Song of the Saurials

20 Finder in the

Underworld

Once he’d passed through the dark gate inside Moander’s Realmsian body, Finder found himself hovering a few feet over a bog bordering a river. The soil from the bog glowed a dull red, bathing the surface of the plane about him in a hellish light. The plants of the bog lay on their sides, withered and brown. He was grateful his flying spell hadn’t worn off yet, for he would just as soon not touch the soil or the plants. The river was as black as night and flowed fast and smooth. Although the bard had never been to Tarterus, he knew enough about the plane to realize that the river was the Styx, and that to touch or drink from it would bring complete oblivion.

The air of the plane might have been warm before he arrived, but around his freezing dagger it remained chill. In the sky overhead, he could see a line of receding spheres, like pearls spread out on an invisible string, all glowing a dull red. There was a different sphere of Tarterus for every world in the prime material plane. He was on the sphere connected to the Realms, and somewhere out there was the sphere of Tarterus that was linked to the saurial’s home world. There was air between the spheres, and he could fly from this sphere of Tarterus to the saurials’ sphere of Tarterus, but that was not his destination.

The light from his half of the finder’s stone glowed much more dimly in this place, like a candle burning in a nearly airless room. The bard could just barely pick out the trace of the beam of light indicating Akabar’s direction. Finder flew along its path. The light led to the river’s edge and stopped.

He would have to take a boat, he realized. If he tried to travel by himself, he would attract the attention of the myriad of evil creatures that dwelled in this plane, creatures like Phalse, who captured fools like Dragonbait and himself who traveled where they shouldn’t. Even if he could keep from the notice of such creatures, he could easily get lost in this place and wander for centuries.

He had only a vague idea of how one went about summoning Charon, the Boatman of the Styx. It required some magical spells that he didn’t possess. In lieu of that, Finder decided to try the only other magic he had beyond the broken finder’s stone and the dagger he might still need to use to wrest Akabar from Moander’s grasp. He pulled the horn of blasting from his belt. If it failed to bring Charon, it might at least hail one of the lesser boatmen who carried passengers along the river.

Finder didn’t trigger the instrument’s destructive magic, but blew into it as he would a normal horn. He blew a fanfare he’d once composed in honor of a legion of soldiers who had all been killed in a single day in battle. It seemed an appropriate tune for this place. Then he waited.

In less than a minute, the black water began to churn and froth; then a heavy, sparkling silver mist appeared upriver and drifted downstream with the current. As the mist drew closer, Finder could just barely make out the pointed bow of a boat shrouded within it. Then suddenly the boat, as black as the water of the Styx, emerged from the silver mist, and the mist dissolved into nothingness.

A single boatman stood in the back of the boat and steered it toward the shore with a pole. The boat halted beside Finder, and the boatman held it stationary without any apparent effort, despite the swift current that flowed around it. Finder’s eyes widened at the sight of the boatman. It was Charon himself, not one of his helpers. The Lord of the Styx wore a full-length hooded cloak of black silk, trimmed with ermine. Beneath the hood, his face was haggard and his eyes glowed a fiery red. The hands that held the pole were nearly skeletal. The figure stood in the boat without speaking.

“I’m Finder Wyvernspur,” the bard explained. “I’m seeking Akabar Bel Akash. He has been taken by the god Moander, who dwells in the Abyss.”

Charon held out his palm.

“Will you take this horn in payment?” the bard asked.

Charon motioned for Finder to blow the horn again.

Finder repeated the fanfare for the dead legion of soldiers.

Charon nodded and held out his hand. Finder laid the horn in the boatman’s palm, taking care not to touch his flesh.

Charon set the horn down at his feet and motioned for Finder to come aboard. The bard floated over the boat and took care to settle himself down into it gently, but he was still surprised that the boat didn’t rock at all from his weight. The boat was completely dry inside and empty save for him, the boatman, and the horn. Finder sat facing forward so he wouldn’t be forced to stare at Charon, whose eyes made him feel uneasy. The sensation of bobbing on the water or of air flowing by was completely absent, even as Charon pushed the boat away from the river’s edge into the faster-moving water in the middle of the stream. The boat seemed so still that Finder began to feel as if he’d seated himself in a coffin buried in the earth.

The river steamed around them, in the chillness of the air Finder created with his sliver of para-elemental ice. The bard glanced back at Charon to see if the cold made the boatman uncomfortable. Charon seemed completely oblivious not only to the cold, but to the bard’s presence as well. Finder recalled then that the boatman traveled through regions of the outer planes that would make Icewind Dale seem temperate.

The bard turned his attention to the scenery, but the bogs which stretched out from both banks of the river were a depressing sight. Dead, brown marsh grasses covered the ground as far as the eye could see, and the monotony of the flatland was broken only occasionally by stunted, leafless bushes. Despite the warmth and moisture of the soil, nothing grew. Only after great storms, when the rain had temporarily washed away the poison of the soil, could any plant survive in this region of desolation.

