Farthest Reach lm-2 Read online

  The small company set off down the broad path into the forest, passing into the eerie gloom beneath the gleaming silver trunks. The cool air was a welcome change after the warmth and humidity of the Yuirwood, and the absence of dense undergrowth made for good visibility and long, open views from the trail. At times it was so still and solemn that Araevin felt almost as if he was simply lost in some enormous temple, wandering among the works of dreaming gods. At other times they caught sight of the forest’s creatures: white owls high in the branches above, silver-gray deer that vanished quickly into the gloom, black squirrels that darted along the pale trunks, and once a great gray-furred bear that snuffled and snorted at something that had caught its interest on the forest floor, a good eighty yards off the path.

  Araevin soon came to realize that travel within the realm of Sildeyuir would be more than a little deceptive. The opalescent twilight that pervaded the woodland offered no hint as to how long they had traveled-it might have been an hour, or it might have been four. Gradually he noticed that the day, such as it was, had darkened somewhat, so that the purple velvet of the sky overhead had deepened into pure inky darkness, and in time a soft rain began to fall, so fine and thin that he did not even bother to draw up his hood.

  After a long spell of marching, they came to a moss-grown bridge of stone that spanned a gloom-filled ravine through which swift white water rushed forty feet below.

  “That’s a good sign,” Ilsevele remarked. “Someone built this bridge. I was beginning to wonder if this whole place was empty.”

  “We’ve been walking for quite a while,” Araevin said, “and we began our day with a march in the Yuirwood. Maybe we should find a place to rest, and make camp for the night.”

  “The night?” Maresa asked.

  “Such as it is,” Araevin said. “We’ll halt a few hours, long enough for you and the others to get a good sleep. Ilsevele and I can keep watch. We need less rest than you.”

  “I won’t say no,” the genasi said.

  They walked a short distance past the bridge before they found a good clearing away from the path. Jorin built a small fire in order to prepare a hot meal from their stores, and Donnor unloaded his packhorse and brushed it down while Araevin took a few minutes to weave some magical wards around their campsite-spells of concealment and protection. So far they had seen nothing dangerous in Sildeyuir’s forests, but he remembered Jorin’s warning and decided to take no chances.

  While Donnor, Maresa, and Jorin slept the deep and helpless sleep that Araevin had always both envied and pitied in his non-elf friends, the two sun elves sat and talked softly in Elvish or simply waited together in the comfort of each other’s company, leaning back-to-back against a young tree so that they could watch all around the small camp. After a long silence in which Araevin had actually started to slip into Reverie, Ilsevele reached back to set her hand on his.

  “I am glad I came here, Araevin,” she said. “Regardless of what comes next, I do not regret the circumstances that brought me to Sildeyuir, even for a day.”

  “Nor do I,” he agreed. He started to say more, but then Ilsevele squeezed his hand twice, hard and quick. Araevin froze, peering into the shadows under the trees.

  “On your left, sixty yards,” Ilsevele whispered. “It will be almost behind you. Move slowly.”

  “What is it?” he whispered back, slowly turning his head and letting his eyes slide farther and farther over his left shoulder.

  “I don’t know.”

  Carefully, Araevin allowed himself to lean just a little, getting a better look behind him-then he saw what Ilsevele had spotted. It was wormlike in shape, with a dark, glistening hide of blue-black skin, but smaller tendrils or limbs branched from its body. It slithered through the forest, passing along the path they had been following, moving with a rolling corkscrew gait that brought different limbs to the ground at different times. Three golden orbs projected from its blunt, bulbous head, if it was a head. Behind the monster came a pair of hulking, snakelike monstrosities, pale worms whose beaked maws were surrounded by four strong, barbed tentacles. Araevin couldn’t say what gave him the impression, given the startling alieness of all three creatures, but something in the motions of the corkscrew monster suggested purpose and intelligence.

  “What do we do?” Ilsevele asked.

  “Let’s see if it will pass by. I’ll watch, and you be ready to rouse the others.”

  The creatures’ progress had brought them from Ilsevele’s side over to Araevin’s, and he had a good view of all three. Carefully he eased his lightning wand into his hand, and reviewed the spells held in his mind just in case.

  The sinister creatures continued on their way, the forest silent around them, but then the dark corkscrew creature halted, right at the spot where Araevin and his comrades had left the path to set up their camp off the trail. It seemed to feel around, groping like a caterpillar seeking the next place to set its feet, and it gave voice to a strange, shrill whistling sound. It began to sway and weave its limbs in a strange, coiling motion.

