Movement behind her indicated that someone had followed her. Two someones, judging from the familiar sound of their footsteps. Corran and Ghleanna.
“Poor Emmeric,” the half-elf whispered as she got a look the fighter. “I’d thought maybe...”
“Yeah, me too,” Kestrel said.
The two women fell silent as Corran knelt over their fallen companion. The paladin gently untangled Emmeric’s skeletal limbs and repositioned his body so that it appeared to rest more comfortably. Then he rummaged through a few open chests until he found a velvet cloth to drape over the fighter. Corran never spoke as he tended to Emmeric’s remains. Did he feel guilty for dragging them down here, to the warrior’s demise? Kestrel hoped so.
From the conversation drifting toward her, it sounded as if Jarial and Durwyn were having difficulty releasing Nottle from the strongbox in which the cultists had secured him. She sighed and limped toward them, her fingers already reaching for her lockpicking tools. Could any of these people survive without her?
“I’ll smash it open with my axe,” Durwyn said as she approached.
Nottle squawked. “An’ smash my head, too?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Kestrel pulled the appropriate pick from her pouch. She tried to squat in front of the chest, but her injured leg screamed in protest. She wound up simply plunking her bottom down onto the floor. Before touching the lock, she looked up at Jarial. “I assume you’ve checked this for magical traps?”
“I didn’t find any.” The mage eyed her askance. “Are you injured?”
“I’m fine.” Kestrel examined the lock for signs of mundane surprises. It appeared to be a simple padlock. The only unusual feature was a glyph engraved into the body of the lock. “Damn,” she muttered. She’d seen a padlock like this once before—Quinn had nearly lost a finger to the blade that had sprung out of it. Different icon, but she’d bet it worked on the same principle.
Jarial leaned over her shoulder. “What?” Durwyn also bent down to get a closer look.
“I’m guessing this symbol’s here for a reason. Use anything but the proper key to open it and something very bad happens.” She glanced to Durwyn. “You did check the dead cultists for keys, didn’t you?”
A sheepish expression crossed his face. “Uh...”
She rubbed her temples. “Why don’t you do that before we go any further?” Durwyn immediately started rifling the corpses. Not much of a thinker, the warrior was great at following orders.
Nottle rapped on the lid of the strongbox. “What’s takin’ so long?”
“We’re trying to make sure no one else gets killed saving your foolish hide,” she said. The halfling sure had an irritating little voice. “You getting enough air through those airholes?”
“Yeah.”
“Shut up or that will change.”
Nottle fell silent. As Durwyn and Jarial searched the cultist’s bodies, Kestrel studied the engraving on the padlock. She’d seen that circle and arch image before. It matched the glyph on the treasury door—and on the key she’d taken from the cult sorcerer upstairs.
“Never mind, boys. I think I’ve found it.” She withdrew the key from her sleeve, and discovered that it slipped easily into the lock. The clasp sprung open. A moment later, the peddler was free.
“Finally! I thought I’d never git outta there.” The halfling stretched his short limbs to their fullest extent.
“We told you this place was dangerous, Nottle,” Corran said as he and Ghleanna rejoined the group.
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t resist. Scavenging’s in my blood.” He leaned toward Kestrel. “Surely you, m’dear, understand the lure of an old dwarven treasury? I suspect we’re kindred spirits.”
She didn’t deny the allure but preferred to think she had more sense. She nodded toward the dead cultists. “I see this is a great place for making new friends.”
He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Nah, they weren’t friendly at all. ’Specially when I wouldn’t join their club.”
Corran’s brow rose. “They invited you to join their organization?”
“Well, not exactly—said I could make a ‘great contribution,’ but I kinda got the feelin’ they were all in on some joke I didn’t understan’. Not that I’d want t’belong to somethin’ called the Cult of the Dragon. I don’t like dragons. Though they have got nice treasure. Dragons, that is—I dunno about these folks.”
Kestrel and the others exchanged glances, but no one seemed familiar with the cult’s name.
“Did they tell you anything about their activities?” Corran asked.
“Nah. But I did overhear a thing or two. Once they shut me up in the box, they sometimes forgot about me and talked a little too freely. Since ye rescued me and all, I’ll tell ye what they said without chargin’ my usual price for information.”
Kestrel smiled thinly. “How generous of you.”
Nottle appeared not to notice her sarcasm. “These cult folks, they’re the ones who killed yer friends the other day. They’re also the ones who drove the alhoon and phaerimm outta this part o’the city.”
“Their sorcerers are that powerful?”
“Their leader is—he’s a dracolich!”
A shudder raced up Kestrel’s spine. If an undead dragon was behind all these events, their quest was even more doomed than she’d previously imagined.
Durwyn scratched his head. “I thought Emmeric said the cult leader was an archmage. Some woman—Kya something.”
“Perhaps they’re working cooperatively,” Corran suggested. “Nottle, did you overhear anything else?”
“Somethin’ ’bout using some kinda pool t’make the dracolich stronger than he already is.”
Everyone but Nottle exchanged apprehensive glances. “Does the pool have a name?” Ghleanna asked.
Nottle shrugged. “Don’t know. They jus’ kept calling it ‘the pool.’ It was a little hard t’hear from where I was sittin’, ye know.”
Jarial cleared his throat. “Can we talk about this en route? Now that Nottle is free, we shouldn’t tarry.”
Corran nodded. “Jarial’s right. This news only increases the urgency of our mission.”
“Emmeric?” Durwyn asked.
“At rest.” Corran replied. “Let us finish what he and his companions started.”
Following a shortcut Nottle knew, they passed yet another ice-covered doorway on their way back to the Room of Words. “I sure wish we knew what those frozen rooms were about.” Durwyn said.
“Perhaps they’re related to the Rohnglyn,” Nottle said.
“The what?”
The peddler shrugged. “Accordin’ to rumor, some kinda magic transportation use t’connect all four levels of the dwarven dungeons. Rohnglyn, the elves called it. Years back, when the alhoon was still layin’ claim t’these halls, they all got in some big feud an’one o’the beasts put an ice charm on the Rohnglyn. Froze the thing right in place, or so I hear.”
“This device,” Corran asked, “it would enable us to move between levels more quickly?”
“Instantly. So they say, anyway.”
Corran pulled out his warhammer. “Care to help me make a few ice cubes, Durwyn?”
The two warriors smashed their way through the ice, revealing a room identical to the one they’d seen before—with one notable exception. The rune on the floor lay covered with ice stalagmites infused with colored lights. Elaborate icicles, many thick as tree trunks, hung from the ceiling, some of them fused to the lower ice formations in great columns of ice. As in the other room, a frozen golden sphere floated at about waist level in the center of the circular pattern.
Ghleanna tapped one of the ice formations with her staff. “Solid.”
“Can you free it from the alhoon’s spell?” Corran asked.
“We can try.” She raised a brow at Jarial. “What do you think? Should we attempt to dispel the magic or counter it?”
“The alhoon are powerful spellcasters. I don’t know if either of us has the experience to dispel such strong sorcery.” Jarial circled the rune, running his hands along some of the icicles. “It looks like the sphere could withstand a fireball, which would probably melt some of the ice...”