Final Gate

by Richard Baker

  “Durability,” Araevin answered. “The sun elves of old knew ways to fashion crystal that remains almost indestructible today, thousands of years after it was cast. We’ve been chasing after crystals because that’s the form in which magical power and knowledge from elder days was preserved.”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Maresa grumbled. “So how far east do we have to go? Back to Cormanthor? Thay? Kara-Tur?”

  “I am not certain,” Araevin admitted. He could clearly sense the direction, but the distant ringing of the crystal had held an odd note, something he could not easily put into words. Somehow he doubted that it would be as simple as riding toward the dawn until they found the second shard. “We’ll make for Myth Glaurach before we do anything else. We need to collect our mounts and provision ourselves for a long journey.”

  The short summer night passed quietly, and in the morning they retraced their steps back toward the conquered fey’ri stronghold. They reached the ruined city in the hills late in the day, and passed the night among the wood elves who guarded the place. Beneath the lanterns and starlight, Myth Glaurach’s overgrown ruins did not seem as sad as they once did—but then again, the songs of the wood elves had a way of dispelling the gloom. They rested for the night in the small chapel where they had stayed a few tendays before, when the whole of Seiveril’s Crusade was encamped in the ruins.

  Early the following day, Gaerradh took her leave of the small company. “I must go visit Lady Morgwais in the High Forest and tell her what happened in Nar Kerymhoarth,” she said. “And after that, I should go see Alustriel and Methrammar in Silverymoon. But I wish you luck in your search for the remaining shards.”

  “Thank you for your help, Gaerradh,” Araevin said. “Sweet water and light laughter until we meet again.”

  He bowed to the wood elf, but she shook her head and caught him in a rib-cracking embrace. “Sun elves,” she laughed. “Would it hurt you to smile?” Then she treated Jorin, Nesterin, and Maresa the same way, and even Donnor Kerth too, which left the fierce Tethyrian blushing—he was chivalrous to a fault and had firmly fixed ideas about how a devout man should act in the presence of the fairer sex. But he rallied enough to timidly pat her back before letting her go.

  They spent the rest of the morning gathering provisions and seeing to their mounts, and rode out of Myth Glaurach in the afternoon. This time Araevin determined to head north into the wilds of Turnstone Pass. The day was warm and mild, and they were high enough in the hills that even in midsummer it would not grow uncomfortably hot, certainly not compared to the depths of the Yuirwood or Cormanthor.

  The road climbed into the foothills north of the old city, winding between steep hills covered in thick pine forest. Sometimes the white ribbon of a waterfall slicing from the rocky heights above appeared through the trees. After a few miles, the road rose steadily higher along the shoulders of the hills, and the trees thinned out, offering broad views of the country to the east and south. Nesterin, riding beside Araevin, spent much of his time admiring the view.

  “This is striking country,” the star elf observed. “Those are the Nether Mountains?”

  “Yes, on both sides of the pass.” Araevin pointed toward the northeast, where the peaks rose bare and brown above the green mantle of forest covering their shoulders. “Netheril once stood on the far side of the mountains. The desert Anauroch lies there now.”

  Nesterin glanced at Araevin. “Our path leads us into the desert?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Araevin said. “I think our journey should begin at the House of Long Silences. There is a portal only a few miles farther up this road that will take us there.”

  “The House of Long Silences?”

  “It’s a meeting place of portals in the Ardeep Forest, near Waterdeep. I believe that some of the doors there lead into the Waymeet itself, and that in turn is a place where thousands of portals come together. I think that if we look there, we may find a gate that will take us much closer to the place where the second shard awaits.”

  After a while, they reached a place where a small side trail zigzagged up toward a lonely watchtower overlooking the pass. Little remained of the old tower, only a hollow ring of stone standing less than twenty feet tall. Mounds of stone blocks gathered around the stump, hinting at the height the tower had once possessed.

  “A guard post for the pass raised by the humans of Ascalhorn,” Araevin explained to the others. “I think it was razed by the fiends of Hellgate Keep soon after they overran the city.”

  He dismounted, and took his horse’s reins in hand, leading his friends past the stump of the tower to the broken remains of a small shrine. Here, a doorway of stone with a lintel carved in the shape of a flowering vine stood incongruously in the steep hillside.

