Richard Baker - Final Gate

“Thank you for your help, Gaerradh,” Araevin said. “Sweet water and light laughter until we meet again.”

He bowed to the wood elf, but she shook her head and caught him in a rib-cracking embrace. “Sun elves,” she laughed. “Would it hurt you to smile?” Then she treated Jorin, Nesterin, and Maresa the same way, and even Donnor Kerth too, which left the fierce Tethyrian blushing-he was chivalrous to a fault and had firmly fixed ideas about how a devout man should act in the presence of the fairer sex. But he rallied enough to timidly pat her back before letting her go.

They spent the rest of the morning gathering provisions and seeing to their mounts, and rode out of Myth Glaurach in the afternoon. This time Araevin determined to head north into the wilds of Turnstone Pass. The day was warm and mild, and they were high enough in the hills that even in midsummer it would not grow uncomfortably hot, certainly not compared to the depths of the Yuirwood or Cormanthor.

The road climbed into the foothills north of the old city, winding between steep hills covered in thick pine forest. Sometimes the white ribbon of a waterfall slicing from the rocky heights above appeared through the trees. After a few miles, the road rose steadily higher along the shoulders of the hills, and the trees thinned out, offering broad views of the country to the east and south. Nesterin, riding beside Araevin, spent much of his time admiring the view.

“This is striking country,” the star elf observed. “Those are the Nether Mountains?”

“Yes, on both sides of the pass.” Araevin pointed toward the northeast, where the peaks rose bare and brown above the green mantle of forest covering their shoulders. “Netheril once stood on the far side of the mountains. The desert Anauroch lies there now.”

Nesterin glanced at Araevin. “Our path leads us into the desert?”

“Not if I can help it,” Araevin said. “I think our journey should begin at the House of Long Silences. There is a portal only a few miles farther up this road that will take us there.”

“The House of Long Silences?”

“It’s a meeting place of portals in the Ardeep Forest, near Waterdeep. I believe that some of the doors there lead into the Waymeet itself, and that in turn is a place where thousands of portals come together. I think that if we look there, we may find a gate that will take us much closer to the place where the second shard awaits.”

After a while, they reached a place where a small side trail zigzagged up toward a lonely watchtower overlooking the pass. Little remained of the old tower, only a hollow ring of stone standing less than twenty feet tall. Mounds of stone blocks gathered around the stump, hinting at the height the tower had once possessed.

“A guard post for the pass raised by the humans of Ascalhorn,” Araevin explained to the others. “I think it was razed by the fiends of Hellgate Keep soon after they overran the city.”

He dismounted, and took his horse’s reins in hand, leading his friends past the stump of the tower to the broken remains of a small shrine. Here, a doorway of stone with a lintel carved in the shape of a flowering vine stood incongruously in the steep hillside.

“That looks like portals we saw beneath Myth Glaurach,” Donnor said.

“Yes, it’s the work of elves. I never determined whether the portal was placed here after Ascalhorn raised the watchtower, or if Ascalhorn raised the tower at this spot because the portal was here.” Araevin studied the old portal, seeking out the old activating words the builders had hidden in the decorative carvings around its edges. “Remember, once I activate the door, it will not stay open long. Lead your horses through on foot. All you need to do is keep the reins in hand while you touch the stone within the archway. You will appear in the Ardeep Forest.”

After one quick look to make sure his companions were ready, Araevin woke the portal with his spells. The blank stone in the center of the archway did not vanish, but it took on a shimmering, liquid appearance. He paused for a moment, admiring the artistry of the long-dead mage who had fashioned its skein of enchantments and abjurations. Then he set his hand on the cool stone, murmured the ancient passwords, and was gone.

The smoke of forges and foundries always hung thickly over the lower quarters of Zhentil Keep, filling the city with an acrid reek. Scyllua Darkhope, castellan and captain of the city’s armies, clattered through the streets astride her fearsome white nightmare, with six of her elite Castellan’s Guard riding after her. She hardly even noticed as common tradesmen and guttersnipes scattered from her path. Her eyes remained fixed on great and distant things.

The riders came to the new bridge spanning the Tesh, and turned north toward the black battlements of the keep from which her city took its name. By some lucky accident, the great castle was rarely troubled by the fuming stink of the city’s industries. The westerly winds usually carried the smoke out over the dark waters of the Moonsea, away from the low hill where the castle stood guard above the cheerless streets.

“Make way for the castellan!” called one of the guards who followed her.

As Scyllua rode beneath the iron portcullis of the river gate, soldiers in black and yellow sprang to attention, striking the butts of their halberds on the flagstones. Somewhere far overhead, the long yellow whiptail of the castellan’s pennant broke from a flagpole atop the keep, signaling the arrival of the castle’s commander. Cries of “The castellan returns!” echoed from watchpost to watchpost along the walls.

Scyllua swung herself down from her pale steed, giving it a single pat of her gauntleted hand before the hell-horse vanished back into the infernal realms with a single shriek. It would come again at her call, to serve when she needed it. Then she finally acknowledged the sergeant-at-arms who stood with his arm across his chest in salute.

“Lord Fzoul summoned me?”

“Yes, High Captain. He awaits you in his chambers.”

Scyllua nodded absently and strode into the keep’s lower hall. She took the steps quickly despite her armor of black plate, and her Castellan’s Guards labored to keep up with her. Five flights of stairs later, she came to a great double door of black adamantine, emblazoned with the symbol of a mighty gauntleted fist. Ten warriors stood guard before the door, as well as a fearsome beholder.

She did not look at the creature as she said, “Announce me, Tharxul.”

The many-eyed monster drifted idly in the air, regarding Scyllua with several of its writhing eyes. “Of course, Lady Scyllua,” the creature gurgled in a deep, wet voice. “We have been expecting you. You may enter.”

The castellan took three strides past the floating monster before she paused, her fist on the door. She frowned and looked back at the beholder. Her eyes lost their distant distraction as she fixed them on the monster. Bright and cold as steel they shone.

“What did you say, Tharxul?” she asked softly.

The endless weaving of the creature’s eyestalks slowed. “You are expected,” it wheezed. “You may enter.”

“No, that is not what you said,” Scyllua replied. She took two strides toward the hovering monster. “You said ‘we’ have been expecting you. Am I to understand that you presume to have me at your beck and call? Do you believe that you command some small measure of the authority of the Chosen Tyrant of Bane? Do Lord Fzoul’s actions now require your sanction, Tharxul? Do you think to offer your approval?”

“You misunderstand me, Castellan-”

“I misunderstand nothing! ” With a single swift motion Scyllua swept her broadsword from its sheath and struck off one of the beholder’s weaving eyestalks. Black ichor spurted on the flagstones as the monster howled in outrage and dismay. “You do not approve, Tharxul! You submit, you serve, you obey!”