Ascendancy of the Last - Lisa Smedman [105]
Naxil would have choked the life from him, were it not for the magic that held him fast and the drug that sent the world spinning. He consoled himself with the knowledge he'd fought well, with dagger and spellsong. After shaking off the charm the green-eyed male had cast on him, he'd personally killed three of Ghaunadaur's cultists. He'd danced from shadow to shadow, attacking from behind, avoiding the oozes and targeting their masters. He'd kept fighting long after realizing the battle was already lost. He'd prayed, then, that death would find him-that he'd make his way to the Masked Lady's side and sit in her cool, calming shadow.
In the end, despite those fervent prayers, despite his valiant struggles, he'd been captured, not killed. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. Eilistraee grant that whatever happened next, it happened quickly.
Dozens of other captives kneeled or lay nearby-most of them lay worshipers routed from the Hall of the Faithful after the bubbling ooze had bored through the songwalls. Naxil spotted Jub, the half-orc, and several others he knew by name. Those too badly wounded to walk had been left to die The remainder were forced, like Naxil, to drink. There was even a Protector in their ranks, her chain mail hanging in tatters and her singing sword gone. It wasn't Leliana-Naxil had searched anxiously for her among the captives, but failed to spot her. He prayed she'd gone to Eilistraee's grace via a quick death.
Oozes slithered back and forth across the Cavern of Song, reducing the bodies of the fallen to puddles of sizzling flesh. The fanatic on the driftdisc, meanwhile, ordered the captives to their feet. "Follow," he commanded.
Together with the others, Naxil shuffled after the driftdisc. A second fanatic walked beside the line of captives lashing out with his whiplike rod at those who lagged. The amber-colored tentacles struck the moon elf next to Naxil, and she screamed as her skin burst into flame. Naxil tried to catch her, but the drug he'd been forced to drink made him stagger, and the words to his healing spell tangled together in his mind. The moon elf fell to the ground, her pale skin charred black. The reek of cooking meat filled the air.
The fanatic raised his rod to lash Naxil. As his arm whipped forward, another fanatic caught it and said something to him. The first one's aim was thrown off and just one tentacle struck Naxil's shoulder. He gasped as its heat seared into his flesh. The intense pain gave him a moment of clarity, and he whispered a song. Flesh knitted together. His mind cleared fully as Eilistraee's healing grace pushed the drug from his body. Yet the magical compulsion remained. Obedient as a soldier, he marched behind the driftdisc. He passed the fallen statue of Qiluй-its face now reduced to a rounded blob by the slithering oozes-and descended into the spiral staircase the statue had once hidden.
Together with the other captives, he wound his way downward. The narrow staircase forced them into single file. Naxil heard the driftdisc scraping against stone up ahead, but couldn't see it. Nor could he see the fanatic who brought up the rear. Now was his moment-while they weren't watching. He sang a prayer, rendering himself invisible.
They reached the bottom of the staircase and entered a cavern. Naxil knew of this place, but had never entered it: this was the cavern at the top of Eilistraee's Mound. There should have been a dancing statue here,