  “That looks like portals we saw beneath Myth Glaurach,” Donnor said.

  “Yes, it’s the work of elves. I never determined whether the portal was placed here after Ascalhorn raised the watchtower, or if Ascalhorn raised the tower at this spot because the portal was here.” Araevin studied the old portal, seeking out the old activating words the builders had hidden in the decorative carvings around its edges. “Remember, once I activate the door, it will not stay open long. Lead your horses through on foot. All you need to do is keep the reins in hand while you touch the stone within the archway. You will appear in the Ardeep Forest.”

  After one quick look to make sure his companions were ready, Araevin woke the portal with his spells. The blank stone in the center of the archway did not vanish, but it took on a shimmering, liquid appearance. He paused for a moment, admiring the artistry of the long-dead mage who had fashioned its skein of enchantments and abjurations. Then he set his hand on the cool stone, murmured the ancient passwords, and was gone.

  The smoke of forges and foundries always hung thickly over the lower quarters of Zhentil Keep, filling the city with an acrid reek. Scyllua Darkhope, castellan and captain of the city’s armies, clattered through the streets astride her fearsome white nightmare, with six of her elite Castellan’s Guard riding after her. She hardly even noticed as common tradesmen and guttersnipes scattered from her path. Her eyes remained fixed on great and distant things.

  The riders came to the new bridge spanning the Tesh, and turned north toward the black battlements of the keep from which her city took its name. By some lucky accident, the great castle was rarely troubled by the fuming stink of the city’s industries. The westerly winds usually carried the smoke out over the dark waters of the Moonsea, away from the low hill where the castle stood guard above the cheerless streets.

  “Make way for the castellan!” called one of the guards who followed her.

  As Scyllua rode beneath the iron portcullis of the river gate, soldiers in black and yellow sprang to attention, striking the butts of their halberds on the flagstones. Somewhere far overhead, the long yellow whiptail of the castellan’s pennant broke from a flagpole atop the keep, signaling the arrival of the castle’s commander. Cries of “The castellan returns!” echoed from watchpost to watchpost along the walls.

  Scyllua swung herself down from her pale steed, giving it a single pat of her gauntleted hand before the hell-horse vanished back into the infernal realms with a single shriek. It would come again at her call, to serve when she needed it. Then she finally acknowledged the sergeant-at-arms who stood with his arm across his chest in salute.

  “Lord Fzoul summoned me?”

  “Yes, High Captain. He awaits you in his chambers.”

  Scyllua nodded absently and strode into the keep’s lower hall. She took the steps quickly despite her armor of black plate, and her Castellan’s Guards labored to keep up with her. Five flights of stairs later, she came to a great double door of black adamantine, emblazoned with the symbol of a mighty gauntleted fist. Ten warriors stood guard before the door, as well as a fearsome beholder.

  She did not look at the creature as she said, “Announce me, Tharxul.”

  The many-eyed monster dr
ifted idly in the air, regarding Scyllua with several of its writhing eyes. “Of course, Lady Scyllua,” the creature gurgled in a deep, wet voice. “We have been expecting you. You may enter.”

  The castellan took three strides past the floating monster before she paused, her fist on the door. She frowned and looked back at the beholder. Her eyes lost their distant distraction as she fixed them on the monster. Bright and cold as steel they shone.

  “What did you say, Tharxul?” she asked softly.

  The endless weaving of the creature’s eyestalks slowed. “You are expected,” it wheezed. “You may enter.”

  “No, that is not what you said,” Scyllua replied. She took two strides toward the hovering monster. “You said ‘we’ have been expecting you. Am I to understand that you presume to have me at your beck and call? Do you believe that you command some small measure of the authority of the Chosen Tyrant of Bane? Do Lord Fzoul’s actions now require your sanction, Tharxul? Do you think to offer your approval?”

  “You misunderstand me, Castellan—”

  “I misunderstand nothing!” With a single swift motion Scyllua swept her broadsword from its sheath and struck off one of the beholder’s weaving eyestalks. Black ichor spurted on the flagstones as the monster howled in outrage and dismay. “You do not approve, Tharxul! You submit, you serve, you obey!”

