones, murmuring calming words to the hitched packhorse and looking back along the forest path they’d recently passed. Ilsevele stooped to wake Jorin and Maresa next, while Araevin joined the big human by the stone. He followed Donnor’s gaze and spied the rider, galloping along the path. The trail ran alongside the stone circle for a time before doubling back, so they had an excellent opportunity to watch the fellow as he raced past them perhaps three hundred yards downhill, appearing and vanishing as he passed behind trees and steeper embankments along the trail. At that distance, he was little more than a glimmering white figure, tiny and distant, but Araevin quickly spied the flying monsters that followed him, twisting their way through the air above the trees … and gaining on their quarry.
“He’ll pass close by in just a minute or two,” Donnor said. “What do we do?”
“Hail him and make ready to stand against the flying creatures,” Araevin replied.
He didn’t know who or what the rider was, but he didn’t like the looks of the sorcerous worm-monsters at all, and he was not about to abandon anyone to them. Besides, the longer he watched, the more certain he was that the rider was an elf.
Donnor nodded. He drew his broadsword and pressed himself against the stone next to him, trying to stay out of sight. Ilsevele took up a position against another stone, her bow of red yew in her hands, and Maresa joined her. Jorin drew his own swords and slid down the slope a little to a boulder closer to the trail, crouching low to keep out of sight. Araevin took a moment to whisper the words of a spell of shielding, and waited.
The rider rounded the bend close by the ring of standing stones and spurred his mount—a fine dappled-gray destrier, stretching out its long legs with an easy grace that belied the speed of its run—up the hillside, following the trail as it wound past the old menhirs. The flying monsters shifted their own course and climbed over the trees, cutting the corner against their quarry. Araevin decided that he’d waited long enough. He stepped out from behind the stones and waved at the rider.
“Here!” he cried. “Into the standing stones!”
A momentary astonishment crossed the rider’s face, but he wasted no time at all. He wrenched the reins to the left and took his horse scrambling up the steep, grassy hillside. He was indeed an elf, though not of any kindred Araevin knew. He had skin as pale and fair as a moon elf’s, but his hair was a pale gold that didn’t often appear among the teu Tel’Quessir. He wore a gray cloak over a shirt of gleaming mithral mail and a quilted white doublet lavishly embroidered with gold thread.
“Beware the nilshai!” he called in Elvish. “They are fearsome sorcerers!”
The winged worm-monsters did not miss the rider’s change of course. They veered toward the hilltop ring and arrowed through the air. One of them whistled and piped loudly, twisting its limbs in a strange fashion, and a sizzling green orb of acid appeared before it. With a flick of its long torso, the monster hurled the acid ball at the company sheltering among the stones.
Great glowing gouts of emerald fire exploded around Araevin and his friends, searing flesh and burning foul, smoking holes in cloaks and clothing, but the stones served as good cover—Araevin ducked under the spattering acid, and he saw Ilsevele
throw herself forward out of the ring, escaping the worst of the blast. She rolled upright and fired three quick arrows at the nearest of the monsters. One shivered to pieces in midair, broken on some invisible shield of magic the worm had raised, but two others pierced its long, serpentine torso. It fluttered and twisted, its weird whistling taking on a shriller note.
Araevin incanted the words of a potent lightning spell, and blasted up at the two creatures with an eye-searing bolt of blue-white. One darted aside, but the wounded one could not escape. The bolt burned it badly, bringing it spinning to the ground, smoke streaming from charred patches on its hide. Donnor and Jorin charged it at once, blades bared, but the monster had fight in it yet—it pulled the Lathanderian’s feet out from under him with one swift jerk of its curling tail, and at the same time it enmeshed Jorin in a gleaming black spell-web of freezing shadows. Jorin’s charge came to a stumbling halt ten feet short of the creature.
“Damn it!” he snarled, gasping with the bitter chill that snared him. “I can’t get to it!”
Araevin turned his attention back to the nilshai that remained airborne, and managed to quickly parry the monster’s next spell, batting the alien magic aside with a quick countering spell. He exchanged two more spells and counter spells with the monster in the next few heartbeats, again astonished by the speed with which the nilshai worked its magic while continuously weaving and dodging against Ilsevele’s rain of deadly arrows.
On the hillside below him, Donnor gained his feet again and approached the wounded nilshai more cautiously. The monster lunged at him, battering at his shield with powerful blows of its whipping tentacles, but Donnor slashed it twice with his broadsword, weaving a glittering cage of steel with his blade. The nilshai recoiled from the human knight—and Maresa lunged in from behind it, fixing her rapier in the center of its torso between two of its three wings. The monster leaped and bucked, carrying Maresa’s rapier from her hand and knocking her to the ground. It shrieked a single high, harsh note, then drew into a tight coil on the ground and lay still.
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