Pool of Radiance: Ruins of Myth Drannor

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You can admit it any time now.”

Corran’s jocular tone took Kestrel by surprise. She frowned at the paladin as they stepped over the bodies of yet another soulless drow band. The winding passage beneath Castle Cormanthor was simply too tight to move the enthralled Kilsek aside after defeating them. “Admit what?”

“We were right to trust Nathlilik,” the paladin said, muting his voice in case other patrols lurked nearby. “That Staff of Sunlight has proven invaluable.”

She glanced at the sacred weapon in Jarial’s grip. They’d encountered so many cult patrols since leaving the baelnorn that without the staff they would have exhausted themselves getting this far. “We would have found it anyway,” she said with a shrug. “As for Nathlilik, if she had done what she promised and released all her kin into true death, we wouldn’t even need the staff. She probably gave up and skipped town.”

“Or got caught.”

Kestrel followed Corran’s gaze. Ahead, the corridor widened into a long, narrow chamber lined with prison cells carved into the rock like small caves. The pens, separated from each other by about six feet, stretched as far up the passage as Kestrel could see. In the closest cell, Nathlilik herself paced like a caged panther.

The drow leader stopped abruptly when she saw them approach. “We meet again, humans.” She grinned mockingly, gesturing at her cell with a sweep of her hand. “Welcome to my new abode. Can I offer you tea? A glass of wine?”

Kestrel ignored her sarcasm. “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Nathlilik snapped. “The cult captured us. Killed all my men one at a time and fed their blood to the dracolich as an appetizer. I’m the main course—at least I was until you came along. What are you standing around for? Let me out.”

Nathlilik’s attitude made Kestrel’s hackles rise. “I don’t think I like your tone.”

The dark elf barked a harsh laugh. “Don’t expect me to beg, human. Not to you.” She strutted to the corner and plunked down on the floor. “The cult has taken my life-mate. They’ve taken my men, and they’ve taken my weapons, but I’ll hold my pride until the last drop of blood leaves my body.”

Kestrel shrugged. “You do that.” She walked past the cell, fighting the urge to turn around to see whether the rest of the group followed. If someone else wanted to free the arrogant drow witch, let them try to get past that lock. She knew exactly which tool it would require.

She heard Corran’s footsteps behind her. “Kestrel...” he murmured.

“Corran, we haven’t the time, and I haven’t the inclination.” She continued marching away.

“Wait!” Nathlilik cried.

Kestrel turned. To her amazement, the whole party had followed her lead. Nathlilik had watched all six of them pass her cell. “I’ve learned more about the cult’s activities during my imprisonment,” the dark elf said. “Free me and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Tell us what you know, and we’ll free you,” Kestrel replied.

Nathlilik, clearly incensed at having lost the upper hand, hesitated. Kestrel waited. Finally the drow spoke. “In the upper part of the castle stands an enormous urn. The Vessel of Souls, they call it. That’s where the cult keeps the spirits of all the creatures whose blood they drain. My kin are trapped in there. Kedar’s soul is in there. Destroy the vessel, and the cult’s enthralled slaves will trouble you no more.”

“I thought that was your job,” Kestrel said. “When we last saw you, isn’t that where you and your band were headed?”

“The cult captured us before we could succeed. But we got as far as the Vessel Chamber—I’ve seen the wicked thing with my own eyes.”

As much as Kestrel would have liked to leave Nathlilik to the cult’s mercy—or lack thereof—she reluctantly opened the lock of the dark elf’s cell. Nathlilik strode out of her prison without so much as a “thank you.”

“We defeated a Kilsek patrol a hundred yards or so down the passageway,” Corran said. “You can retrieve one of their weapons. Since we’re on the same side, would you like to join forces?”

Kestrel’s eyes widened. She found the thought of spending any more time in Nathlilik’s company abhorrent. Before she could voice an objection, however, the dark elf sneered. “Ha! Walk in the company of surface-dwellers? I’ll take my chances alone.” Without another word, she disappeared into the darkness.

The party stared after her. “That is one disagreeable woman,” Durwyn declared.

They continued past the cell blocks, most of which stood empty. Apparently, the cult didn’t hold prisoners long before using their blood to slake Pelendralaar’s thirst. In the last cell, however, they found the crumpled form of a man passed out in the corner. He lay facedown, nearly naked, his blond hair matted with blood and his body covered with bruises. Whip marks swelled his back and oozed pus.

“Oh, by my Lady’s grace!” Faeril cried. “Kestrel, let me in to help him!”

“Is he even alive?” Jarial asked.

Ghleanna dropped her staff and clutched the prison bars, peering intently into the dark cell. “He’s a large man,” she said softly. “A warrior... .”

The cleric started uttering prayers of healing while Kestrel struggled with the locks. There were several mechanisms, all more complex than the sole lock that had secured Nathlilik’s cell. Apparently, this was one prisoner the cult wanted to keep.

She sprung the last lock and swung open the door. Faeril rushed to the captive’s side, followed closely by Ghleanna. The sorceress touched his hair with a shaking hand. “It is Athan.” She choked back a sob. “Oh gods, what have they done to him? Can you save him?”

“Mystra, lend me your light, that I may tend your servant.” Instantly, Faeril’s hands glowed with a soft blue-white light. The glow illuminated Athan’s dark cell just enough for her to examine him. The cleric quickly assessed her patient running her hands along his limbs and torso. She checked his head and neck, then with Corran’s help gently rolled the warrior onto his side to better examine his chest.

Ghleanna watched Faeril in scared silence until she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Well?”

“His pulse is weak, and he’s barely breathing,” Faeril said. “He’s got a skull fracture and numerous broken bones—his right arm and hand, half a dozen ribs. His right leg is broken in two places, and both lower legs are smashed into pulp.” She wrinkled her nose. “From the smell, I think gangrene has set in.”

“But you can save him, right?” Ghleanna asked anxiously. “You can heal him?”

Faeril raised her gaze to Ghleanna’s. “He is too badly injured for me to heal him fully. I think I can keep him from death.”

“Do you hear that Athan?” Ghleanna stroked a lock of his hair, her voice tremulous. “Faeril’s going to help you.”

Corran cleared his throat. “Can I assist?”

Faeril shook her head. “If you speak of laying on hands, let’s see what I can do alone. We don’t know what lies ahead—your healing powers may be needed later. But you can help me bandage his wounds.” She turned to Kestrel. “I will also need your hands. Durwyn, Jarial, stand watch. This may take a while.”

The cleric uttered a prayer-spell asking Mystra to heal Athan’s gangrenous legs and lacerated back. “‘Tis best to leave him unconscious until I can alleviate some of his pain,” she explained to Ghleanna. When the decay was gone and the bone fragments fused, she beseeched the goddess to mend the other breaks in his leg and hand. Finally, she entreated Mystra to heal the warrior’s head injury.

Athan’s eyes fluttered open. He warily regarded the unfamiliar faces surrounding him until his gaze rested on the sorceress. “Ghleanna,” he whispered.

She took his good hand in hers and pressed it to her wet cheek. “Brother.”

Despite Faeril’s care, Athan remained weak. The sight of his sister, however, appeared to hearten him beyond anything the cleric could do. His blue eyes quickly lost their glassiness, and the lines pain etched in his face seemed to fade as the minutes passed. After Ghleanna made introductions, he asked how she and the rest of the party had found him.

“Happenstance,” she admitted. “Though I prayed you might still live, we had no way of knowing for sure.”

He encompassed them all with his gaze. “I thank the gods you arrived when you did. After my last beating, I might never have awakened.” He tried to rise but winced and settled back down against Ghleanna.

“Your ribs are broken,” Faeril said. “I shall have to bind them, for your other injuries exhausted my healing powers. We’ll also have to splint that arm.” She opened a small pack and withdrew several rolled-up strips of cloth. “Kestrel, cut me several one-foot lengths from this roll.” Corran, meanwhile, scouted around for some stray pieces of wood.

“The Cult of the Dragon has perfected the art of torture.” Athan studied his right hand, flexing his fingers as if amazed to see them work once more. “You spend the first half of the interrogation afraid you’ll die, and the last half afraid you won’t.” He glanced up to catch a stricken look cross Ghleanna’s face. “You would have been proud, Lena—they never got a word out of me.”

Corran returned with an extinguished torch and Durwyn’s axe. He measured Athan’s forearm and chopped off the charred end of the torch to match its length. “What did they want to know?”

“At first, who had sent us and how much we knew about Mordrayn’s plans.” He inhaled sharply as Faeril grasped his injured arm and reset the broken bone. “Lately, though, all their questions have been about you folks. Of course, I had no answers to give them even if I wanted to—I didn’t even know my sister was among you. All I knew, I gleaned from my captors’ own questions. Your activities have agitated the whole cult.”

