D&D - Dragonlance - Dhamon Saga 01, page 26
“Lover, you can’t be serious. It was a vision, a magical dream Fetch called up out of that pool. You don’t even know if it’s real.”
“Real? The first vision showed us the way out, didn’t it? I’d say that makes it real. Shrentak seemed real enough.”
“A girl making it rain? Hah! I bet Fetch was asking it a different question, nothing about rain. That’s what brought up the girl. I bet he was thinking about some place nice and warm and dry where he could find some sweet company and…”
Dhamon vehemently shook his head. “No. The girl is the cause. She’s drowned out villages, one at the base of these falls. Knollsbank could well wash away, too. This rain is far from natural.”
Rikali cocked her head and furrowed her brows. “Why’d anybody want to make it rain that much? Why’d anyone want to flood out villages of goatherders and farmers? Doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re a black dragon wanting to make your swamp bigger and seeking revenge.”
They continued to pick their way up the trail, which in fact had become a widening stream now. They had to periodically grab onto rocks to keep their feet from slipping out from underneath them. Rikali glanced over her shoulder again. Rig was nowhere in sight.
“Besides, it was a little girl, not a black dragon,” Rikali continued.
“Dragons are powerful, Riki. The dragon could take the form of a girl, or the girl could be the agent of a dragon.”
“A little dragon girl? How do you know so much about dragons, lover? Must come from all that readin’ you can do. You should teach me readin’. I thought you were through with dragons, anyway.”
Dhamon let out a curt laugh. “I am through with them, Riki dear.”
The half-elf beamed and worked to keep up with Dhamon.
“I don’t want to have anything more to do with them.
But the information about the girl is valuable. I suspect the ogre will pay me a good bit of coin for it-in addition to the sword I want.”
Rikali tittered and reached out to grab Dhamon’s elbow. But her hands went flying as she stepped on a moss-slick rock and her feet shot out from under her. She landed with a smack in the center of the stream, sending water showering around her. Dhamon whirled to reach for her, but too late. She started to slide with the stream down the mountainside.
Rig had finally finished his task and was coming up from the base of the trail. He rushed and made a grab for Rikali, but only managed to tear her sleeve as she passed by pell-mell. Rig dropped his glaive and dove in after her. A moment later he surfaced and waved to Dhamon.
“Dhamon, you better get down here!” He was wiping blood away from a gash on her cheek. “She’s hurt.” There was blood on her forehead, too, and running from her nose. She moaned softly, her fingers and lips twitching. The mariner gently opened her lips to look inside her mouth. Two teeth were broken, the remnants of one buried inside her cheek. He tugged it out.
Rig gingerly prodded her ribs. “Nothing broken here. Dhamon!”
Dhamon hadn’t moved. He stood a few dozen feet away, up on the mountain, watching them.
Rig continued to shout. “Heard you say something once about treating Knights on a battlefield! How about a little help? She’s your girlfriend, after all.”
“She only thinks she is,” Dhamon said so softly Rig couldn’t hear. He waited a moment before sliding down the trail to join Rig. “We don’t have time for this… delay,” he said, his voice heavy with irritation. He knelt over the half-elf and smoothed the hair away from her face. He thought she looked pretty, with her expression serene and her face devoid of the usual heavy makeup. He felt around her neck, turned her head this way and that, his ministrations as gentle as possible.
“She’s okay,” he told Rig. “Her head hit a rock, see?” He tilted her head slightly, showing the blood that stood out amidst her silver-white locks. “Nothing too serious. She’s breathing regularly.” He felt around the head wound. “She’ll have a good-sized bump when she comes to.” Then Dhamon stood up and held his hands to the rain, letting it wash away the blood. “And she will come ‘round soon enough. This rain will help.” He turned and started back up the mountainside.
“Wait a minute.” The words flew angrily from the mariner’s mouth. “She’s your woman. You’re not going to leave her here.”
“Riki’d understand,” Dhamon replied. “I’ve got to pick up an important package from Chieftain Donnag and sell some valuable news to him. The sooner he learns about the rain, the more it’ll be worth. And I’ve got to find Maldred. He’ll want to know about the rain, too. Riki’ll catch up with us. She’s more resourceful than you think.”
