The Eve of the Maelstrom
Page 7
“You must be very important,” one of the knights whispered, “to merit Commander Jalan’s presence. She broke off recruiting ogres near Thoradin just to come here to meet with you.”
Dhamon went inside the building and placed the glaive against the wall. He allowed the knights to strip off his tattered, acid-burned clothes. “Do not touch the weapon,” Malys warned them in his voice.
They indicated a carved wooden bowl filled with fresh water. The dragon let him drink his fill; then he washed, letting his hands linger in the water to ease the pain from the weapon. As he dressed in the padding and armor the knights provided, he listened to their whispers about the scale on his leg. The armor did not fit him well, as it had been made for a slightly larger man.
He hated both the armor and the knighthood. He tried again to push the dragon from his mind, but Malys easily controlled him.
“He’s ready, Commander Jalan,” one of the knights called.
She entered and inspected him up and down. Her cold eyes lingered on his face. She was young for her rank, Dhamon guessed, probably in her late twenties, though with a few age lines. No, tiny scars, he decided, as he stared more closely. Her expression was hard, her mouth thin and unused to smiling. Her blonde hair, much lighter than his, caught the sunlight. Dhamon had heard of her: She was among the top-ranking officials of the knighthood.
“We questioned some of the villagers – refugees, when we arrived last night,” she began. “We were concerned they had... done something... with you. As it turns out, they’d never heard of you. But during our interrogation, one of them revealed the presence of Solamnic spies. You were once close to the Solamnic knights, weren’t you... Dhamon Grimwulf?”
I was close to one, Dhamon thought, an old knight named Geoff who saved me though I had tried to kill him. The Solamnic had successfully turned him from the Knights of Takhisis. Or so Dhamon had once thought.
“Perhaps you could root out the Solamnics for us. They’re in the building at the end of the street. Save us a little trouble.” Jalan moved closer to Dhamon, whispering in his ear. “Malystryx has told me of you and your impressive weapon. She thinks killing a few Solamnic spies should make you more... malleable, more useful to her. You’ll not be so defiant, always trying to resist her and run away. We’ll make your corruption complete and allow her to fully concentrate on more important matters. That’s why I saved this trifling business for you. Go, and kill them.”
From the secret place in his mind, Dhamon stealed himself against the pain as he wrapped his fingers around the hateful weapon once again. He brushed by the commander and strode out into the makeshift village, gazing with dragon-heightened senses at the door to the building at the far end of the road.
Dhamon’s black armor gleamed in the sun. The tabard draped over the top of the mail was pressed. Not a wrinkle was visible, not a loose thread. The white of the lily was bright, the miniature red dragon scale looked like a flame on a glistening petal. The dragon forced him toward the building.
“Hey, why aren’t you back inside there with the rest of the knights?”
Dhamon looked down at a tow-headed kender, the one whom he’d seen earlier whispering to the female dwarf.
“Did the other knights kick you out or something? If they did, you shouldn’t be wearing that nasty black armor. Silver would look much better on you. Or none at all – armor, that is.” The kender wrinkled his little nose in disgust. “Did you do something wrong? Is that why you’re out here all alone? You can tell me all about it. I’m a terrific listener, and I’ve nothing to do today except listen to people.”
Dhamon ignored the persistent kender.
“Hey, that’s a nice-looking weapon. Mind if I look at it?”
Malys forced Dhamon to speak. “No, you cannot look at my glaive.”
“How about your helmet? Let me see it! Bet it would fit me better!”
Dhamon frowned. Malystryx had no patience with the small man. She was considering having Dhamon kill him.
“Where are you going all grumpy anyway?”
Dhamon looked down at him balefully.
“There’s nothing in that old place. I should know. I’ve been inside. There’re many more interesting things around Brukt. I could show you.”
The dragon allowed Dhamon to stop. He let out a slow breath.
“I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I do not deserve any friends.” Dhamon was surprised the dragon had let that comment escape his lips. “My friends have a tendency to die.”