The news brought a grin to Kestrel’s lips. “Good. I hope we have Mordrayn’s drawers tied in knots.” She handed the lengths of cloth to Faeril and returned her dagger to its hidden sheath.

Athan’s face became deadly serious. “Do not underestimate Kya Mordrayn. She single-handedly controls the Mythal now through some sort of gem and uses the corrupted ancient magic to expand the Pool of Radiance.”

“Yes, we’ve seen evidence of the pool’s expansion.” Corran secured the torch shaft to Athan’s arm to form a makeshift splint. “Spawn pools are popping up in random cities outside Cormanthyr.”

“There’s nothing random about them,” Athan said. “Mordrayn and the dracolich are using the pool to drain the life force from key cities throughout the Realms. They intend to first gain control of the Heartlands’ main trading and port cities—Phlan, Mulmaster, Hillsfar, Zhentil Keep. Once they achieve a strong foothold, they plan to expand their domination until the whole continent falls under their power.”

When the splint was complete, Faeril and Ghleanna eased Athan into a sitting position so the cleric could bind his ribs. “If Mordrayn controls the Mythal and the Pool of Radiance, what does she need the dracolich for?” Kestrel asked. “Is she really doing this all just so he can rule the world?”

“Pelendralaar is her general.” Athan groaned as Faeril wound cloth strips around his bruised and battered torso. “He masterminds all the cult’s military strategy. The dracolich has already waged successful campaigns against the alhoon, phaerimm, and baatezu of Myth Drannor and has now started deploying forces outside the city. He crushed the first counterattacks of Mulmaster and Zhentil Keep.”

Kestrel recalled the withered but massive beast they’d observed in the Speculum’s scrying pool. He’d looked imposing enough from a distance. “Have you ever seen the dracolich in person?”

“I’ve been dragged before Pelendralaar and Mordrayn several times,” Athan said. “Do not underestimate his power, either. Once the Mythal protected this city from foul races and creatures, but now Mordrayn uses its corrupted power to strengthen the dracolich. We’ll never defeat him without breaking her hold on the Mythal first.”

“We?” Ghleanna questioned. “Athan—”

“We aren’t far from the pool cavern,” the warrior continued. “It lies at the end of this passageway. That’s where we’ll find the two of them, the gem Mordrayn uses to control the Mythal, the pool itself—and the Gauntlets of Moander, hanging from Mordrayn’s waist so that anyone who seeks to destroy the pool has to go through her first.” The warrior struggled to his feet. In height and girth, he was Durwyn’s match, but his remaining injuries lent him the awkwardness of a squire. “I’d like nothing more than to face them again with a weapon in hand—”

“Athan, not with your sword arm still broken.”

The warrior smiled ruefully. “Ever the protective sister, Lena.”

“Ghleanna is right,” Faeril said. “You need more healing before you could take on a wolf, let alone the archmage and her general.”

“We can’t just leave him here for the cultists to return,” Corran said. “And for him to leave on his own with a broken sword arm...” He let the conclusion go unstated.

Faeril nodded. “I have considered this matter. Athan can recover at our tree shelter, speeded by Beriand’s superior healing arts. With the group’s leave, I will accompany him there to make sure he reaches it safely and to check on Beriand’s welfare. Already I have been too long away from him.”

Kestrel didn’t like that idea at all. “You would desert us just as we prepare to confront Mordrayn and Pelendralaar?”

Jarial stepped forward. “Nay, I can accompany him. The party has another sorcerer—you are our only cleric. Your holy magic will be needed against the evil ahead. I will take Athan to the shelter, check on Beriand, and return as soon as I can.”

If he could return. The sorcerer might very well get himself killed trying to return alone. But Kestrel couldn’t think of a better alternative, and the whole party grew conscious of the fact that they’d tarried in one place overlong. They were lucky to have remained undisturbed thus far—they could not afford to spend more time in debate.

Ghleanna draped her cloak over Athan’s broad shoulders and hugged her brother goodbye. “Easy, now,” he chuckled. “Those ribs are still sore.”

“Take care of yourself.” The sorceress looked up at him with moist eyes. “Shall I see you again in this life?”

He kissed her on the forehead and smiled. “Count on it, Lena.”

The sound of lapping water echoed in eerie rhythm throughout the twisting passage. It hissed and burbled, a moaning chant that threatened to drive mad any who listened too long.

Kestrel shut her ears against the profane whisperings of the pool, retreating into a state of deep concentration she normally reserved only for the most complicated locks and high-stakes card games. Her collarbone tingled so badly it felt like a tuning fork. She did not need the familiar warning—she knew perfectly well how much danger she walked toward. The pool cavern could not be far now. Surely, just around that bend—

The sound of a female voice stopped them all short. A familiar, throaty voice. Mordrayn’s voice.

“We have gates to get in and out of the cavern, Pelendralaar. The lowliest of our sorcerers can summon them. Why keep an outside entrance? It only makes us vulnerable, and we cannot afford any more mistakes.” Her voice became a purr. “And I so enjoy your displays of strength.”

The dracolich’s deep rumble followed. “As you wish, child.”

A second later, the passage shook with the force of an earthquake. Rocks and debris rained down, pummeling the party and thickening the air with dust. Kestrel held the edge of her cloak over her nose to keep from inhaling the dirt as she dodged the falling rocks, but a fit of coughing seized her.

Ahead of her, Corran lost his footing. He fell, narrowly escaping the path of a huge stone that slammed into the ground where he had just stood.

“Corran?” Kestrel shouted but could not hear her own voice in the din of the tunnel’s collapse. Nor could she see the paladin. Had the rock hit him after all?

Suddenly, an enormous weight slammed Kestrel to the ground. Another boulder. White-hot pain shot through her legs from the knees down. She was pinned.

The explosion seemed to last forever. The few torches that lined the walls shook loose. They fell and sputtered out, immersing the party in blackness. Kestrel shouted again, but still the roar drowned out her words. Yet somehow, above the thunder sang Mordrayn’s voice, laughing in wicked delight.

The sound wasn’t nearly as bad as what followed. Once the debris settled, Kestrel called to her companions. Her unanswered cry echoed in the silence.

The silence of a tomb.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She was trapped in the darkness.

Her legs were broken, her companions unconscious or dead.

Kestrel pushed at the boulder pinning her to the ground. It wouldn’t budge. She leaned back, summoned energy from a place deep within herself, and tried again. She could not wobble the huge stone in the slightest.

“Dammit!” She choked back a sob of frustration and beat the rock with her fist, but succeeded only in bruising her knuckles. Damn it all! Every last, bloody moment of this whole damned quest.

She let the pain in, then—into her mind. She’d been forcing it back, but something had to drive off the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. A whimper escaped her lips.

“Kestrel?”

“Corran?” She’d never been so happy to hear another human voice. “Are you all right?” Her eyes, unused to the absolute blackness, probed the dark for some faint image of the paladin but saw nothing.

“I have a terrible headache—I believe I lost consciousness for a while there. What about you?” She heard him moving, his armor scraping against rocks and debris.

“I think my legs are broken.”

“Keep talking so I can find you.”

“Only if you talk back.” Her spirit clung to Corran’s disembodied voice like a lifeline. “I’m under a boulder—it fell on me, and I can’t move it.”

“It pinned your legs?”

“Just below the knee. I think they might be crushed.” Her head suddenly felt very light. “I don’t know—they hurt real bad for a bit, but now I don’t feel them so much.”

He seemed to move more rapidly. “Have you heard sounds from anyone else?”

“No.”

He scuffled on some loose gravel. The sound was closer than she expected, and she felt the air move nearby. “Here.” She reached out and caught his hand. It felt warm and strong in hers. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d grown.

“You’re freezing.” He rubbed her fingers in his palms, then let them drop. “I’m going to see how big this rock is.” She heard him shuffle around the boulder, running his hands over its surface. “If I can find somewhere to plant my feet for leverage, I think I can roll it off your legs. Here.”

She heard more scuffling, followed by several grunts. Then, ever so slowly, the pressure lifted from her legs. Fresh pain seized her as blood coursed through the vessels.

Corran returned to her side. She flinched as his hands touched one of her legs, old defenses working reflexively. If the paladin noticed, he didn’t comment as he methodically palpated her knees and shins. “Good news, Kestrel. The rock didn’t crush the bones—I feel two clean breaks. With Tyr’s grace, I can heal you.”

“No.” The word flew out of her mouth before she even had time to think about how foolish she sounded. She hated being injured, hated feeling vulnerable. That it was Corran who ministered to her now made it all the worse.

“Kestrel... I know we haven’t gotten along well. Part of that is my fault. But right now I’m all you’ve got. Let me help you.”

He was right, of course. Even if the others were alive, Faeril’s healing powers were exhausted. If she wanted to get out of this cavern any time soon, she had to accept the paladin’s aid. “Okay,” she conceded.

