Song of the Saurials

3 The Beast

While page Heth was fetching Alias, the Harper tribunal continued to discuss the matter of the Nameless Bard.

“Even if this Alias is the paragon you say, Elminster,” Morala said to the sage, “her existence does not mitigate the bard’s initial guilt. You would not speak on Nameless’s behalf at his first trial,” she reminded him. “What has changed between then and now?”

What indeed? Elminster wondered. “As ye know, thy grace, I was a good friend to Nameless, but when he proceeded with his experiment against my advice, I felt … betrayed. I was angry with him, so I did nothing to defend him. I now believe I was wrong to do nothing.”

“It is a master bard’s sworn duty to protect his apprentices,” Morala continued. “Nameless was found guilty of recklessly endangering his apprentices, resulting in the death of one and injury to the other. What can you possibly say in his defense?” Morala asked.

“Nothing, thy grace,” Elminster said.

“Nothing?” Breck asked with surprise.

Kyre tilted her head in confusion, but Morala’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The sage had some trick up his sleeve; she was sure of it.

“Nothing, good ranger,” Elminster said. “But then,” he added, “there is also nothing I can say in defense of the punishment meted out by the Harper tribunal that sentenced the bard.” Elminster’s tone deepened with anger and contempt. “How long did they sentence Nameless to exile?” The sage answered his own question. “Forever. Two hundred years he has spent alone. Like barbarians who slice off the hands of a thief, the Harpers have given him no opportunity to atone for his crime. And what was done with the best part of the man, the beautiful music he composed despite his vanity and thoughtlessness, music which might have proven there was some good in him? The Harpers tried to wipe it out, just as barbarians wipe out the innocent children of their enemies.”

Kyre raised her eyebrows at the sage’s analogies, and Breck blushed with shame, but Morala rose angrily to her feet.

“Nameless knows nothing of atonement!” Morala insisted. “He was adept at charming others into spending their lives on his schemes. Not even the deaths of his apprentices stopped him from attempting to build a second singing simulacrum. If not for the intervention of others, who knows what evils Cassana and her consortium would have set this Alias to accomplish? We exiled Nameless alone so he could never again harm another with his recklessness. As for his music, he was unwilling to have his songs passed from one generation of bards to the next, so we honored his wish.”

“It is not justice to imprison someone for what he might do, Morala,” Elminster replied. “Tomorrow you or I might cause some great harm. Should we then go into exile this very day? And as for his music, if the Harpers had only imprisoned Nameless for a few years but allowed his songs to be passed on in the natural way, Nameless might have learned to accept the way his music would evolve and change. Instead, the Harpers exascerbated the bard’s fears.”

“We could not afford your fine sense of justice, Elminster,” Morala said. “We had to protect others from Nameless. A few years would not have changed his attitude. I doubt that two hundred years has done so. Even now that he has his singer, Alias, is he any less likely to use people? Can you offer any proof that Nameless himself has changed?”

Elminster considered the question carefully, searching his memory for any speech or action by Nameless that would demonstrate the bard’s redemption. “Yes,” he said finally.

The Harpers waited impatiently for the sage to continue. Elminster rose to his feet and circled around the table till he stood directly before the tribunal. “Three things …” he began. Then suddenly his face went pale. He gasped and clutched at his chest.

“Elminster?” Morala cried, rising to her feet.

“Are you all right, sir?” Breck asked, leaping from his seat to come to the aid of the sage. Some invisible force, though, repelled the young ranger. He bounced backward onto the dais at Kyre’s feet.

In the span of three breaths, Elminster’s body seemed to turn to clear crystal. Then, in a flash of bright light, the sage was gone. In his place stood a huge, hideous beast.

The creature stood as tall as a hill giant, towering over the three Harpers. The long red robe and fur cape it wore couldn’t hide the inhumanness of its form. It was covered with sickly green scales, and its eyes glittered red in the torchlight. Two sharp ivory horns sprouted from its head, and a third, even longer, horn rose from the tip of its long snout. Around the back of its head grew a bony frill, edged with spikes and decorated with arcane magical symbols. A muscular tail curled up from beneath the hem of its robe and swished back and forth like an angry snake.

