Downfall ds-1

by Jean Rabe

  * * * * * * *

  Dhamon focused on the sword, running his fingers over the crosspiece and tracing the bird's head and beak. He expected it to tingle, the pommel or the blade, if it was so richly enchanted as legends claimed. But it felt no different than other swords he had wielded. Metal against his skin. Though he admitted to himself again that it was very keenly balanced.

  Perhaps if he could read the elven script. Perhaps Mal-dred could read it. His big friend always seemed to amaze him. Or maybe…"

  "Wyrmsbane," he pronounced. "Redeemer."

  It wasn't a tingling. He'd held other enchanted weapons that seemed to vibrate slightly in his grip. But there was… something. A presence almost, a sense that the sword was aware of him. He concentrated intensely and closed his eyes, shut out Donnag's labored breathing. Dhamon was aware only of the sword now, the metal pommel in his grip, initially cool to the touch, then warming a little.

  "Wyrmsbane," he repeated softly.

  What do you seek?

  His eyes flew open and stared at the blade. Did he hear the words, or were they just in his head? He glanced at Maldred. His friend was keeping an eye on Donnag, occasionally looking Dhamon's way. His face would have registered something if he would have heard the blade speak.

  What do you seek?

  Dhamon swallowed hard and thought quickly. How to test the sword of Tanis Half-Erven? "Wyrmsbane, what is the most valuable bit of jewelry in this room?" There were certainly plenty to pick from. Maybe that crown in the case, Dhamon mused. "What is most valuable?"

  The sword did nothing, communicated no message and formed no picture in his head. Perhaps he'd only imagined it speaking to him. What do you seek? Hah! He was so tired, after all. It was nothing more than a waking dream. He saw Maldred watching him, Donnag, too. There was a look of trepidation on the latter's face- perhaps because he feared Dhamon would get angry if the sword didn't perform some magical trick. If so, Dhamon might slay him in retaliation.

  Donnag saw Dhamon studying him, and the chieftain quickly looked away. So that's it, Dhamon thought. This sword isn't the right one either. Sure, it matched the description the old man in Kortal gave him, but it wasn't especially exquisite-like the other enchanted swords he'd seen had been. A copy? That certainly wasn't beyond the ogre. Deceiving others came so easily to Donnag.

  I just might slay him, Dhamon thought. Maybe with this forgery. He sighed and took a step forward, still pondering whether to leave the chieftain alive. He intended to keep the sword anyway, if only because it was so well balanced. He needed to search about for a suitable scabbard to fit it. Likely Donnag had plenty of them around here, too, studded with jewels.

  He turned toward the wall of weapons, then abruptly stopped moving when his palm grew cool, as if he'd thrust his sword hand in a mountain stream. Then his hand began to move, though not of his own volition. The sword he still grasped was moving it, turning Dhamon toward the far reaches of the treasure room where the light was dim. It began to tug him there-gently. He could have easily resisted, dismissed the sensation as part of him being so tired.

  What you seek.

  Did he just hear those words? Did Donnag and Mal-dred, too? Had he imagined them again? A trick of his hunger and fatigue? No matter, he took a step in that direction and then another, the sword leading him as if it was a divining rod.

  "Dhamon? What are you doing?" Maldred's voice dripped with curiosity.

  "Watch him," Dhamon answered.

  The big man pivoted so he could keep an eye on Donnag and Dhamon, though he realized the ogre chieftain didn't really need watching-not at the moment, anyway. He was riveted to the spot watching Dhamon handle the sword.

  Dhamon stopped amidst shadows thick and ominous. He stood in an alcove brimming with gilded vases as tall as a man and thin pedestals displaying dainty figurines of elves and sprites. He imagined they would be breathtaking, if there was enough light to make out their features. His hand grew cold and dry, as if the pommel he gripped was ice. It was an odd sensation, as the rest of his body was hot from the oppressive heat of the summer, and he was sweating. The sword seemed to be trying to draw him farther into the small room, and after a few deep breaths, he obliged. He realized the place wasn't an alcove after all, but another cell. His eyes picked through the darkness and spied manacles on the wall, high up and too large to be used on a human, perhaps even too large for an ogre. Had there not been so many valuable trinkets sprinkled here and there, and had there been a proper light source, he might have investigated further out of curiosity.

