by Kate Novak
The crossbowman never had a chance to finish his sentence. A slimy tendril whipped up over the edge of the pit, wrapped around the man’s neck, and yanked him over the edge. The sickening crack of shattering bones followed.
The monster crested the rim of the pit and then rose above it. It had used the slimy refuse of the midden to increase its size and its stench was overpowering. But more hideous were the thousand singing mouths, some pitched gratingly high, others grindingly low, some smaller than a babe’s, a few the size of a dragon’s maw, all lined with gleaming, sharp fangs. In the center of the mass facing them, clustered around the immobile form of Alias, a set of mismatched eyes scanned the soldiers.
“Fire!” the captain shouted, flinging his own lantern at the beast. The glass shattered and the burning oil spread out over the rotting decay. It smoldered briefly, but the waste that made up the creature’s body was too wet to ignite. Crossbow bolts disappeared into the garbage, but did not seem to cause much damage, except for puncturing an eye. Three more eyes opened around the injured eye, staring cross-eyed at the thick, green ichor oozing from it, then turned their attention to the fighters.
The mound of rot and refuse towered over its attackers. Wet tendrils, as thick as broomsticks, dripping with mire, lashed out from the body and struck three of the soldiers, including the captain. They were all dragged screaming into a different large, open maw, feet first. The Abomination bit each man in half before swallowing.
Dragonbait clutched at Akabar’s robes, pulling him toward the city wall. Akabar tore loose from the lizard and planted his feet firm. “Look,” he said, unable to tear his gaze from the horror that was Moander, “I’m sorry about what I said before. You were only doing what you thought best. Now you have to go get Ruskettle. Go get help—Elminster or Dimswart. The Harpers—anyone you can find. This is more than we can handle. I have to stay and try to free Alias.”
Dragonbait shook his head.
“It’s no use arguing. I’m not leaving. There’s no sense in both of us risking our lives. Someone has to warn the world.” Akabar did not bother to consider that Dragonbait had no voice to raise such an alarm. He shoved the lizard toward the city wall and moved toward the battle, circling to keep in sight the “face” of Moander that held Alias.
Dragonbait loped from the pit. He stopped a short distance away and turned to watch the battle.
The Abomination of Moander, singing its name, tore through the ruins, overrunning the camp of the Red Plumes. Akabar screwed his eyes shut and muttered, fast and furious, the opening lines of the spell.
When he opened them, the beast had turned back toward the pit to clean up the stray humans it had left behind. It was almost on top of him, its fanged mouths smiling and the eyes that clustered about Alias all fixed on his body. Akabar aimed his spell square on those eyes.
A pool of light blossomed across the god’s “face.” The eyes turned a blind, milky white or shut tightly to shield themselves from the brightness cast over them. Akabar grabbed a tendril and hauled himself up the hulking body.
When he reached Alias’s side, he drew his dagger. He began hacking furiously at the roots which bound her to the monster. The blinding light would not last long, and he did not stand a chance once an eye spotted him.
There was movement along the garbage hulk. Akabar looked down to discover the source of the disturbance. Dragonbait was using the jagged teeth of his sword to saw through the thicker tentacles entrapping Alias.
Annoyed but not surprised, Akabar shouted, “You should have followed my orders.” Dragonbait finally got one of Alias’s legs free and moved up to work on the restraints about her arm, but he suspected he was fighting a losing battle. Tendrils were regrowing already, and Akabar had to slash them back, keeping him from making any progress toward liberating the swordswoman.
An eye opened near Akabar’s hand. He stabbed it and it shut up, tearing yellow ichor. Below him, a large branch, as thick as a boa constrictor, reached for Dragonbait. Shouting a warning, the mage launched himself over Alias’s body and kicked the lizard to the ground. The tendril caught the mage’s wrist and snaked up his arm. At its tip was a venomous-looking flower shaped like a great, yellow hand that groped blindly toward the mage’s head.
Dragonbait watched in shocked horror. Akabar shouted, “Run, damn you, run!” before the foul blossom curled over his face. Akabar was dragged into the heart of the pulsing mass. Tendrils grew over Alias’s body.
