Farthest Reach lm-2 Read online

  “Archers!” cried Seiveril. “Cover the ramparts!”

  Trained to fire on the move, elf archers began to shower the palisade with a silver storm of arrows. Even though the Zhentilar rushing up to take up station behind their staked ditch-and-berm were well hidden by their earthworks, all an elf archer needed was a glimpse of a foe to send an arrow winging his way with uncanny accuracy. Seiveril was close enough to see bands of gnoll archers gathering behind the ramparts to fire back, as companies of ogres, bugbears, orcs, and black-clad human pikemen streamed up to defend their ramparts. But they were slow to form ranks, and several large gaps beckoned, places where Zhentil Keep’s soldiers had not yet reached their posts or elven battle-magic had seared the ramparts clear.

  We have them! Seiveril thought, and he started to give Adresin the order to charge.

  But at that moment the air all around Seiveril and his guard rippled and boomed with dozens upon dozens of sulfurous belches. Demons and devils by the score appeared all around Seiveril’s banner, grinning with needle fangs, eyes ablaze with hellish glee as they teleported to attack Seiveril’s standard. Elves surrounding Seiveril cried out in panic, and horses screamed in sudden terror.

  “’Ware the demons!” cried Adresin. “To the banner! To the banner!”

  The center of the charging elven line was thrown into chaos. Seiveril found himself beset by a pair of insectlike mezzoloths, fearsome hellspawn who carried great tridents of iron. He danced his mount aside from the stabbing points, and barked out the words of a prayer that unsummoned one of the monsters, hurling it back into the foul netherworld from which it had come.

  The other monster lunged and nearly impaled the elflord with a low belly thrust that Seiveril barely blocked with his shield. He reared his warhorse and battered at the monster with his courser’s deadly silver-shod hooves, then wheeled around and caught the dazed yugoloth off-guard, smashing at it with his holy mace. The weapon burned with a pure white light as it struck demonflesh, and the mezzoloth’s beak clicked and hissed in pain.

  The mezzoloth reeled back out of reach and vanished in the confusion of the fray. Seiveril looked around desperately, trying to see what had become of the attack. The Zhentish ramparts were only sixty yards away, and he could see that on both the right and the left that the wood elves and the Dalesfolk were already sweeping up and over, laying down a storm of arrows. Whole companies of elven infantry from the center continued their attack as well, already ahead of the demons who had suddenly teleported into their midst. And behind him the Moon Knights and Knights of the Golden Star were falling upon Sarya’s demonic minions. Seiveril had wanted to use them to wreck the camp, but they had to drive off the demons and devils, and Ferryl Nimersyl knew it.

  A gout of fearsome hellfire washed over Seiveril, and he staggered in his saddle as his mount reared and screamed. The elflord wrestled with the animal, speaking a quick healing prayer to salve his mount’s injuries, and looked up just in time to catch the heavy blow of a nycaloth’s brazen sword on his shield. The hulking monster snapped at him with its awful maw, and caught Seiveril’s right arm in its teeth. Elven plate crumpled in the force of its bite, and Seiveril cried out as the foul fangs pierced his flesh. His mace dropped from his fingers, and the nycaloth wrenched him out of his saddle, shaking him like a dog worrying at a rabbit.

  “Get away from me, hellspawn!” Seiveril snarled.

  He ignored the agonizing pain in his arm and the bruising and battering, finding the clear still center in his soul where Corellon Larethian’s divine power waited, and he shouted out a holy word of great power. In a burst of supernal white light Seiveril blasted a circle twenty yards wide clear of demons, devils, yugoloths, and all other sorts of foul creatures from the lower planes. The nycaloth shaking him vanished with an ear-splitting howl, so suddenly that Seiveril dropped to the ground and went to all fours, shaking his head.

  Wincing inside his helm, he looked at the blood streaming from the punctures in his arm, and took a moment to whisper another healing prayer, staunching the wound. Then he groped for his silver mace and clambered to his feet, looking for his mount.

  “Lord Seiveril! Are you hurt?” Adresin rode up, his golden armor badly scorched on one side, but seemingly unhurt otherwise.

