cornstalks, but then he glimpsed sunlight glinting on spear points. A double column of mailed horsemen came trotting into sight, led by a tall, slender woman whose long white hair was gathered in a single braid that trailed down to her waist.
“Grimmar,” he told Ingra. He raised one arm to catch their attention, and stepped out into the open.
The cavalrymen turned toward Curnil and rode into the farmyard, taking stock of the dead gnolls and fallen Riders. Their captain studied the scene for a moment, and doffed her helm, shaking the sweat and dust from her face.
Curnil looked up, and blinked. “You’re Storm Silverhand!”
“So I’m told,” the woman replied. She dismounted with an easy motion, hung her helm on the saddle horn, and turned to size up Curnil. “Riders of Mistledale?”
“Yes-though there were more of us a few moments ago.”
“So I see,” Storm said with a sigh. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“We’ve been watching for Red Plumes or fiends from Myth Drannor passing north of Mistledale,” Curnil answered. He waved a hand at the dead gnolls. “We found their sign this morning, and followed them here. I… I didn’t know if any Grimmar were nearby to deal with these marauders, so I decided to take care of them.”
“I wish we’d been here a few minutes sooner,” Storm said. “I guess you couldn’t have known we were near. My thanks for what you and your companions did here, friend.”
“What else could we do?” Curnil sighed. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Silverhand-what are you doing out here? Aren’t the Zhentarim marching on Shadowdale?”
Storm gave him a sharp nod, and glanced off toward the west. “Yes. They’re not far off now. In fact, I should have turned back already, but I wanted to see for myself how things stood in the eastern part of the dale. I don’t like to leave such as these-” she toed a dead gnoll-“free to pillage and plunder in the east just because our eyes are fixed on the Zhentilar coming down from the north.”
“Will you be able to stop the Zhents, Lady Silverhand?” Ingra asked.
“We’re facing a hard fight tomorrow or the day after, but we’ve beat them before,” Storm said. Cold steel danced in her eyes as she gazed off toward the smoke-stained skies to the north. Then a weary smile crept back across Storm’s face. She held out her hand, and took Curnil’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Well, Riders of Mistledale, you might as well come back to Shadowdale with us. We’ll have work for you soon enough.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
21 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms
Jorin Kell Harthan led Araevin and his friends along the forest road for a day and a half more, leaving the circle of standing stones thirty miles behind them. It was hard to gauge the passage of time in Sildeyuir; the subtle darkening and lightening of the sky was no substitute for a true sunrise or sunset, and the hours simply had a way of slipping away. Araevin would find his mind turning to some thought or another as they traveled, only to come to himself with a start only to realize that miles had passed by under his feet while his mind was occupied. He began to wonder whether the great magic that had created this world beyond the world had also altered the flow of time in the place-but of course, he could not really test that without returning to the Yuirwood and Aglarond to find out how long he had been away.
On two more occasions they encountered strange creatures abroad in the woodland. The first time they met a wheeling, darting flight of great dragonflies whose gemlike bodies glowed in soft emerald and sapphire hues beneath the trees. Each insect was better than a foot long, which caused no small consternation on the part of Donnor’s horse, but the glittering swarm seemed merely curious about them, following the company for a time as they filled the air with whirring wing beats and soft light. On the second occasion, they sighted another one of the blue-black worm creatures crossing their path a couple of hundred yards ahead. It flew through the air on slick, gleaming wings, its spiraling motion twisting its flight into a strange aerial weave as it went. But the monster did not sight them, and simply continued on its way.
As the dimming hour approached and the skies began to darken again, they finally emerged from the great band of forest through which they had walked, finding themselves on the edge of a long stretch of low, rolling hills, crowned with waving silver grasses beneath the stars. There another large stone circle stood, which Jorin examined with great interest.
“I think I know where this place is,” he told Araevin. “Distance here correlates to distance in the Yuirwood. We’ve come more than forty miles to the south, as much as directions mean anything here.”
“Do you know where to find the star elves?”
Jorin nodded. “If I remember right, there is a citadel about ten miles in that direction.” He pointed over the bare, starlit hills. “It lies on the far side of this clear space.”
They made camp for the darkest hours within the circle of standing stones. Araevin could not detect any wakeful spells or magic within the circle, but he sensed old and powerful wards around the ring, and he judged them as good a defense as his own spells. He composed himself for Reverie, sitting cross-legged at the foot of a great stone with his back to the cold, smooth granite, and drifted off into strange dreams.
“Araevin.”
He roused to full wakefulness with a start, and found Ilsevele touching his shoulder.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A rider approaches. Two more of those dark creatures pursue him.”
Araevin climbed to his feet. Donnor Kerth stood beside one of the outer stones, murmuring calming words to the hitched packhorse and looking back along the forest path they’d recently passed. Ilsevele stooped to wake Jorin and Maresa next, while Araevin joined the big human by the stone. He followed Donnor’s gaze and spied the rider, galloping along the path. The trail ran alongside the stone circle for a time before doubling back, so they had an excellent opportunity to watch the fellow as he raced past them perhaps three hundred yards downhill, appearing and vanishing as he passed behind trees and steeper embankments along the trail. At that distance, he was little more than a glimmering white figure, tiny and distant, but Araevin quickly spied the flying monsters that followed him, twisting their way through the air above the trees… and gaining on their quarry.
“He’ll pass close by in just a minute or two,” Donnor said. “What do we do?”
“Hail him and make ready to stand against the flying creatures,” Araevin replied.
He didn’t know who or what the rider was, but he didn’t like the looks of the sorcerous worm-monsters at all, and he was not about to abandon anyone to them. Besides, the longer he watched, the more certain he was that the rider was an elf.
Donnor nodded. He drew his broadsword and pressed himself against the stone next to him, trying to stay out of sight. Ilsevele took up a position against another stone, her bow of red yew in her hands, and Maresa joined her. Jorin drew his own swords and slid down the slope a little to a boulder closer to the trail, crouching low to keep out of sight. Araevin took a moment to whisper the words of a spell of shielding, and waited.
The rider rounded the bend close by the ring of standing stones and spurred his mount-a fine dappled-gray destrier, stretching out its long legs with an easy grace that belied the speed of its run-up the hillside, following the trail as it wound past the old menhirs. The flying monsters shifted their own course and climbed over the trees, cutting the corner against their quarry. Araevin decided that he’d waited long enough. He stepped out from behind the stones and waved at the rider.
“Here!” he cried. “Into the standing stones!”
A momentary astonishment crossed the rider’s face, but he wasted no time at all. He wrenched the reins to the left and took his horse scrambling up the steep, grassy hillside. He was indeed an elf, though not of any kindred Araevin knew. He had skin as pale and fair as a moon elf’s, but his hair was a pale gold that didn’t often appear among the teu Tel’Quessir. He wore a gray cloak over a shirt of gleaming mithral mail and a quilted white doublet lavishly embroidered with gold thread.
“Beware the nilshai!” he called in Elvish. “They are fearsome sorcerers!”
The winged worm-monsters did not miss the rider’s change of course. They veered toward the hilltop ring and arrowed through the air. One of them whistled and piped loudly, twisting its limbs in a strange fashion, and a sizzling green orb of acid appeared before it. With a flick of its long torso, the monster hurled the acid ball at the
