by Jean Rabe
"And even if it was real," she said, "I want his body back. If he is dead, he deserves a proper Solamnic burial. I'll not have him rotting in the Black's lair. I'll use the ransom to rescue his body."
She drew her shoulders back, thrust out her chin, and forced her tears back. "A very proper burial." She made a move to walk away from Rig. But his hand reached out and gently closed around her arm, and he gently turned her to face him.
"Fiona…" he began.
"You're not going to change my mind." As an afterthought, she added softly, "I'll understand if you don't want to come along."
"Oh, I'm coming with you, all right. I'm not going to leave you and…"
She tugged on his shirt, interrupting him, turning her face to the ogres and pointing to one in the center of the front line. "That man has been to the ruins of Takar before. He'll guide us."
He was a barrel-chested ogre in boiled leather. His skin was dark brown and wart-riddled, and his eyes were as gray as the rain clouds overhead.
"His name is Mulok, and he's old, I'm told, for an ogre. He was at the ruins when the Black was just settling down in her swamp."
Rig rolled his head to work a kink out of his neck. He released her arm and lowered his voice. "I could lead us to Takar. Alone. You and I and that chest of gems."
"Neither you nor I have been there, we've directions only. It is fortunate one of Donnag's men has actually been to the ruins."
"But we have reliable directions."
"Having Mulok with us is better, I think." She took a step back. "Maldred has confidence in him. Besides, you ‘steer by the stars, and we haven't seen anything but clouds for quite some time."
"I don't know about this." Rig thrust his thumbs behind his belt, his fingers drumming against the leather. "I don't like it, Fiona. I don't like this plan."
She let out a long breath and steepled her fingers, let the silence settle around them. He was used to the gesture, which she subconsciously practiced when she was upset. After a few moments, she continued, "Rig, the plan is simple, and we've been over it before. The bozak, the old draconian who approached the Solamnic Council, is stationed in Takar. I'll recognize him. The gold collar studded with gems, the scars on his chest. When I saw him… well, he was so distinctive that I'll have no trouble picking him out. We find him. We give him the gems. And he releases my brother-or my brother's body. There's enough gems and coins that we should be able to ransom other prisoners as well. The plan will work. It has to."
Rig frowned. "I don't believe you can trust Sable's minion-this old draconian. He might not be waiting for you at Takar. He might have given up waiting. Or he might have been lying to you and the council all along, which is what I suspect. I don't trust or like his Lordship Donnag. I certainly don't like Maldred-he admitted to being a thief. And I don't like Dhamon. Not anymore."
"Did you ever?" Her voice had an edge to it. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Maldred's approach drew her attention.
He was dressed in black leather armor, and a dark green cloak hung from his massive shoulders. A two-handed sword stuck out behind his neck. His hair was cropped close to his head, making his face seem even more angular and striking.
Dhamon was at his side, wearing a green leather vest, dark and embellished with an intricate leaf pattern. It was laced across the front, but was open enough to reveal the muscles of his chest. His trousers were short, ending at mid-thigh and made of a tightly woven canvas dyed black. Dhamon was making no attempt to hide the scale on his leg. His cloak was made of an olive-hued reptile hide, thin and supple. His hair had been trimmed a little shorter, just below his jawline, and his face was clean-shaven. A long sword hung from a tooled black leather scabbard, and Dhamon kept one hand on the pommel as he walked. The other hand had a bandage wrapped around it.
"I am glad you changed your mind," Maldred said to Dhamon.
"I haven't… exactly." Dhamon had explained to Maldred a few minutes ago about his question to the sword and the vision it gave him of the swamp.
"Nevertheless, I'm glad you're coming with us-even though it was Wyrmsbane that apparently convinced you."
Dhamon shrugged. "I'll come with you for a time."
Maldred glanced at the sword. "Until it gives you more information?"
Dhamon nodded. "The sword hints that I need to journey into the swamp. And I'd rather do that with company. Aye, at least for a time. So I'm swallowing my words. I'll help you with the mines first. And then we'll part company, and I'll pursue my own quest."
