Seiveril twisted in his saddle—an awkward motion in his plate armor—and verified once again the companies of knights and cavalrymen who waited behind the infantry. Ferryl Nimersyl and the Moon Knights of Sehanine, along with the remaining Knights of the Golden Star and Lord Theremin’s men-at-arms from Deepingdale, made up most of that force. If Seiveril’s hammer blow on the center carried the Zhentish earthworks, it was their job to stream through the hole and devastate the camp.
“All right, Adresin,” he said. “Pass the word: Forward, march!”
Adresin softly called out the order, and the banners of Seiveril’s command company dipped once. All along the line, keen-eyed elves watched for the visual signal. Seiveril had no intention of announcing the attack with horn blasts or battle cries. With an uneven surge, the elves flowed smoothly out into the misty fields before the enemy’s own earthworks. The Zhentilar had raised their last camp only five miles from the town itself. The elves and the Grimmar had closed to within a mile in a cold, dark march they started three hours after midnight.
Corellon, grant us a swift and easy victory, Seiveril prayed fervently. Lull the Zhents to slumber for just a little longer. I do not want to send any more of your sons and daughters to Arvandor than I must today.
Their mail muffled with strips of cloth, silent in the dim fog, the army pressed forward. The elves were taking care not to march in step, and did not have heavy footfalls in any event, so all that met Seiveril’s ears was an ominous rustle and creaking, punctuated by the occasional soft whicker of a horse or a low cough. Steadily the ramparts drew closer, and in the morning mist Seiveril found himself entertaining the curious conceit that his army was standing still, while the waiting battle at the ramparts was slowly advancing on him instead of the other way around.
A brilliant stroke of lightning flashed overhead, followed by a peal of thunder. Seiveril looked up at once, and saw in the fading brilliance the shape of a great, winged monster wheeling overhead. He glimpsed a dark figure astride the flying monster, a staff clutched in his hands. The Zhentilar sky mage hurled another blast of lightning down at the Grimmar off to his right, but then a pair of Eagle Knights streaked down out of the dark skies, lances couched. The monster croaked and turned away as a furious melee erupted in the skies over the elves’ march.
“Well, I didn’t really think we would reach the camp undetected,” Seiveril muttered. “Adresin, wind your horn! Now is the time for speed!”
In the crude earthworks ahead a flat iron gong began to sound, beating an alarm. But a moment later it was drowned out by the high, clear ringing of dozens of elven horns. From the Crusade came a great roar in answer, and the elves and Dalesfolk broke into a run, hurrying to cross the last few hundred yards of ground before the Zhents could fully man their palisade.
A barrage of battle-magic blasted out from the Zhentilar camp, streaking fireballs and scathing ice storms, but Jorildyn and the other battle-mages were ready for that. They quickly countered most of the Zhentish magic, dispelling deadly invocations or raising magical shields to ward off battle spells. Many of the Zhentish spells faltered, broken on the elven defenses, but a few streaked through and detonated amid the onrushing elf and human soldiers. Horses screamed in the cold air, and battle cries became shrieks of pain, but the elves’ rush swept on unbroken. From a dozen places in the elven lines mages halted their advance for a step to reply with spells of their own, scouring the enemy earthworks.
“Archers!” cried Seiveril. “Cover the ramparts!”
Trained to fire on the move, elf archers began to shower the palisade with a silver storm of arrows. Even though the Zhentilar rushing up to take up station behind their staked ditch-and-berm were well hidden by their earthworks, all an elf archer needed was a glimpse of a foe to send an arrow winging his way with uncanny accuracy. Seiveril was close enough to see bands of gnoll archers gathering behind the ramparts to fire back, as companies of ogres, bugbears, orcs, and black-clad human pikemen streamed up to defend their ramparts. But they were slow to form ranks, and several large gaps beckoned, places where Zhentil Keep’s soldiers had not yet reached their posts or elven battle-magic had seared the ramparts clear.
We have them! Seiveril thought, and he started to give Adresin the order to charge.
