He didn’t reply and he didn’t retreat. He just stared into her eyes, hoping to connect with sanity.
“Just why do you want to have one of these knives, Dhamon? Do you want to use my own weapons against me?” She tugged the second knife free, but held it at her side. “Or maybe you want to—”
“Cut his hair with it.” Ragh grabbed the threatening knife. He’d moved up behind her silently. He passed the knife pommel first to Dhamon, who after a moment backed away.
“Oh. Cut his hair.” Fiona turned and knelt at the edge of the creek. She transferred her remaining knife to her right hand and speared a crawfish on the pebble-lined bottom. She worried the blade at its shell, pulled out the flesh, and stuffed it into her mouth.
Looking at her, Dhamon felt more pity than anger. He quickly shaved and cut the tangles from his air. Though his hair was uneven and hung to just above his shoulders, he looked more presentable. Sticking the knife in his belt, and acknowledging Fiona’s glare for doing so, he led his two companions back to what was left of the road. He didn’t stop for rest or speak again until, an hour later, the silhouette of a town came into view.
It was a mining colony at the road’s end, just as indicated on Ragh’s map. The mining town was empty, and they quickly bypassed it for fear there might be another Chaos wight haunting the place. They continued to follow faded wagon tracks until just before sunset when they camped in the open away from a fresh cluster of sinkholes. The sunset was the only dash of color on the land, painting the ground a pale orange and making the edges of the low-hanging clouds look like liquid gold. They drank in the beautiful sight without speaking. Fiona and Ragh settled in for the evening when the last of the color faded.
Dhamon sat watch all during the night, listening to the soft snores of the draconian and the surf washing against the nearby beach. He stared out into the darkness as he felt the heat begin to radiate from the large scale on his leg. Clamping his teeth shut and swallowing a scream., he dug his fingers into the earth and endured another painful episode without waking the others. It was a night of excruciating agony.
All the while he thought of Riki and his child—his need to see them before he died, needing to know that they were all right. There was Maldred to consider, too, and other things to atone for if there was time. Before the torment sent him spiraling into unconsciousness, he prayed to the vanished gods that he had enough days to set things right.
* * *
There was a cemetery on the outskirts of Bev’s Oar, most of the graves marked by wooden planks the color of the earth. Rows of markers stood as straight as soldiers’ ranks, the ground hard-packed and forbidding with silt blown across it by the wind.
“Graves are old,” Ragh stated.
“Most of them,” Dhamon said. He pointed far to his left, where two more recent graves told them someone was still alive in town to do the burying. Dhamon reached into his pocket and felt the coins he’d taken from the skeleton. He tugged a few out, the light catching them and glinting. “We’ll get something to eat in the town, get some clothes, a passage.” Get off this rock and be about my business—fast, he added to himself.
Dhamon inhaled deep—his keen senses picking up the smell of the earth, the rotting wooden grave markers, and the faint scent of bread baking, cinnamon. He pointed down a path to the row buildings about a half mile away. “Just through this graveyard and—”
“Wonder who’s buried here?” Fiona had wandered away and was staring at the marker on the grave that seemed to be one of the most recent. Dhamon and Ragh joined her. The marker was a polished plank of walnut that looked like it was once the back of a chair, and carved on it were the words: Died After The Sun Went Down.
A chill raced down Dhamon’s spine, and suddenly the smell of the bread wasn’t quite as tempting. He looked at the other markers. The oldest were the hardest to read, the sea air and the years weathering them badly. However, they had the most information on them—names and dates: Mavelle Colling, Beloved Wife and Sister; Wilgan G. Thrupp, Died of the Sweating Sickness; Bold Bolivir, Treasured Husband and Son; Ann-Marie, Cherished Grandmother; and more. Graves that appeared less than two or three decades old lacked any detail. There were no names, no real dates. One said: Tall Man. Another: Old Woman. Some said: Died Today, though “today” had to have been a year or more ago judging by the condition of the packed earth.
Little Boy, Red-Haired Man, Fishing Man, Thin Elf, One-Eared Goblin, Woman in Apron, Lovely Young Girl, Tavern Owner, and the like.
