Filsaelene scrambled to her feet, quickly chanting a holy verse that wiped away the blindness curse that had felled her before. She looked for a foe, and blanched.
“There are devils coming! A lot of them!”
“Closer!” Araevin called back. “Everybody, move closer!”
Then he waited for an awful moment, afraid to activate the portal if one or more of his companions could not reach the door in time, yet dreading any spell or attack that might make it impossible for them to escape. Filsaelene was close by. She backed toward the door, sword point weaving in front her. Ilsevele and Maresa fell back as well, Ilsevele still firing arrows at enemies who swooped and dodged in and among the trees. Starbrow tried to back away from his ferocious opponent, but the daemonfey lord roared in answer and followed him closely.
“Araevin, the portal!” Ilsevele cried.
“A moment,” he said, watching Starbrow and his foe.
The moon elf danced back three steps to the side as the swordsman launched a furious assault, and Araevin saw his opportunity. He quickly chanted a spell, even as he felt enemy magic lashing against his spell-shield, and raised up from the ground a great arching dome of white frost. In the blink of an eye the frost thickened and spread, making an impenetrable barrier of pure white ice that shut their enemies outside.
“We have only a moment,” he told his companions. “It won’t take them long to dispel or destroy the ice. Follow me through the portal as quickly as you can!”
Then he turned and barked the words of the ancient Elvish pass phrase, waking the portal from blank gray stone to a glowing silver door in the side of the hill. Without another word he leaped through, trusting to his own example to encourage his comrades to hurry after him.
He stumbled into the barrel-vaulted mausoleum chamber, his ears ringing from the sounds of the battle he had just left behind. Automatically he moved away from the portal, making sure that he was not in the way for the next to follow. The portal flashed silver, and Ilsevele and Filsaelene tumbled through together, followed by Maresa, and finally Starbrow. The moon elf picked up Filsaelene by one arm, and waved Keryvian toward the far end of the room.
“Stand back!” he cried. “The ice wall gave out, and they are on our heels!”
“Not if I can do something about it,” Araevin muttered.
The portal was intermittent and unreliable, but there was always the chance that the daemonfey might get lucky, and succeed in activating the portal again. Fortunately, he knew a spell to shut down a portal, at least for a time. He retrieved a pinch of spidersilk and mortar dust from his bandolier of spell reagents, and quickly spoke the words of a sealing spell.
It might have been because he hurried the spell, or simply because the magic of the portal was so old, but whatever the cause, Araevin shattered the ancient spell of the portal. The blank stone face of the doorway cracked like a thick pane of glass struck by a hammer, creating a jagged spiderweb of fractures. He staggered back, hands and arms burning with the shock of the broken spell, and bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
“Damn!” he gasped.
“That,” said Starbrow, “seems to be a very well-sealed door. I don’t think they’ll follow us through that.”
“I ruined it,” Araevin groaned. “The portal’s gone.”
“Right now, I don’t count that a loss,” Filsaelene said. “They’re on that side, and we’re on this side. I don’t know if we could have held them off for much longer.”
“You don’t understand,” Araevin said. “I stopped them from following us, yes, but when we want to use this doorway again, we won’t be able to.” He sighed, furious with his own clumsiness. All questions of practicality aside, he hated to be the mage responsible for wrecking a work of magic that might have been a thousand years old. It made him feel like a vandal.
“I don’t know if that is a loss worth regretting, Araevin,” Ilsevele said. She stood up and gingerly looked down at the scorch marks on her armor. “After that fight, the daemonfey are certain to guard that portal exit heavily. We probably couldn’t have used it again, even if we wanted to.”
“So, what now?” Maresa asked.
“Back to the mountain fortress, and Myth Glaurach,” Starbrow said at once. “We have to tell Seiveril and the others where the daemonfey are hiding.”
“Agreed,” Araevin said. “And Sarya has found herself another mythal to twist to her own purposes. We have to stop her before she gathers a new army here.”
Ilsevele looked over at Starbrow, and offered him a small smile. “For what it’s worth, Starbrow, that was some of the finest swordplay I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you’re still in one piece after standing in front of that four-armed monster.”
The moon elf winced, looking down at the slashes he hadn’t turned aside. “It’s not the first time I’ve fought such as him,” he remarked. “Now, let’s get going before they think to gather some teleporting demons and come here looking for us.”
The Citadel of the Raven stood on a high, windswept hilltop many miles to the north of Zhentil Keep itself. Legend had it that the forbidding walls and deep-delved halls beneath the ground had been made by giants, and Scyllua had never managed to think of a better explanation for stairs better than two feet tall and doorways sixteen feet in height. She climbed through the glowering black ramparts, taking the wooden risers that had been fitted between the fortress’s cyclopean stairways. It was bitterly cold, despite the weak spring sunshine. The citadel was dozens of miles north of even the northern shores of the Moonsea, and the high elevation and lack of cover seemed to invite cold, shrieking winds from the vast wilderness beyond.
She paid little attention to her own discomfort. She rarely did, after all. Her mind was fixed on other things, and she had long ago discovered that clarity and determination could overcome any bodily weakness, such as fatigue or hunger or pain. Purpose was all one needed, and that was something that Scyllua Darkhope had in abundance.
She reached the gates to the Stone Court, the inmost bailey of the great keep, and swept past a dozen mailed guards who wore the black-and-yellow surcoats of Zhentil Keep, not even noticing their nervous salutes. Within the high court stood several large, strong towers, armories and barracks and banquet rooms fit for a royal seat, but Scyllua walked past these to a squat round bulwark at the far end of the keep. This sturdy tower housed the Temple of the Black Lord, the citadel’s shrine to Bane, the fearsome patron of the Zhentarim and Scyllua’s absolute lord and master.
Temple guards in black and green stared straight ahead as she climbed the steps, refusing to acknowledge her presence-as was only right and proper. As warriors of Bane entrusted with their sacred post, they bowed to no one. Scyllua passed into the fane beyond, where a towering idol of black stone carved in the shape of a mighty armored lord stood. Without hesitation, she threw herself down on the cold stone floor and abased herself.
“Great lord,” she murmured, “Favor your worthy servant, and destroy any who displease you. At your word the heavens tremble and the earth groans. I am a sword in your hand. Let me be the instrument with which you smite your enemies.”
“You stand high in the Black Lord’s favor, Scyllua,” came a voice from above her. “Some mouth the words of that prayer and secretly hope that our dread master never takes them up on the offer. You, however, possess true zeal. The Black Lord has plans to do just as you ask, I am sure of it. Now, what brings you to the Citadel of the Raven? The last I heard, you were busy fortifying the vale of the Tesh.”
Her prayer finished, Scyllua easily climbed to her feet despite the heavy armor she wore, and turned to face the speaker. He was a tall, powerfully built man, with thick arms and a broad, square jaw. A mane of deep red hair framed a pale face dominated by a long, drooping mustache.