Rig stared incredulously. “First Fetch, now Riki…”
Dhamon’s face was impassive. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his lips were a thin line. And his eyes were cold.
That image of Dhamon would remain etched in the mariner’s mind for the rest of his days, showing him how callous a person was capable of being. Might as well be stone beads-they held no hint of compassion. There was only calculating purpose. Rig saw that. Dhamon’s eyes showed cunning and selfishness. There was no trace of the man he’d known in the past, they were not the eyes of the former Dark Knight who’d answered Goldmoon’s cry for a champion and who’d intrepidly led them to the Window to the Stars; no shadow of the hero who dared to stand up to the dragon overlords and who, though not gaining Rig’s friendship, had most certainly gained his respect.
“Get used to it Rig,” said Dhamon, reading his thoughts. “I’m not the man you knew.”
Had Dhamon just said those words? the mariner wondered, or was he remembering what Dhamon had said one night in the Kalkhist Mountains? It didn’t matter. They were true. Rig was staring at a stranger. The mariner had known thieves in his younger days, and had proudly kept company with pirates-whom he considered a few notches above common thieves. None of them had been like this Dhamon, a Dhamon he really didn’t know.
“You’re not human,” Rig said softly.
Dhamon laughed. Then, without a further word or a gesture, he turned and started climbing the trail again, going a little slower and holding onto rocks so he wouldn’t take a spill like the half-elf.
The mariner reached up to his shoulder with one hand and yanked until one of his sleeves came loose. He wrapped it around the half-elf’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. The mariner gazed up at the watery trail, then at the half-elf, scooped his arms under her knees and shoulders and picked her up. “Awww… by the blessed memory of Habbakuk!” He saw her left arm hung crookedly, and there was an ugly knob where a bone was trying to break through her skin. “It’s broken, I’d guess.” He laid her back down, started looking around. “I’ll need some wood,” he said to himself. “Never set any broken bones before, and I’m not going to start now. Might cause more harm than good. But at least I can keep it from flopping around.”
He sloshed over to the partially submerged remains of what appeared to be a house and pulled a board free. “Yeah, something like this will do.” Then he took off his shirt and started ripping it into strips to fashion a crude splint. “Damn Dhamon Grimwulf to the bottom layer of the Abyss,” he growled.
Rikali moaned softly. Her face contorted in obvious discomfort as she fought her way back to consciousness. The fingers of her good hand fluttered down to touch her stomach. “The babe,” she whispered. “Please let my baby be all right.”
Rig stared in shock. “You’re with child? Does Dhamon know?”
She shook her head. “And you won’t tell him.” Then she drifted away into unconsciousness again.
The mariner worked to juggle all of his possessions. All his daggers were strapped across his chest, the long sword dangled at his side, the glaive he strapped to his back again. He had to move things around a bit to get comfortable. It was difficult for him to carry everything, and the half-elf too, but somehow he would manage.
Rikali groaned as he shifted her weight in his arms. Rig looked up the mountain. “Guess we’ll have to try this trail,” he decided. “But we’ll take it slow.”
Fiona stood rigidly in her Solamnic plate, which she had polished to a mirror finish upon her return from the dwarven catacombs. The job had given her something to do while she waited for Rig and Dhamon, and while Maldred was secreted away in his meeting with Chieftain Donnag.
Her hair was tied uncharacteristically in twin tight braids at the back of her neck. The gash on her cheek had been healed by the ogre shaman-at Maldred’s insistence and expense. Her limbs still ached a little from the arduous adventure up the mountain and into the dwarven ruins and then back to Bloten. But her appearance didn’t give any hint of her real fatigue.
She squared her corners as she paced in the mud in front of the men Donnag had provided as escort for her ransom. It was just as he’d promised. They were hardy ogres, forty of them, the shortest towering above her at nine feet. All wore bits of armor, mostly boiled leather plates with metal studs scattered in random patterns. Perhaps the designs signified something in the ogre language. A few had chain shirts and leather greaves, and some of the armor pieces looked almost new. Nearly all wore some kind of helmet, and a few sported long cloaks of a thin, dark fabric-made darker by the continuing rain. They stood at attention, shoulders straight and with an impressive posture unlike the stooped appearance exhibited by most of Bloten’s residents.
