by Jean Rabe
“Besides,” the officer said. “We’ve our orders to consider, and they don’t include dealing with a dragon.”
She inhaled sharply. “But what if Frost doesn’t stay put? He truly might come here next – or menace some other land. You could help me.” The Kagonesti stared at the officer. “Please. You could take your ship there. Together maybe we could —”
“What? Together we could die? I understand your concern, but there’s nothing I can do. We’re here to recruit more knights, miss, and that’s a task I’d rather concentrate on. It’s good for our order.”
The Kagonesti’s shoulders slumped, and she turned to walk away. One of the knights took a step after her and grabbed the back of her tunic. He spun her around, and moved in closer. “Why don’t you join us?” he asked. He brought his other hand up to her mane of curls. “We’d make room for you on the ship.”
Behind him, the officer frowned and ordered him back into line. The young knight hesitated, and the Kagonesti kicked at his ankles. “Join you? Never,” she hissed. “I’ve more important things to deal with.”
He released her hair, and the Kagonesti started to walk away. But the young knight followed her, slamming his shoulder into her back and knocking her face first into the sand.
“Can’t even stand on your feet. How can you stand up to a dragon?” he taunted. The knights on either side of him laughed loudly.
Dhamon heard the officer reprimand the young knight. He also heard the shushing sound a blade makes when it’s being drawn. Rig took a step forward and brought his right arm up, raising his cutlass level with the offending knight’s throat.
“Apologize to the lady!” Rig demanded.
“Apologize? Because she’s clumsy?”
There was more laughter. And another reprimand.
“Rig,” Dhamon’s tone was soft, but insistent. “There’s a dozen of them and one of you. Bad odds – even if you’re good with that blade.”
The mariner hesitated. The elf rose to her feet, grabbed her pack, and scampered away from the knights. Rig saw that she was safe, then he lowered his weapon.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Dhamon suggested. “No one’s been hurt.”
Rig took a step back, and in that instant the young knight took a step forward. Itching for a confrontation, he drew his long sword, spread his legs for balance, and eyed the mariner. “Afraid to defend a woman?” he sneered. “Or maybe elves aren’t worth it.”
Rig raised his sword again.
“Don’t do it,” Dhamon pleaded.
“I know you!” the officer exclaimed. He was pointing at Dhamon and ignoring the upstart knight in his charge. The officer’s eyes grew wide. “Last year in Kyre, near Solanthus. At the home of the old Solamnic knight. You were...”
“You must be mistaken,” Dhamon said tersely.
“I don’t think so. I saw you! Subcommander Mullor was there. You killed him.”
“I said, you must have been mistaken.”
“I don’t think so, I...”
“The lady’s with me!” the young knight barked, drowning out his superior’s words. “Run back to your ship while you’ve the chance, you dark excuse for a frightened gully dwarf!”
“Run? Frightened?” Rig erupted. “Never!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw Rig and the young knight close. The big mariner parried the knight’s awkward swing. Four other knights drew their blades but held their positions.
“Fight!” someone yelled from a distance. “Come on!”
The young knight raised his long sword high over his head and brought it down hard, trying to land a blow on Rig’s shoulder. The mariner was fast and brought his cutlass up to parry the attack. The knight’s blade clanged harmlessly away, and Rig countered with a swing aimed at the young man’s thigh. Dhamon breathed a sigh of relief that the mariner was only trying to wound – not kill.
The knight had some skill, and he stepped back and met the mariner’s blow with his own sword, catching it just below its hilt. The tactic kept the knight from getting hurt, but his long sword snapped from the angle of impact, and the blade spun to the sand. Cursing, the knight threw the useless pommel to the ground and glared at Rig.
Again, Rig lowered his blade, if only for an instant. Two more knights strode forward. The first circled to the mariner’s right. The other met him head-on and swung in a wide arc aimed at his chest.
Rig dropped to a crouch as the blade passed above him, and plucked two daggers from the cuff of his boot with his left hand. He stuck one dagger between his teeth, the other he gripped and waved at the advancing knight.