“What in the levels of the Abyss?” Dhamon breathed. “What kind of a weird cemetery is this?”
Ragh was tracing the more informational message on a very old, chipped stone. “Beven Wilthup-Colling, Proud Founder of Bev’s Oar. Born in the summer of the Year of the Storms, Died at age sixty in the Year of the Great Turtles.”
“I’m done sightseeing at this cemetery,” Fiona said. “All this death is depressing. Death surrounds you, Dhamon. Let’s go into the village.”
Dhamon grabbed her arm. “Aye, Fiona, we’re going into that village. But this cemetery has given me a bad sense about the place. You and Ragh shouldn’t go in until after I’ve made sure it’s safe.”
“Dhamon the hero,” she said tonelessly.
“I’m no hero,” he said.
“No, I guess you’re not. A hero would have saved Jasper and Shaon.”
Dhamon snarled, thrusting Fiona at Ragh. “Keep her here until I get back.”
“Who were Jasper and Shaon?” Ragh asked.
The dwarf Jasper was a very good friend, Dhamon thought. I almost killed him but it wasn’t my fault, the red dragon controlled me. I couldn’t save him later on at the Window to the Stars. Fiona knows. She knows the list. Jasper—one more name on the list of people who died because they adventured with me.
Shaon… A dragon I once rode killed her.
“Who were Jasper and Shaon?”
“The two of you stay here until I come back,” Dhamon said tersely. He wasn’t about to add Fiona to the list, or the draconian for that matter.
“And if you don’t come back?” Ragh asked.
Dhamon hurried down the path toward Bev’s Oar.
He sighed with relief when he was beyond the graveyard and at the edge of town. The first few buildings he saw were relatively new and well-maintained, with brightly painted eaves and shutters and dried flowers arranged in pots outside the doors. Signs hung above businesses, the pictures on them showing a tavern, fishmonger, inn, and weaver. So far, so good. Things looked normal.
“Thank the Dark Queen’s memory,” he breathed. “People.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but part of him didn’t expect the dozen or so men and women who strolled along a cobblestone street that served as the main thoroughfare—he could hear the indistinct click-clack of their heels, an altogether welcome sound. A dog yipped as it playfully chased a lanky young man around a corner and down a side street. A matronly woman clucking at a child at her side carried a basket filled with bread. Dhamon took a few steps down the street, his own heels clacking on the cobblestones—indeed a comfortable sound, he told himself, after all they’d been through. He considered waving to get Ragh’s attention, have them both hurry into town right now, but he didn’t know how the people would react to his scales. If they didn’t accept him, they wouldn’t accept the draconian. He had to check things out a little more.
Just a block or two more, he thought. So far no one had pointed at him and shouted in fear. Just one more block… Dhamon stopped in his tracks. While the buildings on this end of town were well-constructed and kept up, those down the first side street appeared thrown crazily together. A few were made of the hulls of ships, one even had a mast sticking out of its roof. Another was fashioned of vegetable crates stacked six or seven feet high, with a sail lashed over the top to keep out the rain. Next to that was a small dwelling made of woven sticks and fronds, looking like a hut one might find in a jungle.
Curi
ous and alarmed, he continued on, spotting a residence built out of stones—as well as any dwarf could construct it. Next to it, however, was a mound of earth with a small door set into it and a ship’s porthole carved into the side to serve as the window.
There were homes that looked like they were made of the remains of torn-down buildings. There were a half-dozen lean-tos, inside of which two hobgoblins sat eating charred rodents. They quietly regarded Dhamon for a few moments, then one gave him a wide grin and a welcome nod.
“Hobgoblins,” he muttered. No wonder no one was pointing at him.
With each step he took, a part of Dhamon told him to go back to Ragh and Fiona and find another town as a safe haven. But finding another town would take time. He touched a scale that had just recently appeared on his wrist. He didn’t have much time.
A trio of elves were patching the thatch on a narrow, two-story building. Across the street from the elves, a goblin watched and offered suggestions in broken Common. After a moment, Dhamon realized the elves were following the goblin’s advice.
