“Lizard heads water-logged!” one of the orogs shouted in response. He strode forward, clawed toenails clacking on the stone floor, until he stood mere feet away from the lizard leader. Breath issued from his snout in angry bursts. The orog forces lifted their weapons. “Gagh-hai!” he cried, “Grabesh!”
“Graaabesh!” echoed the orogs.
“Shashiki! Kripp-kripp!”
The two races rushed toward one another, each determined to exterminate the other. In the confusion of battle, no one noticed the five visible—and one invisible—adventurers passing through.
With Emmeric to guide them, they moved swiftly toward the entrance to the House of Gems. They slowed, however, as they passed an ice-covered doorway.
“Hey, that’s just like the room we saw below.” Durwyn ran his hand over the frosty surface. “With the frozen floating ball inside.”
“There’s a similar sphere in this room,” Emmeric said. “We examined three such rooms—one on each level we explored. We never did figure out their significance.”
They wound their way through the corridors until Emmeric stopped before a huge seal inscribed on the stone floor. Two small concentric circles lay within a larger one, with two arcs connecting the inner circles to the circumference. “From the description given us by the elven clerics at the tree shelter, we believed this is the Circle of Mythanthor,” Emmeric said. “If so, the glyph protects a hidden door to the city surface.”
“The one the Ring of Calling will enable us to access?” Corran’s disembodied voice made Kestrel jump. Though she knew he was among them and her sensitive ears could hear his sounds of movement as they traveled, the paladin’s continued invisibility unnerved her. She preferred to keep her antagonists, and her allies for that matter, where she could see them. Unfortunately, Jarial said the spell would remain in place for twenty-four hours, unless Corran attacked someone first.
“Yes, that door, but we never found the ring’s enabling word,” Emmeric said. “I don’t know how it might be learned.”
“What do you mean?” Ghleanna asked. “It wasn’t in the Room of Words?”
Emmeric shook his head. “We searched thoroughly, but without success. When the cultists attacked us, we were on our way to visit the elven clerics to see if they could suggest another place we might look. Of course, during my captivity I never revealed that the command couldn’t be found in the Room of Words—I wanted the cult sorcerers to waste as much time as possible conducting their own futile search.”
Kestrel rolled her eyes. Could this quest become any more hopeless? “So let me get this straight—the cultists have both the Gauntlets of Moander and the Ring of Calling. Even if we can get the ring back we don’t have the password. And if by some miracle we do somehow get to the city surface, we still don’t know where the new Pool of Radiance is, or what this cult plans to do with it. Does that about sum it up?”
Ghleanna and Durwyn exchanged glances but did not speak. Emmeric appeared bewildered, but then he didn’t know she’d never wanted to join this fool’s errand in the first place.
The silence only provoked Kestrel further. “When are you people going to face reality? We can’t beat these odds. If we keep this up, we’re going to die trying.”
Corran’s voice penetrated the stillness. “I’d sooner die an honorable death than a cowardly one.” She was glad the paladin remained invisible so she couldn’t see the holier-than-thou look on his face. Self-righteousness dripped heavily enough from his voice.
“I’d rather not die at all, thank you.”
“You have always been free to leave us, Kestrel.”
Free to die alone trying to get back to civilization, he meant. It was not a true choice, and the paladin knew it. She glanced from one companion to the next, seeking a glimmer in just one pair of eyes that would reveal a like mind, a dawning of sense in one of these naive do-gooders. None appeared. Obviously, nothing she said would convince any of them to give up their doomed mission.
“Are you quite finished?” Corran asked.
Oh, how she wished she could see the paladin’s face—so she could smack off the smug expression she knew it bore.
Emmeric, still in the lead, rounded a bend and quickly retreated, nearly bumping into Kestrel. “The entrance to the House of Gems is right around this corner,” he said. “The cultists have posted guards, though.”
“How many?” came Corran’s disembodied voice.
“A cult sorcerer and maybe a half-dozen orogs.”
Kestrel sucked in her breath. She’d rather face twice as many orogs than the cult sorcerer. Just the thought of that clawed hand—let alone the spells it could hurl—made her cringe.
“We can handle them,” Corran declared. “We should focus most of our effort on the mage—he’s the most unpredictable, and if the orogs are mercenaries they might flee once their employer is defeated. Durwyn, you and Emmeric fend off the orogs. Ghleanna, Jarial, and I—and Kestrel, if she cares to participate—will concentrate on the cult sorcerer.”
Kestrel was sorely tempted to respond to Corran’s barb by “declining to participate,” but she let it pass for now. Later, when she had leisure for retaliation, she’d put the condescending paladin in his place.
Everyone readied weapons and spells. As one, they charged around the corner.
The cult sorcerer and his minions paused in momentary shock but soon recovered themselves. “Who are you?” the cultist demanded. “Depart from the House of Gems!”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Ghleanna said as she released a spell. Three bursts of magical energy raced toward the evil wizard, all striking him in the chest. Before the injured spellcaster could utter more than a foul expletive, Jarial sent one of his magical acid-tipped arrows singing through the air. The missile struck its target squarely between the eyes.
“By the hand of Tyr!” Corran’s voice rang out in warning. The paladin materialized as his sword impaled the mage. The cultist sunk to the floor, staring sightlessly through his red leather hood.
Kestrel, unused daggers still in hand, looked at the dead sorcerer in amazement. “Damn, that was fast.”
The orogs, who hadn’t even had time to close in, froze at a command from their leader. “Hey, you gubuk,” he said to Emmeric and Durwyn.
“Gubuk?” Durwyn repeated.
“You soft-skin people. I parley with you. Stand. Stand and talk!”
The fighters turned for guidance to Corran, who nodded. “All right. Let us speak.”
The two sides lowered their weapons and approached each other warily. “Orogs swore to protect ugly mage,” the orog leader said. “If ugly mage dead, orog honor say, nothing to protect. No need to kill you gubuks. We go now. No hard feelings.”
Kestrel had to smile at the creatures’ simple logic. And pragmatic loyalties.
“A few questions first,” Corran said. “What can you tell us about your employers?” Kestrel almost wished he hadn’t asked—the rank smell of the orog leader’s matted, hairy hide made her queasy. Or was that his breath?
The orog shrugged and tossed his head. His stringy, greasy hair didn’t move. “Ugly mages full of lies. Make deal with orogs. Orogs walk dungeons, yes, find magic items. Mages promise lots of gold. But ugly mages no pay.” He blew air through his snout. The noise seemed meant to signal disgust. “Today ugly mages say get small gubuk, put in box, they give big treasure. We take gubuk, put in box. Ugly mages not pay.”
Ghleanna frowned. “Who was he—the small gubuk?”
“Garbage man. Lives in wagon—”
“Nottle.” Kestrel groaned, shaking her head. Stupid scamp. Hadn’t they warned him?
“Nottle, yes. That what ugly mages call gubuk. Oho, garbage man not like box! He talk and talk.”
“Where is this box?” Corran asked.
“In old dwarf treasure room,” the orog said. “Down in dungeon. Way, way down.”