Forsaken House (4 page)

He quickly dispelled the darkness, and glanced at his betrothed. Ilsevele had an arrow on her string. Patches of frostburn gleamed along one arm and the side ofher face, but her eyes were bright and hard.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her.

“It’s nothing, just a touch ofthat ice spell the one with the wings threw,” she replied. “You?”

“The same,”Araevin said, then nodded at the other end of the library. “Come on, we’d better see if more of these things are still roaming around.”

They hurried out ofthe library, buttheir adversary was nowhere in sight. This corridor was a grand hall, wide and tall, leading to the great hall itself, where Araevin had met with the high mages a tenday-and-a-half before. A furious

battle had been fought in the corridor. The walls were scorched by fiery blasts and broken by lightning bolts, and a dozen more elf guards lay dead alongside three of the sinister winged sorcerers.

Araevin halted and stared at the scene in horror. He had known many of the dead guards for decades. “By the Seldarine,” he whispered. “What happened here?” Violet light flared at the end of the hall, and an earsplitting

thunderbolt shook the Tower.

“Whatever it is, it is not over yet,” Ilsevele said. She and Araevin picked their way through the shattered corridor to the great doors at the end, splintered

and hanging crookedly from their hinges. The great hall of Reilloch Domayr lay on the other side of the doorway. The two elves glided up to the smoking oaken doors and peered inside.

In the center of the room, a fierce band of mezzoloths and other hellborn monsters stood around a large iron hoop or ring lying on the marble floor. Elfmages and warriors sheltered behind the tall columns ringing the room,

surrounding the creatures. The Tower’s defenders hurled spell and arrow at the invaders, even as the yugoloths and their winged sorcerers blasted back at the elves with their own infernal magic, filling the great hall with scathing

rays offire and glowing magical darts. Dead and wounded elves littered the chamber. The iron ring glowed with a ruddy light, and half a dozen of the attackers who had been standing within its confines-including, Araevin

noted, the wounded sorcerer who had escaped him in the library, as well as another mezzoloth bearing a large iron coffer-ghosted into nothingness.

“They’re teleporting away!” cried several of the elf defenders.

The last of the infernal attackers stepped back into the hoop. Araevin broke from his cover and hurled a blazing sphere of lightning into their midst, while Ilsevele followed, her bow thrumming like a deadly harp as she sent arrow after arrow into the band. Two skeletal demons with swords of blazing bone crumpled under her deadly rain, but one ofthe winged sorcerers mothered Araevin’s lightning orb with a quick countering spell of its own. The demon had a shirt offine golden scale mail, and wore its long black hair in thick braids laced with gold wire. A jeweled eye patch covered one eye. The creature fixed its good eye on Araevin and grinned maliciously.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” it rasped.

“As you wishl” Araevin growled. He gestured and snapped out the words ofthe deadliest spell he could manage, hurling a scything blast of rainbow-colored doom at the invaders. Each glittering ray carried its own deadly energy, and the great hall crackled with the power of Araevin’s attack. But the demons within the iron ring were already fading into nothingness, vanishing away from the great hall. Araevin’s prismatic blast scoured the space where they had stood only a moment before.

Araevin swore and started forward to see if he could decipher the workings of the teleporting ring, but at that instant an enormous blast of green fire xploded out from the device. Agonizing heat seared Araevin as he hurled himself to the ground, and all around him he heard the screams and cries ofthose other elves who were too close. The chamber fell silent, save for the low crackle of guttering fires and the pelting ofthe rain, falling through a gap blasted in the great hall’s dome. The emerald blast had seemingly contained a spell that carried away the bodies ofthe winged sorcerers that had fallen, since none of the creatures remained in the great hall. The iron hoop on the floor was nothing but a twisted band of scorched metal, its magic gone. Araevin slowly picked himself up, wincing with pain. I should have prepared a spell against fire, he thought. But then, how could I have known that I would become embroiled in a spell battle such as this? He turned and looked for Ilsevele, and found her slowly standing up from behind a heavy column that had shielded

her from the worst ofthe blast.

“Ilsevele-?”

