Downfall ds-1

by Jean Rabe

  Rig snorted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You think you're so important," he mumbled. The mariner closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them. "We took the first decent trail we could find through the Kalkhists and we met up with some merchants-offered them protection in exchange for a ride. They were quick to take our offer, seems the folks who still have to travel these passes are skittish with all the recent robberies and are taking on sellswords. Seems there's a thieving band that's been raiding wagons up and down this range-a giant of a man, a black-maned brigand, a painted woman, and a… creature."

  "Guilty," Dhamon cut in, squaring his shoulders as if in pride.

  "The merchants took us to the next town and we bought a couple of old draft horses there," he said, pointing toward the south, where Dhamon squinted to make out two big mares. Even in the darkness it was obvious they weren't as well bred as the pair Rig and Fiona had in Iron-spike. "And then we continued on this trail. Saw your fire when we intended to stop for the night and thought we'd take a look. Thought you might be the merchants we befriended. But it was purely a coincidence we crossed paths."

  "Pity we weren't the merchants."

  Rig stared at him for several minutes, his brow furrowing with a dozen thoughts. Then his eyes trailed away to watch Fiona.

  The Solamnic was sitting on a log near Maldred, occasionally glancing Rig's way and steepling her fingers-a gesture she practiced when she was uncomfortable. The half-elf was standing at Fiona's shoulder, alternating between inspecting the Knight and casting flirtatious looks at Dhamon. She strolled the length of the wagon, hips undulating and shoulders swaying. The kobold was sitting cross-legged at the big man's side, his glowing red eyes focused solely on the mariner.

  "You're welcome to share our camp tonight, Rig." Dhamon finally broke the silence. His mouth felt dry. Another glance at the jug. "This is ogre country, and you're safer with us than on your own, especially this late at night. In the morning, we'll go our separate ways. You should head back into Khur-if you're smart."

  Rig's eyes cut into Dhamon. "You owe me an explanation," he repeated with more force. "Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?"

  Dhamon sighed. "And then I suppose you'll let me get some sleep?"

  The mariner said nothing, continuing to stare.

  "All right," Dhamon relented. "For old time's sake." He settled himself into a more comfortable position, but grimaced when he heard the scrabble of small feet.

  "Dhamon's gonna tell a story," Fetch said with glee, revealing that he'd been using his acute hearing to eavesdrop on their conversation. The kobold picked a spot near Dhamon, just outside the reach of Rig's glaive, then he waggled his bony fingers to get Rikali's attention. He pulled out the ‘old man/ already filled with tobacco, hummed at his finger and thrust it into the bowl, lighting it. Then the kobold puffed away, blowing smoke rings in the mariner's direction.

  The half-elf glided over, kneeling behind Dhamon, and languidly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She nuzzled his neck and winked slyly at Rig.

  The mariner looked across the camp to Fiona, who nodded as if to say, "I will stay here and keep an eye on Maldred." She turned her attention back to the big man, intending to learn something about this band of thieves.

  * * * * * * *

  "You've questions, Lady Knight," Maldred began, his expression gentle and his good hand relaxed on his knee. He let the silence settle between them before continuing. "I can tell it from your face. It's a beautiful face, one that is most easy on my weary eyes. But you've some unbecoming worry wrinkles here. All those questions surfacing." He reached up and tenderly touched her forehead, where her brow was creased in thought. "Your mind is working far too hard. Relax and enjoy the evening, it's finally cooling a bit."

  Her stiff posture proved she wasn't yet willing to do that. She steepled her fingers again and sucked her lower lip under her teeth.

  "We'll not hurt you."

  "I'm not afraid of you," she said almost angrily. They were the first words she had spoken to the stranger.

  He raised an eyebrow. "I can see that," he continued, his deep voice soothing and melodic, almost hypnotic. Fiona found herself enjoying listening to it, and that disturbed her more than a little. "Though perhaps, Lady Knight, you should be afraid of us. Some call our small band cutthroats, and many decent folks around here fear us. Still, I'll not raise a weapon against you, at least not unless your rash friend over there…"

  "Rig," she said.

