Final Gate

CHAPTER TWELVE

16 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

The Crusade marched through the lush forest, a river of diamond and sunlight in the warm green shadows. Seiveril rode at their head, caparisoned for battle. He did not expect to meet the daemonfey yet-after all, Myth Drannor was still sixty miles ahead of him-but a sudden demonic ambush was more than likely, now that he had led his warriors out of the ancient wards of Semberholme.

Seiveril guided his mount to one side of the hidden elven road along which his warriors marched, and paused to watch his warriors pass. His guards formed a wary ring around him, watching for any sign of daemonfey attack.

“The Sembians are keeping up?” he asked Edraele Muirreste.

“We could march to Myth Drannor and back twice in the time it would take them to get there,” the young captain said. She failed to suppress a restless flick of her head. Edraele was simply not made for standing still. “I suppose they’re still moving north, if that’s what you mean. Rauthauvyr’s Road is about two miles east of us here, but we’re still in touch with the overmaster’s banner.”

“Good,” Seiveril said. Should Sarya Dlardrageth attack the Sembians, Seiveril could join them quickly… and if the daemonfey struck at him, he intended to fall back toward the Sembians and bring both allied armies into the battle in that fashion.

For three days they’d marched north through the forest, paralleling the Sembian march along the road. A contingent of elven captains and spellcasters marched with Selkirk, while a whole company of Sembian officers and Silver Ravens remained close by Seiveril’s banner. The hope was that the exchange of trusted captains would make it easier for the leaders of the armies to coordinate their efforts when battle came. Seiveril did not know if the arrangement would work out, but any measure that reinforced cooperation over rivalry would go that much farther toward keeping their swords pointed at the daemonfey instead of each other, and that was no small thing. On the other hand, he had spent almost no time in Ilsevele’s company since the two armies started on their way north, simply because she was the elf the Sembian leaders knew the best.

He turned his attention to the warriors passing him by. Several strong companies of wood elf scouts were already well in front of the vanguard, and a mile or more ahead of him. First came the Vale Guards of Evereska, grim and purposeful, shining silver in their mail hauberks. The Evereskans noticed Seiveril watching, and hailed him. “Miritar! Miritar!” they called, raising their arms in salute.

“Quietly, now!” he answered them. “Let’s keep the daemonfey guessing about our whereabouts instead of shouting out where we are.”

The Evereskans passed into the tree-shadow, vanishing in the gloom. Behind them rode a large contingent of Seiveril’s own Silver Guards, who saluted both him and their captain Edraele. Seiveril watched them pass, and Starbrow joined him, riding up from the rear of the column. The moon elf looked over the march and nodded in approval.

“We’ll be on the other side of the Vale of Lost Voices by sunset,” he said.

“I suppose Sarya has decided to wait for us in Myth Drannor,” Edraele observed. “Still, I’d like to be sure of that. With your permission, I think I’ll catch up to my company and see to our scouts.” Seiveril nodded to her, and the small moon elf tapped her heels to her horse’s flanks and cantered after the Silver Guard.

“We should make sure to provide the Sembians with plenty of guides for their crossing of the Vale,” Seiveril thought aloud. “I doubt that their rear guard or siege train will make it all the way across before sunset, and I would not want the guardians of the place to mistake our human allies for enemies.”

“Easier said than done. More than a few of those who rest in the Vale died fighting the Sembians’ forebears. Human armies in Cormanthor rouse old and watchful spirits.” Starbrow fell silent, and watched the Crusade’s companies and banners glide swiftly by without further comment.

“Something troubles you, old friend,” Seiveril finally said. “What is it?”

The moon elf looked down at the reins in his hands. “Seiveril, there is something I need to tell you.”

Something in his friend’s voice warned Seiveril that he would not like what followed. He turned his mount in a half-circle so that he faced the tall moon elf, and looked into his face. Starbrow avoided his eyes, instead looking out over the Crusade marching past.

“What is it, my friend?” Seiveril asked.

“Not here.” Starbrow glanced around at the elf guards who watched nearby, and led Seiveril a short distance away. When they were out of easy earshot of the other elves, he looked around one more time, and took a deep breath. “I don’t even know how to say what I have to say,” he muttered, more to himself than to the elflord.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve often found that it’s easiest to just come right out and say the thing you’re most afraid to say.”