“I’m fine,” she said. She stared at the hall, her face grim. “Sehanine, have mercy. So many have fallen here. Nothing to do now but see if we can do anything for the wounded.”

Araevin nodded, but first he paced over the remains of the iron circle. He picked up a single twisted piece of metal in his fist. Where are the high mages? he wondered silently. Have they fallen as well? Then, with a sigh, he let the debris clatter to the floor, and turned to help with the injured.

15Alturiak, theYear of Lightning Storms

As the dim sunrise glimmered in the tower’s window slits, Araevin gathered with the surviving mages of Reilloch Domayr in the conservatory. The great hall was in no condition to host a meeting of the circle. He left Ilsevele to lead the Tower guards in scouring the grounds for any enemies who might have been left behind by their comrades’ escape. The conservatory was a large, high-ceilinged hall that occupied the entire upper floor of the gatehouse. It was floored with gleaming old oak, and its paneled walls were finished with dark cherry carved in sylvan scenes. The place was used as a recital hall by the bards and music students who drifted through Tower Reilloch. Araevin had attended many recitals there, but had little gift for music himself. He found five mages waiting for him there.

“Welcome, Araevin,” said the Loremaster Quastarte. He was a sun elf of great age, his eyes dark with wisdom in his young-old face, his hair so thin and white it seemed like a nimbus flowing down his shoulders. “We are all here, then.”

“We are all that remains?” Araevin asked, astonished.

He glanced around the room, unable to keep himself from looking to see if he had perhaps missed one of his colleagues. Beside Araevin, there had been eight others who held the rank of mage. But only five of Araevin’s colleagues were there: Quastarte, the wood elf sorcerer known as Eaglewind, the diviner Yesvellde Shaerim, the half-elf battle -mage Jorildyn, and the young abjurer Faelindel.

“I know that Earelde fell,” Araevin continued, “but where are 011eile and Starsong?”

“Both slain in their Reverie. The invaders broke into their chambers before the alarm was raised,” Quastarte said.

“diesel seldarie,” Araevin said softly. “The Seldarine preserve us. There is no end to the sorrow of this day.” He bowed his head, hesitating before asking his next question. “The high mages?”

“We have not found Philaerin yet,” said Quastarte, “but the fact that he was not seen in the battle and has not appeared since leads me to fear the worst. He was not in his chambers.”

The others nodded in agreement. If Philaerin lived, he would have defended the Tower.

“Kileontheal lives, but she is grievously wounded,” Yesvelde said. Yesvelde was a moon elf, with long dark hair and a distant, ethereal manner to her. She carried a sleek cat in her arms, her familiar Versei. Araevin felt thea quick gray shadow of Whyllwyst flicker across his heart, but made himself focus on Yesvelde’s words. “She was struck senseless by a spell of insanity during the fight outside the great hall, a few minutes after issuing her call to the circle. She fled the battle, hurling spells at imaginary foes in the tower halls until she exhausted her power.” The illusionist sighed. “I had no means to undo the enchantment afflicting her, so I directed the guards to confine her in her quarters and keep her under constant care until we can find a healer for her.”

“Aeramma Durothil is dead,” said Eaglewind. He was a grave and quiet fellow for a wood elf, more at home in the solitude of the forest than in the company of his peers. Araevin sometimes suspected that he was a sylvan creature of some sort who simply wore the shape of a wood elf for the convenience of the others, but he had never pressed the question. “I found him in the astrolabe an hour after the raiders fled. It looked like he destroyed a number of those who came against him. I found shadows shaped like demons blasted into the walls there.”

“So one high mage is dead, one missing, and one incapacitated,” Araevin sighed. “And three of us are dead, as well. What of the initiates and the other folk of the Tower?”

The initiates were the lesser wizards and sorcerers, those who were still new in their studies and not yet accounted members of the Circle. There had been fourteen of them.

Jorildyn, a seasoned battlemage, stepped forward. He had human blood—something that was quite unusual on Evermeet, and regarded with great suspicion in some quarters—and was thickly built compared to the others, with a gray-streaked beard and a gruff manner.

