Ruins of Myth Drannor (22 page)

“We accept,” Corran called to Nathlilik. “Lower the bridge.”

Kestrel gasped involuntarily. “But—”

“You’re outvoted, Kestrel. And we can’t afford for Nathlilik to change her mind while we waste time arguing.”

So now her opinions were merely a waste of time? She fairly shook with anger at this latest example of the paladin’s high-handedness. How dare he just shut her up? She glared at Corran, ready to unleash a stream of epithets when, entirely unbidden, Caalenfaire’s final words entered her head. Do not let conflict between you threaten your mission.

With one final, very uncharitable thought toward Corran D’Arcey, she swallowed her ire. Nathlilik had begun lowering the drawbridge, and they needed to present a united front to the drow band. If anyone’s egoism crippled their quest, it would be Corran’s, not hers.

As they waited for the bridge to settle into place, Kestrel found herself standing off to one side with Ghleanna. Corran and the others were engrossed in watching the bridge mechanism. She studied the paladin as he bantered easily with Jarial and Faeril—even Durwyn. “Why do you all follow him so faithfully?” she muttered, half to Ghleanna and half to herself.

Ghleanna followed her gaze. “He inspires confidence.”

Kestrel looked at the sorceress, puzzled. All Corran had ever inspired in her was frustration. “What do you mean?”

“When we go into battle. Just being near him—I am not afraid. Whatever odds we face, his presence makes me believe we can overcome them. I think it is because his faith is so strong.” She met Kestrel’s eyes. “Surely you feel it, too?”

Kestrel shook her head.

“Mayhap you have not let yourself.”

Kestrel returned her gaze to Corran. To hear Ghleanna talk, the paladin had some aura about him that everyone could sense but her. As a rogue, she prided herself on her perception, on her ability to read people accurately. Had she allowed herself to become blinded? Even so, Corran had his own failings to work on, whether the others could see them or not.

The party crossed the bridge and came eye to eye with the dark elves. The Kilseks’ faces held all the fierceness and arrogance of the Freths’, but they also bore a weariness and desperation that hadn’t been present among Razherrt’s men. Perhaps Nathlilik told the truth after all.

As Kestrel passed the drow leader, their gazes locked. Nathlilik’s red eyes burned with determination Kestrel knew she herself had never felt. “You really do hate the cult,” she murmured.

“My lifemate, Kedar, is among those enslaved,” Nathlilik said. “I will avenge him.”

They found the cult sorcerer exactly where Nathlilik had said to expect him.

They did not expect to find him dead.

“Ugh.” Kestrel grimaced at the sight of the corpse. The cultist lay wrapped in a cocoon of sticky white strands with only his head and neck exposed. Bite marks covered his face and throat, leaving the flesh in shreds. The expression in his frozen eyes suggested he’d died a slow, painful death. “What got him? Spiders?”

“Some kind of wild creature.” Jarial knelt beside the body to lift a long gold staff from where it had fallen near the sorcerer’s body. “Whatever it was, it left this behind.”

She crept closer for a better look. A G-shaped hook crowned the staff, within which a glowing yellow orb floated freely. “The Staff of Sunlight.”

“That’s my guess.”

Kestrel glanced around the rest of the room. A closed door stood opposite the one they had entered, and a table and chair sat in the corner. Several papers lay scattered on the table and floor. Ghleanna picked them up, scanning their content. “Most of these are useless notes, but this page is an order from Mordrayn. It says to eliminate the arraccat from the eastern section of the catacombs’ third level.”

“That’s where we are, isn’t it?” Durwyn asked.

Ghleanna nodded absently as she quoted from the order. “The creatures lair above the baelnorn and thus too close to our operations there.”

Corran took the paper from Ghleanna’s hand and studied it himself. “What’s an arraccat?”

“I think it’s a creature with eight eyes,” said Durwyn, his voice a bit higher-pitched than normal, “and eight legs with really sharp claws… and a wide mouth with wicked fangs… .”

Kestrel glanced at him in surprise, but his back was turned to her. “How do you know that, Durwyn?”

“Because I’m looking at one.”

The arraccat hissed and sprang toward Durwyn. The fighter jumped out of the way, allowing the rest of the companions their first look at the creature. A cross between a spider and a cat, it stood nearly as tall as Kestrel and twice as wide. Brown fur covered its feline head, long tail, and oval arachnid body.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, it disappeared.

