Betrayal

Chapter Eleven Ragh of Doom

Dhamon sat just outside the doorway to the hut, listening to Maldred and Varek snoring. The grating sound was impossible for him to shut out entirely. Riki was slumbering soundly, too, waking only once nearly an hour past. Rising up on her elbows she spotted Dhamon as he glanced over his shoulder, and without a word she lay down again, drifting back to sleep. He gazed out across the forlorn village, a long sword that once belonged to a Solamnic Knight in his lap. Had the Knight been one of the spawn he killed? Impossible to know. Several villagers were awake, although it was well past midnight. They’d been taking shifts on watch, too, four of them currently sitting near a small fire they’d built for light only, as the temperature was still dreadfully hot.

They were watching Dhamon intently.

He could hear their wary whispering, making out several of the words—Mistress Sable, Nura Bint-Drax, strangers. He listened more closely and found that he could hear them as clearly as if he were sitting in their midst. The spokesman was debating now what they should do with all of the bodies they had gathered into a pile—drag them into the swamp for the alligators to dispose of, or let them continue to rot here, reeking evidence for Sable to see in the event the overlord deigned to grace the village with her scaly presence? Despite the swarm of insects the corpses had already drawn, most of the villagers seemed to favor the latter option.

Dhamon knew he shouldn’t have been able to hear the villagers at all. They were too far away, their voices too low. The fire was crackling, the snakes that carpeted the village were hissing, and his companions only a few feet behind him were snoring. Though part of him marveled at his ability to pick out all these sounds, a greater part of him feared that it was all connected to the large scale on his leg. He wanted nothing more than to be normal again. The pop of something in the fire roused him from his musings. One of the villagers had tossed a too-damp log on the flames, and the wood hissed in protest.

He could hear other things, too, when he concentrated: the gentle rustling of leaves from trees that circled this village; a soft growling noise the sivak draconian made, perhaps its version of snoring, and the coo of a swamp bird.

He felt an insect crawling up his arm. It was a pearl-shaped orange beetle. Brushing it off, Dhamon glanced away from the fire and the villagers, craning his neck and peering south. His eyes probed the darkness, making out rotting corpses and, several yards from them, the sivak. The creature was curled around the base of the tree, as a dog might sleep. Dhamon shouldn’t have been able to see it this clearly. There was no moon tonight, and the shadows were thick. But he could even discern that the beast was squirming as if in the depths of a dream. What would it dream about? he wondered. No matter, there would be no more dreams for the sivak—or nightmares for that matter—after this night, once Maldred had his way. Maldred intended to slay it at first light to keep Nura Bint-Drax from using it to create more monstrosities.

Monstrosities like me, Dhamon thought. I feel less human with each passing week. He removed his bandages and glanced at the wounds on his legs and chest. They were healing exceptionally well. He wasn’t tired either, despite only catching a few hours of sleep after the ordeal he’d been through. His limbs no longer ached. He felt good.

His sense of smell was sharper than usual, causing him some discomfort. The cloying bittersweet stench from the rotting corpses mingled with the waste in the pen, the sweat from his companions and the villagers, the pools of dried and drying blood, and the stench of the swamp. Dhamon stood, careful not to wake the others—not because he was concerned about their wellbeing and their need for rest, but because he didn’t want to deal with them at the moment. Keeping a watchful eye on the villagers by the fire, he strode purposefully toward a hut several yards away, ducking inside and retrieving a crate. As the villagers stared and whispered, he unsheathed his long sword and pried the lid open, selected a bottle, and took a long pull from it. The wine filled his senses, the taste of the blackberries intense.

He steadied himself and listened to the village spokesman protesting to his fellows that Dhamon should be stopped, shouldn’t be allowed to take anything from the huts that soon enough would be occupied by spawn, Sable’s precious children. Nura Bint-Drax would see that Polagnar was repopulated with the creatures. She would see that the dark-haired defiler and his friends were punished.