“Something to eat,” he said to himself. “Clothes, passage. That’s all we want. Not much. Then we’ll get off this damnable rock as fast as possible.” He needed some herbs, too, for Fiona’s wound, but the wound was far from life-threatening, and he wondered if it was better to let the Knights on Southern Ergoth tend to her rather than waste another moment here. “Where’s the docks?” Dhamon mused. He’d go just a little farther, explore down some more side streets to the north. If there was a fishmonger, there had to be at least fishing boats—and all it would take to get them to Southern Ergoth was a big fishing boat and someone who knew how to captain it. Anything that will float, he told himself. “There has to be—”
“Good morning!”
Dhamon whirled to see a gawky looking human with a mop of dirt-brown hair and a reed-thin mustache. The human was wearing a pressed white tunic with an insignia over his right breast, and he had a long red sash around his waist that caught the faint breeze and flapped at his knees. At his side was a hobgoblin wearing a ship’s flag for a cape.
“Good morning to you!” the man repeated, extending his hand.
“And to you,” Dhamon cautiously replied, his unease multiplying as he studied the pair.
The hobgoblin wearing the odd cape grinned wide, and a line of drool spilled over its lower lip and stretched to the ground.
“You’re a stranger to Bev’s Oar.” This came from the man. The man glanced casually at Dhamon’s scale-covered legs, then, dismissing them, met Dhamon’s gaze.
Obviously I’m a stranger, Dhamon thought. “Aye,” he said, finally shaking hands with the man and noting his firm grip. “I am new to this part of Nostar.”
The hobgoblin grinned wider still and nudged the gawky man.
“Oh, yes. Excuse my manners. Welcome to our humble town!” The man patted Dhamon on the shoulder. “Always happy to see a new face. You’re lookin’ pretty tired. Must have traveled quite some distance to get here.”
Obviously. “The storm the other night,” Dhamon began in an effort to appear friendly. “I was washed ashore and—”
“Took the roof off the bait shop. That was quite a row, wasn’t it… Mister…?”
“Grimwulf.”
The man frowned, worrying at a button on his tunic. “What a… grim name.”
Dhamon hadn’t yet decided whether to mention he had companions. “Listen, I—”
“Bet you’re hungry, too. You could do with some sleep and some new clothes. Definitely some food. Definitely some clothes. Looks like you haven’t eaten in days. So thin. We’ll fix you up… Mister Grimwulf. In Bev’s Oar we take good care of folks.”
“There be no strangers here.” This curious remark came from the hobgoblin.
Dhamon looked back and forth between the two. “Then if there are no strangers, who—”
The gawky man beamed. “I am the lord mayor of Bev’s Oar. This is my assistant.”
The hobgoblin nodded, more drool spilling over his lip and pooling at his toes.
“Assistant.” Dhamon’s face clouded.
The mayor caught his expression and sadly shook his head. “My very able assistant. The folks in Bev’s Oar have no prejudice… Mr. Grimwulf.” He pointed to the scales on Dhamon’s leg. “We accept everyone, including you.” His point made, he again raised his eyes level with Dhamon’s. “Now about gettin’ you some food and clothes.”
Dhamon took a chance. “I have two companions waiting just outside of town.”
“Well, hurry and fetch them. I doubt the inn will be servin’ breakfast for too much longer.”
Chapter Seven
Nameless Faces
The inn owner would take none of Dhamon’s coins for the feast she provided. The portly woman simply beamed at them and placed heaping plates of eggs, goat cheese, and warm bread on their table. She was also quick to fill their mugs with steaming cider. Fiona dug in without question, eating so quickly she barely chewed her food. Ragh, too, ate ravenously, pausing for breath only when he’d finished his first plate. Dhamon, however, warily picked at the meal, eyeing the inn owner and the lord mayor and his hobgoblin assistant. The last two were seated a few tables away, engrossed in whispered conversation. Dhamon wanted to feel comfortable in this town that supposedly welcomed everyone, told himself he should feel comfortable. Ragh and Fiona obviously did. But he couldn’t wholly relax and dismiss every apprehension. People just weren’t this friendly, he knew from experience. Hobgoblins didn’t easily mingle with humans and accept into their midst strangers covered in scales. Better that they get some clothes and be on their way to the docks and to Southern Ergoth.
