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 the 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 the possibility of any sudden moves by the lowly adventurers. His gaze swept the party, rapidly assessing each member, lingering on Ghleanna. "A half-breed. I see the People continue slumming."

The half-elf remained silent under the draw's insults. Corran, regarding the patrol leader warily, removed his hand from his weapon to indicate peaceful intentions. "We seek only to pass through."

A sneer crossed Razherrt's chiseled features. "You presume too much, human. The House of Freth does not appreciate vermin trespassing through its territory." As he spoke, he almost absently moved his hands in a series of gestures, as if he spoke in sign language.

"We did not realize the House of Freth laid claim to these halls."

Razherrt studied Corran with an intensity that Kestrel thought would bore holes through the paladin's forehead. The leader of the other patrol said something in a language Kestrel had never heard before. Whatever he said, the statement elicited a low chuckle from Razherrt, who responded with several quick hand signals. The waiting drow warriors raised their blades.

"You find me in a good mood today, human," Razherrt said. "I deal with matters too important to waste time exterminating rodents. Get thee gone from my sight. No-better still, we shall escort you out of the Freth domain, so you do not 'accidentally' wander in again. Turn around."

Corran hesitated, apparently reluctant to expose his back to the drow.

Razherrt lowered the point of his weapon until it touched Corran's chin. "Are you hard of hearing or just simple? You have already trespassed on Freth territory- do not trespass on my patience."

The paladin turned, the expression in his eyes instructing the others to do likewise. Kestrel had rarely found herself so happy to travel in the middle of a party-as far away as possible from the drow on either end.

"Lead us to the stairs," Razherrt told the other patrol. "I don't know where our friends were headed, but they're going down now. We'll see how they like strolling below."

As they wended through the dungeons, they passed several more bands of drow at work clearing out various chambers. Apparently the House of Freth intended to stay for a while and make itself comfortable in Myth Drannor's underworld. Dark elves threw debris-and any other items they considered valueless-into carts for dumping in other parts of the dungeon. On one such cart, piled high with refuse, a skull rested as if carelessly tossed there. Was it Kestrel's imagination, or did a faint blue-white glow surround the skull?

Without warning, she was knocked to the floor from behind. Faeril sprawled on top of her.

"Get up, you sun-worshipping dog!" Razherrt kicked the cleric. "Are you too stupid to even walk?"

"I-I tripped." She caught Kestrel's gaze. The skull, Faeril mouthed before Razherrt gripped her wrist and jerked her to her feet.

So it was indeed Anorrweyn's skull! Kestrel couldn't guess how the cleric knew for certain, but at the moment she didn't have time to care. The skull lay about eight feet away, and they wouldn't be passing any closer. "My knee!" She rolled onto her side with a groan. "You landed on my knee, you bumbling fool!"

Faeril's expression clouded with genuine contrition. "I am sorry! Here, let me-"

"Oh, save it!" Kestrel awkwardly climbed to her feet and stumbled toward the cart holding the skull.

Razherrt's blade stopped her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To lean against that garbage cart, if you don't mind."

"Kestrel, watch your tongue. You insult our hosts by not seeking their permission," Corran said. Was it a true rebuke, or had he also spotted the skull? "Pray overlook my companion's rudeness, Razherrt. If you'll let her pause a moment, I'm sure she'll give you no more trouble."

Kestrel balanced on one foot, as if she couldn't bear to put weight on her right leg. Razherrt stared at her, undecided. Her heartbeat accelerated as nervous energy coursed through her veins. "My apologies, sir. You know that humans are weak. Pain clouds my judgment."

She nearly choked on the sycophantic words, but they seemed to work. The drow raised the tip of his halberd. "A minute's rest. No more."

Kestrel stumbled to the cart and leaned against it, her fingers inches away from the skull. Anorrweyn's remains seemed to radiate an aura of calm, removing the anxiety she'd felt. Now she needed but a few seconds' distraction to snatch the skull from its disrespectful perch and drop it in a deep inside pocket of her cloak.