In one clawed appendage, the beast clenched an iron staff tipped with a yellow orb, and in the other claw it held out a small blood-red object vaguely resembling a large chess rook. The red object began to glow, and the Harpers could feel heat emanating from it.

Kyre shouted, “Kill it!” Without a second’s hesitation, she drew a dagger from her boot and hurled it. The dagger struck the red object in the beast’s hand, knocking it to the stone floor, where it landed with a soft plop.

The beast looked up at Kyre and growled menacingly.

“Kill the monster, Breck!” Kyre cried. “Kill it before it’s too late!”

The ranger lost no time in picking himself up from Kyre’s feet, drawing his long sword, and charging the beast.

The creature was just as quick, holding out its staff with both clawed appendages to block Breck’s blow. Sparks flew where the ranger’s steel sword ground along the length of the iron staff. The beast’s heavy tail lashed forward, struck Breck’s left shoulder, and knocked him backward. Breck stumbled back into the dais, grunting from the pain that shot down his arm and back.

Meanwhile, Morala rose to her feet, drew a vial of holy water from the sleeve of her robe, and began singing a series of increasingly higher-pitched musical scales, praying to Milil, the god of bards, for his aid. Kyre stepped from the dais, circling cautiously around the beast until she stood at the periphery of its vision. Then she began a magical chant of her own, one far more harsh and guttural than that of the priestess.

Breck recovered enough to close in on his opponent again, searching for an opening in the beast’s defenses. The creature grabbed Breck’s injured arm and lifted the ranger several feet off the floor. Breck heard a pop as his arm dislocated from its shoulder joint, and he howled in agony. In a fury, he brought his sword down on the beast’s head, but the blade got caught on the bony frill protruding from its skull.

Crimson blood oozed from the skin covering the beast’s frill, and the creature roared. It hurled Breck through the air, straight into Morala, knocking her off balance.

The ranger and the priestess tumbled from the dais. Breck’s head hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. Morala was able to soften her own landing with her hands, but her vial of holy water smashed on the floor, and her concentration shattered with it. Her spell, which would have sent the beast back to whatever foul plane it had come from, was ruined. “You may just have destroyed our only hope, ranger,” the priestess snapped.

When Breck failed to reply, the priestess turned to face him. The ranger lay still on the floor. Morala knelt to examine him. He was still breathing, but the impact to his head had knocked him unconscious.

Indifferent to the fate of her fellow Harpers, Kyre completed her own spell before the beast could turn its full attention to her. A fan of flames shot out from the half-elf’s fingers. The assault caught the beast in its midsection, and immediately its robes burst into flames. The creature roared, dropped to the ground, and rolled to extinguish the flames.

Kyre drew her own sword and approached the beast until she stood over its prone form. She raised her blade up to strike, but she, too, neglected to watch out for the beast’s tail. The serpentine appendage lashed out suddenly and slapped her legs out from under her. As she fell to her hands and knees, she lost her grip on her sword. Her weapon slid across the stone floor, but quickly she rolled toward it and grabbed it.

The beast picked itself off the floor, leaning heavily on its staff, and lumbered from the courtroom and down the hallway.

Kyre stood up and turned to Morala. “Alert the guard!” the half-elf ordered. “I’m going after the monster!”

“Breck’s injuries are serious!” Morala called to her. “Alert the guard while I tend to him.” Morala looked up when Kyre did not reply. The half-elf was already chasing after the beast. “Kyre! Come back here!” the priestess shouted after her, but the half-elf did not return.

Morala set her jaw angrily. “Foolish girl,” she muttered. As the priestess of Milil laid her hands on the ranger’s pale face and began humming a healing spell, she noted a peculiar mixture of odors wafting through the room. The smell of burning cloth, she realized, was the result of Kyre’s burning hands spell. But where, Morala wondered, did the smell of fresh-mown hay and baking bread come from?

Olive stood at the door to Finder’s cell, fidgeting nervously. “I know what I heard!” she insisted. “Something roared out there.”

“Olive, this is the Tower of Ashaba,” Finder reminded the halfling. “The home of Mourngrym, Lord of Shadowdale. The guards aren’t going to allow any wild beasts to roam the halls.”