The kender backed up a step. “Gee, I don’t really and truly want to be friends with you,” he said with a hint of huffiness in his voice. Then he raised his voice, practically to a shout. “Most of the people around here have got plenty of their own friends already.”
“What?”
“Well, you’re a Knight of Takhisis,” the kender said more loudly, as he wrinkled his little nose again. “People don’t really care for Knights of Takhisis, do they?”
“Stand back,” Dhamon advised, as he felt the dragon shift the glaive to one hand. He was right outside the door now, and he reached out for the handle. “You’ve already done enough, trying to warn those inside of my approach.”
“Is that what you think I was doing?” the kender said, sounding genuinely surprised. He fidgeted with something at the small of his back. “You really thought I was trying to warn someone?”
The dragon muttered a soft curse in Dhamon’s voice. The door was locked.. Dhamon saw through cracks in the wood that it was reinforced by bars. The dragon flexed the muscles in Dhamon’s arm, and he yanked. The door fell off its hinges, and with minimal effort Dhamon tossed it aside.
“Well, I guess you’d be right if you thought that I was trying to warn someone!” the kender continued. He pulled a small, curved blade from a sheath at his waist and jabbed it into the back of Dhamon’s leg. “Company!” the kender announced.
The pain in his leg competed with the burning in his hands. The dragon forced Dhamon to ignore both. He quickly noted the occupants – eight armed men – then whirled on the kender. Dhamon fought to get another warning out. “Get out of here!” he cursed through clenched teeth. “The dragon’ll make me kill you!”
“I don’t see a dragon!” the kender shouted. “I only see a lousy Knight of Takhisis!” The kender, not budging, slashed at him again with the knife.
Dhamon balled his fist and brought it down on the kender’s head, hard enough at the very least to knock him out, possibly to kill him. The kender crumpled, and the dragon inside Dhamon seemed satisfied.
“The Dark Knight bastard killed little Tousletop!” cried one of the men inside, wielding a spear. “Get him!”
The eight surged forward. Four were armed with crude spears, four with swords. Of the latter, two looked different. Dhamon’s mind registered their appearance. They were dressed like the others, he realized It was their eyes that were unusual: strangely unafraid and fixed on him.
He sensed the dragon lock onto his thoughts, felt her raise his lips in the approximation of a smile.
“You’re badly outnumbered, Takhisis bastard. Surrender!” the tallest of the two men barked, as he tried to get the others to stay their weapons.
Chivalrous, Dhamon thought from the secret place in the back of his mind. Don’t make me kill them! Let them kill me! Let me drop this cursed weapon! It was a prayer to the departed gods. He met the man’s stare.
“Surrender to you?” Dhamon heard himself ask. The dragon brought the glaive up. At the same time, Dhamon kicked out, landing a solid blow against one of the Solamnics. The man fell, his spear clattering away, and Dhamon swung the glaive at another man holding a spear. The blade smashed the spear and knocked away another being thrust at him. Dhamon sensed that Malys was enjoying the situation.
“Gods!” one of the villagers cried. “The blade cuts metal like butter!”
“As it will cut you,” the dragon spat in Dhamon’s voice. Reflexes honed in countless fi
ghts made him duck, avoiding a thrown spear. He swiveled to the right, avoiding another sword thrust. Let me drop this glaive!
One of the warriors charged forward, darting beneath the glaive and stabbing with his broadsword. Dhamon brought the glaive down, slicing through the offending weapon. The Solamnic sympathizer leapt back. Dhamon’s opponents were no match for him – he and the dragon knew that. Despite their superior numbers, they could not hope to bring him down.
“Run from me!” Dhamon cried, wresting a small measure of control from Malys. “Run before I kill you!” He watched with some satisfaction as four of the men turned and raced for the back of the building. The others did likewise when he took a few menacing steps toward them.
With his dragon-enhanced eyesight, he watched the men claw at a few loose boards, create an opening at the back. They began squeezing through it. One warrior who still held his sword protected their retreat. Dhamon studied the man’s eyes – they spoke defiantly, telling him the man was ready to die to keep the others safe.
