Final Gate

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

17 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

Araevin and his companions made the trek from the refuge-cave at the top of the terrible stairs to the portal leading back to the Waymeet in one long hike. They encountered no other travelers along the way, reinforcing his original impression that this was a very remote part of the Underdark indeed. They did not even rest for food or drink until they made the turn into the wall of bedrock and left the vast, silent dark of Lorosfyr a good half-mile behind them.

“Good riddance to that place,” Maresa said. No one argued with her.

Some time later-it was impossible to tell in the changeless dark of the underworld-they reached the blank-faced portal, set deep in its squared alcove of stone. The place looked much as they had left it. He peered down the tunnel snaking away into the darkness, and looked back the way they had come.

“We’ve marched for quite some time, and I feel like we should rest before entering the Waymeet again,” he said to the others. “But this is a bad place to make camp. Anyone or anything using this tunnel couldn’t help but walk right into us.”

“Then let’s not take the chance,” Jorin said. “I’d rather deal with what might be waiting for us on the other side of the portal than pass another day in this sunless place.”

“I’m with Jorin.” Donnor squared his shoulders, shifting the weight of his armor. “I think we should press on.”

“Very well,” Araevin agreed. He considered the blank portal for a moment, thinking. How long had they been in the Underdark? Six or seven days? Or even more? And what had the servants of Malkizid accomplished in that time? “I think we should take some precautions, though. I will conceal us with a spell of invisibility. Some demons and devils can see through spells of that sort, but perhaps it will help us to avoid unnecessary trouble.”

“I will speak a prayer for Lathander’s protection, too,” Donnor said.

Araevin moved his hands in the arcane passes of the spell and murmured the familiar words, while Donnor chanted his own prayers. In the space of a few moments his companions grew translucent and faint. The cleric’s protective spell left no visible sign, but Araevin felt a reassuring warmth on his shoulders, almost as if he stood in the bright sunshine of the World Above. Satisfied that they were as ready as they were likely to get, he turned back to the portal and woke it with another spell.

“Follow me,” he said to his companions, and he strode into the gray mists.

As usual, there was an instant of darkness and a flutter in his stomach as if he were suddenly falling, and he emerged in the Waymeet. He stopped dead a step inside the doorway, appalled.

Half the Waymeet had been consumed by the hot black iron of infernal magic.

Like some torturer’s machine, the rune-scribed iron bands affixed to the pillars and columns of the crystalline cathedral had chewed their way deeper into the fragile glass. It almost seemed that a second, parasitic Waymeet was being built over the first, riveted to its skeleton. The pearly luminescence of the whole structure had died away to a lifeless dull gray, and the air was hot and acrid.

“By the Seldarine,” he murmured.

The portal whispered at his back, and Donnor staggered into him. Araevin flailed for balance, and his outstretched hand brushed against one of the metal bands. Searing heat scorched his flesh, and he yanked back his hand with a stifled cry. In the space of a moment, Jorin, Nesterin, and Maresa filed out of the doorway after the cleric.

“Bane’s brazen throne, but someone has been hard at work here,” Jorin said. The Yuir ranger scowled fiercely. “Is this as bad as it looks?”

“Araevin, what happened to his place?” Donnor asked.

“Malkizid’s servants have increased their efforts. We have less time than I thought.” Araevin did not give his friends much time to get over their shock. “Come on. I want to see if the Gatekeeper can help us, and our spells will not hide us for long.”

Stilling their questions, his companions hurried after him while he quickly retraced the path leading back to the plaza of the speaking stone where he had questioned the mythal before. At one intersection they found a pair of barbed devils crouched atop ramparts of iron-scarred glass. The spine-covered monsters kept watch over the path below, but Araevin managed to double back and go around the creatures. He simply wasn’t certain that he could rely on the invisibility spell to fool the devils.

With no more close calls, they came to the open space where the speaking stone stood. Iron plates had been riveted to each side of the triangular pillar, encasing the crystal in a cruel coffin. Not a glimpse of the original crystal showed through the plating.

“Damnation,” Araevin murmured. “I should have expected that.”

“Have the devils finished their work here, then?” Nesterin asked.

Araevin studied the scene, searching for the subtle strands of magic that pervaded the structure. Angry reddish-gold threads of infernal power coiled around the original weavings of the ancient mythal, strangling vines that slowly tightened their grip on the living artifice that hosted them. At first he feared that Malkizid’s cruel siege was complete, and that nothing remained of the original spells the hellish sorcery replaced. But then he sensed a dim blue pulse, soft and shallow.

