Forsaken House (35 page)

“How much farther is Daelyth’s Dagger?” he asked her. “Seven miles. If we push hard, we can reach it tonight.” “Will your folk be there?”

“I can’t be certain, but I think it’s likely,” Gaerradh replied. “It’s a deep dell, with old fortifications overlooking the valley floor. There’s a narrow trail alongside a swift stream winding between two huge shoulders of rock, so that any foe pursuing you must come single file along a treacherous path. It won’t discourage the fey’ri, of course, but they’ll have to leave their orc allies outside.”

“Is there any exit?”

“There is a hard trail at the top of the dell that climbs steeply up the valley head, leading to the higher slopes of the mountains. And there is a secret way through the caverns in the valley walls, leading to the neighboring valleys.”

Gaerradh watched the soldiers march past, while Sheeril pranced anxiously about. The wolf was uncomfortable with so many humans and dwarves in her forest.

“If there is any place to stand against an attack,” Gaerradh finished, “that is it.”

Methrammar studied the sheer cliffs rising above them on their right, and the rugged slope falling away from the trail.

“This will be hard ground to fight on,” he said. “Mounted troops will be useless, but the dwarves will like it well enough.”

“Lord Methrammar!” A half-elf officer approached, walking back against the direction of the march, calling, “There is a party of wood elves here to speak with you, my lord.”

“Bring them,” Methrammar called back.

He and Gaerradh waited a few minutes and the officer returned, leading a small band of wood elf archers who trotted along the trail, mixing with their moon elf cousins from Silverymoon or slapping human soldiers on the back, grinning and laughing.

Gaerradh recognized several and raised her hand, calling out a greeting of her own: “Well met, Silverbow! Fomoyn! It is good to see you!”

Among the archers, she saw Morgwais, the Lady of the Wood, who wore the green leather of a wood elf ranger. Sheeril bounded up to Morgwais with a happy yip, tail wagging like a pup.

“Well met, Gaerradh—and Sheeril,” Morgwais said. She ruffled the thick white fur of the wolfs neck, one of the very few people who could try that without losing a hand. “I see you have brought us help from Silverymoon.”

“Lady Morgwais,” said Gaerradh. She gestured to the Marshal at her side. “This is Methrammar Aerasumé, the commander of Silverymoon’s army.”

“Thank you for your help, Lord Methrammar,” Morgwais said. “There are no words to express our gratitude. We need all the swords and bows we can muster.”

“I only wish we could have brought more soldiers to aid you,” the high marshal replied. He bowed deeply to Morgwais. “Unfortunately, these daemonfey and their orc minions threaten Everlund and the towns of the Rauvin Vale as well as the High Forest. We had to leave a strong force behind to guard our homeland in case they turned north.”

“Where are the fey’ri now?” Gaerradh asked.

“Mustering at the Rivenrock, about twenty miles south of here. We’ve gathered the warriors of a dozen villages at Daelyth’s Dagger. We’ve already fought off one assault, which is why they’re drawing together now. They hope to overwhelm us at a place where we have decided to stand.” The Lady of the Wood looked over the Silvaeren company and said, “Lord Methrammar, I know your troops must be weary after such a long march and a bitter fight, but you must join us at Daelyth’s Dagger as soon as you can. The daemonfey will certainly try to cut you off and keep you from reinforcing us, and if their whole army came upon you here, it would go poorly for you.”

Methrammar nodded and said, “We will do as you ask, my lady. The swords of Silverymoon are at your service.”

8 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms

An early spring had come to the great woodland of Cormanthor. The endless dreary rains from the Sea of Swords that kept the western forests cold and wet vanished as they passed over the great desert Anauroch. Warmer winds from the Dragonmere carried gentle showers that draped the eastern forest in a green so deep and vivid that even by the pale light of the crescent moon its color leaped to the eye. Araevin tasted the warm rain on his face and breathed in the fragrance of the new blossoms, and for an instant he could almost forget the misery of his situation.

“Come along, paleblood,” sneered Nurthel. “You have work to do.”