To spite the man, Dhamon headed back inside the hut and tugged out several packs. Digging through them in full view of the villagers, he found clothes that would fit, and he changed into trousers and a Solamnic tunic that were worn but well made. The tunic he turned inside-out so the emblem would not show. He stuffed a few changes of clothes into a soft leather pack, including two shirts that looked like they were practically new, and slung the pack over his shoulder, then he headed toward the fire.

In an instant the villagers were on their feet, darting nervous glances. The villagers stopped whispering when Dhamon dropped his free hand to the pommel of his sword.

“You’ve a fresh water supply here. Somewhere.” He was addressing the spokesman, staring ominously into the man’s eyes. “There are at least a dozen empty skins back in that hut.” He gestured to the building he’d been looting. “I want them all filled with fresh water before dawn. I want two satchels of food. Fruits and nuts preferably, not that snake flesh you seem to be so fond of preparing.”

The youngest of the villagers puffed out his chest. “W-we’ll do no such thing. W-w-we’ll not help the likes of someone who goes against Nura Bint-Drax! Doom to you!”

Dhamon moved his menacing gaze to the man. “You’ll attend to it now, boy. Or maybe you’d like to share the fate of those others.” He nodded toward the corpses and tapped his thumb against his sword’s pommel. “You take care of our supplies, and we’ll be on our way soon enough. You’ll keep your skins intact, and Polagnar will be yours again. You can tidy up for the next batch of spawn that comes along.”

“Nura Bint-Drax will hunt you down,” the youngest said softly. His voice trembled, but his eyes showed defiance. “She’ll make you pay for what you’ve done. She’ll feed you to the dragon.”

“Perhaps I’ll hunt Nura Bint-Drax instead,” Dhamon returned, as he finished the wine and dropped the empty bottle at their feet. “Dawn’s only a few hours away. I’d hurry to those tasks if I were you.”

He spun on his heel and searched through the huts he hadn’t yet visited, taking his time, and occasionally glancing at the villagers make sure they were indeed gathering the supplies he’d asked for. He found several more Solamnic shields and weapons, as well as tabards and cloaks that had been made into bedding. All bore the emblems of the Order of the Rose and the Order of the Sword. There were only a few pieces of intact armor, and these were leg and arm pieces pitted from the spawns’ acid. There were other Solamnic garments riddled with holes and cuts made by claws rather than swords. It was obvious one or two units of Solamnic Knights had fought the spawn. Perhaps any Knights who had survived had been transformed into the foul creatures. Dhamon shrugged, dismissing it all as beyond his concern and continuing to poke through the Knights’ belongings. He discovered a half-dozen more silver medallions of Kiri-Jolith. One with diamonds he decided to keep. There were nearly twenty rings with roses engraved on them, all made of gold. All found their way into his pouches. He tied one pouch to his belt, then stuffed another into his pocket—this one brimming with steel pieces.

He made a return trip to the crates of wine. He carefully padded six bottles in a backpack, and took a seventh with him to his companions’ hut. He tugged the cork free with his teeth and took a deep swallow, grateful that it cut the stench of this place. Dhamon suddenly remembered the pack filled with wine that he’d dropped behind the shadblow bush, but he knew there was no reason to retrieve that when he had plenty here.

Maldred and Varek were still snoring. Rikali woke again and watched as Dhamon retrieved a small chest that sat at the foot of her bed. He beckoned her outside, and she followed him, careful not to wake Varek as she went.

The sky was lightening, and the half-elf looked up to see a trio of blue herons fly over the clearing and out of sight.

“Daybreak,” she whispered. “I think I like this time best. The sky all rosy for a brief time, like a kiss. Then the sky’s all blue.” She dropped her gaze to Dhamon, who was sitting on the ground and prying at the lock of the chest with a coral-handled dagger.