  Araevin peered closer, trying to discern what it was up to-and he saw the magic at work.

  Corellon preserve us, he thought in horror, it’s casting a spell! The thing is a sorcerer of some kind.

  “What is it, Araevin? What’s going on?” Ilsevele hissed.

  “Ready your bow,” he said. “When I give the word, you must shoot the dark one.”

  He couldn’t see it, but he felt her nod of assent. She moved softly behind him, drawing an arrow and laying it across her bowstring.

  Has it found my spell wards? he wondered.

  He watched for ten terrible heartbeats as the monster sniffed at and studied the concealing spells he’d woven around the camp, and for one moment he felt certain that the thing had detected his illusions-but then it whistled again, and curled itself away, resuming its serpentine progress along the forest path. The large pale tentacled things snuffled and followed, undulating after the first one. In a few moments, they disappeared from view, and Araevin breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You can relax,” he said to Ilsevele. “They’re gone now.”

  “What were those things?” Ilsevele sighed and leaned around the tree to meet his eyes.

  “I have no idea,” Araevin said. “Whatever they were, they were intelligent, and one at least could wield magic.” He stared off into the gloom after the monsters, still trying to make sense of the whole scene. “Let’s give the others another hour of sleep if we can then get moving. I don’t like the idea of waiting here for those creatures to return.”

  Three days of swift marching put Mistledale and Galath’s Roost nearly eighty miles behind the Army of Evermeet, as Seiveril and Starbrow led their host westward toward Shadowdale. Seiveril rode at the head of his troops, his spirits lifting as they left the Sembians and Hillsfarians behind. Regardless of what might come, the days of indecision had passed, and the shadow of disaster in his divinations had retreated for a time. His course was not without risk-he weighed that much every day with his auguries and prayers-but events were once again in motion, and Seiveril was content with that for the time.

  Despite the fact that he knew better than to divide his forces in the face of more numerous enemies, Seiveril had decided to leave a strong force behind him in Mistledale. Six full companies of infantry remained near Ashabenford, under the command of Vesilde Gaerth and a small contingent of the Knights of the Golden Star-two companies from Seiveril’s own Silver Guard, one from Evereska, and three companies of the volunteers who had mustered at Elion and had been forged into real fighting units by the furious battles at Evereska and the Lonely Moor. Seiveril did not expect Vesilde to repel the Sembians or Hillsfarians if they moved on Mistledale in strength, but he hoped that the elven infantry would deter the Sembians from attempting to follow his main body to the west, and perhaps convince them that Mistledale would not be yielded without a fight. If matters came down to it, Vesilde was to retreat southwest down the Dale, co
vering the Dalesfolk as best he could and giving up land rather than meeting a stronger enemy in battle-but Seiveril hoped that the Sembians and Hillsfarians would be slow to attack a resisting Dale outright.

  The army’s track followed a human-cut footpath along the river’s north bank that linked Ashabenford and Shadowdale-town. In other times it might have been a picturesque journey, with the broad, shallow ribbon of the river close to Seiveril’s left hand, its waters often swift and boulder-studded, so that the river’s voice filled the forest nearby. But Seiveril urged his captains to march long and quickly each day, exhorting his host for more speed. The warriors who followed him responded with swiftness that no human army could hope to match, often trotting for hours at a time to make better speed. Seiveril was not sure if he could reach the northern borders of the dale before the Zhentilar, but forty miles lay between Shadowdale’s northern border and the Twisted Tower. He was certain that he’d have his army waiting in the village of Shadowdale for the invaders if he failed to meet the Zhents before they entered the dale.

  Seiveril rode at the head of the army among the Silver Guard, the cavalry who had served House Miritar in Evermeet. The Silver Guard was the largest body of mounted soldiers in Seiveril’s host, three full squadrons of lightly-armored knights who rode under the banner of Edraele Muirreste. Edraele was a young and slightly built moon elf, so small that it seemed ludicrous that she should have taken up the sword. Edraele might have been young for her command, but she was also the single finest equestrian that Seiveril had seen in his four hundred years, and she possessed a fiery charisma that her warriors adored. He’d placed her in command of the vanguard on leaving Galath’s Roost, and she and her Silver Guard had vigorously patrolled ahead of the army, searching for any sign of the enemy.

