Authors: Richard Baker
Gaerradh was impressed by the martial array Methrammar assembled, even though she was more anxious with each day that passed. Two hundred of Silverymoon’s famous Knights in Silver rode at the head of the column-human, elf, and half-elf soldiers strengthened by a dozen mages of the city’s famous Spellguard. Four hundred sturdy dwarf warriorsIron Guards from Citadel Adbar, and a small company from Citadel Felbarr-tromped along behind the riders, openly discontented with the notion of marching off into the trackless woodlands to fight in the service of wood elves who weren’t even members of Alustriel’s league. Several small companies from smaller towns such as Auvandell and Jalanthar followed, including a handful of human huntsmen and trackers almost as comfortable in the forest as Gaerradh herself. And finally, Methrammar had prevailed upon the First Elder of Everlund to lend him three seasoned companies of the Army of the Vale. All told, Methrammar’s expedition numbered well over a thousand soldiers.
After assembling his force, Methrammar did not lead his army straight south into the wood, as Gaerradh would have expected.
“If your folk are retreating to the Lost Peaks, then that is where we should march to,” he explained. “The forest is a road to elves, but this army we have gathered will not make good speed on elven trails.”
Instead, they marched southwest along the trade road known as the Evermoor Way, skirting the western edge of the forest for fifty miles before turning south into the forest on the fifth day of their march. From there, Gaerradh led them along the remnants of the elven highways that had once crisscrossed the High Forest in the days of Sharrven and Siluvanede.
On the sixth day out of Everlund, soon after Methrammar’s army entered the forest, the daemonfey struck.
Gaerradh was with Methrammar, riding with the Knights in Silver at the head of the column. Behind them the other companies were scattered over close to a mile of trail, threading their way among the rugged, dense forest of the hills that climbed ever southward to the hidden slopes of the Lost Peaks. Suddenly, from the dark hillside above the trail, a barrage of magical fireballs whistled down into the marching column.
“Ambush!” Methrammar cried. “To arms! To arms!”
The fireballs exploded a bowshot behind the lead company, huge orange gouts of flame blossoming in the gloomy, dripping forest. The heat of the magical fire was so fierce that Gaerradh could feel the flames from where she stood. Before the flames fully vanished, brilliant bolts of lightning stabbed down from the hillside above the track, splintering trees with tremendous cracks! and booms! that left Gaerradh’s ears ringing. Everlundan soldiers staggered and screamed, burned or maimed by the deadly magic.
Methrammar wheeled his horse about, his handsome face hard and flat with anger.
“Damn! Where did they come from?” he hissed. Then he shouted at the Silvaeren knight who commanded the vanguard, “Take defensive positions and spread out! They’re going to try to swarm the vanguard while the rest of the column is cut off by the spellcasters!”
I should have been scouting the trail instead of riding with Methrammar, Gaerradh thought angrily. No fey’ri sorcerers would have ambushed Sheeril and I!
Few others came close to matching her woodcraft, but Methrammar had asked her to stay close by him, pointing out that her knowledge of the trails and landmarks of the forest was irreplaceable. In truth, she had not minded the opportunity to keep the company of the handsome commander. She cursed her own foolishness and swept the woods nearby with her keen eyes, looking for the next step of the ambush.
Dark, swift forms dropped down from wooded hillside above the trail with bared steel in their filthy talons.
“Here they come!” she cried. “Watch upslope!”
Gaerradh slipped off her own mount and unslung her bow. She had no skill in fighting on horseback, and she suspected that anyone on a horse would be singled out by enemy archers and wizards.
Sheeril growled at her heel, baring her fangs at the forest. Gaerradh quickly knelt down beside the wolf and tapped her shoulder, pointing downslope.
“Scout!” she commanded.
She didn’t think the ambushers would try to struggle up the hillside to get at the Silvaeren soldiers, but having just been fooled once, she didn’t mean to be fooled again. Sheeril was trained to seek out hidden foes and stay out of sight. The wolf yipped once and bounded off down the hillside. Then Gaerradh darted over to take cover by a huge dead spruce, already seeking out marks for her arrows.