“I am not mistaken!” The words exploded from the officer’s mouth, and Dhamon swiveled his head in time to see the officer jabbing a finger at him. “Your hair’s longer, but I do remember you. Get him!” The officer yanked his long sword free and rushed forward. The knight near him followed his lead.
“Look!” bellowed a voice from somewhere on the docks. “There really is a fight!”
In one fluid motion, Dhamon drew his sword and met the charge of the lead knight. Their swords clashed loudly. He whirled in the sand and met the second knight’s swing just in time to keep his sword arm from being severed.
The officer darted in, slashing, and Dhamon tensed his leg muscles and leapt straight up, tucking his legs in toward his chest. The blade sliced just below the toes of his boots. As he came down, Dhamon shot his right leg forward, striking the officer hard in the chest and knocking him down.
Graceful as a dancer, Dhamon landed on his left foot and spun to meet the second knight’s rush. The man’s charge was slowed over the sand, and Dhamon was able to dodge the wide swing.
Dhamon slashed at the knight, but the blow rebounded off the black armor. His second swing fared better, and his blade sank deep between the knight’s shoulder and chest plates. With a groan, the knight fell forward. Dhamon pulled hard to free his blade.
Behind him, the officer was rising and reaching for his fallen sword. Dhamon dashed forward and kicked the blade away, then slammed his boot heel into the man’s stomach to keep him down. Two more knights advanced on him.
“My money’s on the knights!” someone called.
“I’ll take the long odds on the black man!”
Dhamon watched one of the knights rush in. Drawing his blade back over his shoulder, he spun as he sliced ahead. The blade connected with the knight’s neck, instantly decapitating him.
“Double my money on the blond!” someone cried. “The beggar was just playing with’em!”
A crowd was forming around the combatants, and the clinking of steel coins mingled with the clanking of swords.
Risking a glance toward Rig, Dhamon saw that the mariner was barely working up a sweat. Two knights were on the ground, a dagger in each of their throats. Two more knights faced him. Never more than two on a single foe, Dhamon knew. Greater odds would be dishonorable.
The mariner waved his sword about to meet the charge of his attackers. The fingers of his left hand flew to his waist and tugged free his red sash. He began making wide circles in the air, the sash whipping and whistling. It was weighted, like a bolo, and too late the knight darting forward realized the mariner’s intent.
Rig tossed the sash forward. Spinning, it wrapped about the sword arm and head of the closest knight. The man paused to untangle himself, and in that moment, Rig darted forward and rammed his cutlass between a thin gap in the knight’s breastplate. The man pitched backward, the sword lodged deep in his stomach.
Seemingly weaponless, Rig dropped to the sand, avoiding a mad slash by his second foe. At the same time, he reached into the V of his silk shirt, and his fingers came away with three more daggers. The first he hurled at the foe towering above him. The dagger skewered the knight’s hand, causing him to drop the long sword.
The other two daggers Rig held in his right hand. As he jumped to his feet, he flung his left hand forward, releasing a shower of sand into the weaponless knight
’s face. Blinded, the man cast his head about and stepped back, but Rig pressed the attack and jammed the twin daggers into his side.
“No!” Dhamon cried. He darted below the swing of his own closest foe and waved his sword to catch Rig’s attention. “These are knights!” he bellowed. Again he dodged a well-timed attack. “They fight honorably! No more than two on you at a time. And you should fight honorably too!”
Two knights pressed their attack against Dhamon, drawing his attention away from the mariner. One of them, a stout, muscular man, lunged to the left, but it was a false attack. He quickly stepped right and thrust forward at Dhamon’s unprotected chest.
Dhamon pivoted just in time to avoid being run through, but the stocky knight’s blade sliced his tunic. A thin line of red appeared and soaked through the worn cloth. Dhamon stepped back to avoid another swing and found himself in the path of the second knight’s blade. Though not as skilled as his fellow, the knight’s aim was lucky, and his sword sliced into Dhamon’s arm, just below his elbow.
Dhamon gritted his teeth. The cut was deep, and he felt the warmth of his blood. He fought to ignore the pain and tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.