With little effort he managed to open the lid and began rifling through the gems he found inside. Rikali had taught him how to spot flaws in jewels, and he picked out the most valuable—primarily garnets, sapphires and emeralds. A thumb-sized jacinth caught his eye. He stuffed them into the empty pouch, then tied it on his belt. He filled his other pocket with smaller gems, then snatched up a hammered gold bracer studded with pieces of jade and tourmaline and fitted it on his arm. A thick gold chain quickly found its way around his neck.

“They’re pretty.” Riki stared at the gems as if she were mesmerized, but she made no move to take anything. “They’re not worth much, really,” she continued.

Dhamon held up a topaz that was about the size of a plum. “Aye, its pretty, but definitely flawed. Still, you can’t have too many gems. And so…”

This and several others he added to the second pouch of coins that lay loose at his side. He came across a hammered silver bracelet set with jade chips, and this he tossed to the half-elf.

“No use leaving this here. The villagers don’t need it.” Or deserve it, he added to himself. Riki held the bracelet almost reverently, turning it over and over in her acid-scarred fingers before putting it around her wrist. She squeezed it to make it a little tighter so it wouldn’t fall off.

“We all could’ve died here, Dhamon,” she said softly. “All of us.” .

“How old is he, Riki?”

Dhamon’s question threw her. “What?”

“How old is Varek?”

“You weren’t comin’ back for me, Dhamon Grimwulf. I wanted to be with someone. An’ he loves me. A lot. Spent every last coin he had on a pretty little ring for me.” She waggled her hand at him.

“How old?” he persisted.

“Nineteen.”

“He’s a boy, Riki. What were you thinking?”

“What was I thinkin’?” She lowered her voice. “I certainly wasn’t thinkin’ about you anymore, was I? You wouldn’t ever have married me, Dhamon Grimwulf.”

He didn’t catch the twinge of sadness in her voice.

“You wouldn’t have even settled down with me for a little while.”

“No,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Then why should you care what I do?” The sadness was gone, replaced by controlled anger. “Why should you care how old he is?”

“You’re older than me. You’re nearly twice his age. Think about it, Riki—pinning him down so young. Not just with a wife, but with a family. It won’t last.”

She shook her head, her curls catching the light and gleaming. “He’s not a boy, Dhamon Grimwulf. He’s a young man. A young man who loves me very, very much. Besides, what do you care?”

“I don’t.” He picked up a cracked jacinth, examined and discarded it. “I really don’t, Riki.”

The half-elf squatted by Dhamon and stirred the gems with a finger. She stared into the chest, clearly looking at something far beyond the flawed baubles.

“He’ll make a good father, don’t you think?” She ran her thumb across the face of a chipped piece of jade.

“Riki…”

She tipped her head back and put on a face when the breeze shifted and brought the stench from the corpses their way. After a moment she met his stare. “I better go wake him, huh? We’ll be headin’ out of this ghastly place soon. I heard Mal talkin’ about some pirate loot in his sleep. I fancy goin’ after some real treasure.” She jabbed a finger at the flawed gems. “This stuff isn’t worth my time.”

She disappeared into the hut, leaving Dhamon to stare at the villagers who were approaching. The villagers had taken apart one of their lean-tos to build a small litter, atop which rested several satchels filled with food, along with the dozen or so waterskins and Dhamon’s backpack filled with the heady elven wine.

He inspected the litter and supplies, only vaguely noting the contents of the satchels. His companions had awakened, and Varek and Maldred and Riki all poked through the Solamnics’ clothes to find something to wear.

Maldred snorted and gave a nod of his head toward the sivak, his foot tapping. “Time to take care of that thing.” He reached to his back and unsheathed his greatsword, which he’d managed to recover from a hut, the edge catching the dawning sun.

The sivak stood, carefully regarding Maldred and showing no sign of fear as the big man approached. It had made no move to attack them, though its chain clearly would reach far enough. That told Dhamon that it wasn’t going to put up a fight.

