Downfall

CHAPTER ELEVEN Reflections of Truths

“Pigs, but I’m not gonna die here! I won’t have it!” Rikali ground her teeth together and squeezed by Dhamon and Rig, nearly stepping on Fetch in the process. “I’m gonna have me a grand house on an island. Far away from here, and no cave-in is gonna stop me.” She felt her way down the staircase, careful not to trip over chunks of rocks and collapsed steps. “Wonderful idea this was, lover, comin’ down here lookin’ at all of the carved dwarves. I’ve had my fill of dwarves, I have! All I was lookin’ for was a few baubles. Haven’t gotten much that sparkles lately. Damn little—everythin’ considered—from riskin’ my pretty little neck in that valley of crystal gettin’ gems so you can buy some old sword from Donnag.”

Dhamon shot her a withering look. The mariner’s eyes narrowed and he studied Dhamon, his expression souring. “Well, you ain’t got nothin’ now, lover. Donnag’s got all of the gems and that sword too. Donnag’s the better thief, I’d say. This is all truly wonderful. Shoulda stayed upstairs and picked the eyes outta those wooden dwarves.

Desecrating a temple to a dead god. Pigs to it all! Never thought much of the gods, anyway.”

Fetch started to say something, but the half-elf cut him off with snarl. He shrugged his small shoulders and decided keeping quiet was wiser.

“There’s a door down here!” Rikali yelled. “But the damn thing’s rusted shut.”

Dhamon brought the torch down to her, Rig and Fetch following. There wasn’t much left of the torch, a half an hour of firelight at best.

“It better lead outta here,” Rikali continued to grumble, giving the door a good kick. “Better be a back door at the bottom of this mountain. Huh?” She put her ear to the door and listened, furrowing her brow in concentration. “I hear somethin’. Maybe the wind whistlin’ through some trees. By my breath, that’s a good sign.” Then she was fumbling in her belt, pulling small metal picks from behind her jeweled buckle. “Prefer to use my fingers,” she said more to herself than to Dhamon. “But my nails haven’t grown back yet. Pigs on my luck. That light, put it down closer. Hey, not so close it burns me!”

Dhamon crouched next to her and watched in fascination as she moved the picks in and out of the rusted lock with a skill he wasn’t close to mastering, turning them first one way and then the other, putting her ear to the lock, making clicking sounds with her tongue against her teeth as she finally left two picks in and retrieved a third.

“It’s an old lock,” she said to explain why it took so long. “Things are rusted inside. Don’t want to move.”

“Could just break it down,” Rig suggested, his eyes on the waning torch.

“Barbarian,” Rikali whispered. “No genius to kickin’. No skill and thinkin’.” Louder, she said. “I’ll have it in a minute, just hold on and… there!” With a self-satisfied nod of her head, she pulled the picks out and replaced them in her buckle and wriggled the latch, grinning triumphantly when she heard a soft clacking. She tugged on the door. “Pigs! Probably swelled too much for the frame with all the moisture down here,” she decided, as she wrapped both hands around the latch, braced her feet, and pulled again. Dhamon tried to help, but she shouldered him away roughly. “I unlocked it, I’m gonna open it. Be the first one to see inside.You just step back and watch me.”

Dhamon did just that, listening to Rig grumble that he could have had it open with a single kick and that she had better hurry because there wasn’t much left of the torch. Fetch suggested they pull some of the wood planks out of the door, and he’d be happy to make another torch from them, but everyone ignored him.

“I know I can get it!” she hissed between her teeth. “Just a little more. See, it’s comin’. Just a…”

It came open with a roar as water rushed into the stairwell, sweeping Rikali behind the door and pinning her against the wall. Dhamon turned and scrambled up the steps, holding the torch high and staying just beyond the water’s reach. Fetch was dumbstruck, barely able to scream, “I can’t swim,” before the water surged over his head. Only the mariner managed to stay anchored. He braced himself and spread his arms across the stairwell, hands firmly against each wall and slamming his eyes shut. When the wave hit him, he kept from being swept up in it, and when the surge stopped, the water settled down around his thighs and he opened his eyes.

Rikali was sputtering and splashing, jammed between the door and the wall. Rig sloshed down the steps and threw his weight against the door, budging it just enough for the half-elf to slip out. She struggled against him for a moment, then relaxed and gulped in some air. The water came up to her shoulders.

“Suppose I should thank you,” she managed.

The mariner felt claws against his back, and he instinctively thrust his hand to his waist for a dagger, stopping just as his fingers closed on the pommel and he realized the source. The kobold had climbed up and wrapped his scaly arms around Rig’s neck, coughing up water and cursing in a language the mariner couldn’t understand.

“Dhamon!” Rig called.

The faint light from above became brighter—but only a little—as Dhamon climbed down the stairs and joined them, holding high what was left of the torch. His face was impassive, as if their predicament didn’t in the least bit concern him. His eyes hinted at other thoughts working furiously and they were fixed on the way ahead. A minute later he was past them, sloshing through the doorway and into the chamber beyond.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Fetch hollered at him. “Where’re you going?”

“Hey, you stinking kobold!” the mariner cut in. “If you’re going to hitch a ride, don’t scream in my ear. I’ll drown you like a rat so fast you’re…”

“Dhamon!” Rikali hissed.

“The way we came down is blocked,” Dhamon called back. The light was getting softer as he continued to move away from them. “So forward is our only option.”

“Well, I don’t like our option,” Rikali moaned as she followed him, walking on her tiptoes and letting her arms float out to her sides. “I’m too young to drown, Dhamon Grimwulf!”

Rig swiftly followed, trying to shut out their words and concentrate on the water. His element, whether fresh or salt, he felt it flow about him, pleasantly cool despite the summer, as it was part of an underground stream shielded from the heat by the tons of rock that cocooned it. He concentrated on the flow, determined to discover how the water entered the chamber.

