Final Gate lm-3

by Richard Baker

  “In Myth Glaurach, you told me that I hadn’t been called back to fight one battle,” Starbrow said. “You told me that I had been called back to live, for as long as chance dictates. When I look in Ilsevele’s eyes, I know why I came back. I came back to meet her, even if I didn’t know it the night you summoned me from Arvandor.”

  “Enough.” Seiveril raised his hand, forestalling Starbrow’s words. “It is still too unexpected, Starbrow. And this does not seem to be the time-”

  “Lord Miritar! Lord Miritar!”

  Seiveril looked around behind him. Edraele Muirreste galloped back down the forest road, standing in her stirrups. She waved to him as soon as she caught sight of his banner.

  “Selkirk of Sembia asks for you. The daemonfey await us in the Vale!”

  Starbrow glanced at him, and back to the captain of the Silver Guard. “How strong are they, Edraele?” Starbrow called.

  “Two thousand or more. The fey’ri legion is there, along with many demons and devils!”

  “I suppose we’ll have to speak about Ilsevele later.” Seiveril grimaced, realizing that he was actually grateful for the opportunity to turn his attention to less confusing matters. “I did not expect Sarya to make a stand outside Myth Drannor’s walls.”

  Starbrow shrugged. “I had a feeling we weren’t going to get to Myth Drannor without a fight.”

  As it turned out, Araevin’s teleport spell was very nearly a fatal mistake.

  Instead of conjuring himself and his friends safely to the cavelike sanctuary near the top of the Long Stair, he botched it badly. The small company was scattered for a mile or more in the lightless dark. Araevin himself appeared alone a good six or seven feet in the air above the narrow roadway, and gave his knee a painful wrench on landing. Jorin and Donnor arrived in the sanctuary, but Nesterin was half a mile distant in the opposite direction and wound up clinging to the ledge with white-knuckled hands, having been dropped right at the edge of the awful precipice. And Maresa herself did actually appear out in the middle of the dreadful space, but fortunately arrested her fall with her elemental gifts. They all finally found their way to the small, cold cave above the abyss, warded by the best spell shields Araevin could manage with the last of his strength.

  When they finally roused themselves, Jorin prepared the best breakfast he could from the haphazard collection of belongings they had managed to bring out of Lorosfyr with them, while Donnor illuminated their small refuge with Lathander’s golden light. Then the cleric addressed their various injuries, salving bruises and sealing cuts with his healing spells. He even managed to ameliorate the abominable ache in Araevin’s knee.

  “Don’t ask me how we managed it, but we are all alive and reasonably hale and whole,” the cleric muttered when he finished. “By the Morninglord, I thought that I had seen my last dawn. When Selydra hurled that black orb at me…”

  “Try finding yourself alone, falling in total blackness.” Maresa hugged her arms close to her chest and shivered. “Is that what Ilsevele meant when she said that teleport spells sometimes don’t work as well as they ought to, Araevin?”

  “More or less,” Araevin admitted. “Strange magic permeates the deep places of the world. It can scatter a teleport spell, as I demonstrated for you. That is why I was hesitant to try it, unless I thought we had absolutely no other choice.”

  “I think I’ll be happy to walk the next time you offer to whisk us off somewhere in the blink of an eye,” the genasi said. “Speaking of which, I think I’m about ready to walk on out of here. I’ve had all of the Underdark that I care for.”

  “Back to the portal, then?” Jorin asked Araevin.

  “I think so, but I am not sure. The Waymeet is not safe any more.” Araevin thought of the infernal monsters that haunted the place, and the fiery iron brands driven into the living crystal. He did not know if the devils guarding the Waymeet had determined which door they had used to leave, but the last thing he wanted to do was walk right into an ambush. “I want to make sure that I know where we’re going before we chance it again.”

  “Can you sense the direction to the third shard now?” Nesterin asked.

  “Let me try.”

