Final Gate

CHAPTER SEVEN

5 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

Lord Miklos Selkirk sent for Ilsevele early in the morning of their third day in Tegal’s Mark. A finely dressed Sembian officer delivered the news, requesting Lady Miritar and her retainers to follow him to the Sharburg-the town’s small keep-after they had breakfasted and dressed. Ilsevele accepted the invitation with a gracious nod, and saw the courier to the suite’s door.

After he withdrew, she turned to Fflar and said, “Well, it seems that Lord Selkirk has returned.”

“I was beginning to wonder if the Sembians wanted to talk with us or not,” he answered. In fact, he had found himself wondering whether the Sembians intended to hear them out at all.

“I trust there has been a good reason for the delay. Until I know otherwise, I choose to believe that our host has been absent.” Ilsevele withdrew to her bedchamber to change, while Fflar found a handsome blue cloak to throw over his own tunic. Ilsevele soon emerged from her room, attired in a beautiful gold-embroidered dress of deep green over a chemise of sheer pale gray silk. Her long red hair was free to her shoulders, wavy and alluring, and she wore a slim tiara on her brow. The dress went well with her eyes, Fflar decided. Very well indeed. He couldn’t recall ever having seen Ilsevele dressed up, and the effect was stunning.

She noticed his gaze and smiled awkwardly, smoothing her dress. “Is something wrong?”

“Not a thing,” he admitted. “Lord Selkirk doesn’t stand a chance.”

She looked down and blushed. “Thank you, Starbrow,” she murmured. “I simply want to let the Sembians know that I take them seriously.”

They went down to the inn’s common room, where the Sembian messenger waited, along with a small escort of half a dozen human guards. The Sembians had arranged for several carriages, even though the Sharburg was not much of a walk from the Markhouse. In a matter of minutes they rolled into the broad dusty courtyard of Tasseldale’s chief castle, which had been crowned by the pennants of Sembia.

I wonder what the mairshars think of that? Fflar asked himself. The Sharburg was the stronghold of Tasseldale’s constables, guards, and lawkeepers… but it seemed that the Sembian lords had evicted them when they chose the Sharburg for their headquarters.

“If you get the chance,” he said to Ilsevele, “I think you should press the Sembians about their occupation of this dale. Don’t let them think that you don’t care that this town belongs to Tasseldale.”

“I will not forget the citizens of Tasseldale, Starbrow,” Ilsevele replied. She looked up at the pennants floating overhead, and drew a deep breath. Then the carriage door opened, and a coachman extended a hand to assist Ilsevele from the carriage.

A small party of Sembians waited for them in the courtyard, surrounded by a number of vigilant guards. At their head stood a tall, dark-haired man who wore lace at the cuff and collar. His hair was carefully arranged in tight ringlets, and his goatee was trimmed to an exacting point just a little below his chin, but Fflar could see at once that the man was more than a dandy. The rapier at his belt was a fine piece of steel with a well-worn hilt, and the set of his shoulders and easy confidence of his black eyes marked him as a man who knew his own strength.

“Good morning, my lady Miritar,” the Sembian lord said, and swept off his hat in a gracious bow. “I am Miklos Selkirk, of House Selkirk. I am sorry that I could not meet you before now, but events in these troubled lands kept me away until a short time ago.”

“I understand, Lord Selkirk,” Ilsevele said. “It is those same troubles that led my father to bring his Crusade here.”

She’s very good at this, Fflar decided. Ilsevele possessed a natural poise that few elves could match, let alone humans, but at the same time she was sincere and direct. It made for a disarming combination. He quietly studied the Sembians observing her. They stood mute and unmoving, eyes wide, rapt. If they’d had suspicions about her, or duplicity in their hearts, those things were forgotten for the moment.

Ilsevele exchanged a few simple pleasantries with the Sembian lord, and Selkirk bowed and led them into the castle’s hall. The windows were thrown open to the fine summer morning, and an impressive buffet was spread out on long tables along one side.

