[Dhamon 03] - Redemption

by Jean Rabe - (ebook by Undead)

  “Liar!” She swung her long sword at waist-level now, piercing Dhamon’s robes and drawing another line of blood. “Monster!” she howled, spying the scales on his stomach. “Spawn! You killed Rig as surely as if you’d plunged the blade in his heart. You took us—took him—from the dungeons, but you didn’t do anything to save him.”

  “Fiona, listen…”

  “We were abandoned in Shrentak, Rig and me. You didn’t care what happened to us. Not you, not your lying ogre friend. You killed Rig, Dhamon Grimwulf, just like you killed everyone else who got too close to you.” The female Knight lunged again, slashing at him, still toying with him, Dhamon knew. He didn’t have the strength anymore.

  He dropped to his knees.

  “Praying, Dhamon?” Fiona taunted. “Are you praying to the gods to be saved?” She tossed back her head and laughed. “Well, the gods aren’t in this accursed swamp, Dhamon. It’s just you and me, and I’m not going to save you. I’m going to kill you.”

  Dhamon didn’t fear death. At times he’d wished for it. But if he was dead he would never meet his child. He would never be able to help Rikali. Ragh! He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Help! There was a sour taste on his tongue, which he recognized as the poison mixed with his blood.

  “First it was Shaon,” Fiona spat. She paced around him. “She was Rig’s first love, you know. He told me all about her—someone I would have liked, I think. Oh, you’ll say you didn’t kill her, either, that you weren’t responsible, but she died to the blue dragon you rode when you were a Knight of Takhisis, didn’t she? Shaon wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t brought her into contact with that dragon.”

  It was getting difficult to hear Fiona, all he heard was a rushing noise, like a crashing wave filling his ears. Was it his blood pumping? His heart trying to beat? No, he heard his heart faltering. Did his child in some small way favor him?

  “Next it was Goldmoon. Wait. You didn’t kill her, did you, Dhamon? You only tried to—with that weapon over there, the one lying on the ground. You gave it to Rig, all red with Goldmoon’s blood. Didn’t want it anymore because it wasn’t good enough? Not good enough at killing? Didn’t want it because you weren’t able to slay Goldmoon with it?”

  With her foot, she nudged the haft of the glaive away from Dhamon. “Want to see if it’s good enough now? Want to try to kill me with it? OK, pick it up.”

  Dhamon shook his head. He willed his fingers to reach for the weapon.

  “Then it was Jasper. Sorry, you didn’t thrust a blade into his heart either, did you? But you might as well have. He was with you—we all were with you—at the Window to the Stars. We were united against the overlords, intending to stop the new Takhisis from being born. Oh, we were very righteous! Jasper died there, at the claws of a dragon, died because you led us all to that fateful spot.” This time she nudged the haft against his leg. “Pick it up.” She raised her voice, spitting each word. “And Fetch. From what Rig told me you killed the poor kobold, too. You forced him to use Black Robe magic until it sucked the life out of him. My beloved Rig had his life sucked away because of you too!”

  All at once Fiona looked odd to Dhamon, hazy, like a chalk drawing running in the rain. All the edges were soft, her voice blurry. He couldn’t hear his heart anymore, no birds or animals, no rushing in his ear. He sensed she was yelling from the expression on her face, but he heard only whispers—her voice and… Ragh’s?

  “Murderer. You killed Rig! You killed them all.”

  He caught a glimpse of something sparkling red, moving against the orange sky. It was his blood on the edge of Fiona’s sword, and the blade was driving down again. Dhamon waited for oblivion.

  “I tried to stop Maldred.” Ragh’s whispery-hoarse voice. “I tried to… Dhamon!”

  Fiona’s blade coming down. Chalk running in rain. Dhamon pitched onto his back and watched a streak of intense blue wash all the chalk away.

  The streak was Maldred, though Dhamon was beyond knowing any reality. The ogre-mage hurtled over Dhamon and collided with Fiona, throwing the surprised Knight off-balance. His elbow slammed into her jaw. His fingers closed over the crosspiece of the sword and yanked it from her grip, then he tossed it beyond her reach.

  Maldred looked to Ragh.