  The sun elf rummaged through his pack for a moment and drew out the first shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. Then he opened the iron coffer from Selydra’s vault. The Pale Sybil’s shard rested inside on a bed of black velvet. He lifted it out carefully, and held it beside the first shard. The dagger-shaped fragments glowed with a soft lavender radiance even in the brightness of Donnor’s light spell. Araevin noticed that the glow grew stronger the closer the shards were to each other. Taking a deep breath, he fitted the two together. He felt a sharp jolt of power flow through his hands, magic old and strong indeed, and the two pieces were bonded together as if they had never been parted. He couldn’t find the slightest seam to mark the place where they joined each other.

  “Amazing,” he murmured.

  Cradling the joined crystal on his lap and closing his eyes, he chanted the words of a simple seeking spell and opened his mind, casting about for any hint of direction. The crystal in his hands began to shine brighter, and seemed to stir or whisper, filling the chamber with a strange high note like the ringing of a glass he might have tapped with the edge of a knife. Araevin felt his friends watching him, silent and intense.

  At first he felt nothing in answer to his call. But then, faint and far off, he sensed an answering note. He reached out to catch it with his mind’s eye, but no matter how he imagined the third shard, he couldn’t derive any idea of where it was in relation to the cave on Lorosfyr’s edge. He could tell that it was distant, but not in what direction it might lie.

  “Well? Where is it?” Maresa asked.

  “Not nearby,” Araevin answered. He frowned and tried to listen closer, hoping to learn something from the quality of the ringing note, but it was beginning to fade. “I do not think it lies on this plane of existence.”

  The others exchanged sharp glances. “Where is it, then?” Donnor asked.

  Araevin raised his hand for silence, still straining for the last whispers of his seeking spell. He had half-expected something like that, and he was not unprepared. As the faint ringing of the crystal faded, he freed one hand from the Gatekeeper’s Crystal and reached into the pocket of his cloak, where he kept his spell components. Casting a pinch of powdered glass above his head and muttering the words of a powerful spell, he invoked a vision.

  “Where is the third shard?” he demanded. “Where?”

  The chamber darkened and whirled away as the vision snatched him away from his body. He felt an instant of dizzying movement, a great leap of awareness that sent his perception racing outward through silver nothingness at the speed of thought itself, and he found himself standing on a barren, dusty plain. The sky was dark with black, racing clouds that flickered with an angry orange glow, as if great fires seethed within. Thunder crackled and echoed around him, and the air was desperately hot and dry. Around his feet, shriveled black thorns clawed their way from the dust, waiting for rain that never came. Jagged peaks as sharp as swords fenced the distance.

  “Where am I?” he asked the harsh desert. Nothing answered him, but he sensed something behind him. Turning slowly, Araevin beheld a mighty citadel of black glass. It soared skyward from the depths of a forest of dead, twisted trees. In one small tower a white light flickered, enticing him. The shard! he realized. But then the awful plain and the terrible castle reeled drunkenly, and vanished in an instant.

  He gasped and jerked awake, his skin hot and dry even in the numbingly chill air of the abyss. For a moment he flailed in surprise, but strong hands caught his arms and steadied him.

  “Easy, Araevin! You are back,” Jorin said. The Yuir ranger knelt on his right, and Donnor Kerth at his left. “You have seen the shard?” the cleric asked. Araevin drew in a deep breath. “Yes. It lies in an infernal plane. Some hell or another beyond the circles of our world.”

  “Of cour
se,” Maresa muttered. “Maybe Bane himself is keeping it in his vest pocket. Why not?”

  Donnor grimaced. “Are you sure?”

  “There was a dry plain of sharp stones… clouds of fire in the sky

  … a dark and strong fortress. It was an awful place.” Araevin passed a hand over his eyes. “I know what I saw, Donnor.”

  The company fell silent. Maresa shook her head and stood, keeping her thoughts to herself for once. Donnor’s armor creaked as he eased back against the wall, his stubbled jaw clenched in thought. Nesterin and Jorin watched Araevin and waited.

  “So… what do you intend now?” Nesterin finally asked. “Will you try for the third shard?”

  “I have to. I have no choice.”

  “Myth Drannor is that dangerous in Sarya Dlardrageth’s hands?” Donnor asked.

