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."Araevin frowned, not sure what to make of the offer.He exchanged looks with Ilsevele and Maresa.The genasi shrugged, but Ilsevele studied the human closely, her green eyes narrowed in thought."Evermeet's army is marching against the Dlardrageths in Myth Drannor," Araevin finally said."However, our path does not lead there yet.We are about to set out in search of some ancient lore that we need to defeat the mythal defenses Sarya is erecting around Myth Drannor.It is my intent to travel swiftly and return to the fight against the daemonfey as quickly as I can, but I can't say where my quest will lead me, or how long it will take.""A long and difficult march may prove more important than a single glorious charge in deciding a war," the human knight said."Honor is served equally by both.Until such a time as you know that you will have no need of my sword, I would like to aid you in whatever way I can.If Grayth would have followed you, I will follow you."Araevin considered his reply.As far as he knew, he might be wandering in and out of libraries for months in search of the spells he needed.But Ilsevele answered for him.As a captain in the Queen's Guard, she understood a warrior's honor better than he did."For the sake of Grayth Holmfast's memory, we will accept your service," she told the human."The only conditions I place on you, Dawnmaster, are these—if Araevin or I tell you that something you see or do is not to be spoken of to those who aren't elves, you will not do so, and you will not abandon us in danger.Other than that you are free to judge for yourself when honor has been served."The human crossed his right arm over his heart."I so swear," he said."Good," said Araevin.He stood and faced the Lathanderian."If you have a bedroll and a pack, go get themand meet us by the river gate.We need to get a mile or so beyond the city walls, and I will teleport us all to Myth Glaurach."*****Curnil Thordrim stood his ground, and prepared to meet his death shoulder-to-shoulder with five more Riders of Mistledale.He and his fellows crouched in the common room of a farmhouse, staring out through the open door and the half-shuttered windows.Skulking closer through the forest verge came shapes out of a nightmare—snarling, hissing devils with snakelike tails, wide mouths full of foul, jagged teeth, and huge saw-toothed glaives of rust-red metal.Fearsome yellow light glimmered in the fiends' eyes, and they cackled and snarled horribly in their terrible voices."Why don't they just get on with it?" muttered Rethold.The tall archer stood beside Curnil, a silver-tipped arrow held on his bowstring.He had only three arrows left, and he was waiting until he was sure of a shot.For the better part of a tenday, the Riders of Mistledale had been embroiled in a deadly fight that worsened every day, defending their vale against what was first a marauding devil or two, then murderous gangs of the creatures.In the past few days a dozen of Curnil's fellows had died, torn apart by fiendish talons, skewered on hell-forged hooks or spears, or blasted to smoking corpses by devil-wrought hellfire."Be patient, and wait for your shot," Curnil told him."If we are going to fall here, we have to take as many of these foul hellspawn with us as we can.""What I'd like to know," remarked Ingra, who was keeping watch by the window, "is how these monsters got out of Myth Drannor."She stood with a powerful crossbow in her hands, a highly enchanted quarrel laid in its rest.Curnil knew that she'd account for one of the devils, when the moment came.But that wouldn't be enough, would it?"They're corning!" cried Ingra.Curnil raised his paired short swords and crouche( by the doorway, ready to kill the first devil to enter th( room.Rethold's bow thrummed to his left, as the arche fired through one of the shuttered windows on that sid( of the house, and Ingra's crossbow snapped sharply or his right.There was a sudden rush of footfalls, the clicking oi taloned nails on the floorboards of the porch outside—and a furious devil leaped in the door, eyes ablaze with battlelust.It was so quick and reckless in its rush that it nearly skewered Curnil with its barbed glaive before the swordsman could move.He cursed and threw himself aside, then parried two more jabbing thrusts as the monster pressed in, two more of its fellows crowding in close behind it."For Mistledale!" Curnil cried, and he heard his fellow Riders take up the call.He slipped inside the glaive's point and launched a furious assault of his own, slashing and stabbing with his swords as the devil snapped at him with its fangs.The other Riders crashed into the doorway with him, and for a few moments the whole fight came down to a savage press right in the farmhouse's door, blades flashing, fangs sinking into flesh, hisses of anger, and sudden grunts or cries of pain.Curnil roared in anger as the devil he battled sank its teeth into his forearm, snarling and worrying at him like a great fierce hound, but he managed to slip his right hand free and stabbed his enchanted blade into the monster's torso over and over again, until the devil finally slipped and went down in the doorway.He stumbled to the floor, saw Rethold killed by a glaive-thrust that burst the weapon's point half a foot out of the archer's back, and from all fours awkwardly parried the attack of yet another devil leaping through the press.His new opponent hissed in savage glee and drew back its weapon for a killing thrust, even as Curnil tried to gain his feet—and a silver-white arrow sprouted from the devil's neck.Curnil took advantage of the devil's distraction togain his feet again and gut the creature with a wicked low slash under its guard.More silver arrows struck all around him, a deadly sleet of archery that took the devils in their backs until the creatures finally scattered and dashed away, seeking escape.Curnil found himself standing with Ingra and two of the other four Riders, staring in disbelief at the evidence of the archery around them."Someone has an excellent sense of timing," he said.He ventured out onto the porch, looking to see who or what had just saved his life.Arrayed around the farmhouse stood dozens of elf archers, some kneeling behind the undergrowth, others standing in the shadow of tree trunks.With easy grace they glided forward, loosing arrows at the fleeing devils as they came, until the skirmish line swept past the farmhouse and into the fields beyond."Who are they?" Ingra asked."I thought I knew most of the wood elves of Cormanthor, but I've never seen these fellows before.""Nor have I," Curnil said.He limped out into the open— somehow, during the fighting in the farmhouse door, he seemed to have been slashed across the leg without even noticing it—and raised a hand in greeting to the archers' captain, who trotted up to the house."Well met, friend!" Curnil said in Elvish."My companions and I owe you our lives!"The captain—a wood elf whose silver-green garb seemed to shimmer and shift as it constantly adjusted for the green and dappled shadows the elf passed through—looked at Curnil in surprise."You speak Elvish!" he said."And not very badly, either.You must know some of the Tel-Quessir!""I do.My name is Curnil Thordrim.I spent several years in the service of Lord Dessaer of Elventree.""Are these his lands?" the elf asked.Definitely not from around here, Curnil noted."No, Elventree lies a hundred miles or more to the north and east.You are near the human settlement of Mistledale.""Ah, I think I have heard of it," the elf answered.His eye fell on the dead or dying devils sprawled on the farmhouse's stoop and doorway, and he nodded."I am glad we were able to help
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