The Sembian made a point of helping himself to several small slices of cheese and a goblet of wine-demonstrating that it wasn’t poisoned, Fflar guessed-and said, “Please, refresh yourselves if you like. I haven’t had much opportunity for good meals lately, so I certainly intend to do so.”

Ilsevele inclined her head and accepted some wine from a steward. “You are most kind, Lord Selkirk.”

Selkirk studied her for a moment, then said, “While I am delighted to entertain such a beautiful lady of the Tel’ Quessir, Lady Miritar, I am afraid I do not know what I can do for you. What does your father have to say to me?”

“We have no wish to fight you, not when our true enemy awaits in Myth Drannor,” Ilsevele said evenly. “I would like to arrange a truce between our peoples. If we could reach some understanding, then my father would be freed to turn his full strength against Sarya Dlardrageth.”

“I see,” Selkirk answered. He looked down into his goblet and swirled the wine idly, thinking for a moment. “There are difficult questions to resolve between us, Lady Miritar. Regardless of the relations my father or I might desire with our northern neighbors, too many of my countrymen-including some with powerful voices in our realm’s Great Council-will not be dictated to by an elven power in Cormanthor. We are here because those voices fear that your people will deny Sembia its natural and necessary growth.”

“Do you think that Sarya Dlardrageth will permit that growth, Lord Selkirk?”

Miklos Selkirk snorted and shook his head. “Borstag Duncastle seemed to think so, but he is quite dead now. For my own part, I harbor no such illusions. Not after what I have seen in the last two tendays.”

“Then you must surely see that it costs Sembia nothing to stand aside and allow us to try our strength against the daemonfey. If you husband your forces while we and the daemonfey weaken each other, your position can only improve.”

“Unless you fail, and the daemonfey choose to make us the next target for their wrath.” Selkirk smiled humorlessly. “Or succeed, and emerge stronger from the confrontation.”

Ilsevele frowned and set down her own goblet. “You fear our failure and you fear our success. But it seems to me that the current situation simply cannot be borne indefinitely. What would you have us do?”

“Defeat the daemonfey, and leave.”

“I cannot make that promise, Lord Selkirk. We will not leave Cormanthor empty again. But I hope that we would be better neighbors than the daemonfey. We understand the notion of compromise, at least.”

“You may find the concessions my countrymen demand difficult to meet. Our merchants want Cormanthor’s timber, game, furs, even some of the forestlands to clear and settle.”

“And you may find our demands equally difficult. We will not allow the outright conquest of lands allied to us-such as Tasseldale, here-or the ungoverned and reckless plundering of the forest’s bounty.” Ilsevele took a step forward, not allowing the Sembian lord to look away. “However, we are willing to strive in good faith to find common ground with you. We must put an end to the abominable depredations of the daemonfey. The bloodshed and horror of this awful season cannot be allowed to continue a day longer.”

“The gods know that is true enough,” the Sembian said quietly.

He set down his cup and paced away, hands clasped behind his back, to gaze out one of the hall’s high windows. Fflar studied the set of the man’s shoulders, the hint of fatigue and pain lurking beneath his polished exterior. It was hard to be certain, but he thought that the Sembian lord had the decency to be outraged by the murder and horror he’d seen.

Selkirk sighed, and faced Ilsevele. “Very well, Lady Miritar. You shall have your truce. My forces will not advance against Deepingdale or press any farther north than the positions they currently hold. If you can destroy the daemonfey, the world will be a better place.”

“If you truly believe that,” Ilsevele said, “then I have something else to propose to you: Help us against the daemonfey. March alongside us and help us to burn out this evil from Myth Drannor.”

Surprise flickered across Selkirk’s face. “You have a bold turn of mind, my lady,” he breathed. “I do not think you appreciate how difficult that will be for some of my countrymen.”

“I understand, Lord Selkirk. But I suspect that elves and humans alike will find it much easier to trust one another once we have fought together in the name of what is right, as opposed to what is expedient.”

