Ghleanna nodded in response to Corran's statement. "How well do you know the baelnorn?" she asked Anorrweyn. "If we seek help from him, will he aid us?"
"I know he would," the priestess responded. "Guarding the Mythal is his whole reason for being. Miroden Silverblade can use the gem to undo the corruption of the Mythal. That should help you drive out the evil that has invaded Myth Drannor."
"Can you take us to him?" Jarial asked.
"Alas, I cannot." A note of sorrow crept into the spirit's voice. "Once my spirit walked freely on this plane to continue My Lady's work. But vandals stole my skull from its resting place beneath this shrine. I cannot leave this ghostly building until it is returned. Forsooth, I can scarcely cling to the present." Her image flickered again, disappearing for longer beats of time than before. "Eltargrim—Coronal—where are you? Shall the Tel'Quessir drown uncaptained in this dark sea?"
Kestrel found herself feeling sympathy for the trapped spirit: Anorrweyn's consciousness had survived her death only to see her mortal remains scattered about like so much litter. How horrible—to have pieces of one's body dispersed over ruins, while one's consciousness forever flitted between centuries.
"No, no—I must hold to the living moment a while longer." The priestess clawed at the air, fighting a temporal battle they could not witness. "Night falls again on the eve of my death. The spellfire comes. Listen, before I am caught in its blaze once more. . . . Seek out the baelnorn yourselves. He lives deep below Myth Drannor's surface, in the catacombs beneath Castle Cormanthor. Harldain Ironbar, whose spirit yet haunts the Onaglym, can help you gain access to the catacombs. Once inside, the baelnorn's lair is marked with the Rune of the Protector." She traced the symbol in the air. To reach him, you must know the Word of Safekeeping: Fhaomiir."
Corran rose and bowed once more. "We thank you for your aid, Anorrweyn Evensong. I but wish we could do more to help you."
"You can ..." Anorrweyn's image flickered, disappearing for so long that Kestrel thought she would not return. Nonetheless, the strong-willed spirit fought her way back to the present one more time. "I believe my graverobbers were minions of a lich who dwelt within the catacombs. They may have taken their prize there. If you should happen upon my skull—"
"Of course," Corran said.
"I could then stand with both feet in this time. I could help you further." Anorrweyn smiled, the first smile they had seen from her. The expression lit her whole face with an angelic glow, sparking a response in Kestrel that caught the rogue by surprise. She wanted to aid the ghostly priestess, wanted to help this gentle, noble spirit obtain some peace as she faced eternity trapped on this earth.
"I promise you, priestess, we will do all we can," Kestrel said solemnly. "It would be our privilege to restore your skull to its sacred resting place."
The vow—the first words Kestrel had spoken since Anorrweyn appeared—pleased the priestess. Corran looked at her in astonishment, approval dawning in his eyes.
Kestrel rose and turned away from the paladin's gaze, intending to join Durwyn at the entrance. She didn't need Corran D'Arcey's approval, or anyone else's for that matter. Helping Anorrweyn just felt like the right thing to do.
A small cry from Faeril arrested her attention. Anorrweyn's form was fading from view, wavering and shimmering as it dimmed.
"Be not afraid, daughter," the priestess said. "I must leave you now. But return with my skull and I shall be stronger." Anorrweyn Evensong was but a faint outline now, rapidly disappearing altogether. "Trumpets cry . . . the tide rushes in.... Summon the armathors!"
With that, the elven spirit was gone. The scent of gardenias lingered.
CHAPTER NINE
The House of Gems resembled nothing so much as the dwarves who had raised it. Though the Onaglym was a large two-towered building, its stone construction lent it a dense, compact appearance, giving Kestrel the impression that nothing could ever budge—or even mar—the dwarven stronghold. Despite the wars that had rocked the rest of Myth Drannor, the fortress stood solid and strong, undaunted by the changes wrought upon the city around it.
