Pool of Radiance

by Carrie Bebris

  From out of nowhere, a huge ball of flame barreled down the corridor at them. Ghleanna immediately called out a command word and thrust her hand toward the accelerating flames. The blaze snuffed itself out, leaving only a few dying sparks scattered in the passageway— enough to illuminate the cult sorcerer on the other side.

  Two drow bodyguards flanked the mage. As Corran and Durwyn moved to close in on the spellcaster, the dark elves immediately engaged them. The drow fought with mechanical precision, thrusting and parrying without so much as a grunt of exertion. Faeril tried to reach the sor­cerer but wound up joining the melee instead, fighting by Corran's side.

  The dark elves seemed utterly devoted to protecting the cultist. They could not, however, prevent Ghleanna and Jarial's magical attacks from reaching him. Kestrel decided to target the drow and leave the sorcerers to a spellcasting contest. She sent one dagger sailing toward each elven warrior.

  Her aim held true. One blade struck its target in his side, the other hit Durwyn's opponent in his chest. Nei­ther warrior cried out. She followed the double strike with Loren's Blade, hitting the first dark elf a second time. The dagger wounds did not seem to slow him down.

  Kestrel had never seen combatants so fierce. Despite their injuries, the drow wielded their halberds with relentless vigor. The length of the weapon gave them an advantage over Durwyn's axe and the holy warriors' swords. Kestrel sucked in her breath. How could she fare any better with her club?

  Durwyn's opponent backed him against a wall. Kestrel reached for her club, extended it with a flick of her wrist then advanced on the dark elf. She managed to execute one hard hit to the drow's shoulder before he turned to engage her. Even with two-on-one odds, Kestrel felt at a disadvantage.

  Meanwhile, flashes of light signaled the magical battle unfolding between the allied sorcerers and the cultist. Parrying the drow's blows, Kestrel could not spare even a glance to see who dominated that contest. Please Mystra, let it be Jarial and Ghleanna!

  Suddenly, Kestrel's opponent collapsed to the floor. She looked up to see that the other drow had also fallen. The cult sorcerer lay with one of Jarial's acid arrows embedded between his eyes.

  "As soon as the cultist fell, so did the drow," Jarial responded to the question in her eyes.

  Durwyn prodded his former opponent with one foot. The body rolled over from the warrior's force, but other­wise did not stir. "He's dead. Just like that."

  Faeril shook her head. "No, not 'just like that.' Look at these dagger wounds—there's no blood. I suspect these drow have been dead for some time."

  "Soulless," Corran said. "Like the orogs."

  Kestrel shuddered. Now that she had leisure to exam­ine these dark elves more closely, they did look paler than Razherrt and his party had. They also bore a different emblem on their armor, two yellow chevrons bisecting eight red dots. She pointed to the symbol. "Do you think that's significant?"

  "I suspect it indicates their House affiliation," Ghleanna said. "I noticed that Razherrt brushed his fingertips over his symbol whenever he mentioned the House of Freth."

  "I guess these two belong to the House of Death," Kestrel quipped. No one laughed. Even to her own ears, the joke didn't seem funny. Only the gods knew how many legions of enthralled drow and orogs she and her com­panions might have to face before they completed their quest—if they ever did.

  The party spent the next several hours avoiding patrols of enthralled drow. They also came across additional soulless orogs and stumbled upon more than one lair of spectres in their search for the third level of the catacombs. Somehow, luck or the gods were on their side, and they suffered few injuries. Dead-ends and winding passages slowed their movements, but at last they found the path of descent.

  Deeper in the bowels of the dungeons, travel became still more difficult. Huge chasms blocked their progress, forcing them to repeatedly backtrack and seek other routes through the claustrophobic tombs and prison blocks. They now wended through a narrow passage that seemed to go on forever. Kestrel wondered if they would ever find the Rune of the Protector that marked the entrance to the baelnorn's level.

  "The passage seems to widen ahead," Corran said over his shoulder.

  "About time," Kestrel muttered. It couldn't get much tighter—Durwyn's armored shoulders already threatened to scrape the walls.

  They emerged in an enormous chamber but could enter only a few feet. They stood on an apron overlooking a drop-off so steep they could not see the bottom of the chasm. Kestrel kicked some loose rocks over the edge. She never heard them land.

