Final Gate lm-3

by Richard Baker

  “Another intersection,” the genasi said softly over her shoulder. “This place goes on forever, Araevin. Which way now?”

  Araevin studied their surroundings, stretching out with his senses as he attempted to discern any glimmer of the crystal. So far, the artifact had resisted any effort to magically determine its location. Either the stone was protected by its own powerful concealing enchantments, or the remaining wards of the Nameless Dungeon itself were sufficient to deflect any attempt to scry out the shard’s hiding place. After a moment, he gave up.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he told Maresa.

  “That’s hardly reassuring,” the genasi muttered. She looked for a moment more and turned to the passageway on her left. “This way first, then.”

  Maresa led the way as they followed the passage. Donnor and Jorin stayed close behind her, swords at the ready. They soon came to a series of alcoves or niches in the vault. The first few they passed were empty, but then they found one occupied by a tall statue of iron. It was shaped like a proud sun elf warrior, dressed in the same sort of ancient armor that Araevin had seen many of the fey’ri wear. This was no fey’ri; for one thing, the statue lacked wings, horns, or any other demonic features. Heavy, spiked gauntlets encased its fists.

  “That thing is built to fight,” Donnor said. The cleric looked up and down the hall at the empty niches to each side. The company had already passed thirty or forty of them. “I wonder if all these alcoves used to have statues in them… and where they all went, if more of them were here once.”

  “Leave it alone,” Araevin decided. “It doesn’t seem to be active now.” The mystery of the abandoned war-construct could wait.

  He turned away to follow his companions deeper into the dungeon. They were ten paces farther down the hallway when the squeal of rusted metal in motion stopped him in his tracks.

  “I do not like the sound of that,” Nesterin said to Araevin.

  Together the elves turned, and found themselves staring at the iron statue as it ponderously stepped forth from its alcove and swiveled to face them. It raised one arm slowly, as if to accuse them of some crime. Brilliant blue sparks abruptly sprang into life in its blank eyes and the joinings between its armored plates. From its outstretched gauntlet a great stroke of lightning leaped down the hallway with a terrible booming thunderclap.

  Araevin threw himself aside but was still caught and spun around to the hard stone floor by the force of the bolt. His muscles jerked and kicked, leaving him writhing on the flagstones with searing white pain all along his right side and smoke rising from his cloak. Nesterin fell nearby, singed as badly as Araevin. Maresa ducked out of the way with an oath, but the lightning stroke bent toward Donnor in his plate armor and struck him with its full force. Blue sparks flew from the Lathanderite’s body, and he was flung ten yards down the hall, spinning through the air as his sword clattered to the floor.

  “Donnor’s hurt!” Maresa cried.

  She snapped a single shot from her crossbow at the advancing statue, but the bolt simply clattered away into the darkness like a matchstick thrown at an anvil.

  “Help him,” Araevin gasped.

  He picked himself up, trying to keep his trembling legs underneath him, and looked up just in time to see the statue standing over him, drawing back its ogrelike fist. He scrambled back out of the way as the ancient war-construct pulverized a head-sized chunk of the masonry wall where he had been lying just a moment before.

  With a quick gesture of his hand and an arcane syllable, Araevin blasted back at the statue with a spinning globe of magical force that struck the machine in the center of its black iron torso. The blow would have crushed the chest of a giant, but other than bludgeoning a good-sized dent in the thing’s armor and knocking it back a step, the spell had little effect.

  “Not good enough, Araevin,” he hissed at himself, thinking furiously of spells that might be better suited to the task.

  With a rush, Jorin hurtled past him and hammered at the construct’s waist with his flashing swords. The Yuir ranger quickly realized that he couldn’t get through the ancient armor plate either, and shifted targets. Weaving his blades in front of the statue’s blank gaze and jamming sword points in any gap or joint he could find, he drew its attention away from the others.

  “This way, you! Come on!” he called.

