Forsaken House (22 page)

In the hallway outside the chamber’s door, Grayth fought furiously, his sword a whirling streak of silver in front of him as he fended off a mezzoloth and a demon-elf swordsman who were trying to get past him. Ilsevele stood just a few steps behind the human cleric, searching out clear shots at the enemies beyond. Even as Araevin glanced up at her, a demon-sorcerer that crouched over a hole in the roof hurled a smoking orb of sizzling green acid at her from above. The orb missed her head by inches as she somehow ducked under it, but it splattered against

the wall beside her, spraying her with emerald drops of death. Ilsevele cried out and jumped away, stumbling to the floor.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Araevin said to Maresa. “We’re outnumbered.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the genasi snapped.

She took two quick steps and hurled a dagger up at the sorcerer overhead, striking him in the arm. The fellow cursed in some infernal language and jerked back out of the way.

“Grayth! Ilsevele! Fall back to the golem’s room!” Araevin shouted. The rotten old flooring overhead—or what was left of it, anyway—smoldered and sagged, raining hot cinders and burning brands into the room. It wouldn’t be a good idea to stay there for long, but Araevin judged that he’d have enough time to do what they needed.

“Brant’s still out there!” Grayth replied.

He ducked down and stabbed the mezzoloth through its lower abdomen. The terrible creature snapped its beaklike maw and clawed at the Lathanderite’s back, but Araevin’s stoneskin still lingered, shielding the cleric from the worst of the attack.

“Brant’s dead!” Araevin called.

Grayth did not reply, but he retreated a couple of steps, fighting his way back toward the golem’s room. Ilsevele picked herself up, seized her bow, and dashed back as well, just as a large piece of the burning floor overhead gave way and rained fiery debris down into the corner of the chamber.

“Araevin, this is a death trap!” she said. “We can’t stay here!”

“We’re not going to,” he answered. “Take Maresa’s hand!”

Ilsevele understood him at once. She grasped the genasi by the arm, and with her other hand caught Araevin’s hand in her own. Araevin quickly barked out the words of a spell, and as he finished, he reached forward and touched Grayth on his broad, armored shoulder. The whole room shimmered with white shadows, and the ruined tower vanished in a flash of light. An instant later, they were somewhere else—a cool, green forest, damp with moss and dripping water, with no sign of the demons or the tower anywhere.

Grayth wheeled at once, covering all directions with his weaving sword, still in his fighting crouch.

“Where are we?” he demanded.

“The Ardeep again, near the House of Long Silences,” Araevin replied. He limped over to a mossy rock nearby and sank down, trying to ignore the throbbing in his knee and the coppery blood in his mouth. “I teleported us away from the tower.”

The human doffed his helmet and let it drop with a clang, running his hand through his thinning hair.

He took a deep breath then said, “You left Brant behind.”

“The demons dragged him down. He fought valiantly, and I did what I could to aid him, but there were simply too many of them.” Araevin looked up at his old friend and said, “I would not have abandoned him if I had not seen him fall, Grayth.”

“I know.” The cleric sighed and sat down, wincing as he did so. “Ah, damn it all to the hells.”

He bowed his head, elbows on his knees.

Maresa clamped one hand over the torn furrows in her side and asked, “All right, so where do we go from here?”

“Evermeet,” Araevin replied. “I must examine this stone, and see if I can unlock it. And I mean to speak with some of my colleagues. I want to see if I can learn more about this enemy who pursues me.”

The walled city of Everlund lay astride the River Rauvin, huddling against the feet of the Nether Mountains as if to escape the icy rain. The cold, wet weather turned its streets into rivers of freezing slush and mud, and wreathed its towers with thin gray mist. Streams of people—human merchants, laborers, and teamsters; dwarf smiths; even a few elf woodworkers and mages—waded through the

streets, bundled in heavy cloaks and furs, carrying on with their business despite the foul weather.

Gaerradh studied the city from the high windows of Moongleam Tower, endlessly fascinated by the sight of so many people engaged in so many different tasks, all at once. She was no stranger to Everlund. She usually found herself in the city once or twice a year for various reasons. Sometimes she came to buy weapons she could not make easily herself, such as silver arrowheads or a good dwarven axe enchanted to strike hard and true. Sometimes she carried messages for Morgwais or other folk of the High Forest. And sometimes she came when her duties as a Harper required her to consult with others of her society in the echoing halls of Moongleam Tower. She wore her harp-shaped pin openly there.

