Ruins of Myth Drannor (25 page)

The ghostly dwarf had become increasingly gruff as they changed equipment. Kestrel thought it was because he didn’t really want to part with the armor, but he revealed the true source of his anxiety as they departed.

“You’re runnin’ out of time,” he said. “I can feel it. Find Anorrweyn and get that emerald to the top of the Speculum just as quick as you can. The cult’s control of the Mythal is strong. The city is dyin’ around us.”

The scent of gardenias manifested before Anorrweyn Evensong’s spirit. Kestrel inhaled deeply. The sweet perfume soothed her frayed nerves as she waited for the priestess to appear. Would the ghost agree to serve as communicant? She fervently hoped so, for she didn’t know what they would do if Anorrweyn refused.

A pensive silence hung over the group. Faeril had just finished some invocations to Mystra. Corran had joined her in the prayers, then offered a few of his own to Tyr. The events of the past several days had made it difficult for the paladin to perform his regular devotions, and he took advantage of this interlude to reconnect with his patron deity. The rest of the group, Kestrel included, had maintained a respectful quiet and used the time for contemplation.

Anorrweyn materialized moments after the telltale fragrance. She seemed less translucent this time, a little more solid. Her face bore a radiant smile. “You have found my skull.”

Faeril knelt before her. “Yes, priestess. We’ve interred it with the rest of your bones in the grave outside.”

“I thank you all. Now I may occupy this plane of time and better follow events of the present instead of forever reliving the past.” The priestess made eye contact with each of them in turn, her eyes further expressing her gratitude. When her gentle gaze met Kestrel’s, the rogue felt a sense of peace flood her soul.

With a gesture, Anorrweyn invited them all to sit in the half-circle of benches that still remained from their last conference. Kestrel found it curious that the ghost always sat down along with them, as if she too benefited from rest. Perhaps it was a habit carried over from her mortal days or an attempt to put them at ease in her undead presence. This time Anorrweyn sat beside Faeril, who regarded her idol with reverence.

“Did you also find the Protector?” the spirit asked.

“We did, priestess,” Corran said. “But he could not help us.”

Anorrweyn’s eyes widened. She sat forward as if she hadn’t entirely heard him. “Miroden Silverblade refused to aid your quest?”

“The Gem of the Weave is no more. The Baelnorn destroyed it to keep the cult from seizing its power.”

“Impossible!” Anorrweyn shook her head vigorously, as if doing so could negate the truth of the statement. She rose and paced restlessly. “You are sure you understood him correctly?” She cast her gaze from one person to the next, but all gave affirmative nods.

“The Protector said he cannot commune with the Mythal because the sapphire no longer exists,” Corran explained. “We found him imprisoned by the cult, who tried to steal it when they captured him.”

Anorrweyn sat down once more. She seemed lost in thought as she stared though the doorway of the temple at the ruined city beyond. Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence as the ghost remained in reverie and the mortals hesitated to disturb her. Faeril waited in rapt attention. Durwyn traced the handle of his axe with his thumb. Ghleanna picked lint off her cloak. When Kestrel turned her gaze to Corran, she was startled to find him regarding her. Surely her didn’t expect her to do something? She frowned in question, but he looked away.

Were the others as conscious as she of time ticking away? Ultimately, it was the paladin who took the plunge. “Priestess…” Corran began tentatively.

Anorrweyn broke her trance. “My apologies. I hoped to sense confirmation of your news through my own, limited, attunement to the Mythal, but I cannot. These tidings deeply unsettle me. Either Miroden is mistaken about the fate of the sapphire, or he lied to you. I can think of no other explanation. The Protector’s very existence is linked inextricably to the Gem of the Weave—that is what it means to be a baelnorn. If the sapphire was indeed destroyed, he would have died along with it.” She frowned in puzzlement. “Did he say anything else?”

“He told us that a new Gem of the Weave could be made, with a new stone and a new communicant. The replacement gem could be used to reverse the Mythal’s corruption and free it from the cult’s hold.”

Anorrweyn’s brows rose at the suggestion. Guarded interest danced across her delicate features. “This replacement gem—how is it to be created? Where are you to locate an appropriate jewel?”

“Harldain provided us with a new stone.” Corran brought the emerald forward for Anorrweyn to see. Its color was a near-perfect match to the shade of her gown.

