[Dhamon 03] - Redemption

by Jean Rabe - (ebook by Undead)

  “We could still march to the coast, take shortcuts and…” Ragh swallowed the rest of his words as the wind blew away the edges of Dhamon’s hood. The draconian noticed the right side of Dhamon’s face was almost completely covered in small, black scales, and only a patch on his neck was still flesh. Dhamon’s hands were completely covered, too. The old sorcerer’s garment he was wearing hid most of it from prying eyes.

  “No, we’re taking this raft.” Dhamon stood grimly at the back, using the haft of the glaive to pole the raft along in the shallows. The draconian had to admit they were moving considerably faster than would have been possible if they were trudging through the thick grass.

  Ragh looked to the east, his interest caught by a trio of lounging crocodiles and the cloud of flies that haloed them. “But this raft won’t make it across the New Sea, you have to admit. It might not even make it to the New Sea.”

  “No, this raft won’t, but a ferry will,” Maldred interjected. “That’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it, Dhamon? Finding a ferry along the coast?”

  That was indeed Dhamon’s plan, but he didn’t bother to nod to the ogre-mage. He was scanning the river ahead, the thick foliage on both sides. He was thinking about the baby he had seen in Riki’s arms in the crystal ball vision and wondering if it was a boy or a girl and if in some small way its looks favored him. He used to be good-looking, he mused, before these terrible scales began to spread. At least the child would have a family life with Riki and Varek, something Dhamon unfortunately had been deprived of, as far as he knew. Funny, he could remember almost nothing of his boyhood, couldn’t recall his own mother and father—probably he was an orphan.

  “If I can make it safe for them, the child will have a good home,” he murmured.

  “What did you say, Dhamon?”

  “Nothing, ogre.”

  Maldred gave a great sigh, hung his head. Within a few moments, he was asleep.

  Dhamon couldn’t afford to rest. He wasn’t hungry either, and his forced pace hadn’t allowed his companions any time to eat. They could eat later. Perhaps he’d want food later, too. He didn’t need much rest anymore, or much food. His senses were keen, his strength remarkable. It was amazing what little it took to sustain him.

  Most of the time he felt stronger than ever, bristling with energy By the same token, every inch of him dully ached! He was nauseated half the time, and the other half his head throbbed. His feet hurt always, as they were growing and straining the limits of his boots. Damn the shadow dragon! he cursed inwardly with each breath. Thankfully the sleeves were long on this old sorcerer’s robe and helped to conceal his ugly form. When he came upon Riki and the child, he didn’t want them to see what was happening to him. If only I see them while there is still something human about me, he thought.

  He knew Ragh stole glances at him, as they followed the winding river under a waning sun. Dhamon was determined not to let the draconian know he was suffering from the shadow dragon’s magic, so he spent his time looking at everything but his two passengers. The view of the Black’s land was better from the river, and he imagined he might actually enjoy the journey were the circumstances different. The leaves of the cypress trees were a vivid emerald and decorated with colorful parrots, their long tails looking like ribbons tied to the branches. Though they were some distance away, he could see the fine detail on the birds, and hear their soft whistles. Their noise ebbed and flowed and at times added to the pounding in his head. He could make out the very edges and veins of the leaves, and hear their rustling, hear the little waves lapping against the raft, against the bank, hear unseen animals pattering through the brush, and by the sounds they made he guessed at what kinds of animals they were. He heard the snarl of a panther, the soft step of a deer, the growl of… something that wasn’t a normal creature.

  He pulled the glaive haft from the water and peered cautiously to his right. Not enough racket for a dragon, too much for a spawn or draconian. The creature growled again.

  “What is it, Dhamon?” Ragh was staring to the right also, careful not to rock the raft and furious when Maldred woke up, leaned over, and nearly upset all of them.

  Dhamon saw a branch move. It was inland from the river by better than three dozen yards. Probably nothing to be concerned with, but somehow he could see very well at that distance, even through tiny gaps in the dense foliage, and so he continued to stare. A large, scaly green hand shifted the branch. He made out the olive-hued torso of a lizard creature, a spear held in one of its clawed hands. A lizardman? No, he thought after more scrutiny. Too large, its scales were more pronounced. He couldn’t see all of the beast, only tantalizing parts, but after a moment he was able to figure out just what it was.

