Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  Baring his fangs, he began to zigzag back and forth across the field, imitating the older orcs who kicked and prodded at the elven bodies. Every now and then, one of them found an elf who yet breathed. Each discovery was heralded by triumphant howls, and the sounds of thudding clubs and spears.

  But the young orc's status had placed him too near the back of the horde, and he was too late to claim any of the trophies taken that day. It occurred to him, when at last the secondhand battlefield fell silent, that this was not hunting at all, not really. They were more like ravens and wolves, cleaning up after the dragons.

  The gray shrugged. Ravens and wolves-these were not so bad to be. And if he could not kill elves today, then tomorrow was nearly as good. The river was but a half day's march to the south. Along the edge of the river was a large elven settlement. Though it had been fortified with walls and magic, it would fall readily enough. How could it not? The forest elves, archers and fighters who were the city's advance defenders, were all dead. Moreover, the dragonflight usually followed the course of the river, and surely dragonfire had tumbled parts of the walls, perhaps even toppled those wicked Towers. And there were many, many orcs on the move, orcs who were in near-frenzy from their first taste of slaughter.

  Tomorrow, the elven city. Tomorrow, the joy of the hunt and the pride of many trophies would be his.

  Chandrelle Durothil, the powerful daughter of Evermeet's high councilor, led her Circle in yet another spell of summoning. Even through the deep concentration of the spell, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of dragonflight beyond the tower windows-the thumping of giant wings, the screams and roars the massive creatures emitted as they wheeled and swooped.

  She could also feel the powerful crackle of the magic that thrummed through the air. On all of Aber-toril, no creatures, not even the elves, were as inherently magical as the dragons. Only the rebirth of the dragonriders, the union of dragons and elves in an incredible joining of magic, offered the elves hope of survival against the approachng orc hordes.

  The elves of Faerun were not the only people to suffer from the flight of rampaging dragons. Wars between the races of dragons had been long and costly. Now the evil dragons of the south-red dragons, mostly, with a few smaller but no less deadly blacks-gathered together in nearly unprecedented numbers for the northward migration. Along the way, they deliberately destroyed the holdings of the peace-loving wyrms. Bronze dragons found their lakes reduced to drifting steam and cracked, lifeless beds. Gouts of flame melted rock, sealing entrances to the caves of silver and gold dragons and trapping many of the creatures within.

  Chandrelle had been among the first elves to travel through the new gates that in recent years had linked Evermeet to the mainland. Her husband, a newcomer and a distant relative who also bore the name Durothil, had helped establish the gate between Evermeet and the city of his birth.

  Now the city lay in near ruin. Once, it had been a fair place, protected by walls and powerful magic, and situated on the banks of a broad, trout-filled river. Dragonfire had destroyed the farmlands and forests beyond, and had blasted huge gaps in the walls. An entire quarter lay in smoking ruins. Only the mithal, a powerful shield of magic, had kept the city from utter destruction.

  But the Tower still stood, High magi joined with the scores of other magi sent from Evermeet to help buttress the tower. They chanted powerful spells that summoned and bound the goodly dragons. In ancient times, dragonriders trained their mounts from birth, bonding to them with deep and mystical connections. There was no time for this now.

  Shouts of excitement from the city below alerted the magi to their success. Chandrelle skillfully tapered off the flow of power and released the magi from their collective spellcasting.

  "Seven more have come," she said in a voice that still thrummed with power. "There are now enough dragons for us all."

  Along with the other mages, Chandrelle hurried from the tower to greet the newcomers. One of the dragons, a gold female, stepped forward and dipped her massive head in a gesture of respect to the High Mage.

  "We have heard what you plan to do," the dragon announced in a voice that shook the Tower. "It is madness."

  "It is needed," Chandrelle insisted. "Your people cannot fight the evil dragons alone, nor can we. We need your powers of flight to overtake and surround those who fly north. You need our High Magic to stop them."

  "And when they are slain? What then?"

  "Then your kind can once again live in peace, and we elves can rebuild our cities."