  “She cut him pretty bad,” the draconian answered. He leaned over Dhamon, palm pressed against a wound on his side, trying to stop the blood. “I thought you were trying to fool me, ogre, when you said you heard Dhamon calling for me. I thought you were just trying to get away”

  Maldred didn’t reply, but glanced at Fiona to make sure the Knight wasn’t moving—he’d hit her soundly enough. “By my father, she did nearly kill him.”

  “Nearly?” Ragh shook his head. “Look at all this blood. I’d say she accomplished the task. He’s dead, ogre. His body just doesn’t know it yet. Look at all this blood.”

  The draconian’s hands were covered, the ground was soaked, and Dhamon’s robe was dark with blood. Maldred gingerly turned Dhamon over and saw the wound on his back.

  “There’s more blood on the ground than there is inside him,” Ragh said, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

  “What you’re doing, it’s not good enough,” Maldred told the draconian. “Dhamon’s a healer of sorts. He told me he was one time a battlefield medic with the Dark Knights. I picked up a few things from him, and from an ogre healer, Grim Kedar.

  “Get me some moss, and hurry,” Maldred continued. “Whatever you can find. Some roots—from three-leaved flowers, the purple and white ones that grow close to the ground. Make sure you don’t break the roots. I need the sap that’s in them.”

  Maldred ripped strips from Dhamon’s robe, using them to staunch some of the bleeding. His eyes followed the draconian, who had scooped up the two-handed sword and the glaive, awkwardly carrying both while searching around the bases of small shaggybarks. “You’ll make faster time without those,” Maldred called. “I won’t try to take them. I wouldn’t need weapons to kill you.” Then he turned back to Dhamon.

  “I’m not a healer, dear friend,” he said, knowing full well Dhamon couldn’t hear him, “but I watched Grim often enough, and the old one taught me a few things. I’ll try to save you….”

  The ogre-mage hummed from deep in his throat. There was no discernible pattern to the melody, nor did it sound pleasant or all that musical, but Maldred kept at it, concentrating on his humming, and all the while he continued to press on the wounds.

  “Watch Fiona,” the ogre-mage said, briefly interrupting his magic when Ragh returned with the moss and a couple of roots. “She’s starting to come around. Sit on her if you have to. I can’t deal with her and Dhamon both, and he’s obviously the priority”

  The draconian frowned, clearly not liking to be ordered around, but he thrust that irritation aside and complied. He didn’t have to sit on Fiona. She was still groggy from colliding with Maldred, trying to raise herself up on her elbows and failing. She blinked and rolled her head from side to side, looking up at Ragh and moaning piteously.

  “Did I kill Dhamon?” she asked.

  Ragh looked over his shoulder at Maldred. “Maybe,” he said. He shivered when her eyes brightened and she smiled.

  “Ugly song,” she commented.

  Maldred’s tune continued for a long time: until twilight, until he nearly lost his voice. “Dhamon should be dead, but…” he murmured at one point, his voice as raspy as the draconian’s.

  “But…” The draconian waited, glancing back and forth between Fiona, who had been permitted to sit up, and Dhamon, who still lay unconscious and pale. In Ragh’s arms were cradled the glaive, the great sword, and Fiona’s bloodied long sword, which he’d retrieved.

  “But he’s alive,” Maldred returned. “He’s a long way from healthy, though I think he’s going to make it. He’s lost too much blood, and a couple of ribs are broken. I’d like to get him to a real healer.”

  “We’ll have to settle for getting him back to the raft right n
ow,” Ragh said. “I’d rather be on the river at night than around this part of the swamp.” He prodded Fiona to her feet and nodded toward the river. “I wish I knew what to do with her.”

  Maldred snorted. “We’ll take her along until Dhamon comes to and decides.”

  “Dhamon Grimwulf will kill me,” Fiona spat, “as he kills everyone who gets close to him. As he’ll kill both of you some day.” Then she grudgingly struck off toward the river. She caught Ragh’s cold look. “You’ll agree it’s too bad I didn’t kill him.”

  “Yes, too bad,” Ragh said softly. “Better that Dhamon die, than become a misshapen monster like me.”

  Fiona smiled.

  “Move, Knight!” Ragh snapped, “and your weight damn well better not make the raft sink. I refuse to swim across the New Sea.”

