Forsaken House Page 28

  Methrammar nodded and said, “We will do as you ask, my lady. The swords of Silverymoon are at your service.”

  CHAPTER 16

  8 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms

  An early spring had come to the great woodland of Cormanthor. The endless dreary rains from the Sea of Swords that kept the western forests cold and wet vanished as they passed over the great desert Anauroch. Warmer winds from the Dragonmere carried gentle showers that draped the eastern forest in a green so deep and vivid that even by the pale light of the crescent moon its color leaped to the eye. Araevin tasted the warm rain on his face and breathed in the fragrance of the new blossoms, and for an instant he could almost forget the misery of his situation.

  “Come along, paleblood,” sneered Nurthel. “You have work to do.”

  Araevin complied, turning to follow the fey’ri sorcerer without any effort of his conscious mind. He fell in behind Nurthel, arms still shackled behind his back, ribs aching from the blow Grimlight had dealt him. Behind him half a dozen fey’ri warriors and a pair of foul vrock-demons marched, watching him carefully for any sign that Sarya’s compulsion might be fading. The daemonfey queen was not present, having left to return to her army, but she had ordered Araevin to obey any command given him by Nurthel, instantly and without resistance, and the malignant compulsion she had used to crush his will was sufficiently strong to force Araevin to do exactly as she commanded.

  Sooner or later he knew that he would be able to shake off the insidious spell—especially if Nurthel ordered him to do something he could not help but revolt against, like injure himself—but for the time being Araevin was merely a spectator in his own body, unable to conceive of refusing Nurthel’s orders, even though he knew exactly how Sarya’s spell had affected him. He had never cared for enchantment spells and rarely used them himself, because he’d always found it distasteful to enslave another’s will, even if the subject was an enemy and the enslavement nothing more than a temporary assault to halt an attack or sow confusion among his foes. Having personally experienced the effects, he had no intention of ever using such a spell again. It was simply abominable to have one’s volition stolen away.

  “Which way?” Nurthel asked.

  The ruined remnant of an old elven highway intersected their path, a ribbon of pale white stone buried beneath leaf mould and moss. Araevin and his captors had been walking for several hours, after teleporting from the Dlardrageth stronghold to Cormanthor’s forests. The telkiira had warned Araevin that magic was unpredictable in the area surrounding the Nightstar’s crypt, and he had duly warned the fey’ri of the danger of teleporting too close to the selukiira’s hiding place.

  Araevin examined the path, and consulted the inner beacon guiding him onward.

  “To the left,” he replied. “It’s less than a mile from here.”

  He wondered whether Ilsevele and Maresa still lived. The daemonfey had separated them as an additional guarantor of Araevin’s cooperation, promising a fate worse than death for the women if he should lead Nurthel astray.

  The demonic company hurried along the ancient white stones of the elfroad. Alternating showers and moon shadows made the scene eldritch and unreal. That portion of Cormanthor was the fabled Elven Court, a woodland of cathedral-like shadowtops that had once been home to countless elven palaces, temples, and towers. From time to time they passed old ruins, jumbled heaps of pale stone that seemed to glow beneath the soft touch of Selûne’s light. Then he spied the tower, a slender finger of white rising up beneath the mighty trees like a silver ghost.

  “Wait,” he said. “We’re here.”

  “In there?” Nurthel demanded. The fey’ri sorcerer studied the place, and nodded. “Fine. You will lead. Inform me when we are at risk.”

  Araevin led the way to the tower’s door, a blank archway of stone. No door or gate stood there. The portal was filled with a smooth, unbroken wall of stone. But Ithraides had recorded the secret of the door in his telkiira. Araevin spoke a simple password, and the stone sealing the arch became ethereal and vanished from sight.

  “On the other side of the doorway there is a powerful sigil that will destroy any who enter without speaking this password: sillevi astraedh,” Araevin said. “Then we will find stairs leading down to a misty hall, guarded by a powerful watch ghost. You must fight it if you wish to proceed.”