“You may be right, Lady Miritar, but it is not in my power to agree to that. Extricating Sembia from this disaster of a campaign is what I came here to do.” Miklos Selkirk shook his head. “Before I throw more gold and blood into the Dales, I will have to consult with my father in Ordulin… and likely some of the important voices in the Great Council, too.”

“Then, with your permission, I will notify my father of our truce and await your decision about joining us against the daemonfey.”

“Yes, of course,” Selkirk said. “I will have word of the truce passed to all my commanders at once. And we will speak again soon about your bold suggestion.”

A dim sense of peril roused Araevin from a Reverie so deep and dark that he had almost begun to believe that he had died.

He struggled to wakefulness and discovered nothing but cold blackness all around him. The small lights they’d left burning in their camp had flickered out entirely during their long, cold sleep. Why didn’t someone strike a new light? he asked himself. Whoever was on watch would have needed something to see by… but did we even set a watch?

“Aillesel Seldarie,” he whispered. The cold and exhaustion must have taken their toll on his mind! How long had they been helpless in the dark?

Light, he decided. That was the first priority. He fumbled through his pockets, searching for something he could throw his light spell on. But then he heard a sound, slow and deliberate-a faint creaking of stone, a small crackle as rocks pressed against each other. It was close by, somewhere only a few feet away.

Araevin froze, not daring to move. Something prowled just outside the square doorway of the stone structure. Something large sighed, a low, rumbling sound, and the stone creaked softly again. He held his breath, trying to discern what it was that moved outside their bleak little refuge.

The thing outside paused and held still. Araevin could see nothing, but he could feel it there, the subtle strain of something that leaned against the walls, the slight stirring of the otherwise motionless air. It’s just outside the doorway, he realized. It’s right here.

His fingers closed on the disruption wand holstered at his left hip. It was a potent weapon, but he dared not discharge it unless he knew none of his friends were in the way. But he drew it out slowly just in case.

The thing outside drew in a sharp breath.

It sees me! he realized.

Without another thought, Araevin rolled to his feet. “Nharaigh lathanyll!” he cried, casting his light spell on the wand in his hands. A sudden yellow radiance filled the room, throwing stark black shadows into the corners.

A huge, misshapen face filled the square stone doorway, peering at him with great round eyes. The face was big, easily three feet from chin to brow. It was a pallid white, the eyes black and huge, the lips fleshy and loose. Crooked yellow teeth as long as Araevin’s hand glistened in its wet mouth. Then the creature screwed its eyes shut with a moan of distaste and jerked away, recoiling from the painful brightness.

“By Bane’s black hand, what in the world was that?” Jorin, who lay closest to the open door, came awake in the blink of an eye. He scrabbled back from his bedroll, a short sword already in his hand. “Damn it, who had the watch?”

Maresa, Donnor, and Nesterin struggled to awareness more slowly than the Yuir ranger. They blinked in Araevin’s light, fumbling to throw off blankets and find weapons.

“What’s going on?” Maresa mumbled sleepily.

“Something is outside,” Araevin replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the square doorway. “A giant of some kind.”

“Giant?” the genasi muttered. She found her feet and backed away from the doorway. “What do we do?”

“Wait a moment,” the sun elf said. “It recoiled from my light. Maybe it will move on.”

His companions watched the doorway nervously, straining to catch a glimpse of what waited in the blackness. Nothing happened for twenty heartbeats, and Araevin began to hope that the creature had indeed given up on them. But then a wide, spadelike hand of pallid flesh reached in from the darkness, groping and fumbling toward them.

Maresa gasped in consternation at the size of the monster, and slid away from the door. The hand was easily as broad as Araevin’s chest, with thick strong fingers as big as his forearm.

“Damn, it’s big,” she whispered.

The giant caught up a handful of Jorin’s bedroll and dragged it outside, snuffling heavily. The companions backed away from the doorway, shoulder blades pressed to the far wall. Araevin caught a quick glimpse of the monster ducking down to peer into the building again-and the giant lunged violently for him.