“How do you know? After all, they let me roam the halls,” Olive argued.

Finder grinned at the halfling’s indirect comparison of herself to a wild beast. “Come away from the door, Olive,” he said patiently. “We don’t want the guards to see you in here.”

“I’m just going to take a peek,” Olive insisted, opening the door a few inches more. She tried to slip out of the cell, but an invisible barrier across the threshold blocked her escape. “It’s blocked!” Olive hissed angrily. “It’s a one-way door. Why didn’t you tell me I was walking into a trap?”

Finder raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t know, Olive. Really.” He began to laugh.

“What’s so damned funny?” Olive demanded.

“The irony of it all,” Finder explained. “I thought Elminster trusted me, but he knew me well enough to take extra precautions. He must have made the door one-way to catch anyone who might try to help me escape from the cell.”

“I still fail to see any humor in it,” Olive said coldly.

“Olive, Olive, Olive. I told you. The finder’s stone can get past any barrier Elminster may have cast to try to prevent me from leaving this room. In his wildest dreams, the sage couldn’t have imagined you’d find the stone and bring it to me.”

“You could put my mind to rest by using the stone to get us out right now,” Olive said.

Finder shook his head from side to side. “We’ll leave after the Harpers have made their decision. Not a measure sooner or later,” he said. He laid the finder’s stone down on the table and picked up his chordal horn.

Olive leaned back against the wall beside the prison cell door and slumped to the floor. Finder began playing a soldier’s marching melody.

Olive sniffed the air. Although exit from the prison cell was magically blocked, the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted into the cell. The halfling’s stomach rumbled in response. “I should have eaten a bigger breakfast,” she muttered.

Something in the hallway clomped toward the door. “Would the guards be bringing you something to eat about now?” Olive whispered.

Finder lowered his horn from his mouth. “What are you talking a—” The bard halted in midword as the door of the prison cell flew open. A huge green lizard in charred robes bent low and squeezed through the doorway. The creature was dripping blood from a shallow wound on its head, and the scales on its hands were black and blistered.

Olive stood cautiously, trying not to attract the beast’s attention, while Finder grabbed the finder’s stone from the table and backed away from the door.

“Don’t come a step farther!” the bard ordered the beast.

The smell of baking bread was overwhelming. Olive gasped. A flicker of memory burst into enlightenment.

Alerted to the halfling’s presence by Olive’s gasp, the lizard turned to face her. It pointed a clawed finger at her.

“Don’t touch her!” Finder barked sharply. “Back away from it slowly, Olive,” he whispered to the halfling.

“It’s all right,” Olive said, showing more courage than Finder would have ever credited her with possessing. “At least, I think it’s all right,” the halfling added softly. She reached out slowly with one hand and touched the beast’s robes. “Are you a friend of Dragonbait’s?” she asked tentatively.

The beast looked down at the halfling as if it were concentrating on trying to understand her, but it made no reply.

Olive sighed. “Of course. Dragonbait could only understand us because of his link to Alias.” The halfling turned to Finder. “I don’t suppose you speak any Saurial, do you, Finder?” she asked.

Finder eyed the creature suspiciously. “What makes you think this monster’s a saurial? He doesn’t look anything like Dragonbait.”

The halfling raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered, “Humans!” She looked back at Finder with disappointment. “I don’t look anything like you, either,” she pointed out. “And you don’t look anything like Alias, yet we’re all from the Realms. What makes you think all saurials have to look like Dragonbait?”

Finder conceded Olive’s point with a slight nod. “I grant you that it could be a saurial. What makes you think it is?”

“Only two things smell as good as fresh-baked bread,” Olive explained. “Fresh baked bread and angry saurials.”

“Because that’s the smell they use to communicate their anger,” Finder said, recalling now all that Alias had told him about Dragonbait’s scents.

“He doesn’t smell quite so much like bread anymore. I hope that means he’s calming down,” Olive said.

“Yes, but what got him angry in the first place?” Finder asked. “And what’s he doing here?”

“It looks like someone tried to roast him,” Olive said, indicating the beast’s charred clothing and hands. “I imagine that could make him pretty mad.”