  Gaerradh appeared behind the statue, fighting with a long axe in one hand and a short-hafted one in the other. Her axe-blows rang like hammers on an anvil against the statue’s back, but she kept it off-balance. With one high leaping blow she struck it hard on the side of the helm, knocking its head slightly askew, but the war-construct responded by dropping to one knee and slamming its huge fist into the ground at her feet, blue sparks flying from the blow.

  The flagstone floor erupted in a jagged line through the center of the hallway, knocking Araevin and Nesterin back down and bouncing Gaerradh head-over-heels. The wood elf landed flat on her back, stunned. The war-construct reached out one powerful hand to crush her.

  Lying on the shattered floor, Araevin threw out his hand and barked out the words of another spell. A thin green ray sprang from his finger and struck the construct’s arm. Wherever its sinister emerald light played, iron simply vanished into glittering black dust. Most of the machine’s right arm disintegrated before the green ray winked out again.

  “Well done, Araevin!” Nesterin cried.

  As the war-construct reeled back, the star elf gathered his strength and gave voice to a single deep note that cracked stone and crumpled iron plate, hammering the statue over backward. The ancient machine fell heavily to the floor, landing on its back at Jorin’s feet.

  The Yuir ranger cast away one sword and gripped the other in both hands, capping his palm over the pommel. Then he dropped to a knee and drove the blade straight through the war-statue’s visor. Brilliant blue sparks exploded from the device, hurling Jorin away-but then the azure light flickered and faded, leaving nothing but a wisp of smoke and a sharp, bitter smell in the air. The statue lay still, its helmet transfixed by Jorin’s sword.

  Araevin picked himself up wearily and looked around. “Maresa? How is Donnor?”

  “Dazed, but still here,” the genasi said. She helped the human knight to sit up. Donnor rubbed his head and groaned, but said nothing.

  “Evidently, the construct still works,” Nesterin said. He looked at the empty niches lining the hallway, and frowned. “Where are the rest of them, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the fey’ri removed them after they escaped.” Araevin rubbed his burned side. “Of course, if Sarya had had any number of those things at her command, we certainly would have seen them used against us in the battles near Evereska or in the High Forest.”

  “It wasn’t very fast,” Gaerradh observed. “Maybe she had a hard time getting them to her battles.”

  Araevin studied the wreckage of the war-construct a moment longer, and turned away. “Let’s continue. We’ll pass a warning to Seiveril Miritar to watch out for war-machines like this one when we finish our work here.”

  Moving more cautiously, they continued on past the last of the alcoves-eighty-eight of them, if Araevin had counted correctly-and came to a high gallery, overlooking a large shrine below. The Nameless Dungeon had proved much more extensive than Araevin had ever suspected. Vast lightless halls, dizzying shafts, and long passageways seemed to run on for miles in the darkness underneath the hill. Its armories and barracks could have accommodated an army.

  Which is exactly what they did, he reminded himself. Sarya’s fey’ri legion slumbered here in magical stasis for the better part of fifty centuries.

  They descended from the gallery to the floor of the shrine by means of a stone slab levitated in midair by some ancient magic. Then they proceeded through an ornate archway into another hall, this one with a whole forest of thick stone columns, entwined by carvings of flowering vines and serpents.

  The room smelled of death.


  Araevin frowned and moved forward cautiously, glancing into each row of pillars as they passed. Then he discovered the source of the sickly scent hanging in the chamber. Half a dozen bodies were sprawled on the floor near the room’s center: four lean, ruby-skinned warriors with broken black wings, and two green-scaled serpentine creatures. Signs of a furious battle were evident all around the pillared hall-the black scorch-marks of fire spells, pockmarks of broken stone in the walls and pillars, even a shattered sword on the floor.

  “Those are fey’ri,” Donnor said flatly. “What are they doing here?”

  Araevin studied the scene carefully before answering. “The same thing we are,” he decided. “Searching for the shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can see lingering auras of magic.” Araevin pointed to an empty dais at the far end of the room. “Something powerful rested there not long ago, but now it is gone. I think it must have been the shard. Besides, Sarya Dlardrageth knew enough about the Crystal to steal it in the first place. It makes sense that she eventually would have sent some of her minions to recover the device.”

