by Jean Rabe
She shrugged. "What choice do I have? Besides, there's no reason he'd lie to the council about his whereabouts if he really wanted to collect some treasure for Sable. And there's no reason he would've approached the council about a ransom in the first place if the dragon wasn't interested in adding to her horde."
"And if you can manage to raise the ransom, and get to Takar, you've still got to find this draconian. I'd wager there are quite a few draconians and spawn there."
She let out a deep breath. "That, I'm certain, will be the easy part. I will recognize him, Rig. I know it. His name is Olarg, and the scar was singular."
"Fine. So you're sure you can find him. And are you as certain this draconian will simply hand over your brother for a big sack of…"
"I've no alternative but to believe it. And Dhamon and Maldred are our best chance of raising the coin. Maybe our only chance. My brother must be set free. Then we can put all of this behind us and be married."
Rig raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to look into her face. She was watching the bare-chested Maldred, who was resting against the wagon, his face tipped up into the rain.
"And what about Dhamon? After this is all over-one way or the other?"
"Dhamon needs us to believe in him, and you know it. He needs another chance. He's a good man, Rig. Deep down. Too good to cart off to prison, no matter what he's done recently."
Her words genuinely surprised him. "Doesn't sound like you, Fiona. I thought you told me justice demands people pay for their wrongs."
"Justice," she repeated. "Where's the justice in this world? My brother is in Shrentak. And Dhamon is going to help me get him released. That's the justice I want-my brother free. Besides, Dhamon is really a good man. Deep down good."
I'm a good man, too, the mariner thought ruefully, as he picked a spot on the ground and settled down for another drenched and sleepless night.
Two days later, the rain still falling, though more gently now, they stood at the gates of Bloten, a once-great city nestled high in the Kalkhists, the mountains ringing it like a spiky crown.
A crumbling wall nearly forty feet high wrapped around the ancient capital. In sections it had collapsed, the gaps alternately filled with boulders piled high and mortared in place, and with timbers driven deep into the rocky ground and held together with bands of rusted iron. Across the top where the walls seemed in the worst repair, spears were jabbed in, angled outward and inward.
"Broken glass and caltrops are spread across the top everywhere," Fetch informed the mariner. "For the purpose of keeping the uninvited out."
"Or to keep everyone in," the dark man returned. "It looks like an enormous prison to me."
Atop a barbican that seemed so weathered it might crumble at any time, stood two grizzled ogres. Stoop-shouldered and wart-riddled, their gray-green hides slick with rain, they glowered down at the small entourage. The larger had a snaggly tooth that protruded up at an odd angle from his bottom jaw. A dark purple tongue snaked out to wrap around it. He growled something and thumped his spiked club against his shield, then growled again, issuing a string of guttural words lost on all save Maldred and Dhamon.
Maldred eased himself from the wagon, swaying a little from the effects of his fever, and padded to the massive wooden gates. He looked up at the pair and raised his good arm, balled his fist and circled it once in the air, then brought it down against his waist. Then he spoke, nearly shouting, his words sounding like a series of snarls and grunts.
Next, Maldred motioned to Dhamon, making a gesture Rig recognized as "wealth," or "coin," a signing word his deaf friend Groller taught him. Rig instantly thought of his companion, wondering if he'd found work on a ship somewhere or had elected some cause to champion. Perhaps he was assisting Palin Majere. The mariner regretted not staying in touch with Groller and found himself wishing the half-ogre were here. He would be handy in this city, though he would not be able to hear what was being said, and he was someone Rig could trust. If I get out of this, he mused, and after the matter of Fiona's brother is settled, I'm going to find my old friend.
Dhamon tugged the Legion of Steel ring off his hand and tossed it to Maldred. Again Maldred issued a string of growls and grunts, punctuating it by hurling the ring up at the ogres. The larger's arm shot out, warty fingers closing over the bauble. He brought it up to his eyes, then smiled, revealing yellowed, broken teeth. He snarled back happily.
"Not good," Rig whispered to Fiona. "That man Maldred knows the ogre tongue. Worse, it seems Dhamon does, too. And don't tell me ogres are deep down good. I know better. I don't like it."