She was grateful for the darkness as Corran laid his hands on her damaged legs and commenced his prayer to Tyr. Comforting warmth radiated from his palms and fingers, soothing away her pain and knitting her broken bones. As he prayed, she felt herself relax. The perpetual agitation he provoked in her subsided, replaced by reassurance. She might not bear any great love for Corran D’Arcey, but after all they’d been through together, she did trust him.

He finished his prayer and sat back. “How do you feel?”

“Good as new.” She started to rise, eager to confirm that she could stand on her own, but Corran placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“Rest a while longer,” he said. “Let your bones strengthen before you crash into something as you stumble around in the dark.”

Reluctantly, she settled back down. He, however, sounded as if he were starting to rise. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To see if I can find the others.”

“In the dark?”

“They may be alive but injured. I must at least try to locate them.”

Kestrel thought the effort hopeless, but she could understand Corran’s drive to try. It was the paladin in him—the helper, the healer. Faeril would have done the same.

The thought of the cleric sparked an idea. “Corran, when you heal people, you receive that power from your god, right? Just like Faeril?”

“Sort of.” His tone questioned where she was going with this, but he continued, “In both cases it is divine power, but paladins and clerics channel it differently. Tyr grants me the ability to heal with the touch of my hands. Clerics heal through miracles—they petition their gods to answer prayer spells with divine magic, to heal and perform other wonders.”

“Can you make your hands glow, like Faeril did?” She drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the dread of being left alone, but she found herself warming to Corran’s conversation.

“No. I suspect that is a gift specific to Mystra’s faithful, for I have never witnessed it before.” He paused. “I have seen Tyr’s priests and older paladins produce a glowing ball of light through prayer. I’ve also seen seasoned paladins, like my father and older brothers, perform some of the miracles of clerics, but only after years of faithful service. Once they have proven themselves, Tyr thus empowers them to better do his work.”

His father and brothers? “Is everyone in your family a paladin?”

He laughed. “Pretty much. The D’Arceys have served Tyr for as many generations as we can remember. It’s a lot to live up to.”

No wonder Corran had such lofty notions about honor and justice. He’d probably been indoctrinated in the cradle and hadn’t seen enough of the world to temper his idealism. At least, not when they’d met. Since coming to Myth Drannor, Corran had lost some of that naivete. His personality still needed some work, but he no longer spouted about “fallen worthies” and never retreating from a battle. His experiences in this doomed city had indeed seasoned him.

Perhaps, she thought, Corran had served Tyr well enough to get them out of this living tomb. “Have you ever tried to perform a miracle?”

“Nay, ’twould be presumptuous!”

“Then how will you know when you’ve proven yourself?” Emboldened by the darkness, by her inability to see whatever expression—condescension? outrage?—his face held, she pressed on. “I don’t pretend to know much about matters of faith, Corran. But if we die in this tunnel and Mordrayn succeeds at her plan, Tyr won’t have any followers left on Toril because they’ll all be dead. We could really use his help right now. If you’re worried about sounding presumptuous, ask for something small—like a light.”

When he did not answer immediately, she thought he’d dismissed her idea in disgust. A moment later, she heard his quiet, hesitant voice break the stillness. “Tyr, if this humble servant has found favor in your eyes, grant me light that I may see our path clearly.”

A ball of brilliant light appeared in Corran’s palm, nearly blinding Kestrel with its sudden brightness. She blinked rapidly until her pupils adjusted, then looked at Corran. The paladin gazed at the glow in wonder.

“He answered.” Corran glanced up to meet Kestrel’s eyes. A smile, the first they’d ever shared, stole across his face. “He found me worthy. He answered.”

In the blaze of Corran’s holy light, they found Ghleanna, Faeril, and Durwyn lying nearby, unconscious but alive. The brilliance woke Ghleanna almost immediately. The two others soon followed.

The tunnel’s collapse had dropped tons of impassable rubble at both ends of the passageway, leaving the party in a cavern about a hundred feet long littered with piles of rock and dirt. They now stood at the far end, debating whether magic would blast through the rockslide or cause a further collapse. Corran and Faeril were optimistic, the others skeptical.

Kestrel shivered. She didn’t care to experiment with sorcery but saw no alternative. They couldn’t dig their way out, and if they didn’t do something they’d starve to death—or perhaps suffocate first.

She shivered again. If she didn’t know better, she’d say a draft crept along her neck.

Turning, she left the others to their debate and scanned the cavern. The tunnel walls were lined with debris, some of it piled quite high. A craggy hollow in one corner shadowed the ceiling from Corran’s light. She picked her way over to that side and scaled the heap of stones.

“Kestrel, where are you going?” Corran called.

“Don’t you feel that draft?” She crawled into the crevice. Sure enough, early morning light filtered through a hole not quite two feet in diameter. “Here! It’s an opening to the outside!”

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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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.

Suddenly, a loud crash! rent the air. The sound came not from the floor, where Kestrel had expected it, but from above. The dragon-kin, distracted, spun around, allowing her to plant Loren’s Blade in her opponent’s back and see for herself the source of the noise.

Shards of glass rained down from the chamber’s window as a lone figure swung in on a rope. An angel of darkness, her face a mask of vengeance, swooped in to seize justice for the wronged and wreak retribution on the guilty.

Nathlilik.

The drow leader gripped the rope with only one hand. In the other she clutched a spiked mace, raised high. Blood running from cuts all over her body, her white hair streaming loose behind her, she sailed through the air toward the Vessel of Souls.

“Kedar!” she cried. “I do this for you!”

As the arc of her swing brought her directly above the urn, she let go of the rope. She dropped twenty feet to the vessel and struck the invisible force field with her mace. At the same moment, the support beams finally slid out of place. The Vessel of Souls, and Nathlilik along with it, plummeted.

It smashed through the floor, shattering the glass and continuing its descent. A deafening explosion sounded. Unholy shrieks and sobs filled the chamber, rising to a crescendo so intense that Kestrel covered her ears lest the cacophony of terror and torment drive her mad.

A whirlwind surged up through the jagged hole in the floor. Thousands of lost souls, their ghostly faces contorted with hopelessness, spiraled toward the ceiling. The cyclone snuffed out the chamber’s torches, leaving only the pale natural light of the broken window to illuminate the room.

The funnel of damned spirits arched through the window. As it reached the open sky it flew apart, releasing the trapped souls to the gods. The horrible anthem of despair at last ceased.

Within, every drow in the chamber collapsed at once, their bodies turned to dust. At the loss of their allies, the remaining dragon-kin took to the air and fled. Only the companions remained.

In the hushed aftermath, Kestrel picked her way through drow ashes and shards of broken glass to the edge of the circle. She peered down. Nathlilik’s broken, lifeless body lay surrounded by fragments of the vessel she’d given her life to destroy.

Corran’s disembodied voice broke the stillness. “Is she alive?”

Kestrel shook her head and backed away from the ledge in silence. She couldn’t say she mourned the arrogant drow’s passing, but she respected Nathlilik’s sacrifice.

“Athan? Durwyn?” Corran called. “You still here?”

“Aye.”

“Here.”

“Then we haven’t a moment to lose. Now that the drow have fallen, Mordrayn knows exactly where we are.”

“What word from Mulmaster?”

“The city is nearly depleted. Panic spreads throughout the Moonsea—soon all the Heartlands will be ours. What tidings here?”

“Intruders have toppled the Vessel of Souls. The Mistress is beyond irate. She says the pool shall be well-fed tonight—either with them or with us.”

Kestrel smiled in satisfaction as she listened to the exchange between cultists. Though the news from outside troubled her, she delighted in the knowledge that they’d gotten under Mordrayn’s skin.

After leaving the vessel chamber, the party had hurried to the ground floor of the castle and combed it for a route of descent to the pool cavern. Thanks to Pelendralaar’s cave-in, none existed save this room—the castle’s former great hall, now a magical way station for cultists. Four enchanted gates occupied the hall, one on each wall. Three were of ordinary size, while the last appeared three times the size of any Kestrel had ever seen. A cult sorcerer kept watch at the entrance of each gate, and several squads of fighters were stationed throughout the hall.

Kestrel and the others observed the scene from the corner of a gallery that ran the length of three walls. As they watched, cultists arrived through the smaller gates and entered the large one. A few, like the fighter they’d just overheard, stopped to talk with the cult sorcerers standing guard. From the conversations, she surmised that the small gates all led to points outside Myth Drannor, while the main gate led to the pool cavern.

She gazed at the smaller gates longingly. Beyond lay the outside world. What an easy thing it would be to sneak away from the party and dart through one of those gates, out of Myth Drannor and away from this impossible quest. A few short days ago, she might have done that very thing.

But—independent of the fact that the cult’s plan meant no safe place existed to run to—she found she could not abandon her companions now. She felt a responsibility to them and to their mission. Her mission. The fate of the world as they knew it rested in their hands. For once in her life, she was part of something greater than herself. She would not back away.

