by Jean Rabe
Maldred nested Dhamon on top of the bags in the wagon bed, using their stolen clothes to pad him. Fortunately, the wagon had received little damage. Maldred sagged to his knees and closed his eyes. He sat back, opened his mouth to say something, then passed out and fell onto his back.
"Mai!" Rikali struggled to pull him up, but he was dead weight and too much for her. Fetch deposited the bag of gems he had somehow managed to hold onto, then scurried to Maldred's side and began tugging on his shirt trying to help. "Worthless," the half-elf spat at the kobold. "You had a hard enough time with the sacks of gemstones. Ain't possible for you to lift Mai." Undaunted, the kobold put his effort into pinching the tight flesh of Dhamon's face and chittering at him in his odd native tongue, which he knew the human found irritating.
Dhamon's eyes fluttered open as he softly moaned. "What…" Fetch nodded toward the back of the wagon.
"Help me," Rikali urged him. "C'mon, you can do it."
Dhamon shook off the dizziness and reached over the back of the wagon, wrapping his arms around Maldred's chest. Muscles bunched and his jaw tightened as he tugged the big man into the back of the wagon. "Heavier than he looks," Dhamon huffed, his arms momentarily numb from the effort. "Much heavier." He slumped next to Maldred and his fingers felt about his own forehead, finding the gash and pressing tentatively on it.
"Get us out of here, Fetch," Dhamon snapped. "Before we have more company."
The kobold scampered to the front of the wagon and put his shoulder against the boulder blocking it. He grunted and cursed, his muscles straining. Rikali joined him and pushed hard. The earth helped the pair's efforts, rumbling slightly with another aftershock and providing just enough impetus to budge the rock. It rolled slowly down the mountainside, careening into natural pillars, sending shards of crystal into the air and breaking apart as it went.
Panting, the kobold climbed up onto the wagon, his feet dangling. Rikali passed him the reins, then scrambled up and ripped open Mai's shirt, tearing the sleeve and fashioning it into a tourniquet for his injured arm.
"I can't feel my arm, Dhamon," Mai said, his voice so hoarse and soft he had to lean his face over to hear. "I can't move it."
Rikali offered him soothing words as Dhamon searched about beneath the canvas sacks and found a jug of hard cider. He poured some on the wound, and Maldred shuddered at the stinging sensation.
"There, you can feel something," she said. "That's a good sign." Softer, she said, "Isn't that a good sign, Dhamon?"
Dhamon didn't reply. Holding his forehead, he was scrutinizing his big friend, his eyes unusually wide and sympathetic, but he was frowning. "I hope so," he finally whispered.
Rikali regarded Dhamon for a moment. "Perhaps this should be me layin' here instead of Mai," she said too softly for him to hear.
Then she returned her full attention to the big man and tried to blot some of the blood away with a section of her own tunic. "Where should we go? Someplace to get him help. Someplace. Dhamon, I don't know what to…" she started.
"We have got to get away from here," Dhamon said, wincing slightly as he poured more cider onto Maldred's arm. "Toward Bloten. Fetch knows the way."
* * * * * * *
Four nights later they sat around a fire roasting a large rabbit. Despite the late hour, the air was still hot. The ground was so starved for water that it had become powdery like ash. Fetch risked a few sips from his last water-skin and grumbled that they'd be even richer if they could find a way to make it rain in these mountains.
Many of the clothes they had claimed from the merchant wagon had been fashioned into bandages for Mal-dred, replaced as they were needed.
Dhamon refused Rikali's attempts to bandage him, saying he wanted all the available cloth saved for Mai. He convinced the half-elf that he looked far worse than he felt-though he was certain he'd either bruised or broken a few ribs. He moved carefully, and breathed shallowly. His oily hair was matted with blood, and it was badly tangled and streaked gray and brown with dust and dirt. The stubble on his face was becoming an uneven and unsightly beard, and his clothes were soiled and tattered. He'd managed to save one shirt from the merchant haul, tucking it away beneath a sack of gems so the others wouldn't find it and rip it into bandages. But there was no reason to wear it now-it was for later, he decided, when he reached Bloten and needed to look better.
All their clothes were dark with sweat stains and dried blood. Fetch had fared the best, escaping with only a few scrapes, though his clothes were riddled with holes. He was playing nursemaid to the rest of them, inspecting the cuts and bruises they'd picked up from their ride down the mountain, and serving as their sentry.
