Farthest Reach

CHAPTER NINE

28 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

They spent their last night at the Golden Oak much as they had the last time they left Silverymoon, enjoying a good meal, drink, and dancing beneath the lanternlit boughs of the great old tree. Then, in the morning, the three travelers returned to the Vault of Sages to pick up the copies Araevin had commissioned from Brother Calwern before leaving the city again. It was another warm spring morning, and flower beds all over the city were in bloom around them.

They climbed the steps to the Vault’s entrance, and found Brother Calwern waiting for them with a new leather scroll case, secured for travel.

“The Untheric map you requested is ready,” the aged Deneirrath told Araevin. “I wish you luck in your travels, Master Teshurr. Come back when you can and tell us about them.”

“Thank you,” Araevin replied, accepting the map in its leather case. “Until we meet again, Brother Calwern.”

He bowed and turned to go, but then someone called his name from nearby. The voice was human, though raspy and somewhat deep. Araevin turned and found himself looking on a man who sat by one of the desks. The fellow stood slowly, pushing himself to his feet with a jangle of mail beneath his surcoat.

“I am Dawnmaster Donnor Kerth, of the Order of the Aster,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”

The same order that Grayth served in, Araevin recalled. He inclined his head to the fellow.

“Well met, Dawnmaster,” he replied, studying the Lathanderian. He was young-a grown man, certainly, but no more than his mid-twenties, if Araevin was any judge of it-and he had a hard manner to him. His eyes were bright blue and intense, and his hair was hacked so short that it was little more than dark stubble covering his dusky scalp. He wore the rising sun symbol of Lathander on his breast, and a big-hilted broadsword hung at his hip. “What can I do for you?”

“You were the companion of Mornmaster Grayth Holmfast?” the human asked.

“Yes, I was,” Araevin said. He frowned, taking the young man’s measure. “We traveled together in the Company of the White Star some years ago, and again this very spring.”

“Grayth Holmfast was my mentor in the Order. I understand you were with him when he was killed.” His fierce manner grew even harder as his eyes narrowed, and a scowl crept across his features. “He was like a father to me, Master Teshurr. Tell me what happened to him.”

Araevin searched Donnor Kerth’s eyes. “Grayth was a true friend to me as well, Dawnmaster. I will do as you ask.” He reached out and set a hand on the big human’s shoulder. “But, I have to warn you-it will be hard to hear. He fought valiantly at my side through many perils, but in the end he was murdered in cold blood by the daemonfey.”

“I mean to hear your tale, Araevin Teshurr, whether it is good or ill.”

Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and Maresa, then nodded. “Give me a moment to finish my business here, and we will go somewhere to talk. Dawnmaster, this is my betrothed, Ilsevele Miritar, and our companion Maresa Rost, who has also shared many dangers with us. We all rode with Grayth.”

Ilsevele offered her hand in the human way, and Kerth surprisingly did not seek to crush it in his mailed grasp. He drew off his gauntlet to touch her fingers, and bent down to kiss her hand.

“My lady Miritar,” he murmured. Then he turned to Maresa, who made a show of daintily extending her hand for the same treatment. “Lady Rost.”

“Dawnmaster Kerth,” Maresa intoned gravely. The genasi regarded the serious Lathanderian with a solemn face, but Araevin caught a glimmer of humor in her eyes. Maresa was not used to such displays of courtesy, it seemed.

“Let us go outside,” he suggested.

The human assented with a nod, and Araevin led him outside to the green boulevard that ran past the Vault. Many of Silverymoon’s streets would have passed for parks in other cities. They found a row of cherry trees in full bloom, and sat on a pair of stone benches beneath the soft pink blossoms. Araevin related to Donnor Kerth the story of his return to Faerun and quest for the missing telkiira. From time to time, Ilsevele or Maresa interrupted with details of Grayth’s valor and their adventures together.

Araevin went on to tell of their continued quest in search of the last telkiira, the battle against Grimlight the behir, and the daemonfey treachery that snared them all in Sarya Dlardrageth’s clutches. Then he came to the end of Grayth’s tale in the demon-haunted halls beneath Myth Glaurach.

