Farthest Reach lm-2

by Richard Baker

“This way, my friends.”

  Nesterin gathered up Araevin’s company and led them into the tower proper. It was a comfortable elven palace, though quite strongly built-more a citadel than a home, really, with high, well-made walls of stone. It was large enough to be home to a hundred or more people, but Araevin quickly formed the impression that substantially fewer folk than that lived in Tower Deirr. They passed other elves only at odd intervals, and the echoing halls and corridors seemed too perfect and bare to have been lived in much.

  Nesterin showed them into a small banquet room at the top of a winding flight of steps that ascended the rocky pedestal of the tower’s hilltop.

  “Please, lay down your packs, doff your cloaks, and make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “I will send for refreshments for you.”

  “Thank you,” Araevin murmured.

  He shrugged his backpack from his shoulders and rested his staff by the door. The others followed suit. In the space of a few minutes they were dining on platters of fruit and warm bread. Nesterin joined in as well, with an apologetic smile.

  “I fear that I haven’t eaten in a couple of days,” he said between bites. “I left Aerilpe in a hurry, as you might imagine.”

  As they ate, a tall, lordly star elf dressed in elegant robes appeared at the hall’s door. Araevin sensed a deep and studious mastery of the Art in the elflord, a strength of spirit that reminded him of the might of Evermeet’s own high mages. He had eyes of pure jet, with not a hint of iris, and his elegant features seemed to be graven with the weight of long care. His long white hair was bound by a platinum circlet at the brow, and hung loose to his collarbone and the nape of his neck.

  “Jaressyr told me you’d returned, Nesterin,” he said, his voice inflectionless. “I see that you have company.”

  Nesterin stood and bowed. “Lord Tessaernil,” he said. “May I present Araevin Teshurr and Ilsevele Miritar of Evermeet, Maresa Rost of Waterdeep, Donnor Kerth of the church of Lathander, and Jorin Kell Harthan of the Yuir? My friends, this is Lord Tessaernil Deirr, my mother’s elder brother and the master of this House.”

  The star elf lord nodded gravely to them. “I have heard that you aided Nesterin in a desperate hour. You have my thanks for that. I want to hear what brings you to our land, but first-I did not expect you back so soon, Nesterin. Is everything well at Aerilpe?”

  The younger elf frowned, and shook his head. “No, my lord, I fear that it is not.” He quickly recounted the tale he had told Araevin and his friends, and went on to tell how he had encountered the company in the old stone ring at the edge of the hills as he fled from the nilshai. “These travelers may very well have saved my life,” he finished. “The nilshai pursuing me were more than I would have cared to face alone, and they were close to overtaking me when Araevin and his friends intervened.”

  “We would have done the same for anyone in your circumstances,” Donnor Kerth said gruffly. “How could we have stood by and done nothing?”

  Jorin looked to the two star elves and spoke. “My lords, I hope you will forgive my curiosity,” he said. “I visited Sildeyuir once, many years ago. I do not recall meeting such dangerous and fell creatures abroad in your realm. Have these monsters always been here?”

  “They have been getting much worse of late,” Tessaernil admitted. His habitual frown deepened until his face seemed almost empty of hope. “There are portions of the realm that have been drawn almost completely into their influence. We are not a warlike people, but it is clear that we face a threat that we cannot hide from any longer. If the nilshai have learned how to assault our Towers, we face a dark and desperate battle indeed.” He sighed, and turned to face Araevin. “Now, sir, you have already seen and heard more of this realm than I would like. I must ask: What brings you to Sildeyuir? Who are you, and what do you want here?”

  “I am in search of knowledge that has been lost in the world outside your realm,” Araevin said. “I hope that it still exists here, though.”

  “Knowledge?” Tessaernil folded his arms. “What sort of knowledge?”

  “Thousands of years ago, a star elf mage named Morthil lived among the elves of Arcorar,” Araevin answered. “He helped the grand mage of that realm to defeat an ancient evil. I have reason to believe that Morthil returned to his homeland with magical lore that he removed from the enemies of Arcorar. I need to find out if anything of what Morthil removed from Arcorar still survives.”

  “There must be some reason you have come all the way to Sildeyuir in search of this old lore,” Tessaernil observed. “What do you need with it?”

  “I need it to defeat the enemies that Morthil once fought,” Araevin said. “They are called the daemonfey, and they are an abominable House of sun elves who consorted with demons long ago.”

  He decided that Tessaernil was not an elf to be trifled with, and chose to tell him the story of events since Dlardrageth’s return as completely and openly as he could.

