Gaerradh looked up, waiting for the fey'ri reply. A great company of the bat-winged demonspawn descended into the gorge, hurling spells and iron javelins at the Argent Legion troops below. There were hundreds of them, and the air between the walls of Daelyth's Dagger seemed to broil with magical energy and supernatural power. Dressed in armor of scarlet and gold, the daemonfey wheeled overhead like sinister angels.
Exactly where they were supposed to be.
'Let's see how you like the marksmanship of the wood elves,' Gaerradh murmured.
A clear horn call echoed high up in the rocky walls of the vale, and the air between the gorge's sides was filled with a black storm of arrows. From a hundred perches high up on the cliffs overlooking the narrow valley, wood elf archers-including a score of Evermeet's best spellarchers, brought to the Lost Peaks only hours before- threw aside their concealment and loosed a terrible fusillade of arrows against the flying fey'ri warriors. Many of the archers were actually shooting down on the airborne fey'ri, as the daemonfey company had descended past the uppermost shelves of hidden archers in their rush to eradicate the dwarves and humans who held the valley mouth.
Fey'ri wheeled and fluttered in desperation, pierced again and again by the merciless onslaught. More than a few arrows blazed with holy spells or crackled with whispered enchantments as they sped on their way, finding fey'ri chests and throats. In a single deadly volley scores of the fey'ri died in midair, wings folding as they plummeted to the boulder-strewn floor of the valley.
Those who survived the first volley searched wildly for escape from the killing zone, but even fey'ri flying over the center of the valley were not more than one hundred yards from one wall or the other, and that was well within the wood elves' range. To descend was to brave even more arrows, to climb would be murderously slow, and to seek cover on either wall was to simply come closer to one nest of archers or another. So the fey'ri struggled and flew east along the vale, fleeing for the mouth of Daelyth's Dagger as they ran the terrible gauntlet. A few quickly worked spells to turn themselves invisible, or cover themselves in obscuring darkness, or simply teleport to safety. But with every beat of their wings, more daemonfey warriors crumpled and fell to the hard boulders below.
'It worked!' Gaerradh cried, elated.
She had thought Methrammar was insane to offer his soldiers as bait to draw the fey'ri spellcasters, but the high marshal's plan was proving to be nothing less than pure genius. Broken and pierced, the demonspawned warriors littered the valley floor.
Avoiding the arrows and debris clattering down from the ambush overhead, Gaerradh sprinted over to where Methrammar stood. Sheeril flashed at her heels, growling. The Knights in Silver had beaten off the worst of the demon assault, though a few savage skirmishes still continued around the edges of the company. Methrammar watched the fighting in the air, blood streaming from a nasty bite on his left arm and a sword-slash on his thigh.
'Great work, friends!' he cried. 'That will teach them some wisdom!' He looked down as Gaerradh reached his side, and he offered her a fierce grin. 'I knew that all we had to do was to get the fey'ri in front of wood elf bows!'
'What now?' Gaerradh called.
'We finish this,' Methrammar said. 'We can drive these orc marauders all the way to Hellgate Keep if we strike now.' The son of Alustriel laughed with delight, and whirled away to dash up the road, brandishing his blade.
'To me! To me!' he cried. 'We're taking this fight out of the valley and into their teeth, lads!'
The Knights in Silver rallied to Methrammar's cry, and the dwarves of the Iron Guard as well. With a deafening clamor of battle cries and roars of challenge, the warriors of Silverymoon and Adbar clattered forward, battering their way back down the Dagger's trail to meet the oncoming orcs head-on. Gaerradh shouted in martial fury and followed, axes in hand, Sheeril snapping and slashing to guard her back.
At dawn the orcs broke and fled.
