Ruins of Myth Drannor (32 page)

She barely had time to gain her feet before the cultist struck again. Ghleanna’s spell was wearing off. Though she managed to parry the fighter’s blows, he slowly maneuvered their duel until he stood between her and the slough. Now even if an opportunity to break away from combat presented itself, she could not simply run for the ledge—she would have to fight her way past him. Worse, with the slough at his back instead of hers, she was left exposed to other opponents.

He brought his blade down once more. She gripped her club with both hands, one on each end, to block the strike. The iron baton vibrated with the force of his blow. He swung again and again. Pain shot through her arms as she fought a losing battle against his superior strength.

He raised the weapon for another hit. She brought the club up to parry, but he suddenly kicked her instead. The stomach blow knocked her to the ground. Her club fell from her grasp.

She scrambled backward, hand flailing as she desperately tried to find her weapon. The cultist kicked her again as if for good measure. She heard her ribs snap, felt pain shoot up her side. Then her foe leaned back, raising his sword for the killing blow.

Turnabout was fair play. With all the force she could muster, she sprang off her hands to plant both feet in his groin. The surprise move, coupled with his shifted center of balance, proved enough to knock him over. He fell backward.

And screamed.

The watery mire of the pool caught him in its deadly embrace. In seconds, it sucked his withering form under the surface, leaving only iridescent bubbles in his wake.

Kestrel’s abdomen and side throbbed, but she had no time to dwell on it. Spotting her club a couple feet away, she snatched it up, ran back to the slough, and leaped. She landed hard on all fours, her broken ribs screaming at her.

Not a graceful landing, but she’d made it across. Now only a wall stood between her and the Sapphire of the Weave.

Magical effects continued to explode and zoom through the air. A haze of smoke and other matter developed, blessedly obscuring vision. She could follow the sapphire’s glow like a beacon while the haze cloaked her from others’ sight.

She ran to the wall, her injured ribs protesting each step. She wanted to throw up. Maybe that’s how she’d defeat Mordrayn, she thought darkly. She doubted the archmage would anticipate an attack like that.

Between the haze and shadows, she couldn’t see the wall’s surface well enough to judge whether it offered sufficient natural holds for free climbing. She tore her rope off her belt and tossed the grappling hook up to the ledge. The last time she’d glimpsed Mordrayn, the archmage had been as entranced as ever. She had more to fear from cult missiles and magic than from the evil sorceress herself. Or so she hoped.

She tugged on the rope to ensure the grappling hook’s grip, then began her ascent. How were her friends faring? She couldn’t dwell on their fate right now. She had to concentrate on reaching the sapphire.

Hand over hand. Hand over hand. Her arms ached with exertion and her ribs with each breath, but the familiar movements helped focus her ricocheting thoughts. The Word of Redemption. Ethgonil. She had to get close enough to speak it. She was almost there.

She reached the top and rolled onto the ledge. A glance at Mordrayn revealed that the archmage was still locked in communion with the Mythal, unmindful of all else. Blue-white flames shot up from the Sapphire of the Weave and danced around her, licking but not burning her skin. What was it the baelnorn had said—mere mortals cannot withstand the Mythal’s fire? What did that make the archmage?

What would happen to her, Kestrel, when she touched the fiery gem?

It did not matter. Without further hesitation, she reached forward and placed her hand on the stone.

“Ethgonil!”Though her mouth formed the word, the voice that boomed through the cavern was not her own. It was an ancient voice, one that had existed before time began and one that would survive when time ceased to be. Everyone in the cavern—friend and foe alike—stopped their actions, their attention riveted to the ledge.

A floating ball of brilliant white light appeared. As Kestrel shielded her eyes from the glare, the ball expanded and opened to reveal a portal. A moment later, the baelnorn appeared. No longer the tragic figure they’d left behind in the catacombs, Miroden Silverblade stood tall and proud. He held his head high, his face a mask of righteousness.

His gaze met Kestrel’s. “For you!” He thrust his hand toward her, then swept his arm toward the back of the cavern. Immediately, her pain vanished. At the same time her vision blurred—or something intangible obscured it. She viewed Silverblade as if watching him underwater.

The baelnorn’s sweeping hand formed a fist. “For Myth Drannor!” He raised his arm high above the sapphire, then smashed his fist into the gem.

The Protector exploded in a burst of fire. In less than a second, both he and the sapphire were utterly consumed by the flames.