Maldred lowered his voice when he caught Rig watching them. "We'll not be parting company, my friend. I am with you to the end. We will find a remedy for that scale that vexes you. So after the mines, with or without the fair Solamnic at my side, I'll follow wherever that sword might lead you."
Dhamon caught the mariner's stare, then pivoted so he faced away from Rig. "We'll discuss this sword and where it might lead later…"
"When we're far from Donnag," Maldred finished.
"Aye, I fear he will seek retaliation."
"His lordship will do nothing at all to you," Maldred said. "He'll not raise a hand against you. But he'll likely never make another deal with you."
"That is a certainty on my part."
"In any event, Donnag and I had several long talks over the past two days-while Grim Kedar was summoned on and off to tend to him. About how you had the sword you wanted, and he had his life. About keeping one's word, and the price for deceiving others."
Dhamon raised an eyebrow.
"He deceived me too, my friend. Wolves. Hah!" Maldred grinned slyly. "And if he wants to keep our friendship, leaving you alone is the price."
"He is full of lies." Dhamon's voice was flat. He was watching Donnag out of the corner of his eye. The ogre chieftain was parading in front of his mercenaries again.
Maldred softly chuckled. "Well, here's one lie you'll find amusing. He told Grim he tumbled down the stairs in his manse and broke his jaw. And Donnag told his guards the same tale." Maldred reached up and fingered a platinum chain that hung about his neck and extended under his leather tunic. There was a bulge on his chest, where the Sorrow of Lahue was nested. "It wouldn't do for the ruler of all of Blode to admit to being tromped by a lowly human."
"Still," Dhamon began, "I'll feel better away from here."
Maldred slapped his friend on the back. "And what of Rikali?"
"She's still mending at Grim's. The injuries she suffered from the fall were evidently worse than I thought. She'll be there another few days."
"And does she know you're not waiting, that you're leaving with us?"
Dhamon nodded. "Aye. And she's not too happy about it."
Maldred's expression clouded. "Does she know you're not coming back?"
Dhamon knew from a brief conversation with Rig that the half-elf had drifted in and out of consciousness on her return trip to Bloten and wasn't aware Dhamon had left her behind. Rig hadn't told her, apparently considering the whole matter none of his business. Dhamon visited with her late last night at the ogre healer's, and told her he would see her when they returned to Bloten from their trip into the swamp.
"No," he answered. "She doesn't know. And at least I don't have to worry about her following us. She hates the notion of slogging through a swamp."
"To the bottom layer of the Abyss with you, Dhamon Grimwulf," Rig whispered. The mariner had crept close enough to hear the last bit of their conversation.
* * * * * * *
The swamp closed about them. It was muggy, hot, and stifling, and though what little they could see of the sky was notably overcast, it was devoid of the rain that was continuing to batter the mountains. Fiona struggled to stay in step with the ogres. Her Solamnic armor made her miserable. Still, she refused to remove it. Not even Mal-dred could convince her.
Their lungs felt saturated with the heady fragrance of lianas mingled with the fetid odor of stagnant pools. Hundreds of eyes watched them-snakes that dripped like vi
nes from cypress branches, bright red and yellow parrots that flitted down from high above to pass just above their heads before disappearing again in the foliage.
Green became their world-vines, leaves, moss, ferns, even the green scum resting on the pools of water. The huge trees formed a vast canopy, and on the rare days when the sun poked through the clouds in the afternoon, only diffuse rays made their way down to the boggy forest floor. Sometimes the ogre mercenaries resorted to torches, as the swamp was so close and dark it seemed perpetually night. Dhamon wondered how anything managed to grow here. Dragon magic, he decided.
Lizards darted out from under their feet. Something in the brush moved to the side of the ogre column, unseen but obviously paralleling their course. A great black cat lounged on a low-hanging branch, yellow eyes trained on them, giving a yawn. There were noises that hinted at other watchers. The chitter of monkeys, the snarl and snap of an alligator, the mournful cry of an unfamiliar creature that sounded uncomfortably close. There were a few tracks of massive creatures with webbed feet. The ogres talked about hunting giant crocodiles come evening, wanting to supplement the rations Donnag had provided with fresh meat.
