“In the name of the Dark Queen!” he cursed. He glanced down at his right leg. It was completely covered in new, small scales emanating from the large one. His chest tightened—how long did he have left before the damnable dragon-magic consumed him?
He balled his fist and slammed it against the large scale. He tried to cover up the scales with his trouser leg, but the material was so tattered it scarcely covered anything. He continued trudging toward the ridge. He hadn’t a single coin, but maybe he could persuade someone to give him some clothes when he found the nearest town—provided the townsfolk didn’t run from him in terror, thinking him a monster.
“Clothes and water,” he said aloud. Fiona and Ragh must be thirsty and hungry too.
He reached the first ridge and, finding nothing there, continued to the next. In the distance now he could see signs of civilization. Dhamon turned and retraced his steps to the beach.
It was early morning before he returned to Ragh and Fiona. The draconian stared at the scale-covered leg and opened his mouth to say something. A sharp look from Dhamon cut him off.
Fiona had regained consciousness and was absently twirling her fingers in her hair. There was no hint that she realized that Dhamon had saved her life or that he had been gone for hours. Dhamon passed by Ragh and joined her warily.
He inspected the unsightly purple welt on her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
She frowned. “Hungry.”
Dhamon knew she was feeling other things, too. She had to be feeling pain, judging by the bruises on her arms and by the way she favored her left side.
“I found a town, Fiona. It’s some miles to the west. Do you feel up to a long walk?”
For the first time since leaving Shrentak she looked at him as though she heard him and brightened. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gave a gentle tug. “Let’s go, shall we? There’s bound to be some food and water there.”
Dhamon led her over the ridge and down the trail. Ragh followed at a short distance. It was past noon by the time Dhamon brought them to the place from where he’d seen the town. Clumps of weeds tumbled across a hardscrabble expanse. It was bleak and chilly in this strange desert. Autumn had settled deeply over the land. The ground was cut here and there by narrow, rocky ridges pocked by shallow, bowl-shaped depressions. The dust in the air settled in Dhamon’s mouth and aggravated his thirst.
“Ugly,” Ragh observed, spitting out some of the grit. “This is an ugly place.”
There wasn’t a trail leading to the town that Dhamon could see, and as they walked, he looked for any tracks. Outside of prints from a single wild pig, all he discovered was a nest of beetles and a coarse dirt that blew across the ground.
Fiona fell back, keeping even with Ragh.
“How did he get them?” the draconian asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“All those scales?” Fiona did nothing to keep her voice low. “The large one came from Malystryx, the red dragon overlord.”
“But it’s black scale, not a red one.”
“It was stuck on the chest of one of her Dark Knight agents, whom Dhamon bested. As the Knight died, he pulled the scale free and shoved it against Dhamon’s leg, where it became embedded. Somehow she controlled the Dark Knight through the scale. Dhamon became Malys’ puppet, too, until a shadow dragon, working in concert with a silver dragon, broke her control.”
“But it’s…”
“Black,” Fiona finished. “The scale turned mirror-black in the process. Probably because the shadow dragon used its black blood for the spell to free him.”
Ragh suppressed a shudder.
Dhamon stopped, turned, and faced them. “It was just a few months later that all the pain began, if you must know. It was some months after that when the smaller scales began sprouting. To tell you the truth, I think they’re killing me.”
The draconian stared at the back of Dhamon’s leg. The small scales were mostly black too, but a few were cerulean blue and the shade of smoke. He spied a few more that had cropped up around the ankle of Dhamon’s other leg.
“Dhamon… Those scales…”
“Aren’t your worry.” Dhamon pointed toward the horizon. “Not too many miles to the town. A couple of hours’ walk at best. We’ll get there by early afternoon, find an inn.”
“What are you going to buy dinner with?” the draconian asked testily, as he thumped his stomach. “Certainly not with your charm.” Ragh’s gaze again dropped to the scales on Dhamon’s legs.