She reached toward the gem, caressing the air just a hair’s breadth away above its surface. “An emerald this time… .” The jewel caught a ray of afternoon sunlight and held it, appearing to glow from within. Anorrweyn raised her eyes and met Corran’s gaze once more. “And the new communicant?”

“The Protector thought that you might be persuaded.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? I—” She fell silent again, apparently pondering the unexpected proposal. She glanced around the ruined shell of her temple, her gaze lingering on each small sign of destruction—the missing ceiling, wall cracks, rubble piles, vestiges of the nagas’ occupation. Her face settled into an expression of sadness so intense it pained Kestrel to behold it.

“There is nothing left here for me,” she said finally. “Of course I shall answer this new call to Mystra’s service.” She rose, her incorporeal form already starting to fade from view, “Since you have the gem, all that remains is to carry it to the top of the Speculum. There shall we attune the emerald. Pass through the Gate of Antarn to begin your climb up the dragon’s back. I give you now my blessing, that the gate will open to admit you.”

Anorrweyn closed her eyes and raised her hands over the party. In a low, soft voice she murmured the words of her invocation. Kestrel and the others bowed their heads to receive her blessing. Faeril dropped to her knees.

When the priestess finished, she lowered her arms and opened her eyes once more. “Farewell for now, my friends.” Only the faintest outline of her figure remained, but her voice yet carried strong and steady, mingling with the heady scent of gardenias. “I shall meet you at the crest of the dragon’s spine.”

On previous visits to the Speculum, the party had not even noticed the Gate of Antarn. Under Anorrweyn’s blessing, however, they clearly saw the solid pair of wooden doors that barred access to the building’s winding exterior staircase. As soon as they neared the tip of the dragon’s tail, the ancient oak doors creaked open to grant them entry.

Before proceeding, Kestrel cast a wary glance at the sky. “Let’s be quick about this.” Already, the sun dipped low. In an hour’s time dusk would settle on the city. She’d no wish to stand exposed on the roof of the Speculum at all, let alone once darkness fell. Already, shadows gathered on rooftops and behind clouds.

The spiraling stone staircase proved narrow and in poor repair. Ballistae had smashed many of the steps, leaving some sections impossible to surmount without Kestrel’s rope and grappling hook. They climbed single-file, with Kestrel leading the way and Durwyn bringing up the rear. Kestrel repeatedly studied the sky, unable to shake the feeling that someone watched them from above.

“Do you see something?” Corran, immediately behind her, also raised his gaze heavenward.

“No. Not yet.” She searched the clouds a moment longer. How often did Pelendralaar leave his lair to swoop through the skies? “This just seems too easy.”

“Tell that to Durwyn.” Even in his new lightweight armor, the big man was having trouble picking his way along the narrow, rubble-strewn staircase. He sent scree cascading with every other step. Kestrel observed the steep incline and smaller width of the stairs yet ahead—and the craters where steps used to be—and prayed the warrior would maintain his balance. Even she had trouble finding footing in some places.

Kestrel heard Ghleanna’s voice call from behind Corran. “How do we find the ‘focal point’ the baelnorn mentioned once we reach the top?”

“No idea,” Corran confessed, to Kestrel’s surprise. She could not recall a previous instance of the paladin admitting to ignorance, “I’m hoping Anorrweyn will be waiting for us when we get there.”

Kestrel paused and glanced around. They had climbed about a third of the way to the top and reached an elevation that provided a panoramic view of the Heights. Shadows dappled the structures below and grew longer with each passing minute. The setting sun also played tricks on her eyes—she could have sworn she saw movement on the ledge of a nearby building, but on second look she saw only grim statues perched watchfully along the rooftop. Gargoyles. She’d heard stories of the winged, horned beasts animating and taking flight, but she’d never put any stock in the accounts. Nursery tales, meant to scare children into staying indoors after dark. That’s all she’d ever believed them to be.

She was starting to reconsider that opinion.

They climbed higher. The faint breeze that had tousled her hair now became a steady wind. The sun dipped behind the horizon, leaving only its upper hemisphere visible. Kestrel hated this time of day—twilight made the eyes play tricks. Were they halfway up the staircase, or further? Was that movement just now, off to the left? Though dusk could often prove a thief’s best friend, right now she wished for full dark rather than the murky, ambiguous half-light.