Orcish war cries filled the air, and a ragged line of berserkers leaped down the hillside through the trees, shrieking like blood-maddened beasts as they hurled themselves on the humans and elves of Silverymoon’s company. A barrage of fireballs preceded the orc charge, but the Silvaeren mages among the vanguard were ready and countered many of the attacker’s spells. Gaerradh searched the treetops and high branches for the daemonfey spellcasters, ignoring the orcs. She glimpsed a bat-winged fey’ri in dark mithral armor gliding overhead, its hands gesturing as it shaped another spell. Gaerradh drew and fired in one smooth motion, sending two arrows at the enemy wizard. One glanced away from a spell ward of some kind, but the other struck true, taking the fey’ri just under its breastbone. The demonspawned sun elf crumpled in midair and began to fall.
Gaerradh looked for another target, but with a terrible crash the orcs reached the waiting soldiers. Axes rose and fell, swords flashed, and the dead and wounded began to fall. Steel clattered and rang, and angry human battle cries rose to match the bellowing of the orc raiders. A hulking orc with a great hooked axe ran straight for Gaerradh, hurling past the human and elf swordsmen around her. She didn’t have enough time to shoot, and had to parry quickly with the strong shaft of her bow until she managed to draw one of her gracefully curved axes from her belt.
“Die, elf!” the big orc shouted. His mouth was flecked with foam, and his eyes rolled wildly in his porcine face. “Kill! Kill!”
One blow of his huge axe tore Gaerradh’s bow from her left hand, and he reversed his swing and brought the sharp hook on the back of his weapon whistling at her neck. Gaerradh ducked under the blow and yanked her off-hand axe from her belt. Then she straightened up and launched herself at the orc, weaving her two axes before her in a deadly double arc of whirling elven steel. She slashed him once across the forearm, a second time across the ribs, and the savage warrior simply shoved her away with the thick haft of his war axe. Gaerradh stumbled back three steps and almost fell.
The berserker roared in glee and stepped forward, whirling the axe with the full length of his long, powerful arms, but then he grunted and staggered as a barrage of streaking globes of blue magic pummeled him from the side. Gaerradh risked a quick glance that way, and saw Methrammar Aerasumé standing, sword in one hand, wand in the other. He offered one quick, fierce smile, and whirled away to aid another soldier.
The orc recovered from Methrammar’s spell and snarled, blood streaming from his mouth. He fixed his eyes on Gaerradh and shambled closer, kept on his feet by nothing more than hate and bloodlust. Roaring in rage, the bestial warrior swung wildly, but the wood elf used her right-hand axe to pass the orc’s swing over her head. She stepped inside his reach and split his forehead with her left-hand axe.
More spells blasted into the melee, silver forks of lightning and furious jets of azure fire dropping orcs on all sides, while simmering spheres of acid and lances of black ice streaked down from the fey’ri sorcerers skulking on the hillside above, wreaking carnage among the Silvaeren soldiers. Gaerradh stooped to retrieve her bow and crouched beside a tree, searching for another fey’ri spellcaster, but in the space of a few moments the battle suddenly ended. The orcs broke and ran, the surviving warriors fleeing into the trees or snarling defiance at
the Silvaeren company, Overhead, the fey’ri spellcasters vanished as well.
“Gaerradh!” Methrammar Aerasumé called. He stood among the soldiers of Silverymoon, his long sword spattered with red. “Gaerradh!”
“I’m here,” she replied.
She looked around. Despite the furious assault, the Silvaeren company had not fared too badly. More than a few of Silverymoon’s soldiers would not return to their city, but even more orc warriors lay dead at their feet. Farther back in the column, where the fey’ri had concentrated their first barrage of deadly spells, she expected the carnage would be worse. She slung her bow, then stooped and wiped her axe on the ragged wolf skin worn by her orc adversary.
“We walked right into that,” she said.
Methrammar grimaced and replied, “I know. You warned us about these fey’ri, but after so many days of seeing nothing of them …” The high marshal sighed and sheathed his sword. “At least we slew many of them, too.”
“Only their orc allies. The daemonfey spellcasters are the real threat. I shot one, but I didn’t see any more fall.” Gaerradh looked up at him, and smiled thinly. “Thank you for the help with this big one, by the way. You gave me just the opening I needed.”
“We’d never find our way to the Lost Peaks without you. And I find that I’ve grown too fond of your company to let an orc deprive me of it,” replied Methrammar. He sighed and looked over the soldiers who stood nearby, searching to see who among their fallen comrades still lived. “We will have to post a strong watch at night. If they’re willing to attack us by day, they will certainly look for a chance to harry us while we’re trying to rest.”