  "Rig. That's right. An Ergothian, correct? Dhamon mentioned him several times before. He's a long way from home. Unless Rig starts something." He traced her steepled fingers, his eyes still capturing hers.

  "You've already hurt enough people," she said. She shook her head when he offered her a drink from the jug of spirits, and she brushed a stubborn, sweat-soaked curl from her forehead. "In Ironspike, you killed several dwarves. Knights. And many buildings were burned." She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, clasped and unclasped her hands, as if her fingers needed to be doing something.

  "Lady Knight," again the sonorous, musical voice. She relaxed just a little, opened her eyes, and found herself looking straight at him. His face seemed kind, yet rugged, and his nose was long and narrow like the beak of a hawk. "Lady Knight, I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it-or who didn't ask for it by raising a weapon against me and our friends. All life is precious. And though I readily admit I am a thief, life is the one thing I am loath to steal." He edged closer and smiled when her expression calmed. He stretched his good hand up and brushed away another damp curl. "Lady Knight, I won't lie to you and say I'm an upright man. But I'm a loyal one." He gestured to Dhamon and Rikali. "I stand by my friends and by my principles. To the death, if need be."

  "Ironspike. Justice would demand…" She was having trouble getting all the necessary words out and was getting lost in his eyes. She blinked and focused instead on his strong chin.

  Maldred nodded. "Ah, yes, justice." He laughed softly, melodically.

  Her eyes narrowed, and the big man frowned and shook his head. "You've spirit. Your hair like flames, your eyes filled with fire. Spirit and beauty-and I'll wager skill with a sword, else you wouldn't have that armor. But don't mar your face so with troubled thoughts." Then his eyes caught hers again and held them unwavering. "Life is far too short for that, Lady Knight. Fill your mind with pleasant ideas instead."

  She felt her cheeks flush and mentally chastised herself for keeping civil company with the handsome rogue. "Dhamon stole from wounded Knights," she said, her tone instantly hard.

  "And you think he should be tried for that? I couldn't let that happen," Maldred interjected. "He'd be found guilty. And then I would lose my friend."

  She shook her head, her eyes still locked to his. "You don't understand. That's not why I'm here."

  "Ah, I see! You're here to redeem your old companion. He's not the same man you knew. But he's the Dhamon I've become close to." Maldred offered her the jug again, and this time she took it, surprising herself and drinking deep, then passing it back and glancing across the camp at Rig, who seemed caught up in whatever Dhamon was saying. She blinked, not used to drinking the alcohol, then it went to her head, making her hotter than the summer.

  She made a move to join the others, feeling oddly vulnerable in the company of Maldred, but he put a hand on her knee. The warm, light touch was somehow enough to hold her in place.

  "You can't redeem Dhamon," he said.

  She drew her lips into a thin line. "I'm not here to redeem him." Her hand drifted down to the pommel of her sword.

  * * * * * * *

  Rikali snuggled as close to Dhamon as she could, making a display of her affections for Rig's benefit. She traced Dhamon's jawline with her fingertips, then her thumb stretched down to rub the thong around his neck. It held the dwarf's diamond that she coveted. The gem was hidden beneath his tattered shirt, and her teasing threatened to reveal it. Dhamon brushed all hands away. She scowled,
then winked at him, amusing herself by toying with his boot laces. "Is this a tale I've heard, lover? Not that I mind hearin' the same ones again. But if it's a new one, I'll pay more attention."

  Dhamon shook his head and looked at Rig. "There's not any one thing that changes a man," he began. "No one thing made you righteous and turned you away from being a pirate."

  Rig met his gaze. "And with you?"

  "With me it was a lot of things. More than I care to remember or perhaps more than I care to count. We fought the dragons at the Window to the Stars. We lived, but we didn't win. Nothing can beat the dragons. I guess that was the start of it-the realization we can never win."

  "The start?"

  "Something else happened a long ways from here. Not too long after all of us parted company."

  The mariner raised an eyebrow.

