Song of the Saurials Page 15

  You are wrong, Dragonbait signed. She is a good woman.

  “She’s a fanatic,” Alias countered.

  So are you, the paladin signed. You denied everything she and Akabar said without considering it carefully.

  “Moander is not coming back,” Alias snapped.

  You argue from emotion, not reason, Dragonbait signed. You cannot change the truth by denying it. Moander is returning, Alias, and Akabar must destroy him.

  “Why Akabar?” the swordswoman cried. “Why should he have to fight Moander again? Why not someone else?”

  I don’t know, the paladin signed, but you are not helping him by insulting his wife and his faith.

  Alias lowered her eyes, realizing uneasily that Dragonbait could be right but unwilling to admit it. “We have to hurry or Breck will try to leave without us,” she said, bending over and dumping out the contents of her sack of armor. “Where’s my other chain shirt?” she asked.

  Dragonbait shrugged and signed that he hadn’t been able to find it.

  “Dragonbait!” the swordswoman cried with annoyance. “It was lying across the chair. Are you certain you didn’t just choose not to bring it?”

  Dragonbait shrugged.

  For months the paladin had tried to talk Alias out of wearing the chain shirt she’d gotten from the evil sorceress Cassana. The piece of armor was exceedingly immodest and consequently earned Alias a good deal of unlooked-for attention from men, but it also carried powerful enchantments that protected her far more than a full breastplate could. After she’d worn it for over a year, Dragonbait had ceased objecting to it. Alias thought that he had finally surrendered to her logic. Until now.

  “You are such a stick-in-the-mud!” Alias grumbled. “Next thing I know, you’ll try to get me to wear a veil like Zhara.”

  It would be easier to get Zhara into Cassana’s armor, the paladin signed.

  Alias laughed. “There’s no time to argue about it now.” She picked up her old chain shirt and slipped it over her tunic, then picked up the breastplate. “Well, now that I have no choice but to wear this awful, bulky plate, you could at least help me get into it.”

  Dragonbait helped the swordswoman attach the breast and back plates of her old armor about her torso and fastened the shoulder plates to the chain.

  “Forget the rest of the pieces,” Alias said. “I’m not used to that much weight. Leave them here.” She strapped on her sword and shouldered her pack as Dragonbait placed the rest of her armor on an empty shelf.

  The swordswoman stepped up behind the saurial. When he turned around, she lowered her head meekly and said, “I’m sorry I was so rude to Zhara. Forgive me?”

  Dragonbait looked very stern and signed, It is Zhara you need to apologize to.

  “I will,” Alias promised. “Later. The next time I see her. Don’t be angry with me now … please?”

  Dragonbait ran his claw along her sleeve, so that her brand tingled comfortingly.

  Alias could sense from the saurial’s smell that he was still disturbed by something. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Grypht isn’t from the Nine Hells, the paladin signed.

  “I know that,” Alias agreed. “He couldn’t be, but there’s no sense arguing with Breck about it. Kyre said he was, and Breck worshiped Kyre.”

  Grypht is a friend, Dragonbait signed. He is one of my people.

  Alias’s jaw dropped. “You mean he’s a saurial?”

  Dragonbait nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Alias asked.

  Breck wouldn’t trust Zhara because she was Akabar’s wife. He would not trust me if he knew I was Grypht’s friend. Breck is too angry, Dragonbait signed.

  “Of course he’s angry. Wouldn’t you be if you found me in ashes like Kyre?” Alias asked.

  Breck’s anger is dangerous. He cannot be trusted. Grypht and Akabar could not have murdered Kyre, but Breck is too angry to consider any other possibility.

  “He’ll cool off on the trail,” Alias replied.

  Only bloodshed will cool him off, the paladin signed, but Alias was distracted by the sound of Heth calling her name.

  The page appeared in the armory door all out of breath. “Lord Mourngrym asks that you hurry,” the boy said. “He says it would be easier to hold back the tide than to keep the ranger waiting any longer.”

  “We’re coming,” Alias said.

  Let’s leave by the kitchen door—it’s closer to the stables, Dragonbait signed.