  “What about the snake creatures?” Maresa asked. She suppressed a shiver of distaste. “Were they looking for the shard too? For that matter, what are they?”

  “I’ve seen those serpent monsters before,” Gaerradh said. “They are called ophidians-clever and vicious creatures. Some are sorcerers, too. They haunt the upper reaches of the dungeon.”

  “If the shard was here at some point, where is it now?” Nesterin asked. The star elf studied the battle scene, his mouth set in a thoughtful frown. “Did other fey’ri survive the battle and take it from this place?”

  “I do not think so,” Jorin said. The Yuir ranger moved over to the dais, studying the floor closely. “There’s very little dust here, but there is enough blood on the floor to tell an interesting tale. A snake-creature like those two over there slithered over this dais, leaving a smear of blood-there, and there.” He followed the faint traces away from the dais, to another one of the thick pillars in the chamber, and circled it several times, frowning. Then he looked up and smiled. “Our missing serpent monster left the room through this pillar. There’s a hidden door here.”

  “How long ago did these fey’ri and the serpent creatures die?” Araevin asked.

  Jorin and Gaerradh exchanged glances. “It’s hard to tell in the cold, dry air of a place like this,” Gaerradh said. “But the blood’s dry and brown, not at all sticky. I’d guess several days.”

  “Then there’s little reason to hurry.” Araevin moved to the far end of the pillared hall, well away from the grisly battle scene. He shrugged his rucksack from his shoulder, unbuckled his sword belt, and sat down with his back to the wall. “Let’s get some rest before we follow the serpent monster into its lair.”

  Accompanied by an escort of two wood elf scouts and eight lancers of the Silver Guard, Fflar and Ilsevele rode northeast from Deepingdale, following the narrow, swift Glaemril. By the end of their first day’s ride they passed from Deepingdale into the wide, thinly settled borderlands that lay north of Tasseldale and west of Battledale. Long ago more people had lived in these parts; the small company rode past the lonely stumps of abandoned watchtowers and rambling old manors whose lands were sectioned off by long fieldstone walls, overgrown by thick briars.

  They made camp for the night in the ruins of a fine old manor house not far from the Pool of Yeven, the place where the Glaemril and Semberflow joined the Ashaba. Fflar looked carefully to his mount, a fine roan stallion called Thunder, while Ilsevele tended her own horse Swiftwind, a gray destrier her father had brought from Evermeet. The night was warm, and she quickly discarded her leather doublet and arming coat, working in the thin white tunic she wore beneath her armor. Fflar found himself admiring her over his horse’s back; she was strikingly pretty, with a graceful figure and eyes of brilliant green, shadowed by some unspoken concern that creased her brow.

  She’s spoken for, he reminded himself. Araevin is my friend. Besides, she’s the granddaughter of Elkhazel Miritar. I died five centuries before she was even born. But… if you didn’t count the years that I was in Arvandor, that would make us close to the same age, wouldn’t it? I’ve only lived about a century and a half in this world, even if most of that was hundreds of years ago, before she was born.

  Fflar scowled at himself, and decided that it was long past time to redirect his thoughts. “How do you think Araevin and the others are faring?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, a little more sharply than he might have expected. Fflar paused, brush in hand, and waited. After a moment, Ilsevele sighed and looked up to meet his eyes. “He said that he was going to start his search in the ruins of Nar Kerymhoarth. I suppose they’re exploring the Nameless Dungeon even as we speak.”

  Fflar sensed something unspoken in her reply. Then he puzzled it out. “You wonder if your place is with Araevin, don’t you?”

  “I am concerned for him. And the rest of our companions, too. But I do not doubt my decision, Starbrow.” Ilsevele returned to rubbing down Swiftwind. The small gray mare nickered in pleasure, and nuzzled Ilsevele’s back. “I am certain that we must not fight the humans of these lands, not if there is any chance of making peace.”

  “If you are confident in your decision, then what troubles you?”