“Run!” Dhamon barked at him. He glanced from the
Solamnic to his own fingers, knuckle-white and on fire. Let me drop the glaive! He put all his efforts behind that thought. Drop the...
The warrior crouched and moved forward, drawing his sword back and swinging it at Dhamon. In one fluid motion, Dhamon brought the glaive down, slicing through sinew and bone and cutting off the man’s sword arm. The man grabbed his stump, refusing to scream, dropped to his knees. Dhamon backed away several steps to avoid the spray of blood.
Outside, from behind him, Dhamon heard murmurs, the voices of curious townsfolk gathering. He picked out General Jalan’s stern words.
“Foul Knight of Darkness!” the wounded warrior shouted. “Finish me!”
“You heard him,” Commander Jalan said. She was standing only a few feet behind. “Finish him.”
Chapter 6
DISMAL FUTURES
“You want to kill him, don’t you?”
Rig shrugged his shoulders. “Fiona, sometimes that’s all I think about. Part of me holds him responsible for Shaon’s death. The dragon who killed her... well, the dragon and Dhamon used to be a team. And Goldmoon. How can I not want revenge?”
The young Solamnic knight peered into Rig’s dark eyes. “What does the other part of you want?”
The pair kept their voices down as they sat on the willow log and watched over their sleeping companions. The mariner had refused the dwarf’s offer to take a turn at watch – he wanted Jasper to get as much rest as possible. And after
Groller’s tale of Feril and the snake, Rig didn’t trust the Kagonesti alone. She might wander off and make a home for herself in the swamp. Or she might mistake a hungry alligator for a friendly one, what with the smile and all. Groller and his wolf would take the watch just before dawn, a few hours away. That left Fiona, who had decided to keep the mariner company.
“The other part?” Rig softly chuckled. “The other part just wants to wring Dhamon’s neck – after he tells us why he attacked us and killed Goldmoon. Maybe Palin was right, the scale was responsible. But Palin could be wrong, too. Sorcerers aren’t always right. You know, I halfway liked Dhamon once. Sometimes I even admired him. And I guess... maybe... a small part of me wants him to turn out innocent.”
The Master had contacted them shortly after sunset, magically appearing like a ghost in the center of their camp, announcing that Dhamon Grimwulf and his glaive had been located. Dhamon was on his way to an ogre ruin called Brukt. Gilthanas and Silvara had struck out after him, but considering all the ground the pair had to cover, Rig and the others could get there before the silver dragon without much of a detour to their original course.
Just beyond Brukt stretched the mountains of Blöde, and the ogre ruin was near the Pashin Gap. After dealing with Dhamon – one way or another – they could pass through the mountains to Khur, rent a ship somewhere along the coast, and set sail for Dimernesti. The Master said he was working on finding the exact location of the underwater realm of the elves. “Just so you’ve it found by the time we get to Khur,” Rig had told him. “I don’t want this trip through the swamp to be for nothing.”
“We’ll have a long time of it tomorrow,” Fiona said. “And the next day. And the next.” She brushed at mud on her breastplate. “We’ll have to cover more ground than we’ve been doing, if there’s a chance of catching him. Do you think Master Fireforge is up to it?”
“Jasper’s tough. He’ll make it. But you... you ought to consider leaving that armor behind,” Rig advised. He pointed to the canvas sack that carried the rest of her suit of plate. “It’s heavy, and lugging that around for a couple added hours a day will only wear you out faster. We can’t afford to be slowed for a few hunks of shiny metal.”
“I’ve managed so far. A few more hours a day won’t matter.”
“If you say so.”
“Besides, the armor is part of who I am. The most important part.”
Rig started to say something else, but a muted noise to the south cut him off. It sounded a bit like the snort of a big horse, and whatever made it was coming closer. He put a finger to his lips, unsheathed his sword, and motioned for Fiona to stay put. He disappeared into the foliage without noticing that she had followed him.