“The daemonfey demanded that I lead them to the last of the treasures they sought, and so they threatened Grayth’s life if I did not comply.” He paused, struggling with the words, as the grief of the moment welled up again in his chest. “I hesitated, because I did not want to put such a weapon in Sarya’s hands. She ordered Grayth killed, and one of her fey’ri cut his throat. My resistance failed, and she caught me in a spell of dominion, commanding me to do as she asked.”

Kerth’s fierce eyes softened for a moment. “You did what you could, Araevin Teshurr. Your lives were forfeit from the moment such monsters captured you. As far as you knew, they would kill you anyway.”

“I know. But if I had yielded sooner, they might have saved Grayth for later use against me, as they did Ilsevele and Maresa. In which case, I might have been able to rescue him as well.”

“How did you escape the domination spell and free your comrades?”

Araevin frowned, and rubbed unconsciously at the Nightstar embedded beneath his shirt. Some things should not be lightly shared.

“Sarya’s captain commanded me to attempt something that risked grave harm. That gave me the strength to break the spell. After that, I returned to Myth Glaurach, which had been mostly emptied, as the daemonfey were busy with their war against Evereska and the High Forest. I found Ilsevele and Maresa, and teleported away.”

“He also managed to sabotage Sarya’s control of the city’s mythal, and banish a few hundred demons while he was at it,” Maresa added. “Don’t let Araevin convince you that he isn’t at least a little bit heroic.”

The human glanced at Araevin again, and leaned back to digest the tale, hands locked in front of his chest. After a long moment he sighed and looked up.

“Does Grayth’s murderer still live?” he asked.

“No. I killed the one who wielded the knife,” Araevin said.

“But as far as we know, Sarya Dlardrageth still lives,” Ilsevele added. “She is the one who ordered Grayth’s death. We think she is hiding in the ruins of Myth Drannor.”

“Then, if you will permit me, I offer you my service in Grayth Holmfast’s stead.” The Dawnmaster bowed deeply, his arms spread wide. “These daemonfey, whoever they are, have made an enemy of the Order of the Aster, and I intend to see Lord Holmfast’s work through to its end.”

Araevin frowned, not sure what to make of the offer. He exchanged looks with Ilsevele and Maresa. The genasi shrugged, but Ilsevele studied the human closely, her green eyes narrowed in thought.

“Evermeet’s army is marching against the Dlardrageths in Myth Drannor,” Araevin finally said. “However, our path does not lead there yet. We are about to set out in search of some ancient lore that we need to defeat the mythal defenses Sarya is erecting around Myth Drannor. It is my intent to travel swiftly and return to the fight against the daemonfey as quickly as I can, but I can’t say where my quest will lead me, or how long it will take.”

“A long and difficult march may prove more important than a single glorious charge in deciding a war,” the human knight said. “Honor is served equally by both. Until such a time as you know that you will have no need of my sword, I would like to aid you in whatever way I can. If Grayth would have followed you, I will follow you.”

Araevin considered his reply. As far as he knew, he might be wandering in and out of libraries for months in search of the spells he needed. But Ilsevele answered for him. As a captain in the Queen’s Guard, she understood a warrior’s honor better than he did.

“For the sake of Grayth Holmfast’s memory, we will accept your service,” she told the human. “The only conditions I place on you, Dawnmaster, are these-if Araevin or I tell you that something you see or do is not to be spoken of to those who aren’t elves, you will not do so, and you will not abandon us in danger. Other than that you are free to judge for yourself when honor has been served.”

The human crossed his right arm over his heart. “I so swear,” he said.

“Good,” said Araevin. He stood and faced the Lathanderian. “If you have a bedroll and a pack, go get them and meet us by the river gate. We need to get a mile or so beyond the city walls, and I will teleport us all to Myth Glaurach.”

Curnil Thordrim stood his ground, and prepared to meet his death shoulder-to-shoulder with five more Riders of Mistledale. He and his fellows crouched in the common room of a farmhouse, staring out through the open door and the half-shuttered windows. Skulking closer through the forest verge came shapes out of a nightmare-snarling, hissing devils with snakelike tails, wide mouths full of foul, jagged teeth, and huge saw-toothed glaives of rust-red metal. Fearsome yellow light glimmered in the fiends’ eyes, and they cackled and snarled horribly in their terrible voices.