Dragonbait fled toward the city wall. The heaving monstrosity shambled after him, swords and half-eaten bodies stuck out at all angles from the boundaries of its oozing flesh. There was no sign of the mage. The light Akabar had cast was fading, and only the hot blue glow from the warrior woman’s buried arm revealed her position.
Diving through a hole in the city wall, the lizard curled himself into a tight ball and rolled down the slope of the mound with reckless speed. A shower of brownish vines and tendrils shot out after him but fell short of their mark. Shouts came from the far side of the wall—more mercenaries alerted to the Abomination’s presence. The whine of missiles, ordinary and magical, reached Dragonbait’s ears.
The lizard stood up and dashed down the mound. At the bottom, he turned to check on the monster. The city wall, already weakened from years of abuse, began to give under the pressure of the god’s bulk. Part of its body oozed over the wall, crushing beneath what it could not push aside.
Dragonbait turned again and ran toward their camp, chased by the shrieks of the soldiers dying in the city. He did not weep for Akabar; all his tears had been spent on Alias, and he had no time to make more.
* * * * *
Olive Ruskettle turned in her sleep and moaned softly. A shadow passed through her usual dreams of wealth and fame and food and wine. Phalse’s face appeared briefly, his head split by that unhalfling-like grin, followed by a recurring nightmare—her abduction by Mist. Panicked horses neighed over the rushing sound of the dragon’s wings. The dream was so real that Olive’s sleeping form curled into a tight ball and pulled the covers over her head.
Then something poked at her, a swift, sharp shove. Alias, Olive guessed, demanding that I take my turn at watch.
“Go ‘way,” Olive grumbled, clutching the covers more tightly about her. “It’s the lizard’s turn. Let me have five more minutes. Tops.”
“Five more minutes,” an agreeable voice rumbled. “Then I will fry you where you sleep.”
Olive’s eyes shot open. Very slowly, she turned over to find herself looking square in the steaming face of the not-so-honorable Mistinarperadnacles.
“Boogers,” the halfling whispered. She scanned the campsite for the others.
There was no sign of them. They were gone—all three of them. Dead already? Olive puzzled. Without a fight?
The tethers of the horses had been pulled up, but the twisted, half-eaten form of the purebred chestnut, Lady Killer, lay not far away.
The dragon followed her gaze. “Yes,” Mist purred, “I had a wee bit to nosh before waking you. I get so crabby trying to talk to people on an empty stomach. The temptation to eat them wears on my nerves, you see.” Steam poured from the creature’s nostrils, engulfing the halfling.
Olive coughed back a breath of the noxious vapor.
“Now,” the she-dragon demanded, “where is the lawyer?”
“Lawyer?” Olive squeaked, trying to gain her mental footing. How could the others leave me like this, unguarded, in so much danger? Of all the inconsiderate behavior!
“The woman who knows the old ways,” said the dragon. “The warrior. I understand she travels with a pet mage and a lizard-creature.”
Olive’s heart leaped. They were still alive! Somewhere. They can rescue me! Aloud she said, “Gee, they were here a little while ago. Maybe they—” Her hand fell on Akabar’s parchment map. Squinting in the moonlight, she could just make out writing on the back, but not what it said. Cautiously, explaining her every move to Mist in detail to avoid any sudden i
ncinerations, the halfling drew out and lit a candle from her pack. She read the message to herself.
“A clue?” Mist asked hopefully.
“Yes,” the halfling nodded. “See?” She held the map up to the dragon’s left eye.
“And what does it say?” Mist inquired.
“You don’t read Common?” Olive asked meekly, afraid of offending the vain beast.
“I prefer the more visual arts,” the lumbering creature said with a defensive snort. “Theater, sculpture, bards.’ ”
How about opera? Olive wondered. She held the parchment in front of her and read aloud: “ ‘Had a vision. Off to Zhentil Keep. Follow soon. Hugs, Alias?’ ”
“Are you certain? There don’t seem to be that many words to me,” Mist said, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.
“She uses a lot of abbreviations. Like scribes, you know,” the halfling replied.
