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  The daemonfey waited for him. Apparently the sudden operation of the portal had caught them off guard. Two of the fey’ri warriors cursed as they drew their blades, and the hissing mezzoloths rose up from crouches, seizing their iron tridents. Nurthel Floshin spun to face him, his single remaining eye alight with ire.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “Where is the Nightstar?”

  Araevin stepped away from the wall, carefully noting the positions of Nurthel and his band: A fey’ri spellblade and two more fey’ri swordsmen, standing close by Nurthel; the two surviving vrocks, skulking in the shadows to his right; and the two mezzoloths, standing up on his left.

  Eight of them, he thought. And only one of me.

  “Where have I been? The vault of Ithraides,” he answered. “And as for the Nightstar, I have it.”

  Nurthel bared his pointed teeth and held out his taloned hand.

  “Come here and give it to me,” he hissed.

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Araevin replied.

  He looked over at the vrocks, gestured, and calmly spoke the words of a spell, banishing them back to the foul Abyss from which they had been summoned. The creatures clacked and hissed in rage, starting toward him, but before they had even taken wing azure fire flickered over their hideous forms and hurled them into their native dimension.

  “He has broken the dominion spell. Subdue him at once!” Nurthel screamed.

  He began a spell of his own, barking out the magical words, while the mezzoloths charged at Araevin from his left side and the fey’ri swordsmen approached more carefully from his right, sword points weaving in lazy circles before them.

  Araevin darted to his right, avoiding the mezzoloths. One of the insectile creatures hurled its trident at him. The heavy weapon struck him on his left shoulder blade, spinning him around with the impact and throwing him to the floor. But the trident rebounded from his flesh, which was hardened to the denseness of granite by the spell he had cast on himself before activating the portal to return to the silver hall. He rolled to his hands and knees, looking up at the two fey’ri warriors closing in on him, and he spoke a word of power that blasted both swordsmen off their feet. Streaming blood at ears and nose, the armored daemonfey skidded across the floor and groaned, both struck senseless by the spell.

  Nurthel finished his own casting and conjured a great golden hand of magical force that lunged for Araevin, seeking to seize hold of him. The second of Araevin’s hastily prepared defenses came into play. As the mighty hand closed on him, Araevin’s turning spell triggered, deflecting the glowing apparition back at Nurthel. The fey’ri sorcerer cried out, startled, as his own spell grappled him, fingers like a giant’s arms curling around his golden armor and pinning him in place.

  “Kill the paleblood!” he screamed in frustration.

  Araevin gained his feet just in time for the other fey’ri spellcaster to hurl his own spell, an enchantment intended to mire his body and mind in a dolorous lethargy, dulling his reactions and slowing his efforts. He fought off the spell with a gesture and a thought, turning his attention to the two mezzoloths who stalked him. The creatures clawed at him, their foul talons scraping across his hardened skin and tearing gashes in his clothes without causing him serious injury. Still, Araevin knew that he could not ignore them for long. Sooner or later his spell would wear out, or the mezzoloths would give up on trying to tear him to pieces and instead just tackle him, and he could not allow the powerful creatures to pin him. He dodged back and immobilized one with a spell of holding, rooting it to the spot. The other stayed after him.

  The fey’ri spellblade hurled a bolt of fire at Araevin that burned away the last of his turning spell. The creature was clever enough to anticipate the return of his own spell, ducking out of the way as his fire-bolt struck Araevin’s spell shield and rebounded. In return, Araevin charred the fellow to a black husk with a terrible bolt of purple lightning. The smell of burning flesh and smoke filled the room. Nurthel continued to struggle against his own spell, snarling vile curses the whole time.

  “I will dismember you myself!” he hissed. “Your woman shall pay for your treachery, paleblood!”

  With a tremendous effort, Nurthel managed to slip one arm free of the magical hand holding him. He brought it to his face to raise his eye patch, and Araevin glimpsed a bright green stone in the socket. Nurthel looked down at the golden force around his body and snarled a word. From his eye-gem leaped out a green ray that instantly disintegrated the hand holding him. He stumbled awkwardly to the ground, then looked up and grinned at Araevin, already beginning another spell.