  Across the chasm stood a raised wooden drawbridge. She quickly scanned the nearby walls, floor, and ceiling for some mechanism to lower the drawbridge from their side but spotted nothing. She ran a hand through her hair, grip­ping the roots in frustration. "We are not turning around yet again."

  "You don't have to," echoed a voice from across the chasm. A female drow warrior stepped out from behind the drawbridge. She held a long, jagged-bladed dagger as casually as another woman might carry a spindle. A top­knot secured her long white hair, exposing every angular line of her face. Sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and hard-cast eyes appeared carved in stone. Worn, ragged armor revealed a body so muscular that Kestrel doubted this woman had a soft spot inside or out. Though the dark elf bore the same chevron symbol as the enthralled drow they'd encountered earlier, her skin had the healthy black color borne by Razherrt's band of living drow.

  "Is that a threat?" Kestrel called back.

  "Not yet." At a gesture from the woman, a ragged band comprising half a dozen drow warriors appeared behind her. "At present, we merely command parley."

  Kestrel bristled at the word "command." The dark elves made Corran seem downright humble. After enjoy­ing the House of Freth's gracious hospitality, she had no interest in chatting with more drow and was about to say so when Corran stepped forward.

  "What do you wish to discuss?"

  "Mutual interests."

  Kestrel laughed humorlessly. "Your friend Razherrt didn't seem to think we have any."

  The drow leader spat. "The House of Freth is no friend to the House of Kilsek. We seek the Freth's blood."

  "We do not wish to become involved in a blood feud among the drow," Corran told the dark elf.

  "Nor would we allow it! The House of Kilsek reserves for itself the honor of slaying our betrayers! I speak of a different enemy—the Cult of the Dragon."

  Corran paused at that declaration. "What do you know of the cult?"

  "More than you do, human! The Freth betrayed my kinfolk to the archmage and her minions. She uses a foul pool to trap my people's souls, then feeds their blood to a dracolich and enslaves their bodies. We despise Kya Mor­drayn and her wicked cult even more than we loathe the traitorous Freth!" The drow's voice, which had risen to a fever pitch, suddenly turned cold as ice. "Hate is the song in our blood. It is all that lives in us now. We have sworn to release the souls of our kin into true death, even at the cost of own lives."

  Corran studied the dark elf as she spoke, remaining calm in the wake of her passion. "What do you propose?"

  "This chasm blocks your path. A cult sorcerer nearby blocks ours. He wields a magical device called the Staff of Sunlight—fatal to us but harmless to surface-dwellers. Agree to kill him, and I will lower the drawbridge. Claim the staff to use against the Freth—I care not. Just stay away from us."

  Kestrel listened to the dark elf's proposal with growing wariness. Seven drow couldn't take on one sorcerer? When Corran looked to the group for opinions, she shook her head. "Either they're lying about how many cultists wait ahead or this sorcerer is more powerful than any we've faced so far. They're looking for spell fodder. After we take him on, they'll step over our dead bodies and con­tinue on their way."

  "I disagree," Corran declared. "His staff puts them at a disadvantage we won't suffer."

  "So they say! Even if that's true, how do we know they won't betray us after we defeat him?"

 
Durwyn cleared his throat. "Kestrel's got a point The woman said herself that dark elves aren't even loyal to each other."

  "It does them no good to betray us," said Ghleanna. "We fight a common foe."

  Irritated that Ghleanna sided with Corran, Kestrel lis­tened to Jarial and Faeril's opinions and grew still more agitated. Except for Durwyn, they all favored the paladin. After their treatment at Razherrt's hands, how could they even consider allying with a group of dark elves?

  "These drow are more concerned about their zombie kin than stopping the cult," she said, her voice rising louder than she intended. "Didn't you hear her? They want to release the Kilsek's souls, not battle Mordrayn. How does that help us?"

  "Once my people enter true death, they will no longer pose a threat to you," the drow leader responded. "Know this: Before we're done I fully intend for the archmage to know the sensation of her blood draining from her body."

  Kestrel studied the dark elf as intensely as she could across the gap. The drow leader stood proud and confi­dent, apparently unperturbed by the rogue's scrutiny. "How do we know we can trust you?" Kestrel called. "You haven't even given us your name."