"Good that someone can understand the brutes," she softly returned. "Otherwise, I doubt we'd get past the gates."
"Oh, we'll get in all right," the mariner smugly replied. "But we might not get back out again." He watched the doors swing wide, as the pair of ugly sentries gestured for them to enter. "I really don't think this is a good idea."
Fiona ignored him, kneeing her horse to follow the wagon. Rig cursed, but tagged along, keeping his eyes alert. The doors creaked closed behind them, and a great plank lowered to lock them in place. They saw large crossbows mounted at the crest of the walls, and ladders leading up to them. "Wonderful," the mariner muttered. "This is such an enchanting place we've come to. We should vacation here."
The city spread out before them, too large for them to take it all in at one glance. Massive buildings, the facades of which were deteriorating from age and lack of repair, stretched toward the clouds overhead. Signs hung from some of the buildings, drawings indicating taverns, weaponsmiths, and inns, though whether the buildings were actually open and operating businesses was doubtful-some looked as though they might topple at any moment and few lights shone from within. The words on the signs were in some foreign language, looking like faded and chipped bugs dancing in an uneven line. Ogre tongue, Rig guessed, though he had never seen it written down before.
Growing puddles dotted wide streets lined with wagons and massive draft horses with sagging backs. A large ox was being groomed by a one-eyed ogre woman outside what appeared to be a bakery. The woman glared at the Solamnic and brushed the ox harder as the group streamed past her.
Nearly all of the other citizens they spotted were ogres, manlike creatures nine or more feet tall. They were all broad-faced with large, thick noses, some of which were decorated with silver and gold hoops and bones. Their brows were thick, shadowing large, wide-set dark eyes that glanced at the newcomers, then looked away. Their ears were overlarge and misshapen, most pointed like an elf's, but not gracefully so. And their skin ranged from a pale brown to a rich mahogany. A few were green-gray, and one who strolled slowly across the street in front of them was the color of cold ashes. They milled about sluggishly, as if the unusual wet weather had managed to dampen their spirits.
Many were in hide armor and toting large spiked clubs. The shields that hung from many of their backs were pitted and worn, some with symbols painted on them, others with hash marks that attested to victories, or crudely painted pictures of fearsome animals they'd likely slain. Some ogres wore tattered clothes and ragged animal skins, and were sandaled or had bare feet, all looking filthy. Only a few were dressed in garments that appeared well made and reasonably clean.
There were some half-ogres in the crowd, and these were also dressed raggedly, their features closer to human-looking. One was a peddler hawking smoked strips of gray meat from beneath an awning that swelled away from a boarded-up building. A trio of ogre children hung around him, alternately begging for food and taunting him.
"Our good friend Groller's a half-ogre," Rig said, his voice low and his words intended only for Fiona. "But he's far removed from these creatures."
She nodded. "These people, Rig. Ogres were once the most beautiful race on Krynn. It is said no other race equalled their form."
"Beautiful. Pfah!"
"They were beautiful. But they fell from the grace of the gods during the Age of Dreams. Now they're ugly and
brutal, shadows of what their ancestors were."
"Well, I don't care for these shadows," Rig said. "And I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." His hands tightly gripped his mare's reins, the wet leather cutting into his finger joints, and his eyes drifting from one side of the street to the other, looking for a face with the tiniest spark of friendliness. "We're definitely out of place here, Fiona. I'm so uncomfortable my skin feels like ants're crawling all over it."
"Wait, there're some humans here." Fiona leaned forward in her saddle and pointed west, down a side street they were passing.
Indeed there were about a dozen men, dressed even worse than the ogres. They were toting sacks from a building and tossing them into a wagon that sagged and looked stuck in the mud. There were words cut into a sign that hung from the building, but Rig and Fiona had no clue what they meant. Two mountain dwarves were working with the humans-and unlike the ogres and half-ogres, none of them seemed to be carrying visible weapons.