“Not quite yet,” he answered the star elf. “It took the high mages of Aryvandaar a hundred years to raise this mythal. It’s not entirely corrupted yet.”

“Another tenday or two, and they’ll have the whole thing riveted shut in those rune-covered bands,” Maresa said. “What happens then?”

Araevin did not answer. Instead he moved closer to the speaking stone, examining the iron driven into its face. He hesitated to interfere with the spells burned into the metal for fear of announcing their presence to the power or powers behind the device, but he could see at a glance that the Gatekeeper was barred beneath the metal. After a moment, he decided that it was more dangerous to delay within the Waymeet than it was to risk a disturbance.

“Watch for Malkizid’s servants,” he warned his friends. “I am going to try to reach the Gatekeeper.”

He felt quick glances at his back, but his comrades didn’t question his judgment. Blades whispered out of their sheaths as Donnor and Nesterin drew their swords and set themselves at Araevin’s shoulders, while Maresa and Jorin found good places to crouch in the shelter of soaring spars of iron-banded glass. Trusting that his friends would warn him if anything threatening appeared, Araevin quickly considered the spells ready in his mind and settled on a powerful spell of unjoining. It was the most potent counterspell he knew, which worked by rending spells into their component parts. He thought it might separate the diabolic curse from the Waymeet, at least in that one corner of the edifice.

He hummed a strange atonal tune and wove his hands in the sinuous passes of the disjunction. “Estierren nha morden! ” he called out, and plunged his mind into the tangled skein of magic in front of him.

He brushed his hand to one side, as if to clear away the foul clinging webs of the devilish magic, while holding the original magic in place with his other hand and fierce concentration.

Iron shrieked in protest. Araevin was so intent on his work that he did not even notice the heavy plate facing him come loose until Donnor muttered an oath and dragged him back three steps. The sinister runes cut into the plating blazed an incandescent orange for one long moment, and they grew dull and dark.

The iron cladding over the speaking stone peeled away and toppled to the hard paved ground with hideously loud clangs. The revealed crystal was pitted and cracked, leaking tears of blue from the places where iron bolts had been driven into its surface.

“Mask’s sweet night, Araevin, could you have made any more noise?” Maresa demanded. But then the genasi fell silent, for the speaking stone guttered into a weak, fitful life again. A tiny candle-flame of pure light danced and flickered in the shattered facets of the stone.

“Gatekeeper, can you hear me?” Araevin asked urgently. “Are you there?”

“I… hear you… Araevin Teshurr…” the speaking stone replied. “Speak quickly… I do not have much strength.”

“I have the second shard of the master crystal. I divined the location of the third shard, but it lies in one of the infernal planes. Can you direct me to a portal that will take me to its location?”

“Yes… but you must hurry. Your spell… has not gone unnoticed.”

“I thought that might be the case. Which door do we need?”

“Turn toward the center… at the next intersection. It will be the third arch…” A faint blue gleam briefly flickered across the face of a broken pane on the far side of the open space, illuminating the way. “Good fortune to you, Araevin Teshurr… I fear that we will not speak again.”

“How long can you endure, Gatekeeper?” Nesterin asked.

“Not much longer… Nesterin Deirr… a few days, perhaps… Go now! Many devils come…”

“That’s good enough for me,” Maresa said. Turning in a quick circle to clear her back, she started across the square. She spared Araevin a quick look and jerked her head at the corridor marked by the failing blue gleam. “Come on, let’s not wait around to see exactly what it means by ‘many.’”

Araevin nodded, and backed away from the speaking stone. The broken iron cladding at its foot would certainly reveal that someone had been there, and if the Gatekeeper was right, the devils infesting the place would know that a skilled mage had worked magic to communicate with the mythal. Malkizid will be looking for me, he realized. Well, perhaps he will not think to look where we are going.

“Araevin, come on!” Maresa hissed.

He turned and ran after the genasi, while his companions joined him. Abandoning stealth for speed, they ran down the passageway until they reached the intersection, perhaps fifty yards past the plaza of the speaking stone. He took a quick glance at the lay of the Waymeet around him, and pointed to his right.

“That way,” he told his friends.

The third portal was already waking as they skidded to a halt in front of the alcove sheltering it. This time the mists forming in place of the blank doorway had an ugly, roiling red-orange hue to them.