Araevin fell back as the giant’s fingers ground into the stone where he had been standing, splintering the rock. The creature rumbled in frustration, and grabbed wildly for Araevin again. Donnor caught hold of Araevin’s arm and dragged him back out of the way.

“Watch yourself!” the Tethyrian snapped. “We’re not likely to find another wizard down here.”

Jorin, pressed against the opposite wall of the room, frowned and leaned away as the giant groped back in his direction. He crouched low under the groping hand, but then the giant suddenly fumbled closer. Without a word Jorin fell back flat, and jammed his sword into the meat of the creature’s arm.

The giant jerked back its arm, flinging drops of blood against the doorway. It seemed to huff and whine in the darkness outside, but it did not roar, bellow, or curse as Araevin would have expected. Again stone creaked outside their small sanctuary.

“I think you drove it off,” Maresa whispered. “Good! That’ll teach it to go poking around in other people’s business.”

“I don’t think we’re that lucky,” Donnor said, shaking his head. He looked up with a small frown on his face-and the roof above his head exploded in a shower of crushed blocks and mortar dust.

With two great shoves of its thick arms, the giant cleared the top courses of stonework out of its way like a man sweeping a table clear of dishes. Araevin covered his head against the flying debris, and when he looked up again the giant towered over their broken shelter, raising a colossal hammer of stone over its head.

Nesterin’s voice rang out sharply in the darkness, and the star elf threw out a cloud of sparkling silver motes in the giant’s face. It shook its head violently, trying to clear its vision from the brilliant pinpoints. Then Araevin pointed his disruption wand at the monster’s face and barked out the command word. The cold black air sang with the shrill sound of the spell as a furious blue lance of energy slammed into the giant.

The creature reeled away, groaning… but then two more of the pale giants appeared. Hammers the size of hogsheads slammed into the old square blocks of the ledge house, knocking the place to pieces around Araevin and his friends. Donnor disappeared under a shower of masonry, while Nesterin barely dodged another block large enough to crush him like an insect.

“They’re battering the place to pieces,” the star elf cried. “We have to get out of here!”

Jorin darted through the doorway and instantly leaped aside to avoid a hammer-blow that would have driven him into the ground like a pile. Araevin waited a heartbeat for the giant outside to raise its hammer for another blow, and pushed Nesterin and Maresa out before the hulking monster could strike again. Then, rather than invite another hammer-blow, he quickly incanted the words of a flying spell and arrowed straight up through the collapsed roof.

Three of the pale giants surrounded their small safe-house. Now that he could see them entirely, Araevin found that they were horribly hunched creatures despite their great size. They went almost on all fours, with a curious hopping crouch that brought their faces down to not much higher than a human’s height. Had they been able to straighten up, they would have towered over ogres or trolls. Yet for all their awkwardness they were surprisingly quick and deft. One battered at Jorin, Nesterin, and Maresa with great sweeping blows of its hammer, driving them back. Another methodically pounded the stone building into rubble, trying to drive Donnor out or crush the human knight where he stood. The last giant stared up at Araevin in surprise, astonished to find its quarry darting through the air.

Araevin flew back and down a little, and shouted out the words of a powerful spell. From his outstretched fingertips a brilliant fan of iridescent rays shot out, scything shoulder-high across the two nearest giants. Virulent green acid ate into doughy hide, searing orange fire leaped and scorched, and crackling golden lightning sparked and ripped through flesh. One of the giants, its flesh smoking from great black burns, recoiled one step too far and silently toppled into the abyss, vanishing into the darkness.

Crackling violet madness danced in the other giant’s eyes. It dropped its hammer, clenching its fists against its head-and it looked up at Araevin and screamed.

The sound was indescribable, a mountain given voice. The mage was flung head over heels through the air to crash against the cold rock wall in a shower of rubble. Vision swimming, Araevin struggled to right himself and find a spell, any spell, to fend off the giant’s next blow. But the magical madness of the purple ray had the giant in its grip. Rather than finish off the dazed wizard, the pale brute simply turned and bounded down the narrow stairs, fleeing back down into the dark.