Soft footfalls whispered in the corridor outside her door, followed by a knock. She had the use of a small guestroom in the tower any time she wanted it, and for the first time in a very long time she had stripped off her well-worn leather armor, weather-stained cloak, breeches, and tunic in order to wash thoroughly and pull on a handsome dress of green with gold brocade. Gaerradh, feeling a bit ungainly in the unaccustomed clothing, pulled the door open only to stop in surprise.

In the hall outside her door stood Alustriel Silverhand, High Lady of the League of the Silver Marches. She was tall and strikingly beautiful, with hair of pure white and a perfect, flawless face. In someone else that combination of beauty and starkness might have seemed inhuman or cold, but Alustriel’s eyes were warm and compassionate, and her mouth seemed more suited to a laugh than a frown. At her side stood a young half-elf man, likewise tall and silver-haired, who wore a shirt of gleaming mithral mail over his dove-gray tunic.

“L -Lady Alustriel,” Gaerradh stammered. She had only arrived at Moongleam Tower two hours before, after six days of hard travel through the forest. She had planned to rest the night and continue on to Silverymoon in the morning. “I thought you were in Silverymoon!”

“Hello, Gaerradh,” Alustriel said. “Eaerlraun Shadowlyn sent word that you needed to see me, so I came as quickly as I could.” She took the arm of the younger man next to her. “This is my son, Methrammar Aerasumé. He is the High Marshal of the League. May we come in?”

“In? Oh, of course.”

Gaerradh stepped aside, flustered. Alustriel and Methrammar entered, and found seats on the window bench Gaerradh had been sitting on a moment before. She followed them over to the window, and remembering her manners, started to curtsey.

Alustriel reached out and stopped her.

“Please, Gaerradh. No one who harps at twilight need ever kneel to me.” She indicated the seat opposite her and said, “You must be exhausted. Please, sit down, and tell me what’s going on in the High Forest.”

Gaerradh sat, and said, “Lady Alustriel, I was sent by Lady Morgwais of Rheitheillaethor. A new enemy has appeared in the High Forest, a race of demonspawned sorcerers, creatures who have the look and manner of sun elves from the old kingdoms that once stood in the High Forest long ago. But they also have black, leathery wings, horns on their heads, and skin that is deep red. They employ demons and devils of all description as their footsoldiers, and have also allied themselves to the orc tribes of the forest.”

“You said they are sorcerers?” Methrammar asked.

“Yes, though most of them wield blades as well. I’ve seen them hurl fire and lightning in abundance. I’ve also seen them use spells of invisibility and illusion. They are dangerous foes.”

“How many are they?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Gaerradh said. “They’ve divided themselves into a number of warbands, each ravaging the forest. We know there are at least three different bands, and there may be as many as five or six. Each has about one hundred of these demonspawn, plus a like number of demons and devils, and two or three times that number in orcs, ogres, and other marauders.”

Methrammar frowned, rubbed his jaw, and said, “So maybe five hundred sorcerers, five hundred demons, and fifteen hundred orcs and such.” He looked at his mother. “If they gathered that force and marched north …”

“We would be hardpressed to defend Everlund,” she finished for him, nodding. “The wards of Silverymoon would prove a difficult obstacle for that army, and Sundabar is quite strong too. But I would fear for Everlund and the smaller towns of the Rauvin Vale.” She looked back to Gaerradh. “How do matters stand now?”

“We’ve abandoned most of the villages in the eastern part of the forest, which is where they first appeared. We’re withdrawing to the Lost Peaks. We have some hidden refuges there. But the demonspawn are following us, Lady Alustriel. They’ve caught up to and slaughtered many of our fleeing folk, and so far we’ve been unable to muster a force strong enough to stop them. Lady Morgwais hopes that as more of our folk reach the Lost Peaks, we will be able to assemble an army from the warriors of a number of villages, and perhaps meet our attackers on a more equal footing. In the meantime, we need help.”

“I know,” Alustriel said, then she fell silent, thinking.

