Kestrel’s dagger prevented him from ever finishing it.
Once she saw the light of life leave his eyes, the thief didn’t spare the dying cultist another glance. One down, five to go, and good riddance to the chump on the floor. She gripped her second blade and scanned the room for her next target.
Beside her, Durwyn released an arrow. The shaft whistled past her ear to embed itself in the heart of another cultist. The evil sorcerer’s eyes widened beneath his leather hood. He gripped the shaft with his clawed hand and tried to yank the arrow from his chest, but his clumsy struggle only caused more blood to ooze from the wound. As the cultist gurgled something unintelligible, his gaze met Durwyn’s—then took on the glassy stare of death.
Meanwhile, both Jarial and Ghleanna managed to unleash spells before the cultists could prepare any sorcery of their own. The half-elf’s magic rendered one hooded sorcerer blind, while Jarial’s sank an acid-laced arrow in the stomach of another. The wounded sorcerer screamed in agony as the smell of burning cloth and flesh filled the air. Tendrils of greenish smoke wisped from the hole in his gut. He stared at Jarial, his features forming a mask of hatred. His lips curled to spit out a foul-sounding, arcane curse. Then he began weaving a spell of his own.
Kestrel’s heart pounded as the scarred sorcerer spun his retaliatory enchantment. The element of surprise had enabled the companions to kill or handicap four of the six cultists in the chamber. Though their odds had improved, victory still wasn’t assured. Now they would have to rely on their wits and the strategy Corran had devised just before they entered the chamber. According to plan, the paladin would identify the band’s most powerful sorcerer and—cloaked by Jarial’s invisibility spell—disable him.
There was no sign of Corran yet, and the two unharmed cultists had overcome their surprise. One, the youngest-looking cult sorcerer she had yet seen, nervously stumbled over the words of an evocation that sent a burst of dark energy flying at Durwyn. The black flames struck the warrior in his bow arm. He dropped his bow and clutched his arm. “To the Abyss with your hellfire!” he cried. Pain flashed across his face, but for only a moment. His axe arm was still good, and with the discipline of a trained fighter he concealed his suffering and reached for his favored weapon. Axe in hand, he strode toward the wizard who had injured him. The scrawny young man backed up as the massive warrior neared.
When Kestrel’s gaze landed on the other uninjured cultist, she caught him sneering at her. Judging from his more elaborate tattoos and the size of his claw, she guessed him to be the highest-ranking sorcerer of the group. The leader unleashed four black-flamed missiles. All at Kestrel.
She tumbled to the floor, but the sorcerous darts followed her. Pain ripped through her stomach, then her already-injured leg, with intensity that brought tears to her eyes. She curled into a ball in a half-coherent attempt to shield her chest and gut from the remaining missiles. The strikes seared her right arm, nearly forcing her to drop the dagger she still gripped in that hand.
“Bastard!” she spat as pain rocked her body. Her arm burned as if flames consumed it. She could barely control her hand.
The hooded cultist waved mockingly with his own mutated right hand. “Having a little trouble?”
Through an act of sheer will, Kestrel rolled to prop herself on her injured right arm. The smug sorcerer thought he had disabled her throwing hand. Arrogant troll—she’d show him. She blocked out the agony coursing through her limbs and transferred the weapon to her dominant hand. Then she met his baleful gaze. “Not as much as you.” She hurled the dagger.
The blade should have struck his foul heart. Despite her injuries, her aim had been true. To Kestrel’s despair the weapon fell short of its mark, instead sinking into his left calf. The wizard acknowledged the hit with no more than a hissed curse, then moved his hands in the sinister gestures of another spell.
She tore her gaze away from the evil sorcerer long enough to glance wildly about the chamber. Where in the Abyss was Corran? She saw no hint of the invisible paladin. Apparently he’d left Kestrel to battle the chief sorcerer by herself. “Damn you, Corran D’Arcey,” she muttered.
An eerie babble of voices filled the air as all the spell-casters in the room uttered arcane words of individual incantations. Even the sightless mage was in the process of casting a spell—Mystra only knew where that magic would land. Durwyn, who had killed the hapless apprentice, appeared to have chosen the blind wizard as his next target. She only hoped the warrior’s axe struck before the sorcerer’s spell.
Jarial was locked in a spellcasters’ duel with the acid-burned sorcerer. In the few seconds that Kestrel watched, the injured cultist released a retributive gout of flames at Jarial. Ghleanna and Jarial had agreed to avoid fire-based attacks out of concern for the many ancient books, scrolls, and maps in the chamber, but apparently the cultists had no such qualms.
Kestrel heard Jarial’s cry as the flames licked his skin but had to return her attention to her own adversary. Corran had abandoned her. She would have to face the sorcerous leader alone. She still had one more dagger, Loren’s Blade. She reached for its hilt at her waist.
And blinked. Was pain making her head swim? The sorcerer suddenly appeared blurry. Kestrel squinted and stared, but could not discern a steady outline—the cultist seemed to waver before her eyes. She gripped the magical dagger, eager to hurl it at the wizard but unable to fix a target.
The smell of burning paper met her nostrils as smoke drifted toward her. In trying to injure Jarial, the foolish cultist had set an enormous old tome ablaze. Its wrought-iron stand probably would keep the flames from spreading, but the book and the knowledge it contained were now lost forever.
The smoke obscured the cult leader’s image even further. His shifting form seemed to be preparing yet another spell to aim at her. Kestrel groaned, her body already aching beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Despite the poor visibility, she couldn’t just stand here offering the wizard target practice. She peered through the dense air and grasped her weapon, preparing to throw. She would have to trust her instincts.
Just as she was about to toss the blade, a familiar voice penetrated the haze. “By the hand of Tyr!” The wizard yelped and doubled over. Corran materialized, his new blade wet with fresh blood.
“About damn time!” she shouted.
With a cry of rage, the evil sorcerer released the spell he’d prepared for Kestrel onto Corran instead. His image still blurred, he appeared to touch Corran’s arm for only a split second. Corran immediately staggered backward two paces, his face ashen and somehow drained of vitality.
With an evil grin the wizard straightened, now scarcely bothered by the wound Corran had opened in his gut.
A cold chill passed through Kestrel. The sorcerer had stolen some of Corran’s life force! What other evil could this necromancer wreak?
They could not afford to find out. She flung the dagger. It soared through the air and struck him squarely in the chest. Corran followed the strike with one of his own as Loren’s Blade flew back to Kestrel’s hand. The sorcerer’s eyes widened in pain and hatred, but he still did not die. Instead he began to utter the words of another incantation.
Kestrel prepared to hurl the magical blade again. Though the cultist’s wavering image became increasingly hard to discern through the smoke, she thought she saw him glance at the floor off to one side. She followed the direction of his gaze. There, forgotten in the fray, lay the skeletal arm bearing the Ring of Calling. The chief sorcerer seemed to be moving toward it as he avoided another of Corran’s blows.
Kestrel glanced at her companions. Jarial unleashed an incantation on his rival, sending another acidic arrow through the air to silence the sorcerer for good. Ghleanna also appeared in the process of casting a spell, this one at the leader. She squinted through the smoke, trying to fix her sight on him. Durwyn had just finished off the blinded mage and stood not far from the skeletal arm.