“I ruined it,” Araevin groaned. “The portal’s gone.”
“Right now, I don’t count that a loss,” Filsaelene said. “They’re on that side, and we’re on this side. I don’t know if we could have held them off for much longer.”
“You don’t understand,” Araevin said. “I stopped them from following us, yes, but when we want to use this doorway again, we won’t be able to.” He sighed, furious with his own clumsiness. All questions of practicality aside, he hated to be the mage responsible for wrecking a work of magic that might have been a thousand years old. It made him feel like a vandal.
“I don’t know if that is a loss worth regretting, Araevin,” Ilsevele said. She stood up and gingerly looked down at the scorch marks on her armor. “After that fight, the daemonfey are certain to guard that portal exit heavily. We probably couldn’t have used it again, even if we wanted to.”
“So, what now?” Maresa asked.
“Back to the mountain fortress, and Myth Glaurach,” Starbrow said at once. “We have to tell Seiveril and the others where the daemonfey are hiding.”
“Agreed,” Araevin said. “And Sarya has found herself another mythal to twist to her own purposes. We have to stop her before she gathers a new army here.”
Ilsevele looked over at Starbrow, and offered him a small smile. “For what it’s worth, Starbrow, that was some of the finest swordplay I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you’re still in one piece after standing in front of that four-armed monster.”
The moon elf winced, looking down at the slashes he hadn’t turned aside. “It’s not the first time I’ve fought such as him,” he remarked. “Now, let’s get going before they think to gather some teleporting demons and come here looking for us.”
The Citadel of the Raven stood on a high, windswept hilltop many miles to the north of Zhentil Keep itself. Legend had it that the forbidding walls and deep-delved halls beneath the ground had been made by giants, and Scyllua had never managed to think of a better explanation for stairs better than two feet tall and doorways sixteen feet in height. She climbed through the glowering black ramparts, taking the wooden risers that had been fitted between the fortress’s cyclopean stairways. It was bitterly cold, despite the weak spring sunshine. The citadel was dozens of miles north of even the northern shores of the Moonsea, and the high elevation and lack of cover seemed to invite cold, shrieking winds from the vast wilderness beyond.
She paid little attention to her own discomfort. She rarely did, after all. Her mind was fixed on other things, and she had long ago discovered that clarity and determination could overcome any bodily weakness, such as fatigue or hunger or pain. Purpose was all one needed, and that was something that Scyllua Darkhope had in abundance.
She reached the gates to the Stone Court, the inmost bailey of the great keep, and swept past a dozen mailed guards who wore the black-and-yellow surcoats of Zhentil Keep, not even noticing their nervous salutes. Within the high court stood several large, strong towers, armories and barracks and banquet rooms fit for a royal seat, but Scyllua walked past these to a squat round bulwark at the far end of the keep. This sturdy tower housed the Temple of the Black Lord, the citadel’s shrine to Bane, the fearsome patron of the Zhentarim and Scyllua’s absolute lord and master.
Temple guards in black and green stared straight ahead as she climbed the steps, refusing to acknowledge her presence-as was only right and proper. As warriors of Bane entrusted with their sacred post, they bowed to no one. Scyllua passed into the fane beyond, where a towering idol of black stone carved in the shape of a mighty armored lord stood. Without hesitation, she threw herself down on the cold stone floor and abased herself.
“Great lord,” she murmured, “Favor your worthy servant, and destroy any who displease you. At your word the heavens tremble and the earth groans. I am a sword in your hand. Let me be the instrument with which you smite your enemies.”
“You stand high in the Black Lord’s favor, Scyllua,” came a voice from above her. “Some mouth the words of that prayer and secretly hope that our dread master never takes them up on the offer. You, however, possess true zeal. The Black Lord has plans to do just as you ask, I am sure of it. Now, what brings you to the Citadel of the Raven? The last I heard, you were busy fortifying the vale of the Tesh.”
Her prayer finished, Scyllua easily climbed to her feet despite the heavy armor she wore, and turned to face the speaker. He was a tall, powerfully built man, with thick arms and a broad, square jaw. A mane of deep red hair framed a pale face dominated by a long, drooping mustache.
