Final Gate

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

18 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

Araevin stepped into a world of stinging dust and baking heat. He started coughing immediately and threw one arm over his eyes as he staggered away from the gate. The portal stood in a broken wall of black stone on the side of a steep hill. He reached out to steady himself, and found that the stones were hot to the touch. Overhead, the skies churned with black clouds, lit from within by searing flames. A harsh wind like the blast of a furnace scoured the landscape, driving streamers of the bitter dust past the shattered ruins around him.

“Where am I?” he muttered between coughs.

The ruins might have been some sort of keep or watchtower long ago, but had become little more than a foundation of heavy stones abraded smooth by dust and wind. He had to wonder who had thought to raise a portal in such a place. Jorin and Maresa staggered through the portal next.

“They’re right behind us, Araevin!” Maresa called.

She drew her rapier and took up a position by the side of the portal, while Jorin hurried a few steps away and turned back to face the gate with an arrow on his bowstring. Nesterin appeared next, blade already in hand. He staggered away from the portal, and dragged Donnor through by one arm, catching the knight in mid-swing.

“Nycaloths pursue us!” the star elf shouted.

“Stand aside. I’ll deal with the portal,” Araevin answered.

He backed away a few more steps and chanted the words of a spell to temporarily seal the portal behind them. Refusing to allow the hostility of their surroundings to distract him, Araevin fixed his attention on the portal and hurried to complete the spell. The gray misty space between the portal’s framing stones shimmered, as if something were about to emerge… and he finished the portal seal. In an instant the roiling mists of the gate reverted to cold, dead stone, bound under a glowing spiderweb of silver magic.

Maresa breathed a sigh of relief and sheathed her rapier. Then she glanced around the ruins of hot black stone and volcanic dust. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” the genasi muttered.

“Will we be able to retreat through that portal when the time comes?” Jorin asked Araevin, eying the spiderweb of magic with concern in his gaze.

“Yes, I can dismiss the spell any time I want.”

“Will the devils pursuing us be able to find another way to get through?”

“I don’t know, Jorin. They might not know where this portal leads, and they can’t find out as long as my seal holds. But I have no way of knowing if there are other portals nearby that they might use to follow us. Just in case, we would be wise to move on soon. My spell might have been noticed.”

The Yuir ranger nodded. He slipped his bow over his shoulder and checked his paired short swords in their sheaths. “Do you know where we are?”

“I do not know much about the lower planes.” Araevin rummaged in his vest for a handkerchief and tied it around his mouth and nose to help keep the grit out. “Donnor is a better guide than I am here.”

“What’s there to know?” Maresa said. “They’re all hells of one kind or another, aren’t they? Hostile, poisonous, and filled with supernatural terrors that can kill you in a dozen different ways. I think I understand.”

“Trust me, there are important differences,” the Lathanderite said. “Each lower plane has its own perils.”

“So what is this place, then?” said Jorin.

Donnor studied the landscape beyond the black ruins. Jagged peaks marched along the horizon, and the angry red sky overhead flashed with fire and thunder. “It might be Avernus, first of the Nine Hells. Or perhaps the Blood Rift, an unstable plane that aligns with other infernal realms from time to time. But I think we are in the Barrens of Doom and Despair, an infernal plane that lies near the Nine Hells.”

Araevin followed the cleric’s gaze. “I think you are right, Donnor. The appearance of the place matches what I have read about the Barrens.”

“And who or what resides here?” Maresa asked.

The Lathanderite wiped his brow with one gauntleted hand. The gray dust stuck to his sweat and left a broad smudge across his forehead. “Several dark gods have their domains here, Bane first and foremost,” he said. “We would be wise to avoid those places if we can.” Maresa rolled her eyes at that but did not interrupt him. “Other than the gods’ realms, the Barrens of Doom and Despair are home to the fiends we call yugoloths or daemons. Expect to encounter things such as mezzoloths, canoloths, nycaloths… perhaps some devils outcast from the Nine Hells, too.”

Something the cleric said caught at Araevin’s mind. He frowned, puzzling out the thought. From his very first encounter with the daemonfey in the halls of Tower Reilloch, they had relied on yugoloths of different sorts. At the time he had thought it nothing more than the expedience of summoning the creatures. Yugoloths were notorious as bargainers and mercenaries, easily persuaded to serve in a variety of evil causes. But Sarya had also rallied devils and demons to her banner, creatures that normally loathed each other. She was blood kin to demons, so it must have been Malkizid who brought his devils to her service. If Malkizid was an exiled archdevil, as Quastarte had told him, he might very well have established himself as a lord in some other infernal domain… accompanied by those devils who followed him into exile.

