Final Gate lm-3

by Richard Baker

  “Why have we come here, Seiveril?” Jorildyn asked.

  “Sarya Dlardrageth has shown a talent for employing ancient secrets against us. I think it is time that we returned the favor. There is help for us here.”

  The battle-mage nodded slowly in understanding. “I don’t understand why you didn’t summon the guardians of the vale last night,” he murmured. “We could have used the help.”

  “I dared not do so until I had given them a chance to witness the valor of the Sembians,” Seiveril answered. “Many of the warriors sleeping here regarded the humans as enemies during their living days. I was afraid that the guardians might not be able or willing to treat Selkirk and his men as allies. But the Sembians fought and died alongside elf warriors today, Jorildyn. And most of them did so with courage equal to our own. I think that will count for a lot in the judgment of the Vale guardians.”

  “Seiveril, be careful…” Starbrow warned. “The powers here are not to be lightly called upon.”

  “I know.”

  Seiveril strode up to face the rotunda’s only door, while the others exchanged looks behind him and slowly dismounted. He whispered a small devotion to clear his mind for the labor ahead, and pressed his hands together before his chest. Then he began to chant a powerful spell, calling on Corellon Larethian’s power and shaping the divine energy with his words and will. He sensed all around him the slow awakening of the vale. The wind shifted and grew strong, raking across the dry grass and fallen leaves with an icy touch. A pale corona began to flicker and burn around the ancient white stones of the place. He shivered and finished the incantation. Throwing his arms wide, he shouted, “Come forth, I beseech you! Come forth!”

  A golden light seemed to illuminate the domed crypt in front of him, sunlight from some distant and unseen dawn. The radiance spilled out over the nearby glade. And a spectral form seemed to stride through the mithral-chased door. It was the shade of a noble sun elf warrior, dressed in the arms of Myth Drannor’s Akh Velar. His red hair spilled out from under his helm, and his eyes gleamed with a brilliant light.

  Behind Seiveril, Starbrow recoiled two steps in pure astonishment. “Elkhazel!” he whispered. “Is that truly you?”

  “Greetings, Father,” Seiveril said weakly. He swayed, suddenly exhausted beyond all endurance, but Ilsevele and Jorildyn hurried up to steady him.

  “Seiveril, my son,” the shade of Elkhazel said. Warmth filled his voice. “Fflar, my old friend. I am pleased to see you walk in Cormanthor again.”

  Seiveril looked on the visage of his father. “Forgive me for calling you from Arvandor, but the guardians of the vale are needed tonight. I hoped that you could intercede on our behalf.”

  “I am not angry, Seiveril,” the golden spirit said. He drifted before the door of the Miritar crypt, ethereal mists streaming from his translucent form. His face was compassionate, but there was iron in the set of his mouth. “It is for needs such as yours that the ancient rites were first spoken. The daemonfey are an abomination in the sight of the Seldarine. Your appeal has been heard.”

  “You can aid us, Father?”

  “Only within the bounds of the Vale of Lost Voices itself, and only for a short time. Call for me when you judge the moment to be right, and I will come with others who sleep here.” Elkhazel Miritar offered a grim smile. “The Dlardrageths have transgressed against the memory of Cormanthyr. We await the chance to chastise the daemonfey.”

  “I will call for you,” Seiveril said.

  He studied the spectral visage, so familiar and yet so distant. Elkhazel had passed to Arvandor three centuries after Retreating to Evermeet, and a century after Seiveril’s birth. Though he had become a lord of Evermeet, he had never ceased to grieve for the elven realm destroyed in the Weeping War. Seiveril remembered the old pain in his father’s eyes, the wounded heart that had never wholly healed, and he felt his own heart aching with love and sorrow. Tears came to his eyes, and he made no attempt to stop them.

  The ghostly elflord stretched one hand over his son’s shoulder, and stood in silence. Then he looked up, and his gaze fell on Ilsevele. “Your daughter?” Elkhazel asked softly.

  Ilsevele’s eyes glimmered with tears, but she stood straight and looked her grandfather in the face. “I am Ilsevele, daughter of Seiveril and Ilyyela,” she said. “I greet you, Grandfather.”