“I crave an audience with the Anointed Hand of the Black Lord, Lord Fzoul,” she said, bowing deeply.
Fzoul Chembryl smiled coldly, an expression that failed to warm the measuring malice in his hooded eyes.
“Such formality is hardly necessary between us, Scyllua. You are no mere novice or underpriest, after all.”
“We are all novices before the Great Lord Bane, Lord Fzoul.”
“Yes, of course. But you must take care, Scyllua, to avoid the sin of humility. The Great Lord demands abasement in the face of one’s betters, true, but he also requires us to govern absolutely those who stand below us in the grand hierarchy Bane has prescribed for mankind. To suggest that any novice or initiate is your equal in the eyes of the Mighty King of All is to deny Bane’s will.”
Fzoul inclined his head to the idol that towered over the shrine, and descended to the chapel floor.
“Yes, Lord Fzoul. I submit myself for correction.”
“I deem no more necessary-this time. Now, I doubt that you came here to seek my instruction on minor matters of the Black Lord’s tenets. I am going to take some air on the walls. Consider your audience granted, and join me on my walk.”
Fzoul strolled out of the temple into the citadel’s courtyard, pausing in the doorway to hold his arms outright while a pair of attendants quickly draped a heavy mantle over his garments to keep him warm. He paid them no mind, nor did Scyllua. “There is something very odd going on in Myth Drannor,” she began.
“There is always something odd going on in that dreadful elven wreck. It’s the nature of the place.”
Fzoul climbed slowly up a nearby stairway to the top of the wall, ignoring the fiercely cold wind. In the distance, long, knifelike peaks still held flanks full of snow. The High Priest of Bane paused to survey the view.
“I would not report a routine occurrence to you,” Scyllua said. “A few days ago, the wizard Perestrom of the Black Network came to me in Yulash. He told me that the ruins of the city are now occupied by an army of demonspawned sun elves. He guessed that better than a thousand of these creatures occupy the ruins, and he also said that a great number were competent sorcerers as well as swordsmen.”
“Demonspawned sun elves?” Fzoul asked. He pulled his gaze from the distant peaks.
“I rode to Myth Drannor to see for myself, leading a small company of trusted soldiers.” Scyllua possessed an unusual steed, a nightmare of ghostly white. The demon-horse could gallop through other planes at need, and gave her the ability to ride fast and far by strange roads indeed. “Perestrom’s observations were accurate. There is an army of these fellows gathering in Myth Drannor. I took the liberty of instructing the clerics and mages in my command to scry and divine what they could of this, and they gave me a name: the daemonfey.”
“Now that is interesting,” Fzoul said. He pulled on one side of his mustache, thinking. “You may not have heard, yet, but I have just learned that the elves fought some kind of fierce campaign in the Delimbiyr Vale over the last couple of months. Soldiers of Silverymoon were sent into the High Forest to confront orcs led by demonic sorcerers, and an army of demons appeared near the ruins of Hellgate Keep and marched south into the trackless mountains where the elven city of Evereska is reputed to lie. A great battle was fought on the Lonely Moor only a few tendays ago.”
Scyllua nodded. The Delimbiyr Vale was more than five hundred miles distant, but Zhentarim spie
s and merchants were firmly established in the towns of Llorkh and Loudwater, which were not too far away. And Zhent agents had a way of gathering rumors from the savage races of the North, the orcs and goblins and such. If elf armies were marching around in the wilds of the Graypeaks, the orcs would have noticed.
“Were these daemonfey involved with that, my lord?”
“Our sources passed on stories of demon-elves and such, but I had frankly discounted them. But now… hearing of demonspawned elves twice in the course of only a few days, I am much less inclined to treat this as groundless rumor.” Fzoul resumed his pacing, his hands clasped before his chest. “So you say they are in Myth Drannor. What is the significance of an army in Myth Drannor?”
“It menaces any of the northern or central Dales,” Scyllua replied. “It serves as a check on any designs that Sembia or Hillsfar might have in the region. And it certainly might constitute a threat to our own holdings on the south shore of the Moonsea.”