“Do your friends usually leave you behind just because you sleep late?” the dragon asked.
“Well, you see, they knew I was a little reluctant to go to Zhentil Keep. I would have preferred visiting another city, like Hillsfar. I guess they didn’t feel like waiting for me to make up my mind to join them or not.”
Mist raised up on her rear haunches, stretched, and yawned. Then she settled back down. “You have no idea the trouble I’ve gone to to find the two of you,” she said. “Matter of honor and all that.”
Olive couldn’t have said what came over her, but some demon inside of her, tired of being pushed around and bullied, prompted her to ask rudely, “You mean you’ve brought us the chest of gold you promised us?”
Mist’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Before I rush off to deal with the Zheeks for your friend’s hide, I think a little late lunch would be in order.”
The demon within vanished. “Oh,” Olive said, “you wouldn’t want to do that. Flying on a full stomach, you’ll get cramps. Besides, you’ll need someone to help you negotiate with the Keepers. They’re a terribly bureaucratic bunch. Forms, red tape, memos. They could give you the run-around for days. I can be terribly useful in cutting through the paperwork, and you know how entertaining I am. Remember the good times we had together in the cave—er, lair, I mean, your home.”
“I do,” the dragon agreed with a smirk. “And I must confess that the desire to reclaim you, my little, lost trophy, motivated me almost as much as my desire for revenge.” Mist paused a moment before asking, “You’ve heard of singing for your supper?”
With a gulp, the bard nodded.
“Well, with me, you must sing or become supper. I might just spare you … or not.”
Ruskettle sighed. Repressing all the smart remarks that came to her head, she reached for her yarting.
Dragonbait’s Feint of Honor
The smell of blood caught Dragonbait’s attention a hundred yards before he entered camp. He dropped to all fours and crawled forward cautiously. By the campsite was a huge dark mound. The massive shape was easily ten times greater than the upended wagon that had shielded the whole party. As the lizard drew closer, he heard singing.
The voice was Ruskettle’s, but it was unusually uneven. It rang out strong and sweet for a few lines, then wavered helplessly for a half dozen notes before regaining its tone. Olive sang the tune Alias had taught her way back in Cormyr, the song about the fall of Myth Drannor. Here on the battle-strewn plain, in the dark, with fear so obviously in her heart, the song took on a poignancy Olive might never have been able to give it before a human audience.
The lizard crept closer still, using the wagon as cover. Once he was crouched behind the wagonbed, he looked back toward Yulash. The eastern sky was developing the sickly glow of sunrise through fog, but Dragonbait didn’t need the light to pick out the great hulk of Moander. To the lizard’s sight, the Abomination stood out against the mist-chilled fields, warmed as it was with the fresh blood of its victims. It was heading south toward the Elven Wood.
Dragonbait turned his attention once more to the matter close at hand. He peeked around the edge of the wagonbed and instantly recognized the monster that crouched like a great cat at the bard’s feet.
A lair-beast, a very big lair-beast, Dragonbait concluded, ducking back behind the wagon.
He sniffed at the air and recognized the monster’s scent. Alias had gone into this creature’s den and brought out the halfling. Even from the back tunnel, his sensitive nose had been able to pick out the dragon’s scent, and he had rankled at the swordswoman’s order to stay outside while she went in to do battle.
Mist’s great tail wrapped around the camp, trapping the halfling in a ring of crimson.
Dragonbait sighed inwardly. This was a very inconvenient time to have to fight a lair-beast, he thought. If he died, there would be no one left to help Alias, but he needed Olive’s help. There simply wasn’t time to find new allies.
He climbed to the top of the wagonbed so the halfling would be able to see him without alerting the dragon.
Olive’s voice quivered with exhaustion. It wasn’t easy being so frightened. When she spotted Dragonbait, she almost shouted out the next lyric, but years of training stepped in and she was able to repress her excitement before she gave away the lizard’s presence.
Her voice grew in strength as she sang the final verse. A plan was beginning to form in the back of her head. She had seen the lizard in combat, and he wasn’t bad. With her brains and his brawn, she might just have a chance. She finished the song with a flourish.
