“But surely you must see-”
“It doesn’t matter what I see,” Moorwatch said, holding up his hand to interrupt her. “I’m not a Sembian, and this isn’t my war. The Blue Griffons fight for good Sembian gold, and I’ve come to learn that our paymasters didn’t get as rich as they are by giving away anything for free.”
Ilsevele hesitated. Fflar decided to step in to help her. “Will you allow us to take up the question with your employers?” he asked.
The captain looked over to him. “This whole campaign is buggered beyond belief. We certainly didn’t sign on to fight our way through hordes of demons, devils, and worse. I suppose I’ll pass you through my lines, and send along Teren here with a dozen Blue Griffons to provide safe conduct. I warn you, though-if this is a ruse of some kind, it will go hard with you.”
“No ruse,” Fflar promised. “We have six-no, five-more who will join our party, with your leave.” Illithor’s journey had come to an end in the road a few miles back. They were one fewer than they had been.
“Very well,” the human captain agreed.
Fflar glanced back at the woods and signaled the rest of their Silver Guards to join them, while Moorwatch arranged for a detachment of his men to mount up. In ten breaths Fflar, Ilsevele, and the rest of their small company were ringed by a score of vigilant Blue Griffon riders-seasoned sellswords of a much smarter appearance than Fflar would have expected of mercenaries. He took a moment to warn Moorwatch about the canoloths roaming the road a few miles to the west, and they set out with the bannerman Teren and his riders.
The young officer led them east along the river for a mile or so, while the mercenary guards conversed among themselves in low voices, sticking to their own native Chondathan rather than Common. Then they struck southeast on a wide trail that climbed up into the Dun Hills, veering away from the broad river vale behind them. Few people lived in the hills, but from time to time they passed lonely lime kilns and disused quarries.
“Where are you taking us?” Ilsevele finally asked Bannerman Teren.
“Tegal’s Mark in Tasseldale, my lady,” the young officer answered.
“Lord Selkirk is there?”
Teren shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to start looking. Lord Selkirk has been riding all over the southern Dales for a month now, trying to make some sort of sense out of things. If he’s not in Tegal’s Mark, it’s likely that he’ll pass through within a day or two.”
“It’s important that I speak with him as soon as possible,” Ilsevele said. “One of my people died but a short time ago to see me to your lines.”
“That’s not up to me, my lady. I expect he’ll call on you or send for you as soon as he can, though.”
Fflar nodded to himself. It was nothing more than good common sense not to lead enemy emissaries right into your headquarters, after all. A skillful wizard could easily mark the place for scrying spells or secret gates later on, creating all sorts of trouble. He wouldn’t have led a Sembian party straight to Seiveril without taking similar precautions against treachery.
They reached the small town of Tegal’s Mark shortly before sunset, riding down out of the dusty hills into a fair green valley of apple orchards and small stone farmhouses. Tasseldale had not yet suffered much from the daemonfey, but that did not mean the war had bypassed the place. The town was ringed by the patchwork tents and shelters of Sembia’s battered army, with many hundreds of men bivouacked in the fields and orchards nearby. More soldiers filled the dirt streets of the town. And all around the soldiers’ camps sprawled the simple shelters and crowded wagons of refugees from Battledale, Mistledale, and the lands between.
Teren and his Blue Griffons led them into the town itself, threading their way through the narrow lanes with some difficulty. They finally halted by a fine-looking inn near the middle of the town. The signboard read simply “The Markhouse.”
“I’ll arrange quarters for you here,” the bannerman said. “You can wait here until Lord Selkirk sends for you.”
“We thank you, bannerman,” Ilsevele said.
“I am afraid that you will have to remain here until we tell you otherwise, Lady Miritar. If you or any of your folk need to go out, you’ll have to be escorted. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
Ilsevele nodded. “We understand.”
The young officer nodded. “In that case, I’ll see to your rooms, and notify the Silver Ravens that you are here and wish to speak with Lord Selkirk.” He dismounted, handed his reins to another of the Blue Griffons, and touched his brow before striding into the Markhouse.
Fflar studied the inn. It seemed strong and well-built, which might be important if they had to fight in or around the place. He glanced back at the street behind them, noting the ways that led out of the town. With care, it might just be barely possible to get out from under the Sembians’ hands if they needed to.
He felt eyes upon him, and looked up at a window in the upper floor of the Markhouse. A dark-haired human girl of striking beauty stood there, gazing coldly down on the elves in the courtyard. She regarded him with no expression at all for a long moment, and moved away from the window.
“We’re in danger here,” he said quietly.
“I know, but I mean to carry on as if I expect nothing but good faith,” Ilsevele replied. “Still, I didn’t expect to be put under house arrest.”
“That’s the trouble with crossing an enemy’s lines under a flag of truce. You may find it harder to get out than it was to get in.” Fflar smiled crookedly at her. “How long do we wait before we go looking for this Selkirk ourselves?”
“I’ll give him two days,” Ilsevele said. “After that, we’ll see.”
Absolute lightlessness greeted Araevin on the far side of the portal, a darkness so complete that for one panicked moment he wondered if the portal had somehow hurled him into solid stone. He inhaled sharply-the air was very cold and dry-and staggered into an awkward crouch, fearful that he might blunder over some unseen precipice in the dark. His own sudden breath was the only thing he could hear in the blackness. Cold, rough rock greeted his fingertips, and he reassured himself that he was simply standing in an unlit cavern of some kind.
“Courage, Araevin,” he murmured.
He fished a small copper coin out of his belt pouch by feel, and pronounced a simple light spell on it. The copper piece began to glow with a bright yellow radiance, dispelling the darkness around him so that Araevin could see where he stood.
As he had suspected, it was a cavern of some kind-a long, winding passageway that seemed to follow the bottom of a crevice, for the walls simply leaned against each other about twenty feet overhead. He turned to look at the portal behind him, and found that it was set in a square alcove hewn out of the living rock. Its rectangular lintel was carved with geometric designs that reminded Araevin of dwarven work. He examined the strange runes with interest, but before he could make much out of them, shadows filled the space within the lintel and parted suddenly. Maresa stepped through, rapier in one hand and crossbow in the other.
“Where in the Nine Hells-” she began, but then she remembered to move away from the door. She took several quick strides into the tunnel, making room for Nesterin, Donnor, and Jorin to follow her through. Araevin held his magical light aloft, and kept watch over the passageway while the rest of his companions joined him.
“We’re somewhere in the Underdark, aren’t we?” said Donnor. One thick hand rested on the hilt of the broadsword at his belt.
“I think so,” Araevin replied. He murmured the words of a seeking spell, and frowned as the magic seemed to fray awkwardly beneath his subtle shaping. Faerzress, he remembered. The weird magical energy permeating the deep Underdark sometimes interfered with spellcasting. At the last moment he rallied and managed to finish the spell despite the strange interference.