Forsaken House (41 page)

The orb dissipated in his hand, its task complete. Araevin looked up at the hallway it had followed. His companions were not far off, but he decided to wait a few minutes and see what else he might learn from his spying spell.

One by one his orbs returned, and he examined the findings of each. By the time he was finished, Araevin had a good sense of the layout of the place. The rift led up to a ruined city above, and from it, like the spokes of a buried wheel, radiated passages and halls. Forges, armories, storerooms, barracks the place was a small fortress, hidden beneath the forgotten ruins above. He glimpsed a dozen or so fey’ri in various places, plus a handful of demons and yugoloths, most of whom seemed to be assigned to guard duties. Otherwise, the stronghold was almost vacant, and the majority of its halls and corridors were empty and silent. Sarya’s army was not at home.

The final orb to report held a surprise he had not expected: Below him, near the bottom of the shaft, he glimpsed a large boulder of pale pinkish stone, half-covered with green moss.

The mythal stone! he realized.

Araevin filed away the glimpses shown by his orbs, and set out down the hallway leading to the daemonfey dungeon.

“For Evermeet!” Seiveril cried.

With Fflar at his side and the Knights of the Golden Star at his back, he hurled himself headlong into the foul tide of demons who sought to encircle the crusade. There was nothing to gain by avoiding the fighting anymore. No orders he might give could possibly affect the outcome, as the battle of maneuver was clearly done with. All that remained was to slay or be slain.

The Golden Star raised a high, clear war cry that echoed across the twilit moorlands. Chancing falls and broken legs, they spurred their elven coursers toward the wave of demons, who gladly leaped forward to meet them. Hellborn fangs, claws, and sorcery met elven steel magic in a tremendous collision that shook the battlefield.

Seiveril’s war-horse reared and plunged, beset on both flanks by the hulking, chitinous forms of mezzoloths. One jabbed its iron trident at Seiveril while the other lunged low, seeking to gut his horse. But the elflord managed to wrench his mount’s reins aside and dance the horse away from the second fiend while parrying the strike of the first with his holy mace. He turned toward the first mezzoloth and rode close up on it, standing in his stirrups to smash down at its head and shoulders with all his strength. Chitin split and ichor flew, and the monster went down beneath the stamping silver-shod hooves of his mount.

Seiveril wheeled to parry the attack he expected from the second mezzoloth, but that one was gone, swept away by the tide of battle. In its place a grossly obese hezrou battled with its back to him, battering at one of Gaerth’s knights with its long, clawed arms. He rode three steps closer and slammed the spiked mace head between the toadlike demon’s shoulder blades. The thing howled abominably, but it did not die—demons were difficult to kill, at best. Instead it spun around and struck him a backhand blow with its ogrelike fist that knocked the elflord clean out of his saddle.

Seiveril grunted as he hit the ground, but there at least the moorland was a blessing—he landed on a tuft of stiff grass that helped to break his fall. The elflord glanced up just in time to find demons scrabbling toward him from all sides, fangs dripping with venom, eyes aglow with the power of the hells.

From his knees he spoke a single word of power, a holy word of Corellon Larethian so mighty that no evil creature could endure its utterance. Several of the demons nearby disappeared with wails of agony, instantly banished back to their infernal domain by the power of the word. Others reeled away stunned, black blood trickling from their ears, smoke rising from their foul bodies.

“That’s better,” Seiveril managed, and found his feet again.

All around him the battle between the Golden Star knights and the demonic allies of the daemonfey raged without respite. The collision of armies had devolved into hundreds of individual encounters. Fortified by their magic, the elf knights were giving as good as they got. Blasts of argent light and bursts of holy wrath tore through the demonic ranks, while hastily raised spell shields parried or deflected many of the demon’s own unholy blights and scourges of hellfire. But elves were falling on all sides, dragged down into blood and death by their infernal foes, and powerful sorcerers in the daemonfey ranks strove to pull down or pierce the elven spell shields. Horses screaming in mortal agony, the awful din of metal on metal, angry war cries, and roars of bestial wrath threatened to drive all thought from him.