When they were finished, when they had defeated the cult and destroyed the pool, then they could use those smaller gates to leave Myth Drannor. They could go home. She could collect her cache—perhaps even a reward from Elminster—and set herself up for a life of ease. After all this, she’d earned it.

With new conviction, she assessed the situation once more. Somehow, they had to pass through that main gate. “Ghleanna, perhaps now would be a good time for those remaining invisibility spells,” she whispered. Corran, Athan, and Durwyn remained unseen. “Cloak yourself and Faeril—I can sneak past the guards.”

Ghleanna, her clawed face partially healed by a blue-glow moss potion, shook her head. “I have developed a modified invisibility spell of my own. We can all pass through unseen.”

“First we must close the other gates,” Corran said, “to stop the influx of cultists.”

“If we do that, how will we ever get home?” Kestrel wished she could see Corran’s face and not have this conversation with a disembodied voice. “After we stop Mordrayn, and...” She caught the expression in Ghleanna and Faeril’s eyes.

None of them were going home.

“You’ve been saying all along that this quest is suicidal,” Ghleanna said gently. “I think we must face the possibility that in destroying the pool, we may also—”

“No!” Kestrel shook her head vehemently. “I won’t accept that.” She couldn’t accept it—her survival instinct was too strong. “I know what I said before, but I don’t intend to die a martyr’s death. We are going to confront Mordrayn and the dracolich, we are going to annihilate that damnable pool, and then we are walking out of here alive. Do you hear me? Alive. All of us.”

Her new-found optimism surprised Ghleanna and Faeril. In truth, it surprised her, but she had worked hard to get to this point, fought harder than she’d ever fought for anything in her life. No one—not Mordrayn, not Pelendralaar, not every member of the whole despicable cult-was going to rob her of telling this tale in her old age.

A strong, unseen hand touched her shoulder. “Let us leave one gate open, then,” Athan said, “to go home.”

Ghleanna’s forked lightning bolt stunned the sorcerer standing guard and collapsed one of the small gates in a crackling implosion of electricity. All eyes turned to the bolt’s point of origin just in time to see a second bolt race forth to disable the gate opposite and shock that guard as well. The bolts seemed to spring from thin air—Ghleanna’s improved version of Jarial’s spell enabled her to remain invisible while spellcasting.

Kestrel rejoiced in the gates’ easy destruction. At last, events were going their way. All that remained was to quickly dart through the main portal and into the pool cavern, then collapse the portal behind them. The party could worry later about how to return to the great hall to exit through the remaining gate. For now, they preferred to protect their backs from the arrival of reinforcements as they confronted the archmage and dracolich.

By this point, Faeril and Durwyn should have reached the other side of the main gate. The invisible pair was to pass through before Ghleanna’s spells drew attention to the party’s presence. Corran and Athan flanked the sorceress, in case Ghleanna’s untried invisibility spell exposed her during casting after all. Kestrel was stationed at the main gate in the event its guard got any ideas about closing the portal before the whole party passed through. Each of her unseen companions was to sound a low whistle while entering to alert her to their movements.

It was a perfect plan. In theory.

The cultists, however, didn’t cooperate. The cult sorcerer guarding the main gate immediately unleashed a spell aimed at Ghleanna—or at least, where one would assume she stood while summoning the lightning bolts. Kestrel prayed that her companion had moved in time to avoid the spell. To her horror, the half-elf materialized a moment later, unharmed but fully visible. The cultist’s spell had counteracted hers.

A squad of cult fighters advanced on Ghleanna as the two remaining gate guards prepared to sling more magic at her. Kestrel sneaked up behind the closest sorcerer and slit his throat Something slipped from his hand—a crumpled roll of paper. She let it drift to the floor, more pressing matters drawing her attention.

Seeing a fatal knife slash suddenly open in his comrade’s neck, the final sorcerer diverted his spell at the last second to aim it at Kestrel. She used the cultist’s body as a shield, letting the corpse absorb the enchantment. The body disintegrated in her hands.

She looked up from the dust to see Ghleanna hastily retreating toward her. Corran and Athan—exposed to sight by their strikes against the closing cult fighters—followed close behind. Ghleanna flung a final spell at the cult sorcerer before diving into the gate.

Her fireball sped toward the guard, but at the last moment veered away into the gate. The portal immediately imploded, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

They’d lost their way home.

Cursing, Kestrel dropped to the floor in time to avoid the sorcerer’s next attack. How was it that he could see her? His spells were aimed with deadly accuracy. As a crackling finger of magical energy sped across the room, she realized she was not his target at all—he was aiming at the gate.

The enchanted bolt struck the portal. She rolled away as sparks flew and electrical feedback seized the opening. The gate collapsed.

Damn it all! Dread swept through her. Everything was falling apart. Half their party was on the other side of that gate, including both their spellcasters. Kestrel didn’t know whose predicament was worse: those now in the pool cavern facing Mordrayn alone or those left behind with all these cultists.

Corran and Athan still battled their way toward her. She glanced wildly around the room in search of a likely exit. As she tried to rise to her feet, her left hand slid on something—the piece of paper the sorcerer had dropped.

Damn that cultist to the Abyss, anyway! Damn them all. She picked up the paper, crumpled it in her hand, and nearly hurled it in frustration before two words caught her eye: Summon Gate. It was a scroll, a magical scroll with the incantation to open the gate once more.

And Ghleanna was gone.

Kestrel looked to Corran. Could the paladin work one of those miracles he’d talked about and somehow cast the spell off this scroll? Beyond him, she saw the cult sorcerer prepare to throw more magic. Corran and Athan approached but not quickly enough. Another squad of cult fighters closed in.

She glanced at the paper once more. There was no one to read the incantation in time. No one but her.

Her voice shaking with desperation, she uttered the first few words. When no pillar of magical flame consumed her for presuming to work the arcane arts, she continued. Corran and Athan edged closer—as did their foes. The cult sorcerer raised his hands and pointed a sinister finger at the warriors.

She read faster, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. Suddenly, a ball of light burst into being and grew steadily to the size of a door. She’d done it! She’d opened the gate.

“Corran! Athan! Now!”

The warriors heard her cry and retreated toward her. As the cultist unleashed his spell, the three of them dove into the portal.

The gate collapsed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She couldn’t breathe.

“Kestrel? Is that you?” Corran rose, lifting his heavy bulk from where he’d landed on top of her. She struggled to inhale some air. His weight had knocked the wind right out of her lungs.

“Y... es.”

Though she could barely gasp out the word, she would not have spoken louder if she could. They’d spilled out of the gate just as it imploded and wound up sprawled in the corner of a dank, earthen room. No cultists occupied this small antechamber, but she could hear hundreds of voices chanting nearby.

“Thank the gods you all made it here,” said another familiar voice. Ghleanna picked up Corran’s shield and handed it to the paladin. “We had begun to fear we’d have to take on the archmage alone.”

“We?” Athan asked. “Faeril and Durwyn are here as well, then?”

“Right here,” responded Faeril’s disembodied voice. Durwyn also spoke up, though both invisible speakers used muted tones.

Kestrel passed her hand in front of her eyes to test the sorceress’s spell. Fortunately, she too remained invisible. With a deep breath, she rolled off her stomach, sat up, and assessed their surroundings. The rough-hewn room appeared to have once served as the entryway to a vast chamber beyond. The pile of rock and rubble on one end suggested that they’d arrived on the other side of the cave-in Pelendralaar had caused earlier. Through the sole doorway drifted a monotone mantra droned by countless voices.

Above it, in macabre counterpoint, rose an all-too-familiar babble of lapping water. The Pool of Radiance.

Kestrel’s collarbone vibrated in time with the sinister chant as she crept to the doorway. Corran approached even more cautiously, taking care to stay as hidden as possible. The sight that greeted them stole her breath once more.

The antechamber opened into a vast cavern. The floor of the cavern was well below the antechamber, joined together by a long slope. At the cavern’s center lay the Pool of Radiance. Amber light infused its water, which gently lapped its banks in a peaceful motion that belied its lethal nature. Hundreds of cult sorcerers and fighters lined the pool’s perimeter, their squads assembled with military precision.

At the far end of the cavern, on a recessed ledge overlooking the pool, stood Kya Mordrayn. The Gauntlets of Moander hung from a belt at her hips. Beside her, a stone pillar rose out of the ledge to about waist level. The Sapphire of the Weave rested atop it, pulsing with brilliant blue light. The illumination dappled the cavern walls and bathed the archmage’s face, lending it a deathly paleness that contrasted sharply with the expression of intense concentration she wore. Her eyes stared unblinking at the gem as she cupped it with her dragonlike claw.

Mordrayn was locked in communion with the Mythal. Tiny blue-white flames danced around the edges of the Sapphire, bathing the gem in supernatural fire. The flames also licked Mordrayn’s claw, but the archmage either did not feel their heat or could not respond. She stood entranced by the sapphire’s aura, her mind one with the Weave.