“No other way out,” the mariner growled after a few minutes. Softer, he said, “Always figured I’d die by drowning. Just didn’t want to die with Dhamon.”

Dhamon’s torchlight danced spookily against the water’s surface and the elaborately carved rock walls. The light touched softly on hundreds of images of dwarves. The dwarves were forging weapons, cooking, mining; a fat couple was dancing around the image of an anvil; a child was stacking rocks. On the ceiling was a tiled image of Reorx, almost identical to the one they’d seen on the floor above. There was a great gash in one of the walls, and Rig gestured to it.

“That has to be where the stream broke through. But it’s more like a river now because of all the rain,” he said, quickly moving toward it. He bumped into something and pitched forward into the water. He came up sputtering, the kobold on his back complaining shrilly. He felt about beneath the water—a stone bench, a stone table, a few other objects he couldn’t readily identify. He forced himself to move slowly, bumping into more things hidden beneath the inky surface, and he sent a shower of water Rikali’s way to get her attention. “Over here! And be careful.”

For once he cursed all the weapons he’d loaded himself down with. He’d be swimming with ease now, and not slowly navigating around, if he didn’t have the glaive on his back. But he wouldn’t allow himself to drop it. “All this damn rain,” he said to himself when he finally reached the gash in the wall. “It must have swollen the stream so much that it broke through a thin section of wall. Yep, it’s thin here.” He broke off a piece of rock.

The half-elf was treading water at his side, for the water had risen and she could only touch bottom with her toes.

“Well, that’s good to know,” she huffed, “we’re all gonna drown ‘cause of all the rain.”

Dhamon had sloshed up behind her. He looked nonplused, his face ever stoic, eyes flitting to his left and right. His breathing was regular, and he moved deliberately, as if he knew where he was going, and was not in the least bit worried about what lay ahead.

The mariner shook his head at Dhamon’s apparent lack of concern, took a deep breath and entered the gash, holding onto the rock wall so he wouldn’t be swept away. Fetch coughed and tightened his grip on the mariner’s neck. The torchlight showed Rig’s fingers inching higher on the wall.

“What’s he doing, lover?” Rikali had her hand on Dhamon’s shoulder. He was helping her to stay above water.

Dhamon didn’t answer as she continued to fret and shower him with useless questions. He was watching the mariner’s fingers, becoming harder to make out as the torchlight faded. There was a final sputtering, then the flame went out, smothering them in a thick and absolute darkness. Rikali moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulder.

“Lover? I can’t see any thin’.”

A sloshing and a string of high-pitched curses from Fetch signaled the mariner’s return.

“Dhamon?”

“We’re here, Rig. What did you find?”

“There’s about a foot of air between the stream and the rocks—for the moment anyway. And the water’s moving pretty fast. I think it’s our best bet. Follow it and pray it spills us out somewhere.”

“I don’t pray,” Rikali whispered.

“You’re insane!” Fetch spat at the mariner. “Go in there?”

“And you’ve a better idea?” Dhamon asked as he dropped the useless torch and felt about with his hands, finding Rig and then the gash in the wall. Rikali continued to hold onto Dhamon, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she worked to keep her chin above the water, all the while muttering about the dark and drowning.

“Yes, I’ve a better idea!” the kobold squawked. “I can see! A little. Maybe if we stay here, really search this room, we can…” The rest of his words were drowned out as the mariner followed Dhamon and Rikali through the gash and into a corridor the stream had cut ages past.

In the darkness, they moved through the water, sometimes swimming awkwardly, Rig struggling the most with the glaive and the kobold on his back. Their heads bumped against outcroppings in the ceiling, bringing curses, and the stream pushed them against jagged spikes protruding from the walls. Dhamon felt something slick brush against his leg, a fish or a snake—he hoped it was nothing worse as he continued feeling his way.

For a few hours they followed the stream as it twisted and turned through the mountain, sometimes cutting back so that they thought they were close to where they started. Eventually its course straightened, and they could hear the water sloshing loudly against the stone, and from time to time they discerned the screech of bats coming from somewhere ahead. Rikali announced that was a good sign, as it meant there was still air in front of them.

“Wrong, Riki,” Fetch countered, as he continued to hold firmly to the mariner’s neck, his cloak swirling about his legs, which were floating behind him. “It’s a very bad sign. It means the bats are trapped. An’ so are we.”

The half-elf dug her fingers tighter into Dhamon’s shoulder as he increased his pace. She felt the warmth of blood around her fingertips. Dhamon didn’t complain.

A heartbeat later Dhamon lost his footing as the bottom of the tunnel sloped away and the water deepened. He and the half-elf bumped into Rig.

“What?” the mariner asked.

“The current feels different here,” Dhamon said. “Not the depth. Something I can’t quite—”

“Yeah,” Rig interrupted. “I can feel it, too. The current’s splitting. The stronger goes straight ahead, but there’s a branch heading to the left, and the water there feels warmer, maybe heated from something farther underground.”

“And…” the half-elf cut in. “This means what?”

“We could separate,” Dhamon suggested. “Rikali and I will take the left and Fetch and…”

“Bad idea,” Rig argued. “We’re all tired. It has to be well past midnight by now. Nobody splits up. Follow me.” The mariner moved past them, pausing only to peel the kobold off his back and pass him to Dhamon. “Your turn.” Then he was awkwardly swimming ahead, shifting the glaive to his hand, and nearly losing it. He shut out the complaints of Fetch and Rikali.

“Wish Fiona was here,” Rig whispered as he continued to struggle along. “Hope she’s all right.” He told himself she was fine, that she and Maldred hadn’t dawdled so long, that they hadn’t journeyed so deep into the mountain, and that they’d managed to get outside before the cave-in. “She’s all right,” he reassured himself, adding that he would make sure when he got out of here that Maldred didn’t get any cozier with the Solamnic. And he would do his best to help her gain the ransom for her brother. “She has to be all right. I think I’d die without her.”