  “It’s not Myth Drannor-though that is certainly perilous in its own right. The true danger is the Waymeet, the Last Mythal. Ilsevele’s father could set a cordon around Myth Drannor and imprison the daemonfey within its bounds forever if he had to, but I can’t allow Malkizid to master the Waymeet. The consequences would be awful.”

  “So we need to venture into the Hells to get this last shard.” The Tethyrian looked up at Araevin and nodded. “Very well. It can’t be that much worse than Lorosfyr.”

  Araevin dropped his hands to his lap, and began to wrap the two joined shards in a cloth for storage in his pack. “I said it before we came to Lorosfyr, and I will say it again: None of you have to come with me. It is not your task.”

  Maresa shot Araevin a hard look and snorted. “I’m not done with Sarya Dlardrageth. I’m not about to give up now.”

  “The lower planes are vast and deadly. Can you find your way to the shard?” Nesterin asked.

  Araevin looked at his friends. Cold, battered, and exhausted even after their comfortless rest in the cave at the edge of Lorosfyr’s deadly dark, they still chose to go on. His heart could break at their quiet courage.

  “I can find the shard,” he finally said. “But I think we will have to return to the Waymeet to reach it.”

  Soft and still, morning found the armies of Evermeet, the free Dales, and Sembia arrayed for battle at the edge of the Vale of Lost Voices. Rather than pressing forward to meet the daemonfey after a long march, the elves and Sembians had decided to rest for the night and join battle on the following day. The time was at hand. Banners hung limp in the cool air, and spears and helms gleamed in the gray mist. Fflar heard little other than the faint rustle of armored men shifting their footing or the occasional cough in the ranks. Heavy, brooding clouds overhead promised rain before long.

  “The daemonfey are still here,” Ilsevele murmured. She sat on her roan mare Swiftwind, dressed in her full battle armor. She and Fflar waited together beneath the twin banners of Seiveril Miritar and Miklos Selkirk. The two leaders intended to begin the day standing together. “After last night, I expected them to retire.”

  “I didn’t,” Fflar murmured back.

  The daemonfey had harried both the Crusade and the Sembians throughout the night. Demons stealing through the darkness with blood dripping from their fangs, spells of stabbing fire or corrupting blight hurled from the dark skies above, sudden deadly rushes to hack down those standing guard… Fflar had seen horrors such as that before, in the last days of the Weeping War.

  It would have been worse without the Tree of Souls. Carefully set in the earth at the center of the elven camp, the tree’s aura made at least a few hundred yards of the Vale relatively safe from demonic attack. The only problem was that the sapling had no great influence unless it was rooted in the earth, which meant that it had to be concealed and guarded quite carefully. It was also dangerously vulnerable while the army was on the move. Fflar was frankly glad that Thilesin was charged with caring for the tree. The responsibility was more than he would have cared for.

  “Why here?” Ilsevele said. “The daemonfey have the smaller force. Why not stand in Myth Drannor itself if they’re going to stand on the defensive?”

  Fflar studied the lay of the battleground. “Sarya sees some advantage here that she won’t enjoy if she waits for us to get any closer,” he answered. “This open land certainly favors her flying warriors and winged demons. We won’t be able to hide under the trees here.”

  Ilsevele reached out with one hand and found his, squeezing it in her archer’s grip. “I fear this will be a terrible day, even if victory is ours.”

  Fflar could not disagree. He followed Ilsevele’s gaze across the gray downs. The fey’ri legion stood in disciplined ranks, a little less than a mile from the elf and human armies. They would have been outnumbered almost ten to one by the allied army… but the restless horde of fiendish monsters tripled their strength. Tall, skeletal bone devils brandished their barbed hooks, insectile mezzoloths clacked their mandibles and jabbed their iron tridents in the air, and vulturelike vrocks crouched and slavered beneath their cowls of shabby gray feathers. Sarya’s forces were outnumbered still, but each demon, devil, or yugoloth in her army was an engine of supernatural destruction that could slay dozens of mortal warriors with impunity. The question was whether the elves and Sembians had sufficient spellcasters and champions among their ranks to deal with the hellspawned monsters before they shredded the two armies. And Fflar simply did not know the answer to that question.