“They are enemies of the elves. That suggests they are no friends of the Dalesfolk.”
“There is something more. Perestrom also claimed that these daemonfey had the allegiance of the devils of Myth Drannor.”
Fzoul frowned deeply, and continued his walk along the ramparts, passing guards posted along the imposing walls. No enemy was likely to approach the citadel unseen, so the sentries were little more than ornamentation, but Scyllua approved. Discipline and regimentation were the foundations of an army’s strength, and soldiers inured to onerous duties in times of peace would not balk at them in times of war.
“How many devils are there in Myth Drannor?” he wondered aloud. “One hundred? Two hundred?”
“There could be many more than that, if they have been keeping their true strength a secret. And baatezu are certainly clever and patient enough to conceal their numbers if it suits their purposes.”
The lord of Zhentil Keep halted suddenly, looking sharply at his high captain. “I had not considered that possibility.” He glanced off toward the south, as if he might catch a glimpse of the distant elven towers, forest-mantled. “Could this herald the beginning of a fiendish invasion of the Dales? Infernal hordes have brought down more than one kingdom in Faerun.”
“Myth Drannor itself was destroyed by such an invasion six hundred years ago,” Scyllua observed. “At least, powerful fiends captained that army. If they appeared in Cormanthor once, it could happen again.”
Fzoul grinned fiercely and struck one gauntleted fist into the other. “North of Myth Drannor lies Hillsfar. South, east, and west lie sparsely settled Dales. Any way a fiendish army in Myth Drannor turns, one of our enemies stands in the way. If we stood by and did nothing, we could hardly help but to profit from our enemies’ discomfort. How much more could we gain if we actively sought to turn events to our advantage?”
“You have a plan, my lord?” Scyllua asked.
“I will soon,” Fzoul promised. “I want you to march an army to Yulash, and be prepared to strike east toward Hillsfar or south toward the Dales, as events demand. In the meantime, I must seek Bane’s will in this matter. Opportunities such as this do not come along every day, and I want to be certain of the mark I’m shooting at before I loose my bolt.”
Araevin protected the portal in the mountain fortress with a powerful spell of sealing, just to make sure that the daemonfey would find it difficult to make use of the portal nexus even if they managed to somehow repair or restore the damaged gate at Myth Drannor. Then they gathered up for burial the body of the dead human mage whose ghost had attacked them, and returned to Myth Glaurach, four days after they had set out to chart Sarya’s portal network.
Starbrow went at once to report their findings to Vesilde Gaerth and the other captains of the Crusade. Weary and wounded, Araevin and the others trudged back to the ruined shell that had been set aside for their campsite, shucked their packs and armor, and tended to their injuries with spells of healing and restoration. Then they went in search of hot baths, eventually finding the city’s old bathhouse down in the main body of the elven camp. Though little more remained of the building than its pools and its crumbling walls, the forest that had grown up in and around the city roofed the bathhouse well enough, and elves had arranged several screens for privacy. The pools had been cleaned and filled with fresh water, well-heated by stones kept warm in a big brazier nearby. Araevin parted from his female companions and enjoyed a long, hot soak in the pool set aside for men.
When he returned to the company’s campsite, he found a messenger awaiting him, a young moon elf who wore the colors of a squire in the Eagle Knights.
“Mage Araevin?” the fellow asked. “I have been sent to bring you to Lord Seiveril’s quarters. He has returned from Evermeet, and wants to see you and your companions.”
“Seiveril’s back?” Araevin sat up, shaking off his fatigue. “I’ll be there soon. You’ll find Ilsevele and the others at the bathhouse.”
In a little less than an hour, Araevin, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene found themselves back in the old library that served as the headquarters of Seiveril’s army in Myth Glaurach. Starbrow reappeared as well, still dripping wet from a hurried bath to clean the grime and blood from his body.
“Sorry to keep you from resting now,” he said to Araevin and Ilsevele, “but Seiveril wants to hear this straight from you.”