Araevin complied, turning to follow the fey’ri sorcerer without any effort of his conscious mind. He fell in behind Nurthel, arms still shackled

behind his back, ribs aching from the blow Grimlight had dealt him. Behind him half a dozen fey’ri warriors and a pair of foul vrock-demons marched, watching him carefully for any sign that Sarya’s compulsion might be fading. The daemonfey queen was not present, having left to return to her army, but she had ordered Araevin to obey any command given him by Nurthel, instantly and without resistance, and the malignant compulsion she had used to crush his will was sufficiently strong to force Araevin to do exactly as she commanded.

Sooner or later he knew that he would be able to shake off the insidious spell—especially if Nurthel ordered him to do something he could not help but revolt against, like injure himself—but for the time being Araevin was merely a spectator in his own body, unable to conceive of refusing Nurthel’s orders, even though he knew exactly how Sarya’s spell had affected him. He had never cared for enchantment spells and rarely used them himself, because he’d always found it distasteful to enslave another’s will, even if the subject was an enemy and the enslavement nothing more than a temporary assault to halt an attack or sow confusion among his foes. Having personally experienced the effects, he had no intention of ever using such a spell again. It was simply abominable to have one’s volition stolen away.

“Which way?” Nurthel asked.

The ruined remnant of an old elven highway intersected their path, a ribbon of pale white stone buried beneath leaf mould and moss. Araevin and his captors had been walking for several hours, after teleporting from the Dlardrageth stronghold to Cormanthor’s forests. The telkiira had warned Araevin that magic was unpredictable in the area surrounding the Nightstar’s crypt, and he had duly warned the fey’ri of the danger of teleporting too close to the selukiira’s hiding place.

Araevin examined the path, and consulted the inner beacon guiding him onward.

“To the left,” he replied. “It’s less than a mile from here.”

He wondered whether Ilsevele and Maresa still lived. The daemonfey had separated them as an additional guarantor of Araevin’s cooperation, promising a fate worse than death for the women if he should lead Nurthel astray.

The demonic company hurried along the ancient white stones of the elfroad. Alternating showers and moon shadows made the scene eldritch and unreal. That portion of Cormanthor was the fabled Elven Court, a woodland of cathedral-like shadowtops that had once been home to countless elven palaces, temples, and towers. From time to time they passed old ruins, jumbled heaps of pale stone that seemed to glow beneath the soft touch of Selüne’s light Then he spied the tower, a slender finger of white rising up beneath the mighty trees like a silver ghost.

“Wait,” he said. “We’re here.”

“In there?” Nurthel demanded. The fey’ri sorcerer studied the place, and nodded. “Fine. You will lead. Inform me when we are at risk.”

Araevin led the way to the tower’s door, a blank archway of stone. No door or gate stood there. The portal was filled with a smooth, unbroken wall of stone. But Ithraides had recorded the secret of the door in his telkiira. Araevin spoke a simple password, and the stone sealing the arch became ethereal and vanished from sight.

“On the other side of the doorway there is a powerful sigil that will destroy any who enter without speaking this password: sillevi astraedh,” Araevin said. “Then we will find stairs leading down to a misty hall, guarded by a powerful watch ghost. You must fight it if you wish to proceed.”

He did not point out that the daemonfey could simply remain outside the tower, since the watch ghost would not attack him. Nurthel had instructed Araevin to lead and to warn him of the dangers they encountered, but he had not asked Araevin to be explain how each peril could be avoided. It was not much of a victory, but Araevin was determined to exploit every misstep in the instructions the fey’ri gave him.

They passed the sigil on the far side of the doorway, and found themselves in the tower’s ground floor.

It seems to be my destiny to look for crystals in old ruins, Araevin thought bleakly.

He indicated a stone staircase leading to unseen levels beneath the tower, and led Nurthel’s party down the smooth steps. At the bottom the fey’ri sorcerer stopped him.

“Remain here, and make sure you do not get hurt,” Nurthel said. “We will need you once we deal with this guardian.” He gestured to the fey’ri warriors and the demons who accompanied them. “Destroy the guardian.”

Nurthel stayed on the steps beside Araevin, watching his soldiers prowl into the room below, curved swords in their taloned fists. The vrocks followed, their vulture heads swinging from side to side on their long, wattled necks as they looked for their foe. The chamber was exactly as Araevin remembered it from the telkiira’s vision, a large misty hall with shining silver pillars.

