by Jean Rabe
“The damnable swamp,” Ragh was quick to answer between bites. “Who said you’re coming with us?”
Feril gave him a sharp look.
“Like I said,” Grannaluured continued, “Churt probably won’t show himself until we’re long out of sight.” She glanced up at Dhamon’s snout. “He doesn’t know you’re not a… ahem, bad dragon, and he doesn’t care for elves… or draconians for that matter. He’ll bide his time and pray you’re long gone. He’ll come back, ’cause he won’t easily give up his share of the find.”
Ragh chewed on the last piece of meat. “You mean the dragonmetal?”
She put on a sour face. “You found it, I can see that plainly.”
Ragh wriggled his fingers for Feril’s benefit. His talons gleamed in the firelight. “Campfire had a pick coated in it. Tried to kill me with it.” Ragh turned and squared his shoulders, boasting the wound the young dwarf had given him.
Feril shook her head, annoyed with herself that she’d paid no attention to the sivak and hadn’t noticed his wound before this. She gingerly stepped toward the draconian, knelt next to him, and prepared her healing magic.
“Don’t you think you’ve got enough to do, healing yourself?” Ragh asked.
“My arm is already feeling better, thanks to Grannaluured, who set it properly. Its healing will continue.” The warmth flowed from the fingers of her left hand into his wound. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the healing.
“Thanks, Feril.” To Grannaluured, Ragh added, in as friendly a tone as he could adopt, “I see you’ve got a pick dipped in the dragonmetal, too.”
She nodded. “Not as good as one forged from it, but good enough. Actually, I’ve had it dipped a few times. Working on stone, the coating wears off eventually.”
“You want to go with us? You don’t want to stay with Churt and mine some more of this priceless dragon-metal?” The sivak looked at her meaningfully. “I can’t imagine a dwarf giving up on something like that. It’s the find of a lifetime.”
She laughed, the sound of her laughter craggy and weary. “I’d guess that last quake pretty well buried everything, priceless or no. I’m liking the idea of a new adventure. I don’t like mining alone anyway. If you’ll have me, I’ll go.”
Ragh rolled his shoulders, obviously pleased that Feril had taken most of the pain away. “The clay jugs you had stacked up inside are smashed for certain, and the pool you were working is probably covered, but it could be dug out again.”
“I’m sure Churt will do just that.” Grannaluured started scrubbing at her skillet.
“Campfire said there were more pools.”
“Supposedly.” Grannaluured chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I came across them three—Churt, Feldspar and Campfire—not long ago, but I already told you that. They needed a cook, or so I convinced them, and I needed the company. Well, I found me some new company today. Oddest company one could come across. I’ll keep with you for awhile. Churt can find some new partners.”
Ragh still looked skeptical. “You’re really not interested in the dragonmetal?”
Another laugh, this one longer and sounding wholly genuine. “Sivak, take a long look at me. I’m an old woman. I figure I don’t have too many winters left in me, certainly not enough to spend them digging in the mountains for a fortune I won’t likely live long enough to spend. Those other dwarves weren’t the best company anyway, truth be told. ”
Ragh smiled, showing his jagged teeth. He decided he liked the dwarf. She grinned back at him, shedding her nervousness. He wondered just how old she was.
Finished with her healing spell, Feril headed toward the pool. “I’m going to check on Obelia now, if you don’t mind.” Dhamon rose to follow her.
Grannaluured cocked her head in the pair’s direction. “Obelia. I heard her mention someone called Obelia before. Elf name sounds like. Are we meeting up with him somewhere? ”
It was Ragh’s turn to chuckle. “You definitely have found yourself in odd company, Needle. You’ll probably meet Obelia soon enough, sooner than you’d care to.” He coughed. “Ahem, you called yourself an old woman. Just how old are you?”
“Sivak, I’m…”
“Ragh. My name is Ragh.”
“Ragh, then. I saw my four hundredth birthday some years back. I stopped counting at four hundred.”
“That’s old for a dwarf. Ancient.”
She scowled. “Not so old as you, I’d expect.”
“No.”
“You’re older than the elf.”
