Richard Baker - Final Gate

Araevin flew back and down a little, and shouted out the words of a powerful spell. From his outstretched fingertips a brilliant fan of iridescent rays shot out, scything shoulder-high across the two nearest giants. Virulent green acid ate into doughy hide, searing orange fire leaped and scorched, and crackling golden lightning sparked and ripped through flesh. One of the giants, its flesh smoking from great black burns, recoiled one step too far and silently toppled into the abyss, vanishing into the darkness.

Crackling violet madness danced in the other giant’s eyes. It dropped its hammer, clenching its fists against its head-and it looked up at Araevin and screamed.

The sound was indescribable, a mountain given voice. The mage was flung head over heels through the air to crash against the cold rock wall in a shower of rubble. Vision swimming, Araevin struggled to right himself and find a spell, any spell, to fend off the giant’s next blow. But the magical madness of the purple ray had the giant in its grip. Rather than finish off the dazed wizard, the pale brute simply turned and bounded down the narrow stairs, fleeing back down into the dark.

“Araevin! Are you all right?” Nesterin called.

Araevin held up his arm and nodded, unable to frame any better response. He picked himself out of the rubble, while Jorin and Maresa darted at the first of the giants. They scored again and again with their blades, but the genasi’s rapier and the ranger’s short swords were not well-suited for the task of stopping a giant. The creature bled from a dozen pinpricks, but still it came on, swinging its heavy hammer in great whistling arcs.

I must help them, Araevin thought over and over again. But he was still shaking off the physical blow the giant’s scream had dealt. He raised his disruption wand and pointed it at the monster’s back, and somehow he managed to mumble the activating words through the haze that enveloped him. Another shrieking blue lance of force tore through the blackness, taking the giant high in the back and spinning it halfway around.

Jorin used that moment to spring in close behind the wounded monster and plunge his blade into the back of its knee. The giant snorted and fell heavily, its leg giving out beneath it. The ranger backed off, but not fast enough; with one backhanded blow the giant sent Jorin hurtling into the darkness.

“Jorin!” Nesterin shouted.

The star elf leaped after the ranger, and caught a hold of his long cloak just as Jorin slid over the edge. Nesterin threw out his arms and legs, spread-eagled on his stomach as he struggled to keep Jorin from plummeting down into the darkness… but behind him the crippled giant turned and raised its hammer.

Rubble shifted in the wreckage of their shelter, and Donnor Kerth suddenly stumbled out of the dust and debris at the giant’s flank. He barreled into the monster’s side and hewed deeply into its back. The giant turned again, and Araevin seared its torso with a brilliant stabbing bolt of violet lightning. The creature’s face contorted in an unvoiced scream, and it slumped to the ground, just missing Maresa. Silence fell over the eerie battlefield.

“Aid me with Jorin!” Nesterin gasped to the others.

Maresa hurried over and grabbed another handful of the ranger’s cloak, and the two managed to pull him back up onto the ledge.

Donnor limped over to where Araevin sat, his chest heaving. “I thought there were three of them,” the cleric said.

“There were. One fell into the abyss. The other fled down the stairs, afflicted by a madness spell.”

“Your doing?”

Araevin nodded. “Yes. The spell is unpredictable, but often quite effective. The third giant won’t be back anytime soon.”

Donnor nodded, and peered down the stairs leading into the dark. The Lathanderite stiffened, and took a step back. “Then what’s that?” he asked.

Araevin stood up swiftly and looked where the Tethyrian pointed. Not far below them, a strange pale glimmer climbed steadily up the stairs toward their ledge. It almost seemed like a distant lantern carried by somebody ascending the terrible stairs, but it was close enough that Araevin could see that no one carried the light; it was simply a glowing white sphere, cold and small, arising from the depths below. Subtle tendrils of magic shifted slowly in his sight, whispering of dire power.

“It’s no work of the giants,” he told Donnor. “Warn the others.”

The Tethyrian called a soft warning back to Maresa, Nesterin, and Jorin. Araevin watched the light come closer as his friends arrayed themselves at his back, prepared for anything. Cold and exhaustion were momentarily forgotten as they studied the strange glowing sphere.

“Should we fire at it?” Jorin asked Araevin.

“It will do no good,” Araevin answered. “Wait a moment. It may not be hostile.”

Jorin lowered his bow, keeping an arrow on the string. The sphere climbed to within twenty feet or so, just a few short steps down the stair, and it drifted up away from the steps, rising to their level. It was oddly cold in the pale glow of the orb. Lorosfyr was without warmth anyway, but as it drifted closer, Araevin felt as if what little warmth remained to him was being stolen away.

“Who are you? What do you want with us?” Donnor demanded of the glowing light.

It drew back slowly, giving an impression of cold, dispassionate scrutiny that Araevin did not care for at all. He sensed subtle divination magic at work, and frowned.

“It’s studying us,” he said.

The small globe hovered before them for a moment longer, then it sank back down into the depths. Soon it was gone from sight, though Araevin almost imagined that he could make out a dim gray glow from somewhere far below.

“A sending of the Pale Sybil?” Nesterin murmured. He looked over to Araevin. “Do we dare follow it down?”

Araevin simply nodded. “I intend to. After all, that is what we came here for,” he told his friends.

Moonlight danced on the pure waters of Lake Sember. Seiveril Miritar looked on the beautiful scene and found that he was heartened by the sight. It was a perfect summer night, warm and bright with the moonlight all elves loved more than words could easily express.

It was a good omen for the coming battle. “The daemonfey approach, Lord Seiveril,” Edraele Muirreste said. The girlish moon elf seemed far too small and frail to wear a warrior’s arms, but appearances could be deceiving-behind those enchanting eyes lay a fierce determination and an uncanny capacity for bold, daring maneuvers and inspired leadership. Riding at the head of the Silver Guard, the great company of cavalry that had followed Seiveril out of Evermeet, Edraele was more dangerous than a full-grown dragon.

“I am afraid your eyes must be keener than mine, Edraele. I do not see them yet,” Seiveril admitted.

The young captain pointed up into the clear skies above the lake, and Seiveril followed her gaze to a distant dark cloud of tiny winged figures… a darting, roiling stream that grew closer with every heartbeat. “You were right, my lord,” Edraele said. “They are here, just as you predicted.”

“The Seldarine favored my divinations. I only passed along Corellon’s warning.” Seiveril quickly inspected his armor of elven steel plate, more than a little battered and scored from months of campaigning against the daemonfey and their evil hordes. Then he glanced back to Edraele and touched his brow in salute. “Good luck to you, captain. Remember, you’re not a rider tonight. It’s not as easy to get out of trouble when you’re fighting afoot.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Edraele sighed.

The moon elf was a rider of superb skill, the best Seiveril had ever seen. It seemed a waste to not allow her or her Silver Guard to mount up. But the daemonfey and their demons, devils, and such things were all winged, and even Edraele couldn’t lead her lancers into the skies.