But at that moment the air all around Seiveril and his guard rippled and boomed with dozens upon dozens of sulfurous belches. Demons and devils by the score appeared all around Seiveril’s banner, grinning with needle fangs, eyes ablaze with hellish glee as they teleported to attack Seiveril’s standard. Elves surrounding Seiveril cried out in panic, and horses screamed in sudden terror.
“’Ware the demons!” cried Adresin. “To the banner! To the banner!”
The center of the charging elven line was thrown into chaos. Seiveril found himself beset by a pair of insectlike mezzoloths, fearsome hellspawn who carried great tridents of iron. He danced his mount aside from the stabbing points, and barked out the words of a prayer that unsummoned one of the monsters, hurling it back into the foul netherworld from which it had come.
The other monster lunged and nearly impaled the elflord with a low belly thrust that Seiveril barely blocked with his shield. He reared his warhorse and battered at the monster with his courser’s deadly silver-shod hooves, then wheeled around and caught the dazed yugoloth off-guard, smashing at it with his holy mace. The weapon burned with a pure white light as it struck demonflesh, and the mezzoloth’s beak clicked and hissed in pain.
The mezzoloth reeled back out of reach and vanished in the confusion of the fray. Seiveril looked around desperately, trying to see what had become of the attack. The Zhentish ramparts were only sixty yards away, and he could see that on both the right and the left that the wood elves and the Dalesfolk were already sweeping up and over, laying down a storm of arrows. Whole companies of elven infantry from the center continued their attack as well, already ahead of the demons who had suddenly teleported into their midst. And behind him the Moon Knights and Knights of the Golden Star were falling upon Sarya’s demonic minions. Seiveril had wanted to use them to wreck the camp, but they had to drive off the demons and devils, and Ferryl Nimersyl knew it.
A gout of fearsome hellfire washed over Seiveril, and he staggered in his saddle as his mount reared and screamed. The elflord wrestled with the animal, speaking a quick healing prayer to salve his mount’s injuries, and looked up just in time to catch the heavy blow of a nycaloth’s brazen sword on his shield. The hulking monster snapped at him with its awful maw, and caught Seiveril’s right arm in its teeth. Elven plate crumpled in the force of its bite, and Seiveril cried out as the foul fangs pierced his flesh. His mace dropped from his fingers, and the nycaloth wrenched him out of his saddle, shaking him like a dog worrying at a rabbit.
“Get away from me, hellspawn!” Seiveril snarled.
He ignored the agonizing pain in his arm and the bruising and battering, finding the clear still center in his soul where Corellon Larethian’s divine power waited, and he shouted out a holy word of great power. In a burst of supernal white light Seiveril blasted a circle twenty yards wide clear of demons, devils, yugoloths, and all other sorts of foul creatures from the lower planes. The nycaloth shaking him vanished with an ear-splitting howl, so suddenly that Seiveril dropped to the ground and went to all fours, shaking his head.
Wincing inside his helm, he looked at the blood streaming from the punctures in his arm, and took a moment to whisper another healing prayer, staunching the wound. Then he groped for his silver mace and clambered to his feet, looking for his mount.
“Lord Seiveril! Are you hurt?” Adresin rode up, his golden armor badly scorched on one side, but seemingly unhurt otherwise.
Ferryl Nimersyl of the Moon Knights followed him, his gleaming white armor spattered with black gore.
“I’ve lost my mount, but I am all right,” Seiveril managed.
He spied another horse nearby, its owner nowhere in sight, and hurried over to swing himself up into
the saddle. The Golden Star knights and the Moon Knights were all around him, battling furiously against those hellspawn that still remained. He groaned in frustration, seeing the chaos that had come from the daemonfey intervention … but then a ragged shout of triumph from the right caught his ear. He looked toward the ramparts, and saw that only a few dark islands of Zhentilar soldiers remained on the ramparts. Left and right, wood elf and Dalesfolk archers held the earthworks and rained arrows down into the camp from point-blank range, and even in the center, the Evereskans had managed to seize their line as well.
