“We need access to the catacombs,” Corran said.
“Do you, now? Well, that’s a simple enough matter to help you with. But what are they sendin’ you down there for?”
“To find the Protector. We need to talk to him about the Mythal.”
Some of the fire left Harldain’s eyes. He let out a deep sigh. “They’ve gone and done it, haven’t they? Those dragon worshipers, they’ve done somethin’ to the Mythal.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d always hoped that somehow we could use the Mythal to restore the City of Song to its former glory. But now...”
“You may yet,” Ghleanna said gently. “If we act quickly to defeat the cult. We need your help.”
Harldain nodded. “Yes, of course. Anything I can do.” He stroked his beard again. “Dark elves have infiltrated much of the first catacomb level, so don’t even try to use the main entrance—I’ll send you a secret way. You’ll have to face enough of ’em just to move deeper inside.”
He crossed the room and pointed to one of the bricks in the wall. “That block is loose. Pull it out.” Corran pried out the stone, revealing a hidden cubbyhole. “Now reach inside and get the stone that’s in there. The key—take the key out, too. It’s a passkey. It’ll disable the statues downstairs, make it easier for you to leave.”
Corran withdrew the key and a gem similar in appearance to the one set in the Ring of Calling. The gem sparkled with inner white light.
“That’s a starstone,” Harldain said. “Used to be that lots of folks in Myth Drannor had at least one. The starstones were set in different pieces of jewelry. When the wearer stood in specific locations, magical gates opened to different parts of the city. Helped a body get around faster.”
Ghleanna extended her hand so Harldain could see the Ring of Calling. “Is this a starstone?”
“It is, indeed,” the spirit confirmed. “That’s one of the more common starstones. It got folks to the City Heights from various parts of town.” Harldain gestured toward the sparkling rock Corran held. “That’s a rarer stone. Belongs in a neckpiece called the Wizard’s Torc. Sorcerers of the Speculum used the torc to open a secret entrance from the amphitheater to the catacombs. Restore the starstone to the Wizard’s Torc and wear it while standin’ on the theater floor—in the Circle of Ualair the Silent—and the door’ll open for you.”
Harldain’s expression grew troubled. “Of course, you have to find the torc first—last I heard, a dark naga in the dwarven dungeons had the thing.” He narrowed his brows at Jarial. “What’re you grinnin’ about?”
“You mean this torc?”
CHAPTER TEN
“Drow,” Kestrel whispered, squinting in the dim torchlight.
Ghleanna rolled her eyes. “Not more of them?”
“Afraid so.” Kestrel shared the mage’s sentiment This was the fourth such patrol they’d seen since entering the catacombs. The ebon-skinned, white-haired warriors seemed to swarm the undercity, their fierce war paint and lethally sharp halberds boldly declaring their right of occupation to anyone foolish enough to question their presence. Unlike the orogs Kestrel’s party had observed in the dwarven undercity, the drow were a close-mouthed people. No stray snatches of conversation had revealed their purpose in Myth Drannor.
“If we double back and take that other fork, perhaps we can bypass their encampment altogether,” Corran suggested.
Kestrel shrugged, unconvinced. So far they’d successfully avoided detection by the dark elves, but their luck couldn’t hold out forever. They’d been fortunate enough to escape serious combat with all the undead creatures wandering about. Corran and Faeril had managed to turn away most of the shadows and zombies, and the cleric had even destroyed the skeletons they’d come upon with a single holy word.
As much as Kestrel disliked facing undead beings, she dreaded an encounter with the dark elves more. The drow had a reputation for cruelty toward their enemies—who, from what Kestrel understood, comprised just about everyone not drow. Even the unliving gave them a wide berth, lairing in separate parts of the dungeons.
They retreated down the rough-hewn tunnel. Once, Kestrel would have considered these dense subterranean warrens well constructed, but they couldn’t help but suffer in comparison to the superior passages of the dwarves. Given their elven creators and their ancient age, however, the corridors and chambers remained in surprisingly good condition—from what she could see of them, anyway. The lighting was poor to say the least, with wispy flames barely clinging to widely spaced torches. She supposed they were lucky to have any light at all. Drow were known for their ability to see clearly in the dark, and the undead certainly hadn’t lit the brands. The torches must be for the benefit of another mortal race. The cultists?
Corran led the group around a bend. A fork they’d passed previously lay just a few hundred feet beyond. Suddenly, the paladin stopped short—but not before a band of drow in the intersection spotted the party. “Hold!” one of them cried. “If you value your wretched lives!”
“They’ve nowhere to go, Razherrt!” came a voice from behind them. “We heard their noisy clanking all the way down at our post.”
Beshaba’s bad breath! They were surrounded! Kestrel tensed, swearing silently at the Maid of Misfortune as she prepared to grab Loren’s Blade and hurl it in a single swift movement should the need arise. Corran’s hand rested on his sword hilt, while Durwyn gripped his axe more tightly. Faeril stood with hands on hips, her fingers inches from the hilt of her new sword.
“Humans. How such a primitive race has survived this long baffles the mind.” The dark elf Razherrt laughed humorlessly as he approached. Six other warriors accompanied him. All wore black leather armor emblazoned with the symbol of a phoenix rising toward a dark green moon. Similarly marked bracers on Razherrt’s arms set him apart from the others. Their patrol leader, Kestrel guessed.
The drow fighters pointed their halberds at Kestrel’s party, but Razherrt held his weapon upright as if unconcerned by the possibility of any sudden moves by the lowly adventurers. His gaze swept the party, rapidly assessing each member, lingering on Ghleanna. “A half-breed. I see the People continue slumming.”
The half-elf remained silent under the drow’s insults. Corran, regarding the patrol leader warily, removed his hand from his weapon to indicate peaceful intentions. “We seek only to pass through.”
A sneer crossed Razherrt’s chiseled features. “You presume too much, human. The House of Freth does not appreciate vermin trespassing through its territory.” As he spoke, he almost absently moved his hands in a series of gestures, as if he spoke in sign language.
“We did not realize the House of Freth laid claim to these halls.”
Razherrt studied Corran with an intensity that Kestrel thought would bore holes through the paladin’s forehead. The leader of the other patrol said something in a language Kestrel had never heard before. Whatever he said, the statement elicited a low chuckle from Razherrt, who responded with several quick hand signals. The waiting drow warriors raised their blades.
“You find me in a good mood today, human,” Razherrt said. “I deal with matters too important to waste time exterminating rodents. Get thee gone from my sight. No—better still, we shall escort you out of the Freth domain, so you do not ‘accidentally’ wander in again. Turn around.”
Corran hesitated, apparently reluctant to expose his back to the drow.
Razherrt lowered the point of his weapon until it touched Corran’s chin. “Are you hard of hearing or just simple? You have already trespassed on Freth territory—do not trespass on my patience.”
The paladin turned, the expression in his eyes instructing the others to do likewise. Kestrel had rarely found herself so happy to travel in the middle of a party—as far away as possible from the drow on either end.