Final Gate (11 page)

Finally he found his voice. “Canoloths!” he cried. “Run!”

He spurred Thunder, and the roan stallion leaped ahead in a gallop. It galled Fflar to lead the flight, but he’d seen a dozen or more of the monsters in his single glance, and he didn’t doubt that there were just as many that he hadn’t seen yet … and if the creatures were herding them into an ambush, he wanted to meet it himself.

Ilsevele did not waste a moment before spurring Swiftwind right after him, and the rest of the Silver Guards were no slower. In the space of five heartbeats the small company was at a full gallop, racing along the dry, dusty trail. Two of the guards bringing up the rear unlimbered their bows and managed a few awkward shots at their pursuers, guiding their mounts with knees only as they twisted around to shoot at the closest of the canoloths. One of the monsters tumbled into a great cloud of dust, lamed by an arrow that caught its shoulder. Another broke away, shaking its head to dislodge the arrow embedded in its jaws. The rest began to fall off the pace, outdistanced by the elves’ horses.

“I think we’re losing them!” Ilsevele called.

“Watch out for an ambush!” Fflar called back to her. “These things are clever.”

He turned his attention back to the road ahead, just in time to spot three canoloths leaping down out of the shadows from the higher ground on the right side of the road. One bowled over a Silver Guard and his mount, dragging the warrior down into the dust. The second came right for Fflar. Thunder whinnied and sheered away, almost throwing him, but the swordsman kept his seat and drew Keryvian. The canoloth darted after Thunder, lashing out with its hawser-thick tongue to lasso the horse’s rear leg, but Fflar leaned back in the saddle and severed the tentacle-like member with a quick overhand cut. The monster roared and jerked back, only to be ridden down by another of the Silver Guards.

“Ilsevele!” Fflar cried.

He whirled around to find his charge, just in time to see her stand up in her stirrups and shoot a pair of arrows over Swiftwind’s shoulder, skewering the third of their ambushers twice in the center of its open maw. The creature bucked and jumped, black blood spurting from its mouth, and Ilsevele hurtled over it in one smooth jump and kept going. Fflar galloped after her, and their remaining guards followed.

“Captain Starbrow!” cried one of the Silver Guards. “Illithor went down!”

Fflar risked another look over his shoulder. A hundred yards back down the road, four or five of the canoloths snarled and snapped in a murderous fury around the guard and the horse that had gone down.

“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.

They reached the small town of Tegal’s Mark shortly before sunset, riding down out of the dusty hills into a fair green valley of apple orchards and small stone farmhouses. Tasseldale had not yet suffered much from the daemonfey, but that did not mean the war had bypassed the place. The town was ringed by the patchwork tents and shelters of Sembia’s battered army, with many hundreds of men bivouacked in the fields and orchards nearby. More soldiers filled the dirt streets of the town. And all around the soldiers’ camps sprawled the simple shelters and crowded wagons of refugees from Battledale, Mistledale, and the lands between.

Teren and his Blue Griffons led them into the town itself, threading their way through the narrow lanes with some difficulty. They finally halted by a fine-looking inn near the middle of the town. The signboard read simply “The Markhouse.”

“I’ll arrange quarters for you here,” the bannerman said. “You can wait here until Lord Selkirk sends for you.”

“We thank you, bannerman,” Ilsevele said.

“I am afraid that you will have to remain here until we tell you otherwise, Lady Miritar. If you or any of your folk need to go out, you’ll have to be escorted. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

Ilsevele nodded. “We understand.”

The young officer nodded. “In that case, I’ll see to your rooms, and notify the Silver Ravens that you are here and wish to speak with Lord Selkirk.” He dismounted, handed his reins to another of the Blue Griffons, and touched his brow before striding into the Markhouse.

Fflar studied the inn. It seemed strong and well-built, which might be important if they had to fight in or around the place. He glanced back at the street behind them, noting the ways that led out of the town. With care, it might just be barely possible to get out from under the Sembians’ hands if they needed to.

He felt eyes upon him, and looked up at a window in the upper floor of the Markhouse. A dark-haired human girl of striking beauty stood there, gazing coldly down on the elves in the courtyard. She regarded him with no expression at all for a long moment, and moved away from the window.

“We’re in danger here,” he said quietly.

“I know, but I mean to carry on as if I expect nothing but good faith,” Ilsevele replied. “Still, I didn’t expect to be put under house arrest.”

“That’s the trouble with crossing an enemy’s lines under a flag of truce. You may find it harder to get out than it was to get in.” Fflar smiled crookedly at her. “How long do we wait before we go looking for this Selkirk ourselves?”

“I’ll give him two days,” Ilsevele said. “After that, we’ll see.”

*****

Absolute lightlessness greeted Araevin on the far side of the portal, a darkness so complete that for one panicked moment he wondered if the portal had somehow hurled him into solid stone. He inhaled sharply—the air was very cold and dry—and staggered into an awkward crouch, fearful that he might blunder over some unseen precipice in the dark. His own sudden breath was the only thing he could hear in the blackness. Cold, rough rock greeted his fingertips, and he reassured himself that he was simply standing in an unlit cavern of some kind.

“Courage, Araevin,” he murmured.

He fished a small copper coin out of his belt pouch by feel, and pronounced a simple light spell on it. The copper piece began to glow with a bright yellow radiance, dispelling the darkness around him so that Araevin could see where he stood.

As he had suspected, it was a cavern of some kind—a long, winding passageway that seemed to follow the bottom of a crevice, for the walls simply leaned against each other about twenty feet overhead. He turned to look at the portal behind him, and found that it was set in a square alcove hewn out of the living rock. Its rectangular lintel was carved with geometric designs that reminded Araevin of dwarven work. He examined the strange runes with interest, but before he could make much out of them, shadows filled the space within the lintel and parted suddenly. Maresa stepped through, rapier in one hand and crossbow in the other.