Then a dark thought crossed his mind. Perhaps Maldred had caused the cave-in, and the kobold had lied to cover up his master’s deed. The burning troll arm causing the fire above did sound a little far-fetched. Eliminating Rig would make it easier for Maldred to win Fiona. His heart beat wildly with that possibility.

The current was moving faster now, the corridor widening. The speed made it easier for the mariner to maneuver with his glaive. Rig guessed they’d covered several miles already when the sound of the rushing water became even louder, the channel narrowed, and the pounding drowned out the chattering of Rikali and the sloshing noise of Dhamon swimming to catch up.

There was only a few inches of air, and the mariner found himself clinging to the ceiling, taking a few deep gulps, and then submerging to swim some more. He hoped Dhamon and the half-elf were close behind and that they hadn’t given up and tried to backtrack. Still, he told himself, he wasn’t going to lose a precious minute worrying about his companions. Time to put his own skin first and to let the stinking thieves save themselves. Concentrate on getting back to Fiona.

“Awww…” he breathed, as he held on to an outcropping and let his arm drift out in a sweeping pattern, his nose pressed against the ceiling. His fingers brushed against cloth. “Who am I trying to fool? Dhamon? You all right? Dhamon!”

There was a muffled reply, and they were off again, another hour passing, the mariner guessed, as they followed the stream in the pitch darkness, gulping in air when a pocket presented itself. The water was warming, evidence of something underground, perhaps volcanic heat.

Dhamon was thinking of the dragons: the green who slew his men in the Qualinesti Forest; Skie, who could have killed him and Rig and everyone else at the Window to the Stars; the Black he’d encountered in the swamp and who would have slain him save for the scale on his leg— which at the time had branded him as a servant of the red overlord.

Death didn’t frighten him anymore. Everyone died. It was just a matter of when. Drowning would not be so painful. Then his jaw tightened and he scolded himself. Dying would be the easy way out. And there was the sword to consider—he had no desire to let the ogre chieftain keep the sword and the gemstones. His musing was interrupted by needlelike claws against his neck—Fetch. The kobold was stretching for air. Rikali’s fingers brushed his shoulder, Rig’s hand reached out again to make sure they were all nearby.

Then a hint of green intruded.

The kobold started clawing Dhamon’s back, jabbering frenziedly and pointing.

“I see it!” Dhamon spat, as he took in a deep breath against the ceiling, dove under, and swam toward the light. Rikali moved past him, feet kicking furiously, knocking Dhamon and almost dislodging the kobold from his back as she went. He saw her outline as they neared the green glow, then he saw her rise. Dhamon kicked faster.

Rikali’s hands struck stone. Frightened she’d hit a dead end, she panicked and gulped, drawing water into her lungs. Her hands flailed about, feeling angular stone. Stairs! She pulled herself out of the water, climbing on the steps, gasping, and instantly rolling onto her back to stare up incredulously at a smooth oval rock that formed most of the ceiling of the otherwise rough-hewn chamber. The rock was reflecting the mysterious green light. The underground river continued to rush by her, and she turned to watch it.

“Dhamon. Come on, lover,” she breathed. “Come… oh!”

Dhamon’s head appeared above the surface, in the narrow space between the water and the rocky overhang. Fetch’s craggy face craned around Dhamon’s neck. The kobold was coughing and spitting as Dhamon gulped in air and hauled himself out. A moment later, the mariner materialized and followed them.

Rikali was yawning. “We could sleep here. I’m so very tired. Just an hour or so, all right, lover?”

“No time for sleep,” Dhamon said. But his yawn and his drawn expression hinted at how terribly tired he was, too.

Fetch dropped off Dhamon’s back and started wringing out his robe. “Good thing that we found this place, huh? Breathe in that stuffy air! Damn. My hoopak. Lost it in the water.” He turned to glare at the river, most of which was obscured by the rocky overhang. “Now how am I gonna get me another one? Sure ain’t gonna find a kender in Blöten. Maybe Donnag’s got one in his…”

“You might not have to worry about it, Fetch,” Dhamon suggested. “If we can’t find a way out of here, you won’t need a weapon.”

While the kobold continued to bemoan his misfortune, loudly mulling the possibility of dying at his spry age, and while Rig speculated that they might want only to take a quick breather here and then continue to follow the river, Dhamon joined Rikali in taking a good look around the chamber. They searched along the closest wall, hoping to find a staircase leading up, or a natural chimney they might climb. They’d heard bats a while ago—but there wasn’t a trace of them here, not even guano on the floor.

There were no carvings on the walls, nor on the collapsed columns that at one time likely reached to the glowing rock high above. Dhamon had expected to see more images of dwarves, but everything appeared untouched, except for the pillars, which had been ground smooth. There were no symbols to Reorx. The remains of stone and wooden benches littered the floor, the rotting wood adding to the fusty smell. The only area intact consisted of a raised dais at the back of the chamber, and three black half-moon steps leading up to it. On either side of the steps were black pedestals, atop which perched perfectly round black stones, polished to a mirror finish and eerily reflecting the green light.

Oddly, Dhamon thought, the pedestals and globes looked to be devoid of the stone dust that covered everything else.

The mariner whistled softly. “Now I wonder what all this is about.” Forgetting the river and their dire situation for a moment, he padded to the center of the chamber. He stopped halfway, bent, and studied something on the floor. “I bet this isn’t part of that dwarven ruins,” he mused, his hand stretching out and closing around an object. He brushed the stone dust off, coughed to get Dhamon’s attention, and held it up for him to see. It was a skull, human or elven, and a thickly rusted knife with a carved bone handle protruded from the top of it.