“Why don’t they just get on with it?” muttered Rethold.

The tall archer stood beside Curnil, a silver-tipped arrow held on his bowstring. He had only three arrows left, and he was waiting until he was sure of a shot. For the better part of a tenday, the Riders of Mistledale had been embroiled in a deadly fight that worsened every day, defending their vale against what was first a marauding devil or two, then murderous gangs of the creatures. In the past few days a dozen of Curnil’s fellows had died, torn apart by fiendish talons, skewered on hell-forged hooks or spears, or blasted to smoking corpses by devil-wrought hellfire.

“Be patient, and wait for your shot,” Curnil told him. “If we are going to fall here, we have to take as many of these foul hellspawn with us as we can.”

“What I’d like to know,” remarked Ingra, who was keeping watch by the window, “is how these monsters got out of Myth Drannor.”

She stood with a powerful crossbow in her hands, a highly enchanted quarrel laid in its rest. Curnil knew that she’d account for one of the devils, when the moment came. But that wouldn’t be enough, would it?

“They’re coming!” cried Ingra.

Curnil raised his paired short swords and crouched by the doorway, ready to kill the first devil to enter the room. Rethold’s bow thrummed to his left, as the archer fired through one of the shuttered windows on that side of the house, and Ingra’s crossbow snapped sharply on his right.

There was a sudden rush of footfalls, the clicking of taloned nails on the floorboards of the porch outside-and a furious devil leaped in the door, eyes ablaze with battle-lust. It was so quick and reckless in its rush that it nearly skewered Curnil with its barbed glaive before the swordsman could move. He cursed and threw himself aside, then parried two more jabbing thrusts as the monster pressed in, two more of its fellows crowding in close behind it.

“For Mistledale!” Curnil cried, and he heard his fellow Riders take up the call.

He slipped inside the glaive’s point and launched a furious assault of his own, slashing and stabbing with his swords as the devil snapped at him with its fangs. The other Riders crashed into the doorway with him, and for a few moments the whole fight came down to a savage press right in the farmhouse’s door, blades flashing, fangs sinking into flesh, hisses of anger, and sudden grunts or cries of pain.

Curnil roared in anger as the devil he battled sank its teeth into his forearm, snarling and worrying at him like a great fierce hound, but he managed to slip his right hand free and stabbed his enchanted blade into the monster’s torso over and over again, until the devil finally slipped and went down in the doorway. He stumbled to the floor, saw Rethold killed by a glaive-thrust that burst the weapon’s point half a foot out of the archer’s back, and from all fours awkwardly parried the attack of yet another devil leaping through the press.

His new opponent hissed in savage glee and drew back its weapon for a killing thrust, even as Curnil tried to gain his feet-and a silver-white arrow sprouted from the devil’s neck. Curnil took advantage of the devil’s distraction to gain his feet again and gut the creature with a wicked low slash under its guard. More silver arrows struck all around him, a deadly sleet of archery that took the devils in their backs until the creatures finally scattered and dashed away, seeking escape.

Curnil found himself standing with Ingra and two of the other four Riders, staring in disbelief at the evidence of the archery around them.

“Someone has an excellent sense of timing,” he said.

He ventured out onto the porch, looking to see who or what had just saved his life.

Arrayed around the farmhouse stood dozens of elf archers, some kneeling behind the undergrowth, others standing in the shadow of tree trunks. With easy grace they glided forward, loosing arrows at the fleeing devils as they came, until the skirmish line swept past the farmhouse and into the fields beyond.

“Who are they?” Ingra asked. “I thought I knew most of the wood elves of Cormanthor, but I’ve never seen these fellows before.”

“Nor have I,” Curnil said. He limped out into the open-somehow, during the fighting in the farmhouse door, he seemed to have been slashed across the leg without even noticing it-and raised a hand in greeting to the archers’ captain, who trotted up to the house. “Well met, friend!” Curnil said in Elvish. “My companions and I owe you our lives!”

