Ruins of Myth Drannor (21 page)

“You find me in a good mood today, human,” Razherrt said. “I deal with matters too important to waste time exterminating rodents. Get thee gone from my sight. No—better still, we shall escort you out of the Freth domain, so you do not ‘accidentally’ wander in again. Turn around.”

Corran hesitated, apparently reluctant to expose his back to the drow.

Razherrt lowered the point of his weapon until it touched Corran’s chin. “Are you hard of hearing or just simple? You have already trespassed on Freth territory—do not trespass on my patience.”

The paladin turned, the expression in his eyes instructing the others to do likewise. Kestrel had rarely found herself so happy to travel in the middle of a party—as far away as possible from the drow on either end.

“Lead us to the stairs,” Razherrt told the other patrol. “I don’t know where our friends were headed, but they’re going down now. We’ll see how they like strolling below.”

As they wended through the dungeons, they passed several more bands of drow at work clearing out various chambers. Apparently the House of Freth intended to stay for a while and make itself comfortable in Myth Drannor’s underworld. Dark elves threw debris—and any other items they considered valueless—into carts for dumping in other parts of the dungeon. On one such cart, piled high with refuse, a skull rested as if carelessly tossed there. Was it Kestrel’s imagination, or did a faint blue-white glow surround the skull?

Without warning, she was knocked to the floor from behind. Faeril sprawled on top of her.

“Get up, you sun-worshipping dog!” Razherrt kicked the cleric. “Are you too stupid to even walk?”

“I—I tripped.” She caught Kestrel’s gaze. The skull, Faeril mouthed before Razherrt gripped her wrist and jerked her to her feet.

So it was indeed Anorrweyn’s skull! Kestrel couldn’t guess how the cleric knew for certain, but at the moment she didn’t have time to care. The skull lay about eight feet away, and they wouldn’t be passing any closer. “My knee!” She rolled onto her side with a groan. “You landed on my knee, you bumbling fool!”

Faeril’s expression clouded with genuine contrition. “I am sorry! Here, let me—”

“Oh, save it!” Kestrel awkwardly climbed to her feet and stumbled toward the cart holding the skull.

Razherrt’s blade stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To lean against that garbage cart, if you don’t mind.”

“Kestrel, watch your tongue. You insult our hosts by not seeking their permission,” Corran said. Was it a true rebuke, or had he also spotted the skull? “Pray overlook my companion’s rudeness, Razherrt. If you’ll let her pause a moment, I’m sure she’ll give you no more trouble.”

Kestrel balanced on one foot, as if she couldn’t bear to put weight on her right leg. Razherrt stared at her, undecided. Her heartbeat accelerated as nervous energy coursed through her veins. “My apologies, sir. You know that humans are weak. Pain clouds my judgment.”

She nearly choked on the sycophantic words, but they seemed to work. The drow raised the tip of his halberd. “A minute’s rest. No more.”

Kestrel stumbled to the cart and leaned against it, her fingers inches away from the skull. Anorrweyn’s remains seemed to radiate an aura of calm, removing the anxiety she’d felt. Now she needed but a few seconds’ distraction to snatch the skull from its disrespectful perch and drop it in a deep inside pocket of her cloak.

A series of chimes sounded across the room. All eyes turned in that direction—except Kestrel’s. One of the sorcerers must have figured out her ruse. If not, she’d take advantage of the diversion no matter its source.

“What’s that?” Razherrt glared first at Corran, then at the sorcerers. “Do you play games with us?”

“Perhaps it is a charm of the dungeons themselves,” Jarial said. “Magic long sheltered the city above. Why should that not hold true for the city below?”

Razherrt grunted. “Get moving, all of you.” He pointed at Kestrel. “You, too.”

Kestrel rejoined the party, remembering to hobble. The uneven movement helped hide the bulge in her cloak.

“Of all the insufferable—”

“We’re alive and unharmed,” Corran tossed over his shoulder. “And we retrieved Anorrweyn’s skull to boot. Just count your blessings, Kestrel.”

Kestrel found the paladin’s condescension almost as galling as the Freth’s arrogance. She simmered as they trod through the undercity’s second level in search of another stairway leading down. “Well, I’ve had enough drow attitude for one lifetime, I’ll tell you that. Primitive race, indeed! Razherrt can kiss my human—”

“Hush!” Faeril glanced around as if she’d heard something. “Did you—”

From out of nowhere, a huge ball of flame barreled down the corridor at them. Ghleanna immediately called out a command word and thrust her hand toward the accelerating flames. The blaze snuffed itself out, leaving only a few dying sparks scattered in the passageway—enough to illuminate the cult sorcerer on the other side.

