Richard Baker - Final Gate

“What in the world?” he said aloud.

“Lathander shields us against fire!” Donnor shouted. He was busy hacking down at the hell hounds who leaped and clawed for the boulder-top. As Araevin had feared, the hell hounds scrambled up the slope to get at the company. “I need some help here!”

“Keep shooting!” Araevin barked to the others.

He hurried to Donnor’s side just as four of the monsters rushed the cleric at the same time. The Tethyrian lunged and spitted one on the point of his sword, while Araevin raised his lightning wand and blasted two of the others. But the last hell hound rounded on him with the speed of a striking snake and caught his arm between its fiery teeth, wrenching the wand out of his hand. Bones cracked under the terrible strength of the creature’s jaws, and with a sudden sharp shake of its head it dragged Araevin off his feet and sent him toppling into a narrow crevice between two boulders.

Araevin suddenly found himself flat on his back, rock hemming in on two sides, as hell hounds snarled and leaped for him from all around. Burning teeth closed in on his left ankle, but he shoved the pain to one side of his mind and managed to grate out the words of his prismatic blast. Blinding light filled the space between the boulders, and a mingled roar and rush of fire, lightning, and other arcane energies echoed in the canyon. When he could see clearly again, the cleft was littered with dead or petrified hell hounds. He staggered to his feet, just as a hell hound he hadn’t seen leaped at his back.

A silver arrow from over Araevin’s head pinned the creature through the skull. Its lifeless body struck him across the shoulders and knocked him down again, but Araevin shoved the creature off him and found his feet again. He looked left, then right, but the hell hounds around him were dead or dying.

“They’re running!” Jorin called. The ranger stood over Araevin’s crevasse, bow in his hands. He looked down at the mage, and knelt to lean down and offer a hand. “Are you all right, Araevin? For a moment I thought we’d lost you.”

“You nearly did,” Araevin said. He took Jorin’s hand with his left arm and let the ranger help him scramble back up on top of the boulder. Once he was sure of his footing again, he looked around. About a dozen of the hell hounds were in full flight back down the defile, leaping over the arrow-pierced bodies of their packmates. All around the rockslide more of the creatures sprawled, their bodies smoking as they cooled. “Thank you for that last shot, Jorin. I never saw the one behind me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Jorin replied. His face was red, and his cloak was blackened and smoking. “If Donnor hadn’t warded us against fire, that would have been a lot worse.”

Araevin limped over-his ankle hurt fiercely, if not as badly as his right forearm-and clapped the Lathanderite on the shoulder. “Well done, Donnor. Grayth would have been proud of you today, I think.”

The human knight returned Araevin’s grasp. “I thank you for that, Araevin. Now, let me see what I can do for your arm. I think you’ll have need of it soon enough.”

18 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

Dawn was still a short time away. Pale gray streaks lightened the eastern sky, but it was quite dark. All around Fflar, the elves and their human allies rustled and murmured to each other, quietly taking their places. To his left, he could make out the haphazard lines of the Dalesfolk, reinforced by a phalanx of elf footsoldiers from Leuthilspar. On the other side, the Sembians made up most of the right wing of the army. His foot ached, and he felt tired enough to lie down and fall into the senseless slumber of humankind, but Keryvian was still light on his hip.

Fflar found himself gazing to the rear of the mustering army, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ilsevele. Against her protests her father had assigned her to command the forces they were leaving behind. Too many soldiers were too badly wounded to keep with the Crusade and its allies, but if they were left behind without a strong guard, they would be easy prey for Sarya’s bloodthirsty demons.

She has the Tree of Souls to protect her, he told himself. She should be safe enough.

Seiveril rode up and joined Fflar at the head of the Crusade. He followed Fflar’s gaze to the warriors they were leaving behind and asked, “You are worried that the daemonfey will ignore us and fall on those we leave behind?”

“I don’t like to divide our forces,” Fflar answered. But there was no other way to draw the daemonfey into a stand-up fight, was there? He flicked his reins and turned back to face the mist-shrouded vale before the army. The fey’ri and their infernal minions were out there, likely preparing their own assault. “Is Selkirk ready on the right?”

“He just sent word that he is. What of Lord Ulath?”

“The Dalesfolk are ready on the left. And it seems that we’re ready here.”

Seiveril glanced up at the overcast sky. A few faint stars glimmered through the drifting mist. Then he set his helm on his head, and motioned to Felael Springleap. “Felael, pass the signal: Forward, all!”

Horns rang out, flat and low in the damp night air. From thousands of throats, both elf and human, a roar of defiance shook the Vale of Lost Voices, and the ground trembled with their footsteps. Fflar tapped his heels to his chestnut’s flanks, and the horse snorted and broke into a prancing walk, eager to run. The smoke and mist drifted slowly across the battlefield, stirred by the faintest of breezes, and a fine cool drizzle fell, dampening the banners and warriors’ cloaks.

They covered close to half a mile with no sign of the daemonfey army, and Fflar found himself wondering whether Sarya had thought better of meeting them in the vale. But then Jerreda Starcloak and a pair of her wood elf scouts emerged from the gloom before the marching Crusade, and trotted up to Seiveril. “The daemonfey are waiting about five hundred yards on your right front, Seiveril!” she called. “They’re drawn up opposite your center. Demons and devils, just like yesterday. The fey’ri are there, but they haven’t taken to the air yet!”

“My thanks, Jerreda!” Seiveril replied. The elflord looked over to his guard captain. “Felael, signal Lord Selkirk to hold in place. We’ll wheel to the right and hit them straight on with our center.”

“Yes, Lord Miritar!” the young captain answered.

He turned and called out more commands, and horns blared again in the morning. Seiveril turned his horse a few points to the right, and the Crusade followed, wheeling easily in the new direction. Fflar heard more signals off to the left, where the Dalesfolk and the elves marching with them had to jog to keep the line dressed. Some would manage it, and some would not; that was a simple fact of trying to maneuver large bodies of warriors on a battlefield.

“There they are!” a sun elf near Fflar shouted.

Fflar stood in his stirrups to see better. In the gray gloom ahead, a dark line of fearsome shadows waited. The hate and supernatural menace from the daemonfey army was as tangible as a thunderclap. The demonic tide roiled and surged ahead, eager for blood, while the fey’ri warriors took to the sky. In the darkness before dawn they seemed like great black crows, inky silhouettes against the lightless sky. He could hear their wing beats even over the footfalls and rustling and creaking of the Crusade on the march.

Seiveril brandished his mace above his head. “This is our time!” he shouted to all within earshot. “The dawn is coming, my friends! Today we break the army of the daemonfey and send their minions back to the Hells from which they came! Now, forward, all! Attack!”