by Kate Novak
“I also sent for a bard,” he sighed. “No ordinary songster earning meals in a noble’s court, but one of the greats. The renowned Olav Ruskettle, from across the Dragon Reach. The caravan Ruskettle was traveling in was attacked by the Storm Horns Dragon. Have you heard about it?”
“I heard that the dragon has chewed up another adventuring company since the caravan.”
“Yes. Well, in the caravan with Ruskettle was a merchant who brought me an eyewitness account of the attack. Ruskettle tried to sing the beast into submission, the mark of a great bard. The beast apparently liked the music, but instead of submitting, took Ruskettle in her claws and headed back for her lair. Suzail sent out a group of adventurers in retaliation, but they were, as you said, chewed up. I did, however, manage to obtain from the survivors the location of the monster’s lair and a secret ‘back door’ into it. My question for you is: Will you help a sage who is desperate to avoid breaking his youngest daughter’s heart?”
Alias thought for a moment, then asked, “You want the dragon dead?”
“I want the bard, Ruskettle, to play at my daughter’s wedding,” the sage responded. “Clerics of Suzail want the dragon dead. Deal with them if you want to kill dragons.”
Alias shook her head. “I’d rather sneak in, reappropriate your bard, and sneak out. I prefer to leave dragonslaying to those in good standing with their gods.”
“It’s agreed, then,” said the sage. “I’ll take time out from the wedding preparations. There are a million-and-one things to do yet, but Leona, my wife, can handle them better than I. Besides, I’ll feel more useful helping you find out what those sigils mean. In the meantime, you’ll bring me my bard. Let’s see that arm.”
Dimswart drew Alias over to his desk. He opened up a fat volume to an empty page, and with a pen and astonishing skill, quickly copied the insignias on Alias’s sword arm. “None of these are familiar to you?” he asked.
“I’ve seen one of them on a card carried by assassins who, I believe, intended only to capture me.”
“Really? How very interesting. Very interesting.”
“Now, where do I find your dragon?”
“The merchant I mentioned before will take you there. He has some interest in helping free this bard as well.” The sage called out, “Come on in, Akash,” and a figure breezed in—clad in a familiar crimson robe striped with white.
Akabar Bel Akash bowed formally. “We meet again, lady. As I told you, Sir Dimswart, she would leap at the opportunity to aid us.” The Turmishman beamed with pleasure.
Alias scowled, first at him, then at the sage. Akabar ignored her glare. Dimswart, having revealed the source of his information, arched his eyebrows like a stage magician demonstrating the trickery behind his feats.
Dragonbait, realizing no one was interested in smoking, blew out the burning brand he’d been playing with and threw it into the fireplace.
Akabar and the Back Door
Alias shivered in the damp darkness of the cavern and silently wished the vengeance of Tyr and Tempus down on the heads of Akabar and Dimswart and even Winefiddle for getting her into this predicament. And while they were at it, thrice-damn that mysterious lizard and damn thrice more the demon-spawn who branded her!
The mystical sigils glowed like stained glass on a murky day, illuminating Alias so that she stood out like a beacon in the pitch dark of the cold, dripping cave. When she exhaled, the streams of her breath danced like small azure elementals before her eyes.
At the beginning of her vigil, Alias had kept the treacherous arm with its glowing brands beneath her cloak. She was waiting for the merchant-mage, Akabar, to return from scouting out the passages leading to the dragon’s lair. After spending a half-hour huddled in the dark, though, it occurred to her that most dwellers of this cold, wet, limbo would be able to see the heat from her body and smell her above-world scent while she remained blind. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she chided herself and cast aside the cloak. At least now she could see anything that attacked her.
Where is that damned mage? she wondered for the half a hundredth time. Tymora! He could have scouted from here to Sembia by now. How far can this cavern go?
She knew her impatience had little to do with how long the mage was taking. Mostly it had to do with not liking to have to rely on anyone—especially not some greengrocer.
