“What in the Nine Hells?” Athrogate asked
Jarlaxle held his glowing sword up in front of him, and even tried shifting the hue of the light, but to no avail. All it did was reflect back in his eyes. He moved to the side of the room, found another door, and pushed through, but all the rooms seemed similarly filled with opaque mist, and worse, they discovered that the steam was beginning to sweep out into the corridors they’d left behind.
“This is not the way,” Dor’crae decided, and led them back the way they’d come, closing the doors behind them as they went. After a long while they at last returned to the three-way intersection, and Dor’crae pointed to one of the more natural tunnels, which seemed to go in the right direction.
“I thought ye scouted it,” Athrogate grumbled at him.
“I couldn’t have gotten to the forge and back in so short a time if I walked,” the vampire retorted.
“Oh, but that’s a smart reply,” said the dwarf. “I’m likin’ ye less and less, and soon enough to be needin’ ye less and less, if ye get me meanin’.”
Jarlaxle noticed Dahlia looking at him as if asking him to intervene, but the drow found the whole affair quite amusing, and wouldn’t much regret the destruction of a vampire, so he just smiled back at her.
The tunnel wound on but didn’t seem to be descending. They passed many side corridors and the place soon became a maze.
“Perhaps we should camp again and let Dor’crae sort it out,” Dahlia offered, but Athrogate just rambled along.
She was about to repeat that suggestion when the dwarf called out, and when the others caught up to him, they found him standing in front of another amazing mithral door, this one perfectly dwarf-sized, and with no apparent handle.
Athrogate repeated the Delzoun rhyme that had opened the great front gates of the complex, and again it worked, the ancient door gliding open with not a whisper of sound.
They heard the furnaces of Gauntlgrym then-angry, grumbling fires-though Jarlaxle had no idea how the furnaces could still be burning. Beyond the portal, a narrow stair wound downward. It wasn’t as pitch dark as before, but flashed with the orange-red glow of some distant fire.
Athrogate didn’t hesitate, hustling along the stair, moving down at such a pace that the others, except for Dor’crae, had to run to keep up.
“I will be with you presently,” Dor’crae explained when Dahlia turned back to regard him. “There’s one other corridor I wish to inspect.”
She nodded and ran off to catch up with the other two, as the vampire turned back the other way.
Dor’crae turned back, but didn’t leave. Instead, he produced the skull gem and placed it in a sheltered nook next to the door, where it wouldn’t be obvious. He stared at it with great lament, wondering, and not for the first time, if he’d been wise to enlist such dangerous allies. But Dor’crae looked back to the stairwell and thought of Dahlia and the lone diamond stud she wore in her right ear, the stud to represent her only remaining lover.
What choice had she given him?
He glanced down at the skull gem. “Down the stair, Sylora,” he whispered. He paused only a moment longer before moving off to catch up to the rest of the band.
The vampire was barely out of sight when the eyes of the skull gem began to glow red once more, the artifact coming alive with the spirit of Sylora. A short while later, it did more than that, blowing forth a magical mist that took the form of the great Thayan lady.
Once she was through, opening a gate for her minions proved no difficult task.
Chapter 8. PRIMORDIAL POWER
ATHROGATE KEPT UP HIS GREAT PACE FOR ONLY A SHORT WHILE, AND soon enough he came to a spot where he stopped cold, staring hesitantly. The walls of the stairway to either side simply stopped, and the narrow circular stairway continued to loop treacherously below him, absent even a handrail, in a wide-open chamber of many crisscrossing bridges and rail lines. The chamber was deep, the walls black with shadow, and far, far below, the floor glowed with orange and red streaks of lava. The air shimmered and waved from the rising heat.
It was loud, too, with the clanking of chains, grinding of stones, and the rumbling of massive fires.
“The stairs ain’t wet, at least,” the dwarf said to himself.
He wiped the considerable sweat from his face and started down more slowly, knowing that any misstep would lead to a long, long fall.
It seemed to go on forever, stair after stair after a hundred more stairs. Athrogate, and the others who soon followed, felt vulnerable enough on the open stairway. Then, having gone hundreds of feet below the walled section, they discovered that they were not alone.
Humanoid creatures scrambled along the lower, parallel passageways, certainly aware of the intruders. It took a while for the group to realize that the creatures moved in a coordinated manner, as if a defense was being set against them. Many of the other walkways were near enough for an archer or a spearman to be brought to bear, and many were above them, too, which left them in a terrible fix.
“Keep moving,” Jarlaxle implored the dwarf. It was rare to hear concern in the voice of Jarlaxle Baenre, but there it was.
The net around them was closing, and they all knew it-all except for Valindra, of course, who picked that moment to begin singing again.
The unknown creatures responded to that song with sharp calls of their own, birdlike but guttural, as if someone had bred a blue jay with a growling mastiff.
“Dire corbies,” Jarlaxle muttered.
“Eh?” asked Athrogate.
“Bird-men,” the drow explained. “Rare in the Underdark, but not unknown. Half-civilized, afraid of nothing, and incredibly territorial.”
“At least it ain’t orcs,” said Athrogate.
“Better that it were,” Jarlaxle replied. “Hustle, good dwarf.”
Athrogate hadn’t even touched his lead foot to the next stair when a sharp crack sounded just above them, as a stone thrown from high above clipped the metal stair.
Down they went, as more cracks of stones sounded. Valindra’s song hit an unexpected note as one rock bounced off her shoulder, though she otherwise seemed not to notice
Athrogate stopped again. Just below their position, several stone walkways crowded near the central stair, and they were not empty. Man-sized, black-bodied, bird-footed and bird-headed, the dire corbies rushed along the narrow walkways with ease and speed, and obviously without fear of missteps and deadly falls. Some glanced up at the intruders and squawked, holding wide their arms, which showed webbing from forearm to ribs, as if the appendages were caught halfway between a human’s arm and a bird’s wing.
“So, we fight,” said Jarlaxle. He snapped his wrists, his magic bracers bringing a throwing dagger into each hand. “Find the weak spots in their line, Dor’crae, and drive them from the ledges.”
“Wait,” Dahlia said before either could act. “They’re not just animals?”
“No,” the drow explained, “but close: tribal, barbaric.”
“Superstitious?”
“I would expect.”
“Keep your position here,” Dahlia bade them, and with a wry grin, she fell off the side of the stair, throwing her cloak over her head as she went.
She came out of the fall as a great crow, and uttered a series of loud, echoing cries to announce her flight. Dahlia swooped down near the dire corbies below, and when they didn’t throw their stones at her, she dared alight on the walkway in the midst of one group.
