The paladin opened his mouth, but Belgin silenced him with an upraised hand. The air grew cold, and the bitter chill threatened to start him coughing again. "We're not alone," he whispered.
"I feel it, Belgin." Biting his lip, the paladin stepped away from the door. He glanced around, then nodded across the dark hall. "I still sense Eidola in that direction. Come on." Leaving the stair behind, they crossed the hall of pillars, only to find another stair leading up.
Bounding up the steps, they emerged into the shrieking chaos of the sandstorm. They stood in the ruins of a small shrine or stone patio, its roof long since gone. Belgin could feel something climbing steadily up the dark steps behind them, deliberate and unhurried. "Where's the doppelganger?" he shouted at Miltiades.
I’m not sure. She's moving again!"
"Well, pick a direction! I don't want to find out what's behind us!"
Miltiades glanced over his shoulder at the dark stairway, then scanned the rubble around them. His eye fell on a drum-shaped piece of masonry, evidently once a piece of a pillar. He stumbled over to the stone and triecT to lift it. "Help me!" he cried. Belgin scrambled over and joined him. Together they flipped the stone onto its edge and hauled it to the top of the steps.
Green-glowing eyes looked up at them as something clad in ancient bronze climbed toward them, a long glaive of emerald fire burning in its yellowed hands. More eyes glinted in the darkness beneath it. The paladin and the sharper exchanged one look, then set their shoulders to the stone. It teetered for a moment on the topmost step and then tipped over, rolling down the stairs with an ear-shattering clatter. The skeletal warriors moved slowly to avoid the block, but there was no room to dodge. In a roar of dust and stone they were swept away down the stairs. "What was that?" Belgin panted as the resounding echoes died away.
"You don't want to know," Miltiades answered. He straightened, setting a hand to his back with a wince. "I'm getting too old for this. Come on. Eidola's somewhere in that direction."
Staggering against the storm's rage, they blundered out into the ancient streets.
Jacob slashed his way clear of the dessicated mummies with a burst of superhuman speed and strength, leaving a dozen or more of the ancient warriors dismembered in the sand-swept street. For the moment, no enemies stalked him. Shielding his frail human eyes with an upraised arm, he trudged back into the wind, seeking the colonnaded palace. Rings he dismissed as dead; if the creatures that had attacked them didn't get the dwarf, something else surely would. Jacob could sense the malignant sentience behind the sandstorm and the walking dead, and it seemed likely it would try to isolate and destroy them. "Well, feel free to try," he snorted into the storm. I’ve a surprise or two for you, whatever you are."
The storm didn't bother to reply. Jacob shrugged and continued, feeling his way across the open square. A dark shape loomed up out of the gloom, with another behind it, and a third dimly visible behind that-a row of columns, standing on a stone porch. "I'll be damned,"
Jacob muttered. Now, which way? He'd been wrong before and gone too far to the right, which meant that he needed to follow the portico to the left to find the doorway inside… or so he thought. He decided to turn left and slogged on through the drifting sand, keeping the columns in sight.
A prickling in the back of his neck warned him of danger. Whirling, he lashed out with his sword, just in time to meet the attack of a tall, powerful mummy with eyes of green flame. The undead thing hissed in frustration as white steel met the fall of its black scythe and pressed closer, drawing back for another strike. Jacob scrambled back for space to fight, slipped on the stone steps, and fell back into the sand. Dazed, he shook his head to clear his vision.
The ancient warrior towered over him, scythe poised for the kill. "I don't think so," Jacob said. With boneless ease he shifted his form, instantly transforming his left arm into a steel spear and punching it through the mummy's empty skull. The withered torso collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Jacob quickly resumed his original form and stood, looking around for the next attack.
"Very good," said a voice behind him, cutting through the wind like a blade of cold steel. Jacob turned slowly, a feral grin on his features. Watching from the shadows of the colonnade stood an athletic human woman in black leather, a strand of hemp hiding at her collar. "I didn't expect that."
I’ve been looking for you," Jacob said.
Interlude
… Of Monsters and Men Portals, portals everywhere. Which one do I seek?
Eidola won't do for this. She's strong, swift, and beautiful, but she doesn't know a thing about the works of ancient Netheril or the crafting of spells. The minotaur and the mastiff are useless now, the cuttlefish demon too. The great fiend? No, it was merely a shell. If I'd really conquered a balor, I'd have no need of a wizard's magic-I could walk the planes by wishing it so. It was good enough to get me past the fiends that swarmed through Aetheric's dungeons, but I'm not a balor. Not even close.
But Jarin, on the other hand… Jarin has served me well on many occasions. His knowledge of sorcery is impressive for one so young. Hell have the knowledge I seek.
Before I crafted Eidola, Jarin was a persona I used quite often. It takes only a moment of concentration to shape the familiar features, the hawklike gaze, the handsome face. My mind takes the shape of his, and knowledge floods into my brain. I've forgotten how to disarm a swordsman with a twist of my wrist, I've forgotten how to mend damaged mail and how to kill with blows of my bare human fists-but I remember now the Art, and a dozen languages long forgotten, and the sensation of Mystra's weave gliding beneath the touch of my fingers and the force of my will. It might be the next best thing to my true self.
As Jarin, the faded hieroglyphs suddenly take on meaning. Myth Drannor. Cormanthyr. Menzoberrazan. Oh, if only I'd known of this place years ago! The Netherese must have scattered tombs across all of Faerun and perhaps even farther, to judge by these names I don't know. What cult or sect went to this trouble? Who did they inter in this fashion, and why? And how-Enough. That's the curiosity of Jarin. I need an answer, not a history lesson. The paladin and his ally will track me soon enough. I could probably defeat them now, but Miltiades has a nasty habit of surviving. Better to leave him here if I can, or to face him on familiar territory if he still follows.
Here. The Hall of Swords. A portal leading to the heart of Undermountain! Who could have guessed that even in the depths of the Mad Mage's domain a Netherese lord sleeps? It's amazing that Faerun holds together, considering how it's been riddled with gates and conduits, portals and doorways from a dozen lost peoples. If I had anything like a sense of wonder, I might be impressed.
Instead, I search for the portal's key. Jarin has spells to reveal such things. Best to move swiftly, before the paladin returns.
Raising Jarin's hands, I begin to weave a spell.
Chapter 4
"Eidola's gone!" Miltiades halted in the lee of an old wall, dropping to one knee. Before him, lying half-buried in the sand, he saw the pale outline of Noph's lasso. In frustration the tall paladin slammed one armored fist against the wall and turned his face away from the stinging sand. "How could she have freed herself from the rope?"
Belgin crouched next to him, taking what shelter he could from the weathered stones. The sharper rubbed at bis jaw, frowning at the gritty coating of sand that came away with his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair and realized that he'd been thoroughly covered in dust and grit. How about a long holiday when this is all over, my boy? he thought ruefully. "Did you know Eidola to work magic?''