The two stood and watched them go. “The old one is too much the fool,” Jhessail said thoughtfully. “He will turn about and come by another way and meet his doom.”
Merith shrugged. “One less arrogant fool to swagger his art, then. He was warned. I hope he doesn’t drag the young one down with him.”
Jhessail nodded. “If not for the devils and the beasts. Myth Drannor’s population would have grown to rival Water-deep’s this past season. Why are these magic-seekers all such idiots?”
Merith grinned at her. “You should know well, my dear, that adventurers and idiots are one and the same.”
Jhessail merely looked at him. Merith smiled again and gathered his wife up in an embrace. It was rare for an elf and a human to love so deeply and so simply, without high tragedy. Marimmar would not appreciate this, Jhessail thought with pity. But that young one might…
“Here, then,” said the Mage Most Magnificent, a short time later. “I can see towers through the trees… this must be that part of the old city where the mages dwelt.” The confident words had scarcely left his mouth before a dark and grinning face rose from the underbrush just ahead. Narm, heart sinking, had not time for even a cry of alarm before the devil leaped, clapped batlike wings, and flew unhesitatingly at them, its fellows also rising dark and sinister from the brush. Marimmar’s voice as he babbled a hasty spell quavered in fear. After that one terrible instant of realization, they were fighting for their lives.
The Gates of Doom
My fires ring my foe around, and my fangs and claws strike at her while she flees. Cruel, am I? Nay, for until now she has never really lived, now known the worth of the life she has used so carelessly. She should thank me.
Gholdaunt of Tashluta
Letter to all Sword Coast ports on his hunting of the pirate Valshee of the Black Blade
Year of the Wandering Waves
Mist rolled about them as the Company of the Bright Spear hurried westward over rising hills, quiet and as wary as possible. Bare rock appeared more frequently now as they passed, and the land rose gently. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the mist, the Thunder Peaks jutted like a great wall. The warriors who had attacked them so suddenly without challenge or banner hastened on before them, unseen but trailed in the tramplings of the wet grass by mule after mule laden with treasure.
Burlane was frowning. “What do you think, Thail? If their bowmen don’t return, will they still be warned? Are we rushing into a trap?”
Thail nodded. “Aye. Yet we dare not turn aside and approach the peaks by another way. In this mist we would lose their trail, and knowing not where they lair, could well head into any number of traps. Best we continue close on their heels, or turn back altogether.”
Burlane looked at them all. “Well?” he asked. “Do we press on, turn back to Myth Drannor, or seek fortune elsewhere? This chase could mean our deaths, and soon.”
“We face death every day,” Ferostil said stoically, shrugging, “and treasure is guarded the world over.” There were nods of agreement.
“We go on, then,” Burlane said. “Weapons at the ready, and pick up the pace. We slow only where an ambush seems likely.” They began to trot, tugging the reluctant horses into faster gaits. The hills climbed and rolled more steeply, and the company saw no sign of the warriors or their laden mules. The trail led on through scrub, upward into the mountains. Loose stones soon forced them to dismount.
“Who do you think we’re following?” Delg grumbled, running hard on his short legs to keep pace. Burlane spread his hands; each bore a weapon.
“Who can say?” their leader replied. “No arms displayed, yet blades were ready, and they weren’t slow to use them. They’re outlaws, surely, but where did they come from with such booty, and where do they lair? Who can tell?”
“Cheery speech,” Ferostil grunted sourly. “We hasten to meet gods-only-know how many bandits, all well-armed and expecting us. And me without fresh bandages on my wounds!”
Rymel chuckled. Ferostil snorted. Delg grinned wolfishly.
“If it’s fresh bandages you seek, longjaws,” the dwarf said, “I could be seeing my way to providing you with fresh dressings-and fresh wounds to go beneath ‘em, too!”
“Ahead!” Thail said quietly but sharply. All fell silent and looked. The trail they followed led up a rocky rise and between two pillars of bare rock. The place looked bleak and uninhabited. The company was leaving the mist behind, and they could see ahead a high, green, deserted valley. Mountains rose up on either side. Beyond the rock pillars the valley climbed to the company’s right.
Burlane nodded. “A place to be wary. Yet I see no danger waiting.”
“Invisible, by magic?” Ferostil suggested. Delg gave him a sour look.
“Waste all that art to hide from six adventurers?” the dwarf said derisively. “Are you foolish?”
“No, he’s just a gloomthought,” Rymel said, grinning. “Yet if we climbed a wall of that valley when we get inside, I’d feel safer. This looks like a gods-favored spot for a lookout, if not an attack.”
Burlane nodded again. “Climb the right-hand slope, then, once we’re through the mouth of the valley. Look sharp, everyone! I want no foes sounding an alarm or rolling rocks down on our heads. Understood?”
Everyone in the company muttered and nodded agreement as they trotted onward between the rock pillars. Shandril noticed Delg peering narrowly at the rock faces to either side. To her eyes, they seemed natural, not quarried. The valley beyond lay empty and quiet.
The trail grew harder to follow as they went on. The grass grew shorter, broken here and there by bare rock, moss, and weeds, but even Shandril’s eyes could still find the tracks of the mules. The unshod hooves had left deep marks in the soft, muddy patches between the rocks. The trail led upward, and the company followed until the valley opened out before them.
In the clear light of highsun, the land before them lay green and rugged, walled in by mountains. It was not over-large, and the only trees were stunted and scraggly, huddled along the base of a steep rock face that formed the northwest wall of the valley. Water gleamed in little pools to the company’s left. Rocks rose brokenly to their right. Nothing living met their eyes except one lone hawk, circling high above. There was no sign of warriors or of mules, only the faint trail running on.
The company swung to the right and began to climb. Burlane turned to Delg. “Stay with the horses. Bring them on only at my call.” The dwarf nodded.
“Does something about this place feel… wrong to you, too?” Delg asked.
Burlane nodded. “Yes,” he said, mounting a rock, “and until-”
At that moment a man in robes appeared on a rock above them, farther up the slope. He was broad and stout and thin-bearded, and he wore robes of dark burgundy.
“Who are you,” he called angrily, looking down on the company, “and why have you passed the gates without leave? Speak! Show me the sign forthwith or perish!” The man bore no staff or weapon. His eyes were black and glistening. Shandril thought she had never before seen a man who looked so cruel and evil.
“What gates?” Burlane called, climbing nearer. From where she crouched behind a rock, Shandril could see all of the company moving, weapons out, advancing on the man, shifting apart from one another. The black eyes darted coldly back and forth.
“The Gates of Doom,” came the cold reply, and the mage’s fingers moved as if they were crawling spiders. He chanted one rising phrase, and lightning leaped from the air before his fingers in a spitting, crackling bolt.
In the blue-white flash of the bolt, Shandril saw Ferostil raise his sword in a convulsive, jerking dance. The fighter’s roar of agony died away faintly as his body blackened, tottered, and fell. Shandril was too shocked to make a sound. The corpse toppled forward out of view, down between two rocks.