“For Mistledale!” Curnil cried, and he heard his fellow Riders take up the call.
He slipped inside the glaive’s point and launched a furious assault of his own, slashing and stabbing with his swords as the devil snapped at him with its fangs. The other Riders crashed into the doorway with him, and for a few moments the whole fight came down to a savage press right in the farmhouse’s door, blades flashing, fangs sinking into flesh, hisses of anger, and sudden grunts or cries of pain.
Curnil roared in anger as the devil he battled sank its teeth into his forearm, snarling and worrying at him like a great fierce hound, but he managed to slip his right hand free and stabbed his enchanted blade into the monster’s torso over and over again, until the devil finally slipped and went down in the doorway. He stumbled to the floor, saw Rethold killed by a glaive-thrust that burst the weapon’s point half a foot out of the archer’s back, and from all fours awkwardly parried the attack of yet another devil leaping through the press.
His new opponent hissed in savage glee and drew back its weapon for a killing thrust, even as Curnil tried to gain his feet-and a silver-white arrow sprouted from the devil’s neck. Curnil took advantage of the devil’s distraction to gain his feet again and gut the creature with a wicked low slash under its guard. More silver arrows struck all around him, a deadly sleet of archery that took the devils in their backs until the creatures finally scattered and dashed away, seeking escape.
Curnil found himself standing with Ingra and two of the other four Riders, staring in disbelief at the evidence of the archery around them.
“Someone has an excellent sense of timing,” he said.
He ventured out onto the porch, looking to see who or what had just saved his life.
Arrayed around the farmhouse stood dozens of elf archers, some kneeling behind the undergrowth, others standing in the shadow of tree trunks. With easy grace they glided forward, loosing arrows at the fleeing devils as they came, until the skirmish line swept past the farmhouse and into the fields beyond.
“Who are they?” Ingra asked. “I thought I knew most of the wood elves of Cormanthor, but I’ve never seen these fellows before.”
“Nor have I,” Curnil said. He limped out into the open-somehow, during the fighting in the farmhouse door, he seemed to have been slashed across the leg without even noticing it-and raised a hand in greeting to the archers’ captain, who trotted up to the house. “Well met, friend!” Curnil said in Elvish. “My companions and I owe you our lives!”
The captain-a wood elf whose silver-green garb seemed to shimmer and shift as it constantly adjusted for the green and dappled shadows the elf passed through-looked at Curnil in surprise.
“You speak Elvish!” he said. “And not very badly, either. You must know some of the Tel-Quessir!”
“I do. My name is Curnil Thordrim. I spent several years in the service of Lord Dessaer of Elventree.”
“Are these his lands?” the elf asked.
Definitely not from around here, Curnil noted. “No, Elventree lies a hundred miles or more to the north and east. You are near the human settlement of Mistledale.”
“Ah, I think I have heard of it,” the elf answered. His eye fell on the dead or dying devils sprawled on the farmhouse’s stoop and doorway, and he nodded. “I am glad we were able to help. You fought with great valor against more numerous foes.”
“Not to seem ungrateful, sir, but-who are you? And what are you doing in Mistledale?”
The elf looked back to Curnil, and inclined his head. “I have forgotten my manners. I am Felael Springleap. My warriors and I belong to Lord Seiveril Miritar’s host. We have come from Evermeet to destroy the daemonfey in Myth Drannor.”
“Lord Seiveril? Daemonfey?” Curnil shrugged. “Do you mean to tell me that an army from Evermeet is in Cormanthor?”
“I mean that very thing.” The elf-Felael, Curnil reminded himself-turned away for a moment to quickly confer with some of the others, who trotted off after the rest of the company. Then he turned back to the weary Riders. “Have you seen many of these hellspawn here, Curnil Thordrim?”
“For a tenday or more they’ve been raiding our settlements and slaughtering our people. We always knew there were creatures like this lurking in Myth Drannor, but they have never escaped to the larger forest to trouble us before.”
“Then it may be that we can help each other,” Felael said. “We are here to defeat these creatures and their masters, and it seems to me that you must know much about the lands and happenings nearby. Do you think your leader would be willing to meet with us?”
Curnil took in the skilled and graceful company with a glance. How many more companies of elf archers were roaming around Cormanthor, looking for devils to slay? he wondered. Whatever the answer, it was certainly the best news Mistledale had heard in quite some time.
“Yes,” he said. “I think he would.”
Donnor Kerth seemed a grim and serious traveling companion, putting Araevin in mind of some dwarves he’d known in his day. But his gruff and fierce manner had a way of melting away whenever he addressed Ilsevele or Maresa. Donnor hailed from southern Tethyr, the son of a mid-ranking noble, and he had been brought up with an exacting sense of chivalrous behavior, particularly in regards to the opposite sex. Some of the more conservative sun elf houses embraced similar romantic ideals, but humans had a way of fixing their minds on something and carrying it to extremes that elves would never practice.
At Myth Glaurach, they joined in with the stream of elves passing from the Delimbiyr Vale to Semberholme. Since Araevin was perfectly capable of navigating the portal network by himself, they didn’t have to wait for an elf mage to lead them through, as the rest of the warriors did. They rested for the night in the growing camp by the shores of Lake Sember, surrounded by the lanternlight and cookfires of Lord Seiveril’s army.
Araevin and Ilsevele went to see Seiveril when they had settled on a place to camp. They found him sharing the evening meal with Jerreda Starcloak’s wood elves, who sang and danced with abandon as if to show the elflord that their high spirits were sufficient for the whole army. The wood elves greeted both Araevin and Ilsevele warmly, and it was some time before the three sun elves managed to disentangle themselves from the songs, games, and bawdy wit of the wood elf encampment.
As they walked back to Seiveril’s pavilion, Ilsevele took her father’s arm. “Did you feel in need of some song and dance tonight?” she asked.
“A little music never hurt anyone,” Seiveril replied. “I try to make it a point to take at least half my meals with the troops, choosing a different company each time. I want to know what’s on their minds, and take some time to remind them why they’re here. But I have to say, the wood elves don’t give one much of a chance to talk, do they?”
Araevin smiled. Wood elves were notoriously garrulous, but then again sun elves were supposed to be distant and reserved. He suspected that his wood elf friends went out of their way to act the part when he came to visit, simply because he was a sun elf.
“Their spirits seem high, anyway,” he observed.
“It cheers me to pass an hour with them, I’ll admit,” Seiveril said. “So, you have returned much sooner than I expected. Did you forget something?”
“We’re only passing through,” Araevin told him. “We need to head south from here, toward the ports in Sembia or Cormyr. We’ll be taking a ship to Aglarond.”
“Aglarond?” Seiveril paused, his eyes thoughtful. “That makes sense. The People have lived there for a very long time, perhaps even as long ago as the dawn of Arcorar. But it is so far away! Do you really think you will find what you are looking for there?”