“By the Seldarine, what a disaster,” he breathed. “Seiveril! Are you hurt?” Fflar called as he rode into

the small circle Seiveril’s holy word had cleared. Keryvian agleam like a bolt of pure sunlight in his

hand, Fflar struck left and right as he approached,

cleaving demon flesh and searing yugoloths with the sword’s terrible power.

“I’m well enough,” Seiveril answered, even though he was surprised to find that something had torn deep furrows in the mailed skirt guarding his hips. He limped over to his war-horse and awkwardly swung himself back up into the saddle, while Fflar stood guard. “We have to reform, regroup! This is not the battle we meant to fight!”

Fflar shook his head and replied, “There’s no place to go. We’re hemmed in on all sides. We have to stand our ground, or press forward and cut our way out. There is no retreating now!”

“But we are being slaughtered!”

“Yes, but so are the daemonfey. We will simply have to slaughter a little better than they do tonight, my friend,” Fflar said. He wheeled his horse, and pointed with his sword. “Look there!”

Seiveril followed his captain’s sword point. Amid a foul phalanx of demons hovered a great brazen disk or platform, its sides armored and scribed with ancient Elvish writings. From its deck he glimpsed fey’ri hurling spell after spell into the melee.

“I see it,” he answered.

“Our scouts reported seeing it at the Battle of the Cwm. The daemonfey general is there!”

“Guard me,” Seiveril replied.

He began to cast a powerful summoning. His voice rose and fell in the ancient holy words of the invocation. He noticed that Fflar turned to drive off another trio of demons prowling closer, but he paid it no mind, focusing on completing his spell. He called out the last words and held Corellon Larethian’s symbol high-and the ground shook again, fountaining water and mud. Before Seiveril rose up a titanic mound of animated earth and rock, an elemental the size of a small tower.

“Destroy the battle-platform!” he cried to his summoned elemental.

The colossal creature turned ponderously and marched

toward the enemy spellcasters, simply burying lesser demons and fiends who could not get out of its way. A whole barrage of magic abruptly shifted to the elemental. Seiveril watched its progress, but then Fflar grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed his head down, just as a thrown spear sailed over him. The battle was returning, and quickly.

“We need a plan!” Seiveril growled, turning to face the newest threat.

“I advise, fight hard and don’t get killed,” Fflar answered.

The moon elf warrior raised a war cry and charged at the enemy ranks. Seiveril hesitated, then followed the champion of Myth Drannor into the fray again.

Padding quietly through the chill stone corridors of the daemonfey stronghold, Araevin followed the path traced by his orb, still cloaked in his invisibility spell. It seemed that he need not have bothered, since he met no enemies as he passed through the empty hallways. Sarya’s war against Evereska and the High Forest had emptied the place, or close to it.

Araevin climbed the long, winding steps leading up to the level of the prison, and turned to the right as he had previously seen. Ahead he saw a dim glimmer of lamplight, and heard the low sound of voices in conversation. He slowed his steps even further and crept close to the guardroom’s entrance, staying near to the right-hand wall even though he was mantled in invisibility. There were spells that negated invisibility, after all, and the fey’ri were skillful enough as sorcerers to know such invocations. He reached the doorway and risked a quick glance inside.

Three fey’ri stood watch over the hallway with its cells.

There were two of them a few minutes ago, he thought. Is there a change of the watch coming?

He decided that it didn’t matter. He was too close to Ilsevele and Maresa to wait on events, not when he couldn’t be certain of avoiding discovery for long. Stepping around the corner, he quickly evoked a devastating blast of multicolored rays at the three fey’ri. Potent beams of brilliant yellow, sullen red, and vivid blue lashed out at the daemonfey even as they scrambled to their feet, warned by the arcane words Araevin used to unleash the spell. Magical power filled the air with a deafening crackle, and the bright rays destroyed the dark shadows of the room with a sudden burst of light as bright as the sun.

When Araevin’s sight cleared, one fey’ri stood petrified, transformed to stone by one of the prismatic rays. The second slowly picked himself up from the floor, his scaly flesh puckered and sizzling from the terrible acid of the orange ray. The third fey’ri was simply gone-disintegrated by multiple rays or blasted into some far plane, Araevin neither knew nor cared. His invisibility spell spoiled by his attack, he drew Nurthel’s iron short sword with one smooth motion and charged the remaining fey’ri.

