Ruins of Myth Drannor (20 page)

“I’d say that’s Harldain, all right,” Kestrel said. “But what’s the matter with him?” The dwarf stood transfixed, his translucent image unmoving even under the party’s scrutiny.

Ghleanna held two fingers up to the ghost’s face, gliding them back and forth as she watched his eyes. When she moved her fingers quickly, the eyes remained still. But when she moved them slowly, his pupils followed the movement. “He seems to be in a state of arrested animation,” she said. “He can’t move, but I’ll bet he can hear us.”

“Y… y… yes,” the ghost said. Kestrel almost missed the single word, as the thumping noise had repeated at the same instant. The heartbeat sound was still louder up here and seemed to come from the other side of a door in the southwest corner of the room.

“He can speak!” Corran moved to stand directly before the spirit. “Are you Harldain Ironbar?”

No answer. The paladin repeated his question but still got no response.

“Let’s try another question,” Jarial said. Corran stepped aside so the sorcerer could face the spirit. “Anorrweyn Evensong and Caalenfaire sent us,” Jarial told the ghost. “Do you know them?’’

Still no response.

Kestrel thought they needed to get to the point. “How can we free you?” There would be enough time for other questions once the spirit could talk easily.

“P… u… mp.”

“What did he say?” Ghleanna asked. His answer had coincided with the thumping noise again.

“It sounded like pump.” Kestrel looked around the room. “But I don’t see anything in here that looks like a—”

“Maybe he said thump,” Corran said. “Perhaps that thumping sound has something to do with this.”

Kestrel knew she’d heard a “p” sound, not a “th,” but pointing that out to the paladin would require actually speaking to him. Still nursing her anger over Corran’s pigheaded endangerment of Durwyn, she let his suggestion pass without comment. Besides, she had no better idea to offer.

Corran tried the southwest door and found it unlocked. When he opened it the heartbeat sound repeated, the strongest they’d heard it yet. “This way.”

The door exited onto a small balcony with a narrow stairway leading up to the rooftop. They trotted along the fortress’s battlements, following the rhythmic thumping noise, until they reached a similar staircase heading down. The steps deposited them in the stronghold’s pumphouse, where the mechanical pump struggled to perform its duty. The slow pa-pum was the sound of the device fighting to draw water from the Onaglym’s ancient cistern, which lay in a courtyard beyond.

“I knew he said pump,” Kestrel muttered under her breath.

Ghleanna wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?” A putrid odor filled the air, as of rotting garbage. Or decaying flesh.

Kestrel raised her guard, remembering the zombies that seemed to appear whenever they’d previously detected such a stench. She heard no telltale shuffling of animated corpses, only the slow, laborious sound of the pump.

Faeril walked to the arched doorway that opened into the courtyard. “It seems to be emanating from—Oh, Lady of Mysteries, preserve us!”

The others rushed over. On the far side of the courtyard, the desiccated body of a human female hung impaled on a spiked pole. The former fighter had been disemboweled. In place of her organs nested a large membranous sac that pulsed and squirmed.

Kestrel’s gorge rose. Anorrweyn’s missing skull had seemed bad, but this… Was it the fate of all women in this city to have their remains defiled? She had to turn her head away from the sight. It was then that she noticed the unnatural color of the water in the cistern. The reservoir, which should have held clear rainwater, instead bubbled with murky brownish liquid. The water must have become polluted somehow through the centuries.

Or corrupted recently. Kestrel noted an amber cast to the fluid and closed her eyes against the realization dawning on her. They had found another spawn pool.

When she opened her eyes, despite her fervent wishes the abomination remained. “Uh, guys—”

“I just noticed it, too,” Ghleanna said.

Corran and Faeril, meanwhile, had approached the corpse. Faeril gestured toward an insignia on the remains of the body’s tattered clothing. “Sisters of the Silver Fire,” she said. “This woman was a holy warrior dedicated to Mystra.”

“Of your sect?” Corran asked.

“No, another, but I feel the loss as keenly.” She studied the writhing sac in the fallen warrior’s body cavity. “She appears to be infested by the eggs of some loathsome creature—and I suspect they are hatching. Jarial? Ghleanna?”

The sorcerers joined them. Kestrel and Durwyn followed a little behind. They heard Faeril say sadly, “I’d prefer a nobler death rite, but we haven’t time.”