“Someone will feed us,” Dhamon promised.
“When we get to that town,” Ragh said, “I’d better not go in with you two.”
“Good idea.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t either,” the draconian added, glancing at the scales again.
A crow sprang up from behind them, something dangling from its beak. Fiona went back for a closer look, then waved Dhamon and Ragh away.
“A skeleton,” she told them. Then she resumed her march to the town.
Dhamon paused to inspect the skeleton, though. The man had been dead for weeks, he guessed, most of his flesh picked clean by the crows. There wasn’t enough there to show how the man died. However, he could tell the man hadn’t been poor and that he was slight in build, likely either an elf or a half-elf. Though his tunic had been ripped by the birds, Dhamon knew it had been expensive material, with polished metal buttons and braid trim. He looked for a sword or dagger but didn’t even find sheaths. The boots had been fine polished leather, now pitted by the blowing grit. The heavy coin pouch that hung from the skeleton’s side and the silver chain that dangled around its neck quickly found their way into Dhamon’s pocket.
“That’ll buy dinner,” Ragh said appreciatively. The draconian dallied a moment to see if anything else valuable had been missed.
“Hopefully it will buy us a way out of this place and passage to Southern Ergoth.” Dhamon started west again.
When Dhamon caught up with Fiona minutes later, she was waist-deep in silt and struggling to get out. She stood in the middle of a depression.
“The ground disappeared!” she sputtered angrily, reaching a hand to Dhamon.
He stepped forward to take her hand but found the ground opening up beneath him as well. He thrashed about, trying to grab something to hold onto, but his frantic motions only served to send him down faster.
“Quicksand!” he cursed. This unusual quicksand didn’t feel wet and gritty. It was dry and powdery, and in the span of a few seconds Dhamon stood up to his chest in it, and was somehow being pulled farther down. He told himself not to panic, to relax and try to swim out of the stuff. He looked anxiously at Fiona, who was up to her shoulders now, trying desperately to extricate herself, and getting nowhere but deeper into the muck.
Dhamon tried to relax, and this seemed to slow his descent somewhat. “Ragh!” The dirt spilled over his shoulders now and was starting to creep up his neck. Despite his great strength, he could not pull himself out. “Ragh, get over here now!”
The draconian hurried up to them but cautiously kept his distance. His darting eyes took in Dhamon and Fiona’s predicament. He cautiously crept closer to Dhamon, clawed foot outstretched and tentatively testing the ground with each step.
“Her first!” Dhamon said. “Save Fiona first!”
Ragh shook his head and stretched a hand out to Dhamon.
“Save her first, Ragh!”
The draconian snarled and moved over toward Fiona, still worried about the firmness of the terrain. Laying down on his stomach, he reached his arm toward her. “I save her first, Dhamon, if you will swear to help me slay Nura Bint-Drax!”
“Aye,” Dhamon quickly agreed, anger flashing in his eyes. “I swear.”
The silty quicksand had reached Fiona’s jaw, and she had to tilt her head back to breathe.
“Pull your arm up, Fiona,” Ragh instructed. “It’s the only way I can help you! Be quick!”
At last Fiona managed to raise her arms. Half of her face was
covered with the gritty dirt, which spilled into her mouth. She stretched her arms toward Ragh. The draconian grabbed her wrists and pulled her toward him until she was on solid ground.
Fiona spat and spat. “Thank you, sivak,” she said.
Ragh turned his attention to Dhamon. His scaly hands clasped Dhamon’s and began to pull. “You swore,” Ragh reminded him.
“Aye.” Dhamon said, as he crawled away from the silty hole, then turned around to watch as it whirled in agitation. “I swore. I will help you slay Nura Bint-Drax.”
“Before those scales consume you.”
As they watched from a safe vantage point, the depression grew deeper and the dirt swirled in its bottom like a whirlpool.
“What in the name of the Abyss is that thing?” Dhamon asked.