  The beholder recovered from its shock and retreated, turning to bring more of its eyes to bear. For a moment incandescent death in the form of half a dozen blights, curses, and slaying spells at the monster’s command gleamed in the eyes it trained on Scyllua, but the short woman’s fierce glower did not waver for an instant. Tharxul seethed on the edge of rebellion and destruction, its blood dripping to the floor … and it blinked. Sinking down to the floor, it closed its eyes and inclined its round skull.

  “I submit, I serve, I obey,” the monster said thickly.

  Scyllua stared at the creature for a moment longer, and slammed her sword back into its sheath. She deliberately turned her back on the beholder and said to no one in particular, “Have a cleric tend its wound.” Then she pushed open the door of adamantine and entered the lair of her master.

  Fzoul Chembryl, master of Zhentil Keep and Chosen Tyrant of Bane, saw no reason to pretend to any false austerity. His personal chambers were literally palatial, the floor covered in exotic carpets from distant Semphar, the walls decorated with silk arrases and trophies of a dozen dark triumphs. Scyllua found her lord reclining on a golden couch by a window looking out over the Moonsea, reading from various scrolls.

  At once she knelt and lowered her head. “I have come as you commanded, Lord Fzoul.”

  Fzoul took no notice for a moment, but then he finished the scroll he was looking at and set it aside. “So I see,” he said. He swung his feet from the couch and stood up slowly. He was a tall man with long, luxurious red hair, broad-shouldered and strong. “You were quite stern with Tharxul, my dear. Beholders are somewhat hard to come by, you know.”

  “I submit myself for correction.”

  “Oh, I did not mean to rebuke you, Scyllua. In fact, I approve. You have taken to heart the instruction I provided you in the Citadel of the Raven, a few tendays past.” The lord’s mouth twitched up in a cold ghost of a smile. “Besides, Tharxul has become presumptuous of late. It is your duty to instruct any who stand beneath you in the Great Lord’s service. The loss of an eye will perhaps encourage him to adopt a more appropriate attitude as he serves Bane with his remaining ten.”

  Scyllua did not presume to reply. After a moment Fzoul nodded. “You may rise.”

  She stood, her armor creaking, and awaited his command.

  “Is your army prepared to march again?” Fzoul asked. “It is, my lord.”

  “I expected nothing less. Attend me for a moment.” The tyrant drifted over to a table nearby, on which a map of the Moonsea and the Dalelands lay. Scyllua followed him, focusing her gaze on the familiar lines and marks. Fzoul muttered the words of a spell prayer and brushed one hand over the yellow parchment. Beneath his touch the parchment came to life. The forests became a rolling sea of green, the waters of the Moonsea turned dark and glittered as if in the sunlight, roads and towns awoke to life.

  “The new masters of Myth Drannor have driven the army of Evermeet all the way back to the southwest corner of the forest,” Fzoul began. Tiny white banners glimmered beneath the trees, beset by dark roiling hordes of hellspawned monsters. “Sembia’s army is melting like last winter’s snows, retreating across the Blackfeather Bridge.” Small rivers of disorganized troops pressed and bunched by the miniature bridge spanning the waters of the Ashaba.

  “And here,” the lord of Zhentil Keep continued, “and here, we see that Hillsfar’s army near Mistledale has been routed completely … while Maalthiir’s tower lies in rubble, where Sarya Dlardrageth and her demonic legions tore it to pieces.” Under his fingertips the walled city of Hillsfar smoldered, and distant cries of pain and terror rose up from the image. “What observation do you draw from this, my castellan?”

  Scyllua examined the map for only a moment before answering. “The daemonfey fight all our enemies. Sarya Dlardrageth has broken the elves and the Sembians while harrying all the northern Dales.”

  “That cursed little flyspeck Shadowdale remains unconquered.” Fzoul grimaced briefly, fixing his baleful eye on the sharp spire of the Twisted Tower. “Doubtless the Great Lord permits that small land to resist our armies because he has some more subtle purpose in mind.”

