Richard Baker: Final Gate

“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.