Betrayal

Chapter Nineteen Hidden Strengths

The town that spread out below them was a scabrous ruin. Most of the buildings had collapsed. The few that were relatively intact were stunted stone towers—the sides of which had been blackened as if by some great fire. These were spaced along what passed for the main street. Rocky spires rose amid piles of rubble, like jagged teeth aimed menacingly at the sky. Marble statues looked as though they were broken and melted, more resembling monsters than the men who long ago had been important to this place.

Shapes flew about the spires, and Dhamon realized they were black dragonspawn. A few were perched on the sides of the tallest buildings, while some walked through the littered streets, shoving people out of their way. A streak of silver moved among the highest-flying spawn: a sivak. Dhamon noticed that Ragh watched it with envy.

Tents were scattered in the shadows of the buildings. A row of lean-tos stretched across the western edge of the town. People huddled under them seeking respite from the rain that pounded down on everything.

“If we had the map, we could be sure this was the right town,” Dhamon said. He stood on a rise that circled the town, which rested in the middle of a bowl-shaped depression. Cypress trees grew in profusion along the rise and half-way down it, vines and snakes draping thickly from their branches. Maldred rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s the town, all right. I memorized as much of the magical map as I could. This is the only town it could be.”

Dhamon inhaled sharply. “I hope you’re right, my friend, but your map implied this healer was in the Plains of Dust. We’re clearly back in Sable’s swamp.”

They stood silent for several minutes, watching the rain beat down, turning the streets into rivers of mud, painting everything ever more dismal looking.

Ragh cleared his throat. “This town was in the Plains of Dust until some time earlier this year.”

Dhamon gave the sivak a puzzled stare.

“Sable’s swamp has been growing. Common news, I know, but most don’t realize just how fast it’s growing,” the sivak continued. “I believe the dragon will soon claim all of the Plains.”

“She did this to the town?” Dhamon asked, gesturing at the rubble. The sivak shrugged. “Her. Her allies. The swamp. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” I just want to be free of the damn scale, then be free of this land, Dhamon told himself. He started down the rise, angling toward the line of tents, intending to talk to the people there. He hadn’t taken more than a few dozen steps when the sivak caught up with him, stopping him with a clawed hand on his shoulder.

“What you’re looking for, you won’t find there,” Ragh said.

“I’m just looking for information, to see if anyone here’s heard of the healer.”

Ragh shook his scaly head. “They’re not going to talk to you.” He pointed a claw at Dhamon’s attire and then at Maldred’s. “You look like escaped slaves or deserters from some army. Certainly people to be avoided.”

He directed his next words at Dhamon. “You, they might think, are some sort of dragon-spawn.”

Dhamon still wore the Solamnic tunic. It was muddy, sweat-caked, and ripped in several places. His trousers were torn, revealing the scales on his leg. There were more than three dozen of the smaller scales now, covering his thigh and creeping down his calf.

Though Maldred was still maintaining his human form, his clothes were in tatters, barely hanging on him, and his chest was crisscrossed with welts from a briar bush he’d walked through.

“I don’t care what we look like,” Maldred said. “We’ll make them talk to us.”

The sivak made a hoarse sound. “Come with me.” Ragh picked his way down the opposite side of the rise.

Dhamon opened his mouth to argue but decided to follow the sivak. Only a few of the people they passed gave them a second look as they edged into the town. Most of the humans who walked about were dressed poorly, though not as raggedly as Dhamon and Maldred. A handful had rusted chains about their ankles, while others carried heavy sacks for spawn that walked in front of them, leading them as though they were pack animals. Most of the people seemed to be laborers. One group worked hard to reinforce what appeared to be the largest still-standing building. A handful of men and women were dressed in clean clothes that were in good repair. These people gave the workers as well as Dhamon and Maldred a wide birth.

“Information brokers,” Ragh said of the better-garbed individuals. “They come here from throughout Sable’s realm and the Plains and from as far away as New Ports and Khuri-Khan. They sell news of happenings in Ansalon to the dragon’s allies. They are paid very well, depending on the usefulness of their information. Some sell creatures. Sable has quite a menagerie in towns throughout the swamp. She pays small fortunes to those who can bring her unique animals.”

