Ruins of Myth Drannor (23 page)

At the sight of flames dancing around the steel, Kestrel glanced at the cleric in surprise. “I didn’t know that was a magical weapon.”

Faeril regarded the sword in awe. “Neither did I.” She celebrated the discovery by plunging the blade into another dark elf.

Ghleanna had been assigned the task of subduing the commander, at whom she immediately launched a second spell. They’d all hoped the lieutenant would prove the only sorcerer among the cultists—the party had entered combat under the shield of protective spells, but their magical defenses couldn’t hold out forever. Soon, Kestrel saw a sorcerous battle unfold out of the corner of her eye, with Ghleanna and the lieutenant launching magical volleys at each other.

Corran, once again cloaked by invisibility, was to help the half-elf slay the commander, applying steel to supplement spells. Kestrel saw no sign yet of the paladin, but her attention was focused on another drow opponent. The soulless dark elf moved his hands in the gesture-language of Razherrt and his followers. At the last second, she realized he was casting a spell. She dropped to the floor and rolled, trying to dodge his aim, but to no avail. A fan of flames burst from his hands, searing her side.

She yelped in pain but got to her feet, more determined than ever to save Nathlilik the trouble of releasing this particular Kilsek into true death. She hurled Loren’s Blade at him, catching him in the throat. Beside her, Faeril’s flame blade dispatched the last enthralled drow.

Meanwhile, six cult fighters charged Durwyn. Jarial appeared to launch a spell at them, but Kestrel saw no visible effect. She soon realized, however, that the fighters moved more slowly than they had before. Faeril rushed to fight beside Durwyn, while Kestrel maintained her position and sent Loren’s Blade flying once more.

As Ghleanna unleashed a series of fire bursts, a cry of “Death to Tyr’s enemies!” revealed Corran’s whereabouts. Pathfinder penetrated the cult commander’s defenses, striking a blow at the evil sorcerer’s back. The combination of Ghleanna’s spells and Corran’s sword proved the mage’s undoing, and before long he lay on the floor with the dead drow.

Ghleanna, however, suffered serious burns on her arms and face from one of the cultist’s enchantments. Faeril, having just dispatched her opponent with a fatal strike to the chest, disengaged from combat to attend the half-elf. Durwyn had defeated two foes, leaving just three cult fighters blocking the entrance to the baelnorn’s cell.

Kestrel noted the situation with cautious optimism. They could handle the remaining cultists—Corran and Jarial had already weakened two of them. Victory was all but assured.

Until the reinforcements arrived.

Without warning, a gate opened in the corner of the room. The additional forces the lieutenant had summoned earlier spilled out, surprised to find a battle in progress but ready to fight nonetheless. Cult fighters and countless enslaved drow entered the fight filling Kestrel with despair. How could they possibly prevail against these numbers?

“Close the gate!” Corran shouted.

“How?” she shouted back. Even if she knew a way to physically shut a magical portal, too many foes stood between them and the opening.

Jarial darted off to the side, positioning himself directly across from the gate. He unleashed a forked lightning bolt straight at the portal. One branch stopped the flow of cultists streaming out by electrocuting those hapless individuals immediately within. The other branch hit the gate itself, sending a crackle of electrical feedback racing through the very fabric of the portal. The gate snapped and wavered and popped. Random zaps of energy ricocheted within its walls. In a great burst of light, it collapsed.

Kestrel had no time to appreciate the fireworks—too many cultists and drow swarmed the room. Three soulless dark elves had her backed into a corner from which she feared she would never emerge. She found herself unable to land a single offensive blow on any of them—parrying their strikes was the best she could do.

Another burst of sunlight issued from Jarial’s staff, causing Kestrel’s opponents and the rest of the Kilsek to stagger under the sudden brightness. She seized the advantage and brought her club down on one foe’s skull with every ounce of strength she could muster. He slumped to the floor, but another dark elf took his place. The new opponent crippled her left arm with a retributive strike. Moments later, one of his comrades cut her legs out from under her.

Kestrel fell hard. She tried to push the pain from her consciousness, but it clutched at her mind like dark tentacles wrapping around her every thought. Her arm hung limp at her side, the broken bone protruding through her skin and armor. She transferred her club to her right hand and prepared to hold out as long as she could against the swarming dark elves. She called out, trying to draw someone’s attention to her situation, but with their whole party so severely outnumbered she doubted anyone could help her.