  He did not point out that the daemonfey could simply remain outside the tower, since the watch ghost would not attack him. Nurthel had instructed Araevin to lead and to warn him of the dangers they encountered, but he had not asked Araevin to be explain how each peril could be avoided. It was not much of a victory, but Araevin was determined to exploit every misstep in the instructions the fey’ri gave him.

  They passed the sigil on the far side of the doorway, and found themselves in the tower’s ground floor.

  It seems to be my destiny to look for crystals in old ruins, Araevin thought bleakly.

  He indicated a stone staircase leading to unseen levels beneath the tower, and led Nurthel’s party down the smooth steps. At the bottom the fey’ri sorcerer stopped him.

  “Remain here, and make sure you do not get hurt,” Nurthel said. “We will need you once we deal with this guardian.” He gestured to the fey’ri warriors and the demons who accompanied them. “Destroy the guardian.”

  Nurthel stayed on the steps beside Araevin, watching his soldiers prowl into the room below, curved swords in their taloned fists. The vrocks followed, their vulture heads swinging from side to side on their long, wattled necks as they looked for their foe. The chamber was exactly as Araevin remembered it from the telkiira’s vision, a large misty hall with shining silver pillars.

  A sheet of purple lightning crackled out of the swirling fog, blasting through a vrock and two of the fey’ri. Crawling arcs of violet energy coruscated around the demonspawn, charring great black burns across their flesh. The fey’ri shrieked and fell writhing to the floor. The vrock attempted to teleport itself away from the deadly spell, only to reappear in a terrible burst of black gore, materializing in the exact same spot as one of the bright argent pillars.

  “I see that you did not lie when you warned us of teleporting here,” Nurthel hissed. “Is there anything you have kept from me, Araevin?”

  Araevin opened his mouth to reply, but the mists parted, revealing a bright and terrible figure of silver light. Ghostly and yet powerful, the guardian seemed to be a beautiful moon elf maiden, her dark hair streaming around her head, her white robes fading into translucent starshine.

  “Depart!” she demanded in Elvish, her clear voice strangely high and distant, as if she were speaking from far away. “Depart, fiends! I will not suffer you to pass this chamber.”

  In answer two of the fey’ri drew out wands of bronze and blasted the ghostly sorceress with crimson darts of magical power. The sorceress’s features twisted with a cry of dismay, and her substance seemed to boil away from the holes punched by the fey’ri spells. She countered by seizing one of the wand-wielders in a viselike grip of unseen force and hurling him against the wall, leaving him crumpled across the chamber. At the same time she chanted out a piercing melody of her own, her arms weaving in the gestures of a spell, and she threw a charging mezzoloth screaming back into its native hells.

  A second mezzoloth stalked close and rammed its brazen trident through the center of the ghost’s torso, but the infernal weapon passed through her ethereal substance without so much as a ripple. She turned on the creature and wove a spiraling spell chain around it that sliced deep into its evil flesh, slowly cutting it to pieces. But the fey’ri with the wand struck again, riddling her with more of the crimson darts, while another fey’ri warrior—one with a sword glowing with enchantment—darted close to slash at her, tearing great rents in her misty form.

  Araevin took half a step forward, intending to help her in some way, but Nurthel set a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, no,” the fey’ri captain said. “You are not to inter
fere.”

  He wove a spell of his own and hurled a crackling azure lance of magical force at the ghost, driving a bolt of arcane power through the center of her form.

  The ghost wailed in deathless agony, transfixed by Nurthel’s spell, her substance fraying away from the wound. She fixed her dissipating gaze on Araevin.

  “Do not lead them any farther,” she whispered. “Do not let them do this!”

  “We do not intend to give him much choice in the matter,” Nurthel laughed.

  He drew back his spell lance, and rammed it through the center of the ghost’s forehead. There was a great, silent burst of spectral energy, blindingly bright, and the ghost discorporated into streamers of mist and vapor that faded to nothing. The fey’ri laughed as he allowed his spell to end, subsuming the crackling lance back into his hand.