“These slaves…?” Dhamon pointed to a trio in chains.

“Some sell people here, but for these she does not pay nearly as much as for information or unusual creatures.”

They took what appeared to be the widest, most-traveled street, and as they made their way along it and deeper into the town Dhamon noticed a number of small, one-room buildings constructed of weathered wood planks and draped with lizardskin or oiled-canvas roofs. Ragh stepped toward one, pointing to a crudely painted sign that said it was a tailor’s.

“You have coins from the Legion Knights,” Ragh stated.

Dhamon felt in his pocket for the coin purse. He squared his shoulders and disappeared through the doorway, Maldred following after and making sure the sivak would guard the entrance. They emerged from the shop several minutes later, Dhamon dressed in a shadow-gray tunic and black leggings. There was a belt-pouch strapped around his waist, and in this he hid his dozen remaining coins. Maldred wore drab garb as well, a shirt and trousers of faded dirt-brown. They made another stop, this one at a market run by the only dwarf they’d seen. Dhamon was hungry and tossed the proprietor a few coins for a flask of liquor and three-dozen thick strips of dried boar meat. Some he passed to the sivak. He took a few for himself and gave the rest to Maldred.

“T’ain’t seen you here ’ fore,” the dwarf stated, eyeing Dhamon and Maldred with narrow eyes.

“Because you haven’t looked,” Dhamon lied. “Though I’ll admit I’m not one to frequent this town.”

The dwarf stuffed the coins in his pocket and waved a stubby arm at other jars containing more meats and pickled fish. “Interest you in anything else?” the dwarf asked. Dhamon shook his head.

“I’m interested in old and unusual things,” Maldred interjected.

“Lots o’ old things ’ round here,” the dwarf said. He glanced around Dhamon to see the sivak in the doorway, scowling and shaking his head at the creature. “Old creatures, draconians…”

“People,” Maldred said. “Very old people.”

The dwarf stroked his beard.

“Ever hear of a sage,” Dhamon asked, “an old woman who—”

The gravelly laugh filled the small shop. “Sage? There’s one on every street corner.”

Maldred drummed his fingers on the dwarf’s counter. “An old woman. Very old. A sorceress and a healer.”

“Said to predate the Cataclysm,” Dhamon added.

The dwarf’s eyes fairly twinkled. “That would be Maab. Mad Maab’s what some call her. She used to be a Black Robe sorceress. Before the Chaos War. Before the gods fled. Before the black dragon came and swallowed this town up into the swamp. Some say she was born long before the Cataclysm, but that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ve seen her?” Dhamon couldn’t keep his eagerness in check.

“No. Never. Though I’ve friends who claim to have seen her decades back. No one’s admitted to seeing her for years.”

“Dead?” Dhamon asked.

“Might be dead. Probably is dead. Word was she tried to keep the swamp from takin’ this place.”

“And…?” Maldred pressed.

“Well, the swamp’s all around us, ain’t it? This place is all but fallen down.”

“Where is her tower?” Maldred’s fingers clutched the edge of the countertop, the knuckles turning white. “She was supposed to live in a tower.”

“Oh, it’s still here, so to speak. A tower with the mouth of a dragon.” The dwarf gave them directions.

Dhamon and Maldred hurried down the street, Ragh following them at a respectable distance. They didn’t stop until they reached the marketplace. Dozens of sights, sounds, and smells assaulted them—none of them pleasant.

Despite the rain, there was a crowd standing before a series of stone and steel cages that rimmed a bog that likely once had been a park. There were children at the front of the crowd, and they were ooohing and aahing at the creatures inside the cages.

“New acquisitions,” Ragh said. “Sable’s agents have not yet looked them over. The choicest will be taken directly to the dragon in Shrentak. Others will go to an arena deep in the swamp. A few will be kept on display here for the people to enjoy.”

“How…?” Dhamon let the question hang.

“Trappers bring them here. It is a lucrative way to earn a living.”

