Betrayal

Chapter Nine The Tears of Kiri-Jolith

The ground was a slick swath of mud, and the trunks of the trees were varying shades of charcoal. Even the sky overhead, adding to the gloom, was dark and oppressive and threatened rain. An involuntary shiver ran down Dhamon’s back when he paused to take a good look at everything.

“Mal…” Dhamon pointed to what, judging by its form, likely once had been a willow-birch. It was not covered with normal bark. Instead, it was completely clad in scales, smooth and supple like the skin of a snake. Dhamon reached out and tentatively touched it. Indeed, it felt like scales and was cool despite the oppressive heat. There was a thin coat of moisture on it from the humidity. Even the branches were covered with the snakeskin, and what few leaves grew were also in the shape of scales, as black as a starless sky. The dark roots, protruding from the mud here and there, were all angular, straight, and disturbing looking.

“Bones,” Dhamon whispered. What he could see of the roots looked eerily like charred human arm and leg bones. The thinnest of branches bumped together in the slight breeze. Some of the trees had vines hanging from them, and the vines looked like snakes, their ends like bulbous heads grazing the ground. Other trees were draped in bands of discarded snakeskin. He could see no birds in the trees, though he spotted a few large parrots flying high overhead, oddly colorful amid all this drabness. There was no evidence of animals, save a few unnaturally large black water snakes coiled at the edge of a stagnant pond.

There were only a scattering of bushes, leafless and looking like collections of blackened finger bones fitted together. A pair of corpses stood out stark white against their surroundings, propped against a tree trunk.

“This place makes my skin crawl,” Dhamon said. He breathed as shallowly as possible. The smell of the place made him nauseous. The breeze was laced with sulfur, becoming stronger the farther east they traveled, the acrid scent lodging deep in Dhamon’s lungs. He coughed and was rewarded with an even greater concentration of the stuff. He glanced at his companions. Varek looked ill, and Maldred had cupped his hand over his nose and mouth.

“Yes, this is a lovely place,” Maldred mused.

“This was your idea,” Dhamon growled, “going after Riki. I’ve only got a knife for a weapon, and Varek dropped his staff in the marsh. This was your idea, your very bad idea, my friend.” Dhamon craned his neck around a thick scaly tree and drew his lips into a thin line. “Aye, a truly lovely place we’ve come to,” he added.

An expanse of dark water curved around a marshy island, which was cluttered with more of the serpent-trees. The sky was overcast, and it looked as if it was raining in the distance. Dhamon’s keen eyesight managed to pick through the drab darkness. He could see just enough to tell him there were buildings of a sort on the island.

“I think we’ve found your spawn village,” Dhamon said, studying the water. “By the vanished gods, this water smells like a Palanthas sewer.” He let out a low whistle. “Check that magical map of yours to be certain this is the place.”

He trundled toward the water’s edge, sliding down the last of the muddy slope and weaving around the thinning scale-covered trees. Dhamon stopped just short of the bank, noting a profusion of fatbellied crocodiles and alligators so coated with mud it looked as though they had camouflaged themselves.

“Riki isn’t worth this,” he whispered. “No one’s worth this.”

Maldred looked at the map briefly to be sure they’d come to the right place. They walked a halfmile along the curving bank, until they were southeast of the island and had come to a weathered, moss-covered dock that jutted out into the water, one side of it tilting precariously. There was a second dock, across from it, and tied to this was a pair of large rowboats.

“Well and truly wonderful,” Dhamon said, as he glanced down at a long yellow-brown crocodile.

“Any ideas?”

“Actually, yes,” Maldred replied. He knelt on the muddy bank, one eye on the crocodiles which were showing growing interest in the trio. Maldred thrust his fingers into the earth and mumbled something in the ogre tongue.

“What’s he doing?” Varek hovered nearby, shifting nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Magic,” Dhamon said flatly. “He’s casting a spell.”

Varek pointed to the island. “You think Riki’s really there?”

Dhamon gave a shrug. “According to Mal’s map, Polagnar’s there. Supposedly that’s where the thieves were taking her. So yeah, I think she’s there.”

Varek shuddered and dropped his gaze to the tip of his boots.