“I know it.” Starbrow wrestled with himself a little longer, and he brought his eyes up to Seiveril’s. “I have fallen in love with Ilsevele. And I think she is in love with me, as well.”

Seiveril simply stared at Starbrow. He had heard every word clearly enough, but taken together they didn’t make sense. “I do not understand,” he managed.

“I don’t either. I did not mean to, Seiveril. It just… happened.”

“She is betrothed to Araevin, Starbrow. They are to be married.”

“I know.”

“Well, then, you must be mistaken,” Seiveril said. The more he thought about it, the more confusing he found the whole conversation. “I know you have shared many dangers with her in the last few tendays. Perhaps you have misconstrued something she said or did. It happens all the time.”

Starbrow sighed and looked away. “I know my own heart, Seiveril. I don’t think I’m mistaken about what I feel there.”

“Have you said anything to Ilsevele about… this?”

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear, Seiveril. Ilsevele and I both feel this way. She has given me her heart, and I have given her mine.” Starbrow looked away to the east, and Seiveril followed his gaze. She was there, somewhere, riding alongside Selkirk by the Sembian banner. “When I look into her eyes, my spirit sings. And I see something in her eyes that tells me she feels the same way, and I feel like I want to leap into the sky and fly. How could I be mistaken about something like that?”

“But Ilsevele is so young,” Seiveril protested. “I am her father, and you are centuries older than me. I know that doesn’t mean much for our people, but still…”

“I’ve lived about one hundred and thirty years, Seiveril. I may have walked in Arvandor for centuries, but now the Elvenhome is only a dream to me. I can’t remember it anymore.”

Seiveril shook his head. What did I expect when I called him back to life after so long? he asked himself. He was not just a hero in a story, after all. He was a living man, and life has its own tumbling and crooked course to it. No one knows where it might lead from one moment to the next. He realized that Starbrow was waiting for him to speak, and he sighed.

“Starbrow, I do not know what to say. I did not foresee this.”

Starbrow found the confidence to look Seiveril in the eye again. “I want your blessing, Seiveril.” He waved his hand at the warriors marching past. “This war will end someday, and I might live through it. If I do, I think that my path will lead me to Ilsevele’s side… and hers to mine. I need to know that you approve.”

“Approve?” Seiveril said hoarsely. “Starbrow, you have known each other only for a single short season. Ilsevele has already promised herself to Araevin. He is a fine man, and they have waited many years for the day of their marriage to come. And you were married too, were you not? It seems hard to approve of something that seems, well, impetuous at the least.”

“I can’t tell you what has passed between Ilsevele and Araevin. I suppose you will have to ask her if you want to know.” Starbrow shrugged awkwardly. “As far as my own marriage, Sorenna survived me by a century or more. She took another husband after the Weeping War, Seiveril. Death parted us, you might say. And I think that when she finally came to Arvandor, we did not walk together any longer.”

Seiveril thought of Ilyyela, his own wife. He had reached out to speak to her spirit in Arvandor, hoping to bring her back to life, but she had refused to come back. He knew with the certainty of the stars in their firmament that she waited for him in the Elvenhome, and that they would be together there when his own work in Faerun was done. He looked at Starbrow, his friend and comrade-in-arms, and he saw in the moon elf’s eyes the shadow of an old pain indeed. How happy would I be in Arvandor if Ilyyela loved another? Seiveril asked himself.

“In Myth Glaurach, you told me that I hadn’t been called back to fight one battle,” Starbrow said. “You told me that I had been called back to live, for as long as chance dictates. When I look in Ilsevele’s eyes, I know why I came back. I came back to meet her, even if I didn’t know it the night you summoned me from Arvandor.”

“Enough.” Seiveril raised his hand, forestalling Starbrow’s words. “It is still too unexpected, Starbrow. And this does not seem to be the time-”

“Lord Miritar! Lord Miritar!”

Seiveril looked around behind him. Edraele Muirreste galloped back down the forest road, standing in her stirrups. She waved to him as soon as she caught sight of his banner.

