D&D - Dragonlance - Dhamon Saga 01, page 16
Dhamon stepped back, into a deep puddle. With no roof, it was raining as steadily inside the building as it was outside. “Maldred!” Dhamon shouted, oblivious to the muck. “I am with Maldred!”
The ogre paused a moment, smile disappearing. His shaggy brow furrowed. His hands still clenched the axe, but the menace had lessened in his eyes.
“Maldred,” Dhamon repeated, when the large brute took a step forward with a threatening snarl. In broken ogre-speak, he added, “Our wagon. Maldred asked you watch. You have. I have come to claim our wagon.”
The ogre looked to the back of the building-the glance was enough to let Dhamon know he understood clearly. The wagon was cloaked by the shadows. Dhamon walked toward it, careful to keep an eye on the ogre and to keep his sword at the ready. Only one horse was tethered nearby. Dhamon worked quickly to harness it to the wagon while he scanned the area for the other horse.
“Damn,” he swore softly when he spotted blood against the back wall. There was a hank of mane, and from beneath a pile of wet, moldy straw, a hoofed leg protruded. “Got hungry, didn’t you?” He didn’t expect the ogre to understand or answer. “Picked out the biggest one to eat.”
The creature padded closer, sloshing through the mud. He still held the axe in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth.
Dhamon busied himself checking beneath the sodden tarp, keeping an eye on the brute. “Got greedy too, didn’t you? Or at the very least, curious.” He noticed the sacks had been rearranged in the wagon bed, and though he couldn’t be sure if there was anything missing, he decided to play a hunch. He pointed the sword at the ogre. “Give back. Sacks you took. Give back.”
“Thwuk! Thwuk!” The ogre snarled as he closed in, bringing the axe up over his head in a great threatening show. “Thwuk not take from Maldred!” But Dhamon wasn’t in the mood to be intimidated. He darted in and swept his sword across the creature’s belly, then leapt back as a film of dark blood sprayed out. The ogre howled, and the axe slipped from his fingers, which were now furiously clutching his stomach. Blood spilled out over the brute’s hands as he dropped to his knees, a mix of anger and surprise on his ugly face.
He growled deeply at Dhamon, red spittle trailing over his bulbous lip. Then he cried out once more as Dhamon stepped in again and slashed the blade across his throat. The ogre pitched forward dead.
“Hope you weren’t too good of a friend to Maldred,” Dhamon mused, as he wiped his sword on the brute’s clothes and sheathed it. He quickly tossed the straw over the dead ogre, avoiding the insects that swarmed over the horse haunch.
Then he used the rain to wash his hands and take a good look around. There were tall plants growing along the northern half of the building. They appeared well tended, and their tops nearly reached to where the roof had been. There was a huge hammock strung between what had served as the roof’s support beams, and beneath it was quite a collection of small barrels and satchels, likely the ogre’s possessions.
Dhamon tugged off his newly purchased tunic, sprayed with blood and mud, and tossed it behind a row of plants. Searching around in the wagon beneath a sack of gemstones, he recovered the fine shirt he had saved from the merchant haul and was quick to don it. Black, it complemented his baggy trousers and deerskin vest. He admired his dark reflection in a puddle near the ogre’s hammock.
Dhamon searched through the ogre’s possessions, finding only a small sack of gemstones-which the ogre might have stolen or more likely had been given in payment for watching the wagon. Dhamon tossed it in the wagon and continued to pick through the dead creature’s worldly goods, finding a pouch heavy with steel pieces, an ivory pommeled dagger, and bits of dried foodstuffs, which Dhamon sniffed unenthusiastically. There were a few other odds and ends, a small broken jade mermaid, and a bronze bracelet, thick with mud, which he sloshed about in the water that had filled the hammock.
Deciding there was little of value, Dhamon led the horse and wagon from the barn and propped the door shut.
“One final stop,” he told himself. “The most important one.”
An hour later, he found his way back to Grim Kedar’s.
Rig was across the street, leaning against an abandoned stone building and watching the entrance to Grim Kedar’s. His eyes appeared sunken, the circles beneath them dark, proving he’d slept little the previous night. A disheveled-looking human was cowering next to him, nodding and shaking his head as Rig grilled him with questions. The mariner had not spied a single human who was not shabbily dressed or who appeared remotely happy.