“What kind of unholy alliance has Sarya forged with the lower planes?” Ferryl Nimersyl snarled. “Demons, devils, yugoloths all fighting together—they are supposed to be the most implacable of enemies!”
“I have no answer,” Seiveril replied, though it was a question that troubled him too. There was no time to answer it just then, however. “Ferryl, rally your knights to my banner. I mean to take that camp.”
The commander of the Moon Knights nodded and called for his riders to gather at Seiveril’s banner. In the space of a hundred heartbeats, better than fourscore knights of both the orders assembled in a dense knot around Seiveril. Then they rode forward, veering to make for the gap where the Evereskans had breached the rampart. Seiveril kept his eyes away from the elf warriors who lay still among the stakes of the ditch and the steep berm, spurring his new mount to scramble up the rampart.
At the crest of the earthwork, he paused to take in the scene. There was little fighting along the rampart. The elves had seized the camp’s fortifications. But a furious melee still raged among the tents and wagons of the Zhentish camp. The first gray gleam of the coming dawn lightened the sky to the east, and by its faint light Seiveril could see to the far side of the camp—where hundreds of Zhents were streaming north, abandoning their encampment. But waiting for them along the road to Voonlar was the Silver Guard of Elion, with Starbrow and Edraele Muirreste at its head, five hundred elven cavalry to ride down and harry the Zhents as they fled.
“Well done, Seiveril,” said Ferryl Nimersyl. “Even with the demon attack, your plan worked. We’ve got half their army trapped between us and the Silver Guard.”
Seiveril nodded. “Corellon has favored us again. Come, my friends, we have hard and ugly work to finish here.”
With a high battle cry he spurred his way down from the earthworks into the camp, followed by the knights of Evermeet.
Araevin and his comrades remained at Tower Deirr for several days, guests of Lord Tessaernil, Nesterin, and their folk. They were not prisoners—at least, they were not disarmed or confined—but Tessaernil was very clear that they were not to leave without his permission. Maresa prowled the tower continuously, more than half-convinced that they were prisoners who simply didn’t know it yet, but Araevin availed himself of the opportunity to study the elflord’s library of old tomes, and Ilsevele studied the star elves themselves.
They were an ancient people, the descendants of the old kingdom of Yuireshanyaar that had once stood in Aglarond’s forests thousands of years ago. In appearance they were very much like moon elves, though they tended toward fair hair instead of the dark brown or blue-black of most moon elves. But Araevin found their reserve and serious demeanor more reminiscent of many sun elves he knew. They had a love of song and music that was remarkable, even among elves, and when a truly skilled singer such as Nesterin raised his voice, the effect was so unearthly and beautiful that time itself seemed to fall still and listen.
As Nesterin had told them, the star elves had created Sildëyuir as a refuge, a place to which they could Retreat from the cruel and ambitious human empires that had arisen in the ancient east. More than a thousand years before the raising of the Standing Stone in the Dales, the human kingdoms of Narfell and Raumauthar, as well as Unther and Mulhorand, had fought furiously for dominion in the region. In western Faerûn many elves had retreated to Evermeet to avoid such ambitious human empires, but the star elves had decided to simply remove their entire realm rather than abandon it to flee elsewhere. All of Sildëyuir was a great work of high magic, an echo of the Yuirwood itself spun into starshine and dusk through mighty spells of old.
Since the creation of Sildëyuir, the star elves had slowly slipped farther and farther from Faerûn, leaving the daylight world to its own devices. Many still traveled through the old elfgates and roamed Aglarond or the Inner Sea, but they passed themselves off as moon elves, and did not speak of their homeland to strangers. Few elves remained in the forests of the east outside of Aglarond itself, and those who lived within the Yuirwood kept their silence regarding the star elves’ secret.
Araevin spoke with Tessaernil at length, and discovered that after leaving Arcorar almost five thousand years ago, the wizard Morthil had returned to Yuireshanyaar and subsequently become that realm’s grand mage. He had played a leading role in the affairs of the kingdom for several centuries. The former apprentice of Ithraides had gone on to become an even greater mage than his master in time, founding a society of wizards known as the Seneirril Tathyrr, or the Mooncrescent Order. The order survived all the long centuries from the time of Arcorar down to Sildëyuir’s creation, three thousand years after the time of Ithraides and two thousand years before the present day.