A mist hung above the ground everywhere. This, too, was green and was birthed by the summer's heat evaporating some of the swamp's moisture. It put Dhamon on his guard, as he suspected it could hide all manner of things. The swamp took on an almost haunted appearance, the mist a chorus of pale green ghosts they had to walk through.
Dhamon spent the first few days trailing behind the ogres, who were forging their path through the foliage. He queried the sword each day, asking it again about a cure. Sometimes he received nothing. And sometimes he gained more visions of the swamp, mirror images of what he first pictured in that Bloten alley.
Fiona was at the head of the column. She was paying far more attention to Maldred than to Rig, who sometimes drifted back to walk with Dhamon, though they did not speak. Often Rig stayed toward the center of the column, where he could keep an eye on the Solamnic Knight, and take occasional glances over his shoulder to watch Dhamon.
Dhamon mused that the mariner had become practically invisible-or forgotten, as no one paid him any heed. Dhamon was pleased Rig was leaving him alone. He preferred to keep to himself, talking only when Fiona or Mal-dred wandered back to check on him, or when one of the ogres tried to engage him in a game of chance.
The morning of the fifth day brought them to a river. The insects were thick around the water, which at its deepest point was up to Dhamon's armpits. But the insects didn't seem to bother the ogres-or the alligators and crocodiles that lounged in profusion along the banks. Dhamon suspected it was only the number in their entourage, and the size of the ogres, that kept the swamp denizens from making a meal of them.
Later that morning, Rig drifted back to walk with Dhamon again. The two men didn't acknowledge each other, though they slogged over the marshy ground practically shoulder to shoulder. When the shadows became so thick they knew the sun had set, the column slowed, and the ogres began to set up their camp. Rig moved forward to find Fiona. The Solamnic Knight was deep in conversation with Maldred, so the mariner drifted away, becoming invisible again.
Dhamon distanced himself from the camp, careful to keep it in sight, however. Stabbing the end of his torch into the ground, he crouched in front of a stagnant pool, drew Wyrmsbane, and stirred the water with the sword's tip. "A cure," he whispered. "A remedy for this scale."
He was concentrating fiercely, hunkered in front of the pool until his leg muscles stung from being forced into this position for so long. There was no tingling from the sword, no image, no chilling pommel. Nothing. "A cure," he repeated.
Dhamon recalled that the old Sage of Kortal said the sword did not function all the time, that it had a will of its own. And indeed it hadn't responded to him every day. So Dhamon refused to give up hope of finding what he wanted. He held his position a few minutes longer and focused all of his thoughts on the sword and the scale on his thigh. "A cure."
Nothing.
He let out a deep breath, the air whistling out softly between clenched teeth. He would try again in the morning, before they were on the move again. He would return to Maldred and… the pommel grew cool in his hands. It was a welcome sensation, cutting the heat of the swamp and causing his heart to leap. He stirred the water and again focused all of his thoughts on the scale on his leg and on finding relief from it. A moment later he saw an image in the pool.
It was a green vision again, thick leaves and vines, lizards and birds moving in and out of view, swamp flowers and massive ferns. Again, there was no tugging to tell him which direction to proceed, and no sun or moon visible in the pool to help point the way. But this time there was more. Through a slight gap in the leaves, Dhamon made out stone-bricks or a statue, he couldn't tell. But it was something made by man, smooth and worked. When he concentrated on that, the pommel tingled.
He mentally begged it to show him more, but the vision dissolved. He rested back on his haunches and sheathed the sword. Maybe he would wait to try again when they reached the mines. Perhaps it would give him more distinct images if he gave the magic a rest.
Dhamon returned to camp, settling himself several yards away from the mariner-on the only solid patch of ground that hadn't been staked out by the ogres. He saw Rig watching him. The mariner had rested his glaive against the trunk of a massive shaggybark. Dhamon mused that Rig seemed to collect the weapons he discarded. The mariner wouldn't be getting this sword, as Dhamon knew he wouldn't be discarding Wyrmsbane while he lived.
