[Dhamon 03] - Redemption

by Jean Rabe - (ebook by Undead)

  “You do not have the ability to hurt me.”

  Dhamon dropped the shelf and threw his hands up, fingers closing tight around the wight’s neck. The creature’s open mouth was wide and black like a cave, laughter echoing deep inside. Dhamon squeezed harder and for a brief moment thought he was actually causing harm to the other-worldly creature. He felt the wight shudder, but it was only to effect another appearance change.

  “I told you that you cannot hurt me. You have no magic.” This time it took on the visage of Dhamon, speaking in his voice.

  Dhamon shifted around, keeping even with his double. His eyes scanned the shelves and walls, looking for a weapon. You say I can’t harm you, he thought, but that could be false.

  “No, it’s true, Dhamon Grimwulf. Your thoughts are open to me,” the Dhamon-image said. “You can inflict no pain.”

  Then if you can read my mind, let’s see if you can predict this. Dropping his hands, Dhamon balled both fists and drove them into his double’s stomach. His hands went right through the creature and out the other side. It felt as if he’d plunged his arms into an icy mountain stream, and when he pulled them back close he noticed they were bright pink from the cold. He continued to spar with his double, hurling various objects at it. Dancing toward one wall, Dhamon scooped up animal skulls and threw them. He tried vials of the sand and powder, bound sticks, anything he could reach and grab and throw.

  The creature followed him into the other room of the shop, where Dhamon continued to pelt it with objects—more skulls, bells, the strong-smelling roots. Those roots actually gave it pause, though no real damage was done.

  Magic, Dhamon thought. The roots are magic.

  “Yes. Only magic can hurt me. And I tell you this only because you do not have any magic about you.”

  Likely there’s nothing magical in this entire town.

  “Nothing that can hurt me. Years past I destroyed those things that could bring me pain.”

  Dhamon yanked another shelf off the wall and swung it with as much force as he could manage. There were times he had wished for death—when the scale on his leg gave him so much misery he couldn’t bear the torment—but he couldn’t let this petty creation of Chaos kill him here and now. There was Riki and his child and Maldred to find. There was Fiona to take care of. The wight had mentioned Fiona. Had the thing killed the female Knight?

  “I did little enough to the troubled woman,” the duplicate-Dhamon said. “She is physically unharmed.”

  Again Dhamon swung the shelf at his mirror image, again and again in a maddened flurry of blows destroying the shop.

  “I did little to the scarred beast that goes by three names.”

  Dhamon’s wild strokes continued, all ineffectual.

  “Three names. Draconian, sivak, and Ragh. The beast thinks very highly of you, human—and that seems to trouble it.”

  Despite the chill exuded by his opponent, Dhamon was sweating from the exertion. His rain of blows slowed. There has to be a weakness! his mind screamed.

  “I, too, think highly of you. You have not given up, though deep down you understand you cannot defeat me. Deep down you know I cannot be easily dismissed. You glance about for weapons, you scheme. Your mind does not stop. Impressive.”

  “I don’t intend to stop! You’ll not slay me!” This time when Dhamon swung, the shelf flew from his sweaty fingers and impacted against a wall. More monkey skulls and jars clattered to the floor.

  “I have no wish to slay you.”

  Dhamon stepped back, chest heaving, eyes narrowed and locked onto the intense pinpoints of light that served as his duplicate’s eyes. “If you don’t want to kill me, then what’s this about?”

  “If I slay you, Dhamon Grimwulf, you will be gone forever—like all the people in this town. I made that mistake once. If I only feed on you, there may come a day when you will pass through this town again, and I will feed once more.” The Dhamon-double raised a hand, flesh becoming black and wispy, finger-tendrils leading away and touching Dhamon’s chest.

  Dhamon felt utter despair. He had no desire to put up any further fight. He felt helpless, hopeless, and at the thing’s mercy.

  “Give in to me,” the Dhamon-wight said. “Give in completely.”

  Dhamon relaxed and felt the finger-tendrils skittering across his chest. Still, some part of him rebelled against surrender, abject defeat. I can’t give in, he told himself.