  But the sword was pulling him over to a corner, to a pedestal and a water-damaged black wooden box that rested atop it. Dhamon opened it, running his fingers over the small object inside.

  "Beautiful," he said, imagining what it must look like.

  "No!" Donnag moaned.

  Maldred swung on the ogre chieftain and with a pointed finger kept him from budging. "Dhamon? What is it?"

  Dhamon held the sword with one hand as he reached out with the other to grab a gem about the size of a large lemon. The chill dissipated from his hand, and the gentle urging of Wyrmsbane stopped. He retreated from the alcove and stepped beneath a lantern.

  The gem, dangling from a long platinum chain that sparkled like stars, fairly glowed. It was a pale rose in hue, and it was shaped like a teardrop. The light sparkled over its facets.

  Donnag made a sound, like a choked sob.

  "It's a diamond, isn't it?" Dhamon asked. He headed toward Maldred and Donnag.

  The ogre chieftain nodded, a great sadness in his eyes. "The Sorrow of Lahue, it's called. Named for the Woods of Lahue in Lorrinar where it was found. No one knows where it was mined. I came by it…"

  "I don't care how you acquired it," Dhamon interrupted.

  "Don't take it. Please. Anything else. Whatever you can carry."

  "Flawless," Dhamon observed.

  "Priceless," Donnag added.

  "And now it's mine."

  The ogre made another move to object, but a glance from Maldred stopped him.

  "Consider it my payment for this information," Dhamon began. "The rain that assaults your kingdom, and all of the Kalkhists, is not natural. It was called down by a being in Sable's swamp-one who wears the guise of a child. I suspect it is all in retaliation for your forces slaying so many spawn. Or maybe it's just the dragon's attempt to enlarge her swamp. The rain has flooded many villages in the foothills. Perhaps it will ultimately wash away Knollsbank."

  Donnag paled, the gem forgotten for the moment. "How do you know this?"

  "A vision. From deep inside your mountain."

  "Then the rain, the child, must be stopped. But how?"

  Dhamon shrugged. "I've no clue. And it doesn't concern me. I've no intention of staying in these mountains, so the rain won't be bothering me for much longer anyway. Certainly you have sages under your royal thumb who can provide you with more information. Maybe they can tell you how to preserve your kingdom." He turned to Maldred, tossing him the Sorrow of Lahue.

  The big man was quick to catch the impressive gem and thrust it into a pocket.

  "Your share in all of this," Dhamon told him. He hefted the long sword. "I have what I was looking for, and I've some shiny knickknacks to amuse Riki. We will meet up again, my good friend. Perhaps in a few months. After you've run Donnag's errand to the mines. And after you've finished playing with the Solamnic."

  Maldred nodded. "I'll stay here a bit longer-with Donnag."

  Dhamon smiled knowingly. "Thank you, Mai." Then he was taking the rusted stairs two at a time, wanting to quickly put some distance between himself and a very angry Donnag.

  The chieftain's ogre guards, who seemed to be aware of much that transpired in town, revealed that Rikali was at Grim Kedar's. He stopped by there briefly and discovered she was sleeping.

  Dhamon told Grim not to wake the half-elf, and left a leather pouch for her. It was filled with small baubles from Donnag's treasure room-something shiny to help
speed her recovery and to ease any ire she might have because he left her wounded in Rig's company. Of course, he also tossed a valuable trinket Grim's way to pay for Rikali's care. Then Dhamon was moving again.

  He found a dead-end alley far from the manse, dark because of the dense clouds that filled the sky and because of the closeness of the decaying walls that rose on three sides. He stripped and let the pouring rain wash him, cleansing the stink from his skin while at the same time invigorating him. For the better part of an hour he relished the sensation, unseen by the few ogres who shuffled past on the far end of the street. Then he scrubbed his clothes against a wall, beating out the blood and dirt and sweat that had clung to them.