  In the evening of the march’s third day, they fought their first skirmish against the Zhentarim’s soldiers.

  The track broke out of the forest Cormanthor proper, crossing a narrow neck of open land along the southern border of the Dale, less than twenty miles from the town of Shadowdale. As the glittering elven cavalry rode between fields of chest-high grain straight and still in the calm hour before sunset, a pair of scouts appeared from behind a stone farmhouse, riding hard for the banner.

  “What is this?” muttered Captain Edraele from beside Seiveril.

  She stood up in her stirrups and cantered forward to meet the scouts. Seiveril restrained his impulse to go and see what news the scouts brought, and made himself wait. He didn’t want Edraele to think he lacked confidence in her.

  As it turned out, he did not have long to wonder. Edraele wheeled away at once and spurred back to the company of Golden Star knights and Silver Guard officers who rode by Seiveril.

  “Zhentarim cavalry!” she snarled as she pulled up abreast of Seiveril and Starbrow. “A large company, about a mile off on our right front. They’re chasing after a scouting party of our own warriors.”

  “The Zhents are here already?” Seiveril said.

  He glanced back at the twilight woods behind him, thinking of the miles-long column of marching elves who followed behind the cavalry. The forest wouldn’t stop him from deploying from the march into a line of battle, but still… he’d thought he would have two days more, at least.

  Starbrow read the concern in his face, and shook his head. “It won’t be the main body, Seiveril. The Zhentarim likely have bands of marauders and scouts ranging all over the open dale, looking for us and causing trouble where they can. It’s what I would do in their place.”

  Edraele pranced her horse around, and looked to Seiveril. “They likely don’t have any idea that we’ve got the vanguard of the army at our backs, Lord Seiveril,” she said. “Unless you object, I’ll take the Silver Guard and drive them off.”

  “I agree,” Starbrow said. “I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t teach them a hard lesson about getting too close to us.”

  Seiveril hesitated. Somehow, he found that he had been hoping that it would not prove necessary to meet Zhentil Keep in battle. He felt Starbrow and Edraele waiting on his words, and frowned. Regardless of his wishes, the Zhentarim had picked a fight, and the fact that they were willing to employ orc, gnoll, and ogre mercenaries spoke volumes about the sort of realm they would raise over northern Cormanthor if he avoided battle.

  “Very well,” Seiveril answered. “Drive them off, but be wary of ambushes, Edraele.”

  Edraele did not wait an instant longer. She plucked the standard from her bearer’s stirrup-rest and waved the banner in a fluttering circle.

  “Silver Guards, follow me!” she cried, and she dashed off into the dusk. All around, the Silver Guards spurred their own mounts after her, thundering away across the fields.

  Seiveril looked at Adresin, the sun elf knight who commanded his personal guard, and said, “Let’s follow after them. I want to see what we’re up against.”

  Adresin winced. “Lord Seiveril, I can’t risk losing you to a chance arrow in a simple skirmish-” he began, but Seiveril decided to make it easy on the poor fellow. He simply spurred his own horse after the Silver Guard, making sure to leave a good space so that no one could accuse him of riding right into the fray on their heels.

  He felt Starbrow close up beside him, and looked over to see the moon elf champion grinning broadly. “That was not fair, Seiveril,” he called over the drumming of the hooves. “He is only doing his duty!”

  “I’ll be careful,” Seiveril promised.

  He slowed his pace a little, and allowed Adresin and his bodyguards to close up around him. To the young knight’s credit, he did not bother to argue the point any longer. He simply slammed the half-visor of his bright helmet closed, and stayed close to Seiveril.

  They passed through a broken line of wind-stunted poplars and scrub, then emerged into a broad field. The Silver Guard galloped away, lances lowered, charging at a ragged line of human riders dressed in surcoats of black and yellow. The numbers seemed equal, or close to it, and the Zhentilar did not waver. They couched their own spears and turned to meet the elf riders who flashed over the field toward them. For one terrible moment they thundered toward each other in the bright field, stained crimson by the setting sun, and the skirmish lines met with shrill ring of steel and the terrified whinnying of wounded horses. Riders in black and yellow fell, but so too did elves in silver and white, and the charge disintegrated into a furious, swirling, spurred melee as any kind of battle order failed.

  “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 elan 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.