A score of dragon-kin and at least a hundred soulless drow guarded the Vessel of Souls. The lifeless dark elves stood silent and resolute in their watch, but many of the dragon-kin talked among themselves.
Kestrel closed the door as silently as she’d opened it and described the scene to her companions. “I saw no other doors to the room,” she concluded. “Only a tall, narrow window with its pane blackened.”
Corran rubbed his chin. “If we drop the vessel through the floor, we can destroy it and open up an exit at the same time.” He looked to Durwyn and Athan. “If the three of us each take one of the supports and dislodge them simultaneously, the chalice should fall through the center of the glass.”
Athan nodded. “I can manage it.”
“Me, too,” said Durwyn.
Corran next turned to Ghleanna. “Jarial’s invisibility spell could prove a big boon. He didn’t happen to teach it to you somewhere along the line, did he?”
Ghleanna grinned. “He did—and a few others.”
“Excellent. Have you the power to render all three of us invisible?”
“Aye, and two others besides—”
Kestrel shook her head. “Just the warriors. We still have Mordrayn and Pelendralaar to face. We may need your spells more then.”
“Are you sure, Kestrel?” Corran regarded her seriously. “We’ll be relying on you, Ghleanna, and Faeril to hold off the dragon-kin and drow.”
“We can handle them,” Ghleanna declared.
Cloaked by Ghleanna’s sorcery, the three fighters headed to their appointed positions. No one noticed their entrance, but one of the dragon-kin noted the open door. It raised a claw and gestured toward the remaining companions, hissing a word of alarm.
Ghleanna responded with a spell that sent the beasts into a state of confusion. Some of the dragon-kin stared stupidly at the sorceress, some wandered over to another part of the room, some actually began attacking each other. Eight dragon-kin took to the air, flying straight toward the trio of women.
Faeril, meanwhile, twice rapped the Staff of Sunlight on the floor. A burst of daylight issued forth, crippling many of the closest drow. Kestrel sent Loren’s Blade and her other two daggers flying toward the nearest weakened dark elves. She eliminated two and injured a third—leaving a mere ninety-seven or so to advance on her. She prayed to any god who would listen that the warriors would destroy the Vessel of Souls quickly and that Nathlilik would prove correct in her belief that its destruction would eradicate the enslaved drow.
The dragon-kin swooped down to attack. Kestrel’s armor resisted their claws, but Ghleanna did not fare as well. One of the beasts raked her face, turning her left cheek to bloody ribbons. The mage shrieked and clutched her damaged face, then responded with a volley of conjured missiles that hit the beast in rapid succession.
Through the corner of her eye, Kestrel saw Faeril inflict critical wounds on a swooping dragon-kin with only a word. The creature plummeted to the ground. After that, she lost track of what the others were doing as she fought her own battles against the remaining dragon-kin. One of them had her pinned against the wall. She used her club to beat off his swiping claws, all the while trying to score a hit with Loren’s Blade.
Beyond, the weakened drow had mobilized. The first wave rushed in to join the combat against the intruders. One of them hurled a fireball at her. She braced herself for its impact, ready to feel the blaze sear her flesh, but miraculously, the flames passed over her like a gentle breeze. Her mind raced for an explanation until she recalled the mantle rings she wore. What was it the baelnorn had said—protection from a dozen spells? Corran and the others had better hurry.
Though the fireball passed over her without harm, it scorched her opponent. The dragon-kin shrieked and turned on the offending drow for revenge. As the two enemies fought each other, another dragon-kin moved in to attack Kestrel. She stole a look at the Vessel of Souls, still suspended in place. What was taking Corran and the others so long? Surely by now they’d had sufficient time to reach their stations. A second glance revealed slight movement of the nearest support beam. Thank the gods! The urn would drop any moment.
Suddenly, a loud crash! rent the air. The sound came not from the floor, where Kestrel had expected it, but from above. The dragon-kin, distracted, spun around, allowing her to plant Loren’s Blade in her opponent’s back and see for herself the source of the noise.
Shards of glass rained down from the chamber’s window as a lone figure swung in on a rope. An angel of darkness, her face a mask of vengeance, swooped in to seize justice for the wronged and wreak retribution on the guilty.
Nathlilik.
The drow leader gripped the rope with only one hand. In the other she clutched a spiked mace, raised high. Blood running from cuts all over her body, her white hair streaming loose behind her, she sailed through the air toward the Vessel of Souls.
“Kedar!” she cried. “I do this for you!”
As the arc of her swing brought her directly above the urn, she let go of the rope. She dropped twenty feet to the vessel and struck the invisible force field with her mace. At the same moment, the support beams finally slid out of place. The Vessel of Souls, and Nathlilik along with it, plummeted.
It smashed through the floor, shattering the glass and continuing its descent. A deafening explosion sounded. Unholy shrieks and sobs filled the chamber, rising to a crescendo so intense that Kestrel covered her ears lest the cacophony of terror and torment drive her mad.
A whirlwind surged up through the jagged hole in the floor. Thousands of lost souls, their ghostly faces contorted with hopelessness, spiraled toward the ceiling. The cyclone snuffed out the chamber’s torches, leaving only the pale natural light of the broken window to illuminate the room.
The funnel of damned spirits arched through the window. As it reached the open sky it flew apart, releasing the trapped souls to the gods. The horrible anthem of despair at last ceased.
Within, every drow in the chamber collapsed at once, their bodies turned to dust. At the loss of their allies, the remaining dragon-kin took to the air and fled. Only the companions remained.
In the hushed aftermath, Kestrel picked her way through drow ashes and shards of broken glass to the edge of the circle. She peered down. Nathlilik’s broken, lifeless body lay surrounded by fragments of the vessel she’d given her life to destroy.
Corran’s disembodied voice broke the stillness. “Is she alive?”
Kestrel shook her head and backed away from the ledge in silence. She couldn’t say she mourned the arrogant drow’s passing, but she respected Nathlilik’s sacrifice.
“Athan? Durwyn?” Corran called. “You still here?”
“Aye.”
“Here.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to lose. Now that the drow have fallen, Mordrayn knows exactly where we are.”
“What word from Mulmaster?”
“The city is nearly depleted. Panic spreads throughout the Moonsea—soon all the Heartlands will be ours. What tidings here?”
“Intruders have toppled the Vessel of Souls. The Mistress is beyond irate. She says the pool shall be well-fed tonight—either with them or with us.”
Kestrel smiled in satisfaction as she listened to the exchange between cultists. Though the news from outside troubled her, she delighted in the knowledge that they’d gotten under Mordrayn’s skin.
After leaving the vessel chamber, the party had hurried to the ground floor of the castle and combed it for a route of descent to the pool cavern. Thanks to Pelendralaar’s cave-in, none existed save this room—the castle’s former great hall, now a magical way station for cultists. Four enchanted gates occupied the hall, one on each wall. Three were of ordinary size, while the last appeared three times the size of any Kestrel had ever seen. A cult sorcerer kept watch at the entrance of each gate, and several squads of fighters were stationed throughout the hall.