A sheet of purple lightning crackled out of the swirling fog, blasting through a vrock and two of the fey’ri. Crawling arcs of violet energy coruscated around the demonspawn, charring great black burns across their flesh. The fey’ri shrieked and fell writhing to the floor. The vrock attempted to teleport itself away from the deadly spell, only to reappear in a terrible burst of black gore, materializing in the exact same spot as one of the bright argent pillars.

“I see that you did not lie when you warned us of teleporting here,” Nurthel hissed. “Is there anything you have kept from me, Araevin?”

Araevin opened his mouth to reply, but the mists parted, revealing a bright and terrible figure of silver light. Ghostly and yet powerful, the guardian seemed to be a beautiful moon elf maiden, her dark hair streaming around her head, her white robes fading into translucent starshine.

“Depart!” she demanded in Elvish, her clear voice strangely high and distant, as if she were speaking from far away. “Depart, fiends! I will not suffer you to pass this chamber.”

In answer two of the fey’ri drew out wands of bronze and blasted the ghostly sorceress with crimson darts of magical power. The sorceress’s features twisted with a cry of dismay, and her substance seemed to boil away from the holes punched by the fey’ri spells. She countered by seizing one of the wand-wielders in a viselike grip of unseen force and hurling him against the wall, leaving him crumpled across the chamber. At the same time she chanted out a piercing melody of her own, her arms weaving in the gestures of a spell, and she threw a charging mezzoloth screaming back into its native hells.

A second mezzoloth stalked close and rammed its brazen trident through the center of the ghost’s torso, but the infernal weapon passed through her ethereal substance without so much as a ripple. She turned on the creature and wove a spiraling spell chain around it that sliced deep into its evil flesh, slowly cutting it to pieces. But the fey’ri with the wand struck again, riddling her with more of the crimson darts, while another fey’ri warrior-one with a sword glowing with enchantment-darted close to slash at her, tearing great rents in her misty form.

Araevin took half a step forward, intending to help her in some way, but Nurthel set a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, no,” the fey’ri captain said. “You are not to interfere.”

He wove a spell of his own and hurled a crackling azure lance of magical force at the ghost, driving a bolt of arcane power through the center of her form.

The ghost wailed in deathless agony, transfixed by Nurthel’s spell, her substance fraying away from the wound. She fixed her dissipating gaze on Araevin.

“Do not lead them any farther,” she whispered. “Do not let them do this!”

“We do not intend to give him much choice in the matter,” Nurthel laughed.

He drew back his spell lance, and rammed it through the center of the ghost’s forehead. There was a great,

silent burst of spectral energy, blindingly bright, and the ghost discorporated into streamers of mist and vapor that faded to nothing. The fey’ri laughed as he allowed his spell to end, subsuming the crackling lance back into his hand.

“How long has she waited here to turn us away, only to fail in her duty at the end?” Nurthel said. “It seems almost tragic, doesn’t it?”

Araevin refused to answer. He was under no compulsion to reply to rhetorical questions. Nurthel folded his arms and looked him in the face.

“Well? What now?”

“There is a portal in the far wall. Touching it will transport one directly to the chamber of the selukiira, which is a sealed sphere of stone some distance beneath our feet. I must first wake it by casting a special spell.” Araevin hesitated, but Sarya’s spell forced him to continue. “If you, or any creature with evil intent, touches the portal, you will be destroyed.”

“Could that be dispelled?”

“It would be difficult, and you would deactivate the portal, so that you could no longer reach the selukiira chamber safely,” Araevin admitted. “As your demon ally demonstrated, teleporting here is dangerous.”

“That does present a problem,” Nurthel said. “Fortunately, we have you, so I need not test my intentions against the standards set by the ancient paleblood wizard who built this place, or settle for excavating my way to the Nightstar. You will go get the Nightstar for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Araevin admitted, though it turned his stomach to say it.

“And what if the selukiira’s touch destroys you?”

“The device would take possession of my body. It would likely seek to return itself to your hands.”

“I like the sound of that,” Nurthel said. “You have caused me no end of trouble over the last few months, even when you were unwittingly doing our work. I can think of no fitter end for you.” The fey’ri studied him closely, and asked, “Do you know of any reason why I would not want to send you to retrieve the Nightstar?”