“Araevin! Are you all right?” Nesterin called.

Araevin held up his arm and nodded, unable to frame any better response. He picked himself out of the rubble, while Jorin and Maresa darted at the first of the giants. They scored again and again with their blades, but the genasi’s rapier and the ranger’s short swords were not well-suited for the task of stopping a giant. The creature bled from a dozen pinpricks, but still it came on, swinging its heavy hammer in great whistling arcs.

I must help them, Araevin thought over and over again. But he was still shaking off the physical blow the giant’s scream had dealt. He raised his disruption wand and pointed it at the monster’s back, and somehow he managed to mumble the activating words through the haze that enveloped him. Another shrieking blue lance of force tore through the blackness, taking the giant high in the back and spinning it halfway around.

Jorin used that moment to spring in close behind the wounded monster and plunge his blade into the back of its knee. The giant snorted and fell heavily, its leg giving out beneath it. The ranger backed off, but not fast enough; with one backhanded blow the giant sent Jorin hurtling into the darkness.

“Jorin!” Nesterin shouted.

The star elf leaped after the ranger, and caught a hold of his long cloak just as Jorin slid over the edge. Nesterin threw out his arms and legs, spread-eagled on his stomach as he struggled to keep Jorin from plummeting down into the darkness… but behind him the crippled giant turned and raised its hammer.

Rubble shifted in the wreckage of their shelter, and Donnor Kerth suddenly stumbled out of the dust and debris at the giant’s flank. He barreled into the monster’s side and hewed deeply into its back. The giant turned again, and Araevin seared its torso with a brilliant stabbing bolt of violet lightning. The creature’s face contorted in an unvoiced scream, and it slumped to the ground, just missing Maresa. Silence fell over the eerie battlefield.

“Aid me with Jorin!” Nesterin gasped to the others.

Maresa hurried over and grabbed another handful of the ranger’s cloak, and the two managed to pull him back up onto the ledge.

Donnor limped over to where Araevin sat, his chest heaving. “I thought there were three of them,” the cleric said.

“There were. One fell into the abyss. The other fled down the stairs, afflicted by a madness spell.”

“Your doing?”

Araevin nodded. “Yes. The spell is unpredictable, but often quite effective. The third giant won’t be back anytime soon.”

Donnor nodded, and peered down the stairs leading into the dark. The Lathanderite stiffened, and took a step back. “Then what’s that?” he asked.

Araevin stood up swiftly and looked where the Tethyrian pointed. Not far below them, a strange pale glimmer climbed steadily up the stairs toward their ledge. It almost seemed like a distant lantern carried by somebody ascending the terrible stairs, but it was close enough that Araevin could see that no one carried the light; it was simply a glowing white sphere, cold and small, arising from the depths below. Subtle tendrils of magic shifted slowly in his sight, whispering of dire power.

“It’s no work of the giants,” he told Donnor. “Warn the others.”

The Tethyrian called a soft warning back to Maresa, Nesterin, and Jorin. Araevin watched the light come closer as his friends arrayed themselves at his back, prepared for anything. Cold and exhaustion were momentarily forgotten as they studied the strange glowing sphere.

“Should we fire at it?” Jorin asked Araevin.

“It will do no good,” Araevin answered. “Wait a moment. It may not be hostile.”

Jorin lowered his bow, keeping an arrow on the string. The sphere climbed to within twenty feet or so, just a few short steps down the stair, and it drifted up away from the steps, rising to their level. It was oddly cold in the pale glow of the orb. Lorosfyr was without warmth anyway, but as it drifted closer, Araevin felt as if what little warmth remained to him was being stolen away.

“Who are you? What do you want with us?” Donnor demanded of the glowing light.

It drew back slowly, giving an impression of cold, dispassionate scrutiny that Araevin did not care for at all. He sensed subtle divination magic at work, and frowned.