  “How long has she waited here to turn us away, only to fail in her duty at the end?” Nurthel said. “It seems almost tragic, doesn’t it?”

  Araevin refused to answer. He was under no compulsion to reply to rhetorical questions. Nurthel folded his arms and looked him in the face.

  “Well? What now?”

  “There is a portal in the far wall. Touching it will transport one directly to the chamber of the selukiira, which is a sealed sphere of stone some distance beneath our feet. I must first wake it by casting a special spell.” Araevin hesitated, but Sarya’s spell forced him to continue. “If you, or any creature with evil intent, touches the portal, you will be destroyed.”

  “Could that be dispelled?”

  “It would be difficult, and you would deactivate the portal, so that you could no longer reach the selukiira chamber safely,” Araevin admitted. “As your demon ally demonstrated, teleporting here is dangerous.”

  “That does present a problem,” Nurthel said. “Fortunately, we have you, so I need not test my intentions against the standards set by the ancient paleblood wizard who built this place, or settle for excavating my way to the Nightstar. You will go get the Nightstar for me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Araevin admitted, though it turned his stomach to say it.

  “And what if the selukiira’s touch destroys you?”

  “The device would take possession of my body. It would likely seek to return itself to your hands.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Nurthel said. “You have caused me no end of trouble over the last few months, even when you were unwittingly doing our work. I can think of no fitter end for you.” The fey’ri studied him closely, and asked, “Do you know of any reason why I would not want to send you to retrieve the Nightstar?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, then. Show me this portal.”

  Araevin led Nurthel across the mist-filled hall, flanked by the surviving demons and fey’ri. With all the power of his will and heart he tried again to throw off Sarya’s spell and regain his freedom, but for all his effort his feet still carried him forward without hesitation, and his hands remained shackled behind him. Evidently the potential hazard of the selukiira was simply not immediate enough to give him the chance to overthrow the spell of dominion. On the wall opposite the stairway, a large design of silver inlaid in the stone depicted Selûne and the diamondlike Tears trailing behind it.

  “I must have my hands free to use the portal and retrieve the Nightstar,” Araevin said.

  Nurthel undid his bonds, watching carefully for any sign that Sarya’s compulsion was weakening.

  “You will use the portal to reach the selukiira chamber,” the fey’ri said. “You will then take the Nightstar and bring it back here to me. Do not do anything except what I have instructed you to do. If something prevents you from accomplishing this task, you will return immediately for further instructions. Now go.”

  Araevin longed to rub his wrists and shake the stiffness from his arms, but the fey’ri’s orders left him no latitude even for so simple an act. He chanted the words of the secret spell taught him by the three telkiira, the only spell that could awaken the portal. The silver diagram inlaid in the stone woke to life, glowing with white fire. Then he reached out and touched three of the Tears, avoiding the silver stars that would have triggered all manner of deadly spells. He felt the ancient magic awake beneath his fingers and snatch him away from the silver hall.

  Seiveril stood in the silent grove, eyes closed, his face tilted up to the sky, and listened for Corellon Larethian’s whispers in his heart. The wooded hillside was a remote place indeed, old and wild, a small outpost of the strange and ancient Forgotten Forest that lay two days’ march behind him. The trees were gnarled and stooped like senescent men, tangled with beards and hoary coats of moss, and somewhere deep in their old black hearts they dreamed of days when their fathers stood wakeful and alert across all of northern Faerûn, a single unbroken forest. Not even the elves were welcome beneath their branches.

  Seiveril felt the warm glow of other elf minds nearby, the Seldarine knights and clerics of Vesilde Gaerth’s Golden Star order. As the soldiers best equipped with the magic needed to fight off demonic assaults, the knights of the Golden Star never strayed far from Seiveril’s banner, guarding him within a ring of holy steel and powerful protective prayers. He didn’t like the idea that he required an elite guard, not when Gaerth’s troops could have been gainfully employed in the close pursuit of the daemonfey, but he recognized the necessity. In the six days that the crusade had been following the retreating daemonfey army his foes had made no attempt to launch any more decapitating attacks against his standard like the one in the Western Cwm, but just because they hadn’t done it so far didn’t mean the daemonfey might not try it at any time.

