Song of the Saurials Read online

  “It’s Alias,” the ranger said. “She’s walking in her sleep. What should we do?”

  Dragonbait felt genuine panic. Alias hadn’t walked in her sleep since right after she was “born,” when they’d been on the ship en route from Westgate to Suzail after escaping from Cassana’s dungeon. Though fully grown, the swordswoman had been like a child then, with all the fears of a child. The horrors of the ceremonies and magic behind her creation had surfaced in her nightmares, only to be blessedly forgotten after her days-long sleep in Suzail, from which she’d awakened as an adult.

  Now Alias stood beside the fire, wearing nothing but her tunic. She was very pale, her eyes were closed, and her mouth hung open. She was whimpering slightly.

  Dragonbait rose and approached her. He ran a clawed finger up under her right sleeve, along her magical blue brands. The swordswoman quieted instantly and her breathing slowed.

  Suddenly the air about the fireside was full of high-pitched clicking and whistling sounds. Dragonbait whirled around, emitting a joyful lemony scent, expecting to see Grypht. There was no one in the clearing but himself, Breck, Alias, and the sleeping Zhara. Dragonbait turned back to Alias, his eyes wide in astonishment.

  “What is it?” Breck asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Dragonbait motioned for Breck to remain silent. The ranger couldn’t hear the whistles and clicks coming from Alias’s mouth. His ears were as deaf to the sounds as any human ear not augmented by magic. Although Alias made the noises with her extraordinarily gifted voice, even she herself couldn’t possibly hear them. Dragonbait heard them, though, for they were not only the sounds a saurial would make, but they were also actual words in saurial.

  Although Alias spoke in saurial, what she said seemed to be nothing but babble. “We are ready for the seed. Where is the seed? Find the seed. Bring the seed,” she repeated over and over again.

  Without the scent glands that saurials would ordinarily employ to convey emotion and emphasis, her speech was as flat as the sign language Dragonbait was forced to use with her. As the paladin listened to the hypnotic rhythm of the words, he realized that, if the swordswoman could only release scents, she would be singing and not merely chanting. Then Alias began a new verse.

  “Nameless is found,” Alias said in saurial. “Nameless must join us. Nameless will find the seed. Nameless will bring the seed.”

  Suddenly Alias stopped her saurial chant. She held out her hand, with one forefinger pointed downward, and traced a circle parallel to the ground.

  The paladin shuddered.

  Alias began to shout in Realms common, “No! No! No!”

  She reached out and grabbed Dragonbait’s shoulders. Her eyes opened and she blinked in the firelight. Then she started to cry softly.

  Dragonbait stroked the brand on her arm again and wrapped his cloak around her. He pushed down on her shoulders until he got her to lie on his blanket beside the fire. He wrapped the blanket around her, too, and Alias closed her eyes again. The saurial stroked her hair until she ceased weeping and lay still and, Dragonbait hoped fervently, slept peacefully.

  “Maybe you’d better take second watch instead of her,” Breck suggested.

  Dragonbait nodded.

  “Does she do this often?” the ranger asked.

  Dragonbait shook his head in an emphatic negative.

  “Never, huh?” Breck asked. “Like she never gets mad at you?”

  Dragonbait squinted his eyes angrily at the ranger.

  “I’ll bet I know why she’s sleepwalking,” Breck said. “She’s upset with you because of Zhara.”

  Dragonbait looked into the fire.

  “You’ve got to tell her you’re sorry for whatever she’s angry at you for,” Breck said. “We can’t be hunting for Kyre’s murderer and dealing with weird stuff like sleepwalking at the same time.”

  The ranger turned and strode away to his own saddlebags, sniffing the air. Curious, he thought, it’s too late in the year for violets to be in bloom.

  The ranger wasn’t familiar enough with Dragonbait to know that was the smell of the saurial’s fear.

  Dragonbait watched over the campsite with his yellow reptilian eyes, but all he could see was the vision of Alias forming a circle in the air with her forefinger. The motion was not one from the thieves’ sign language she had taught him. It was a saurial symbol—the symbol for death.

