Azure Bonds

21 Moander’s Puppet and Mist’s Pursuit

Alias stirred beneath the moss-stained roots, and her mind crawled back from the lands of darkness. She twisted once, then again, straining against her bonds.

She recalled the passage through the wall of enchanted masonry. It had felt like an immersion in a cold mountain lake, chilling her skin and knocking the wind out of her. When she had finally gasped for air, there was a spongy mat against her face—a fragrant glove of pungent, vegetable smells which had reminded Alias of mushrooms in butter sauce gone bad in the summer heat.

And then she knew nothing. It was like the dark emptiness that preceded her appearance at The Hidden Lady.

When Alias awoke, the exposed portions of her skin were chilled and slightly wet from the fog. She had no idea how long she had slept, or what had happened while she did, but her adventures in Cormyr and Shadow Gap, and the conversations at Shadowdale, all remained crisp and clear in her memory. If anything, they felt more real than the adventures she’d experienced before she had received the deadly, cursed tattoo.

Finally, she opened her eyes to glare at the curse scrawled across her arm, only to find it trapped in a blanket of green fibers. She tried to shake loose, but her arm was held fast. She tried to move her left arm, but that limb was also pinned down by the same sort of damp, slimy blanket.

Alias tried kicking. Her legs were trapped, too. She wriggled and thrashed and bucked, but a wet root, as thick as her arm, held her to the ground. Whenever she moved, the tendrils moved with her. She sensed one of the bonds tearing, but new shoots sprouted immediately to replace it.

Frustrated, she looked around. She lay on an odd collection of garbage, bog peat, sickly green vines, and large moldy roots. At the edge of her vision she spotted something clean and white jutting out from the greenery. Alias recognized it as a human bone.

She felt the pile of boggy vegetation shift as though it were moving on a great wagon. She was lying on a ledge at the leading edge of the pile, about fifteen feet from the ground, but she could see no horses or oxen ahead.

A pile of dead leaves shifted by the right side of her head. As she watched, a single, green tendril burst through the rotting vegetation. At the tendril’s tip was a pumpkinlike pod. The tendril swiveled toward her, and the pumpkin pod opened like a flower. At its center was a great, weeping eye, trapped on all sides by jagged, spined teeth.

The sight touched some memory buried within Alias, a memory she wished had stayed buried. She screamed.

The pumpkin pod closed up, startled or frightened by her reaction. The tendril withdrew into the refuse pile.

Alias swallowed with some difficulty, keeping her eyes fixed on the spot where the tendril had sprouted. When it did not reappear, she began to look around again, though her eyes kept returning to that site every few seconds to make sure her ocular companion had not returned.

The mound was passing over terrain that resembled the plains about Yulash. The sun was on her left and there was a thick, dark line of green across the horizon straight ahead.

If that’s the rising sun, we must be heading south out of Yulash, toward the Elven Wood, she thought. Unless I’ve slept for days again—then we could be anywhere.

The sound of something moving through the garbage made her realize she and the wretched tendrils were not alone. Three figures appeared at the corner of the mound—men, moving in a matching stride like soldiers. A vine trailed behind each man, attached somewhere to his back.

The man in the center cast a long shadow on her and blocked out the sun, so she could only make out his silhouette at first. The sun shone through the light robes he wore—revealing spindly legs, but a powerful torso. He wore some sort of helmet. She could not make out his features, but by his bearing she knew he was Akabar.

The men who flanked the mage were dressed in moldy, torn battle gear. They moved stiffly as they picked their way through the garbage.

“Akabar?” she said softly, but the figure did not respond. “Akabar? What’s going on? Cut me out of this stuff.”

“I’m afraid I must inform you,” the lean figure began in the roundabout speech of the South, “that I am not your Akabar.” He broke rank from the two soldiers and knelt beside her head.