  The remaining mezzoloth finally managed to catch Araevin by the arm, its horrid pincers seizing him in an inescapable grip. Araevin cried out in dismay, not really hurt yet since his spell still protected him. The creature’s mandibles clacked and dripped before his face, and it wrenched him half around as it sought to catch hold of his other arm. But Araevin steadied his mind with a conscious effort, and set his free hand on the monster’s chitinous torso.

  “Let go of me!” he snarled, and cast a disintegrating spell of his own at the yugoloth.

  A brilliant flare of green energy gleamed from within the mezzoloth’s thick carapace, shining forth at joints and eyes, and the creature abruptly vanished into a gray, stinking haze of dust.

  Araevin shook himself free of the mezzoloth’s drifting ash and spun to face Nurthel. The fey’ri lord hissed out the last sibilant whispers of his own spell and raised a globe of shimmering colors around himself. Araevin recognized the spell at once as a potent ward against many magical attacks. Nurthel advanced a couple of steps, and the crawling globe of color moved with him.

  “You have done well to eliminate my warriors and demons,” the fey’ri said. “You surprised me. I admit it. I don’t know how you found the opportunity to conceal so many spells, but you will find that I am not so easily overcome as my fellows.”

  “Your confidence is misplaced,” Araevin replied.

  “Is it?” Nurthel smiled. “Not many spells can pierce this defense, as I am sure a mage of your accomplishment must know. And I observe that, while you may still have spells at your command, you are unarmed.” He drew a short sword of dark, rune-scribed iron from a sheath at his side, and advanced another two steps toward Araevin. “Now, before I kill you, where is the Nightstar?”

  Araevin did not bother to reply. Instead he began another spell, one he had learned from the telkiira stones. Speaking the words loudly and swiftly as he moved, he turned his hands in the proper manner.

  Whatever Nurthel’s confidence in his spell shield, the fey’ri sensed danger. He scowled and leaped forward, charging close to reach Araevin before the elf mage finished his spell.

  Nurthel fell three steps short. Araevin completed his casting and seized the fey’ri’s spell shield, inverting the magical protection on its caster. The magical power swirling around Nurthel froze, motionless, and contracted in upon him. Brilliant flashes of green and blue wrapped around him as the spell shield turned on its master, flaying his flesh with crawling arcs of power. Nurthel screamed and staggered one more step before collapsing at Araevin’s feet, charred and smoking.

  Araevin knelt slowly and took the fey’ri’s sword from his crumbling fingers. He tugged open his shirt, and showed the dying sorcerer the Nightstar embedded in his chest.

  “As I told you before,” he grated, “I have the selukiira.” Then he took Nurthel’s own sword, shoved it through the fey’ri’s throat, and watched as the daemonfey lord died. “That was for Grayth, you black-hearted hellspawn.”

  He took his wands back from the corpse, then strode out of the mist-filled hall. Ilsevele and Maresa were still in Sarya’s hands, and more importantly, Sarya had control of a mythal stone. Saelethil had known many things about what could be done with unattended mythals. Thanks to the selukiira, Araevin did too.

  The battle on the Lonely Moor began an hour before sunset.

  It had taken the army of Eve
rmeet most of the afternoon to climb up to the plateau and form themselves in their battle-order. As he had feared, the ground was too difficult for his cavalry to make much use of their mobility. They could fight mounted, but they could not use their speed to much effect, not without crippling their horses in unseen soft spots and deep, narrow gulches.

  “I don’t understand why the daemonfey did not defend the hillsides climbing up to the moor,” Seiveril said to Fflar as the army advanced.

  The enemy had chosen to make his stand several miles inside the boggy highland. The daemonfey army, only a thousand yards distant, waited before them, divided into a large center and two sweeping wings. Most of the soldiers in the ranks were orcs and ogres, a serried line of dark figures who hooted and jeered and shook their weapons at the approaching elves. Seiveril spotted numerous demons waiting amid the savage warriors, flexing terrible claws and snarling with needle-fanged jaws. The fey’ri waited behind their orc allies, a glint of gold and scarlet shining through the surging mass of tribal warriors.