  “You cannot win, Dhamon Grimwulf.”

  Dhamon dropped to his knees. I can’t give in.

  “As strong as you are, you cannot best me.”

  A tear slid down Dhamon’s face and his hands shook. Fight it!

  “I must possess you, as I possess this town, but I will take from you only what I took from your companions.” The creature’s wispy black fingers feathered across Dhamon’s brow.

  Don’t let it win! Fight it with everything!

  The creature’s fingers continued to dance, then suddenly the hands drew back, and the creature tipped its chin up and roared. The Dhamon-form melted like butter. In the span of a heartbeat the wight took on the image of a lizardlike creature with thorny antlers.

  “Don’t fight me!” it raged. “You cannot win! You only postpone my feeding, Dhamon. You cannot put it off forever!”

  Dhamon took a deep breath and shakily got to his feet. He was trembling from the effects of the creature’s spell and from the cold the thing generated. It took considerable effort just to speak.

  “The red dragon couldn’t defeat me,” Dhamon said, fully aware that the creature was reading his thoughts and learning about his confrontation with Malys and about the scale on his leg. “Neither will a lesser, petty creature such as you defeat me. Whatever it is you’re trying to do to my mind, I won’t let you!”

  The creature retreated, floating above the floor and scrutinizing Dhamon as it had no previous victim. “Your mind is strong, human, and, to my astonishment, I admit I find myself unable to steal a part of it… at this moment.”

  “I can win,” Dhamon pronounced. “I might not be able to hurt you, but I can keep you from hurting me.”

  The wight laughed cruelly, and its eyes grew brighter. “I will not let you win. Give me what I want, Dhamon. Drop your defenses and make this easy and painless for both of us.”

  Dhamon defiantly shook his head.

  “If you don’t give in to me,” the wight said, each word deliberate and drawn out, “I will slay the ones you call Ragh and Fiona.”

  Dhamon sucked in a breath.

  “You know I can and will do this, as they are not as formidable as you. I will suck their minds dry and for spite leave you all alone in this nameless place. When our paths cross again, I will once more attack you. Again and again I will come after your mind until I wear you down and succeed. You cannot hold me off forever. Give in to me if you want your companions to live.”

  The silence was tense for several minutes.

  “Nothing,” the creature repeated. “You can do nothing about it. Nothing, if you want your companions, your friends, to live.”

  “What… what exactly do you want from me?”

  The lips of the lizard-image parted, revealing glowing yellow teeth and a snakelike tongue that slowly unrolled and slithered toward Dhamon.

  “One memory” the wight said. “That is all I require. I feed on the memories of the living. I’ll take only one from you. This time.” The tongue snaked around Dhamon’s neck and tugged him closer. Wispy fingers reached up and caressed Dhamon’s temples. “Just one, then you and your companions may leave this town. But if our paths again cross, I’ll take another memory. And another. Yet never all of them.”

  For a few moments more, Dhamon resisted.

  “Death for your friends,” the wight reminded. “Or one memory.”

  Dhamon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and the creature entered his mind.

  Chapter Five

  Stolen Youth

  One hundred and twelve Knights were camped
in a field of sage grass and wildflowers between the town of Hartford and the Vingaard River. Dhamon knew how many Knights there were exactly because he’d counted them three times. He lay on his stomach just beyond the edge of a small copse of trees, hidden by the grass, intently watching the men. His little brother was at his side, currently napping out of boredom. Dhamon was anything but bored, however. He’d never been more excited in all of his young life.

  He’d seen Knights before, a few Solamnics who passed through town from time to time on their way to somewhere else; most likely they were headed toward Solanthus to the south, where he’d heard there was a big outpost or fort or something. He’d certainly been impressed by the Solamnics and by the quartet of Legion of Steel Knights that was in Hartford two or three years past for a special ceremony involving one of their officers. What young man wouldn’t be captivated by uniformed, armed and armored men riding massive warhorses? He’d had older friends who’d gone off to join the Solamnics. One of his close friends, Trenken Hagenson, was now a Knight and due back for a visit late this fall or early winter.