Kestrel instinctively leaped away from the pyre and curled into a defensive ball, but the flames burgeoned to overtake the whole ledge. She cringed as the deadly blaze raced toward her, preparing for a swift death. Miraculously, the flames did not touch her. She found herself protected by an invisible sphere that held the fire and heat at bay.

The inferno spouted outward like a tidal wave to fill the cavern. Cultists screamed and tried to outrun the blazing swell of holy fire, but the conflagration would not be cheated of its due. The flames rolled forth, consuming everyone in their path. Shrieks and moans echoed off the stone walls until they, too, drowned in the roar of the holocaust.

Then there was silence.

Kestrel looked out upon the destruction wrought by the baelnorn’s self-sacrifice. The cult legions had been incinerated where they stood, leaving only mounds of ashes in their place. Hesitantly, dreading what she expected to see, she raised her gaze above the dust to the back of the cavern.

Movement. Her shoulders sagged in relief. Her friends had survived, shielded as she had been by the Protector’s spell.

Below, the Pool of Radiance lay placid as ever. Steam rising from its amber surface offered the only hint that it had been disturbed in the slightest by the baelnorn’s act of retribution.

Beside her—

“You little bitch.”

The horrifyingly familiar voice broke the stillness with an edge that could cut glass. Kestrel’s blood froze in her veins as she turned to look at a face whose fury burned hotter than the inferno just past.

There remained one cultist the baelnorn hadn’t destroyed.

Kya Mordrayn’s eyes blazed with hatred. Protected by the Mythal’s aura, she had survived the baelnorn’s cleansing fire unscathed. The archmage lifted her long reptilian arm and pointed a talon at Kestrel’s heart. “Think you that I will allow one scrawny chit to undo a plan decades in the formation?”

A thin green ray shot out from Mordrayn’s talon and raced straight at Kestrel. The thief instinctively ducked behind the stone pillar. The ray struck the pillar and instantly reduced it to dust.

Kestrel swallowed hard. Though Mordrayn wore only a flowing black cape and a red leather bodysuit split to the navel, it was the rogue who felt unprotected. Gods, but she hated wizards!

Before she had time to react, Mordrayn unleashed a second ray—this one red—from her mutated fingertip. Kestrel rolled out of its path, but the ray altered its course to stay on target.

When it struck, she felt a mild vibration, nothing more. Thank Mystra for those mantle rings.

The archmage sneered. “Your paltry protections cannot spare you forever.” She spat the words out of her mouth.

Kestrel stared at Mordrayn, still dumbstruck in the presence of the sorceress. She realized that Mordrayn was actually speaking—not using her mind’s voice, as they’d witnessed previously. Was this a sign that her connection with the Mythal was indeed broken?

Have faith.Anorrweyn’s gentle voice entered Kestrel’s thoughts. Even now, I am one with the Mythal and work to turn its power against our enemies.

That’s all very well, Kestrel wanted to answer, but what do I do in the meantime? As if in response, she heard her companions hurrying toward the ledge from the back of the underground chamber.

Mordrayn lifted her claw once more, this time pointing it into the cavern. “We’ll see if your friends are so well protected.” She aimed her hand at Athan, who led the advance. “Back for more of my attentions, Athan? Some men just can’t get enough.” A bolt of lightning raced from her talons to strike him. The vigorous fighter staggered under its force but did not fall.

The bolt did not stop there. It arced to Corran, then Durwyn, catching all three men in a chain of electricity. When it reached Ghleanna, however, her spellstaff absorbed the charge. Ghleanna tapped the staff twice on the ground to send the bolt streaking back to Mordrayn herself. The electrical charge left a hideous burn on the cult leader’s scantily clad chest.

The archmage screeched in outrage. “I’ll pry that staff out of your dead hand!” She threw her head back and shouted in a voice that echoed off the stone walls. “Pelendralaar!”

Kestrel finally shook off her fear. Three of her companions were injured because she’d stood here like a halfwit and let Mordrayn get the upper hand. With passing regret for her lost magical dagger, she drew her twin blades from her boots. Their familiar hilts felt comfortable in her palms. She hurled the blades at the archmage.

They bounced off an invisible shield and fell harmlessly to the ground. She uttered a stream of curses—would nothing go right for her? Two more weapons gone and all she’d managed to do was capture Mordrayn’s unwanted attention once more.