This was it, then, the place where she would die—beset by undead drow in the bowels of Myth Drannor. She had always wondered.

She fended off two more blows but could not block the third. It slammed into her head, knocking her flat and blurring her vision. Did she still face three drow, or did six now surround her? Through the haze overtaking her awareness, she heard Faeril’s voice rise above the din of battle. “By the grace of Mystra, I command thee to fall back!”

They were the last words she heard.

“Kestrel? Kestrel!”

Faeril’s voice drifted to her through a fog, stirring Kestrel to consciousness. Her battered body hurt all over, but her left arm ached so intensely that she almost lapsed back into oblivion rather than endure the pain.

Gentle fingers searched her throat for a pulse. “Thank Mystra, she’s still alive,” the cleric said.

“How bad is she hurt?” Was that Corran’s voice or Durwyn’s? Kestrel’s head was still too cloudy to distinguish the male timbre, and she had not yet been able to force her eyes open.

“She’s got a compound fracture in her left arm. I can heal that—it’s her unconsciousness that concerns me most. I fear a serious head injury. Did anyone see when she fell?”

“Just before you turned the undead drow.” That was Corran’s voice. The other speaker must have been Durwyn. “She was surrounded by them. I tried to reach her, but—”

“We all had our hands full.” Faeril grasped Kestrel’s injured arm and—in movements that caused pain more excruciating than the break itself—reset the bone. Kestrel heard the cleric begin a prayer. In a few minutes the pain subsided, though it did not disappear completely. “That is all I can do for now,” Faeril said. “I have exhausted my healing gifts for this day.”

“Were it not for your healing spells during combat, none of us would have survived that battle,” Corran said.

Faeril’s ministrations, though limited, boosted Kestrel’s strength enough that the rogue finally managed to open her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurred vision. After a moment, her sight cleared.

Corran and Faeril knelt beside her, with Durwyn hovering close behind. The three of them had removed their helms, and all looked as if they’d journeyed to the Abyss and back. Blood spattered their armor and caked their hair. An ugly bruise had formed on Corran’s right cheekbone, just above the stubble line of his four-day beard. Cuts covered Faeril’s arms, including one long gash that ran from elbow to shoulder. Durwyn seemed to favor his left leg.

The burly warrior smiled as she met his worried gaze. “We thought we’d lost you,” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint everyone,” Kestrel said weakly. When she tried to sit up, Faeril had to support her. “Where are Ghleanna and Jarial?”

Corran glanced off to one side. “Resting. Both suffered terrible burns from cult spells. We were surprised to find Jarial still breathing after two fireballs hit him at once. I just stabilized him, but it will be some time before he—or any of us, really—is moving quickly.”

Kestrel pushed the last of her mental fogginess aside, forcing herself to think clearly. “We’ve got to get out of here. Another gate could open any moment with more reinforcements.”

The paladin nodded gravely. “I think that door over there leads to the baelnorn’s cell. We haven’t even had a chance to see whether it’s locked. Feel up to examining it?”

With Faeril’s aid, Kestrel got to her feet. Dizziness seized her, but she fought it off and stumbled to the door, praying to any deity who would listen that this would prove a simple lock. She couldn’t analyze much more at the moment—not with the pounding headache forming behind her eyes.

They found the door unlocked. Within, an ancient elf sat in the center of the tiny boxlike room. Wrinkles surrounded his glowing white eyes, which assessed Kestrel and the others as they entered. Not a strand of hair remained on his pate, making his regal forehead look all the higher. His pointed ears and fingers seemed preternaturally long, even for an elf. Simple garments of brown homespun covered his shriveled, pale skin. Long arms hugged his knees to his chest in a defensive posture.

Yet for all the alterations wrought upon his physical form by age and undeath, the man once known as Miroden Silverblade still possessed such a puissant, vital presence that a full minute elapsed before anyone realized the baelnorn could not move.

Jarial leaned heavily on the Staff of Sunlight as he regarded the Protector. The mage’s too-pink skin shone tight against the bones of his face. His eyelashes and eyebrows had been singed off altogether. “I believe he’s magically bound,” he said in a voice so scratchy that it pained Kestrel to hear it.

