by Kate Novak
Pushing herself out of her chair, Zhara shuffled exhaustedly across the room and flopped onto the bed. Before they’d arrived in Shadowdale, she and Akabar had spent several days on the road with the caravan, camping in the open on the hard ground. As she lay back on the plump pillows, she anticipated the pleasures of sharing so large and private a room with her husband again. While she missed Akash and Kasim, her co-wives, there was no denying that she enjoyed having Akabar’s company all to herself.
Thinking of Akash and Kasim, Zhara uttered a quick prayer for their safety and health. Then she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the pattering rain and a vision of her handsome husband leaning over her, whispering her name.
A bad dream troubled her sleep. In the dream, Alias was closing her inside a coffin lined with daggers. The darkness of the coffin frightened Zhara as much as the idea of the daggers, and she was struggling with all her might to resist, when suddenly she awoke with a start.
The priestess wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep, but the room about her was much darker than it had been; twisting shadows played on the walls all about her. She reached into a pocket of her robe for one of the stones she had enchanted with a continual light. Something pricked at her elbow when she moved her arm. She reacted automatically, rolling on her side, away from whatever she’d brushed against.
Instead of rolling to safety, she rolled into worse stabs—painful and itchy. She rolled onto her back once more and yanked out her light stone. She gasped in horror. The room was choked with a thicket of greenery, sprouting needle-sharp daggers from every stem and leaf. She was buried in the center of the thicket, unable to move without lancing herself on the needles. As if she were still dreaming, a scream caught in her throat and would not escape.
Attracted by her light stone, the plants closed in toward her, stabbing at her flesh. Zhara cringed from the pain and threw her arms up to protect her bare face. She could feel a dagger-plant coiling under the hem of her robes, stabbing at her bare calves.
Zhara felt panic wrapping about her as tightly as the plants. This had been one of Akabar’s dreams. The Darkbringer had gained the advantage of first attack. Once it finished with her, it would take Akabar. It would devour his soul before his spirit was strong enough to resist.
“No!” Zhara growled through clenched teeth at the purple flowering pods pricking at her lips, trying to thrust their way into her mouth. “You’ll never get my husband!” A burst of anger forced the panic away from her. She thrust her left hand into another pocket of her robe and grasped at a handful of bark there, meanwhile clutching at her throat with her other hand for the silver disk that was the holy symbol of her goddess. Ignore the pain! she ordered herself as the needles pricked into the back of her knee. Concentrate! Zhara began a prayer to Tymora asking for the goddess’s aid. The oft-repeated lines helped calm her nerves until she was able to summon the power for her spell. Crumbling the bark in her fist, she whispered, “Oak sister.”
Zhara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, concentrating on the numbness creeping up her left hand into her arm, across her torso, up her throat, down her other arm and into her legs. She took a deep breath and sat straight up in the bed. The dagger plants resisted her movements with their woody stems, but she could no longer sense their sharp prickers. Her spell had transformed her skin into bark that was hard enough to protect her but also smooth and supple enough so she could still move. She fought back the attacking greenery with her arms as if it were nothing deadlier than hay.
Her eyes were still vulnerable, so she was forced to keep them closed. The spell wouldn’t last long. It wasn’t panic that caused her to seek help, she assured herself, and she did so, shouting, “Dragonbait!” at the top of her lungs. She pushed herself off the bed and stomped on the plant stems, crushing them under her bark-covered heels until the floor was smeared with sticky pulp.
All around her, the plants kept growing faster than she could crush them. They began winding around her ankles and wrists, restricting her movements until finally they held her fast. Another plant twisted tight around her throat, and she knew that when the bark skin faded, she’d either be strangled or have her jugular vein pierced by the thorns.
She screamed for Dragonbait again and again, until a flowering pod thrust itself into her mouth. The prickles stung like a hundred bees, and the plant forced itself deeper, choking her.
Unable to get her hands to her mouth, Zhara bit down on the plant and ripped the flower from the stem with her teeth. She chewed, despite the agonizing pain, until she’d worked the flower into a wad small enough to spit out.
