Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

As they ate, a tall, lordly star elf dressed in elegant robes appeared at the hall’s door. Araevin sensed a deep and studious mastery of the Art in the elflord, a strength of spirit that reminded him of the might of Evermeet’s own high mages. He had eyes of pure jet, with not a hint of iris, and his elegant features seemed to be graven with the weight of long care. His long white hair was bound by a platinum circlet at the brow, and hung loose to his collarbone and the nape of his neck.

“Jaressyr told me you’d returned, Nesterin,” he said, his voice inflectionless. “I see that you have company.”

Nesterin stood and bowed. “Lord Tessaernil,” he said. “May I present Araevin Teshurr and Ilsevele Miritar of Evermeet, Maresa Rost of Waterdeep, Donnor Kerth of the church of Lathander, and Jorin Kell Harthan of the Yuir? My friends, this is Lord Tessaernil Deirr, my mother’s elder brother and the master of this House.”

The star elf lord nodded gravely to them. “I have heard that you aided Nesterin in a desperate hour. You have my thanks for that. I want to hear what brings you to our land, but first-I did not expect you back so soon, Nesterin. Is everything well at Aerilpe?”

The younger elf frowned, and shook his head. “No, my lord, I fear that it is not.” He quickly recounted the tale he had told Araevin and his friends, and went on to tell how he had encountered the company in the old stone ring at the edge of the hills as he fled from the nilshai. “These travelers may very well have saved my life,” he finished. “The nilshai pursuing me were more than I would have cared to face alone, and they were close to overtaking me when Araevin and his friends intervened.”

“We would have done the same for anyone in your circumstances,” Donnor Kerth said gruffly. “How could we have stood by and done nothing?”

Jorin looked to the two star elves and spoke. “My lords, I hope you will forgive my curiosity,” he said. “I visited Sildeyuir once, many years ago. I do not recall meeting such dangerous and fell creatures abroad in your realm. Have these monsters always been here?”

“They have been getting much worse of late,” Tessaernil admitted. His habitual frown deepened until his face seemed almost empty of hope. “There are portions of the realm that have been drawn almost completely into their influence. We are not a warlike people, but it is clear that we face a threat that we cannot hide from any longer. If the nilshai have learned how to assault our Towers, we face a dark and desperate battle indeed.” He sighed, and turned to face Araevin. “Now, sir, you have already seen and heard more of this realm than I would like. I must ask: What brings you to Sildeyuir? Who are you, and what do you want here?”

“I am in search of knowledge that has been lost in the world outside your realm,” Araevin said. “I hope that it still exists here, though.”

“Knowledge?” Tessaernil folded his arms. “What sort of knowledge?”

“Thousands of years ago, a star elf mage named Morthil lived among the elves of Arcorar,” Araevin answered. “He helped the grand mage of that realm to defeat an ancient evil. I have reason to believe that Morthil returned to his homeland with magical lore that he removed from the enemies of Arcorar. I need to find out if anything of what Morthil removed from Arcorar still survives.”

“There must be some reason you have come all the way to Sildeyuir in search of this old lore,” Tessaernil observed. “What do you need with it?”

“I need it to defeat the enemies that Morthil once fought,” Araevin said. “They are called the daemonfey, and they are an abominable House of sun elves who consorted with demons long ago.”

He decided that Tessaernil was not an elf to be trifled with, and chose to tell him the story of events since Dlardrageth’s return as completely and openly as he could.

When the tale was told, Nesterin and Tessaernil stood in silence for a long moment. The older lord finally moved to a seat at the head of the table and sat down heavily, his gaze troubled and distant.

“First Nesterin’s tale, and now this,” he murmured. “It has been a long time since I heard two such stories in the same day. We keep abreast of doings in Aglarond and the Yuirwood, but news of the wars and perils of the distant corners of Faerun rarely find its way to our realm.”

Araevin paused, steeling his nerve to ask the question. “I perceive that you are skilled with the Art, Lord Tessaernil. Do you know of magical lore brought out of Arcorar to Sildeyuir? Have you heard the name of Morthil before?”

Tessaernil looked up at Araevin, his dark eyes unreadable. “I know that name,” he said. “And I think I know where you might recover at least a remnant of Morthil’s ancient lore. But you will find that it is a dark and difficult journey, son of Evermeet. Morthil’s old tower lies in the farthest reach of our realm, in the borderlands where things have been slipping away into strangeness for many years now. Even if the place has not vanished entirely, I do not see how you can get there without passing into the domain of the nilshai. Few indeed return from that journey.”

23 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

For two full days, Seiveril waited for the Zhentarim army to attack Shadowdale-town and the Twisted Tower. Forty-five hundred elf warriors of the Crusade held the woodlands and fields a couple of miles north of the town, standing alongside more than a thousand humans gathered from all corners of Shadowdale, a strong company from Deepingdale, and even a few dozen veterans from nearby Daggerdale. But having lost the foot race to crush the Dalesfolk before the elves of Evermeet arrived in Shadowdale, the Zhentilar settled for a very deliberate and cautious approach. Instead of pressing forward to the attack, they advanced at a snail’s pace. By night the Black Network had fortified their camp with great earthworks and palisades.

On the evening of the third day, Starbrow found Seiveril standing among the pickets at the northern end of the elven camp, gazing out across the fields toward the distant campfires of the Zhentarim camp. The moon elf joined him in studying the enemy entrenchments for a time.

“You understand what the Zhents are trying to do?” Starbrow asked.

“I didn’t until this morning, when I saw that they were not marching today,” Seiveril replied. “But I see it clearly enough now. They are going to make us come to them if we want to force a battle. And I have to do it, because the longer I sit here waiting on the Zhents, the more likely it is that the Sembians and Hillsfarians will overwhelm Mistledale or march against our rear.” Seiveril ran a hand through his fine silver-red hair, and sighed. “I should have anticipated this response. Clearly our best strategy is to defeat our enemies in detail, and that means I must fall on the Zhents while their allies are still far behind us. The burden of action is on me.”

Starbrow nodded. “You’re learning. So when do we fight?”

“It has to be soon,” Seiveril admitted. “Tomorrow is as good a day as any. What do you think?”

“Tonight, an hour after moonset,” Starbrow said. “We’d have three hours until sunup. We see in the dark better than the humans, and we need less rest. It’s the best time for elves to fight humans, and our Crusade makes up better than three-quarters of the fighting strength we have gathered in Shadowdale.”

“A good part of their army consists of orcs, gnolls, and ogres. The darkness won’t bother them.”

“True. But if the Zhentilar break, the humanoid mercenaries in their camp might follow. It’s the best we can do. We could wait another day and plan a more deliberate attack for the day after tomorrow, but why give Sarya and her human pawns another day to close the noose around our necks?”