Amlaruil, Queen of Evermeet, entered the Dome of Stars at a sedate pace. She was dressed in a regal dress of gold brocade, her scepter of office transmuted into a willowy golden wand to match the gown. The Dome’s galleries were dark and silent, empty of courtiers and spectators. By chance the tidings from Faerun had come an hour before the beginning of a royal ball, so she had arranged for the council members to be diverted to the Dome as they arrived at the party.
Faint strains of music echoed from the distant ballroom. Some of her guests would undoubtedly note that the queen and her councilors were late for the revelry, but Amlaruil hoped that they would be able to sweep in together as a gala entourage, and appear fashionably late.
As one, her councilors rose to meet her. If Ammisyll Veldann and Selsharra Durothil stood a little slower than the others and did not bow as deeply or as long, they at least observed the forms of courtesy. Like Amlaruil, each was dressed for the formal dance to follow, bedecked in the finest robes or flowing dresses as appropriate. It lent a strangely humorous atmosphere to the scene.
Amlaruil suppressed a smile and said, “Thank you for answering my summons. I have received news from Evereska. There has been a fierce battle in the passes approaching the LastHome.”
“Lord Miritar’s expedition?” High Admiral Elsydar asked.
“Yes. It seems that his host transited the elfgates to Evereska just in time to meet the daemonfey onslaught. They fought the invaders on the shoulders of Ilaerothil and halted their advance.”
“A victory, or a defeat?” Keryth Blackhelm asked, steeling himself for the answer.
“The fighting was fierce. I understand that Lord Miritar lost hundreds of warriors, but he won the day. The daemonfey army suffered far greater losses, and they were stopped short of the Vine Vale.”
“Recklessness,” muttered Selsharra Durothil. “He led his mob of volunteers away from the safety of Evereska’s walls to fight in the open field? Here we see the cost of Miritar’s follyyet more of Evermeet’s sons and daughters dead
on meaningless fields in Faerun’s pointless battles. When do you intend to put an end to this, Lady Moonflower?”
“None of us was there to judge whether Seiveril Miritar’s generalship was foolish or sound,” Keryth Blackhelm growled. Lady Durothil’s discourtesy had not escaped him. “I for one will withhold my censure until I know more.”
“For what possible purpose did he lead an untrained army into such a terrible battle?” Selsharra asked. “I am no war leader, but even I know that a wise general does not abandon impregnable fortifications to hazard his soldiers in an even fight on open terrain. Was it simply a matter of Seiveril’s crusading zeal overriding his common sense? Or was he determined to demonstrate to all of us that his courage brooks no question?”
“Among other things, it occurs to me that Lord Miritar could do little to succor the wood elves of the High Forest if he sat on top of Evereska’s cliffs and did nothing else,” the High Marshal retorted. “If you take up arms against an enemy, you must be willing to hazard losses in order to defend positions you must defend, or attack positions you must take. That is the nature of war.”
“That is the problem, isn’t it?” Ammisyll Veldann observed. “Evermeet is not at war, yet here we learn that hundreds of our soldiers are dying in distant battles.”
Amlaruil refused to let Veldann and Durothil bait her any further.
“I will provide a full account of the fighting as soon as I am able to,” she said firmly. “Hill Elder Duirsar of Evereska informs me that Seiveril’s warriors won a hard-fought battle and halted the enemy advance. For that I give thanks, since the daemonfey are enemies of all elves. I regret that warriors have died, but I do not regret that they died to spare the folk of Evereska a deadly siege or bloody assault.”
The table fell silent, until Zaltarish the scribe cleared his throat and said, “Have you heard anything of Lord Seiveril’s intentions, Your Majesty? What has happened since the battle? Where is he now, where are his foes? Wars are rarely won in a single day.”
Amlaruil shook her head and answered, “I know nothing more than what I have already said. I will send a representative to Evereska tomorrow to confer with the Hill Elder and obtain a better account of the fighting in the Shaeradim.”
“I will go, if you permit me,” Keryth Blackhelm said.
“Of course, Lord Blackhelm.” Amlaruil looked around the table. “That is all I had to say. If there is nothing else-“
“There is one thing,” Selsharra Durothil said.
Amlaruil smoothed her face and refused to show any irritation when she asked, “Yes, Lady Durothil?”