Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 2

The Month of Flamerule

The Year of the Lost Keep (1379 DR)

Leliana leaned on the railing of the bridge that spanned the Sargauth, watching as the three fisherfolk below hauled on the line that would bring in their net. Over the rush of the underground river, she heard voices from the Cavern of Song: the faithŹful, singing Eilistraee’s praises. Though most of the voices were female, a few held a lower timbre. Even after three and a half years, it still seemed odd to hear male voices echoing through the caverns of the Promenade.

A shaft of moonlight sprang into being a short distance away, slanting down to the river. It was as if a window had opened in the rock overhead, allowing light to shine in from the World Above—light that overpowered the shimmer of Faerzress that permeŹated the cavern walls. The moonbeam was magical, a manifestation of Eilistraee’s song—a reminder that the goddess was watching over her faithful in this, her holiest of shrines.

The moonbeam played briefly over the river, making the water’s ripples sparkle. The fisherfolk tucked the line under their arms and made the sign of the goddess, touching foreŹfinger to forefinger and thumb to thumb to form a full-moon circle. Only when the moonbeam disappeared did they resume hauling in the net. The line suddenly pulled taut, drops of water flicking from it. The three pulled harder on it, but the net didn’t budge. It appeared to have snagged. Likely it had caught on the jumble of masonry on the river bottom: the remains of the original bridge.

One of the fisherfolk was a drow male; the second, a human female with skin so pale it seemed ghostly in the darkened cavern. The third was a muscular half-orc. He bared tusklike teeth in a grimace and pulled as hard as he could, but the net refused to come unstuck.

“Jub!” Leliana called down to him. “If you keep pulling like that, you’ll tear the net.”

The half-orc gave one last grunting pull—and sprawled backward on top of the other two fisherfolk as the tension left the line. A portion of the net rose from the river, dripping and filled with wriggling white blindfish. So did something else. Large and metal and rusted, it creaked as it moved. It looked like an enormous hook, thick as a heavy tree branch and tipped with a barbed point. The base of the hook, now bent, was attached to something deeper in the river that was too large and heavy to move.

Leliana belonged to the third of the temple’s watches. Her patrol didn’t begin until moonset. But she was a Protector, entrusted with one of the temple’s legendary singing swords. Anything this unusual warranted her immediate inspection, on duty or off. She strode along the riverbank to the spot where the three lay worshipers stood.

She nodded at them and touched the ceremonial dagger that hung against her chest. Then she sang a prayer: one that began softly, but that rose steadily to a crescendo with the power of a waterfall. At its conclusion, she chopped a hand through the air like a sword blade slicing down. Forced apart by her magic, the river split in a V-shaped trough that extended almost to its center. The depression widened, forcŹing the water back on either side. The remainder of the river rushed on swifter than before, compensating in speed for the narrowed space.

The gap in the river revealed an enormous mass of rusted iron, large enough to fill a small room. It lay, tipped sideways, on the river-smoothed blocks of stone from the original bridge. It was the statue of an enormous scorpion, its legs twisted beneath it and one pincer claw splayed out to the side. Its barbed tail had snagged the net.

The human stared at it through dark-lensed goggles that allowed her to see in the Underdark. “What is it?” she asked. “A statue from the first bridge?”

Leliana shook her head. She’d been assigned to the Promenade little more than a year and a half ago, but she’d made it her business to learn all she could about the temple since then. In the earliest days of the Promenade, when the first bridge was in ruins and the river impassable, a scorpion-shaped construct had been sighted, on occasion, in the caverns that opened onto the eastern banks of the Sargauth. When the Protectors extended their patrols into the caverns to the southeast a few years ago, they’d expected to run into it, but the construct had seemingly disappeared. It had, they surmised, either wandered away into some deeper corner of Undermountain or been summoned home by its maker.

“It’s a wizard’s construct,” Leliana answered. “Deadly when active, but this one looks frozen with rust.”

