Pool of Radiance_ Ruins of Myth Drannor - Carrie Bebris [67]
Pa-pum. Pa-pum. With the door closed, the thumping echoed louder. Kestrel tried to block it from her mind as she knelt beside the injured warrior. Durwyn’s face was pale-he’d already lost a lot of blood. His eyes held the steely look of someone trying to mask suffering.
She’d never felt this scared for someone else, not since Quinn had died. Instinctively, she reached for his good hand and forced herself to give him a wobbly smile. “We’re lucky Faeril is with us. You’re going to be fine.” Eyes never leaving his face, she said to Faeril, “Tell me how to help you.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” the elf said gently, beginning her prayer of healing.
Behind her, Kestrel heard Corran approach. He cleared his throat. “May I assist?”
She looked up at him, her face hot. “I think you’ve done quite enough already.” She had much more to say, but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Durwyn.
Remorse flickered across the paladin’s features. “Perhaps I have,” he said more to himself than to her. She wished he would just go away, but he remained, watching Faeril’s ministrations.
Kestrel talked to Durwyn quietly while the cleric tended to him. The warrior was weak but lucid. “Thank you for watching my back earlier, in the courtyard,” she said.
“I-” He paused as if choosing his words. “I know that I’m not the smartest guy in the world. I’m good with an axe, but I’m not so good at figuring things out. So when I find people smarter than me, I trust them to do most of the thinking. You’ve been right about a lot of things so far, Kestrel. When you said there was a trap, I believed you.”
Durwyn’s words heartened her. She hadn’t been shouting into the wind this whole time, struggling in vain to be heard. Someone had been paying attention.
When Faeril finished, Durwyn’s arm was fully healed. He rested awhile on the floor as the remainder of the party assessed their surroundings. They stood inside the main building of the fortress, in a great hall with numerous wooden tables, benches, and other furnishings all still in excellent condition. Even the tapestries on the walls, colorful depictions of dwarven artisans engaged in their crafts, seemed unaffected by age.
At the opposite end of the hall, two staircases led to the second floor. The periodic thumping sound, louder in Kestrel’s ears now that Durwyn was out of danger, resonated off the stone walls. It repeated every minute or so, like the heartbeat of a man who refused to die. The noise seemed to come from above.
Pa-pum. Pa-pum.
They climbed the stairs to find a single large room-and Harldain Ironbar. Or so they assumed. A dwarven spirit occupied the center of the chamber. The middle-aged lord had apparently been a figure of some standing in Myth Drannor, judging from his thick fur cloak, ringed fingers, and the chain of office around his neck.
“I’d say that’s Harldain, all right,” Kestrel said. “But what’s the matter with him?” The dwarf stood transfixed, his translucent image unmoving even under the party’s scrutiny.
Ghleanna held two fingers up to the ghost’s face, gliding them back and forth as she watched his eyes. When she moved her fingers quickly, the eyes remained still. But when she moved them slowly, his pupils followed the movement. “He seems to be in a state of arrested animation,” she said. “He can’t move, but I’ll bet he can hear us.”
“Y… y… yes,” the ghost said. Kestrel almost missed the single word, as the thumping noise had repeated at the same instant. The heartbeat sound was still louder up here and seemed to come from the other side of a door in the southwest corner of the room.
“He can speak!” Corran moved to stand directly before the spirit. “Are you Harldain Ironbar?”
No answer. The paladin repeated his question but still got no response.
“Let’s try another question,” Jarial said. Corran stepped aside so the sorcerer could