Final Gate lm-3

by Richard Baker

  Sarya glanced at her small company. She had eight who could fight, including the vrocks. Araevin had half as many, and two of them were hurt. She might not be able to undo what he had done to her mythal’s defenses at Myth Drannor, but she could make sure that he paid for the trouble he had caused her.

  “Then it seems we have one more enemy to deal with before we abandon this place,” she said. “Lead the way, my warrior. Araevin Teshurr is mine.”

  The battle for Myth Drannor had broken down into a hundred fierce skirmishes. Bands of elves, Dalesfolk, and Sembians hunted the streets, searching out the surviving fey’ri and infernal monsters summoned by Sarya Dlardrageth. Many of those had vanished with the Araevin’s reduction of the mythal, but some still remained, creatures that had been brought to Faerun through means other than the mythal. Ilsevele did not intend to allow any of those to escape, if she could help it.

  At noon she found a few moments of quiet and allowed herself to grieve for her father. He knew it was going to happen, she reflected. He understood the designs of the Seldarine, and he did not shy from the part he was given. The only thing that kept her heart from breaking was the thought that her father did not regret the time of his death… and he was once again with Ilyyela, whom he had loved for three hundred years. How could she begrudge him that reunion?

  A rustle of armor brought her back to the streets of Myth Drannor. She looked up as Vesilde Gaerth, the slightly built warrior who led the Knights of the Golden Star, leaned against the ivy-covered wall beside her.

  “You do not need to go on today,” he said softly. “Stay by your father, Ilsevele. We can finish this for you and allow you to grieve.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I feel that I must finish Father’s work here, Vesilde. I will grieve for him later.”

  “Have you given thought to what follows this victory?” the elf knight asked.

  “You have been my father’s second throughout this war, Vesilde. It is up to you. You command the Crusade.”

  “I may have been Seiveril’s second, Ilsevele, but I am not his heir. You are House Miritar now.” Vesilde knelt beside her and took her hands in his. “This war ends today. The Crusade has accomplished its purpose; the daemonfey are broken. What will tomorrow bring?”

  “We must make sure that Sarya Dlardrageth and any fey’ri who escaped are found and dealt with.”

  “You misunderstand me. After today, I trust we will deal with the daemonfey.” The slight sun elf shook his hair out of his eyes. “I was speaking of what follows our victory over the daemonfey. Your father had a vision of what might take root here, Ilsevele. To him, this was not just a Crusade against the Dlardrageths. This was the Return, a homecoming to the ancient lands of our people. With his death, will that vision still come to be?”

  She frowned, studying the lush green forests that had grown over the city. The day was growing warm, warmer than it would ever be on a summer day in Evermeet, even though the season was fading toward fall.

  “I think I will stay for a time,” she finally said. “If nothing else, I want to be certain that no enemies arise in our ancient lands again. I suppose there will be others who feel the same.”

  “But I do not, Ilsevele. Evermeet is my home. I followed your father here out of my love for him, and my desire to see justice done for the murders at Tower Reilloch.” Vesilde frowned, searching her face. “I suppose what I am trying to say is this: If you believe in your father’s Return, you must take up his banner. You must look after those of our People who hope to make Cormanthor their home again, you must treat with the human of these lands, and you must make sure that our foes are defeated and driven out of Cormanthor. That is what your father asked of you when he asked you to finish what he had started.”

  She stared at the knight-commander in horror. “I don’t even know where to begin with that, Vesilde. Even if I did, would anyone follow me? My father was the one who stirred the hearts of thousands with his words and his courage.”

  “And those words need a new voice now, Ilsevele. I can think of none better than yours.” Vesilde straightened up and offered his hand to her. “As far as how to begin, well, we have unfinished work here today, as you have said. Perhaps you should begin with that.”

  Ilsevele took his hand, and stood up. She did not know if she could lead the Crusade… but she did know that her father’s dream, his words, had stirred her heart too. If she was the best hope for that dream to continue, then she would honor him by making sure it was not forgotten.

  “We need to speak with Selkirk and the Sembians,” she said, thinking out loud. “He needs to know of my father’s death, and we must determine the best way to finish off the daemonfey.”