The human and the drow male both took a nervous step back. Jub merely grunted. He clambered down into the trough in the magic-parted river and yanked on the net, trying to free it. Blindfish scattered from it and landed gasping on the slick rock. Jub put a foot on one of the construct’s legs and boosted himself higher, trying to unhook the net from the barbed tail. Rust flaked away under his boots.

“Don’t get so close to it, Jub!” the human called, stepping forward. “Be careful!”

Jub laughed. “It’s not gonna come alive. Even if it does, there’s a Protector here.”

Leliana smiled. Three and a half years ago, at the time of the Selvetargtlin attack, Jub had been reduced to a few scattered body parts by a dracolich. The priestesses had recovered what remained, and resurrected him. He didn’t fear anything any more. Not after he’d danced, briefly, with the goddess.

Jub climbed higher. Balanced with one foot on the scorpion’s back and the other on the base of its tail, he wrenched at the net. The barbed tip bent with a loud creak. Then it snapped off, sending Jub tumbling backward in a tangle of net and wriggling blindfish. He scrambled to his feet and held up the net triumŹphantly. “There! All it took was a little muscle and—”

“Quiet!” Leliana barked.

Jub looked puzzled. “What—?”

“Listen! That crackling sound.”

Jub cocked his head. He dropped the net and used his hands. I don’t hear anything.

Leliana hesitated. Had she actually heard something, or was that just the rush of the river? Then a white-hot spark streaked out of the hollow stump where the tail barb had been. She smelled the sharp tang of lightning-burned air.

“Jub!” she shouted. “Get away from the construct! It’s animating!”

She drew her sword and motioned the other two lay worshipŹers back. Then she leaped down into the hollow in the river. She motioned Jub behind her and braced herself, sword raised. Ready. The singing sword sharply pealed, eager for battle.

More sparks erupted from the tail. Leliana heard a scratchŹing sound, like claws scrabbling against metal. It started inside the head of the construct, and worked its way down through the abdomen. Leliana began a hymn of protection, but before she could complete the verse, a smaller construct, this one made of gold and shaped like a crab, appeared at the broken end of the tail. It teetered a moment, like a plate on a blade’s edge, then fell with a clang onto the riverbed. Leliana immediately changed her prayer to one that would disable the construct, but the crab was too quick for her. It scurried sideways and disappeared into the wall of suspended water.

“What was that?” Jub asked. “The scorpion’s brain?”

“Good guess,” Leliana said, impressed. For someone who was only half drow, Jub was pretty bright.

“There!” the drow male shouted. “It’s climbing out of the river.”

Leliana scrambled up the bank and looked where he was pointing. The gold crab was scuttling sideways across a cavern fronting onto the river—a cavern that opened onto a twisting maze of passages that held the ruins of a drow city.

Leliana ran for the bridge. “Stay there,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Don’t try to follow.”

That last had been for Jub’s benefit. The half-orc wasn’t even armed, save for his fishing knife. If the construct was on its way back to its wizard master and Jub followed, he’d only get himself killed. Again.

“Right,” he called back. “No favors. Got it.”

Leliana didn’t have time to wonder what he’d meant. She hurried into the cavern on the opposite side of the bridge, past its trio of columns, and on into the maze of twisting corridors. As she ran, she cast a sending. She tried to remember the name of the young Nightshadow who was patrolling that cavern. She could picture him clearly in her mind: he was as light-footed as a dancer, with straight-cut bangs above intense red eyes. A recent convert who worshiped the “Masked Lady” and wore a sword-shaped pendant in addition to his black mask.

Suddenly the name came to her. “Naxil!” she shouted.

Eilistraee’s magic filled her. His mind touched hers. Alert. Questioning.

A construct is coming your way. A plate-sized gold crab. Halt it, but don’t destroy it. Qilué will want to examine it.

His reply was tense, excited. I see it!

