Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,95

it was blasphemed by oozes and slimes, and by the presence of Ghaunadaur’s fanatics. One of them—a stunted male in purple robes whose tentacle rod clung to his body like a leech—stared at the captives from a hovering driftdisc. He smiled gleefully as he savored their humiliation.

Naxil would have choked the life from him, were it not for the magic that held him fast and the drug that sent the world spinning. He consoled himself with the knowledge he’d fought well, with dagger and spellsong. After shaking off the charm the green-eyed male had cast on him, he’d personally killed three of Ghaunadaur’s cultists. He’d danced from shadow to shadow, attacking from behind, avoiding the oozes and targetŹing their masters. He’d kept fighting long after realizing the battle was already lost. He’d prayed, then, that death would find him—that he’d make his way to the Masked Lady’s side and sit in her cool, calming shadow.

In the end, despite those fervent prayers, despite his valŹiant struggles, he’d been captured, not killed. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. Eilistraee grant that whatever happened next, it happened quickly.

Dozens of other captives kneeled or lay nearby—most of them lay worshipers routed from the Hall of the Faithful after the bubbling ooze had bored through the songwalls. Naxil spotted Jub, the half-orc, and several others he knew by name. Those too badly wounded to walk had been left to die The remainder were forced, like Naxil, to drink. There was even a Protector in their ranks, her chain mail hanging in tatters and her singing sword gone. It wasn’t Leliana—Naxil had searched anxiously for her among the captives, but failed to spot her. He prayed she’d gone to Eilistraee’s grace via a quick death.

Oozes slithered back and forth across the Cavern of Song, reducing the bodies of the fallen to puddles of sizzling flesh. The fanatic on the driftdisc, meanwhile, ordered the captives to their feet. “Follow,” he commanded.

Together with the others, Naxil shuffled after the driftdisc. A second fanatic walked beside the line of captives lashing out with his whiplike rod at those who lagged. The amber-colored tentacles struck the moon elf next to Naxil, and she screamed as her skin burst into flame. Naxil tried to catch her, but the drug he’d been forced to drink made him stagger, and the words to his healing spell tangled together in his mind. The moon elf fell to the ground, her pale skin charred black. The reek of cooking meat filled the air.

The fanatic raised his rod to lash Naxil. As his arm whipped forward, another fanatic caught it and said someŹthing to him. The first one’s aim was thrown off and just one tentacle struck Naxil’s shoulder. He gasped as its heat seared into his flesh. The intense pain gave him a moment of clarity, and he whispered a song. Flesh knitted together. His mind cleared fully as Eilistraee’s healing grace pushed the drug from his body. Yet the magical compulsion remained. Obedient as a soldier, he marched behind the driftdisc. He passed the fallen statue of Qilué—its face now reduced to a rounded blob by the slithering oozes—and descended into the spiral staircase the statue had once hidden.

Together with the other captives, he wound his way downŹward. The narrow staircase forced them into single file. Naxil heard the driftdisc scraping against stone up ahead, but couldn’t see it. Nor could he see the fanatic who brought up the rear. Now was his moment—while they weren’t watching. He sang a prayer, rendering himself invisible.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and entered a cavern. Naxil knew of this place, but had never entered it: this was the cavern at the top of Eilistraee’s Mound. There should have been a dancing statue here, sealing the Pit, but Naxil couldn’t see it. A dozen fanatics formed a circle around the spot where it should have stood. A thick purple mist filled the cavern, blurring his view. Naxil smelled acid. His nostrils stung. He barely stifled a retch that might have given him away. The captives coughed weakly, their eyes tearing in the acid-tinged air.

The fanatic leading the captives ordered them to stand against the wall. Naxil complied—slowly and heavily. The mist held a magic that slowed movement to a snail’s pace. He winced as fragments of stone crunched under his boots, and prayed the fanatics wouldn’t notice the dents his invisible feet made. He tried desperately to think of a way to break