  Ferryl Nimersyl of the Moon Knights followed him, his gleaming white armor spattered with black gore.

  “I’ve lost my mount, but I am all right,” Seiveril managed.

  He spied another horse nearby, its owner nowhere in sight, and hurried over to swing himself up into the saddle. The Golden Star knights and the Moon Knights were all around him, battling furiously against those hellspawn that still remained. He groaned in frustration, seeing the chaos that had come from the daemonfey intervention… but then a ragged shout of triumph from the right caught his ear. He looked toward the ramparts, and saw that only a few dark islands of Zhentilar soldiers remained on the ramparts. Left and right, wood elf and Dalesfolk archers held the earthworks and rained arrows down into the camp from point-blank range, and even in the center, the Evereskans had managed to seize their line as well.

  “What kind of unholy alliance has Sarya forged with the lower planes?” Ferryl Nimersyl snarled. “Demons, devils, yugoloths all fighting together-they are supposed to be the most implacable of enemies!”

  “I have no answer,” Seiveril replied, though it was a question that troubled him too. There was no time to answer it just then, however. “Ferryl, rally your knights to my banner. I mean to take that camp.”

  The commander of the Moon Knights nodded and called for his riders to gather at Seiveril’s banner. In the space of a hundred heartbeats, better than fourscore knights of both the orders assembled in a dense knot around Seiveril. Then they rode forward, veering to make for the gap where the Evereskans had breached the rampart. Seiveril kept his eyes away from the elf warriors who lay still among the stakes of the ditch and the steep berm, spurring his new mount to scramble up the rampart.

  At the crest of the earthwork, he paused to take in the scene. There was little fighting along the rampart. The elves had seized the camp’s fortifications. But a furious melee still raged among the tents and wagons of the Zhentish camp. The first gray gleam of the coming dawn lightened the sky to the east, and by its faint light Seiveril could see to the far side of the camp-where hundreds of Zhents were streaming north, abandoning their encampment. But waiting for them along the road to Voonlar was the Silver Guard of Elion, with Starbrow and Edraele Muirreste at its head, five hundred elven cavalry to ride down and harry the Zhents as they fled.

  “Well done, Seiveril,” said Ferryl Nimersyl. “Even with the demon attack, your plan worked. We’ve got half their army trapped between us and the Silver Guard.”

  Seiveril nodded. “Corellon has favored us again. Come, my friends, we have hard and ugly work to finish here.”

  With a high battle cry he spurred his way down from the earthworks into the camp, followed by the knights of Evermeet.

  Araevin and his comrades remained at Tower Deirr for several days, guests of Lord Tessaernil, Nesterin, and their folk. They were not prisoners-at least, they were not disarmed or confined-but Tessaernil was very clear that they were not to leave without his permission. Maresa prowled the tower continuously, more than half-convinced that they were prisoners who simply didn’t know it yet, but Araevin availed himself of the opportunity to study the elflord’s library of old tomes, and Ilsevele studied the star elves themselves.

  They were an ancient people, the descendants of the old kingdom of Yuireshanyaar that had once stood in Aglarond’s forests thousands of years ago. In appearance they were very much like moon elves, though they tended toward fair hair instead of the dark brown or blue-black of most moon elves. But Araevin found their reserve and serious demeanor more reminiscent of many sun elves he knew. They had a love of song and music that was remarkable, even among elves, and when a truly skilled singer such as Nesterin raised his voice, the effect was so unearthly and bea
utiful that time itself seemed to fall still and listen.

  As Nesterin had told them, the star elves had created Sildeyuir as a refuge, a place to which they could Retreat from the cruel and ambitious human empires that had arisen in the ancient east. More than a thousand years before the raising of the Standing Stone in the Dales, the human kingdoms of Narfell and Raumauthar, as well as Unther and Mulhorand, had fought furiously for dominion in the region. In western Faerun many elves had retreated to Evermeet to avoid such ambitious human empires, but the star elves had decided to simply remove their entire realm rather than abandon it to flee elsewhere. All of Sildeyuir was a great work of high magic, an echo of the Yuirwood itself spun into starshine and dusk through mighty spells of old.

