"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 dodge 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.