Leliana ran on, turning right, then left, then right again. She passed the first of the tunnels that led back to the Sargauth—back to the cavern the crab had scurried into after climbing out of the river. This first tunnel followed a laborious, winding path, but there was a shorter route just ahead. She turned into this second tunnel, and at last reached the cavern that overlooked the river. It was empty. She stood, panting, looking around for the Nightshadow.

Which way had he gone? Three different corridors led from this cavern to the maze of corridors beyond. She bent to inspect the floor, hoping the crab might have left a dribble of water that would show her which corridor it had entered.

Naxil emerged from the third tunnel, startling her. “Dark Lady,” he panted. “My apologies. The construct escaped.”

He met her eye unflinchingly as he delivered the bad news. For someone who’d left Eryndlyn behind only a year ago—who would still have the matron mothers and their ways fresh in his mind—Naxil was refreshingly bold.

“Where did you last see it? Show me.”

Naxil spun and pointed. “This way.”

He led her down a corridor that dead-ended, and pointed at the blank wall. “There.”

Leliana examined the stone. It was utterly smooth, worn down by the oozes and slimes that had slithered through this area for centuries, prior to Qilué and her companions cleansing this place. There were no crevices into which the crab construct could have scuttled, no cracks in the floor or chimneys in the ceiling.

“Are you certain it didn’t double back? Get past you?”

“I’m certain. It ran to this spot and … vanished.”

“A portal,” Leliana concluded.

Naxil nodded. “Must be.”

Leliana sang a prayer and passed her free hand over the wall. She didn’t expect her hymn to reveal anything: three and a half years ago, after the Selvetargtlin attack on the Promenade, these passageways had been carefully examined by priestesses more experienced in portal magic than she. The corridors had also been examined by mundane means: the Promenade’s lay worshipers included several rogues who were adept at detecting hidden doors and passages. Even so, the construct had to have gone somewhere.

A flicker of Faerzress blossomed on the wall next to Naxil, momentarily washing his face with a faint blue glow. He was a handsome male—young enough to be Leliana’s son, and in his physical prime. Later, when things were quieter, she just might take him. With his permission, of course, she reminded herself. Since her redemption, she’d played by Eilistraee’s rules.

“Dark Lady?” Naxil asked. “Should I return to my post?”

“Not yet.” Leliana sheathed her sword. She wanted to check the corridor one last time, to gather as much information as she could before reporting to the battle-mistress. “And call me Leliana.”

She squatted to inspect the floor. As she ran her fingers across it she felt a slight tugging. It was almost as if the floor were a lodestone, exerting a pull upon the rings she wore. Yet neither ring should have been drawn to a lodestone. Her shield ring was platinum, and the one next to it—the ring that allowed her to levitate—was gold.

Just like the construct.

The pull suddenly intensified. Her hand jerked downŹward and touched the floor. She saw Naxil stagger sideways and felt her stomach lurch. A glow surrounded them: a golden circle in the floor, centered on the spot where Leliana crouched.

“Mother’s blood,” Leliana swore. She leaped to her feet and drew her sword.

They were no longer in the corridor. The portal had actiŹvated, sending them somewhere else: a roughly oval cavern about a hundred paces wide, with a ceiling so low Leliana could have reached up and touched it. A multitude of hair-thin crevices criss-crossed the floor, walls, and ceiling, giving them the appearance of old, cracked pottery. The stone glistened slightly in spots, as if wet: probably condensation; it felt hot and moist in here.

Leliana could see three exits, all of them natural tunnels. Two led off into darkness; from the third came a dull red glow. Warmth flowed out of it, stirring the air and filling the cavern with the smell of molten stone.

Defensive stance, Leliana signed with her free hand.

Naxil swiftly repositioned himself, his back to hers. He held his magical dagger by the point, ready for a throw. She heard him whisper a prayer of protection. Each scanned the area, their free hand held out where the other could see it in peripheral vision. Leliana’s sword hummed softly, anticipatŹing danger.

No threat spotted, Naxil signed.