  "Seems like it was the other side of the world," Dhamon mused. "In dragon lands. A forest held by Beryl, the great green overlord some call The Terror. There was terror, all right," Dhamon said. "And death. And the tale is quite a long one."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Death And Elven Wine

  Dhamon closed his eyes, the blackness swallowing Rig and Rikali and the kobold. He focused on the incident, shivering slightly from the memory, and shutting out the sounds of the crackling campfire and the hushed conversation of Fiona and Mal-dred. At length, he opened his eyes and reluctantly began his story.

  * * * * * * *

  Dhamon Grimwulf looked different, his face fuller and form a little thicker. His ebony hair hung only to the bottom of his jaw. It was trimmed evenly and well combed. His face was smooth and clean-shaven, his skin only lightly tanned, his clothes were in excellent repair. Beneath his wooly coat, he wore leather breeches and a chain mail shirt. And strapped around his waist was a recently forged long sword, a gift from the Qualinesti for taking on this difficult task.

  The mountains were different, too, not as steep, though still craggy and made perilous because of winter. Ice coated the narrow trail that Dhamon was leading a group of men and women down. Bundled in furs and weighted down with supplies and weapons, they picked their way tediously along the western ledge until they reached the bottom of the foothills where the snow and ice gave way to forest that was somehow more hospitable.

  "Your orders, Sir!" the lead mercenary snapped. He was young and eager to please, and stood rigidly at attention.

  Dhamon eyed his line of charges, nearly four dozen mercenaries gathered at the request of Palin Majere in the city of Barter, deep off Ice Mountain Bay. Most of them were battle-tested Qualinesti elves. The Qualinesti had sought Palin's help against a young green dragon.

  One of the mercenaries was an Ergothian, who by the number of daggers he carried and his confident swagger reminded Dhamon of Rig. And there were a few other humans in the mix.

  Three elves were women, so small and slight they looked like children. By their cold eyes and the numerous scars on their arms, Dhamon was certain they were the most seasoned warriors in the group. He intended to rely heavily on them.

  It had been several years since Dhamon commanded men, and that was for the Knights of Takhisis. But issuing orders and not second-guessing his own decisions still came easy, and he spit out commands as if this collection of mercenaries-volunteer and paid-were Dark Knights. His experience leading men had prompted Palin to approach him about this mission. That, and his experience with dragons.

  "It'll be dark soon. Set up camp and we'll rest for a few hours," Dhamon told them. "We'll break before dawn. Gauderic, assign a watch." No watch for me this night, he decided. He was so very tired. Just a few hours of sleep would put him back in top form. A few hours' respite from the walking and the wind and the memories that gnawed at his mind. There'd been no time for rest since he and his companions-Rig, Fiona, Feril, Jasper-fought the dragons at the Window to the Stars portal in Neraka nearly four months past.

  At the Window, an ancient stone ruin that had once held enough magic to act as a passageway to other realms, Malystryx had summoned all of the other dragon overlords. Gellidus the White, Beryllinthranox the Green Peril, Onysablet from the swamp, and Khellendros the Storm Over Krynn-agreed to help Malys ascend to godhood. All of them had been collecting powerful magical artifacts, intending to use the energy released in destroying them to turn Malys into the next Takhisis, god-queen of the dragons.

  Dhamon, Rig, and their small band of heroes had likewise been collecting artifacts, to keep them from the Red. And they traveled to the Window to the Stars in an effort to stop Malys's transformation.

  It was a foolish undertaking Dhamon realized even then, a handful of mortals going against dragons-the most powerful dragons on Krynn. Still, his heart burned with a righteous fury the night that they made their way up a winding path to the plateau that held the Window. Then his heart nearly stopped at the terrifying sight of the massive dragons gathered there.

  One of the overlords spotted them as they were hunkered down behind some rocks. Fortunately, Malys was in the midst of some intricate enchantment and was pulling energy from the gathered artifacts. She refused to be distracted, which bought Dhamon and his comrades precious seconds.

  Dhamon rushed forward, intending to fight Malys. He vowed to exact revenge for the scale that was on his leg and to end her tyranny. He also expected to die. Help came from an unexpected source-The Storm Over Krynn. The great blue dragon tossed a lance Dhamon's way, one of the original dragonlances and one of the most arcane weapons ever forged on Krynn.