  The shade drifted closer and studied her face, his eyes shining with light. Then, slowly, he knelt and bowed his head before her, doffing his spectral helm. In the moonlight he seemed as faint as a forgotten memory, but the night fell silent as the shade paid her homage.

  “I am sorry that we did not meet in life, granddaughter,” he whispered. “You are the hope of Cormanthyr, Ilsevele. In your day our People will come into a new spring.”

  Ilsevele looked down on the shade of Elkhazel and frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Elkhazel smiled. “You will,” he said. Then he rose and turned to Starbrow. “She is your hope as well, my friend. Across the centuries you have found the love you once lost, and it gladdens my heart to see it.”

  Starbrow stared at the visage of his friend, and struggled to speak. But the golden shade simply raised his hand in farewell and vanished in a single swift heartbeat. The four living elves were left standing in the glade before the Miritar crypt, and the night was still and warm again.

  No one spoke for a long time. Jorildyn studied his three companions, his gruff expression lost in a strange and rare wonder. Finally he cleared his throat. “We should return to the Crusade, Seiveril. We don’t know how much time we have before the daemonfey attack again.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Seiveril admitted. He looked at his companions. “I think it would be best if we kept what passed here in this glade to ourselves for now. The shades of the dead are right about many things, but their words often have many meanings. Nothing is written yet.”

  Climbing into his saddle, he turned his horse’s head back to the east and led the others away from the crypt of his fathers.

  It proved surprisingly difficult to measure time or distance in the Barrens of Doom and Despair. The sky was a featureless mass of low, roiling clouds, and the blowing dust frequently obscured distant landmarks. Clearly, this was a place where one could easily become lost. Without the distant call of the third shard to guide him, Araevin doubted that he could have managed to keep his bearings.

  They started off by descending the treacherous hillside from the old ruin, slipping and sliding in dust and scree. Then they struck off across the plain itself, trudging across the windswept waste. On several occasions the surging fires overhead burned their way free of the black clouds, scouring the ground below like dancing waterspouts made of flame, but fortunately none of the fire-strikes fell close to them.

  After several miles, they started to climb again, following a dry watercourse that snaked up into the razorlike maze of ridges. Near the foot of the defile they paused to drink some water and make a small meal from their rations.

  “I am surprised that we have encountered no infernal beings yet,” Nesterin said as they ate. “This plane seems virtually uninhabited.”

  “Don’t invite trouble,” Maresa growled. “I’m in no hurry to meet more demons or devils.”

  “It’s the nature of the plane, Nesterin,” Donnor said. “The domains of the evil powers in the Barrens are separated by vast stretches of wasteland. This place is not bounded like Sildeyuir. It goes on and on for countless thousands of miles. Not all of it can be full of evil creatures all the time.”

  “I think you spoke too soon,” Jorin announced. The ranger stood a little behind the others, looking back the way they had come with a hand above his eyes. “Something is on our trail.”

  Araevin and the others stood and hurried to Jorin’s side. The keen-eyed ranger was not mistaken; out in the open wastes a number of tiny, dark shapes that kicked up windblown arrowheads of dust were following them. Studying them for a long mome
nt, Araevin decided that the creatures ran on all fours, but they were too far off to make out any more detail than that-though they were covering ground at a very good speed indeed.

  “What are they?” Donnor asked. He gave up trying to see for himself, since his human eyes were the least keen of any in the small company.

  “I can’t say yet,” Jorin answered. “Wolves of some kind? I count at least thirty, about a mile behind us.”

  “If they keep on like that, they’ll be on us soon,” Nesterin added. The star elf looked over to Araevin. “We might be able to avoid them for a time by pressing ahead or scaling the slopes of these hills, but we cannot outrun them.”

  “What about using magic?” Maresa asked.

  Araevin studied the defile for a moment. “I know a spell to raise a wall of ice, but I can’t do it here,” he decided. “It’s not narrow enough. And I have doubts as to how long magical ice would last here, anyway.”

  “I hesitate to suggest it, but could we teleport away?” Donnor asked.