Dhamon’s attention drifted between the increasing number of crocodiles and Maldred. Ripples appeared in the mud, fanning outward from Maldred’s fingers and taking on a faint green hue. They raced over the water, making a soft slapping sound. At the same time the crocodiles gave the trio and the magic a wider berth.

“I’m making a bridge,” Maldred explained. He groaned, the ground groaning with him and his construct becoming thicker and solid, gleaming wetly in the late-morning sun. “I’m pulling up some of the mud from the bottom, making it solid, so we don’t have to risk a swim.”

He spouted more Ogrish, and the ripples of mud and water quickened into a dark blur, the green hue fading to reveal a foot-wide earthen path that stretched from their bank to a spot near the rowboats on the other side.

“I’d suggest we hurry,” Maldred said, nodding to a particularly large crocodile that had raised its nose against the bridge. There were other forms swimming around it, some vaguely dragonlike, some with six legs, others with two tails. They might have been malformed alligators or breeds of aquatic lizards.

“My bridge won’t last long,” said Maldred, “and it won’t keep our scaly friends at bay. So move.”

Dhamon practically ran across the magical bridge, feet splashing and sending a shower of mud behind him. Varek and Maldred followed. The three reached the foliage on the other side only moments before the muddy bridge dissolved.

“How did you…?”

Maldred put a finger to Varek’s lips. “I’ve considerable talent with magic,” he said quietly, “and I’ve no time to explain the mechanics to you.”

There was a path ahead, bordered by more of the scale-covered trees. The snakes were too numerous to count, hanging amidst the lianas and filling the air with a loud hissing. The leaves and flowers were black, the sawgrass the color of cold ashes. Nothing was green. Through a gap of midnight-colored elephant-shaped leaves Dhamon caught a glimpse of something angular, the building he’d spotted from the other shore. Closer, nailed to a shaggy-bark and almost obscured by vines, was a moss-covered wooden sign. He brushed the moss away. It read: Polagnar, population 232 50. Beyond that, and through a pair of cypress trunks, he caught sight of another hut. Dhamon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m going for a closer look. Wait here.”

Varek shook his head and pointed to a pair of footprints. They were larger than a man’s and ended in claws. “These tracks are all over the place.”

“Spawn prints,” Dhamon stated. “I’ll be back soon. Mal, remind our young friend about spawn, will you?” Dhamon darted off the path and into the foliage.

As Dhamon neared the village he slowed his pace to avoid stepping on snakes that writhed everywhere. Peering beyond the trees that ringed Polagnar, he saw a clearing carpeted with snakes, a squirming mass that stretched from one end to the other, without a single patch of open ground. He saw evidence of fire—the blackened and broken remains of homes and businesses—and of what had once been Polagnar. Primitive huts had been built between the ruins, and these were covered with a mix of thatch and thick patches of snakeskin. Large lizards sunned themselves atop the roofs. Across from the smallest hut was a ring of worked stones and a scorched beam, likely the fragments of a well. There was a massive constrictor wrapped around it.

As he passed behind the largest hut, he spied a livestock pen. There were at least three dozen elves, half-elves, and dwarves inside of it, as well as a handful of ogres. All of them appeared listless and gaunt. A few shuffled around, but most sat against the railing, not even raising a hand to bat away the clouds of insects that filled the air. Some were talking, but he was too far away to hear the prisoners.

He watched those in the pen for several minutes, noting there were two spawn serving as guards. He decided to move closer to get a better look at the inhabitants, then his attention was drawn to the opposite end of the village, where he spotted a few humans. Crudely dressed, they walked from hut to hut, brushing snakes aside with their feet as they went, and carrying food on large platters. Dhamon watched a young woman holding a shield covered with bread, fruit, and raw meat. She disappeared into one of the farthest huts. There was just enough light through the open doorway for Dhamon to see her give the food to a spawn. She came out carrying the empty shield. The shield was pitted and bore a Solamnic symbol, the Order of the Rose.

Between the spawn and the snakes that were everywhere, it sounded as if a hundred kettles were steaming away. The humans congregated around a pair of large moss-draped lean-tos, which he guessed served as their homes. Twelve snakeskin-covered huts, eighteen spawn that he could see. Bad odds.

