Downfall ds-1

by Jean Rabe

  "Let me go, Sir," she said, though she did not struggle, and though her words held no conviction. "There's no need to cause any trouble here."

  "I like quiet women," Dhamon repeated. For an instant there was a brightening in the eyes, as if a secret thought were working behind them. "Quiet."

  "But she don't like you." It was the ale-spattered half-elf. "Let her go."

  Dhamon's free hand dropped to the pommel of the sword at his waist.

  "No trouble," the girl urged, still staring into his eyes. "Please."

  "All right," Dhamon finally agreed. He released the girl and the sword, wrapping both of his hands around the mug. He narrowed his eyes at the half-elf, then shrugged. "No trouble." To the girl, he added almost pleasantly, "Bring me another pitcher. And not this rot you've been serving me. How about some of that fine elven wine I'm catching a whiff of. The stronger the s'better. The kind you've been bringing the rest."

  "Maybe you'd better leave," the old half-elf suggested as soon as the girl was gone. His voice was uncharacteristically deep and scratchy. "You've had more than enough to drink already."

  Dhamon shook his head. The muscles in his back tensed. "I haven't had near enough to drink-still awake, ain't I? But don't you worry about me. I'll be on s'my way soon enough. With first s'light I suspect. Then you and none of the s'other Qualinesti will have to stomach me anymore."

  The half-elf took a step closer, and Dhamon saw himself reflected in a large polished medallion that dangled from a fine chain about his neck.

  He scowled at the disheveled image.

  The half-elf lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Go drown your sorrows somewhere else."

  A hint of a smile tugged at Dhamon's face, then he opened his mouth to argue, but a gust of chill evening wind interrupted him. The tavern door flew open wide, banging loudly as two more elves entered. They were dusty and haggard-looking, the one carrying a gnarled staff a stranger to his eyes, the other very familiar and decorated with dried blood stains.

  "Gauderic," Dhamon whispered. His face grew ashen as if he'd seen a ghost.

  Gauderic likewise noticed him, nudged his companion, and pointed. "That's him! That's Palin Majere's worthless champion!"

  At the same time, a colorful skirt swished loudly. "Here's your elven wine, Sir!" the serving girl musically announced. She gasped as the two elves charged toward them, pounding across the hard-packed dirt floor as they made their way around the tables.

  Dhamon stood up, cracking his head on a beam of the low ceiling and bumping into the girl. She fell back against the ale-spattered half-elf, soaking him again as the pitcher slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor.

  The half-elf cursed and tried to help the girl to her feet, but they both slipped on the spilled wine, fell in a heap, and became tangled in her skirt. Dhamon ignored them and grabbed the edge of his table, upending it and positioning it as a shield against the two newcomers. The stranger collided with the tabletop and made a sickening thud, as Gauderic nimbly sidestepped the obstacle and raised his sword high.

  "Dhamon Grimwulf!" he shouted. "You ordered us to charge the dragon! Charge and die!" He swung the sword in a wild arc above his head, sending the nearby patrons scrambling for cover, wine mugs in tow. "We shouldn't have listened to you!"

  Dhamon kicked Gauderic in the stomach and sent him careening into an abandoned table.

  "Noooo!" the serving girl hollered, as she finally managed to pick herself up. She awkwardly scampered through the maze of tables to the back room. "Silverwind! We've got trouble! Silverwind! Call the Watch!"

  "I didn't want trouble," Dhamon grumbled. "I just wanted something to drink."

  Both of the elves had recovered and were coming at him now, though the stranger was a bit groggy and blood ran from his nose. Furniture was being moved toward the walls to better accommodate the fight, and whispers and murmurs of speculation filled the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw the two human men wagering coins. A few of the elf patrons had their hands on their weapons, and Dhamon had no doubt whose side they would take if they decided to join in.

  "My wife and sister!" the stranger spat. "Dead! Dead because of you!"

  "My brothers and friends!" Gauderic added.

  "I didn't force anyone to come with me!" Dhamon returned. He stooped to keep from bumping his head against the six-foot ceiling. He swung his own blade down, using the flat edge of the weapon and striking the stranger on the shoulder. "Dragons are dangerous! They kill people, dammit! That's just the way of it and you know it, Gauderic!"

