Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.
They're after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will not survive this.
The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared, converging on the couple.
A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron's waist. Someone blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword overhead, m this black crush of panicked guests, he could accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide. The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the mad press. He reeled.
"Eidola!" he shouted. "Are you still there?"
He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but felt her pressed, back to back against him.
A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then another fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the people had cleared away.
"It's just us now. Eidola. They want one or both of us." His blade sliced the air before them. "I wonder where Khelben has gotten off to."
Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill, the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, "Who are you, and what business have you here?"
"You know our business, I'm sure. Lord Piergeiron," came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. "As to who we are, you must find that out yourselves."
"You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural night, but we cannot," Piergeiron said, angered by the pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge, "Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way." "Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in this darkness?" "If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight and slay you, yes," growled Piergeiron.
"The way is clear, Open Lord," came the reply. "My warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honourable duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your bride"
"I accept," said Piergeiron.
He closed his eyes-they were no good to him in this darkness anyway-and let his pure soul sense the presence of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. A smallish image came to his mind's eye-the faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood the warrior's comrades, holding back the crowd.
In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, "Do you see them? Do you sense them-with your soul? Close your eyes. You can feel where they are-"
She was still behind him, but only silence answered his question.
"You can do it, Eidola," the Open Lord insisted. "Summon the good in you"
"Are you ready to die, Paladinson?" interrupted the nasty voice.
Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride. Then he turned toward the shimmering form. "Your evil betrays you, shadow man."
Raising his sword overhead, Piergeiron advanced on the figure. Halcyon swept downward in a deadly arc, and the shadow warrior jumped back. "Not so blind, after all, eh Thickskull?" taunted the voice.
"There is blindness, and there is blindness," replied Piergeiron, swinging the blade again. It rushed in and rang off of a metal breastplate. At last, something to fight against. He followed with a third stroke, and this time the image seemed to wince.
"First blood to me," Piergeiron noted calmly.
"Last blood to me," responded the voice.
Piergeiron was surprised by a stinging blow to his side. He drew back, considering. This man was evil, but his sword was not; of course it did not appear in his mind's eye. That mistake would not be made twice.
Piergeiron darted in, quick for a man his size. He hurled a heavy blow down on his opponent. Sword rang on sword, then grated away to one side. Piergeiron followed the weight of his blade, turning its tip to drive inward. The shadow warrior was too fast, though, batting Halcyon away and sending out his own blow.
The Open Lord ducked back, then lunged, landing a second attack.
"I thought I would regret having to kill you," the warrior hissed in pain, "But I will not regret it at all."
The cell door proved rotten around its barred window. A repeated series of kicks to the bars at last tore them free of the spongy wood. The iron dropped to the ground and rattled loudly.
Now, Noph needed merely to wriggle through… After a lot of shimmying, a few select curses, and one moment of panic when he was stuck halfway in and halfway out, Noph won free of the door and rolled out onto his shoulders. He let out a blast of air as he landed.
"Better my shoulders than my head," he muttered.
The reborn hero stood and brushed himself off. He took a deep breath. "Time for some true valor."
With that thought, Noph strode to the dim, winding stairs and climbed upward, toward the screaming above.
This dungeon is deep, he thought, breathless. The steps seem to wind forever. It didn't take half as long to be dragged down here… of course, other legs did that work.
After his fourth circuit of the stairs. Noph saw a light above. The roar of battle had redoubled. By his sixth circuit, he reached a round doorway. Noph darted through it into a hallway. He halted, panting.
Which way to the sanctuary?
After a moment of indecision, he followed the echoing cries down the hall. In no time, he had reached the narthex.
Ahead of him, a shimmering curtain of darkness stretched across the doorway. A few nobles staggered out, their hands groping blindly forward. When they entered the light, the folk blinked in astonishment before gathering their wits and darting away from the sanctuary as quickly as they could.
Bring them out. That's what a hero would do here. Lead the people from the darkness into the light. One more deep breath, and into the crowded chaos he plunged.
Khelben writhed beneath an agonizing weight. It had fallen upon him just when the shadow warriors appeared. It had fallen with the very weight of the palace itself.
He had seen only the flare of candles, figures taking shape out of flames. Then, as the warriors became flesh and leapt to the floor, the terrific crushing blackness had fallen atop the Lord Mage of Waterdeep.
He gasped, air seeping damnably slowly into and out of his lungs. He struggled to hold to consciousness, all his spells lost beneath numb fingers.
Whatever magic had brought these warriors here, it was ancient-a sorcery that could shatter worlds.
Noph had made numerous forays into the wheeling black chaos of the sanctuary. Because of his efforts, hundreds of guests had fled to safety. Their battered rescuer did not even waste time watching them flee but rushed back for more souls.
It was dangerous work in that unnatural darkness. Each time Noph grappled a given guest, he was paid back with a royal pummelling. In a battle at midnight, saviours and slayers are hard to distinguish. In payment for his assistance, Noph had received two black eyes and a broken nose, as well as bruises and scratches ail over his body.
Once he had wrestled a guest into the light, though, it was a different story. Some were almost penitent. A few even apologized, or kissed him on the very cheek they had previously punched. All of them, though, quickly turned about and pelted for the nearest exit.