Chapter Forty-Eight
A ball of normal-looking flame burst to life in Nu’ek’s palm, and she nodded for Cheyenne and Persh’al to follow her down another passage to the left.
Cheyenne leaned toward the troll and whispered, “My activator went dead.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Just turned off. Kinda hurt a little.”
He chuckled, and Nu’ek turned over her shoulder with a knowing smile, her dark face lit by the dancing shadows of the flames across the walls. “The wards beyond these walls have stood for centuries. We’ve had to add extra layers on the inside to cover our tracks.”
“You know, I felt something,” Persh’al said, readjusting his pack. “Guess that’s what cut the switch on your gear, kid.”
“It keeps the Crown out of our heads,” the golra added. “When we go dark, she goes blind.”
“Well, you sure took that one literally.” Persh’al snorted and gestured toward the light in Nu’ek’s hand.
She ignored the joke and led them around a curve in the passage before they stopped at another door, which was carved of thick black wood and had steel bolts down either side. The door was at least two feet taller and that much wider than their winged guide, and Nu’ek grabbed the iron ring on the side of the door before jerking it open.
How many doors do we have to go through in this place?
Soft, warm light spilled through the open door, followed by the sound of a dozen low voices. The golra disappeared into the room beyond, and Persh’al turned to wiggle his eyebrows at Cheyenne. “Try to keep an open mind, huh?”
“What?”
He didn’t reply before slipping through the massive doorway. Cheyenne pursed her lips and followed. What am I walking into?
It was a chamber nearly three times the size of Persh’al’s warehouse in DC. The place was lit by floating torches and orbs of light bobbing against the stone walls. A huge table of glittering black metal took up the center of the space, though the twenty chairs around it were empty. On the other side of the cavern was a stone well that dove even deeper into the earth of Ambar’ogúl, and dark, shimmering light hovered over the lip like the wall of light between the pillars of the new portal ridges. High-backed armchairs dotted the chamber, clustered in groups of three or four, and spaced along the walls were at least two dozen tunnel entrances of various sizes. Each of these was marked with an O’gúleesh symbol illuminated in different colors, but without a working activator, Cheyenne had no idea what they meant.
“By the blood of Op’paro,” someone shouted, cutting off the easy conversation inside the room. “Persh’al Tenishi. You’re still breathing.”
Persh’al spread his arms. “I’ve gotten pretty good at that, yeah.”
Cheyenne took a quick count of the magicals staring at her, most of them trolls, orcs, and goblins. She couldn’t begin to guess what the others were; two of them were covered in sharp, green-tipped quills and one could have passed for a nightstalker if it weren’t for the orange flames flickering in her eyes and the five bushy tails flitting behind her. The other magical had blood-red skin covered in spiderwebs of black and small buds of horns sprouting from his head.
One of the magicals draped in a thick black cloak that concealed everything except two burning red eyes stepped forward. The next second, the figure dispersed into millions of swarming, swirling black specks that darted across the room and rematerialized a foot in front of Persh’al, the cloak whipping around its ankles without exposing an inch of the magical’s body. “You think you can just step through that door, and we would welcome you back with open arms?”
Frowning, Persh’al eyed the magical, then shrugged. “I did expect it. Just not from you, Berloth.”
The figure lifted a four-fingered hand gloved in black leather from beneath its cloak and slowly reached out toward Persh’al’s neck.
Cheyenne clenched her fists, watching intently. If this goes south, I have no problem blasting our way out of here.
Then a low chuckle emerged from the black hole beneath the figure’s hood, and the hand clamped down on Persh’al’s shoulder to give it a tight squeeze. The leather glove creaked. “Took you long enough.”
The blue troll smiled. “You’ve waited longer.”
The handful of the staring magicals chuckled and approached the newcomers. Nu’ek stood aside and folded her arms, watching the reunion from at least two feet over anyone else. The cloaked figure released Persh’al’s shoulder and stepped back. “And how much longer must we wait for the rest?”
Persh’al dipped his head. “We’re almost there.”
“Except you brought the wrong drow.” One of the magicals with green-tipped quills cocked her head, a green-gray tongue poking out between dark lips.
The red-and-black-skinned magical narrowed all-black eyes at Cheyenne. “We’re not picking up strays.”
Cheyenne dipped her head and glared at him. “You did not just call me a stray.”
“Look at that.” The magical sneered at her, his black eyes glinting. “It talks.”
“What the hell is this?” Cheyenne turned her gaze onto Persh’al now.
The troll slowly shook his head and folded his arms, gazing at the group of magicals hidden below the city. They gathered slowly in front of their old friend and the drow halfling, emanating suspicion and a distrust Cheyenne could almost taste.
He better know what he’s doing.
Persh’al lifted his chin and scanned the faces of his alleged friends. “Who’s got a problem with the drow standing next to me?”
“All of us,” hissed a goblin with a burned, blackened patch of mottled scars across her forehead. “We don’t know this one, and a drow we don’t know is a drow who’ll bring this whole thing down on our heads.”
“Take another look.” Persh’al gestured at Cheyenne without looking away from the sneering faces. “Notice anything familiar?”
Someone hissed, and for an unbearably long ten seconds, Cheyenne’s skin tingled under fifteen scrutinizing gazes.
She
