by Jean Rabe
Maldred appraised the mariner for a moment. "She has fire," he said finally. "And a rare sword arm."
"This isn't like her," Rig stated. "Agreeing to help the likes of you. Thieves. Liars. Freeing ogres. I don't understand it."
Maldred shrugged and headed to the front of the column.
"Not like her," Rig repeated. "By the blessed memory of Habbakuk, what is going on with her? And with me?" I should leave, he told himself. But I can't leave her. Not alone with the likes of these people. And I want my damn glaive back.
The column was moving. Rig took a last look at the ogre bodies encircling the massive cypress tree. Already lizards were scampering over the corpses, biting at the exposed flesh. A raven was perched on a stout ogre's stomach, plucking at the skin through a rent in the armor. Shuddering, the mariner followed the last of the ogres, fingers still squeezing the pommel of his sword, eyes darting all around looking for movement in the vines. For a moment he wished more serpent-vines would appear and whisk away Dhamon and Maldred and all the ogres. Then it would be just he and the Solamnic Knight again.
The mercenaries were forced to make their way single-file, the swamp so overgrown that at times they were practically squeezing between cypress trunks. Rig lost sight of Fiona, Maldred, and Dhamon shortly after they'd left the clearing. He was worried about the Solamnic, furious over the loss of his glaive. In the back of his mind he kept visualizing the small footprints and telling himself he should talk to Fiona again, make her listen, cut their losses, and get out of here. Around him all he could see were the dark shapes of trees, barely discernible in the light of the few torches the ogres carried.
"I'm going to die here," he thought, not meaning to say the words out loud. "To snakes or treachery."
They hadn't traveled far, a mile or perhaps a little more, when the night's blackness gave way to the lights of torches and fires burning merrily ahead. There were sounds-snaps, cries, curses, grunts. The ogres were moving quickly now.
At the front of the column, Dhamon brushed aside a veil of moss and caught a first look at the Trueheart Mines. Crates of rocks filled a stretch of marshy ground that had been cleared with axes and was now dotted with decaying stumps. The mine itself was a great hole in the ground, a gaping pit from which light beamed out, and into which thick ropes tied about a few cypress giants led. There was a smaller maw, this set into a low hill, and light shone out of that, too.
Ogres were moving around, shadows of the creatures that followed Dhamon and Maldred. They looked emaciated, their flesh and what was left of their clothes hanging on them, their eyes vacant. Some were climbing up the rope out of the hole, crates filled with ore strapped to their backs. It looked like it was all they could do to make it to the surface, crawling on hands and knees until their black spawn guards undid the clamps that held the crates. The crates emptied, they were again strapped to the ogres' backs, and the creatures returned to the mines.
The spawn were hideous, resembling draconians to an extent, but they were jet black like a starless sky. Their wings were short and dull compared to the scales on their torsos that gleamed wetly in the light. Their snouts were vaguely equine, covered in tiny scales, and their eyes were a drab yellow, narrowed in malevolence. They had stumpy black tails, which were constantly twitching, claws that were constantly opening and closing. A stunted spiny ridge ran from the tops of their heads to nearly the tips of their tails. Their breath escaped from them in a hiss, making the clearing sound like it was filled with snakes and instantly bringing back memories of the ensorcelled vines.
The sight of the spawn sent a shiver down Dhamon's back. They were repulsive and unnatural, and he wondered just how many of them Donnag's forces had managed to slay in the «nest» the ogre chieftain said they'd found. Dhamon knew from his association with the sorcerer Palin Majere that spawn were created by the dragon overlords. The great dragons used something of themselves and something from a true draconian, and they used human captives for the bodies. Those ingredients, coupled with a powerful spell, brought the spawn into existence, and somehow made them unswervingly loyal to the Uragon who created them. They did the dragon's bidding without question, and they seemed to take delight in killing things.
Dhamon had fought their like before, namely the red spawn of Malys. His lip involuntarily curled up in a snarl at the memory mixed with the sight before him.