Wonderful, Dhamon thought. I have a little knife for a weapon. He circled around so he could more clearly see the pen. The spawn that wandered through the village seemed to take turns keeping their eyes on all the prisoners.

“Wonderful,” Dhamon repeated aloud, as he glimpsed something beyond the pen. “A draconian. A sivak.” He glided closer, and his mouth opened in surprise.

The creature was easily ten feet tall, with shoulders broader than an ogre’s. Dull silver scales covered its torso and arms, becoming a segmented leathery hide along its tail. Its head was wide, set with jet-black eyes separated by a toothlike ridge that ran down its long snout. Spiderweb-fine white hair was scattered along its bottom jaw, matching the color of stubby horns that curved back from the sides of its head. One of the horns was split down the center. A thick chain was wrapped around its waist, another around its neck. Both chains circled a cypress tree and prevented the creature from moving more than a half-dozen feet in any direction. It had no wings, but its back bore thick scars to show where wings had been. Dhamon had seen enough battlefield injuries to tell that the wings had been amputated. Of all the draconians, only a sivak could fly, and this creature had been stripped of that ability. But why?

Dhamon mouthed. And why was a sivak being held captive?

The ends of the creature’s claws had been removed, leaving it with blunt humanlike fingers. Dhamon wondered if the same had been done to its feet. The beast still had teeth, plenty of them, but there was something wrong with the base of its throat, thick scarring and a fresh wound that didn’t look as if it had been caused by the chain. A crude attempt had been made to bandage the wound, but the cloth was caught in the chain and seemed only to help the wound fester. There were other scars on the creature’s massive body, mostly on its arms. As he watched, the young human woman with the Solamnic shield reappeared. This time she was carrying strips of meat, which looked as if they came from a large lizard. The sivak backed toward the cypress, and she dumped the meat on the ground, at the very end of where its chain could reach. The creature waited until she left, then moved forward and fell to devouring the food. Finished, it glanced up and sniffed the air, scarred lip curling upward. It turned and spied Dhamon. The sivak regarded Dhamon for several long minutes, eyes unblinking, nose quivering. It finally looked away, apparently uninterested, and returned to where its food had been placed, searching for a scrap it might have missed.

“They’re keeping it like a pet dog,” Dhamon whispered. “Why? And where’s Riki?” He wanted to find the half-elf quickly and be on his way. “There she is.”

He saw her, propped up between an elf and an ogre, looking half-dead. Her clothes were soiled and in tatters, and her hair and face were streaked with mud. She looked exhausted, and her shallow cheeks showed she hadn’t been eating. Her eyes were open and unfocused. Though she was in a direct line with Dhamon, she didn’t see him.

“We’ll get you out of there,” he whispered. He edged away and made his’ way around the rest of the village, cutting back to where he’d left Maldred and Varek. He related everything he’d seen.

“We can rush in,” Varek began. “We can—”

Dhamon’s stern look stopped him.

“There are at least eighteen spawn, and only three of us. And a sivak that, by a quirk of fate, will probably pose no threat. You’ve no weapon, and I’ve a knife. I think our best course is to sneak in at night and come at the pen from behind.”

Varek cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “How about this? The three of us will come at the village from different sides and rush in on my signal, gain a little element of surprise. Confuse the spawn and separate them shift opponents when necessary, finish it and get Riki and…”

“…commit suicide,” Dhamon finished. He let out a deep breath and cupped his forehead with his hand. “How about I better the odds a bit first? Get rid of a few spawn before you charge in?”

Dhamon quickly laid out a plan, then darted toward the spawn’s village.

* * * * *

Dhamon closed on the huts, crouching behind a shadblow bush and waiting until a pair of spawn passed by. He scuttled across the few yards of open ground to the back of the closest hut, pressing his ear against the scale-covered reed wall and listening intently. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the hissing of the snakes everywhere.

He used his knife to cut through the wall, noting that the snakeskin was thick and fleshy and bled. He persisted, cutting the thatch that lay beneath, fashioning a doorway and slipping inside. He nearly gagged from the smell of sweat, waste, and things he didn’t care to try to identify. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior. It took him several moments more to pick through the jumble.

