Ruins of Myth Drannor (9 page)

Jarial approached, carrying Ozama’s cloak. “I thought Ghleanna could use this,” he said.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Kestrel glanced at the woman rendered so vulnerable by the same magic she herself wielded. Corran still had a lot of healing to do. She turned back to Jarial and gestured toward Preybelish’s treasure. “Let’s leave them in peace and find that Wizard’s Torc.”

He regarded the naga’s hoard reluctantly. “It doesn’t seem important anymore. Certainly not worth the lives it cost—and almost cost.” His lips formed a rueful smile. “Sixteen years trapped in a boulder has a tendency to alter one’s perspective.”

Kestrel could scarcely believe her ears. After all he’d been through, how could he not want the prize? “You’re right—your lady did sacrifice her life in pursuit of the torc. Don’t you think you owe it to her to retrieve it now that you have the opportunity?” Besides, it sounded valuable—if he didn’t take it, she would.

A spark of interest returned to his eyes. “I suppose we should at least see if it’s here.”

By the time they emerged from the naga’s lair with the magical necklace in hand, Ghleanna was up and around. Corran had done as much healing as was in his power, and one of the remaining blueglow moss potions had done the rest. Both she and the paladin appeared drained, however. The group elected to sleep a while in the relative safety of Preybelish’s den, gnawing hungrily on dried provisions and taking turns keeping watch.

Their strength restored, they left the complex and returned to the maze of corridors. Eventually, they came upon a stairway leading up.

“Finally,” Kestrel muttered. “I was beginning to think we’d never get out of this place.”

“Don’t start looking for the sun yet,” Jarial said. “There are two dungeon levels built into the hill, so we have another stairway to locate after this one.”

At least they were moving in the right direction. Kestrel nearly sprinted up the steps in her eagerness to make more progress exiting these tomblike corridors. She slowed, however, at the top of the stairs.

Light spilled out of a room about thirty yards down the passage. A grid of shadows on the floor revealed it was a prison cell with a door of wrought-iron bars. From within, a harsh male voice bellowed questions at someone whose replies Kestrel couldn’t hear.

“Just give up the damn word, you cretin! We’ll learn it eventually anyway!” The smack of someone being struck echoed off the stone walls. “Tell me what you know or I’ll feed you to my master for supper.”

The explorers exchanged glances. “Someone should sneak ahead and see what’s going on,” Corran said. Kestrel sighed. Given everyone else’s skills at stealth, no doubt “someone” meant her.

She left the group hidden from sight in the stairwell and crept along the passage, keeping to the shadows as she neared the barred doorway. Though she moved silently, the interrogator spoke loudly enough that even Durwyn could have approached unheard.

Inside, a warrior sat on the floor. He was a sturdy young man, no older than twenty, dressed in brown leather armor. His wrists and ankles were bound to one wall with chains. Six skeletons, armed with short swords as those downstairs had been, stood at attention on one side of the cell. It was the room’s other occupant who made Kestrel suck in her breath.

A masked figure circled the prisoner. Though a red leather hood covered the interrogator’s head and shoulders, holes revealed his eyes, mouth, and jaw. The hard cast of these features matched his voice. What Kestrel could see of his face was so devoid of kindness or any other humane emotion that it might as well have been carved from stone. He wore little other clothing: a loincloth, boots, and one bracer—all made of red leather that matched the hood—a wide studded steel belt, and a circular medallion on a neckchain. His athletic body, particularly his upper legs, bore menacing green tattoos in a weblike design.

The figure’s most striking feature of all was his right hand—or lack thereof. In place of a normal human hand, the man bore a five-fingered reptilian claw. As the mutant human continued to hurl questions at the bound warrior, he scratched and poked the prisoner with his claw to underscore his displeasure.

“Perhaps a little sorcery will loosen your tongue. Shall I turn you into a rodent?”

Kestrel felt the blood drain from her face. This malevolent being was a sorcerer?

He struck the prisoner in the back of the head with his claw. The skeleton nearest them mimicked the movement, hitting the captive with the flat of its blade. The mage grabbed the fighter’s hair and jerked his head up to look him in the face. “Who sent you here? What were your orders?”

“No one sent us.”