“Selkirk of Sembia asks for you. The daemonfey await us in the Vale!”

Starbrow glanced at him, and back to the captain of the Silver Guard. “How strong are they, Edraele?” Starbrow called.

“Two thousand or more. The fey’ri legion is there, along with many demons and devils!”

“I suppose we’ll have to speak about Ilsevele later.” Seiveril grimaced, realizing that he was actually grateful for the opportunity to turn his attention to less confusing matters. “I did not expect Sarya to make a stand outside Myth Drannor’s walls.”

Starbrow shrugged. “I had a feeling we weren’t going to get to Myth Drannor without a fight.”

As it turned out, Araevin’s teleport spell was very nearly a fatal mistake.

Instead of conjuring himself and his friends safely to the cavelike sanctuary near the top of the Long Stair, he botched it badly. The small company was scattered for a mile or more in the lightless dark. Araevin himself appeared alone a good six or seven feet in the air above the narrow roadway, and gave his knee a painful wrench on landing. Jorin and Donnor arrived in the sanctuary, but Nesterin was half a mile distant in the opposite direction and wound up clinging to the ledge with white-knuckled hands, having been dropped right at the edge of the awful precipice. And Maresa herself did actually appear out in the middle of the dreadful space, but fortunately arrested her fall with her elemental gifts. They all finally found their way to the small, cold cave above the abyss, warded by the best spell shields Araevin could manage with the last of his strength.

When they finally roused themselves, Jorin prepared the best breakfast he could from the haphazard collection of belongings they had managed to bring out of Lorosfyr with them, while Donnor illuminated their small refuge with Lathander’s golden light. Then the cleric addressed their various injuries, salving bruises and sealing cuts with his healing spells. He even managed to ameliorate the abominable ache in Araevin’s knee.

“Don’t ask me how we managed it, but we are all alive and reasonably hale and whole,” the cleric muttered when he finished. “By the Morninglord, I thought that I had seen my last dawn. When Selydra hurled that black orb at me…”

“Try finding yourself alone, falling in total blackness.” Maresa hugged her arms close to her chest and shivered. “Is that what Ilsevele meant when she said that teleport spells sometimes don’t work as well as they ought to, Araevin?”

“More or less,” Araevin admitted. “Strange magic permeates the deep places of the world. It can scatter a teleport spell, as I demonstrated for you. That is why I was hesitant to try it, unless I thought we had absolutely no other choice.”

“I think I’ll be happy to walk the next time you offer to whisk us off somewhere in the blink of an eye,” the genasi said. “Speaking of which, I think I’m about ready to walk on out of here. I’ve had all of the Underdark that I care for.”

“Back to the portal, then?” Jorin asked Araevin.

“I think so, but I am not sure. The Waymeet is not safe any more.” Araevin thought of the infernal monsters that haunted the place, and the fiery iron brands driven into the living crystal. He did not know if the devils guarding the Waymeet had determined which door they had used to leave, but the last thing he wanted to do was walk right into an ambush. “I want to make sure that I know where we’re going before we chance it again.”

“Can you sense the direction to the third shard now?” Nesterin asked.

“Let me try.”

The sun elf rummaged through his pack for a moment and drew out the first shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. Then he opened the iron coffer from Selydra’s vault. The Pale Sybil’s shard rested inside on a bed of black velvet. He lifted it out carefully, and held it beside the first shard. The dagger-shaped fragments glowed with a soft lavender radiance even in the brightness of Donnor’s light spell. Araevin noticed that the glow grew stronger the closer the shards were to each other. Taking a deep breath, he fitted the two together. He felt a sharp jolt of power flow through his hands, magic old and strong indeed, and the two pieces were bonded together as if they had never been parted. He couldn’t find the slightest seam to mark the place where they joined each other.

“Amazing,” he murmured.

Cradling the joined crystal on his lap and closing his eyes, he chanted the words of a simple seeking spell and opened his mind, casting about for any hint of direction. The crystal in his hands began to shine brighter, and seemed to stir or whisper, filling the chamber with a strange high note like the ringing of a glass he might have tapped with the edge of a knife. Araevin felt his friends watching him, silent and intense.