Now, with his good hand, Maldred was tracing patterns in the dirt. His wounded arm was wrapped close to his chest to keep it immobile. The kobold intently watched the big man, thinking the symbols mystical and part of some spell. He tried to copy the patterns, then grew bored when he couldn't fathom them and instead busied himself by passing out wooden plates.
After Fetch finished waiting on them, and after he wolfed down his own meager share of the cooked rabbit, he recovered the last jug of distilled spirits from the wagon and placed it next to Dhamon. In a great show he withdrew the old man pipe from its pouch, tamped tobacco into the bowl, and lit it with his finger in an effort to demonstrate to all that he'd truly perfected the fire enchantment.
After that, the kobold paced in front of them, clicking his pointed teeth on the stem and gently thwacking his hoopak on the ground while he waited for a magical request. When none came, he took a deep puff on the pipe, blew a smoke ring into the air, and broke the silence. "At least I didn't lose my weapon in that quake, like Maldred and Riki did. Didn't have to take one of them dwar-ven axes like Mai," he stated. "At least Dhamon's pretty sword stayed in his belt. So we had some good fortune after all. My ‘old man' didn't get a scratch on him. And we got all these rough gems…" He frowned when he saw Maldred glaring at him. "Oops. Well, I'm sure you'll find another sword just as big and heavy and sharp," he said quickly. "And we'll get some more daggers for Riki.
In Bloten." When he figured out that nobody was appeased, the kobold finished with his pipe, carefully replacing it in the pouch, and then he excused himself to patrol the grounds around their camp-just to make sure no dwarves were tracking them.
"I'm still a little sore," Maldred quietly admitted to Dhamon after a long silence. "And a little weak. But I guess I should just be happy I'm alive."
"Ah, Mai," Riki said. She slid closer, cringing when Dhamon wrinkled his nose at her. "Mai, don't you worry. You're too mean to die."
Maldred rubbed the muscles of his injured arm and was barely able to make a fist. He frowned. "Had never been hurt like that going into the valley before. But then I'd never stayed as long, or had an earthquake to contend with on top of the dwarves. Never came away with as much, either."
"Are we going back?" There was hope in the half-elf's voice. "I mean, if we need all these gems to buy Dhamon his sword-which we shouldn't ‘cause nothin' in the world should be that expensive, maybe we could take a big old wagon back just for us and…"
He shook his head. "Not for a while, Riki. The dwarves will double their patrols. Maybe in a few months, perhaps right before winter sets in. Or maybe we'll wait until just after the first snow. They wouldn't expect anything then."
Her eyes gleamed merrily.
"At least I'm on the mend," he continued. "And thankful to feel at least something in my fingers. I know a good healer in Bloten who will finish the job. Have him take a look at the two of you also."
"Doubt you'll need him, Mai. Riki's right, you're too mean to be down so long," Dhamon joked. His words were slurred, heavy with the alcohol he'd been drinking. An empty jug lay on its side at his feet. He awkwardly moved the new jug to between his thighs, his finger playing around the lip. "Besides, being hurt like this is a good excuse to take it easy for a while."
Rikali slid over to sit between them, tugged Dhamon's jug aw
ay and took a long pull from it, then coughed and sputtered. She handed it back and studied her fingernails. Sighing, she reached up and draped an arm across each of the men's shoulders. "I figure we're two days from Bloten, maybe less. I wonder if there're grand shops to visit. Maybe Dhamon can't buy his sword with all of that on the wagon. And if he can't, we can keep all of that for ourselves, right?"
Maldred disregarded her. He glanced at a battle-axe that lay within reach, the firelight dancing off its blade, which held his attention. Finally, he looked away into the darkness and said, "Riki, we'll have a grand time in Bloten celebrating our good fortune. And we'll get you some new knives. And we'll get Dhamon his sword, too."
"I want to buy some more clothes. And perfume. And… Mai, did I ever tell you about this grand house I want built? On an island far… did you hear something?" Quick as a cat, she glided away from the men and peered off into the darkness on the far side of the camp. The fire cast tendrils of light toward the rocks and scrub grass, and the grass moved lazily to an almost imperceptible breeze.