“Liar!” He slapped him with his open hand. “You saw what we did to your companions. I’ll give you one more day to come to your senses. If you put any value on your pathetic little life, you better start singing.” He hit him once more.

Kestrel slowly backed down the corridor. It sounded as if the sorcerer were about to leave, and she didn’t care to encounter him in the passageway. After the fight with the naga, she could happily live out the rest of her life without battling another spellcaster, and she intended to try.

She returned to the others. “There’s one prisoner, a warrior. He’s in chains. Used to be part of a larger group—it sounds like he’s the only one left.”

Ghleanna gasped. “One of Athan’s band?” The half-elf’s face brightened.

“Possibly. He refused to tell who he works for or what he’s doing here. But the—”

“We’ve got to free him!” Ghleanna said. “Is it Athan? What does he look like?”

“Who cares what he looks like? You should see the interrogator! He’s some sort of sorcerer, a big guy with lots of tattoos. One of his hands is a claw!”

Corran looked at her as if she’d gone daft. “What do you mean, a claw? Is his hand shriveled?”

“No, I mean the end of his right forearm looks like it belongs on some other creature, like a bird—or a dragon.”

Corran raised his brows. “Oh.” He digested this bit of information, then inquired about other guards.

“Six skeletons. The sorcerer sounds like he’s leaving soon. I figure if—”

“Once he leaves, I’ll take care of the skeletons. Durwyn, you try to break the prisoner’s chains.” Corran looked to the mages. “Unless one of you can get them open?”

Kestrel clamped her mouth shut. She’d been about to suggest a plan of her own, but apparently Corran thought he was the only person capable of devising one.

“I’ll have to look at how heavy they are, but I’m sure I can break them,” Durwyn said.

“Good. Kestrel, you keep watch.”

Keep watch? She ground her teeth, biting back a retort. The lowliest apprentice rogue could spring the locks on those irons. She’d mastered the skill as a child, when Quinn hadn’t been quite fast enough to outrun some of the city patrols they’d encountered. Corran’s arrogance made her want to spit. She hoped the high-handed paladin was the first to die when Durwyn’s blows alerted the sorcerer to their activities.

The clang of iron signaled the sorcerer’s departure. Kestrel watched as the threatening mage locked the door behind him and walked down the hall—thankful he went in the direction opposite from that where the party waited. Four skeletons stood sentinel outside the cell; the other two presumably remained inside with the captive.

When the sorcerer’s light faded from view and they deemed him out of earshot, Corran led the group toward the cell. He held his holy symbol before him. “Leave us be!” he commanded the skeletons.

The creatures backed down the passageway about ten feet afraid of Corran but apparently unable to abandon their post. The two inside the cell greeted the party at the door, thrusting their blades through the bars, until Corran repelled them, too. They retreated to the far corner of the cell.

“Who’s there?” the captive called out.

Ghleanna’s face fell. Apparently, the prisoner’s voice wasn’t the one she’d hoped to hear. “Friends.” Despite her obvious disappointment the half-elf injected a note of cheer into her tone.

Durwyn raised his axe to smash the padlock. Though Kestrel had planned to let him bang on it til doomsday, she changed her mind: Her own survival depended on the party’s. She extended her hand to stay the warrior’s arm. “There’s a quieter way.”

“But Corran said—”

“Yeah, I heard him.” Though Durwyn looked to the paladin for guidance, Kestrel didn’t waste a second glance on either man. She was the best person for this job and she didn’t care what His Holiness had to say about it. She withdrew her lock picks from their beltpouch and went to work on the padlock, which opened easily in her expert hands. Then she defiantly went inside the cell with Corran and the mages. Let Durwyn keep watch.

The captive looked up expectantly as they entered, hope flitting across his broad face. “Are you here to free me?”

“Yes.” Kestrel knelt beside him and examined his irons. The shackles, too small for his meaty wrists, chafed the skin but had not yet broken it “You’re not magically bound, are you?”

“No—at least, I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll have you out of these in no time.”

Ghleanna came forward and also knelt at the prisoner’s side while Kestrel worked on the lock. “How long have you been held here?” The half-elf smoothed matted brown hair away from a nasty-looking cut on his forehead. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. That sorcerer makes plenty of threats, but so far he’s only smacked me around.” Kestrel sprung open the wrist irons. He shook his arms to return the blood to his hands. “I believe I’ve been here two days or so. They knocked me out when they captured me, so I’m not certain.”

