Ruins of Myth Drannor (29 page)

She reached up to grasp the edges of the hole and pull herself out. To her shock, she found her right hand grasped by a larger one. A moment later, familiar blue eyes peered down at her. “Need a lift?”

“Athan!”

With just one hand, he pulled her out of the cavern. They stood at the base of a cliff, with Castle Cormanthor looming high above them. The warrior appeared fully healed. No trace of injury or pain marred his features. He’d also shaven and washed away the dried blood and other physical evidence of the cult’s torture. New armor—a suit she remembered from Harldain’s hoard—made the strapping man appear even larger than he had before. A gleaming two-handed sword hung at his side.

“How did you find us?”

“By Mystra’s grace, I think. I was skirting the castle base, seeking a way in, when I heard you call out just now. I never would have noticed that hole otherwise.”

She looked around for some sign of the sorcerer. “Is Jarial with you?”

He shook his head. “Beriand has been fending off near-constant attacks in Faeril’s absence. Jarial stayed behind to defend him.” Kestrel noted that Athan now wore the ring of regeneration Jarial had received from the baelnorn. “He sent these along, too.” Athan gestured toward the Staff of Sunlight and Ozama’s boots lying at his feet.

The rest of the party appeared below. Athan lifted Ghleanna out next, giving his sister a proper hug—now that his ribs were healed—before helping Faeril squeeze through the narrow space. Durwyn had to widen the hole for himself and Corran to accommodate their broad shoulders.

Once all had emerged, Athan explained Jarial’s absence to the others. “He said to give the staff to Faeril. Lena or Kestrel, I thought the boots would fit one of you best.”

Kestrel nodded to the sorceress. “Take them.” While Ghleanna donned the footwear and the cloak her brother had borrowed, Corran asked Athan whether he’d found a weakness in the castle’s defenses.

“Nay,” he replied. “The entrance is well guarded, and there’s nothing here below. I’d hoped to sneak in, but I don’t think it’s possible.”

Kestrel studied the fortress’s exterior. Breaking and entering was something she knew a little about. A quick survey revealed their best option. One of the towers appeared to have no roof but rather sat open to the sky. They just needed to reach it.

She sighed and pulled out her grappling hooks. They had a long climb ahead of them.

“You had to pick this tower?” Corran swung Pathfinder at the dragonlike creature swooping toward him. Instead of dodging the sword, the monster grabbed at it. Corran’s quick stroke, however, left the creature clawing the air.

Kestrel dropped and rolled to avoid the clutches of another beast. “How was I to know there’d be a nest of these things in here?”

The party had tumbled into the open tower to discover the castle’s former throne room. It was a large, cone-shaped chamber with a wide assembly area at its base. A long crystal staircase spiraled its circumference, leading to an observation platform. Once-elegant appointments—silk wall coverings, plush chairs and settees, and of course the coronal’s golden seat itself—indicated that in times past the whole Elven Court might have joined the king in this room to enjoy its commanding view of the city. Now the sole occupants left to appreciate the panorama were the dozen or so winged beasts roosting within.

Kestrel had never seen creatures like these before. They had the horned heads, reptilian claws, and leathery wings of dragons, but the torsos and legs of humans. Red scales covered their bodies and snakelike tails. Their white eyes burned with malevolence.

Immediately, the creatures had taken flight, swooping down at the party. They launched an organized defense of their lair, communicating in a tongue that sounded like a series of hisses. While some attacked, others circled above, awaiting their chance.

Another beast swooped at Kestrel, targeting her weapon hand. A quick upward stroke gave the monster what it was after—Loren’s Blade—but through the flesh of its underbelly. Its claws raked Kestrel’s arm in retaliation but couldn’t pierce the new armor Harldain had provided.

“Anyone know what these things are?” Durwyn launched an arrow. The shaft caught one monster in the side, eliciting a hiss.

“They’re dragon-kin.” Athan landed another strike on his nearest foe, rending a great tear in the creature’s wing. “Allies of the cult. Be warned—they covet magical items.”

Two dragon-kin swarmed Ghleanna. Or, more accurately, her spellstaff. She hit one of them with the staff, but the other beast reached out and grabbed the weapon in its razor-sharp talons. “That’s mine, fiend!” she cried. The sorceress clung to the staff, digging her heels into the floor and entering a tug-of-war with the monster. She was no match for its brute strength, however, and the staff slid out of her grasp.