The captain-a wood elf whose silver-green garb seemed to shimmer and shift as it constantly adjusted for the green and dappled shadows the elf passed through-looked at Curnil in surprise.

“You speak Elvish!” he said. “And not very badly, either. You must know some of the Tel-Quessir!”

“I do. My name is Curnil Thordrim. I spent several years in the service of Lord Dessaer of Elventree.”

“Are these his lands?” the elf asked.

Definitely not from around here, Curnil noted. “No, Elventree lies a hundred miles or more to the north and east. You are near the human settlement of Mistledale.”

“Ah, I think I have heard of it,” the elf answered. His eye fell on the dead or dying devils sprawled on the farmhouse’s stoop and doorway, and he nodded. “I am glad we were able to help. You fought with great valor against more numerous foes.”

“Not to seem ungrateful, sir, but-who are you? And what are you doing in Mistledale?”

The elf looked back to Curnil, and inclined his head. “I have forgotten my manners. I am Felael Springleap. My warriors and I belong to Lord Seiveril Miritar’s host. We have come from Evermeet to destroy the daemonfey in Myth Drannor.”

“Lord Seiveril? Daemonfey?” Curnil shrugged. “Do you mean to tell me that an army from Evermeet is in Cormanthor?”

“I mean that very thing.” The elf-Felael, Curnil reminded himself-turned away for a moment to quickly confer with some of the others, who trotted off after the rest of the company. Then he turned back to the weary Riders. “Have you seen many of these hellspawn here, Curnil Thordrim?”

“For a tenday or more they’ve been raiding our settlements and slaughtering our people. We always knew there were creatures like this lurking in Myth Drannor, but they have never escaped to the larger forest to trouble us before.”

“Then it may be that we can help each other,” Felael said. “We are here to defeat these creatures and their masters, and it seems to me that you must know much about the lands and happenings nearby. Do you think your leader would be willing to meet with us?”

Curnil took in the skilled and graceful company with a glance. How many more companies of elf archers were roaming around Cormanthor, looking for devils to slay? he wondered. Whatever the answer, it was certainly the best news Mistledale had heard in quite some time.

“Yes,” he said. “I think he would.”

Donnor Kerth seemed a grim and serious traveling companion, putting Araevin in mind of some dwarves he’d known in his day. But his gruff and fierce manner had a way of melting away whenever he addressed Ilsevele or Maresa. Donnor hailed from southern Tethyr, the son of a mid-ranking noble, and he had been brought up with an exacting sense of chivalrous behavior, particularly in regards to the opposite sex. Some of the more conservative sun elf houses embraced similar romantic ideals, but humans had a way of fixing their minds on something and carrying it to extremes that elves would never practice.

At Myth Glaurach, they joined in with the stream of elves passing from the Delimbiyr Vale to Semberholme. Since Araevin was perfectly capable of navigating the portal network by himself, they didn’t have to wait for an elf mage to lead them through, as the rest of the warriors did. They rested for the night in the growing camp by the shores of Lake Sember, surrounded by the lanternlight and cookfires of Lord Seiveril’s army.

Araevin and Ilsevele went to see Seiveril when they had settled on a place to camp. They found him sharing the evening meal with Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves, who sang and danced with abandon as if to show the elflord that their high spirits were sufficient for the whole army. The wood elves greeted both Araevin and Ilsevele warmly, and it was some time before the three sun elves managed to disentangle themselves from the songs, games, and bawdy wit of the wood elf encampment.

As they walked back to Seiveril’s pavilion, Ilsevele took her father’s arm. “Did you feel in need of some song and dance tonight?” she asked.

“A little music never hurt anyone,” Seiveril replied. “I try to make it a point to take at least half my meals with the troops, choosing a different company each time. I want to know what’s on their minds, and take some time to remind them why they’re here. But I have to say, the wood elves don’t give one much of a chance to talk, do they?”

Araevin smiled. Wood elves were notoriously garrulous, but then again sun elves were supposed to be distant and reserved. He suspected that his wood elf friends went out of their way to act the part when he came to visit, simply because he was a sun elf.

