Song of the Saurials

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, all 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.

Olive looked back at Xaran, expecting the beholder to shoot a death ray at them at any moment, but the old beholder had sunk into the pillows and disappeared like a wounded creature going to ground. She looked back at Finder. The old bard was grinning arrogantly at the chaos all around him as he slipped the horn back in his belt.

The sagging portion of the ceiling crashed just in front of them. With alarm, Olive noticed the ceiling directly over their heads was beginning to sag. The room grew darker as the light stone failed to penetrate the falling rock and dirt and rising dust.

“Which way is out?” Olive screamed.

Finder spun around, then pointed toward a passage leading off the side of the cavern. “That way,” he cried, grabbing the halfling by the waist and carrying her away moments before the ceiling over Xaran’s pile of pillows collapsed.

As they ran down the passageway, Xaran’s voice cried, “Freeze!”

“Keep going!” Finder ordered, pushing Olive deeper into the dark tunnel. The bard whirled around to face the dark spherical shadow that hovered in the tunnel just behind them. Finder’s dagger still protruded from the beholder’s central eye socket.

“You cannot refuse the gift of the Darkbringer,” the beholder cried. He spat the green, sticky burr at the bard and laughed maniacally.

Finder fell backward, brushing frantically at his tunic. He caught the burr in one hand, but he couldn’t pull the sticky thing away from his clothing.

Suddenly the burr opened with the crack of a small explosion. A cloud of moldy dust wafted into the bard’s face, and he choked and sneezed and spat, trying to keep from inhaling whatever it was.

“Finder!” Olive shouted as she turned and lunged forward to help. She grabbed the bard’s belt to pull him away from the beholder.

“Your turn,” Xaran sang out gleefully, floating toward Olive. “All must serve the Darkbringer!”

Olive snatched the horn from Finder’s belt, intent on throwing it at the beholder, but some instinct prompted her to raise it to her lips instead. She shouted the command words she’d heard Finder use, “Siege strike,” and blew into the mouthpiece with all her might.

No sound issued forth from the instrument. Xaran’s lips puckered to spit a second seed at Olive. Frantic with terror, Olive blew again into the horn, and a feeble blat sounded in the beholder’s face. The noise was nothing compared to the blast Finder had blown, but combined with the magic of the horn, it was more than enough to blow Xaran backward like a soap bubble caught in the wind.

“I did it! I did it!” Olive shouted. In her excitement, she was oblivious to the sagging ceiling over her head.

Finder scrambled to his feet, grabbed up the halfling, and dashed down the tunnel a split second before the ceiling gave way. Farther down the passage, he set Olive down and took his horn back from her. “You could have brought the roof down on yourself and been killed,” the bard chided.

“That would’ve been better than being made immortal the Darkbringer way,” Olive retorted. “At least I’ve sealed the tunnel between us and Xaran. Are you all right? What happened when that thing exploded?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Finder said with a shrug. “Either my clothes protected me, or it was a dud. Maybe it was meant to be swallowed for it to work.”

“You’re sure you’re feeling all right?” Olive asked.

“Better than you, I’ll bet. How’s your shoulder?”

“Lousy. Um, Finder?” Olive said, looking down the corridor with her brow knit in concern.

“Yes, Olive?”

“This tunnel is a dead end.”

“It can’t be,” Finder said spinning around. He walked down the passageway until he could inspect the end with his hands as well as his eyes. He glared at the rock wall before them. There was no way out of the passage. They were sealed in a cul-de-sac.

“This is impossible. I’m sure I heard the wind whistling in this passageway. It has to lead to the outside,” the bard growled angrily. He stood very still for a moment. “Listen,” he told Olive. “Don’t you hear it?”

Olive stood still and listened. Sure enough, there was a whistling noise in the cul-de-sac, and a stream of cold air, too. The halfling held her light stone up high. The passageway ceiling was some twenty feet overhead. The cave must once have been full of water, for breaking through the ceiling was an old well shaft. Even with the light stone, it was impossible to judge how much higher up the well went.

“It would be a good way out,” Olive said. “If we were birds.”

Alias awoke in the dawn twilight before sunrise. She hadn’t slept well. She had had nightmares about the time Moander had captured her, and all through the dreams, she’d had the feeling that Nameless was in danger, too, though she couldn’t say what in the dream made her think so. The sooner she found Grypht and made him tell her what he’d done with Nameless, the better she would feel.

The swordswoman threw off Dragonbait’s blanket and cloak and stomped off into the forest. When she returned, she went to her own blanket and cloak at the edge of the clearing and began rolling them into her saddlebags. Dragonbait had left her enchanted chain mail on her saddle, and she slipped into it with righteous indignation. She pulled on a clean tunic and clean socks and her pants and boots. Then she went over to the fire and poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle Dragonbait must have prepared earlier.

Dragonbait signed something to her, but Alias turned away to stand by the fire with her back to him. Breck rose and joined her a few minutes later. His face was scraggly with a day’s growth of beard, but he was fully dressed and armed. He gave the swordswoman an odd look as he poured himself some tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Alias said. “Why didn’t you wake me to take second watch?” she asked.

