Song of the Saurials

by Kate Novak

  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.

  Oli
ve’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.

  4

  The Half-Elf

  Kyre took another step into Nameless’s prison. “I’ve been so eager to meet you,” the half-elf said to Finder.

  “That’s some sort of soul-trapping gem you used on the saurial, isn’t it?” Finder asked, ignoring Kyre’s pleasantries. “I demand you release him at once.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, he’s a very dangerous creature,” the half-elf replied. “But useful—not unlike yourself.” Kyre reached her hand into her pocket and pulled it out again. She held a second walnut. “Darkbringer,” she said. Once again a sphere of darkness emanated from the nut, just as it had before. “The Nameless Bard,” Kyre pronounced slowly.

  The sphere shimmered, and a tendril of black began to rise from it. Suddenly the tendril collapsed in on itself, and the darkness dissipated. Having failed to suck up the bard’s essence, the magical nut shattered, and shards of its shell flew in all directions. The half-elf didn’t even flinch. Instead, she stared up at the Nameless Bard with interest, waiting for him to explain.

  Finder sneered. “I am Nameless no longer, but you, woman, whoever you are, will answer to the Harpers for this attack!”

  Kyre laughed confidently. “I think not. You see, I am the Harper Kyre, and Nameless or not, you, bard, are in no position to threaten me.”

  “Elminster would never approve of the cowardly way you’ve treated that saurial,” Finder retorted hotly. “Have the Harpers degenerated so far in the past two centuries that they attack innocent creatures and helpless prisoners?”

  As Finder spoke, Olive could see Kyre slip a wand out of her tunic sleeve. The halfling couldn’t contain her anxiety a moment longer. She burst out from behind the curtain, shouting, “Finder! Look out!” and hurled herself at Finder’s legs, knocking him to one side.

  A beam of green light shot out from the tip of Kyre’s wand, missing Finder by inches. The light struck the silver fruit bowl on the table behind him, enveloping it and the fruit in a sparkling green mist. After several seconds, the beam of light went out and the mist dissipated. The silver bowl was unharmed, but the plums, pears, and apples within had turned completely brown from rot and their skins had collapsed on the decayed flesh within.

  Finder’s face registered fear now that he was finally aware of the danger he was in. He stared wide-eyed at Kyre.

  Olive took quick aim and hurled her dagger at the half-elf. The weapon hit Kyre’s wrist, causing her to drop the deadly wand. Kyre’s eyes flashed angrily, but she made no sound or movement to indicate the weapon had hurt her hand.

  Olive shuddered at the woman’s indifference to pain. “Would you get us out of here now?” the halfling shouted, shoving the finder’s stone at the master bard.

  Finder grabbed the stone with one hand and Olive’s shoulder with the other, then sang an E-flat. Olive sighed happily as a yellow light began glowing around her body.

  The halfling’s relief was short-lived. Though the light continued to glow, she and Finder didn’t vanish from the cell as expected. Olive felt as if something was pulling her in two, and she screamed in pain.

  Across the room, Kyre laughed and held out her arms. Long, slimy green tendrils shot out from her sleeves toward Finder. Olive cried out once more, this time in fear. There was something terrifyingly familiar about Kyre’s tendrils.

  The tendrils reached over Olive’s head just as Finder sang a second E-flat, this time an octave lower than the first. The yellow light shimmered with the deep resonance of the bard’s voice and then glowed so brightly that Kyre, her tendrils, and the room faded from his and Olive’s view.

  Alias, Mourngrym, and his guards waited anxiously around the corner of the hallway as Akabar chanted his fireball spell. The mage’s voice rose sharply, then a great explosion shook the floor and walls around them and echoed through the corridors. A second later a burst of steam came rushing down the corridor, past the side passage in which they stood. Clouds of hot, moist air billowed around them.

  Anxious about Akabar, Alias rushed around the corner and into the steam. The floor was covered with water and the walls were dripping with moisture. Alias spied Akabar in the dispersing mist. Not even the darkness of the mage’s skin could hide the flush of his face from the scalding he’d received, but he still stood. He was drenched from the steam, and when he shook himself, drops of water scattered from his beard, hair, and robes.

  “Are—are you all right?” Alias asked.

  “I think so,” Akabar replied. “As a mage I have more immunity from the power of magic than you. At any rate, the wall is melted,” he said, gesturing at the clear passage ahead.

  Mourngrym and Thurbal and the two tower guards rejoined the mage and the swordswoman.

  “Good work, Akabar,” his lordship said, clapping the mage on the back.

  Assured that the Turmishman was all right, Alias prepared herself for combat. Having brought no weapon with her, she retrieved the great axe that Lord Mourngrym had been using to chip at the wall of ice. Then she started down the corridor, silently hoping that Nameless was unharmed and swearing vengeance if he was not.

  His sword drawn, Mourngrym took the lead with Alias. Akabar, Thurbal, and the two guards brought up the rear. A shadow fell across them, framing the doorway at the end of the corridor. Mourngrym and Alias halted and raised their weapons, poised to charge into combat.

  A slender half-elven woman appeared in t
he doorway. She wore a silky yellow tunic and fine elven boots; a sword in a scabbard hung from the black belt at her hips, and a bright red orchid hung in her long, dark hair. The half-elf stepped into the corridor.

  “Kyre!” Mourngrym gasped. “Are you all right?”

  The half-elf looked up at Mourngrym. “You broke through the wall of ice?” she asked. There was a hint of confusion in her voice.

  “What happened?” Mourngrym demanded, ignoring her question. “Kyre, where is Grypht? Where is Nameless?”

  Kyre lowered her head. “I’m afraid I’ve failed, your lordship. I could not stop Grypht from reaching the Nameless Bard. Grypht grabbed Nameless and teleported away with him.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Olive felt as if she were trapped in a golden web. When the light from the magical stone finally dimmed, she and Finder stood looking out over a grassy meadow on a sloping hillside.

  Olive quickly sank to the ground, exhausted by the magical teleportation.

  “Admit it, Finder,” she murmured, “whatever spell Elminster used to keep you inside that cell, it was almost a match for your rock, artifact or no.”

  Finder cursed angrily under his breath. The halfling looked up at the bard. His face was drenched with sweat, and his complexion was pale. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Kyre snatched the finder’s stone away from me just before we teleported,” Finder growled with rage. “That bitch has my stone!”

  “Oh,” Olive said uncertainly. “Well, at least we escaped.”

  “But she has my stone!” Finder snarled irritably.

  “She could have you, like she got Grypht,” Olive snapped back. If you hadn’t been so stubborn about waiting for the Harpers’ blessing, you would have escaped before she arrived, Grypht wouldn’t have been captured, and you’d still have your precious rock.”