“Such as?” Finder asked, suddenly more cautious.
“I’m willing to forego the interest my faithful orc followers have in your workshop. As I said before, it is your services that interest me. I wish for you to reveal to me all the secret knowledge of simulacra you have acquired and bring Akabar Bel Akash to me.”
“Is Akabar aware of your interest in him?” Finder asked.
“But of course,” Xaran replied. “Akabar and I are old friends.”
“That’s curious,” Finder replied. “I remember speaking with Akabar after he’d witnessed the destruction of the beholder head of the fiend Phalse. He told me he’d never seen a beholder before.”
Xaran’s eye stalks all stood on end, and its central eye squinted angrily. “Phalse!” it exclaimed and spat on the ground with disgust. Finder had struck a nerve by mentioning the fiend. “The servant you created, the one you call Alias, did well to rid the world of that bottle imp.” More calmly, the beholder added, “I’m sure what Akabar meant was that he’d never seen such a ridiculous-looking beholder head as Phalse’s. Each of Phalse’s stalks ended in a mouth, you know, instead of an eye—a thoroughly disgusting-looking creature.”
Olive, whose attention had been focused on all the orcs staring at her, was suspicious of something the beholder had said. Xaran’s hatred of Phalse wasn’t surprising, since Phalse was pretty despicable, and it could just be a coincidence that Xaran should know both Phalse and Akabar. But how had the creature known about Alias? Even if it had heard some of the tales Olive told of Alias’s adventures, it couldn’t have known that Finder had created Alias. Out of loyalty to Alias, Olive had never revealed the swordswoman’s origins. How had Xaran known that, and where had it gained such thorough knowledge of Nameless—the location of his workshop and his all-consuming desire for immortality?
“So. What guarantee do I have that you’ll make me immortal once I’ve done all you ask?” Finder asked.
Wait a minute, Olive thought. For all his faults, Nameless never thought of Alias as a servant. He always referred to her as simply Alias. The only being that ever called Alias “the servant” was …
“I will make you immortal before I send you after Akabar Bel Akash,” Xaran said.
Moander! Olive remembered.
“Finder!” the halfling whispered urgently.
Finder put a heavy hand on Olive’s head as a signal for her to remain quiet. “Then how can you be sure that I’ll return with Akabar?” he asked.
“There are ways to ensure your good faith,” Xaran said cryptically.
“Finder!” Olive said more loudly, tugging on the bard’s sleeve.
“Don’t worry,” Finder whispered hurriedly to the halfling, then addressed Xaran again. “I’m not leaving without my companion. She is far too useful to me to trust in the care of your … troops.”
“Believe me, I had nothing so … crude in mind. Take this,” Xaran said. He unrolled his tongue from his mouth. Resting on the end of his tongue was a green, spine-covered burr about the size and shape of a horse chestnut burr.
Finder reached out and took the bur. It was covered with a sticky substance, and the tips of the spines had tiny hooks on them.
“What is it?” the bard asked.
“Your immortality,” Xaran explained.
Olive pinched Finder’s thigh. The bard glared down at the halfling.
“Excuse me, Xaran. I have to confer with my companion.”
“Is she interested in a similar deal?” Xaran asked, turning several eyestalks in the halfling’s direction.
“No thanks,” Olive replied. “Life would be dreadfully dull without the constant terror of death hanging over me,” she said glibly. “I just wanted to remind Finder of something.”
The bard bent over the halfling. “I have everything under control, Olive,” he whispered. “Please trust me.”
“He called Alias ‘the servant,’ ” Olive hissed back.
“So?”
“That was Moander’s name for her, remember?” Olive said softly.
“Olive, you’re getting paranoid,” Finder said.
“Moander used vines to control Akabar,” the halfling reminded him, trying to keep her voice from being overheard. “The vines made him talk and walk and cast spells, all against his will. Kyre had a flower in her hair. Xaran’s got moss on its head. What sort of self-respecting beholder wears moss on its head?” the halfling demanded.
Finder scowled for a moment, but when he looked up at Xaran again, he couldn’t dismiss Olive’s fears.
He tossed the burr onto a pillow beneath Xaran. The sticky substance it left on his fingers he wiped off on his tunic. “I will do your bidding in exchange for our lives, but I cannot accept such a gift from the Darkbringer,” he said.
Xaran’s eyes, all eleven of them, widened in astonishment. “My, but aren’t you perceptive? Yet now that you have guessed the source of the largess offered, you must realize you have no choice. You cannot refuse the gift of the Darkbringer. It would be most hazardous to your well-being. In Moander’s name, I must insist that you accept the immortality he offers you.”
The beholder barked a few commands in orcish, and Olive heard the sounds of steel blades being drawn from leather and bolts being snapped into crossbows.
“Then let me drive my point home,” the bard growled. In one fluid motion, he pulled his grandfather’s dagger from his belt and sent it sailing at the beholder.
Olive watched in horror as at least twenty orcs raised their crossbows and daggers and aimed at the bard’s back. With a shout, she pulled out the light stone from her pocket and held it up behind Finder. The sudden appearance of brilliant magical light caused the orcs to shriek out in pain. Several fled from the common room.
A green light beam shot out at Finder’s dagger from one of Xaran’s eyestalks, but the blade split through the beam unscathed and buried itself in Xaran’s central eye. White fluid oozed from the puncture.
Finder had already whirled around and pulled his magic horn from his belt. He shouted, “Siege strike,” raised the instrument to his lips, and blew into it. With its magic triggered by Finder’s words, the horn emitted a terrific blast of sound that knocked most of the remaining orcs to the ground and shook the cavern roof. Already weakened by the seeping water, the roof began to sag like a fortress wall hit by a catapult missile. Great chunks of rock and showers of dirt cascaded from the roof, scattering the remaining orcs. Dust and dirt from the ceiling and charcoal soot and sparks from the fires began to swirl in the air.
Olive looked back at Xaran, expecting the beholder to shoot a death ray at them at any moment, but the old beholder had sunk into the pillows and disappeared like a wounded creature going to ground. She looked back at Finder. The old bard was grinning arrogantly at the chaos all around him as he slipped the horn back in his belt.
The sagging portion of the ceiling crashed just in front of them. With alarm, Olive noticed the ceiling directly over their heads was beginning to sag. The room grew darker as the light stone failed to penetrate the falling rock and dirt and rising dust.
“Which way is out?” Olive screamed.
Finder spun around, then pointed toward a passage leading off the side of the cavern. “That way,” he cried, grabbing the halfling by the waist and carrying her away moments before the ceiling over Xaran’s pile of pillows collapsed.
As they ran down the passageway, Xaran’s voice cried, “Freeze!”
“Keep going!” Finder ordered, pushing Olive deeper into the dark tunnel. The bard whirled around to face the dark spherical shadow that hovered in the tunnel just behind them. Finder’s dagger still protruded from the beholder’s central eye socket.
“You cannot refuse the gift of the Darkbringer,” the beholder cried. He spat the green, sticky burr at the bard and laughed maniacally.