jetted, smoking, from the wound.
Shield landed on his back. A blue-and-bronze loomed above him, halberd poised for a downward thrust. The orog hacked the man's legs from beneath him. Then he arched his body backward, snapped forward, and so regained his feet.
The monster towered over him. Shield raised his swords and charged.
Pincers caught him by arms and legs, lifted him clear of the floor again. The orog bellowed rage. His muscles heaved with all their awesome strength, but this time the monster had made sure of its grip. Shield was held immovably while other pincers made play. They cut the thick steel of his breastplate as if it were cheesecloth.
The thing that had called itself Armenides of Ao worked on the orog for longer than was strictly necessary. Then it tossed the great limp shape aside and glided forward on many legs, to the secret passageway and down.
28
The stairs led down through the dungeon levels Zaranda knew so well and on, to ever-lower reaches of echoing chambers and twisty corridors. The stonework ceased to be sharp-edged and new. The stones became rounded, lichen-grown, the mortar crumbly. Zaranda found herself wondering whether these catacombs were remnants of buildings razed to make way for the palace, or if they had entered the Underdark for true.
Side passages branched occasionally to the left or right. There was no ambiguity about which was the main pathway, however. Nor the right one-periodically they would catch a glimpse of Faneuil and his golden-haired captive, well ahead and below.
They had just begun descending a short flight of stairs when Stillhawk, bringing up the rear, grunted and fell across Zaranda's back. She screamed and lost her balance, and if she hadn't fallen against the wall she would have pitched headlong down the stairs.
A figure appeared in the doorway they had just quitted, raising a nocked short bow. Chen flung out an arm and screamed a single syllable. Energy darted from her outstretched fingertip and struck him in the chest. With a cry, he fell backward out of sight.
'I did it!' the girl exulted, grabbing Zaranda's arm and dancing up and down. 'I hit him with a magic missile!'
Zaranda squeezed her arm and smiled. 'Well done.'
Stillhawk was on his feet, leaning against the wall. He broke off the shaft in his flesh and threw it down. Let's go, the ranger signed.
At the base of the steps a door stood open. They passed through to find themselves in a hemicylindrical chamber of glazed green brick, fifty yards long and maybe seven high. Lamps hung from hooks set high on the curved walls, their light hued purple by aged glass. The reek of sulfur was very strong.
At the far end a door stood open. They ran for it. Echoes of their own footsteps pursued them.
They had almost reached the door when an arrow grazed Zaranda's right ear. She looked back to see men with short bows kneeling at the chamber's other end and Stillhawk lying on his face with a thicket of arrows jutting from his back. 'Vander!' she screamed, and halted.
Chen grabbed her arm. 'Zaranda, run! You can't help him.'
Arrows moaned past Zaranda's face and with musical pings struck the brickwork above and around her. The short bows weren't very powerful, and their trajectory was high; the low ceiling made it difficult to shoot with any accuracy even at this short range.
Stillhawk stirred, rose to his knees, his feet. He turned, took an arrow from his quiver, drew it, and loosed. A bowman screamed and fell with the shaft in his throat even as a blue-and-bronze arrow struck Still-hawk through the thigh.
Zaranda could stay and watch no more. Weeping, she and Chen darted through the door-and halted.
It gave onto a landing perhaps ten feet by ten. Around its edges was open air-a cavern, so huge its ceiling and sides were only hinted at by reflected glints of the red glare cast by a river of molten lava that flowed past the foot of the stairs, a hundred yards below.
Zaranda shook her head. 'Lava?' she asked, incredu-lously. 'Who'd expect to find live lava flowing beneath Zazesspur?'
'Look!' Chen called, and pointed. Barely visible for distance, dimness, and eye-watering fumes, the king and Tatrina were running away from them along the lava river.
Without a glance back to where her old friend was conducting what was almost certainly his final stand, Zaranda started down the stairs.
Taking time to aim, Stillhawk shot down three more archers. He was struck four times in return. He backed toward the doorway, hoping to shoot from its cover.
An arrow laid open the right side of his forehead. He reached the door, slipped around and out of the line of fire. At once he discovered that he stood on a tiny plat-form in a great cavern, and that he was out of arrows.
He plucked one from his breast, nocked it, and swung out into the doorway. Guardsmen ran toward him. He shot the foremost, pulled another arrow from his body. As if to replace it, several more hit him.
He shot two more blue-and-bronzes. The survivors got smart and went to one knee to improve their aim. Hit half a dozen more times, Stillhawk had to lurch back.
His legs were rubbery, head light from loss of blood. Only the pain and his fierce determination not to let Zaranda down kept him alert. He tore yet another arrow from his flesh, nocked it, drew back the string, and swung out into the entryway once more.
A sword whistled right to left and chopped the elven longbow in half.
A small and ugly man confronted him. He had ginger mustachios, bandy legs, and a prominent, fleshy nose. Crackletongue hung in his heavily gloved hand, and the curved blade glowed as if white-hot, signifying the nearness of evil.
Stillhawk dropped the useless halves of his bow and drew his long sword.
'So you're the ranger,' the shorter man said in a sneering voice. 'You look more like a pincushion to me.'
He advanced. Stillhawk backed away slowly, warily, till a foot came down with the heel on emptiness.
'Nowhere left to run,' the flamboyantly mustached man said. 'Shall we try blades, or will you just jump?'
Giving the ranger no chance to answer, the man thrust at his right eye. Stillhawk's wrist twitched. Long sword caught saber and knocked it aside.
Shaveli Sword-Master raised his eyebrows and took a step back. 'Not bad,' he said, and pressed the attack again.
He was devilishly quick. Crackletongue darted like a blue-white flame, but Stillhawk, wounded nigh death as he was, knew how to parry by the slightest rolls of his powerful wrist. He kept the crackling blade away from his flesh.
At last Shaveli snarled in exasperation, 'Have done! I have no more time for you!' He feinted for Stillhawk's knee, then thrust again for the eyes. When the ranger knocked his blade up, he reached forward, grabbed a handful of the arrows still jutting from Stillhawk's chest, and twisted.
Stillhawk cried out in pain. Shaveli ran him through the heart. For a moment the ranger glared defiance at his tormentor. Then the light went out of his eyes, and his head lolled loose upon his neck.
Gently-so that the larger man would not slip over the edge, carrying the magic blade with him-Shaveli lowered Stillhawk's corpse to the platform. He braced a foot against the ranger's rib cage and pulled his weapon free.
'Friend Shaven,' a familiar voice called from the far side of the door, 'bide a moment.'
The Sword-Master spun, and his eyes grew wide.
Gasping from exertion and fumes, the two women reached the bottom of the many-switchbacked stair. Lava bubbled almost at their feet. The blazing heat from it seared the exposed skin of the faces and hands.
'There.' Chen pointed ahead. Smoke streamers coiled through the air before them, half-visible, making their