The stout man thrust again. Dhamon dropped to his knees and felt the air ripple above his head from the strength of the man’s swing. Without hesitation, he drove his blade upward, impaling the muscular knight. In the same instant, he slammed his elbow into the second knight to force him back.
The second knight moaned and retreated a step, and watched the expert swordsman fall forward, driving Dhamon’s blade even farther into his gut as his body struck the sand.
Someone in the growing throng yelled “Bravo!” And a cheer from the onlookers went up. “Pay up! The beggar killed another one!” someone yelled.
“Let’s call an end this!” Dhamon hollered above the applause. “Now!”
He spied the officer struggling to his feet, aided by the knight who’d just fought Dhamon.
“No one else has to die!” he said. He rolled the body of the stout knight over, planted a foot on his stomach, and pulled his long sword free. He waved the blade menacingly in an arc over the fallen man.
The two men fighting Rig stepped back, watching Dhamon. But they kept their swords up, ready to resume the battle.
Four men lay dead at the big mariner’s feet, all with blades sticking out of their still forms. Dhamon’s sword had claimed three. Of the five remaining knights, one looked seriously injured and probably wouldn’t live – one of Rig’s daggers was embedded near his neck. The knight who had started the fray was still weaponless and unharmed.
“Rig!” Dhamon called.
“You’re hurt!” the mariner returned. “But we can still take’em! Easy!”
“No! It’s over.”
Rig cursed and held his position. Then he grudgingly nodded and lowered the daggers he held in each hand.
The Knights of Takhisis relaxed, but only a little. At their officer’s orders, they guardedly sheathed their long swords.
“Pay up!” someone in the crowd called. “The knights lost.”
“But they’re not all dead!” someone else countered.
Rig started retrieving his weapons, tugging them free from the fallen knights. He wrapped the sash around his waist and stuck daggers in each of his boots and under his shirt. He grasped his cutlass firmly, then stuck it in the band of his sash.
Dhamon dropped to his knees on the sand. He laid his sword in front of him and bowed his head, mumbling a prayer for the dead men as drops of his own blood spattered on the ground. He had several deep cuts on his arm and chest, and his shirt was more red than ivory now.
“Dhamon,” Rig hissed. “What are you doing? Let’s get out of here.” The mariner had spied more knights filing off the ship. The numbers were considerable. “Dhamon!”
The prayer finished, Dhamon stood. “We’re sailing out soon,” he told the officer. “We don’t want any more trouble.”
“You’ll get none.” The officer nodded and instructed his men to collect the dead. He fixed Dhamon with a steady stare. “But I wasn’t mistaken about you.”
Dhamon looked at his blade, covered with blood. He didn’t sheath it, but he carried it low and to his side so it couldn’t be misconstrued as a threat. He turned toward the Anvil’s dock. Rig followed.
“All this talk of honor, Dhamon,” Rig clucked. “Were you a knight?”
“Well, no. I always wanted to be a knight,” Dhamon answered, fixing his gaze on the tips of his boots and remembering Blister’s lesson. “My uncle was a knight. I guess I wanted to be like him.”
“You’re good in a fight,” the Kagonesti said. She’d come up behind the pair, and now touched Rig’s shoulder to get his attention. “It was amazing.”
“I’ve never lost a fight,” the mariner boasted.
“I’m trying to gather some men,” she began, “to go after the White. I know some nature-magic, but I can’t do it alone. I could use your help.”
“We’re going north,” Rig said.
“We need to tend to something in Palanthas,” Dhamon added. “I promised to deal with it first. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Then perhaps you’ll help with the dragon?”
“Maybe,” Dhamon answered. He’d reached the dock and knelt next to it at the water’s edge to clean his sword.
“I would like to leave this place,” she admitted. She glanced over her shoulder, toward where the fight had taken place. The crowd was finally breaking up, but one of the knights stood, watching the trio.
“Another mouth to feed and water,” Rig muttered. “At least it’s a very pretty one.”
“Ferilleeagh Dawnsprinter, once of the Foghaven Vale tribe,” she said, extending a slender hand to the mariner. “Please call me Feril.”