  "The green didn't kill you!" Gauderic returned. "You were lying on your belly, avoiding the fight! You were busy watching your men die!" He wiped the blood that ran from his lip with one hand and drove his other fist hard into Dhamon's stomach. Dhamon doubled over, and the stranger followed through by swinging his staff solidly into his side.

  "You're coming with us, Dhamon Grimwulf," the stranger added. "We're turning you over to the authorities. You're going to stand trial in Barter! And there won't be anyone to speak in your defense. I want your death for the death of my wife and sister."

  "Death for death," came a cry from a corner of the room.

  "Try him here!"

  "We don't need a trial!" another patron shouted.

  The stranger swung the staff at Dhamon again.

  Dhamon felt his ribs crack, the pain instantly sobering him. "I didn't kill those men. The dragon did. I've no quarrel with you," he hissed between clenched teeth. "I don't even know you." This he directed to the stranger. "Leave me be!" Favoring his side, he crouched and spun, somehow avoiding blows from both elves. "Leave me be!"

  "You ordered them to fight the dragon!" Gauderic repeated. "Ordered them! You should have at least fought and died with them! Coward!"

  "You didn't die either," Dhamon argued flatly. He brought his sword up to parry another swing of the stranger's staff. Dhamon's leg shot up, cracking his boot hard against the chin of the stranger and stunning him. The elf fell to the floor and Dhamon kicked him hard for good measure. He wouldn't be getting up for quite a while. "I didn't force anyone to go against the dragon, Gauderic. I didn't force you."

  "Didn't you?" Gauderic sneered. He took a step back and caught his breath. Both men eyed each other, chests heaving and knuckles white on their sword pommels. "Palin's champion! A real hero. You ordered…"

  "So I was wrong!" Dhamon spat. "Maybe. But you lived. You lived!"

  "Only me!" Gauderic retorted. "And only because the dragon let me!" The elf's breath was ragged now, green eyes narrowed to slits. "She'd killed them all. All! And I was next. She dropped her head down so close I could see my face reflected in her eyes and feel her breath so hot against my legs. Stared at me and left! At first I thought I was just too inconsequential to be bothered with. Then I realized she was leaving me alive so word of her deeds this day could be spread to other men. I spent hours searching the river, hoping to find at least one more survivor, hoping to find you. All I found were corpses. I eventually found every mercenary-save their glorious leader. And I buried every one of them. It took me days. In that time the dragon came back twice to watch me."

  Dhamon lowered his sword and shook his head.

  "I wanted to bury you, too."

  "Kill him!" came a wine-thick voice from a corner. "He let our brothers die! He should die, too!"

  Gauderic snarled. "Told me you were a Dark Knight. That you gave it up. Maybe that was all a lie. Maybe you're still one of them."

  "Dark Knight?" echoed throughout the room.

  "Dark Knight of Neraka?" cried the old half-elf.

  "That's what they're called now," Dhamon said flatly.

  There was a second wave of murmurs, the sound of a few swords being drawn, the creak of wood as patrons leaned against the tables to better take everything in.

  There was the clink of more coins being wagered, shouted words in the elf tongue, a faint cry from the back room. This last voice was the serving girl's,
summoning the guard.

  "Get the Dark Knight!"

  "Kill the traitor!"

  Suddenly plates were crashing to the floor. Chairs and benches were tipped over. Someone behind Dhamon hurled a mug, the heavy tankard striking his back. A boisterous curse of "death to the Dark Knight of Neraka" sounded. And from somewhere outside he heard a shrill whistle.

  A silvery-haired elf was coming at him, using a chair for a weapon. Another had tugged free a table leg and was trying desperately to wield it like a club. Dhamon easily sidestepped this slightly inebriated pair and moved straight into the path of the old ale-drenched half-elf. The man lowered his head and lunged, ramming into Dhamon's stomach and momentarily dazing him.