“Their spirits seem high, anyway,” he observed.

“It cheers me to pass an hour with them, I’ll admit,” Seiveril said. “So, you have returned much sooner than I expected. Did you forget something?”

“We’re only passing through,” Araevin told him. “We need to head south from here, toward the ports in Sembia or Cormyr. We’ll be taking a ship to Aglarond.”

“Aglarond?” Seiveril paused, his eyes thoughtful. “That makes sense. The People have lived there for a very long time, perhaps even as long ago as the dawn of Arcorar. But it is so far away! Do you really think you will find what you are looking for there?”

“I don’t know,” Araevin admitted. “But it is the best guess I have at the moment.”

“What of you, Father? Have you found any sign of the daemonfey yet?” asked Ilsevele.

“We have companies already marching north and east toward the Standing Stone. I have heard from some of our scouts that they have met demons and devils of various sorts in the forest. Apparently the human folk who live in the forest verge have been greatly troubled in the last few tendays by the fiends that Sarya has released from Myth Drannor, or summoned on her own.”

Ilsevele frowned. “I do not like the idea of bringing our own war into the middle of their homeland,” she said.

“Sarya made that decision, not I,” Seiveril said. “Even if we had chosen not to follow her here, the Dalesfolk would still have to reckon with the daemonfey army and Sarya’s summoned hellspawn-and they would not have our swords and spells to help them.” They reached Seiveril’s pavilion, and the elflord stopped and kissed Ilsevele on the cheek. “I am afraid I have to set our marching orders for tomorrow, and make ready to meet with some human emissaries from the nearby lands who want to know why an army of elves has suddenly returned to this ancient forest. If you like, I will have Thilesil provide you with mounts to speed your journey.”

They thanked Seiveril, and Ilsevele kissed her father again. Then they returned to their camp.

The next morning, they found Seiveril’s aide Thilesil and obtained riding horses for the four of them-not the elven coursers from Evermeet itself, of course, since they did not know if they would be able to embark the horses when they reached Cormyr’s ports. Then they set off for the human lands south of Cormanthor.

From the wilderness of Semberholme, they made their way south for a day to the land of Deepingdale and its chief town Highmoon. The next morning, they rode to the town of White Ford at the northern end of Archendale, and passed along the length of the dale to the town of Archenbridge in a long, hard day of riding made a little easier by fine weather and good roads. Two more days of riding brought them across Sembia’s broad farmlands and well-ordered hamlets to the great old city of Saerloon, on the shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Saerloon had long ago over-spilled its city walls, and for miles outside the old city, inns, taverns, stockyards, and stables lined the road. The aroma of the place was overpowering, a mix of cookfires, animal dung, and industry such as tanning, papermaking, and smelting. Busy humans everywhere were noisily engaged in their trades with little regard for their neighbors. Few passersby took any notice of the four riders approaching the city, but those who did looked hard at Araevin and Ilsevele, saying little.

“Why do they stare at us so?” Ilsevele asked Araevin in Elvish.

“Not many human cities are as welcoming to our people as Silverymoon,” he replied. “The humans who settled these shores learned little from elves, unlike the human lands you passed through in the North. The Sembians have long regarded elves as rivals, perhaps even enemies.”

“Enemies? Why?”

“Long ago the Sembians were checked in their northward expansion by the might of elven Cormanthyr. Even after the fall of Myth Drannor, elves remained in the forest for centuries, enough that the Sembians still did not dare to defy them. The last Houses of Cormanthyr abandoned the Elven Court only within the last forty years or so.”

“Will the Sembians claim the forest, now that it has been abandoned?”

“I do not know. The Dalesfolk still stand in their way, even if they are no match for Sembia’s strength.” Araevin glanced at Ilsevele with a thin smile. “Besides, your father may have other ideas on the question now.”

They finally reached the old gates, so deeply buried within the city that there seemed to be no difference between the districts outside the walls and the ones inside the walls, and rode through. Now that they were in old Saerloon, the city’s native architecture became apparent. Great stone buildings centuries old rose high overhead, distinguished by needle-like spires, bladelike flying buttresses, high pointed arches, and an incredible wealth of statuary-crouching, leering gargoyles seemed to adorn every rooftop. It was magnificent in its way, but more than little sinister as well.