  * * *

  The raft tipped dangerously with Fiona’s added weight. Ragh tore strips from her tunic to tie her hands behind her, and he ordered Maldred to watch her. However, the ogre-mage had to pay more attention to Dhamon, who was feverish and delirious.

  As Dhamon had done, Ragh used the haft of the glaive to pole them along the shallow side of the river. The moon showed the way and provided enough light for him to nervously watch his charges. “Why in honor of the Dark Queen’s brood am I doing this?” he muttered. “I could be away safe somewhere, away from the demented Knight and this treacherous ogre. Away from Dhamon, who might be better off dead.”

  Dhamon twitched, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, which still showed mostly human skin. Underneath bandages dark with blood his scales gleamed. As Ragh watched him, he saw a small patch of skin on Dhamon’s jaw darken and bubble. The area, about the size of a small coin, swelled and took on a dark sheen, became a scale.

  “It’s my fault,” Ragh muttered. On their first expedition to Shrentak, he had gone into the city with Dhamon, to the old sage’s laboratory. Dhamon had sought a cure from the old crone and fell unconscious during his suffering from the scale. Dhamon never realized the old crone’s cure was working. While he was unconscious she had demanded as a price for the cure that Ragh stay with her as her dutiful pet. Ragh took offense and killed her, hiding her body when Dhamon woke up, telling Dhamon she’d given up and left.

  He had prevented Dhamon from gaining that cure he desperately needed.

  It was his fault Dhamon was looking less and less human every day. He told himself now he might have forced the sage to help. Killing her had been the easy way.

  “His fever is breaking,” Maldred turned to him and said.

  “Maybe we should have let him die. Better that than to live as he is becoming,” Ragh said, watching his friend twitch as if caught in some dream.

  In fact, Dhamon was dreaming. He was dreaming of the storm in Fiona’s eyes. He saw Rig trying to find his way through the storm. The dark-skinned mariner called Fiona’s name, then Shaon’s. Raph was there, too—a young kender who had died in Dhamon’s company. Jasper too, and countless nameless faces—Solamnic Knights and soldiers he’d killed on battlefields when he wore the armor of a Knight of Takhisis.

  The storm raged wilder, its darkness obscuring all the faces, the thunder drowning out Rig’s cries for help. When the storm finally abated, an enormous cavern materialized, lit in places by streaks of lightning—not from a storm—from the mouths of blue dragons. The dragons flew along the ceiling, around rocky outcroppings and stalactites, swirling closer to the Father of All and of Nothing. Chaos. Dragons fell, some batted away by the god’s hand. Others rose up and swooped in to take their place. Lightning continued to streak, sulfur filled the air, and Chaos’ shadow grew monstrous wings.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ghosts in the City

  Maldred pressed his back against the stone wall of the alley. It was dark, well past midnight, heading toward dawn. Though the fading moonlight didn’t quite reveal his presence, nevertheless he stuck close to the wall, curling his fingers in the mortared gaps. The air was chilly, a big change from the humid swamp, and his breath blew away from his face in miniature clouds. He found himself shivering and wishing for boots and a heavy cloak. His bare feet uncomfortably registered the cold that had settled deep into the ground.

  He stood there for several minutes, listening to the noises from the street beyond. He heard nothing unexpected—a sudden outburst of raucous laughter from a tavern that was just around the corner, the splash of something being tossed out a window, and the thunk of two pairs of boots against a wooden sidewalk. Two ogres, judging from the heavy footfalls, one perhaps drunk. Maldred waited, watching where the alley emptied onto the street, drumming his fingers.

  “Why do we stay here? What is it we are waiting for?” That was the musical voice of Sabar, and Maldred turned to glance at his companion, registering the nuances of the shadows and locating her thin, purple-draped form.

  Does she feel the cold? he wondered. She gave no outward sign that she was affected. Sabar seemed real, but he suspected she was just some pleasing manifestation of the crystal’s enchantment. The cold wouldn’t disturb her magic.

  Ragh had protested when Maldred pulled out the crystal ball and coaxed Sabar to appear. Although the draconian was occupied poling the raft, he threatened to stop and toss the crystal into the river. Maldred somehow managed to convince the draconian that he might be able to use the crystal’s magic to find a way of helping Dhamon. Ragh finally had backed off, with a warning:

  “I’ll be watching you closely, ogre.”

