Targos, the second strongest city and the only one other than Bryn Shander with any hope of holding out for any length of time against the vast army, extended an invitation for Termalaine’s ships to tie up at her docks. And the men of Termalaine, soon to be numbered among the homeless themselves, accepted the hospitality of their bitter enemies to the south. Their disputes with Kemp’s people seemed petty indeed against the weight of the disaster that had befallen the towns.
Back in the main battle, the goblin generals that led Kessell’s army were confident they could overrun Bryn Shander before nightfall. They obeyed their leader’s plan to the letter. The main body of the army veered away from Bryn Shander and moved down the swath of open ground between the principal city and Targos, thus cutting any possibility of the two powerful cities linking their forces.
Several of the goblin tribes had broken away from the main group and were bearing down on Termalaine, intent on sacking their third city of the day. But when they found the place deserted, they abstained from burning the buildings. Part of Kessell’s army now had a ready-made camp where they could wait out the coming siege in comfort.
Like two great arms, thousands of monsters raced south from the main force. So vast was Kessell’s army that it filled the miles of field between Bryn Shander and Termalaine and still had enough numbers to encircle the hill of the principal city with thick ranks of troops.
Everything had happened so quickly that when the goblins finally stalled their frenzied charge, the change seemed overly dramatic. After a few minutes of breath-catching calm, Regis felt the tension growing once again.
“Why don’t they just get it over with?” he asked the two spokesmen standing beside him.
Cassius and Glensather, more knowledgeable in the ways of warfare, understood exactly what was happening.
“They are in no hurry, little friend,” Cassius explained. “Time favors them.”
Then Regis understood. During his many years in the more populated southlands, he had heard many vivid tales describing the terrible horrors of a siege.
The image of Agorwal’s final salute out in the distance came back to him then, the contented look on the spokesman’s face and his willingness to die valiantly. Regis had no desire to die in any way, but he could imagine what lay before him and the cornered people of Bryn Shander.
He found himself envying Agorwal.
rizzt soon came upon the battered ground where the army had crossed. The tracks came as no surprise to the drow, for the smoke pillars had already told him much of what had transpired. His only remaining question was whether or not any of the towns had held out, and he trotted on toward the mountain wondering if he had a home to return to.
Then he sensed a presence, an otherworldly aura that strangely reminded him of the days of his youth. He bent to check the ground again. Some of the marks were fresh troll tracks, and a scarring on the ground that could not have been caused by any mortal being. Drizzt looked around nervously, but the only sound was the mourn of the wind and the only silhouettes on the horizons were the peaks of Kelvin’s Cairn before him and the Spine of the World far to the south. Drizzt paused to consider the presence for a few moments, trying to bring the familiarity he felt into better focus.
He moved on tentatively. He understood the source of his recollections now, though their exact details remained elusive. He knew what he was following.
A demon had come to Icewind Dale.
Kelvin’s Cairn loomed much larger before Drizzt caught up to the band. His sensitivity to creatures of the lower planes, brought about by centuries of associating with them in Menzoberranzan, told him that he was nearing the demon before it came into sight.
And then he saw the distant forms, a half-dozen trolls marching in a tight rank, and in their midst, towering over them, was a huge monster of the Abyss. No minor mane or midge, Drizzt knew at once, but a major demon. Kessell must be mighty indeed if he held this formidable monster under his control!
Drizzt followed them at a cautious distance. The band was intent on their destination, though, and his caution was unnecessary. But Drizzt wasn’t about to take any chances at all, for he had many times witnessed the wrath of such demons. They were commonplace in the cities of the drow, further proof to Drizzt Do’Urden that the ways of his people were not for him.
He moved in closer, for something else had grabbed his attention. The demon was holding a small object which radiated such powerful magic that the drow, even at this distance, could sense it clearly. It was too masked by the demon’s own emanations for Drizzt to get any clear perspectives on it, so he backed off cautiously once again.
The lights of thousands of campfires came into view as the party, and Drizzt, approached the mountain. The goblins had set scouts in this very area, and Drizzt realized that he had gone as far south as he could. He broke off his pursuit and headed for the better vantage points up the mountain.
The time best suited to the drow’s underworld vision was the lightening hours just before sunrise, and though he was tired, Drizzt was determined to be in position by then. He quickly climbed up the rocks, gradually working his way around to the southern face of the mountain.
Then he saw the campfires encircling Bryn Shander. Further to the east, embers glowed in the rubble that had been Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval. Wild shouts rang out from Termalaine, and Drizzt knew that the city on Maer Dualdon was in the hands of the enemy.
And then predawn blued the night sky, and much more became apparent. Drizzt first looked to the south end of the dwarven valley and was comforted that the wall opposite him had collapsed. Bruenor’s people were safe at least, and Regis with them, the drow supposed.
But the sight of Bryn Shander was less comforting. Drizzt had heard the boasts of the captured orc and had seen the tracks of the army and their campfires, but he could never have imagined the vast assemblage that opened up before him when the light increased.
The sight staggered him.