Several spawn had whips, and they obviously delighted in using them on the ogre slaves. Dhamon watched as an especially frail-looking slave didn't move fast enough for one of the spawn. The spawn lashed at the ogre viciously, then moved in and spat a gob of acid that sizzled on the ogre's lacerated back. The ogre didn't howl in pain, as Dhamon expected. He merely shuffled back to the ropes and returned to the hole in the ground for another load.
From the smaller hole set against the hill, humans and dwarves brought out more crates of ore, followed by two additional ogre slaves who were so hunched over it looked as though they were crawling on the ground.
Fiona shuddered. "You could have told me the truth of this place and I would've come," she said to Dhamon. "For this reason alone."
"I didn't know," he replied.
"Maldred did."
Then my friend Maldred would not have needed to use his ensorcelltnent on you, Dhamon thought, recalling how righteous the Solamnic Knight was when she accompanied him to the Window to the Stars. She was saying something else, talking softly again, this time to Maldred. Dhamon wasn't listening. He watched the spawn whip the miners, spit at the ones who moved too slowly, claw at the sturdiest of the lot to keep them in line. He was counting the spawn, searching for other guards and taskmasters and wondering if he should have left all of this business to Maldred and his Solamnic puppet and struck out deeper into the swamp on his own, in search of his cure. Dhamon's right hand drifted to his sword. It tingled slightly, and this puzzled him.
There were a dozen spawn on the grounds, nothing else that he could see in the foliage along the perimeter. But there were more in the mine, he was certain of it. And he needed to know just how many more.
He motioned to Maldred, making a few gestures with his fingers-the silent language of thieves Rikali had taught him. For an instant he wondered how the half-elf was doing. Angry that she'd been left behind, for certain. Still, she was safer this way, Dhamon told himself. And he was better off without a relationship. Still, he found himself missing her.
The big man nodded and gestured back to Dhamon, his fingers fluttering. Then he began whispering orders to the ogres.
Dhamon raised his arm, the blade of Tanis Half-Elven flashing in the light. Then, dropped it down as a signal and he raced forward, the ogres and Maldred charging behind him. Fiona joined the charge, heading toward an impressively large spawn that was lashing a recalcitrant dwarf. She nearly slipped, as the ground was marshy despite the absence of rain. The pounding of their footsteps was like muted thunder, and water and mud sprayed in their wake.
The spawn were startled, but were astonishingly quick to react. A few grabbed slaves and used them as shields. Others inhaled sharply, then puffed out gouts of acid to coat the charging ogres. Donnag's men cried out in surprise and pain, but didn't retreat.
"Spread out!" Maldred barked in the common tongue, repeating it in ogrish.
The words haunted Dhamon. It was what Gauderic had called to the mercenaries in the Qualinesti Forest when they faced the green dragon. For a moment, Dhamon saw the forest again, the elves and humans racing along the river and toward the green dragon-racing because he countermanded Gauderic's order that they flee. "Spread out!" he heard Gauderic cry inside his head. But that forest was a very long way from here, the men who fought the dragon all dead. And Gauderic, Dhamon's friend and second-in-command, was dead too, by Dhamon's hand. Dead and buried.
"Spread out!" Maldred hollered again.
Swallowing hard, Dhamon raced toward the closest spawn, crouching beneath a cloud of acid spittle and leaping forward, ramming his shoulder into the c
reature's stomach. His arms pumped. Tanis's blade stabbed into the beast's chest again and again as the pommel tingled merrily.
The creature lay struggling, and Dhamon thrust the blade in one more time, noting that the elvish script along the blade glowed faintly blue. Then he pushed himself off the beast, just as it dissolved in a shower of acid, which miraculously did not settle on him. He heard the sound of whips cracking and the thud of weapons striking spawn flesh all around him. Without pause, he pressed his attack on another spawn, darting around a pair of gaunt ogre slaves who stood staring in disbelief at what was transpiring. He vaulted over a crate of ore and slammed his foot into the chest of another spawn, knocking the beast off balance and sending the whip flying from its clawed fingers. But its wings beat furiously to keep itself upright, and it inhaled sharply and spit furiously at Dhamon, the acid breath striking him in the chest and its claws tearing through what was left of his leather vest. The acid didn't affect Dhamon, though it fell around him, and he realized it was the sword's magic keeping him safe. The tingling persisted.