Though she suspected they resented her because she was a human-a female-and above all a Solamnic Knight-she was certain she had their loyalty, as Chieftain Donnag had instructed them to follow her every order unto death if need be. She also suspected they were being paid handsomely, though she did not know if Donnag or Maldred had handled the costs, and she did not care to know.
Only a few of them could speak her tongue, and those who spoke it haltingly also mispronounced half the words. Maldred said all of the men were well-trained fighters who had skirmished with the dwarves of Tho-radin, hobgoblins and goblins of Neraka, and the spawn and abominations that encroached into Donnag’s foothills from the swamp. Their muscular appearance and thick scars hinted at numerous previous battles.
They were certainly a homely bunch. Most had warts and boils dotting their exposed skin, the rain plastering their scraggly hair to the sides of their heads. Others had teeth protruding upward or downward from their lips. A few were missing pieces of ears. One had an almost cadaverous nose. Their skin ranged from a light tan, the color of sand, to a dark brown, the shade of a walnut tree’s bark. There was one trio of brothers, who had skin that was tinged green, which Fiona thought made them look perpetually ill. And there was one whose skin was nearly as white as parchment. Maldred had explained this individual was a burgeoning shaman, schooled a little in the healing arts, and that his presence might be a boon-depending on what swamp denizens crossed their path.
Some of the ogres carried only one weapon, this being a large curved sword that she’d learned was forged here in Bloten and given to those who’d found favor with Donnag. Others were practically as weighted down as Rig-axes strapped to their backs, crossbows meant for human hands hanging from their belts, long knives in sheaths strapped to their legs, spiked clubs clutched in their fists. They’d need all these weapons and more, Fiona thought. They’d need luck and the blessing of the absent gods.
And what did she need? Fiona mused. A good dose of common sense? What was she doing here? Committing one impropriety after another, she admonished herself. Consorting with thieves, who were also likely considered murderers, making a deal with a despicable ogre chieftain, commanding a squad of ogres. She was certain the Solamnic Knighthood wouldn’t approve. Deep down, she didn’t either. Perhaps they would release her from the Knighthood if they discovered all that she’d done. And her brother? What would Aven think of the lengths she pushed herself to in her effort to ransom him?
“Aven,” she whispered. It will be all right, all of this, she told herself, if she could gain his freedom. Time enough to atone for her deeds after her brother was at her side.
Still… second thoughts were nagging at her sensibilities. Perhaps she should give up on all of this now.
“Fiona!” Maldred called to her. He was emerging from Donnag’s palace and jogging toward her, a smile spread wide across his face. “Dhamon is all right, and is on his way here.”
She pushed her concerns to the back of her mind and waited for him. He rested a hand on her shoulder.
“That is good news,” she returned, looking up into his clean-shaven face. “I am glad no misfortune befell him in the cave-in.” Despite her words, Fiona seemed unruffled by the news. She was making it a point to appear stoic and detached in front of her ogre troops. “And you know this about Dhamon because…”
“Remember? I am a thief who dabbles in magic.” Maldred’s eyes locked onto hers. “Dhamon found a way out of the mountain many miles away from where we came out. He will be at least another day or two in arriving here.”
“And Rig?”
Maldred’s lips tugged downward. “The mariner is trailing behind him. He is all right, too. Do not concern yourself with him.”
“I will not concern myself with him,” she echoed softly.
In fact, it was two mornings later, the rain slowing to nearly a drizzle, when Maldred came out of Donnag’s palace and approached Fiona in the ogre chieftain’s garden. There were no flowers, just a myriad of weeds nurtured by the rains. Most were thorny, with twisting gray-green vines that tried to claw their way up the few statues scattered about or that sent runners across the cobblestone paths. The garden filled a circular courtyard off Donnag’s grand dining room, and it scented the air with a mix of pleasant and pungent fragrances.
She had been summoned to meet Maldred here, and he softly touched her cheek to get her attention. “Dhamon was spotted entering the south gate a few hours ago. He is meeting with Chieftain Donnag as we speak.”