“How many goblin tribes have you collected, Akar Kessell?” he gasped. “And how many of the giants call you master?”
He knew that the people in Bryn Shander would survive only as long as Kessell let them. They could not hope to hold out against this force.
Dismayed, he turned to seek out a hole where he could get some rest. He could be of no immediate help here, and exhaustion was heightening his hopelessness, preventing him from thinking constructively.
As he started away from the mountain face, sudden activity on the distant field caught his attention. He couldn’t make out individuals at this great distance, the army seemed just a black mass, but he knew that the demon had come forth. He saw the blacker spot of its evil presence wade out to a cleared area only a few hundred yards below the gates of Bryn Shander. And he felt the supernatural aura of the powerful magic he had earlier sensed, like the living heart of some unknown life form, pulsating in the demon’s clawed hands.
Goblins gathered around to watch the spectacle, keeping a respectable distance between them and Kessell’s dangerously unpredictable captain.
“What is that?” asked Regis, crushed in among the watching throng on Bryn Shander’s wall.
“A demon,” Cassius answered. “A big one.”
“It mocks our meager defenses!” Glensather cried. “How can we hope to stand against such a foe?”
The demon bent low, involved in the ritual to call out the dweomer of the crystalline object. It stood the Crystal Shard upright on the grass and stepped back, bellowing forth the obscure words of an ancient spell, rising to a crescendo as the sky began to brighten with the sun’s imminent appearance.
“A glass dagger?” Regis asked, puzzled by the pulsating object.
Then the first ray of dawn broke the horizon. The crystal sparkled and summoned the light, bending the sunbeam’s path and absorbing its energy.
The shard flared again. The pulsations intensified as more of the sun crept into the eastern sky, only to have its light sucked into the h
ungry image of Crenshinibon.
The spectators on the wall gaped in horror, wondering if Akar Kessell held power over the sun itself. Only Cassius had the presence of mind to connect the power of the shard with the light of the sun.
Then the crystal began to grow. It swelled as each pulse attained its peak, then shrank back a bit while the next throb grew. Everything around it remained in shadow, for it greedily consumed all the sunlight. Slowly, but inevitably, its girth widened and its tip rose high into the air. The people on the wall and the monsters on the field had to avert their eyes from the brightened power of Cryshal-Tirith. Only the drow from his distant vantage point and the demon who was immune to such sights witnessed another image of Crenshinibon being raised. The third Cryshal-Tirith grew to life. The tower released its hold on the sun as the ritual was completed, and all the region was bathed in morning sunlight.
The demon roared at its successful spellcasting and strode proudly into the new tower’s mirrored doorway, followed by the trolls, the wizard’s personal guard.
The besieged inhabitants of Bryn Shander and Targos looked upon the incredible structure with a confused mixture of awe, appreciation, and terror. They could not resist the unearthly beauty of Cryshal-Tirith, but they knew the consequences of the tower’s appearance. Akar Kessell, master of goblins and giants, had come.
Goblins and orcs fell to their knees, and all the vast army took up the chant of “Kessell! Kessell!” paying homage to the wizard with a fanatical devotion that brought shivers to the human witnesses to the spectacle.
Drizzt, too, was unnerved by the extent of the influence and devotion the wizard exerted over the normally independent goblin tribes. The drow determined at that moment that the only chance for survival for the people of Ten-Towns lay in the death of Akar Kessell. He knew even before he had considered any of the possible options that he would try to get to the wizard. For now, though, he needed to rest. He found a shadowed hole just back from the face of Kelvin’s Cairn and let his exhaustion overtake him.
Cassius was also tired. The spokesman had stayed on the wall throughout the cold night, examining the campsites to determine how much of the natural enmity between the unruly tribes remained. He had seen some minor discord and name-calling, but nothing extreme enough to give him hope that the army would fall apart early into the siege. He couldn’t understand how the wizard had achieved such a dramatic unification of the arch foes. The appearance of the demon and the raising of Cryshal-Tirith had shown him the incredible power that Kessell commanded. He had soon drawn the same conclusions as the drow.
Unlike Drizzt, though, the spokesman from Bryn Shander did not retire when the field calmed again, despite the protests of Regis and Glensather, concerned for his health. On his shoulders, Cassius carried the responsibility for the several thousand terrified people that lay huddled within his city’s walls and there would be no rest for him. He needed information; he needed to find a weak link in the wizard’s seemingly impregnable armor.
And so the spokesman watched diligently and patiently throughout the first long, uneventful day of the siege, noting the boundaries that the goblin tribes staked out as their own, and the order of hierarchy that determined the distance of each group from the center spot of Cryshal-Tirith.
Away to the east, the fleets of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval moored alongside the docks of the deserted city of Easthaven. Several crews had gone ashore to gather supplies, but most of the people had remained on the boats, unsure of how far east Kessell’s black arm extended.