The creature darted off with the weapon. Ghleanna sent a sharp gesture and a command word after the beast. It spun around to look at her with wide eyes before dropping the staff and flying out of the tower. Three more dragon-kin in the vicinity joined the retreat.

“Ghleanna, whatever that spell was, keep ’em coming!” Kestrel called as another dragon-kin approached. Dark gray smoke puffed from its nostrils, stinging her eyes. She met its red-rimmed gaze and flashed Loren’s Blade at the beast. “This what you want? Magic?” The creature lunged for the weapon. “Here!” She hurled it at the dragon-kin. The dagger struck true, then sailed back into Kestrel’s hand. As the stunned beast stared at the oozing hole in its belly, Kestrel threw the blade again.

This toss caught the beast in its right eye. Black blood spurted from the socket and streamed down the creature’s snout. The dragon-kin shrieked in pain and fury as it tried to swoop at her once more. With no depth perception, the creature crashed into the floor. Kestrel used the dagger for a third, final, strike in the back.

Free of opponents for the time being, she darted to the room’s only exit. If the double doors were open—or secured with easily defeated locks—perhaps they could simply retreat from the remaining dragon-kin and reserve their strength for the more important battles ahead. She grasped the gold latch and tugged but could not even rattle the doors in their frame. Worse, the doors featured no ordinary lock. Magic had sealed them, and only magic could release them.

A battle cry from Durwyn drew her attention back to the action. The warrior fought two creatures on the dais that held the coronal’s throne. Before Kestrel could reach him to lend a hand, Faeril moved in. The dragon-kin took to the air and circled.

While the cleric stood poised to strike with her flame blade as soon as one of the beasts swooped close enough, she reached out her hand to touch Durwyn’s shoulder. “Mystra, I beseech you—strengthen the warrior Durwyn to better serve you.” Just as she completed her prayer-spell, the dragon-kin attacked.

Durwyn swung his axe with such force that he lopped both claws off one of his opponents. The creature shrieked and soared out of range. Blood streaming from its severed limbs, it flew out of the tower and disappeared from view.

The second dragon-kin dived at the fighter in retaliation. Durwyn struck that creature as well, slicing off a wing. The beast crashed to the floor. It lay only a moment before it tried to rise, but the loss of its wing impaired its balance and the stone floor was slick with dragon-kin blood. The wounded creature slipped and slid in the slime. Durwyn picked it up and threw it into the throne.

The heavy dragon-kin landed so hard it dislodged the throne from its centuries-old resting place. As the great seat slid aside, it revealed a tunnel below.

Kestrel ran toward the passage, eager to investigate, but three dragon-kin also flocked toward the discovery. Another spell from Ghleanna disbanded them. They fled in fear, leaving only a few wounded comrades still engaged in combat. Durwyn made quick work of his grounded foe, then helped finish off the remaining creatures.

At last they were free to explore the surprise passage. “Nice work, Durwyn,” Corran said as they all approached the dais. “Looks like you’ve discovered the king’s emergency escape route.”

The corridor was actually a narrow, spiraling staircase. At a word from Faeril, magical light illuminated the windowless stairwell. It continued down as far as their eyes could see, apparently untouched by either time or the castle’s unsavory squatters.

“Well, either we give this passage a try or see if Ghleanna can magically unseal the double doors,” Kestrel said. “I bet we’ll encounter fewer cultists this way.”

The party descended. They reached the bottom of the stairs to find a solitary door that offered no choice of direction. Kestrel pressed her ear to the wood. Beyond, she heard the sound of wings and the hiss-language of more dragon-kin.

Even worse, above it rose a horrible, mournful wailing. Thousands of voices joined in an unholy canticle of despair that howled like a wind storm.

The chorus of the damned.

The Vessel of Souls radiated evil.

It was a thing of black magic, of life-taking, of soul-stealing. It looked every inch the accursed instrument it was. The vessel resembled a crystal chalice with a stem but no base. Images of tormented, eyeless faces adorned the sides of the cup, their black outlines standing out in high relief from the crystal.

Yet more horrifying than these representations of lost souls were the thousands of real spirits crying out for release.

The shadowy souls swirled in a red mist, their eyes blank, their mouths agape with their song of hopelessness. They rose above the rim of the cup in a great surge of spirit matter, only to be driven back down by the unseen force that held them captive. Their endless gyrations lent haunting rhythm to their wails.