At first he felt nothing in answer to his call. But then, faint and far off, he sensed an answering note. He reached out to catch it with his mind’s eye, but no matter how he imagined the third shard, he couldn’t derive any idea of where it was in relation to the cave on Lorosfyr’s edge. He could tell that it was distant, but not in what direction it might lie.

“Well? Where is it?” Maresa asked.

“Not nearby,” Araevin answered. He frowned and tried to listen closer, hoping to learn something from the quality of the ringing note, but it was beginning to fade. “I do not think it lies on this plane of existence.”

The others exchanged sharp glances. “Where is it, then?” Donnor asked.

Araevin raised his hand for silence, still straining for the last whispers of his seeking spell. He had half-expected something like that, and he was not unprepared. As the faint ringing of the crystal faded, he freed one hand from the Gatekeeper’s Crystal and reached into the pocket of his cloak, where he kept his spell components. Casting a pinch of powdered glass above his head and muttering the words of a powerful spell, he invoked a vision.

“Where is the third shard?” he demanded. “Where?”

The chamber darkened and whirled away as the vision snatched him away from his body. He felt an instant of dizzying movement, a great leap of awareness that sent his perception racing outward through silver nothingness at the speed of thought itself, and he found himself standing on a barren, dusty plain. The sky was dark with black, racing clouds that flickered with an angry orange glow, as if great fires seethed within. Thunder crackled and echoed around him, and the air was desperately hot and dry. Around his feet, shriveled black thorns clawed their way from the dust, waiting for rain that never came. Jagged peaks as sharp as swords fenced the distance.

“Where am I?” he asked the harsh desert. Nothing answered him, but he sensed something behind him. Turning slowly, Araevin beheld a mighty citadel of black glass. It soared skyward from the depths of a forest of dead, twisted trees. In one small tower a white light flickered, enticing him. The shard! he realized. But then the awful plain and the terrible castle reeled drunkenly, and vanished in an instant.

He gasped and jerked awake, his skin hot and dry even in the numbingly chill air of the abyss. For a moment he flailed in surprise, but strong hands caught his arms and steadied him.

“Easy, Araevin! You are back,” Jorin said. The Yuir ranger knelt on his right, and Donnor Kerth at his left. “You have seen the shard?” the cleric asked. Araevin drew in a deep breath. “Yes. It lies in an infernal plane. Some hell or another beyond the circles of our world.”

“Of course,” Maresa muttered. “Maybe Bane himself is keeping it in his vest pocket. Why not?”

Donnor grimaced. “Are you sure?”

“There was a dry plain of sharp stones… clouds of fire in the sky

… a dark and strong fortress. It was an awful place.” Araevin passed a hand over his eyes. “I know what I saw, Donnor.”

The company fell silent. Maresa shook her head and stood, keeping her thoughts to herself for once. Donnor’s armor creaked as he eased back against the wall, his stubbled jaw clenched in thought. Nesterin and Jorin watched Araevin and waited.

“So… what do you intend now?” Nesterin finally asked. “Will you try for the third shard?”

“I have to. I have no choice.”

“Myth Drannor is that dangerous in Sarya Dlardrageth’s hands?” Donnor asked.

“It’s not Myth Drannor-though that is certainly perilous in its own right. The true danger is the Waymeet, the Last Mythal. Ilsevele’s father could set a cordon around Myth Drannor and imprison the daemonfey within its bounds forever if he had to, but I can’t allow Malkizid to master the Waymeet. The consequences would be awful.”

“So we need to venture into the Hells to get this last shard.” The Tethyrian looked up at Araevin and nodded. “Very well. It can’t be that much worse than Lorosfyr.”

Araevin dropped his hands to his lap, and began to wrap the two joined shards in a cloth for storage in his pack. “I said it before we came to Lorosfyr, and I will say it again: None of you have to come with me. It is not your task.”

Maresa shot Araevin a hard look and snorted. “I’m not done with Sarya Dlardrageth. I’m not about to give up now.”

“The lower planes are vast and deadly. Can you find your way to the shard?” Nesterin asked.

Araevin looked at his friends. Cold, battered, and exhausted even after their comfortless rest in the cave at the edge of Lorosfyr’s deadly dark, they still chose to go on. His heart could break at their quiet courage.