  12

  The Beholder

  The orcs escorting Finder and Olive herded the pair of adventurers through naturally carved tunnels for what seemed to the halfling to be miles. Olive had to jog to keep up with Finder and ahead of the orcs, and she stumbled frequently on the rough, uneven ground. Her wounded shoulder was throbbing, and every jar sent a stabbing pain down her arm and across her back.

  Finally they reached a series of passages that looked like circular bores through the rock, as smooth as polished marble. Although these were far easier to move through, to Olive they were more unsettling, since they indicated the work of the beholder’s disintegrating eye.

  Thinking of the beholder, as Olive could not help but do, and listening to the cadence of the orcs’ boots as they trudged behind the prisoners brought to the halfling’s mind the adventurer’s rhyme:

  One eye to lift and one eye to sleep,

  One to charm man and one for beast.

  One eye to wound and one eye to slow,

  One to bring fear and one to make stone.

  One eye makes dust and one eye brings death,

  But the last eye kills wizards more than all of the rest.

  The last eye of a beholder, Olive knew, disrupted magic. Without it, Xaran would be evenly matched with any powerful mage, but with it, not even wizards stood a chance against the the creature. Without the ability to cast spells, a mage was about as useful as a bard with laryngitis. Fortunately there was nothing wrong with Finder’s voice, and they were relying on his glib tongue, not his magical abilities, to deal with the beholder. He’d better be at his glibbest, too, Olive thought. Beholders aren’t stupid.

  Finder stepped in front of the halfling and stopped suddenly, bringing Olive up short and startlinging her out of her reverie. “Pocket the light for a while,” Finder whispered.

  Olive did as the bard asked. There was a dim glow up ahead. Olive peered around Finder’s hip and saw that they had arrived at the main entrance of the orc warren’s common cave.

  The common cave of an Orcish community was always the largest and most central in the warren, and when another creature, such as a beholder, assumed leadership of an orc tribe, it often made the common cave its own quarters. Despite the cave’s great size and desirable location, it was still part of an orc warren, and since orcs lacked any sense of style or gracious living, it looked like a pretty miserable place to live.

  Numerous low charcoal fires burned within, but since the ceiling was only seven feet high at most and sloped downward at the edges, the dim red light from the fires didn’t penetrate very far, making the cave seem much smaller. Water seeped down from the surface, dripped from the ceiling and walls, and hissed onto the fires’ hot coals, sending up clouds of water vapor and noxious gases. The smell of rancid fat dripping from rotting animal carcasses onto the coals masked the odor of the orcs with an even more unpleasant smell. All in all, Olive thought, it was a pretty homey place for a creature from hell.

  Orcs swarmed into the common room to get a look at the intruders who demanded an audience with their master. Only the largest and toughest-looking males carried well-maintained weaponry and wore anything resembling armor. Most of the rest had at least an axe. The females wore daggers, and even the young played with sharpened sticks. For every face Olive was able to discern in the dim light, she saw two more pairs of red eyes glowing in the darkness of the passages adjacent to the common room.

  Unable to imagine even someone as talented as Finder able to defeat these vicious creatures, Olive commented wryly, “It looks like a tough bunch.”

  “I’ve seen
worse,” Finder replied coolly, but he gave the horn on his belt a pat as if to reassure himself of its presence.

  Sure you have, Olive thought silently.

  At the center of the cave, the floor rose a few feet. Atop the rise was a pile of moldy, water-stained pillows, mementos from some long-forgotten caravan raid. Xaran was propped on the pillows in the manner of a merchant raj.

  The leader of the orcs paused just inside the entrance to the cave. Finder strode past him, with Olive in tow, leaving the leader and the guards to straggle through the phalanx of orcs who parted to make way for the human bard and his tiny companion.

  The bard stopped just before the pile of pillows and released the halfling’s hand. He bowed low, with his right hand covering his heart and his left hand sweeping outward, as though he were doffing an invisible hat. “Greetings, Xaran. I have come to resume our discussion,” the bard said. “Please don’t bother to rise.”

  Disregarding Finder’s suggestion, the beholder levitated from its repose and hovered over the cushions, at eye level with the bard. The beholder wobbled as it levitated and its movements were jerky, unlike any beholder Olive had every encountered, as if Xaran was an elderly invalid trying to get out of a sickbed.