  Amid all the fire and the chaos of that terrible night, the great red overlord was seriously wounded by the lance Dhamon wielded. And she was tossed into the Blood Sea by her blue dragon rival. The massive blue gained the power Malys sought that night.

  Dhamon was certain Khellendros could slay them all with a single swipe of his claw, and that the dragon with but a thought could become as powerful as Takhisis. However, rather than using the mystical energy to ascend to godhood, the blue used it to activate the ancient portal, the Window. The dragon, called Skie by men, gave Dhamon and his companions leave-his boon to recognize their contribution in foiling the red dragon's plans. Then the massive blue flew through the Window and disappeared.

  After Dhamon and the others left the Window to the Stars, some of them vowed to continue their struggle against the overlords-in their own fashions. His beloved Feril returned to her Kagonesti homeland of Southern Ergoth, saying she needed some time alone to think matters over, and some time to study the White called Frost. For a time, he told himself that she would return and they would be together again. That thought helped to bolster Dhamon's spirits and keep his fire kindled against the dragons and their minions. But the weeks passed without any word from her, and then a few months strolled by carrying whispers that she'd found another.

  Rig and Fiona, who'd sworn their love for each other and vowed to marry, traveled to the coast of the Blood Bay on the Blood Sea of Istar. Dhamon had made no attempt to stay in contact with them.

  The sorcerer Palin and his wife Usha went to the Tower of Wayreth to pursue their studies of the dragon overlords. It was Palin who remained closest to Dhamon through magical and mundane messages and who asked the former Knight to assist with various tasks.

  The kender Blister went to the Citadel of Light to study the healing arts under Goldmoon's expert tutelage. Dhamon had heard she was doing exceedingly well, but he had not visited her since they parted company after the Window.

  Groller went to who knew where. The deaf half-ogre had his own personal demons to deal with. Dhamon suspected Palin knew where Groller was, but he never bothered to ask the sorcerer. It wasn't his concern.

  And Dhamon… who went away on this mission prompted by Palin-a mission to slay a young green dragon who was tyrannizing the Qualinesti in this part of the forest-was so very tired. Just a few hours sleep was all he needed. A little time.

  But there was no time to himself. No time to think. No
time to forget about the dragons. Dhamon and his men were at the edge of the forest now.

  "Sir?"

  The lithe elf named Gauderic roused Dhamon from his musings. Gauderic was his second-in-command, and in the short time they'd been together the elf had earned Dhamon's respect and friendship.

  "Windkeep is along that river." Gauderic pointed to the southwest, where a thin ribbon of dark blue cut through the trees. The setting sun sent just enough light through the canopy to fling sparkling motes of orange across the swiftly moving water. "Sir, we'll be able to get…"

  "More mercenaries there, Gauderic, "Dhamon finished.

  "I know. Forty or fifty, Palin told me. We'll be there before noon tomorrow. Get some rest."

  The air was chill as they struck out before dawn, cold enough to make their cheeks rosy and to keep their bare hands buried deep in their pockets. Still, it was not near so cold as what they breathed on their arduous trek through the Kharolis Mountains to get here. The air smelled rich and so full of life.

  The men would follow Dhamon without question, most admiring him to the point of hero-worship-he'd shaken off the mantle of a Dark Knight, dared to stand up to the Dragon Overlords, and was the chosen hero of Goldmoon and Palin Majere, two of the most powerful and influential people on the face of Krynn. Dhamon Grimwulf was a living legend, his deeds whispered regularly, and in his company they envisioned being part of some grand and glorious feat that would be the stuff of tavern tales. Their spirits were impossibly high.

  However, it did not take long for those spirits to plummet.

  Dhamon led his men into Windkeep and discovered that the elves who were to join them were dead-as were all the rest of the villagers. Nothing stood in Windkeep. The birch log homes, so lovingly constructed by their owners, appeared as so much wreckage. Bolts of fine cloth flapped like pennants amidst splintered furniture and broken dishes. Toys were pressed into the earth, as if the people had carelessly stepped on them in their panic-not realizing there really was nowhere to run. The dead were everywhere-old and young, innocent infants, dogs that had stayed with their masters to the very end.