Two drow bodyguards flanked the mage. As Corran and Durwyn moved to close in on the spellcaster, the dark elves immediately engaged them. The drow fought with mechanical precision, thrusting and parrying without so much as a grunt of exertion. Faeril tried to reach the sorcerer but wound up joining the melee instead, fighting by Corran’s side.

The dark elves seemed utterly devoted to protecting the cultist. They could not, however, prevent Ghleanna and Jarial’s magical attacks from reaching him. Kestrel decided to target the drow and leave the sorcerers to a spellcasting contest. She sent one dagger sailing toward each elven warrior.

Her aim held true. One blade struck its target in his side, the other hit Durwyn’s opponent in his chest. Neither warrior cried out. She followed the double strike with Loren’s Blade, hitting the first dark elf a second time. The dagger wounds did not seem to slow him down.

Kestrel had never seen combatants so fierce. Despite their injuries, the drow wielded their halberds with relentless vigor. The length of the weapon gave them an advantage over Durwyn’s axe and the holy warriors’ swords. Kestrel sucked in her breath. How could she fare any better with her club?

Durwyn’s opponent backed him against a wall. Kestrel reached for her club, extended it with a flick of her wrist then advanced on the dark elf. She managed to execute one hard hit to the drow’s shoulder before he turned to engage her. Even with two-on-one odds, Kestrel felt at a disadvantage.

Meanwhile, flashes of light signaled the magical battle unfolding between the allied sorcerers and the cultist. Parrying the drow’s blows, Kestrel could not spare even a glance to see who dominated that contest. Please Mystra, let it be Jarial and Ghleanna!

Suddenly, Kestrel’s opponent collapsed to the floor. She looked up to see that the other drow had also fallen. The cult sorcerer lay with one of Jarial’s acid arrows embedded between his eyes.

“As soon as the cultist fell, so did the drow,” Jarial responded to the question in her eyes.

Durwyn prodded his former opponent with one foot. The body rolled over from the warrior’s force, but otherwise did not stir. “He’s dead. Just like that.”

Faeril shook her head. “No, not ‘just like that.’ Look at these dagger wounds—there’s no blood. I suspect these drow have been dead for some time.”

“Soulless,” Corran said. “Like the orogs.”

Kestrel shuddered. Now that she had leisure to examine these dark elves more closely, they did look paler than Razherrt and his party had. They also bore a different emblem on their armor, two yellow chevrons bisecting eight red dots. She pointed to the symbol. “Do you think that’s significant?”

“I suspect it indicates their House affiliation,” Ghleanna said. “I noticed that Razherrt brushed his fingertips over his symbol whenever he mentioned the House of Freth.”

“I guess these two belong to the House of Death,” Kestrel quipped. No one laughed. Even to her own ears, the joke didn’t seem funny. Only the gods knew how many legions of enthralled drow and orogs she and her companions might have to face before they completed their quest—if they ever did.

The party spent the next several hours avoiding patrols of enthralled drow. They also came across additional soulless orogs and stumbled upon more than one lair of spectres in their search for the third level of the catacombs. Somehow, luck or the gods were on their side, and they suffered few injuries. Dead-ends and winding passages slowed their movements, but at last they found the path of descent.

Deeper in the bowels of the dungeons, travel became still more difficult. Huge chasms blocked their progress, forcing them to repeatedly backtrack and seek other routes through the claustrophobic tombs and prison blocks. They now wended through a narrow passage that seemed to go on forever. Kestrel wondered if they would ever find the Rune of the Protector that marked the entrance to the baelnorn’s level.

“The passage seems to widen ahead,” Corran said over his shoulder.

“About time,” Kestrel muttered. It couldn’t get much tighter—Durwyn’s armored shoulders already threatened to scrape the walls.

They emerged in an enormous chamber but could enter only a few feet. They stood on an apron overlooking a drop-off so steep they could not see the bottom of the chasm. Kestrel kicked some loose rocks over the edge. She never heard them land.

Across the chasm stood a raised wooden drawbridge. She quickly scanned the nearby walls, floor, and ceiling for some mechanism to lower the drawbridge from their side but spotted nothing. She ran a hand through her hair, gripping the roots in frustration. “We are not turning around yet again.”