  “Have you forgotten about our little misadventure in Lorosfyr?” the genasi demanded.

  The cleric winced. Araevin shook his head. “That was due to the peculiar conditions of the Underdark, Maresa,” he said. “But it would not be any safer here. In the first place, I haven’t really seen the place we are trying to reach, and second, I don’t know anything about how magic of that sort works in this plane. I think we’d be better off to continue up this watercourse and look for a place to make a stand.”

  They quickly gathered their packs and set off again, scrambling up the boulder-strewn ravine at the best speed they could manage. In level spots they stretched out their legs into a loping run, and in more difficult places they bounded from boulder to boulder, arms wide for balance. By the time they’d gone a quarter-mile, they heard the first sounds of their pursuers-a deep, raspy baying that drifted up on the hot wind whistling up the defile.

  Not long now, Araevin decided.

  They could press on and delay the inevitable for a few more steps, or they could make the best of it where they were. He paused to study the lay of the land. To his right old rockslides from the jagged cliffs above had created a tangled jumble of boulders that seemed as good as anything.

  “Over there!” he called. “Get on top of the boulders.”

  He led the way as they scrambled up the defile’s side and scaled several of the larger stones. On the downhill side they stood a good ten or fifteen feet above the valley floor, but it would not be hard for the creatures chasing them to get up on the gravel slopes above the slide and come down on them. Still, it was the best they could do. Donnor Kerth drew his broadsword and set himself at the uphill side of the boulder-top, ready to defend the easiest path from the valley floor, while Nesterin and Jorin readied their bows and Maresa unslung her crossbow. Araevin drew a wand from his holster and turned to face the oncoming foes.

  A couple of hundred yards down the winding watercourse, the first of their enemies appeared. The creatures were monstrous hounds of some kind, with coal-black hides and eyes that glowed with an evil red light. Smoke and embers fumed from their heavy muzzles.

  “Hell hounds,” Donnor said grimly. “I think I will seek Lathander’s favor for this fight.” He started to chant a holy prayer.

  The pack caught sight of the company standing atop the boulders and filled the canyon with their voracious cries. Without a moment’s hesitation they streaked forward, bounding over the gravel and stone like black thunderbolts.

  Jorin’s bow sang its shrill note, followed an instant later by Nesterin’s and the deeper thrumming of Maresa’s crossbow. In the front of the pack, charging hell hounds folded up and rolled headlong in the dust, crippled by the arrows. For ten heartbeats the archers rained a furious shower of destruction against the fiendish creatures, killing or wounding a dozen of the monsters. Then Araevin judged the distance suitable for his wands, and began to alternate blasts of his disrupting wand with blistering lightning bolts from his wand. Hell hounds snarled with fury and roared in pain, hammered by the powerful concussive blasts or flayed alive by dancing lightning.

  “They’re still coming!” Maresa called.

  The pack swirled around the boulders, snapping fiercely. Searing gouts of fire scorched up at Araevin and his friends. Araevin recoiled, throwing his cloak over his face against the fiery breath of the monsters below-but the withering blasts seemed weaker than he could have expected. Instead of charring skin and setting cloaks aflame, the hell hounds’ breath left wisps of smoke rising from his clothes and angry red burns that were painful, but not serious.

  “What in the world?” he said aloud.

  “Lathander shields us against fire!” Donnor shouted. He was busy hacking down at the hell hounds who leaped and clawed for the boulder-top. As Araevin had feared, the hell hounds scrambled up the slope to get at the company. “I need some help here!”

  “Keep shooting!” Araevin barked to the others.

  He hurried to Donnor’s side just as four of the monsters rushed the cleric at the same time. The Tethyrian lunged and spitted one on the point of his sword, while Araevin raised his lightning wand and blasted two of the others. But the last hell hound rounded on him with the speed of a striking snake and caught his arm between its fiery teeth, wrenching the wand out of his hand. Bones cracked under the terrible strength of the creature’s jaws, and with a sudden sharp shake of its head it dragged Araevin off his feet and sent him toppling into a narrow crevice between two boulders.