"I truly don't like this," the mariner continued. "In fact…" He cast his head over his shoulder, looking at the gate receding behind them. "Fiona, I think we should…"
"Maldred! You handsome swine!" A booming voice cut through the air, followed by loud, sloshing footsteps. "It has been too long indeed!" The speaker was an ogre, one of the better dressed of the lot, who was splashing his way through the puddles toward them. He had massive shoulders, from which draped a black bear skin, the head of the animal resting to the side of his thick neck, the rear claws dangling down to rake the mud. He continued talking loudly, though in the ogre tongue now, the bear head bobbing along with his broad gestures.
Maldred walked into the ogre's embrace. But the ogre quickly backed away when he noted Maldred's condition. Gesturing at Maldred's bad arm, the creature eyed the rest of the entourage, quickly determining that the half-elf and the other human were also injured. He chuckled deeply when he spotted Fetch. The kobold scampered down from the wagon and practically swam through a puddle to reach the pair.
"Durfang!" Fetch squealed. "It's Durfang Farnwerth!"
"Fetch! You stinking rat! I haven't seen you in years!" the ogre boomed in the common tongue-apparently for Fetch's benefit. He bent over and scratched the kobold's head. "Seems you have not been taking good care of my friend-or his companions."
The kobold shrugged and cackled shrilly.
"You folks need a healer," the ogre continued, standing and meeting Maldred's gaze. "A good one."
Maldred nodded, pointing to Dhamon and Rikali. "My friends, first."
The creature scowled and wriggled his lips. "As you desire, Maldred," Durfang finally said. Then his eyes drifted to Fiona, narrowing with curiosity. He returned to the ogre tongue, speaking to Maldred quick and low, his face animated and concerned-relaxing only after Maldred said something evidently reassuring. "Okay, all of you, follow me."
"To Grim Kedar's?" Maldred asked.
"He is the best."
"Then I will meet you there shortly, Durfang. I have a cargo to arrange safe-keeping for. And that takes precedence over my well-being."
The large ogre scowled, but didn't argue.
Dhamon leapt from the wagon, cringing at the strain. He sloshed toward Maldred, using gestures rather than talking, the quickness of hands hinting at an argument.
"The cargo will be safe with me," Maldred whispered.
Dhamon's eyes became slits, flickering between Maldred and Durfang.
"On my life, Dhamon," Maldred added. "You know we have to keep the wagon somewhere tonight, or maybe for the next few days depending on when Donnag will see us to negotiate over the sword you want. He might not be available immediately. And we just can't leave the wagon out on the street. Not in this city. And if we guard it, the scurrilous element will only become curious. We can't take that risk."
"How about a stable?"
Maldred shook his head. "Not safe enough. Too public. Too many people going in and out."
"Where then?" Dhamon asked, his voice difficult for Maldred to hear above the rain.
"I have friends in this city whom I can rely on and who owe me a few favors. I'll see who among them seems the most trustworthy today."
Dhamon nodded. "On your life, then. But just in case, I'm keeping some trinkets with me." He returned to the wagon, tugging a backpack from beneath the seat and throwing it over his shoulder. "And be quick about it, Mai. You need tending far more than Riki and I."
Rikali and Fetch each claimed a small, gem-stuffed satchel before Maldred drove the wagon away, cleverly ignoring the mariner's persistent questions about what kind of supplies they had brought to Bloten to sell. Dhamon knew Rig didn't believe for a moment there were genuine supplies under the tarp.
Rig and Fiona walked their horses behind the trio, the mariner cursing softly and repeating what a bad idea this was at every opportunity. Their ogre guide, who had not uttered a word since Maldred left, took them down one side street after another. Some buildings had been boarded up, others were in ruins because of fire. A few ogres sat on a bench in front of one gutted building, talking and grunting loudly and eyeing the small group. One rose and thumped a club against his leg-but sat back down quickly after Durfang snarled in their direction.
"You hungry?" Fetch asked, glancing up at the Solam-nic. "I'm starving. We haven't eaten for at least a day."
Fiona, who hadn't realized the kobold was talking to her, kept walking.
"I've lost my appetite," Rig answered for them both.
Grim Kedar's was a squat building-compared to those that rose around it. Its front was as gray as the skies overhead, and a wood plank sidewalk that had once been painted red sagged in front of it beneath a canvas awning that looked as hole-riddled as Karthay cheese. A weather-beaten sign out front depicted a mortar and a pestle with tendrils of steam rising from the bowl to form a ghostly ogre skull.