Fiona motioned for Rig to join them, but the mariner shook his head and continued talking to the stranger. She shrugged and turned her attention to the kobold.
“An unusual name,” she said, bending over until her face met his.
“Not my real name,” Fetch returned. “I’d guess you’d call it a…” He scrunched his features and tapped on his nose ring.
“Nickname?” Fiona risked.
He nodded. “My real name’s Ilbreth. I’m just called Fetch ‘cause…”
“Fetch!” Rikali was standing on the sagging walk and crooking her manicured fingers at the kobold. “Bring my satchel and get inside. Hurry up!”
“… I fetch things,” he finished, scampering to do her bidding.
Dhamon urged the horse toward the sagging wooden sidewalk, tethered it to a post and brushed by Rikali, whom he told to guard the wagon-with her life. Entering the establishment, he noted that even though it was just past lunchtime, there were no tea-drinkers or apparent patients. He rapped on the counter. The others came in behind him. A few moments later, Maldred emerged from behind the beads.
A wide grinn was splayed across the big man’s face, and his arms were spread to his sides. He turned once for inspection. There was no indication of injury, and Dhamon stared wide-eyed at his large friend.
“I thought he’d have to cut off your arm,” Dhamon said evenly.
“So did Grim,” Maldred replied. “Indeed, he tried! But I wouldn’t let him. Told him he had to work his magic and make me whole or I’d tell everyone he was nothing but a simple charlatan. And he could not afford such a reputation-at least not here. Of course, this cost me a bit more than what you gave him yesterday.”
Dhamon winced.
“Worth it, my friend. Grim is the best. Unfortunate, however, he is not so powerful as to stop all of this rain. I doubt these mountains have seen this much in the past few years. At least it’s giving all of Bloten a much-needed bath,” Maldred chuckled, then instantly grew serious. “The wagon?”
Dhamon nodded toward the street.
“Did Thwuk demand anything else for watching it?”
Dhamon shook his head. “Nothing else. I’m a shrewd negotiator.”
“That’s why I like you.” Maldred strolled toward Fiona, his eyes sparkling merrily and catching hers. “Now on to that matter of gaining you some ransom, Lady Knight.”
Dhamon cleared his throat. “We’ve an appointment this evening.”
Maldred raised his eyebrows as if to say, “you negotiated that as well?”
“We’re to have dinner with Donnag this evening to discuss various matters.”
“Then I’d best find something presentable to wear,” Maldred returned. “Join me, Lady Knight?”
“My ransom?” Fiona’s face was still wrinkled with worry. “Is the ransom part of the various matters?”
“Yes. We should gain you some wealth tonight, I think.” Maldred did not see Dhamon’s hard expression and narrowed eyes, as he was devoting all of his charm and attention to the Solamnic. The big man extended his arm, and she took it, strolling out of the shop with him and meeting the glare of the half-elf. Fiona looked across the street, but the mariner was nowhere in sight.
Rig had wandered down a cobblestone side street, one of the very few of its kind in Bloten. Nearly all of the streets seemed to be wide streams of mud. He skirted the largest puddles, avoiding them entirely was impossible. As the cobblestones ended and another swath of mud began, the businesses and dwellings that lined it became more rundown. He could tell a few of them were owned, or at the very least operated, by humans and dwarves, and they seemed to cater to the nonogre population. None of these shops had awnings or planks out front, just strips of deep, muddy clay. He glanced at his reflection in an overflowing horse trough. His stomach rumbled. He’d barely touched his dinner last night, while his companions ate heartily. He’d had nothing to eat today, not wanting any part of this place. But he was feeling a little weak, his head aching and hands shaking, and he knew he was going to have to eat something. He glanced up, looking for an establishment that might sell identifiable foodstuffs.
“Gardi? Izzat you Gardi?”
Rig realized that a gangly young man who had leaned out on a crooked stoop was speaking to him.