  “Are you watching for something?” Sabar asked the ogre-mage.

  Maldred drew a finger to his lips. “Yes.” A pause. “Well, no. Nothing in particular. I just…” His head snapped back as the bootsteps grew louder. The two ogres passed the alley entrance and continued on down the street.

  “I am curious. Why did you wish to come here?” Sabar persisted. She put a hand on his arm, her fingers feeling like real, clammy flesh. “To this place….”

  “Blöten. The city’s called Blöten. The capital of all the ogre territories.” Maldred shrugged, edging toward the end of the alley. “I needed to see this place,” he said after a few moments. “To see if anything’s changed since I was last here.”

  He leaned out, peering north. The street was for the most part dark, for the most part lined with ramshackle buildings perhaps long abandoned. The moonlight showed rubble on the street. It was as if the city was falling down around its inhabitants. There was a light burning in one second-floor window, shabby curtains fluttering. A soft glow emanated from a window in a house on the next block.

  The tavern was a few doors down. Light and coarse laughter spilled out, and something that passed for music. The two ogres were down the street, one weaving and gesturing. The drunk one had a wooden mug tied to his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it.

  “No place for a lady,” Maldred mused.

  “Yet I must always accompany you while you are inside the crystal,” Sabar reminded him.

  Inside the crystal. Were they really inside the vision, as she claimed? He shook his head, white mane of hair flying. It felt as if they were in Blöten. He felt the cold gravel beneath his feet, smelled the musky odor of ogres. It was all very convincing, but moments ago Maldred had been on the raft with Ragh, Fiona, and Dhamon. He’d asked Sabar to show him this city. He’d leaned close, trying to see better, and he let the crystal drink in his magical energy, hoping that might brighten the darkness of the image. It was night on the river and dark inside the crystal ball. Before he knew it he found himself in the Blöten alley, the mystical guide at his side. Sabar had to assure him more than once that he really wasn’t in Blöten, that his body was still on the raft, fingers wrapped around the crystal.

  “Only your mind is here, O Sagacious One,” Sabar told Maldred again and again, “and I must accompany it on this journey.”

  “Then accompany me now to my father’s palace,” Maldred requested, touching the alley wall one last time. It certainly didn’t feel like only his mind was here. His
body was cold, as it always was in Blöten. “I need to speak with him.”

  They strolled by the tavern. Maldred glanced in, saw a dozen or so ogres around weathered tables. They were man-like, ranging in height from seven to nine feet, broad-shouldered and muscular, with wide noses, wide-set eyes, and bulging veins on thick necks. They were all Maldred’s kin, yet not a single one looked quite like him. His hide was blue. Theirs ranged from tan or umber to a dusky yellow. Scars and warts decorated their arms and faces. One thing most of them had in common was broken or crooked teeth protruding over bulbous lips.

  “These are your people,” Sabar said.

  Maldred nodded.

  “And yet…”

  “I look different from them,” Maldred finished.

  “Yes. You are….”

  “Blue. Yes, that’s the obvious thing. And bigger.”

  “Is it the magic inside of you that gives you your blue color?”

  Maldred shrugged. “I guess. Those few of my race who are sorcerers look something like me. Blue skin, white hair. We stand out, even among ogres.” He gave a chuckle. “Though my old friend Grim Kedar is as pale as ivory, and there’s magic about him, too, so it’s not always true that ogre-mages are blue.”

  “You don’t care much for your people, do you? Or your homeland?”

  The questions caught him off guard. “Down this way” he said, pointing, ignoring the questions, “and then west a very short distance. My father’s palace is there.”

  They spotted only one other ogre out on the weathered wooden sidewalks, a hunchbacked youth with a shuffling gate. He was across the street from them, and glanced in their direction, hesitating for a moment, before continuing on his way.

  “That one looks sad,” Sabar noted.

  Maldred walked faster. “Most of my people are unhappy.” But it wasn’t always that way, he added to himself. It wasn’t that way until the great dragons settled in, and it got worse when the swamp of the Black started to swallow their land. A race of proud warriors and fearsome bullies, the ogres had been beaten down by forces beyond their power to understand or defeat.