  The dragon shook her golden head. "So much power, so little wisdom," she murmured.

  "You will not help us?" Chandrelle pressed.

  "We have little choice. Your magic compelled us to come-it compels most of us to serve."

  It was not the endorsement that Chandrelle would have liked, but it would have to do. The mage quickly explained to the newly arrived dragons their part in the plan. Hastily fashioned saddles were brought and strapped onto the creatures. Today was the practice flight. There could be only one.

  Excitement mingled with trepidation as Chandrelle climbed onto her dragon mount. Dragonriders had used magic for centuries, but never before had a Circle attempted to join together while riding dragons!

  The creature's wings unfolded with a loud, booming crash. Before Chandrelle could catch her breath, the dragon was airborne.

  As a High Mage of Evermeet, during her years in the Towers of Aryvandaar, Chandrelle had seen many wonders. None of them equalled dragonflight for sheer exhilaration. They soared upward like a shooting star in reverse. In moments the city was as vague as a forgotten dream, the river a mere ribbon. The elf threw back her head and laughed into the racing wind.

  When the clouds lay below them like mounds of snow and mist, the dragon leveled off and began to circle. Other dragons broke through the clouds, and one by one they fell into formation. It was time for the casting to begin.

  Chandrelle sank deep into herself, seeking the magic that flowed through her and with it reaching out to the minds of the other magi. One by one, she pulled them into the Weave. The elf gathered the threads and wove them into a single spell of destruction-the most powerful spell attempted since that which had sundered the One Land in a time of legend.

  At first light the following day, the High Magi and their dragon mounts gathered for final preparations. Their mood was somber, even though the testing of the spell had gone well. Perhaps, because it had gone so well. The magnitude of the destruction they would soon unleash was not an easy thing to contemplate.

  Nevertheless, more than a hundred pairs of dragons and riders took to the air that morning. They climbed high into the sky until they were well above the sunrise clouds, and then flew with magically enhanced swiftness toward the north.

  The path of the dragonflight was not difficult to follow. Sometimes in search of prey to fuel their flight, sometimes just for the love of destruction, the evil dragons burned the land and slaughtered all the creatures they found. Black and red these dragons were, and in the charred and blood-soaked land they left a grim reflection of themselves.

  Before highsun, the dragonriders overtook their quarry. The horde of evil dragons swept low to the ground, intent upon their orgy of destruction. At that height the winds were capricious, the air thick with a blend of morning mist and smoke from the burning woodlands. The evil dragons could not fly as swiftly as those that pursued them.

  At a signal from Chandrelle, the dragonriders dispersed and began to form a wide circle over the horde of dragons below. They flew in careful formation, like an enormous flock of glittering gold and silver geese.

  The elven magi began the chant, summoning the magic and spinning it in a dizzy circle. Together they formed a whirling cone of air and magic, a storm larger than any the world had known, and sent it plunging down toward the dragons below.

  There was no warning, no time for the migrating dragons to pull away from the attack. One moment, the sounds filling the air were those of their
own making: the boom and crackle of the burning woodlands, the distant cries of fear and pain from the forest creatures below, their own triumphant roars. All these were muted, suddenly and completely, by the descending cone of magic.

  The whirling winds caught the dragons and spun them helplessly about. Many were killed in the first sudden rush of explosive sound and power. Their enormous bodies acted as bludgeons as the wind whipped them against their still-living comrades.

  Nor did the destruction stop there. Burning trees were torn from their roots and sucked up into the vortex. Within moments, the whirling cloud was a ghastly shade of reddish gray, a mixture of smoke and carnage.

  The gold and silver dragons above instinctively shied away from the force in their midst, fearing, despite the success of the day before, that they themselves might be drawn into the surging, killing magic.

  But as suddenly as it came, the whirlwind died. A terrible black and crimson storm rained down upon the blasted countryside as the slain dragons-perhaps as many as two hundred-were released from the terrible vortex.