  Despite the pain, Dhamon forced himself to react. He brought his sword pommel down with a thud against the old half-elf's head, sending him to the floor. Dhamon swept the sword in an arc in front of him, keeping several other patrons at bay. He kicked out to his side, connecting with the jaw of a young elf who was merely trying to escape the press of bodies. Blood and teeth flew, and the unfortunate patron changed his mind and decided to join the fray, drawing a dagger and cursing loudly in several languages. The young elf angrily flung the blade at Dhamon, scowling when it bounced off the human's right thigh and nearly struck another patron.

  The edge of a short sword bit deep into his left leg. Dhamon tottered, then dropped to his knees, and a pitcher crashed against his head. Sweet-smelling elven wine soaked his hair and clothes, and rivulets of blood ran down his face from where the ceramic shards had cut his scalp in several places. He shook himself and sent a few shards thunking to the floor as he fought to remain conscious and pushed himself to his feet. He swung out wildly at an elf who was trying to skewer him with an iron poker, knocking the poker aside and bashing the man in the side of the head.

  "Stop this at once!" the serving girl cried. She was somewhere behind the mass of elves and shouting as loud as she could manage.

  "Stop this!" Another voice joined hers, likely the tavern owner's. He was banging on a pot and adding to the cacophony, "Don't break that! Put that down! Please stop!"

  "I didn't start it!" Dhamon cursed as he clumsily leapt over a charging elf wielding a long kitchen knife. He lost his footing and accidentally bowled over three others who were scrambling toward the door. He brushed against a table, and his right pant leg caught on a protruding nail. The fabric ripped, revealing the large midnight black scale on his leg. It was shot through with a vein of silver that caught the lantern light and shimmered.

  There was a collective gasp when the elves spotted it, and from deep in the press of bodies someone cried, "Sorcery!"

  "It's from a dragon overlord!" Gauderic bellowed. He was standing on a chair at the edge of the fray, waving his sword. "A black dragon put it on him!"

  "No, a black dragon didn't," Dhamon futilely corrected. It was the Red.

  "He's an agent of a dragon!" someone else hollered. "Kill him!"

  "I'm no one's agent!" Dhamon screamed as he drove the pommel of his sword down on someone's head. Then as a dagger tip sliced into the back of his leg, he reflexively struck out with all of his strength at anyone who came close while trying to reach the door.

  A half-dozen elves lay sprawled around him, with more dead or unconscious toward the center of the tavern where the fight began. The dirt floor was spattered with wine and blood. Nearly two dozen elves remained standing.

  Mugs were hurled against Dhamon's chest, some rebounding to strike the elves around him. Dhamon kicked out against those nearest to him, noting they seemed wary of the leg with the scale. And he continued to rain blow after blow with the blade and the pommel of his sword, shattering teeth and bones and spattering himself with elf blood.

  Suddenly a log was heaved through the air, coming from one of the humans who had up to this point stayed out of the fray. As Dhamon ducked and watched it sail over his head, he was rammed in the back. The impact drove him forward into several elves, who started clutching at him. It was all he could do to hold onto his sword.

  "Don't kill him!" a cry rose above the din. It was Gaud-eric, who was forcing his way closer. "I want him to stand trial for his atrocities!"

  Dhamon vaguely heard another shrill whistle, then another, heard the girl desperately pleading, heard an elf moaning. He felt fist after fist slam into his face, his chest, booted feet kick at him. He thrust forward with his sword just as Gauderic reached him. The blade-given to him by the Qualinesti of Barter-sank deep, crimson flowering on his tunic as the astonished elf dropped to his knees, then pitched forward eyes wide in disbelief. Dhamon's sword was lodged in him.

  As the elves turned their attention to the fallen Gauderic, Dhamon snatched the opportunity to shove past the last few patrons blocking the door. A heartbeat later he was out in the chill night.

  * * * * * * *

  The mariner swallowed. "Palin… what did he have to say about the green dragon and all the lost men?"

  Dhamon shrugged. "I didn't look for him."

  "But…"

  "I'm done with Palin. I'm done with facing dragons and trying to make things right in this world. Nothing will ever be right again. I told you-we cannot win against the dragons."

  Rig shook his head. "You can't mean that, Dhamon. After all we've been through and all we've seen! After all we've fought for!"