Jensin Brent and his counterpart from Caer-Konig had taken full control of their immediate situation from the decks of the Mist Seeker, the flagship of Caer-Dineval. All disputes between the two cities had been called off, temporarily at least—though promises of continued friendship were heard on the decks of every ship on Lac Dinneshere. Both spokesmen were agreed that they would not yet leave the waters of the lake and flee, for they realized that they had nowhere to go. All of the ten towns were threatened by Kessell, and Luskan was fully four hundred miles away and across the path of Kessell’s army. The ill-equipped refugees couldn’t hope to reach it before the first of winter’s snows caught up with them.
The sailors that had disembarked soon returned to the docks with the welcomed news that Easthaven had not yet been touched by the darkness. More crews were ordered ashore to collect extra food and blankets, but Jensin Brent played it cautiously, thinking it wise to keep most of the refugees out on the water beyond Kessell’s reach.
More promising news came a short time later.
“Signals from Redwaters, Spokesman Brent!” the watchman atop the Mist Seeker‘s crow’s nest called out. “The people of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole are unharmed!” He held up his newsbearer, a small glasspiece crafted in Termalaine and designed to focus the light of the sun for signaling across the lakes, using intricate though limited signaling codes. “My calls have been answered!”
“Where are they, then?” Brent asked excitedly.
“On the eastern banks,” the watchman replied. “They sailed out of their villages, thinking them undefendable. None of the monsters have yet approached, but the spokesmen felt that the far side of the lake would be safer until the invaders have departed.”
“Keep the communication open,” Brent ordered. “Let me know when you have more news.”
“Until the invaders have departed?” Schermont echoed incredulously as he moved to Jensin Brent’s side.
“A foolishly hopeful assessment of the situation, I agree,” said Brent. “But I am relieved that our cousins to the south yet live!”
“Do we go to them? Join our forces?”
“Not yet,” answered Brent. “I fear that we would be too vulnerable on the open ground between the lakes. We need more information before we can take any effective action. Let us keep the communications flowing between the two lakes. Gather volunteers to carry messages to Redwaters.”
“They shall be sent off immediately,” agreed Schermont as he headed away.
Brent nodded and looked back across the lake at the dying plume of smoke above his home. “More information,” he muttered to himself.
Other volunteers headed out later that day into the more treacherous west to scout out the situation in the principal city.
Brent and Schermont had done a masterful job in quelling the panic, but even with the substantial gains in organization, the initial shock of the sudden and deadly invasion had left most of the survivors of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval in a state of utter despair. Jensin Brent was the glowing exception. The spokesman from Caer-Dineval was a courageous fighter who steadfastly refused to yield until the last breath had left his body. He sailed his proud flagship around the moorings of the others, rallying the people with his cries of promised revenge against Akar Kessell.
Now he watched and waited on the Mist Seeker for the critical news from the west. In mid-afternoon, he heard the call he had prayed for.
“She stands!” the watcher on the crow’s nest cried out ecstatically when the newsbearer’s signal flashed in. “Bryn Shander stands!”
Suddenly, Brent’s optimism took on credibility. The miserable band of homeless victims assumed an angry posture bent on vengeance. More messengers were dispatched at once to carry the news to Redwaters that Kessell hadn’t yet achieved complete victory.
On both lakes, the task of separating the warriors from the civilians soon began in earnest, with the women and children moving to the heaviest and least seaworthy boats, and the fighting men boarding the fastest vessels. The designated warships were then moved to the outbound moorings, where they could put out quickly across the lakes. Their sails were checked and tightened in preparation for the wild run that would carry their brave crews to war.
Or, by Jensin Brent’s furious decree, “The run that would carry their brave crews to victory!”
Regis had rejoined Cassius on the wall when the newsbearer’s signal had been spotted on the southwestern banks of Lac Dinn
eshere. The halfling had slept for most of the night and day, figuring that he might as well die doing the thing he loved to do best. He was surprised when he awakened, expecting his slumber to last into eternity.
Cassius was beginning to view things a bit differently, though. He had compiled a long list of potential breakdowns in Akar Kessell’s unruly army: orcs bullying goblins and giants in turn bullying both. If he could only find a way for them to hold out long enough for the obvious hatred between the goblin races to take its toll on Kessell’s force….
And then, the signal from Lac Dinneshere and subsequent reports of similar flashes on the far side of Redwaters had given the spokesman sincere hope that the siege might well disintegrate and Ten-Towns survive.
But then the wizard made his dramatic appearance and Cassius’s hopes were dashed.
It began as a pulse of red light circling within the glassy wall at the base of Cryshal-Tirith. Then a second pulse, this one blue, started up the tower, rotating in the opposite direction. Slowly they circled the diameter of the tower, blending into green as they converged, then separating and continuing on their way. All who could see the tantalizing show stared apprehensively, unsure of what would happen next, but convinced that a display of tremendous power was forthcoming.
The circling lights speeded up, their intensity increasing with their velocity. Soon the entire base of the tower was ringed in a green blur, so bright that the onlookers had to avert their eyes. And out of the blur stepped two hideous trolls, each bearing an ornate mirror.
The lights slowed and stopped altogether.