Richard Baker: Final Gate

Nesterin looked to Araevin. “You said that this was an old elven stronghold,” the star elf said. “Who delved it, and why? What is the story of this place?”

“Its name is Nar Kerymhoarth. My people do not like to speak of it,” Gaerradh answered for Araevin. “Because we don’t tell its name to outsiders, the place became known as the Nameless Dungeon. It’s one of the Seven Citadels of ancient Siluvanede.

“Long ago, three elven kingdoms shared this forest: Eaerlann, Siluvanede, and Sharrven. Siluvanede was the strongest of the three realms. It was a sun elf kingdom whose people hoped to build a realm to rival long-lost Aryvandaar.

“But a new shadow fell over Siluvanede. The sun elves grew proud and ambitious. Many were seduced into swearing allegiance to the daemonfey-though the Dlardrageths remained hidden for a long time, guiding the kingdom’s affairs in secret. Finally war broke out among the three kingdoms; Eaerlann and Sharrven stood together against Siluvanede. That was the Seven Citadels’ War.” Gaerradh glanced at Donnor and Maresa, hesitating, but then she continued. “In the last years of the war, the fey’ri legions appeared. The foulness of the daemonfey was revealed for all to see. But Eaerlann and Sharrven together overcame Siluvanede.

“My ancestors bound the fey’ri and their masters in timeless magical prisons, buried beneath their ancient strongholds. The people of Eaerlann and Sharrven vowed to keep an eternal watch over these places.”

Araevin picked up Gaerradh’s tale. “Sharrven fell not long after Siluvanede,” he said. “Eaerlann endured for many centuries more but was overthrown five hundred years ago, when demonic hordes emerged from Hellgate Keep and destroyed all the lands nearby.”

Gaerradh nodded. “Our watch failed. By the time my people returned to this part of the forest, we’d forgotten the story of the old prisons. We knew that something old and evil slept in the secret strongholds of the forest, and so we kept watch. But we didn’t know why.”

“You seem to have pieced it all together now,” Jorin observed.

“Only because the daemonfey showed us what we’d forgotten.” Gaerradh shrugged. “I only learned the beginning of the story-the story of the fey’ri and the Seven Citadels’ War-after speaking with the sages and scribes of Silverymoon this summer.”

“So Sarya Dlardrageth’s fey’ri army was imprisoned right in there-” Donnor Kerth nodded at the ruined hillside-“after some ancient elven civil war?”

“Yes, you are right,” the wood elf answered.

“Any idea of what lies buried here? What sort of magic or guardian monsters we might find?”

Gaerradh shook her head. “We never set foot in the deeper halls of the Nameless Dungeon. They were sealed so thoroughly we didn’t even know they existed.”

Araevin checked the wands he carried holstered on his left hip, and studied the dark opening in the hillside. “I suspect that Sarya emptied the place when she freed her legion. But there’s only one way to be sure, isn’t there?”

25 Flamerule, the Year of Lightning Storms

Maresa peered down each of four branching hallways, keeping her crossbow pointed in the direction she was looking. The deep halls of Nar Kerymhoarth were still as death, and the air was heavy with a damp, musty scent.

“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.