  When he was finished, he dressed and stood still for quite some time, concentrating on the rain, breathing deep of the air that smelled much sweeter than the musty atmosphere of Donnag's treasure chamber. Next he tended to his hair, cutting the matted ends with Wyrms-bane. He used a dagger to shave, careful not to cut himself and wanting, for some reason, to look more presentable than he had in some time.

  "A scabbard," he remembered, as he peered out of the alley. "Should've looked around at Donnag's, was going to. But I wanted to get out of there too badly." Still, he suspected he could get a scabbard from the weaponsmith he had visited here before his Knollsbank trek. He'd trade his broadsword for it. "And something else suitable to wear." He considered returning to the ogre seamstress, where he had earlier acquired his trousers and boots. Perhaps she had something else that would fit him. But he would wait until the sun was starting to set and he couldn't be so easily spotted. Donnag might seek a little revenge for Dhamon's stunt in the treasure room. Certainly the ruler had eyes and ears throughout the city, and Dhamon intended to be very careful until he could slip out under cover of darkness.

  Come to think of it, there was another matter to address-the one that had brought him to Bloten in pursuit of this very sword. He'd been putting it off, dallying in the rain, fearing the consequences.

  Dhamon padded to the back of the alley, finding a crate to sit upon. Gripping the pommel of Wyrmsbane with both hands, and extending the sword forward until its tip rested in a puddle, he closed his eyes and considered how to phrase this unusual request.

  "A cure," he stated simply after several minutes had passed. "A solution. An end." Not to the rain, which was still drumming down steadily. "Redeemer, where is the cure for this damnable scale?"

  He waited several minutes more, listening to the incessant patter of the rain, feeling the water pelt him, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, simply constant-as if it had been raining forever.

  "Nothing." He sighed and swirled the tip of the sword in the puddle, watching as the blade cut through his dark reflection. "What did I expect anyway? The perfect woman. Happiness. Intangibles. A way to escape this hellish curse." He chuckled softly and closed his eyes. "No escape."

  What you seek.

  Dhamon's eyes flew open and the pommel grew chill in his hands. There, in the puddle, was an image, clouded and indistinct because of the shadows and the overcast sky. He leaned closer, seeing a little clearer. Leaves, tightly packed, the green color intense and so dark it looked almost black.

  There was no physical tugging, as there'd been in Donnag's treasure room when he sought out the most valuable trinket. Just leaves and branches, and a colorful parrot nearly hidden by a clump of vines. There was a lizard, too, but it skittered out of his mind's eye, and also insects, as thick as the clouds overhead. He thought he glimpsed a shadow among the leaves, the size and shape of it impossible to discern. Perhaps merely the breeze rustling a limb. The shadow passed by again.

  "The swamp. Something in the swamp."

  The pommel tingled slightly, perhaps telling him yes, perhaps arguing with him. He wondered briefly if he was hallucinating, so desperately did he want to be free of the scale's pain. But the pommel grew colder still, and the vision persisted for several moments longer.

  Afterward, Dhamon sat still, listening to the rain and feeling his heart pound inside his chest. It was beating excitedly, his breath coming raggedly. A cure, he told himself. One exists. The sword said so, said there was a way to get rid of this damnable scale or to make it stop hurting.

  He laid Wyrmsbane across his legs and bent over it, smoothing the water away from the blade and keeping more from falling on the elvish script. He traced the foreign words with a fingertip, and for a moment he wished Feril was with him-she would be able to read this. But Feril was far away and Rikali couldn't read either the elf or common language. The half-elf wouldn't even recognize her written name.

  One more look at the blade, and then he sat straight, back set firmly against the wall. He decided to wait here until the sky darkened to announce sunset. "Then a scabbard and clothes," he repeated to himself. "After that, I'll see if Riki is awake."

  And then, he thought, he'd do something about investigating the cure.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. But it quickly vanished and his fingers twitched about the sword as the scale on his leg started to throb again. Gently at first, so gently he tried to deny the sensation. Then within the passing of a few heartbeats, the pain grew intense and his body feverish. Dhamon's hand hurt terribly, and he realized that he had unintentionally squeezed the blade of his sword and sliced through his skin.