  Now that she had an opportunity to study Xaran more carefully, she noted that its great central eye and all its smaller eyes were coated with a milky film. The stalks supporting the smaller eyes drooped like thirsty plants. A thin garland of silver moss hung about the stalks, reminding Olive of gray hair and reinforcing the image of Xaran as a sick old man.

  “It was wise of you to rejoin us,” Xaran commented. The beholder’s high-pitched voice grated in Olive’s ears and sent a shiver down her spine.

  “I hope you found everything in order in your workshop,” the beholder added.

  “Naturally,” Finder said, smiling broadly, eager that Xaran should believe he was here of his own free will, not because he had no other choice. “Of course, there’s nothing of interest in there to anyone but myself—just old musical instruments and such.”

  “Of course,” repeated the beholder. Its toothy maw turned up at the corners into a hideous smile.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” the bard said. “You were offering me immortality. A rare commodity, and certainly worth whatever the market will bear. I presume it did not hinge on remaining in this place.” Finder’s eyes wandered disdainfully over the orc warren’s common room.

  “No. If we come to terms that are satisfactory to me,” Xaran said, “you will be free to leave. As you pointed out, though, immortality is worth a great deal on the market.”

  “Suppose I were to forego your offer of immortality for the moment and ask only for safe passage out of here for myself and my companion?” Finder asked.

  “It’s a package deal,” Xaran said sharply. “All or nothing. If you wish to leave here under my protection, you must accept my offer for immortality and pay my price. Of course, if you choose not to accept my offer, you are free to make a deal with my associates.”

  Finder glanced sideways once at the orc leader and his brother. Both glared at him with undisguised hatred. Even if the bard’s workshop had been brimming with gold to ransom his and Olive’s lives, the creatures weren’t likely to let them go. The adventurers had wounded or killed three members of the tribe, and Finder had challenged the leader’s authority.

  “I see,” Finder said, turning his attention back to Xaran. “And what is the going rate these days for immortality?”

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that the price has not risen in the past hour. As a matter of fact, because I think a man of your talents was made for immortal life, I’m prepared to make you a special offer.”

  “Such as?” Finder asked, suddenly more cautious.

  “I’m willing to forego the interest my faithful orc followers have in your workshop. As I said before, it is your services that interest me. I wish for you to reveal to me all the secret knowledge of simulacra you have acquired and bring Akabar Bel Akash to me.”

  “Is Akabar aware of your interest in him?” Finder asked.

  “But of course,” Xaran replied. “Akabar and I are old friends.”

  “That’s curious,” Finder replied. “I remember speaking with Akabar after he’d witnessed the destruction of the beholder head of the fiend Phalse. He told me he’d never seen a beholder before.”

  Xaran’s eye stalks all stood on end, and its central eye squinted angrily. “Phalse!” it exclaimed and spat on the ground with disgust. Finder had struck a nerve by mentioning the fiend. “The servant you created, the one you call Alias, did well to rid the world of that bottle imp.” More calmly, the beholder added, “I’m sure what Akabar meant was that he’d never seen such a ridiculous-looking beholder head as Phalse’s. Each of Phalse’s stalks ended in a mouth, you know, instead of an eye—a thoroughly disgusting-looking creature.”

  Olive, whose attention had been focused on all the orcs staring at her, was suspicious of something the beholder had said. Xaran’s hatred of Phalse wasn’t surprising, since Phalse was pretty despicable, and it could just be a coincidence that Xaran should know both Phalse and Akabar. But how had the creature known about Alias? Even if it had heard some of the tales Olive told of Alias’s adventures, it couldn’t have known that Finder had created Alias. Out of loyalty to Alias, Olive had never revealed the swordswoman’s origins. How had Xaran known that, and where had it gained such thorough knowledge of Nameless—the location of his workshop and his all-consuming desire for immortality?

  “So. What guarantee do I have that you’ll make me immortal once I’ve done all you ask?” Finder asked.