“Sinkholes,” Ragh answered. The draconian indicated a few more within their line of sight. “Look there.” As they watched one sinkhole shuddered and during the next few minutes filled itself up, then overflowed, spewing gravel and leaving behind one of the narrow ridges that dotted the land. “Means there’re some underground cavities beneath this land, maybe caverns or rivers. The spaces expand, and there isn’t enough support for the ground on top. So the land collapses in sinkholes.”
“But that one filled itself up,” Fiona said, cautiously gazing at the expanse of land they had yet to cross to reach the town.
“Probably means the caverns underneath are filling up. Strange. I’d say this whole area is unstable.”
This time the draconian took the lead, eyes trained on the ground and looking for any disturbance in the soil. Their pace slowed considerably, as they circled around a half-dozen sinkholes that were churning or erupting. They reached the edge of town just as the sun was touching the horizon.
“I think I’ll go into town with you two after all,” Ragh announced, casting a last look at a large sinkhole forming only several yards away from them. “I’ll take my chance with the local folks instead of the landscape. Maybe they won’t mind our scales too much.”
Chapter Four
Cold Despair
“This isn’t a good sign.” The draconian pointed toward the main street. The straggly clumps of brown grass looked sad and thin, like the hair on a balding man’s head “Not good at all.”
Shutters banged in the wind, and curtains fluttered in open windows. Signs proclaiming a cobbler and a blacksmith were weathered and nearly impossible to read. Other signs, farther down the street, were bleached beyond recognition and hung crookedly, rhythmically thumping against posts.
Not a single building looked well maintained. The roof of the closest business, a cooper judging by the rotted and split barrels out front, was caved in. Paint on overhangs and trim was cracked and peeling and resembled dried fish scales. Flower boxes sprouted weeds, and everything was pitted by the windblown grit, which seemed a permanent feature of the area.
Dhamon pointed to a lopsided well off to the side of an equally tilting one-story building. “You’re wrong, Ragh. There is something good about this place. At least I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the local folks’ reaction to our scales.”
“I didn’t think you were capable of making a joke, Dhamon.”
“I’m not.”
Dhamon and Fiona headed to the well. The leaning building was precariously poised over a recently formed sinkhole. The ring of stones around the well was on the verge of crumbling from age and lack of repair, and as Dhamon rested his hand on a stone, it fell and he nearly lost his balance. It was oddly cold near the well.
He noticed that Fiona was shivering, but she refused to complain about it. She hadn’t said more than a dozen words to him in the past few hours—though she had talked with Ragh. Her silent treatment of him was unnerving, and he considered trying to draw her out.
His thirst took precedence. “Hope the water’s as cold as the air,” he mused. He could smell the water far below, fresh and inviting, and he eagerly snatched up the rope and bucket. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty, Fiona.”
Fiona reached for the bucket, her eyes first glimmering hopefully, then her lip curling downward as she saw the bucket had no bottom. She tossed it aside and it came off the frayed rope.
“I’ll find a bucket,” Dhamon told her. “Bound to be something in this town that will—”
Fiona spun, heading toward the closest shop.
“All right,” Dhamon said. “You go find a bucket then.”
Ragh took her place at the well. “I’d crawl down there for something to drink if I was certain the stones wouldn’t give way.” The draconian leaned over the edge and looked down hungrily. His knee brushed a stone, and several shifted. “I think a strong wind might blow this over.” He looked up and met Dhamon’s gaze.
“There can’t have been anyone around here for years.”
“Aye, that’s for certain.” Dhamon indicated the sinkhole behind the leaning building. “The people obviously left when the land became unstable.”
“Maybe.” The draconian wore an uncertain expression. “Did you take a good look at the front entrance to the inn over there?”