Here they would find Harldain Ironbar, or so Caalenfaire had said. As both the diviner and Anorrweyn had mentioned the dwarven spirit—did all the ghosts in this town know each other?—visiting him seemed the next logical step of their mission. Besides, they needed to learn from Harldain how to enter the catacombs if they ever hoped to meet the Protector or locate Anorrweyn's skull.
The Onaglym's exterior betrayed no sign of cult sorcerers still occupying its Round Tower. In fact, with the exception of the cultists, the rest of the city's evil denizens seemed to give the fortress a wide berth. The dwarven meeting hall appeared to have escaped the looting and lairing that characterized most of Myth Drannor's surface buildings. After the trap the party had encountered while trying to reach the Room of Words, Kestrel could guess why.
They found the main door open, a fact that bothered Kestrel almost as much as the eerie rhythm, like a giant heartbeat, coming from within. Pa-pum. Pa-pum. It was an ominous greeting, to say the least. While the others speculated about the source of the faint noise, she spent twenty minutes searching the doorway for traps. Finally Corran, eager to investigate, simply walked through the entrance. He turned around, unscathed. "Sometimes a lucky break is just a lucky break, Kestrel."
She rolled her eyes. Sometimes. Not often. And based on previous experience, not in this fortress. Kestrel hung back as the others brushed past her into a small courtyard containing the statue of some long-forgotten dwarven hero. An archway led to a larger, open area beyond dotted with more statues.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
She scanned the walls, floor, and ceiling once again. Dwarves would not leave the front door—even the front door of a building they were abandoning as they fled the city—hanging open. The last one out would have closed the door and extinguished the lights. There had to be something she wasn't seeing.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Corran cast an impatient glance her way. "Are you coming or not?"
Still suspicious, she relented. "Coming."
The moment she stepped through the doorway, an iron door clanged down behind her. Damn it all! How had she missed that? She let fly a stream of expletives against crafty dwarven engineers. "Lucky break, my arse! I told you it was too easy to get in here!" Before her companions could answer, she turned her back on them to study the iron door. She had a feeling they would be using a different exit.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
"Kestrel, we're inside now." Corran's voice grated on her nerves. "Let's find Harldain—I'm sure he can tell us how to get out."
"Just give me a minute!" she snapped. Corran was probably right, but the undiscovered trap had bruised her pride.
"Suit yourself. We're going on ahead."
"You do that." Arrogant, insufferable jerk... She heard him leave, heard the others following, all except Durwyn, whose presence she yet sensed, though some feet away. He waited quietly as she continued to examine the door.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Less than a minute later, his voice broke the stillness. "Uh, Kestrel?" Durwyn spoke softly, probably afraid of irritating her further.
She tried to tamp down her annoyance and keep her tone even. "Yes, Durwyn?" From behind, she heard the warrior rattling around. He was closer than she'd thought. Good grief—was he deliberately scraping his armor across the stone floor? She tried to block out the noise and concentrate on her task, running her hand along the smooth iron door.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
"I'd turn around if I were you."
A sense of dread shot through her. She spun on her heel to face him.
And found herself looking straight into the eyes of a dwarf.
The statue in the center of the courtyard had come to life. The bearded champion, armed with a two-handed axe, stood between her and Durwyn. The dwarf stared at her, his expression inscrutable. She stared back as her mind raced. Should she slowly circle towar
d Durwyn? Say something to the animated statue?
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
The dwarf winked. Mischief somehow twinkled in his cold stone eyes. Kestrel released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding and allowed the muscles in her shoulders to relax.
He leaped off the pedestal to attack.
The stone guardian swung his weapon in a wide arc meant to catch Kestrel in the midriff. Instinctively, she dropped to the floor and rolled to one side. The blade struck the door with a deafening clang! that left a dent in the iron.
She paled at the display of strength. A single blow from the dwarf could crush even Durwyn or cleave her in half. He came at her again, raising the axe high in the air this time.
She rolled once more, then jumped to her feet The dwarf's axe struck the floor, sending rock chips flying. The ring of steel on stone echoed off the walls.