Something thumped on the door. “Help!” Zhara screamed. “Hurry!”
The door opened just wide enough for Dragonbait’s arm to slip through. He held out his sword and growled. The sword glowed, then burst into flame, illuminating the room in a brilliant light. Dagger plants swayed instinctively toward the light, only to be scorched by the fire. The saurial slashed blindly at the greenery until he’d cleared the way enough to thrust the door open all the way. He hacked at the stems, setting them alight and filling the room with an acrid, black smoke. Then he slashed at the base of the plants that held Zhara until he could pull her from the room.
The saurial stood in the doorway, brandishing his flaming weapon. The plants hesitated to approach now, as if warned that the glowing weapon was deadly. Dragonbait hissed once and pulled the door shut.
Very gently the saurial pulled away the prickly shoots and flowers still wrapped around Zhara. Now that they’d been separated from their roots, the plants were no longer able to move, but they still clung ferociously to the priestess.
Zhara’s skin was reverting to normal, and it was an effort to keep from wincing as the paladin freed her from the plants. Her mouth and tongue were numb and so swollen she could hardly talk. “Akabar—” she gasped, and began to weep hysterically.
Dragonbait pulled her into his own room across the hall and forced her to sit on his bed, holding her firmly by her shoulders.
Zhara smelled woodsmoke all around her, and then she felt calmer. Her mouth tingled, but at least it no longer ached. She took a deep breath. “You healed me, didn’t you?” she asked.
The lizard nodded, brushing her reddish-brown hair out of her eyes and stroking her cheek gently with one of his scaly fingers.
“Alias was the one who sent those things after me,” Zhara said.
Dragonbait looked down at the priestess with widened eyes, as if she’d lost her mind.
“She did. I dreamed it.”
The saurial paladin shook his head vehemently.
“I have to find Akabar! He’s in terrible danger! You must take me to him! You must!” Zhara cried.
Dragonbait nodded. He pulled a scarf from his pack and handed it to her, signing that she could use it as a veil.
While the paladin couldn’t believe that Alias had anything to do with the attack on Zhara, he never doubted for an instant that Zhara was right about her husband’s being in danger. The deadly enchanted thistles smelled of the Darkbringer’s magic, and Dragonbait shuddered to think what other sorts of plants and creatures the god would send after the merchant-mage.
Satisfied that she had broken Akabar’s spirit, Kyre slid her dagger back up her sleeve and set the crystal nut down on the table. She kissed the mage on the lips, more passionately than she had the first time, tugging on his lips with her own.
Akabar shuddered, too terrified of the tendrils in the half-elf’s mouth to risk unclenching his jaw, but he made no verbal complaint. He could feel the tendrils about his arms loosening and then falling away.
“Now, prove to me your sincerity,” Kyre demanded as she slid the tendrils out from his sleeves. “Embrace me,” she ordered.
Akabar slid his arms around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her close to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and ran her fingers up and down his spine. The tendrils from her arms slithered about his ankles and lay bunched on the floor like pythons. The merchant-mage�
�s feelings warred between revulsion and desire.
“That potion you had me drink was a philter of love, wasn’t it?” Akabar asked.
Kyre looked up at the Turmishman with surprise. “Yes,” she admitted, laying her head against his chest. “The master made a perfect choice. You are very clever.”
Akabar’s eyes fell on the crystal soul trap lying on the table. If an enemy of Moander’s was trapped within, Kyre must have used it on Elminster, he thought. Then she had Grypht appear in his place to distract the other two Harpers before it occurred to either of them that she might be responsible. Grypht fled from the Harpers’ court and Kyre followed, making herself appear the monster’s foe. No doubt she assisted it in the capture of Nameless and then gave it the opportunity to escape.
“I shall be your first reward,” Kyre whispered, pressing her slender body against his own. “The potion still courses in your blood. You know you desire me.”
“I know,” Akabar replied flatly. He had never loved anything so hateful in his life. Only another mage could dispel the love charm to which he’d fallen prey. Elminster could do so without batting an eye, but Elminster was as trapped as Akabar was. Suddenly a glimmer of hope flickered in the Turmishman’s heart. If Elminster were to be freed, the old sage could do more than dispel Kyre’s evil magic: Elminster could destroy Kyre as well.