There was no sign of the dracolich Pelendralaar. Yet.

Kestrel listened closely to the sounds emanating from the cavern. The sapphire—at least she thought it was the gem from this distance—emitted a low hum. The cultists droned in time with the stone’s pulsations. Though Kestrel couldn’t distinguish the arcane words, they resonated with blasphemy.

She backed away from the opening, her heart racing. This was it—their only opportunity to destroy the Pool of Radiance. There would be no second chances.

“We are so outnumbered I don’t even want to think about it,” she said as she and Corran returned to the others. “The cavern is filled with cultists. And all of them stand between us and Mordrayn.”

Corran removed his helm. He ran a hand through his dark locks, grasping the roots at the back of his head and closing his eyes. He looked as weary as Kestrel felt.

“We need not defeat them all,” said Ghleanna. “We just have to get someone on the ledge to touch the sapphire and speak the Word of Redemption.”

“Destroying the gem is only our first objective.” Corran opened his eyes and let his hand drop to his side.

“Afterward, we still need to defeat Mordrayn to get the Gauntlets of Moander and destroy the pool.”

“Not to mention deal with the dracolich if he makes an appearance,” Kestrel added. Her collarbone tingled so much she could barely stand still.

“He will,” Athan asserted. “If Mordrayn summons him or we harm her, he will come.”

Corran knelt and traced a representation of the pool cavern in the dust, marking the positions of the pool, Mordrayn, the sapphire, and the cultists. “Ghleanna is right about the gem being our first priority. We must create a distraction to enable one of us to get up on that ledge. There’s a section of dry floor between the pool and the ledge wall.” He glanced up from his tracings. “Kestrel, do you—”

He stopped short staring at her. She squirmed under his scrutiny. “What? What is it?”

“Your invisibility is wearing off.”

Kestrel looked down at her body. It appeared translucent, like those of Anorrweyn or Caalenfaire, but solidified more each second. A glance at the others showed Faeril reappearing as well. Only Durwyn—cloaked by the original invisibility spell, not Ghleanna’s modified version—remained unseen. Kestrel swore under her breath.

“No matter,” Corran said calmly. “Better now than unexpectedly during battle. We’ll work around it.”

Somehow, in the face of everything, Kestrel found Corran’s matter-of-fact tone reassuring. For all their differences and the grief he’d given her, the paladin had proven himself a valuable comrade-in-arms. She wondered if the party ever would have made it this far without Corran’s steadiness and faith in their cause. Certainly not if it had been left up to her.

Corran drew an X in the dust. “We are here. I suggest five of us create a distraction in this part of the cavern—” he traced a circle—“while one person skirts the perimeter and scales the wall to reach the gem.”

At the party’s nods of agreement, Corran continued. “This room provides both cover and a good view of the cavern. Faeril and Ghleanna, cast as many spells as you can from here until the range of your remaining magic forces you to move to more exposed ground. Athan, Durwyn, and Kestrel, once the cult realizes where the magic is coming from, the spellcasters will need your defensive help. With luck and Tyr’s favor, I will have reached the sapphire by then.”

Kestrel frowned. Corran darting through cultists and scrambling up a wall? She was far better suited for the assignment than the brawny paladin. Once again he was underusing her skills. “Corran, that ledge is at least forty feet high. I’m smaller and lighter, not to mention more experienced at this sort of thing. I can scale it in half the time it would take you.”

“That’s true.” His gray eyes met hers. “But Mordrayn will be waiting for whoever reaches the top.”

Well, of course she would. That went without—

Kestrel’s thoughts stopped abruptly as she realized the paladin’s motive. He was taking the most dangerous assignment upon himself. Looking back, she realized that many of their arguments had arisen because he had tried to sacrifice his own safety first.

“I know she will,” Kestrel said. A week ago she never would have volunteered for the job, never would have put herself at greater risk than she had to—certainly never would have offered to face an evil archmage alone. Still they could not fail, and she knew in her heart that of them all, she had the best chance of reaching the sapphire. “This is my battle, too. Let me fight it to the best of my ability.” As she spoke, her collarbone vibrated so hard it ached. Had she just written her own death sentence?

Corran searched her face for a long moment. Respect lit in his eyes. “All right, then.”

At his words, the tingling in her collarbone subsided, and with it her fear. Courage washed over her, chasing away the shadows of self-doubt and cynicism, filling her with the belief that victory was indeed possible. Despite the incredible odds, they might just pull off their mission.

She regarded the paladin with a mixture of surprise and new understanding. This must be the aura of which Ghleanna spoke—the reason the others had followed Corran almost without question from the beginning. The sorceress had been right. Until now, Kestrel had never allowed herself to feel it.

Their circle broke up as each person made individual preparations. Ghleanna readied her spells, Faeril and Corran offered devotions to their gods, Durwyn arranged his arrows near the doorway for easy access. Athan paced impatiently, eager to wet his sword with cult blood.

Kestrel withdrew a small pouch and sprinkled white powder onto her hands. The chalk would help her maintain her grip as she scaled the wall. Her rope and grappling hook hung from her belt, but she hoped to find enough natural holds in the rock to free climb. Mordrayn might be entranced now, but once the sorcerers set off their fireworks, Kestrel didn’t want to risk the archmage kicking her grappling hook loose while she dangled from a rope.

She went to the doorway once more and studied the cavern, plotting her course. Fewer cultists gathered on the west side of the pool, but approaching the ledge from that direction required her to leap over a stray arm of the vile amber liquid. The east side held no water trap but twice as many human obstacles. She would dart west.

Behind her, Corran drew near. “Don’t let even a drop of the pool touch your skin,” he cautioned.

She gazed at the insidious lake, recalling the horrible fate of the bandits she’d observed in Phlan. “I’ve seen what it can do.”

He leaned on his sword and cleared his throat. “I was thinking... perhaps I should follow you to the ledge. In case the cultists spot you. And so that when you face Mordrayn—”

“No.” She turned toward him, struck by the look of genuine concern she discovered in his eyes. “You will slow me down, Corran. Or attract attention.” Besides, she preferred to work solo—at least, she always had before. As tempting as she found his offer to cover her back, she shook her head. “If I’m to succeed, I must do this alone.”

Reluctantly, he nodded his agreement. “After you destroy the sapphire, the rest of us will close in as quickly as we can.”

Quickly enough to save her from a cruel death at the archmage’s hands? Standing here with the paladin, she actually believed it was possible. “I’ll see you there.”

“Take care, Kestrel.”

She shrugged. “Always do.” But as she walked away, she cast one last glance at her former adversary. “Corran,” she called. The paladin turned. “You, too.”

Kestrel slipped out of the antechamber and slunk into the nearest shadows. Though Ghleanna had cast a hastening enchantment on her, she crept down the slope slowly, relying on stealth instead of speed. Once she reached the outer wall of the cavern she stuck close to it, darting from shadow to shadow as she made her way toward the ledge. And Mordrayn.

The cultists’ chanting muffled her movements. She realized, after she reached the cavern floor and could observe them more closely in the dim light, that only some of the cultists were participating in the Mythal ritual. The sorcerers all had their eyes on the Sapphire of the Weave as they repeated their profane mantra. The cult fighters, however, who comprised at least half the assembly, stood quietly on alert. She would have to proceed very cautiously as she wended her way past their ranks.

She paused and pressed herself against the wall. She’d traveled about a third of the distance to Mordrayn’s ledge and had another third to cover before reaching the arm of the pool that obstructed her way. All the cultists had gathered on this side of the tendril, so once she passed that obstacle she’d have a clear path to the ledge. First, however, she had an army of dragon-worshipers to avoid.

She glanced up at the antechamber. Good—her companions betrayed no hint of their presence. She knew Durwyn, still invisible, watched her progress from the doorway. Faeril and Ghleanna were to initiate a distraction when she reached the pool arm, unless she had need of it sooner. With so many eyes focused on the sapphire, even she couldn’t climb all the way up the ledge unnoticed.

The pool hissed louder down here, a sinister murmur that sounded almost sentient. By the gods, she couldn’t wait to stop those foul whisperings from entering her ears. Still hugging the wall, she continued her surreptitious journey.

Ahead, three cult fighters leaned against the cavern wall, engaged in low conversation. She couldn’t make out their words, and she didn’t much care—she was more concerned about getting around them. She studied the shadows dancing across the cavern floor. There was no good route, but she found one that might work. If she was very lucky.

With a deep breath, she stepped away from the wall and into the pulsing blue light of the sapphire. She walked quickly and silently, hoping the combination of her speed and the strobe effect of the gem’s light would play tricks on the cultists’ eyes and obscure her exact position.

It didn’t.