Araevin gazed up at the threatening, monstrous figures captured in stone, and wondered what had led the long-dead sculptors to adorn their city so.

“Let’s find a good inn,” he suggested, “and we’ll see what ships are in port and where they are bound.”

The waters of Lake Sember glowed with the golden sunset, and a dark line of storm clouds gathered around the distant Desertsmouth Mountains to the west, promising rain before long. Seiveril stood near the lakeshore, absently noting that the camp was smaller than it had been. Many of his companies were already well on their march to the north and east, and soon he too would be gone from there.

“Lord Miritar? The Dalesfolk emissaries are here,”

Thilesil told him.

The efficient sun elf was a priestess of Corellon Larethian, and one of the clerics subordinate to Seiveril in the hierarchy of Corellon’s Grove. But more importantly she had proved to be an exceptionally competent administrator and secretary, helping him to attend to the myriad details of moving, feeding, and planning for an army numbering in the thousands.

“Excellent,” Seiveril replied. “I will be there in just a moment.”

He would have liked Starbrow or Vesilde Gaerth to be present for the council, but the moon elf warrior was leading the vanguard of the march, and Gaerth was behind him, in charge of the main body.

Seiveril turned his back on the sunset and found his way back to an old, stone colonnade beneath the trees. The slender white pillars had once ringed a great table where the old lords of Semberholme had feasted on summer nights. Like many of Semberholme’s ruins, they were not really ruined at all, just abandoned for a time. Since Seiveril’s folk had had a few days to set things in order, golden lanterns hung once again from the branches overhead, and the table was set much as it might have been five hundred years ago. Three humans and a half-elf awaited him.

Thilesil stepped forward and announced, “Honored guests, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion. Lord Seiveril, this is High Councilor Haresk Malorn of Mistledale, Lord Theremen Ularth of Deepingdale, Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, and Lady Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale.”

“Welcome, friends,” said Seiveril. “I thank you for consenting to meet me here.”

He bowed, and took a moment to study his guests. He’d sent couriers to all the nearby lands after discovering the troubles besetting Mistledale, even dispatching mages with teleport spells to speed their journeys if necessary.

Haresk Malorn, High Councilor of Mistledale, was a tall, balding human with a heavy body, dressed in garb Seiveril might expect of a small town merchant, which was exactly what Malorn was. For all his evident lack of martial bearing, he had a surprisingly direct and strong look to his face, even if he seemed a little overwhelmed in the present circumstances.

Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, another tall human, was the second of Seiveril’s guests. He had a thick, dark beard and a grim, almost sullen manner to him. He also shifted his feet nervously, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest.

His third guest was the half-elf Lord Theremen Ulath of Deepingdale. Theremen evidently had some moon elf blood in him. He was quite fair of skin, with dark hair and a build that was almost elf-slender. He seemed somewhat more at ease than the Malorn, but Seiveril would have expected that from a lord whose demesnes included both human towns and elf settlements in the southern margin of Cormanthor. It helped that Seiveril and Theremen had spoken several times already in the days since the Crusade had emerged in the forests not far north of Deepingdale.

“It has been a long time since an elflord has invited Dalelords to his table in Cormanthor,” Theremen said. “I, for one, am honored to be here.”

Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, and turned his eyes to the fourth of his guests-none other than Storm Silverhand, one of the Seven Sisters, Bard of Shadowdale, Harper, Chosen of Mystra, and a dozen other things more. She stood watching him, her eyes dark and thoughtful in a face of tremendous beauty. She wore a mail shirt and a leather jacket, and a long sword rode at her hip. Her silver hair, long and straight, gleamed in the lanternlight. Seiveril had not expected her, believing Shadowdale would send its lord Mourngrym Amcathra or another representative, but he was not about to tell a Chosen of Mystra that she was not welcome.

“Well, Seiveril Miritar, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest in Myth Drannor,” Storm said. “I suppose I would like to know what in the world is going on there, and why a whole army from Evermeet has suddenly gated into this forest.”

