The silver radiance raced through the air to strike the drow. It bounced from one drow to another, knocking them to the ground. Harsh screams and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Behind him, Ruen heard Icelin gag, but she kept a firm grip on the sphere and on the Silver Fire, as far as he could tell. She brought the sphere up and held it in both hands above her head.
Sheets of silver poured forth, this time shielding them as the drow on the fringes of the spell saw them and aimed their hand crossbows. The black quarrels burned away to nothing when they struck the silver barrier.
They approached the cavern wall. At the last moment, Ruen pulled up on the reins, and the stone flyer struck its clawed feet on the wall and turned, wings pumping furiously to get them out of their dive and back to a safe height.
Icelin shifted the shield around to protect their backs as more quarrels poured in. They leveled out at the same moment a ball of fire streaked past Ruen’s left ear. He flinched away from the heat of the orange mass, and the flyer staggered in midair.
“He’s getting tired,” Ruen said. “We have to land.”
“Can we make one more pass?” Icelin asked.
Ruen shook his head. “Even if he had the energy to keep going, they’ve seen we’re a threat. They’ll be looking to blow us out of the sky.”
“Gods, look at that!” Icelin cried. She pointed at a spot below them, where the Dhalnadar and the Deepflood joined.
A silver dragon burst from the river and took flight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
28 UKTAR
Mithbarakaz spread his wings and joined the sky outside the Astral Sea for the first time in centuries. He raised his head and roared as he flew over the battlefield. Below him, Iltkazar burned under the ravages of drow magic. They and their slaves crossed the rivers and charged into the center of the city, toward the temples of Moradin and the lost Haela Brightaxe. Toward his hall.
If he allowed them beyond the river, his soldiers would not be able to purge them from the city. Zollgarza’s information, Mith Barak’s own strategy, Icelin’s sacrifice-all of it had given them hope, but in the end, they didn’t have the numbers.
Iltkazar-his home. He had to save it, no matter the cost.
Reaching out through a mindlink still active-though the one on the receiving end was not aware of it-Mithbarakaz sent one final command to his army.
Icelin screamed and clutched her head. She lost her grip on the sphere, and it spun away into the chaos below. Dizziness seized her, and she felt herself slipping, falling off the side of the stone flyer.
Distantly, she heard Ruen curse. He snatched her wrist and hauled her back upright, but he must have jerked the reins sideways to do it. For that violence, the stone flyer had apparently had enough. The beast went into a dive and skidded across a stone path on the opposite side of the river from where Icelin had cast the Silver Fire. The flyer crouched and shook itself, dumping Icelin unceremoniously onto the ground.
Ruen landed beside her a touch more gracefully, but he immediately went to where Icelin lay.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Was it the sphere?”
“No.” Icelin started to shake her head but thought better of it. A throbbing that started up in her temples threatened to make her sick. “It’s … something else.” An image of Mith Barak’s dwarf face flashed in her mind, intensifying the pain. More images followed it-the river, the bridges, more instructions, and an overwhelming urgency that set her heart pounding in her chest.
“Watch out!” Ruen cried.
Icelin looked up in time to see a group of three drow surging over one of the smaller bridges toward them. They carried rapiers, not crossbows, thank the gods, but Icelin had no ready defense. She’d dropped the sphere. Gods, it was gone!
The pain in her head made it hard to concentrate. Was Mith Barak trying to contact her, mind to mind? Not now, she pleaded silently.
Ruen sprang to his feet and hurled his dagger. The metal flashed once and buried itself in the neck of one of the running drow. He choked and went down at the foot of the bridge. The other two ignored their comrade and kept going.
Dropping into a crouch, Ruen ducked the lead drow’s rapier swing and slammed his shoulder into the drow’s stomach. The force of the impact was audible, and for a moment, Icelin didn’t think Ruen’s slight weight would slow the drow, but suddenly Ruen thrust his hands out and shoved the drow away from him. Reeling, the drow fell and struck his head against the stone bridge. He lay still, dazed.
The other drow was faster than his comrade had been. He ducked a wild punch Ruen threw and stabbed him in the shoulder. Ruen hissed and danced back. He brought his hands up, palms out but held close to his body, as if gathering his strength. When the drow lunged at him again, he thrust his hands forward, catching the drow in the chest. The drow fell back, driven to the edge of the river. He fell and clutched his chest, gasping for breath.
Ruen pressed a hand to the wound in his shoulder and went back to where Icelin lay. “We have to move,” he said. “There’s no cover here, and they’ll be coming over the bridges in waves. How are you doing?”
“I have a message from the king,” Icelin said, though she could hardly believe what she’d heard Mith Barak say in her mind. “We have to pull all the soldiers across to this side of the river.”
Ruen glanced around. “I’ll find someone to sound a call,” he said. “What’s the king planning?”
“Do you remember what Garn did to that bridge on our trip down to Iltkazar?” Icelin said grimly.
“Yes.”
“He’s going to do the same thing, only a lot bigger.”
Fizzri watched the silver dragon circle overhead, a thread of fear working its way into her heart like the most subtle poison. She had only felt such doubts and conflicts on one other occasion, and that had been just before she asked Lolth for the power to transform Zollgarza.
Zollgarza, this is all your doing, Fizzri thought. A surge of hatred for her old lover went through the mistress mother. If only Zollgarza had succeeded in obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere, this attack wouldn’t be necessary.
Rage and frustration burned in Fizzri. Ever since the Arcane Script Sphere began calling to her, disturbing her dreams, she’d been planning her tribute to Lolth. The artifact that held Mystra’s essence-in Zollgarza’s hands, the conduit would channel the arcane and the divine. Zollgarza’s sacrifice, the sacrifice of a piece of Mystra-all to Lolth’s glory. Fizzri would earn ultimate favor with the goddess.
When Zollgarza had been captured, she’d feared all was lost. Now they were on the verge of taking the city, yet they still hadn’t located Zollgarza or the sphere.
“Press forward!” she shouted to Levriin, who stood with one of his apprentices, looking worn and battered from the continuous magical assault. “The priestesses will deal with the dragon.”
She filled her voice with confidence, but in truth, Fizzri had noticed that several of the priestesses had disappeared since the battle began. For all she knew, they were dead or separated from the main army.
“Aagona,” Fizzri called out to her second in command, who’d been directing the wizards and watching for treachery at the same time.
No answer came.
Fizzri turned and saw Aagona lying on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at the cavern ceiling. Cursing, Fizzri approached the body. A dagger protruded from the dead drow’s chest, a dagger affixed with the figure of a spider. Fizzri drew the dagger out, saw the remnants of the poison seeping from the spider’s hollow leg, and a chill passed over her.