Brant off his feet, dragging him by his arm toward its clacking maw. Brant's arm vanished in its mouth up to his shoulder, and the terrible jaws closed. The knight screamed and struggled as blood sprayed and bone crunched, but the canoloth's jaws ground and dug deeper, sawing at him like some awful machine.
"Brant!" Araevin cried. He hurled a volley of his own magic missiles, digging fist-sized pocks in the canoloth's flanks, but then one of the demon-sorcerers hurled a tiny bead of glowing orange light through his window-slit, and an instant later the entire chamber erupted in a terrible blast of crimson flame. Araevin was flung to the ground and barely managed to cover his face in his enchanted cape, but still he was burned, and burned badly. Worse yet, the detonation wrecked the rotten floor, precipitating a collapse of rubble into the golem's room below. Araevin slid down the floor and toppled into the debris.
He landed awkwardly, wrenching his knee and slamming facefirst into the stone floor. Darkness filled his sight. We can't win this, Araevin thought hazily through the pain. There are too many of them. He heard the scuffle and roar of his companions fighting nearby, and with a tremendous effort of will, fought his way back to wakefulness.
"Come on, elf," said a voice nearby. A pale white hand seized his arm and dragged him to his feet. Maresa held a blooded rapier in her other hand, and her red leather armor was gouged with three deep furrows across the ribs. "This is not the time for a little rest."
In the hallway outside the chamber's door, Grayth fought furiously, his sword a whirling streak of silver in front of him as he fended off a mezzoloth and a demon-elf swordsman who were trying to get past him. Ilsevele stood just a few steps behind the human cleric, searching out clear shots at the enemies beyond. Even as Araevin glanced up at her, a demon-sorcerer that crouched over a hole in the roof hurled a smoking orb of sizzling green acid at her from above. The orb missed her head by inches as she somehow ducked under it, but it splattered against the wall beside her, spraying her with emerald drops of death. Ilsevele cried out and jumped away, stumbling to the floor.
"We've got to get out of here," Araevin said to Maresa. "We're outnumbered."
"Tell me something I don't know," the genasi snapped.
She took two quick steps and hurled a dagger up at the sorcerer overhead, striking him in the arm. The fellow cursed in some infernal language and jerked back out of the way.
"Grayth! Ilsevele! Fall back to the golem's room!" Araevin shouted. The rotten old flooring overhead-or what was left of it, anyway-smoldered and sagged, raining hot cinders and burning brands into the room. It wouldn't be a good idea to stay there for long, but Araevin judged that he'd have enough time to do what they needed.
"Brant's still out there!" Grayth replied.
He ducked down and stabbed the mezzoloth through its lower abdomen. The terrible creature snapped its beaklike maw and clawed at the Lathanderite's back, but Araevin's stoneskin still lingered, shielding the cleric from the worst of the attack.
"Brant's dead!" Araevin called.
Grayth did not reply, but he retreated a couple of steps, fighting his way back toward the golem's room. Ilsevele picked herself up, seized her bow, and dashed back as well, just as a large piece of the burning floor overhead gave way and rained fiery debris down into the corner of the chamber.
"Araevin, this is a death trap!" she said. "We can't stay here!"
"We're not going to," he answered. "Take Maresa's hand!"
Ilsevele understood him at once. She grasped the genasi by the arm, and with her other hand caught Araevin's hand in her own. Araevin quickly barked out the words of a spell, and as he finished, he reached forward and touched Grayth on his broad, armored shoulder. The whole room shimmered with white shadows, and the ruined tower vanished in a flash of light. An instant later, they were somewhere else-a cool, green forest, damp with moss and dripping water, with no sign of the demons or the tower anywhere.
Grayth wheeled at once, covering all directions with his weaving sword, still in his fighting crouch.
"Where are we?" he demanded.
"The Ardeep again, near the House of Long Silences," Araevin replied. He limped over to a mossy rock nearby and sank down, trying to ignore the throbbing in his knee and the coppery blood in his mouth. "I teleported us away from the tower."
The human doffed his helmet and let it drop with a clang, running his hand through his thinning hair.
He took a deep breath then said, "You left Brant behind."
"The demons dragged him down. He fought valiantly, and I did what I could to aid him, but there were simply too many of them." Araevin looked up at his old friend and said, "I would not have abandoned him if I had not seen him fall, Grayth."
"I know." The cleric sighed and sat down, wincing as he did so. "Ah, damn it all to the hells."
He bowed his head, elbows on his knees.
Maresa clamped one hand over the torn furrows in her side and asked, "All right, so where do we go from here?"
"Evermeet," Araevin replied. "I must examine this stone, and see if I can unlock it. And I mean to speak with some of my colleagues. I want to see if I can learn more about this enemy who pursues me."
The walled city of Everlund lay astride the River Rauvin, huddling against the feet of the Nether Mountains as if to escape the icy rain. The cold, wet weather turned its streets into rivers of freezing slush and mud, and wreathed its towers with thin gray mist. Streams of people-human merchants, laborers, and teamsters; dwarf smiths; even a few elf woodworkers and mages-waded through the streets, bundled in heavy cloaks and furs, carrying on with their business despite the foul weather.
Gaerradh studied the city from the high windows of Moongleam Tower, endlessly fascinated by the sight of so many people engaged in so many different tasks, all at once. She was no stranger to Everlund. She usually found herself in the city once or twice a year for various reasons. Sometimes she came to buy weapons she could not make easily herself, such as silver arrowheads or a good dwarven axe enchanted to strike hard and true. Sometimes she carried messages for Morgwais or other folk of the High Forest. And sometimes she came when her duties as a Harper required her to consult with others of her society in the echoing halls of Moongleam Tower. She wore her harp-shaped pin openly there.
Soft footfalls whispered in the corridor outside her door, followed by a knock. She had the use of a small guestroom in the tower any time she wanted it, and for the first time in a very long time she had stripped off her well-worn leather armor, weather-stained cloak, breeches, and tunic in order to wash thoroughly and pull on a handsome dress of green with gold brocade. Gaerradh, feeling a bit ungainly in the unaccustomed clothing, pulled the door open only to stop in surprise.
In the hall outside her door stood Alustriel Silverhand, High Lady of the League of the Silver Marches. She was tall and strikingly beautiful, with hair of pure white and a perfect, flawless face. In someone else that combination of beauty and starkness might have seemed inhuman or cold, but Alustriel's eyes were warm and compassionate, and her mouth seemed more suited to a laugh than a frown. At her side stood a young half-elf man, likewise tall and silver-haired, who wore a shirt of gleaming mithral mail over his dove-gray tunic.
"L–Lady Alustriel," Gaerradh stammered. She had only arrived at Moongleam Tower two hours before, after six days of hard travel through the forest. She had planned to rest the night and continue on to Silverymoon in the morning. "I thought you were in Silverymoon!"