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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.

"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.