Richard Baker - Final Gate

Nothing happened for a long moment, but then a dim flicker awoke in the depths of the pillar. The metal bands encircling the stone seemed to constrain the pillar’s glow, smoldering brighter as the azure gleam danced more strongly in the pillar’s depths.

A smooth, soft voice came from the pillar. “I am the Gatekeeper,” it whispered. “I hear you, Araevin Teshurr.”

“You know me?”

“I know anyone who addresses a speaking stone.”

“Araevin, who are you speaking to?” Nesterin asked.

“The sentience of this mythal,” Araevin answered him. “It is known as the Gatekeeper, because it guards the countless doors in this place.”

“It’s not doing a very good job,” Maresa muttered.

“I am constrained by the infernal spells with which I have been bound, Maresa Rost,” the pillar replied. “I have been prevented from fulfilling my purpose.”

“What are these spells doing to you?” Araevin asked.

“The archdevil Malkizid seeks to subvert me. Already he can prevent me from closing the gates that his spells hold open. In time he will extinguish my consciousness altogether, and he will be free to use all of the powers of the Waymeet as he wishes.”

“Is Malkizid here?” Araevin asked.

“No. But many yugoloths and devils who serve him are. You are in no small danger.”

“Great,” Maresa snarled. She shrugged her crossbow from her shoulders and laid a bolt in the rest, looking around anxiously.

Araevin thought for a moment, studying the blue gleam. “Are you required to report our presence to Malkizid or his agents? Or this conversation?”

“No, but that may not be true for much longer. Malkizid may be able to compel me to speak.”

“I have a shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal in my possession,” he told the device. “I mean to find the remaining shards and use the device to undo the damage Malkizid’s spells are causing. Can it be done?”

The pillar was silent for a time.

“Yes,” it finally said. “But you will need all three shards.”

“Do you know where the other shards are?”

“Not precisely, but I know which of my doors is closest to each shard,” the voice in the pillar said. It hesitated for a moment then added, “Three nycaloths approach, Araevin Teshurr. They will be here in moments.”

Araevin stole a glance over his shoulder, while his comrades nervously scanned the mist-wreathed crystal spars nearby. “Which door do we use?” he asked.

“I will indicate the portal you seek. Look to your left.”

Araevin complied, and found that a flickering blue gleam danced in the crystal ramparts in that direction.

He glanced to his companions and said, “Let’s go, before Malkizid’s servants appear.”

Quickly they hurried after the blue glow. As they neared the flickering light, it vanished from the crystal where it danced, only to appear a little farther on. No more than fifty yards from the plaza of the blue pillar, the light halted by a portal that stood near the base of another soaring buttress. Araevin was relieved to see that no infernal spike transfixed it. As they approached, the portal came to life, its milky surface abruptly changing into a smooth, pearly mist.

“Do you have any idea what might be on the other side?” Donnor said to Araevin.

“No,” the sun elf admitted. “But this is the way I have to go.”

He drew a deep breath, and stepped into the blank mists.

From their campsite in the ruined manor house near the Pool of Yeven, Fflar and Ilsevele rode eastward along the south bank of the Ashaba, picking their way through lands that showed increasing signs of habitation the farther they traveled. The long, low rampart of the Dun Hills grew steadily closer, marching northeastward as if trying to beat them to Blackfeather Bridge.

The air grew hot and still as the day wore on. It seemed as if the forests, fields, and hills yearned for a cleansing rain, but the heat did not relent. Far behind them, to the west, thunderheads piled up on each other only to dissipate and reform, never coming any closer. They rode past a farmstead where dozens of cattle lay butchered out in the fields.

“Demons or devils,” Fflar murmured. “Best keep on.”

“All right,” Ilsevele replied. She did not look long at the scene of the slaughter.

As they rode away, the sight still worried at the back of Fflar’s mind, until it seemed like some accusing stare was fixed at a point between his shoulder blades.

There’s no point in going back, he told himself. You know what you’ll find there. It’s done, and any people there are beyond help.

But finally he could stand it no more, and he stood up in the stirrups to look back at the ruined farm, several hundred yards behind them.

Mottled gray shadows raced through the undergrowth and bounded along the road behind the elven company.

Fflar stared for a moment, too horrified to even call out a warning. The monsters were doglike things as large as small horses, but thickly built. Chitinous plates armored their bodies, but for all that they were quick. Blunt, eyeless heads ended in enormous rasping jaws, from which long barbed tongues lolled. The nearest darted through the dusty shadows along the roadside only forty yards behind them.

Finally he found his voice. “Canoloths!” he cried. “Run!”

He spurred Thunder, and the roan stallion leaped ahead in a gallop. It galled Fflar to lead the flight, but he’d seen a dozen or more of the monsters in his single glance, and he didn’t doubt that there were just as many that he hadn’t seen yet… and if the creatures were herding them into an ambush, he wanted to meet it himself.

Ilsevele did not waste a moment before spurring Swiftwind right after him, and the rest of the Silver Guards were no slower. In the space of five heartbeats the small company was at a full gallop, racing along the dry, dusty trail. Two of the guards bringing up the rear unlimbered their bows and managed a few awkward shots at their pursuers, guiding their mounts with knees only as they twisted around to shoot at the closest of the canoloths. One of the monsters tumbled into a great cloud of dust, lamed by an arrow that caught its shoulder. Another broke away, shaking its head to dislodge the arrow embedded in its jaws. The rest began to fall off the pace, outdistanced by the elves’ horses.

“I think we’re losing them!” Ilsevele called.

“Watch out for an ambush!” Fflar called back to her. “These things are clever.”

He turned his attention back to the road ahead, just in time to spot three canoloths leaping down out of the shadows from the higher ground on the right side of the road. One bowled over a Silver Guard and his mount, dragging the warrior down into the dust. The second came right for Fflar. Thunder whinnied and sheered away, almost throwing him, but the swordsman kept his seat and drew Keryvian. The canoloth darted after Thunder, lashing out with its hawser-thick tongue to lasso the horse’s rear leg, but Fflar leaned back in the saddle and severed the tentacle-like member with a quick overhand cut. The monster roared and jerked back, only to be ridden down by another of the Silver Guards.

“Ilsevele!” Fflar cried.

He whirled around to find his charge, just in time to see her stand up in her stirrups and shoot a pair of arrows over Swiftwind’s shoulder, skewering the third of their ambushers twice in the center of its open maw. The creature bucked and jumped, black blood spurting from its mouth, and Ilsevele hurtled over it in one smooth jump and kept going. Fflar galloped after her, and their remaining guards followed.

“Captain Starbrow!” cried one of the Silver Guards. “Illithor went down!”

Fflar risked another look over his shoulder. A hundred yards back down the road, four or five of the canoloths snarled and snapped in a murderous fury around the guard and the horse that had gone down.