  “Abakali,” he growled low. “A stinking bakali.”

  Bakali were an ancient race and at one time were thought extinct. Better for all concerned if all the bakali were dead, Dhamon thought. Though cunning, bakali were not especially bright, though they were strong and brutal, and they tended to serve whatever master offered the best rewards. There were small, scattered tribes of them in the Black’s land, and Dhamon knew from encountering a hunting party a few years ago that at least some of them worked for Sable. This bakali was by itself, probably looking for something to eat. The way it was slinking, it was stalking something.

  “Not my concern.” He started poling the raft again, a little more slowly, watching the creature out of curiosity. Then he saw that it wasn’t alone after all. There were at least three more bakali—a small force, nothing that could deter him. His heart skipped a beat a few moments later when his extraordinary vision revealed just what they were stalking.

  “Ragh,” Dhamon spoke softly, though he knew the bakali were unaware of the three of them on the raft, and certainly couldn’t hear them at this distance. “There’s Fiona.”

  This time Ragh’s surprised reaction almost upset the raft. “The Solamnic? She’s not dead?”

  “Not yet,” Dhamon commented dryly, “but it looks like some big, ugly bakali are trying to change that.” Although Dhamon, equally surprised to see the Knight, was glad Fiona was alive, he also felt resentful that she had reappeared now to delay his trip. “Damn it all.” He was determined to keep her from ending up in the bakali’s stomachs, however.

  Had she managed to find their tracks and was following them for some reason? He hurriedly poled the raft toward the shore, indicating with a finger to his lips that the draconian and Maldred should keep quiet. He gestured toward the bakali, though he had lost sight of Fiona. He concentrated, trying to pick through the sounds of the swamp.

  The sounds intensified. The ruckus from the birds and other unseen creatures grew eerily louder, though the animals apparently weren’t coming closer. All of the sounds were becoming annoyingly indistinguishable to Dhamon’s super-sensitive ears.

  “Ragh, stay here and watch the ogre. Keep your eyes open for trouble.”

  Ragh and Maldred obviously hadn’t noticed a change in the sounds of the swamp. Ragh… Dhamon could hear the draconian’s raspy breathing a little too clearly could hear Ragh’s heart beat, hear Maldred’s too—it beat slower and louder than his own or Ragh’s.

  “You’ll need help.” The draconian spoke softly, Dhamon knew, but it sounded like a shout to his ears.

  Dhamon shook his head. “Small stuff. I certainly can handle four bakali by myself.” Even his own words sounded booming in his ears. “Watch the ogre, I say. We can’t afford to let him get away and warn the shadow dragon.” He tugged a corner of the raft onto the shore to anchor it, then, shouldering the glaive, he headed inland.

  Matters swiftly grew worse as he disappeared through the trees and out of sight of the raft. The sounds of the morass quickly became overwhelming, practically deafening. The drone of the insects and chatter of the birds was almost vicious, the rustling of the leaves resounding. Dhamon staggered and dropped the glaive to throw his hands over his ears. It didn’t help. A big cat snarled, the sound like a mighty ro
ar. The river rolled by, sloshing thunderously against the bank wells. He slammed his teeth together and threw his head back. How could he help Fiona when he couldn’t help himself? What by the names of all the vanished gods was happening to him now?

  “Ragh,” he gasped, wanting to tell the draconian to go after Fiona in his stead. Was he speaking loud enough?

  Could the draconian hear him? He shouted the draconian’s name now, the single word like a dagger thrust into his ears. Parrots screeched overhead, adding to the agony. The chitter of the insects swelled impossibly, slender branches rubbed against each other and echoed brutally in his head.

  He heard his heart pounding, thought he heard the blood rushing through his veins in rhythm with the river. His breath sounded like powerful gusts of wind.

  “Quiet,” he prayed. “Fiona. I have to help Fiona. Everything needs to be quiet.” Amazingly, in the next breath the cacophony lessened, startling him. Although still loud, it was no longer earsplitting, and he could think. Quiet. Please, please, make it quiet. Centering his thoughts on that one idea, he discovered that he could diminish some of the individual sounds—though it took some effort. He concentrated more intensely until all the noises lessened and became bearable.