Alias chuckled every time she remembered how, before they’d left Dimswart Manor, Akabar Bel Akash had informed her in that stiff, formal, southern way that House Akash did not sell vegetables. Tymora! He was so naive. He didn’t even know he was a greengrocer.
“Riding a wagon along protected trading routes in a guarded merchant caravan doesn’t make you an adventurer,” she had informed him. “Until you’ve hiked more than twenty miles a day, slept in a ditch, and eaten something that tried to kill you first, you’re not an adventurer. Anyone who isn’t an adventurer is a greengrocer.”
But the merchant-mage had insisted that he come along and render what assistance was in his power, and Dimswart had insisted she take him with her. What reasons the Turmishman could possibly have for helping to rescue the kidnapped bard, Alias could not imagine. She had deliberately not asked, and Akabar had not volunteered his reasons. He had them, and that was enough.
There was something about Akabar Bel Akash that annoyed her—something that wasn’t really his fault, but which she blamed him for nonetheless.
As the three of them, Akabar, Alias, and Dragonbait, began their three-day journey into the mountains—walking because Alias still felt uncomfortable advertising her presence with horses—Akabar had insisted on telling her all about himself—about the fertile land of Turmish, about customs in the south, and about his wives. He had two, and they were shopping for a third co-wife, which was why he was in this savage land in the first place—to earn money for the new partner. He told of his voyage across the pirate-infested Sea of Fallen Stars, the outrageous import taxes he’d had to pay on landing at Saerloon in Sembia, and his profitable detour from Hilp up to Arabel and around the Great Wood of Cormyr. He ended with the disastrous caravan attack by the dragon on the road from Waymoot.
Alias had ground her teeth impatiently. There had been nothing for her to say. She could not remember what she’d been doing or how she got to Cormyr. She had not even been able to answer questions about Dragonbait. The whole trip out she had remained as silent as a stone, angry that anyone had the ability to remember when she could not.
The thing that Akabar described the most was the thing that distressed Alias the most—his sea voyage. He had begun by discussing Earthspur, the center of the pirate activity dreaded by sailors, its lawless organization of cutthroats, and the well-known bombards that protected it. Then, he had given her a humorous description of the fear-ridden Sembian ship captain continually scanning the horizon for the pirates who, he assured Akabar, were lying in wait for a prize such as his ship. The mage then described all the interesting creatures that made their home in the Inner Sea, followed by an essay on ship life. Yet, despite all this talk, the period around Alias’s own sea trip remained as fog-ridden as the port of Ilipur.
Finally, it had occurred to the mage that the swordswoman might have adventures of her own which, though unshared, would make his tales sound dull. Embarrassed and crushed by the weight of her silence, he had slid into an equally solemn mood. It had never occurred to him the frustration he had put her through.
As Alias stood alone in the water-carved cavern, she realized she could not pin down exactly where the borders of her memory loss were. Pieces of her past seemed to have dropped out. Her mind was like a swamp connecting dry land and open water. There was no exact point where murky waters swallowed her memories; islands of certain recollection spotted every time period.
Even worse—without the days, rides, or months of connecting space, the past seemed to belong to someone else, another Alias who stopped, gained the mystic runes, then moved on as another person entirely, bearing the same name. Since she’d a
wakened in The Hidden Lady, she’d used the battle-skills of the old Alias, skills as finely honed as they were automatic. Although there was some comfort in the fact that she hadn’t forgotten her craft, there was something disturbing about the way she felt when she assumed a fighting stance.
Instincts took over. She didn’t have time to think and plan. Only react. Like a guardian golem. She remembered Dimswart saying the sigils were alive the way a golem was. Are the brands making me fight, like they made me try to kill Winefiddle? Should I be giving them credit for my ability? She shook off this notion instantly and angrily I was a good swordswoman before I got these things, she thought, and I’ll be a good one long after I’ve gotten rid of them.
Then the most disturbing idea of all occurred to her. Perhaps I died and was resurrected by someone who decided to take his price out of my hide. Literally. Don’t those newly raised from Death’s Dominions feel uneasy and disquieted?