Dhamon struggled to his feet, fighting to keep his balance. His hand fumbled for the sword at his waist, his fingers were thick from the alcohol. He favored his right side, and reached for a cane Fetch had fashioned from a tree branch. Maldred was a little slower to rise, hefting the battle-axe in his good hand.
"Did you hear it? Dhamon? Mai? It's Fetch. He's…"
There was a crashing in the dry brush, the sound of cursing, and the shrill voice of the kobold. A moment later a disheveled-looking black man tramped into the clearing, the kobold clinging to his leg. The man was soaked with sweat. In addition to a knapsack that hung from his back and several skins of water that dangled from it, he had a large sword strapped to his waist, and more than a dozen daggers in sheaths crisscrossing his chest. He was swinging a great two-handed polearm at Fetch while at the same time trying to shake the snarling creature off. But the polearm was much too long and unwieldy, and the kobold would not be dislodged. More crashing followed, the clang of metal and the hiss of a sword being drawn.
"Rig!" Dhamon shouted, his tongue feeling swollen from the distilled spirits. "Leave him be!"
The black man growled and kicked out with his leg, trying again to remove the kobold who bit down through the fabric and found his calf. Rig howled as Fiona charged into the clearing. She was quick to lower her weapon the moment she spotted Dhamon, though she didn't sheathe her blade, and she kept her shoulders squared, ready for trouble.
"Call the little mutt off," Fiona told Dhamon, glowering at him as her fingers tightened on the pommel of her sword. "Call him off now, or I'll cut him off and toss him on your fire." She raised the tip of the sword for emphasis, and her eyes narrowed and locked onto Dhamon's like a vise.
"Fetch," Dhamon said almost gently, "Let the man go."
"Trespasser. Spy," the kobold grumbled as he released Rig, swatted him for spite, and scurried to Dhamon's side. The kobold puffed out his chest and bared his yellowed teeth, hissing. "Good thing I was patrolling, Dhamon.. Otherwise them two defenders of justice would've snuck up on us and stole all of our…"
"So good to finally meet some of Dhamon's old friends!" Rikali cut in, cracking a forced smile and stretching out her hand. She glided toward the Solamnic Knight. "You must be Fee-ohn-a," she said, her tone almost polite. "Dhamon has told me so very much about you. And you're…"
"Very angry," Rig stated. He ground the tip of the glaive into the dry earth. His eyes, like daggers, were aimed straight at Dhamon.
CHAPTER FIVE
Talk Of Redemption
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't haul your loathsome carcass back to Ironspike and let them hang you. One reason! Hell, I ought to supply the rope and pick out the tree. Robbing a hospital-from injured Knights no less. Knights, Dhamon! Big-as-you-please Legion of Steel ones." Rig sat heavily on the ground. Dhamon glanced over his shoulder at the jug of spirits, contemplated hollering for Fetch to bring it to him.
The mariner rested the glaive on his knees and glared at the Legion of Steel ring on Dhamon's hand. "One damn reason! And don't you even think about saying ‘for old time's sake'."
Dhamon looked away toward the dying campfire, where Maldred, Rikali, and Fetch were attempting to entertain a furiously pacing Fiona.
"Maldred wouldn't let you s'haul me anywhere," Dhamon finally said. His words were slurred a little. He nodded toward the big man. "Tha's Maldred."
Rig snorted. "Right. Maldred. You've told me his name three times now-whoever in the deep levels of the Abyss Maldred is. He's worse off than you are, arm all bandaged like that. You're limping-and dead drunk. A fine pair of cripples you are. An' that elf…»
"Rikali's a half-elf."
"She's hurt, too. An' the clothes she's wearing, the paint on her face, all that jewelry."
"Leave her outta it."
"The whole lot of you stink worse than three-day-old fish."
Dhamon shrugged, his face unreadable.
"Where's Feril?"
No answer.
"And that… creature?"
"Fetch," Dhamon said, blinking and trying to bring Rig completely into focus.
"He's a… kobold." The word sounded like the mariner was spitting out a bad piece of meat. "A two-legged rat. A damnable, stinking little monster the likes of which me and Shaon fought more than once in the Blood Sea Isles and…"
"Aye, that he is. A s'kobold. But he works for Maldred, and he's harmless enough."