Pa-pum, pa-pum. The mysterious thumping continued, but her own heart beat double time. She noted that the statue's movements, though deliberate, were slow. Durwyn had moved forward to aid her, but she grabbed his arm instead. "Let's find the others!" She tugged on his hand, urging the big man to abandon the fight. If the dwarf followed them, at least they could face him with help.
They darted through the archway—only to discover an even worse scene. Corran, Faeril, and the two sorcerers were locked in combat with three more animated statues, and other figures nearby seemed to be stirring to life. Kestrel's gaze swept the fortress ward. At least two dozen dwarven sculptures were scattered about the grounds. They couldn't possibly fight them all.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Across the embankment, another iron door stood open. If they could reach it and close it behind them, they would be safe from the statues—though with that strange, perpetual thumping noise ringing off the walls, who knew what lay on the other side? Kestrel heard the first dwarf catching up to them, and a swing from one of the other statues had just narrowly missed Corran's head. It was a chance they would have to take.
"There are too many statues!" she shouted, hoping the others would hear her over the sounds of combat. "We have to outrun them!" The sorcerers were launching their magical volleys from a distance. They should have no trouble dropping their attack to flee. Corran and Faeril, on the other hand, might require aid to disengage from combat.
"I've never retreated from a battle," Corran declared, parrying another blow. Kestrel was surprised his warhammer hadn't snapped under the force of the statue's strike.
Anger welled within her. Would Corran rather die than listen to her? Durwyn nearly jerked her off her feet as an axe whistled past her ear—the first dwarf had caught up to them. The blow struck a granite fountain, sending huge chunks of rock scudding across the ground.
"Abandon this one!" Durwyn called out. He pushed her forward, turning around to guard their backs. "Go, Kestrel! Lead the way. I'll be right behind you."
Would the others follow? She had no time to speculate. With a quick survey and a split-second decision, she darted across the ward.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Durwyn shadowed her steps. He paused, however, to pick up a large chunk of granite, which he launched at the legs of Faeril's opponent. The statue tottered, ceasing its offensive just long enough for the cleric to break free of combat and join the retreat. Ghleanna and Jarial also followed.
They had to dodge the blows of several already-animated statues before reaching terrain where no guardians yet stirred. Kestrel steered as far as possible from statues that had not yet awakened, hoping to minimize the number of attackers. The likenesses were positioned, however, so that no intruder could bypass them all. Every hundred paces or so they awakened another one.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum. The thumping grew louder as they traversed the ward. Whatever was making that noise, they were running toward it.
At last, they reached the second iron door. As they ducked inside, Kestrel quickly scanned the interior for the source of the thumping sound. Spotting nothing, she turned around to see whether Corran had joined them.
"Damn him!" She could have spat nails. The paladin remained behind, stubbornly trying to hold his ground. Before she could stop him, Durwyn headed back to aid Corran. "Durwyn! No!"
The fighter could not return the way they had come, for by now the statues Kestrel's party had awakened were fully animated. He was forced to chose a less direct path, rousing new guardians in the process. He reached the beleaguered paladin just in time to block a strike that would have hit Corran from behind.
Damn Corran D'Arcey to the Abyss! His arrogance now endangered Durwyn as well. The statues were closing in on them—and those that weren't headed toward the door where Kestrel and the others stood watching.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Durwyn shouted at his comrade, but the distance, the everpresent heartbeat, and the sounds of the stone dwarves' laborious movements prevented Kestrel from making out the words. Whatever he said, however, seemed to sink through Corran's thick skull. The two began to retreat, Durwyn leading them along a circuitous route past the last of the sleeping statues. A dozen stone dwarves approached from all sides.
Ghleanna muttered something. Kestrel, her attention divided between Durwyn's plight and the half-dozen statues marching her own way, missed what she said and asked her to repeat it. When she glanced at the sorceress, however, she realized Ghleanna was casting a spell.
A huge mass of sticky strands suddenly draped itself over most of the dwarves chasing Durwyn and Corran. The enormous spider web gummed up the statues' movements, impeding their pursuit. At the same time Jarial uttered a command of his own at the dwarves approaching the door. Their advance instantly slowed to a rate that would have looked comic had the danger they posed not been so great.
