Azure Bonds

19 Moander’s Resurrection and Mist’s Return

Dragonbait was waiting for Akabar halfway up the stairs. The lizard’s breathing was fast, but nowhere near as labored as the mage’s. Akabar staggered up the stairs with his hands clutching his chest. The pain there had changed from sharp needle pricks to a deep, crushing sensation. His face was drenched with sweat. His shoulder and back ached.

“Why?” he gasped, his furor burned out by the fire in his lungs, “why did you let her die?”

Dragonbait made a quick dismissive shake of his head such as an adult might use to warn an overbearing child. Then, noticing the perspiration dripping down the Turmishman’s anguished face, the lizard reached out to take his shoulder.

Akabar retreated from his grasp. “No,” he insisted. “You go ahead. I can’t run. Muscle cramp,” he lied. “If it climbs up the walls, maybe I can slow it, maybe have a chance still to free her. Go!”

The mage collapsed in a heap on the stairs.

Dragonbait slipped past Akabar a few steps lower and knelt to get a better look at him. He put the finder’s stone down beside him and reached out with both clawed hands. He laid his palms and fingers over the slime-spattered robe covering Akabar’s chest.

The smell of woodsmoke enveloped them. A small aura of light flared around the reptile’s claws. Nowhere but in the blackness of this pit would Akabar have been able to see the light the lizard generated. A feeling of warmth and relief spread out from Akabar’s torso.

Akabar stood and the pain in his chest, back, and shoulder was gone. He stared at the lizard in confusion.

“Who in Gehenna are you? What are you?”

But Dragonbait’s attention was fixed on the pit. He stared over the edge of the staircase into the earth’s depths. Akabar tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness to see what held the lizard’s gaze. A bright, blue light shimmered in the depths. At first, Akabar thought it might be the moon reflected in water, but the sky above the pit was dark.

“Alias!” he whispered excitedly. “She might still be alive. Look, the light’s coming closer.”

The light was indeed approaching them, the blue light shed by the sigils on the warrior woman’s arm, but it was not Alias propelling herself upward. The bottom of the pit, a mass of rot and oozing garbage, was rising up the shaft. Alias was just a tiny human figure pinned to the muck.

Dragonbait pointed up the stairs and nudged Akabar to climb in front of him. The mage nodded and ascended without further argument or complaint. When he reached the top, he was only mildly winded. The pain had not reasserted itself with the exertion of the climb. He turned around to check on the lizard’s progress up the stairs.

Having judged the speed of the monster to be less than their own, Dragonbait now took his time, turning back often to study it. Is he some sort of tribal shaman? Akabar wondered. What other secrets has he kept hidden?

Akabar peered back down the pit. Far below, the oozing mass that had kidnapped Alias was still crawling up the sides of the midden. It rose like lava in a volcano and had already regained the height of the ruined platform. The titanic effort of hauling its vast bulk did not seem to tire it. If anything, it seemed to be moving faster now.

“Don’t move, mooncalf,” a strange, rough voice ordered. Then it shouted, “Captain!”

Akabar looked up from the pit. Ten feet away, a single soldier was sitting on the pile of rubble about the midden. He was wrapped in a faded red robe, and a red-plumed helmet lay beside him, next to an overful bucket of kitchen waste. He held a loaded crossbow aimed at Akabar’s chest.

Dragonbait’s head rose over the rim of the pit. He ducked back quickly, but it was already too late.

“No good, pigeon,” the soldier barked toward the pit. “Bring your carcass over the side, or we’ll push your buddy in.”

Akabar watched Dragonbait shove the finder’s stone into his shirt and sheathe his sword across his back, though the soldier did not have his line of sight and could not have noticed. The lizard scrambled over the edge with both his hands held out before him. He positioned his body between Akabar and the crossbow.

The mage had always assumed that in the event of Alias’s inability to take charge, he would be the next leader. Obviously, Dragonbait did not agree. He took responsibility for their safety and put himself at the greatest risk.

The captain and four more fighters strode through the ruins toward the midden. Two carried lanterns and handheld crossbows. The rest were armed with short swords, drawn and ready.

“I got me some looters,” their captor announced. “Or maybe spies,” he added. By the brightening of his face, Akabar could see that this thought had just entered the man’s head. The glee it brought him indicated that there was a bounty paid on spies.