No immediate threats, Leliana agreed.

Nor was there any sign of the construct. There were, howŹever, half a dozen large jumbles of iron that might once have been other constructs, lying in rusting heaps on the floor.

Do you know this place? Naxil asked.

No.

The gold circle started to fade. Leliana squatted and touched her ring to the floor. Nothing happened. The golden glow disappeared. It looked as though they weren’t getting out of here via the portal.

Fortunately, they had another way out: a prayer that would return them to the spot on the surface that Leliana had desŹignated as her sanctuary. But she didn’t want to invoke that magic yet. She wanted to learn more about where the portal had sent them.

She decided to send a brief message to the battle-mistress, before moving out. Rylla, she sent. There’s a new portal in a dead-end between Three Pillars and Dragon Throne Cavern. I accidentally activated it. Can you scry me?

She waited. No reply came. The portal had either sent them to another plane—unlikely, this certainly felt like part of the Underdark—or this place was somehow warded to prevent magical communication.

Something dripped from the ceiling onto her shoulder. A moment later she felt dampness as it soaked through her chain mail, into the padded tunic she wore underneath—then a burning as it reached her skin. Acid! She heard Naxil suck air through clenched teeth. A drop must have struck him, as well.

She sprang away from the spot, and Naxil did likewise. They looked up. Acid-slicked strands of what looked like gray mucus were oozing from one of the cracks in the ceiling, directly over the spot where they’d just been standing. The strands twitched slightly, like worms, elongating even as Leliana watched.

Gray ooze, she signed. A quick glance around confirmed her fear: the stuff was weeping from several other spots in the ceiling. In some places, acid fell in a steady dribble. In others, it dripped. A drop of it landed on her hand, stinging it.

She pointed at one of the darkened tunnels. Check it. See if it’s safe. Order given, she sprinted for the other dark tunnel and peered inside. The cracks in its floor, walls, and ceiling extended as far as she could see. Ooze seeped through the ceiling here too.

Naxil turned away from his tunnel. No good. More ooze.

Leliana hesitated. She glanced at the third exit. Was it wishful thinking, or was the floor in front of it slightly less slick? She flicked a hand: That way. If they didn’t find a safe spot soon, she’d be forced to teleport them out of here.

She had to run nearly doubled over to avoid the strands of ooze hanging from the ceiling. Acid splattered her back, dribbled in between the links in her mail, and burned its way to her skin. Other drops struck the back of her head. Naxil slipped on the acid-slick floor, nearly falling. Leliana grabbed his arm and dragged him into the tunnel.

A few paces in, the acid dribbles stopped. Though the stone here was also cracked, the gray ooze didn’t seem to like the dry heat. The farther up the tunnel they ran, the drier the floor got. At last Leliana called a halt. She gritted her teeth at the hot flares of pain in her back, shoulders, scalp, and hands. It was as if a dozen wasps were stinging her all at once. And those had just been drips. Once that ooze forced its way fully through the cracks in the cavern ceiling, there would be no going back.

Naxil’s free hand strayed to his shoulder, fingers gingerly touching an acid burn in his leather armor. He winced.

“Have you been taught the healer’s prayer?” Leliana asked softly.

Naxil nodded. “A lesser version of it.”

“Use it.”

Together they sang their prayers—softly, their voices mere whispers in the darkness. When they were done, Naxil sighed deeply and flexed his shoulder, stretching the healed skin. “What are the battle-mistress’s orders?”

“Rylla didn’t answer my sending. Looks like we’re on our own.”

Naxil glanced back the way they’d come. “I think I know where we are.”

“Oh?”

“Does the name Trobriand mean anything to you?”

Leliana shook her head.

“He was an apprentice of Halaster—the wizard who used magic to carve out much of Undermountain.”