The group stood back. Faeril raised her voice in prayer as Jarial hurled a ball of fire at the corpse. The blast incinerated both the fighter and the vile, squirming egg sac. When the last flames sputtered out, the sorcerer waved his hand over the ashes. A light breeze swirled them into a funnel, dispersing the ashes into the wind.

Kestrel watched the dust blow away, then turned her attention back to the pool. The insidious amber liquid was gone. Pure water once again filled the cistern. The pump resumed its normal pace, the mechanism sounding almost eager to get back to work.

At the edge of the reservoir lay the dead fighter’s weapon, a gleaming sword with a red tinge to the steel.

Corran picked it up and handed it to Faeril. “Perhaps you can use it to avenge her death.”

“With Mystra’s aid, I shall.”

They returned to the main fortress, where a liberated Harldain Ironbar awaited them. As they entered his chamber, the dwarf met them with a ghostly battle-axe in hand. “Identify yerselves!”

The paladin stepped forward, hands raised to show his peaceful intentions. “I am Corran D’Arcey. These are my companions Ghleanna, Jarial, Durwyn, Faeril, and Kestrel. We are come to free Myth Drannor of the evil that has overtaken it.”

“So yer not part of that dragon cult?”

“Nay! In fact we are sworn to defeat them,” Faeril said.

Harldain lowered his axe but continued to regard them suspiciously. Corran removed his helm and tucked it under his arm to allow the dwarf a clear look at his face. Following his lead, Durwyn did likewise. Harldain seemed to appreciate the gesture and studied his unexpected visitors.

“The priestess Anorrweyn Evensong advised us to seek your counsel,” said Corran. “So did the diviner Caalenfaire.”

“So you said earlier.” Harldain rested the axe head on the floor and leaned on the shaft as if it were a cane. “Friends of yers, are they? Anorrweyn’s a gentle soul, but that Caalenfaire—he gave me the shivers even before he was dead. The old sorcerer’s never done me a bad turn, though, so I reckon if he and Anorrweyn are on yer side, then yer on mine. ‘Bout time someone came to drive those dragon-lovin’ vermin out of my city.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, the priestess and the fortune-teller have teamed up, have they? Things must have gotten pretty bad while I was frozen there. I think that nasty water cloggin’ the pump had somethin’ to with it. Seems like polluted pools are poppin’ up everywhere a glimmer of good remains in this city. Anyway, what have they sent you to talk to me about?”

“We need access to the catacombs,” Corran said.

“Do you, now? Well, that’s a simple enough matter to help you with. But what are they sendin’ you down there for?”

“To find the Protector. We need to talk to him about the Mythal.”

Some of the fire left Harldain’s eyes. He let out a deep sigh. “They’ve gone and done it, haven’t they? Those dragon worshipers, they’ve done somethin’ to the Mythal.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d always hoped that somehow we could use the Mythal to restore the City of Song to its former glory. But now…”

“You may yet,” Ghleanna said gently. “If we act quickly to defeat the cult. We need your help.”

Harldain nodded. “Yes, of course. Anything I can do.” He stroked his beard again. “Dark elves have infiltrated much of the first catacomb level, so don’t even try to use the main entrance—I’ll send you a secret way. You’ll have to face enough of ’em just to move deeper inside.”

He crossed the room and pointed to one of the bricks in the wall. “That block is loose. Pull it out.” Corran pried out the stone, revealing a hidden cubbyhole. “Now reach inside and get the stone that’s in there. The key—take the key out, too. It’s a passkey. It’ll disable the statues downstairs, make it easier for you to leave.”

Corran withdrew the key and a gem similar in appearance to the one set in the Ring of Calling. The gem sparkled with inner white light.

“That’s a starstone,” Harldain said. “Used to be that lots of folks in Myth Drannor had at least one. The starstones were set in different pieces of jewelry. When the wearer stood in specific locations, magical gates opened to different parts of the city. Helped a body get around faster.”

Ghleanna extended her hand so Harldain could see the Ring of Calling. “Is this a starstone?”

“It is, indeed,” the spirit confirmed. “That’s one of the more common starstones. It got folks to the City Heights from various parts of town.” Harldain gestured toward the sparkling rock Corran held. “That’s a rarer stone. Belongs in a neckpiece called the Wizard’s Torc. Sorcerers of the Speculum used the torc to open a secret entrance from the amphitheater to the catacombs. Restore the starstone to the Wizard’s Torc and wear it while standin’ on the theater floor—in the Circle of Ualair the Silent—and the door’ll open for you.”