  He pulled his left hand back and stared at the cut flesh, blood pouring out over his palm and pantsleg. He cupped the hand to his stomach and rocked back and forth, as the scale began to send waves of agony through his body. His right hand still gripped the pommel, refusing to release the legendary sword, and his mind focused on the weapon in an effort to lessen the pain.

  He gulped in the damp air as the tremors started, then he pitched forward into the puddle, his legs jerking and kicking, his head turning this way and that. Water filled his nose and mouth; he was face-first in the puddle now, gagging-

  "I'll not die here!" he managed to gasp. Through a curtain of pain, he summoned all of his strength and rolled onto his back, coughing up the rainwater, still clutching Wyrmsbane. Then the shadows of the alley seemed to reach out and engulf him.

  Dhamon awoke hours later, lying on his back nearly submerged in the puddle, which had grown bigger because of the persistent storm. It was dark, well past sunset. He forced himself to his feet-awkwardly, then stumbled to a wall and leaned against it. His head was pounding, perhaps the aftermath of the episode, certainly in part because he was so hungry. His stomach growled.

  He would eat after he saw to a scabbard, he told himself. And clothes. He would eat his fill, and then he would visit Grim Kedar's again-to tend to his swollen, wounded hand and to see Riki. He would have to be exceedingly careful at the healer's, as Grim would have been summoned to the manse to mend Donnag's broken cheek and jaw. He would have to trust Grim.

  "A scabbard," he repeated, noting that the pommel tingled pleasantly in his uninjured palm, as if agreeing that was a good idea. He had more than enough wealth in his pockets to coax the ogre proprietors into opening their doors to him this late in the evening. "The finest scabbard available."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Entanglements

  At dawn the ogre mercenaries gathered outside Donnag's palace, standing at attention in the drizzle. The chieftain was with them and impressing upon them their mission, which was to follow the Solamnic Knight to the ruins of Takar. There she would deliver the ransom, and there they were to help her regain her brother or her brother's body, if it came to that.

  "Guard her and the baubles as if you were guarding us," Donnag intoned.

  Passersby gawked at the assemblage, some murmuring how unusual it was to see Bloten's ruler out at this early hour, others wondering why the ogre force was gathered and why a Solamnic Knight was walking around so freely and why she seemed to claim the chieftain's favor.

  Donnag was regally dressed. A long, dark red cloak trimmed with gems and gold brocade dragged in the mud behind him. His posture was stiff and impe
rious, his stride purposeful. He'd spent the past two days inside his bed chambers, recovering from the injuries Dhamon had inflicted upon him, and he felt good. Grim's magic was strong, making him as healthy as he was prior to the incident, perhaps even healthier. But the old healer's magic was not good enough to regrow the few teeth he'd lost in the brawl or to soothe his ire over being bested by a human.

  "I'm surprised Donnag lived up to his word, Fiona," the mariner whispered. He nodded toward a wooden chest filled with gems and coins. Donnag had paused in front of the chest. He was eyeing its contents and dropping a few more bits of jewelry inside. The ogre chieftain motioned for the lid to be closed. Two thick leather straps were wrapped around it, and it was fastened to the back of the largest ogre.

  "The world gives us surprises," she answered the mariner.

  "Maybe. But, you still can't be serious about this." Rig raised his voice slightly, after Donnag was pacing again and was now a good distance away. "I told you I watched your brother die. One week ago to this day. Inside that… that… mountain. Fetch used this eye-shaped pool left behind by the Black Robes, and he conjured up an image of Shrentak's dungeons." The mariner had spent most of the evening telling the Solamnic about their trip to the ruins and along the underground river, and about the visions Fetch had called forth. "I watched Aven die, Fiona." And then I watched Fetch die too, the mariner added silently to himself.

  She met his gaze, her eyes bright with determination, though rimmed with the tears she fought to keep in check. "Rig, you don't know that for certain," she said stubbornly, repeating the words she told him last night. "It was a vision. You weren't actually there in Shrentak. He might still be alive."

  The mariner shut his eyes and took a deep breath, opened them and noticed that her lip trembled almost imperceptibly. "It was real enough, Fiona. How many times do I have to describe it?"