Araevin plumbed the lambent depths of the Nightstar for what seemed like hours, examining the spells Saelethil had stored within, cataloging the deep reaches of hidden lore for later study, confronting the fiery secrets of high magic and mythalcraft preserved by the Dlardrageth high mage. He could sense Saelethil's cruel persona graven in the very substance of the high loregem, observing his fumbling explorations with a sneer of disdain, though he decided he did not care what the sinister apparition happened to think of his efforts. It would take some study yet before he could master many of the secrets waiting within the selukiira, but he knew enough to comprehend mythals and other such wards of high magic in a way he had never dreamed possible. Araevin suspected that some at least of the things Saelethil taught him had been forgotten-or shunned-by other high mages for many centuries.
More importantly, the Nightstar offered him the chance to turn the tables on his captors. Nurthel had likely thought that he posed no threat so long as his spellbooks remained out of his hands, but like the telkiira, the Nightstar itself also served as a spellbook. The three telkiira stored twenty spells between them, and the Nightstar by itself recorded more than seventy. Of course, many of the spells were difficult or impossible for him to cast until he acquired the correct materials-pinches of reagents, herbs, tiny charms carefully readied under the right conditions-but Araevin had found a number that he could manage. An hour's study sufficed to fill his mind with spells, ranging from insignificant cantrips to mighty dweomers he never could have managed before Saelethil's lore had burned itself into his brain. He was as well-armed as he could possibly hope, and then some.
When he was finally ready, Araevin touched the portal design in the Nightstar's chamber and instantly transported himself back to the silver hall of the ghost. The selukiira lay over his heart, the purple crystal embedded in his flesh and fused to his breastbone. He had considered leaving it exactly where he'd found it, but there was too much in the gemstone that he needed to know, and so he risked bringing it with him.
A moment of dizziness and darkness, and he stood by the wall in the mist-wreathed hall of the silver pillars. He felt strong and certain in a way that frightened him, doubting as he did the source of his strength. It was not simply a physical vitality, his mind was sharper, clearer, more focused, and the spells the high loregem had taught him girded his very thoughts like eldritch armor. He turned and faced the hall.
The daemonfey waited for him. Apparently the sudden operation of the portal had caught them off guard. Two of the fey'ri warriors cursed as they drew their blades, and the hissing mezzoloths rose up from crouches, seizing their iron tridents. Nurthel Floshin spun to face him, his single remaining eye alight with ire.
'Where have you been?' he demanded. 'Where is the Nightstar?'
Araevin stepped away from the wall, carefully noting the positions of Nurthel and his band: A fey'ri spellblade and two more fey'ri swordsmen, standing close by Nurthel; the two surviving vrocks, skulking in the shadows to his right; and the two mezzoloths, standing up on his left.
Eight of them, he thought. And only one of me.
'Where have I been? The vault of Ithraides,' he answered. 'And as for the Nightstar, I have it.'
Nurthel bared his pointed teeth and held out his tal-oned hand.
'Come here and give it to me,' he hissed.
'No, I don't think I will,' Araevin replied.
He looked over at the vrocks, gestured, and calmly spoke the words of a spell, banishing them back to the foul Abyss from which they had been summoned. The creatures clacked and hissed in rage, starting toward him, but before they had even taken wing azure fire flickered over their hideous forms and hurled them into their native dimension.
'He has broken the dominion spell. Subdue him at once!' Nurthel screamed.
He began a spell of his own, barking out the magical words, while the mezzoloths charged at Araevin from his left side and the fey'ri swordsmen approached more carefully from his right, sword points weaving in lazy circles before them.
Araevin darted to his right, avoiding the mezzoloths. One of the insectile creatures hurled its trident at him. The heavy weapon struck him on his left shoulder blade, spinning him around with the impact and throwing him to the floor. But the trident rebounded from his flesh, which was hardened to the denseness of granite by the spell he had cast on himself before activating the portal to return to the silver hall. He rolled to his hands and knees, looking up at the two fey'ri warriors closing in on him, and he spoke a word of power that blasted both swordsmen off their feet. Streaming blood at ears and nose, the armored daemonfey skidded across the floor and groaned, both struck senseless by the spell.