“Four initiates are dead,” the half-elf reported. “We also lost nine of the Tower Guards and several more of the Tower folk. About twenty are wounded, but all should recover with care.” His face was grim. “We must see to our defenses at once, and make sure this cannot happen again.”

“We will need a high mage for that, and none are available,” Araevin observed. “We must suffice, then. Quastarte, you are the eldest among us. I will be content to follow your orders.”

“You are a more skillful wizard than I, Araevin. I would not presume to command you. Or any of you, for that matter. I can only suggest what seems wise to me.”

“Then let us hear what seems wise to you, loremaster,” Jorildyn said, “and we will take your suggestions as commands.”

Quastarte fell silent, thinking for a moment, then said, “Very well, then. First, someone must carry word of the attack to the Queen in Leuthilspar, the sooner the better. Does anyone have a spell of teleporting prepared?”

“Not I,” said Yesvelde.

“I am afraid I used mine to return to the tower when Kileontheal called,” Araevin said. “I cannot ready another for hours.”

“I have a scroll I can use,” said Faelindel. “I will leave at once.”

The abjurer bowed to the other mages and left the chamber, striding quickly.

“Jorildyn and Eaglewind—take charge of the Tower defenses. I do not think our attackers will return, but we must not be caught off guard again if they do.”

“It will be done,” Jorildyn replied.

“Yesvelde, you are a skilled diviner. See if you can learn who our attackers were, and where they came from. We may be able to organize pursuit, if we can learn these things.”

The diviner bowed her head, accepting her task. “What of me?” Araevin asked.

“I want you to carefully examine the vaults, armories, and libraries,” Quastarte said. “The hellspawn and their winged masters did not come here simply for mayhem and murder. They must have been looking for something. You know the vaults as well as I. Determine if anything is missing.” The old loremaster looked at the other mages. “In the meantime, I will search for Philaerin. If he is not here, perhaps he was cast into another plane or banished to some far realm by our enemies.”

Araevin nodded and replied, “I will report back at once if I find anything amiss.”

*****

Over many centuries, the mages who had dwelled at Tower Reilloch had accumulated many magical devices: mighty staves, deadly battle-wands, rings that stored or deflected spells, crystal orbs, enchanted cloaks, and tomes of perilous lore. Many of them had been crafted, forged, or scribed by the circle’s own sorcerers and wizards, while others were prizes of battle, or long-forgotten artifacts that had been brought to Reilloch for safekeeping. Araevin had created a few of the things himself, since he was a skilled artificer of magical devices, and he had brought even more to the Tower from his explorations of old elven ruins in Faerun. His intermittent research into the magical artifices of lost elven realms had required a careful study of the devices stored in the Tower’s vaults.

Some of Reilloch’s vaults were buried in the deep foundations, others were hidden high atop isolated towers, and a few were in extradimensional spaces that could be reached only through specific doors or chambers in otherwise innocuous portions of the fortress. Most were protected by spells of sealing and concealment that were virtually impenetrable. The vaults containing the most dangerous items were also guarded by lethal spell traps, terrible sigils that would utterly destroy anyone trying to pass them without knowledge of how to do so safely.

The first two vaults Araevin checked were secure, their spells of closing still intact. Araevin quickly inventoried their contents anyway, and found that nothing had been removed. That makes sense, he realized. Raiders after a specific target could not afford to waste time deliberately locating and opening each vault, not unless they were confident of defeating the circle in its entirety and holding the Tower in the face of every counterattack that could be thrown at them. Most likely it would be a single vault that had been attacked. He descended into the mazelike levels below the great hall, and found another vault undisturbed. That was not the case with the fourth vault he checked, however.

At the end of a long, low corridor with a ceiling of groined stone stood a door of iron and adamantine

leading to a place known as Nandiyerron’s Armory, after the archmage who had built the room a thousand years before. Araevin turned into the corridor leading to the armory, and realized at once that something was amiss. Whispers of spectral magic, the remnants of deadly spell traps even he did not understand, whirled and drifted in the heavy air of the passageway, and the door at the far end stood open. The walls and floor were deeply pitted with black, bubbled stone, as if great gouts of acid or fire had been loosed there, and the stink of hot stone still lingered.