12
The Beholder
The orcs escorting Finder and Olive herded the pair of adventurers through naturally carved tunnels for what seemed to the halfling to be miles. Olive had to jog to keep up with Finder and ahead of the orcs, and she stumbled frequently on the rough, uneven ground. Her wounded shoulder was throbbing, and every jar sent a stabbing pain down her arm and across her back.
Finally they reached a series of passages that looked like circular bores through the rock, as smooth as polished marble. Although these were far easier to move through, to Olive they were more unsettling, since they indicated the work of the beholder’s disintegrating eye.
Thinking of the beholder, as Olive could not help but do, and listening to the cadence of the orcs’ boots as they trudged behind the prisoners brought to the halfling’s mind the adventurer’s rhyme:
One eye to lift and one eye to sleep,
One to charm man and one for beast.
One eye to wound and one eye to slow,
One to bring fear and one to make stone.
One eye makes dust and one eye brings death,
But the last eye kills wizards more than all of the rest.
The last eye of a beholder, Olive knew, disrupted magic. Without it, Xaran would be evenly matched with any powerful mage, but with it, not even wizards stood a chance against the the creature. Without the ability to cast spells, a mage was about as useful as a bard with laryngitis. Fortunately there was nothing wrong with Finder’s voice, and they were relying on his glib tongue, not his magical abilities, to deal with the beholder. He’d better be at his glibbest, too, Olive thought. Beholders aren’t stupid.
Finder stepped in front of the halfling and stopped suddenly, bringing Olive up short and startlinging her out of her reverie. “Pocket the light for a while,” Finder whispered.
Olive did as the bard asked. There was a dim glow up ahead. Olive peered around Finder’s hip and saw that they had arrived at the main entrance of the orc warren’s common cave.
The common cave of an Orcish community was always the largest and most central in the warren, and when another creature, such as a beholder, assumed leadership of an orc tribe, it often made the common cave its own quarters. Despite the cave’s great size and desirable location, it was still part of an orc warren, and since orcs lacked any sense of style or gracious living, it looked like a pretty miserable place to live.
Numerous low charcoal fires burned within, but since the ceiling was only seven feet high at most and sloped downward at the edges, the dim red light from the fires didn’t penetrate very far, making the cave seem much smaller. Water seeped down from the surface, dripped from the ceiling and walls, and hissed onto the fires’ hot coals, sending up clouds of water vapor and noxious gases. The smell of rancid fat dripping from rotting animal carcasses onto the coals masked the odor of the orcs with an even more unpleasant smell. All in all, Olive thought, it was a pretty homey place for a creature from hell.
Orcs swarmed into the common room to get a look at the intruders who demanded an audience with their master. Only the largest and toughest-looking males carried well-maintained weaponry and wore anything resembling armor. Most of the rest had at least an axe. The females wore daggers, and even the young played with sharpened sticks. For every face Olive was able to discern in the dim light, she saw two more pairs of red eyes glowing in the darkness of the passages adjacent to the common room.
Unable to imagine even someone as talented as Finder able to defeat these vicious creatures, Olive commented wryly, “It looks like a tough bunch.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Finder replied coolly, but he gave the horn on his belt a pat as if to reassure himself of its presence.
Sure you have, Olive thought silently.
At the center of the cave, the floor rose a few feet. Atop the rise was a pile of moldy, water-stained pillows, mementos from some long-forgotten caravan raid. Xaran was propped on the pillows in the manner of a merchant raj.
The leader of the orcs paused just inside the entrance to the cave. Finder strode past him, with Olive in tow, leaving the leader and the guards to straggle through the phalanx of orcs who parted to make way for the human bard and his tiny companion.
The bard stopped just before the pile of pillows and released the halfling’s hand. He bowed low, with his right hand covering his heart and his left hand sweeping outward, as though he were doffing an invisible hat. “Greetings, Xaran. I have come to resume our discussion,” the bard said. “Please don’t bother to rise.”
Disregarding Finder’s suggestion, the beholder levitated from its repose and hovered over the cushions, at eye level with the bard. The beholder wobbled as it levitated and its movements were jerky, unlike any beholder Olive had every encountered, as if Xaran was an elderly invalid trying to get out of a sickbed.
Now that she had an opportunity to study Xaran more carefully, she noted that its great central eye and all its smaller eyes were coated with a milky film. The stalks supporting the smaller eyes drooped like thirsty plants. A thin garland of silver moss hung about the stalks, reminding Olive of gray hair and reinforcing the image of Xaran as a sick old man.
“It was wise of you to rejoin us,” Xaran commented. The beholder’s high-pitched voice grated in Olive’s ears and sent a shiver down her spine.
“I hope you found everything in order in your workshop,” the beholder added.
“Naturally,” Finder said, smiling broadly, eager that Xaran should believe he was here of his own free will, not because he had no other choice. “Of course, there’s nothing of interest in there to anyone but myself—just old musical instruments and such.”
“Of course,” repeated the beholder. Its toothy maw turned up at the corners into a hideous smile.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” the bard said. “You were offering me immortality. A rare commodity, and certainly worth whatever the market will bear. I presume it did not hinge on remaining in this place.” Finder’s eyes wandered disdainfully over the orc warren’s common room.
“No. If we come to terms that are satisfactory to me,” Xaran said, “you will be free to leave. As you pointed out, though, immortality is worth a great deal on the market.”
“Suppose I were to forego your offer of immortality for the moment and ask only for safe passage out of here for myself and my companion?” Finder asked.
“It’s a package deal,” Xaran said sharply. “All or nothing. If you wish to leave here under my protection, you must accept my offer for immortality and pay my price. Of course, if you choose not to accept my offer, you are free to make a deal with my associates.”
Finder glanced sideways once at the orc leader and his brother. Both glared at him with undisguised hatred. Even if the bard’s workshop had been brimming with gold to ransom his and Olive’s lives, the creatures weren’t likely to let them go. The adventurers had wounded or killed three members of the tribe, and Finder had challenged the leader’s authority.
“I see,” Finder said, turning his attention back to Xaran. “And what is the going rate these days for immortality?”
“You’ll be pleased to hear that the price has not risen in the past hour. As a matter of fact, because I think a man of your talents was made for immortal life, I’m prepared to make you a special offer.”