“Dragonbait offered to take it,” Breck said with a shrug. Hastily he added, “I thought we’d break camp at sunrise and start searching in a circular pattern from the place where we lost Grypht’s trail. We may as well keep Zhara with us.”

Alias nodded. She didn’t want to lose any time finding Grypht now. She’d resigned herself to the idea of remaining in Zhara’s and Dragonbait’s company until she could discover Nameless’s whereabouts.

“In the meantime, I want to take another look at those treants,” the ranger said. He gulped down his tea. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” he promised, and he trudged out of camp.

Alias sipped her tea slowly. When she finished, she strapped on her sword. Then she nudged the sleeping Zhara with the toe of her boot.

The priestess awoke with a tiny gasp. She sat up, immediately alert. “What’s wrong?” she said.

Alias snorted. “I want to talk to you,” she said.

Akabar shook Grypht awake. The beast growled at him.

“It’s dawn,” the Turmishman said. “We should be going before this place collapses.”

Grypht didn’t understand a word the mage had said, but the tone was clear. Akabar was impatient to be on the road. The saurial wizard looked around them. He’d forgotten they were in the extradimensional space he had created. They’d have to leave soon before it collapsed and they fell to the ground. Grypht already hurt all over his body, and he was anxious to avoid acquiring any extra bruises.

Akabar lowered the rope out of the space and climbed down to the ground. Grypht tossed down his staff and climbed down after it. He made a soft bellowing sound as he climbed.

Akabar pointed to the ground. “Look there. We’ve been followed,” he said, indicating two sets of bootprints and another set of three-toed prints. “You know, these almost look like Dragonbait’s prints,” the Turmishman said.

Grypht sniffed the air. His head perked up and his eyes grew bright with surprise. Akabar could smell the lemony scent of the saurial.

“Shall we follow?” Akabar asked.

Grypht was already tracking Champion with his nose.

Zhara stood face-to-face with Alias. From beside the fire, Dragonbait watched both women nervously. If Alias wouldn’t pay attention to his signing, Zhara was his only hope of reconciling with the swordswoman. Now he prayed the priestess could calm Alias’s anger enough for her to give him a chance to apologize.

“Assuming you’re right and Moander is returning—which I still refuse to believe—I want to know why Akabar must be the one to destroy Moander,” Alias demanded. “Why couldn’t the gods have picked some powerful wizard—like Elminster or Khelben of Waterdeep or King Azoun’s flunky, Vangerdahast.”

“I do not know,” Zhara answered calmly. “I presume because Akabar has fought Moander once already.”

“I think it’s because Akabar is the one you’ve got wrapped around your finger,” Alias retorted. “If you could have wormed your way into a more powerful mage’s heart, you’d have chosen him to fight Moander. If you really loved Akabar, you’d keep him as far away as possible from Moander. Don’t you know what Moander did to Akabar before? How it used him?”

“I know,” Zhara whispered. “But if Akabar does not destroy Moander, then Moander will destroy him.”

“What do you mean?” Alias snapped.

“Moander wants revenge on Akabar. Tymora warned me that the Darkbringer’s minions are searching everywhere for my husband. Our family decided that Akabar should flee to the north. My co-wives sent me with him so he couldn’t be scried upon. I possess the same misdirection shield as you do,” Zhara explained.

“Then you’re safe. There’s no need to go looking for Moander,” Alias argued.

“We cannot stay in hiding all our lives,” Zhara retorted. In a softer voice, she added, “I know that you have good reason to be afraid of Moander, but you cannot run from your fears.”

“Can’t I? You just watch me,” Alias said. “As soon as we find Grypht, and I get the finder’s stone, I’m leaving. I was stupid enough to get drawn in by Moander’s siren call once, but I’m not going to let it capture me again. I’m going to go find Nameless and stay with him as far away from Moander as I can get.”

“Akabar needs your help. Don’t you care about him anymore?”

“Why should I?” Alias growled. “He obviously doesn’t care about me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He cares about you very much,” Zhara persisted.

“If Akabar cared about me, he wouldn’t have married you, would he?” Alias snapped.

“He asked you to come to Turmish with him, and you turned him down. What did you expect him to do, follow you around the Realms? Please don’t abandon him when he needs your help just because you’re jealous of me.”

Alias stepped up to Zhara and waved her forefinger in the priestess’s face. “For your information, this has absolutely nothing to do with being jealous of you. You’re just a copy of me—one of Phalse’s second-rate copies. Akabar told me he was my friend, that he thought of me as a human, and then he turned around and married you, as if my body was a thing he could have for the right price.” Alias’s voice cracked with anger and pain.

“I am not a thing,” Zhara snapped. “I am nothing like you. I am a person, too—”

“Did you know,” Alias interrupted, “that when we found you in the Citadel of Exile and Akabar saw how upset I was, he offered to destroy you for me?”

“Yes,” Zhara replied quietly, nodding her head. “He told me all about it.”

“And you married him anyway? Are you crazy?” Alias cried. “Of course you are,” she said bitterly. “After all, Phalse made you.”

“Of all our sisters that I have met, you are the only one to treat me this way. The others were pleased to have a family.”