“I don’t like the looks of that,” Jorin said quietly. “Is this the right doorway, Araevin?”

Araevin quickly examined the portal. He could feel the tug of the third shard, a constant pressure in his consciousness whenever he focused on it. There was no mistaking it. It was the right door.

Behind them, something gave voice to a shrill, furious scream. Araevin glanced around at the cry, searching the crystalline corridors for the pursuers that must be following by now.

“I think they’ve found my work at the speaking stone,” he said to his friends. “This way, quickly! And may the Seldarine protect us.”

He stepped into the angry portal and vanished.

The smoke of countless fires choked the Vale of Lost Voices.

Fflar couldn’t remember how any of the blazes began, really. Most likely it was a simple consequence of fire spells and lightning blasts hurled recklessly across the field after a long, hot summer. But even if the daemonfey and their infernal legions had set the grass of the vale alight through the pure accident of battle, the wildfires had become one more enemy for the Crusade to contend with. Walls of blinding smoke partitioned the battlefield into dozens of furious skirmishes, most of which were being decided outside Fflar’s sight or knowledge. The horses of the elven cavalry and the Sembian dragoons were growing so panicked and skittish that many riders had been forced to fight afoot. And Fflar had seen too many elves and humans who had perished horribly in hungry red flames, too badly wounded to escape.

He stumbled into a clear space in the fighting, and took a moment to wipe the hot, stinging sweat from his brow. His arms quivered with fatigue, and he was not as steady on his legs as he would have liked, but so far he had avoided any serious injuries. On the other hand, he had lost sight of the banner again. Fflar took a slow, careful look around his surroundings, trying to peer through the hot embers and billowing gray smoke that danced and streamed wildly in the hot breeze. “We might as well fight in a burning house,” he muttered to himself.

“Starbrow! Another war-golem!”

Fflar wheeled at the call. He fought alongside a small band of spellarchers for the moment. In the early afternoon Seiveril had sent him to the aid of the Deepingdalesfolk, hard-pressed on the far left of the fight. Fflar had killed several demons and yugoloths while aiding Theremen Ulath and his warriors, but it seemed to be taking the moon elf champion the whole of the rest of the day to fight his back across the vale.

“Aim for the legs!” he shouted. “Immobilize the thing!”

He didn’t know where the daemonfey had found scores of battle-constructs, but the ancient devices certainly hadn’t made the fight any easier. They were ponderous and slow, so heavily armored that it would take a siege engine to wreck one. And they crackled with electricity, hurling lightning across the battlefield with abandon. But he’d discovered that they could be brought to the ground much more easily than they could be destroyed, and once on the ground, sword blades and spear shafts jammed into their joints prevented them from rising again.

Of course, we’ll have to get around to dealing with all the immobilized ones sooner or later, he told himself. But for the time being, the war-golems were a threat best avoided. While warriors worked to bring down the daemonfey machines, demons and fey’ri were all too likely to launch sudden vicious attacks against the distracted elves and humans.

The archers near him whispered their spells and sent their enchanted arrows winging into the ancient iron war-golem. The thing simply continued ahead, insensitive to whatever damage the arrows caused. Metal groaned and creaked.

“Keep at it,” he told the spellarchers, but he kept a wary eye on the fuming smoke nearby.

There! A pair of black, slimy babau demons appeared in the smoke, silently rushing the archers while they concentrated their fire on the war-machine.

“Behind you!” Fflar called to them, and he raced over to intercept the monsters.

One archer spun and fired arrows blazing with holy white fire at the nearest of the demons. The silver shafts stuck quivering in the thing’s gaunt ribs, searingly bright. Demonflesh withered and smoked, and the thing shrieked in agony. Plucking at the arrows embedded in its body, it stumbled to the ground. Its companion sprang forward in one quick leap and gored the archer on its single curved horn, burying the point in the elf’s belly. It shook its head free of the dying spellarcher, fangs bared in the pleasure of the kill-and Fflar reached it. He ducked under one wild swing of its taloned hand and severed its leg at mid-thigh, and when the demon screeched and toppled over, he smashed Keryvian across its chest. The baneblade’s blue fire flashed and burned with cold, blinding light.

“Die, hellspawn!” the moon elf roared.

