Hundreds of campfires flickered faintly along the wooded hillsides on each side of the dusty cart-track the humans called Rauthauvyr’s Road. The Sembian army had chosen to pass the hours of darkness three miles south of Essembra, the only town of any size at all in the broad land of Battledale. Most of the townsfolk had fled south to Tasseldale several tendays ago, unwilling to become Sarya Dlardrageth’s subjects. For her own part, the daemonfey queen could not have cared less what the folk of Battledale thought of her dominion. They were simply irrelevant to her calculations.
On the other hand, the army of Sembia was not. She ground her teeth, galled at the thought that she had to account for the interference of a human realm in her affairs. But that was the simple truth of the diminished age in which she now found herself, wasn’t it? She had humbled Hillsfar and enticed Zhentil Keep away from the board, but despite her best efforts, Sembia was still a force to reckon with.
“How strong are they?” Sarya asked her warmaster. Mardeiym Reithel stood nearby in the darkness, along with half a dozen more of her fey’ri captains and lords. The daemonfey watched the humans from a circle of standing stones half a mile from the Sembian camp.
“A little more than seven thousand, my lady,” Mardeiym said quietly.
Sarya scowled and returned her attention to the foe that worried her far more than any army of human sellswords-the army of Seiveril Miritar. In the forests a short distance from the human camp gleamed the soft light of scores upon scores of elven lanterns. The two armies marched only a mile or two apart, ready to come to each other’s support should one come under attack.
“What of Miritar’s army?” Sarya asked.
“Four thousand elves, including many elite warriors and champions. Another fifteen hundred Dalesfolk march under Miritar’s banner. We do not know much about the Dalesfolk, though.”
“The palebloods are weak, and the humans are mercenary rabble,” muttered Xhalph. “We could break the Sembians in short order, I’d wager.”
“I am not so sure, Lord Xhalph,” the warmaster said carefully. “While it is true that you shattered a number of the Sembian mercenaries when you struck them near the Standing Stone, I think that many of these fellows are sellswords of a better quality. They are certainly better led now under Selkirk. The Sembians may prove more tenacious than you think.”
“In other words, all the mercenaries who were going to flee have fled already?” Sarya did not attempt to conceal the acid in her voice.
Mardeiym did not respond. The warmaster had learned to tread lightly around the daemonfey queen and her son over the last few days, as had most of the other fey’ri. If he wondered why Sarya fumed with black fury or why Xhalph’s habitual bloodlust had grown into a storm of murderous violence that exploded at the least provocation, he was clever enough not to say so. If Sarya believed that Mardeiym or any other fey’ri had the least suspicion that she had been forced to kneel to Malkizid, she would have killed him in an instant. She would have torn him to pieces with her own naked talons.
I will not be your thrall for long, Sarya silently promised the archdevil. If Malkizid thought the Dlardrageths would take him for their lord and master, then he was a fool. Sarya intended to dispense with Malkizid’s help as soon as she could… but she would have to defeat the armies of Evermeet and Sembia first, and for that she needed the archdevil’s help for a little bit longer, as much as it galled her to admit it.
When I have crushed my enemies, we will see who is the master and who is the slave, Sarya told herself for the hundredth time. I will carve out Malkizid’s heart for his arrogance and his presumption!
But first she had to defeat the enemies at her doorstep.
“We could strike them tonight with our assembled fey’ri and demons,” Jasrya Aelorothi mused aloud. “In but a short time we could bring five hundred fey’ri and half again that number of demons, yugoloths, and devils to this place.”
“We have taught our enemies to be wary of sudden attacks,” Mardeiym answered her. “They have been careful to fortify their encampment at the end of each day’s march. I advise against attacking either encampment with anything less than our whole strength.”
“Are we to simply allow them to march on Myth Drannor, then?” Jasrya snarled at Mardeiym.
“For two more days, that is exactly what we will do,” Sarya said. She turned away from the distant points of firelight and lanternlight to her assembled captains. They fell silent, sensing that she had arrived at her decision. “We will harass them, of course. Our demons will harry their march-kill stragglers, waylay scouts, and teach them to fear being out of sight of their banner. But we will not try their camp again, not yet, anyway.”
“Where do you intend to give battle, then, Mother?” Xhalph asked.
Sarya leaped across the menhir circle with one easy snap of her wings, and pointed out over the forests to the north. “There,” she breathed. “The Vale of Lost Voices. We will meet Miritar and his human allies in the Vale of Lost Voices.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
16 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
The Crusade marched through the lush forest, a river of diamond and sunlight in the warm green shadows. Seiveril rode at their head, caparisoned for battle. He did not expect to meet the daemonfey yet-after all, Myth Drannor was still sixty miles ahead of him-but a sudden demonic ambush was more than likely, now that he had led his warriors out of the ancient wards of Semberholme.
Seiveril guided his mount to one side of the hidden elven road along which his warriors marched, and paused to watch his warriors pass. His guards formed a wary ring around him, watching for any sign of daemonfey attack.
“The Sembians are keeping up?” he asked Edraele Muirreste.
“We could march to Myth Drannor and back twice in the time it would take them to get there,” the young captain said. She failed to suppress a restless flick of her head. Edraele was simply not made for standing still. “I suppose they’re still moving north, if that’s what you mean. Rauthauvyr’s Road is about two miles east of us here, but we’re still in touch with the overmaster’s banner.”
“Good,” Seiveril said. Should Sarya Dlardrageth attack the Sembians, Seiveril could join them quickly… and if the daemonfey struck at him, he intended to fall back toward the Sembians and bring both allied armies into the battle in that fashion.
For three days they’d marched north through the forest, paralleling the Sembian march along the road. A contingent of elven captains and spellcasters marched with Selkirk, while a whole company of Sembian officers and Silver Ravens remained close by Seiveril’s banner. The hope was that the exchange of trusted captains would make it easier for the leaders of the armies to coordinate their efforts when battle came. Seiveril did not know if the arrangement would work out, but any measure that reinforced cooperation over rivalry would go that much farther toward keeping their swords pointed at the daemonfey instead of each other, and that was no small thing. On the other hand, he had spent almost no time in Ilsevele’s company since the two armies started on their way north, simply because she was the elf the Sembian leaders knew the best.
He turned his attention to the warriors passing him by. Several strong companies of wood elf scouts were already well in front of the vanguard, and a mile or more ahead of him. First came the Vale Guards of Evereska, grim and purposeful, shining silver in their mail hauberks. The Evereskans noticed Seiveril watching, and hailed him. “Miritar! Miritar!” they called, raising their arms in salute.