The archmage turned her baleful gaze on Kestrel. “What an annoying little gnat you are.” She raised her dragon claw again. Kestrel prayed her mantle rings could withstand the continual assault.

Ghleanna’s spell, however, was faster. The half-elf passed her arm in an arc, then pointed at Mordrayn. A blast of swirling ice crystals sprung from her hand. The frigid air formed a cone that enveloped the cult leader. Mordrayn let fly a string of foul epithets as she shook with cold.

“Not dressed for the weather, Kya?” Athan goaded. The knight’s hair yet stood on end from the shock of Mordrayn’s lightning bolt. He neared Kestrel’s rope—somehow spared by the Protector’s holy fire—and a moment later was lost to Kestrel’s view. The rope grew taut. He was ascending. Corran followed close behind.

“Perhaps this will warm her.” Faeril opened her palm to loose a searing ray of light. The beam sped straight toward the archmage. A mere foot away from her, however, it sputtered out.

Mordrayn laughed, a spine-tingling cackle devoid of cheer. “A child’s spell!” She swept her dragon arm broadly. “Let me show you how grown-ups play.”

A cloud of greenish-yellow gas formed in front of her, rapidly growing until it reached some thirty feet in width and brushed the recess ceiling. The fog’s noxious odor left Kestrel nauseated by its proximity—she dreaded its effect on anyone who breathed it directly. Mordrayn curled her red lips into a perfect O and, with a small puff of air, sent the cloud drifting off the ledge toward Kestrel’s companions.

Before the gas reached him, Durwyn released an arrow. It was a blind shot, as he couldn’t possibly see the archmage clearly with the cloud between them, but it whistled through the air directly at Mordrayn. Like Kestrel’s daggers, it struck an unseen barrier before it reached the archmage.

Kestrel again cursed the cult fighter who’d destroyed Loren’s Blade. Mundane weapons could not so much as scratch Mordrayn with that barrier in place. She scanned the ledge for something—a sliver of the shattered sapphire, perhaps—some makeshift weapon with a little magic in it that she could use to attack the sorceress.

The memory of another blue shard stirred her thoughts. Borea’s Blood. She’d all but forgotten the ice knife from the frozen Rohnglyn in the dwarven dungeons. She withdrew Borea from her beltpouch.

Coughing spasms seized her friends as the foul cloud reached them. Athan’s bark came from nearby—he must be close to the top of the rope. Unfortunately, Kestrel wasn’t the only one to notice his proximity. Another green ray shot from Mordrayn’s talon, disintegrating the rope. Moments later, the clatter of armor sounded below.

Mordrayn chortled. Her glee vanished, however, when Ghleanna’s voice rang clearly through the virulent mist. Ozama’s boots had spared her from the poisonous fumes.

The archmage cocked her head, listening to the words of the half-elf’s spell. “What’s this?” she mumbled, frowning in concentration.

Kestrel clutched Borea’s Blood, afraid it would slide right out of her sweating palm. If she could penetrate whatever invisible barrier blocked their missiles, the archmage’s revealing attire left numerous critical areas vulnerable to attack. Its only useful feature was the stiff leather collar around Mordrayn’s neck. Her chest, her stomach, her upper back—all lay exposed. And those heels! Kestrel hoped the woman would trip over them.

Mordrayn apparently recognized Ghleanna’s incantation and commenced a counterspell. Kestrel took a deep breath. It was now or never.

She made a running leap at the archmage, knocking her to the ground as she plunged Borea’s Blood into her stomach. Mordrayn’s eyes widened in shock. Black blood welled out of the wound until the ice knife glowed white, freezing the blood and surrounding tissue. Kestrel yanked the weapon out and prepared to strike again.

Mordrayn, though, recovered more quickly than Kestrel expected. With an inhuman shriek, the archmage raked her enormous dragon claw down Kestrel’s face.

Searing pain ripped through the rogue’s cheek and neck. Kestrel rolled away, somehow maintaining her grip on Borea’s Blood. Within moments, the fire gave way to an icy numbness. She couldn’t feel her face. She couldn’t lift her hand.

She couldn’t move at all.

Mordrayn rose. Kestrel lay helpless as the towering archmage wordlessly drove her stiletto heel through the thief’s right palm. As she heard bones crack and saw the heel pierce her hand from front to back, she found herself grateful for the paralysis. At least she couldn’t feel Mordrayn’s torture.