“I can find the shard,” he finally said. “But I think we will have to return to the Waymeet to reach it.”

Soft and still, morning found the armies of Evermeet, the free Dales, and Sembia arrayed for battle at the edge of the Vale of Lost Voices. Rather than pressing forward to meet the daemonfey after a long march, the elves and Sembians had decided to rest for the night and join battle on the following day. The time was at hand. Banners hung limp in the cool air, and spears and helms gleamed in the gray mist. Fflar heard little other than the faint rustle of armored men shifting their footing or the occasional cough in the ranks. Heavy, brooding clouds overhead promised rain before long.

“The daemonfey are still here,” Ilsevele murmured. She sat on her roan mare Swiftwind, dressed in her full battle armor. She and Fflar waited together beneath the twin banners of Seiveril Miritar and Miklos Selkirk. The two leaders intended to begin the day standing together. “After last night, I expected them to retire.”

“I didn’t,” Fflar murmured back.

The daemonfey had harried both the Crusade and the Sembians throughout the night. Demons stealing through the darkness with blood dripping from their fangs, spells of stabbing fire or corrupting blight hurled from the dark skies above, sudden deadly rushes to hack down those standing guard… Fflar had seen horrors such as that before, in the last days of the Weeping War.

It would have been worse without the Tree of Souls. Carefully set in the earth at the center of the elven camp, the tree’s aura made at least a few hundred yards of the Vale relatively safe from demonic attack. The only problem was that the sapling had no great influence unless it was rooted in the earth, which meant that it had to be concealed and guarded quite carefully. It was also dangerously vulnerable while the army was on the move. Fflar was frankly glad that Thilesin was charged with caring for the tree. The responsibility was more than he would have cared for.

“Why here?” Ilsevele said. “The daemonfey have the smaller force. Why not stand in Myth Drannor itself if they’re going to stand on the defensive?”

Fflar studied the lay of the battleground. “Sarya sees some advantage here that she won’t enjoy if she waits for us to get any closer,” he answered. “This open land certainly favors her flying warriors and winged demons. We won’t be able to hide under the trees here.”

Ilsevele reached out with one hand and found his, squeezing it in her archer’s grip. “I fear this will be a terrible day, even if victory is ours.”

Fflar could not disagree. He followed Ilsevele’s gaze across the gray downs. The fey’ri legion stood in disciplined ranks, a little less than a mile from the elf and human armies. They would have been outnumbered almost ten to one by the allied army… but the restless horde of fiendish monsters tripled their strength. Tall, skeletal bone devils brandished their barbed hooks, insectile mezzoloths clacked their mandibles and jabbed their iron tridents in the air, and vulturelike vrocks crouched and slavered beneath their cowls of shabby gray feathers. Sarya’s forces were outnumbered still, but each demon, devil, or yugoloth in her army was an engine of supernatural destruction that could slay dozens of mortal warriors with impunity. The question was whether the elves and Sembians had sufficient spellcasters and champions among their ranks to deal with the hellspawned monsters before they shredded the two armies. And Fflar simply did not know the answer to that question.

“Well, what do we do now, Miritar?” Miklos Selkirk said. He and Seiveril sat on their horses nearby, studying the battlefield ahead and making their plans. “Do we stand here and receive their attack, or do we strike first?”

“Sarya’s army stands between us and Myth Drannor. I am afraid that places the burden of action on us,” Seiveril answered him. “I certainly don’t want to have to encamp again and fend off her demons through another night.”

“Tempus knows that’s true enough,” Selkirk agreed. The Sembian prince had dispensed with his waistcoat and rapier, donning a suit of ebon half-plate covered in elegant gold filigree. A long-handled battle-axe hung at the pommel of his big black charger.

The elflord looked over to Fflar. “Starbrow, what do you think?”

Fflar studied the sky, absently wondering if rain would help or hinder the allied armies in the fight to come while he considered his answer. “I think that Sarya picked this place because she wants to beat us in a battle of maneuver, not overwhelm us with a headlong assault. She will wait for us to make our move, so we might as well get to it.”