The hut was empty of spawn and humans, but it was crowded with all manner of other things. A thick mat of furs and cloaks made up a bed, the cloak on top bearing a Solamnic symbol from the Order of the Rose. A shield with a rose on it was propped nearby. Backpacks and satchels were strewn everywhere, most of them shredded and empty. From some objects spilled out. He snatched up a locket. Silver or platinum, it was too dark in here to tell, but it was heavy enough to have value. Dhamon thrust it in his pocket and moved toward the doorway, stepping over the remains of a wild pig that had probably served as a spawn’s dinner. Other scraps of spoiled meat and rotten fruit were strewn haphazardly about. There were crates piled up near the entrance, some labeled in Elvish and some in the common tongue. The latter, which Dhamon could read, proclaimed that at one time they contained wild blackberry wine from Sithelnost in the Silvanesti Forest to the east. Dhamon gently jiggled the crates, surprised to find them nearly full.

He looked at floor around him and considered poking through some of the packs, but noise just outside the entrance he ducked behind the crates.

There was hissing, two or three spawn conversing. The word “elf” surfaced several times, “human” only once, then the sibilant voices moved away. Dhamon felt his legs cramp and was ready to move, but there was more hissing, and a moment later a spawn entered the hut. The creature yawned and stretched as a human would, then eyed the bed and made its way toward it. The spawn paused and sniffed the air. It had started to turn when Dhamon sprang from behind the crates, knife in his hand and aimed at a spot between the creature’s wings. The blade sank in easily and found the creature’s heart. Before the spawn was able to see who had inflicted the mortal blow, it exploded in a burst of acid that showered Dhamon. The acid ran off his skin, stinging and sizzling, leaving small holes in his trousers.

Dhamon returned to crouch behind the crates, hoping fervently that other spawn hadn’t heard their fellow die. For several minutes Dhamon remained still, listening to his own breathing and the sound of a faint breeze rustling the thatch on the roof. Satisfied he’d disposed of the spawn without alerting anyone, he took the tip of the knife and pried at one of the crates, grinning wide when he discovered that indeed bottles of blackberry wine were inside. Dhamon wanted nothing more at the moment than to splash some of the alcohol down his throat, but he only had time to grab an empty backpack and put three bottles inside, padding them with a Solamnic tabard he spotted. Slipping the pack over his shoulders, he headed toward the slit he had cut in the back of the hut. Just as he pulled the reeds aside and made ready to leave, he heard a soft footfall behind him at the entrance to the hut.

“A man?”

Dhamon released the reeds and whirled to see another spawn, stooped and framed by the entrance. Dhamon dove for the Solamnic shield as the creature stepped inside.

“Man new to village. New man ssshould not have weapon.” The spawn held out a clawed hand.

“Man give weapon and drop ssshield. Man behave.”

“Not this day,” Dhamon whispered. He held the shield in front of him and slashed upward, the knife drawing a line of acidic blood across the creature’s neck. Its claws shot up to its throat, and it made a gurgling sound, just as Dhamon knelt behind the shield. There was another blast of acid, and Dhamon was alone again.

He quickly returned to the crates and waited several more minutes. When no more spawn entered the hut, he slipped over to the bedding and rearranged it, hiding the cloaks eaten through by acid. He didn’t want a creature to come in here after he’d left and discover signs of a fight. Fortunately when spawn died, they left no corpses behind.

He hurried out the rear of the hut, and dashed to the treeline a half-dozen yards away. He dropped his wine-filled pack behind a shadblow bush, then scanned the village again. When he was certain he wouldn’t be spotted, he ran to the next hut. He kept the Solamnic shield with him. There were many hissing voices inside this hut, so Dhamon moved on to another, which sounded empty. He cut through the scales and reeds and made his way inside. This smelled as bad and looked much the same as the other hut he had visited. A jumble of booty was strewn everywhere: cloaks bearing Solamnic symbols from Knights of the Sword and Knights of the Rose, satchels, bins, scraps of food and bones, a dead snake that had a few bites taken out of it. Three swords were stuck in the ground next to what passed for a bed. From the center one’s pommel hung a palm-sized silver symbol on a chain. It was a bison’s head, the horns of which looked to be made of chips of black pearl.