  The sun elf lord stilled his mind and looked past the nearby auras of his friends and allies, seeking the great golden presence of Corellon’s will. When he felt himself calm and still again, Seiveril began to pray in earnest, reciting the spell prayers he had readied for the day. Every day since the battle in the cwm, as his host had descended the Rillvale on the heels of the horde of orcs and demons and harried them into the wild and empty lands north and west of Evereska, Seiveril had set aside an hour to wrestle with his foes, seeking to divine their secrets and their plans. Sometimes he succeeded, gaining glimpses of the daemonfey array or the ruined old city that served as their citadel. More often the spellcasters of the daemonfey horde succeeded in deflecting his divinations, blinding his magical sight. And so, while company after company of archers, swordsmen, and cavalry hurried northward on the grass-grown roadway along which the daemonfey fled, Seiveril struggled to see what would happen next and understand what he had to do.

  The day’s spells brought little to comfort him. He saw a terrible battle gathering in the High Forest, a fight he desperately wished to influence but was simply too far away to affect. He saw that his own army would likely be fighting again very soon, a rematch with the daemonfey horde, and he was not certain of the outcome. He could not see any hint of Ilsevele or Araevin, or the progress of their quest. It was as if they had been removed from the face of the world. He sensed that they were in danger, and that his own fortunes were tied up with theirs, but little more.

  With a sigh, he allowed his arms to fall, and brought himself back to awareness. The brooding woodland returned to his eyes, its silence broken only by the soft whisper of cool, rain-speckled wind in the small green leaves of spring. He watched the woodland for a time, curiously drawn by its ancient, slumbering resentment, then he turned and picked his way down the slope.

  Fflar was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, Keryvian leaning within easy reach. He glanced up as Seiveril returned.

  “Well? What did you see today?” Fflar asked.

  “There will be a fierce battle on the slopes of the Lost Peaks, and soon. The wood elves have retreated as far as they can go, and still the daemonfey pursue them.”

  “How soon?”

  “Within a day, perhaps two.”

  Fflar said, “Even if we left our footsoldiers behind and too
k nothing but our fastest cavalry, it would take a tenday to reach that corner of the High Forest. The wood elves will have to make do without our aid.”

  “Perhaps I can ask Jorildyn’s mages to assist,” Seiveril thought aloud. “At least thirty of our wizards and sorcerers know teleportation spells. We could spare half that number to bring fifty or more spellcasters and chosen troops to assist the wood elves.”

  “Jerreda Starcloak will insist that you must do something. I don’t like reducing our own magical strength, not with that daemonfey army ahead of us, but I don’t see any other way to help out the wood elves,” Fflar said. He stood easily, unfolding his long legs, and buckled Keryvian to his hip again. “What about us? When will we fight again?”

  “The daemonfey will turn and stand on the Lonely Moor,” Seiveril said as he swung himself up into the saddle of his war-horse, and thanked the young warrior who held the reins.

  The elven vanguard was less than ten miles from the round, scrub-covered hills that climbed up to the moor’s boggy plateau. Difficult terrain lay ahead of them. The cavalry would not do well on the moorland, but on the other hand archers would exact a terrible toll from adversaries seeking to close over the uneven ground. Almost no one—elf, human, orc, or otherwise—traveled those lands often, though Seiveril’s Evereskan scouts told him that bands of gnolls and bugbears hunted the moor.

  “We should meet them tomorrow in the middle of the day,” Seiveril went on, “if we continue our pursuit.”

  Fflar nodded and said, “I suppose that explains why the daemonfey haven’t abandoned any poor bastard who can’t fly. They could have escaped by taking to the air, and there would’ve been damned little we could do about it.”