Richard Baker - Final Gate

“Araevin?” Maresa asked. “What are you muttering about?”

“Malkizid, Sarya’s infernal ally. He has the third shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. This is his kingdom.”

Donnor looked down and scuffed his boot in the dry, gray dust. “I haven’t ever read of any such power in the netherworlds. But I recall hearing that there are many nameless devil princes or yugoloth lords who rule kingdoms in these planes. I would not be surprised if Sarya’s ally is one of them.”

“Does this alter your intentions, Araevin?” Nesterin asked. The star elf had followed Araevin’s example and tied a cloth across his lower face to help against the burning dust in the air.

“No, I don’t think so. We need to get to the shard and make our escape. But Malkizid certainly knows the importance of the crystal, so we must expect it to be well-guarded.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” Maresa said. “The sooner we find the last shard, the sooner we can get out of this place.”

The sun elf consulted the shards in his possession, seeking for the resonating tone of the third. He felt it almost at once, a clear and distinct ringing that seemed to come from somewhere not too far away. Checking his bearings against the sharp hilltop behind them, Araevin pointed across the dusty, cracked plains below.

“Then I think our path lies that way,” he said.

To Seiveril’s surprise, the battle slackened early in the night. The fey’ri legion withdrew from the field, the few surviving war-golems pivoted and strode away from the allied ranks, and the depredations of the demons and devils came to a grudging halt. Some of Sarya’s infernal minions prowled the night, seeking out the wounded and the stragglers, and from time to time shrieks of horror and mortal agony rang out of the smoke and darkness. But the daemonfey did not test the allied lines again and did not come within the influence of the Tree of Souls.

Seiveril stood at the head of his troops, staring into the darkness. The daemonfey were up to some sinister ploy, he was certain of it. But his soldiers were absolutely exhausted. They’d been fighting since shortly after sunrise. For that matter, he was no better off himself. He’d channeled every spark of divine power he could manage throughout the course of the long, bloody day, and when he exhausted his spells, he’d wielded his mace against the hellish horde until his arm trembled with fatigue.

He felt a presence behind him, and glanced around. Starbrow and Miklos Selkirk approached.

“Good evening, Miritar,” the human lord said. “I am glad to see that you are still with us. Too many aren’t.”

“I am glad that you have survived, too, Lord Selkirk. I am afraid I did not see much of the fighting over on your front. We were kept busy all day long.”

“As were we. So much for the idea of fighting in concert. It’s said that one’s battle plan is the first casualty of any engagement, and I see now that it’s true.” Selkirk had started the battle by Seiveril’s banner, but the fighting on the right had demanded his presence for most of the day. The Sembian shook his head. “If we didn’t have some of your archers to help keep those flying sorcerers at bay, I think we would have been overwhelmed long ago.”

“And if we didn’t have your valiant swordsmen to keep Sarya’s demons from teleporting into the midst of our archers, we would have fared poorly too,” Seiveril answered. It was a little bit of an exaggeration-the Sembians had needed the elves’ aid more than the elves had needed the Sembians’ help-but it was reasonably true. If Sarya had been able to concentrate all her forces against the Crusade alone, with no human allies on the field, she might have succeeded in breaking Evermeet’s army.

Selkirk gave a soft snort, understanding perfectly well who had helped whom. But he accepted the remark. “So what do we do now? I didn’t expect the daemonfey to draw back at the end of the day.”

“I don’t understand it, either,” Seiveril said. “We are at the end of our strength, and Sarya’s demons have ten times our stamina. Why aren’t they attacking now, when we are at our weakest?”

Starbrow limped up beside him. A fey’ri dart thrown from high overhead had pierced his foot in the last stand of the evening. With so many others in dire need of the clerics’ attention, the moon elf had declined to have it healed, and settled for washing and binding it as best he could.

“The fey’ri are mortal enough,” Fflar said. “They tire just like we do. If I had to guess, I’d say they withdrew to recover their strength. It doesn’t make sense for Sarya to send the demons and devils at us piecemeal. She’ll wait until the fey’ri and their drow allies are ready to resume the fight.”

“There are demons prowling all over the vale in the dark,” Seiveril observed.

“I can hear them,” Starbrow replied. “But if we keep a guard up, I think we won’t see another concerted attack until the fey’ri are ready.”

“When will that be?” Selkirk asked.

Starbrow shrugged. “Assuming they’ll recover their strength faster than we will, maybe three bells?”

Miklos Selkirk frowned. “Three bells won’t be enough for my men, not with half on watch. But I suppose it’s better than nothing. I’ll go give the order.” He offered a stiff bow-apparently, even the suave Sembian lord was at the end of his strength-and withdrew.

Seiveril watched him go and returned his attention to the darkened vale before him. “We seem stalemated, Starbrow. We can defend ourselves against the daemonfey attacks when we stand and hold our ground, but when we move, the fey’ri and their demons savage us. Sarya’s forces are simply much more maneuverable than ours.”

“The way you defeat a foe more mobile than you are is to make him defend something that doesn’t move. The Army of Darkness pinned down the Akh Velar by striking for Myth Drannor. They made us fight the stand-up battle that favored numbers and ferocity over skill and mobility.”

“Yes, but if we ignore the fey’ri and strike north, I fear that they would lay waste to the lands behind us. We might be able to get along with what we can carry on our backs, but I doubt the Sembians could march for long without their supply train. And dividing our forces would invite Sarya to concentrate against one or the other.”

Starbrow rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Is there some other way we could counter the daemonfey advantage?” he wondered aloud.

The elflord considered the question. “What if we could contest their mastery of the sky?”

Starbrow looked at him sharply. “You have something in mind?”

“I think I do. You and I have an errand in the vale, Starbrow.”

The moon elf nodded. “Better speak to Vesilde, then. I don’t think the daemonfey will attack for a while, but if they do, the Crusade will need a commander.”

They hurried back to the banner, Starbrow keeping up well enough despite his injured foot. Seiveril found Vesilde Gaerth and told the knight-commander to take charge of the Crusade’s defenses while resting as many warriors as he could. Then he searched out Jorildyn, the battle-mage who led the Crusade’s spellcasters-there might be a need for arcane magic where Seiveril intended to go.

As Seiveril was waiting for Vesilde and Jorildyn to set the Crusade’s defenses in order, Ilsevele rode up on her gray destrier. She and Edraele Muirreste had managed to reform the Silver Guard of Elion as a reserve again, and the swift cavalry waited a few hundred yards behind the standard.

“Felael sent word that you are leaving the camp without your guards, Father,” she said. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Seiveril glanced at Felael Springleap, who made a point of looking elsewhere. Felael had had a hard enough day already with trying to keep Seiveril from getting killed. Seiveril supposed he did not blame the wood elf too much for asking Ilsevele to have a word with him.