“I simply want to make sure that I understand the tale as best I can.” Seiveril Miritar came into the room, dressed in simple traveling clothes. Vesilde Gaerth followed him. Seiveril embraced Ilsevele, and took Araevin’s hand in a strong clasp. “Welcome back. I understand you have been busy while I was away on Evermeet.”
“We have, Father,” Ilsevele said. “We followed the daemonfey to Myth Drannor. They’re encamped in the ruins of the city, gathering their strength again.”
“Worse yet, Sarya Dlardrageth has another mythal to pervert,” Araevin added. “This one she has guarded more carefully than the last. I attempted to wrest control of it from her, and discovered that I could not contest her authority.”
Seiveril’s eyes darkened. “Start from the beginning, and tell me everything. I want to hear this story in its fullness.”
Together, Araevin and Ilsevele described how they navigated the chain of portals to Myth Drannor and what they found in the ancient capital of Cormanthyr. Maresa and Starbrow added details as they came up. Then they answered question after question put to them by Seiveril and Vesilde, until Seiveril finally nodded.
“All right,” he said, “I have heard all I need to hear. If you are confident that Sarya has hidden her army in Myth Drannor, I am as well. We will pursue them without pause, and put an end to the daemonfey once and for all.”
“Are you certain that is a wise idea?” Vesilde Gaerth asked. “You may have trouble persuading Evermeet’s sons and daughters to go a thousand miles farther east and fight another campaign in a place where there are no living elven realms to defend.”
“The daemonfey are our enemies. If we drive them into the middle of peaceful human kingdoms and leave them alone to turn their evil against non-elf neighbors, how will the humans and other folk of Faerun thank us?” Seiveril asked. He paced away from the others to gaze out at the snow-capped mountains, gleaming in the morning light beyond the forests that surrounded the old city. “Besides, Vesilde, consider this: Sarya Dlardrageth has already demonstrated that she can and will attack Evermeet from Faerun. I think the warriors of Evermeet who march under our banner will be willing to fight some more to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
“Cormanthyr is a long march indeed. It would be many hundreds of miles on foot, and we would have to cross Anauroch as well,” Vesilde said. “I doubt the phaerimm have forgotten their defeat in Evereska. For that matter, the Shadovar might not permit our passage.”
“There are elfgates leading to Cormanthyr from Evermeet, aren’t there?” Ilsevele asked. “Return to Evermeet by means of the gate in Evereska, and go from Evermeet to Cormanthyr
.”
“I do not think that will be possible,” Seiveril said. He turned from the window with a small frown, his hands clasped behind his back. “The council will not permit me to launch another crusade from Evermeet’s shores.”
Seiveril fell silent, and no one else spoke for a time. Maresa fidgeted, but for once the genasi kept her opinions to herself. Finally Starbrow looked up and addressed Seiveril.
“Presuming that our warriors are still willing to follow you in sufficient numbers that we can field an army,” Starbrow said, “there is still the question of how to get them from here to there. Is the march across Anauroch possible, or not?”
“I don’t know,” Seiveril replied. He looked to Araevin. “Can we bring an army through the portals you explored?”
“The portal leading to Myth Drannor’s Burial Glen was destroyed when we fled,” Araevin answered. “You cannot bring your warriors to Myth Drannor through that door.”
“It would have been impossible to force our way into the daemonfey stronghold through that portal, anyway,” Starbrow added. “It only worked once every few hours.”
Ilsevele glanced over at Araevin. “What of the portal before the one leading to Myth Drannor? Starbrow said that the mausoleum stands in Semberholme or somewhere in western Cormanthor.”
“Cormanthor is a very large forest,” Starbrow said. “That portal might be a hundred or more miles from Myth Drannor.”
“Still, it would save you the march across Anauroch,” Ilsevele said.
“It won’t go quickly,” Araevin cautioned. “The portal in the mountain fortress requires the casting of a spell, and each casting would only permit a handful of soldiers to pass through. You’ll need a mage to activate the portal for each four or five soldiers, and even a competent mage won’t be able to activate the portal more than a dozen times in a single day. If you have twenty wizards in your army who can cast the proper spell, it would take you at least four or five days to pass your army through the portals.”
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