  “Maybe they just wanted us to have to walk a few more miles to get to them,” Fflar suggested. “Better to fight a tired soldier than a fresh one. Or maybe they were afraid that we would encircle them by climbing up a different route while they were engaged in the defense of the old road.” The big moon elf shrugged. “It hardly matters now. This is where the battle will be.”

  Seiveril wasn’t entirely satisfied with that answer, but unless he was willing to halt and see what the daemonfey did in response, he would not find out for sure. He guessed that the enemy commander would expect him to draw near and take a defensive posture to invite attack. He hoped that a swift hammer blow at the very beginning of the fight might rout the orcs and ogres, leaving the daemonfey and their infernal allies to fight alone.

  He took one last look at the ragged enemy formation, and raised his voice to call, “Companies, oblique to the left, march! Sound the signal!”

  Marching in swift ranks, the elven companies veered toward the left flank of the daemonfey army. At Fflar’s suggestion, instead of marching dead into the center of the enemy horde, Seiveril wanted to hurl all his strength against a portion of the army. He believed that his forces were swifter and more easily maneuvered than the daemonfeys’ unruly horde, and the enemy center and right would have difficulty moving to defend the left. Of course, that meant that his own right flank was exposed to the bulk of the enemy army, but he had prepared for that by building his right flank from the heaviest and most dependable of his footsoldiers, his own Silver Guards from the northlands of Evermeet and two stout companies of Evereska’s veteran Vale Guards.

  “That threw ’em,” Fflar said with a smile. “They can’t match that move.”

  The ragged ranks of orcs and ogres seethed, as if they were not sure what to do. Then the harsh voice of a brazen trumpet sounded from somewhere in the enemy center, and the orcs and ogres on Seiveril’s right started to move forward and in, trying to wrap around behind the elf’s right flank. But the difficult terrain the daemonfey had chosen for themselves worked against them. The savage warriors trying to move swiftly to get behind the crusade’s right flank found that they had hundreds of yards of wet, boggy ground in front of them. The orc spearmen farthest out on the enemy right had no hope of keeping up with the intended wheeling movement, and fell behind at once, even though they were running at their best speed to try to keep their place.

  “It’s only bought us a few minutes,” Seiveril replied.

  The shining silver ranks of the elf infantry flowed over the uneven ground, rippling like a stream of steel pouring across the moorland. The gap between the armies narrowed moment by moment, closing by two hundred yards a minute at their swift pace. Seiveril glanced to the west. The sun had descended from the day’s overcast and gleamed, orange and cold, in the gap between mountains and clouds. It was a spectacular sunset, really, the skies streaked with shadow and gold.

  Corellon, let our work be done swiftly and well tonight, he prayed. Speed our arrows to our enemies, confuse and foil them so that no more of your sons may go to Arvandor before their time.

  “Archers!” he cried. “Fire at your pace as we advance. Look for fey’ri and enemy banners.”

  Strong bands of wood elf archers marched alongside the spearmen and swordsmen of Evermeet. The battle of the cwm had taught Seiveril that his archers were the best answer to the fey’ri spellcasters. By salting his ranks with small companies of Evermeet’s wood elves and the elite spellarchers, he would make it difficult for the fey’ri legion to attack from the air without enduring at least some danger of their own. With easy skill, the archers kept the pace of the advancing swordsmen and spearmen, pausing a half step every twelve heartbeats to loose an arrow at the army waiting ahead.

  More than a thousand bows began to speak as the elven force drew close to its adversary, sending ragged flights of white arrows whistling through the space between the armies. The fire was nothing like what they might have achieved if they had halted, but elf archers trained long and hard at firing on the move, and from the first volley their deadly shafts began to work destruction among the ranks ahead.

  The orcs and ogres of the daemonfey army screamed and bellowed in anger. Banners fell, their standard-bearers slain. Captains and sergeants choked on slender arrows fired by keen-eyed elf marksmen. Seiveril considered ordering a halt to allow his archers even more time to rake the enemy ranks, but then the daemonfey decided matters for him. Again the heavy trumpet blatted out its deep note, and the uneasy ranks of savage warriors shouted in delight, breaking into a clumsy, ragged charge.