“As we planned, then.” Selkirk drew a deep breath, and leaned over to grip Seiveril’s arm. “May Tempus, Lord of War, favor us.”

“Aillesel Seldarie,” Seiveril said in reply. Then he turned in the saddle of his own mount, and called out, “Signal the general advance!”

Horns cried out in the still air, the high ringing tones of elven trumpets mixed with the deeper, flatter notes of the humans’ horns. Drummers in the Sembian ranks started up with a stirring count, and the armies moved out together. Instead of maneuvering separately, elf and human warriors marched alongside each other. Between companies of Sembian soldiers or mercenaries trotted files of Dalesfolk longbowmen and elf archers. Across the field, wherever human swordsmen or knights went, elf archers and mages followed. Fflar smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched the two armies combine into a single mixed force. It was disorderly and imprecise, and it took time to execute, but instead of having both armies trying to join each other, the Sembians simply marched ahead in well-spaced ranks while the elves-faster, more disciplined, and quicker to react-did the work of finding their places between the human ranks. The fey’ri would find no enemies unprotected by powerful elf or Dalesfolk bows.

“Be careful,” Ilsevele whispered to Fflar. She leaned over from Swiftwind and kissed him lightly. “The daemonfey will be looking for you.”

“And you,” he said in answer. “You won’t stay out of the fighting for long, I fear.”

“I know.”

Ilsevele turned Swiftwind away from the banner and urged the horse into an easy canter, riding back to where the Silver Guard of Elion and hundreds of Sembian cavalry waited, a few hundred yards behind the two standards. She had been placed in charge of the allied armies’ reserve-not because it was any safer there than elsewhere on the battlefield, but because it was an assignment of crucial importance. Seiveril trusted no one else beside Fflar to choose the moment to fling the allies’ last strength into the fray, and he needed Fflar to lead from the front in this fight.

Sehanine, watch over her today, Fflar prayed silently.

“Forward the banner!” Seiveril shouted, and Fflar spurred his mount into an easy walk. Instead of hiding their standard, the elflord and his guard marched in plain sight near the center of the army, surrounded by the Knights of the Golden Star, the Moon Knights, Selkirk’s own Silver Ravens, and the Evereskan Vale Guards, who were the best troops to be found in either army. Fflar glanced over his shoulder one more time. Ilsevele took up her spot at the head of her warriors, who stood watching in a double line of horsemen.

“Beware the fey’ri!” someone cried near Fflar.

He looked back around, just in time to see the whole daemonfey legion taking to the air, along with scores of the demons, devils, and other such things that could fly. The wing beats echoed like thunderclaps across the downs. They climbed higher, making ready for the strike to come. Below the winged warriors and monsters, the rest of Sarya’s motley array howled, shrieked challenges, and gnashed fangs, eager for the taste of mortal flesh. More than a few of the Sembian mercenaries slowed their pace, shrinking from the prospect of getting anywhere near the foul monsters. But still the combined armies moved on.

“Spellcasters, ready your defenses,” Seiveril called.

The leading companies drew within two bowshots of the daemonfey horde, and heavy brazen horns sounded deep in the enemy ranks. All at once, the leash was slipped, and the cacophonous tide of hellborn monstrosities surged forward to meet the advance. Bulldoglike canoloths as big as draft horses bounded across the field, barbed tongues lolling from their terrible jaws. Mezzoloths clacked and hissed, leaping over the wet grass with astonishing speed for creatures as big as ogres. Fflar reached up to close his visor over his eyes, and drew Keryvian in one smooth motion. The sword burned with bright blue fire, sensing demonblood nearby.

“Archers! Mages! Take them!” Selkirk called.

Streaking balls of fire sailed out of the Sembian ranks, along with flight after flight of white arrows. The demons and the rest responded with infernal spells of their own, scouring the ranks of the human and elf warriors with ripping blasts of scarlet lightning and worse. Then the fey’ri overhead dropped down low and added their own deadly sorcery to the barrage of hellwrought spells and blights searing the field. The battlefield erupted into waves of roaring fire, booming thunderclaps, glowing shields and barriers, as on both sides hundreds of clerics, wizards, and demons hurled magic at their foes or sought to parry enemy strikes.