On the table, beside the crystal soul trap and the bowl of rotting fruit, lay a chordal horn, a northern woodwind instrument, which must have belonged to Nameless. It was beautifully crafted of black wood and decorated with gold, but Akabar was only interested in its length and weight. It would make a reasonable club if he could just get hold of it.
Steeling himself to the task of distracting Kyre from his efforts to reach the horn, the merchant-mage bent over the woman and began kissing her all about her throat. The half-elf moaned softly. Akabar squeezed her tighter, forcing her back against the table, and ran his right hand down her back until he felt the tabletop. He closed his fingers around the instrument, but as he began lifting it from the table, he accidentally struck it against the rim of the silver fruit bowl.
Kyre started at the clanging sound and twisted around in Akabar’s arms. Akabar grabbed the half-elf’s right hand in his left and aimed the chordal horn over the soul trap gem on the table.
Realizing the mage’s intent, Kyre looked alarmed. She screamed, “No!” and snatched for the crystal nut with her left hand.
Akabar slammed the chordal horn down hard on the table. The top of the instrument smashed into the crystal nut, shattering it into pieces, but the middle of the instrument smashed into Kyre’s wrist with a sickening sound. Blackness oozed and billowed over the table where the soul trap had lain, but Akabar could not tear his eyes from the half-elf’s injured wrist.
Beneath Kyre’s skin, which had burst open like the rind of an overripe melon, there were no sinews or muscles or bones; instead, her arm was packed with rotting, mold-encrusted tendrils. Akabar gagged on the stench of decay that rose from her wrist. Most of the tendrils had been smashed by the chordal horn, and Kyre’s hand hung from the end of her wrist like a piece of dead meat.
The tendrils lying about Akabar’s ankles whipped upward and lashed about Akabar’s wrists, cutting off his circulation. Kyre yanked her uninjured right wrist out of the mage’s grasp. Akabar tried to club Kyre with the chordal horn, but Kyre pulled the instrument out of his hand and threw it to the floor.
Akabar turned his attention to his last hope of escape—the blackness over the table, which was now coalescing into the shape of the being that had been trapped within the crystal. Akabar gasped. He’d been expecting Elminster to appear, but although the being standing on the table wore the robes of a spell-caster, it looked nothing like the sage. It was huge, with horns and green scales and claws and a tail.
Akabar suddenly made a wild guess. “You transformed Elminster into that beast!” he accused Kyre.
Kyre didn’t answer the merchant-mage’s charge. With her uninjured hand, she had already pulled an empty soul trap out from her pocket. She held it out in the beast’s direction and triggered it by shouting, “Darkbringer!”
Akabar threw himself into Kyre, knocking them both to the floor. Kyre lost her grip on the walnut-shaped crystal, and the magical device rolled across the carpeting.
The beast pulled out a crystal cone from his sleeve and pointed it at the bard pinned beneath the merchant-mage.
A freezing blast of cold hit the tangled bodies on the floor, covering them with rime. Akabar’s skin felt as if it were on fire, and his heart and lungs ached as though they’d been stabbed. Unable to cope with such terrible pain, he lapsed into unconsciousness.
The beast Grypht watched with satisfaction as Kyre’s tendrils and the orchid in her hair withered from the frost that covered them. Kyre lay as still as Akabar, but Grypht was taking no chances. With his staff, he pried the merchant-mage off Kyre. Then he set the half-elven bard’s body alight with bursts of magical flames shot from his fingertips.
As the corpse crackled and sizzled, a horrible stench filled the room. Grypht made a face, but decided the smell could be borne. He climbed down from the tabletop and bent over his rescuer. He realized with a start that he recognized Akabar. Like the thief Olive Ruskettle, this creature was a friend to Champion—or Dragonbait, as people called the paladin in this strange world.
Unfortunately the Turmishman didn’t appear to have weathered the cold spell very well. He wasn’t breathing. Grypht’s people could breathe even when they fell into a torpid state, but the saurial had no idea what was normal for these chirping apes.
