Richard Baker - Final Gate

“He’s gone!” he snarled back at the escorts. “Keep on!”

Half a mile later, Fflar judged that they had outdistanced the canoloths, and signaled for the rest of the company to slow down. They eased first to a canter, then to a quick trot. The canoloths were nowhere in sight.

Ilsevele turned her mare and looked back the way they had come. “Illithor,” she murmured. “Aillesel Seldarie, what an awful fate.”

“There is nothing we can do for him now,” Fflar said. He exchanged a long look with Ilsevele, and they continued on their way.

Only four miles farther on, they crested a steep hill and spied a large company of riders a few hundred yards ahead, encamped around an old roadside inn overlooking the Ashaba. Most of the cavalrymen were human, dressed in assorted surcoats of blue and white, with red-pennoned lances standing at the stirrup. Fflar held up his hand, and reined in. Beneath the tree-shadows at the top of the hill he was relatively certain that the cavalrymen below had not yet spotted them.

“I can’t make out any device,” Ilsevele said. “Are they Sembians?”

“It seems likely,” Fflar said. He peered at the company ahead. “I don’t know of any Dalesfolk cavalry that might be this far to the east. Of course, they’re probably mercenaries in Sembia’s pay, not Sembians proper.”

“Even if they’re only mercenaries, they’ll report to someone with the authority to treat with us,” Ilsevele said. “I suppose we have to start somewhere.”

Fflar looked over to her. “They may have no interest in talking to us, Ilsevele. You know that.”

“I know.” She looked at the riders who followed them. “Seirye, you stay here with half the company. Be ready to cover our retreat with archery, in case we must flee.”

Seirye, the young officer who was in charge of the Silver Guards, agreed with a nod. “We will be ready. Be careful, Lady Ilsevele.”

“I will,” she promised.

The Silver Guards detailed to accompany her down to the Sembian encampment fixed long white streamers to their lances, and she led Fflar and the others out into the open, riding slowly down toward the inn house.

The humans below noticed them immediately. Men shouted and hurried to mount up and make ready for a fight, but as it became evident that only a handful of elves were approaching, the stir of excitement in the camp died down. After a few moments, a pair of human riders cantered out of the inn yard and rode up the road to meet the elves.

“I think this is close enough,” Fflar observed. “Let’s wait for those fellows to come to us.”

“Very well,” Ilsevele said.

She came to a halt in a spot about halfway between the hillcrest and the inn house. The Silver Guards waited nearby, watching the humans come closer. Fflar studied them as well. They were good riders, comfortable in the saddle. One was a stocky brown-haired man with a sweeping mustache, and the other was younger, with a long mane of fine yellow hair.

The two humans clattered up close to the elves, and reined in. They looked over Fflar and the others, traces of puzzlement in their eyes. Then the older man pointed at the white pennons hanging from the guards’ lances.

“Is that a flag of truce?” he asked.

“It is,” Ilsevele replied. “Will you parley with us?”

The broad-shouldered man shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to talk. Might I ask who I’m speaking to, my lady?”

“I am Ilsevele Miritar. I am a captain of the Queen’s Spellarchers of Evermeet. This is Starbrow, and my guardsmen Aloiene, Deryth, Hasterien, and Sylleth.”

“I’m Randil Moorwatch, of Elturel. This is my bannerman Teren. I am the captain of the Blue Griffon Company, formerly in the employ of Lord Borstag Duncastle of Sembia, now in the employ of Lord Miklos Selkirk of the same.” The mercenary captain glanced up at the trees shadowing the hillcrest, and frowned. Fflar could imagine that he was asking himself how many more elves were hidden in the woods there. Then he returned his attention to Ilsevele. “Well, my lady Miritar, what is it that I can do for you?”

“I wish passage through your lines, and an escort to the commander of Sembia’s army in these lands,” Ilsevele said. Her Common had improved in the months since she’d left Evermeet but still held something of the melodious tones of Elvish in her accent.

“And what would you like to speak to our commanders about?” Moorwatch asked.

“We believe that the daemonfey are your enemy as well as ours. We wish to make common cause against the forces of Sarya Dlardrageth.”

The human captain narrowed his eyes, thinking. “If by ‘daemonfey’ you mean the various hellspawned monsters roving around these little flyspeck Dales, then I can’t say I disagree with you. But you’re not thinking clearly if you believe you can talk the Sembians into helping you retake Cormanthor.”

“But surely you must see-”

“It doesn’t matter what I see,” Moorwatch said, holding up his hand to interrupt her. “I’m not a Sembian, and this isn’t my war. The Blue Griffons fight for good Sembian gold, and I’ve come to learn that our paymasters didn’t get as rich as they are by giving away anything for free.”

Ilsevele hesitated. Fflar decided to step in to help her. “Will you allow us to take up the question with your employers?” he asked.

The captain looked over to him. “This whole campaign is buggered beyond belief. We certainly didn’t sign on to fight our way through hordes of demons, devils, and worse. I suppose I’ll pass you through my lines, and send along Teren here with a dozen Blue Griffons to provide safe conduct. I warn you, though-if this is a ruse of some kind, it will go hard with you.”

“No ruse,” Fflar promised. “We have six-no, five-more who will join our party, with your leave.” Illithor’s journey had come to an end in the road a few miles back. They were one fewer than they had been.

“Very well,” the human captain agreed.

Fflar glanced back at the woods and signaled the rest of their Silver Guards to join them, while Moorwatch arranged for a detachment of his men to mount up. In ten breaths Fflar, Ilsevele, and the rest of their small company were ringed by a score of vigilant Blue Griffon riders-seasoned sellswords of a much smarter appearance than Fflar would have expected of mercenaries. He took a moment to warn Moorwatch about the canoloths roaming the road a few miles to the west, and they set out with the bannerman Teren and his riders.

The young officer led them east along the river for a mile or so, while the mercenary guards conversed among themselves in low voices, sticking to their own native Chondathan rather than Common. Then they struck southeast on a wide trail that climbed up into the Dun Hills, veering away from the broad river vale behind them. Few people lived in the hills, but from time to time they passed lonely lime kilns and disused quarries.

“Where are you taking us?” Ilsevele finally asked Bannerman Teren.

“Tegal’s Mark in Tasseldale, my lady,” the young officer answered.

“Lord Selkirk is there?”

Teren shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to start looking. Lord Selkirk has been riding all over the southern Dales for a month now, trying to make some sort of sense out of things. If he’s not in Tegal’s Mark, it’s likely that he’ll pass through within a day or two.”

“It’s important that I speak with him as soon as possible,” Ilsevele said. “One of my people died but a short time ago to see me to your lines.”

“That’s not up to me, my lady. I expect he’ll call on you or send for you as soon as he can, though.”

Fflar nodded to himself. It was nothing more than good common sense not to lead enemy emissaries right into your headquarters, after all. A skillful wizard could easily mark the place for scrying spells or secret gates later on, creating all sorts of trouble. He wouldn’t have led a Sembian party straight to Seiveril without taking similar precautions against treachery.