Farthest Reach Page 27

  They walked on in silence for a while longer, and they crested another low hilltop. Before them on a high knoll overlooking a shining river stood an elegant tower of pale white stone. It was ringed by a tall, sturdy wall, and its lower galleries and bastions were carved from the dark gray granite of its natural footing. Dozens of softly glowing lamps gleamed in its windows and treetops.

  “My home,” Nesterin said. He glanced to Araevin and the others. “No one who has battled the nilshai will come to harm here, my friends, but I must warn you: Few who aren’t star elves have ever walked in Sildëyuir. You will be asked to give an account of yourself, and you may be required to accept a geas or enchantment to ensure that you will guard our secrets well. I will speak on your behalf, but I cannot say how our lord will rule in your case.”

  Maresa scowled. “I’ll be damned if I let you put a geas on me. Why shouldn’t we just walk away now?”

  Nesterin shrugged. “You saved my life today; you should know what awaits you. Araevin and Ilsevele, as Ar Tel’Quessir, have little to worry about. Nor does Jorin, though his judgment in bringing you here may be questioned. But you and the Dawnmaster have no elf blood, and are not known to us. If you choose to depart now, I must tell my lord that you are abroad in Sildëyuir, and he may very well decide that you are not to be allowed to wander about the realm.”

  Donnor Kerth’s brow furrowed deeply, but the Lathanderian did not speak. Maresa, on the other hand, stopped dead in her tracks.

  “I don’t like jails,” she said.

  Ilsevele turned to her and set her hand on Maresa’s arm. “I promise you, Maresa, whatever they would do to you, they must do to me as well.”

  Maresa looked up to Ilsevele, and after a moment she snorted and shook her head. “You’ve got too much trust for any ten people, Ilsevele, do you know that?” She shrugged off Ilsevele’s hand and started down the path again. “All right, then, let’s see what Nesterin’s folk make of us.”

  They followed the path down the silvered slopes of the grassy hillside, crossed the river on a bridge of luminous stone, and came up to the mithral gates of the tower. There half a dozen elf warriors in knee-length hauberks of white-scaled armor stood guard, armed with long halberds and slender bows.

  “Welcome back, Nesterin,” the captain of the gate guard said, but her eyes were fixed on Araevin and his companions. She searched for words, evidently more than a little surprised. Finally she frowned and said, “I see you have been far a field in the last few days. Who are these people?”

  “I did not find them; they found me,” Nesterin answered. “They slew two nilshai and saved my life in the process.”

  “Two nilshai?” The captain glanced at Araevin again before looking back at Nesterin. “I will tell Lord Tessaernil of your return, and inform him that you have brought guests back to the tower.”

  “Good,” said Nesterin. “They have a strange tale to share, and I have much to tell him of what I found at Tower Aerilpé. We will be in the high hall.”

  The captain sent a messenger off into the tower, and detailed two guards to attend to Nesterin’s graceful destrier and Donnor’s warhorse. Ilsevele flicked her eyes to Araevin, and the mage immediately grasped her unspoken thought—the gate guards treated Nesterin with an air of deference. Their host was an elf of some importance, one of the masters of the House.

  “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 Aerilpé 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 Aerilpé?”

  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 Sildëyuir 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 Sildëyuir? 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 Sildëyuir 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 Faerûn 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 Sildëyuir? 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 soon,” 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 answere
d. 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?