Just as he had known from the moment he beheld Lorosfyr that the second shard waited in its depths, he could sense the truth: The third shard was in Malkizid’s domain.

“Malkizid,” he murmured. “He seeks to subjugate the Waymeet. Of course the Gatekeeper’s Crystal will be useful to him. At the very least, he would want to make sure that no one assembled the crystal and used it against him. So the Branded King keeps one shard safe in his domain.”

“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.

“We will not need to ride very far,” said Seiveril, “and I hope we will not be gone for long. Besides, I’ll have Starbrow and Jorildyn with me.”

“So that all the leaders of the Crusade can be killed at the same time if Sarya’s demons find you?”

“The fewer with me, the better,” Seiveril said. “Besides, I have a feeling that the Seldarine may favor us this evening.”

Ilsevele narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going, Father?”

Seiveril started to dismiss her question, but then he checked himself. She did not know it, but she had as much right to be with him as any of the others. “Now that I think on it, I want you to come with us, Ilsevele. This is something that you should see.”

Seiveril, Starbrow, and Jorildyn found horses and mounted quietly. Seiveril took a moment to murmur a prayer for swiftness and stealth, weaving the magic of the Seldarine over their small band. Then the four of them rode away from the standard, heading north and west in the darkness.

Since most of the day’s fighting had taken place around the elven and Sembian standards, within four hundred yards they had passed out of the battleground proper. Though the smell of smoke still hung heavily in the air, the vale grew silent and almost peaceful as they rode deeper in. They began to pass isolated markers of white stone, each covered in faded Elvish script that seemed to shine with a silver radiance when the moonlight glimmered through the overcast and smoke.

“These are burial markers,” Ilsevele whispered.

“Yes. For many centuries, the People of Cormanthyr laid their dead to rest here. Long ago there was a battle lost in this place, and many warriors fell. Since that time it has been hallowed ground.”

“It seems strange that the daemonfey would choose this place to fight.”

“They probably revel in desecrating it,” Seiveril said harshly.

They rode on in silence for a time. Whether his intuition had come from Corellon’s mind or they had simply proven lucky, they ran into none of the Dlardrageth minions during their ride.

Finally, Seiveril spied a small structure of pale marble gleaming in the moonlight. It was a windowless rotunda of sorts, half-sunk into the loam of the vale amid a small copse of trees. A single door of dark iron barred its entrance.

“Ah, we are here,” Seiveril breathed.

“What is this place?” Jorildyn asked.

“This is the ancient crypt of House Miritar. Many of my forebears-and yours too, Ilsevele-rest here.” Seiveril dismounted, and faced the old monument. “I have not been here in more than two hundred years. A long time by any measure, I suppose.” He was pleased to see that the tomb had weathered well in the passing centuries. Old enchantments had been laid on the place long ago to protect it.

“Why have we come here, Seiveril?” Jorildyn asked.

“Sarya Dlardrageth has shown a talent for employing ancient secrets against us. I think it is time that we returned the favor. There is help for us here.”

The battle-mage nodded slowly in understanding. “I don’t understand why you didn’t summon the guardians of the vale last night,” he murmured. “We could have used the help.”

“I dared not do so until I had given them a chance to witness the valor of the Sembians,” Seiveril answered. “Many of the warriors sleeping here regarded the humans as enemies during their living days. I was afraid that the guardians might not be able or willing to treat Selkirk and his men as allies. But the Sembians fought and died alongside elf warriors today, Jorildyn. And most of them did so with courage equal to our own. I think that will count for a lot in the judgment of the Vale guardians.”

“Seiveril, be careful…” Starbrow warned. “The powers here are not to be lightly called upon.”

“I know.”

Seiveril strode up to face the rotunda’s only door, while the others exchanged looks behind him and slowly dismounted. He whispered a small devotion to clear his mind for the labor ahead, and pressed his hands together before his chest. Then he began to chant a powerful spell, calling on Corellon Larethian’s power and shaping the divine energy with his words and will. He sensed all around him the slow awakening of the vale. The wind shifted and grew strong, raking across the dry grass and fallen leaves with an icy touch. A pale corona began to flicker and burn around the ancient white stones of the place. He shivered and finished the incantation. Throwing his arms wide, he shouted, “Come forth, I beseech you! Come forth!”

A golden light seemed to illuminate the domed crypt in front of him, sunlight from some distant and unseen dawn. The radiance spilled out over the nearby glade. And a spectral form seemed to stride through the mithral-chased door. It was the shade of a noble sun elf warrior, dressed in the arms of Myth Drannor’s Akh Velar. His red hair spilled out from under his helm, and his eyes gleamed with a brilliant light.