  These particular Knights—Knights of Takhisis, the townsfolk called them in whispers—were impressive, and they boasted such numbers! They stirred intense emotions in the locals—fear, wonder, loathing, admiration. What Dhamon felt was awe. There was a quality about these Dark Knights that he hadn’t noticed in Knights from the other Orders. They were proud, powerful, supremely confident—Dhamon could feel their confidence all the way out here in his hiding place. What men these Knights were! If only Trenken could have seen them, he would have chosen this Order instead of the Solamnics. Each of the Dark Knights moved with strength and grace, shoulders thrown back and chest thrust out. There was not the slightest hint of fatigue or weakness, despite the fact they’d been up since before daybreak marching, drilling and practicing their swordsmanship. Dhamon knew all this, as he’d been here since shortly after dawn watching them.

  Most of the time he’d been lying in the tall grass, as he was now, but when his neck and legs got sore, he edged back to the comfort of a willow tree and splashed himself with water from the creek. Then he stood behind the tree and spied on them through the veil of leaves as he snacked on the peaches he’d brought along. His brother had been sent to look for him, to scold him, and to bring him home to do chores. Dhamon explained he had more important things to do than shear sheep today; he had Knights to watch. His brother protested but quickly realized if he stayed here with Dhamon he could avoid his chores, too. If anyone got in trouble, it would be older brother Dhamon.

  Dhamon was studying the Knight Field Commander now, his polished plate armor shining in the late afternoon sun. The man’s face glistened with sweat, and when he took off his helmet, Dhamon could see that his short hair was plastered against the sides of his head. It was the height of summer, the temperature was fierce, and the cloudless sky suggested no rain in the offing. Dhamon suspected the commander and all of his charges were miserable from the heat. The few not in armor had large wet circles under their sleeves. It was amazing that not one of the Knights had passed out.

  Dhamon himself was uncomfortably hot, though he had the shade from the trees and the nearby creek to cool him off. He shrugged out of his shirt and carefully folded it, scowling to see he’d dirtied it from lying on the ground. He made a note to clean it in the creek before he returned home so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

  The commander was barking more orders now. Dhamon could hear some of them. He was selecting men for another round of sword practice. After a glance at his brother to make sure he was still sound asleep, Dhamon crawled forward, determined to get a much closer look at his new heroes.

  Six men were doffing their armor, taking it off piece by piece, laying it all on the ground though following some solemn ceremony. Bare-chested, they evinced gleaming muscles, and their leggings were soaked with sweat. They were paired by twos, all with long swords and shields that reflected the sun and made Dhamon squint when he stared at them.

  A clap of the field commander’s hands and half the men assumed a defensive position. The other three began to strike blows against the defenders’ shields. It was like a dance, only better—Dhamon had seen plenty of dances during Hartford’s various festivals—but their movements were precise and in unison, the blows leveled in concert. A drum started beating, and the sword swings kept time. Dhamon imagined himself one of the Knights, practicing, practicing, until he was strong enough for battle. The drum’s cadence quickened, and the swings became bolder, still in unison as if choreographed by the commander. Then with one loud boom! the drum stopped and the men jumped to attention. The commander gestured to the first pair. Their swords flashed in the sun and clanged against each other, sounding crisp as bells. Dhamon was mesmerized.

  For long minutes the two men met each other blow for blow, neither backing down as the other four men circled to watch. Neither appeared to tire. One man was clearly larger, and Dhamon thought he might have the advantage because of his height, but the smaller man proved faster, pivoting and slashing, bringing the shield up to deflect his opponent’s thrusts. Dhamon was so engrossed in the mock combat that he didn’t see the Knight commander step away from the circle and take a wide path through the wildflowers to steal up behind him.

  The commander cleared his throat as Dhamon sprang to his feet, the color draining from his face, his mouth falling wide.

  “You’re too young to be a spy,” the field commander began curtly, “and you’re not dressed properly for it. Nor do you carry any weapons.”