“I don’t know how old Feril is.”
“She’s got some age to her. I can see it around her eyes. Women are better with age, Ragh. Wiser in all ways, more patient. Should be that way with all the gods’ children, I think. Gonna tell me how you fell in with a dragon and an elf?”
“First I fell in with a human…” Ragh began. He proceeded to entertain Grannaluured with the long story of Dhamon and the scale while he sorted through the baubles in his satchel, making certain nothing had broken during the quake. He left out parts, embroidered others, and considered that he had done a good job of telling the story—judging by Grannaluured’s rapt expression.
“So now you want to make your friend human again.” Grannaluured put her skillet back in her pack. “Odd company I’ve embraced, indeed.” She tugged a small pillow out of the pack and laid her head on it as she stretched out on the ground. She smiled at Ragh then, and within minutes she was softly snoring.
The sivak lay down and closed his eyes too, but he didn’t go to sleep right away. He was thinking about the reflections Feril and Obelia had conjured up in the mountain stream. He remembered spying a large black scale next to a totem of bones in the swamp. He shuddered—the totem was a collection of dragon skulls, prizes Sable had earned during the fabled dragonpurge. The dread totem was a source of magical power for her, but the draconian had no desire to visit it.
The reflections had shown another scale, at the edge of a pool of quicksand in a small glade ringed by old, moss-covered trees. Ragh thought the glade looked somewhat familiar, and now he decided he should talk them into going there first. The scrying spell had shown others—several more scales, all broken or cracked at the edge of a marshy tributary. Two more were near a stand of strange, ancient stones that Ragh was certain he’d seen before. The stand of stones might be even closer than the glade. The last scale he remembered seeing had been set atop a carved wooden statue and was painted with strange symbols. Maybe it marked bakali lands, because he knew some of the tribes worshiped beings with cryptic names, or the statue could belong to lizard-men, weaker cousins to the bakali.
The last image the sivak recalled was near Dhamon’s cavern lair deep in the swamp, with the hoary shaggy-bark nearby, and the king snake that was often wrapped around the base of a thin cypress. That was Dhamon’s favorite stretch of water, filled with giant alligators and gar, the one most recently visited by Sable’s minions. Not far from it were fetid, stagnant pools and endless swarms of insects.
“Damnable swamp,” he muttered, before finally drifting off to sleep.
21
This time they flew. Grannaluured sat between Feril and Ragh, thick arms wrapped around one of Dhamon’s back spines. The dwarf’s stubby legs were clamped as tight as she could, her eyes fixed intensely on Feril’s back.
Ragh allowed himself to be slightly cheerful. He’d never fancied the company of dwarves before—though he’d taken the shapes of the dozens of dwarves he’d killed to infiltrate various communities and gain information for Sable. This dwarf was different than most, however. She was thoroughly pragmatic, good-natured and amusing, certainly daring, and above all of that, an excellent cook. He decided he’d get to know her better when they landed.
He felt the air streaking past his ears, the whistling wondrous music that coaxed a few tears down his cheeks. Squeezing his legs to make sure he had a solid perch, he raised his arms to his sides and spread his fingers wide. He dreamed he was f
lying. He looked down after several minutes. They were well beyond the Kharolis foothills and just south of the ruin of Skullcap, flying low and fast over a stretch of plains that were still green. They passed a farm, and Ragh made out three large wagons being filled with the last of the harvest. He thought he could smell the cut grain, though smelling anything other than the sharp scent of the dwarf and the ghastly odor of Dhamon was likely his imagination. By the Dark Queen’s heads, the female dwarf needed a bath and Dhamon needed… needed… to be a human again!
Hours passed. The sun was straight overhead. Its warmth bathed his shoulders and cut any bite of the wind. The sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue that reminded him of… what? The color of Nalis Aren, he decided. He shook the memory of the lake from his mind and continued to daydream as the land slipped by below.
He noticed a herd of what at first glance he thought were horses, but as Dhamon dipped lower, Ragh made them out as centaurs, perhaps a nomad band from the Plains of Dust in search of more hospitable territory and better hunting grounds. Miles later he spotted a smattering of small farms, a village, and a herd of sheep that moved like a wave of white across a pasture when Dhamon flew too close and frightened them.