“Several more if you want your own souvenir,” Rig said. “They all look pretty much like this. Lovely place beneath the mountain.” Then he replaced the skull and yawned. “I think we better get out of here.”

Rikali slid up to Dhamon and took his hand, interlocking her fingers with his. “I don’t see a way out along these walls, and I don’t like this place, lover. Shivers dancin’ on my back. I want out of here. Place makes me feel… creepy. I want to see the sky. And I so very badly want to sleep. Maybe we better go swimmin’ again. Follow the river.” Much softer, she added, “Please, just get me outta here.”

Dhamon tried to extricate his hand, but she only held it tighter. He returned a gentle squeeze, and listened to the kobold persist in his high-pitched frettings about his hoopak and imminent demise. Then he tugged the half-elf forward, not sure why he felt impelled to investigate this place further rather than returning to the river and leaving.

But there was a prickly feeling at the back of his neck, an unnerving sensation that might cause other men to flee, but that only made Dhamon determined to discover what was causing it.

A scrabbling sound over the rocks indicated Fetch had finally decided to accompany them. “Still have my old man in my pouch,” the kobold announced. “The tobacco’s worthless, though.” He picked it out and tossed it to the floor, adding to the debris.

“You’re worthless,” Rikali hissed at the kobold. She shuddered when she glanced down at a dozen skulls, all with protruding daggers. A few were small, kender, or perhaps human children. She hoped not children. Although she didn’t care for dwarves, she was certain they wouldn’t have done this. Not to children. But who would have been capable? “By my breath, that one had to have been a tiny baby.” She paused to stare at a particularly tiny skull. “Who could’ve done such a thing, and why? Who…” She stopped herself. No use asking Dhamon, she decided, he didn’t seem in the least bit interested.

Dhamon had stepped away from her, finally extricating his hand, and was climbing the narrow black steps. He glanced only perfunctorily at the pedestals. Standing at the edge of the dais, the green light haloed about him, casting a sickly hue across his skin and making his wet hair look like strands of seaweed. He moved near the center of the dais and stared at the floor. “Odd.”

“What is it?” Rikali asked. She edged ahead of Rig, who was also moving toward the dais. “What? Is it valuable?”

Dhamon knelt and stretched out with his hand. Rikali scampered up the steps, settling herself next to Dhamon. Fetch was curious, too. The kobold, still wringing out his robe, arrived close on her heels.

“All right, what is it?” Rig found himself asking. “I don’t suppose you’ve found a way out.”

“No,” Dhamon replied, pushing himself to his feet. He was still looking down at the dais, the prickly sensation persisting on the back of his neck. “And that’s what we need to be looking for, not staring at this all day.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rikali said. “I want to touch it, and…”

“Well, don’t touch it,” Dhamon sternly reproved her. “We don’t know what it is or what it does, if anything. And we don’t need to know. You want to live to see the morning? Then we need to get out of here. And I shouldn’t’ve let myself get distracted.”

“Beautiful,” she repeated, reaching out.

“Don’t touch it!” This from the kobold, who was pulling the half-elf’s arm back. “Riki, stay away from it.”

Rikali started to argue, but there was something about the kobold’s uncharacteristically serious expression that checked her. What is it? she asked him with a cock of her head.

“It’s magic,” he answered. “And not necessarily the good kind.” The kobold looked over his shoulder at Dhamon, then glanced down at Rig, who was standing at the bottom of the steps. “Supposed to be looked at, not touched. Not ever touched.”

Dhamon and the kobold stood staring at it, Rikali stayed on her knees. The only sound in the chamber now was the rushing of the underground river.

“Fine,” Dhamon said. “Let’s leave it be and move on.”

Rig shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Aww, I guess I should take a look, first.” He moved up the steps and slid between Dhamon and Rikali, extending a hand to help the half-elf up. “I’ll be careful. Hmmmm. Interesting.”

At the center of the dais was a pool, almost oval in shape. But light, not water, swirled inside it. One moment it was a dark green color to accompany the glow from the ceiling, then it turned sapphire blue, the colors undulating as if they were alive and warring. Sparkling motes of a bright yellow-white appeared, looking like stars captured deep in the pool struggling to breathe. They were all but overwhelmed by the aggressive colors.

“So what is it?” Rikali’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. “I mean, it certainly looks like magic. You got a clue, Fetch? Or are you just tryin’ to scare me? Bad magic, hah. You wouldn’t know magic, good or bad, if it climbed out of a lamp and…”

“Hush!” The kobold paced around the edge of the pool, until he was standing opposite her. He was watching the yellow lights as they flashed and flickered with a pattern he seemed to comprehend. “This is old,” he said in a voice tinged with awe.

“Pigs, I could have told you that, you worthless little rat.”

He scratched at a wart on his diminutive palm, narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Not so old as the dwarven stuff, though, I don’t think. Or maybe it just wasn’t built as well. This here’s the only thing left standing.”

Rikali sighed. “Think anythin’s at the bottom of the pool?” She was stretching out a finger, just to feel its wetness.

“I said, don’t touch it! Don’t think it would be a good idea. Just listen to me for once. All right?” The kobold edged away from the pool and retreated down the steps, studied the pedestals and murmured to himself in his native tongue. “With knowledge comes death,” he whispered in the common tongue. Then he was off babbling in kobold again.

“I hate it when he does that,” Rikali told Dhamon. “Wish you’d make him stop that gibberish. Although I can’t tell if he’s cursing you or reciting some kobold recipe for lizard steaks. It’s like trying to listen in on…”

“There’s some writing on the pillars,” Dhamon interrupted. He’d silently left the dais while she was talking and had moved to stand behind the kobold. “I can’t make it out. Didn’t see it at first.” He leaned over Fetch to get a closer look.

“I can’t read,” she whispered.