Then Dhamon leaned his back against the tree, a gnarled root prodding discomfitingly into his leg, and he closed his eyes and futilely attempted to sleep. The sounds bothered him too much, festering in his mind. The cries of hidden birds and great cats, the movement of leaves in the lowermost canopy. More than that-the conversations of the ogres bothered him. He wished he could understand them better and could pick out more than a few words here and there. He couldn't bring himself to trust them, as they were mercenaries of Donnag. He wanted to know exactly what they were talking about, and he wanted Mal-dred to share his concern about their loyalty.
He heard the squishing of footfalls and opened his eyes. The ogre called Mulok was approaching. Dhamon considered waving him away, preferring to be alone. But the big ogre carried a large skin of spirits with him, and so Dhamon gestured Mulok closer.
Dhamon noted that Rig was still watching him. Fiona was several yards away. She was softly illuminated in the light of a tall torch stuck into the ground. She gave Dhamon an occasional glance, but most of her attention was conferred on Maldred. She was standing close to the big man, and his hand had enfolded hers.
Mulok took a long pull from the skin and passed it to Dhamon. The ogre knew a smattering of the common tongue, and tried to engage Dhamon in a conversation about a large boar he had spied earlier in the day and tried unsuccessfully to catch. Dhamon listened politely and took several long swallows of the alcohol. It was slightly bitter, but not at all unpleasant. He found it heady, and after one more swallow passed it back and nodded his thanks.
Mulok dug in his pocket for painted stones, elements of a simple game the ogres enjoyed. Dhamon reluctantly agreed to play, and was fishing about in his pocket for a few copper coins when the howl of an ogre cut across the camp. Dhamon jumped to his feet and drew his sword. Mulok dropped the stones and reached for his club.
With only two tall torches burning, there was little light-just enough to make the clearing the ogres had made by tromping around seem truly spooky. The ogres had been milling around, flattening the last of the saw grass, their dark shapes difficult to discern because of the tall, thick foliage that ringed the clearing. Dhamon moved toward the nearest torch-to where he'd last spotted Fiona. Mulok was tromping behind him.
But before he took more than a dozen steps, Dhamon felt himself being lifted, snakes dropping from the canopy and wrapping around his arms and chest and hoisting him skywar
d. The air was filled with the hissing of hundreds of snakes.
Within the passing of a heartbeat, Dhamon's left arm was pinned. But his sword arm remained free. With it he slashed out at more snakes dropping down on him and seeking to entwine him further. His frenzied swings managed to stop any more from slithering closer, at least for the moment. Keeping his eye on other snakes he saw massing above, he wielded Wyrmsbane against the serpents that already had a firm hold on him, swiftly cutting himself free and dropping in a crouch to the soft ground below.
Dhamon suspected only a few minutes had passed. And in that time several of the ogres in the company were being hauled, struggling and cursing, into the lower canopy. Maldred was among them. The big man's arms were lashed to his sides, and one snake was wrapped around his legs, holding his limbs tightly. Maldred was trying with all his considerable strength to extend his arms and break his bonds. But the snakes were resilient, defying his attempts and twisting ever tighter. They cut into the exposed flesh on his arms and drew blood.
On the ground, Dhamon was barely managing to elude more of the dropping snakes. He crouched as one tried to whip about his chest. He swung Wyrmsbane at a thick constrictor that was dropping toward him, striking it, but only managing to bat it away. Veins knotting like cords in his arms and neck, he swung a second time, slicing through the constrictor and releasing a spray of gray-green blood.
In a matter of moments, he had cleaved several snakes in two and was standing on a severed section that continued to writhe. In the scant light of the torch he could see the mouth that snapped open to reveal rows of needle-fine barbs. Odd. He looked closer. Not teeth, exactly. There was something else unusual about the dead and dying snakes that lay around him.
They looked more like vines, like the lianas that hung everywhere in the swamp. He dropped beneath a hissing serpent, and his hand shot out to feel one of the dead snakes. They felt like vines, too, devoid of scales. "What are these beasts?" he said to himself. Then he was shaking off his curiosity, rising and slashing at another approaching serpent.