More than a few of her companions, after their first visit to the afterlife, chose to retire—to live as farmers, smiths, greengrocers. Speaking of which, she thought with annoyance, where is that damned mage, anyway?
Alias was beginning to consider retreating through the passage back to the outside. Something must have gone wrong for Akabar to take so long to return.
Before she’d made up her mind, the downward passageway brightened and a glowing orb floated up into her cavern. The size of a melon and radiating an orange light, the orb held the image of the merchant-mage’s head.
“What kept you, Turmite?” she asked with a sniff.
“I had to wait until the dragon bedded down,” replied the mage. His voice was muffled by the effects of his spell, a meld of wizard eye—so he could spy out the territory from the entrance to the tunnel in relative safety—and a special phantasmal force—so he could report his findings back to Alias. “It wouldn’t do to have Her Evilness awake when you tried to sneak in. It would spoil our surprise.
“My spell is almost exhausted, and I must leave our mission’s completion to you, swordslady. Ahead of you lie a few gentle curves, no serious drops. The ceiling is low about fifty yards ahead, then the passage narrows to shoulder width. It lets out on a ledge above the main cavern floor. Our bard is in a small cage atop a dais on the far side of the cavern.” The mage’s image began blurring, as if a snowstorm had erupted within the orange sphere. “Spell’s wearing off. Anything I should do with your pet?”
“He’s not my pe—” Alias began, but Akabar’s spell was breaking up too quickly to waste time arguing. “Just keep him from entering the cavern,” she ordered. “And don’t get him mad at you. The last spell-caster who did didn’t live long enough to regret it.”
“Gods’ luck to you.” Akabar’s voice sounded a long way off. His image was gone, and the orange sphere was shrinking. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You have fought dragons before?”
“This will be my first,” she answered quietly, but the sphere was gone and there was no reply from Akabar. I wonder if he heard me, she thought. Better if he didn’t.
* * * * *
Five hundred yards behind and somewhat above her, at the cavern entrance overlooking the road from Waymoot to Suzail, Akabar the Turmishman came out of his trance. Dragonbait was still crouched at the mage’s feet, watching the cavern entrance intently. The air about them was warm, humming with large bumblebees dotting, diving, and dodging about the mountain daisies.
Akabar sat down and leaned against a rock. He made quick thanks to his southern gods that he was not the one about to face a dragon in its lair. He pulled an apple from his backpack and bit into it. Dragonbait twitched at the sound of the crunch, but the creature did not takes his eyes off the cavern mouth that had swallowed Alias.
* * * * *
Alias continued cautiously along the tunnel Akabar had scouted out for her. The Turmish mage’s report had been reasonably accurate in so far as there were no hairpin curves and none of the drops were impassable, but the passage was not so smooth that she looked forward to a possible hasty retreat. The low ceiling didn’t bother her, but she was a trifle alarmed at the sound her armor made scraping against the walls when the corridor narrowed. Less frightening, but quite annoying, was having to slosh through the small, icy stream that had carved out the tunnel—something Akabar had failed to note. Too bad I can’t shrink into an orange melon and float effortlessly along this passageway, she grumbled to herself.
Still, she was grateful that they had learned of this back door. With any luck, the dragon wasn’t aware of it, or at least ignored it as too small to worry about.
A splattering noise warned her that the stream was nearing a considerable drop, and she slowed accordingly. She wrapped her glowing arm back in her cloak to hide her presence from the dragon. She reached the end of the tunnel and stepped out onto the ledge Akabar had mentioned. The stream fell twenty feet or so into a small pool on the cavern floor. Excellent! The waterfall will cover any noise I make climbing down.
Light filtered in from another, larger passage in the side of the cavern. This passage provided the dragon egress from its lair. Holes in the domed ceiling let in more rays of light. At first Alias was glad of the light because it drowned out the dim glow of her sigils, and she unwrapped her arm. Then she noticed the black, cawing birds fluttering in and out of the holes in the ceiling.