Dhamon stared at some of the better dressed men toward the front of the crowd. They were muscular and armed with swords and spears. He suspected they were the trappers who captured the beasts. One of them was using a spear to poke a mud-brown lizard the size of a cow. It had a dozen legs ending in cloven hooves and a wide body that could easily swallow an alligator. The man was trying to get it to perform for the audience. Finally it began to roar and hiss, sending a gob of spit between the bars and into the face of a wide-eyed girl. She shrieked and scurried away. Another creature looked like a big, black bear, but its head was that of an eagle, with white and sand-colored feathers that fanned back from a massive beak and fluttered about its broad shoulders. It looked sad, sitting in its cage, staring back at the people. Next to it was a huge owl, a magnificent animal nearly twenty feet from its claws to the top of its head. It was crowded in the cage, not able to stand fully upright, and one of its wings was injured. The feathers were crusted with dried blood. With unblinking eyes it took in the audience.

“A darken owl,” the sivak pronounced. “Many years ago I flew with them in the Qualinesti Forest. Keenly intelligent, they are. The men who captured this must have been very skilled. They will be well rewarded by Sable’s agents.”

The other cages contained even more fantastic beasts. There was a thanoi, a walrus-man from far to the south. He was a stocky brute with long tusks and a mix of thick skin and fur that made him unbearably hot in this climate. A young man near the front was wagering with a girl that the beast was so uncomfortable it would die before nightfall.

There was a bulky, round-shouldered hairy creature that looked like a cross between a man and an ape. It smelled like a mix of dung and rotting wood. Near it were three man-sized frogs that stood on their hind legs and chattered in a strange, throaty language. One balled its fist and shook it at a passing spawn.

Dhamon stopped near an especially large cage, and shouldered his way to the front. The two creatures crammed inside were easily the size of small dragons.

“Manticores,” Maldred breathed.

“Aye. I wonder how trappers managed to catch them?”

“It was tough,” said a barrel-chested man an arm’s length away. “Our gamble nearly cost us our lives.” There was considerable pride on his face as he gestured at the manticores.

“Me and my mates caught their cubs, probably while they were off hunting. This pair didn’t put up much fight when they came back and we threatened to kill the cubs. In the end they practically let us drug ’ em with the last of Reng’s magic powder.”

“Where are the cubs?” Maldred asked.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Sold ’ em this morning for a very good turn o’ coin. Ain’t gonna be able to sell these adults for a good price until they heal up some. Time’s on our side, though. Word is Sable’s agents aren’t here right now. We’re gonna clean up on these beauties.”

The manticores would have been impressive were it not for the great chains around their legs and the myriad of wounds in their sides. Their bodies were that of huge lions, though they were easily the size of bull elephants. From their wide shoulders sprouted massive leathery wings shaped like a bat’s. The cage confined them, however, and their wings were crushed against their sides. Foot-long spikes ran in a ridge from their shoulderblades to the tip of their long tails. Most amazing were their heads, vaguely human in shape but with thick manes of hair and wild-looking beards. Their eyes looked overly small for their features and rolled this way and that, staring at the crowd. The smaller one made a mewling sound. Dhamon met its gaze. The creature repeated the sound, and Dhamon heard the very human word “please” in it.

“I’ve seen enough,” Dhamon said, edging away from the audience and heading along a side street filled with mud puddles. Maldred and the sivak lagged a few yards behind. “I kept company once with a Kagonesti who would have paled at that sight,” Dhamon muttered. “She would have vowed to free every one of those creatures and punish the men who collected them. No doubt the black dragon, too.”

“Fortunately she is not here with us,” the sivak said. “She would die trying.”

Dhamon didn’t reply.

The dwarf’s directions to the old woman’s tower yielded nothing. They found a street with tents and poorly built wooden homes. After another hour of searching Dhamon considered giving up, but Maldred was determined to look longer.

The rain had become a drizzle by noon, everything so thoroughly soaked that there was a sameness to each turn of the muddy walkway. Dark, ramshackle buildings sheltered tents on the verge of collapsing from the water. The ways were thronged by downtrodden slaves and optimistic “information brokers.”