Akabar looked to Dragonbait. Leader or not, he would need an interpreter. He stepped forward to stand beside the lizard as the captain approached. Dragonbait stood motionless, but Akabar could sense the lizard’s tension. The fragrance of violets wafted from his body. The mage could smell his own sweat. Dragonbait glanced meaningfully at the pit and back at Akabar, raising his scaly brows. If he could stall the soldiers, they would soon be too busy dealing with an ancient god to bother with two stray adventurers.

“I am no looter, but a mage of no small water,” Akabar announced to the captain. “I have important information for the commander of your unit.”

“No small water,” mimicked the crossbowman who’d discovered them.

“Sounds like a southerner,” one of the other soldiers said.

“Don’t like southerners,” the first one said. “They lie and stink.”

The Red Plumes captain held up his hand, silencing everyone. “Who are you, and what is your information?” he asked Akabar.

Akabar could not keep from glancing at the pit. Using the lumbering garbage pile of a god as a diversion would not work if Moander engulfed them before engaging the Red Plumes. “Let us go to your camp, where I will tell you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You’ll tell me here and now,” replied the captain, “or your bodies will be lying at the bottom of the pit.”

The bottom of the pit may be here any minute, the mage thought nervously. Aloud he said, “There is something very dangerous in this pit. A threat to you and everyone else in this city. It climbs out even as we speak. You must fetch fire, oil, and powerful mages, quickly. We might still repel it.”

The captain chuckled. “Our mages are asleep, southerner, resting after a powerful contention with the forces of Zhentil Keep. It would not be worth your life or mine to roust them. Your story sounds to me like a looter’s tale, but it will not help you escape the noose. We have firm laws against looters. But I’m sure you know that.”

“No,” Akabar replied. “I do not.” He looked around at the ruined city. “I wasn’t even aware there was anything worth looting in this pile of rubble.”

“I’ll bet,” the captain said, smiling with amusement at Akabar’s cool denial. “However, ignorance of the law is no excuse. The Hillsfar Red Plumes are here at the request of the Yulash government in Hillsfar. On their behalf, we are authorized to hang all looters. No exceptions.”

“I can understand that,” Akabar said. “Please,” he pleaded, “let us move away from the edge of this pit.”

The captain surveyed the mage and the lizard. For the first time that evening, Akabar missed the presence of the glib-tongued Ruskettle. By now, the dratted halfling could probably have convinced the captain to organize a full alert, the mage mused, were she here and not snoring away at camp. He wondered if he would ever have another chance to scold her for her laziness.

Finally, the captain made up his mind. He motioned permission for Dragonbait and Akabar to move away from the pit. The crossbowmen kept their weapons leveled on the prisoners. The captain, having apparently sensed and caught Akabar’s and Dragonbait’s nervousness, moved away from the pit first, though he tried to appear calm and unperturbed as he leaned on his weapon. The other two men rested their swords on their shoulders.

The two adventurers moved cautiously through the rubble, away from the edge of the pit, until they stood with their backs against a half-toppled wall.

“Try again, looter,” the captain ordered. “I’m sure you can come up with a better story than a pit fiend.”

Why is it one’s friends will believe one’s lies, but one’s enemies are incapable of recognizing the truth when one speaks it? Akabar pondered. He knew better than to backtrack. “Sir,” he said urgently, “as one civilized man to another, I assure you, there is indeed a horrible creature in that pit, no mere fiend, but an ancient god.”

“I’ve heard of you ‘civilized Southerners’,” their discoverer said, “you’re baby-killers, every man-jack of you. Worship gods darker than those who squat at the Keep.”

Either bards are spreading the tales about baby-killers in every society, Akabar thought, or they’re neglecting their duty to disabuse people of these absurd notions.

The captain, not quite as obtuse and single-minded as his subordinates, gave an order to a crossbowman. “Soldier, take a look down the pit. The rest of you, watch this pair. If they so much as sneeze, skewer them.”

The crossbowman climbed over the rubble to peer down into the pit. “Looks fine to me,” he insisted, holding the lantern over his head. “Kinda full. We’re going to have to find another dump soon. Hey, there’s a body in there, a wo—”

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 incinerations, 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.