Behind Seiveril, Starbrow recoiled two steps in pure astonishment. “Elkhazel!” he whispered. “Is that truly you?”

“Greetings, Father,” Seiveril said weakly. He swayed, suddenly exhausted beyond all endurance, but Ilsevele and Jorildyn hurried up to steady him.

“Seiveril, my son,” the shade of Elkhazel said. Warmth filled his voice. “Fflar, my old friend. I am pleased to see you walk in Cormanthor again.”

Seiveril looked on the visage of his father. “Forgive me for calling you from Arvandor, but the guardians of the vale are needed tonight. I hoped that you could intercede on our behalf.”

“I am not angry, Seiveril,” the golden spirit said. He drifted before the door of the Miritar crypt, ethereal mists streaming from his translucent form. His face was compassionate, but there was iron in the set of his mouth. “It is for needs such as yours that the ancient rites were first spoken. The daemonfey are an abomination in the sight of the Seldarine. Your appeal has been heard.”

“You can aid us, Father?”

“Only within the bounds of the Vale of Lost Voices itself, and only for a short time. Call for me when you judge the moment to be right, and I will come with others who sleep here.” Elkhazel Miritar offered a grim smile. “The Dlardrageths have transgressed against the memory of Cormanthyr. We await the chance to chastise the daemonfey.”

“I will call for you,” Seiveril said.

He studied the spectral visage, so familiar and yet so distant. Elkhazel had passed to Arvandor three centuries after Retreating to Evermeet, and a century after Seiveril’s birth. Though he had become a lord of Evermeet, he had never ceased to grieve for the elven realm destroyed in the Weeping War. Seiveril remembered the old pain in his father’s eyes, the wounded heart that had never wholly healed, and he felt his own heart aching with love and sorrow. Tears came to his eyes, and he made no attempt to stop them.

The ghostly elflord stretched one hand over his son’s shoulder, and stood in silence. Then he looked up, and his gaze fell on Ilsevele. “Your daughter?” Elkhazel asked softly.

Ilsevele’s eyes glimmered with tears, but she stood straight and looked her grandfather in the face. “I am Ilsevele, daughter of Seiveril and Ilyyela,” she said. “I greet you, Grandfather.”

The shade drifted closer and studied her face, his eyes shining with light. Then, slowly, he knelt and bowed his head before her, doffing his spectral helm. In the moonlight he seemed as faint as a forgotten memory, but the night fell silent as the shade paid her homage.

“I am sorry that we did not meet in life, granddaughter,” he whispered. “You are the hope of Cormanthyr, Ilsevele. In your day our People will come into a new spring.”

Ilsevele looked down on the shade of Elkhazel and frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” she said.

Elkhazel smiled. “You will,” he said. Then he rose and turned to Starbrow. “She is your hope as well, my friend. Across the centuries you have found the love you once lost, and it gladdens my heart to see it.”

Starbrow stared at the visage of his friend, and struggled to speak. But the golden shade simply raised his hand in farewell and vanished in a single swift heartbeat. The four living elves were left standing in the glade before the Miritar crypt, and the night was still and warm again.

No one spoke for a long time. Jorildyn studied his three companions, his gruff expression lost in a strange and rare wonder. Finally he cleared his throat. “We should return to the Crusade, Seiveril. We don’t know how much time we have before the daemonfey attack again.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Seiveril admitted. He looked at his companions. “I think it would be best if we kept what passed here in this glade to ourselves for now. The shades of the dead are right about many things, but their words often have many meanings. Nothing is written yet.”

Climbing into his saddle, he turned his horse’s head back to the east and led the others away from the crypt of his fathers.

It proved surprisingly difficult to measure time or distance in the Barrens of Doom and Despair. The sky was a featureless mass of low, roiling clouds, and the blowing dust frequently obscured distant landmarks. Clearly, this was a place where one could easily become lost. Without the distant call of the third shard to guide him, Araevin doubted that he could have managed to keep his bearings.

They started off by descending the treacherous hillside from the old ruin, slipping and sliding in dust and scree. Then they struck off across the plain itself, trudging across the windswept waste. On several occasions the surging fires overhead burned their way free of the black clouds, scouring the ground below like dancing waterspouts made of flame, but fortunately none of the fire-strikes fell close to them.

After several miles, they started to climb again, following a dry watercourse that snaked up into the razorlike maze of ridges. Near the foot of the defile they paused to drink some water and make a small meal from their rations.

“I am surprised that we have encountered no infernal beings yet,” Nesterin said as they ate. “This plane seems virtually uninhabited.”

“Don’t invite trouble,” Maresa growled. “I’m in no hurry to meet more demons or devils.”