  Vesilde nodded. “I will have him summoned at once, Lady Miritar.”

  “Thank you, Vesilde,” she said. She turned away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. She had much to think about.

  Selkirk and his personal guard arrived soon. Dressed in his resplendent half-plate of black and gold, Selkirk carried a double-bitted battle-axe in his steel gauntlets. “Ilsevele!” he called. He strode up to Ilsevele and doffed his helmet. His face was streaked with sweat and dust. “I just heard about your father. I am truly sorry for your loss. He was a remarkable man.”

  “Thank you, Lord Selkirk. I know that he thought well of you, too.” Ilsevele brushed her hand across her eyes, unashamed of the tears that gathered there. She would mourn her father properly, in time, but today she meant to finish the work he had started. That was the best way to honor him, and to give meaning to his death.

  “Where did it happen?” Selkirk asked, his voice soft.

  “The steps of Castle Cormanthor, not far from here. He was struck down by Xhalph Dlardrageth, the daemonfey prince.” Ilsevele’s voice shook, but she continued. “He lies in the Castle’s main hall now, with Felael and the rest of his guards keeping watch over him.”

  “And the daemonfey?”

  “Xhalph and Sarya fled. Starbrow and Jerreda pursued them.” A bleak tide of fear for the warrior who had won her heart threatened to overcome Ilsevele. She bit her lip, determined to see the rest of the day through before giving into grief and dread. He will return, she told herself. No one else she had ever seen matched his skill, and he had not gone after the daemonfey alone. It was foolish to let fear of what might happen to paralyze her. “Our scouts believe they went through a portal in the castle. When I am sure that we have matters in hand here, I will follow him.”

  “Of course,” Selkirk said. He looked at the old ruins around them. A tall shadowtop grew right in the center of what must have once been the common room of an inn, spearing through the long-vanished roof to spread its branches more than a hundred feet overhead. It was a pleasant spot, in its own way. “As far as I can tell, we have broken the daemonfey in the eastern half of the city. There is no organized opposition to our warriors, though there is plenty of skirmishing against stragglers and handfuls of fey’ri… and other monsters that seem to haunt this place.”

  “It is much the same for us,” Vesilde Gaerth told the Sembian lord. “We have secured everything from this spot to the west. The daemonfey who remain are in hiding.”

  Miklos Selkirk flashed a bright smile in his dusty face. “Then it seems that we have won the day.”

  “Almost,” Ilsevele said. “Some fey’ri will escape, but I intend to make sure that most of Sarya’s warriors do not get away this time. This must be the last battle of this war.”

  “What do you propose, then?” Selkirk asked.

  “First, we must throw a cordon of archers and mages around the outskirts of the city,” Ilsevele answered him. She reached into her tunic and drew out a parchment map, a copy of one sketched by Starbrow a few tendays ago when her father had first asked him how to go about taking the city. She spread it out on the stone rubble of one of the inn’s walls. “Many of our warriors already surround the city, but now we must tighten the net. We have set a watch from the Burial Glen to the Mea
dow, here. Lord Selkirk, if you agree, I suggest that the Sembian army sets its guard from the Meadow to the Glyr-that’s the stream on the north side of the city. Lord Ulath and his Dalesfolk already watch the northerly approaches to the city, from the Burial Glen to the Glyr.”

  “Done,” Miklos Selkirk said. “We’ll need to make sure the companies we assign to that duty keep in contact with the sentries on each side. We don’t want to give the daemonfey a way out.”

  Edraele Muirreste looked over at Ilsevele. “How will you prevent the daemonfey from simply flying away, Lady Miritar?”

  Ilsevele glanced up at the summer sky overhead. It was a clear morning, with only a few high clouds. A trio of Eagle Knights wheeled slowly hundreds of feet above the city, riding the air currents on their great birds of prey.

  “I think the job is in good hands already,” Ilsevele said. “Our Eagle Knights guard the sky.”

  Daeron Sunlance hadn’t been able to risk his giant eagles and their riders against the fey’ri legion, simply because he would have been so badly outnumbered in the air. But with the fey’ri legion shattered, his thirty knights could deal with the stragglers that were left. Chasing down small bands of fey’ri was an entirely different sort of task than dealing with Sarya’s legion all at once.