The trio raised an alarm. Kestrel didn’t wait to see what happened next—she ran for all she was worth. Magically sped by Ghleanna’s prior incantation, she practically flew past the cultists as the sorceress’s lightning bolt streaked across the east side of the cavern to strike a cluster of unwary cult mages.

She’d expected the chant to stop abruptly after her party’s initial strike, but many cult sorcerers were so absorbed in the Mythal ritual that a second attack hit before all the dragon-worshipers mobilized. Fortunately for Kestrel, most of the cultists focused their attention on finding the source of the magical attacks. Units of fighters hurried around the edge of the pool, trying to reach the west side to uncover the renegade sorcerer in their midst. Those cultists on the target side, meanwhile, scurried out of the line of fire.

The resulting pandemonium enabled Kestrel to get nearly to the pool tendril before anyone else noticed her.

“You!” a cult sorcerer cried, his voice all but lost in the din. He pointed his sinister claw at her and unleashed a cone of swirling white vapor.

Kestrel tensed as the funnel enveloped her, but she felt no harmful effects. With a grateful thought for the baelnorn, she rubbed her thumb over the band of one of her mantle rings and hurried on.

As fire and ice, poisoned gas, and conjured missiles soared and billowed through the air, Kestrel lost track of which spells were cast by her friends and which were retributive strikes. She just did her best to ignore the chaos erupting around her and focused on reaching the ledge. Mordrayn remained locked in communion with the Mythal, oblivious to the mayhem that had overtaken the cavern. The blue aura, undisturbed by mortal turmoil, continued to surround the archmage and the sapphire.

She reached the pool arm—a slough, really, an extension of the main pool filled with watery muck. From the foul smell that greeted her, she wondered if the gray sludge comprised the remains of victims tossed into the wicked pond. The slough was about six feet across. With her running start, she should have no trouble leaping its breadth. She boosted her speed in preparation for the jump.

And landed on her face.

“Going somewhere?” The cult fighter who’d tripped her emerged from the shadows as she rolled to her feet and scrambled for a weapon. The enormous man towered over her, swiping his claw through the air like a second weapon. She snapped her club to its full length and swung it up just in time to block his first sword thrust.

He brought the blade around to strike again. Still under the hastening effects of Ghleanna’s spell, Kestrel managed to block the second blow with her right hand while freeing Loren’s Blade from its scabbard with her left. She hurled the dagger at her opponent. It caught him in the shoulder, then returned to her hand.

Enraged, the fighter attempted another blow, this time aiming for her throwing arm. The strike hit. Her armor saved her from injury, but Loren’s Blade slipped from her grasp. It clattered to the ground, landing at the cultist’s feet. The fighter kicked the offending weapon out of his way. It scudded across the floor toward the pool slough.

Kestrel leaped, trying to catch it in time. She missed by inches. The dagger slid into the mire and sank from view. Damn it all! The magical blade had become her favorite weapon.

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY

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.

A sound arrested the cult leader’s attention. From what Kestrel could see, the cloud had evaporated. If her ears judged aright, both Athan and Corran now scaled the wall, still trying to gain the ledge.

Another arrow whistled through the air. Mordrayn ignored it—to her detriment. When the shaft embedded itself in the archmage’s thigh, Kestrel recognized it as one of the bronze-tipped bolts Durwyn had received from the baelnorn.

Fresh anger distorted Mordrayn’s features. She snapped the shaft in half and flung the fletched end aside. The remaining half protruded from her leg, blood oozing around it to streak down the length of the limb. She tried to step forward, but the wounded leg buckled. She flailed to catch herself from falling. “Damn you all!” she screamed. With a wave of her hand, a volley of conjured arrows sailed back at Durwyn.

The archmage might still have her magic, but she was losing her composure. Unfortunately, Kestrel hadn’t any means of using that observation to her advantage. She could only hope the others also saw that Mordrayn was unhinged.

Athan at last reached the top of the ledge. He immediately rushed Mordrayn, but pulled back about ten feet away. He tried again to close in, but was once more repelled by an unseen force. The archmage cackled in wicked delight. “You’re just longing to touch me, aren’t you, darling?”

The sickened look that crossed Athan’s face made Kestrel wonder about the extent of the torture he’d suffered at Mordrayn’s hands, but the warrior recovered quickly. “Only with dwarven steel.”

A cry from Faeril ended the exchange. “Lady of Mysteries! Visit your divine fire upon this creature who corrupted your golden Weave!” At the cleric’s summons, a column of fire descended from directly above Mordrayn, enveloping her in flames.

As the sacred blaze seared the onetime communicant, Corran cleared the ledge. He crossed to Kestrel quickly and applied his hands to her torn flesh. His voice wrapped her in a prayer of healing. When he finished, he met her gaze. “I have healed your wounds, but I cannot remove paralysis by laying on hands.”

She stared at him hard, willing him to somehow understand her thoughts. Try, Corran. Try for one of your miracles.

He sighed. As if he’d heard her, he closed his eyes and made a second supplication to Tyr. A moment later, Kestrel waggled the fingers of her right hand. She could move once more. The paladin shook his head in amazement. “By Tyr’s grace...”

They hadn’t time to celebrate. The pillar of holy flames sputtered out, revealing a Mordrayn badly burned but still standing. Running blisters covered her withered skin. Her singed hair, what was left of it, had come unbound and floated wildly about her head. She fixed Faeril with a feral gaze. “You will follow my bidding now, worship at my altar!” The archmage barked out an arcane command.

At first, it appeared that Mordrayn’s spell had no effect on the cleric. She merely stared, unblinking, at the archmage. A moment later, Faeril pointed a finger at Athan. “Hold!”

The warrior froze in place, both arms raised in a futile attempt to break his sword through the barrier Mordrayn had established. Kestrel gripped Borea’s Blood. She’d penetrated that barrier once—she could do so again.

Durwyn launched another arrow at Mordrayn. The cleric turned on him. “Hold!” He, too, froze where he stood. One hand held his short bow, the other hung suspended in the process of reaching back for another bolt.

The bronze-tipped arrow struck Mordrayn in the shoulder. The archmage, her eyes blazing with the fever of the insane, did not even notice. She wheeled on Corran. “You next!” She raised her dragon claw to shoot a thin red beam of light at him.

The paladin raised his shield, positioning it to shelter both himself and Kestrel. The ray struck the shield squarely and bounced back straight at Mordrayn. “No!” she screeched. The beam hit her in the chest, knocking her to the ground.

For a fleeting moment, Kestrel thought the witch had been defeated by her own magic, but Mordrayn climbed to her knees and aimed her talons at Corran once more. Laboring for breath, she uttered the ancient words of another incantation.

From below, Kestrel heard Ghleanna’s voice also raised in spellcasting. When the half-elf fell silent, Mordrayn’s speech changed. Her words became inarticulate babbling, sounds more primitive than the language of the basest humanoids. She spun about, looking from one party member to another with dilated pupils, snarling like a trapped animal. Her claw lashed out wildly at each person she faced.

Whatever Ghleanna had done, it broke Mordrayn’s hold on Faeril. The cleric shook her head as if to clear it, then called out a command to free Athan and Durwyn from her spells.

Athan, however, still couldn’t draw near Mordrayn. Corran leaped up to engage her. He scored two hits on her dragon arm but could not sever it.

Kestrel saw her opening. With Corran keeping the paralytic talons at bay, the thief darted forward. She raised Borea’s Blood high in the air, then plunged it with all her strength into Mordrayn’s black heart.

The sorceress’s eyes widened in sudden sanity. She sank onto the stone floor as choked, gurgling sounds issued from her throat. “No...” she finally managed to gasp out. In the distance, a rumbling commenced. Cracks split the rocky cavern base, from which dancing orange firelight spilled.

Suddenly, ebon tentacles and a host of dragon claws rose out of the floor. They wrapped themselves around Mordrayn’s limbs and torso, pulling her into the rock itself.

“No! Not yet!” She struggled against their grasp, demons and her own horror seizing her with equal strength as payment came due for an ancient bargain. “No! Pelendralaaaarrr!”

Her cry, like the rest of her, was swallowed up by the earth.

Only the Gauntlets of Moander—divine artifacts unfit to accompany Mordrayn to her new abode—remained. Corran stepped forward and lifted the gloves from the floor. He offered them to Athan. “I believe Elminster entrusted these to your care.”

Athan donned the metal gloves. The mouth images on their palms opened wide as the gauntlets stretched to conform to the warrior’s large hands. “At last.” he said. “Now it but remains to use them.”

Strangely, the thundering continued. It grew louder, until vibrations shook the whole cavern. Ghleanna peered at the cavern roof. “Not another cave-in?”

Before anyone could respond, the noise rose to a deafening crescendo. Kestrel fell to the ground, knocked off balance by the strength of the tremors. Rocks and rubble broke away from the east wall of the cavern and splashed into the Pool of Radiance. Then the whole wall gave way. An overpowering roar echoed through the chamber.

