“Yes,” said Seiveril, and he felt a pang of pride in his heart as he realized that he was not boasting. “It will be hard, but we have faced worse in the last few months.” He paused then added, “There is an advantage to a hasty attack. If there are any spies around-daemonfey or Zhent-they will not have much of an opportunity to discover our intentions and report.”
“I wish that were not a consideration, but you are right.” The human lord looked off toward the north, where the ruddy glare of watch fires drew a broad red smear across the northern sky. “Elven archery in the night is a fearsome thing, but my folk will be hindered by darkness until the skies start to lighten. Could you detail a company of your scouts to march with the muster of Shadowdale? A few of your elves will go a long way toward guiding my folk to the fight in the dark, and helping them until it grows light enough for humans to see well, too.”
“A wise idea, Lord Amcathra. I will make sure that a good number of Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves march in your ranks in the morning.” Seiveril looked around, and asked, “Is Lady Silverhand nearby? She should be told, too.”
“She’s out in the eastern dale with a party of riders-Harpers and such folk,” Mourngrym said. “She saw an opportunity to waylay a Zhentilar cavalry squadron and a couple of sky mages that have been causing trouble out there, and I asked her to make a sweep of the forest border to make sure that the Zhents weren’t looking to march east and outflank our lines. I’ll send a couple of her Harpers after her tonight.” He offered Seiveril a grim smile. “You know, Storm told me before she left that she thought you’d move against the enemy camp within a day or two. I think she knew your mind before you did.”
“It would not surprise me,” Seiveril answered. He stepped forward and gripped Mourngrym’s forearms. “I must return to our camp. We will send the wood elves soon, and the moment I know where and when we will strike, I will send word.”
Mourngrym nodded. “If we can drive them out of their camp, there’s no place for the Zhents to stop running before they reach Voonlar. I like the thought of that.”
Six hours later, Seiveril sat on his courser, armed and armored for battle. He had managed only half an hour of Reverie while the rest of the camp was rising and arming, since he spent his whole night hammering out the best plan of attack he and Starbrow could come up with. Yet he did not feel tired. The hour having come for him to test his strength against Zhentil Keep, he was anxious to be about it.
“Edraele Muirreste reports that the Silver Guard is in position, Lord Miritar,” said Adresin. The young captain was Seiveril’s herald and adjutant on the field of battle. As much as Seiveril relied on Thilesil as his aide-de-camp, she was not a skilled fighter. Instead, she remained with the other healers and clerics to tend to the inevitable tide of the wounded and dying, and Adresin served as his voice and messenger on the battlefield.
“Very good, Adresin.”
Seiveril looked up and down along the line. Concealed with illusory mists that mimicked a low ground fog hovering over the damp, cold fields in the chill night air, the Crusade was arrayed for battle. In the center marched Seiveril’s best infantry, the Vale Guards from Evereska he had not left behind in Mistledale. Seiveril had also massed most of his magical might in the center. His bladesingers, spellarchers, and battle-mages marched among his heavy infantry, some openly, others disguised as common footsoldiers. To his left, on the west side of the dale, Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves were already slipping through the dark forests. On his right, where the land was somewhat more open, the Grimmar had gathered under their lord Mourngrym. Seiveril was surprised to find the townsfolk arrayed in quiet, purposeful ranks, with none of the sloppiness or empty bravado he might have expected of a hastily gathered militia. More than a few of those farmers and merchants knew their way around the battlefield, and the elflord realized that he had misjudged their strength. Then again, the Zhents had done exactly that more than once, hadn’t they?
Seiveril twisted in his saddle-an awkward motion in his plate armor-and verified once again the companies of knights and cavalrymen who waited behind the infantry. Ferryl Nimersyl and the Moon Knights of Sehanine, along with the remaining Knights of the Golden Star and Lord Theremin’s men-at-arms from Deepingdale, made up most of that force. If Seiveril’s hammer blow on the center carried the Zhentish earthworks, it was their job to stream through the hole and devastate the camp.
“All right, Adresin,” he said. “Pass the word: Forward, march!”
Adresin softly called out the order, and the banners of Seiveril’s command company dipped once. All along the line, keen-eyed elves watched for the visual signal. Seiveril had no intention of announcing the attack with horn blasts or battle cries. With an uneven surge, the elves flowed smoothly out into the misty fields before the enemy’s own earthworks. The Zhentilar had raised their last camp only five miles from the town itself. The elves and the Grimmar had closed to within a mile in a cold, dark march they started three hours after midnight.
Corellon, grant us a swift and easy victory, Seiveril prayed fervently. Lull the Zhents to slumber for just a little longer. I do not want to send any more of your sons and daughters to Arvandor than I must today.
Their mail muffled with strips of cloth, silent in the dim fog, the army pressed forward. The elves were taking care not to march in step, and did not have heavy footfalls in any event, so all that met Seiveril’s ears was an ominous rustle and creaking, punctuated by the occasional soft whicker of a horse or a low cough. Steadily the ramparts drew closer, and in the morning mist Seiveril found himself entertaining the curious conceit that his army was standing still, while the waiting battle at the ramparts was slowly advancing on him instead of the other way around.
A brilliant stroke of lightning flashed overhead, followed by a peal of thunder. Seiveril looked up at once, and saw in the fading brilliance the shape of a great, winged monster wheeling overhead. He glimpsed a dark figure astride the flying monster, a staff clutched in his hands. The Zhentilar sky mage hurled another blast of lightning down at the Grimmar off to his right, but then a pair of Eagle Knights streaked down out of the dark skies, lances couched. The monster croaked and turned away as a furious melee erupted in the skies over the elves’ march.
“Well, I didn’t really think we would reach the camp undetected,” Seiveril muttered. “Adresin, wind your horn! Now is the time for speed!”
In the crude earthworks ahead a flat iron gong began to sound, beating an alarm. But a moment later it was drowned out by the high, clear ringing of dozens of elven horns. From the Crusade came a great roar in answer, and the elves and Dalesfolk broke into a run, hurrying to cross the last few hundred yards of ground before the Zhents could fully man their palisade.
A barrage of battle-magic blasted out from the Zhentilar camp, streaking fireballs and scathing ice storms, but Jorildyn and the other battle-mages were ready for that. They quickly countered most of the Zhentish magic, dispelling deadly invocations or raising magical shields to ward off battle spells. Many of the Zhentish spells faltered, broken on the elven defenses, but a few streaked through and detonated amid the onrushing elf and human soldiers. Horses screamed in the cold air, and battle cries became shrieks of pain, but the elves’ rush swept on unbroken. From a dozen places in the elven lines mages halted their advance for a step to reply with spells of their own, scouring the enemy earthworks.
“Archers!” cried Seiveril. “Cover the ramparts!”
Trained to fire on the move, elf archers began to shower the palisade with a silver storm of arrows. Even though the Zhentilar rushing up to take up station behind their staked ditch-and-berm were well hidden by their earthworks, all an elf archer needed was a glimpse of a foe to send an arrow winging his way with uncanny accuracy. Seiveril was close enough to see bands of gnoll archers gathering behind the ramparts to fire back, as companies of ogres, bugbears, orcs, and black-clad human pikemen streamed up to defend their ramparts. But they were slow to form ranks, and several large gaps beckoned, places where Zhentil Keep’s soldiers had not yet reached their posts or elven battle-magic had seared the ramparts clear.