“Him, I’ve heard of,” Leliana said in a wry voice. Among the drow, Halaster was a name often followed by an oath. Centuries ago—long before Qilué had founded the Promenade—the “mad mage” and his followers had waged war upon the drow of Undermountain, slaughtering hundreds, if not thousands. Halaster had harassed the drow with his spells through the long centuries since. When the mad mage had died four years ago, Qilué had led the priestesses of the Promenade in a song of rejoicing.

“I’ve been thinking about the construct we followed here,” Naxil continued. “Trobriand was known as the ‘metal mage.’ He was famous for his constructs. The portal may have deposŹited us in one of his sanctums. That would explain why the crab made for it.”

“How do you know so much about ancient wizards?”

Naxil’s eyes crinkled. “My father was a sorcerer. An alcheŹmist. I was training as his apprentice, before I joined the Masked Lady’s dance.”

Leliana’s eyebrows rose. Naxil was a boy of hidden talents. “Do you know any spells?”

“Only a couple of cantrips—and not terribly useful ones. I can inscribe objects with an indelible House glyph, and”—his fingers twitched, and his voice suddenly shifted to a point behind her—”I can shift sounds.”

“Not bad,” Leliana said. “So why did you give up wizardry?”

His expression flattened. “I got tired of the beatings.”

A silent understanding passed between them. Leliana had been raised in Menzoberranzan, the daughter of a noble House. She too had learned early on that prestige and punŹishment walked hand in hand. Her back was clear now, but for years she’d worn the scars of her mother’s lash. When she’d borne a daughter of her own, Leliana vowed to give her a better life.

She wrenched her mind back to the present. “Expensive, to build constructs out of gold,” she commented.

“Practical,” Naxil countered. “Gold resists acid—that’s one of the ways you can distinguish it from the coarser metals. The only thing that will dissolve it is aqua regia. Trobriand obviously intended that the crab survive the oozes, once it had used the portal.”

Leliana glanced up the tunnel, to the dull red glow. “Let’s see what lies ahead,” she decided. “I’ll lead. You watch my back. Keep close, in case I need to sing us out of here.”

They made their way down the tunnel. Here and there, Leliana could see a momentary flicker of the Faerzress that had spread far and wide when the Crones worked their fell magic with the voidstone. Its light was drowned out, however, by the red glow from up ahead.

The farther they went, the brighter the glow became. The air grew hotter and drier. Leliana breathed warily, alert for the first signs of lightheadedness. If there was lava ahead, as she suspected, the air in the tunnel could prove poisonous. She glanced back at Naxil and saw sweat beading his brow and trickling down his temples. His hair and clothes were damp, as were hers.

They came to a place where the passage bent sharply. Leliana motioned for Naxil to halt and peered around the corner. The tunnel beyond it was bisected by a deep crevice in the floor that glowed with an eye-searing red light. Heat made the air above the crevice shimmer. Leliana sniffed, and caught the whiff of sulfur she’d been expecting. Somewhere deep in that crack, lava flowed.

The gap was too wide to jump. She decided they’d risked enough for one day. Time to get out of here and report what they’d discovered.

“Touch my back,” she whispered to Naxil. “We’re leaving.”

He did so, and she sang a hymn of return, but the sudden lurch of slipping sideways through the dimensions didn’t come. The prayer should have conveyed them both to the Misty Forest shrine: her designated sanctuary. It didn’t.

Naxil waited. His eyes held a silent question.

Leliana shook her head. “Trobriand must have warded his sanctum against teleportation. I’ll try something else. Keep watch.”

She stepped away from Naxil, sheathed her sword, and hummed a wordless prayer. With one hand touching her holy symbol, she turned slowly. Which way? she asked silently. Which way is the Promenade? She concentrated on its most prominent feature: the statue of Eilistraee that had been erected at the site of Qilué’s victory over Ghaunadaur.

The magic took hold, halting her. Her extended hand jerked straight up.

“By all that dances,” she exclaimed. “The Promenade is directly above us!”