  His hearing restored, he retrieved the glaive and plodded forward. With each step he felt better. He listened for the hisses and growls of the bakali. He was able to pinpoint these noises, bringing them to the fore, then he heard something else—the hiss of steel, a sword being drawn, a feminine intake of breath. Peering through the giant blooms of lianas, Dhamon spotted Fiona in a fighting stance in a small, mossy clearing.

  There was something different about her, he immediately thought. Something . . . her face! The acid scars were gone. The hair that had melted away had returned. That shouldn’t be! Worry over that later, he told himself. Worry about the bakali now.

  She was closing in defiantly on a towering bakali. The creature, looking like a cross between a man and a crocodile, with spiky ridges and armorlike hide, was easily eight feet tall. Slavering jaws clacked as it darted in, bone club held high.

  Three others, armed with large bone clubs, were grouped on the side of the clearing closest to himself. Dhamon stepped out into the open, readied the glaive, and rushed at them.

  Although the bakli seemed utterly reptilian with thick hides, they walked on two legs and had their own language like men. One of the three had a thicker brow, another’s hide was brighter, looking the shade of trillium leaves, and the last had narrow shoulders and incongruously thick forearms. Otherwise they looked remarkably similar—ugly. All of them had wicked-looking claws and narrowing eyes that locked fiercely onto Dhamon.

  In a half-dozen long strides he reached the lead bakali, drew the glaive back and swung it hard in front of him. The creature snarled curses in its ancient tongue and raised its bone club high, but it never got the chance to use its primitive weapon. The axe-like blade of the glaive clove through the bakali’s chest, practically cutting it in two. The two other creatures hesitated, then as Dhamon continued his charge, the smaller one turned and fled. Within a heartbeat, the laggard met the same fate as the first bakali.

  Behind him, Dhamon could here the thunk of Fiona’s sword against the hide of the biggest bakali. He paused and sniffed the air, smelling the blood leaking from the two he’d just slain and the one Fiona had obviously wounded. The smaller bakali was heading toward twin shaggybarks at the far end of the clearing, and Dhamon had to stop it before it could call for any others that might be nearby. This creature had a slightly different odor. Perhaps it was carrying an unguent or perhaps it was a female in cycle.

  Just as Dhamon reached the shaggybarks the bakali jumped out between the two trees and hurled something at him. Three silvery shards flashed at him like shooting stars. Dhamon veered, but too late. All three found their mark, two in his stomach, one in his shoulder. They were metal barbs that dug through his sorcerer’s robes and bit into his flesh.

  As Dhamon darted around the largest tree, the bakali hurled three more of the metal barbs at him, striking with accuracy. Dhamon howled in pain as he raised both hands over his head, bringing the glaive down for a killing blow. The bakali had turned, but the blade clove its back before it could take more than a couple of steps.

  Dhamon tugged the glaive free, seeing the bakali was mortally wounded, pathetically clawing at the ground in a useless attempt to escape. He ended its misery.

  Then he loped back toward Fiona, who seemed to be losing ground in her fight. He smelled human blood now—hers, his own—and something else. It was a biting scent he couldn’t identify, but one similar to that emanating from the small bakali.

  He sniffed, and his pace involuntarily slowed, legs feeling suddenly heavy. Curiously, the constant ache in his limbs had lessened. He was starting to feel numb.

  “Poison.” Shouldering the glaive, Dhamon frantically plucked at the several metal barbs stuck in him. The odd smell was some sort of poison. He noted a residue of white paste on the sharp tips as he pulled them out, one by one, and tossed them away.

  “Damn it all,” he muttered. Dhamon forced himself to keep moving, though he felt overcome with sluggishness. He could tell his heart had slowed. He could call for Ragh again, though he knew the raft was probably too far away. “Damn the dragon and damn me.” The poison made him groggy, but he guessed it wouldn’t kill him.

  A few steps more and he was at Fiona’s side. He dazedly noted where the bakali had raked her left arm. Fiona barely nodded at him. She was faltering. Fatigue, he decided, or maybe more poison. Tired and wounded, she was losing her fight with the bakali.