  "I've seen enough. There's no hope, Rig. I'm surprised you haven't realized that by now. There're no gods. They've abandoned Krynn's children. There're only dragons. Jasper was killed by a dragon. Shaon was killed by one I used to ride. All those men-and all the men and women I never knew. We've no chance against the dragons. Are you so blind that you don't see that? Everyone will eventually fall to them. Everyone! So I'm making full use of whatever life I have left. I come first now. I do what I want. Take what I want. Work for whoever I please."

  "That's wrong," the mariner started.

  "Wrong?" Dhamon laughed.

  "Aren't you ashamed of what you've done? The thefts and…"

  "No."

  "Ordering your men to fight the dragon?"

  "Fight or flee, the outcome would have been the same. The dragon would have hunted them down and slain them anyway."

  "Surely you regret killing Gauderic…"

  "I have no regrets," Dhamon snorted. His eyes were so dark, no pupils were discernible. "Regrets are for fools and for heroes. And I'm neither."

  "Feril would be shocked," Rig muttered, trying to find some way to reach him.

  Dhamon's face was cold and dispassionate. "Feril is lost to me."

  "No." The mariner shook his head, dismissing the notion. "I don't believe that. I saw the way she was always looking at you. Why, you and her were…"

  "Last I heard, she was keeping company with another Kagonesti elf on the isle of Cristyne. They're probably married by now."

  * * * * * * *

  "And so that's how I met Dhamon," Maldred was telling Fiona. "In a rundown tavern in Sanction. He was drunk and gambling, arguing with a half-ogre over a few pieces of steel. As bad of shape as Dhamon was in, he took out the half-ogre. Didn't even have to draw a weapon."

  "And that impressed you?"

  Maldred shook his head and let out a clipped laugh. "Not especially."

  "Then what?" Fiona seemed genuinely curious.

  "It was his eyes. Like yours, they were filled with fire, and there was a mystery burning behind them, just waiting to be unraveled. Decided I wanted to get to know him, so I waited around until he sobered up. He and I have drifted in and out of each other's company ever since. Dhamon saved my life twice-once about a month ago when we were far south in these mountains and accidentally came upon a pair of red spawn."

  "Dhamon's fought them before."

  "That was evident." Maldred turned his arm so Fiona could see the back of it, where just above his elbow a thick pink scar stretched toward his shoulder. "My souvenir of the day. Dhamon didn't even get a scratch. Of course, if I hadn't've set my sword down bef
ore they pounced on us-I was gathering some herbs for dinner- it would have been another matter. No one can beat me when I've a weapon. Anyway, I owe him. And I don't mind the owing. I think we're kindred spirits."

  Fiona heard a clap of thunder, tipped her face to the sky, and felt the first few drops of rain splash against her.

  Fetch began to hoot.

  "Blessed rain," Maldred pronounced. "Been far too long since it rained in these mountains." He looked skyward, stood, and stretched his good arm out to the side to catch more of the rain, opened his mouth wide to drink it in.

  Fiona started toward Rig, but a second clap of thunder stopped her. It was followed by another, this once coming from beneath her feet. It was the mountain rumbling again, and she nearly lost her balance. The horses neighed nervously and the wagon creaked as the tremor intensified. Overhead, the lightning danced between the clouds, and the rain fell harder.

  "It's the lightning one has to fear, not the thunder," Maldred said, lowering his head and catching Fiona's gaze again. He bent his knees to help keep his balance as the mountain continued to shake. Concern was etched on the big man's brow. "The earthquakes are different, Lady Knight. Another matter entirely. There've always been quakes in these mountains. Was a big one a few days ago. There's been quite a bit more rumbling lately than I'm used to. Bothers even me."

  The ground stilled for just a moment, then it rumbled again, faintly at first, then growing stronger. Fiona lost her balance and fell against Maldred, who was quick to wrap his arm around her. The tremor lasted a few more minutes, then dissipated. She continued to stare into Maldred's enigmatic eyes, then berated herself for being so slow to extricate herself from his arms.

  Across the camp, Rig gaped at her. Dhamon brushed by the mariner, Rikali and Fetch on his heels. Dhamon opened an empty waterskin and held it out to catch the rain as he headed toward the wagon, intending to camp underneath it. "Fiona, I told Rig you're welcome to share our camp tonight."