“Well, I can read it,” the kobold interjected. “Some of it, anyway. It’s magical symbols, mostly.”

“And…” Rikali waited. “If it’s nothin’ much interestin’ I’m all for headin’ into the river again and tryin’ to find a way out before it rises and there ain’t any air pockets left. Ain’t anythin’ valuable here that I can see. Shoulda plucked them onyx eyes out of them wooden dwarves when I had the chance. Ain’t never going to get them now.”

“We need to leave,” Dhamon said. He was a few feet away, no longer haloed by the green light. His skin had dried, his hair and clothes were starting to dry, too. His black locks curled gently around the base of his neck. “We’ve wasted too much time.”

The kobold ignored him and climbed the steps again, circled the pool, sat opposite Rig and Rikali and started more of his magical humming. He paused and looked up at them. “I don’t have to hum, you know,” he informed them. “Just makes the magic easier fer me. I can concentrate better.”

“Magic?” Rig let a breath out between his teeth. “The kobold really knows magic? He’s a sorcerer? A kobold sorcerer? I thought him lighting that pipe was just a trick.”

Fetch made a great show of pushing back the sleeves of his robe and twisting the gold ring in his nose. “I’m not familiar with the kind of magic the people who built this placed used,” he said officiously. “See those globes? They represent Nuitari, one of the moons of magic that used to be in the night sky. ‘Course that was quite a while before I was born, back when magic was something most anybody could pick up—before you had to have some special spark inside of you. Wizards of the Black Robes and such, I think they called ‘em. Raistlin. He was one of ‘em.”

“Ray-za-lin.” Rikali echoed. “Never heard of no Ray-za-lin.” She was looking back and forth between the kobold and what she could see of the river. Had it risen a little in the past few minutes?

Fetch shook his head sadly. “Don’t have a whisper of Raistlin’s mastery. Never will. But even though that kind of magic isn’t around anymore, I figure I can do this. Or at least try. Be a shame not to try.”

“We need to leave.” This came firmly from Dhamon. “I intend to get out of here. With the three of you, or alone,” he added. “I’m not waiting much longer.” Softer, “I can’t afford to.”

But they weren’t listening to him, as Fetch’s humming and the mysterious pool continued to hold their attention.

“It represents an eye,” the kobold stopped to explain. “Even shaped like one. See? Works like one, too, in principle. At least if I understand what I deciphered on that… that…”

“Pedestal,” Rig supplied.

“Yeah, the pedestal over there. You look through the eye and see things. Whatever it is you want to see. Now be quiet, the both of you, an’ let me do some scrying.” Then he was off humming again, a fast, off-key melody intercut with bits of gargling. His fingers were waggling in the air, for effect, not out of necessity, but he wanted to put on a good show for Rig and Rikali. He cursed himself for revealing that he didn’t need to hum. Have to remember not to talk about the machinations of spells, he scolded himself. Then he placed his hands just above the water, fingers splayed, thumbs touching.

He felt the energy in the pool, the swirls of green sending faint waves of heat against his palms, almost relaxing him, making him. warm and comfortable and making it difficult for him to keep his eyes open. The blue swirls made his skin itch, though not as bad as the itch of the callus on his palm, and he concentrated on the latter to keep himself alert.

Concentrating harder than he ever had before, trying to awe his small audience and master what he had decided was a buried treasure of Raistlin and the Black Robes, he focused on the motes of yellow light. Feeling them with his mind, he coaxed them to the surface, as the pedestal had instructed. The kobold wished he would have taken the time to translate both pedestals, but his fear of being trapped here if the river rose unexpectedly demanded haste. Besides, he knew Dhamon didn’t have the patience for his magic. When he thought he saw one flash of light rising, he closed his eyes and pictured all of the yellow-white flashes, imagined them all surging above the dark colors and performing their twinkling magic just for him.

Then the sensations against his palms faded to nothing, and the warmth that was threatening to lull him to sleep disappeared, making him feel oddly chilled. And just as he was about to give up on all of this and sink into disappointment, he heard Rikali gasp, and he opened his eyes. The surface of the pool had turned bright yellow, like the sun on a cloudless day. In the very center of it, however, was a conspicuous black spot—the size of one of the globes on the pedestals. He blinked, but the spot didn’t change shape or size or go away.

“That’s it?” the half-elf finally said. “That’s all it does? I thought we were gonna see somethin’ excitin’. Like maybe a way out of here. You said we’d see somethin’. Worthless, Fetch.”

The kobold grinned, showing his yellowed teeth, and he made a motion with his hands, as though he were stirring the pool, careful not to actually touch it, however.

“Well, if that’s what you want to see,” he tittered. “A way out for you. Indeed, you shall have it, Riki dear.”

The black spot in the center started to grow and widen, until it took up most of the surface area. Then it seemed to blink, as if it were a pupil in the middle of an eye that had just closed and opened again. It blinked once more, and an unmistakable image appeared in the center of it, hazy at first, but swiftly taking focus as they watched. It looked like a portrait of the foothills, and rising above those foothills a section of the Kalkhist Mountains. Pouring from the top was a waterfall, one that from the position of the sun and the topmost visible peak looked to be just south of Blöten. The water plunged into a basin in a niche in the hills that in turn fed a river leading into the Black’s swamp. The tops of homes could be seen, evidence that a village had been flooded. The sky above was dark gray, and rain continued to fall steadily.

“So you’ve made a pretty picture, Fetch. Interesting. Hardly what I was hopin’ for, though. What’s that got to do with gettin’ out of here? And what’s…”

She hushed as a new sound filled the chamber. Water, not the underground river rushing by, but the pounding of the falls—an almost deafening sound. There was a fresh scent with it—air and grass and the hint of flowers.

The eye blinked and the image focused again on the base of tine falls.