“Rig Mer-Krel,” the mariner said. He bowed deeply and swept his hand in a gracious arc, then captured hers and brought it to his lips. He gently released it and motioned to Dhamon. “This is Dhamon Grimwulf, an honorable fighter. And there is my ship – the Anvil.”
She arched an eyebrow at the carrack’s name, but smiled. “It’s a fine ship.”
Rig cast his head skyward, then scowled. The clouds had grown darker. “Dhamon, won’t you show the lady on board? I’m going to find my men. I think we’d better set sail as soon as possible.”
*
Blister fretted over Dhamon, and – with Shaon’s and Feril’s help – finally coaxed him to sit on a coil of rope that was lying against the rear mast. He wasn’t used to so much attention, but the Kagonesti’s fingers stroking his forehead felt good.
The kender turned her back to him, and fumbled with one of her pouches. When she spun around, he could see that she’d changed gloves. She had on a white pair that had especially thick pads at the fingertips. The kender reached up and prodded the gash on his arm, and the blood quickly turned the finger pads red. He saw her wince, but he thought it was from the sight of his wound. He didn’t know moving her fingers caused her pain.
“The shirt’s gotta go,” Blister ordered.
At Feril’s insistence, Dhamon raised his arms, and the Kagonesti gently tugged the tunic off. Shaon scowled at the bloodied garment, then picked it up and threw it over the side. Like a dying bird, it fluttered to the dock below.
“Didn’t look good on you anyway,” Shaon complained.
Dhamon resignedly leaned back against the mast and tried to relax. It didn’t work but he was grateful for the kender’s ministrations. His blood loss was making him feel lightheaded.
He watched Blister place the other glove over the line on his chest. It absorbed some of the blood and helped to clean the wound. So the gloves were specifically designed to tend to the injured, Dhamon mused. He idly wondered how many more pairs she had.
“What happened?” she asked as she continued to work.
“Just a little scuffle,” Dhamon replied.
“You’re learning to be a better liar,” Blister said cros
sly. “But you’ve got to work on being more believable.”
Feril recounted the story of the fight with the Knights of Takhisis, while Blister continued to fuss over him.
“I’ll need some water to clean this better,” the kender muttered. “We’ve plenty of barrels now.”
“I’m fine, Blister, really,” Dhamon groaned.
“No, you’re not.” The voice was deep. Jasper had returned. Groller and the red wolf were behind him.
Dhamon cocked his head and sniffed the air.
“We ah... stopped at an inn,” Jasper said as he came closer and grimaced. The scent of rum was strong on the dwarf’s breath. “Heard that a pair of... let’s see, foolish upstarts I think they called’em... picked a fight with a unit of Knights of Takhisis.”
“That’s not exactly how it happened. Ouch!”
The dwarf’s fingers weren’t as gentle as Blister’s gloves.
“Did Rig fare worse?” Jasper’s voice was tinged with the slightest bit of concern.
“He didn’t get a scratch,” Feril replied. She quickly introduced herself and once again recounted the tale of the battle.
The dwarf looked closer at Dhamon’s wounds. “Not too terribly bad, but if I don’t do something, they’ll get infected. Can’t have you getting sick on us.” He knelt before Dhamon and closed his eyes. “Something Goldmoon taught me.”
With a new pair of gloves that were spongy, especially at the palms, Blister wiped at the wounds. Jasper mumbled some singsong words none of the others could make out. A line of sweat broke out across his wide forehead, and his thick lips trembled. He grew pale, and Dhamon’s arm and chest grew irritatingly hot.
“Oh!” the kender squealed.
Dhamon glanced down at his chest and saw the line of red fading, the rawness of the wound vanishing. He looked at his arm and watched the blood congeal.
Groller, eyes wide over the entire incident, helped Jasper to his feet
“You will have scars,” Jasper said. “But you won’t get an infection.” The dwarf turned to Groller and touched the half-ogre’s sash. He pointed to the spot where Dhamon was injured, touched the sash again, and then used a finger to indicate a wrapping motion. His finger orbited the area of Dhamon’s injury several times.