Leliana nodded to herself. That explained how the tunnel ahead had cracked open deep enough to reach lava. Both it and the other, smaller cracks must have resulted from the powerful earthquake that had rocked Undermountain four years ago, a few months before the Selvetargtlin attack on the Promenade. If Eilistraee’s statue was above this spot, the rubble-filled shaft leading to the Pit of Ghaunadaur would be somewhere nearby. It too would have been affected by the earthquake. The walls of the shaft must have cracked open wide enough for the gray ooze to slither out.

Leliana whispered her thanks to Eilistraee for setting her feet on this dance. She and Naxil had gathered important information this day, information the high priestess would want to hear. The oozes Qilué and her companions had driven from Undermountain and sealed in the Pit centuries ago were once again on the loose.

Leliana lowered her hand. The good news was that she and Naxil were still somewhere within Undermountain. Assuming this cavern system wasn’t completely isolated—a dead end—they might yet be able find their way back to the Promenade. She prayed again. “Eilistraee,” she whispered. “Show me the path. Lead me back to the Promenade.”

She felt a sense of rightness coming from the direction they’d been headed, a sense of wrongness behind her. She led Naxil around the corner, closer to the lava-filled crack. “The way back lies on the other side of that gap. Can you climb past it?”

Naxil moved ahead to inspect the wall. He whispered a prayer that would protect him from the hot stone and jammed his fingers into a crack in the wall. He braced his foot on a slight ledge and eased himself up. The ledge immediately crumbled, and his fingers slipped out. He moved to a second spot and tried again, but with the same result. He turned and shook his head. “We can’t climb past it. The stone isn’t strong enough.”

Leliana held up her hand and indicated her gold ring. “We’ll use levitation magic to get across. I’ll go first, then throw my ring to you.”

He nodded.

Leliana sang a hymn that would shield her from the worst of the heat. She ran forward and activated the ring just before reaching the crevice. She drifted over the gap, supported by the ring’s magic. Heat rose in waves, enveloping her body. She glanced down and saw glowing lava deep in the crevice. A puddle of something golden floated atop it. She thrust a hand against the ceiling, halting herself, and peered down through the shimmering heat waves. She’d been right. That was the construct.

Before she could push herself onward, a wave of dizziness swept over her. It was as if she’d just spun wildly in place. “But I didn’t,” she said aloud. “I was … the glow. Red lava gas flow dizzy down …” She drifted downward, away from the ceiling.

Naxil nicked a sign in silent speech. Leliana couldn’t make sense of it.

“Leliana!” he shouted aloud. “Your sword!”

Leliana frowned. Why was the lip of the crevice rising up to hide Naxil, and why was he shouting about swords? There was nothing here to fight. She shook her head violently, trying to clear it. The sudden movement spun her in place, which only made her dizzier. “Up float dizzy I think I’m …”

The ring responded to her command, lifting her out of the crevice until her head and shoulders pressed against the ceiling. Despite her protective spell, the stone felt hot. She shoved herself away and drifted down again. No—that wasn’t right, either! She tried to catch the lip of the crevice, but couldn’t reach it. She caught a glimpse of gold on her finger. Oh yes, her ring. Levitate. Up. The words, however, came out all wrong: “Floating chimney down.”

She descended.

“Down … no, up.” She rose. Her head cracked the ceiling.

“Mistress!” Naxil shouted.

Naxil sounded… What was the word?

“Worried!” Leliana shouted, laughing with delight at having gotten the word correct.

It was hot bobbing around above the crevice. Really hot. Sweat trickled down her face. A tiny corner of her mind shouted that she should be doing something before her proŹtective spell ran out. That thought was lost in the swirl of confusion that jumbled her thoughts like … like …

Naxil ran forward to the edge of the crevice and leaned over it, one hand extended. Did he want her to give him something? He made urgent gestures that reminded her of Jub pulling on his net.

“Hand over handover handoverhand …” Leliana sang. She knew she was babbling. Knew she should… sing a prayer or … something.

A bubble of glowing lava rose in the crevice. It oozed upward until it was no more than a pace below her boots.