The canopy was so dense they could barely see more than a few feet before them, yet the noise became more distinct with every yard they covered. The mariner moved slowly, testing the ground ahead with his feet.
They were only a hundred or so yards distant from the camp when they spotted a clearing ahead. Krynn’s single pale moon shone down on a small moss-covered pond, ringed by a half-dozen grotesqueries.
“Spawn,” Rig whispered to Fiona. “Black ones.”
The young Solamnic stared with wide eyes. She’d heard of them when she listened to Rig’s and Feril’s accounts of battling the spawn they had inadvertently stumbled upon in Khellendros’s lair months ago in the Northern Wastes. But their descriptions didn’t do the creatures justice. Krynn’s moon revealed them in all their freakish horror.
Half of the creatures were vaguely man-shaped with sweeping batlike wings, the tips of which grazed the top of the leather ferns. Their snouts were equine but covered in tiny black scales. The scales were larger elsewhere on their bodies, sparkling darkly in the moonlight. Their eyes were dull yellow, as were their fangs, their talons long, curled, and sharp. A thin ridge of scales started at the back of their heads and ended at the bases of thin, snakelike tails.
The light was too dim to see if the others matched these three. Their noises had no pattern to hint at a language. They seemed reminiscent of pigs snorting.
As the others came into the moonlight, Rig and Riona could see that these three differed from their companions. One had wings, but they were short, scalloped and uneven, extending from the creature’s shoulder blades to just above its waist. Its head was more manlike than equine, and long horns grew upward from the base of its jaw. Its arms were short, ending in misshapen claws where its elbows should be, and its tail was forked and thick.
The remaining two were the largest, easily eight feet tall. Their skin looked leathery, with no trace of scales or wings, though there were malformed nubs on their shoulder blades. They were a dull black, with nothing shiny about them. Their heads were overly large for their bodies, long snouts filled with crooked teeth of vastly uneven lengths that prevented their mouths from shutting entirely. A ribbon of drool ran from the one with the longest snout and disappeared into the ferns with a sizzle. Acid, Rig decided. Their arms were longer than suited their bodies. They reminded the mariner of baboons he’d seen in his youth on the Misty Isle.
“Yesss, drink,” the lead spawn hissed. “Drink, but hurry. We have important work this night.”
The two apelike spawn moved into the shallow water, and Rig’s eyes widened. Their arms didn’t end in claws at all. Their arms looked like snakes tipped with fanged heads that eagerly lapped at the stagnant water.
From a safer distance, they watched the three spawn and the three grotesques drink their fill and then move toward the west.
“We might have been able to take them by surprise,” she whispered when she was certain the creatures were far enough away. “Horrid creatures.”
“Maybe we could have,” Rig quietly answered. Maybe we should have, he said to himself. He spoke aloud. “But there’s three other people back there in the clearing. I’m responsible for them. And we’ve other priorities: Dhamon, his glaive, the Dimernesti crown. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing our mission.” Inwardly he added, Rig Mer-Krel, you’ve changed. And I’m not sure it’s for the better.
*
It was late the following afternoon when the hair on Fury’s back rose. The wolf’s ears lay flat, his lips curled. He pawed nervously at the ground.
Groller was the first to notice his animal companion’s unease. He motioned to Rig, pointed at the wolf. The half-ogre cupped his hand and scooped at the air, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.
“The wolf smells something,” Rig said.
“I smell something, too,” Feril whispered. “Something smells wrong”
“I never thought anything about this place smelled right,” Jasper said.
Fiona drew her blade and moved to Rig’s side. He’d been leading the small band in the direction toward where the Master said they’d find the ogre ruin. The ruin should be at least another day away.
“I’m going to scout ahead,” Rig said, his voice low.
“You’re welcome to join me if you leave that sack of armor behind.”
She dropped it on the driest spot of ground she could find.
“I’ll go too,” Feril offered.
Rig scowled. “Next time,” he said.