“It doesn’t feel right here,” Dhamon whispered to Ragh.
“Too thin, you are!” the woman scolded Dhamon as she shuffled back to the table. “You need to put some more flesh on those bones of yours.” She spooned more eggs onto his plate and shook the spoon at him for emphasis. “You look hungry. You should eat my good cooking more often.”
Dhamon politely nodded.
“Mayor says,” she continued, “you were washed ashore during the storm the other night. We’ve folks here from storms past, but the three of you don’t look like any sailors I ever saw.”
Dhamon stirred the eggs. “Thank you for the food, ma’am.”
“Least I can do,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders after he offered no further conversation. “We take care of folks around here.”
With a full mouth, Ragh also mumbled his gratitude, and the woman affectionately patted him on the back.
Dhamon ate about half of what had been set before him, all the while watching the woman, the mayor, and the hobgoblin. The woman had not batted an eye at the wingless draconian and only gave the conspicuous scales on Dhamon’s legs and wrists passing notice.
“Ragh…”
The draconian looked up and brushed at the crumbs on his lips.
“Does any of this bother you, Ragh?”
The draconian tipped his head. “That I’ve drawn no more attention than the two of you?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a nice change,” he said. “Maybe I’ll let it bother me when I’m done eating.”
Dhamon turned his full attention to the lord mayor. He concentrated, his acute hearing picking up voices through the clink of forks against plates. “They are talking about us,” he whispered to Ragh.
“Why shouldn’t they be?” The draconian chuckled and raised his mug. The inn owner bustled over and refilled it, then topped off Dhamon’s and Fiona’s glasses for good measure. She retreated to the kitchen.
“They are speculating about where we come from, who we are, what we know about the world, and…”
“Why wouldn’t they? This is a small town. Dhamon, eat.”
Dhamon barely touched the rest of his food, pushing the plate away when the eggs were cold. When Fiona and Ragh finally ate their fill, Dhamon stood and dropped a steel piece on the table, not wanting to
feel too indebted to the woman. He was about to direct Ragh and Fiona north to where he knew the docks were but was steered out the door in the opposite direction by the lord mayor. His hobgoblin assistant lingered behind, devouring more breakfast.
“I said we’d do something about those threadbare clothes of yours,” the mayor said. “This way, Dhamon Grimwulf. Your lovely companion also needs new clothes. Is she your wife?”
Fiona shook her head. “We’re not even friends any longer. I am to be married soon, to an Ergothian.”
“Ergothian? What’s that?”
“A man from a land far from here,” she breathed.
“You must teach me all about Ergoth,” the mayor said. “In fact…”
Dhamon shut out the rest of the lord mayor’s conversation. He glanced over his shoulder. The inn owner was standing in the doorway watching them, a smile still plastered on her fleshy face. She waved to Ragh. There were a few dozen townsfolk moving on the street, their heels click-clacking, a few of them looking his way. Their clothes marked the majority of them as commoners, but they all appeared clean and healthy and in good spirits. A stoop-shouldered vendor, dressed a little better than most, was setting up a small cart on the corner and was hanging up thick strips of meat, spiced pork from the smell of it. There were other smells, too, floating in the crisp air—cinnamon bread and other goods from the bakery, fish, probably lying on the docks from fishing boat hauls, musky perfume from a woman who passed near them. He could still taste the eggs and goat cheese that heavily coated his teeth.
“How many people live in Bev’s Oar?” Dhamon interrupted the lord mayor’s conversation with Fiona.
“Don’t know,” the mayor said, as he led them to a freshly trimmed birch-paneled building. A spool of thread and crossed needles were displayed on a sign that hung above the door. “But there’ll be three more if you decide to stay. I’d like to learn about this ‘Ergoth.’”
[Dhamon 03] - Redemption Page 10