“Aye,” said Ghleanna, who did not look much better.

“With an enchantment similar to one I used on you, Kestrel.” Her blistered lips twisted into what Kestrel could only suppose was meant to be a wry smile. “The day we first met—remember?”

She remembered the incident, although that afternoon in Phlan seemed years ago. “Does that mean you can free him?”

“I believe I have enough strength remaining to try one spell.” Ghleanna mumbled her incantation as she hobbled in a circle around the baelnorn. When she returned to her starting point, she extended one hand toward the guardian and uttered a final word.

The baelnorn unfurled like a morning glory in the sun, rising to a towering height. He was a tall man—well over six feet—made taller still, Kestrel soon realized, by the fact that he levitated about a foot off the floor. A noble calmness seemed to surround him, putting her at ease despite the fact that the party was in the presence of yet another undead denizen of the city.

“You have my deepest gratitude,” the Protector said in a rich voice that belied his gaunt appearance. “But we are not safe here. Come.” He swept his hand broadly. The room faded around them, and they found themselves in a large circular chamber. “Here, in my home, we may speak freely.”

The apartment was comfortably, if sparsely, furnished. Soft light filled the room, though Kestrel couldn’t determine its source. A wooden table and two chairs sat in one part of the chamber; a plush bedroll and plump cushions lay spread in another. A large section of the wall held shelves piled high with books and scrolls. Two massive trunks stood beneath.

Kestrel had expected the Mythal’s communicant to enjoy more lavish quarters. To her way of thinking, gracious surroundings were a minimum trade-off for an eternity of constant vigilance. Yet the more she assessed the humble dwelling, the more it seemed a proper place for the baelnorn to guard the Sapphire of the Weave. Few would think to plunder such a simple abode in search of the priceless gem.

Opposite the doorway stood an ornate glass case containing a small, red velvet pillow. The pillow still held the impression of an item that had once rested upon it—surely the Gem of the Weave. The treasure, however, was nowhere in sight. Dread seized her. In the baelnorn’s absence, had the cultists stolen the Sapphire? If Mordrayn had the gem, their quest was surely doomed, for Kestrel could think of no other means to cleanse the Mythal of the corruption that tainted it.

She tore her gaze away from the empty case to see whether the Protector had noted the missing item. He avoided her questioning look. Instead, he addressed the group as a whole. “Sit,” he said, “and be well.”

At a slight gesture from the baelnorn, Kestrel’s headache immediately dissipated. A moment later the pain in her arm and residual aches from other injuries fled as well. She felt rested as if she’d slept for a week—better than she had since waking with that firewine hangover in Phlan before all this madness began. Looking around, she saw that the others also had been restored to perfect health. The men even appeared clean-shaven.

“I am Miroden Silverblade, known as the Protector for these past six centuries,” he said, his tired but clear eyes studying the companions as keenly as they assessed him. “To whom do I owe my freedom? And what brought the six of you to that black corner of the catacombs?”

Corran introduced the party and described their activities thus far, concluding with Anorrweyn Evensong’s suggestion to seek the baelnorn’s aid. “She told us you protect the Sapphire of the Weave, and that you possibly could use the gem to reverse the corruption of the Mythal. But we didn’t expect to find you held captive.”

“Nor did I intend to become so.” The Protector sighed heavily, the lines in his face settling deeper. “The cult imprisoned me because Mordrayn and Pelendralaar fear my influence over what remains of the Mythal. Since the Year of Doom, I have used my abilities as communicant to slow the decay of the city’s mantle. As all that I once knew withered and died around me, I held fast to my belief that one day the Mythal would prove the key to restoring Myth Drannor to its lost glory. The cult thinks I still have the power to undo the corruption they have wrought upon the Weave.”

Thinks.Kestrel’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. “You don’t?”

“Nay.” A stricken look crossed the baelnorn’s features. He turned his back on them and floated to the empty case. His shaking fingers reached through the glass to caress the depression in the pillow. “They came. The Cult of the Dragon.” His voice, so rich before, now warbled in the trembling tones of an old man. “I had… grown weak in my solitude. I succumbed when I should have stood fast.”