  When the tale was told, Nesterin and Tessaernil stood in silence for a long moment. The older lord finally moved to a seat at the head of the table and sat down heavily, his gaze troubled and distant.

  “First Nesterin’s tale, and now this,” he murmured. “It has been a long time since I heard two such stories in the same day. We keep abreast of doings in Aglarond and the Yuirwood, but news of the wars and perils of the distant corners of Faerun rarely find its way to our realm.”

  Araevin paused, steeling his nerve to ask the question. “I perceive that you are skilled with the Art, Lord Tessaernil. Do you know of magical lore brought out of Arcorar to Sildeyuir? Have you heard the name of Morthil before?”

  Tessaernil looked up at Araevin, his dark eyes unreadable. “I know that name,” he said. “And I think I know where you might recover at least a remnant of Morthil’s ancient lore. But you will find that it is a dark and difficult journey, son of Evermeet. Morthil’s old tower lies in the farthest reach of our realm, in the borderlands where things have been slipping away into strangeness for many years now. Even if the place has not vanished entirely, I do not see how you can get there without passing into the domain of the nilshai. Few indeed return from that journey.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  23 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

  For two full days, Seiveril waited for the Zhentarim army to attack Shadowdale-town and the Twisted Tower. Forty-five hundred elf warriors of the Crusade held the woodlands and fields a couple of miles north of the town, standing alongside more than a thousand humans gathered from all corners of Shadowdale, a strong company from Deepingdale, and even a few dozen veterans from nearby Daggerdale. But having lost the foot race to crush the Dalesfolk before the elves of Evermeet arrived in Shadowdale, the Zhentilar settled for a very deliberate and cautious approach. Instead of pressing forward to the attack, they advanced at a snail’s pace. By night the Black Network had fortified their camp with great earthworks and palisades.

  On the evening of the third day, Starbrow found Seiveril standing among the pickets at the northern end of the elven camp, gazing out across the fields toward the distant campfires of the Zhentarim camp. The moon elf joined him in studying the enemy entrenchments for a time.

  “You understand what the Zhents are trying to do?” Starbrow asked.

  “I didn’t until this morning, when I saw that they were not marching today,” Seiveril replied. “But I see it clearly enough now. They are going to make us come to them if we want to force a battle. And I have to do it, because the longer I sit here waiting on the Zhents, the more likely it is that the Sembians and Hillsfarians will overwhelm Mistledale or march against our rear.” Seiveril ran a hand through his fine silver-red hair, and sighed. “I should have anticipated this response. Clearly our best strategy is to defeat our enemies in detail, and that means I must fall on the Zhents while their allies are still far behind us. The burden of action is on me.”

  Starbrow nodded. “You’re learning. So when do we fight?”

  “It has to be so
on,” Seiveril admitted. “Tomorrow is as good a day as any. What do you think?”

  “Tonight, an hour after moonset,” Starbrow said. “We’d have three hours until sunup. We see in the dark better than the humans, and we need less rest. It’s the best time for elves to fight humans, and our Crusade makes up better than three-quarters of the fighting strength we have gathered in Shadowdale.”

  “A good part of their army consists of orcs, gnolls, and ogres. The darkness won’t bother them.”

  “True. But if the Zhentilar break, the humanoid mercenaries in their camp might follow. It’s the best we can do. We could wait another day and plan a more deliberate attack for the day after tomorrow, but why give Sarya and her human pawns another day to close the noose around our necks?”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow morning.” Seiveril clapped Starbrow on the shoulder. “Pass the word to our captains. I have to speak with Lord Mourngrym and Lady Silverhand, and tell them what we intend.”

  He glanced once more at the open fields before him, wondering briefly how many elves and humans would meet their ends in those common farm fields by dawn the next morning. Then he turned away to go in search of the lord of Shadowdale and Storm Silverhand.

  He found Mourngrym Amcathra inspecting the old ditch-and-rampart earthworks that lay a few hundred yards north of the town, barring passage against any invader approaching along the northern road. The ramparts had been raised fifteen years past to defend the town against another Zhentarim invasion. The elven army was bivouacked a mile to the north, astride the road, but the Grimmar-as folk from Shadowdale preferred to be called, after the old Castle Grimstead that had once stood in the Dale-were readying the ramparts as a second line of defense. Mourngrym was pounding sharpened stakes into the ground with his own hands, hard at work with a whole crew of townsfolk, as Seiveril rode up.