  Araevin suddenly found himself flat on his back, rock hemming in on two sides, as hell hounds snarled and leaped for him from all around. Burning teeth closed in on his left ankle, but he shoved the pain to one side of his mind and managed to grate out the words of his prismatic blast. Blinding light filled the space between the boulders, and a mingled roar and rush of fire, lightning, and other arcane energies echoed in the canyon. When he could see clearly again, the cleft was littered with dead or petrified hell hounds. He staggered to his feet, just as a hell hound he hadn’t seen leaped at his back.

  A silver arrow from over Araevin’s head pinned the creature through the skull. Its lifeless body struck him across the shoulders and knocked him down again, but Araevin shoved the creature off him and found his feet again. He looked left, then right, but the hell hounds around him were dead or dying.

  “They’re running!” Jorin called. The ranger stood over Araevin’s crevasse, bow in his hands. He looked down at the mage, and knelt to lean down and offer a hand. “Are you all right, Araevin? For a moment I thought we’d lost you.”

  “You nearly did,” Araevin said. He took Jorin’s hand with his left arm and let the ranger help him scramble back up on top of the boulder. Once he was sure of his footing again, he looked around. About a dozen of the hell hounds were in full flight back down the defile, leaping over the arrow-pierced bodies of their packmates. All around the rockslide more of the creatures sprawled, their bodies smoking as they cooled. “Thank you for that last shot, Jorin. I never saw the one behind me.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Jorin replied. His face was red, and his cloak was blackened and smoking. “If Donnor hadn’t warded us against fire, that would have been a lot worse.”

  Araevin limped over-his ankle hurt fiercely, if not as badly as his right forearm-and clapped the Lathanderite on the shoulder. “Well done, Donnor. Grayth would have been proud of you today, I think.”

  The human knight returned Araevin’s grasp. “I thank you for that, Araevin. Now, let me see what I can do for your arm. I think you’ll have need of it soon enough.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  18 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Dawn was still a short time away. Pale gray streaks lightened the eastern sky, but it was quite dark. All around Fflar, the elves and their human allies rustled and murmured to each other, quietly taking their places. To his left, he could make out the haphazard lines of the Dalesfolk, reinforced by a phalanx of elf foo
tsoldiers from Leuthilspar. On the other side, the Sembians made up most of the right wing of the army. His foot ached, and he felt tired enough to lie down and fall into the senseless slumber of humankind, but Keryvian was still light on his hip.

  Fflar found himself gazing to the rear of the mustering army, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ilsevele. Against her protests her father had assigned her to command the forces they were leaving behind. Too many soldiers were too badly wounded to keep with the Crusade and its allies, but if they were left behind without a strong guard, they would be easy prey for Sarya’s bloodthirsty demons.

  She has the Tree of Souls to protect her, he told himself. She should be safe enough.

  Seiveril rode up and joined Fflar at the head of the Crusade. He followed Fflar’s gaze to the warriors they were leaving behind and asked, “You are worried that the daemonfey will ignore us and fall on those we leave behind?”

  “I don’t like to divide our forces,” Fflar answered. But there was no other way to draw the daemonfey into a stand-up fight, was there? He flicked his reins and turned back to face the mist-shrouded vale before the army. The fey’ri and their infernal minions were out there, likely preparing their own assault. “Is Selkirk ready on the right?”

  “He just sent word that he is. What of Lord Ulath?”

  “The Dalesfolk are ready on the left. And it seems that we’re ready here.”

  Seiveril glanced up at the overcast sky. A few faint stars glimmered through the drifting mist. Then he set his helm on his head, and motioned to Felael Springleap. “Felael, pass the signal: Forward, all!”

  Horns rang out, flat and low in the damp night air. From thousands of throats, both elf and human, a roar of defiance shook the Vale of Lost Voices, and the ground trembled with their footsteps. Fflar tapped his heels to his chestnut’s flanks, and the horse snorted and broke into a prancing walk, eager to run. The smoke and mist drifted slowly across the battlefield, stirred by the faintest of breezes, and a fine cool drizzle fell, dampening the banners and warriors’ cloaks.