  Alias nodded, and they hurried to join Breck Orcsbane.

  Grypht laid Akabar down on a bed of crushed grass and sank to the ground beside him. His burden had begun to stir, and the lizard decided the ape would probably prefer to waken in a less awkward position then slung over the shoulder of a stranger. Actually, Grypht was grateful to find an excuse to rest. He’d grown unaccustomed to trekking up and down hills for long stretches of time. Not wanting to waste time, Grypht laid his staff across his lap and studied the notches and lines cut into it. He would need to relearn the spell Kyre had prevented him from casting when he first arrived in this world.

  The ape’s sleep grew more and more restless. He began to toss and turn and mutter. When Grypht finished studying his magic staff, the saurial turned his attention back to the creature he’d rescued. The ape began to shout in his sleep. Grypht couldn’t understand his language, but the creature seemed quite upset, so the saurial shook him gently.

  Akabar came awake with a start, but he quickly realized he was too weak to sit up. His eyes darted about in confusion. The creature he’d freed from Kyre’s soul trap sat beside him. “Elminster?” he whispered.

  Grypht shook his head. He understood the word “Elminster,” and that certainly wasn’t him. The lizard pointed to himself and said, “Grypht” in saurial, but of course the ape could not comprehend.

  Grypht pulled out a lump of red clay from his pocket and began fashioning it into a series of five short cylinders, each with a smaller circumference than the previous one. He piled one on top of the other until he had formed the model of a ziggurat.

  A clay ziggurat is the component of a tongues spell, Akabar realized. In his excitement, he found the energy to sit up. He fidgeted impatiently for Grypht to finish casting so that they could communicate.

  The scent of fresh-mown hay filled the air about them, and the miniature tower balanced on the lizard’s palm glowed as if it were sitting in a kiln. Then the tower shattered into several pieces. Grypht turned his hand upside down, spilling the shards of baked clay into the grass. “I am Grypht,” he said in a deep, low voice.

  “I am Akabar Bel Akash,” the Turmishman replied. “I presume you are not a creature of evil as Lady Kyre told us.”

  Grypht shook his head. “I am a saurial.”

  “A saurial!” Akabar said excitedly. “Like Dragonbait?”

  Grypht chuckled. He couldn’t wait to find Champion and ask how he’d picked up such a bizarre nickname. “In our tribe, the one you call Dragonbait is known as Champion. He is the sworn protector of our people. I must locate him.”

  Akabar nodded. “He’s here in Shadowdale.”

  “Shadowdale?” Grypht asked.

  “The town we’re in—” Akabar paused and looked around. “The town we were in. Where are we now?”

  “I fled the tower with you after I destroyed Kyre.”

  “Kyre,” Akabar whispered. “You killed her?” he said.

  Despite his relief at having escaped the half-elf’s clutches, the Turmishman was unable to control the feeling of misery that swept over him upon learning she was dead.

  “She was a minion of Moander,” Grypht said, disturbed by Akabar’s expression. “She would have drained your spirit and fed you to her master.”

  “I know,” Akabar said, “but I loved her.”

  Grypht shook his head. Love makes such fools of mages, he thought. “When I last scried Champion, you and he and a halfling traveled on the back of a red lair-beast—what you call a dra
gon, I believe—but I have been unable to locate Champion magically for over a year now. Are you certain Champion is in the town we left?”

  Grypht waited for several moments for Akabar’s answer, but the only noise to fill the silence was a cricket in the brush. Finally the saurial poked the Turmish mage and growled, “Forget Kyre and answer my question.”

  Akabar looked up with a start. Realizing it was imperative he communicate with Grypht while the tongues spell still functioned, he shook off his misery and answered the saurial mage. “You probably couldn’t find Dragonbait because he travels with Alias. She’s a warrior with a powerful misdirection spell cast on her, which protects her companions, too.”

  “I could not detect you magically, either. Were you with them all this time?” Grypht asked.

  “No,” Akabar said. “My wife is also enchanted with a charm of misdirection, but she’s back in Shadowdale. If you couldn’t locate Dragon—er, Champion, how did you know to come to Shadowdale?”