“They?” Corran prompted from across the cell. He poked his head out the door to signal their success to Durwyn.

“The scarred mages. I’m not exactly sure who they are. Some sort of cult. You can’t miss them—they all have one mutated hand. My companions and I never learned what they were all about but I think we got too close to finding out.”

Kestrel shuddered involuntarily as she worked to[1]release the leg irons. There were more of the tattooed, clawed figures?

“Your companions—” Ghleanna began hesitantly. “Was a man named Athan among them?” Though the half-elf used a casual tone, Kestrel noted her grave expression.

The fighter had been watching Kestrel’s progress on his chains, but now turned to Ghleanna with upraised brows. “You know Athan?”

Relief washed over her features at his indirect confirmation. She leaned forward excitedly. “I knew several in your band—Allyril and Loren as well.”

“We came here to aid your party but arrived too late,” Corran added. He offered the prisoner a hand as Kestrel sprung the lock on his leg irons.

Enlightenment spread across the prisoner’s features. “You’re the guards we tried to contact in Phlan! Thank the gods—there’s still hope.” He took Corran’s hand and pulled himself upright. “My name is Emmeric. We doubted that magical gate would open, but desperation made us try. Did any of my companions survive?”

Corran shook his head. “We found four bodies.”

“I didn’t recognize any of them as Athan,” Ghleanna added.

Kestrel studied the female wizard. The half-elf mentioned this Athan person repeatedly. Even now, her brows were drawn together in concern. Did Elminster’s apprentice share more than a passing acquaintance with the missing adventurer? Was he a paramour? Of course—why hadn’t Kestrel noticed before? Such a connection would explain the mage’s eagerness to jump through that unstable gate and take up the fallen party’s mission.

“There were six of us,” Emmeric said. “I don’t know what happened to Athan. The cultist who’s been interrogating me hasn’t mentioned another prisoner. I suppose he could have escaped alive, but the way those scarred mages were throwing spells at us, and other cultists—fighters—attacking…” He shook his head in resignation. “Even Athan couldn’t have held them off forever. I hate to say so, but it’s quite possible that there wasn’t enough left of him to be found.”

A stricken look crossed Ghleanna’s features before she turned her face away. Oblivious to the half-elf’s distress, the men continued their discussion. Kestrel decided to keep her suspicions to herself for now. The mage’s relationship with Athan was her own business.

Emmeric confirmed that the cultists who attacked his party stole the Ring of Calling. While one of the sorcerers interrogated him to learn the ring’s command word, a contingent was sent to the Room of Words to do its own research. “Our greatest failure,” he said, his shoulders sagging, ”was also losing the Gauntlets of Moander to the cult. From what I overheard before being isolated here, the cult’s leader—an archmage named Kya Mordrayn—now possesses the gauntlets.”

“Is she aware of their power?” Corran asked.

“Most certainly. Whoever these cultists are, they’re the force behind the new Pool of Radiance. Knowing that the gauntlets can destroy the pool, Mordrayn keeps them with her at all times, or so I understand.”

One of the skeletons in the cell clawed the wall, returning the group’s attention to their surroundings. “We shouldn’t tarry here,” Corran said.

“Where are you headed?” Emmeric asked.

“The Room of Words. We hope to get that Ring of Calling back,” Corran said. “Feel up to joining us?”

“I’ll lead the way.”

The party found the topmost level of the dungeon crawling with lizard men and orogs. Though Emmeric had warned them en route about the presence of the humanoids, even he was surprised by their numbers. The creatures of both races seemed focused on a single task: systematically looting every abandoned lair in sight.

“Tyr’s toenails,” Kestrel swore as they observed an orog band from a hidden alcove. The blasphemy earned her a withering look from Corran. Good. She’d meant to goad him. “I’ve never seen so many humanoids in one place.” The orogs looked like bigger, meaner—and unfortunately, more intelligent—orcs.

“I’m surprised the two races are operating as allies,” Jarial said.

Emmeric shook his head. “I don’t think they are. The orogs, I know, work as mercenaries for the cultists—a couple of them roughed me up to persuade me to talk, but I believe the lizard men were pillaging these caverns long before the cult showed up. They might resent the interlopers.”