Kestrel balanced on one foot, as if she couldn't bear to put weight on her right leg. Razherrt stared at her, undecided. Her heartbeat accelerated as nervous energy coursed through her veins. "My apologies, sir. You know that humans are weak. Pain clouds my judgment."
She nearly choked on the sycophantic words, but they seemed to work. The drow raised the tip of his halberd. "A minute's rest. No more."
Kestrel stumbled to the cart and leaned against it, her fingers inches away from the skull. Anorrweyn's remains seemed to radiate an aura of calm, removing the anxiety she'd felt. Now she needed but a few seconds' distraction to snatch the skull from its disrespectful perch and drop it in a deep inside pocket of her cloak.
A series of chimes sounded across the room. All eyes turned in that direction-except Kestrel's. One of the sorcerers must have figured out her ruse. If not, she'd take advantage of the diversion no matter its source.
"What's that?" Razherrt glared first at Corran, then at the sorcerers. "Do you play games with us?"
"Perhaps it is a charm of the dungeons themselves," Jarial said. "Magic long sheltered the city above. Why should that not hold true for the city below?"
Razherrt grunted. "Get moving, all of you." He pointed at Kestrel. "You, too."
Kestrel rejoined the party, remembering to hobble. The uneven movement helped hide the bulge in her cloak.
"Of all the insufferable-"
"We're alive and unharmed," Corran tossed over his shoulder. "And we retrieved Anorrweyn's skull to boot. Just count your blessings, Kestrel."
Kestrel found the paladin's condescension almost as galling as the Freth's arrogance. She simmered as they trod through the undercity's second level in search of another stairway leading down. "Well, I've had enough drow attitude for one lifetime, I'll tell you that. Primitive race, indeed! Razherrt can kiss my human-"
"Hush!" Faeril glanced around as if she'd heard something. "Did you-"
From out of nowhere, a huge ball of flame barreled down the corridor at them. Ghleanna immediately called out a command word and thrust her hand toward the accelerating flames. The blaze snuffed itself out, leaving only a few dying sparks scattered in the passageway- enough to illuminate the cult sorcerer on the other side.
Two drow bodyguards flanked the mage. As Corran and Durwyn moved to close in on the spellcaster, the dark elves immediately engaged them. The drow fought with mechanical precision, thrusting and parrying without so much as a grunt of exertion. Faeril tried to reach the sorcerer but wound up joining the melee instead, fighting by Corran's side.
The dark elves seemed utterly devoted to protecting the cultist. They could not, however, prevent Ghleanna and Jarial's magical attacks from reaching him. Kestrel decided to target the drow and leave the sorcerers to a spellcasting contest. She sent one dagger sailing toward each elven warrior.
Her aim held true. One blade struck its target in his side, the other hit Durwyn's opponent in his chest. Neither warrior cried out. She followed the double strike with Loren's Blade, hitting the first dark elf a second time. The dagger wounds did not seem to slow him down.
Kestrel had never seen combatants so fierce. Despite their injuries, the drow wielded their halberds with relentless vigor. The length of the weapon gave them an advantage over Durwyn's axe and the holy warriors' swords. Kestrel sucked in her breath. How could she fare any better with her club?
Durwyn's opponent backed him against a wall. Kestrel reached for her club, extended it with a flick of her wrist then advanced on the dark elf. She managed to execute one hard hit to the drow's shoulder before he turned to engage her. Even with two-on-one odds, Kestrel felt at a disadvantage.
Meanwhile, flashes of light signaled the magical battle unfolding between the allied sorcerers and the cultist. Parrying the drow's blows, Kestrel could not spare even a glance to see who dominated that contest. Please Mystra, let it be Jarial and Ghleanna!
Suddenly, Kestrel's opponent collapsed to the floor. She looked up to see that the other drow had also fallen. The cult sorcerer lay with one of Jarial's acid arrows embedded between his eyes.
"As soon as the cultist fell, so did the drow," Jarial responded to the question in her eyes.
Durwyn prodded his former opponent with one foot. The body rolled over from the warrior's force, but otherwise did not stir. "He's dead. Just like that."
Faeril shook her head. "No, not 'just like that.' Look at these dagger wounds-there's no blood. I suspect these drow have been dead for some time."
"Soulless," Corran said. "Like the orogs."
Kestrel shuddered. Now that she had leisure to examine these dark elves more closely, they did look paler than Razherrt and his party had. They also bore a different emblem on their armor, two yellow chevrons bisecting eight red dots. She pointed to the symbol. "Do you think that's significant?"
"I suspect it indicates their House affiliation," Ghleanna said. "I noticed that Razherrt brushed his fingertips over his symbol whenever he mentioned the House of Freth."
"I guess these two belong to the House of Death," Kestrel quipped. No one laughed. Even to her own ears, the joke didn't seem funny. Only the gods knew how many legions of enthralled drow and orogs she and her companions might have to face before they completed their quest-if they ever did.
The party spent the next several hours avoiding patrols of enthralled drow. They also came across additional soulless orogs and stumbled upon more than one lair of spectres in their search for the third level of the catacombs. Somehow, luck or the gods were on their side, and they suffered few injuries. Dead-ends and winding passages slowed their movements, but at last they found the path of descent.
Deeper in the bowels of the dungeons, travel became still more difficult. Huge chasms blocked their progress, forcing them to repeatedly backtrack and seek other routes through the claustrophobic tombs and prison blocks. They now wended through a narrow passage that seemed to go on forever. Kestrel wondered if they would ever find the Rune of the Protector that marked the entrance to the baelnorn's level.
"The passage seems to widen ahead," Corran said over his shoulder.
"About time," Kestrel muttered. It couldn't get much tighter-Durwyn's armored shoulders already threatened to scrape the walls.
They emerged in an enormous chamber but could enter only a few feet. They stood on an apron overlooking a drop-off so steep they could not see the bottom of the chasm. Kestrel kicked some loose rocks over the edge. She never heard them land.
Across the chasm stood a raised wooden drawbridge. She quickly scanned the nearby walls, floor, and ceiling for some mechanism to lower the drawbridge from their side but spotted nothing. She ran a hand through her hair, gripping the roots in frustration. "We are not turning around yet again."
"You don't have to," echoed a voice from across the chasm. A female drow warrior stepped out from behind the drawbridge. She held a long, jagged-bladed dagger as casually as another woman might carry a spindle. A topknot secured her long white hair, exposing every angular line of her face. Sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and hard-cast eyes appeared carved in stone. Worn, ragged armor revealed a body so muscular that Kestrel doubted this woman had a soft spot inside or out. Though the dark elf bore the same chevron symbol as the enthralled drow they'd encountered earlier, her skin had the healthy black color borne by Razherrt's band of living drow.
"Is that a threat?" Kestrel called back.
"Not yet." At a gesture from the woman, a ragged band comprising half a dozen drow warriors appeared behind her. "At present, we merely command parley."