“Tymora preserve us,” Miklos Selkirk muttered, so softly that no one more than ten feet away could have heard him.

Humans and elves died by the hundreds in that awful moment, charred to smoking corpses, blasted into bloody pieces, or smothered beneath life-snuffing necromancy. But fey’ri burned and fell out of the sky, while demons screamed in rage at spells that destroyed them or hurled them back to their own foul plane.

“Demons! Demons among us!”

An uneven wave of sulfurous bursts all around the standards announced the appearance of demons and devils by the hundreds, teleporting themselves to attack the twin standards. Elves and humans cried out in alarm or screamed in mortal pain, while the fiendish creatures roared, hissed, or bellowed in obscene laughter. Fflar swore savagely and closed up with Seiveril, guarding the elflord’s back. In the skies above them the fey’ri legion climbed back above bowshot and soared over the allied army.

“It’s the Lonely Moor again!” Seiveril shouted to Fflar. “They are trying to surround us!”

“That didn’t work before,” Fflar replied. “The daemonfey are up to something else!” Then he found himself hurled out of his saddle by a deafening thunderclap.

His horse screamed once in mortal agony, and the ground hit him like a giant’s hammer. For a moment he stared into the sky, his head swimming. The demons came after the standard despite our guards, he realized. Then he rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself upright.

Seiveril was nowhere in sight, but all around him the elf knights of the Golden Star fought furiously against dozens of demons-fire-wreathed things that looked like black skeletons, hulking toadlike hezrous that filled the air with their noxious reek, even buzzing chasme demons that flitted over the ground like monstrous flies. Sun elf knights battled the monsters, swords aglow with holy fire, while blazing arrows streaked from spellarchers’ bows and elf battle-mages hurled destruction in a dozen forms. Human warriors fought beside them, spending blood and strength with an extravagance that awed Fflar. Even though few wielded weapons that could harm a devil or a demon, still they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their elf comrades.

“Dieee, elfff!”

A darting chasme swooped toward Fflar, knifelike claws extended to impale him. Its buzzing, chittering voice stabbed like daggers in his ears, but Fflar leaped to meet the creature and sheared off its arms and half its head with one great upstroke of Keryvian. The sword rang shrilly with its first kill of the day.

“You’ll have more than enough today, old friend,” Fflar said to his sword.

To his right a hezrou clawed an elf knight out of the saddle and stooped, catching the unfortunate warrior’s head between its huge, wet talons. It leered at its victim, needle-like fangs dripping in anticipation-and Fflar sliced into it from its side, hewing great black cuts in its quivering flesh. The hezrou let loose a gurgling wail and collapsed. Fflar reached down and dragged the wounded warrior to his feet.

“Watch yourself, friend!” he called.

The sun elf clamped one hand over his side and nodded, shaking, behind his visor. He stooped to pick up his sword, and turned back to the fray. Fflar turned, seeking the next threat.

Metal scraped and creaked nearby.

“Now what?” the moon elf warrior murmured.

He looked toward the sound, and for a moment didn’t see anything at all-it was coming from behind the line of demons and fiends fighting savagely at the army’s front. But a flash of lightning and sharp thunderclap slashed through the ranks, clearing his field of view.

Tall, ponderous iron shapes lumbered up out of the demonic ranks. They were shaped like elves dressed in ancient armor, their fists encased in huge spiked gauntlets. Each was fully ten feet tall. Bright blue flashes sparked from the joinings of their armor and glowed behind their expressionless visors. For a moment he thought they were lumbering up to attack Sarya’s demons from behind, destroying them against the swords of Evereska’s Vale Guards. But the fiends simply ignored the old elven constructs. With mindless determination, the battle golems raised their fists and struck down elves and humans alike.

What new deviltry is this? Fflar wondered.

The war-constructs were old elven work, he could see that easily enough. But they fought for the daemonfey-scores of them. Arrows splintered on their rusted breastplates, swords broke, spears shivered, and even spells seemed to be of no avail against the relentless new enemy.

Fflar looked down at Keryvian in his hands. “Come on, old friend,” he said. “I think we have a long day ahead of us.”

With a bold battle cry, Fflar charged at the first of the daemonfey battle golems.