“There is one more thing,” Gaerradh said. “I don’t know if this is important or not, but Morgwais said that you might understand its significance. We know where these demonspawned elves, or some of them anyway, come from. They were held somewhere in Nar Kerymhoarth, the Nameless Dungeon. I discovered the guards of the dungeon slain, and a vast portion of the hillside blasted open.”

“Siluvanede,” Alustriel breathed. She stood and paced away, arms folded. “I knew that many things had been buried in Nar Kerymhoarth, but I never suspected something like this. That is dire news, indeed.”

“What is it, Mother?” Methrammar asked.

“I will have to ask some questions to be sure,” Alustriel said. “It may take me some time, but for now, I want you to return to Rauvinwatch Keep and march the Argent Legion companies there south to the High Forest. We will aid the elves of the High Forest with all the strength we can spare.”

“The council won’t like sending even a couple of companies out of the Silver Marches,” Methrammar said.

“I will explain to them why it is necessary.” Alustriel turned to Gaerradh and asked, “Would you consent to guide Methrammar and his soldiers to the place they can best serve the High Forest folk? We don’t know where the wood elves will gather or stand.”

“Of course, Lady Alustriel.”

“Good,” Alustriel replied. She took Gaerradh’s hand. “I am sorry that we have only a few hundred soldiers who can march now, but it may be that even a few hundred will make a difference. I will send more companies after Methrammar as soon as I can. If it lies within my power, I will not let the High Forest folk fall beneath these demonspawned monsters.”

Snow still dusted the peaks of the Shaeradim, the rugged hills that concealed the green valley of Everes ka. The elven city nestled high in the hidden vale, and drifting streamers of gray cloud wreathed the white towers and mighty trees. From his vantage on the high slopes of Ilaerothil, the mountain known as the Sentinel, Seiveril found that the clouds and fog revealed and covered the city, almost nine miles distant, from moment to moment.

I can see why the LastHome was built here, he thought.

The high peaks of the Shaeradim formed a mighty rampart almost six thousand feet in height, completely (surrounding a maze of narrow vales, high cwms, and smaller peaks that stretched for fifteen miles between the Sentinel—the mountain at the northwest end—and the Eastpeak, the even taller mountain to the southeast. Someone traveling through the Forgotten Forest far below would see nothing more than a fence of unbroken peaks, never suspecting the green vales and forests cupped within.

Seiveril had come to Evereska with Vesilde Gaerth in order to study the approaches to the city and see with his own eyes the daemonfey army. He had passed through the elfgates early in the day, leaving the crusade to continue its muster under Elvath Muirreste in Elion. Soon he would be ready to march at least a few of the more organized and better equipped companies through the gates, but it would likely be the work of three days, perhaps four, to bring the entire army to Evereska. He’d return to Evermeet by the end of the day and begin planning the march.

“Look north,” said Lord Duirsar.

Leader of the Hill Council, the moon elf elder was a short, thinly built fellow whose unassuming manner seemed at odds with his high place among the elves of Evereska. His face was marked with almost humanlike signs of age, including heavy worry lines at the corners of his mouth, and a pained expression to his eyes that spoke of too much grief and sorrow. Only two years before Evereska had fought a terrible war against invading monsters, and almost lost it. Thousands of the city’s People walked in Arvandor, and those who remained knew more sadness than any elves Seiveril had ever met.

“The main body is passing the Westhorn,” Duirsar observed.

Seiveril followed the Hill Elder’s gaze over the wild green hills and gray mists of the lands beyond Evereska. The Sentinel offered a commanding view over the lands lying west of the LastHome. From the high pass at his left shoulder, a deep, winding valley—the Rillvale—descended from the high slopes of the Shaeradim to the shadowed eaves of the Forgotten Forest, almost four thousand feet below. The Forest lay in a broad vale between Evereska’s hills and the Graypeak Mountains forty miles to the west. Toward the south the forest sank into the great Marsh of Chelimber, a gray-green flat just visible from where Seiveril stood. To the north of the forest the Lonely Vale stretched between the Graypeak Mountains and the Graycloak Hills, which were more accurately described as a more mountainous part of the Shaeradim divided from

Evereska’s hills by a windswept pass. Seiveril looked to the north and spotted the distinctive Westhorn, twenty miles away in the rugged rampart of the Graycloaks.

“I cannot see them at this distance,” he said.