“Oh, sorry. Thought you wuz Gardi.” He turned and disappeared in the doorway, as the mariner sprinted forward and his arm shot out to catch the man’s wrist. The young man spat a foreign-sounding word, then gulped and his eyes grew wide when he took in all of the mariner’s weapons.
“S’okay,” Rig said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just want to talk. I’m new to town, and I was wondering…”
“Too bad,” the man said, relaxing a bit when Rig released him.
Rig cocked his head.
“Too bad you came here,” he said, a genuine look of sadness on his face. “Bloten’s not a good place to be-if you have the choice to be somewheres else. And I haven’t time to dawdle with you. Got money to earn. Taxes to pay. Taxes and taxes and taxes and taxes.”
Rig pulled a steel piece from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s hand. “Tell me about this place.”
“Taxes,” the young man repeated.
“Yea, I know,” said Rig. “So tell me where I can get something good to eat.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Donnag
Evening found Rig and the others across the city, at the home of Chieftain Donnag, the ruler of all of Blode.
The manse, a palace Fetch called it, was a little incongruous compared to the buildings that sprawled around it-and to all of the buildings they’d seen so far in Bloten. It was three stories tall, ogre measurement, making it appear nearly five stories to the humans. And it extended across an entire city block. The exterior was in good repair, the stonework patched and painted a bright white that looked pale gray in the continuing drizzle. Orange-painted wooden trim rimmed the corners, carved in the images of dragons with their wings spread and heads to the sky. Ornamental bushes thick with weeds and in desperate need of pruning spread out beneath windows that were fancifully curtained, and thorny vines were trimmed away from a meandering cobblestone walk that led to massive front doors nestled beneath an arched overhang.
Two ogres stood on either side of the doors, attired in pitted armor and carrying halberds longer than Rig’s glaive. Protected from the rain, they were dry and sweating from the summer heat, and they smelled strongly of musk. One stepped forward and pointed to a crate.
“He wants your weapons left outside,” Maldred explained.
“I will not!” Rig stepped back and shook his head. “I’ll not leave myself defenseless in…”
Fiona slid by him, unfastening her swordbelt and placing it in the crate. She pulled a dagger from her boot and added that weapon. After a moment’s thought, she set her helmet next to the crate, combing her hair with her fingers. Dhamon tugged at his sword belt, dangling it and the attached ale skins over the crate as he glanced at the ogre sentries. Then he carefully set it inside. Rikali followed with the ivory-pommeled dagger Dhamon had given her, and Fetch grudgingly deposited his hoopak. The four of them waited for Rig.
“I won’t.”
“Then suit yourself and wait for us out here,” Maldred said. The big man gallantly extended his arm again to Fiona, his eyes sparkling and warm and bringing a slight smile to her heart-shaped face. The Solamnic paused for just a moment before she took his elbow and entered the manse, not giving Rig a second glance.
Rikali waited for Dhamon to copy Maldred’s gracious gesture, pouting when he didn’t and slipping inside just behind him. “Lover,” she whispered as she nudged him. “You should learn better manners. Watch Mai. He knows how to treat a lady.” Fetch had squeezed in just ahead of the pair.
“Awh…” Rig rested his glaive against the front of the manse. “This better be here when I come out,” he warned.
Then he proceeded to drop his more readily visible weapons into the crate and join the others inside.
The interior was impressive. A long cherrywood table dominated the dining room into which they were escorted, ringed by ogre-sized chairs with deeply stuffed cushions and intricately carved backs. None of the furniture was polished or in the best of condition, but it was better than the furniture at Grim Kedar’s and the other places they’d visited. Paintings hung on the walls, rendered by human artists of widespread reknown. Rig’s eyes narrowed and fastened on one. It was painted by Usha Majere, Palin’s wife-he’d seen enough of her work when he’d visited the Tower of Wayreth to recognize it, and he knew she wouldn’t have painted this for an ogre chief. Stolen, he mouthed. Probably like everything else in this room.
A lanky human woman, scantily dressed in pale green scarves, bid them to select a spot at the table, and whispered that they should wait to sit. Then she clapped her hands and an ogress entered with a tray of drinks served in tall wooden cups. Behind the ogress came Donnag.