  Since the creation of Sildeyuir, the star elves had slowly slipped farther and farther from Faerun, leaving the daylight world to its own devices. Many still traveled through the old elfgates and roamed Aglarond or the Inner Sea, but they passed themselves off as moon elves, and did not speak of their homeland to strangers. Few elves remained in the forests of the east outside of Aglarond itself, and those who lived within the Yuirwood kept their silence regarding the star elves’ secret.

  Araevin spoke with Tessaernil at length, and discovered that after leaving Arcorar almost five thousand years ago, the wizard Morthil had returned to Yuireshanyaar and subsequently become that realm’s grand mage. He had played a leading role in the affairs of the kingdom for several centuries. The former apprentice of Ithraides had gone on to become an even greater mage than his master in time, founding a society of wizards known as the Seneirril Tathyrr, or the Mooncrescent Order. The order survived all the long centuries from the time of Arcorar down to Sildeyuir’s creation, three thousand years after the time of Ithraides and two thousand years before the present day.

  “Even among elves, that is a very great span of time,” Araevin said to Tessaernil and Nesterin as they sat together in the library. “How is it that Morthil has been remembered for so long?”

  “His tomb lies in the rotunda of Mooncrescent Tower,” Tessaernil said. “He was revered as the founder of the order. I saw it when I studied there in my youth.”

  Araevin’s heart leaped in his chest. He set his hand to his breastbone, and felt the Nightstar murmur under his touch. Morthil’s works had survived to within a single elf lifetime of the present day. Was it too much to hope that a telkiira stone or a spell passed down from master to apprentice over the years might still endure, too?

  “Does any of Morthil’s handiwork still survive? Lore-gems, spells he created, spellbooks he scribed?”

  “When I was young, there were stories told in the Seneirril Tathyrr that the secret libraries and vaults of the tower might hold such things. But that was a long time ago-about three hundred years after the making of Sildeyuir and the translation of our kingdom into this plane.”

  Araevin stared at Tessaernil. “You told me before that Yuireshanyaar had been removed to Sildeyuir two thousand years ago. You have lived that long?”

  “Time flows differently in Sildeyuir, Araevin. One year passes here for every two in the world outside.” Tessaernil offered a small smile. “I was born over eighteen hundred years ago, but I am in truth not more than nine hundred years old.”

  “You may not find that remarkable, but few of my folk reach nine centuries, even in Evermeet,” Araevin said. “Queen Amlaruil might be that old, but she enjoys the blessing of the Seldarine themselves.”

  “It is noteworthy among my people as well,” Nesterin observed. He offered a crooked smile. “I introduced Lord Tessaernil to you as my uncle. It would have been more accurate to add a few ‘greats’ before that.”

  “You said before that you thought Morthil’s tower lies in the farthest reach of your realm-you were referring to Mooncrescent Tower?”

  “Yes,” Tessaernil replied.

  “So I need only speak to the masters of the tower, then,” Araevin said. “They will be able to help me with Morthil’s ancient lore.”

  “That is the problem,” Nesterin said. “The order failed some time ago, and Mooncrescent Tower has been abandoned for centuries. It lies at the very border of our realm. Given what I recently discovered when I visited House Aerilpe, I fear that the place may no longer be accessible.”

  “As soon as you give me leave to, I certainly intend to try it, regardless of the tower’s present circumstances,” Araevin answered. “I have no small experience in dealing with ancient ruins and warding magic.”

  The older elflord nodded. “I cannot understate the peril you may face, Araevin, but I did not expect that you would depart without trying.” He glanced to Nesterin and continued, “I have spoken with some of the other House lords of our land, taking counsel about you and your companions. I have decided to allow you to attempt Mooncrescent Tower. Nesterin here has agreed to guide you, at least as far as any road will serve.”

  “I thank you, Lord Tessaernil,” Araevin said. He stood and offered a deep bow to the ancient elflord.

  “You might not later, if things prove as dangerous as I fear they may,” Tessaernil said. He stood as well, and gravely returned Araevin’s bow. “You may set out when you like, Araevin. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey.”