“Perhaps this is the one.” Maldred nodded to one of the more-intact towers around which a trio of sivak draconians and a dozen spawn clustered. But after two hours, there was no sign of any other activity, and not a soul entered the place, and so they moved on.

“This could take days, you realize,” Ragh offered. “Weeks. If this healer truly exits.”

“No,” Dhamon said. “I’m not going to spend that long here. I hate this place.”

“Perhaps the healer hated the place, too, and left,” Ragh ventured. By late afternoon the rain had stopped, just about the time they discovered a building that met the dwarf’s description of the mad sage’s home. It was several streets back from where he said it would be and shielded by piles of rubble heaped up high on either side of it. They were certain they must have passed by it several times earlier. Perhaps they had not noticed it because of the rain and gloom and because it didn’t look like a tower.

The structure was, at best, three stories tall. It was blackened like the other structures around it, but in places the trim gleamed silver and bronze. There was a great gaping doorway with stony fingers pointing down from the arch, looking like an open jaws of a massive, toothy beast. It was dark beyond the arched entrance, save for a sporadic flickering of what might have been firelight.

“Perhaps this is the one,” the sivak tried. “The dwarf said it had the mouth of a dragon.”

“Perhaps it is.” Dhamon and Maldred stepped into the shadows of a spire across the street. Maldred yawned, and Dhamon noticed the ash-gray circles beneath his eyes.

“You’re tired.”

“Very.” The big man yawned wider. He glanced down the street to his right at what was obviously an inn. A large wagon pulled by a pair of sorry-looking and over-taxed mules was out in front, and huge barrels were being unloaded from the wagon. The man who had driven it up was trying to repair a wheel that was cracking. Maldred watched him.

“I really don’t want to spend the night in this town, Dhamon. I don’t think I would get any sleep. But we could get a room there. Better than being out on the street in this gods-forsaken hole, I suspect. Or better than curling up in a tree in the swamp. Sun’s setting, and…”

“We’ve stayed in worse,” Dhamon agreed, looking at the ramshackle inn, then at the tower. “This healer, if she’s alive, might not see me this late.”

“I suppose, but… hey!” Maldred was out of the shadows in an instant and starting toward the wagon.

With a loud crack, one of the rear wheels had fallen off, tipping the wagon and spilling a few of the barrels. The man who’d been unloading them was trapped beneath three of the barrels, and his partner who’d been attempting to fix the wheel was pinned under the wagon. A few passersby were watching, but only one of them attempted to help. This was an old fellow who couldn’t budge even one of the big barrels. The man beneath the barrels groaned loudly for help, while his partner pinned beneath the wagon offered only a whimper. The moment he reached the wagon, Maldred put his back to the task, straining his muscles in an attempt to lift it Too many barrels remained on the wagonbed, weighing it down.

“We’ll have to offload some of these barrels first,” he grunted to Dhamon, who had materialized at his side. “We’ll have to lighten the load before we can hope to lift the wagon. The barrels must be filled with bricks.”

Maldred turned to help the man caught under the barrels and picked up the first one. “This feels like a ton of bricks,” he said, as he moved it aside and reached for the second. Dhamon was already working on the wagon. Bracing his legs, he hooked his fingers under the wood where the broken wheel canted. Looking down at the trapped man, he saw the pain in his eyes and the trickle of blood spilling out of his mouth. “Not good,” he muttered. Dhamon took a deep breath and bunched his muscles, bent at the knees and slowly raised the wagon.

“Mal… Pull the man out.”

Maldred had just taken the last barrel off the man. He set it down and whirled on Dhamon. “By my father,” he started, “how could you have…”

“The man,” Dhamon said. “Pull the man out. Please.”

Maldred did just that, and the previously inert citizens fell to helping the two wounded men inside the ramshackle inn. Dhamon set the wagon on the ground, brushed off his hands, and headed back down the street toward the shadows of the spire.

“Wait a minute, Dhamon.” Maldred followed him, and despite his longer strides was not quite able to keep up.

Dhamon walked faster, ignoring Maldred. He was surprised to find the sivak still in the shadows across from the old sage’s tower. The wingless draconian could have taken the opportunity to part company with them.

