Finder fell backward, brushing frantically at his tunic. He caught the burr in one hand, but he couldn’t pull the sticky thing away from his clothing.
Suddenly the burr opened with the crack of a small explosion. A cloud of moldy dust wafted into the bard’s face, and he choked and sneezed and spat, trying to keep from inhaling whatever it was.
“Finder!” Olive shouted as she turned and lunged forward to help. She grabbed the bard’s belt to pull him away from the beholder.
“Your turn,” Xaran sang out gleefully, floating toward Olive. “All must serve the Darkbringer!”
Olive snatched the horn from Finder’s belt, intent on throwing it at the beholder, but some instinct prompted her to raise it to her lips instead. She shouted the command words she’d heard Finder use, “Siege strike,” and blew into the mouthpiece with all her might.
No sound issued forth from the instrument. Xaran’s lips puckered to spit a second seed at Olive. Frantic with terror, Olive blew again into the horn, and a feeble blat sounded in the beholder’s face. The noise was nothing compared to the blast Finder had blown, but combined with the magic of the horn, it was more than enough to blow Xaran backward like a soap bubble caught in the wind.
“I did it! I did it!” Olive shouted. In her excitement, she was oblivious to the sagging ceiling over her head.
Finder scrambled to his feet, grabbed up the halfling, and dashed down the tunnel a split second before the ceiling gave way. Farther down the passage, he set Olive down and took his horn back from her. “You could have brought the roof down on yourself and been killed,” the bard chided.
“That would’ve been better than being made immortal the Darkbringer way,” Olive retorted. “At least I’ve sealed the tunnel between us and Xaran. Are you all right? What happened when that thing exploded?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Finder said with a shrug. “Either my clothes protected me, or it was a dud. Maybe it was meant to be swallowed for it to work.”
“You’re sure you’re feeling all right?” Olive asked.
“Better than you, I’ll bet. How’s your shoulder?”
“Lousy. Um, Finder?” Olive said, looking down the corridor with her brow knit in concern.
“Yes, Olive?”
“This tunnel is a dead end.”
“It can’t be,” Finder said spinning around. He walked down the passageway until he could inspect the end with his hands as well as his eyes. He glared at the rock wall before them. There was no way out of the passage. They were sealed in a cul-de-sac.
“This is impossible. I’m sure I heard the wind whistling in this passageway. It has to lead to the outside,” the bard growled angrily. He stood very still for a moment. “Listen,” he told Olive. “Don’t you hear it?”
Olive stood still and listened. Sure enough, there was a whistling noise in the cul-de-sac, and a stream of cold air, too. The halfling held her light stone up high. The passageway ceiling was some twenty feet overhead. The cave must once have been full of water, for breaking through the ceiling was an old well shaft. Even with the light stone, it was impossible to judge how much higher up the well went.
“It would be a good way out,” Olive said. “If we were birds.”
Alias awoke in the dawn twilight before sunrise. She hadn’t slept well. She had had nightmares about the time Moander had captured her, and all through the dreams, she’d had the feeling that Nameless was in danger, too, though she couldn’t say what in the dream made her think so. The sooner she found Grypht and made him tell her what he’d done with Nameless, the better she would feel.
The swordswoman threw off Dragonbait’s blanket and cloak and stomped off into the forest. When she returned, she went to her own blanket and cloak at the edge of the clearing and began rolling them into her saddlebags. Dragonbait had left her enchanted chain mail on her saddle, and she slipped into it with righteous indignation. She pulled on a clean tunic and clean socks and her pants and boots. Then she went over to the fire and poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle Dragonbait must have prepared earlier.
Dragonbait signed something to her, but Alias turned away to stand by the fire with her back to him. Breck rose and joined her a few minutes later. His face was scraggly with a day’s growth of beard, but he was fully dressed and armed. He gave the swordswoman an odd look as he poured himself some tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Just fine,” Alias said. “Why didn’t you wake me to take second watch?” she asked.
“Dragonbait offered to take it,” Breck said with a shrug. Hastily he added, “I thought we’d break camp at sunrise and start searching in a circular pattern from the place where we lost Grypht’s trail. We may as well keep Zhara with us.”
Alias nodded. She didn’t want to lose any time finding Grypht now. She’d resigned herself to the idea of remaining in Zhara’s and Dragonbait’s company until she could discover Nameless’s whereabouts.
“In the meantime, I want to take another look at those treants,” the ranger said. He gulped down his tea. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” he promised, and he trudged out of camp.
Alias sipped her tea slowly. When she finished, she strapped on her sword. Then she nudged the sleeping Zhara with the toe of her boot.
The priestess awoke with a tiny gasp. She sat up, immediately alert. “What’s wrong?” she said.
Alias snorted. “I want to talk to you,” she said.
Akabar shook Grypht awake. The beast growled at him.
“It’s dawn,” the Turmishman said. “We should be going before this place collapses.”
Grypht didn’t understand a word the mage had said, but the tone was clear. Akabar was impatient to be on the road. The saurial wizard looked around them. He’d forgotten they were in the extradimensional space he had created. They’d have to leave soon before it collapsed and they fell to the ground. Grypht already hurt all over his body, and he was anxious to avoid acquiring any extra bruises.
Akabar lowered the rope out of the space and climbed down to the ground. Grypht tossed down his staff and climbed down after it. He made a soft bellowing sound as he climbed.
Akabar pointed to the ground. “Look there. We’ve been followed,” he said, indicating two sets of bootprints and another set of three-toed prints. “You know, these almost look like Dragonbait’s prints,” the Turmishman said.
Grypht sniffed the air. His head perked up and his eyes grew bright with surprise. Akabar could smell the lemony scent of the saurial.
“Shall we follow?” Akabar asked.
Grypht was already tracking Champion with his nose.
Zhara stood face-to-face with Alias. From beside the fire, Dragonbait watched both women nervously. If Alias wouldn’t pay attention to his signing, Zhara was his only hope of reconciling with the swordswoman. Now he prayed the priestess could calm Alias’s anger enough for her to give him a chance to apologize.
“Assuming you’re right and Moander is returning—which I still refuse to believe—I want to know why Akabar must be the one to destroy Moander,” Alias demanded. “Why couldn’t the gods have picked some powerful wizard—like Elminster or Khelben of Waterdeep or King Azoun’s flunky, Vangerdahast.”
“I do not know,” Zhara answered calmly. “I presume because Akabar has fought Moander once already.”
“I think it’s because Akabar is the one you’ve got wrapped around your finger,” Alias retorted. “If you could have wormed your way into a more powerful mage’s heart, you’d have chosen him to fight Moander. If you really loved Akabar, you’d keep him as far away as possible from Moander. Don’t you know what Moander did to Akabar before? How it used him?”