Farthest Reach (32 page)

“Do you know where to find the star elves?”

Jorin nodded. “If I remember right, there is a citadel about ten miles in that direction.” He pointed over the bare, starlit hills. “It lies on the far side of this clear space.”

They made camp for the darkest hours within the circle of standing stones. Araevin could not detect any wakeful spells or magic within the circle, but he sensed old and powerful wards around the ring, and he judged them as good a defense as his own spells. He composed himself for Reverie, sitting cross-legged at the foot of a great stone with his back to the cold, smooth granite, and drifted off into strange dreams.

“Araevin.”

He roused to full wakefulness with a start, and found Ilsevele touching his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A rider approaches. Two more of those dark creatures pursue him.”

Araevin climbed to his feet. Donnor Kerth stood beside one of the outer stones, murmuring calming words to the hitched packhorse and looking back along the forest path they’d recently passed. Ilsevele stooped to wake Jorin and Maresa next, while Araevin joined the big human by the stone. He followed Donnor’s gaze and spied the rider, galloping along the path. The trail ran alongside the stone circle for a time before doubling back, so they had an excellent opportunity to watch the fellow as he raced past them perhaps three hundred yards downhill, appearing and vanishing as he passed behind trees and steeper embankments along the trail. At that distance, he was little more than a glimmering white figure, tiny and distant, but Araevin quickly spied the flying monsters that followed him, twisting their way through the air above the trees .. and gaining on their quarry.

“He’ll pass close by in just a minute or two,” Donnor said. “What do we do?”

“Hail him and make ready to stand against the flying creatures,” Araevin replied.

He didn’t know who or what the rider was, but he didn’t like the looks of the sorcerous worm-monsters at all, and he was not about to abandon anyone to them. Besides, the longer he watched, the more certain he was that the rider was an elf.

Donnor nodded. He drew his broadsword and pressed himself against the stone next to him, trying to stay out of sight. Ilsevele took up a position against another stone, her bow of red yew in her hands, and Maresa joined her. Jorin drew his own swords and slid down the slope a little to a boulder closer to the trail, crouching low to keep out of sight. Araevin took a moment to whisper the words of a spell of shielding, and waited.

The rider rounded the bend close by the ring of standing stones and spurred his mount—a fine dappled-gray destrier, stretching out its long legs with an easy grace that belied the speed of its run—up the hillside, following the trail as it wound past the old menhirs. The flying monsters shifted their own course and climbed over the trees, cutting the corner against their quarry. Araevin decided that he’d waited long enough. He stepped out from behind the stones and waved at the rider.

“Here!” he cried. “Into the standing stones!”

A momentary astonishment crossed the rider’s face, but he wasted no time at all. He wrenched the reins to the left and took his horse scrambling up the steep, grassy hillside. He was indeed an elf, though not of any kindred Araevin knew. He had skin as pale and fair as a moon elf’s, but his hair was a pale gold that didn’t often appear among the teu Tel’Quessir. He wore a gray cloak over a shirt of gleaming mithral mail and a quilted white doublet lavishly embroidered with gold thread.

“Beware the nilshai!” he called in Elvish. “They are fearsome sorcerers!”

The winged worm-monsters did not miss the rider’s change of course. They veered toward the hilltop ring and arrowed through the air. One of them whistled and piped loudly, twisting its limbs in a strange fashion, and a sizzling green orb of acid appeared before it. With a flick of its long torso, the monster hurled the acid ball at the company sheltering among the stones.

Great glowing gouts of emerald fire exploded around Araevin and his friends, searing flesh and burning foul, smoking holes in cloaks and clothing, but the stones served as good cover—Araevin ducked under the spattering acid, and he saw Ilsevele throw herself forward out of the ring, escaping the worst of the blast. She rolled upright and fired three quick arrows at the nearest of the monsters. One shivered to pieces in midair, broken on some invisible shield of magic the worm had raised, but two others pierced its long, serpentine torso. It fluttered and twisted, its weird whistling taking on a shriller note.

Araevin incanted the words of a potent lightning spell, and blasted up at the two creatures with an eye-searing bolt of blue-white. One darted aside, but the wounded one could not escape. The bolt burned it badly, bringing it spinning to the ground, smoke streaming from charred patches on its hide. Donnor and Jorin charged it at once, blades bared, but the monster had fight in it yet—it pulled the Lathanderian’s feet out from under him with one swift jerk of its curling tail, and at the same time it enmeshed Jorin in a gleaming black spell-web of freezing shadows. Jorin’s charge came to a stumbling halt ten feet short of the creature.

