Seiveril’s army had come to include a small company of rangers and archers from Deepingdale, many of them moon elves or half-elves descended from those who had chosen not to Retreat from Cormanthor when the last leaders of the Elven Court had finally decided to abandon the great woodland thirty years ago. The Deepingdale elves knew Cormanthor intimately, the secret paths and lore of rock, water, and leaf, and they helped Jerreda’s wood elf scouts guide the army northward toward the Standing Stone and Myth Drannor beyond that. Lord Ilmeth of Battledale had no strength to spare for such work, and little inclination to do so in any event. The lord of Essembra had fewer than a hundred men under arms in his whole demesne. Lord Mourngrym Amcathra of Shadowdale had more strength than that, but his land was much closer to Myth Drannor, and Storm Silverhand informed Seiveril that Mourngrym would not bring any soldiers to join the army of Evermeet until Evermeet’s soldiers were in sight of Myth Drannor.
Seiveril sent a company of bladesingers and battle-mages ahead of his marching host to help the folk of Mistledale fend off the marauding demons and devils that harried their small land, and another company ahead to Shadowdale for the same purpose. He did not like to part with any of the Crusade’s magical strength, especially when there was always the chance that hundreds of Sarya’s fey’ri warriors might appear in the skies overhead at any moment, but the daemonfey lurked out of sight and out of reach, letting their conjured hellspawn do their work for them.
“I don’t understand the point of harassing the Dalesfolk,” Seiveril remarked to Starbrow on the morning of the third day. The sun elf lord and the moon elf champion stood on the banks of the Ashaba, which was running deep and swift after several days of rain, and watched the lead companies of Seiveril’s host crossing the river on three bridges of glimmering magic, conjured by Jorildyn and the elf wizards under his command. “Shadowdale and Mistledale could lend us a couple of hundred trained fighters at best. Sending devils to harry them takes almost nothing away from our strength, and makes my quarrel with Sarya Dlardrageth their quarrel too.”
“The demons and devils who have been prowling about in the forests around Mistledale and Shadowdale might not be a part of Sarya’s army,” Starbrow replied. “Lord Theremen of Deepingdale says that monsters of the infernal realms have haunted the ruins of Myth Drannor for centuries now. Sarya’s seizure of the city’s mythal might have damaged the wards that held them trapped in the city, which would mean that this might be an unintended consequence of Sarya’s actions, not a deliberate act on her part.”
“Or… she might be doing nothing more than testing the strength of the humans who might ally with us,” Seiveril said, thinking out loud. “If Sarya doesn’t know these lands well, she might be worried about whether the folk of the Dales can give us as much help as Silverymoon’s knights did in the High Forest.”
Starbrow glanced up at the clouded sky above the river, then sighed and looked back to the elflord. “If you’re right, it’s a bad sign,” he said. “It suggests to me that Sarya doesn’t think she needs to hoard her demons for battle against our army. Either she’s got an inexhaustible supply of the monsters, or she doesn’t think we’re going to be able to do anything about her stronghold in Myth Drannor. I don’t know about you, but I certainly wonder why she’d think that.”
The vanguard made camp for the night in the shadow of Galath’s Roost, an old abandoned keep that stood little more than a mile from the Moonsea Ride. The rocky heights on which the old keep had been built offered a commanding view of the northern end of Mistledale and the great green sea of trees that rolled north, east, and south from the end of the open dale. Starbrow had the Crusade’s companies set out a double guard, fearing a sudden attack of marauding fey’ri or yugoloths, but no enemies showed themselves.
Seiveril greeted star rise with the customary devotions to Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine, celebrating the rites he had observed for so many years as a high priest of the elven faith. He spent an hour praying for guidance, trying to catch a glimpse of what waited if he continued on his way north. Myth Drannor was only three days’ march away, and he would soon test the strength of his host against Sarya’s demonic power. But Sarya’s mythal wards obscured his efforts to scry her fortress, and he had to content himself with minor auguries that promised little besides danger and uncertainty.
As he descended from the hilltop, still grappling with the incomplete visions he had seen, Seiveril found Thilesil waiting near his pavilion.
“Lord Seiveril,” the cleric said with a small bow. “An emissary from the human city of Hillsfar is waiting for you.”
“Hillsfar?” Seiveril said. He knew of the city, having walked in Cormanthor many years before, but from what he had heard, the city of Hillsfar wanted nothing to do with elves since the final Retreat from Cormanthor. “Very well, show him into my pavilion.”
Seiveril stepped into his personal quarters, doffed his ceremonial mantle, and washed his hands in a basin of water. Then he emerged into the pavilion’s sitting area, which doubled as his reception room. He did not have long to wait. Two of the guards standing watch by his door-both seasoned veterans of Vesilde Gaerth’s Knights of the Golden Star-showed the human ambassador into his room, and unobtrusively took up their posts just inside the door.
The human was a surprisingly short man, so stocky and thick-shouldered that Seiveril found himself wondering whether the fellow had any dwarf blood in him. His head was shaven, but he wore a long, pointed goatee under his wide mouth, and his eyes were sunk deep beneath beetling brows. The Hillsfarian wore the elegant dress one might expect of a courtier in a lordly palace, a well-tailored garment of scarlet that did not conceal the supple links of golden mail he wore beneath his shirt.
“Welcome, sir,” Seiveril said. “I am Seiveril Miritar, lately lord of Elion and high priest of Corellon’s Grove. I speak for the host of Evermeet.”
The human offered an obsequious grin that struck Seiveril as more than a little false. “And I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I speak for my master, the First Lord Maalthiir.”
Seiveril deliberately set aside his dislike of the high warden’s facetious manner, and gravely offered his hand in the human fashion.
“Would you care for any refreshment, High Warden? Wine, or something to eat?”
“Not necessary, Lord Seiveril. I am anxious to get to business.”
The elflord nodded. “As you wish, then, High Warden. What can I do for the First Lord of Hillsfar?”
The human crossed his powerful arms and looked up at Seiveril. “The first lord would dearly love to know what you intend to do with this army, Lord Seiveril. It does not escape Lord Maalthiir’s notice that you are drawing closer to Hillsfar with every march.”
Human diplomacy may take different forms than I am used to, Seiveril reminded himself. I must be patient, even in the face of discourtesy. “Lord Maalthiir need not worry, High Warden. I am bringing my army to Myth Drannor in order to finally root out the evil that has taken hold there. I do not expect to come within thirty miles of Hillsfar.”
“Some things are better left alone,” Hardil Gearas answered. “Your people haven’t seen fit to do anything about Myth Drannor for six full centuries, but now you seem to have stirred up much evil in a land you abandoned thirty years ago. Evermeet might be far enough from Myth Drannor to ignore the depredations of the city’s fiends, Lord Seiveril, but Hillsfar is not.”