"It signals the presence of dragonkind," he speculated of the tingling sensation. And the spawn were certainly birthed by dragon magic. Then Dhamon concentrated solely on the battle. He slammed his teeth together and drew his blade back and swung it with all his strength at the creature. He struck it in the side of its head, easily cleaving through the bone and through the beast's brain. Then he pulled his sword free and sprinted away, as the spawn melted into a cloud of acid that rained down on the ground.
He headed toward the smaller mine, where a mal-shaped spawn was emerging.
"An abomination," Dhamon whispered.
As grotesque as the spawn were, this creature was far worse. Its head sat on a thick neck on which ropelike veins stood out. Its wings were stunted, one being scalloped like a bat, the other rounded and a little longer. The beast had three arms, the third growing out of its right side, several inches below the more normal-looking arm. And the hand that extended from the third limb looked small and smooth, the size of a kender's or a gnome's. The abomination's eyes were overlarge and bugged away from its head, perched on either side of a wide, pug nose. It had a tail, longer than the spawns', and at the end of it was the snapping maw of a snake.
"Monster," Dhamon spat. Abominations were created through the same process as spawn, he had learned. But rather than humans, the dragon substituted elves, kender, dwarves, and gnomes. No two abominations looked the same, and the other dragon overlords were not known to purposefully create them. Save the Black. The corrupt overlord of the swamp favored her corrupted "children."
"You're next," Dhamon said to it.
But Fiona was nearby and beat him to the creature. Her sword arced above her head and cut through its third arm. It clawed furiously at her with its two remaining limbs, the nails raking uselessly against her plate.
As Dhamon looked about for another target, he saw her raise the sword high and bring it down on the beast's collarbone. There was a sickening crunch, then she turned away as the thing burst into a stinging cloud of acid. Their eyes met for a moment, hers filled with a mix of anger and eagerness for the fight, Dhamon's with an equal and fierce determination.
Without a word Dhamon raced toward Maldred. While the ogre mercenaries were dealing with the remaining spawn, the big man was questioning one of the slaves.
"How many in the mines?" The words were in the ogre tongue, but they were simple, and Dhamon knew enough of them to understand. "Spawn. The black creatures. How many?" The slave didn't answer. "The masters," Maldred tried. "Your masters. And tell me about the mines below."
A response came, but the ogre slave's voice was indistinct, and Dhamon wasn't close enough yet to hear the words.
"Ten spawn." Maldred called to Dhamon, pointing to the smaller mine and using the common speech. "Another dozen in the larger one. A few draconians." He nodded toward the gaping maw in the ground. "Fiona and I will take the large mine."
Dhamon scowled. His sword made him the better man to deal with the spawn and draconians, and any abominations that might be around. And for an instant he considered arguing that point. But the smaller mine presented the lesser threat. "All right," he answered. "Then Rig and I will take the other mine."
Maldred nodded. The mariner was already in the clearing, threading his way through the ogre mercenaries and weaving around dumbstruck slaves and crates of ore. He had a long sword in one hand, three daggers clasped in the other. He was heading toward Fiona, who'd just dispatched another abomination.
"Lady Knight!" Maldred boomed across the clearing. "I need your help!"
She glanced up and saw Maldred, hurried in his direction, either not seeing Rig or ignoring him. The mariner stared as she rushed by. He intended to follow, but saw two dark shapes emerging from the smaller mine. A spawn and an abomination. He shook his head and ran toward them, feet churning up the marshy loam. Drawing back, he hurled his daggers, all three landing in the chest of the abomination and turning it into a cloud of acidic vapor. The spawn advanced to meet him.
The Solamnic could barely hear Maldred above the sounds of battle and the cries of the ogre mercenaries. He was gesturing, eyes locked onto hers. "Lady Knight. You and I will venture into the main mine." Even as he was explaining his plan, a spawn emerged from the gaping hole. Dhamon charged it, bringing his sword down on its spiky crown and cleaving its head in two before it could clear the entrance.