Pelendralaar had arrived.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The mighty dracolich filled the pool cavern. His body easily extended a hundred feet, his spiked tail another eighty. He stretched his tattered, leathery wings halfway to the ceiling, draping Faeril, Ghleanna, and Durwyn in his long shadow. He towered over them, not quite close enough to snap them up in his jaws. The trio froze in terror, rendered helpless by the very sight of the living dragon corpse.

Behind the beast, cool air and starlight filtered into the cavern through dust that had not yet settled. In his rush to answer Mordrayn’s summons, Pelendralaar had burst right through the cliff face. When he saw Athan wearing the Gauntlets of Moander, he realized he’d arrived too late.

Red flames burned in his empty eye sockets. The dracolich opened wide his jaws in a bellow of rage. “Arrogant hatchlings! You know not what you have done!” Puffs of smoke escaped through rows of razor-sharp teeth. “But you shall pay for it.”

The frightful fire-breathing creature inhaled deeply. Were Corran not so near, Kestrel knew fear surely would seize her as completely as it had her friends below. Fortified by the paladin’s aura, she was able to dive to one side before flames burgeoned from the dracolich’s mouth.

Pelendralaar blasted his burning cloud straight at Athan. Heat licked Kestrel’s limbs, searing her skin as she tumbled away from the vicinity. Her body sweated beneath the leather armor, but it was protected from further harm.

She rolled until she reached the recess wall. Two hard objects jabbed her from beneath. Her daggers. They must have landed here when she threw them at Mordrayn. Gratefully, she grabbed the weapons and assumed a defensive posture as she cast a wary look back at the dracolich.

Pelendralaar advanced toward the ledge, ignoring the fear-stricken adventurers on the cavern floor. Somehow, Faeril managed to shake off enough of her dragonawe to cast a prayer-spell beseeching Mystra to imbue them with courage. Apparently, the Lady of Mystery granted the cleric’s petition, for Ghleanna and Durwyn recovered their composure. Durwyn reached for another arrow.

Faeril’s prayer and its results went unnoticed by Pelendralaar, whose sinister gaze focused on Athan alone. The fair warrior had been badly burned and lay unmoving on the floor. Kestrel saw that his chest yet rose and fell—life remained within him.

Corran, also burned, crawled toward the fallen hero. Even as the dracolich neared to finish off Athan, the paladin laid his hands on Ghleanna’s brother and spoke words of healing. Athan stirred.

Pelendralaar growled.

From below, a ghostly, oversized warhammer sailed through the air to strike the dracolich’s head. With a hiss, Pelendralaar turned his menacing gaze on Faeril. He lifted his claw to swipe at her and was struck in the underbelly by a bronze-tipped arrow.

Kestrel took advantage of the distraction to scurry over to Athan and Corran. Athan had recovered much of his strength, but the paladin looked ready to collapse. “I’ve healed him as much as I’m able,” Corran croaked out through blistered lips and a throat parched by heat. “Tyr answered my prayers beyond my imagining.”

“You should have saved some of those healing powers for yourself.” Kestrel pulled her last two blueglow moss potions from her beltpouch. “Drink these.” Corran accepted one vial but pushed the other away. “Both of them,” she admonished. “No arguments.” Athan voiced his agreement. Pelendralaar swiped his claws at Durwyn. At a word from Ghleanna, the burly fighter suddenly moved with lightning speed, easily dodging the knifelike talons. The dracolich jerked his head at the sound of the mage’s voice. “Your sorcery is nothing to what my queen’s was.” He fixed his gaze upon her and uttered a string of arcane syllables. Bursts of magical fire raced toward the half-elf, but a shimmering barrier surrounded Ghleanna, repelling the missiles. Durwyn, meanwhile, landed an axe blow on one of the creature’s claws.

Athan rose to his feet, anxious to reenter the battle. Corran too, now partially restored by the potions, looked for an opportunity to strike the dracolich. “Our swords can’t reach him from up here,” the paladin said. “And we’re vulnerable to another breath attack. We have to get off this ledge.”

Kestrel soberly assessed the steep drop. They’d kill themselves jumping, but she didn’t relish the idea of a slow climb down with her back to Pelendralaar. “We have no choice but to scale the wall,” she said finally. “Durwyn’s got the beast distracted—this may be our only chance.” She headed for the ledge and prepared to descend. Corran was right behind her, but Athan remained where he was.

“Go ahead,” Athan said, his eyes on Pelendralaar. “I’ve got another way down.”

Kestrel exchanged quizzical glances with Corran but had no time to ponder Athan’s plan. She slipped over the edge and scurried down the wall as fast as she could.

The dracolich batted at Durwyn like a kitten trying to catch dust motes. Faeril struck him with the spiritual hammer once more. With a roar, Pelendralaar twisted his long neck to capture the cleric in his sight. His mouth opened wide and rushed toward Faeril. Mystra’s servant stood her ground.

Just as his jaws were about to snap around her, Faeril shouted a command. Brilliant sunlight streamed from her staff. The dracolich howled as the pure rays eclipsed the unholy fire in his own eyes. The cleric thrust the weapon into his jaws, wedging them open. Thus disabled, the dracolich could neither bite nor speak—nor cast spells.

Pelendralaar’s whole body thrashed as he tried to shake loose the staff. He tossed his head wildly. Tendrils of foul-smelling smoke curled up from patches on his body where his undead flesh smoldered in the sunlight.

An evocation from Ghleanna draped an enormous, sticky web over Pelendralaar’s forelegs. Each time he raised his claws they became more enmeshed in the webbing. Unable to bring his forelegs up to his jaws, he tried lowering his head to meet the limited range of his claws and mired his snout in cobwebs. He flapped and twisted at the edge of the Pool of Radiance.

Kestrel, now safely on the ground with Corran, dashed out of harm’s way as Pelendralaar’s flailing brought him near the ledge where Athan yet stood. The dracolich beat his wings, scraping the ledge with the leathery appendages. Before Kestrel realized his intent, Athan leaped forward and grabbed hold of one of the wings.

Pelendralaar buffeted with new violence, now trying to throw off Athan. Somehow, the fighter held on. He gripped the wing with one hand while hacking at it with his sword in the other. Kestrel marveled at the feat of strength. Perhaps the gauntlets lent him magical aid—they and the spell Ghleanna had just uttered.

Durwyn backed away from the web ensnaring Pelendralaar’s claws and switched to his bow. He sank several bolts into the creature’s writhing neck, while Faeril struck him in the head with her spiritual hammer. Kestrel added one of her daggers to the assault, hurling a perfect strike in the dracolich’s underbelly. Corran attacked the beast’s tail, dodging its whiplike snaps.

In desperation, the dracolich breathed his fire once more—this time at his own limbs. The web fell apart, freeing Pelendralaar’s head. Though the flames had billowed against the dracolich’s skin, he’d suffered no damage from them.

The Staff of Sunlight, however, had. The inferno that blasted from the creature’s lungs burned hot enough to melt metal. The staff bent into a U as Pelendralaar slowly clamped his mouth shut. Its light faded away, then disappeared altogether as he swallowed the precious weapon.

Though the dracolich triumphed over the staff, the flickering flames did not return to his eye sockets. The holy rays had rendered him sightless.

Nonetheless he could still feel the sturdy warrior clinging to his wing. Pelendralaar twisted his long neck, trying to catch Athan in his sharp teeth. The fighter braced his sword arm. When the dracolich darted his head toward Athan, the warrior used the beast’s own momentum to drive his blade into Pelendralaar’s snout.

With a roar of pain and rage, the creature jerked back its head.

The fighter, still gripping his sword, was torn from Pelendralaar’s wing and now dangled from the beast’s snout. He clung to the hilt with both hands as the dracolich thrashed his head from side to side, but could not maintain his hold against such violent force. He went sailing through the air, straight toward the Pool of Radiance.

“Athan!” Ghleanna screamed.

Faeril sent her ghostly hammer racing toward Athan with lightning speed. The weapon struck him just hard enough to alter his course. He landed in a heap at the edge of the pool.

Immediately, light burst from the mouths of the gauntlets. The beams arched forth to strike the pool, infusing its depths with a pure white glow. As the blessed light met the pool’s tainted amber radiance, the water churned and roiled.

“The pool is dying, Pelendralaar!” Corran cried. “You shall soon follow!”

Athan, too? Kestrel gazed at the brave fighter. He had not moved since crashing to the ground. With the dracolich standing between him and the rest of the party, Faeril could not reach him with her healing magic.

“I have no intention of falling to a pathetic handful of mortals,” the dracolich rumbled. Though still fierce, his speech had lost some of its strength. The blinded creature swiped his claws toward the sound of Corran’s voice. His talons whistled past the paladin but struck another target—Durwyn.