He wrenched his blade free of the smoking corpse. Behind him, the war-golem lurched to a halt and fell over, its legs pinioned by elf arrows buried in the knees and hips. Two of the elf warriors ran up with broken spear shafts and jammed them into the golem’s shoulder joints, immobilizing its arms as well.

“Well done!” Fflar called.

The smoke parted for a moment, and he glimpsed the twin banners of Seiveril Miritar and Miklos Selkirk flying a short distance away. Ranks of elf and human warriors waited there for the next demonic assault, a rampart of defiant steel against the setting sun. That had been the way of the battle all day long; islands of desperate soldiers gathered around the champions, bladesingers, battle-mages, wizards, or clerics who could stand against the hellspawned servants of Sarya Dlardrageth.

Not much daylight left, he decided. Against any other foe, the end of a day of hard fighting might have brought some small respite. The warring armies would break apart, withdraw to their respective camps, and gather their strength for the next day. But Sarya’s demons and battle-constructs were tireless, and they would allow the allied armies no rest. We’ll still be fighting when the sun comes up again… if we don’t break during the night.

“Rally to the banner!” he told the archers who followed him. “Pass the word along if you see anyone else.”

“We’re behind you, Starbrow,” one of the spellarchers answered. “Lead the way.”

With five of the archers at his back, Fflar made his way toward the two standards flying side by side, picking through the smoke and burning brush. Fey’ri and winged demons darted and swooped in the skies overhead, but not too low-they’d learned to be wary of elven bows, at least during daylight. When darkness fell, it would be a different story.

Not far from the small rise where the heart of the Crusade stood gathered, he found Ferryl Nimersyll and many of the Moon Knights of Sehanine Moonbow. Most were torn by demon claws or burned by sinister magic. But others carried fearsome wounds across their faces, flesh deeply scored in the same strange pattern over and over again. Ferryl himself had the same wound as his warriors, but the thin hole punched in his breastplate looked like a sword thrust to Fflar. Crumpled yugoloths and a few broken fey’ri completed the scene.

“By the Seldarine,” the first of the spellarchers said, her face white and sick. “The Moon Knights. They’re all dead.”

“Ferryl,” Fflar said. A skilled warrior, but also a compassionate one, wise beyond his years… Fflar would miss his wry smile and quick humor. He knelt and composed Ferryl’s features as best he could, arranging his arms over his breast. So many of the Moon Knights slain? he thought dully. Thirty knights of Evermeet, overwhelmed in the middle of battle. Fflar sighed, wondering how many more such tales the day held for the Crusade.

“At least they did not fall alone, Starbrow,” the archer said. “There must be a dozen dead mezzoloths here.”

“Ferryl was slain by no mezzoloth,” Fflar said grimly. He looked around, taking in the wreckage of the Moon Knights. They had been among the Crusade’s finest, but it was clear they had met an enemy beyond their skill. He had seen such things during the Weeping War, when some mighty fiend or another had taken the field against the army of Myth Drannor. “A lord of the Nine Hells, I think. Sarya Dlardrageth has emptied the lower planes against us.”

“How can we defeat foes of such power, Starbrow?” the spellarcher asked him.

“We will find a way, I promise you.”

They searched among the last of the Moon Knights in case any of the knights still lived, but to no avail. With his heart as dull and cold as lead, Fflar quietly gathered his small band and led them the last couple of hundred yards to the twin banners. He expected some new enemy to lunge at them out of the smoke at any moment, but to his surprise they reached the battered ranks of the main body without any more fighting.

The Evereskan Vale Guards and Silver Ravens of Sembia still ringed Seiveril’s banner, along with the Silver Guard of Elion-Seiveril had summoned the reserves into the battle long ago. Fflar parted from the spellarchers and made his way to the banner.

Seiveril and Ilsevele stood there. Both seemed tired but otherwise unhurt. Fflar gave a sigh of relief that he didn’t even realize that he had been holding, and moved up to clasp Seiveril’s arm.

“I’m back,” he said simply. “The left is holding, but the Dalesfolk have had a hard time of it. I don’t think they can do much more than stand their ground for now.”

“Starbrow!” Ilsevele looked up to him, and reached up to kiss him softly, holding him as tightly as she could in their armor. “I was beginning to fear that something had happened to you. You were gone for an age!”

“The fortunes of battle,” he told her. “How has it been here?”