“I will explain,” Seiveril said, glancing to Thilesil, “but first, I was expecting a representative from Archendale too.”

“The Swords declined to come,” Thilesil said. “They sent word that they are not concerned with ‘elven matters,’ but will not obstruct your movements in any way, as long as you do not approach their land.”

Malorn shook his head. “Trust Archendale to look out for itself first. You won’t get much from them, Lord Miritar.”

“In all fairness, High Councilor, the Swords are mightily concerned by Sembia, which sits at their southern doorstep,” Lord Theremen replied. “They do not want to give Sembia a reason to pick a quarrel with them.”

Seiveril shook his head. The human ability to ignore their own common good always astonished him, but he supposed that if the rulers of Archendale wanted to be left alone, he could certainly leave them alone. He looked back to Storm Silverhand, sensing that she was the one he would have to convince. The legendary Bard of Shadowdale might not hold any titles or govern any lands, but her words went a long way in the Dalelands.

“I promised to explain our presence,” he began. “We have spent the last three months marching and fighting in the Delimbiyr Vale, where we fought a bitter campaign against a legion of daemonfey-winged demons who wear the shapes of elves. They are an ancient evil long ago defeated and imprisoned in the High Forest. But earlier this year they mounted a raid on Evermeet itself, and freed a great legion of their kind to launch an attack against the elves of the High Forest and nearby realms.”

“Evereska,” Storm said.

Seiveril nodded. He hadn’t wanted to name the city, not knowing the Dalelords with whom he spoke well enough to speak of such a secret.

“Yes, Evereska,” he allowed. “In response, I gathered a host of warriors from Evermeet to go to the Delimbiyr Vale and destroy the daemonfey threat. We stopped them at the gates of Evereska and in the deep refuges of the High Forest, and broke their army on the Lonely Moor. But the daemonfey fled through hidden gates to Myth Drannor, where they are now rebuilding their strength.” He faced Councilor Malorn and spread his hands in apology. “In truth, we did not mean to drive an army of our foes into your lands. But now that they have fled here, we have come to finish what we started at the Lonely Moor.”

“That explains your army’s presence,” Storm Silverhand said, “but perhaps you can also tell me why the forest is suddenly thick with creatures of the infernal planes. Have these daemonfey of yours broken the wards trapping those monsters inside Myth Drannor?”

“We think so, yes.” Seiveril paused, to make sure that the Chosen understood him. “One of my mages, an expert on mythalcraft and the daemonfey spells, surveyed Sarya’s handiwork at Myth Drannor. He found that she has assumed control over the mythal, and is now working to twist it to her own purposes. In the High Forest she used the wards over Myth Glaurach to summon up a whole army of fiends. I fear she will do so again in Myth Drannor if we do not stop her.”

“Damn.” Storm turned away to stare out over the lake. “We’ve allowed Myth Drannor to fester for decades, and now it seems we’ll have to pay the price for it.”

Haresk Malorn looked to Storm and asked, “Can the Sage of Shadowdale do something about a demon queen tinkering with Myth Drannor’s old magic? Or the Knights of Myth Drannor? They would not stand aside and let this happen, would they?”

The Bard of Shadowdale frowned, and her face grew dark. “Elminster took the Knights off through a magical gate months ago on some perilous errand. I haven’t seen them since. My sister-the Simbul-grew so sick with worry that she appointed a regent in Aglarond and went seeking them. She said something to me about the Srinshee before she left, but now I haven’t heard from her since. I would like to know where they are, too.”

“I know that Elminster and the Knights have proven their friendship to the Dales many times over,” Malorn said. “But still… what in the world is more important than what’s going on right here?”

“The world is full of troubles, my friend, and we who are Chosen can only deal with a very few of them.” Storm looked up at the twilight skies overhead. “For my own part, I have always hated choosing which things to do and which to leave undone.”

The high councilor frowned and looked down at his feet, perhaps regretting his words. The gathering fell silent for a long moment, as the other Dalesfolk chewed over Storm Silverhand’s tidings.

Then Ilmeth of Battledale stirred and looked over to Seiveril. “So you’re just going to march your army up to Myth Drannor, kick out the daemonfey, and ride off back to Evermeet?”

