trapped the remaining human mercenaries and levies of the Witch Lords flat against the western verges of the Vast Swamp. A victory here would break their power in Cormyr forever and free the eastern half of the realm from their threat.
Yet on the eve of the assault, a rider arrived, with the news that a great pavilion had suddenly appeared behind the king’s forces. Its green and yellow spires rose like new mountains in the darkness, lit from within by their own radiance.
These were not simply elves of the woods, who had always passed through the kingdom, moreso since the fall of their greatest city. They were noble elves, the first to arrive in Cormyr since the fall of Myth Drannor. Noble elves who demanded a reception.
“They couldn’t have picked a worse time,” muttered Thanderahast as they drew near the entrance. Save for the wizard, everyone in the small party of Cormyreans approaching the pavilion was in full battle armor, including the king, the High Priest of Helm, and several nobles, among them Aosinin Truesilver, the king’s cousin.
“You would snub them, then, and risk seeing their forces arrayed alongside those of the Witch Lords?” asked the king in a low voice.
“We may see them there yet, Sire,” said one of the Dauntinghorns. “The elves have always been treacherous. Not fifteen winters ago, they repelled the Sembians and their Chondathan mercenaries in the Battle of the Singing Arrows despite the fall of Myth Drannor.”
“Don’t speak nonsense,” snapped the wizard. “The Sembians were logging elven lands heavily, thinking that with their cities gone, the elves would be weak. The power of the elves has never been in cities but in the forest itself. Now, hold your tongue, for the ears of the elves are as sharp as their skin is thin.”
One of the Illances made a joke about the sharp, pointed nature of elven ears, but he was shushed by his fellows. The party entered the pavilion.
Its interior had a ghostly, ethereal quality. There were elves on all sides, lounging on broad pillows. They sipped fluted glasses of glowing fluids, regarding the passing humans as if they were mongrel dogs who had wandered into a dinner party. Then the elves turned their attention back to their own dealings. Somewhere in the distance, a sad lute was being played, joined by a wispy thin, haunting voice that just caught the edges of their hearing.
The greatest chamber of the pavilion was nearly empty. A pair of guards stood at the entrance, clad in finely-made but archaic chain mail. Across the chamber stood the twisted stump of an ancient tree, a living throne into which three seats had been carved. Two of the seats were empty. The third, the farthest to the right, was occupied by a single cadaverous figure.
Aosinin reached for his sword, thinking this was one of the Witch Lords and that they were standing in the heart of an enormous trap. He relaxed only when he realized that the figure was an elf… though a very ancient elf, it seemed.
The figure on the throne was clad from head to toe in chain, its ornately shaped links as fine as any that could be crafted in Suzail, even by dwarven hands. Its design, like the mail worn by the guards, was archaic, and many of the links were thin enough from wear to appear nearly translucent. The elf’s face was elongated, his cheeks and eyes deeply sunken, his remaining hair silver-white and flowing from a receding forehead.
Aosinin had never seen an elf this old before. And yet something about the figure seemed familiar… like the mage Thanderahast. There was something similar in the elf’s fluid, well-practiced movements, the grace of well, a near immortal, Aosinin supposed.
The elf lord waited for the royal party to reach the foot of the throne before speaking. His voice sounded like an old book opening for the first time in a century. “So these are the children of Ondeth and Faerlthann? Somehow I expected more.”
The king took a pace ahead of the others. “I am King Galaghard the Third, royal head of Cormyr, called the Forest Kingdom, the Wolf Woods, and the Land of the Purple Dragon. This is my Royal Wizard, Thanderahast, of the blood of Baerauble himself. And the mightiest men of my noble court.”
The elf regarded the humans for a long moment, and Aosinin wondered if these elf lords could cast death magic without moving an eyelid. At length, he said, “I am Othorion Keove, last of the house of Iliphar Nelnueve, the Lord of Scepters. Do you remember me?”
Thanderahast stepped forward. “We know of the tales of great Iliphar and of that first coronation of Faerlthann nearly nine centuries back. I fear we have lost much of the records of his court, but we welcome you back to Cormyr.”
The elf regarded the wizard stonily. “You are the blood of old Baerauble Elf-friend? The blood must be thin indeed by now, though I believe something magical pulses through your veins, allowing you a long life as old Baerauble had.”
Instead of replying, the wizard chose to ignore the venom in the remark. “The same magic that probably pulses through your noble brow as well, lord elf. I am surprised to see one so ancient outside the elven homeland of Evermeet.”
The elf nodded. “I have resisted the call of Evermeet the Fair for many years in order to fight against the human incursions, to fight against the fiends of the pit who claimed Myth Drannor, and lately to fight against the southerners who sought to claim our forests unasked.”
King Galaghard stepped forward. “May we ask why you are here, lord elf?”
“I thought to do a little hunting,” said the elf. “Tell me, do you still have forest buffalo here?”
Thanderahast broke in. “I fear not, Venerable Othonon. They vanished long ago.”
“Giant owlbears, then?” suggested the elf lord. “Or envenomed pumas, or great rugs?”
“They are no more as well, lord elf,” the wizard replied.
Othorion Keove regarded the humans coldly. “You haven’t really taken care of our lands very well, have you?”
Now the king stepped forward once more. “We tend to the land as best as we are able. There are still great forests in Cormyr, which cannot be said of neighboring Sembia, and trees here that stood when your Lord of Scepters was here last. The forested domains are smaller, but they have served us well and have been well tended and mastered.”
Thanderahast tried to speak, but the king gave him no chance, continuing, “We have defended this land from dragons and from orcs, from pirates and from evil sorcerers. On the morrow, we set out in one last battle against the evil forces of the necromantic Witch Lords. We have protected this land and its people because long ago we made a promise to your liege to do so. We have nothing to apologize for to any elf, lord or no.”
Aosinin thought he saw a small smile break across the elf lord’s face. “I see the blood of Faerlthann runs thick and true in his descendants. Your first king had such fire, and his words were sharp, while those of Baerauble were cloying and tricky. It is pleasant to see that threats and bold speech, at least, have not changed. Am I not welcome to hunt within your woods?”
“You are welcome, Othorion Keove,” said the king quickly. “Welcome as an old friend of the land. I apologize in advance for not keeping sufficiently dangerous creatures at hand for your return. I ask only that you trouble none of the citizens of this land, nor harm them in any way. For they, like the land, are in my trust, and I am obligated to protect them.”
The elf nodded silently and the king continued. “If you will excuse me and my brethren, then, we must prepare for our own hunt on the morrow. There are few hours between now and then, and we must make the best use of them.”
The elf lord nodded and raised a hand slowly in dismissal.
Thanderahast said quickly, “The battle tomorrow, O elf lord… we could use any aid you could muster.”
A wintry smile twisted Othorion’s lips. “The Witch Lords’ representative has been here and gone already with a similar invitation, hedged with hidden threats and blatant promises. I will tell you what I told him: I am here for the hunting. But that one did give me a message for you, child of Baerauble. He said that Luthax sends his regards.”
The mage’s face went pale, and he stiffened visibly. Then he bowed low and joined the others in leaving the tent. None of the elves paid the grim, armored humans any attention.
The ride back was a time of low whispers. They did not talk of elves, but rather of the upcoming battle. Marsember had sent some desperately needed infantry, fresh but untried. They would stand on the left flank. The veteran Purple Dragons would hold the right, backed up by Thanderahast’s apprentices. Arabel had sent troops, but