“Sisters! You mean the other eleven monsters are walking around?”

Zhara gritted her teeth to hold back her anger. She took a deep breath and spoke in measured, even tones. “I have met three others. One is a sage in Candlekeep, one a mage in Immersea, one a warrior like yourself from the eastern lands. I know of two others. One was a thief who was murdered this past spring. The other is a lady of some power in Waterdeep.”

“Did Akabar marry any of these others, too?” Alias asked. “I’m surprised a shrewd merchant like him didn’t think of it when we discovered you in the Citadel of Exile. He could have picked you up cheaper by the dozen and sold you off for a profit.”

Zhara’s face went livid with rage. “You witch! How dare you!” she cried and backhanded Alias solidly across the face.

The swordswoman stumbled back several feet. Then she leaped forward onto Zhara. “Let’s finish what we started yesterday, shall we?” she growled as they both fell to the ground.

Zhara fought back with fury, but she had no weapons or armor to protect her now. She stubbed her toes kicking at the swordswoman and bruised her knuckles on Alias’s skull.

Alias punched at Zhara’s stomach, and Zhara curled up, whimpering like a dog. “Had enough?” Alias snarled, sitting up over the priestess.

Zhara slammed her elbow into Alias’s kidney. Alias raised her fist over the priestess’s head, but something overhead grabbed her wrist and lifted her off the ground by her arm. She twisted her neck around to see what was holding her.

A beast over ten feet tall, covered in scales and armor plates of bone, dangled the swordswoman in front of his face, studying her with some interest. In his other hand, he held out a lump of clay fashioned into a miniature four-story tower.

Alias looked around for Dragonbait. The saurial paladin stood at the edge of the forest, looking down at the ground. Akabar stood beside him with an astonished look on his face.

“Are you through beating my wife?” Akabar asked the swordswoman angrily.

“She started it,” Alias growled. “You must be Grypht,” she said to the creature holding her. “Put me down.”

Akabar stepped into the clearing and helped Zhara to her feet.

“How could you do such a thing?” the Turmish mage asked his wife. “Have you forgotten the promise you made after you broke Kasim’s arm? You swore you would not hit another woman,” he said angrily.

Zhara spat in Alias’s direction. “That witch makes Kasim seem like an angel. Alias is no different from her mother, Cassana. I do not care one bit if I hurt her.”

Akabar looked up at Alias. “What is going on here?” he asked, motioning for Grypht to set the swordswoman down.

Grypht lowered Alias until her feet touched the ground. The saurial wizard did not, however, release her wrist. The scent of fresh-mown hay rose from his body, and the tower in his hand glowed red hot, then shattered. Startled, Alias tried to pull away from the beast, but it wouldn’t release her.

Alias and Zhara both glared at each other but did not speak.

“How could you hit my wife, your own sister?” Akabar asked Alias.

Alias glared at the mage. “She seemed like a good substitute in your absence, Turmite,” Alias replied.

“I beg your pardon?” Akabar said coolly, offended by the vulgar term.

“You heard me,” Alias shouted. “You married this fiend spawn. Why didn’t you just accept Cassana when she offered herself to you? Was Zhara better because she was younger, or because you could have her behind my back?”

The blood rushed from Akabar’s face, shocked as he was by Alias’s words.

In saurial, Grypht asked Dragonbait. “Who is Cassana?”

“A dead sorceress,” the paladin answered in saurial. “Please, Grypht, try to convince them to turn their energies to the dangers we face.”

Grypht nodded. “Alias,” the beast began.

Alias turned suddenly and stared at the huge saurial in astonishment. “You can talk!” she exclaimed.

Grypht snorted with amusement. “Since I was two years old,” he said.

“I mean, you can talk in common, not just in saurial,” Alias explained.

“I know what you meant,” Grypht said. “I cast a tongues spell. It will not last for long, so I need your undivided attention, child. You must let go of your anger for now. We face a great danger, and you must behave now like an adult and set your differences with these people aside, for they are your allies.”

“I don’t need any allies,” Alias snapped. “All I need to know is what you did with Nameless. Where is he?” she demanded. “And Olive, too?”

“The bard and the halfling must have fled to escape Kyre after she imprisoned me in a soul trap. I do not know where they went. We have more important things to concern ourselves with at the moment.”

“Kyre imprisoned you in a soul trap?” Alias asked incredulously. “Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

“Because she was a minion of Moander, preparing the way for the Darkbringer’s return to your world,” Grypht said.

“You’re all crazy!” Alias declared. “Moander is dead. Dead!”

“You merely destroyed the body of Moander in this world, but Moander’s power and spirit live on in the Abyss, and the Darkbringer’s slaves in this world are building it a new body, a new abomination for it to possess. The Darkbringer will return once the body is finished.”

“Moander hasn’t got any followers left in the Realms to build him a body,” Alias protested.

“That,” Grypht explained, “is why Moander enslaved my tribe and brought them to the Realms—”

Grypht gurgled suddenly, released Alias, and clutched at his throat. There was an arrow lodged in his neck. The great creature teetered once, then fell over backward and landed on the forest floor with a crash.