She stood straight, her eyes wide. “And Rig? Is he with Dhamon?”
Maldred shook his head. “It seems Rikali is injured. The sentry reports that Rig arrived later and took her to Grim Kedar’s.”
The Solamnic looked a little puzzled that they would not all be together. She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “What about the kobold?”
“Dead,” said Maldred, rubbing his chin ruefully.
“I must go to Grim Kedar’s, then,” she said finally. “If Rig is there, I certainly should…”
Maldred’s eyes flashed. “Why? They will find their way here soon enough.”
She cocked her head. “I suppose they will. But I should go to Rig.”
“Why?” Maldred moved closer and took her hands. He gazed into her eyes. “Do you love him so terribly much, Lady Knight?”
She returned his look. Fiona knew she could so easily lose herself in Maldred’s enigmatic eyes. “I don’t know. Months ago I was certain I did. I had no doubts. But now… I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Maldred said. “He does not appreciate you, so few of his words are filled with compliments.” His sonorous voice had turned melodic. “He is so unlike you.”
“Unlike me,” she repeated softly, still staring into his eyes, wanting him to talk some more just so she could listen to his mesmerizing voice. Rig used to talk to her at length, when he was first trying to impress and woo her.
“You must not marry him,” the big man said. “Your heart belongs to me.”
“I will not marry him,” she repeated. “My heart belongs to you.”
Maldred smiled. Had Fiona not questioned her own feelings toward the mariner, the enchantment would be so much more difficult. But her doubt gave him room to manipulate his magic. He bent close to her, brushed her lips with his.
She stepped into his embrace, tracing his jaw with her fingertips, easing away from him finally, almost reluctantly. He extended his arm and nodded to a canopied wooden bench. They walked there together, slowly.
“I will check on Dhamon. Wait for me here, Lady Knight.”
“Of course I will wait for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Donnag’s Promise
Dhamon stood at the base of the stairs, looking out on what served, decades past, as the manse’s dungeon. He wondered where the current dungeon in Bloten was-where the ogre chieftain locked away those who crossed him or who fell out of his favor. Or perhaps he simply killed all the scoundrels and saved the paltry expense of housing, feeding, and guarding them.
Dhamon was certainly dressed for a dungeon-his clothes filthy and torn from his arduous trek, his hair dirty and matted, the stubble on his face thick and uneven. He stank of sweat, so strongly that he even offended himself, and his boots were thickly caked with muck.
Iron manacles dangled rusted shut from the tall ceiling and dripped with moisture. In a near corner sat a weathered wooden rack, discolored with what Dhamon was sure was blood, and behind a veil of cobwebs was suspended a cage filled with pieces of a human skeleton.
Just beyond the torture implements were massive chests filled to bursting with steel pieces, elegant golden statues, high vases, and coffers spilling strings of pearls into puddles caused by rainwater seepage. The great chamber was illuminated with expensive crystal oil lamps that glimmered between once-exquisite tapestries that had been irreparably damaged by mold.
Weapons hung on one wall, their blades catching the light. Another wall displayed shelves of baubles and trinkets-carved animals with wings and horns and jeweled eyes, precious shell arrangements crafted by Dimernesti artisans, and vials of exotic perfumes, that-though stoppered-still sweetly scented the air.
And there was more. He padded toward the center of the great room.
Inside the former cells, the doors of which had long ago been removed, more wealth could be observed-coins and carved ivory tusks, ornate chests as valuable as whatever was locked up inside them; gem-encrusted busts of mino-taurs and other creatures.
“This is our main treasure room, Dhamon Grimwulf,” the chieftain said proudly. He stepped out from an alcove, taking Dhamon by surprise. The chieftain had not used the same staircase as Dhamon, suggesting the existence of secret passages. “The rough gemstones you gifted to us are being cut as we speak. Then they will be given a good home here among our rare and esteemed collection, some set into fine pieces of platinum and gold that will adorn our fingers. We so like gems. It gives us much pleasure to look at them. Others will be stored away so we can admire them later-when we tire of what we normally wear.”
