their own mounts after her, thundering away across the fields.
Seiveril looked at Adresin, the sun elf knight who commanded his personal guard, and said, “Let’s follow after them. I want to see what we’re up against.”
Adresin winced. “Lord Seiveril, I can’t risk losing you to a chance arrow in a simple skirmish-” he began, but Seiveril decided to make it easy on the poor fellow. He simply spurred his own horse after the Silver Guard, making sure to leave a good space so that no one could accuse him of riding right into the fray on their heels.
He felt Starbrow close up beside him, and looked over to see the moon elf champion grinning broadly. “That was not fair, Seiveril,” he called over the drumming of the hooves. “He is only doing his duty!”
“I’ll be careful,” Seiveril promised.
He slowed his pace a little, and allowed Adresin and his bodyguards to close up around him. To the young knight’s credit, he did not bother to argue the point any longer. He simply slammed the half-visor of his bright helmet closed, and stayed close to Seiveril.
They passed through a broken line of wind-stunted poplars and scrub, then emerged into a broad field. The Silver Guard galloped away, lances lowered, charging at a ragged line of human riders dressed in surcoats of black and yellow. The numbers seemed equal, or close to it, and the Zhentilar did not waver. They couched their own spears and turned to meet the elf riders who flashed over the field toward them. For one terrible moment they thundered toward each other in the bright field, stained crimson by the setting sun, and the skirmish lines met with shrill ring of steel and the terrified whinnying of wounded horses. Riders in black and yellow fell, but so too did elves in silver and white, and the charge disintegrated into a furious, swirling, spurred melee as any kind of battle order failed.
“They’ve got courage,” Starbrow said. “I’ll say that for them. And that’s at least two full companies over there.”
“I see them.” Seiveril watched the battle for only a moment before glancing back to Adresin. “Captain, let’s see if we can lend a hand. This looks to be a closer thing than I’d thought.”
Adresin nodded behind his visor. “We’ll do what we can, sir,” he said.
He motioned for two of his soldiers to remain close to Seiveril then he gathered the rest of the guards and raced off to join the skirmish. Seiveril approached more cautiously, anxious to lend his guards’ help to the battle, but not sure of where he could make himself most useful.
The fight raged on. The Zhentarim cavalrymen fought furiously, keeping their heads and working to cover their allies as best they could. Their armor was substantially heavier than the elf knights’, but the elves were faster and more nimble, and they fought with a skill and elan that the humans were hard-pressed to match. Time and again, elf riders danced close to their foes to slash with silver sabers or lash out with long-pennoned lances, only to parry the cuts of heavy broadswords or spur away from hard-driven lance-thrusts. Elf warriors with some skill at magic peppered the skirmish with darting blasts of golden magic or confused the human horsemen with shifting illusions and quick enchantments, confounding the Zhentilar’s efforts.
That’s a season of fighting the daemonfey, Seiveril thought with a fierce burst of pride. Our warriors have become a well-tempered blade indeed! He angled toward the right flank, drew his silver mace, and spurred forward to join the fight, shouting a wordless battle cry.
He crossed the last hundred yards in the blink of an eye, his mount’s hooves flashing like silver fire in the dusk, and Seiveril found himself in the fray. He batted aside a Zhentish lance and hammered the warrior out of the saddle with a great overhand swing, then wheeled his horse to meet another Zhentilar behind him in a furious rain of ringing blows as their weapons met with shock after shock, their horses stamped and whinnied, and cries of anger, pain, and triumph filled his ears. Seiveril dueled his swordsman to a standstill and was about to hammer down his guard, but an elf lancer took the man from behind and knocked him out of the saddle. The elflord spun around, searching for the fight. Starbrow battled close by, cutting an awful swath through the Zhentilar ranks with Keryvian’s pure white blade.
A shrill, terrible sound tore through the twilight, and the black earth around Seiveril erupted in a great blast. His horse was thrown sideways and fell, but Seiveril managed to hurl himself clear of the saddle before the animal rolled over him. Ears ringing, he found his feet and looked up.