Hours later, he caught a glimpse of another blue to the north, the shore of the New Sea. As the sun was starting to set, the edge of the swamp came into view. Ragh’s heart began to sink.
“Home,” Ragh thought he heard the dragon murmur.
The draconian shuddered.
Dhamon dived toward the marsh that marked the outer perimeter of Sable’s realm. He wasn’t a bit tired; he relished the sensation of flying. Years past, when he was a young Dark Knight, he had blond hair and smooth skin not yet scarred by battles. He had been determined and persistent, climbing fast in the ranks and distinguishing himself first as a battlefield medic, then as a commander of men. He was decorated with medals and ribbons, then he was given a far greater honor—he was partnered with a blue dragon. He and the dragon, whose name was Gale, had formed a fast bond and led various campaigns into Solamnic lands.
Yes, he had long blond hair then, he thought, clearly remembering his youthful face and blue eyes. He nearly had died during one campaign, when he was trapped on foot and some distance from Gale. He would have died, too, had not an aging Solamnic Knight taken him in and nursed him back to health, all the while turning his mind away from the precepts of the Dark Knights. Then he met Goldmoon; she had convinced him of right and goodness, and for a time he became her champion. Once again a leader of men, he had guided Feril, Rig, Fiona, and the others against the dragon overlords, and he still had his blond hair.
A scale changed all that; one of Malys’s puppets had branded him with it, attaching it to his thigh. At first unbeknownst to him, the scale had controlled him, though it gave him pain and he raged against it. Had it not been for a silver dragon named Silvara and the shadow dragon that cursed him, he likely would have remained under Malys’s control until one of them died. Lying in the cave of the shadow dragon, lying in a pool of its black blood, Dhamon’s hair had turned black, his eyes also black. His soul started to blacken, too, thanks to the insidious magic the shadow dragon secretly had worked upon him.
The dragons that had manipulated him were responsible for much of the bad fortune that swept across Krynn. Did he really want to be human again and risk running afoul of the dragons? Human, he was powerless against them… he knew that truth from his stint as Goldmoon’s champion. Oh, you could have minor victories against dragons, but nothing that made a real difference in the world.
Did Dhamon really want to give up all his strength and power? He clenched and unclenched his talons, feeling his leg muscles ripple. He spread his wings and glided down toward the marsh, enjoying the rush of air. He wondered if his passengers, the three riding on his back, were enjoying the flight. Puny as they were, compared to his great size and power, he could barely feel them back there.
Had Gale been able to feel him?
He landed on the soft earth, his clawed feet sinking into the ooze of the marsh. Dhamon stretched his front legs. His tail twitched as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. Myriad scents struck him—the loamy soil, the broad blooms clinging to vines, stagnant water all around. Nothing was truly unpleasant; the complex mix was heady and somehow comforting because it smelled of home.
“Home,” he rumbled softly, his voice carrying now to the ears of his companions. Had he actually missed the swamp? Had he come to enjoy its damp and fetid embrace? Dhamon moved forward into a stand of trees as his companions slipped from his back and followed him.
He breathed deep and pulled his wings in close, reached with his neck and rubbed against a thick cypress. As a dragon he could live a very long time, and he was powerful enough that he could claim his own territory, perhaps someday returning to challenge Sable for the swamp. If he became human, he would not live many more years, and he would be trapped in a frail body. If he stayed a dragon, he could build a treasure hoard that would be beyond the dreams of any human.
The Kagonesti came up to his snout, tugging on a barbel. He lowered his head to see her anxious expression. “What’s wrong, Dhamon?”
“I don’t know if I really want to be a man again, Feril. Maybe it would be better to remain a dragon. I just don’t know what I want. I don’t know why I brought you here.”
“By the grace of Habbakuk, Dhamon, we’ve gone through so much already on your behalf. I’ve gone through… so much. We’re not turning back now.”