“It’s studying us,” he said.

The small globe hovered before them for a moment longer, then it sank back down into the depths. Soon it was gone from sight, though Araevin almost imagined that he could make out a dim gray glow from somewhere far below.

“A sending of the Pale Sybil?” Nesterin murmured. He looked over to Araevin. “Do we dare follow it down?”

Araevin simply nodded. “I intend to. After all, that is what we came here for,” he told his friends.

Moonlight danced on the pure waters of Lake Sember. Seiveril Miritar looked on the beautiful scene and found that he was heartened by the sight. It was a perfect summer night, warm and bright with the moonlight all elves loved more than words could easily express.

It was a good omen for the coming battle. “The daemonfey approach, Lord Seiveril,” Edraele Muirreste said. The girlish moon elf seemed far too small and frail to wear a warrior’s arms, but appearances could be deceiving-behind those enchanting eyes lay a fierce determination and an uncanny capacity for bold, daring maneuvers and inspired leadership. Riding at the head of the Silver Guard, the great company of cavalry that had followed Seiveril out of Evermeet, Edraele was more dangerous than a full-grown dragon.

“I am afraid your eyes must be keener than mine, Edraele. I do not see them yet,” Seiveril admitted.

The young captain pointed up into the clear skies above the lake, and Seiveril followed her gaze to a distant dark cloud of tiny winged figures… a darting, roiling stream that grew closer with every heartbeat. “You were right, my lord,” Edraele said. “They are here, just as you predicted.”

“The Seldarine favored my divinations. I only passed along Corellon’s warning.” Seiveril quickly inspected his armor of elven steel plate, more than a little battered and scored from months of campaigning against the daemonfey and their evil hordes. Then he glanced back to Edraele and touched his brow in salute. “Good luck to you, captain. Remember, you’re not a rider tonight. It’s not as easy to get out of trouble when you’re fighting afoot.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Edraele sighed.

The moon elf was a rider of superb skill, the best Seiveril had ever seen. It seemed a waste to not allow her or her Silver Guard to mount up. But the daemonfey and their demons, devils, and such things were all winged, and even Edraele couldn’t lead her lancers into the skies.

Seiveril hurried over to the place where Vesilde Gaerth and the battle-mage Jorildyn waited. Every company of the Crusade waited deep in the tree shadows, concealed from the flying foes winging toward them. Only a handful of volunteers remained among the lanternlit tents and shelters of the Semberholme encampment, doing their best to look like half-awake sentries who had no idea the daemonfey were about to descend on them.

“Are your mages ready, Jorildyn?” Seiveril asked.

The battle-mage-actually a half-elf, with enough human blood to sport a silver-streaked black beard-nodded once without taking his eyes from the menacing shapes descending from the sky. “My mages know their task,” he said. “Whether the others will do as well, I cannot say.”

“They will,” Seiveril promised him.

He returned his gaze to the daemonfey. They had come close enough that he could make out the gleam of moonlight on their steel, and the larger and more ungainly shapes of vrocks and nycaloths scattered among the fey’ri warriors. The ancient magical wards guarding Semberholme kept infernal creatures from simply teleporting into the middle of the elven camp, and so the raid descending on them necessarily had to come from the skies. Otherwise the daemonfey and their demonic allies would have had to fight their way through miles of forest to get to Seiveril’s army, losing any hope of surprise.

Not that they’ve caught us off our guard tonight, Seiveril reminded himself. “Thank you, Corellon, for your guidance this night,” he whispered. “May our arrows fly swift, may our blades strike true, may our spells smite our foes and shield us from harm.”

“As the Seldarine will,” Vesilde said, finishing the ancient prayer.

“As the Seldarine will,” Jorildyn answered too. The battle-mage took a deep breath, and said, “Here they come.”

