“A sending of the Pale Sybil?” Nesterin murmured. He looked over to Araevin. “Do we dare follow it down?”
Araevin simply nodded. “I intend to. After all, that is what we came here for,” he told his friends.
Moonlight danced on the pure waters of Lake Sember. Seiveril Miritar looked on the beautiful scene and found that he was heartened by the sight. It was a perfect summer night, warm and bright with the moonlight all elves loved more than words could easily express.
It was a good omen for the coming battle. “The daemonfey approach, Lord Seiveril,” Edraele Muirreste said. The girlish moon elf seemed far too small and frail to wear a warrior’s arms, but appearances could be deceiving-behind those enchanting eyes lay a fierce determination and an uncanny capacity for bold, daring maneuvers and inspired leadership. Riding at the head of the Silver Guard, the great company of cavalry that had followed Seiveril out of Evermeet, Edraele was more dangerous than a full-grown dragon.
“I am afraid your eyes must be keener than mine, Edraele. I do not see them yet,” Seiveril admitted.
The young captain pointed up into the clear skies above the lake, and Seiveril followed her gaze to a distant dark cloud of tiny winged figures… a darting, roiling stream that grew closer with every heartbeat. “You were right, my lord,” Edraele said. “They are here, just as you predicted.”
“The Seldarine favored my divinations. I only passed along Corellon’s warning.” Seiveril quickly inspected his armor of elven steel plate, more than a little battered and scored from months of campaigning against the daemonfey and their evil hordes. Then he glanced back to Edraele and touched his brow in salute. “Good luck to you, captain. Remember, you’re not a rider tonight. It’s not as easy to get out of trouble when you’re fighting afoot.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Edraele sighed.
The moon elf was a rider of superb skill, the best Seiveril had ever seen. It seemed a waste to not allow her or her Silver Guard to mount up. But the daemonfey and their demons, devils, and such things were all winged, and even Edraele couldn’t lead her lancers into the skies.
Seiveril hurried over to the place where Vesilde Gaerth and the battle-mage Jorildyn waited. Every company of the Crusade waited deep in the tree shadows, concealed from the flying foes winging toward them. Only a handful of volunteers remained among the lanternlit tents and shelters of the Semberholme encampment, doing their best to look like half-awake sentries who had no idea the daemonfey were about to descend on them.
“Are your mages ready, Jorildyn?” Seiveril asked.
The battle-mage-actually a half-elf, with enough human blood to sport a silver-streaked black beard-nodded once without taking his eyes from the menacing shapes descending from the sky. “My mages know their task,” he said. “Whether the others will do as well, I cannot say.”
“They will,” Seiveril promised him.
He returned his gaze to the daemonfey. They had come close enough that he could make out the gleam of moonlight on their steel, and the larger and more ungainly shapes of vrocks and nycaloths scattered among the fey’ri warriors. The ancient magical wards guarding Semberholme kept infernal creatures from simply teleporting into the middle of the elven camp, and so the raid descending on them necessarily had to come from the skies. Otherwise the daemonfey and their demonic allies would have had to fight their way through miles of forest to get to Seiveril’s army, losing any hope of surprise.
Not that they’ve caught us off our guard tonight, Seiveril reminded himself. “Thank you, Corellon, for your guidance this night,” he whispered. “May our arrows fly swift, may our blades strike true, may our spells smite our foes and shield us from harm.”
“As the Seldarine will,” Vesilde said, finishing the ancient prayer.
“As the Seldarine will,” Jorildyn answered too. The battle-mage took a deep breath, and said, “Here they come.”
The fearsome shapes overhead wheeled and plummeted down toward the camp. Many of the fey’ri were deadly sorcerers, and they announced the beginning of the attack by launching a terrible barrage of spells-searing fireballs, deadly purple bolts of lightning, and black rays of destruction that pierced soul and body alike. Demons and devils among the fey’ri scoured the ground below with their own deadly blasts of hellfire and abyssal plagues, enveloping scores of tents and shattering stones and trees like the hammer blows of titans. Thunderclaps split the night, echoing across the water. Flames roared and crackled, and overhead demons shouted in glee.
Even though Seiveril had expected it, he was momentarily appalled by the sheer ferocity of the attack. Some of those who had volunteered to play the role of sentries managed to send a few paltry arrows speeding up into the black ranks above. Others simply vanished in searing blasts of fire or were thrown like broken toys across the ground. But he set his horror and surprise aside for later, and barked out, “Now, Jorildyn! Now!”
From a hundred places scattered around the outskirts of the camp, elf sorcerers, wizards, war-mages, and clerics shouted out battle spells of their own, launching a ferocious barrage right back at the daemonfey. And alongside each mage or cleric, another elf armed with a wand, a staff, or even a scroll to read joined the effort. While only a few score elves in the Crusade were mages of any skill, many more had dabbled in the Art at least a bit-and even a raw apprentice could employ a wand. At Jorildyn’s instruction, all the battle-mages under his command had shared their arsenals with any elf who could help, tripling the Crusade’s magical power for at least a short time.
The night vanished in the brilliant blue glare of lightning bolts and the sullen red glow of fire-fountains burning through the daemonfey ranks. Scores of fey’ri burned and died in the skies over the empty camp, their blackened corpses tumbling to the ground or splashing into the lake.
“Well done, Jorildyn!” Vesilde cried. “Well done! Now it’s our turn.”
The Golden Star knight raised a horn to his lips and blew a single high note that echoed over the thunderclaps and roaring of the flames
… and in response, more than a thousand archers bent their bows and let fly at the staggered fey’ri. More of Sarya’s infernal warriors screamed and died in the silver storm of death rising up to rake them.
Fey’ri spellcasters threw a haphazard volley of slaying spells of their own back down at the elves below, while beating desperately for altitude. Many of Seiveril’s wizards and clerics had necessarily given away their hiding places by hurling their spells up at the flying foe, and more than a few did not long survive after dealing their surprise blow against Sarya’s legion. Half a dozen acid bolts and fireballs streaked down toward the clearing where Seiveril and his captains had gathered, but Seiveril had been waiting for that moment. In the space of an instant he raised a barrier of null magic, shielding his companions in a temporary cocoon in which magic, any magic, simply could not work. It shut off their own spellcasting, of course, but Seiveril decided it was easily worth the cost as spell after spell simply died a few feet before reaching him.
“Watch out for the demons and devils,” Vesilde warned. “They’ll simply attack with fang and claw if they realize you’ve taken away our spells as well as theirs.”
“That’s why I wanted your Knights of the Golden Star around me, Vesilde,” Seiveril answered.
He watched anxiously for a short time as the fey’ri dueled his spellcasters and archers, trading spell for spell and arrow for arrow-but it was not a fair exchange, not by a long measure. The elves on the ground were hidden among the trees and ruins of Semberholme, and they outnumbered their attackers by three or four to one. The daemonfey had hoped to surprise a sleeping camp with a lightning-swift raid. They hadn’t come to fight an army that was awake, alert, and ready for them.