Ooze.

The word was important.

Leliana gritted her teeth and fought the confusion that bubbled through her mind. She managed to coordinate her motions enough to thrust out a hand, and she felt Naxil grasp it. He pulled her up and out, tried and failed to force her feet to the floor, then gave up and fumbled at her hand. What was he doing—trying to steal her ring?

The lava reached the top of the crevice and started to flow out of it, onto the floor.

“We’ve got to hurry,” he said in an urgent voice. “Go back the way we came. The lava’s rising.” He forced her hand around the hilt of her sword and yanked the weapon from its scabbard.

The sword pealed. The magical confusion fell away.

“That’s not lava!” Leliana shouted, as realization dawned. “It’s an ooze. Filled with molten fire and capable of enchantŹments.” She negated the ring’s magic and found her feet. She was furious with herself. If she’d been holding her singŹing sword when she crossed the crevice, this never would have happened.

“How do we fight it?” Naxil asked.

“Let me handle it. Keep behind me.”

As Naxil danced back, the ooze cast an enchantment. Leliana felt it as a wave of exhaustion. Just as her eyes closed, the singing sword pealed loud and long, jolting her awake. She heard a sigh behind her, then a thump: Naxil, collapsing on the floor. She glanced back, praying he was still alive. There was no time to check, however.

The ooze surged out of the crevice in slow, rippling waves. It was enormous, twice as wide as Leliana was tall. It moved across the floor like molten iron, folding upon itself in wrinkles as it flowed forward. Its skin was a thick, clear membrane, cracked in places. Liquid fire dribbled from the cracks.

She lifted her sword. “You don’t frighten me,” she said aloud. The ooze was a mindless thing, and wouldn’t underŹstand, but saying it helped steady her.

The ooze bulged, forming an appendage.

Leliana chanted a prayer and released her sword. Borne by magic, it flew at the ooze and slashed at the expanding bulge. Magical steel met glowing fire and sliced neatly through it. The creature blazed like a bellows-driven fire as a portion of its “limb” fell away. Molten fire flowed from the wound, puddling on the cavern floor. Even protected by her spell, Leliana felt its heat as her chain mail warmed to an almost unbearŹable temperature. Sweat trickled down her body in rivulets, and into her eyes. Her singing sword glowed with heat; she was glad she wasn’t holding it.

The creature flicked its severed appendage. Tiny drops of molten fire flew through the air, splattering Leliana. She gasped as they stung her arms and face. Like the acid burns, these she could heal with Eilistraee’s blessing. Eventually. For now, she’d have to ignore the pain as best she could.

Then the ooze bulged in a second attack.

Leliana ducked just in time. Her sword parried, lopping off the second appendage—but not quickly enough. It slapped against Naxil’s prone form, even as her sword severed it.

Naxil awoke, screaming.

Leliana swore. She pressed home the fight, menacing the ooze with her sword. As it drew back, she glanced anxiously at the screaming Naxil. What she saw made her shudder. Splatters of molten rock streaked his chest where the ooze had struck him, and were burning through his leather armor. Despite his magical protection, the molten rock had already charred deep ruts in the armor—and was burning down into his skin.

“Hang on, Naxil!” she cried. “Just a few moments more.”

Leliana thrust at the ooze with her sword, worrying the creature and forcing it back to the crevice. Molten fire dribbled from each puncture.

Her piwafwi had been smoldering since the droplets of lava had struck it. Now the fabric ignited. Cursing, she slapped out the tiny flames. Then she smiled, as an idea struck her.

Keeping the ooze at a distance with her animated sword, she yanked off her smoldering piwafwi. She rushed the ooze, gritting out a prayer, and hurled the piwafwi onto it. As the garment landed on the ooze and burst into flame, she comŹpleted her spell.

“Eilistraee, aid me! Lend these flames the moon’s chill light.”