“There’s a cave behind it, the falls,” Rikali added, now impressed. “And water’s coming out of the cave, too.” She looked closer and spotted wood and debris floating in the basin. The remains of another flooded village perhaps.

“Is it this river?” Rig risked a question, gesturing behind him. “Is that what it’s showing? Is this where our river comes out?”

Fetch shrugged. “I asked it for the way out.”

“Well, ask it if that’s our river,” Rig insisted.

The kobold stirred the air with his fingers, concentrated harder, and felt suddenly fatigued, as if the pool was absorbing his energy. But the eye finally blinked and the scene shifted again.

“That’s us!” Rikali exclaimed. They looked at a mirror image of the half-elf and the kobold peering into the pool, the river rushing by behind them. Another blink and flowing water filled the orb. Now they could see the underground river, which was lit green by the magic of the chamber. There was a fork, a branch of the river veering crookedly, and an equally wide one that went straight ahead. The magical eye swept along the wide, straight path, then angled down a narrow cutoff. The image blinked, and again the scene with the cave and the waterfall appeared.

“That must be the way out! Fetch, you’re wonderful!” She stood and whirled toward Dhamon, pointing at the river. “We take that river until we find a narrow branch to the west. And that will get us out of here.”

The mariner kept looking at the pool. “Ask it something else.”

The kobold cocked his head. “What?”

“Ask it about Fiona. See if she’s all right.”

Fetch scowled, but was quick to oblige when the mariner shouted, “Just do it!”

The eye blinked and Fiona came into focus. She was standing on a rocky slope, face tilted up and catching the rain. It was pouring all around her, the sky a dark gray. At her side was Maldred, and Rig growled deep in his throat as he saw this. The big man was extending his hand to the Solamnic, helping her climb up the side of a mountain, was brushing her injured cheek with his free hand. She didn’t recoil from Maldred’s touch. Indeed, she moved toward him as he lowered his face to hers.

The eye blinked and was black again.

“Well, enough of that,” Fetch said awkwardly. “Mal and the Knight made it out all right. They’re somewhere at the base of the Kalkhists, probably headed back to Blöten. And it looks like it’s headed toward morning outside. No wonder I’m so tired. I could sleep for a year.”

Dhamon padded slowly toward the river.

“Another question,” the mariner’s tone was vehement and demanding.

“What?” the kobold seemed exasperated. “We know the way out, just gotta feel for it in the dark, so let’s go… unless you want to ask if there’s some great treasure nearby.” This idea instantly appealed to Fetch, and he started stirring the image, a big smile stretched across his face. “Something magical, maybe a few enchanted trinkets, coins and gems and…”

“Treasure,” Rikali whispered.

“No,” Rig barked. “Shrentak. Ask it about Shrentak. The Solamnic Knights who are being held there. Probably in the dungeons, if it has such a place. It must have such a place. Do it, you little rat! Ask it about Fiona’s brother.”

“Aw…” Fetch wriggled his nose in disgust.

“His name’s Aven.”

Fetch shook his head. But once again he twirled his fingers. “Maybe there’s treasure in Shrentak,” he whispered. His lungs ached a little, as if he’d just raced a great distance. Indeed, he was tired from the ordeal of the fire and running down the steps, all the hours without sleep, plunging into the river and swimming and finally arriving here. His joints ached terribly, come to think of it, his hips especially, and now his fingers. But, there was this great magical artifact at his command…

“Aha!” The mariner clapped his hands. The image inside the eye displayed a dark interior, catacombs filled with mud and muck and cramped cells. A thick gray-green ooze dripped from the walls and along the ceiling, and lizards scurried down the hallway. The image shifted to a corridor lined with…

“Cells!” the mariner practically shouted. “I want to see inside the cells!”

Fetch concentrated again-harder. He dipped his index finger below the surface for the briefest of moments, then tugged it back and twirled the air again.

“Amazin’,” Rikali gasped. “Fetch, I had no idea you could…”

“There, that’s it!” the mariner cried, cutting off the rest of the half-elf’s words. One instant he was gazing into the pool, and the next, the image of the dank corridor sprang up around them, transparent and ghostlike. But at the same time it was frighteningly real. It was as though they had been transported into the middle of the rough-hewn hallway, which stretched in both directions as far as they could see. Cell doors lined the hall, doors made of thick, rotting wood laced with heavy rusting bars. They clearly heard slime dripping from the ceiling, saw the ethereal green globs drop to the floor and vanish. There was a stench of urine, so strong it made their eyes water, and the worse smell of death.

Rig took a tentative step forward, then another until he found himself at the entrance of a cell. He peered through the bars, found his face passed right through, a sensation similar to walking through a cobweb. Beyond were a dozen men, all human and so emaciated they looked like skeletons with skin hanging on them. They breathed shallowly, huddled together and squatting in their own waste. Their sunken eyes took him in emotionlessly. One struggled to reach out a hand. Rig fought the bile rising in his throat, then he forced himself to leave and look at the next cell.

Rikali had silently padded up behind him. “Solamnics!” she gasped. Their plate mail was gone, but a few had tabards identifying themselves as members of the Order of the Rose. There was no trace of Knightly pride in their suffering frames, and no hint of defiance on their gaunt faces. They were thoroughly broken. Some had no eyes, just vacant scarred sockets, a few were missing limbs. Nearly all of them were terribly maimed, testaments to burns and torture.

The mariner’s body shook with pity and revulsion, and his fists clenched in anger. “Horrible,” Rikali whispered. Then she edged away from Rig and closed her eyes.

Rig continued to scan the faces, swallowing hard when he thought he recognized one. “Aven,” he stated. Scraps of what was once a Solamnic tabard clung to the man’s scrawny frame. His skin was as gray as the stone walls and was laced with boils and thick recent scars. The red hair was long and matted and dotted with the husks of insects, and his heart-shaped face, once full and flawless, was gaunt with hunger. He could have passed for Fiona’s twin at one time. Now he was barely identifiable. “Aven,” Rig stated louder.