  “Well, what do we do now, Miritar?” Miklos Selkirk said. He and Seiveril sat on their horses nearby, studying the battlefield ahead and making their plans. “Do we stand here and receive their attack, or do we strike first?”

  “Sarya’s army stands between us and Myth Drannor. I am afraid that places the burden of action on us,” Seiveril answered him. “I certainly don’t want to have to encamp again and fend off her demons through another night.”

  “Tempus knows that’s true enough,” Selkirk agreed. The Sembian prince had dispensed with his waistcoat and rapier, donning a suit of ebon half-plate covered in elegant gold filigree. A long-handled battle-axe hung at the pommel of his big black charger.

  The elflord looked over to Fflar. “Starbrow, what do you think?”

  Fflar studied the sky, absently wondering if rain would help or hinder the allied armies in the fight to come while he considered his answer. “I think that Sarya picked this place because she wants to beat us in a battle of maneuver, not overwhelm us with a headlong assault. She will wait for us to make our move, so we might as well get to it.”

  “As we planned, then.” Selkirk drew a deep breath, and leaned over to grip Seiveril’s arm. “May Tempus, Lord of War, favor us.”

  “Aillesel Seldarie,” Seiveril said in reply. Then he turned in the saddle of his own mount, and called out, “Signal the general advance!”

  Horns cried out in the still air, the high ringing tones of elven trumpets mixed with the deeper, flatter notes of the humans’ horns. Drummers in the Sembian ranks started up with a stirring count, and the armies moved out together. Instead of maneuvering separately, elf and human warriors marched alongside each other. Between companies of Sembian soldiers or mercenaries trotted files of Dalesfolk longbowmen and elf archers. Across the field, wherever human swordsmen or knights went, elf archers and mages followed. Fflar smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched the two armies combine into a single mixed force. It was disorderly and imprecise, and it took time to execute, but instead of having both armies trying to join each other, the Sembians simply marched ahead in well-spaced ranks while the elves-faster, more disciplined, and quicker to react-did the work of finding their places between the human ranks. The fey’ri would find no enemies unprotected by powerful elf or Dalesfolk bows.

  “Be careful,” Ilsevele whispered to Fflar. She leaned over from Swiftwind and kissed him lightly. “The daemonfey will be looking for you.”

  “And you,” he said in answer. “You won’t stay out of the fighting for long, I fear.”

  “I know.”

  Ilsevele turned Swiftwind away from the banne
r and urged the horse into an easy canter, riding back to where the Silver Guard of Elion and hundreds of Sembian cavalry waited, a few hundred yards behind the two standards. She had been placed in charge of the allied armies’ reserve-not because it was any safer there than elsewhere on the battlefield, but because it was an assignment of crucial importance. Seiveril trusted no one else beside Fflar to choose the moment to fling the allies’ last strength into the fray, and he needed Fflar to lead from the front in this fight.

  Sehanine, watch over her today, Fflar prayed silently.

  “Forward the banner!” Seiveril shouted, and Fflar spurred his mount into an easy walk. Instead of hiding their standard, the elflord and his guard marched in plain sight near the center of the army, surrounded by the Knights of the Golden Star, the Moon Knights, Selkirk’s own Silver Ravens, and the Evereskan Vale Guards, who were the best troops to be found in either army. Fflar glanced over his shoulder one more time. Ilsevele took up her spot at the head of her warriors, who stood watching in a double line of horsemen.

  “Beware the fey’ri!” someone cried near Fflar.

  He looked back around, just in time to see the whole daemonfey legion taking to the air, along with scores of the demons, devils, and other such things that could fly. The wing beats echoed like thunderclaps across the downs. They climbed higher, making ready for the strike to come. Below the winged warriors and monsters, the rest of Sarya’s motley array howled, shrieked challenges, and gnashed fangs, eager for the taste of mortal flesh. More than a few of the Sembian mercenaries slowed their pace, shrinking from the prospect of getting anywhere near the foul monsters. But still the combined armies moved on.

  “Spellcasters, ready your defenses,” Seiveril called.