  "Nathlilik, first daughter of the House of Kilsek. And you don't." She shrugged. "Accept our proposal or not, humans. You're the ones who need to cross this chasm."

  The way Nathlilik used the word "human" as if it were a racial slur made Kestrel grind her teeth. She turned to Corran and the others. "To hell with them. We'll find another way across. I can use my grappling hooks to—"

  "We accept," Corran called to Nathlilik. "Lower the bridge."

  Kestrel gasped involuntarily. "But—"

  "You're outvoted, Kestrel. And we can't afford for Nathlilik to change her mind while we waste time arguing."

  So now her opinions were merely a waste of time? She fairly shook with anger at this latest example of the pal­adin's high-handedness. How dare he just shut her up? She glared at Corran, ready to unleash a stream of epi­thets when, entirely unbidden, Caalenfaire's final words entered her head. Do not let conflict between you threaten your mission.

  With one final, very uncharitable thought toward Cor­ran D'Arcey, she swallowed her ire. Nathlilik had begun lowering the drawbridge, and they needed to present a united front to the drow band. If anyone's egoism crippled their quest, it would be Corran's, not hers.

  As they waited for the bridge to settle into place, Kestrel found herself standing off to one side with Ghleanna. Corran and the others were engrossed in watching the bridge mechanism. She studied the paladin as he bantered easily with Jarial and Faeril—even Dur­wyn. "Why do you all follow him so faithfully?" she mut­tered, half to Ghleanna and half to herself.

  Ghleanna followed her gaze. "He inspires confidence."

  Kestrel looked at the sorceress, puzzled. All Corran had ever inspired in her was frustration. "What do you mean?"

  "When we go into battle. Just being near him—I am not afraid. Whatever odds we face, his presence makes me believe we can overcome them. I think it is because his faith is so strong." She met Kestrel's eyes. "Surely you feel it, too?"

  Kestrel shook her head.

  "Mayhap you have not let yourself."

  Kestrel returned her gaze to Corran. To hear Ghleanna talk, the paladin had some aura about him that everyone could sense but her. As a rogue, she prided herself on her perception, on her ability to read people accurately. Had she allowed herself to become blinded? Even so, Corran had his own failings to work on, whether the others could see them or not.

  The party crossed the bridge and came eye to eye with the dark elves. The Kilseks' faces held all the fierceness and arrogance of the Freths', but they also bore a weari­ness and desperation that hadn't been present among Razherrt's men. Perhaps Nathlilik told the truth after all.

  As Kestrel passed the drow leader, their gazes locked. Nathlilik's red eyes burned with determination Kestrel knew she herself had never felt. "You really do hate the cult," she murmured.

  "My lifemate, Kedar, is among those enslaved," Nathlilik said. "I will avenge him."

  They found the cult sorcerer exactly where Nathlilik had said to expect him.

  They did not expect to find him dead.

  "Ugh." Kestrel grimaced at the sight of the corpse. The cultist lay wrapped in a cocoon of sticky white strands with only his head and neck exposed. Bite marks covered his face and throat, leaving the flesh in shreds. The expres­sion in his frozen eyes suggested he'd died a slow, painful death. "What got him? Spiders?"

  "Some kind of wild creature." Jarial knelt beside the body to lift a long gold staff from where it had fallen near the sorcerer's body. "Whatever it was, it left this behind."

  She crept closer for a better look. A G-shaped hook crowned the staff, within which a glowing yellow orb floated freely. "The Staff of Sunlight"

  "That's my guess."

  Kestrel glanced around the rest of the room. A closed door stood opposite the one they had entered, and a table and chair sat in the corner. Several papers lay scattered on the table and floor. Ghleanna picked them up, scanning their content. "Most of these are useless notes, but this page is an order from Mordrayn. It says to eliminate the arraccat from the eastern section of the catacombs' third level."

  "That's where we are, isn't it?" Durwyn asked.

  Ghleanna nodded absently as she quoted from the order. "The creatures lair above the baelnorn and thus too close to our operations there."

  Corran took the paper from Ghleanna's hand and stud­ied it himself. "What's an arraccat?"

  "I think it's a creature with eight eyes," said Durwyn, his voice a bit higher-pitched than normal, "and eight legs with really sharp claws... and a wide mouth with wicked fangs...."