With considerable effort, the man lifted his head and appeared to meet Rig’s stare. There was a flicker of recognition in the sad eyes. “Fiona’s brother, Aven,” the mariner told Rikali. “Fiona and me, we set our wedding on her birthday so Aven would be there. He was supposed to have leave from the Order then.”

The Knight looked like a corpse and moved sluggishly. He stared at them, but even that simple act seemed to take all of his strength and cause unbearable pain.

“Aven, he can see me somehow. Aven…”

All of a sudden, the Solamnic tried to rise, pushing against the floor with his skeletal arms while his feet slipped on the slime-covered stones. Finally, he stood, swaying on scabrous feet and shuffling toward Rig. His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something, but only a rasping wheeze came out.

The mariner took a step forward. “No!” he shouted as the Solamnic fell to his knees, eyes still fixed on Rig.

“Aven, we’ll get you out of there,” Rig said. He tried to reach for the man, but his hand passed through the apparition. “Hold on and…”

Aven coughed dryly and clutched his chest. He seemed to watch Rig for a moment more, then he fell back and crumpled to the floor. A sigh escaped his lips, and then he stopped breathing.

“By all the vanished gods,” Rig said in a hushed voice. He stared at the body for a few minutes. “Aven’s dead.” Then he pulled back from the door to look at the half-elf. She was peering into another cell, whispering about humans, elves, and kender. Something about a smattering of dwarves.

“I think there’s a gnome in there, too,” she said to herself. “A little man with a really big nose.” Then she stepped back and glanced at Rig and then down the hall, which was an illusion but more than an illusion. Her eyes asked if they should continue their exploration.

Curiosity had gotten the better of Dhamon, and he had entered the corridor, too. He was at the far end, peering into a cell and then moving on, rounding a corner. He was impressed by the magic, able to smell the foulness of this place rather than the mustiness of the cavern he knew he was inside. But everything here seemed so disturbingly… palpable.

There was a door, narrower than the others, with a tiny window in the center of it. Dhamon crouched and looked through the opening, coughing because of the strong smell. He didn’t notice the man inside, not immediately. There was a jumble of other things competing for Dhamon’s attention—wooden bins and chipped crockery stacked high on shelves, alongside metal and bone implements, the use of which he cared not to contemplate. It was obvious this place was used for storage. There were chains hanging on the far wall. Most of them were rusted because of age and all the moisture, but a few were newly forged. From the ceiling more chains hung, along with ropes and barbed whips.

It was when he craned his neck, and discovered his face could pass through the wood, that he saw the man. The man was naked, back to Dhamon, skin covered with massive sores and tangled hair fanned out around his shoulders like a lion’s mane. He was sitting upright, almost proudly so, and his bones stood out in appalling clearness, reminding Dhamon of the cadavers the priests in the Knights of Takhisis demonstrated battlefield surgery techniques on. There was a copper bowl filled with scummy water sitting next to him, and a few moldy crusts of bread near it.

Dhamon wondered why the man hadn’t used some of the implements in this room to escape. There were certainly sharp enough objects on the shelves to worry at the wood of the door. But when the man turned, Dhamon had his answer.

There was an iron collar about his neck, and it was fastened with a short length of chain to the wall, so short as not to permit the man to stand. He could not reach any of the objects that might help to gain him his freedom. The man was young, Dhamon could tell from the smoothness of his gaunt face and the dark blue of his eyes. And he was important.

There was a tattoo on his arm just below his shoulder, artfully rendered and colorful, depicting the claw of a blue dragon holding a red banner. Dhamon wasn’t about to go close enough to read the writing on the banner. He didn’t need to; he’d seen he symbol before. It belonged to a particular Taman Busuk wealthy military family that had allied themselves with the Dark Knights. So the prisoner was from money and was from Neraka, was likely connected to the Dark Knights there, if not one of the Order. Perhaps Sable was ransoming him, and perhaps there was some merit to Fiona’s belief that the dragon would take treasure in exchange for her prisoners—some of them, anyway.

The man’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak to his visitor. Dhamon pulled back from the cell and continued on, not wanting to hear what the apparition had to say. This vision alone was disturbing enough, no need to add to the gloom with words.

He rounded another corner, still more cells. How many people did the dragon keep locked up in her dungeons? From his quick glances he could tell most were human, and by their conditions it looked like they’d been here anywhere from a few hours to several months.

Dhamon had been in dungeons before, when the Knights of Takhisis kept prisoners for political reasons. He’d ushered his share of prisoners into cells. But never had he been in a prison so deplorable as this vision indicated. The suffering was even almost too much for Dhamon to bear.

“Enough of this,” Dhamon said finally, when he spotted a cell where no living prisoners remained. Corpses had been stacked like cord wood along one wall. “It’s past time to leave this hellish place.” He shook his head, as if to clear it, then strode away from the image and toward the river, which he was certain had risen further.

“No,” Rig objected. The mariner had been following Dhamon, staying a few yards back and watching his reaction to the scene. “I want to see more,” Rig continued. “Fetch, show me all of Shrentak. I want to know how to get into that damnable dungeon!”

The kobold sighed, his shoulders drooping. He looked to Rikali for support. But for once, she said nothing. She was glancing down the ghostly corridor and toward the river, where Dhamon was standing.

“More, Fetch! Show us a way in!”

“No!” Dhamon spun, returning from the river’s edge. He walked back through the prison corridors, which were growing more transparent, striding resolutely up the dais’s steps. His face retained its stoic mask, but his eyes had lost their hardness, and his lips twitched. He’d caught a glimpse inside several more cells along the way, and the sight bothered him. However, he wouldn’t admit that, even to himself. “The river’s rising,” he said evenly.