  Dhamon stepped between her and her foe and took a high grip on his weapon.

  “Foul beast,” he cursed. He thrust forward with the glaive, ramming the tip of the blade into the bakali’s stomach. The lizard-creature swung back wildly, grazing him with its claws.

  “Again,” Dhamon told himself, summoning all his energy to swing a second time at the determined creature. This hit cut deeper and made the thing yowl. Worry spread across its reptilian visage. Glancing over its scaly shoulder, the bakali saw the fate of its companions.

  The bakali chattered at Dhamon as it backed away, working hard to stay beyond the reach of the glaive. Dhamon couldn’t understand what the beast was saying, probably in its native language. Probably it was pleading for its life. Dhamon could smell the stench of its fear. He could taste its fear. Shuddering at the disturbing sensation, Dhamon forced his heavy limbs to move just a little quicker so he could end this struggle.

  “You ssshould hunt creatures with four legsss, not two,” he told it. His words were slurred and his tongue thick, but he found his heart beating a little faster from the excitement. He heard Fiona creep up behind him, and he heard her take a deep breath just as he swung hard, putting all his strength behind this final blow. The blade parted the bakali’s thick flesh like parchment, and the creature’s black blood splattered Dhamon. A second swing took the creature’s head off, and at that very moment Fiona acted. She thrust her enchanted blade deep into Dhamon’s back.

  Dhamon screamed at the shock and pain, dropping his weapon even as the female knight pulled her sword out of him for a second blow. He stumbled around, took a step back and tried to retrieve his weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. Fiona circled in the opposite direction, slashing at him from the side, the blade sliding between his ribs. Either of her blows would have killed a normal man, but Dhamon’s extraordinary strength kept him on his feet. Fiona shouted her frustration. Her third swing had more thrust and caught him in the legs. He fell to his knees and flailed forward, trying to knock her sword away.

  It was her madness that was causing this betrayal, he knew, and it was the poison in him that was keeping him from a proper counterattack.

  “Fiona, it’sss me, Dhamon! Ssstop!”

  His shout was slurred, although it would take more than volume to reach some part of her mind that might still be sane. Dhamon shouted again,
more weakly. He barely managed to dodge beneath her next swing, and the next. “Ragh!” he cried. “Ragh!”

  “Call for your wingless pet all you like,” Fiona sneered. “Fil kill him, too.”

  Dhamon had stood up to draconians, spawn, dragons, and survived all of them. How could he die now, the victim of someone who, in his righteous days, he considered a friend? Move! he told himself. Get clear, talk some sense into her. Get the glaive. Get help. Help!

  He felt the warm stickiness of his blood on his back and side, blood running down his leg. The coppery scent of it grew strong. He guessed her blade had broken his ribs. “Fiona,” he pleaded. “It’sss me. Dhamon. Remember? Ssstop, or you’ll kill me.”

  She bared her teeth but stayed her next blow. There was a tempest in her eyes—eyes seething out of control. He felt an uncharacteristic tug of fear at that look.

  “It’sss me, Dhamon.”

  “Of course I know who you are!” Her words came fast and hard, like lightning and thunder from the storm inside her. “I know! The mighty Dhamon Grimwulf—failed Dark Knight, failed champion of Goldmoon. Failed. Failed. Failed. The only thing you’re successful at is killing people. Killing your friends. By the memory of Vinus Solamnus, Dhamon, I will kill you!”

  She darted in, and this time it took all his luck to stay out of her reach. He brought his arms up defensively, but hadn’t the strength anymore to evade her blows. The blood he’d lost and the poison that was coursing through him were taking a heavy toll.

  “Rig’s dead, Dhamon,” she said bitterly. Fiona lunged, her blade solidly striking his arm and sending a few scales flying. She was toying with him now—confident she had him and drawing out the end to her own satisfaction. “Rig’s dead, and you killed him!”

  Dhamon shook his head, somehow managed to fight his way to his feet. Dizzy, he nearly pitched forward but squared his shoulders and jumped back just in time. She’d have run him through with her fierce swing. He held a hand. “I didn’t kill Rig, Fiona, I…”