  Kestrel glanced at him in surprise, but his back was turned to her. "How do you know that, Durwyn?"

  "Because I'm looking at one."

  The arraccat hissed and sprang toward Durwyn. The fighter jumped out of the way, allowing the rest of the com­panions their first look at the creature. A cross between a spider and a cat, it stood nearly as tall as Kestrel and twice as wide. Brown fur covered its feline head, long tail, and oval arachnid body.

  Just as quickly as it had arrived, it disappeared.

  Faeril swept the room with her gaze. "Where did it—" Suddenly, two more appeared in the room. "Jarial! Ghleanna! Behind you!"

  Ghleanna spun around, her staff cutting the forelegs out from under one of the arraccats. The creature buck­led, then evaporated from sight. The other arraccat sprung at Jarial before he could strike it with the Staff of Sunlight his only weapon at hand. The beast sank its fangs into his shoulder and disappeared.

  The mage cried out in pain. "Their bite stings! I think they're poisonous!"

  Kestrel grabbed her club and snapped her wrist. The weapon telescoped not a moment too soon—all three arraccats reappeared, this time behind Corran, Faeril, and Durwyn. She advanced on the closest creature, but a shout from Ghleanna stopped her. "Kestrel, look out!"

  She spun to discover a fourth arraccat behind her. Green saliva—or was it venom?—dripped from its fangs. Four pairs of yellow eyes glittered menacingly in the torchlight through slit lids. Kestrel avoided eye contact, knowing that if she stared into those hourglass irises too long, she'd go dizzy.

  The creature sprang. She grasped her club in both hands and struck it in the head, momentarily stunning it. No sooner did it disappear from sight than another took its place. The party fought at least six creatures now—the way they kept popping in and out, Kestrel couldn't keep track—and hadn't managed to land a fatal blow on any.

  "Backs to the walls!" Corran yelled. "So they can't attack from behind!"

  Kestrel fought off another beast and pressed herself against the door opposite the one they'd entered. No one had had time to check what lay on the other side, but at this point she didn't care. They had to get out of this room. The arraccats now outnumbered them, and more appeared each minute. No wonder the cult sorcerer had fallen prey
to the creatures—they multiplied like rabbits.

  She tried the door and found it locked. Damn her luck! She fumbled in her belt pouch, willing her fingers to find the right lockpick as she tried to fend off an arraccat one-handed. A moment later, Corran was at her side. "Open it! I'll cover you!"

  The paladin's blade sliced through the creature and injured another in the time it took her to locate the tool she needed and open the lock. "Durwyn! Faeril!" she shouted over a nearby arraccat's hiss. "This way! Jarial! Ghleanna!"

  One by one they backed over to the open door and slipped through to a small stairwell. Corran entered last. He slammed the door and fell against it, winded.

  Several minutes passed in silence as they waited, arms ready, to see whether the arraccats would appear on this side of the door. None did. Jarial loosened his iron grip on the Staff of Sunlight and lowered its end to the ground. "I think we can relax."

  Faeril examined Jarial's bite mark. The injury itself was minor, and Ozama's boots had once again protected him from the effects of poison. While the cleric bandaged the wound, Kestrel regarded Corran thoughtfully. The paladin might be an insufferable prig, but he'd seen to everyone else's safely before his own—unlike the debacle in the House of Gems courtyard. "I thought you never retreat from a fight?"

  "Live to fight another day—isn't that how you rogues think?" He wiped the creatures' foul blood off Pathfinder and returned the weapon to its scabbard. "I'm beginning to believe that motto has some merit."

  She hadn't time to contemplate his change in attitude, for Ghleanna summoned them excitedly. "There's a door at the bottom of the stairs, marked with the Rune of the Protector. The baelnorn cannot be far away."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Fhaormiir!"

  The moment the party approached the door, the Word of Safekeeping boomed out of the air in a deep voice that reverberated throughout the stairwell. Adrenaline raced through Kestrel as the door silently swung open. Soon they would meet the Protector, and ask him to use the Gem of the Weave to undo the corruption of the Mythal. With the tide thus turned against the cult, per­haps she and the others would have a prayer of completing this mission alive. She did not want to consider their chances if the baelnorn refused their petition.