Pool of Radiance_ Ruins of Myth Drannor - Carrie Bebris [70]
Harldain’s expression grew troubled. “Of course, you have to find the torc first-last I heard, a dark naga in the dwarven dungeons had the thing.” He narrowed his brows at Jarial. “What’re you grinnin’ about?”
“You mean this torc?”
CHAPTER TEN
“Drow,” Kestrel whispered, squinting in the dim torchlight.
Ghleanna rolled her eyes. “Not more of them?”
“Afraid so.” Kestrel shared the mage’s sentiment This was the fourth such patrol they’d seen since entering the catacombs. The ebon-skinned, white-haired warriors seemed to swarm the undercity, their fierce war paint and lethally sharp halberds boldly declaring their right of occupation to anyone foolish enough to question their presence. Unlike the orogs Kestrel’s party had observed in the dwarven undercity, the drow were a close-mouthed people. No stray snatches of conversation had revealed their purpose in Myth Drannor.
“If we double back and take that other fork, perhaps we can bypass their encampment altogether,” Corran suggested.
Kestrel shrugged, unconvinced. So far they’d successfully avoided detection by the dark elves, but their luck couldn’t hold out forever. They’d been fortunate enough to escape serious combat with [4]all the undead creatures wandering about. Corran and Faeril had managed to turn away most of the shadows and zombies, and the cleric had even destroyed the skeletons they’d come upon with a single holy word.
As much as Kestrel disliked facing undead beings, she dreaded an encounter with the dark elves more. The drow had a reputation for cruelty toward their enemies-who, from what Kestrel understood, comprised just about everyone not drow. Even the unliving gave them a wide berth, lairing in separate parts of the dungeons.
They retreated down the rough-hewn tunnel. Once, Kestrel would have considered these dense subterranean warrens well constructed, but they couldn’t help but suffer in comparison to the superior passages of the dwarves. Given their elven creators and their ancient age, however, the corridors and chambers remained in surprisingly good condition-from what she could see of them, anyway. The lighting was poor to say the least, with wispy flames barely clinging to widely spaced torches. She supposed they were lucky to have any light at all. Drow were known for their ability to see clearly in the dark, and the undead certainly hadn’t lit the brands. The torches must be for the benefit of another mortal race. The cultists?
Corran led the group around a bend. A fork they’d passed previously lay just a few hundred feet beyond. Suddenly, the paladin stopped short-but not before a band of drow in the intersection spotted the party. “Hold!” one of them cried. “If you value your wretched lives!”
“They’ve nowhere to go, Razherrt!” came a voice from behind them. “We heard their noisy clanking all the way down at our post.”
Beshaba’s bad breath! They were surrounded! Kestrel tensed, swearing silently at the Maid of Misfortune as she prepared to grab Loren’s Blade and hurl it in a single swift movement should the need arise. Corran’s hand rested on his sword hilt, while Durwyn gripped his axe more tightly. Faeril stood with hands on hips, her fingers inches from the hilt of her new sword.
“Humans. How such a primitive race has survived this long baffles the mind.” The dark elf Razherrt laughed humorlessly as he approached. Six other warriors accompanied him. All wore black leather armor emblazoned with the symbol of a phoenix rising toward a dark green moon. Similarly marked bracers on Razherrt’s arms set him apart from the others. Their patrol leader, Kestrel guessed.
The drow fighters pointed their halberds at Kestrel’s party, but Razherrt held his weapon upright as if unconcerned by