“Of course,” Corran said.
“I could then stand with both feet in this time. I could help you further.” Anorrweyn smiled, the first smile they had seen from her. The expression lit her whole face with an angelic glow, sparking a response in Kestrel that caught the rogue by surprise. She wanted to aid the ghostly priestess, wanted to help this gentle, noble spirit obtain some peace as she faced eternity trapped on this earth.
“I promise you, priestess, we will do all we can,” Kestrel said solemnly. “It would be our privilege to restore your skull to its sacred resting place.”
The vow—the first words Kestrel had spoken since Anorrweyn appeared—pleased the priestess. Corran looked at her in astonishment, approval dawning in his eyes.
Kestrel rose and turned away from the paladin’s gaze, intending to join Durwyn at the entrance. She didn’t need Corran D’Arcey’s approval, or anyone else’s for that matter. Helping Anorrweyn just felt like the right thing to do.
A small cry from Faeril arrested her attention. Anorrweyn’s form was fading from view, wavering and shimmering as it dimmed.
“Be not afraid, daughter,” the priestess said. “I must leave you now. But return with my skull and I shall be stronger.” Anorrweyn Evensong was but a faint outline now, rapidly disappearing altogether. “Trumpets cry... the tide rushes in... .Summon the armathors!”
With that, the elven spirit was gone. The scent of gardenias lingered.
CHAPTER NINE
The House of Gems resembled nothing so much as the dwarves who had raised it. Though the Onaglym was a large two-towered building, its stone construction lent it a dense, compact appearance, giving Kestrel the impression that nothing could ever budge—or even mar—the dwarven stronghold. Despite the wars that had rocked the rest of Myth Drannor, the fortress stood solid and strong, undaunted by the changes wrought upon the city around it.
Here they would find Harldain Ironbar, or so Caalenfaire had said. As both the diviner and Anorrweyn had mentioned the dwarven spirit—did all the ghosts in this town know each other?—visiting him seemed the next logical step of their mission. Besides, they needed to learn from Harldain how to enter the catacombs if they ever hoped to meet the Protector or locate Anorrweyn’s skull.
The Onaglym’s exterior betrayed no sign of cult sorcerers still occupying its Round Tower. In fact, with the exception of the cultists, the rest of the city’s evil denizens seemed to give the fortress a wide berth. The dwarven meeting hall appeared to have escaped the looting and lairing that characterized most of Myth Drannor’s surface buildings. After the trap the party had encountered while trying to reach the Room of Words, Kestrel could guess why.
They found the main door open, a fact that bothered Kestrel almost as much as the eerie rhythm, like a giant heartbeat, coming from within. Pa-pum. Pa-pum. It was an ominous greeting, to say the least. While the others speculated about the source of the faint noise, she spent twenty minutes searching the doorway for traps. Finally Corran, eager to investigate, simply walked through the entrance. He turned around, unscathed. “Sometimes a lucky break is just a lucky break, Kestrel.”
She rolled her eyes. Sometimes. Not often. And based on previous experience, not in this fortress. Kestrel hung back as the others brushed past her into a small courtyard containing the statue of some long-forgotten dwarven hero. An archway led to a larger, open area beyond dotted with more statues.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
She scanned the walls, floor, and ceiling once again. Dwarves would not leave the front door—even the front door of a building they were abandoning as they fled the city—hanging open. The last one out would have closed the door and extinguished the lights. There had to be something she wasn’t seeing.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Corran cast an impatient glance her way. “Are you coming or not?”
Still suspicious, she relented. “Coming.”
The moment she stepped through the doorway, an iron door clanged down behind her. Damn it all! How had she missed that? She let fly a stream of expletives against crafty dwarven engineers. “Lucky break, my arse! I told you it was too easy to get in here!” Before her companions could answer, she turned her back on them to study the iron door. She had a feeling they would be using a different exit.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
“Kestrel, we’re inside now.” Corran’s voice grated on her nerves. “Let’s find Harldain—I’m sure he can tell us how to get out.”
“Just give me a minute!” she snapped. Corran was probably right, but the undiscovered trap had bruised her pride.
“Suit yourself. We’re going on ahead.”
“You do that.” Arrogant, insufferable jerk... She heard him leave, heard the others following, all except Durwyn, whose presence she yet sensed, though some feet away. He waited quietly as she continued to examine the door.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Less than a minute later, his voice broke the stillness. “Uh, Kestrel?” Durwyn spoke softly, probably afraid of irritating her further.
She tried to tamp down her annoyance and keep her tone even. “Yes, Durwyn?” From behind, she heard the warrior rattling around. He was closer than she’d thought. Good grief—was he deliberately scraping his armor across the stone floor? She tried to block out the noise and concentrate on her task, running her hand along the smooth iron door.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
“I’d turn around if I were you.”
A sense of dread shot through her. She spun on her heel to face him.
And found herself looking straight into the eyes of a dwarf.
The statue in the center of the courtyard had come to life. The bearded champion, armed with a two-handed axe, stood between her and Durwyn. The dwarf stared at her, his expression inscrutable. She stared back as her mind raced. Should she slowly circle toward Durwyn? Say something to the animated statue?
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
The dwarf winked. Mischief somehow twinkled in his cold stone eyes. Kestrel released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and allowed the muscles in her shoulders to relax.
He leaped off the pedestal to attack.
The stone guardian swung his weapon in a wide arc meant to catch Kestrel in the midriff. Instinctively, she dropped to the floor and rolled to one side. The blade struck the door with a deafening clang! that left a dent in the iron.
She paled at the display of strength. A single blow from the dwarf could crush even Durwyn or cleave her in half. He came at her again, raising the axe high in the air this time.
She rolled once more, then jumped to her feet. The dwarf’s axe struck the floor, sending rock chips flying. The ring of steel on stone echoed off the walls.
Pa-pum, pa-pum. The mysterious thumping continued, but her own heart beat double time. She noted that the statue’s movements, though deliberate, were slow. Durwyn had moved forward to aid her, but she grabbed his arm instead. “Let’s find the others!” She tugged on his hand, urging the big man to abandon the fight. If the dwarf followed them, at least they could face him with help.
They darted through the archway—only to discover an even worse scene. Corran, Faeril, and the two sorcerers were locked in combat with three more animated statues, and other figures nearby seemed to be stirring to life. Kestrel’s gaze swept the fortress ward. At least two dozen dwarven sculptures were scattered about the grounds. They couldn’t possibly fight them all.