In an effort to take his mind off the bleak scenery around him, Finder tried to think of Alias and Olive. He tried to remember their faces and how they had sounded when they sang together in the Singing Cave and the feel of their hands on his own, but the memories wouldn’t come to him. The river Styx, he recalled, drove away memories of the living.

The bard found himself dwelling instead on memories of Flattery and Kirkson and Maryje. It seemed he thought of nothing else for hours as Charon steered his boat through twisted paths of the river. A desire to throw himself in the river, so that he could forget the evils of his past life, grew stronger with every passing minute.

Finder shook himself with sudden alarm, remembering that the river would rob him of all his memories, good as well as bad. He would forget his songs … Olive … even Alias. Whether the allure of oblivion was due to some enchantment of the dark water and depressing landscape or his own weakness, the bard knew he had to fight it off somehow. A song, he thought. I should sing a song.

Uncertain how the boatman would react to any other music, Finder began by humming “The Tears of Selûne.” When Charon gave no indication of annoyance or displeasure and nothing leaped out at the boat from the banks, the bard began to sing the words. Halfway through the song, he began wondering if Olive had been right, that Selûne’s Shards sang it as a duet. He started the song from the beginning, and for the first time since he’d written them three centuries ago, he began changing the lyrics so that they would work better as a duet. By the time Charon pulled his boat over to the opposite shore, the bard felt as though he’d changed his whole life. He thanked the boatman for the ride, though he had paid for it with the horn, and Charon acknowledged the bard’s gratitude with a nod.

Finder hovered out of the boat and flew the few feet to solid ground. While he’d been concentrating on his music, he hadn’t noticed the change in scenery, but now he surveyed the new landscape with repulsion. The bogs of Tarterus hadn’t been half as horrible as his first sight of Moander’s realm in the Abyss. The shoreline was encrusted with slimy brown muck; the banks were heaped with piles of rotting carcasses and decaying vegetation, and a noisome odor filled the air. Finder turned back to Charon, uncertain if he really wanted to journey any farther into this oppressive region, but the boatman and his boat were gone.

Grateful yet again that his fly spell hadn’t worn off, the bard held out the broken finder’s stone, which put out a feeble light pointing away from the river. The stench beyond the banks of the river was unbearable, but he had no choice. Flying over the fields strewn with debris and the mountains of refuse, Finder wondered if Moander’s realm was the repository for all the garbage of the other six hundred and sixty-five layers of the Abyss.

The bard hadn’t flown far when, from the corner of his eye, he thought he spied a huge gem, but when he landed and bent over to pick it up, it proved to be a piece of rotten fruit. Likewise, his eyes were deceived into seeing a silvered sword, which turned out to be the slime-encrusted bone of some great beast. When he tried to salvage a gilded, leather-bound tome and found himself holding a rotted log alive with larvae, the bard realized that all these illusions were calculated to keep him from his quest. He flew on, ignoring all the other riches he imagined he saw, no matter how enticing they looked.

As he continued on, following the light of the broken finder’s stone, Finder passed several of Moander’s minions. Although most of the minions looked like humans or elves, some appeared to be beasts—elephants, horses, cats, rats, hounds, deer, hawks, sparrows—or magical creatures like dragons and treants. A few must have once been creatures from other worlds, for Finder didn’t recognize their kind. Yet every minion had in common the tendril vines growing from its body, controlling its actions and making it subject to the Darkbringer. Finder realized that if it hadn’t been for his possession by the vines, he wouldn’t be passing through this realm without being challenged.

The light of the finder’s stone led the bard to a great hill, as large as the mound on which the city of Yulash stood. At first Finder thought the hill might be Moander’s stronghold. As he drew closer, however, Finder realized that the hill was in fact Moander’s true body, the one that held the very essence of the god’s being. Unlike all the other shells it possessed in all the worlds of the prime material plane, if this body were destroyed, the Darkbringer would cease to exist completely and forever.

Moander’s Abyssal form was another pile of rotting vegetation, but it was easily five times the size of the body the god had possessed in the Realms. Thousands of tendrils ending in eyes and mouths waved from the pile, and orange rivers of poisoned water flowed down its slopes. Yet for all its vast size, the true body of Moander seemed to tremble from the cold coming from the dagger Finder carried.

At the foot of the hill that was Moander stood Akabar Bel Akash. He was tethered about his ankles with slimy tendrils, and his wrists were likewise bound. His eyes were closed, and he did not speak.

“Hold, Nameless Bard!” a chorus of voices cried from the mouths of Moander.

Finder halted.

“You were a fool to come here,” the mouths of Moander declared. “For destroying my body in the Realms, you have earned my everlasting enmity. Yet despite your crimes against me, I must admire your resourcefulness. I think that I will let you live on as my servant. Now, hand over the seed of power that you stole from my Realmsian body.”

