“I have no intention of falling to a pathetic handful of mortals,” the dracolich rumbled. Though still fierce, his speech had lost some of its strength. The blinded creature swiped his claws toward the sound of Corran’s voice. His talons whistled past the paladin but struck another target—Durwyn.
The force of Pelendralaar’s blow knocked the burly warrior to the ground. Despite the lacerations oozing blood down his entire right side, Durwyn tried to rise. He struggled, then sank back to the floor, his arms going limp. “I can’t feel my legs,” he gasped. “I can’t—”
Move, Kestrel finished silently. Apparently, Pelendralaar shared Mordrayn’s paralytic touch. Or vice versa. While Faeril dodged her way to Durwyn’s side, Kestrel sent her last dagger soaring toward the beast. The trusty blade scored another strike to his underbelly.
He hissed and lunged toward her with open jaws, but they met only the acid-edged heads of a volley of magical arrows—courtesy of Ghleanna. “That’s for my brother,” she spat.
In response, the dracolich spewed another gout of flames. The sorceress held forth her spellstaff, drawing the heat and fire into the enchanted wood. The staff glowed red with the intensity of the attack it had absorbed. White smoke wisped from its runes. Ghleanna tapped the staff twice on the floor.
The flames spilled out and raced toward the dracolich. The great beast raised his head and laughed. “You think my own fire can harm me? Foolish hatchlings!” He swept his tail in a wide arc.
Kestrel ducked, letting the tail breeze over her head. Corran and Ghleanna did likewise. She noted that for all the creature’s bluster, the swing had less energy than before. They—and Anorrweyn, working from afar?—were wearing Pelendralaar down.
The gauntlets, meanwhile, weakened the pool. The whole lake was infused with white light now, bubbling and rolling like a pot set to boil. Steam rose in the cavern, lending the air a humid thickness. The cavern smelled of sweat, fire, and blood.
Kestrel pushed damp locks off her forehead and reached for her club. She’d no desire to employ such a close-range weapon against the dracolich, but it was the only tool she had left.
Pelendralaar, however, would not give her the opportunity to use it. The dracolich beat his wings rapidly, trying to take flight. Did he seek to escape or attack from above?
As the creature rose in the air, his tail snaked down behind him. Corran dropped his shield and ran to the tail. He grabbed it just as its end was about to slip from reach. The paladin dangled one-handed for a moment, then sheathed his sword and began to climb the tail as if it were a rope.
Pelendralaar swung his tail like a pendulum, trying to dislodge Corran, but each sway threatened his equilibrium as he struggled to hover in the cavern’s close quarters. He didn’t have room to properly spread his wings, and Athan had significantly damaged one of them before being flung aside. Corran climbed higher, using the tail’s spikes as a ladder.
“Hang on, Corran. Hang on,” Kestrel whispered. Ghleanna sent another barrage of acid arrows to distract the creature. Durwyn, now restored by Faeril, also launched bolts at the beast. The missiles struck Pelendralaar in the neck and upper body. Faeril dashed to Athan’s side now that the path was clear.
Though Kestrel could smell the acid burning through what was left of the dracolich’s skin, the beast ignored it. He kicked with his hindlegs, but could not quite reach the paladin. Furious, he shot a series of magical bursts at Corran. Those hit but did not deter Tyr’s knight.
Corran scaled farther up the dracolich’s body. Kestrel held her breath each time he touched another spike—one scratch and the paladin would become paralyzed and tumble helpless to the ground. As Ghleanna released a third volley of arrows upon the creature’s head, Pelendralaar awkwardly maneuvered himself until he was directly over the Pool of Radiance.
As the pool boiled below, Corran reached Pelendralaar’s back. When the beast twisted his neck to snap up the paladin in his jaws, Corran was ready. With an upward thrust, he drove his sword through the underside of the creature’s jaw and into his skull. “I smite thee in the name of Tyr the Just!”
Pelendralaar threw back his neck, then dived headlong toward the bubbling pool. The paladin rode the creature like a runaway horse. The two plunged into the frothy water and disappeared into its depths.
“Corran!” Kestrel ran to the pool’s edge. She and the others peered into the cloudy water but saw no sign of him.
Suddenly, the center of the pool spouted. Kestrel’s heart stopped as a fully restored Pelendralaar shot into the air—without Corran.
“I live again!” the dracolich shouted in triumph, buffeting his wings as he hovered near the ceiling. Flames flickered in his eyes once more. He celebrated his restored strength with a mighty roar.
Steam poured from the pool below, filling the cavern with sultry fog. The boiling water hissed and popped. Before their eyes, the waterline dropped—one foot, ten feet, a score and more.
The vapor surged up at Pelendralaar. The creature’s bellow quickly dissolved into a choked gasp. His tail crumbled to powder, his legs next. When his wings disintegrated, the rest of him plummeted into the basin.
The dracolich exploded in a cloud of dust on the dry pool floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
White mist filled the cavern. It swirled and danced, propelled by the cool breeze that drifted in with the early dawn light from the hole in the chamber wall. Kestrel could barely make out the faces of her friends, though all sat mere feet away.
All but one.
Kestrel felt Corran’s absence more strongly than she’d ever imagined possible. She’d said all along that this mission was suicidal, told the paladin repeatedly that they faced insurmountable odds, that they couldn’t go up against an archmage and a dracolich, and live to tell about it.
She hadn’t wanted to be right.
In the end, Corran had proven himself a man of integrity. A man who not only spoke about honor but lived it—and died for it to preserve what he held dear. A man worthy of the title “paladin.”
He had died a horrible death. Kestrel could not close her eyes without seeing the bandits in Phlan, the cult fighter in this very cavern—how the pool had first consumed their spirits, then their bodies. She wondered where Corran’s spirit was now. With Tyr? She hoped so.
She moved several paces away from the group, seeking solitude, but she still could hear the others speaking in low tones. Faeril. Ghleanna and Athan. Durwyn. Though the latter three spoke of returning to Elminster—and from there, home—all used the muted tones of a funeral service. Corran’s loss hovered in everyone’s thoughts.
Faeril approached to offer her curing magic. Kestrel yet suffered burns from the dragon’s fire but motioned the cleric away. “Treat the others first.” She wasn’t in the mood for ministry.
“I already have.”
With a sigh, she submitted to Faeril’s healing. As the cleric prayed, Kestrel stared into the swirling fog. Her mind was full, her heart heavy.
A pale green light appeared in the mist, far away at first, but growing closer. A figure emerged—a tall, slender woman with a heart-shaped face. She floated a foot off the ground and brought with her the scent of gardenias. Anorrweyn.
In her arms, she carried Corran’s limp body.
Kestrel swallowed the lump in her throat. She and the others rose as the ghost approached. The mist clung too closely to the paladin for Kestrel to see his face—to see what his immersion in the Pool of Radiance had done to him. The priestess gently laid him on the ground.
“Is he dead?” Kestrel knew he was, but she had to hear the words.
“Nay,” Anorrweyn responded. “Only sleeping.”
Kestrel gasped. “Really?”
“Truly, Kestrel.” The priestess smiled. “He never entered the foul water of the pool but landed safe in the Weave’s embrace. See? Already he stirs.”