  Wait a minute, Olive thought. For all his faults, Nameless never thought of Alias as a servant. He always referred to her as simply Alias. The only being that ever called Alias “the servant” was …

  “I will make you immortal before I send you after Akabar Bel Akash,” Xaran said.

  Moander! Olive remembered.

  “Finder!” the halfling whispered urgently.

  Finder put a heavy hand on Olive’s head as a signal for her to remain quiet. “Then how can you be sure that I’ll return with Akabar?” he asked.

  “There are ways to ensure your good faith,” Xaran said cryptically.

  “Finder!” Olive said more loudly, tugging on the bard’s sleeve.

  “Don’t worry,” Finder whispered hurriedly to the halfling, then addressed Xaran again. “I’m not leaving without my companion. She is far too useful to me to trust in the care of your … troops.”

  “Believe me, I had nothing so … crude in mind. Take this,” Xaran said. He unrolled his tongue from his mouth. Resting on the end of his tongue was a green, spine-covered burr about the size and shape of a horse chestnut burr.

  Finder reached out and took the bur. It was covered with a sticky substance, and the tips of the spines had tiny hooks on them.

  “What is it?” the bard asked.

  “Your immortality,” Xaran explained.

  Olive pinched Finder’s thigh. The bard glared down at the halfling.

  “Excuse me, Xaran. I have to confer with my companion.”

  “Is she interested in a similar deal?” Xaran asked, turning several eyestalks in the halfling’s direction.

  “No thanks,” Olive replied. “Life would be dreadfully dull without the constant terror of death hanging over me,” she said glibly. “I just wanted to remind Finder of something.”

  The bard bent over the halfling. “I have everything under control, Olive,” he whispered. “Please trust me.”

  “He called Alias ‘the servant,’ ” Olive hissed back.

  “So?”

  “That was Moander’s name for her, remember?” Olive said softly.

  “Olive, you’re getting paranoid,” Finder said.

  “Moander used vines to control Akabar,” the halfling reminded him, trying to keep her voice from being overheard. “The vines made him talk and walk and cast spells, al
l against his will. Kyre had a flower in her hair. Xaran’s got moss on its head. What sort of self-respecting beholder wears moss on its head?” the halfling demanded.

  Finder scowled for a moment, but when he looked up at Xaran again, he couldn’t dismiss Olive’s fears.

  He tossed the burr onto a pillow beneath Xaran. The sticky substance it left on his fingers he wiped off on his tunic. “I will do your bidding in exchange for our lives, but I cannot accept such a gift from the Darkbringer,” he said.

  Xaran’s eyes, all eleven of them, widened in astonishment. “My, but aren’t you perceptive? Yet now that you have guessed the source of the largess offered, you must realize you have no choice. You cannot refuse the gift of the Darkbringer. It would be most hazardous to your well-being. In Moander’s name, I must insist that you accept the immortality he offers you.”

  The beholder barked a few commands in orcish, and Olive heard the sounds of steel blades being drawn from leather and bolts being snapped into crossbows.

  “Then let me drive my point home,” the bard growled. In one fluid motion, he pulled his grandfather’s dagger from his belt and sent it sailing at the beholder.

  Olive watched in horror as at least twenty orcs raised their crossbows and daggers and aimed at the bard’s back. With a shout, she pulled out the light stone from her pocket and held it up behind Finder. The sudden appearance of brilliant magical light caused the orcs to shriek out in pain. Several fled from the common room.

  A green light beam shot out at Finder’s dagger from one of Xaran’s eyestalks, but the blade split through the beam unscathed and buried itself in Xaran’s central eye. White fluid oozed from the puncture.

  Finder had already whirled around and pulled his magic horn from his belt. He shouted, “Siege strike,” raised the instrument to his lips, and blew into it. With its magic triggered by Finder’s words, the horn emitted a terrific blast of sound that knocked most of the remaining orcs to the ground and shook the cavern roof. Already weakened by the seeping water, the roof began to sag like a fortress wall hit by a catapult missile. Great chunks of rock and showers of dirt cascaded from the roof, scattering the remaining orcs. Dust and dirt from the ceiling and charcoal soot and sparks from the fires began to swirl in the air.