“Kiri-Jolith,” Dhamon whispered, as he quickly snatched the chain. The symbol represented the Sword of Justice, Krynn’s god of honor and war who at one time was the patron of the Solamnic Order of the Sword. Kiri-Jolith had left years ago with all of Krynn’s other gods, and the Solamnic Knights who must have died in this village had no one to hear their prayers. And now Dhamon had an antique that would fetch a fair price, despite its pits and marring. Dhamon rubbed at some dried blood that was along the edge, then put it in his pocket.

He thrust the knife in his waistband and appraised the three swords, selecting the center one, which had the keenest edge. “Finally, a decent weapon,” he whispered. Not far from the makeshift bed was an upended crate on which sat a large, stoppered ceramic pot and a tiny silver box. Inside the pot was a mixture of herbs, all carefully preserved and too bulky for him to manage at the moment. The little silver box was another matter, as it easily fit in his hand. He frowned, for, despite its small size, it had a lock on it. “Later,” he mouthed, stuffing it in his pocket and hearing it softly clink against the Kiri-Jolith symbol. There were many bulging satchels and sacks, and a cursory examination revealed clothes in most and roots and powders in a few others. Dhamon suspected the knights must have had a battlefield medic with them.

Finished with his quick inspection, he crouched to one side of the entrance, waiting and listening. There were no crates in here to conceal him, but the shadows were thick enough to hide in. A barrel-chested spawn shuffled into the hut, hissing and grumbling to itself. It was the largest of the creatures Dhamon had seen wandering through the village, with a great bull neck. Dhamon picked out the words “snake” and “food” before he decided that the spawn was far enough into the shadowed interior that he might strike at it without being seen. This one took three blows in rapid succession. Dhamon relied on the shield to protect him from the usual acid burst. As before, he did his best to conceal objects that had been damaged by the acid, and moved on, slipping out the back and scurrying onto the third hut.

There were still at least fourteen spawn in the village, and he wanted to take out a few more before they noticed their numbers dwindling.

The next hut held two of the creatures, both sleeping, making a grating and sibilant sound that passed for snoring. He crept toward the largest, moving fluidly, holding the shield in front of him and nearly retching when he got a good whiff of what the spawn was holding in its claw—a partially gutted monkey that was spoiling in the heat. When he was directly over the creature, Dhamon held his breath and rammed the tip of the sword into the beast’s heart, then leaped back when the acid burst came. Without pause, he whirled and stepped toward the other one, which was still sound asleep. He slashed at its chest, eliciting a strangled howl. He slashed again and brought the shield up just in time as this creature, too, exploded.

The interior of the hut sizzled. The reed and snakeskin walls adjacent to the beds threatened to dissolve and topple at any moment. The twine that held the hut together had disintegrated in places. At a quick glance. Dhamon saw something shiny on the floor and bent to scoop it up: a thin silver bracelet. Rikali might like it, though it wasn’t as gaudy as what she usually preferred.

“Nat? Is that you, Nat?”

Dhamon turned to see a young broad-shouldered man at the hut’s entrance.

“Sorry. You’re not Nat.” He had short-cropped hair the color of dry grass. It was uneven and dirty, and though his skin looked reasonably clean, he stank strongly of sweat. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Nat’s,” Dhamon lied. He motioned the man closer and was surprised when he complied without suspicion. When the young man was an arm’s length away, Dhamon shot forward and grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and clamped a hand over his mouth before he could cry out. He eased the struggling man down to the ground, one arm wrapped around him to keep him from breaking free.

“I want some information,” Dhamon hissed in his ear. “You supply it, and you’ll live. Stay still.” He waited for the youth to nod his head, then slowly drew his hand away.

“The spawn in the village. How many all together?”

“Tw-twenty… maybe twenty-four,” came the stammered reply. “Sometimes more. I don’t bother to count them unless it’s my turn to fill the plates. They come and go.”

“How many today. Now?”

“Less than usual, I think. Some went hunting.”

Dhamon drew his lips into a thin line. “They force you to serve them. You are slaves.”

The young man shook his head. “No. It’s not like that. We’re not forced. We—”

“Magic, then. Someone’s ensorcelled you.” Dhamon growled deeper and clenched his free hand. He turned the youth around so he was facing him, holding the Solamnic sword threateningly to his throat.

