Richard Baker: Forsaken House

"They're teleporting away!" cried several of the elf defenders.

The last of the infernal attackers stepped back into the hoop. Araevin broke from his cover and hurled a blazing sphere of lightning into their midst, while Ilsevele followed, her bow thrumming like a deadly harp as she sent arrow after arrow into the band. Two skeletal demons with swords of blazing bone crumpled under her deadly rain, but one of the winged sorcerers smothered Araevin's lightning orb with a quick countering spell of its own. The demon had a shirt of fine golden scale mail, and wore its long black hair in thick braids laced with gold wire. A jeweled eye patch covered one eye. The creature fixed its good eye on Araevin and grinned maliciously.

"You'll have to do better than that," it rasped.

"As you wish!" Araevin growled. He gestured and snapped out the words of the deadliest spell he could manage, hurling a scything blast of rainbow-colored doom at the invaders. Each glittering ray carried its own deadly energy, and the great hall crackled with the power of Araevin's attack. But the demons within the iron ring were already fading into nothingness, vanishing away from the great hall. Araevin's prismatic blast scoured the space where they had stood only a moment before.

Araevin swore and started forward to see if he could decipher the workings of the teleporting ring, but at that instant an enormous blast of green fire exploded out from the device. Agonizing heat seared Araevin as he hurled himself to the ground, and all around him he heard the screams and cries of those other elves who were too close.

The chamber fell silent, save for the low crackle of guttering fires and the pelting of the rain, falling through a gap blasted in the great hall's dome. The emerald blast had seemingly contained a spell that carried away the bodies of the winged sorcerers that had fallen, since none of the creatures remained in the great hall. The iron hoop on the floor was nothing but a twisted band of scorched metal, its magic gone. Araevin slowly picked himself up, wincing with pain.

I should have prepared a spell against fire, he thought. But then, how could I have known that I would become embroiled in a spell battle such as this?

He turned and looked for Ilsevele, and found her slowly standing up from behind a heavy column that had shielded her from the worst of the blast.

"Ilsevele-?"

"I'm fine," she said. She stared at the hall, her face grim. "Sehanine, have mercy. So many have fallen here. Nothing to do now but see if we can do anything for the wounded."

Araevin nodded, but first he paced over the remains of the iron circle. He picked up a single twisted piece of metal in his fist.

Where are the high mages? he wondered silently. Have they fallen as well?

Then, with a sigh, he let the debris clatter to the floor, and turned to help with the injured.

15 Alturiak, the Year of Lightning Storms

As the dim sunrise glimmered in the tower's window slits, Araevin gathered with the surviving mages of Reilloch Domayr in the conservatory. The great hall was in no condition to host a meeting of the circle. He left Ilsevele to lead the Tower guards in scouring the grounds for any enemies who might have been left behind by their comrades' escape.

The conservatory was a large, high-ceilinged hall that occupied the entire upper floor of the gatehouse. It was floored with gleaming old oak, and its paneled walls were finished with dark cherry carved in sylvan scenes. The place was used as a recital hall by the bards and music students who drifted through Tower Reilloch. Araevin had attended many recitals there, but had little gift for music himself. He found five mages waiting for him there.

"Welcome, Araevin," said the Loremaster Quastarte. He was a sun elf of great age, his eyes dark with wisdom in his young-old face, his hair so thin and white it seemed like a nimbus flowing down his shoulders. "We are all here, then."

"We are all that remains?" Araevin asked, astonished.

He glanced around the room, unable to keep himself from looking to see if he had perhaps missed one of his colleagues. Beside Araevin, there had been eight others who held the rank of mage. But only five of Araevin's colleagues were there: Quastarte, the wood elf sorcerer known as Eaglewind, the diviner Yesvellde Shaerim, the half-elf battle-mage Jorildyn, and the young abjurer Faelindel.

"I know that Earelde fell," Araevin continued, "but where are Olleile and Starsong?"

"Both slain in their Reverie. The invaders broke into their chambers before the alarm was raised," Quastarte said.

"Aillesel seldaritf, Araevin said softly. "The Seldarine preserve us. There is no end to the sorrow of this day." He bowed his head, hesitating before asking his next question. "The high mages?"

"We have not found Philaerin yet," said Quastarte, "but the fact that he was not seen in the battle and has not appeared since leads me to fear the worst. He was not in his chambers."

The others nodded in agreement. If Philaerin lived, he would have defended the Tower.

"Kileontheal lives, but she is grievously wounded," Yesvelde said. Yesvelde was a moon elf, with long dark hair and a distant, ethereal manner to her. She carried a sleek cat in her arms, her familiar Versei. Araevin felt thea quick gray shadow of Whyllwyst flicker across his heart, but made himself focus on Yesvelde's words. "She was struck senseless by a spell of insanity during the fight outside the great hall, a few minutes after issuing her call to the circle. She fled the battle, hurling spells at imaginary foes in the tower halls until she exhausted her power." The illusionist sighed. "I had no means to undo the enchantment afflicting her, so I directed the guards to confine her in her quarters and keep her under constant care until we can find a healer for her."

"Aeramma Durothil is dead," said Eaglewind. He was a grave and quiet fellow for a wood elf, more at home in the solitude of the forest than in the company of his peers. Araevin sometimes suspected that he was a sylvan creature of some sort who simply wore the shape of a wood elf for the convenience of the others, but he had never pressed the question. "I found him in the astrolabe an hour after the raiders fled. It looked like he destroyed a number of those who came against him. I found shadows shaped like demons blasted into the walls there."

"So one high mage is dead, one missing, and one incapacitated," Araevin sighed. "And three of us are dead, as well. What of the initiates and the other folk of the Tower?"

The initiates were the lesser wizards and sorcerers, those who were still new in their studies and not yet accounted members of the Circle. There had been fourteen of them.

Jorildyn, a seasoned battle-mage, stepped forward. He had human blood-something that was quite unusual on Evermeet, and regarded with great suspicion in some quarters-and was thickly built compared to the others, with a gray-streaked beard and a gruff manner.

"Four initiates are dead," the half-elf reported. "We also lost nine of the Tower Guards and several more of the Tower folk. About twenty are wounded, but all should recover with care." His face was grim. "We must see to our defenses at once, and make sure this cannot happen again."

"We will need a high mage for that, and none are available," Araevin observed. "We must suffice, then. Quastarte, you are the eldest among us. I will be content to follow your orders."

"You are a more skillful wizard than I, Araevin. I would not presume to command you. Or any of you, for that matter. I can only suggest what seems wise to me."

"Then let us hear what seems wise to you, Loremas-ter," Jorildyn said, "and we will take your suggestions as commands."

Quastarte fell silent, thinking for a moment, then said, "Very well, then. First, someone must carry word of the attack to the Queen in Leuthilspar, the sooner the better. Does anyone have a spell of teleporting prepared?"