From the sleeve of his robe, the beast pulled out a silver medallion on a silk cord and handed it to Olive.

“For me?” Olive asked, her eyes glittering with delight.

The beast tapped the medallion with a claw.

Olive’s eyes widened in astonishment at the design inscribed into the shining metal. “Finder, the picture on this medallion—it’s Dragonbait!” Olive declared, holding out the medallion for the bard to see. “It looks just like him. And that’s his sword—well, the sword he had last year before Alias lost it in the battle with Phalse. This guy knows Dragonbait,” she added, poking a finger at the beast.

“Dragonbait’s at The Old Skull with Alias,” Finder said. “If this overgrown saurial is Dragonbait’s friend, why isn’t he down there raising a mug with Dragonbait? What’s he doing here with us?”

“Maybe Alias and Dragonbait sent him here to rescue you,” Olive suggested as she casually slipped the creature’s medallion into a pocket of her tunic.

Finder looked exceptionally doubtful. “Wait a minute!” the bard said, slapping himself in the forehead. “We don’t have to play guessing games. I have a tongues spell in the stone.” Finder laid his chordal horn on the table and held the finder’s stone out before him. He sang a scale in A-minor. Olive watched, fascinated, as the stone glowed in Finder’s hands and surrounded him with yellow light.

The bard and the lizard stood staring at one another for what seemed to Olive like an eternity, though it was actually no more than a minute. She could detect a collage of scents rising from both the beast and Finder, but she grew bored not knowing what they were discussing. “Well?” the halfling prompted, reminding the other two of her presence.

“The creature’s name is Grypht,” Finder explained finally. “He’s been looking for Dragonbait, but he was unable to locate him magically.”

“ ’Cause Dragonbait’s with Alias, and they’re both hidden by her shield of magical misdirection,” Olive said.

“No doubt,” Finder said, nodding. “Grypht knows you’re a friend of Dragonbait’s, so he’s come looking for you, hoping you can tell him where to find his friend. Grypht teleported into the tower directly from his native dimension, but apparently someone here took him for an enemy and attacked him. He’s put up a wall of ice in the corridor to keep anyone from following him.”

“Then let’s take him to Dragonbait before the ice melts,” Olive suggested.

“No hurry,” Finder said. “I can explain to the guards that he means no harm.”

“Suppose they don’t believe you?” Olive asked anxiously.

Finder waved impatiently for Olive to remain silent as he resumed his “conversation” with the saurial Grypht.

Olive huffed and slumped back against the wall, wishing fervently that this strange friend of Dragonbait’s could talk Finder into leaving, and leaving soon. She was growing increasingly more nervous, though she couldn’t say exactly why. Just to be on the safe side, she pushed the door closed and relocked it with her lockpick. If she was unable to escape, she was going to make it just as difficult as possible for anyone or anything else to get in.

Following the trail of blood drops from Grypht’s wounds, Kyre nearly ran into the wall of ice that the creature had cast to block the corridor. She was especially susceptible to injury from cold—something that, unfortunately, Grypht knew only too well. She backed away from the ice carefully, shivering uncontrollably.

The half-elf didn’t know precisely what had brought Grypht to the Tower of Ashaba, but it was doubtful he’d come here looking for her. He’d seemed as surprised to see her as she’d been to see him. She had to capture or destroy him before it was too late.

After a minute, Kyre had warmed sufficiently to think clearly and control her movements. She replaced her sword in its scabbard and pulled a magical scroll from one of the pockets of her tunic. She’d meant to use the scroll to break the Nameless Bard out of his cell, but dealing with Grypht had a higher priority. She unrolled the scroll and held it out to read from it. At that moment, Lord Mourngrym and three armed guards came running up behind her. All four fighters had their swords drawn.

“What’s going on?” Mourngrym demanded. “I heard something roaring!”

“It’s a denizen of the Nine Hells, your lordship,” Kyre said. “Somehow it teleported Elminster from the courtroom and appeared in his place.”

“That’s impossible. No monster from the lower planes can enter this tower. Elminster has it warded against such evil,” Mourngrym scoffed.

