“A clue?” Mist asked hopefully.
“Yes,” the halfling nodded. “See?” She held the map up to the dragon’s left eye.
“And what does it say?” Mist inquired.
“You don’t read Common?” Olive asked meekly, afraid of offending the vain beast.
“I prefer the more visual arts,” the lumbering creature said with a defensive snort. “Theater, sculpture, bards.’ ”
How about opera? Olive wondered. She held the parchment in front of her and read aloud: “ ‘Had a vision. Off to Zhentil Keep. Follow soon. Hugs, Alias?’ ”
“Are you certain? There don’t seem to be that many words to me,” Mist said, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.
“She uses a lot of abbreviations. Like scribes, you know,” the halfling replied.
“Do your friends usually leave you behind just because you sleep late?” the dragon asked.
“Well, you see, they knew I was a little reluctant to go to Zhentil Keep. I would have preferred visiting another city, like Hillsfar. I guess they didn’t feel like waiting for me to make up my mind to join them or not.”
Mist raised up on her rear haunches, stretched, and yawned. Then she settled back down. “You have no idea the trouble I’ve gone to to find the two of you,” she said. “Matter of honor and all that.”
Olive couldn’t have said what came over her, but some demon inside of her, tired of being pushed around and bullied, prompted her to ask rudely, “You mean you’ve brought us the chest of gold you promised us?”
Mist’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Before I rush off to deal with the Zheeks for your friend’s hide, I think a little late lunch would be in order.”
The demon within vanished. “Oh,” Olive said, “you wouldn’t want to do that. Flying on a full stomach, you’ll get cramps. Besides, you’ll need someone to help you negotiate with the Keepers. They’re a terribly bureaucratic bunch. Forms, red tape, memos. They could give you the run-around for days. I can be terribly useful in cutting through the paperwork, and you know how entertaining I am. Remember the good times we had together in the cave—er, lair, I mean, your home.”
“I do,” the dragon agreed with a smirk. “And I must confess that the desire to reclaim you, my little, lost trophy, motivated me almost as much as my desire for revenge.” Mist paused a moment before asking, “You’ve heard of singing for your supper?”
With a gulp, the bard nodded.
“Well, with me, you must sing or become supper. I might just spare you … or not.”
Ruskettle sighed. Repressing all the smart remarks that came to her head, she reached for her yarting.
20
Dragonbait’s Feint of Honor
The smell of blood caught Dragonbait’s attention a hundred yards before he entered camp. He dropped to all fours and crawled forward cautiously. By the campsite was a huge dark mound. The massive shape was easily ten times greater than the upended wagon that had shielded the whole party. As the lizard drew closer, he heard singing.
The voice was Ruskettle’s, but it was unusually uneven. It rang out strong and sweet for a few lines, then wavered helplessly for a half dozen notes before regaining its tone. Olive sang the tune Alias had taught her way back in Cormyr, the song about the fall of Myth Drannor. Here on the battle-strewn plain, in the dark, with fear so obviously in her heart, the song took on a poignancy Olive might never have been able to give it before a human audience.
The lizard crept closer still, using the wagon as cover. Once he was crouched behind the wagonbed, he looked back toward Yulash. The eastern sky was developing the sickly glow of sunrise through fog, but Dragonbait didn’t need the light to pick out the great hulk of Moander. To the lizard’s sight, the Abomination stood out against the mist-chilled fields, warmed as it was with the fresh blood of its victims. It was heading south toward the Elven Wood.
Dragonbait turned his attention once more to the matter close at hand. He peeked around the edge of the wagonbed and instantly recognized the monster that crouched like a great cat at the bard’s feet.
A lair-beast, a very big lair-beast, Dragonbait concluded, ducking back behind the wagon.
He sniffed at the air and recognized the monster’s scent. Alias had gone into this creature’s den and brought out the halfling. Even from the back tunnel, his sensitive nose had been able to pick out the dragon’s scent, and he had rankled at the swordswoman’s order to stay outside while she went in to do battle.
Mist’s great tail wrapped around the camp, trapping the halfling in a ring of crimson.
Dragonbait sighed inwardly. This was a very inconvenient time to have to fight a lair-beast, he thought. If he died, there would be no one left to help Alias, but he needed Olive’s help. There simply wasn’t time to find new allies.
He climbed to the top of the wagonbed so the halfling would be able to see him without alerting the dragon.
Olive’s voice quivered with exhaustion. It wasn’t easy being so frightened. When she spotted Dragonbait, she almost shouted out the next lyric, but years of training stepped in and she was able to repress her excitement before she gave away the lizard’s presence.
Her voice grew in strength as she sang the final verse. A plan was beginning to form in the back of her head. She had seen the lizard in combat, and he wasn’t bad. With her brains and his brawn, she might just have a chance. She finished the song with a flourish.
The dragon let out a great contented sigh, steam pouring from her nostrils. “That is a new one. You must have learned it since we last parted, or were you keeping this little gem hidden from me when you stayed as my guest?”
“A good bard is always picking up new pieces for her repertoire,” the halfling replied evenly. She stretched and asked, “So, have you decided to eat me now or wait until you find Alias of Westgate?”
“I am of two minds,” Mist answered, standing up to stretch herself. She turned around like a cat trying to decide the most comfortable position. Dragonbait dropped behind the wagon not a moment too soon. When the great wyrm had settled herself back down, in nearly the exact same spot as before, Dragonbait climbed back up the wagon to watch the proceedings.
“Two minds,” Mist repeated. “On one hand, your talent would be a great loss to the world. On the other hand, artists don’t usually become really famous until after their deaths. I would be doing you a favor by allowing you to satisfy this peckish feeling in my belly.”
“But then I couldn’t help you find Alias,” the halfling pointed out calmly.
“No,” the dragon admitted, “but then, neither could you escape to warn the foul-tongued wench. You see my problem.” A long, lolling tongue slid out from between Mist’s jaws and licked at her two protruding upper fangs.
“Yes,” Olive admitted, her eyes riveted to the great, forked organ until it withdrew back into the dragon’s mouth. “It sounds as if you’ve already made your decision.”
“You’re right,” Mist said as rivers of drool began to slide down her chin hairs. “I think a light meal is definitely in order before I resume the hunt.”
“Sounds appropriate to me,” the halfling agreed, reaching into her shirt as if to scratch an indelicate itch. “I guess I have no choice, then.”
“Not really.”
From his perch atop the wagon, Dragonbait crouched forward, ready to leap on the dragon and save the strangely acquiescent bard.