Crows! Nine hells! Alias cursed under her breath. Crows were bad luck—not just a sign for the superstitious, but a danger for anyone relying on stealth. One of their raucous cries raised in challenge of her intrusion into their territory would be enough to wake the dead. For the most part, the birds roosted in crannies near the ceiling, though a few circled in the thermals rising from the dragon’s body. Since I have no intention of approaching the dragon, there’s no reason for them to get excited, she reassured herself.
The great beast itself lay curled catlike. Alias had no doubt that the monster was a light sleeper. She wouldn’t be surprised to discover brittle twigs or bells scattered across the main entrance. It was even possible that the dragon was capable of casting magical spell guards to wake her if anyone crossed the threshold into her treasure hold.
And what a hoard that hold held! Even by a dragon’s standards the loot was immense. It included not only chests of gold lions and other precious coins, but split bags filled with trade bars, tapestries, and bolts of satin and velvet, marble statues, and bound books. Many of these items were still packed in the wagons that had been picked up and flown here by the monster. The dragon lay between the front entrance and the mounds of shimmering wealth, but nothing blocked Alias’s access to the beast’s hoard.
If the treasure was enough to start the adventuress sweating with gold fever, the bones were enough to quench that fire. Alias could spot piles of white as large as the treasure itself. Most were the remains of cattle and other large beasts the dragon used for food, but more than a few human skulls gleamed among all that ivory—the remains of adventurers Alias did not intend to join.
Alias leaned against the rock and watched the dragon’s massive chest scales rise and fall with the deep breathing of slumber. Akabar’s description of the monster had been accurate. The drab rust scales that darkened to a purplish hue toward the belly confirmed that the creature was a female, and her huge size could only come with great age.
The crows danced over the beast’s hide, picking at the bugs beneath her scales. Alias realized the crows were actually ravens with wingspans as wide as she was tall. They only looked small, dwarfed by the size of the dragon.
Alias tore her eyes away from her unwitting hostess. No sense in hypnotizing myself with awe, she thought as she peered across the cavern for the bard’s cage. She spotted it perched solidly atop an altar carved into the rock. This must have once been a temple, she decided. To what god?
The body in the cage lay slumped against the bars. Tymora, Alias prayed silently, don’t let me be too late. The figure rolled over, apparently in its sleep, and Alias sighed with
relief. She prepared to enter the lair.
As quietly as possible, she secured a rope to a stalagmite on the ledge where she stood. She kept herself facing the dragon as much as possible as she climbed down, using only her arm muscles, not daring to push against the wall to break her descent for fear of setting loose rock clattering down. A few ravens spied her and retreated to the roof, but others continued scavenging on the dragon’s hide.
Slipping warily between the piles of treasure, Alias checked the ground carefully so she didn’t accidentally crunch her foot down on a dry bone and tested her footing lightly so she didn’t slip on any loose stacks of coins. She threw off the temptation creeping over her to grab something valuable and flee. She was here for one thing only. Once that had been secured, well … maybe on the way out she might manage a few sacks of gold.
She tiptoed up the stairs leading to the altar. The cavern air was filled with the wheeze of the dragon’s breathing, the splash of the waterfall, and the occasional croak of a raven. Not until she’d reached the top did Alias take her eyes from the floor and study the cage. It was sloppily lashed but quite sturdy. A small form lay in its center, balled up tightly in a cloak of expensive, gaudy brocade. Alias spied a plait of fire-red hair fastened with a green bow.
Damned mage. He should have checked more closely. This is a little girl, not a bard. I’ve risked all this for nothing. Ruskettle is no doubt already residing in the dragon’s belly, to make room for this new toy.
The swordswoman was so angry that she spun about, intent on leaving that very instant, but she turned back to face the cage. She would rescue the prisoner anyway, not from any sentiment or human kindness, but just for the pleasure of shaking the child in Akabar’s face and proving to him what a fool he was. Sliding her sword between the bars, she gently poked the cloaked bundle.