“Nothing is impossible, your lordship,” Kyre replied. “I know this monster. It is called Grypht, and it is very powerful, a master of lies. It works for the Zhentarim. It attacked Breck; Morala is tending him in the courtroom. I chased the monster down this corridor. It has sealed itself behind this wall of ice.”

“Caitlin, go make sure Morala and Breck are all right,” Mourngrym ordered one of the guards.

The guard ran down the corridor toward the courtroom.

“Is there another passage leading to the corridor beyond?” Kyre asked.

“No,” Mourngrym replied. “This hallway comes to a dead end. That’s why Elminster put the Nameless Bard in the room at the far—” Suddenly his face went white. “Nameless! He’s locked up in there … defenseless!” his lordship gasped. “We have to get through this wall of ice! Thurbal, fetch a mage. Sar, get torches and axes!” Mourngrym demanded.

As the two guards hurried to obey their lord, Kyre held out her magic scroll. “You must get through as quickly as you can, your lordship,” the half-elf said, “but I cannot wait. I must use a magical door to get myself to the other side of the wall.”

“You can’t go alone,” Mourngrym argued.

“I must,” the half-elf insisted. “Someone must protect the Nameless Bard from that creature.”

Lord Mourngrym nodded. There was no other choice. His lordship watched as Kyre chanted aloud the words on the magical scroll she held in her hands. She read quickly, but it took her a full minute to complete the spell. The instant she had finished reading it, the scroll burst into flames, and Kyre was swallowed up by a dimensional door and disappeared.

His lordship pulled out his dagger and began chipping away at the wall of ice, unwilling to waste time waiting for an axe while the brave half-elf faced Grypht alone.

At the front gate of the Tower of Ashaba, Alias and Akabar halted as Heth announced them. “Alias of Westgate and her friend Akabar bel Akash,” the page informed the four guards who stood at the entrance. The announcement was a mere formality. The guards all knew Alias, and they weren’t likely to challenge anyone who accompanied her. She had served in the tower guard herself the previous winter, and she was a trusted friend of Lord Mourngrym.

Just as Alias and Akabar stepped across the threshold, a balding, burly man-at-arms came racing across the entrance hall toward the gate. Alias recognized him as Captain Thurbal, the warden of the town of Shadowdale. Thurbal looked anxious and distracted, and in his haste, he ran into Heth.

“Captain,” the boy squeaked, “what’s wrong?”

“Heth! Good—you’re just the person I need!” the captain exclaimed as he grabbed the page’s shoulders. “Run to the inn and bring back any mages who may be staying there! Hurry!” He pushed the page toward the door, then turned to Alias. “Alias, it’s good you’re here. We may need you.”

Heth looked annoyed and began to protest. “But, Captain, his lordship said that today I was to page only for the trib—”

“No buts, boy!” Thurbal shouted. “This is an emergency!”

“Excuse me,” Akabar said. “I’m a mage. What’s wrong? Can I be of some assistance?”

“Thank Tymora!” the captain exclaimed. “Come with me, please.” He took the Turmishman’s arm and hustled him across the front hall toward the tower’s main staircase.

Hurrying behind them, Alias asked anxiously, “Thurbal, what’s wrong, anyway?”

Without breaking his stride, Thurbal explained, “Some fiend from a lower plane has broken into the tower.”

“That’s impossible,” Alias interrupted. “Elminster has warded the tower against—”

“So we all thought,” Thurbal said. “The Harper bard Kyre says the creature is from the Nine Hells, however, and it’s barricaded itself behind a wall of ice. The creature is in the same passage where the Nameless Bard is imprisoned. Harper Kyre transported herself beyond the wall magically to help Nameless, but the rest of us are stuck on this side of the wall. We may need a mage to take it down.”

At the mention of Nameless, Alias looked alarmed and began to race up the staircase. Akabar and Thurbal had to take the steps two at a time to keep up with her.

“Head for the west tower room,” Thurbal huffed as they reached the third story.

Alias dashed off ahead of the two men, running past the doors to the Harpers’ courtroom. As she turned the corner of the hallway, she was forced to halt abruptly to avoid running into the wall of ice.