The two fighters still had to dodge the blows of four unaffected statues that blocked their path. As they darted past, one of the dwarves landed a strike on Durwyn's left arm, nearly severing the limb. The warrior cried out and gripped his arm to his side, but kept moving.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
Kestrel forced herself to watch their final approach but could not look at Durwyn's face. The agony she'd seen flash across it had been so intense it left her own knees weak. Blood streamed down his side.
Anger at Corran battled fear for her friend. Her friend. She hadn't thought of Durwyn that way until this moment, but she'd probably be dead right now if he hadn't stayed behind in the courtyard waiting for her. He'd been a faithful companion to her, to them all—which was why he was now injured. She regretted every unkind or impatient thought she'd ever had toward him.
The two made it to the door just as Jarial's spell wore off the nearest dwarves. Kestrel, Jarial, and Ghleanna swung shut the heavy door while Faeril immediately attended Durwyn. "Sit down," she said calmly, helping him to the ground.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum. With the door closed, the thumping echoed louder. Kestrel tried to block it from her mind as she knelt beside the injured warrior. Durwyn's face was pale—he'd already lost a lot of blood. His eyes held the steely look of someone trying to mask suffering.
She'd never felt this scared for someone else, not since Quinn had died. Instinctively, she reached for his good hand and forced herself to give him a wobbly smile. "We're lucky Faeril is with us. You're going to be fine." Eyes never leaving his face, she said to Faeril, "Tell me how to help you."
"Just keep doing what you're doing," the elf said gently, beginning her prayer of healing.
Behind her, Kestrel heard Corran approach. He cleared his throat. "May I assist?"
She looked up at him, her face hot. "I think you've done quite enough already." She had much more to say, but she didn't want to make a scene in front of Durwyn.
Remorse flickered across the paladin's features. "Perhaps I have," he said more to himself than to her. She wished he would just go away, but he remained, watching Faeril's ministrations.
Kestrel talked to Durwyn quietly while the cleric tended to him. The warrior was weak but lucid. "Thank y
ou for watching my back earlier, in the courtyard," she said.
"I—" He paused as if choosing his words. "I know that I'm not the smartest guy in the world. I'm good with an axe, but I'm not so good at figuring things out. So when I find people smarter than me, I trust them to do most of the thinking. You've been right about a lot of things so far, Kestrel. When you said there was a trap, I believed you."
Durwyn's words heartened her. She hadn't been shouting into the wind this whole time, struggling in vain to be heard. Someone had been paying attention.
When Faeril finished, Durwyn's arm was fully healed. He rested awhile on the floor as the remainder of the party assessed their surroundings. They stood inside the main building of the fortress, in a great hall with numerous wooden tables, benches, and other furnishings all still in excellent condition. Even the tapestries on the walls, colorful depictions of dwarven artisans engaged in their crafts, seemed unaffected by age.
At the opposite end of the hall, two staircases led to the second floor. The periodic thumping sound, louder in Kestrel's ears now that Durwyn was out of danger, resonated off the stone walls. It repeated every minute or so, like the heartbeat of a man who refused to die. The noise seemed to come from above.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
They climbed the stairs to find a single large room—and Harldain Ironbar. Or so they assumed. A dwarven spirit occupied the center of the chamber. The middle-aged lord had apparently been a figure of some standing in Myth Drannor, judging from his thick fur cloak, ringed fingers, and the chain of office around his neck.
"I'd say that's Harldain, all right," Kestrel said. "But what's the matter with him?" The dwarf stood transfixed, his translucent image unmoving even under the party's scrutiny.
Ghleanna held two fingers up to the ghost's face, gliding them back and forth as she watched his eyes. When she moved her fingers quickly, the eyes remained still. But when she moved them slowly, his pupils followed the movement. "He seems to be in a state of arrested animation," she said. "He can't move, but I'll bet he can hear us."
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