“What?” Dhamon turned to his large friend.

“Dhamon, how did you do that? Lift the wagon?” Maldred’s eyes were daggers. “I couldn’t lift the wagon and I’m an—”

“Ogre,” Dhamon finished. His face showed anger, though it wasn’t directed at his friend. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how I’m able to do a lot of things—run for hours without getting tired, sleep little and hear so well. I don’t know.”

“In that village, Polagnar,” Maldred cut in, “you stopped me from killing the sivak. With one hand you stopped my blow. That’s been bothering me. In the caverns with the ships, when the rocks held my legs. I should’ve known something was wrong, when you so easily moved those rocks.”

“I wasn’t as strong then as I am now.” Dhamon could have added that he didn’t like feeling this strong, didn’t like it one bit. “I think it’s the scale.”

“Scale? Scales, Dhamon. Spreading like a rash on your leg. You kept that and your strength from me.”

“You made me believe you were human. Everyone has secrets, Mal.”

“It might not be the scale,” Maldred offered. “Maybe it’s—”

“I know of no other explanation.”

There were several minutes of silence as the threesome stood in the growing shadow of the spire and watched the doorway across the street.

“No. I suppose you’re right,” Maldred said after a time. “I suppose it would be the scale.” The big man let out a deep breath, and his shoulders slumped. “We’d better hope that sage is alive and in there,” he said, “before you burn out like candle.”

“Aye, I hope she is in there, but I want to watch the place a bit longer first. We’ve seen no movement yet.”

They watched the building for another hour, until twilight overtook the town. Just as Dhamon decided to approach it, two spawn flanking a draconian came out. Three human slaves shuffled behind them, dragging bloodied canvas sacks that from the shape of them probably contained bodies. The draconian was a bozak, birthed from the corrupted egg of a bronze dragon. The creature wasn’t quite as tall as Dhamon, but it was much broader in the chest and wore a mix of boiled leather armor and chain. Its wings were folded tight against its back, and in its hands was a wickedly barbed spear festooned with black ribbons.

Ragh grumbled a word that Dhamon couldn’t make out. “One of Sable’s agents,” he whispered. “I remember him from my time with the dragon.”

“And the spawn? Are they familiar, too?”

The sivak shook its head. “I refuse to pay attention to their kind. They are not worthy of my interest.”

“If this sage exists. If she’s alive,” Dhamon said, “she might be allied with the dragon, too.”

Maldred shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet and yawned again. “All right, Dhamon. I’m going to get us a room at that inn.” He gestured down the street. A quartet of burly men were working on the wagon that was still out front. Someone had taken the two mules away. “Then I’m going back to the marketplace and visit a tavern or two.” He looked at the sivak. “Dhamon, keep Ragh with you. When you’re done here—whether or not you decide to approach this sage tonight—meet me later at the inn.”

“Aye,” Dhamon acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the old building’s front door. He and Ragh waited across the street for nearly another hour, watching only three more spawn leave the building in that time. The flickering started again.

They finished the rest of the dried boar. Dhamon washed it down with some liquor, which he did not share. He was finally ready to head toward the building, despite the number of people strolling nearby—apparently headed toward a tavern at the end of the street—when a sound drew his attention.

A trio of ragged young boys were running south, mindless of the dark and the puddles, shouting. Others were moving in that direction, too, and within minutes the street was cleared.

“Now,” Dhamon said. He strode purposefully toward the building, eyes trained on the entrance and picking through the darkness. The flickering was a torch well back from the doorway. The air was fusty under the arch, smelling of dampness and of the rancid fat the torch had been liberally soaked in. There was no door, just steps that led up and inside the place. Dhamon took them two at a time. Within moments he was standing in a spacious, round alcove.

The walls here were black, too, though not because of a fire. They were covered with mosaics made of onyx and chert chips, and, looking close, Dhamon could make out the images of men in slatecolored robes.

“A place of Black Robe sorcerers,” he whispered, pointing at the figures. “Look here.” His finger reached higher along the wall to an orb made of black pearl chips. “Nuitari. Their moon of magic.”

