Forsaken House

PROLOGUE

15 Flamerule, The Year of Doom (714 DR)

The end came not at sunset, but an hour after highsun. Nor did mournful rains mark the city's passing, as the bards later sang. It was a sweltering summer afternoon, the forest air thick and hazy. Myth Drannor was burning, and the acrid smoke of many fires hung heavily in the humid air.

Fflar Starbrow Melruth stood wearily on the shattered flagstones of the courtyard before Castle Cormanthor, and took the measure of his enemies. Thousands of savage warriors- orcs, goblins, gnolls, even ogres-stamped and shouted in the square, roaring and shouting in their guttural tongues, clashing axes and spears on their hide-covered shields or shaking jagged swords in the air. Like a great black sea of blood and steel the horde roiled and swarmed, clogging the marble streets and clinging to the feet of the white towers.

Too many, Fflar thought bitterly. And we are too few.

Behind Fflar stood the tattered heart of the Akh Velahr, the Army of Cormanthor. A dozen companies defended the broken castle, none with more than a quarter of its strength left. Tall and stern in their shining hauberks and green cloaks, the soldiers of the city knew they were defeated, but still they held. Each day they fought on, a few more of Myth Drannor's folk escaped to safety in desperate Flights, vanishing through whatever gates could be made to work.

At the head of the enemy host mighty nycaloths crouched eagerly, shadowing their faces with their vast black wings. Each was a great champion of the hells, kindred of the demons and devils whose vile spawn filled the lower planes. To see one such creature free to walk Faerun was a terrible thing, but there at the head of their army stood gathered more than a dozen of the monsters. Hundreds of lesser yugoloths, creatures like the nycaloths but thankfully less powerful, drove the orcs and ogres into battle before them. Despite the painfully bright sunshine in the court, each nycaloth cast a terrifying shadow over the scene, living storm clouds about to break upon Fflar and his soldiers.

"Do not do this, Fflar," said Elkhazel from beside him. The sun elf swordsman stood a few paces behind him, his golden mail gouged in great furrows across his shoulder and breast. "Withdraw your challenge, I beg you. We may yet hold another few days, long enough for the rest of the Flights to escape."

Fflar kept his eyes on the roaring horde. The orcs and ogres did not advance yet. They held their ground, eager to see the duel to come. Even as he watched, a rift opened in their shouting ranks, and a great shadowed figure, a mighty prince of the nycaloths, made its way deliberately through the ranks. Brazen armor gleamed in the darkness, and a mace as large as a young tree dragged the ground. The bestial roars of the bloodthirsty horde rebounded from the castle walls as their dark captain came forth to battle.

"Nothing but a lord of the infernal realms could hold that horde together," said Fflar. "If I can defeat him, the rest of that rabble may well turn on each other. We could cut our way out of the city while they fight over the spoils."

"Aulmpiter is a mighty foe," Elkhazel replied. "If you should fall…"

"Then you will fight on, as you must," Fflar finished for him as he hefted his sword in his hand. "Do not fear, my friend. Keryvian and I have slain more than one mighty foe this summer. Demron crafted his baneblades well."

"Fflar! Captain of Myth Drannor! Come forth!" bellowed the monstrous figure wading through the enemy ranks. "I will have you answer for your boasts!"

"Fflar…" Elkhazel struggled to find words. "Think of Sorenna, and the babe."

Fflar glanced over at his lieutenant and offered a little smile, and said, "She will understand, Elkhazel. I have seen this. It is my hour."

He settled his golden helm on his sweat-soaked brow, and swept Keryvian before his feet several times to remind his hand of the sword's balance, not that he really needed to. The blade seemed to sense the presence of a worthy foe. It shivered in his grasp, giving off a cold, pure whisper of hate.

How many of our heroes have fallen this year? Fflar thought bleakly.

Josidiah Starym could have carved Aulmpiter to pieces with steel and spell in a deadly bladedance. Kerym Tenyajn would have riddled the infernal lord with his blazing arrows of moonfire, slaying Aulmpiter where he stood. But they were dead, and Fflar had to meet the horde's captain. He was exhausted, wounded already in the fighting at sunrise, but he could not let Aulmpiter detect his weakness.

"I am here, Aulmpiter!" he cried. "Your foul minions may have broken our walls and burned our homes, but you will not live to savor your victories! Today Keryvian will send you back to whatever black hells spawned you, monster!"

The nycaloth lord fixed his smoldering gaze on Fflar. Despite his words of bravado, the elf captain could not still a quiver of terror deep in his belly.

"Bold words, elf," Aulmpiter hissed. "I have slain a hundred of your kind this year. They died screaming for mercy. How will you die, I wonder?"

Fflar chose not to answer. He steeled himself, forcing the pain of his wounds and the heavy weight of his fatigue to a place where he would not feel them. Then, with a high, clear cry, he hurled himself at his vast foe, his feet flying over the broken flagstones of the square, the day spinning into timelessness as the chanting orcs fell silent and his heart, his will, his very life narrowed into a brilliant point. Keryvian sang in his hand and Fflar laughed aloud in fey delight.

Aulmpiter roared in rage and threw himself into the air with a powerful sweep of his mighty wings. Fflar leaped up to hew at the nycaloth lord with his brilliant blade. Then Aulmpiter's giant mace came crashing down at him, a thunderbolt of infernal power.

Elf-wrought steel, holy and true, met the brazen maul of the nycaloth lord, and darkness fell in Myth Drannor.