  For two days, Scyllua Darkhope fought with every inch of her zeal and determination to extricate something from the disaster on the borders of Shadowdale. By all rights, the Zhentarim army should have disintegrated completely in the retreat back to Voonlar, harried as it was by the slashing attacks of pursuing elf riders. But Scyllua personally commanded the rearguard action, turning at bay and standing her ground whenever the elves pressed too close, then wheeling away to gallop another mile or two down the road as soon as the elves had been repulsed again.

  As she harangued the last weary companies of the rearguard, keeping them on their feet and moving north through nothing more than her own unswerving will, she found Fzoul Chembryl at a nameless ford ten miles south of Voonlar. The lord of Zhentil Keep and his company of guards came riding south, against the march of soldiers retreating north, breasting a path through the exhausted ranks with callous indifference.

  When Fzoul caught sight of Scyllua, he said, “Ah, there you are. Come, Scyllua, I would like to have a word with you.”

  Scyllua dismounted and followed Fzoul into an old stone cottage that overlooked the ford. She did not fear punishment for her failure at Shadowdale. There was no point in dreading it. She had failed, and she would be disciplined. That was the way of the Black Lord. If she wanted to earn Bane’s favor again, she must endure her punishment stoically, with no attempt at evasion or excuses.

  Fzoul muttered the words of a spell and sealed the cottage from scrying or outside observation. Then, when he was satisfied, he turned to Scyllua and delivered a great backhanded slap to her face that spun her half around and left her reeling drunkenly, her ears ringing.

  “How did you allow this to happen?” he demanded. Scyllua spat blood from her split lip, and slowly straightened. She kept her hands at her sides, expecting that her lord and master would strike her again.

  “I failed to take sufficient precautions against an attack on my camp, my lord,” she said. “I expected to attack, not to be attacked.”

  “Did you not entrench your camp every night, and post a strong watch?”

  “I did, my lord. But events proved those measures insufficient.”

  “Clearly,” Fzoul muttered. “Recount all that happened as you marched south from Voonlar. Do not seek to conceal anything from me.”

  Scyllua did as she was told. When she had finished, she awaited Fzoul’s punishment with open eyes. But the Chosen of Bane did not immediately lash out. Instead, he turned away, frowning, his thick arms crossed before his chest.

  After a long time, he spoke. “Circumstances beyond your control contributed to your failure,” he grudgingly admitted. “We had an excellent chance to crush the elven army, but the Red Plumes and Sembians did not take the steps that neede
d to be taken.”

  Scyllua looked up at Fzoul. “The Red Plumes did not move on Mistledale?” she asked in surprise. She’d simply assumed that Hillsfar would have moved against the elven army’s rear. “Maalthiir is not stupid,” she muttered, talking more to herself than to Fzoul. “He would not have missed that chance unless he chose to miss it. He has betrayed us, Lord Fzoul!”

  “My spies in Hillsfar report that Maalthiir had some sort of falling out with his mysterious new allies. There were reports of a fearsome magical duel fought in the First Lord’s Tower several days ago.”

  “Does Maalthiir still live?”

  “Regrettably, yes. But this story of a falling out with Sarya intrigues me.” Fzoul looked back to Scyllua. “The daemonfey agents who accompanied you and summoned the demons against Evermeet’s army-what became of them?”

  “They abandoned us after we were driven from the camp,” Scyllua said bitterly. “As soon as they saw that we were beaten, Lord Reithel and his guards declined to offer any more assistance and left.”

  “It seems that we are no longer useful to them,” said Fzoul. He scowled. “Now what? Do I hold back strength to counter Hillsfar… or Myth Drannor, for that matter? Do I strike a deal with the daemonfey and turn against Maalthiir? Or do Maalthiir and I hold to our agreement, and simply remove the daemonfey from consideration?”

  Scyllua stood motionless, blood trickling from her damaged face. She would not be so forward as to offer an opinion. Fzoul was lost in his own dark thoughts, anyway. He stroked his mustache, and nodded.

  “We deal with Maalthiir,” he decided. “That’s the thing to do. As long as we have an understanding with Hillsfar and Sembia, we must profit by it. Let the elves worry about the daemonfey, and vice versa. In the meantime, Scyllua, you will repair this broken army as quickly as you can. I will have need of it soon.”