Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

A shrill, terrible sound tore through the twilight, and the black earth around Seiveril erupted in a great blast. His horse was thrown sideways and fell, but Seiveril managed to hurl himself clear of the saddle before the animal rolled over him. Ears ringing, he found his feet and looked up.

Overhead a sinister, bat-winged shadow swooped down low over the battlefield. The monster’s long, blunt snout held a blind, gaping smile, and a long lashing tail twisted behind it. Between its humpbacked wings a black-clad human wizard sat in an ornate saddle, hurling down blasts of scorching fire as the huge monster winged over the fight. It opened its mouth again, and another shrill shriek flayed a pair of elf riders with an awful blast.

“What kind of abomination is that?” snapped Starbrow. He ducked away from a fiery bolt, and turned against another horseman nearby.

Seiveril didn’t have an answer for Starbrow, but he quickly intoned the words of a holy prayer to Corellon, invoking the divine power with which he was entrusted. Holy power seethed around his hand, and he hurled a blast of supernal light up at the monster. The brilliant white ray chewed into the flying monster’s flank, charring it, and the creature croaked in pain and awkwardly reeled away. But then a second flying monster appeared, also with a battle-mage riding between its wings. The wizard hurled a great blast of fire down at Seiveril.

Seiveril threw himself flat as the fireball burst over him and searing heat washed across his body. His cloak and surcoat smoking, he slowly picked himself up. All around him Zhentilar and elves alike had been scorched and scoured by the attack of the wizards on their flying beasts. With heavy, slow beats of their vast wings, the creatures circled for another pass, spurred on by their riders.

“Archers!” called Edraele Muirreste. “Get some arrows on those accursed wizards!”

The Silver Guards were outfitted for lance-work and sword play, but they were elves; every one of them carried a shortbow in a saddle holster, and knew how to use it. Many of the guards were still busy with the melee, but dozens quickly spurred clear of the fighting and drew their bows. As the flying monsters turned back toward the fray, elven bows began to thrum, and white arrows soared up into the crimson sky-at first a few, then a heavier and more accurate storm.

With another great croaking cry, the flying beasts turned away and flapped off, but not before their riders raised a long line of green fire across the trampled fields. Behind the leaping wall of magical fire, the Zhentilar horsemen quickly mustered, and retreated from the field, leaving dozens of dead and wounded behind.

Edraele rode up beside Seiveril, and took in his scorched clothing with a quick glance. “Lord Seiveril, shall we pursue?” she asked.

Seiveril watched the flapping beasts drawing away. “No, I think we’ve done enough for tonight. We’ll need to keep some Eagle Knights nearby from now on, just in case the Zhents have more of those flying wizards. And more archers among our troops would be a good idea.”

Starbrow also rode up, his eyes fixed on the departing wizards. “I am thoroughly tired of fighting flying creatures armed with magic,” he declared. “I had enough of that with Sarya’s daemonfey legion and their demons.”

“I agree,” Seiveril said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “At least this is a threat we know how to face-one more thing that Sarya Dlardrageth has taught us this year.” He looked around at the field of the skirmish, and frowned. Many of the Zhentilar had fallen, but so too had more than a few of the Silver Guards. “See to the army’s camp tonight, Starbrow. I will join you after I have done what I can for the wounded.”

Curnil leaned against the gray wheel of an old oxcart, exhausted beyond all endurance. The farmyard was littered with dead gnolls, but two of his Riders lay still on the ground. One band of bloodthirsty raiders would slay no more, but his squad was down to himself and Ingra. He looked over to Ingra, who sat holding a blood-soaked bandage to an arrow wound in her left arm.

“I hope to all the gods that things are better somewhere else,” he said. “We’re getting butchered out here.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ingra replied. “So what do we do now?”

“Damned if I know.” For half a tenday, Curnil and his Riders had battled across the forest north of Mistledale, fighting their way right up to the very eastern edge of Shadowdale. He’d meant to turn back for home an hour ago, but the smoke of burning homesteads had caught his eye. The fighting had been fierce, but they’d saved the folk of one freehold from a death too terrible to contemplate. “Ride for Ashabenford, I suppose. We’ve done all we can here.”

Ingra started to nod in agreement, but then she looked up sharply. “Riders coming,” she hissed.

Curnil straightened and looked over the side of the cart. At first he couldn’t see anything through the green cornstalks, but then he glimpsed sunlight glinting on spear points. A double column of mailed horsemen came trotting into sight, led by a tall, slender woman whose long white hair was gathered in a single braid that trailed down to her waist.

“Grimmar,” he told Ingra. He raised one arm to catch their attention, and stepped out into the open.

The cavalrymen turned toward Curnil and rode into the farmyard, taking stock of the dead gnolls and fallen Riders. Their captain studied the scene for a moment, and doffed her helm, shaking the sweat and dust from her face.

Curnil looked up, and blinked. “You’re Storm Silverhand!”

“So I’m told,” the woman replied. She dismounted with an easy motion, hung her helm on the saddle horn, and turned to size up Curnil. “Riders of Mistledale?”

“Yes-though there were more of us a few moments ago.”

“So I see,” Storm said with a sigh. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“We’ve been watching for Red Plumes or fiends from Myth Drannor passing north of Mistledale,” Curnil answered. He waved a hand at the dead gnolls. “We found their sign this morning, and followed them here. I… I didn’t know if any Grimmar were nearby to deal with these marauders, so I decided to take care of them.”

“I wish we’d been here a few minutes sooner,” Storm said. “I guess you couldn’t have known we were near. My thanks for what you and your companions did here, friend.”

“What else could we do?” Curnil sighed. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Silverhand-what are you doing out here? Aren’t the Zhentarim marching on Shadowdale?”

Storm gave him a sharp nod, and glanced off toward the west. “Yes. They’re not far off now. In fact, I should have turned back already, but I wanted to see for myself how things stood in the eastern part of the dale. I don’t like to leave such as these-” she toed a dead gnoll-“free to pillage and plunder in the east just because our eyes are fixed on the Zhentilar coming down from the north.”

“Will you be able to stop the Zhents, Lady Silverhand?” Ingra asked.

“We’re facing a hard fight tomorrow or the day after, but we’ve beat them before,” Storm said. Cold steel danced in her eyes as she gazed off toward the smoke-stained skies to the north. Then a weary smile crept back across Storm’s face. She held out her hand, and took Curnil’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Well, Riders of Mistledale, you might as well come back to Shadowdale with us. We’ll have work for you soon enough.”

21 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Jorin Kell Harthan led Araevin and his friends along the forest road for a day and a half more, leaving the circle of standing stones thirty miles behind them. It was hard to gauge the passage of time in Sildeyuir; the subtle darkening and lightening of the sky was no substitute for a true sunrise or sunset, and the hours simply had a way of slipping away. Araevin would find his mind turning to some thought or another as they traveled, only to come to himself with a start only to realize that miles had passed by under his feet while his mind was occupied. He began to wonder whether the great magic that had created this world beyond the world had also altered the flow of time in the place-but of course, he could not really test that without returning to the Yuirwood and Aglarond to find out how long he had been away.