  Ilsevele shook her fine copper hair out of her eyes and arranged her tack and saddle neatly on the ground. Then she looked away across the overgrown fields surrounding the old manor. Glimmers of sunset still played in the clouds high overhead, but the forest shadows were dark and impenetrable in the deepening dusk. “I know I am doing what is right, but… I didn’t want to go with Araevin.”

  “Didn’t want to go with him?” Fflar frowned. “There is nothing to trouble you there, Ilsevele. You see your duty differently than he sees his. There is no fault in that.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, Starbrow.” Ilsevele glanced over her shoulder at him, and looked away. He thought he saw the glimmer of a tear on her cheek. “Araevin has changed, and I am not speaking of the color of his eyes or the high magic in his heart. The last few months have awakened him from some long Reverie. I think I only really knew him when he was dreaming away his days in Evermeet.”

  “Someone had to do what he did,” Fflar said. “It’s a good thing that he was the equal of the challenge, isn’t it? Without Araevin’s skill, his determination, I do not know if we could have beaten the daemonfey at the Lonely Moor.”

  “I know. But have you seen how Mooncrescent Tower marked him?” Ilsevele shook her head. “I can’t help but think that it’s dangerous to want to be something other than what you are. You may get exactly what you want.”

  Fflar shrugged awkwardly. He was beginning to fear that he might not be the right person to hear out Ilsevele’s heartache, but that was his problem, not hers.

  “Give him time, Ilsevele,” he managed. “He will remember himself, when better days are here.”

  She gave him a half-hearted smile and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I hope they come swiftly, then,” she said. She gave herself a small shake and fixed her eyes on him. “Enough of my foolish worries. You still haven’t told me who you are, Starbrow. I think it’s time you stopped dodging my questions.”

  “Starbrow is good enough.”

  “No, it’s not.” Ilsevele faced him, her arms folded across her chest. “You know Cormanthor like the back of your hand. You are one of the most skillful warriors I have ever seen. You carry the last Baneblade of Demron-a sword that my father kept safe for centuries. Where are you from? Do you have a family? How did you come to know my father?”

  Fflar shook his head. “I told you once before, you’ll need to ask your father about that.”

  “I am not asking him. I am asking you,” Ilsevele retorted. “I trust my father implicitly, but I won’t let you hide behind that blind any longer. We’ve shared deadly d
anger, and we’ve fought and bled together. I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

  He did not try to meet her eyes. “It’s not my tale to tell.”

  Ilsevele waited. Then, saying nothing, she turned and left the broken hall. Fflar sighed, and finished tending to his horse-he’d been done for some time, really. Then he brushed his hands together and stood, looking out at the night. Ilsevele had trusted him with the trouble in her heart, but he hadn’t shared anything in return, had he? She was right to be angry with him. He didn’t think that Ilsevele would be awed by his story, or that she would tell anyone else if he asked her not to. It just seemed simpler, easier, to approach this new life of his without any of the encumbrances of the old one.

  “Ah, damn it,” he muttered softly. When it came down to it, refusing to speak openly was almost as bad as lying, and he hated falsehoods. Especially ones devised for his own comfort and convenience. She’d said it well enough, hadn’t she? It was dangerous to want to be someone other than who you were.

  He checked on the sentries, making sure that the small campsite was secure. Then he went in search of Ilsevele.

  He found her sitting by a still pool in what had once been the garden of the old manor. She did not look up as he approached. Without invitation, he sat down next to her and began to speak. “My name is Fflar Starbrow Melruth,” he said. “I was born in Myth Drannor in the Year of the Turning Leaf, a little less than eight hundred years ago.

  “I served in the Akh Velar, the city’s guard. When I was eighty, I married Sorenna Alydyrrin, and a few years later, she bore me a son, whom we named Arafel. I loved them more than all the stars in the sky.”

  “You are the Fflar of whom the legends speak?” Ilsevele asked softly.

  “I don’t know of any legends. But I was captain of the Akh Velar in Myth Drannor’s final days, and I carried Keryvian in many battles that last summer. I died on a summer afternoon, fighting the nycaloth lord Aulmpiter.