  And just as suddenly, Chandrelle was falling. The magic she had fashioned was gone. For the first time in her life a spell had disappeared too fast for her to withdraw carefully. Dimly, she noted that her grasping hands still held the dragon's reins, that the forest below was still passing by in the giddy blur of dragonflight. Her mortal body was safe, but nonetheless, she was falling.

  Instinctively, the mage realized what had occurred. The death of so many dragons, so many magical creatures, had severely torn the fabric of the Weave. Her own magical essence, which had been bound inextricably into the casting of this spell, has been ripped free of the mortal world along with the dragons her magic had slain. She was dead. Her body simply had not yet had the chance to grasp this reality.

  As if from a distance, Chandrelle saw her form grow translucent and fade away into motes of golden light. Her dragon mount seemed dazed and confused by the sudden break in the magical bond they had shared. The creature veered wildly aside-directly into the path of a venerable silver dragon.

  The crash of impact reverberated over the ruined land. The silver's elven rider was thrown off; the mage's limbs floated limply as he spun helplessly, unknowingly, down toward the uprushing ground. The pair of dragons grappled helplessly as they strove to release themselves from the tangle of wings and elven livery.

  Too late they broke apart. Just as Chandrelle's dragon managed to spread her wings, the massive, jagged trunk of a pine thrust up through her body like a spear. The impaled dragon struggled briefly, then sagged down, a glint of tarnished gold against the charred landscape. The silver dragon pulled into a glide, but there was nowhere for him to go. Nearby the flames had flared up high and hot, stoked into a frenzy by the swirling winds. The dragon's brief and desperate flight ended in a thick bank of black smoke, and the sucking winds that swept him toward the crackling inferno beyond.

  Vhoori Durothil, the High Councilor of Evermeet, listened in silence to the grim tidings brought from Sumbrar's tower.

  A flight of dragons was wending its way northward across Faerun, laying waste to the land. Many elven settlements had fallen, either as prey to the dragons or to the ravening orcs and goblins that followed in their wake.

  "What of the dragonriders?" he asked. "My daughter Chandrelle sent word of her plan. We have sent many High Magi to support her."

  A long silence met his words.

  The mage's old friend, Brindarry Nierde had risen nearly as high in his chosen work as had Vhoori. The Gold elf warrior now commanded not only Sumbrar, but all of Evermeet's fighters.

  The mage sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew all too well that light in his friend Brindarry's eyes-a near manic eagerness for battle. Clearly, the elven warrior had a plan in mind. "What do you recommend?"

  "We cannot ignore the suffering of the People. There are a few magical gates between the island and the mainland. I say we create more. Many more."

  "Those are not easily created, and should never be used lightly. The cost of magical travel is high."

  "And the cost paid by the mainland elves is not?" retorted Brindarry. "We must send warriors to help counter the orcs and Circles of High Magi to fight the dragons."

  "And what of Evermeet? If we do as you suggest, her defenses will be dangerously reduced."

  Brindarry sniffed. "I think not. Under your leadership, the island has been secured against all possible attack. When was the last time anyone saw a scrag or a sahuagin? When was the last time a hostile ship came anywhere near the island? Between the Guardians and the Starwing fleet, no foe can get near."

  "Say that I agree with you," Vhoori suggested. "Even so, the council almost certainly will not."

  "Then dissolve the council. Their time has passed." The mage considered this. Elven tradition had long considered the best governance to be a council of elders, a body that would give advice through collective wisdom rather than enforce compliance through power. Though the People nearly always followed the council's advice, they put high value on individual thought and freedom of personal choice. The elves of Evermeet would resist bitterly any perceived attempt to curtail these long-held rights.

  On the other hand, news of the mainland troubles would send many elves scurrying to arms. Some of them had not been long in Evermeet, and many of these newcomers had near kin living in the areas scourged by the dragonflight. Other elves held firmly to the principle of unity among the People, and would fight just as fiercely for a stranger as they would their own kin. And regardless of personal circumstances, all the elves of Evermeet shared a sense of destiny, and their place in it. Evermeet represented hope and haven for all elves. In times of such darkness, hope must be brought to the elves who were too beleaguered to seek it. Even if the council voted otherwise, the elves, with a little encouragement, would almost certainly rally in great numbers to the rescue of their distant kin.