Dhamon caught the sivak’s gaze. “They didn’t want you to fly, did they? Afraid you might more easily escape?”

The draconian moved closer to the trunk.

“So they cut off your wings.”

Maldred paused. “The thing isn’t going to talk to you, Dhamon. Look at that wound on its throat. It probably can’t speak and—”

“It was the price I paid for saying no,” the sivak answered. There was a whisper wrapped around the edge of the draconian’s voice, giving it a soft and unpleasant huskiness. Coming closer, Dhamon detected a scent he hadn’t noticed when he first spied the sivak. It reminded him of hot metal and smoke, a newly forged sword—as if the creature had been birthed in a blacksmith’s shop. Did all sivaks smell like this?

“Nura Bint-Drax did this to you?” Dhamon persisted.

A nod. “Because I would not willingly help her.”

Maldred took a step around Dhamon, eyes searching the sivak’s face. “It doesn’t make sense that you wouldn’t want to help Nura Bint-Drax. Your kind serve dragons.”

The sivak did not reply.

“I suspect it didn’t mind serving Sable,” Dhamon observed, “and before her, Takhisis. But this Nura…”

The creature glanced back and forth between Maldred and Dhamon.

“Sivak, I thought only the dragon overlords could create spawn,” Dhamon said. The sivak fixed his eyes on a spot on the ground.

“Nura Bint-Drax could do it, couldn’t she? Make spawn.”

“Yes,” the creature replied after a moment’s hesitation. The draconian canted his head, listening to something beyond the perimeter of the village. He didn’t notice Dhamon listening too. He turned slightly and spied through a break in the underbrush a large panther slinking to the north.

“What is she? Just what is Nura Bint-Drax?”

The answer was quick this time. “A naga, a being neither snake nor human, but resembling both. I believe Takhisis created them not long after she gave life to us.”

“Tell me more.”

The draconian shrugged. “I don’t know much beyond that. In all the years I served Sable, I saw only two of them—and Nura Bint-Drax was the greater. Even some of Sable’s dragons fear her. Nagas are powerful, and Nura Bint-Drax is particularly skilled.”

“They can be killed,” Dhamon persisted.

The sivak inhaled deeply. “Everything that breathes can be killed. As you will slay me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d object to that.”

Maldred cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter to me if it objects. I revere life, but I don’t see that we have a choice here. We can’t just let it go.” He addressed only the sivak now. “We’ll make it quick, though. You won’t feel anything.” He tightened his grip around the pommel, took a few steps forward, and raised the sword above his head.

“No.” Dhamon’s hand shot out, preventing Maldred’s blow. “We need the sivak, Mal.”

“Yes, like we need a—”

“It can help carry our supplies.” Dhamon pointed to the litter the villagers had assembled. Maldred shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Dhamon. Even without wings, this thing is dangerous.”

Dhamon stared at the draconian. “Not as dangerous as I am.” He turned to Maldred and said, “Or you, my friend.” He laughed grimly, but a tense moment passed before Maldred responded with a forced chuckle. He lowered his weapon.

“Now, can that map show us the quickest way out of this damned swamp and to your Hollering Hills or Screaming Valley or just whatever it is you called it? There’s a pirate’s horde to be after, and…”

“… and the healer after that,” Maldred finished. He reached into his pocket for the bone tube, carefully extracting the map and holding it open to the sun. Images danced along the surface as he asked the enchanted parchment for a route.

“Find us a place to get some horses and a wagon along the way,” Dhamon added. “I’m hoping there’s so much treasure we won’t be able to carry it ourselves.” He stepped close to the sivak, drew his long sword, and used the tip to saw through the chain around his neck.

“Have you got a name?” Dhamon asked the sivak.

“Ragh,” he replied. “Ragh of the Lords of Doom.”

“Meaning you served Takhisis in the Lords,” Dhamon supplied.

A nod.

“Well, Ragh of Doom, you serve me now.”

The sivak eyed him coolly but said nothing.