Dhamon pushed away from the well, sending a stone to the water below. He returned to the main street. The inn the draconian mentioned was a few buildings down and at one time must have been quite impressive. There once had been three storys to it, though half of the top floor was gone. The building was a mix of wood and stone, with the stone painted dark green, but only flecks of the color remained. A broken bench on the sprawling porch was inlaid with bits of shells and bronze beads. The sign, lying split in two on the steps, proclaimed it the Enchanted Emerald Hostel. Trousers flapped on the steps, the belt snagged in a crack which kept them from being blown away. The matching shirt was caught under the bench. There were shoes, too, and a pipe. A tobacco pouch was sticking out of one pocket. It was as if someone just had taken off their clothes, laid them out, and walked away. As Dhamon and Ragh looked around, the breeze whipped cold around them, and their breath feathered away from their faces. Then the wind warmed slightly, leaving them with an apprehensive feeling.
“Maybe it wasn’t the sinkholes that made people leave,” the draconian said, as he tested the steps and warily climbed up.
Dhamon peered up the street, where more garments were strewn against buildings and steps and overturned carts—wherever the wind had left them. “Maybe it was something else. Let’s take a quick look around, get some of that water and some supplies, and then get out of here.”
“You show intelligence for a human. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, either.” The draconian gingerly prodded the door open and poked his head inside. “First I’m going to see if this town has a name, try to figure out where we are. There must be some maps around a place like this. With luck I’ll find one. Then we can look for a way out of here and be on our way—after Nura Bint-Drax.”
Dhamon watched Ragh ease inside the building, the old door banging shut behind the draconian, then he followed the street a little farther, looking for a tavern. He hoped to find mugs for water, and perhaps some bottles of spirits to ward off the autumn chill. Along the way, he glanced at the discarded, dirt-pitted clothing along the street. His route took him past a baker’s. The loaves of bread behind the window looked like bricks resting on a bed of grit. There was evidence some insects had feasted on the loaves but no sign of rats or birds. Peering into the shadows, he spotted interior counters filled with long-hardened treats, as well as a faded dress and apron, slippers and a hat that were spread out on the floor in the center of the room. Nearby was a child’s dress, a doll, and what looked like the collar of a dog.
“No people. No animals.” Dhamon moved to the next building, one that in years past had been gaily painted with strange symbols. He traced one of the symbols with his finger. He’d seen something like it before, perhaps in an arcane tome shown to him by his friend Maldred. Remnants of a bead curtain clicked in the doorway, and the scent of something not unpleasant wa
fted from inside. Thinking this might have been a sorcerer’s place, and therefore a place that held information about the strange town, he momentarily forgot his thirst and hunger and his caution. He pushed aside the beads and went inside.
* * *
Fiona was inside a farmer’s store and had propped the door open to let in more light. Goods were neatly displayed on shelves that lined three walls of the room. At first glance she didn’t see any buckets, but she did spot a large salt-glazed pitcher that she was quick to snatch up. She brushed away a cobweb and blew the dust off a section of countertop, placed the pitcher on it, then proceeded to fill up a leather bag she had pilfered. On the shelf closest to her was a small set of tarnished silverware, and these she added to her collection.
“Dhamon should be doing this—stealing—not me,” she muttered darkly. “He’s the thief. A liar and a thief. Just like his ogre friend Maldred. Liar. Liar. Liar.”
She gave the shelves a closer inspection. There were various-sized nails, hammers, and an entire rack devoted to building tools. There were lengths of rope, one of which she selected to replace the rotting one at the well, and there were a half-dozen lanterns and a large glass jar of oil. She made a note to return and fill a couple of the lanterns so they’d have some light when the sun completely disappeared—which would be very soon, judging by the sparse orange light fading from the shop.
Bolts of cloth were arranged near the floor, none of them appealing to her. They appeared common and were covered with dirt and webs. She spotted a pair of hunting knives, and these were quick to find their way onto her belt. They would do until she was fortunate enough to stumble upon a long sword. There didn’t seem to be a real weapon or shield in here, however. She would have to look for an armorer’s after she drank her fill.
[Dhamon 03] - Redemption Page 5