“Damn it!” he snarled, gasping with the bitter chill that snared him. “I can’t get to it!”

Araevin turned his attention back to the nilshai that remained airborne, and managed to quickly parry the monster’s next spell, batting the alien magic aside with a quick countering spell. He exchanged two more spells and counter spells with the monster in the next few heartbeats, again astonished by the speed with which the nilshai worked its magic while continuously weaving and dodging against Ilsevele’s rain of deadly arrows.

On the hillside below him, Donnor gained his feet again and approached the wounded nilshai more cautiously. The monster lunged at him, battering at his shield with powerful blows of its whipping tentacles, but Donnor slashed it twice with his broadsword, weaving a glittering cage of steel with his blade. The nilshai recoiled from the human knight—and Maresa lunged in from behind it, fixing her rapier in the center of its torso between two of its three wings. The monster leaped and bucked, carrying Maresa’s rapier from her hand and knocking her to the ground. It shrieked a single high, harsh note, then drew into a tight coil on the ground and lay still.

Maresa rolled to her feet, and grinned fiercely. “This one’s done!” she called.

Araevin parried another spell from the one that remained, but then the creature managed to slip a spell through by virtue of its uncanny quickness, trapping him in a bitter, freezing fog of silver mist. He fumbled with his disruption wand with fingers that were suddenly stiff and numb, and fought to utter the words of a dismissing spell, but then he heard a high, clear voice ringing behind him. A brilliant white arc of magic swept out of the old stone ring and lanced upward to blast the remaining nilshai, scouring the monster’s dark flesh with silver power.

Araevin struggled to look over his shoulder to see what had happened, and he saw the elf they had rescued standing within the stones and singing, hands clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the winged horror overhead.

The winged worm hissed and tried to climb out of the reach of the arcing magic, but then a pair of arrows from Ilsevele brought it down. Its wings folded in midair and it dropped to the ground like a stone. The rider held his song for one more moment then allowed the eldritch music to fade. He leaned against a menhir in fatigue.

Araevin finally managed to shake off the clinging silver fog that had numbed him. He turned to Jorin and dispelled the shadow-web with a quick word and motion of his hand, then looked at his companions.

“Is anybody hurt?” he asked.

“Singed a little from that acid, but I’m fine,” Ilsevele answered. She looked down at her side, where a handful of holes in her tunic still smoked.

“I can tend to that,” Donnor said. He picked his way back up the hillside and began to chant a healing prayer to Lathander, holding his hand over Ilsevele’s side.

The rider straightened and turned to face Araevin. “I don’t know how you came to be here, sir, but I am indebted to you,” he said. His Elvish was a little strange to Araevin’s ear, due in no small part to the remarkable voice the fellow possessed, a rich tenor in which every word held music. “I am Nesterin of House Deirr, and I believe that I owe you my life.”

“I am Araevin Teshurr of Evermeet. This is my betrothed, Lady Ilsevele Miritar. Our companions Maresa Rost of Waterdeep, Dawnmaster Donnor Kerth of the Temple of Lathander, and our guide Jorin Kell Harthan of Aglarond.”

“I am pleased to meet all of you, especially considering the circumstances.” Nesterin bowed to each of them.

“Might I ask what brings your company to Sildeyuir? We rarely see folk of other races here.”

“I guided them here,” Jorin said, stepping forward.

“You are of the Yuir?”

Jorin nodded. “I am. They have an errand of some importance. The Simbul’s apprentice decided that they needed to speak with the star elves.”

Nesterin studied Araevin and his companions more closely.

“Very well,” he said at length. “The masters of the Yuirwood do not lightly give strangers their trust, and I am indebted to you all in any event. My home is only a few miles away. I would be greatly pleased if you would allow me to offer you the hospitality of House Deirr.”

*****

The First Lord’s Tower gleamed in the sunset, tall and slender as a sword blade over the center of Hillsfar. The evening was warm and still, and the lamplighters hurried through the streets to perform their duties as the city’s bustle and commerce guttered out for the day. A whisper of magic danced in the air, and Sarya Dlardrageth and Xhalph appeared on a balcony amid a dull thump of displaced air.