He was Akabar. He had Akabar’s face, marked with the three blue scholar-circles on his forehead, and Akabar’s square-shovel beard, and the same sapphire earring which marked him as a married man. His dark eyes, though, were completely fogged over in gray and patches of listless white swirled through them. The thing Alias had mistaken for a helmet was a cap of vines that pressed suckers against the mage’s forehead and into his ears. Dried blood flaked around the suckers.

Her breath came in short gasps as a scream tried to claw its way up her throat. She found the strength to ask, “Who are you?”

“I am Moander,” said the thing that was Akabar, “the most important being in your world.”

In a smooth, gentle motion he lowered his body into a cross-legged sitting position and waited for his prisoner to stop squirming. Having exhausted herself in a futile effort to pull away from the mound of garbage, Alias finally lay still. She turned her head away from Akabar’s body and kept her eyes squeezed tight. “Oh, gods,” she moaned.

“Just a god, singular,” Moander replied. “The only one that matters. Hold on, you have something stuck to your chin. Let me get it.”

Akabar used the sleeve of his robe to dab at a fleck of garbage near Alias’s mouth. He used too much pressure and pushed her head backward into the spongy bed of compost. It was as though he were unaware of his own strength.

“There. Much better. Now we can talk.”

“You’re not Akabar,” Alias whispered, still trying to convince herself, but not wanting to believe it.

“Not really, no, but I’m all the Akabar you’re going to get for a while. Might as well make the best of him. By rights, he should have died of fear, being the first human in this millennium to behold my godliness. How he survived I’ll never know. But that kind of luck shouldn’t be tampered with, so I left his body in better shape than the others. Look.”

Alias felt shambling footsteps through the boggy ground and looked past Akabar’s body at his companions. One’s neck was ripped open, and his face was pale and ghostly without its lifeblood. The other had no face at all, only a slab of pummeled, bloody meat. Both had tendrils rigged around their bodies, moving them like puppets.

Alias felt her stomach heave and twist, but it was overridden by a chill, clammy terror. Her body trembled and she began to hyperventilate.

“There, there,” Moander said, using Akabar’s hand to smooth her hair. “I just brought them as an example of what I could have done to your friend. I’ll send them away now.”

Moander gave no verbal command and made no physical gesture, but the shambling corpses retreated around the side of the hill of garbage. Alias stared at the passing plains. After a few moments, she grew calmer. “Who are you really?” she asked.

“As I said before, I am Moander. Though that is a lot like calling a newborn prince the king.”

Alias swung her head and stared at the stranger in Akabar’s body. He imitated the mage almost perfectly, his pose, his gestures, the tone and cadence of his voice. But the smile was wrong. It was an exaggerated, forced smile—as if someone had pinned the corners of his mouth.

“Are you … I mean, is he …”

“Dead? Not really. He’s gone, for all intents and purposes, but his soul and mind are still around, locked away in some corner. Rather like a man poisoned by a Jit snake, who lies in fever dreams, not waking, for weeks. You still have Jit snakes around here?” He paused, tilting his head as if listening to an unheard speaker. “No, I guess you don’t anymore.”

He rested his milky gray eyes on Alias and sat quietly, as if waiting for her to ask him another question.

Alias only stared at the passing scenery, so Moander continued. “In this case, if I were to let the mage go, he would awaken. But he cannot break my control, and I will control him until he is no longer useful. And this one is so incredibly useful. I needed his mouth and mind to talk to you. Of course, I could have linked up with you, but you are far too valuable to risk that. Besides, he is so very amusing.”

Moander giggled. “I can’t begin to tell you all I’m finding in his mind. It’s like being in a great mansion, with new surprises behind every door. Here are memories of his wives, and here is you calling him a greengrocer, and here is a good piece of history of the South. Gods below, so much has happened. I’ve been out of touch for too long!”

“Out of touch?” Alias taunted. “I thought gods were omniscient.”