  Miklos Selkirk was already issuing orders to his own captains and Silver Ravens. “We’ll have your cordon set quickly, Lady Ilsevele,” he said when he turned back to her. “I presume you’ll want to sweep the city after we set our net?”

  Ilsevele nodded. “We must clear these ruins building by building, and roust out any fey’ri who are trying to hide from us. I suggest that we divide the work as follows: You and your folk begin in the east near the Street of Sorrows, Lord Selkirk, and push toward the west. We’ll start in the Westfields-the Dalesfolk on our left, the army of Evermeet in the center and right-and work toward the east.”

  “If I may, Lady Miritar?” Miklos Selkirk said. He looked at the map scroll in front of her. “Let’s place a strong company or two in the center, even before we start the sweep you suggest. We’ll ambush any daemonfey trying to stay ahead of the search.”

  “A good idea,” Ilsevele agreed. “I’ll have our Evereskan Vale Guards take up positions along the Street of a Dozen Dreams. They are our best footsoldiers.”

  “What of the other denizens of this place?” Vesilde Gaerth said. “There are undead, beholders, nagas… all sorts of monsters the daemonfey left for us to deal with.”

  Ilsevele thought for a moment. “If a monster flees, let it leave unless it is too dangerous to be permitted its freedom,” she decided. “If it hides within its lair and does not emerge, report its location, and post sentries to make sure that no one blunders into it. Otherwise, destroy it. My father wanted this city cleansed of the evil that has crept into it over the centuries. I intend to see his wishes carried out.”

  The fall from the nycaloth’s talons had left Nesterin with a leg too badly broken to walk on, so the star elf put one arm around Araevin’s shoulders and the other over Maresa’s. Together, the three of them limped back the way they had come in search of Donnor and Jorin. Broken glass crunched under their feet, and from time to time the ground trembled. Each such tremor was stronger and lasted longer than the previous one, bringing more of the Fhoeldin durr’s magnificent columns and arches crashing down from above.

  After the third quake in the space of five minutes, Maresa scowled up at the majestic glass balanced overhead. “Araevin, do we have time to retrace our steps all the way back to the door to Myth Drannor? What do we do if we get there and find that our gate has already burned itself out?”

  “We’ll use whatever portal we can find if we have to,” the sun elf answered. “But I don’t want to leave without Donnor and Jorin. The Seldarine alone know where they might end up if they choose a portal at random. It might be impossible to find them.”

  “It doesn’t look too promising right now,” Maresa muttered. “This place is going to kill us if we don’t leave soon, Araevin.”

  A loud groan from overhead caught their attention. Araevin looked up and saw a slender arch of glass more than a hundred feet above waver, and fold to the ground. They staggered back out of the way just as a spar forty feet long crashed end-on into the floor with a deafening crash. Flickering pulses of violet-white energy sparked and streamed from the ruin.

  A misshapen figure appeared through the shower of sparks, lurching toward them. “Araevin!” hissed Maresa.

  “I see it,” Araevin said.

  He slipped Nesterin’s arm from his shoulder and stood free, gripping a wand in his hand. They’d already had to fight off several yugoloths and devils stalking them through the Waymeet. The creatures seemed confused and leaderless without Malkizid to command them, but that did not mean that they weren’t dangerous, especially given how battered and bloodied the three companions were.

  Araevin raised his wand and aimed it at the creature coming closer. He started to speak its trigger word, but Nesterin suddenly lunged out and pulled his arm down. “No, Araevin! It’s Donnor and Jorin!”

  Through the acrid smoke and bright sparks, Donnor limped into sight. He half-carried Jorin, and the Aglarondan had a hand clamped to his side. Blood trickled through his fingers. Donnor helped Jorin to a spot where he could lean against the wall, and addressed Araevin.

  “Is all this your doing?” he asked. “Did you use the crystal?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Araevin answered. “We destroyed the heart of the mythal-this place won’t last much longer-and we caught Malkizid in the crystal’s influence. He will not trouble us again for a long time, even though his minions still roam the Waymeet.”