“We have been standing around the sapling,” Seiveril answered. “The daemonfey and their fiends tried to break us five times this afternoon, but we fought them back each time.” The elflord looked exhausted, but a fierce light still glowed in his eyes. “I expect they’ll try again soon. On the right, several of the Sembian companies broke early in the day, but Lord Selkirk rallied the rest. They’re standing for now, too. But the wood elves tell me that warbands of drow are gathering in the forest nearby. I think they’re waiting for darkness to join the daemonfey assault.”

“Drow, too?” Fflar grimaced. He should have expected that after the attempt on Ilsevele’s life in Tegal’s Mark. Clearly, Sarya had reached some accommodation with the drow clans lurking in the Elven Court. Just when it seemed that the battle might be in hand, Sarya came up with another arrow to shoot… which reminded him of something else that Seiveril needed to know. “Seiveril, I have some more bad news. Ferryl Nimersyl has fallen, along with many of the Moon Knights. I came across them just a few minutes ago. I think a new foe has taken the field against us-a lord of fiends, perhaps.”

“Do you think the one Araevin spoke of is here?” Ilsevele asked.

“So Sarya’s mysterious ally has finally shown himself,” Seiveril said. He glanced up at his smoke-blackened banner, hanging limply overhead. “Perhaps that explains why we are fighting demons and devils at the same time, when they are the fiercest of enemies. Some prince of the nether planes commands the creatures to serve together.”

“Is there some way to turn them against each other?” Ilsevele mused. “If we can slay or banish the leader, will the devils abandon Sarya’s cause?”

“That won’t be easy.” Fflar looked out over the smoldering fires of the vale and set a hand on the hilt of Keryvian. He’d challenged an infernal lord once before, hadn’t he? Of course, he did not know if the Army of Darkness had disintegrated after he had pierced Aulmpiter’s heart with Demron’s last baneblade. Myth Drannor had been destroyed anyway. But this was a different time and a different enemy. Maybe there would be a different outcome.

“Lord Seiveril!” Jorildyn called. The grim battle-mage had his left arm in a bloodstained sling but still carried his tall staff in his right. “The daemonfey are gathering to our front!”

The elflord glanced at Fflar and Ilsevele, then drew a deep breath. “So it begins again,” he said softly. “Let us hope that the Seldarine smile on us for a sixth time today.”

A little more than one hundred miles north of the battle in the Vale of Lost Voices, the army of Zhentil Keep was encamped around the walls of Hillsfar. Near the cold waters of the Moonsea, the rain had been steady all day, leaving the roads outside the barred gates rivers of ankle-deep mud. It was not enough to hinder the movements of armies-it was not the spring melting, after all-but it was certainly sufficient to make the common footsoldiers miserable and preclude any attempts to fire the city for at least a short time.

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.”

The tyrant of Zhentil Keep scowled furiously, deadly wrath awaking in his eyes. “Are you certain of that?” he asked in a cold voice.

“Maalthiir has decamped. He left the city almost a tenday ago. I do not think that he intends to return.”

Fzoul snorted in dark amusement. “I suppose that does not surprise me. So who governs Hillsfar in his stead, High Warden?”

“The Council of Lords is the acting authority in the city, Lord Fzoul. They share power with the remaining Red Plumes.”

“I see. So which of those powers do you serve?”

“I am a lord of Hillsfar.”

“Weren’t you high in Maalthiir’s service? Why did you not follow your master into exile, Lord Gearas?”

The high warden grimaced. “The First Lord departed abruptly, Lord Fzoul. He did not give me that opportunity.”

“And so your fellow lordlings have rewarded you for your faithful service to Maalthiir by making you their envoy to me.” Fzoul’s dark eyes danced with malice. “Go back to your council of lords then, and convey to them my terms. You have one day to indicate your acceptance.”

The high warden knew when he had been dismissed. He bowed again in silence, and left the Golden Manticore. Fzoul watched him go.

“A pity that I shall not have the opportunity to banter with Maalthiir one more time. But I suppose that he has chosen a fate for himself almost as hopeless as anything I might have concocted. The knowledge of what he has lost will consume him alive, and he will spend the rest of his days waiting for the time when he is found out.”

“Should I make ready to attack tomorrow, my lord?” Scyllua asked.

“You will not need to, my dear. I have offered generous terms, and Hillsfar has no choice but to capitulate.” Fzoul folded his arms over his chest. “For more than one hundred years Hillsfar has been the fiercest rival of Zhentil Keep. Now we have laid them low, Scyllua. Whatever else comes out of this season of chaos, I am already content with my gains.”