The thing was dismally cold; it made the corridor feel like a fen in winter. Two guards were piling burning torches at its base, but there was no indication whatsoever that the wall was melting.

Mourngrym was hacking at the ice wall with a great axe. He had managed to chip away several inches, but it had taken its toll on him. His face and ears were flushed from the cold, his hands were red and raw, and the tips of his fingers were white from frostbite. He looked exhausted. As Alias watched, the axe slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor.

“Mourngrym!” Alias cried, taking hold of his shoulders and pulling him away from the wall. “You’ve got to stop before you lose your hands.”

Mourngrym looked back at the swordswoman with grim determination. “I can’t, Alias. Nameless and Harper Kyre are trapped behind there with an evil monster,” he said.

“I know,” Alias said, trying to keep her voice calmer than she felt. “I’ve brought Akabar. He’ll dispel the wall.”

Just then Akabar and Thurbal turned the corner of the corridor. Akabar’s eyes widened at the sight of the wall of ice, and he swallowed uncertainly. The wall was obviously very thick, indicating that it had been cast by a spell-caster far more powerful than he. Without much hope, he began a chant to dispel the magic ice.

Mourngrym, Alias, and the two guards moved away from the wall as the mage raised his clasped hands over his head. Akabar finished his disenchantment spell by unlacing his fingers with a flourish. Sun-yellow motes of light sparkled toward the wall and scattered across the ice.

The specks of light faded, but the wall of ice remained. Akabar lowered his arms and looked troubled. “I’ll have to try to melt the wall with a fireball,” the mage said. “It’s quite dangerous. The explosion will release very hot steam. You must all take cover.”

“What about you?” Alias asked.

“I cannot cast the magic from behind a wall,” Akabar said.

Back in Finder’s cell, Olive began to fidget with the straps of her pack as the bard’s expression grew more serious. Finder shook his head at something Grypht was “telling” him.

Olive’s sharp ears caught the sound of someone out in the hallway picking at the door lock. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered anxiously.

Grypht spun about and growled. Finder tossed Olive the finder’s stone. “Take this and your cloak and knapsack and stay out of sight,” he ordered the halfling. “Now!”

Olive picked up her gear and slipped behind the velvet drapes. Hastily she poked a tiny peephole in the fabric with her dagger.

As the door swung open, Finder took a position at Grypht’s side, prepared to reprimand the guards for attacking the creature without provocation.

He was not prepared, however, for Kyre. The lovely half-elf stood in the doorway holding out a rather large but innocuous-looking walnut.

“I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced,” the bard said, turning on his most charming smile. Kyre’s face contorted in disgust, and she turned her gaze impatiently on the giant lizard. Grypht hissed and raised his staff.

“Darkbringer!” Kyre shouted. The round nut in her hand began to radiate a sphere of darkness, which within the span of five heartbeats, grew as large as a pumpkin, concealing Kyre’s hand and forearm in an inky black ball.

Finder stepped protectively in front of the large saurial. “No,” he said calmly. “There’s been a misunderstanding here. He’s a foe of the Darkbringer, not an agent.”

Kyre ignored Finder. “Grypht,” she said flatly. The sphere of darkness about her hand began to shimmer like hot tar, then reached out a vinelike tendril of glassy black that shot over Finder’s head. The end of the tendril struck Grypht in the face. The saurial stood motionless, paralyzed by the magic, as the dark sphere around the nut oozed along the tendril toward its prey. When it reached Grypht, the darkness poured down him like oil, covering every inch of his body until the great lizard was nothing but a black silhouette. Then the darkness constricted and shrank about Grypht until he was squeezed into a tiny black, marble-sized sphere.

From behind the curtain, Olive watched in horror as the dark tendril contracted back into the walnut, taking Grypht along with it. Then the darkness about the nut dissipated, leaving the walnut as clear as glass.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Finder insisted angrily. “I told you he meant no harm.”

Kyre pocketed the walnut and then turned her attention to the prisoner. “Master Nameless, I’m so pleased to meet you at last,” she said, smiling at Finder.

Behind the curtain, Olive shuddered. The halfling couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was definitely something creepy about the way the half-elf smiled.