He stared at her long and hard, ignoring the chatter of Ragh and Grannaluured, who were busy examining their packs to make certain nothing had been lost during the flight. For the first time he noticed the faint lines around Feril’s green eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her hair had white streaks now, too. Had this experience taken its toll? Had something happened to her in the Lake of Death? Had the ghosts cursed her somehow? Was she aging before his eyes?
He knew that the Dark Knights told tales about the dead Qualinesti, and maybe those tales were true after all.
“I need to think and talk things over, Feril. Come talk with me alone.”
Dhamon glided deeper into the swamp, Feril following and motioning Ragh and the dwarf to stay put. She left the satchel with Obelia inside in Ragh’s care. Her gesture surprised the sivak, as she was showing a new trust in him.
“We’ll be all right here,” Ragh told Grannaluured. “This is the far border of Sable’s land. Not so many beasties out this way. They stick to the heart of the swamp and along the river.” He pointed to a dry patch of stunted saw grass that stretched out from the base of a black walnut. “Why don’t we wait there for them? Lots of roots and herbs around here, I reckon. Maybe Dhamon will catch us something tasty that you can cook up. I’m hungry again.”
“If he doesn’t catch something, I have some salted wild pig among my stores. Not a lot, but it’ll do, and it should get eaten anyway before it goes bad.”
“Yum, salted pig.” Ragh grinned. “One of my favorites. Sun’s going down, and it gets dark in the swamp early. Let me help you get started. We don’t have to wait for those two. Dhamon eats on his own, basically whenever he feels like it, and I don’t think that elf in love with nature eats meat.”
“Pity.”
“Yeah, pity,” said Ragh unconvincingly.
“More for us then,” she said cheerily. “Maybe I should get dinner started.”
Ragh did a bad job of hiding his eagerness. “I’ll hurry and get a fire going, Needle. While we’re waiting for that meat to cook, you can tell me about some of these pretty pictures.” He touched a silvered talon to one of her tattoos.
Grannaluured beamed. “I like to talk about my art,” she said. “I could probably give you a tattoo if you want one, Ragh. I’ve needles that are long and sharp, and they’d probably go through your skin. I’d like to try anyway. Something colorful. A dragon’s head like I gave Dawnsprinter, perhaps?”
The sivak growled softly. “Let’s get t
hat salted pork going first.”
Dhamon and Feril settled down a fair distance away from Ragh and Grannaluured, where the canopy of trees was close and dense, cutting the light. This section of the swamp was low-lying and often flooded. There was a river nearby, sloshing against the banks. Too, they could hear the splashing of otters and the calls of wood ducks. Closer to the swamp’s heart, there’d be too many alligators and other predators, and smaller animals knew to stay away.
Low to the ground were dotted clumps of buttonbush, swamp roses, weeping willow seedlings, and patches of smooth alder. It was a world of shadows here, under the weave of branches, but both had keen eyesight.
“Welcome to my home, Feril.” Dhamon let his talons sink into the rich, black soil. “My lair is a long way from here, near a lake with a perfect chokeberry bush.”
“Your home. It is beautiful. So untouched.” Her face bore a wistful expression.
“Untouched by man for the most part, Feril. The villages are far apart, but even they have been corrupted by the Overlord. The forest is unnaturally thick here, just as Beryl twisted and thickened the woods in Qualinesti. It shouldn’t be like this.”
“Corrupted.” Feril looked pensive now. “I have a hard time seeing it like that. It is beautiful to my eyes.” She tipped her head back, her fingers caressing the flowers. She looked for the birds that were rustling the leaves far overhead. “What do you want, Dhamon Grimwulf? Do you want this swamp? I couldn’t blame you, but I know I still want that treasure you promised. It would go a long way toward helping the refugees and overcrowded villages on the islands.”
An awkward silence settled heavily between them. Feril just wanted his treasure, Dhamon thought. She didn’t really care about him, didn’t care if he became human again, not really. No, he argued with himself, she wanted the treasure because she was an honorable do-gooder. That was one of the things he admired about her. Too bad if she only got a pinch of the treasure, no matter what. She wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Do-gooders know so little about treasure. He glanced over at her, fingering flowers. Pathetic? Admirable?