  “Halt and hold!” Seiveril cried. “Archers, break the charge! Mages, stand by for the fey’ri and demons. Don’t waste your spells on orcs unless you have to.”

  The elven army slowed to a stop, heavy infantry in the front grounding their shields and setting their spears and swords, the archers redoubling their fire. The ragged volleys of the advance became a withering storm of white shafts. For one endless minute, the archers scythed down hundreds of orc berserkers and rampaging ogres as the feral warriors struggled to reach the elves across the rough moorland.

  The first of the orcs and ogres reached the elf ranks, while the fey’ri legion took to the air, their wing beats as great and terrible as thunderclaps.

  “Beware the daemonfey!” Seiveril called.

  He readied his own counterspells and defenses, prepared to withstand a magical assault. But the fey’ri stayed out of reach and flew over his army, in one swift and precise movement sealing off his retreat.

  The sun sank below the dark, cold mountains, and shadow fell over Seiveril and the army of Evermeet.

  Sarya Dlardrageth watched her orcs and ogres hurl themselves upon the elves’ army, breaking on the rampart of the elven line like a stormy sea unable to overcome a stone breakwater. In truth, she was impressed by the speed and handiness of Evermeet’s army, as well as their sheer determination. She hadn’t been sure that they had the stomach to press their pursuit to the point of another pitched battle, but so much the better.

  “It’s going poorly for the left flank,” Mardeiym Reithel said. “Without our fey’ri behind it, I think they will break and run.”

  “No matter,” Sarya replied. “The palebloods will have to turn to meet the attack of our center and right. And we are about to give them something else to worry about, anyway.”

  She paced across her Vyshaanti battle-platform, watching the fray closely. She was dressed in golden mail of exceptional quality and exquisite workmanship, a highly enchanted artifact she had found among the spoils of Nar Kerymhoarth. Sarya intended to lend her own mastery of the Art to the attack, and she was well prepared to do so.

  The fey’ri, hovering well above arrow-reach, passed over the entirety of the elven army and alighted behind her foes. The sorcerers and warriors of her daemonfey legion began to attack the rearmost companies of the elven army, guarding themselves with potent spell shields as they scoured and blasted
the elf ranks with their terrible spells and fire wands. She had deliberately ordered her captains to allow Evermeet’s host to reach the moorland unchallenged in order to draw them well and truly into the open. The elven army was engaged on three sides by her left flank, her center, and the fey’ri.

  The moment was as right as it would get.

  Sarya laughed with malice and hissed, “Now we shall test the mettle of our enemies. Mardeiym, you will take command of the center. Send word to the right that I want them in the fight in five minutes, or I will personally slay every captain in that host.”

  The fey’ri general struck his fist to his chest and replied, “As you wish, Lady Dlardrageth.”

  Sarya made a gesture with her hand activating one of the useful enchantments in her battle-platform. Switching to the Abyssal tongue, she barked out her orders.

  “Time to spring our trap,” she grated. “All of you, follow me and slay to your hearts’ content!”

  Lurking in the shadows sheltering her from sight, hundreds of demons waited—virtually all who could transport themselves from place to place with a simple act of will. Many were survivors of the Battle of the Cwm, but better than threescore were newly summoned and bound to her service. Sarya spoke a command word, and her platform teleported from its place of concealment to a barren, sandy stretch on the unengaged left flank of the elven army. An instant later, the first of her demon marauders followed her, appearing from midair like a rain of horror.

  Her army surrounded Evermeet’s host on all four sides.

  “Destroy them!” she cried, sweeping her arm at her foes.

  Demons howled, barked, and laughed in response, and threw themselves against their prey.

  CHAPTER 18

  12 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Araevin trotted swiftly through the damp, rain-soaked trees of Cormanthor, distancing himself from the vault behind him. He deliberately avoided the old elfroad, just on the chance that the daemonfey might discover his freedom and their dead comrades and come looking for him. The side of his chest still burned with the broken ribs the behir had given him, and various other injuries announced themselves as he traveled, but he refused to give the pain a place in his thoughts, and instead considered what to do next as he jogged on.