"There are many ogres toiling below. And some humans." This last Maldred told Fiona as almost an afterthought. "We must kill the spawn and free the miners. Dhamon and Rig will deal with the other mine while the mercenaries stand watch up here and handle any spawn we might chase out."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his. "As you desire," she said.
"This is so unlike you, your spirit dampened. You give in to me far too easily," he said, perhaps regretting the spell he had cast over the Solamnic. He took her by the arm and led her to the main shaft. Soon they were lowering themselves down the ropes.
Dhamon was running toward the smaller mine. He waved his sword to get Rig's attention. The mariner had just vanquished a spawn, his skin was a mass of boils from the acid, his shirt shredded from the creature's claws. Coupled with the snake bites on his face and hands, he looked like he shouldn't be standing. But his shoulders were square, his eyes clear, and he was watching Fiona and Maldred climb down the ropes. "Fiona!" he called. "Don't go with him!"
Dhamon shook his head and pointed to the smaller mine entrance behind Rig. "There are ten spawn inside there. Maybe more," he told him as he entered the shaft.
"We've got to take them before we can get the rest of the slaves out."
Rig stood indecisively for a moment, then, shaking his head, he followed Dhamon, thrusting his aches and pains to the back of his mind and telling himself when they were done here, he and Fiona would be on their way and all of this would be a bad memory. They would never have to look at Dhamon Grimwulf again.
The smaller mine had narrow tunnels that were barely six feet tall. It was being worked by human and dwarf slaves, diligently mining the thick veins of silver. Rig and Dhamon found their way through the winding shafts, guided by guttering torchlight and the sound of whips and snarls.
They came upon two spawn who were unaware of what was transpiring above. The sounds of picks against the rock was loud enough to drown out the battle overhead. Dhamon killed one before it could react, slamming his eyes shut when the cloud of acid came. Then he bowled into the second, ramming the sword into its chest. It clawed him deeply as it went down, then melted into acid and a stringent cloud.
"So the spawns' dragon-acid cannot harm me," Dhamon muttered. "Thanks entirely to you." He glanced at Wyrmsbane. "But the creatures' claws are another matter." He wiped at a line of blood running from a slice across his chest.
Rig didn't pause to see how Dhamon was faring. "I don't want to be here," he hissed, admitting to himself, however, that freeing these people was far from a b
ad idea. He bolted down the tunnel, shouting to the humans and dwarves to drop their picks. Then he was pulling on their chains, which were weak and rusting from the moisture of the Black's swamp. His muscles bunched, and he tugged free link after link, shutting out the grateful voices.
"If I had nay glaive, I'd be cutting through this metal like it was parchment."
Hands touched him in thanks. "Shrentak," he mumbled as he picked up other chains and tugged them apart and told those freed to head for the surface. "I should be doing this in Shrentak."
After they freed more than a dozen slaves, Dhamon and Rig worked their way down another corridor, crouching and readying their weapons when they spotted the dull yellow gleam of spawn eyes.
* * * * * * *
In the main tunnel, Maldred and Fiona were busy freeing ogres. They'd found one too weak to move, starving and beaten. Maldred killed him quickly, speaking softly in the ogre tongue and closing the dead slave's eyes. "A righteous enough cause for you, Lady Knight? Even though these are ogres?" he asked. He frowned when he saw Fiona's blank expression. Had he spent too much effort on his last charming spell, and was she too far under his influence? "Have I put out all of your fire, Lady Knight?" he asked. "I must see later about giving at least some of it back."
She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she headed toward a hissing sound coming from a shadowed alcove. A draconian stepped into the torchlight, and from a few yards away it cautiously regarded her.
The creature was a bozak, birthed from a corrupted bronze dragon egg a long time ago when Takhisis walked the face of Krynn and she used these creatures as commanders during the War of the Lance. His bronze-hued scales glimmered in the light of the torch, making him appear almost regal. The scales were the size of coins across most of his frame, smaller along his face and hands where they were flat and smooth like the scales of a fish. His wings were short, too stunted to allow him to fly. But were he not in such tight confines, he could use them to glide short distances.