The chieftain was the largest ogre they’d observed since entering the city. Nearly eleven feet tall, he had wide shoulders on which sat shining bronze disks festooned with military medals-some recognizable from the Dark Knights and Legion of Steel Knights, a few with Nerakan markings. He wore a heavy mail shirt, which glimmered in the light of the thick candles that were spaced evenly throughout the hall, and beneath that an expensive purple tunic. Though dressed as regally as any monarch, he was nonetheless obviously an ogre, with warts and scabs dotting his wide, tanned face. Twin fangs jutted upward from his bottom jaw, and several gold hoops were pierced through his broad nose and his bulbous lower lip. His ears were hidden by a crownlike gold helmet embellished with exquisitely cut gems and grotesquely angled animal talons.
He moved gracefully and silently, however, gliding to the thronelike chair at the end of the table and folding himself into it. The human woman stood to his right, awaiting his orders. A nod from Donnag, and Maldred pulled out the chair for Fiona, then sat himself. The others followed, with Rig the last to comply. The mariner continued to look suspiciously about the room, noting the paintings and can-delabras and knickknacks that were certainly not fashioned for an ogre. A former pirate, Rig was quick to recognize plunder when he saw it.
The mariner’s gaze occasionally rested on Fiona, who did not seem as concerned about her surroundings. But then the mariner reminded himself, she was being ruled by her belief that being here would somehow get her the coins and gems with which she could ransom her brother.
“We have not entertained a Solamnic Knight before,” Donnag began. His voice was deep and scratchy, hinting at advanced years, but his command of the human tongue was precise. “We are honored to have you in our most esteemed presence, Lady Fiona.”
Fiona didn’t reply, although she was surprised he knew her name. And Donnag, perhaps sensing her uncertainty, was quick to continue. “It is good to have you in our humble home again, Maldred, and servant Ilbreth.” The kobold nodded, smiling. “And friend of Maldred… Dhamon Grimwulf. Your glorious exploits are known to us, and we are impressed. And you are…?”
The mariner had been glancing at another painting, one depicting the eastern coast of Mithas, the Black Coast. The artist had rendered an early evening sky, and three moons hung suspended above the water-from a time before the Chaos War when Krynn had three moons. Lost in the painting, which stirred thoughts of the Blood Sea Isles, Rig was unaware the chieftain was talking to him.
“He is called Rig Mer-Krel,” Fiona offered.
“An Ergothian?”
Rig nodded, his attention finally on Donnag. The mariner stifled a chuckle, finding Donnag’s visage, royal speech, and attire greatly at odds.
“You are a long way from home, Ergothian.”
Rig opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. He nodded again and prayed to the absent gods that dinner would go quickly.
“Lady Fiona, our advisors tell us you’ve need of a considerable amount of coins and gems to serve as a ransom for your brother. That the chieftains of the Solamnic Knights will not aid you in this.”
She nodded, another hint of surprise in her eyes that he knew so much about why she was in his city.
“Your brother is being held with other Knights in Shrentak?”
Again a nod.
“And you intend to go to Shrentak? It is a very deadly place.”
She shook her head. “No, Chieftain Donnag. I’ll not need to travel that far into the swamp. One of the Black’s minions, a draconian, will meet me at the ruins of Takar. It is there I must deliver the ransom. My brother will be brought there and handed over to me. Perhaps other Knights will be handed over with him if I can raise enough.”
Donnag cleared his throat. “It is a most admirable task you’ve assigned yourself, as family is most important.” He paused to take a sip of wine and to clear his throat again. “We are not opposed to slavery and the keeping of prisoners. Always the weaker and the unfortunate must serve the stronger. Still, we have no love of the Black and her spreading swamp. Indeed, our army journeyed into the swamp but a month ago and destroyed a growing legion of spawn-my general believed he found a nest where they were being created. The cost was heavy for us, but not one spawn remained. Fortunately for us, the Black was not there at the time.”
Donnag slowly turned his head to make certain everyone was paying attention to him. “And so, because of our love of family and because of our hate of the Black, we will provide you with coins and gems, more than enough to gain the release of your brother.”