“It’s the nature of the plane, Nesterin,” Donnor said. “The domains of the evil powers in the Barrens are separated by vast stretches of wasteland. This place is not bounded like Sildeyuir. It goes on and on for countless thousands of miles. Not all of it can be full of evil creatures all the time.”

“I think you spoke too soon,” Jorin announced. The ranger stood a little behind the others, looking back the way they had come with a hand above his eyes. “Something is on our trail.”

Araevin and the others stood and hurried to Jorin’s side. The keen-eyed ranger was not mistaken; out in the open wastes a number of tiny, dark shapes that kicked up windblown arrowheads of dust were following them. Studying them for a long moment, Araevin decided that the creatures ran on all fours, but they were too far off to make out any more detail than that-though they were covering ground at a very good speed indeed.

“What are they?” Donnor asked. He gave up trying to see for himself, since his human eyes were the least keen of any in the small company.

“I can’t say yet,” Jorin answered. “Wolves of some kind? I count at least thirty, about a mile behind us.”

“If they keep on like that, they’ll be on us soon,” Nesterin added. The star elf looked over to Araevin. “We might be able to avoid them for a time by pressing ahead or scaling the slopes of these hills, but we cannot outrun them.”

“What about using magic?” Maresa asked.

Araevin studied the defile for a moment. “I know a spell to raise a wall of ice, but I can’t do it here,” he decided. “It’s not narrow enough. And I have doubts as to how long magical ice would last here, anyway.”

“I hesitate to suggest it, but could we teleport away?” Donnor asked.

“Have you forgotten about our little misadventure in Lorosfyr?” the genasi demanded.

The cleric winced. Araevin shook his head. “That was due to the peculiar conditions of the Underdark, Maresa,” he said. “But it would not be any safer here. In the first place, I haven’t really seen the place we are trying to reach, and second, I don’t know anything about how magic of that sort works in this plane. I think we’d be better off to continue up this watercourse and look for a place to make a stand.”

They quickly gathered their packs and set off again, scrambling up the boulder-strewn ravine at the best speed they could manage. In level spots they stretched out their legs into a loping run, and in more difficult places they bounded from boulder to boulder, arms wide for balance. By the time they’d gone a quarter-mile, they heard the first sounds of their pursuers-a deep, raspy baying that drifted up on the hot wind whistling up the defile.

Not long now, Araevin decided.

They could press on and delay the inevitable for a few more steps, or they could make the best of it where they were. He paused to study the lay of the land. To his right old rockslides from the jagged cliffs above had created a tangled jumble of boulders that seemed as good as anything.

“Over there!” he called. “Get on top of the boulders.”

He led the way as they scrambled up the defile’s side and scaled several of the larger stones. On the downhill side they stood a good ten or fifteen feet above the valley floor, but it would not be hard for the creatures chasing them to get up on the gravel slopes above the slide and come down on them. Still, it was the best they could do. Donnor Kerth drew his broadsword and set himself at the uphill side of the boulder-top, ready to defend the easiest path from the valley floor, while Nesterin and Jorin readied their bows and Maresa unslung her crossbow. Araevin drew a wand from his holster and turned to face the oncoming foes.

A couple of hundred yards down the winding watercourse, the first of their enemies appeared. The creatures were monstrous hounds of some kind, with coal-black hides and eyes that glowed with an evil red light. Smoke and embers fumed from their heavy muzzles.

“Hell hounds,” Donnor said grimly. “I think I will seek Lathander’s favor for this fight.” He started to chant a holy prayer.

The pack caught sight of the company standing atop the boulders and filled the canyon with their voracious cries. Without a moment’s hesitation they streaked forward, bounding over the gravel and stone like black thunderbolts.

Jorin’s bow sang its shrill note, followed an instant later by Nesterin’s and the deeper thrumming of Maresa’s crossbow. In the front of the pack, charging hell hounds folded up and rolled headlong in the dust, crippled by the arrows. For ten heartbeats the archers rained a furious shower of destruction against the fiendish creatures, killing or wounding a dozen of the monsters. Then Araevin judged the distance suitable for his wands, and began to alternate blasts of his disrupting wand with blistering lightning bolts from his wand. Hell hounds snarled with fury and roared in pain, hammered by the powerful concussive blasts or flayed alive by dancing lightning.

“They’re still coming!” Maresa called.

The pack swirled around the boulders, snapping fiercely. Searing gouts of fire scorched up at Araevin and his friends. Araevin recoiled, throwing his cloak over his face against the fiery breath of the monsters below-but the withering blasts seemed weaker than he could have expected. Instead of charring skin and setting cloaks aflame, the hell hounds’ breath left wisps of smoke rising from his clothes and angry red burns that were painful, but not serious.

“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.”