“Who? Who is forcing you to serve the spawn?”

The man shook his head. “N-no one, I said. We help them willingly. It’s our choice.”

“Why? Why do you serve the spawn?”

“It’s safe in this village,” the man said. “In other spawn villages, too. If we serve the spawn, we don’t have to worry about being turned into spawn. Someone has to serve them.” He was sweating from the heat but more from fear of Dhamon. He stared at the sword. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“It’s better than working in the black dragon’s silver mines,” the man added. “Better than being dead. This is the black dragon’s land, and the spawn are her children.”

“And you’re sheep. Pitiful, weak sheep.”

“It’s not so bad really. You’ll see. The spawn will catch you, and you’ll be allowed to serve them.”

“Or put in the pen if I refuse.”

The man shook his head, dirty hair flying. “No. You’re human. They’re not caging the humans.”

“Why? What are they planning to do with the others?”

The man drew his lips together and folded his arms in front of his chest.

“Why?” Dhamon persisted louder than he had intended. “Why are the other races being sold to the spawn?”

“That is not your concern,” the man replied finally. “In fact…”

With a move so quick the young man couldn’t react, Dhamon raised the sword and brought the pommel down hard against the side of his head, stunning him. “I should’ve killed you,” Dhamon whispered, as he dragged the man to a bed and tied him up, using a piece of fabric. He stuffed the edge of a cloak in the man’s mouth, then slipped out the back.

He had to cross more than thirty feet of open space, stepping on hissing snakes as he went, but he accomplished this without being seen. A second later, and he was inside. He knew he had to work more quickly now, in the event the young man woke up or someone discovered him.

“Should’ve killed him,” Dhamon repeated.

Dhamon managed three more huts, seven in total, slaying ten of the spawn, before starting back toward Maldred and Varek. Finally he heard what might be an alarm. A horn sounded loud and long and thoroughly unmelodious. He glanced behind him, across a dozen open feet that stretched toward the thick foliage of the swamp. He could make it to the trees, hide until he determined what the horn meant. There was a large scaly willow back there. He could wait beneath the veil of leaves and… He spied two spawn coming his way, patrolling the perimeter of the village. They didn’t seem unduly agitated because of the horn, which sounded once more, then ceased. Another slice with the sword, and Dhamon had cut his way into a small hut. A moment more and he was inside, pushing the flap of snakeskin closed and pressing his ear to the wall, listening. Had the two spawn seen him?

He heard them walk by, hissing and talking, stopping nearby to converse in their odd language in which were interspersed a few human words. He caught several words repeated in the common tongue, ones perhaps that had no equivalent in their own language: “Man,” “human,” “dwarf,”

“missstresss,” and something, over and over, that had more emphasis. “Nur—” something. When he was certain the spawn had moved on, he looked at his surroundings. This hut was the cleanest of those he had visited, and the largest, but it was practically empty. There were a few chests sitting side by side across from a makeshift bed that was much thicker with cloaks and furs than the others. The air in here smelled musky but not unpleasant. There were no scraps of food anywhere. He glided to the doorway, crouching beside it. He heard the horn again, the notes staccato now. A spawn passed by the hut.

Come in here, Dhamon willed the creature. He wanted to take out another two or three if he could. Another spawn passed within his vision, this one followed by three young humans. Come in here, you slimy, damnable….

He gasped and pulled back from the entrance, feeling the tingling against his palm matched by the tingling in his leg. Before he could take another breath, the sensation on his thigh became hot and painful, as if a branding iron had been thrust against his skin. He dropped the shield and grabbed his thigh. Waves of heat raced outward from the scale on his leg, rushing to the ends of his fingers and toes and making it difficult to grasp the sword.

“Who are you?”

Through a haze of pain, he heard the words and faintly registered that a young woman had entered the hut and was speaking to him. She was standing over him, head cocked, long black hair hanging down and tanned hands reaching toward him.

He shook his head and edged backward, keeping his distance and hoping she would follow him into the shadows. He wanted to get her away from the entrance, where she might be seen and where someone might see her talking.