Harldain’s expression grew troubled. “Of course, you have to find the torc first—last I heard, a dark naga in the dwarven dungeons had the thing.” He narrowed his brows at Jarial. “What’re you grinnin’ about?”

“You mean this torc?”

“Drow,” Kestrel whispered, squinting in the dim torchlight.

Ghleanna rolled her eyes. “Not more of them?”

“Afraid so.” Kestrel shared the mage’s sentiment This was the fourth such patrol they’d seen since entering the catacombs. The ebon-skinned, white-haired warriors seemed to swarm the undercity, their fierce war paint and lethally sharp halberds boldly declaring their right of occupation to anyone foolish enough to question their presence. Unlike the orogs Kestrel’s party had observed in the dwarven undercity, the drow were a close-mouthed people. No stray snatches of conversation had revealed their purpose in Myth Drannor.

“If we double back and take that other fork, perhaps we can bypass their encampment altogether,” Corran suggested.

Kestrel shrugged, unconvinced. So far they’d successfully avoided detection by the dark elves, but their luck couldn’t hold out forever. They’d been fortunate enough to escape serious combat with[4] all the undead creatures wandering about. Corran and Faeril had managed to turn away most of the shadows and zombies, and the cleric had even destroyed the skeletons they’d come upon with a single holy word.

As much as Kestrel disliked facing undead beings, she dreaded an encounter with the dark elves more. The drow had a reputation for cruelty toward their enemies—who, from what Kestrel understood, comprised just about everyone not drow. Even the unliving gave them a wide berth, lairing in separate parts of the dungeons.

They retreated down the rough-hewn tunnel. Once, Kestrel would have considered these dense subterranean warrens well constructed, but they couldn’t help but suffer in comparison to the superior passages of the dwarves. Given their elven creators and their ancient age, however, the corridors and chambers remained in surprisingly good condition—from what she could see of them, anyway. The lighting was poor to say the least, with wispy flames barely clinging to widely spaced torches. She supposed they were lucky to have any light at all. Drow were known for their ability to see clearly in the dark, and the undead certainly hadn’t lit the brands. The torches must be for the benefit of another mortal race. The cultists?

Corran led the group around a bend. A fork they’d passed previously lay just a few hundred feet beyond. Suddenly, the paladin stopped short—but not before a band of drow in the intersection spotted the party. “Hold!” one of them cried. “If you value your wretched lives!”

“They’ve nowhere to go, Razherrt!” came a voice from behind them. “We heard their noisy clanking all the way down at our post.”

Beshaba’s bad breath! They were surrounded! Kestrel tensed, swearing silently at the Maid of Misfortune as she prepared to grab Loren’s Blade and hurl it in a single swift movement should the need arise. Corran’s hand rested on his sword hilt, while Durwyn gripped his axe more tightly. Faeril stood with hands on hips, her fingers inches from the hilt of her new sword.

“Humans. How such a primitive race has survived this long baffles the mind.” The dark elf Razherrt laughed humorlessly as he approached. Six other warriors accompanied him. All wore black leather armor emblazoned with the symbol of a phoenix rising toward a dark green moon. Similarly marked bracers on Razherrt’s arms set him apart from the others. Their patrol leader, Kestrel guessed.

The drow fighters pointed their halberds at Kestrel’s party, but Razherrt held his weapon upright as if unconcerned by the possibility of any sudden moves by the lowly adventurers. His gaze swept the party, rapidly assessing each member, lingering on Ghleanna. “A half-breed. I see the People continue slumming.”

The half-elf remained silent under the draw’s insults. Corran, regarding the patrol leader warily, removed his hand from his weapon to indicate peaceful intentions. “We seek only to pass through.”

A sneer crossed Razherrt’s chiseled features. “You presume too much, human. The House of Freth does not appreciate vermin trespassing through its territory.” As he spoke, he almost absently moved his hands in a series of gestures, as if he spoke in sign language.

“We did not realize the House of Freth laid claim to these halls.”

Razherrt studied Corran with an intensity that Kestrel thought would bore holes through the paladin’s forehead. The leader of the other patrol said something in a language Kestrel had never heard before. Whatever he said, the statement elicited a low chuckle from Razherrt, who responded with several quick hand signals. The waiting drow warriors raised their blades.