  Scyllua bowed her head, expecting a sharp and painful rebuke. She had been given the task of subjugating Daggerdale and Shadowdale in order to close the three-sided trap that would have ensnared the elven Crusade in Mistledale. The elves and Grimmar had driven her army back north in defeat. But Fzoul’s mind was evidently caught up in the next move, not the last one. The tyrant’s eye turned from Shadowdale, and Scyllua dared to look up again.

  “You may also note that the daemonfey have shattered the Red Plumes of Hillsfar,” said Fzoul, “Now we must ask ourselves: What shall we make of this calamity that has beset the Dalelands and the old elven forests?”

  Scyllua recognized the question as one that Fzoul would answer for himself. “Whatever the Great Lord wills, I shall do,” she said simply.

  “I know, my dear.” The tyrant smiled coldly. “With the Great Lord’s guidance, I have decided on Hillsfar.”

  That was no surprise. The First Lord of Hillsfar and the master of Zhentil Keep detested each other, and had been rivals for decades. Several years past they had tried to set aside their differences, arranging a secret accord … but neither Maalthiir nor Fzoul was the sort of man to live in a house where he was not the undisputed master. When they had met in the ruins of Yûlash a couple of months ago, they had met as enemies.

  Fzoul continued, “While the daemonfey of Myth Drannor keep the Dalesfolk and the Sembians occupied, we have in our hands a golden opportunity to destroy a nearby rival. With its Red Plumes mauled and its Sembian allies in disarray south of the Ashaba, Hillsfar is mortally weakened. Sooner or later, the war between the elves and the daemonfey will be decided. Regardless of who wins, it suits me to sweep Hillsfar from the table while no other power can stop me from doing so.”

  “The daemonfey might be able to interfere, my lord,” Scyllua said.

  “Sarya has already shown that she regards Maalthiir as an enemy. If anything, we may perhaps earn her gratitude by completing the city’s downfall.”

  Scyllua studied the map under Fzoul’s hand for a time, already thinking about where the first blows would be struck and the details of a march eastward along the shore of the Moonsea. But she could see the glittering spires of demon-haunted Myth Drannor poised like a knife at her ribs if she attacked Hillsfar, leaving her right flank only a few dozen miles from Sarya Dlardrageth’s city.

  “The daemonfey have turned on everyone else, my lord. I must believe that sooner or later they will turn on us, as well.”

  “Perhaps.
” Fzoul shrugged. “I have communed with the Great Lord at length on this question. He has shown me that the daemonfey will not betray us before we complete the destruction of Maalthiir’s power.” Fzoul folded his thick arms across his chest, and nodded confidently. “There is a limit to the number of enemies Sarya Dlardrageth is willing to fight at once. We will not come to blows with the daemonfey this year.”

  Scyllua recognized the cold confidence in her lord’s voice. When Fzoul spoke in such a tone, he was dealing in certainties. After all, as the Chosen Tyrant of Bane, it was given to him to know such things.

  Scyllua bowed deeply. “Then I have only one question, my lord,” she said. “Do you wish Hillsfar conquered or destroyed?”

  The House of Long Silences had changed little since the last time Araevin had set foot on its ivy-grown steps. He noticed that full summer had come to the Ardeep Forest; the woods were green and lush, and the air was pleasantly warm. It had been early in the spring when he and Ilsevele had traveled there from Evermeet, and the weather had been much colder and wetter then.

  The house itself was an old palace of white stone, long abandoned. Much of the place was open to the sky, and mighty trees hundreds of years old grew up through the ruined chambers. Weathered statues of old elflords Araevin had never been able to put a name to gathered moss in ivy-filled alcoves, strangely sad and wise in their decay. A palpable hush hung over the forgotten palace, so much so that it was hard to speak in anything but a whisper. Birdsong in the forest was rare and faint, as if the palace was not even really in the forest at all.

  “What a sad place,” Maresa said softly, running her pale fingers over a smooth stone balustrade. “Who would hide magical doorways in a tomb like this?”

  “Long ago, it was the residence of a grand mage of Illefarn,” Araevin said. “The great city of the kingdom stood not very far away, where Waterdeep now lies. Most of the doors in this palace were made long before it fell into ruin.”