Overhead a sinister, bat-winged shadow swooped down low over the battlefield. The monster’s long, blunt snout held a blind, gaping smile, and a long lashing tail twisted behind it. Between its humpbacked wings a black- clad human wizard sat in an ornate saddle, hurling down blasts of scorching fire as the huge monster winged over the fight. It opened its mouth again, and another shrill shriek flayed a pair of elf riders with an awful blast.
“What kind of abomination is that?” snapped Starbrow. He ducked away from a fiery bolt, and turned against another horseman nearby.
Seiveril didn’t have an answer for Starbrow, but he quickly intoned the words of a holy prayer to Corellon, invoking the divine power with which he was entrusted. Holy power seethed around his hand, and he hurled a blast of supernal light up at the monster. The brilliant white ray chewed into the flying monster’s flank, charring it, and the creature croaked in pain and awkwardly reeled away. But then a second flying monster appeared, also with a battle-mage riding between its wings. The wizard hurled a great blast of fire down at Seiveril.
Seiveril threw himself flat as the fireball burst over him and searing heat washed across his body. His cloak and surcoat smoking, he slowly picked himself up. All around him Zhentilar and elves alike had been scorched and scoured by the attack of the wizards on their flying beasts. With heavy, slow beats of their vast wings, the creatures circled for another pass, spurred on by their riders.
“Archers!” called Edraele Muirreste. “Get some arrows on those accursed wizards!”
The Silver Guards were outfitted for lance-work and sword play, but they were elves; every one of them carried a shortbow in a saddle holster, and knew how to use it. Many of the guards were still busy with the melee, but dozens quickly spurred clear of the fighting and drew their bows. As the flying monsters turned back toward the fray, elven bows began to thrum, and white arrows soared up into the crimson sky-at first a few, then a heavier and more accurate storm.
With another great croaking cry, the flying beasts turned away and flapped off, but not before their riders raised a long line of green fire across the trampled fields. Behind the leaping wall of magical fire, the Zhentilar horsemen quickly mustered, and retreated from the field, leaving dozens of dead and wounded behind.
Edraele rode up beside Seiveril, and took in his scorched clothing with a quick glance. “Lord Seiveril, shall we pursue?” she asked.
Seiveril watched the flapping beasts drawing away. “No, I think we’ve done enough for tonight. We’ll need to keep some Eagle Knights nearby from now on, just in case the Zhents have more of those flying wizards. And more archers among our troops would be a good idea.”
Starbrow also rode up, his eyes fixed on the departing wizards. “I am thoroughly tired of fighting flying creatures armed with magic,” he declared. “I had enough of that with Sarya’s daemonfey legion and their demons.”
“I agree,” Seiveril said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “At least this is a threat we know how to face-one more thing that Sarya Dlardrageth has taught us this year.” He looked around at the field of the skirmish, and frowned. Many of the Zhentilar had fallen, but so too had more than a few of the Silver Guards. “See to the army’s camp tonight, Starbrow. I will join you after I have done what I can for the wounded.”
Curnil leaned against the gray wheel of an old oxcart, exhausted beyond all endurance. The farmyard was littered with dead gnolls, but two of his Riders lay still on the ground. One band of bloodthirsty raiders would slay no more, but his squad was down to himself and Ingra. He looked over to Ingra, who sat holding a blood-soaked bandage to an arrow wound in her left arm.
“I hope to all the gods that things are better somewhere else,” he said. “We’re getting butchered out here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ingra replied. “So what do we do now?”
“Damned if I know.” For half a tenday, Curnil and his Riders had battled across the forest north of Mistledale, fighting their way right up to the very eastern edge of Shadowdale. He’d meant to turn back for home an hour ago, but the smoke of burning homesteads had caught his eye. The fighting had been fierce, but they’d saved the folk of one freehold from a death too terrible to contemplate. “Ride for Ashabenford, I suppose. We’ve done all we can here.”
Ingra started to nod in agreement, but then she looked up sharply. “Riders coming,” she hissed.
Curnil straightened and looked over the side of the cart. At first he couldn’t see anything through the green