  “I chose it because Olive was there. Since she had once been a companion of Champion’s, I hoped she could tell me where to find him,” Grypht explained.

  “Olive? Olive Ruskettle is in Shadowdale?” Akabar asked in amazement.

  “She was in the tower,” Grypht explained. “I teleported there, prepared to cast a tongues spell to explain my presence, but Kyre disrupted the spell and convinced others to attack me, so I fled. I managed to find Olive, but I was unable to speak with her. I talked with her friend—a bard, as tall as you are, very arrogant. He would not tell me where Champion was. He professed he needed proof that I was a friend of Champion’s, but I think he did not want me to find Champion at all. Kyre interrupted us and scooped me into her soul trap. I thought she must have killed Olive and the bard, but now I believe they escaped, for this stone points out the halfling’s location.” The saurial held out the yellow crystal.

  “The finder’s stone!” Akabar said. “Dragonbait lost it in Westgate. How did you find it?”

  “The bard had it. I found the stone in Kyre’s boot, so I assumed she had killed the bard and Olive. I was using the stone to search for Champion, but it could not discover him for me. By accident, I thought of Olive, her clever fingers and brash nerve, and the stone sent out a directional light immediately. I couldn’t believe my luck, or the halfling’s, either. She had escaped from Kyre, something I would not have managed without your help.”

  “But how did the bard get the finder’s stone?” Akabar asked.

  “He said he created it. He used its magic to speak with me,” Grypht explained.

  Akabar’s brow furrowed. The bard had to be Nameless. It was possible that he did create the stone. He was known as the Crafter as well as the Nameless Bard. Then Akabar found himself wondering why Nameless had kept Dragonbait’s location from Grypht. Did he have some reason to distrust Grypht? Then it occurred to the Turmishman that he still hadn’t found out about Elminster. “What did you do to Elminster?” he demanded. “He disappeared before you left.”

  “I transferred him to my tower and took his place,” the saurial explained. “It was the only way I could absolutely guarantee my safe magical arrival here.”

  “Do you know the trouble you caused? Everyone thought he’d been kidnapped,” Akabar said.

  “My apprentices were instructed to greet him and apologize for the inconvenience. He was free to leave at any time. He is a great wizard, with the power to travel between planes. I scried for Olive for some time, waiting for her to approach such a one so that I did not strand anyone in my world.”

  “If Elminster was free to leave, why hasn’t he returned yet?” Akabar asked.

  “He hasn’t?” Grypht asked in return.

  Akabar shook his head.

  “Oh, dear,” the saurial said softly.

  “Oh, dear!” Akabar exclaimed. “Is that all you can say? You snatched Elminster from his home to another dimension just to guarantee you had a safe arrival and could find Dragonbait.”

  “It is imperative that I find Champion. Our people’s very existence is imperiled. I must have his help if I am to save them.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with your people?” Akabar asked suspiciously.

  “The minions of Moander from the Abyss have come into our land and enslaved them all. Only my three apprentices and I remain uncaptured. The others have been marched forcibly through the plane of Tarterus and into this world. The Darkbringer is using them to recreate a body to use in the Realms.”

  “Moander,” Akabar whispered and shivered. “So my dreams did not lie. It is returning.”

  “You, too, are an enemy of the Darkbringer?” Grypht asked.

  “I have come north to destroy it,” Akabar said with a quavering voice.

  “Then you tread a dangerous path, Akabar Bel Akash,” the saurial said. “For of the Darkbringer’s minions in your plane, Kyre the bard was the least, and yet she nearly destroyed you.”

  9

  Finder’s Workshop

  Olive knelt down beside the bard’s unconscious body on the cracked stone floor of Finder’s ruined keep. She pulled a vial of healing potion from her knapsack and uncorked it. Though the draft would have no effect on the poison in Finder’s body, it would take care of his bleeding crossbow bolt wounds. There was a chance it would even bring the bard to consciousness. She waved it under Finder’s nose, and he stirred slightly. She poured it past his lips and ordered him to swallow.

