Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

The mage shuddered inwardly at the woman’s words. Alias had rejected so fiercely his quest to destroy Moander that Akabar had been reluctant to tell her any more about his dreams. She would learn soon enough, though, that he was not the only one chosen to battle the evil god. Nameless, too, was destined to be caught up in the final confrontation with the Darkbringer.

While page Heth was fetching Alias, the Harper tribunal continued to discuss the matter of the Nameless Bard.

“Even if this Alias is the paragon you say, Elminster,” Morala said to the sage, “her existence does not mitigate the bard’s initial guilt. You would not speak on Nameless’s behalf at his first trial,” she reminded him. “What has changed between then and now?”

What indeed? Elminster wondered. “As ye know, thy grace, I was a good friend to Nameless, but when he proceeded with his experiment against my advice, I felt … betrayed. I was angry with him, so I did nothing to defend him. I now believe I was wrong to do nothing.”

“It is a master bard’s sworn duty to protect his apprentices,” Morala continued. “Nameless was found guilty of recklessly endangering his apprentices, resulting in the death of one and injury to the other. What can you possibly say in his defense?” Morala asked.

“Nothing, thy grace,” Elminster said.

“Nothing?” Breck asked with surprise.

Kyre tilted her head in confusion, but Morala’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The sage had some trick up his sleeve; she was sure of it.

“Nothing, good ranger,” Elminster said. “But then,” he added, “there is also nothing I can say in defense of the punishment meted out by the Harper tribunal that sentenced the bard.” Elminster’s tone deepened with anger and contempt. “How long did they sentence Nameless to exile?” The sage answered his own question. “Forever. Two hundred years he has spent alone. Like barbarians who slice off the hands of a thief, the Harpers have given him no opportunity to atone for his crime. And what was done with the best part of the man, the beautiful music he composed despite his vanity and thoughtlessness, music which might have proven there was some good in him? The Harpers tried to wipe it out, just as barbarians wipe out the innocent children of their enemies.”

Kyre raised her eyebrows at the sage’s analogies, and Breck blushed with shame, but Morala rose angrily to her feet.

“Nameless knows nothing of atonement!” Morala insisted. “He was adept at charming others into spending their lives on his schemes. Not even the deaths of his apprentices stopped him from attempting to build a second singing simulacrum. If not for the intervention of others, who knows what evils Cassana and her consortium would have set this Alias to accomplish? We exiled Nameless alone so he could never again harm another with his recklessness. As for his music, he was unwilling to have his songs passed from one generation of bards to the next, so we honored his wish.”

“It is not justice to imprison someone for what he might do, Morala,” Elminster replied. “Tomorrow you or I might cause some great harm. Should we then go into exile this very day? And as for his music, if the Harpers had only imprisoned Nameless for a few years but allowed his songs to be passed on in the natural way, Nameless might have learned to accept the way his music would evolve and change. Instead, the Harpers exascerbated the bard’s fears.”

“We could not afford your fine sense of justice, Elminster,” Morala said. “We had to protect others from Nameless. A few years would not have changed his attitude. I doubt that two hundred years has done so. Even now that he has his singer, Alias, is he any less likely to use people? Can you offer any proof that Nameless himself has changed?”

Elminster considered the question carefully, searching his memory for any speech or action by Nameless that would demonstrate the bard’s redemption. “Yes,” he said finally.

The Harpers waited impatiently for the sage to continue. Elminster rose to his feet and circled around the table till he stood directly before the tribunal. “Three things …” he began. Then suddenly his face went pale. He gasped and clutched at his chest.

“Elminster?” Morala cried, rising to her feet.

“Are you all right, sir?” Breck asked, leaping from his seat to come to the aid of the sage. Some invisible force, though, repelled the young ranger. He bounced backward onto the dais at Kyre’s feet.

In the span of three breaths, Elminster’s body seemed to turn to clear crystal. Then, in a flash of bright light, the sage was gone. In his place stood a huge, hideous beast.

The creature stood as tall as a hill giant, towering over the three Harpers. The long red robe and fur cape it wore couldn’t hide the inhumanness of its form. It was covered with sickly green scales, and its eyes glittered red in the torchlight. Two sharp ivory horns sprouted from its head, and a third, even longer, horn rose from the tip of its long snout. Around the back of its head grew a bony frill, edged with spikes and decorated with arcane magical symbols. A muscular tail curled up from beneath the hem of its robe and swished back and forth like an angry snake.

In one clawed appendage, the beast clenched an iron staff tipped with a yellow orb, and in the other claw it held out a small blood-red object vaguely resembling a large chess rook. The red object began to glow, and the Harpers could feel heat emanating from it.

Kyre shouted, “Kill it!” Without a second’s hesitation, she drew a dagger from her boot and hurled it. The dagger struck the red object in the beast’s hand, knocking it to the stone floor, where it landed with a soft plop.

The beast looked up at Kyre and growled menacingly.

“Kill the monster, Breck!” Kyre cried. “Kill it before it’s too late!”

The ranger lost no time in picking himself up from Kyre’s feet, drawing his long sword, and charging the beast.

The creature was just as quick, holding out its staff with both clawed appendages to block Breck’s blow. Sparks flew where the ranger’s steel sword ground along the length of the iron staff. The beast’s heavy tail lashed forward, struck Breck’s left shoulder, and knocked him backward. Breck stumbled back into the dais, grunting from the pain that shot down his arm and back.

Meanwhile, Morala rose to her feet, drew a vial of holy water from the sleeve of her robe, and began singing a series of increasingly higher-pitched musical scales, praying to Milil, the god of bards, for his aid. Kyre stepped from the dais, circling cautiously around the beast until she stood at the periphery of its vision. Then she began a magical chant of her own, one far more harsh and guttural than that of the priestess.

Breck recovered enough to close in on his opponent again, searching for an opening in the beast’s defenses. The creature grabbed Breck’s injured arm and lifted the ranger several feet off the floor. Breck heard a pop as his arm dislocated from its shoulder joint, and he howled in agony. In a fury, he brought his sword down on the beast’s head, but the blade got caught on the bony frill protruding from its skull.

Crimson blood oozed from the skin covering the beast’s frill, and the creature roared. It hurled Breck through the air, straight into Morala, knocking her off balance.

The ranger and the priestess tumbled from the dais. Breck’s head hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. Morala was able to soften her own landing with her hands, but her vial of holy water smashed on the floor, and her concentration shattered with it. Her spell, which would have sent the beast back to whatever foul plane it had come from, was ruined. “You may just have destroyed our only hope, ranger,” the priestess snapped.