“They have been getting much worse of late,” Tessaernil admitted. His habitual frown deepened until his face seemed almost empty of hope. “There are portions of the realm that have been drawn almost completely into their influence. We are not a warlike people, but it is clear that we face a threat that we cannot hide from any longer. If the nilshai have learned how to assault our Towers, we face a dark and desperate battle indeed.” He sighed, and turned to face Araevin. “Now, sir, you have already seen and heard more of this realm than I would like. I must ask: What brings you to Sildeyuir? Who are you, and what do you want here?”
“I am in search of knowledge that has been lost in the world outside your realm,” Araevin said. “I hope that it still exists here, though.”
“Knowledge?” Tessaernil folded his arms. “What sort of knowledge?”
“Thousands of years ago, a star elf mage named Morthil lived among the elves of Arcorar,” Araevin answered. “He helped the grand mage of that realm to defeat an ancient evil. I have reason to believe that Morthil returned to his homeland with magical lore that he removed from the enemies of Arcorar. I need to find out if anything of what Morthil removed from Arcorar still survives.”
“There must be some reason you have come all the way to Sildeyuir in search of this old lore,” Tessaernil observed. “What do you need with it?”
“I need it to defeat the enemies that Morthil once fought,” Araevin said. “They are called the daemonfey, and they are an abominable House of sun elves who consorted with demons long ago.”
He decided that Tessaernil was not an elf to be trifled with, and chose to tell him the story of events since Dlardrageth’s return as completely and openly as he could.
When the tale was told, Nesterin and Tessaernil stood in silence for a long moment. The older lord finally moved to a seat at the head of the table and sat down heavily, his gaze troubled and distant.
“First Nesterin’s tale, and now this,” he murmured. “It has been a long time since I heard two such stories in the same day. We keep abreast of doings in Aglarond and the Yuirwood, but news of the wars and perils of the distant corners of Faerun rarely find its way to our realm.”
Araevin paused, steeling his nerve to ask the question. “I perceive that you are skilled with the Art, Lord Tessaernil. Do you know of magical lore brought out of Arcorar to Sildeyuir? Have you heard the name of Morthil before?”
Tessaernil looked up at Araevin, his dark eyes unreadable. “I know that name,” he said. “And I think I know where you might recover at least a remnant of Morthil’s ancient lore. But you will find that it is a dark and difficult journey, son of Evermeet. Morthil’s old tower lies in the farthest reach of our realm, in the borderlands where things have been slipping away into strangeness for many years now. Even if the place has not vanished entirely, I do not see how you can get there without passing into the domain of the nilshai. Few indeed return from that journey.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
23 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms
For two full days, Seiveril waited for the Zhentarim army to attack Shadowdale-town and the Twisted Tower. Forty-five hundred elf warriors of the Crusade held the woodlands and fields a couple of miles north of the town, standing alongside more than a thousand humans gathered from all corners of Shadowdale, a strong company from Deepingdale, and even a few dozen veterans from nearby Daggerdale. But having lost the foot race to crush the Dalesfolk before the elves of Evermeet arrived in Shadowdale, the Zhentilar settled for a very deliberate and cautious approach. Instead of pressing forward to the attack, they advanced at a snail’s pace. By night the Black Network had fortified their camp with great earthworks and palisades.
On the evening of the third day, Starbrow found Seiveril standing among the pickets at the northern end of the elven camp, gazing out across the fields toward the distant campfires of the Zhentarim camp. The moon elf joined him in studying the enemy entrenchments for a time.
“You understand what the Zhents are trying to do?” Starbrow asked.
“I didn’t until this morning, when I saw that they were not marching today,” Seiveril replied. “But I see it clearly enough now. They are going to make us come to them if we want to force a battle. And I have to do it, because the longer I sit here waiting on the Zhents, the more likely it is that the Sembians and Hillsfarians will overwhelm Mistledale or march against our rear.” Seiveril ran a hand through his fine silver-red hair, and sighed. “I should have anticipated this response. Clearly our best strategy is to defeat our enemies in detail, and that means I must fall on the Zhents while their allies are still far behind us. The burden of action is on me.”
Starbrow nodded. “You’re learning. So when do we fight?”
“It has to be soon,” Seiveril admitted. “Tomorrow is as good a day as any. What do you think?”
“Tonight, an hour after moonset,” Starbrow said. “We’d have three hours until sunup. We see in the dark better than the humans, and we need less rest. It’s the best time for elves to fight humans, and our Crusade makes up better than three-quarters of the fighting strength we have gathered in Shadowdale.”
“A good part of their army consists of orcs, gnolls, and ogres. The darkness won’t bother them.”
“True. But if the Zhentilar break, the humanoid mercenaries in their camp might follow. It’s the best we can do. We could wait another day and plan a more deliberate attack for the day after tomorrow, but why give Sarya and her human pawns another day to close the noose around our necks?”
“All right, then. Tomorrow morning.” Seiveril clapped Starbrow on the shoulder. “Pass the word to our captains. I have to speak with Lord Mourngrym and Lady Silverhand, and tell them what we intend.”
He glanced once more at the open fields before him, wondering briefly how many elves and humans would meet their ends in those common farm fields by dawn the next morning. Then he turned away to go in search of the lord of Shadowdale and Storm Silverhand.
He found Mourngrym Amcathra inspecting the old ditch-and-rampart earthworks that lay a few hundred yards north of the town, barring passage against any invader approaching along the northern road. The ramparts had been raised fifteen years past to defend the town against another Zhentarim invasion. The elven army was bivouacked a mile to the north, astride the road, but the Grimmar-as folk from Shadowdale preferred to be called, after the old Castle Grimstead that had once stood in the Dale-were readying the ramparts as a second line of defense. Mourngrym was pounding sharpened stakes into the ground with his own hands, hard at work with a whole crew of townsfolk, as Seiveril rode up.
“Lord Miritar,” he said with a nod, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The Zhents are staying put?”
“Yes, for now,” Seiveril said. He dismounted and left his reins with the knights who served as his guard. “They are not going to move, not as long as they hope to catch our army between the Red Plumes and their own force. Yet we have to scatter or destroy the Zhentilar as quickly as possible, so that we can turn back to deal with the Red Plumes and Sembians in Mistledale and Battledale. We will have to take the fight to them, I am afraid.”
Mourngrym gave a stake two more taps with the wooden sledge he held then set down the hammer and said, “I’d rather stand on the defensive, but I understand your predicament. Shadowdale isn’t the only realm you’re fighting for. What do you have in mind?”
“We will march against their camp and attack an hour after moonset.”
The lord of Shadowdale glanced sharply at him. “You’ll have to start marching in a matter of hours. Can your captains organize an attack on a fortified camp that quickly?”