The fellow bared his fangs in a sinister snarl and started a spell of his own, but Araevin closed on him before he could finish casting. He took three fingers off the fey’ri’s hand and spoiled the enemy’s spell.

“You will die for that, paleblood!” the demonspawn hissed.

He drew his own sword with his good hand-a short blade of sinister reddish iron—and parried two more of Araevin’s attacks before going on the offensive, snarling and spitting as he tried to bat the elf’s sword aside and get inside his guard. Their blades met two times, then three, and Araevin circled his point under the fey’ri’s blade and sank Nurthel’s sword just under the fellow’s ribs, where his breastplate met the mail of his shirt. The fey’ri staggered back two steps, then sank to the floor.

Araevin seized a set of keys hanging from a peg on one wall, and hurried into the dungeon. He found Ilsevele’s door first, and after fumbling with the keys, he threw open the cell.

“Ilsevele!”

Ilsevele stared up at him in amazement and said, “Araevin? But how-?”

“Explanations can wait,” he promised her. He knelt beside her and took her in his arms. “Are you well? Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head and replied, “I was not handled at all gently, but it could have been much worse. They said they were saving me for one of their lords, who was away fighting in the High Forest.” She shuddered. “What they told me about him … I think I would have taken my own life first.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Araevin said.

Beneath her bruised visage he could glimpse the marks despair and fear had left on her, but she rapidly rallied, her courage and hope rekindling like a blaze springing up from a tiny ember.

“Maresa is nearby,” she said, struggling to her feet. “We must free her, too.”

“I know. Here, take this in case we get into a fight.”

Araevin handed Ilsevele Nurthel’s short sword, then he moved to the cell where he had seen the genasi and quickly unlocked that one as well.

“Maresa?” he called.

The genasi looked up at him, her snow-white skin pale as moonlight in the shadows of the cell.

“Could you have made any more noise in the guardroom?” she snapped. “It sounded like a damned thunderstorm out there.”

Araevin asked, “Do you want me to go back and try to do it more quietly?”

“Too late for that now,” Maresa said. She climbed to her feet and brushed off her scarlet tunic. She met Araevin’s eyes, and the determination in her face softened just a bit. “Not that I’m ungrateful, of course. How in the world did you manage this? The last I saw you, you were enslaved by Sarya’s enchantments “

“I will tell you both the whole story later. Suffice it to say that I am no longer under her control.” Araevin looked

up and down the hall. “Here, Maresa, you take this wand. The command word is nemehl. It fires a bolt of disrupting power, so make sure you do not point it at anyone you are fond of.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Maresa.

She took the wand, baring her teeth in a predatory smile.

“Araevin, there’s another prisoner here, down at the end of the hall,” Ilsevele said. “I heard her sobbing yesterday. We must take her with us, if we can.”

Araevin and his companions quickly checked the other cells, finding them all empty except for one. A small sun elf woman, hardly more than a girl really, lay curled on the floor, so weary and heartbroken that she had actually passed from Reverie into actual sleep, something that elves did only when gravely ill or wounded. They unlocked the door and moved in to rouse the girl.

“Hello? Are you well enough to walk?” Ilsevele asked, kneeling by the elf lass.

The girl roused herself, and looked up at the three of them with astonishment. She was dressed in the sturdy pants and tunic of a traveler, and Araevin noticed that she wore the padded arming coat of a suit of heavy armor that had obviously been taken from her. She seemed a little on the slight side to be a warrior.

A cleric? he wondered.

“Who are you?” she managed.

“I am Ilsevele Miritar. Until a few moments ago, I was a captive like you. This is Maresa Rost, and this is Araevin Teshurr, our rescuer.”

“I am Filsaelene Merwyst. Can you really get me out of here?”

“We will try,” Ilsevele promised. “How long have you been here, Filsaelene? How did the daemonfey capture you?”

The girl sat up, her arms wrapped around her torso, and said, “About two months, I think. I was traveling with a company of adventurers, heading for the old ruins of Elvenport. The fey’ri ambushed us near the ruins of

Hellgate Keep. They … they killed my companions, but they told me that they spare sun elves.” She shivered, and added dully, “They said I would make good breeding stock.”