“High Captain?”
Scyllua pulled her gaze from the ongoing construction, and turned to her lieutenant. The Zhentish officer visibly steeled himself when she glanced at him. She was not a tall woman, but she was broad-shouldered and athletic, and the black plate armor she wore with the ease of long experience only contributed to her formidable presence.
“Yes, lieutenant?”
“The wizard Perestrom is here. You asked for him after reading his report.”
“Have him brought up,” Scyllua commanded without looking at the lesser officer. She rarely bothered to look anyone else in the eyes, and had the habit of staring off over a shoulder or fixing her blank gaze on someone’s breastbone as if she might bore a hole through his heart with simple concentration. She didn’t realize that she had that habit, and certainly didn’t do it deliberately; she simply found face-to-face conversations distracting, and did not like to break the chain of her thoughts.
The lieutenant struck his fist to his chest in the Zhentish salute-not that Scyllua noticed-and withdrew briefly, before returning with a tall, vulture-faced wizard in black robes, the Zhentarim mage Perestrom.
“High Captain Darkhope,” the wizard said, offering a shallow bow as an insincere smile creased his sharp features. He looked up at the tower under construction. “That is something of a vanity, you know. The Art offers many ways to render such an expensive defense useless.”
“A tower built with care and foresight may not be impervious to a skilled wizard, Perestrom, but at least it will discourage the less competent ones.” Scyllua smiled thinly to herself, even though she faced away from the others. “And we can take steps to discourage attacking wizards, of course. For example, I have heard that our clerics have mastered a rite that would reave the life from a wizard, transforming him into a ghost, and bind him to a specific task for all eternity-for instance, the defense of this tower against enemy sorcerers. I shall have to give some thought to where I might find a wizard of suitable skill for such a task.”
“I will be happy to provide several recommendations,” Perestrom replied. If his arrogant smile faltered just a hint, Scyllua did not see it.
“Of course. Now, about your report… What were you doing in Myth Drannor, exactly?”
“I am the master of a small adventuring company, the Lords of the Ebon Wyrm. I have led several expeditions into various ruins around the Moonsea and old Cormanthyr, in search of various glimpses of arcane lore and magical treasures. A tenday ago we arrived in the ruins of Myth Drannor, intent on retrieving whatever artifacts we could find from the old city. We explored the ruins for several days, with a little success. But five days ago, late in the afternoon, we were attacked by a large company of flying, demonic sorcerers. I lost several of my fellow Ebon Wyrms before we managed to escape into the ruins.”
“Demons and devils of all sorts are known to plague Myth Drannor,” Scyllua observed. “And they often slay adventurers there. I see nothing remarkable about your tale so far, Perestrom.”
“As you say, High Captain,” Perestrom said, again offering a small, insincere bow. “However, I found it noteworthy that these demonic sorcerers had the features of elves, and spoke Elvish to one another.”
“Elves?” Scyllua glanced over her shoulder at the tall mage. “Unusual, I admit, but why does it merit Zhentarim attention?”
“Because I think there are a thousand or more of these fellows in Myth Drannor now, a whole army of them.” Perestrom’s smirk faded a bit. “They attacked several other adventuring companies in and around the city over the next day or so, and we were attacked by several different demon-elf bands during this time. We eluded most of these attacks through my spells-illusions to hide our presence, summonings to conjure up monsters that could cover our withdrawal-and I kept careful notations on the arms and devices of each such band we encountered.
“When we finally abandoned the ruins, I spent another two days spying out as much as I could about these new foes, using various spells and devices. I will be happy to share my notes, if you would care to examine my evidence in detail.”
Scyllua faced Perestrom. He had managed to seize her attention, all right.
“A thousand?” she asked. “All of them spellcasters?”
“Better than half, I would say. Few as accomplished as I am, of course.”
“Of course.” Scyllua considered that for a time. “What about the baatezu? Did they destroy many of these newcomers?” That would be a good measure of their strength, anyway.
“As far as I could tell, the devils did not contest their presence. I saw no fighting between the demon-winged sorcerers and the devils of Myth Drannor. In fact, on a few occasions I saw devils in the company of the newcomers.”
Despite herself, Scyllua felt her clarity slip just a fraction. What could Perestrom’s report signify? she thought. A new army in Myth Drannor? One that could rally the devils of the city to their banner? At the very least, it meant that further Zhentarim expeditions to the ruined elven city must be undertaken with even more care and preparation than usual. Could it pose a threat to Zhentil Keep itself? That many spellcasters and devils would be a formidable force, if they found a way to escape the wards imprisoning them within Myth Drannor’s walls. But there were lesser states between Myth Drannor and Zhentil Keep-the Dales, for instance, or Moonsea cities such as Hillsfar.
Threat, or opportunity?
“Very well, Perestrom. I agree that this merits more investigation.” Scyllua lifted her unfocused gaze to the wizard’s eyes until Perestrom looked away, his self-assurance not quite up to the intensity of her attention. “I will speak to Lord Fzoul about this, and we will consider how our ignorance might be amended.”
Ilsevele left Araevin to continue his researches by himself, spending her time in the company of Maresa and Filsaelene. She said that she simply wanted more time to wander Silverymoon’s tree-shaded streets and explore its odd shops, quaint markets, and famed universities, but Araevin could read her silent disapproval well enough. He promised himself that he would set aside his work for a time and join her in taking in Silverymoon’s sights, but first he wanted to see what he could find out about star elves and the long-dead mage named Morthil, who had helped Ithraides destroy the Dlardrageths in Arcorar five thousand years ago.
On the morning of his fifth day in the Vault, and his second alone, Araevin found himself striding from reading room to reading room in search of Calwern, anxious to locate the next manuscript on his ever-growing list. He glanced out the leaded glass windows that marched along the hall, noting the bright spring sunshine outside and the soft and distant sound of the breeze caressing the branches of the stately old shadowtops sheltering the Vault’s windows, when he felt the cold, tingling presence of strange magic arise within his mind.
Araevin recoiled, dropping the sheaf of paper he carried and whirling to search the empty halls around him. Faint whispers of distant magic coiled in his mind, and he felt a presence forming, a sense of grim competence behind it.
He started to speak the words of an arcane defense, but then he felt a familiar visage behind the magic, a stern face with a thin beard of black and gray, features somewhere between an elf’s and a human’s.
“A sending,” he murmured, feeling more than a little foolish. He relaxed and focused his attention on the message.
Araevin, this is Jorildyn, spoke the distant voice in his mind. We have found portals under Myth Glaurach. Starbrow suspects the daemonfey built them. Can you come and investigate?