“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 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.”
“I don’t think they like each other at all,” Durwyn announced. “Look at the way the orogs keep glancing at that group of lizard men over there. And the lizards watch them right back. Then each side whispers among themselves. They’re like schoolchildren.”
The guard’s apt analogy surprised Kestrel. She hadn’t credited the big man with such perceptiveness.
“Perhaps we can use their enmity to our advantage,” Corran said. “They won’t notice us if they’re too busy fighting each other.”
A smile broke across Emmeric’s features. “I like the way you think. What do you have in mind?”
Corran turned to Jarial. “Was that an invisibility spell you used back there against the naga?” At the mage’s nod, he continued. “Can you cast that on any of us, or just yourself?”
“Any creature close enough for me to touch.”
“Excellent.” The paladin addressed the group. “Here’s my plan. Jarial can use his invisibility spell on me. I’ll move among the orogs and lizard men, getting close enough that if I speak they will hear me, but staying far enough away to make them think my voice is coming from a rival band. Then I’ll utter a few insults to make the two groups turn on each other.”
It sounded like a good scheme to Kestrel—it involved no risk on her part, and if it failed, she could spend the rest of this mission reminding Corran that it had been his idea. In moments, an invisible Corran was sneaking toward the nearest group of lizard men to put his plan into action.
“Look, Ugdag! Look at lizard slime.” Though Kestrel easily recognized the voice as Corran’s, he’d dropped it an octave lower than his natural timbre and covered his blue-blood accent with a guttural rumble. The disguise proved convincing enough to fool the lizard men. Several of the scaly green beasts snapped their heads toward the orogs, webbed hands gripping the hafts of their spears more tightly. Unable to hear Corran’s slurs, the orogs continued about their business.
“Lizards weak,” Corran went on. “Hai! Too weak to fight orogs. Too weak to serve orogs!”
The reptilian leader of one band hissed. Hatred rimmed his red eyes. “Orogs full of swamp gas!” he cried, drawing himself up to his seven-foot height. His insult drew the attention of every orog in the vicinity. He shook his spear at them. “Orog clods! Shashiki!” The rest of the lizard men raised their spears as well. “Shashiki!”