"Harmless. Ha! You're all a wretched bunch of thieves as far as me and Fiona're concerned." Rig shook his head in disgust, the sweat flying off his face. "Stealing from the hospital. Burning down a stable and taking half the town with it. Did you know that? Half the town burnt to cinders. Do you care? And stealing horses. Where are our horses? The ones we rode into Ironspike. You were riding mine out of town last I saw. Your elf… half-elf… had Fiona's. Our horses! All I can see are what you're using to pull that old wagon."
"Sold those horses some days ago to a camp s'of bandits."
"You stranded us in that dwarven town!" The mariner tightly gripped the haft of the glaive and narrowed his eyes. "Wouldn't have even been there if Fiona hadn't heard you were in the area, heard what you'd been up to. Probably had it in her pretty head that she could redeem you. Ha!" The veins in his neck bulged like thick cords, and he let out a deep breath between his clenched teeth. "Those were damn good horses, Dhamon. Expensive. What we're riding now're…"
"If I recall, we got quite a s'few steel pieces for your horses."
"Why, I ought to…"
"Kill me?" Dhamon's expression lightened and he laughed, rocking back on his haunches and almost losing his balance.
"That'd be too good for you," came Rig's clipped reply. Another breath of steam. "Too easy. I ought to drag your sorry self off to prison and let you rot there for the rest of your miserable life. No Palin Majere or Goldmoon nearby to save you. And neither you nor that man you call Mai-dred would have a hope of stopping me."
"Me? Stop you? Not at the moment s'anyway."
Rig growled from deep in his throat and ground his heels into the dirt. "I don't understand, Dhamon. What's happened to you?"
Dhamon's fingers unconsciously worried at a thread hanging from his shirt. His fingers felt thick and clumsy from the alcohol. "The Dhamon Grimwulf you knew is dead. I'm a different person, Rig. You have to accept that."
Rig was silent for several moments, probing Dhamon's face and waiting for him to continue. He'd seen Dhamon Grimwulf ragged before, wearing the dirt of a hard-traveled trail. But this was different-far worse, his hair tangled, face covered with stubble, fingernails cracked and caked. Rig shuddered.
When it was clear Dhamon wasn't going to volunteer any explanation, the mariner pressed him on a different matter. "So you're with that woman over there. I can tell by the way she watches you. Interesting looking company. But where's Feril? She know what's going on with you?"
At this repeated mention of
the Kagonesti Dhamon once claimed to love, his dark eyes flashed with anger, then he dropped his gaze to study the tip of his worn boot.
The mariner made a clicking sound, shook his head, and finally relaxed his grip on the glaive. "You know that Fiona'll demand you go back to that town and stand trial for what you did. It'd be only right. Me, I think they'd hang you. And I think maybe I'd help."
"No, you wouldn't." Dhamon lifted his head to stare at Rig. "Besides, I'm not going back s'there."
Rig closed his eyes and tried to calm his temper, counted three breaths, then opened them again and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. But only because I've got too many other things to worry about right now than carting a dirty drunk back down through the mountains. You're just not worth it. But it'd be the right thing to do. The honorable thing. Remember that word, Dhamon? Honor? You used to say it often enough. ‘Live by honor. And you got me to believe in it."
"Honor's a hollow s'word, Rig."
The mariner's next words were slow and deliberate and drawn out. "You owe me an explanation."
Dhamon tipped his head back and stared at the night sky. A growing number of clouds hid most of the stars, but a few twinkled through. He thought he saw a tongue of lightning and the flash, real or imagined, made him recall Gale, the blue dragon he once rode when he served with the Knights of Takhisis. "I owe no one. And you trailed me s'here for nothing. Your horses are gone. And you'll get nothing out of me for them." He felt some of the alcohol's effects fading away, his head starting to throb, and he wished the jug were within arm's reach so he could make himself thoroughly numb again. He glanced over at Mal-dred-the jug was at his feet. Not that terribly far away.
Rig slapped his thigh, pulling Dhamon's attention back. "Wish we hadn't found this camp. Wish Fiona and me…"
"I wish you weren't here either."
"Damn fate."
"What, Rig? You blame it on fate that you happen to be in the same stretch of mountain? Coincidence?" There was another flash in the sky, this one real. Dhamon's eyes sparkled at the possibility of rain. He shook his head. "I don't believe such a faerie story. I believe you were looking for us."