He sighed to himself. Killing Kyre had been far more important than worrying about who got in the way—even if that person had been responsible for freeing him and was a friend of Champion’s. Champion, however, would probably not see it that way. The paladin is always so damned idealistic, Grypht thought.
Grypht pulled a small bottle out of the sleeve of his robe. There was a chance it would prove unsafe for the creature on the floor, but he had to risk it. He unstoppered the bottle and poured its contents between Akabar’s lips.
Akabar coughed back some of the thick liquid, but he must have swallowed some, for a moment later, he breathed a shuddery breath, then another and another. He did not regain consciousness, but his complexion turned from gray to his normal brown, a change that seemed like a good sign to Grypht. The saurial turned his attention back to the remains of Moander’s servant.
There was nothing left of Kyre but ashes. Grypht used his staff to stir through them and knock aside the unburnt items Kyre had carried and worn—a dagger, a sword, a belt, a scabbard, three more walnut-shaped soul traps, two gold rings, a silver pin of a crescent moon and harp, and her boots. Always a careful scavenger, Grypht turned her smoking boots upside down. A silver ankle bracelet tumbled from one boot, and from the other a large yellow gem—the one the ape Finder had used to cast a tongues spell.
Grypht pocketed the yellow gem. He crushed the soul traps in his bare paws, but no other beings rose from the broken shards. The traps had been unused. Remembering the last trap Kyre had triggered, the saurial searched the floor until he discovered it under a chair and smashed it with his staff.
Time to leave this vermin-infested ape lair, he thought, rising to his feet. He looked down at the Turmishman. He’d have to take the creature with him. It had freed him from Kyre’s trap; it stood to reason it was an enemy of the Darkbringer, and leaving it here would endanger it further. If it recovered, it might be able to help him find Champion. He bent back down, swaddled Akabar in his cape, and slung him over his shoulder.
Unbowed by the weight of the merchant-mage, Grypht strode over to the window and stuck his head out. There was a river to his left, and beyond that a temple, but beyond the temple lay a forest. He looked long and hard at the tree line, first estimating its distance, then checking to be sure there were no other apes nearby.
Exuding the scent of fresh-mown hay, Grypht s
hifted himself and his burden through a dimensional portal. A moment later, he stood at the edge of the tree line across the river. He glared back at the twisted tower of Ashaba, glad to be free of it, and then turned and lumbered into the forest.
As Grypht carried Akabar Bel Akash from the Tower of Ashaba, he failed to note he was being observed. He was tired and wounded and preoccupied with how he would find Champion. Even if he had been fresh and alert, the saurial wizard might not have sensed the eyes watching him, for those eyes spied upon him with magic from over a hundred miles away.
The Mouth of Moander, high priestess of the Darkbringer, regarded Grypht’s fleeing image in an enchanted pool of water. Moments after Moander had used the possessed body of the Harper Kyre to stun Akabar, the god had sent the Mouth of Moander to the pool to cast a spell to scry upon the half-elf. It was important to the Darkbringer that the high priestess see this Turmishman whom the god desired to possess beyond all others.
The previous year when Moander had possessed Akabar, the god had been so pleased with the mage’s well-trained mind and talents that it had taken special care with the mage’s body so the possession could be permanent. The god had made the error, though, of using Akabar in a battle against his own friends, and the paladin Dragonbait had managed to free the mage. Afterward, Akabar succeeded in destroying Moander. Now, though, the god had possessed new minions and had forced them to built it a new body. Moander demanded that Akabar be brought to the body to witness its resurrection.
Akabar had proven difficult to find, though. He had left Turmish, and some powerful misdirection spell made it impossible for the Mouth of Moander to discover the mage with scrying magic. Moander suspected Akabar was in Alias’s company, so Kyre had been sent to Shadowdale to discover if the Nameless Bard knew of Alias’s or the mage’s whereabouts. Kyre had succeeded in discovering Akabar and separating him from Alias or whatever had protected him from scrying magic. Moander was too pleased with the half-elf’s successes to be annoyed by the inconvenience of her violent death.