The flames dancing across the burning piwafwi turned from fire red to ice blue. The bitterly cold flames burned into the creature, punching a cold, dark hole in it. The ooze shrank back on itself and withdrew into the crevice.

The blue flames flickered out. The ooze rallied, rising again.

This time, Leliana shucked off her chain mail and cast it aside. She yanked her padded tunic over her head, hurled it onto the ooze, and repeated her prayer. Cracks radiated outward across the body of the ooze as the ice flames “burned” into it. The ooze tried to extend an appendage, but its skin cracked apart, and the limb fell to the floor. It shattered, with the chunks dulling like nearly extinguished coals.

One more time. That would finish it.

Naxil was no longer screaming.

Leliana yanked off her shirt and hurled it onto the ooze. “Eilistraee!” she shouted as her hand swept down for the third time. The flames burning the shirt turned from red to blue, and the ooze roared in anguish.

Then it exploded.

Chunks of cooling ooze flew off in all directions. One slammed into Leliana’s shoulder, knocking her off her feet. Pain flared in her elbows as she struck the floor.

She rolled over as the smell of scorched hair filled her nostrils. And something more: burning flesh.

Naxil groaned. Low and deep.

She scrambled to his side. He lay face down. Leliana rolled him over, tore open his armor, and examined his chest. The burns there were so deep his flesh had been charred black; he’d need restorative magic to heal them. She tore his smolŹdering mask from his face and cast it aside. As she did this, she felt heat radiating from his face—it seemed to be flowing out of his nostrils and mouth. Something was happening to him. Something odd. Even those parts of his body that hadn’t been directly struck by the creature were affected. Something pulsed under his skin, leaving tiny blisters that formed a tracery across his skin, like veins.

Those were his veins. They were glowing. Hot as fire.

Terrified, Leliana began a healing prayer. Before she could finish it, Naxil’s veins erupted. Liquid fire oozed from the furŹrows, charring the surrounding flesh. More liquid fire oozed from his nostrils. A faint, sizzling noise filled the air: Naxil’s eyes, cooking in their sockets.

“Eilistraee! Aid him!” Leliana cried, one hand on Naxil’s forehead, the other extended to the place where the moon would be in the realms above.

Twined light and shadow swept down into the cavern, into Leliana, and on into Naxil. Eilistraee’s healing energy played about the body of the grievously wounded Nightshadow like a sparkle of ice in the moonlight, halting the burning within. As his body cooled, his veins lost their fiery glow. The trickles of liquid fire coming from his nostrils crusted over and fell away, and the burns in his body closed over. He was left, however, with terrible scars—and eyes that could no longer see. That was something Leliana couldn’t repair here; it would have to wait until they got back to the temple.

“Thank … you,” he gasped.

“Don’t thank me,” Leliana told him, wishing she could have intervened sooner—before he’d lost his eyes. “It’s Eilistraee who saved your life.” She touched his arm. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

She helped him to his feet. He was remarkably steady, considering what he’d just been through. He moved with a certainty that suggested he’d been trained in blind fighting. He cocked his head, listening, as Leliana retrieved her singing sword. It lay next to the ooze’s crusted remains. Even through the leather-wrapped hilt, the weapon felt hot. She noted the warp the creature’s heat had left in the blade. It would no longer fit in her scabbard.

“What now?” Naxil asked.

“We press on,” Leliana told him. She described for him what he couldn’t see. “The ooze retreated back into the crevice before it died, and it’s formed a natural bridge across the gap. As soon as it’s cool enough, we can cross.”

He nodded and touched his face. “My mask?”

“Burned.”

His hand fell away. He turned his head, but she saw his stricken look just the same.

She took his hand and placed it on her shoulder. “We need to get moving,” she said softly. “Get back to the Promenade and report what we’ve seen down here.”

“The oozes,” Naxil said grimly. “Ghaunadaur’s minions. They’re escaping from the Pit.”

Leliana shuddered. “Let’s pray the Ancient One isn’t next.”