Faeril swept the room with her gaze. “Where did it—” Suddenly, two more appeared in the room. “Jarial! Ghleanna! Behind you!”

Ghleanna spun around, her staff cutting the forelegs out from under one of the arraccats. The creature buckled, then evaporated from sight. The other arraccat sprung at Jarial before he could strike it with the Staff of Sunlight, his only weapon at hand. The beast sank its fangs into his shoulder and disappeared.

The mage cried out in pain. “Their bite stings! I think they’re poisonous!”

Kestrel grabbed her club and snapped her wrist. The weapon telescoped not a moment too soon—all three arraccats reappeared, this time behind Corran, Faeril, and Durwyn. She advanced on the closest creature, but a shout from Ghleanna stopped her. “Kestrel, look out!”

She spun to discover a fourth arraccat behind her. Green saliva—or was it venom?—dripped from its fangs. Four pairs of yellow eyes glittered menacingly in the torchlight through slit lids. Kestrel avoided eye contact, knowing that if she stared into those hourglass irises too long, she’d go dizzy.

The creature sprang. She grasped her club in both hands and struck it in the head, momentarily stunning it. No sooner did it disappear from sight than another took its place. The party fought at least six creatures now—the way they kept popping in and out, Kestrel couldn’t keep track—and hadn’t managed to land a fatal blow on any.

“Backs to the walls!” Corran yelled. “So they can’t attack from behind!”

Kestrel fought off another beast and pressed herself against the door opposite the one they’d entered. No one had had time to check what lay on the other side, but at this point she didn’t care. They had to get out of this room. The arraccats now outnumbered them, and more appeared each minute. No wonder the cult sorcerer had fallen prey to the creatures—they multiplied like rabbits.

She tried the door and found it locked. Damn her luck! She fumbled in her belt pouch, willing her fingers to find the right lockpick as she tried to fend off an arraccat one-handed. A moment later, Corran was at her side. “Open it! I’ll cover you!”

The paladin’s blade sliced through the creature and injured another in the time it took her to locate the tool she needed and open the lock. “Durwyn! Faeril!” she shouted over a nearby arraccat’s hiss. “This way! Jarial! Ghleanna!”

One by one they backed over to the open door and slipped through to a small stairwell. Corran entered last. He slammed the door and fell against it, winded.

Several minutes passed in silence as they waited, arms ready, to see whether the arraccats would appear on this side of the door. None did. Jarial loosened his iron grip on the Staff of Sunlight and lowered its end to the ground. “I think we can relax.”

Faeril examined Jarial’s bite mark. The injury itself was minor, and Ozama’s boots had once again protected him from the effects of poison. While the cleric bandaged the wound, Kestrel regarded Corran thoughtfully. The paladin might be an insufferable prig, but he’d seen to everyone else’s safely before his own—unlike the debacle in the House of Gems courtyard. “I thought you never retreat from a fight?”

“Live to fight another day—isn’t that how you rogues think?” He wiped the creatures’ foul blood off Pathfinder and returned the weapon to its scabbard. “I’m beginning to believe that motto has some merit.”

She hadn’t time to contemplate his change in attitude, for Ghleanna summoned them excitedly. “There’s a door at the bottom of the stairs, marked with the Rune of the Protector. The baelnorn cannot be far away.”

“Fhaormiir!”

The moment the party approached the door, the Word of Safekeeping boomed out of the air in a deep voice that reverberated throughout the stairwell. Adrenaline raced through Kestrel as the door silently swung open. Soon they would meet the Protector, and ask him to use the Gem of the Weave to undo the corruption of the Mythal. With the tide thus turned against the cult, perhaps she and the others would have a prayer of completing this mission alive. She did not want to consider their chances if the baelnorn refused their petition.

Expecting a long corridor, Kestrel was surprised to discover only a small antechamber. The room was empty, with a single pair of doors breaking up the smooth expanse of wall. The massive oak doors, however, took up nearly one whole side.

“Are we in the right place?” Faeril murmured. “I thought the baelnorn’s dwelling—”

“Hush!” Kestrel closed her eyes to focus her sense of hearing. Muffled noises came from more than one place on the other side of the doors. A muted voice, the scrape of a chair, several low chuckles. She signaled to the others to remain still—and silent—while she investigated. Then she crept up to the doors and peered through the keyhole.