“Well, normally that would be true. Gods stretch through a number of different planes, with different levels of power in each. This part of me—” Akabar’s hand motioned to the pile of garbage which towered over them—“you might call the Minion or Abomination of Moander. More than a thousand years ago, back when Myth Drannor was a major power, the cursed elves banned my spirit from this world by imprisoning this part of me in my own temple.”

A weakness crept over Alias’s spirit. This vast garbage heap was her enemy, and not only did it hold her prisoner, but it waved her friend before her eyes like a puppet.

“Soon, when this part of me arrives at the new temple my worshipers have prepared, and I gather even more worshipers to my fold, I will grow strong enough in this world to command the powers that gods are endowed with. Had I been in full control of my powers when my spirit was finally able to return to the Abomination, I would have left a pit where Yulash stood and ascended into the heavens to mete out punishment to those who banished me.”

“But in the meantime, you’re pretty weak. Relatively, I mean.”

Moander cocked Akabar’s head like a hanged man. “Relatively. But I have plenty of stored life-fluid in this form. More than enough to reach my worshipers, pop the heads off a few sacrifices, and make demands on the populace. I’m conserving my strength by traveling this slowly so that I can have enough energy to indulge a whim.”

Alias stared at the approaching forest, wondering if the sludge mountain that was Moander would break up when it hit the trees or flow around them.

Moander gestured with Akabar’s hands toward the trees which held Alias’s attention. “My first stop is Myth Drannor. According to your friend’s mind, all the elves have deserted their capital. I’ve got to make sure. If it’s true, at least I can dance on the rubble. From there we’ll continue south until we reach Sembia. I love the way your friend thinks in terms of maps and trade routes. He is so useful.”

“And once we’ve reached Sembia?”

“Ah, curiosity, my servant. A good sign. We’ll cut southwest through Sembia toward The Neck, between the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Lake of Dragons, and just hop in the water. Scum, like cream, floats. We shall sail triumphantly to our new home.

“Which is?” Alias asked. She already had a strong suspicion, but she had to know for sure.

“Westgate, of course. Where we built you.”

The trio of non-humans climbed higher into the sky, keeping well above the range of the catapults of any surviving Keepers or Red Plumes.

“Why so high?” Olive bellowed in Mist’s ear.

The dragon let out a puffing grumble, “What?”

“I said, what are we flying so high for?” The halfling grasped the ropes which Dragonbait had fashioned into an impromptu saddle.

The dragon rumbled between deep puffs of air. “Can either” (long breath) “fly or talk.” (Long breath.) “Try singing” (long breath) “while you’re running hard.” (Long breath.) “Hang on.”

The dragon ceased flapping, locked her wings in a gliding position, and began to circle the city, her wings catching the thermals rising from the mound. Olive looked back at the dragon’s great batlike membranes. One wing still showed a pink line from the recently healed tear.

Dragonbait, who sat where the dragon’s wings joined her body, had done the healing. According to Mist, the warrior lizard communicated with his scent glands, so he could not “speak” as they soared through the air. The wind would carry away the perfume of his words. But he made his desires known quite effectively by prodding the great wyrm with his sword.

“You were saying,” Mist prompted the bard, now that she was able to breathe normally, her labors eased by the helpful warm air.

“Can’t you fly any lower?” Olive asked.

“Do you want to catch a ballista-bolt in the crotch?”

When Olive did not answer immediately, Mist said, “Thought not. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Besides the danger below, this is the best place to gain altitude. And I need altitude to soar after your lizard’s Abomination. Flying, especially with passengers, isn’t easy.”

“Looks like they’ve made a ruin of it,” the halfling commented on the city below.

“Human wars tend to do that,” Mist replied curtly. “When I lived in this area, I heard of Yulash’s destruction five, no, six times. Some group or another is always on a crusade or war of liberation. Merciless killing, cloaked by the niceties of civil tongues. They are a race of lawyers, these humans. I wonder how they survive.”

“My people wonder the same thing.”