The force of Pelendralaar’s blow knocked the burly warrior to the ground. Despite the lacerations oozing blood down his entire right side, Durwyn tried to rise. He struggled, then sank back to the floor, his arms going limp. “I can’t feel my legs,” he gasped. “I can’t—”

Move, Kestrel finished silently. Apparently, Pelendralaar shared Mordrayn’s paralytic touch. Or vice versa. While Faeril dodged her way to Durwyn’s side, Kestrel sent her last dagger soaring toward the beast. The trusty blade scored another strike to his underbelly.

He hissed and lunged toward her with open jaws, but they met only the acid-edged heads of a volley of magical arrows—courtesy of Ghleanna. “That’s for my brother,” she spat.

In response, the dracolich spewed another gout of flames. The sorceress held forth her spellstaff, drawing the heat and fire into the enchanted wood. The staff glowed red with the intensity of the attack it had absorbed. White smoke wisped from its runes. Ghleanna tapped the staff twice on the floor.

The flames spilled out and raced toward the dracolich. The great beast raised his head and laughed. “You think my own fire can harm me? Foolish hatchlings!” He swept his tail in a wide arc.

Kestrel ducked, letting the tail breeze over her head. Corran and Ghleanna did likewise. She noted that for all the creature’s bluster, the swing had less energy than before. They—and Anorrweyn, working from afar?—were wearing Pelendralaar down.

The gauntlets, meanwhile, weakened the pool. The whole lake was infused with white light now, bubbling and rolling like a pot set to boil. Steam rose in the cavern, lending the air a humid thickness. The cavern smelled of sweat, fire, and blood.

Kestrel pushed damp locks off her forehead and reached for her club. She’d no desire to employ such a close-range weapon against the dracolich, but it was the only tool she had left.

Pelendralaar, however, would not give her the opportunity to use it. The dracolich beat his wings rapidly, trying to take flight. Did he seek to escape or attack from above?

As the creature rose in the air, his tail snaked down behind him. Corran dropped his shield and ran to the tail. He grabbed it just as its end was about to slip from reach. The paladin dangled one-handed for a moment, then sheathed his sword and began to climb the tail as if it were a rope.

Pelendralaar swung his tail like a pendulum, trying to dislodge Corran, but each sway threatened his equilibrium as he struggled to hover in the cavern’s close quarters. He didn’t have room to properly spread his wings, and Athan had significantly damaged one of them before being flung aside. Corran climbed higher, using the tail’s spikes as a ladder.

“Hang on, Corran. Hang on,” Kestrel whispered. Ghleanna sent another barrage of acid arrows to distract the creature. Durwyn, now restored by Faeril, also launched bolts at the beast. The missiles struck Pelendralaar in the neck and upper body. Faeril dashed to Athan’s side now that the path was clear.

Though Kestrel could smell the acid burning through what was left of the dracolich’s skin, the beast ignored it. He kicked with his hindlegs, but could not quite reach the paladin. Furious, he shot a series of magical bursts at Corran. Those hit but did not deter Tyr’s knight.

Corran scaled farther up the dracolich’s body. Kestrel held her breath each time he touched another spike—one scratch and the paladin would become paralyzed and tumble helpless to the ground. As Ghleanna released a third volley of arrows upon the creature’s head, Pelendralaar awkwardly maneuvered himself until he was directly over the Pool of Radiance.

As the pool boiled below, Corran reached Pelendralaar’s back. When the beast twisted his neck to snap up the paladin in his jaws, Corran was ready. With an upward thrust, he drove his sword through the underside of the creature’s jaw and into his skull. “I smite thee in the name of Tyr the Just!”

Pelendralaar threw back his neck, then dived headlong toward the bubbling pool. The paladin rode the creature like a runaway horse. The two plunged into the frothy water and disappeared into its depths.

“Corran!” Kestrel ran to the pool’s edge. She and the others peered into the cloudy water but saw no sign of him.

Suddenly, the center of the pool spouted. Kestrel’s heart stopped as a fully restored Pelendralaar shot into the air—without Corran.

“I live again!” the dracolich shouted in triumph, buffeting his wings as he hovered near the ceiling. Flames flickered in his eyes once more. He celebrated his restored strength with a mighty roar.

Steam poured from the pool below, filling the cavern with sultry fog. The boiling water hissed and popped. Before their eyes, the waterline dropped—one foot, ten feet, a score and more.

The vapor surged up at Pelendralaar. The creature’s bellow quickly dissolved into a choked gasp. His tail crumbled to powder, his legs next. When his wings disintegrated, the rest of him plummeted into the basin.

The dracolich exploded in a cloud of dust on the dry pool floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

White mist filled the cavern. It swirled and danced, propelled by the cool breeze that drifted in with the early dawn light from the hole in the chamber wall. Kestrel could barely make out the faces of her friends, though all sat mere feet away.

All but one.

Kestrel felt Corran’s absence more strongly than she’d ever imagined possible. She’d said all along that this mission was suicidal, told the paladin repeatedly that they faced insurmountable odds, that they couldn’t go up against an archmage and a dracolich, and live to tell about it.

She hadn’t wanted to be right.

In the end, Corran had proven himself a man of integrity. A man who not only spoke about honor but lived it—and died for it to preserve what he held dear. A man worthy of the title “paladin.”

He had died a horrible death. Kestrel could not close her eyes without seeing the bandits in Phlan, the cult fighter in this very cavern—how the pool had first consumed their spirits, then their bodies. She wondered where Corran’s spirit was now. With Tyr? She hoped so.

She moved several paces away from the group, seeking solitude, but she still could hear the others speaking in low tones. Faeril. Ghleanna and Athan. Durwyn. Though the latter three spoke of returning to Elminster—and from there, home—all used the muted tones of a funeral service. Corran’s loss hovered in everyone’s thoughts.

Faeril approached to offer her curing magic. Kestrel yet suffered burns from the dragon’s fire but motioned the cleric away. “Treat the others first.” She wasn’t in the mood for ministry.

“I already have.”

With a sigh, she submitted to Faeril’s healing. As the cleric prayed, Kestrel stared into the swirling fog. Her mind was full, her heart heavy.

A pale green light appeared in the mist, far away at first, but growing closer. A figure emerged—a tall, slender woman with a heart-shaped face. She floated a foot off the ground and brought with her the scent of gardenias. Anorrweyn.

In her arms, she carried Corran’s limp body.

Kestrel swallowed the lump in her throat. She and the others rose as the ghost approached. The mist clung too closely to the paladin for Kestrel to see his face—to see what his immersion in the Pool of Radiance had done to him. The priestess gently laid him on the ground.

“Is he dead?” Kestrel knew he was, but she had to hear the words.

“Nay,” Anorrweyn responded. “Only sleeping.”

Kestrel gasped. “Really?”

“Truly, Kestrel.” The priestess smiled. “He never entered the foul water of the pool but landed safe in the Weave’s embrace. See? Already he stirs.”

The mist around Corran cleared. He rolled his head to one side, consciousness returning. Kestrel saw that he had been restored to perfect health—even the lines of care etched into his face by recent events had faded.

“I leave him in your keeping now,” Anorrweyn said. “I must return to the Emerald, and continue to undo the corruption wrought by Mordrayn upon the Mythal. There is much work to be done.” Behind her, a glowing ball of blue-white light appeared and expanded to become a portal. “I leave you with one final gift: this scroll. On it you will find the Word of Farewell. It will open a gate home for you. Speak it soon, for once the Mythal is more fully restored, gates to the outside will no longer open.”

The priestess handed the paper to Kestrel. “Take care, my friends. And thank you.” With that, she was gone.

Slowly, Corran’s eyelids fluttered open. He blinked, giving his pupils a chance to focus, and propped himself up on one elbow. His gaze swept the cavern before meeting Kestrel’s. “Pelendralaar?”

She smiled. “Dust.”

He released a deep breath. “And the pool?”

“Destroyed.”

The others crowded around, eager to describe the dracolich’s final moments for Corran and hear what he remembered of his plunge. Kestrel hung back, letting Ghleanna and Durwyn tell the tale of the party’s triumph to the leader they’d followed from the start.

Their quest was over. At last, she could go her separate way, resume the solitary path she’d walked before all this madness began. She could collect her cache in Phlan—provided it was still there—and move on. There was always another city, always another heist or con game. Soon, the easy life she’d struggled all her years to attain.

Somehow, that life no longer seemed like enough.

She glanced at her companions. Faeril was saying goodbye, preparing to return to Beriand and aid Myth Drannor’s guardians in rebuilding the city. The other four spoke of reporting to Elminster, then helping the Moonsea’s port cities recover from Mordrayn and Pelendralaar’s reign of terror.

Once they all passed through the gate to Phlan, she had a choice to make. She could walk away and put this whole harrowing ordeal behind her. Or she could join Corran, Athan, Ghleanna, and Durwyn in their effort to right the wrongs of the cult.

Kestrel sighed. Her cache could wait a little longer.

There was much work to be done.