  Instinctively Finder obeyed. In a few moments, he opened his eyes. “I dropped my dagger,” he said.

  Olive laughed. The bard was dying, and he was still fussing about a lost dagger. “I’ll buy you another for your birthday,” she said.

  Finder shook his head from side to side. “My grandfather gave me that dagger.”

  Olive sighed. “Well, if you were thinking about going back to get it, forget it. I’ve given you a potion to slow the poison, but we’ve got to get you to a healer before the potion wears off. If we can just get you to the road, we should be able to get help from travelers. Do you think you can walk?”

  With Olive’s assistance, Finder rolled over and struggled to sit up. He couldn’t use his injured hand at all. It was the size of a small melon and streaked with red and white lines, which ran up his wrists beneath the sleeve of his shirt. He was shaking slightly, though it was a warm afternoon. “I’ve got potions to neutralize poison in my workshop,” he said. “It would be easier to get back down there.”

  “Are you crazy?” Olive shouted. “The place is crawling with orcs with crossbows! You nearly died down there!”

  “We saw only four orcs. You probably blinded one with your torch, and I killed the two that grabbed you. If I hadn’t panicked like an idiot, I would have realized that left only one for me to handle while you took care of the other lock. The one that’s left will get bored soon and go back to its warren. By then, I’ll be rested, and we can try again. Instead of trying to show off this time, I’ll let you take care of the locks. An expert of your caliber should be able to open them without setting off the silent alarm or catching the poison needle.”

  Olive wanted to grab the bard and give him a good shaking, but in his condition, she didn’t think he could take it. She tried to remain calm, to reason with him. “First,” she argued, “orcs breed like rabbits, and where there’s four there’s forty. And don’t forget, they still have a pal somewhere who disintegrates ceilings. Suppose they set up a guard in the passage just in case we turn out to be really stupid and come back? Secondly, I’m good with locks, but no one is perfect; there’s no guarantee I can bypass the alarm on the first lock or open the second lock fast enough in case I fail with the alarm.”

  “The orcs would all rather be snug back in their warren than standing guard in a cold tunnel,” Finder argued. “They’ve come to rely on their alarm. It worked this time. They’ll assume it will work again. They won’t set a guard. As for your talents with locks you’re too modest, Olive girl. I know you can do it.” He turned
his most charming grin on the halfling.

  Olive fought the urge to please him. “Finder, I don’t want to stay here,” she insisted. “I want to get to the road before dark.”

  Finder glared at Olive. “All right. Go,” the bard said coldly.

  Olive looked at him with astonishment. She couldn’t believe he’d send her away. “Finder, I’m not leaving you. You can’t stay here. You have to try to get to the road with me.”

  Finder’s chill expression thawed, and a rueful expression crossed his face. He reached out with his uninjured hand and pushed a stray strand of the halfling’s hair out of her eyes. “Olive,” he said softly, “I don’t want to die by the side of a road waiting for rescue. This place is my home. I’d rather be here when that potion wears off.”

  “You aren’t going to die waiting beside a road,” Olive snapped angrily. “There are plenty of grain caravans and adventuring parties and soldiers traveling on the road this time of year. Most of them travel with healers, or at least with potions.”

  “It’s half a day’s walk to the road, Olive. I’d never make it. I’m too weak. You’d better go now, in case there are any orcs searching aboveground.”

  Olive dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to keep from screaming—or crying. “Oh, sweet Selune!” she said. “You have to try, Finder!”

  Finder chuckled dryly. “You sound like my mother,” he said. “She used to say that all the time—‘sweet Selune.’ ”

  Olive started. Invoking the goddess of the moon was a habit she’d picked up from her stay with Giogi and Cat Wyvernspur. She’d never be able to face the young man or his wife if she had to tell them she’d let their ancestor die out in the middle of nowhere. She’d never be able to face herself, either. Olive gave a deep sigh, unable to understand how she managed to get into these predicaments.

  “I guess I’ll have to go down to your workshop, then,” she said with a false cheery tone.

  “Good. Let’s go,” the bard said, trying to rise to his feet.