An idea rose to the surface of the halfling’s brain. “Say, O mighty Mist. I was wondering …” Olive trailed off, leaving the question hang for a moment. Based on what she knew about human and draconian nature, the halfling calculated some odds before continuing.

The dragon banked and, catching another updraft, began to rise again. “Yesssss?” she prompted.

“Once you’ve fulfilled your bargain with Dragonbait and freed Alias, you’re going to attack her”

“Is that a question or a statement?” Mist’s voice was low and guttural.

Olive glanced over her shoulder at Dragonbait, but the lizard was twenty feet away and couldn’t possibly hear their conversation. His attention was focused on the ground below. “Well,” Olive noted, “you haven’t been very, uh, successful the last two times out of the paddock.”

“If memory serves, you aided in my defeat both those times.”

“My point exactly,” Olive said. “And next time you’ll have both Dragonbait and Alias to deal with. Now, if, my services were suddenly available on your side of the dispute …” Again she let her voice trail off.

For several moments, the only sound was the rush of the wind. Finally, Mist said, “Why the shift in loyalties?”

The halfling considered how much she wanted the dragon to know. The game I’ve been playing for Phalse has become too dangerous, Olive thought. I’d have no trouble fooling Alias. Dragonbait, however, is not so easily deceived.

To Mist Olive simply said, “Let’s just say I do not trust our companion. He has misrepresented himself and that makes me uncomfortable. I’m not sure I want to continue traveling with him much longer.”

“But you still want to rescue the woman.”

The dragon was no dotard, Olive realized. “Yes,” she admitted. “I want to rescue Alias. You might wish to reconsider which warrior has done the most to earn your vengeance. If you decide on the lizard rather than the woman, you will find yourself with an ally.”

“I see.”

“Besides,” the halfling added, “Alias has a lot of enemies. She is bound to get her comeuppance sooner or later.”

The dragon banked again, then spoke. “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement. Speaking of His Righteousness, turn around and see what he wants.”

The bard twisted in her makeshift saddle. Dragonbait was banging on the side of Mist’s neck with the flat of his blade. Having caught the bard’s attention, he pointed southward.

“I think he wants you to get on with the hunt. He’s pointing south.”

“Everyone thinks they’re an expert.”

“I imagine he thinks he’s the boss,” Olive replied slyly.

Mist’s neck stiffened some, and she remained silent. She banked again and began to glide away from Yulash.

“Can you see the monster’s trail from this height?” the halfling asked.

“Bard, I can see field mice from this height.”

“Um, I guess I meant, could I have a look?”

Mist turned her head ever so slightly so Olive could peer down at the ground. Yulash looked as though it would fit in the palm of her hand. Four roads stretched away from it, east, west, northeast, and northwest, but far wider than the roads was a path of crushed vegetation and broken copses of trees heading south by southeast.

“Just how wide is that trail?” Olive asked, unable to judge size from such a distance.

“About fifty feet. Though it seems to be growing the farther south we go,” Mist mused.

“This Abomination must be huge,” the halfling cautioned. “Think you can handle it?”

“Not handle a shambling mound with a gland problem?” Mist sniffed. “So far you’ve only seen me in action in Feints of Honor. Unfettered by conventions, I am a force to be reckoned with.”

“You fight dirty,” Olive translated.

“That walking garbage heap will want a bath when I’m through with it,” Mist bragged.

The bard smiled. She turned to look at Dragonbait. He kept his eyes fixed on the plains.

“Does he have a name? Besides Dragonbait, I mean.”

“Indeed,” the dragon answered. “But it doesn’t translate well. I much prefer Dragonbait. It’s so appropriate.”

Without the thermals rising from Yulash, Mist was forced to pump her wings to preserve her altitude. The conversation with the halfling ended as Mist conserved her breath for the exertion of flying.

Far in the distance, on the southern horizon, a line of green marked the Abomination’s destination—the Elven Wood.