And landed on her face.
“Going somewhere?” The cult fighter who’d tripped her emerged from the shadows as she rolled to her feet and scrambled for a weapon. The enormous man towered over her, swiping his claw through the air like a second weapon. She snapped her club to its full length and swung it up just in time to block his first sword thrust.
He brought the blade around to strike again. Still under the hastening effects of Ghleanna’s spell, Kestrel managed to block the second blow with her right hand while freeing Loren’s Blade from its scabbard with her left. She hurled the dagger at her opponent. It caught him in the shoulder, then returned to her hand.
Enraged, the fighter attempted another blow, this time aiming for her throwing arm. The strike hit. Her armor saved her from injury, but Loren’s Blade slipped from her grasp. It clattered to the ground, landing at the cultist’s feet. The fighter kicked the offending weapon out of his way. It scudded across the floor toward the pool slough.
Kestrel leaped, trying to catch it in time. She missed by inches. The dagger slid into the mire and sank from view. Damn it all! The magical blade had become her favorite weapon.
She barely had time to gain her feet before the cultist struck again. Ghleanna’s spell was wearing off. Though she managed to parry the fighter’s blows, he slowly maneuvered their duel until he stood between her and the slough. Now even if an opportunity to break away from combat presented itself, she could not simply run for the ledge—she would have to fight her way past him. Worse, with the slough at his back instead of hers, she was left exposed to other opponents.
He brought his blade down once more. She gripped her club with both hands, one on each end, to block the strike. The iron baton vibrated with the force of his blow. He swung again and again. Pain shot through her arms as she fought a losing battle against his superior strength.
He raised the weapon for another hit. She brought the club up to parry, but he suddenly kicked her instead. The stomach blow knocked her to the ground. Her club fell from her grasp.
She scrambled backward, hand flailing as she desperately tried to find her weapon. The cultist kicked her again as if for good measure. She heard her ribs snap, felt pain shoot up her side. Then her foe leaned back, raising his sword for the killing blow.
Turnabout was fair play. With all the force she could muster, she sprang off her hands to plant both feet in his groin. The surprise move, coupled with his shifted center of balance, proved enough to knock him over. He fell backward.
And screamed.
The watery mire of the pool caught him in its deadly embrace. In seconds, it sucked his withering form under the surface, leaving only iridescent bubbles in his wake.
Kestrel’s abdomen and side throbbed, but she had no time to dwell on it. Spotting her club a couple feet away, she snatched it up, ran back to the slough, and leaped. She landed hard on all fours, her broken ribs screaming at her.
Not a graceful landing, but she’d made it across. Now only a wall stood between her and the Sapphire of the Weave.
Magical effects continued to explode and zoom through the air. A haze of smoke and other matter developed, blessedly obscuring vision. She could follow the sapphire’s glow like a beacon while the haze cloaked her from others’ sight.
She ran to the wall, her injured ribs protesting each step. She wanted to throw up. Maybe that’s how she’d defeat Mordrayn, she thought darkly. She doubted the archmage would anticipate an attack like that.
Between the haze and shadows, she couldn’t see the wall’s surface well enough to judge whether it offered sufficient natural holds for free climbing. She tore her rope off her belt and tossed the grappling hook up to the ledge. The last time she’d glimpsed Mordrayn, the archmage had been as entranced as ever. She had more to fear from cult missiles and magic than from the evil sorceress herself. Or so she hoped.
She tugged on the rope to ensure the grappling hook’s grip, then began her ascent. How were her friends faring? She couldn’t dwell on their fate right now. She had to concentrate on reaching the sapphire.
Hand over hand. Hand over hand. Her arms ached with exertion and her ribs with each breath, but the familiar movements helped focus her ricocheting thoughts. The Word of Redemption. Ethgonil. She had to get close enough to speak it. She was almost there.
She reached the top and rolled onto the ledge. A glance at Mordrayn revealed that the archmage was still locked in communion with the Mythal, unmindful of all else. Blue-white flames shot up from the Sapphire of the Weave and danced around her, licking but not burning her skin. What was it the baelnorn had said—mere mortals cannot withstand the Mythal’s fire? What did that make the archmage?
What would happen to her, Kestrel, when she touched the fiery gem?
It did not matter. Without further hesitation, she reached forward and placed her hand on the stone.
“Ethgonil!” Though her mouth formed the word, the voice that boomed through the cavern was not her own. It was an ancient voice, one that had existed before time began and one that would survive when time ceased to be. Everyone in the cavern—friend and foe alike—stopped their actions, their attention riveted to the ledge.
A floating ball of brilliant white light appeared. As Kestrel shielded her eyes from the glare, the ball expanded and opened to reveal a portal. A moment later, the baelnorn appeared. No longer the tragic figure they’d left behind in the catacombs, Miroden Silverblade stood tall and proud. He held his head high, his face a mask of righteousness.
His gaze met Kestrel’s. “For you!” He thrust his hand toward her, then swept his arm toward the back of the cavern. Immediately, her pain vanished. At the same time her vision blurred—or something intangible obscured it. She viewed Silverblade as if watching him underwater.
The baelnorn’s sweeping hand formed a fist. “For Myth Drannor!” He raised his arm high above the sapphire, then smashed his fist into the gem.
The Protector exploded in a burst of fire. In less than a second, both he and the sapphire were utterly consumed by the flames.
Kestrel instinctively leaped away from the pyre and curled into a defensive ball, but the flames burgeoned to overtake the whole ledge. She cringed as the deadly blaze raced toward her, preparing for a swift death. Miraculously, the flames did not touch her. She found herself protected by an invisible sphere that held the fire and heat at bay.
The inferno spouted outward like a tidal wave to fill the cavern. Cultists screamed and tried to outrun the blazing swell of holy fire, but the conflagration would not be cheated of its due. The flames rolled forth, consuming everyone in their path. Shrieks and moans echoed off the stone walls until they, too, drowned in the roar of the holocaust.
Then there was silence.
Kestrel looked out upon the destruction wrought by the baelnorn’s self-sacrifice. The cult legions had been incinerated where they stood, leaving only mounds of ashes in their place. Hesitantly, dreading what she expected to see, she raised her gaze above the dust to the back of the cavern.
Movement. Her shoulders sagged in relief. Her friends had survived, shielded as she had been by the Protector’s spell.
Below, the Pool of Radiance lay placid as ever. Steam rising from its amber surface offered the only hint that it had been disturbed in the slightest by the baelnorn’s act of retribution.
Beside her—
“You little bitch.”
The horrifyingly familiar voice broke the stillness with an edge that could cut glass. Kestrel’s blood froze in her veins as she turned to look at a face whose fury burned hotter than the inferno just past.