  “We ran into some,” Donnor said grimly. He took in Araevin’s bleeding wounds and Nesterin’s broken leg with a single glance, and sighed. “I am afraid I can’t do much for you here. Jorin was mauled by a pair of barbed devils, and I used most of my healing spells to help him.”

  “I will live,” Araevin replied. He looked around at the glass and iron maze that surrounded them. “Let’s find a portal that leads someplace remotely safe, and leave this place to fall in on itself.”

  “Don’t be too picky,” Maresa said. “I’ll take anything that doesn’t drop us in a dragon’s lair or put us back in the infernal realms.”

  Araevin spied a portal that still functioned, and limped over to inspect it. He started to speak a spell of portal lore to see where it led, when something gave voice to a foul croak above him. He looked up, and saw a pair of vrocks stooping on him.

  “The daemonfey!” he shouted.

  He managed to speak a dismissing spell and hurl one of the vrocks back to its home dimension, but the other crashed into him and bore him down to the stone floor. Filthy talons raked at his chest and belly, clicking against the light shirt of mithral mail he wore under his tunic, while the vrock slavered and snapped at his face with its stinking beak.

  Araevin saw a green flash in the middle of his companions, and someone cried out in pain as sizzling gouts of acid splattered the narrow passageway. Swords rang shrilly nearby, and more spells flew back and forth, but he was pinned by the demon tearing at him. One claw found the meat of his thigh and raked open his leg, and Araevin screamed in pain.

  “You’ll s-scream more when I r-rend your limbs-s from your body, m-mage,” the vrock hissed in his face. “I will d-devour you alive!”

  The mage struggled furiously against the demon. He was already injured and tired, and he had no strength left. The sharp beak grated across his cheekbone, and stabbed down again at his eye. Araevin avoided a gruesome wound only by throwing his arm up in the monster’s way, and it seized on his hand and bit until bones crunched and blood flowed. With his other hand, he groped for his holstered wands. He found the one he was looking for and jammed it into the vrock’s belly before shouting the command word.

  A shrill column of bright blue force blasted through the demon’s torso and flung the monster away from him. Araevin rolled
to his feet, trying to make sense of the battle around him.

  Nearby, Donnor Kerth fought against the daemonfey Xhalph. The tall monster rained blow after blow down on the Lathanderite’s shield, the impact of steel on steel ringing through the walls of crystal and iron. Jorin, hobbled as he was, still fought one-handed against a wounded fey’ri. Nesterin traded spells with another fey’ri mage, while a pair of vrocks and a fey’ri swordsman tried to corner Maresa in one niche of the Waymeet nearby.

  “Araevin! Do something!” Maresa called.

  He took the wand in his hand and threw it to her. “Here! The command is dalsien.”

  Maresa snatched the wand out of the air and turned it against the foes stalking her with a malicious grin. “Dalsien!” she shouted, and the bright blue bolt of disrupting energy hammered one of her foes against the opposite wall.

  Araevin started to speak a spell against the daemonfey prince, but a sudden flurry of wing beats descended behind him. “You have upset my plans for the last time, Araevin Teshurr!” snarled Sarya.

  He turned to defend himself, but not before she reached out and grasped him with a fist that glowed blue-green with arcane power. Icy lightning hammered through Araevin, hurling him off his feet. He sprawled to the ground, thrashing uncontrollably as Sarya’s spell burned and stabbed at him. He could not even scream.

  Sarya smiled, and flicked her tail. “Now that is what pleases me, Xhalph! My enemies prostrate before me, helpless! How shall I repay this one for all the trouble he has caused me?”

  “Get away from him, you foul harpy!” Starbrow commanded as he hurled into the fray, Keryvian burning like a white brand in his hands.

  The moon elf roared a challenge and raced to Araevin’s side, brandishing his sword. Beside him, the wood elf Jerreda raised her bow and with one skillful shot dropped the fey’ri dueling Jorin. Two more wood elves behind her met with fey’ri warriors and began furious duels of their own.

  Sarya whirled with a hiss of surprise. She threw herself into the air just in time to avoid Starbrow’s deadly blade, and beat her wings furiously for a margin of safety.