the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white- tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.
The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, beside her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yulash’s greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yulash’s old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city’s great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.
Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan’s Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.
“You may put up your sword, Scyllua,” the Chosen of Bane said amiably. “This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won’t fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door.”
“This place is dangerous,” Scyllua replied. “I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord.”
“It’s neutral ground, Scyllua. It’s the best we could do.” Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.
The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord’s express permission.
Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. “Trying to impress me, Fzoul?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. “Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir’s Tower a good middle ground.”
“Indeed,” the first lord said. “It does not escape my attention that your army still occupies half of Yulash to deny Hillsfar control of this place.”
“I might say the same thing about your Red Plumes, Maalthiir. And I’ll add that Yulash lies much closer to my city than it does to yours.” Fzoul held up his hand to forestall Maalthiir’s retort, and continued, “Let us agree to disagree about Yulash for the moment. I did not ask you here to discuss this dilapidated ruin, First Lord. I wished to speak to you about Cormanthor and the Dalelands.”
“I am a busy man, Fzoul, so make your point quickly.”
Fzoul smiled humorlessly. “You are busy these days, Maalthiir. I have learned that a strong force of your Red Plumes is even now marching down the Moonsea Ride toward Mistledale and Battledale. And your Sembian friends are moving whole armies of mercenaries up Rauthauvyr’s Road through Tasseldale and Featherdale. I take it you have decided to seize those lands before the elven army in Cormanthor contests your actions?”
Maalthiir scowled. “I am simply taking steps to defend our commercial interests in these lands, Fzoul. I can’t have the elves throw humans out of the forest for another thirteen hundred years.”
“I certainly wonder what possible interests you might have in Mistledale or Battledale,” said Fzoul, “but I suppose your exact motives are not as important to me as the facts of your military movements.”
“The last time I looked, there weren’t any Zhentish outposts in those lands,” the first lord said. “I do not have to justify myself to you, Fzoul!”
“If you intend to build yourself an empire in the Dalelands, you certainly do,” Fzoul said. “Why should I stand aside and let you seize for yourself a prize that I have long desired?”
“Do you think you can take those lands from me?” Maalthiir demanded.
“Whether I can or I can’t, I am fairly certain that I can make sure you don’t get them, Maalthiir. If I can’t have them, you and your friends in Sembia can’t either.”
The lord of Hillsfar gave Fzoul a look so black that Scyllua took half a step forward, prepared to draw her blade in Fzoul’s defense. But Maalthiir controlled his anger with a visible effort.
“The Dales are incidental to my first purpose, Fzoul. I intend to drive the elven army out of Cormanthor. Neither you nor I will benefit from the return of elven power to the forest.”
The lord of Zhentil Keep nodded. “On that point I do not disagree. Do you really believe you have the strength to beat an elven army in Cormanthor?”
“I have acquired some useful allies lately.” Maalthiir shrugged. “They have a long and bitter quarrel with the elves.”
Fzoul measured the first lord, and he grinned fiercely. “Why, you have struck a deal with those fiendish sorcerers who have appeared in Myth Drannor! That is why you think you can risk a battle against the elves.”
“And you, if need be,” Maalthiir said.
“Do not threaten the Chosen of Bane!” Scyllua snapped, stepping close to Maalthiir.
The pale, silent swordsmen who stood beside the first lord fixed their cold gazes on her, hands dropping to sword hilts as one.
“Enough, Scyllua,” Fzoul said. “I must consider this.”
“As I said, Fzoul, I do not need your approval to act in Hillsfar’s best interests.” Maalthiir sketched a small bow, and without any other cue or command, his swordsmen gathered close around him. “I agreed to a parley because you have never troubled me with such a request before. Do not expect me to come at your beck and call in the future.”
“A moment, Maalthiir,” the high priest of Bane said. Fzoul raised a hand, palm outward. “If Hillsfar and Sembia insist on fighting Evermeet’s army to seize Cormanthor and the Dales, then I will have no choice but to make sure you fail. If I must choose Hillsfar or an elf coronal to be master of the Dales, I will choose the elves.”
The first lord glared at Fzoul. “Then I suppose it is a good thing that I have not put the choice in your hands,” he grated. “If that is all…?”
Fzoul swept an arm at the ruins around them and said, “Consider these ruins, Maalthiir. Is the lesson of this place lost on you? Two factions vying for rule over this city accomplished nothing but their own destruction, and neither side won.”
“Make your point swiftly, if you have one!”
“I will not let you have Cormanthor and the Dales to yourself. But I am willing to collaborate with you and your newfound friends in return for a share of the prize.” Fzoul stepped forward, and allowed ambition to creep into his voice. “For thirty years we’ve been waiting to carve up the Dales, but no one has made a move because of the threat posed by the other powers. Now Cormyr’s attention has been drawn westward by the Shadovar of Anauroch, and you have reached an understanding with Sembia. The two of us are now in the position to apportion these lands as we see fit, are we not?”
“Perhaps,” the first lord admitted. “Your proposal?”
“You take the eastern Dales, I’ll take the western, and Sembia can have the southern Dales. The great human powers of this land acting in concert present a threat that the elf army cannot hope to overcome. None of us gets all of what we want, because the others would not stand for it. But we could all wind up with significant gains, and more importantly we’d send the elves back to Evermeet empty-handed.”
Maalthiir hesitated, studying Fzoul. “Even if events fall out as you suggest, I think we will have a difficult time in sharing the Dales.”
“That is a problem for some other day.” The Chosen of Bane grinned again, his red mustache framing a predatory smile. “But that is a problem for the two of us to decide between us. We do not need any elven armies to complicate the question.”
The first lord nodded slowly and said, “Very well. I must confer with my allies, Fzoul, but in principle I agree to what you suggest. If you wish to help in our campaign, you should plan on marching against Shadowdale and
