Scyllua gazed at the simple ditch-and-dike the Red Plume brigade had thrown up across the road in front of the village. She could not quite make out the towers of Hillsfar itself, but she could see twisting ribbons of smoke rising a few miles to the east, where parts of the city were said to be burning still after the daemonfey raid. Four days before, she and her army had crushed the Hillsfarian garrison at Yulash, driving the Red Plumes out of the ruined city. Within two days, perhaps three, she would lead her army against Hillsfar itself. The renowned Red Plumes of the city were broken and leaderless, and the paltry collection of mercenaries and peasant levies thrown into the path of the Zhent advance would not delay her long.
“Your orders, High Captain?” Marshal Kulwarth asked again.
“Send the ogres and the footsoldiers against the center, with the support of the spellcasters. Give them a short time to allow the attack to develop, and lead your cavalry against the enemy left flank. You will shatter the Red Plumes and drive them into the sea. I will lead the flanking attack personally.”
Kulwarth thumped his fist to his breastplate and grinned. “I am honored, High Captain. It will be as you say.” The scarred barbarian rode off, barking orders, while Scyllua settled her helm over her head and drew on her gauntlets.
Horns blared and drums rolled ahead of her, and phalanx after phalanx of the Zhentilar infantry started forward against the Red Plumes in their hasty fortifications. Ogres in heavy hauberks of mail, armed with maces and axes the size of small trees, waded among the human and orc warriors. Scyllua expected that the infantry alone would suffice to break the Hillsfarians… but she wanted to annihilate the Red Plumes, and that meant cutting off their retreat with her cavalry.
The sounds of battle drifted back from the ramparts, while the Zhentilar horsemen sat impassively watching. Then Kulwarth had his trumpeters sound their commands. Scyllua led the way as the cavalry rode south, moving away from the center of the fight. When she judged that they had circled far enough, she stood up in her stirrups and let out a high, piercing cry: “Warriors of Zhentil Keep, follow me! ”
Brandishing her scalloped blade, Scyllua Darkhope wheeled her pale white hellsteed in one tight circle and spurred the nightmare across the trampled fields before the Hillsfarian position. Blue fire fumed from the nightmare’s nostrils and struck from the ground at each hoof beat, wreathing Scyllua in the hot stink of brimstone as she dashed out in front of her soldiers. Few of the cavalrymen at her back could keep up with her, but she did not concern herself with what was happening behind her back. In front of her the Red Plumes of Hillsfar were arrayed for battle, and she meant to conquer or die.
Arrows hissed past her, and a couple glanced from her armor of black plate. One even pierced her left leg just above the greave, skewering the meat of her calf, but Scyllua shoved the pain out of her consciousness with a single shrill battle cry. There would be time to worry about her wounds later. A foolish wizard hurled a blazing ball of fire right at her and her hellish mount, but the High Captain of Zhentil Keep rode through unscathed-no flame found in Faerun could harm her nightmare, and her armor was magically warded against fire.
“For the Black Lord!” Scyllua screamed.
She hurled herself over the warriors of Hillsfar, striking off the head of a Red Plume who tried to spear her as she rode past. She threw herself into the middle of the biggest knot of Hillsfarians she could see, and for twenty red heartbeats she laid about her on all sides, taking arms and cleaving skulls in a bright and perfect battle-madness. Her steed kicked, tore, and spumed blue fire everywhere her sword did not reach, and together they worked awful destruction.
“Kill her! Kill the captain!” cried the Hillsfarians around her.
On all sides Red Plume veterans hurried to attack her, hoping to strike down the leader of the Zhent army while Scyllua fought recklessly and alone. But then the rest of the cavalry caught up to her, sweeping into the gap her impetuous charge had ripped in the Hillsfarian line. The Zhentilar cavalry broke like a black thunderbolt over the Red Plumes’ defenses and swept them away.
In the end, a small number of the Red Plumes managed to escape. Half a dozen Hillsfarian war galleys arrived on the shore late in the afternoon and carried off a few hundred of the surviving soldiers. Scyllua killed her last Red Plumes of the day while her nightmare plunged steaming belly-deep in the cold waters of the Moonsea, chasing after the enemy soldiers floundering toward the waiting ships. Only then did she allow her warriors to lead her back to the shore.
Kulwarth greeted her on the rocky strand. “We have about one hundred prisoners, High Captain. What do you wish done with them?”
“Put the badly wounded ones to the sword. Send the rest back to the slave markets in Zhentil Keep.”
“As you command, High Captain.” Kulwarth struck his breastplate again in salute.
“One more thing, Marshal. Have our spellcasters send word to Lord Fzoul. Tell him that we are victorious. The Red Plumes are driven from the field.” Scyllua doffed her helm and shook out her short-cropped hair. “We march on Hillsfar tomorrow.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
11 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Exchanging messages by magical couriers, Miklos Selkirk and Seiveril Miritar agreed to meet at an old manor atop a hill in Battledale, twenty-five miles north and west of Blackfeather Bridge. Selkirk arranged for Ilsevele and her remaining escorts to be set free, asking only that she allow him to accompany her to Battledale. And so as dawn broke over the broad gray downs stretching east from Tegal’s Mark, Selkirk and Ilsevele rode out from the Sharburg together, with their escorts intermingled.
The overmaster’s son brought only seven of his Silver Ravens with him, since Ilsevele’s party was reduced to herself, Fflar, and six of her own bodyguards. Fflar decided that he approved of Selkirk’s good faith, though he certainly hoped that they would not run into any roaming bands of daemonfey or marauding demons with such a small company. Fortunately, the miles passed without trouble. Few people lived in that part of Battledale, and the daemonfey war had largely passed by the rolling hills and lonely farmsteads of the area.
Shortly before dusk, they sighted the crumbling walls of Orskar Manor. The old house had been abandoned for more than a century, and little remained except the shell of its sturdy stone walls. Open grassy fields surrounded the place, crisscrossed by tumbled-down walls of fieldstone. Fflar spied a small company of elves waiting at the top of the hill, horses grazing in the fields near the old ruins.
“It seems your father is already here,” Selkirk observed to Ilsevele. The Sembian studied the surroundings for a moment and allowed himself a small smile. The broad hillsides around the place offered little cover for a company of warriors to lurk unseen nearby, so it was a good spot for a parley. “Let us go on up and join him. I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
“I am sure he is anxious to meet you, Lord Selkirk,” Ilsevele assured him.
She tapped her heels to Swiftwind’s flanks, and the horse picked up her step and cantered easily up the old lane leading to the house. Selkirk followed a length behind her, his big coal-black charger streaked with dust from the long ride. Together they clattered into the old drive of the manor, while Fflar contented himself to follow close on their heels. Elves in dappled green and gray cloaks trotted out to take the riders’ reins and steady their mounts as they dismounted and stretched their legs.
“Ilsevele!” Seiveril Miritar appeared, standing on the steps of the old veranda. He wore a tunic of gray silk over a coat of bright mithral mail and carried his long-handled silver mace at his hip. He trotted down the stone stairs and caught his daughter in a strong hug. “Thank the Seldarine that you are safe. I worried about you every day.”