could walk the planes by wishing it so. It was good enough to get me past the fiends that swarmed through Aetheric's dungeons, but I'm not a balor. Not even close.
But Jarin, on the other hand… Jarin has served me well on many occasions. His knowledge of sorcery is impressive for one so young. Hell have the knowledge I seek.
Before I crafted Eidola, Jarin was a persona I used quite often. It takes only a moment of concentration to shape the familiar features, the hawklike gaze, the handsome face. My mind takes the shape of his, and knowledge floods into my brain. I've forgotten how to disarm a swordsman with a twist of my wrist, I've forgotten how to mend damaged mail and how to kill with blows of my bare human fists-but I remember now the Art, and a dozen languages long forgotten, and the sensation of Mystra's weave gliding beneath the touch of my fingers and the force of my will. It might be the next best thing to my true self.
As Jarin, the faded hieroglyphs suddenly take on meaning. Myth Drannor. Cormanthyr. Menzoberrazan. Oh, if only I'd known of this place years ago! The Netherese must have scattered tombs across all of Faerun and perhaps even farther, to judge by these names I don't know. What cult or sect went to this trouble? Who did they inter in this fashion, and why? And how-Enough. That's the curiosity of Jarin. I need an answer, not a history lesson. The paladin and his ally will track me soon enough. I could probably defeat them now, but Miltiades has a nasty habit of surviving. Better to leave him here if I can, or to face him on familiar territory if he still follows.
Here. The Hall of Swords. A portal leading to the heart of Undermountain! Who could have guessed that even in the depths of the Mad Mage's domain a Netherese lord sleeps? It's amazing that Faerun holds together, considering how it's been riddled with gates and conduits, portals and doorways from a dozen lost peoples. If I had anything like a sense of wonder, I might be impressed.
Instead, I search for the portal's key. Jarin has spells to reveal such things. Best to move swiftly, before the paladin returns.
Raising Jarin's hands, I begin to weave a spell.
Chapter 4
'Eidola's gone!' Miltiades halted in the lee of an old wall, dropping to one knee. Before him, lying half-buried in the sand, he saw the pale outline of Noph's lasso. In frustration the tall paladin slammed one armored fist against the wall and turned his face away from the stinging sand. 'How could she have freed herself from the rope?'
Belgin crouched next to him, taking what shelter he could from the weathered stones. The sharper rubbed at bis jaw, frowning at the gritty coating of sand that came away with his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair and realized that he'd been thoroughly covered in dust and grit. How about a long holiday when this is all over, my boy? he thought ruefully. 'Did you know Eidola to work magic?''
'No, as Eidola she has no such skill,' Miltiades replied. 'I saw her fight against Aetheric's minions when she was abducted. The sword, not the spell, was her weapon.'
'Then the only thing I can think of is that she somehow found someone or something to command the lasso to release her. Damn the luck!' He paused, then added, 'Can you shift the target of your seeking spell?'
'No, I can only perceive the first object that I decide to seek.'
'She could be anywhere,' Belgin muttered. He reached down and picked up the lasso, coiling it at his belt. 'I guess I'll give this back to Noph if-damn!'
'What? What is it?' Miltiades asked.
'We've got another problem, Miltiades,' the sharper said. 'Why would Eidola abandon the lasso once she'd escaped from it? Magic of this sort is too valuable and rare to leave lying about, after all.'
'She left it here because we were using it to track her movements.'
'And how could she have known that?' Belgin asked bitterly.
The paladin stared at the sharper blankly for a long moment, and then sighed. 'Jacob or Rings. She must have defeated one or both of them.' He worked his fists together, slamming metal into metal as he thought furiously.
'Which way now?' Belgin asked quietly.
'Back to the palace,' Miltiades said. 'If I were her, I'd double back and try to find a portal that led to someplace else. Besides, that's where Rings and Jacob are most likely to look for us, if they still live.'
'It's as good a guess as any.'
They pushed off into the storm again, trying to feel their way back toward the palace. Belgin found himself throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. He hadn't forgotten the undead things that followed them up out of the hall of doors, and the storm around them seemed to hiss and coil with a sentient malevolence. If I had a lick of sense, I'd leave Miltiades to his vendetta and leave this hateful old ruin miles behind me, he thought.
As if he'd stumbled into an unseen razor of steel, bitter cold and visceral horror slid through the sharper's heart. The raging storm seemed to recoil as they stumbled into a clearing of unnatural calm, but the wild and random malevolence that shrieked and wailed all around them seemed to coalesce into a single presence, looming in the ash and dust ahead. Belgin opened his mouth to make light of the creeping horror around them, but for once he had nothing to say.
The whirling dust clouds parted, revealing a tattered brown figure dressed in the cerements of the tomb. Eyes of living green flame blazed in its sunken orbits, frozen emeralds dancing in an open grave. Regal trappings of gold, tarnished and ancient, marked the creature as a great lord of vanished Netheril. A grim company of lesser undead flanked the master, their eyes flickering with dim echoes of the malevolence that burned in their lord's face.
Thy hour is done, mortals. The creature's whisper rasped inside Belgin's mind like the husk of a dead insect. No man may walk the streets of Ularith and live to tell the tale.
'Stand aside, ancient one,' said Miltiades firmly. 'Our mission here does not aggrieve the dead of Ularith. We seek a fugitive who has fled to this place, and we shall leave the instant we have captured or slain her. Do not hinder us in our mission.'
You dare to make demands of me? The skeletal face was incapable of expression, but the eyes burned colder and brighter than before. A nimbus of black power sprang into being around its yellowed talons, old and strong magic wielded with undying precision. You dare?
'Miltiades, perhaps we could state our case a little more diplomatically-' Belgin began quietly, finally finding his tongue.
The paladin ignored him. 'Ancient one, I serve Tyr.
Justice is the only power I bow to, and I must do as Tyr commands me. I do not willingly intrude upon your sleep.'
What do I care what upstart godling you serve, or what purpose brought you here? Your petty mortal affairs are of no concern to me. You claim to serve a power of justice, human; now hear the judgment I render against you. You and all who follow you will remain here in unending death, guarding that which you have defiled with your intrusion! From the cold depths of the city around them, rank on rank of the dead warriors appeared, advancing in lifeless unison. The lich-lord raised its hand, black death streaming from its talons.
Miltiades sighed and lowered his warhammer. Slowly, he removed his silver helm, baring his dark mane to the howling dust. He stepped forward to meet the advancing dead, virtually defenseless. 'Claim me for your minion if you can, then,' he said.
'Have you lost your mind?' hissed Belgin. Bronze glaives and grinning death pressed in close on all sides.
Very well, the lich agreed. It spoke a word of ancient power, and the black nimbus at its hands lanced forward in an ebon spear, striking Miltiades in the center of his chest. Cold black flames danced over the paladin. Before Belgin's eyes, the smooth muscles and firm features of the Phlanian withered into dry, sere bone as the paladin's shining armor darkened with the tarnish of ages. Miltiades stood before the Netherese lich, a skeletal remnant of the warrior that he was.
'Miltiades,' whispered the sharper in horror.
I command you, the lich hissed. Claim now your companion for me.