The vessel hung suspended in the air, supported by three twisted steel beams as thick as Kestrel’s waist. They formed a pyramid in the center of the round room, distributing the weight of the enormous urn to the edges of the chamber where the floor was made of stone. Directly beneath the vessel, a large circle of multifaceted glass lay inset in the floor. The glass caught the torchlight of the wall sconces and projected it up to the urn. As a result, eerie, undulating light bathed the chalice in a continuous profane baptism.

A score of dragon-kin and at least a hundred soulless drow guarded the Vessel of Souls. The lifeless dark elves stood silent and resolute in their watch, but many of the dragon-kin talked among themselves.

Kestrel closed the door as silently as she’d opened it and described the scene to her companions. “I saw no other doors to the room,” she concluded. “Only a tall, narrow window with its pane blackened.”

Corran rubbed his chin. “If we drop the vessel through the floor, we can destroy it and open up an exit at the same time.” He looked to Durwyn and Athan. “If the three of us each take one of the supports and dislodge them simultaneously, the chalice should fall through the center of the glass.”

Athan nodded. “I can manage it.”

“Me, too,” said Durwyn.

Corran next turned to Ghleanna. “Jarial’s invisibility spell could prove a big boon. He didn’t happen to teach it to you somewhere along the line, did he?”

Ghleanna grinned. “He did—and a few others.”

“Excellent. Have you the power to render all three of us invisible?”

“Aye, and two others besides—”

Kestrel shook her head. “Just the warriors. We still have Mordrayn and Pelendralaar to face. We may need your spells more then.”

“Are you sure, Kestrel?” Corran regarded her seriously. “We’ll be relying on you, Ghleanna, and Faeril to hold off the dragon-kin and drow.”

“We can handle them,” Ghleanna declared.

Cloaked by Ghleanna’s sorcery, the three fighters headed to their appointed positions. No one noticed their entrance, but one of the dragon-kin noted the open door. It raised a claw and gestured toward the remaining companions, hissing a word of alarm.

Ghleanna responded with a spell that sent the beasts into a state of confusion. Some of the dragon-kin stared stupidly at the sorceress, some wandered over to another part of the room, some actually began attacking each other. Eight dragon-kin took to the air, flying straight toward the trio of women.

Faeril, meanwhile, twice rapped the Staff of Sunlight on the floor. A burst of daylight issued forth, crippling many of the closest drow. Kestrel sent Loren’s Blade and her other two daggers flying toward the nearest weakened dark elves. She eliminated two and injured a third—leaving a mere ninety-seven or so to advance on her. She prayed to any god who would listen that the warriors would destroy the Vessel of Souls quickly and that Nathlilik would prove correct in her belief that its destruction would eradicate the enslaved drow.

The dragon-kin swooped down to attack. Kestrel’s armor resisted their claws, but Ghleanna did not fare as well. One of the beasts raked her face, turning her left cheek to bloody ribbons. The mage shrieked and clutched her damaged face, then responded with a volley of conjured missiles that hit the beast in rapid succession.

Through the corner of her eye, Kestrel saw Faeril inflict critical wounds on a swooping dragon-kin with only a word. The creature plummeted to the ground. After that, she lost track of what the others were doing as she fought her own battles against the remaining dragon-kin. One of them had her pinned against the wall. She used her club to beat off his swiping claws, all the while trying to score a hit with Loren’s Blade.

Beyond, the weakened drow had mobilized. The first wave rushed in to join the combat against the intruders. One of them hurled a fireball at her. She braced herself for its impact, ready to feel the blaze sear her flesh, but miraculously, the flames passed over her like a gentle breeze. Her mind raced for an explanation until she recalled the mantle rings she wore. What was it the baelnorn had said—protection from a dozen spells? Corran and the others had better hurry.

Though the fireball passed over her without harm, it scorched her opponent. The dragon-kin shrieked and turned on the offending drow for revenge. As the two enemies fought each other, another dragon-kin moved in to attack Kestrel. She stole a look at the Vessel of Souls, still suspended in place. What was taking Corran and the others so long? Surely by now they’d had sufficient time to reach their stations. A second glance revealed slight movement of the nearest support beam. Thank the gods! The urn would drop any moment.