She stopped once more and listened to the wind. She’d swear on Quinn’s grave that she heard low, guttural voices followed by the flapping of wings. Was that too an illusion, a trick of the atmosphere? “Do you hear that?” she asked Corran.

The paladin never had a chance to answer.

A woosh from above was all the warning they had before a pair of gargoyles swooped down at them. Kestrel ducked instinctively, while Corran raised his shield to block the sharp stone claws that reached toward him. The creatures shrieked at the failure of their surprise attack, then circled for another run.

“What in blazes was that?” Durwyn asked.

“Gargoyles,” Kestrel and Corran answered in unison. Kestrel glanced around wildly for cover, but there was none to be had—the party was completely exposed. Faeril began to chant a prayer-spell that Kestrel hoped would offer some protection. Ghleanna and Jarial, meanwhile, started muttering words of their own.

The gargoyles descended again. This time two more had joined their ranks. One swooped at Ghleanna just as she completed her spell. The creature suddenly went rigid, unable to control its dive. It crashed against the side of the building and smashed to bits that rained onto the ground below.

Two other gargoyles met the same fate. The fourth plunged toward Corran with both its claws outstretched. The paladin struck the beast with his warhammer, but the weapon glanced off without so much as chipping the stone. The gargoyle’s claws lashed out but could not penetrate Corran’s new armor.

Undaunted, the creature circled and dove once more. As its horns rushed toward the paladin, Corran grabbed Pathfinder. Glowing with magical light, the sword impaled the beast as its head struck the paladin’s shield. The creature dropped to Corran’s feet, where it took the combined strength of Corran and Durwyn to shove it off the stairs and send it tumbling to the ground.

Kestrel cast her gaze skyward as the fighters disposed of the body. She did not see any more of the creatures approaching, but the hazy gray light camouflaged the stone beasts so well that she couldn’t be sure. “We’ve got to move faster,” she said.

They climbed only a few steps farther when more wingbeats echoed through the air. Half a dozen beasts approached this time, each targeting a different person. Ghleanna released another spell, paralyzing three of the beasts and sending them plummeting to earth.

Two of the remaining gargoyles suddenly reared up as Jarial completed a casting. They hovered three or so feet away, advancing then retreating, as if they had forgotten what they were supposed to do. One of them uttered a guttural word that sounded like a curse in any language, and flew away. The other flew in confused circles.

The last gargoyle dived headlong into Durwyn. Though its horns did not penetrate the warrior’s armor, the force of impact knocked him off balance. He struggled to regain his equilibrium, tottering precariously on the edge of the staircase.

“Durwyn!” Kestrel watched him in horror. They were well over a hundred feet above the ground—it would be a long fall, with a deadly landing. She willed the fighter to catch himself.

Faeril lunged toward him, trying to reach an arm and pull him to surer footing, but the guard lost his battle with gravity and toppled over the edge. Faeril managed to grasp only his ankle as he disappeared from view. Reacting quickly, Jarial grabbed her legs before Durwyn’s weight could pull the cleric over the edge as well.

“I… can’t… hold him…” Faeril’s face turned red with exertion as she struggled to keep her grip. Several highly unladylike grunts followed. Every muscle in her arms and neck bulged.

Corran scurried to help, but before he could reach them the gargoyle swooped again. The paladin’s blade rang as he struck the creature. Faeril, meanwhile, had turned purple. Her perspiring hands were sliding off Durwyn’s armor. “I’m losing him!”

“Hang on!” Kestrel couldn’t aid her—too many people were in the way, and the space was too narrow. She could help Jarial, who also struggled to maintain his grasp. As she grabbed Faeril’s legs, she heard the sorcerer beside her muttering another spell.

Ghleanna also uttered another casting, this one directed at the remaining gargoyles. Both creatures suddenly ceased moving. Their wings fell still. Then, as had the rest of their pack, they dropped like rocks.

Corran reached Faeril and added his strength to hers. “You all right?” he called to Durwyn.

“I can’t find a handhold,” he shouted. “It’s a sheer drop.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you up somehow.” After reassuring the warrior, he tried to help Faeril pull him to safety. His efforts, however, were thwarted by Durwyn’s sheer bulk. Corran lowered his voice so only those still on the stairs could hear. “We can’t get enough leverage to pull him up.”