Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

At his order, the Crusade had held its position near Galath’s Roost and the Standing Stone for several days. Myth Drannor lay only forty miles to the north, not far beyond the Vale of Lost Voices, but as long as the auguries against marching onward were so dark and dire, Seiveril hesitated to advance, or to even share with his captains the reason he chose not to march.

One more day, he decided. If nothing changes, then I will have to confide in Vesilde and Starbrow, at the very least.

With a weary sigh, he bowed before the glimmer of early stars, then shrugged his chasuble from his shoulders and rolled it carefully, slipping it into his tunic.

“Corellon, if there is something I am supposed to be doing, I hope you will find a way to tell me,” he said to the dusk. Then he straightened his shoulders and strode back toward the place where his guards waited.

To his surprise, Seiveril found several of his guards hurrying up the path to meet him, led by Starbrow.

“Seiveril?” called the moon elf. “I apologize for disturbing your prayers, but Storm Silverhand has returned with news from Shadowdale. She wants to speak with you at once.”

“It is fine, my friend,” Seiveril answered. “I have just concluded my devotions for the evening anyway. Please, take me to her.” He fell in alongside Starbrow as they hurried back to the camp. “Did she say anything more?”

Starbrow nodded. “She told me that we’ve got a new enemy to deal with.”

Is that why you wanted me to wait here, Corellon? Seiveril wondered. To hear what Storm Silverhand has to tell me tonight?

There was no answer within his own heart, but Seiveril still felt comforted by the thought, even as he dreaded whatever dire new development had brought Storm back to his encampment with such urgency. Perhaps there is a design at work here after all, he thought. I was meant to be here at this hour, whatever trials await me, and all who followed me from Evermeet as well.

Starbrow led him back to the large pavilion that served Seiveril as both headquarters and personal quarters, and held the tent flaps aside as the elflord strode in. Two guests waited inside: Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale, dressed in gleaming mail and dark leather with her long, silver hair bound from her brow by a slender circlet, and a tall, stern-looking human lord of middle years with dark silver-streaked hair.

“Ah, there you are,” Storm said. She indicated her companion with a curt nod. “This is Mourngrym Amcathra, the Lord of Shadowdale.”

“I am honored to meet you, Lord Miritar,” said the Lord of Shadowdale. Mourngrym offered his hand to Seiveril, who remembered to take it in a firm clasp.

“And I, you, Lord Amcathra,” Seiveril answered. He glanced at Storm. For all her years, she hasn’t lost the human habit of haste, he noted. Still, if Storm Silverhand was in a hurry, that was good enough for him. “What it is, Lady Silverhand? What has happened?”

“We’ve got trouble,” Storm said. “Zhentilar are marching on Shadowdale. A strong army out of Zhentil Keep started moving south yesterday, making for Voonlar. The companies garrisoning Yulash have joined them, as well as mercenary bands of ogres and orcs from Thar.” Storm’s anger glittered in her eyes. “Better than five thousand soldiers are no more than five days from the Twisted Tower.”

“Aillesel Seldarie,” Seiveril breathed. His stomach ached with cold dread.

Behind him the Sembian army from the south was pressing up Rauthauvyr’s Road and had closed to within twenty miles of his camp, occupying Battledale in the process. Ahead of him, Red Plume soldiers from Hillsfar descended the Moonsea Ride, building their strength on the far side of the Vale of Lost Voices. And the Zhentarim were moving to close him on the west. Two armies he might hope to avoid through maneuver in the green fastness of Cormanthor, but three? Even his elves’ skill and swiftness in woodland marches would not suffice to avoid battle for long.

“Sarya Dlardrageth had a hand in this, I know it,” he murmured. “Why do they aid her? Don’t they understand that if they help the daemonfey to repel Evermeet’s army, she will destroy them in turn?”

“Maalthiir and Fzoul will turn on each other sooner or later, never you fear,” Storm promised. “It’s in their nature. But that doesn’t mean they won’t lay waste to half the Dales before they’re done.”

Starbrow looked to Mourngrym Amcathra and asked, “How much strength do you have in Shadowdale, Lord Amcathra? Can you halt the Zhents?”

“Three hundred men under arms, plus a thousand stout archers when I call out the militia. And I have no small amount of help from friends of the Dale such as Storm, here, or Those Who Harp.” Mourngrym sighed and shook his head. “But this is the strongest Zhentarim army we’ve seen since the Time of Troubles, and I don’t know if I can stop them.”

“It certainly doesn’t help that Sembia and Hillsfar have decided to move at the same time,” Storm added. “If only one threatened the Dales, the Dalesfolk would set aside many of their quarrels and band together against the threat. But Harrowdale won’t do anything with Maalthiir’s army on the march. The folk of Tasseldale, Battledale, and Featherdale might have mustered against the Sembians given a little help, but Mistledale is sorely pressed by the fiends out of Myth Drannor, and Archendale is content to let the rest of the southern Dales hang.” She shook her head. “I’d never realized the extent to which the great powers bordering the Dalelands kept each other in check, but with Cormyr so weak now, the old balance of power is gone. The Dales Compact is dead as the stone it’s carved on.”

Starbrow studied Seiveril, his strong arms folded across his chest. “Like it or not, Seiveril, we are going to have to bring these human armies to battle, or they will certainly bring us to battle at a time and place of their choosing. They simply aren’t giving us any choice. You can’t let them bring all three armies, along with whatever fiends and fey’ri Sarya Dlardrageth can muster, against us at the same time. That is a fight I do not think we can win.”

“I do not want to spend our strength fighting humans instead of Sarya Dlardrageth’s daemonfey,” the elflord answered. “And I do not want to fight humans at all unless we absolutely must. Bloodshed between elf and human will stain these lands for centuries.”

“Abandoning the smaller Dales to foreign occupation won’t win you many friends, either,” Storm pointed out.

“I know.”

Seiveril turned away, staring out into the lanternlit dusk that lay over the elven camp as he considered his path. He wanted nothing more than to take to the forest and simply march directly on Myth Drannor, leaving the Sembians behind him and circling the roadblock Hillsfar had thrown up ahead of him-but he could see at a glance that the Sembian army could turn west and fall on Mistledale behind him as soon as he marched, and he could not abandon Shadowdale to the Zhents. At least the Sembian army had simply marched through Tasseldale, Featherdale, and Battledale without devastating those lands. The Sembians were not so foolish as to provoke the southern Dalesfolk into full resistance against their army and its vulnerable lines of supply. But he had no such hopes for how the Zhentilar would treat Shadowdale, if Lord Amcathra’s warriors failed to stop them.

Storm is right, he realized. Refusing to help Dalesfolk defend their homes against tyrannical powers such as Hillsfar or Zhentil Keep is just as bad as refusing to help Dalesfolk standing against Sarya Dlardrageth and her hell-born marauders. This is the task I shouldered when I called for a Return to Cormanthor.

He sighed and turned back to the others.