As before, Sarya and Xhalph wore their human guises. She glanced at the balcony around them, and nodded in approval. As promised, Maalthiir had left it bare of any awkward spells or arcane defenses so that she or her messengers could simply teleport directly to his home. There was even an iced ewer of wine by the door leading into the tower. Sarya approved; the less she had to see of the human squalor surrounding Maalthiir’s tower, the better.

Two Red Plume guards stood nearby, straightening to attention and smoothing the surprise from their faces.

“I see we’re expected,” Xhalph noted.

Sarya looked at the nearer of the guards. “You, there— tell your master that Lady Senda and Lord Alphon are here, and desire a few words with him.”

She went over to the table and poured herself a goblet of wine, first taking a moment to work a minor spell to reveal any poisons that might be waiting for her.

The Red Plume muttered a word of assent, and ducked through the door leading into the tower proper. He returned a few minutes later with a short, burly human warrior in fine court clothes. The fellow dressed like a dandy, but his eyes glittered coldly within deep, dark sockets.

“Lady Senda,” he said, bowing obsequiously. “I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of the First Lord’s Tower. If you’ll follow me, I will lead you to Lord Maalthiir.”

“Of course,” Sarya purred.

The high warden bowed, and led her into the tower. They proceeded through sparsely furnished hallways of polished stone, eventually reaching a conservatory of modest size that seemed like it had seen little use. Though the harps and recorders in their fine glass cases showed not a hint of dust on them, the whole chamber seemed too carefully arranged for actual recitals. Besides, Sarya doubted that Maalthiir was much given to music, let alone practicing or performing himself.

She composed herself for a lengthy wait, but Maalthiir swept into the room almost on her heels, his four pallid swordsmen a pace behind him, and another pair of Red Plumes following. The first lord was dressed in a scarlet coat emblazoned with a Draconic emblem, and he carried his dark iron dragon claw scepter in his hand He paused in the doorway to study Sarya, and something less than humor creased his stern features.

“Lady Sarya,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected call?”

“Lord Maalthiir.” Sarya kept her voice neutral, and did not lower her gaze an inch from Maalthiir’s dark eyes. “I am concerned by the progress of our campaign in Cormanthor, and I hoped you might be able to reassure me.”

“I am widely regarded as the very font of optimism,” Maalthiir rasped. “What specifically concerns you, Lady Sarya?”

“Evermeet’s army has marched west a hundred miles in the last three days, in order to meet Fzoul’s Zhentarim army descending on Shadowdale,” Xhalph answered. “We have dispatched several messengers instructing you to bring the Red Plume army north of Mistledale westward, so that you and Fzoul might combine and effect the destruction of the elven army. Yet Hillsfar’s army has not yet moved.”

Maalthiir’s eyes flashed, but he kept his temper in check. “Of course. I have not ordered them to march.”

Xhalph squared his shoulders, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat, but Sarya set a hand on his arm and silenced him. She folded her arms and paced across the room, finding the space confining and small.

“This is an excellent opportunity to destroy the elven army, Maalthiir,” she said. “Your Sembian friends have led Seiveril Miritar to leave a good quarter of his strength sitting in Mistledale. Between your Red Plumes, the Zhentilar, and my own warriors, we can crush Miritar. However, if you do not move, you will expose Fzoul to defeat in detail.”

“Lady Sarya,” Maalthiir said, “that is exactly what I intend. It would suit my purposes very well indeed if Evermeet and Zhentil Keep were to maul each other in Shadowdale. Therefore I see no reason to send help to Fzoul Chembryl.”

“I do not care about your petty little spats with Fzoul!” Sarya hissed. “I will not allow your machinations to upset my opportunity to destroy Miritar. Betray Fzoul later if you like, but today I need your army in Shadowdale, and you will not delay an hour longer.”

Maalthiir measured Sarya for a long moment, making no reply. His coterie of dead-eyed swordsmen stood unmoving at his side.

“I am not your servant, Sarya,” he said. “In fact, I see no reason to continue our association. Should Evermeet and Zhentil Keep fight to exhaustion in Shadowdale, my Red Plumes and Duncastle’s Sembians will be the only powers left in the Dales. I see no reason to share that prize with a hellspawned harpy such as yourself.”