Richard Baker - Final Gate

Careless of the cold water streaming through her armor, Scyllua Darkhope stood by the edge of the growing camp and studied the city’s formidable walls. It would not be easy to storm Hillsfar. Death did not frighten her, and the casualties of any assault were simply of no concern, but she could not ignore the fact that zeal alone could not guarantee a successful attack. She did not like to admit that even in the silence of her own thoughts, but it was evident that the city’s fortifications were a significant obstacle. The Black Lord admired valor and rewarded devotion, but he demanded obedience. If she were ordered to take the city, she would have to take the city. Failure was not an option. Given the choice between valor and success, she must choose success. That was the lesson she had learned in the aftermath of her failure in Shadowdale earlier in the summer.

Even though the first lord’s tower was in ruins and the Red Plumes soundly beaten, the walls of Hillsfar were reasonably intact and held by better than a thousand of the city’s warriors-plus two or three times that number of poorly armed and ill-trained militia, who hardly counted. The ramparts towered almost sixty feet in height, and ringed the city’s hilltop so that any assault must first struggle up the hillside just to reach the foot of the wall. The gates were protected by strong gatehouses with flanking towers, and the Hillsfarians had been careful to keep their city’s immediate surroundings clear of anything that might offer cover. No, Hillsfar was best taken through siegecraft, treachery, or magic.

Or terror, Scyllua decided. Her pale nightmare could carry her over those walls. It might be instructive to the defenders of the city if she led a raid of sky mages and blades against Hillsfar in the dark of the night.

“High Captain?” Marshal Kulwarth trotted up to her elbow, ignoring the mud splashing around his feet. “The Hillsfarians have sent out an embassy. Lord Fzoul intends to receive them at the Golden Manticore. He requests your presence.”

“Very well. Take charge of the field fortifications. We have already lost one battle this summer through insufficient entrenchment. It will not happen again.”

Kulwarth struck his fist to his chest and strode off, barking orders at the soldiers who toiled in the rain. Scyllua turned her back on the forbidding walls and strode purposefully back toward the main road leading westward along the Moonsea’s shores. While no buildings stood within bowshot of the city walls, a few scattered outbuildings, farmhouses, and workshops hugged the roads leading away from the gates. The old inn house known as the Golden Manticore served as the Zhents’ command post.

Scyllua hurried up the steps to the inn’s common room and strode inside. She found Fzoul Chembryl warming his hands by the hearth, attended by six of his handpicked bodyguards. The Chosen Tyrant of Bane glanced to the door with a small, cold smile.

“Ah, there you are, Scyllua,” he said. “How do your preparations proceed?”

She knelt before him and lowered her head. “We have thrown a cordon around the city, Lord Fzoul. I have ordered our soldiers to entrench for a siege.”

Fzoul nodded, looking back to the fire. “How long do you think it would take us to reduce the city by siege work?”

“It depends on the magic the Great Lord sees fit to place in my hands, my lord. With the spellcasters and monsters under my command now, we could undermine a wall or destroy a tower and mount an assault in a tenday. If we directed more powerful magic to the task-enslaving a dragon to destroy a gate, perhaps, or summoning earth elementals to pull down a wall-we could storm the city within a day. If our spies’ reports are accurate, we can overwhelm the garrison once we breach the walls.”

“I agree with your assessment.” Fzoul drew back from the fire and pulled on his heavy gauntlets. He wore a breastplate of black mithral emblazoned with the emerald fist of Bane and carried a large mace at his hip. From time to time he liked to take the field in command of his armies. “However, there is a new complication. I have learned that the daemonfey and their infernal legions are even now engaged in a great battle against the armies of Sembia and the Crusade of Evermeet.”

Scyllua looked up at his stern features, her attention sharply focused. “Who will win?” she asked.

“My divinations are inconclusive. The issue seems to be in doubt.” Fzoul flexed his hands in the gauntlets, working his fingers into the leather and steel. “I think that it would be useful to issue promises of support to whichever side wins. If Sarya defeats this attack, I do not think the Sembians will throw good coin after bad. They will abandon the middle Dales, and Sarya will remain the mistress of Myth Drannor for some time to come. If I show her that I mean her no harm, I think she will keep herself quite busy on her southern frontiers. On the other hand, if the elves triumph, it would be good to demonstrate that I have an interest in what happens in the middle Dales… and that I must be given a seat at the victors’ table when the fighting is done.”

“What of Hillsfar, my lord?”

“Why, wait and watch, my dear Scyllua. The mere fact that they seek to treat with me indicates that they fear defeat. And as our Great Lord teaches us, to fear something is to give it power over you.” Fzoul motioned for her to rise, and turned away from the fire. “Bring in the Hillsfarian,” he told the sergeant of his guards.

They waited together in silence for a short time before the guards returned, leading a short, stocky man with broad shoulders, a shaven head, and a dark, pointed goatee. He wore a fine red coat with a broad lace collar, and his wide mouth was set in a carefully neutral expression. “Lord Fzoul,” he said with a bow. “I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I have come to request your terms.”

“Terms?” the tyrant replied. He arched an eyebrow. “I do not see the need to bargain with you, High Warden. I will obtain everything I require in a few days anyway.”

The Hillsfarian remained calm, though a small trickle of perspiration beaded on his brow. “Then we might as well make the best resistance we can. You may indeed be able to take our city, but if we have nothing to lose by fighting to the last man, you may find the price of your victory steeper than you like.”

“I am not without compassion,” Fzoul said, baring his teeth in a predatory grin. “Should you submit absolutely and immediately, I will spare the lives of Hillsfar’s citizens.”

“We are hesitant to throw ourselves on your mercy, Lord Fzoul. Most of my compatriots would frankly rather die than be dispossessed of everything they own and sold into slavery. In the absence of reasonable terms on your part, we cannot capitulate.” Gearas licked his lips, and added, “It is customary to offer something in exchange for being spared the costs involved in a siege or assault.”

Fzoul stroked his chin, studying the shorter man intently. “That is true,” he admitted. “Very well, then. First, I require the dismissal of the Red Plumes from Hillsfar. You will be allowed to retain a small city guard and constabulary, under the supervision of my officers. Second, Hillsfar must cede all claims to the coastal lands from ten miles west of this spot to Zhentil Keep, including the ruins of Yulash. Third, your city will pay me tribute once per year… two hundred thousand gold crowns should suffice. Fourth, the former First Lord’s Tower is to be rebuilt as a temple to the Great Lord Bane. I will appoint its high priest and clergy. Finally, I require the immediate delivery of First Lord Maalthiir. I will appoint a regent to govern in his place.”

“I am afraid that we cannot comply with your last condition, Lord Fzoul.”