The Last Mythal: A Forgotten Realms Trilogy by Richard Baker

Author:Richard Baker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Epic, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Fiction, Fantasy, General, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Published: 2014-05-06T23:00:00+00:00

The city of Yûlash had been a ruin for decades. It sprawled atop a great, shield-shaped plateau overlooking the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white-tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.

The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, beside her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yûlash’s greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yûlash’s old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city’s great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.

Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan’s Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.

“You may put up your sword, Scyllua,” the Chosen of Bane said amiably. “This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won’t fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door.”

“This place is dangerous,” Scyllua replied. “I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord.”

“It’s neutral ground, Scyllua. It’s the best we could do.” Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.

The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord’s express permission.

Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. “Trying to impress me, Fzoul?” he asked.

“Not at all,” the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. “Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir’s Tower a good middle ground.”

“Indeed,” the first lord said. “It does not escape my attention that your army still occupies half of Yûlash to deny Hillsfar control of this place.

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