  Dhamon cast a worried glance back toward where his brother was sleeping, where he’d left his shirt. He wanted to say something intelligent to the commander, but his mouth had turned instantly dry, and his voice would not cooperate.

  “So I’d guess you’re from nearby Hartford.”

  Dhamon nervously nodded. Another glance over his shoulder. His brother was still sleeping, hidden and unawares.

  “You’ve some muscles, young man.” The commander squeezed Dhamon’s arms. “So you’re no stranger to hard work. A farmer, probably, eh?”

  Another nod.

  “Hopefully not a mute one.”

  “N-n-no Sir.” Dhamon finally managed to stammer. “I was just… just… watching.”

  The field commander regarded him for several moments. Swords continued to clang in the background. “Watching?”

  “Y-y-yes Sir.” A moment more and he swallowed his nervousness. “Yes, Commander. I was watching your Knights.”

  The faintest smile appeared on the commander’s face, adding to the age lines around his mouth. He looked old to Dhamon, this close up. The hair at his temples was gray, and the thin mustache over his lip had white streaks in it. The man’s expression was hard, the steel-blue eyes adding to his sternness. His skin was weathered from the sun. His hands were calloused, and there was a thick, ropy scar on his forearm that Dhamon suspected came from a wound suffered in a great battle.

  “And after this watching, just what do you think of my Knights…?”

  Dhamon waited for the commander to add boy, as his father’s friends often did, and as did the storekeepers in town, the men to whom he delivered wool and other crops. Just what do you think of my Knights, boy? But the commander didn’t call him boy, and Dhamon realized he was asking his name.

  “Dhamon Grimwulf, Sir. And, yes, I’m from Hartford. My father owns a small farm there. We raise sheep mainly”

  “My Knights….?”

  Dhamon swallowed hard, meeting the commander’s gaze. He threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest, as he’d seen the Dark Knights do. “Your Knights are most impressive, Commander. I have been watching them, be-because I would like to join them. I want to become a Dark Knight, too.”

  Dhamon surprised himself. Certainly he admired the Knights and fancied himself becoming one. Fancied. It was a boyish fantasy, he told himself. Nothing more.

  “There is nothing more I want, Sir, than to be a Dark Knight.”
But it was more than a fantasy, he realized. It was what he really wanted to be, a Knight, not a farmer—and he wanted to be a Knight of Takhisis, not a member of the Legion of Steel or Knights of Solamnia.

  “Interesting,” the commander replied. His gaze shifted to a spot by the willow tree. Dhamon’s brother had awakened and was trying to crouch behind the veil of leaves. “Does he, too, want to be a Knight?” When the commander pointed to the younger Grimwulf, Dhamon’s brother made a squeaking noise and spun on his heels, vaulted over the creek and disappeared from sight. The slight smile grew wider on the Knight’s lined face.

  “No, Sir,” Dhamon answered. “Just me. That’s my younger brother.”

  “How old are you, Dhamon Grimwulf?” The smile vanished, replaced by an intensely probing expression that chased the breath from Dhamon’s lungs.

  “Thirteen. Thirteen last week, Sir.”

  “You look older than a mere thirteen.”

  Dhamon could have lied, said sixteen or seventeen. He could easily pass for older, as he was as tall as his friends who were that age. But he was afraid to lie to this man. Those eyes could pierce any falsehood and exact a terrible retribution.

  “Thirteen. That’s a little too young,” the commander said mildly, “for my unit. Though there are some who accept squires of your age. Years past our Order accepted boys at the age of twelve, but, as I said, that was years past. Now we look to young men who are sixteen, or older.”

  Dhamon set his jaw. “I do want to be a Dark Knight, Sir.”

  The commander slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’ve been watching us all day, Dhamon?” Behind them, the sparring stopped, and the men looked over to where he stood, visible to them from a distance. The field commander raised a hand for the next two men to begin their round. “Lying in the grass and studying my men since the sun came up?”

  Dhamon tried to hide his surprise that the man knew he’d been here that long. And he had tried to keep so quiet! “Yes, Sir. I have been watching your Knights all day”