“Ferryl,” Fflar said. A skilled warrior, but also a compassionate one, wise beyond his years… Fflar would miss his wry smile and quick humor. He knelt and composed Ferryl’s features as best he could, arranging his arms over his breast. So many of the Moon Knights slain? he thought dully. Thirty knights of Evermeet, overwhelmed in the middle of battle. Fflar sighed, wondering how many more such tales the day held for the Crusade.
“At least they did not fall alone, Starbrow,” the archer said. “There must be a dozen dead mezzoloths here.”
“Ferryl was slain by no mezzoloth,” Fflar said grimly. He looked around, taking in the wreckage of the Moon Knights. They had been among the Crusade’s finest, but it was clear they had met an enemy beyond their skill. He had seen such things during the Weeping War, when some mighty fiend or another had taken the field against the army of Myth Drannor. “A lord of the Nine Hells, I think. Sarya Dlardrageth has emptied the lower planes against us.”
“How can we defeat foes of such power, Starbrow?” the spellarcher asked him.
“We will find a way, I promise you.”
They searched among the last of the Moon Knights in case any of the knights still lived, but to no avail. With his heart as dull and cold as lead, Fflar quietly gathered his small band and led them the last couple of hundred yards to the twin banners. He expected some new enemy to lunge at them out of the smoke at any moment, but to his surprise they reached the battered ranks of the main body without any more fighting.
The Evereskan Vale Guards and Silver Ravens of Sembia still ringed Seiveril’s banner, along with the Silver Guard of Elion-Seiveril had summoned the reserves into the battle long ago. Fflar parted from the spellarchers and made his way to the banner.
Seiveril and Ilsevele stood there. Both seemed tired but otherwise unhurt. Fflar gave a sigh of relief that he didn’t even realize that he had been holding, and moved up to clasp Seiveril’s arm.
“I’m back,” he said simply. “The left is holding, but the Dalesfolk have had a hard time of it. I don’t think they can do much more than stand their ground for now.”
“Starbrow!” Ilsevele looked up to him, and reached up to kiss him softly, holding him as tightly as she could in their armor. “I was beginning to fear that something had happened to you. You were gone for an age!”
“The fortunes of battle,” he told her. “How has it been here?”
“We have been standing around the sapling,” Seiveril answered. “The daemonfey and their fiends tried to break us five times this afternoon, but we fought them back each time.” The elflord looked exhausted, but a fierce light still glowed in his eyes. “I expect they’ll try again soon. On the right, several of the Sembian companies broke early in the day, but Lord Selkirk rallied the rest. They’re standing for now, too. But the wood elves tell me that warbands of drow are gathering in the forest nearby. I think they’re waiting for darkness to join the daemonfey assault.”
“Drow, too?” Fflar grimaced. He should have expected that after the attempt on Ilsevele’s life in Tegal’s Mark. Clearly, Sarya had reached some accommodation with the drow clans lurking in the Elven Court. Just when it seemed that the battle might be in hand, Sarya came up with another arrow to shoot… which reminded him of something else that Seiveril needed to know. “Seiveril, I have some more bad news. Ferryl Nimersyl has fallen, along with many of the Moon Knights. I came across them just a few minutes ago. I think a new foe has taken the field against us-a lord of fiends, perhaps.”
“Do you think the one Araevin spoke of is here?” Ilsevele asked.
“So Sarya’s mysterious ally has finally shown himself,” Seiveril said. He glanced up at his smoke-blackened banner, hanging limply overhead. “Perhaps that explains why we are fighting demons and devils at the same time, when they are the fiercest of enemies. Some prince of the nether planes commands the creatures to serve together.”
“Is there some way to turn them against each other?” Ilsevele mused. “If we can slay or banish the leader, will the devils abandon Sarya’s cause?”
“That won’t be easy.” Fflar looked out over the smoldering fires of the vale and set a hand on the hilt of Keryvian. He’d challenged an infernal lord once before, hadn’t he? Of course, he did not know if the Army of Darkness had disintegrated after he had pierced Aulmpiter’s heart with Demron’s last baneblade. Myth Drannor had been destroyed anyway. But this was a different time and a different enemy. Maybe there would be a different outcome.
“Lord Seiveril!” Jorildyn called. The grim battle-mage had his left arm in a bloodstained sling but still carried his tall staff in his right. “The daemonfey are gathering to our front!”
The elflord glanced at Fflar and Ilsevele, then drew a deep breath. “So it begins again,” he said softly. “Let us hope that the Seldarine smile on us for a sixth time today.”
A little more than one hundred miles north of the battle in the Vale of Lost Voices, the army of Zhentil Keep was encamped around the walls of Hillsfar. Near the cold waters of the Moonsea, the rain had been steady all day, leaving the roads outside the barred gates rivers of ankle-deep mud. It was not enough to hinder the movements of armies-it was not the spring melting, after all-but it was certainly sufficient to make the common footsoldiers miserable and preclude any attempts to fire the city for at least a short time.
Careless of the cold water streaming through her armor, Scyllua Darkhope stood by the edge of the growing camp and studied the city’s formidable walls. It would not be easy to storm Hillsfar. Death did not frighten her, and the casualties of any assault were simply of no concern, but she could not ignore the fact that zeal alone could not guarantee a successful attack. She did not like to admit that even in the silence of her own thoughts, but it was evident that the city’s fortifications were a significant obstacle. The Black Lord admired valor and rewarded devotion, but he demanded obedience. If she were ordered to take the city, she would have to take the city. Failure was not an option. Given the choice between valor and success, she must choose success. That was the lesson she had learned in the aftermath of her failure in Shadowdale earlier in the summer.
Even though the first lord’s tower was in ruins and the Red Plumes soundly beaten, the walls of Hillsfar were reasonably intact and held by better than a thousand of the city’s warriors-plus two or three times that number of poorly armed and ill-trained militia, who hardly counted. The ramparts towered almost sixty feet in height, and ringed the city’s hilltop so that any assault must first struggle up the hillside just to reach the foot of the wall. The gates were protected by strong gatehouses with flanking towers, and the Hillsfarians had been careful to keep their city’s immediate surroundings clear of anything that might offer cover. No, Hillsfar was best taken through siegecraft, treachery, or magic.
Or terror, Scyllua decided. Her pale nightmare could carry her over those walls. It might be instructive to the defenders of the city if she led a raid of sky mages and blades against Hillsfar in the dark of the night.
“High Captain?” Marshal Kulwarth trotted up to her elbow, ignoring the mud splashing around his feet. “The Hillsfarians have sent out an embassy. Lord Fzoul intends to receive them at the Golden Manticore. He requests your presence.”
“Very well. Take charge of the field fortifications. We have already lost one battle this summer through insufficient entrenchment. It will not happen again.”
Kulwarth struck his fist to his chest and strode off, barking orders at the soldiers who toiled in the rain. Scyllua turned her back on the forbidding walls and strode purposefully back toward the main road leading westward along the Moonsea’s shores. While no buildings stood within bowshot of the city walls, a few scattered outbuildings, farmhouses, and workshops hugged the roads leading away from the gates. The old inn house known as the Golden Manticore served as the Zhents’ command post.