The dragon let out a great contented sigh, steam pouring from her nostrils. “That is a new one. You must have learned it since we last parted, or were you keeping this little gem hidden from me when you stayed as my guest?”
“A good bard is always picking up new pieces for her repertoire,” the halfling replied evenly. She stretched and asked, “So, have you decided to eat me now or wait until you find Alias of Westgate?”
“I am of two minds,” Mist answered, standing up to stretch herself. She turned around like a cat trying to decide the most comfortable position. Dragonbait dropped behind the wagon not a moment too soon. When the great wyrm had settled herself back down, in nearly the exact same spot as before, Dragonbait climbed back up the wagon to watch the proceedings.
“Two minds,” Mist repeated. “On one hand, your talent would be a great loss to the world. On the other hand, artists don’t usually become really famous until after their deaths. I would be doing you a favor by allowing you to satisfy this peckish feeling in my belly.”
“But then I couldn’t help you find Alias,” the halfling pointed out calmly.
“No,” the dragon admitted, “but then, neither could you escape to warn the foul-tongued wench. You see my problem.” A long, lolling tongue slid out from between Mist’s jaws and licked at her two protruding upper fangs.
“Yes,” Olive admitted, her eyes riveted to the great, forked organ until it withdrew back into the dragon’s mouth. “It sounds as if you’ve already made your decision.”
“You’re right,” Mist said as rivers of drool began to slide down her chin hairs. “I think a light meal is definitely in order before I resume the hunt.”
“Sounds appropriate to me,” the halfling agreed, reaching into her shirt as if to scratch an indelicate itch. “I guess I have no choice, then.”
“Not really.”
From his perch atop the wagon, Dragonbait crouched forward, ready to leap on the dragon and save the strangely acquiescent bard.
Olive withdrew her hand from her shirt and presented a small, stoppered bottle. “Have you ever heard of peranox?” she asked.
“It’s some human poison, isn’t it? It’s supposed to smell like cinnamon, I believe.”
The halfling nodded and unstoppered the bottle. The scent of cinnamon immediately drifted to her nostrils. Mist sniffed and no doubt caught a whiff of it, too.
“Yes, a human poison.” Olive nodded as beads of perspiration began rising on her forehead and cheeks. “And a halfling poison a
s well. Fast acting. Deadly. What I have here will kill me. It may kill you, too. Though of course I don’t know the correct dosage for a beast your size.”
“Such a desperate action.”
“These are desperate times.” Olive rose to her feet, using the tiny vial as a shield. Now, work up to this slowly, Olive-girl—you can’t afford to miss any steps, she warned herself as she prepared to use the same legal arguments she’d learned from the swordswoman. “You don’t think much of me, do you?” she asked the dragon.
“Beg pardon?” Mist replied in confusion, her eyes never leaving the bottle in the halfling’s hands.
Dragonbait unsheathed his sword, but remained perched on top of the wagon. The poison stand-off could not last long. Eventually, the dragon would just decide she wasn’t hungry enough to ingest a poison-laden bard and simply incinerate the halfling. Yet, Dragonbait could sense Olive was preparing some other cunning plan. It might be worth the risk to let the halfling play her hand before trying to battle this lair-beast myself, he decided.
“Were it Alias the human you found here with me, what would you have done? Sat down and demanded four or five songs as you tore apart her favorite horse?”
“I’m sorry,” Mist said. She nodded toward the remains of Lady Killer. “Was this a friend of yours?”
“It was Alias’s horse,” Olive snapped. “But that’s not my point, is it? You wouldn’t have made her grovel before you.”
“No,” Mist admitted. She thought carefully for a moment. “I would have killed her directly, using flame and fangs and claws and every other weapon at my disposal.”
“Ex-actly!” the halfling said. “You wouldn’t waste your time while …” Olive caught herself. She’d been about to say, “while she waited frantically for reinforcements to arrive and rescue her,” but that was too close to her own situation. Mist might sit up and look around, ruining the lizard’s surprise. She gulped and then continued, “while the night passed, demanding more songs like a drunkard at an inn calling for more mead.”