Her vantage point offered only a limited view of the room beyond. Flickering torchlight cast shadows on the walls—two figures standing, more sprawled in chairs around a table. She strained for a better view, but she could not see the people casting the shadows. From the relative size of the shadows, she guessed the erect pair to be closer than the seated individuals. She could hear them, male voices speaking in low tones.

“Still no word from Forgred’s men, Lieutenant?”

“No, Captain.”

“Or Gashet? Rubal?”

“No, sir… .She will not be pleased.”

“Hrmph. She must learn patience.”

Suddenly, a crackling sound rent the air. A gate, like the one that had transported the party to Myth Drannor, appeared in Kestrel’s line of sight. It pulsed and snapped with light and energy. A bright flash lit the room. Then, just as suddenly, the gate disappeared.

Kya Mordrayn had arrived.

Kestrel stifled a gasp. The archmage appeared even more formidable in person than she had in the scrying mirror. She was a tall woman, approaching six feet, and her boots and upswept hair made her seem at least a foot taller. A stiff collar anchored two red leather shoulder pieces that extended like dragon wings on either side of her head. At her waist hung a pair of black metal gloves, with white symbols of an open skeletal mouth on each palm. The Gauntlets of Moander.

Mordrayn’s monstrous right arm hung past her knee—until she raised it to point at one of the speakers who had fallen silent at her entrance.

What news, Mage Captain?As in the scrying mirror, Mordrayn did not open her mouth to speak. Her voice seemed to simply fill the minds of those who listened.

“The baelnorn remains locked away in the next room, Mistress. No one has entered.”

The archmage nodded approvingly. That is well. And the intruders?

“We have not found them yet. But—”

Her brows drew together. I grow tired of excuses. The fingers of Mordrayn’s human hand moved ever so slightly. The captain screamed as a blaze of light filled the room. The smell of burning flesh drifted through the keyhole, accompanied by a sickening sizzling sound.

Unable to see the captain, Kestrel kept her gaze on Mordrayn. As her servant shrieked in pain, the archmage remained stoic, even bored. When the screams ceased and the flames died out, one upright shadow remained on the wall. The seated figures appeared smaller, as if trying to sink into their chairs.

Mordrayn shifted her gaze to encompass the remaining officer. You command now.

“Yes, Mistress.” The figure bowed his head, then raised it quickly. “Mistress—an idea.”

The archmage had turned as if to leave but spun around at her servant’s entreaty. She arched an eyebrow. Speak quickly.

“With your permission, I will unlock the doors.”

The archmage gasped aloud. Unlock them?

“Yes… and be ready.”

Mordrayn stared at her new commander a long time, flexing her talons as she pondered his proposal. Not a sound broke the stillness. Finally, she nodded in assent. Plan wisely. Use the drow slaves as you see fit. And if you fail, pray that they kill you…

The magical gate reappeared. A moment later, the archmage was gone.

Immediately, the commander spun to face the seated figures. “Get up, you maggots! Get moving! You—get everyone in here… .”

Kestrel backed away from the doors and returned to the others. “We’ve found the baelnorn—the cult is holding him captive here.” As she described the scene she’d just witnessed, the sound of an enormous bolt sliding back indicated that the doors now indeed stood unlocked. “We haven’t much time. They’re mobilizing quickly.”

Corran leaned on his sword, frowning. “How many are there?”

“Hard to say—I could see only shadows. A dozen, perhaps more. I suspect at least some of them are sorcerers, as the captain was one.”

All eyes turned to the paladin, including Kestrel’s. She’d never been involved in an out-and-out battle against an organized military force. For once, she was happy to let Corran take command. Was this the confidence Ghleanna had described?

Corran rubbed his temples, then mumbled a brief prayer to Tyr. “Okay, here’s what we do.”

The cult forces were still organizing when Kestrel and her party burst into the room. The element of surprise won them a momentary advantage—long enough for Ghleanna to launch a fireball at the living warriors and Jarial to use the Staff of Sunlight to weaken the enthralled drow assembled in the chamber. The combined effect created a burst of light so bright that even the surface-dwellers blinked.

The enslaved Kilsek staggered under the visual assault, cringing and covering their eyes. Kestrel picked off two of the weakened dark elves without even a struggle, slipping behind them in the bright light of day and sinking a dagger between their shoulder blades. Faeril sent two more to their final rest in the shock of the initial onslaught, her new blade glowing with holy fire.