  And when Evermeet was nearly emptied of warriors and magic, when the noble clans who held council seats were busy elsewhere, Vhoori Durothil would declare himself king. Who would gainsay him, when the battles were over? Not even the most querulous Gray elf on the council could argue with success.

  "Start gathering your forces," Vhoori said. "We will summon the Circles, and begin creation of the gates at once."

  Back in the shattered elven city, Brindarry Nierde stood ready with his warriors. In the first moments of dragonflight, Chandrelle Durothil had spotted the advancing orcs and had sent word to him through one of her father's speaking gems. Brindarry was ready, even eager, for the battle to begin.

  He had lived all his life on Evermeet, and so he had never had the opportunity to fight the People's traditional enemy. In his mind, this day he and his would relive the legendary battle of Corellon Larethian and Gruumsh One-Eye. His elves would prevail just as surely as did Corellon, and they would join in the legends and the glory of the elven god of battle.

  Suddenly the Gold elf's senses tingled weirdly. Something had changed, something important. It felt rather like the rain and mist of a summer shower had disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving the skies utterly dry and clear. To the elf's fey sensibilities, the air suddenly felt-thin. Empty.

  "The mithal," breathed the elf, understanding what had happened. The magical shield that had staved off the city's utter destruction was no more.

  A moment's panic swept through the warrior. He was confident of his skills and those of his elven fighters, but he acknowledged the cost of a failure would be enormous. If the defenders should fall, the gate to Evermeet would be left open. Never had Brindarry imagined that it might be possible for orcs to set foot upon the island.

  The warrior snatched up the speaking gem that linked him to Chandrelle Durothil. The stone was cold and silent, the magic gone. Chandrelle was dead. The dragonriders would not be returning to lend their combination of dragon and elven magic to the battle.

  Brindarry possessed one more magical gem, one that was even more
powerful. He tugged a golden pendant from beneath his tunic and focused all his will upon the large, smooth stone set into it. In moments, the angular face of Vhoori Durothil appeared within.

  There was little time for words, no time at all for explanations. Already the city resounded with the clash of weapons along the breached walls, and the dull thuds of bombards as the orcs sought to batter down the riverside gates.

  "What is it, my friend?" Vhoori demanded. "I hear battle. Do you need aid? More warriors, magic? What can I do?"

  Just then the vast wooden gate splintered, and orcs spilled through the city wall like water through a broken dam. Brindarry pulled his sword and spoke his final words to his dearest friend.

  "There is but one thing you can do. Close the gates to Evermeet."

  Two days passed before seven dragons and their elven partners limped back to the city. The survivors found a river polluted with the bodies of thousands slain, streets that were red with dried blood, beautiful buildings reduced to rubble. Even the Tower, one of the proudest survivors of the High Magic tradition of ancient Aryvandaar, had been tumbled and despoiled.

  The elves camped that night in the ruined city. Even the dragons bedded down in empty courtyards and ruined marketplaces, and attempted to tend their wounds and gather their wits. The fey creatures that had survived the dragonriders' battle were left dazed and stunned by the aftermath of the spell.

  None of the remaining magi could agree on what to do next. The magical gates had been closed-they could not return to Evermeet by such means. It was unlikely that new gates would be created soon. The island kingdom had been drained of both wizards and warriors. The few remaining High Magi on Evermeet would have other, more pressing work, and the warriors were too few to protect new gates against possible invasion. One thing was clear: The personal power of any single surviving mage was not what it had been. The destruction of the evil dragons might have saved many elven lives, but the damage to the fabric of the Weave was beyond measure.

  In the years that followed, the stranded magi of Evermeet scattered like autumn leaves. Some stayed near the river to rebuild the city, or took off into the forest in search of other elven settlements. Others had been entranced and entrapped by their taste of dragonflight, and stayed to form bonds with their dragon mounts.