The sivak watched out of politeness. The mosaic meant nothing to him. He glanced away toward where a stairway led down off the circular alcove. Nearby was a hallway. Ragh waited patiently until Dhamon was done studying the wall.

Then Dhamon pointed to the alcove floor. It, too, was covered with mosaics and made in the image of Nuitari. He saw the stairs that led down, but he looked to the hallway and took it instead. The hallway was curving and rounded. “Like the inside of a snake,” he whispered. He was struck with the thought that the building was swallowing him and the sivak. He shuddered and turned back, deciding to take the stairs down, instead.

“What…?”

Beyond the stairs in the opposite direction was a hallway he hadn’t noticed before. “That wasn’t there a moment ago,” he said. It, too, was rounded and curved. “Let’s go down,” he told Ragh. The stairs were made of slate, smooth and concave from the number of feet that had traveled them and worn them down through the decades. Dhamon moved quietly and gracefully, fingers flitting to the pommel of the Solamnic long sword from time to time.

He listened intently. From below was the sound of dripping water from today’s constant rains. From deeper still was the whisper of feet against stone, and voices, one human-sounding, the other sibilant. The voices were growing steadily. Two individuals were coming up the stairs. Dhamon leaned against the stairwell wall. The sivak copied him, head cocking and obviously hearing what Dhamon had picked up. A few heartbeats later a well-dressed half-elven male appeared, long blue cloak sweeping on the steps behind him. A spawn trundled after him, hissing that the elf would have to come back tomorrow to be paid.

“Who are you?” the half-elf paused and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at Dhamon and the sivak.

“We are none of your concern,” Ragh returned.

“You’re missing your wings,” the half-elf purred. He glanced at Dhamon. “And you are missing your manners. I asked your names.”

“None of your concern,” Dhamon parroted. He’d begun to sweat, though not from nerves. He was feeling the heat of the scale on his leg, catching images of black scales and yellow eyes from the spawn and feeling the familiar uncomfortable warmth pulsing through his body. He knew the intense cold would start soon and incapacitate him.

“What is your business here?” the spawn asked.

“We bring information,” the sivak quickly said.

The spawn prodded the half-elf up the steps. “Thissss information,” the spawn prompted.

“You can tell it to me. I will sssee that it gets delivered and that you get paid—if it is worth it. Tomorrow you will get paid.”

Dhamon shook his head. The fingers of his left hand found a niche in the wall to grab onto. His right hand squeezed the pommel of the sword, as if those gestures might help diminish the pain.

“This is important information. Too important to give to you.”

The spawn shoved the half-elf along now, growling at him. “I am listening, human. Tell me thisss information. Mistressss Sable’s agent is not here. Nura Bint-Drax will not be here until tomorrow or the day after that. It is she who will pay you.”

Dhamon shuddered at the name, recalling the naga from the spawn village. “Nura Bint-Drax…”

“… is Sable’sss chief agent here,” the spawn finished.

“Our information can’t wait,” Dhamon began, thinking quickly. “We know of a scheme…” He gulped in air, feeling an icy jolt shoot through him. It was followed by intense heat, as if he’d been branded. He forced himself to concentrate.

The spawn tapped its clawed foot against the stairwell. “Give me thisss important information.”

“That is not for your ears,” Ragh cut in.

The spawn hissed, acid pooling over its lip and trailing down to strike the step. It moved close to the sivak. “I decide what isss for my ears. I—”

Dhamon stepped back just in time to avoid the cloud of acid that showered the stairway and the sivak. He’d skewered the spawn in the back with the Solamnic long sword, instantly slaying it.

“There are more of them,” he gasped, nodding down the stairwell. “Spawn or draconians. I hear them hissing.” He sagged uselessly on the steps, still holding onto his weapon. Ragh was hurt from the acid, especially where it struck the area along his neck where the scales had worn away. Despite the pain, he rushed by Dhamon, claws reaching into the darkness beyond to meet spawn flesh. Dhamon heard another splash of acid, signifying the death of another of Sable’s minions, then felt the sword tugged from his fingers. Ragh had taken it and was using it against another advancing spawn.