  “Lord Miritar,” he said with a nod, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The Zhents are staying put?”

  “Yes, for now,” Seiveril said. He dismounted and left his reins with the knights who served as his guard. “They are not going to move, not as long as they hope to catch our army between the Red Plumes and their own force. Yet we have to scatter or destroy the Zhentilar as quickly as possible, so that we can turn back to deal with the Red Plumes and Sembians in Mistledale and Battledale. We will have to take the fight to them, I am afraid.”

  Mourngrym gave a stake two more taps with the wooden sledge he held then set down the hammer and said, “I’d rather stand on the defensive, but I understand your predicament. Shadowdale isn’t the only realm you’re fighting for. What do you have in mind?”

  “We will march against their camp and attack an hour after moonset.”

  The lord of Shadowdale glanced sharply at him. “You’ll have to start marching in a matter of hours. Can your captains organize an attack on a fortified camp that quickly?”

  “Yes,” said Seiveril, and he felt a pang of pride in his heart as he realized that he was not boasting. “It will be hard, but we have faced worse in the last few months.” He paused then added, “There is an advantage to a hasty attack. If there are any spies around-daemonfey or Zhent-they will not have much of an opportunity to discover our intentions and report.”

  “I wish that were not a consideration, but you are right.” The human lord looked off toward the north, where the ruddy glare of watch fires drew a broad red smear across the northern sky. “Elven archery in the night is a fearsome thing, but my folk will be hindered by darkness until the skies start to lighten. Could you detail a company of your scouts to march with the muster of Shadowdale? A few of your elves will go a long way toward guiding my folk to the fight in the dark, and helping them until it grows light enough for humans to see well, too.”

  “A wise idea, Lord Amcathra. I will make sure that a good number of Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves march in your ranks in the morning.” Seiveril looked around, and asked, “Is Lady Silverhand nearby? She should be told, too.”

  “She’s out in the eastern dale with a party of riders-Harpers and such folk,” Mourngrym said. “She saw an opportunity to waylay a Zhentilar cavalry squadron and a couple of sky mages that have been causing trouble out there, and I asked her to make a sweep of the forest border to make sure that the Zhents weren’t looking to march east and outflank our lines. I’ll send a couple of her Harpers after her tonight.” He offered Seiveril a grim smile. “You know, Storm told me before she left that she thought you’d move against the enemy camp within a day or two. I think she knew your mind before you did.”

  “It would not surprise me,” Seiveril answered. He stepped forward and gripped Mourngrym’s forearms. “I must return to our camp. We will send the wood elves soon, and the moment I know where and when we will strike, I will send word.”

  Mourngrym nodded. “If we can drive them out of their camp, there’s no place for the Zhents to stop running before they reach Voonlar. I like the thought of that.”

  Six hours later, Seiveril sat on his courser, armed and armored for battle. He had managed only half an hour of Reverie while the rest of the camp was rising and arming, since he spent his whole night hammering out the best plan of attack he and Starbrow could come up with. Yet he did not feel tired. The hour having come for him to test his strength against Zhentil Keep, he was anxious to be about it.

  “Edraele Muirreste reports that the Silver Guard is in position, Lord Miritar,” said Adresin. The young captain was Seiveril’s herald and adjutant on the field of battle. As much as Seiveril relied on Thilesil as his aide-de-camp, she was not a skilled fighter. Instead, she remained with the other healers and clerics to tend to the inevitable tide of the wounded and dying, and Adresin served as his voice and messenger on the battlefield.

  “Very good, Adresin.”

  Seiveril looked up and down along the line. Concealed with illusory mists that mimicked a low ground fog hovering over the damp, cold fields in the chill night air, the Crusade was arrayed for battle. In the center marched Seiveril’s best infantry, the Vale Guards from Evereska he had not left behind in Mistledale. Seiveril had also massed most of his magical might in the center. His bladesingers, spellarchers, and battle-mages marched among his heavy infantry, some openly, others disguised as common footsoldiers. To his left, on the west side of the dale, Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves were already slipping through the dark forests. On his right, where the land was somewhat more open, the Grimmar had gathered under their lord Mourngrym. Seiveril was surprised to find the townsfolk arrayed in quiet, purposeful ranks, with none of the sloppiness or empty bravado he might have expected of a hastily gathered militia. More than a few of those farmers and merchants knew their way around the battlefield, and the elflord realized that he had misjudged their strength. Then again, the Zhents had done exactly that more than once, hadn’t they?

  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 lon
ger. 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.