“As directly as we can, though the mythal wards may prevent us from an outright assault. We may have to invest the city and batter down its defenses, or work powerful magic of our own to contain the daemonfey.” Seiveril hesitated, then added, “After that, many of us will likely return to Evermeet. But I intend to remain here and keep some strength in this forest. We have been surprised by threats originating in Faerun too many times. I cannot speak for all who march under my banner, but I at least have Returned.”

The Dalelords did not attempt to conceal their surprise. Councilor Malorn exchanged looks with Ilmeth of Battledale, and both surreptitiously glanced to Storm Silverhand to see how the Bard of Shadowdale responded. Storm, for her part, was still staring out over the lake. After a long moment, she spoke over her shoulder.

“Turning back the march of years is rarely a good idea, Seiveril Miritar,” she said. “It took the lords of the Elven Court nearly five centuries to decide on Retreat. Are you telling me that in a few short months they’ve suddenly decided otherwise?”

“The decision was not without debate.”

Storm snorted softly in the twilight. “Sun elves make an art of understatement. Do you have any idea of the trouble that will come from this?”

“Whatever trouble comes, it must surely be less than that which will come to this land if we leave Sarya Dlardrageth in Myth Drannor,” Seiveril answered.

“Lord Miritar, not all of the Dales hold to the old Dales Compact anymore,” High Councilor Malorn said. “The four Dales represented here still abide by the promises made fourteen centuries ago by our forefathers to yours, but the Compact is not remembered with much fondness in Archendale, Tasseldale, or Scardale. Even Harrowdale is questionable.”

“And there are powers encroaching on the borders of Cormanthor that never agreed to any Compact with the elves,” Lord Theremen pointed out. “Realms such as Zhentil Keep and Hillsfar-or Sembia, for that matter-are not at all unhappy with the elves’ Retreat. They might resist your Return to Cormanthor.”

“I have no designs on their lands,” Seiveril protested.

“No, Seiveril Miritar, but they certainly have designs on yours-and ours,” Storm Silverhand said. The silver-haired bard turned back from Lake Sember and fixed her eyes on Seiveril. “Cormanthyr long shielded the Dales and the forest lands from the ambitions of kingdoms nearby. But since the final Retreat of the Elven Court thirty years ago, the realms surrounding the Dalelands and Cormanthor have been growing ever bolder. In the absence of the elves’ strength and determination, the forest has become a great borderland, a frontier that all are eager to claim.

“Fortunately — ” Storm smiled humorlessly as she spoke-“we live in interesting times. The Zhents would have overrun the northern Dales long ago, but they have murdered each other in at least two great bloody purges. They have now recovered from those feuds, stronger than ever. The Sembians might have bought Tasseldale and Featherdale and who knows what else lock, stock, and barrel-but Cormyr under King Azoun would have none of that. Well, Azoun is dead now. Hillsfar was a city friendly to the Fair Folk, respectful of the old Compact. Now it is ruled by the tyrant Maalthiir, a man known to hate elves.

“For a decade now, the only thing keeping the aspirations of these ambitious powers in check is the fear that should one of them move too quickly, the others would certainly join forces to drag down the leader from behind.” Storm frowned at Seiveril, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. “Now you tell me that there’s an army of demonspawn in Myth Drannor, who no doubt plan to seize a realm to rule for themselves.”

“That, at least, I mean to prevent,” Seiveril replied. “As for the other realms, I recognize that the years have passed since the Standing Stone was raised, and that a new Compact may be necessary. But I see no human cities standing here on the shores of Lake Sember, or rising in the silver groves of the Elven Court. I will not be told that elves cannot raise a realm under Cormanthor’s branches.”

Storm sighed and looked over at the glimmering lanterns and campfires of the elven army, which were beginning to flicker into life as the twilight deepened.

“Before the Retreat, no one would have dreamed of challenging an elven army in Cormanthor,” she said. “I do not think you can trade on that old fear and respect any longer. Whether you meant to or not, Lord Miritar, you have brought war to Cormanthor, and I cannot yet see who will take up arms against whom.”