“Alias!” he whispered excitedly. “She might still be alive. Look, the light’s coming closer.”
The light was indeed approaching them, the blue light shed by the sigils on the warrior woman’s arm, but it was not Alias propelling herself upward. The bottom of the pit, a mass of rot and oozing garbage, was rising up the shaft. Alias was just a tiny human figure pinned to the muck.
Dragonbait pointed up the stairs and nudged Akabar to climb in front of him. The mage nodded and ascended without further argument or complaint. When he reached the top, he was only mildly winded. The pain had not reasserted itself with the exertion of the climb. He turned around to check on the lizard’s progress up the stairs.
Having judged the speed of the monster to be less than their own, Dragonbait now took his time, turning back often to study it. Is he some sort of tribal shaman? Akabar wondered. What other secrets has he kept hidden?
Akabar peered back down the pit. Far below, the oozing mass that had kidnapped Alias was still crawling up the sides of the midden. It rose like lava in a volcano and had already regained the height of the ruined platform. The titanic effort of hauling its vast bulk did not seem to tire it. If anything, it seemed to be moving faster now.
“Don’t move, mooncalf,” a strange, rough voice ordered. Then it shouted, “Captain!”
Akabar looked up from the pit. Ten feet away, a single soldier was sitting on the pile of rubble about the midden. He was wrapped in a faded red robe, and a red-plumed helmet lay beside him, next to an overful bucket of kitchen waste. He held a loaded crossbow aimed at Akabar’s chest.
Dragonbait’s head rose over the rim of the pit. He ducked back quickly, but it was already too late.
“No good, pigeon,” the soldier barked toward the pit. “Bring your carcass over the side, or we’ll push your buddy in.”
Akabar watched Dragonbait shove the finder’s stone into his shirt and sheathe his sword across his back, though the soldier did not have his line of sight and could not have noticed. The lizard scrambled over the edge with both his hands held out before him. He positioned his body between Akabar and the crossbow.
The mage had always assumed that in the event of Alias’s inability to take charge, he would be the next leader. Obviously, Dragonbait did not agree. He took responsibility for their safety and put himself at the greatest risk.
The captain and four more fighters strode through the ruins toward the midden. Two carried lanterns and handheld crossbows. The rest were armed with short swords, drawn and ready.
“I got me some looters,” their captor announced. “Or maybe spies,” he added. By the brightening of his face, Akabar could see that this thought had just entered the man’s head. The glee it brought him indicated that there was a bounty paid on spies.
Akabar looked to Dragonbait. Leader or not, he would need an interpreter. He stepped forward to stand beside the lizard as the captain approached. Dragonbait stood motionless, but Akabar could sense the lizard’s tension. The fragrance of violets wafted from his body. The mage could smell his own sweat. Dragonbait glanced meaningfully at the pit and back at Akabar, raising his scaly brows. If he could stall the soldiers, they would soon be too busy dealing with an ancient god to bother with two stray adventurers.
“I am no looter, but a mage of no small water,” Akabar announced to the captain. “I have important information for the commander of your unit.”
“No small water,” mimicked the crossbowman who’d discovered them.
“Sounds like a southerner,” one of the other soldiers said.
“Don’t like southerners,” the first one said. “They lie and stink.”
The Red Plumes captain held up his hand, silencing everyone. “Who are you, and what is your information?” he asked Akabar.
Akabar could not keep from glancing at the pit. Using the lumbering garbage pile of a god as a diversion would not work if Moander engulfed them before engaging the Red Plumes. “Let us go to your camp, where I will tell you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“You’ll tell me here and now,” replied the captain, “or your bodies will be lying at the bottom of the pit.”
The bottom of the pit may be here any minute, the mage thought nervously. Aloud he said, “There is something very dangerous in this pit. A threat to you and everyone else in this city. It climbs out even as we speak. You must fetch fire, oil, and powerful mages, quickly. We might still repel it.”
The captain chuckled. “Our mages are asleep, southerner, resting after a powerful contention with the forces of Zhentil Keep. It would not be worth your life or mine to roust them. Your story sounds to me like a looter’s tale, but it will not help you escape the noose. We have firm laws against looters. But I’m sure you know that.”
“No,” Akabar replied. “I do not.” He looked around at the ruined city. “I wasn’t even aware there was anything worth looting in this pile of rubble.”
“I’ll bet,” the captain said, smiling with amusement at Akabar’s cool denial. “However, ignorance of the law is no excuse. The Hillsfar Red Plumes are here at the request of the Yulash government in Hillsfar. On their behalf, we are authorized to hang all looters. No exceptions.”
“I can understand that,” Akabar said. “Please,” he pleaded, “let us move away from the edge of this pit.”
The captain surveyed the mage and the lizard. For the first time that evening, Akabar missed the presence of the glib-tongued Ruskettle. By now, the dratted halfling could probably have convinced the captain to organize a full alert, the mage mused, were she here and not snoring away at camp. He wondered if he would ever have another chance to scold her for her laziness.
Finally, the captain made up his mind. He motioned permission for Dragonbait and Akabar to move away from the pit. The crossbowmen kept their weapons leveled on the prisoners. The captain, having apparently sensed and caught Akabar’s and Dragonbait’s nervousness, moved away from the pit first, though he tried to appear calm and unperturbed as he leaned on his weapon. The other two men rested their swords on their shoulders.
The two adventurers moved cautiously through the rubble, away from the edge of the pit, until they stood with their backs against a half-toppled wall.
“Try again, looter,” the captain ordered. “I’m sure you can come up with a better story than a pit fiend.”
Why is it one’s friends will believe one’s lies, but one’s enemies are incapable of recognizing the truth when one speaks it? Akabar pondered. He knew better than to backtrack. “Sir,” he said urgently, “as one civilized man to another, I assure you, there is indeed a horrible creature in that pit, no mere fiend, but an ancient god.”
“I’ve heard of you ‘civilized Southerners’,” their discoverer said, “you’re baby-killers, every man-jack of you. Worship gods darker than those who squat at the Keep.”
Either bards are spreading the tales about baby-killers in every society, Akabar thought, or they’re neglecting their duty to disabuse people of these absurd notions.
The captain, not quite as obtuse and single-minded as his subordinates, gave an order to a crossbowman. “Soldier, take a look down the pit. The rest of you, watch this pair. If they so much as sneeze, skewer them.”
The crossbowman climbed over the rubble to peer down into the pit. “Looks fine to me,” he insisted, holding the lantern over his head. “Kinda full. We’re going to have to find another dump soon. Hey, there’s a body in there, a wo—”
The crossbowman never had a chance to finish his sentence. A slimy tendril whipped up over the edge of the pit, wrapped around the man’s neck, and yanked him over the edge. The sickening crack of shattering bones followed.