“Even among elves, that is a very great span of time,” Araevin said to Tessaernil and Nesterin as they sat together in the library. “How is it that Morthil has been remembered for so long?”
“His tomb lies in the rotunda of Mooncrescent Tower,” Tessaernil said. “He was revered as the founder of the order. I saw it when I studied there in my youth.”
Araevin’s heart leaped in his chest. He set his hand to his breastbone, and felt the Nightstar murmur under his touch. Morthil’s works had survived to within a single elf lifetime of the present day. Was it too much to hope that a telkiira stone or a spell passed down from master to apprentice over the years might still endure, too?
“Does any of Morthil’s handiwork still survive? Lore-gems, spells he created, spellbooks he scribed?”
“When I was young, there were stories told in the Seneirril Tathyrr that the secret libraries and vaults of the tower might hold such things. But that was a long time ago—about three hundred years after the making of Sildëyuir and the translation of our kingdom into this plane.”
Araevin stared at Tessaernil. “You told me before that Yuireshanyaar had been removed to Sildëyuir two thousand years ago. You have lived that long?”
“Time flows differently in Sildëyuir, Araevin. One year passes here for every two in the world outside.” Tessaernil offered a small smile. “I was born over eighteen hundred years ago, but I am in truth not more than nine hundred years old.”
“You may not find that remarkable, but few of my folk reach nine centuries, even in Evermeet,” Araevin said. “Queen Amlaruil might be that old, but she enjoys the blessing of the Seldarine themselves.”
“It is noteworthy among my people as well,” Nesterin observed. He offered a crooked smile. “I introduced Lord Tessaernil to you as my uncle. It would have been more accurate to add a few ‘greats’ before that.”
“You said before that you thought Morthil’s tower lies in the farthest reach of your realm—you were referring to Mooncrescent Tower?”
“Yes,” Tessaernil replied.
“So I need only speak to the masters of the tower, then,” Araevin said. “They will be able to help me with Morthil’s ancient lore.”
“That is the problem,” Nesterin said. “The order failed some time ago, and Mooncrescent Tower has been abandoned for centuries. It lies at the very border of our realm. Given what I recently discovered when I visited House Aerilpé, I fear that the place may no longer be accessible.”
“As soon as you give me leave to, I certainly intend to try it, regardless of the tower’s present circumstances,” Araevin answered. “I have no small experience in dealing with ancient ruins and warding magic.”
The older elflord
nodded. “I cannot understate the peril you may face, Araevin, but I did not expect that you would depart without trying.” He glanced to Nesterin and continued, “I have spoken with some of the other House lords of our land, taking counsel about you and your companions. I have decided to allow you to attempt Mooncrescent Tower. Nesterin here has agreed to guide you, at least as far as any road will serve.”
“I thank you, Lord Tessaernil,” Araevin said. He stood and offered a deep bow to the ancient elflord.
“You might not later, if things prove as dangerous as I fear they may,” Tessaernil said. He stood as well, and gravely returned Araevin’s bow. “You may set out when you like, Araevin. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey.”
For two days, Scyllua Darkhope fought with every inch of her zeal and determination to extricate something from the disaster on the borders of Shadowdale. By all rights, the Zhentarim army should have disintegrated completely in the retreat back to Voonlar, harried as it was by the slashing attacks of pursuing elf riders. But Scyllua personally commanded the rearguard action, turning at bay and standing her ground whenever the elves pressed too close, then wheeling away to gallop another mile or two down the road as soon as the elves had been repulsed again.
As she harangued the last weary companies of the rearguard, keeping them on their feet and moving north through nothing more than her own unswerving will, she found Fzoul Chembryl at a nameless ford ten miles south of Voonlar. The lord of Zhentil Keep and his company of guards came riding south, against the march of soldiers retreating north, breasting a path through the exhausted ranks with callous indifference.
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