The fearsome shapes overhead wheeled and plummeted down toward the camp. Many of the fey’ri were deadly sorcerers, and they announced the beginning of the attack by launching a terrible barrage of spells-searing fireballs, deadly purple bolts of lightning, and black rays of destruction that pierced soul and body alike. Demons and devils among the fey’ri scoured the ground below with their own deadly blasts of hellfire and abyssal plagues, enveloping scores of tents and shattering stones and trees like the hammer blows of titans. Thunderclaps split the night, echoing across the water. Flames roared and crackled, and overhead demons shouted in glee.

Even though Seiveril had expected it, he was momentarily appalled by the sheer ferocity of the attack. Some of those who had volunteered to play the role of sentries managed to send a few paltry arrows speeding up into the black ranks above. Others simply vanished in searing blasts of fire or were thrown like broken toys across the ground. But he set his horror and surprise aside for later, and barked out, “Now, Jorildyn! Now!”

From a hundred places scattered around the outskirts of the camp, elf sorcerers, wizards, war-mages, and clerics shouted out battle spells of their own, launching a ferocious barrage right back at the daemonfey. And alongside each mage or cleric, another elf armed with a wand, a staff, or even a scroll to read joined the effort. While only a few score elves in the Crusade were mages of any skill, many more had dabbled in the Art at least a bit-and even a raw apprentice could employ a wand. At Jorildyn’s instruction, all the battle-mages under his command had shared their arsenals with any elf who could help, tripling the Crusade’s magical power for at least a short time.

The night vanished in the brilliant blue glare of lightning bolts and the sullen red glow of fire-fountains burning through the daemonfey ranks. Scores of fey’ri burned and died in the skies over the empty camp, their blackened corpses tumbling to the ground or splashing into the lake.

“Well done, Jorildyn!” Vesilde cried. “Well done! Now it’s our turn.”

The Golden Star knight raised a horn to his lips and blew a single high note that echoed over the thunderclaps and roaring of the flames

… and in response, more than a thousand archers bent their bows and let fly at the staggered fey’ri. More of Sarya’s infernal warriors screamed and died in the silver storm of death rising up to rake them.

Fey’ri spellcasters threw a haphazard volley of slaying spells of their own back down at the elves below, while beating desperately for altitude. Many of Seiveril’s wizards and clerics had necessarily given away their hiding places by hurling their spells up at the flying foe, and more than a few did not long survive after dealing their surprise blow against Sarya’s legion. Half a dozen acid bolts and fireballs streaked down toward the clearing where Seiveril and his captains had gathered, but Seiveril had been waiting for that moment. In the space of an instant he raised a barrier of null magic, shielding his companions in a temporary cocoon in which magic, any magic, simply could not work. It shut off their own spellcasting, of course, but Seiveril decided it was easily worth the cost as spell after spell simply died a few feet before reaching him.

“Watch out for the demons and devils,” Vesilde warned. “They’ll simply attack with fang and claw if they realize you’ve taken away our spells as well as theirs.”

“That’s why I wanted your Knights of the Golden Star around me, Vesilde,” Seiveril answered.

He watched anxiously for a short time as the fey’ri dueled his spellcasters and archers, trading spell for spell and arrow for arrow-but it was not a fair exchange, not by a long measure. The elves on the ground were hidden among the trees and ruins of Semberholme, and they outnumbered their attackers by three or four to one. The daemonfey had hoped to surprise a sleeping camp with a lightning-swift raid. They hadn’t come to fight an army that was awake, alert, and ready for them.

Harsh voices cried among the ranks of the flying warriors, and the fey’ri turned away and sped back out into the night.

“It seems they’ve had enough,” Vesilde said. The sun elf grinned, and clapped Seiveril on the shoulder. “Our camp is something of a mess, but other than that, your ploy was brilliant, my friend. I do not think the fey’ri will be quick to try our strength here again.”

Seiveril breathed a deep sigh of relief, and allowed his null magic spell to end. “It’s one thing to repel an enemy you expect,” he said. “But we will not win this war by defending Semberholme. We will have to defeat the daemonfey on their chosen ground before this is all over, and I fear that will be a much more difficult task.”