“Who are you?” she repeated. “Are you with Nura Bint-Drax?”

Dhamon cursed as the trembling started, the muscles in his legs and arms jumping, his toes and fingers twitching uncontrollably.

“Are you all right?” The young woman followed him, tentatively. She glanced over her shoulder at the hut’s entrance, then looked at Dhamon again. “Who are you? Can you understand me? Are you with Nura Bint-Drax?”

Dhamon fell to his side, legs curling up, chest heaving, fingers still clamped tight around the sword’s pommel. He tried to say something, but his throat was instantly dry, and all he could make was a gagging sound. It was hard enough just to breathe and to keep a hold of the sword. She was saying something else to him, but his heart pounded so hard he could barely hear her. She seemed insistent on knowing who he was.

“Are you ill?” She moved closer and brushed her hand against his forehead, pulling it back instantly as if she’d touched a hot coal.

“A bad fever. Who are you? How is it you have a weapon?” he dimly understood. “You’re very sick.”

From somewhere outside the hut the horn continued to blow, and just beyond the entrance he heard the pounding of feet. The jolts of icy cold started radiating from the scale now, warring with the heat and sending him to the brink of unconsciousness. This time he fought desperately to stay awake.

“What are you doing in here?” the girl persisted. She said something else, but most of it was lost amid the hammering in his head. “You are not with Nura Bint-Drax, are you? You are not supposed to be here.” She raised her voice. “Can you hear me? Hear me?”

He opened his mouth, attempting again to speak to her, but only a moan escaped. He shook his head.

“I will get help for you.” She was speaking louder still, and indeed he heard her clearly. “I will go to the spawn and…”

No! his mind screamed. He couldn’t be found out! Not helpless as he was. The spawn would kill him. Dhamon meant to reach out to the girl, grab her arm and pull her close, tell her to stay here and to be quiet, tell her that Maldred would rescue her and the other servants. When the episode with the scale stopped, he would question her. But first she must be quiet and cooperate, and he must gain some relief from the pain. He needed to hold her close and keep her from alerting anyone. He saw a flash of silver. Only a small part of his mind registered that it was his sword and that he was reaching for her with the wrong hand. Stop, he told himself. Too late. The blade had already sliced through the air and plunged into the girl.

A horrified look spread over her face as a line of blood grew across her stomach. She dropped to her knees and opened her mouth to scream. Only a pathetic gurgle and flecks of red came out. She pitched forward, falling across Dhamon. He felt her legs twitch once, then she was still. Got to get out of here! he told himself. Move! He rolled her off him and found the strength to get to his knees. He tried not to feel pity for her. She was simply a casualty, someone who ventured into the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d only been trying to help. And now her blood coated him. He crawled to the back of the hut, not feeling his knees move across the earth. The fiery jolts raced through his body, interspersed with jabs of intense cold. Fumbling around the back wall, he tried to find the way out. There!

“There!”

Had he heard something?

“There! A trespasser! A thief!”

The words were in the common tongue, spoken by a human, and Dhamon looked over his shoulder to see a man, hardly more than a boy, standing inside the hut’s entrance. He was gesturing madly at Dhamon, then at the girl’s corpse. Behind him towered a spawn, claws outstretched and lips curled back in a snarl.

Dhamon stopped fumbling with the reed flap and raised the sword. He tried to stand facing the spawn, but he couldn’t get off his knees. He lifted the sword above his head. The tip struck the wall of the hut behind him and became ensnared for an instant.

Dhamon’s chest grew tighter as the pain increased, and he fought for air. The spawn took a step closer and then another.

Swing! Swing at the beast!

His fingers were numb, and his body was so racked with pain from the scale on his leg that he couldn’t obey the commands of his brain. Claws closed around Dhamon’s hand, tugging the sword from it. The spawn’s free claw grabbed at Dhamon’s hair, pulling him forward as if he weighed no more than a rag doll, dragging him across the hut floor and out the doorway. Dhamon registered the sunlight streaming down, the intense afternoon heat of Sable’s swamp adding to the warmth that coursed through him. He felt himself being pulled across the snakes that carpeted the ground. Several of them bit him, adding to the heat. After a moment more all he saw and felt was a cool, welcoming darkness.