“You don’t have to,” echoed a voice from across the chasm. A female drow warrior stepped out from behind the drawbridge. She held a long, jagged-bladed dagger as casually as another woman might carry a spindle. A topknot secured her long white hair, exposing every angular line of her face. Sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and hard-cast eyes appeared carved in stone. Worn, ragged armor revealed a body so muscular that Kestrel doubted this woman had a soft spot inside or out. Though the dark elf bore the same chevron symbol as the enthralled drow they’d encountered earlier, her skin had the healthy black color borne by Razherrt’s band of living drow.

“Is that a threat?” Kestrel called back.

“Not yet.” At a gesture from the woman, a ragged band comprising half a dozen drow warriors appeared behind her. “At present, we merely command parley.”

Kestrel bristled at the word “command.” The dark elves made Corran seem downright humble. After enjoying the House of Freth’s gracious hospitality, she had no interest in chatting with more drow and was about to say so when Corran stepped forward.

“What do you wish to discuss?”

“Mutual interests.”

Kestrel laughed humorlessly. “Your friend Razherrt didn’t seem to think we have any.”

The drow leader spat. “The House of Freth is no friend to the House of Kilsek. We seek the Freth’s blood.”

“We do not wish to become involved in a blood feud among the drow,” Corran told the dark elf.

“Nor would we allow it! The House of Kilsek reserves for itself the honor of slaying our betrayers! I speak of a different enemy—the Cult of the Dragon.”

Corran paused at that declaration. “What do you know of the cult?”

“More than you do, human! The Freth betrayed my kinfolk to the archmage and her minions. She uses a foul pool to trap my people’s souls, then feeds their blood to a dracolich and enslaves their bodies. We despise Kya Mordrayn and her wicked cult even more than we loathe the traitorous Freth!” The drow’s voice, which had risen to a fever pitch, suddenly turned cold as ice. “Hate is the song in our blood. It is all that lives in us now. We have sworn to release the souls of our kin into true death, even at the cost of own lives.”

Corran studied the dark elf as she spoke, remaining calm in the wake of her passion. “What do you propose?”

“This chasm blocks your path. A cult sorcerer nearby blocks ours. He wields a magical device called the Staff of Sunlight—fatal to us but harmless to surface-dwellers. Agree to kill him, and I will lower the drawbridge. Claim the staff to use against the Freth—I care not. Just stay away from us.”

Kestrel listened to the dark elf’s proposal with growing wariness. Seven drow couldn’t take on one sorcerer? When Corran looked to the group for opinions, she shook her head. “Either they’re lying about how many cultists wait ahead or this sorcerer is more powerful than any we’ve faced so far. They’re looking for spell fodder. After we take him on, they’ll step over our dead bodies and continue on their way.”

“I disagree,” Corran declared. “His staff puts them at a disadvantage we won’t suffer.”

“So they say! Even if that’s true, how do we know they won’t betray us after we defeat him?”

Durwyn cleared his throat. “Kestrel’s got a point. The woman said herself that dark elves aren’t even loyal to each other.”

“It does them no good to betray us,” said Ghleanna. “We fight a common foe.”

Irritated that Ghleanna sided with Corran, Kestrel listened to Jarial and Faeril’s opinions and grew still more agitated. Except for Durwyn, they all favored the paladin. After their treatment at Razherrt’s hands, how could they even consider allying with a group of dark elves?

“These drow are more concerned about their zombie kin than stopping the cult,” she said, her voice rising louder than she intended. “Didn’t you hear her? They want to release the Kilsek’s souls, not battle Mordrayn. How does that help us?”

“Once my people enter true death, they will no longer pose a threat to you,” the drow leader responded. “Know this: Before we’re done I fully intend for the archmage to know the sensation of her blood draining from her body.”

Kestrel studied the dark elf as intensely as she could across the gap. The drow leader stood proud and confident, apparently unperturbed by the rogue’s scrutiny. “How do we know we can trust you?” Kestrel called. “You haven’t even given us your name.”

“Nathlilik, first daughter of the House of Kilsek. And you don’t.” She shrugged. “Accept our proposal or not, humans. You’re the ones who need to cross this chasm.”

The way Nathlilik used the word “human” as if it were a racial slur made Kestrel grind her teeth. She turned to Corran and the others. “To hell with them. We’ll find another way across. I can use my grappling hooks to—”