Ascendancy of the Last - Lisa Smedman [106]
The fanatic leading the captives ordered them to stand against the wall. Naxil complied-slowly and heavily. The mist held a magic that slowed movement to a snail's pace. He winced as fragments of stone crunched under his boots, and prayed the fanatics wouldn't notice the dents his invisible feet made. He tried desperately to think of a way to break free.
The fanatic on the driftdisc stepped off it and joined those who had circled around the spot where the statue should have been. His arms lifted, and the others drew breath. At his signal they chanted in an impossibly slow drone.
The chanting intensified. The mist roiled. It swirled above the Pit, coalescing into a knot that became an eye, as large as a serving platter. The eye blinked open, emitting a dull orange light that illuminated the fanatic leading the chant. Immediately, he prostrated himself on the rubble. Slowly, the eye rotated, its sickly light washing over the fanatics one by one. Each fell to his knees in turn, crying out the Ancient One's name.
"Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur…"
Naxil stared, horrified. The puddle of orange-purple light didn't quite extend to the captives. He knew, instinctively, that Ghaunadaur considered them unworthy, beneath even its contempt. Naxil's stomach felt watery and weak, and his head swam even without the drug. Tears poured down his cheeks, soaking his mask. Beside him, the other captives wept softly.
He touched his mask to steady himself, and saw a hazy smudge: his hand, becoming visible. Hastily, he renewed his prayer, rendering himself invisible again.
The eye completed its rotation. Then it "spoke" in a voice that slithered into Naxil's mind like a damp, unwelcome slug.
Clear the Pit.
The fanatics closest to the Pit laid hands on the jumbled stone and chanted. The others touched their backs, and joined in the prayer. Chips of rock melted into mud. A stench like manure filled the cavern. The fanatics closest to the Pit made paddling motions with their hands. The mud churned. Foul-smelling steam boiled from it, rendering the air in the cavern hot and humid. The puddle of mud sagged, twisted like water down a drain, and revealed the top of a shaft with utterly smooth, glasslike walls.
The captive next to Naxil-Jub, the half-orc-fainted, either succumbing to his wounds, or to fear. Other captives tried to pray to Eilistraee, but only managed a slurred mutter, thanks to the drug.
The fanatics maintained their chant, and the mud continued to sink. With each passing moment, more fanatics descended the stairs and crowded into the cavern, lending their voices to the unholy chorus. Abruptly, the chant ended.
A second command hissed out of the floating eye. Feed them to me, it ordered. Then it disappeared.
Naxil tensed as the fanatic guarding the captives turned. "Forward," he commanded.
The fanatics parted, forming a corridor for the prisoners to walk through. "Ghaunadaur," they chanted. "Consume them. Consign them to oblivion. Devour them."
Compelled by the command, Naxil stumbled with the others to the Pit. A captive tripped and fell off the edge. Her scream wailed away into the distance. Another leaped into the Pit of his own accord, crying Ghaunadaur's name, causing Naxil's lip to curl at his cowardice. The other captives wavered at the edge. The magical compulsion wasn't quite strong enough to compel them to take their own lives.
Naxil stared down into a seemingly bottomless well. He'd heard the Pit was nearly half a league deep. Far, far below, he saw a bright silver glow. He wondered if it were the planar breach Cavatina had warned them about.
The fanatics closed in behind the captives. The push of a hand sent another of Eilistraee's faithful into the Pit. Others