Finder slipped the broken half of the finder’s stone into his boot and drew out the tiny blood-red gem he’d discovered lying before the magical gate inside Moander’s Realmsian body. Apparently, by stepping through the gate and separating the gem from the Realms, he had indeed robbed the god of its power to exist in that world. The gem, Finder suspected, held not just power but some attribute that made it possible for Moander to return to the Realms.

If he smashed the gem, Moander might never regain that power, and the Realms would be safe from the Darkbringer forever. Yet if he gave the gem to Moander, it might take years for the god to find a way to build yet another body in the Realms, and the people of the Realms would have all that time to prepare some other defense against the Darkbringer.

“I’ll give you the seed, Moander,” Finder said, “in exchange for Akabar Bel Akash and safe passage from your realm. I’ll even let you keep your everlasting enmity.” He grinned maliciously.

“Arrogant fool! I could slay you where you stand,” Moander’s mouths snarled.

“I suspect not,” the bard said. “If you could, you would have killed me the moment I stepped into your realm, but you can’t, can you? You’ve been using too much of your power these past few months, possessing saurials and forcing them to do your bidding. You must be feeling a little weak. Your true body is also susceptible to cold, isn’t it? I can see your tendrils shivering from the icy air that surrounds my dagger. I, on the other hand, could crush your precious seed in a moment. Release Akabar now, and I will return the seed,” Finder ordered.

“No,” a voice said, a voice that sounded like Akabar but couldn’t have been, for the mage’s lips never moved. Finder watched with surprise as a white mist slid from Akabar’s body and drifted over toward him.

“No!” Moander’s mouths shouted.

The mist coalesced into a translucent form shaped like Akabar.

“Akabar, is that you?” Finder asked the misty figure.

“This is my spirit and soul,” a voice from the mist said. “Moander holds my body and mind in thrall, but it cannot tether this part of my being. Finder, I cannot allow you to bargain for my life. I will soon be finished with living. I am prepared to dwell now in another plane.”

“But Alias wants me to bring you back,” Finder objected.

“Yes,” the mage’s spirit form replied with a smile. “Alias was always very demanding. Finder, I have abided by this monster’s side only long enough for your arrival. In my dreams, the gods of light told me that I was to instruct you. Now, at last, I know what it is I must teach you. First, understand this,” the spirit form said, using the formal tone of a Southern scholar. “This body behind me is Moander’s true body. If it is destroyed, Moander’s essence will be destroyed forever, completely, in every incarnation in every world.”

“Akabar,” Finder said, “I know that already. I don’t care about it. I only came here to get you.”

“Now know this,” Akabar’s spirit continued. “You have the power to destroy Moander’s true body. You were right—its true body is weak now. Cling fast to the seed of power, Finder Wyvernspur, for with it in your possession and your dagger of cold, you can destroy this god.”

“Destroy me! Destroy the mage! Destroy yourself.” the voices of Moander sang, but their tone held a hint of panic.

“You may indeed die in the attempt,” the spirit said to Finder.

“I didn’t come here to kill Moander,” Finder protested. “I came to bring you back. Moander, release Akabar’s body and mind, and I will leave here without injuring you.”

“Promise?” the mouths of Moander asked eagerly.

“No!” Akabar’s spirit cried angrily. “Finder,” he said hastily, “I realize this is not the fate you had in mind for yourself, but if you do not destroy Moander now, you will be throwing away the only opportunity creation has ever had to rid itself of this monster. Finally learn this,” the mage’s spirit said, concluding his instruction, “This is how an unselfish man dies.”

Akabar’s spirit form raised his arms as high as he could and called out in Turmish to the gods of light he venerated. Finder recognized many of the gods’ names, though most of what Akabar’s spirit said was not clear to him. The spirit’s last words were a Turmish prayer that the bard did recognize.

“Gods of my heart, claim your faithful servant,” Akabar’s spirit cried, and a white light, as bright as the desert sun, encased the mage’s spirit form. The light glowed so brightly that Finder had to turn his back and close his eyes.

Moander’s mouths shrieked with fear and rage as the god’s eyes were blinded and it sensed it was being robbed of its hostage.

The light vanished, and with it took Akabar’s spirit and soul. Akabar’s body crumbled to dust.

Finder shook with awe. There was no way he could ignore Akabar’s sacrifice and turn around and go home. Only a fool would accept all the luck that Tymora had thrown in his path these past two days and give nothing in return. In one hand, the bard clenched the seed, created from Akabar’s blood and Moander’s power, and in the other, his dagger, tipped with para-elemental ice. He flew up above the body of the god.

“Destroy me! Destroy yourself!” Moander’s mouths shrieked hysterically.

“Only my body, Moander,” the bard said. “Not my soul.” Finder veered and dove toward the god’s body with his dagger of para-elemental ice extended. As he struck the Darkbringer’s exterior and broke through to the god’s interior, he was plunged into complete darkness and oblivion. His eyes saw nothing, his body felt nothing, and his mind went completely blank.