"Very bad idea," Rig growled as he tied the horses to a post and followed Fiona inside.
They were ushered by Fetch to a table with overlarge chairs that tottered on uneven legs. Two ogres commanded the only other table in the room, clutching steaming mugs that released a bitter smell into the air. They flaunted a collection of small pouches and daggers. Fetch, who climbed up the table leg to sit next to Fiona, explained the ogres were busy bartering for something- he couldn't tell what because he didn't know hardly any of their language-and that the daggers were being displayed in the event of a double-cross. The kobold's eyes gleamed eagerly, hoping to witness a fight.
Rikali and Dhamon stood at a small counter, behind which rose, at merely eight feet, a pasty ogre with a smattering of dark green hair on his mottled head. His pointed ears were pierced with dozens of small hoops, and a metal stud pierced the bridge of his nose. He grinned at his customers, revealing yellowed teeth so blunt and even it appeared as though they'd been filed.
"That's Grim," Fetch whispered to Fiona. The kobold didn't bother addressing the mariner, though he shot the occasional dark glance at him. "He's a healer. The best in Bloten, probably the best anywhere on Krynn. Sells tea said to ward off diseases and he's known for having herbs that'll counteract most poisons." The kobold gestured to the mugs the ogres were drinking from. "Maybe we should get some, too. All this rain can't be good for you humans. Might be something goin' around."
Rig growled.
"He'll fix Dhamon and Riki up good as new. Maybe even do something about the scale…" The kobold stopped.
"We know all about the scale on Dhamon's leg," Fiona said.
"But you don't know that it…" The kobold let the words hang, his gaze following Rikali and Dhamon, who walked behind the counter and through a beaded curtain that clacked noisily as they passed through it. "That's where Grim does all of his serious healing. I went back there once with Maldred after he got cut up bad in a tavern brawl. Course, the other ogres in the fight were beyond repair."
Rig made a move to rise and follow Dhamon, but the kobold scowled and shook his head.
"Let's stay
here," Fiona suggested. She dropped her hand below the table and rested it on Rig's leg. "And let's stay alert."
"I don't like this place," the mariner said. "I'm only here because of you." His eyes wandered from the front door to the ogres and back to the beaded curtain, his jaw working tensely. "I don't like this at all."
Behind the curtain were a few large tables stained with blood and other unidentifiable substances. Dhamon climbed up on one of the cleanest ones and tugged free his shirt, revealing that the right side of his chest was a massive purple-black bruise.
Grim stood silent, his eyes fixed on the injury. Dhamon in turn inspected the ogre more closely. He was ancient, his pale skin covered with small wrinkles. The flesh sagged on his arms and around his jaws, giving him the visage of a bulldog. Veins were visible on his forehead, which was knitted in concentration. Only his hands looked smooth, seeming incongruous to the rest of his body. The nails were well manicured and not a speck of dirt was visible. A simple steel ring circled his right thumb. There was writing on it, but Dhamon couldn't make it out. There was an odor about the ogre that Dhamon found vaguely reminiscent of the hospital in Ironspike, but it was not near so pungent.
The half-elf was chattering softly to Dhamon and the ogre, though both were ignoring her. She climbed atop another table and sat watching the ogre shove Dhamon onto his back and inspect his ribs.
Grim prodded Dhamon's ribs and muttered in the ogre tongue-to himself, not his patient. Then he turned his attention to the scale, which he could see through Dhamon's tattered pants. The ogre curiously touched it and traced its edges, ran a thick fingernail down the silver line. Dhamon sat up and shook his head.
"There's nothing you can do for it," he explained. He tried the words again, in a broken ogre dialect.
But the ogre healer pressed him down on the table again, waggled a finger and pointed to Dhamon's lips indicating he should be quiet. Grim pulled a thin-bladed knife from a sheath on his back. When Dhamon realized the ogre intended to cut the pants off, he rolled away, wincing. He quickly undressed, placed his tattered clothes, satchel, and sword aside, again trying to explain about the scale while being pressed back on the table, harsher this time.