At that warning, the half-elf sprang away from the magical pool and hurried down the steps, brushing by Dhamon. “I don’t want to drown,” she softly wailed. “I want me a fine house.”

The mariner let out a deep breath and swept his hand to the side. “If this vision is to be believed, and I think it is, Fiona’s brother is dead. I have to tell her. If, or when, I see her again.”

The kobold started to rise.

“Wait, Fetch!” Dhamon said, an idea forming. He saw Rig’s eyes narrow. “One more question.”

“I thought you decided we were done with the magic pool,” the mariner muttered.

The kobold’s shoulders sagged. I’m tired, he mouthed. Indeed, he looked spent, and the green light that haloed him made him look shriveled. “I can’t,” Fetch said in a strained voice. “I just can’t.”

“Ask it about the rain,” Dhamon persisted. “Where is all of this coming from?”

“The sky. The clouds,” Rig said. “That’s where the rain is coming from. I really don’t know you anymore, Dhamon Grimwulf. You’re a selfish churl. Look at him. He’s exhausted. I pushed him too hard as it was.”

“What is causing it to rain?” Dhamon’s words were clipped.

The mariner moved to leave, but something stopped him. The Shrentak vision had melted and again the pool showed a black spot on its surface, as Fetch resumed stirring the magic at Dhamon’s demand. “The swamp. So what?” Rig grumbled. “The rain’s somehow coming from the swamp. But it ain’t even raining there, according to that image. So…”

“This rain isn’t natural, Rig. Can’t be. It’s rained more in Khur in the past few days than probably the past couple of years. Simply out of morbid curiosity, I want to know what’s responsible. The information could be valuable. And this…” He waved his hand at the pool. “This apparently is one sure way to find out.”

The image focused more sharply on a marshy glade ringed by a tangle of ancient cypress trees with roots that sank deep into the muck. Lianas flowed from the branches, forming a flowery curtain. Colorful parrots were thick in the trees, and a dawning sun managed to peek through a break in the closest canopy.

“There, ask it about that.” Dhamon was pointing at a shimmering, yet shadowy image behind a veil of purple flowers. “There’s something hiding there. Ask it if that thing’s responsible for the rain. Can’t hardly make it out. Might be part of a dragon.”

“Dhamon, I can’t. So-o-o tired.”

“Hurry, Fetch,” Dhamon ordered. “I want an answer.”

The kobold sighed and summoned just enough energy to stir the air above the pool again, fought to catch his breath and felt his heart flutter in his chest. The shadowy image came into better focus. “A dragon. Hah! Isn’t big enough to be a dragon. Why… it’s a little girl,” the kobold said.

The flowers parted, showing a thin waif of five or six with long coppery hair and blue eyes. She was delicate, and dressed in a filmy garment that looked to be made of pale purple and yellow flower petals. There was a slight smile on her unblemished, cherubic face, but it was a sly smile, not a pleasant one. She raised her hands—they were misted in silver-gray—and she made a beckoning motion, as if she had somehow spotted Dhamon and Rig and Fetch in this cave beneath the mountain and was motioning them closer. The scent of flowers became intense, almost suffocating. Then suddenly the image was gone, the black spot was shrinking, swallowed by the bright yellow. A heartbeat later the yellow was fading, becoming sparkling motes forced to the bottom by the oppressive blue and green swirls. The sickening fragrance was gone, too, replaced by the musty smell of the cave.

“Wait, I’ve another question!” Dhamon practically shouted.

Fetch sagged onto his back. The kobold was shaking, staring at his hands. “I’ve been robbed,” he said in disbelief. “I’m older. That foul device stole years from me! Dhamon!”

The kobold’s voice was different, softer, and the words were less distinct. The kobold was different, too. The scraggly hair that clung to his bottom jaw turned white as the companions watched. Then it began fluttering to the floor, like dry pine needles falling from a dead tree.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something again. His eyes were wide with fright and disbelief, and his fingers, which were feeling frantically about his face, were trembling. Fetch’s scaly skin was flaking and losing its color, becoming as gray as the stone on which he sat. His eyes had lost their glossiness, the red fading to a dark pink. The kobold gasped, a rattling wheeze escaping his lips, and he glanced between Dhamon and Rig as his chest heaved.

The mariner stared slack-jawed. “Dhamon…”

“I see him, Rig.”

“Magic. The little guy mentioned something about the magic exacting a price.”

Rikali sucked in her breath. The half-elf had been watching the river, and only now truly noticed that the kobold had changed. “Pigs, what happened to you, Fetch?”

The kobold didn’t reply, though he gestured feebly to the pool.

“Well, make it change you back,” the half-elf stated. “Wiggle your fingers and make it fix you.”

Rig shook his head. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well, maybe it’ll wear off.”

“I feel…” Fetch began in his soft voice. “Cold.”

“Dhamon, what are we gonna do about him? Can Grim…” Rikali’s words trailed off as she glanced again at the river. “Dhamon, the river really is risin’! We have to hurry. Please, lover! Let’s just grab Fetch and get out of here. We’ll take him to Grim Kedar’s. That old ogre’ll fix him up, just like he did you and Mal.”

Dhamon glanced at Fetch, his face an unreadable mask, then he turned and hurried toward the water. He rugged his boots free and tucked their tops under his belt in the back. The half-elf followed him, asking what they should do about Fetch and would Dhamon carry him. He didn’t answer her, simply grasped Rikali’s hand and eased into the water, taking several deep breaths. Rikali clung to the edge for a moment, looking at the dais.

Rig padded closer to the kobold until he was towering over Fetch.

“Shouldn’t we wait for them, lover?” she asked.

Dhamon took several more deep breaths and shook his head. “No, the river’s rising too fast.” His tone was emotionless. “I’m not waiting around for them. It might have been a mistake to wait this long.” He dropped below the surface, beginning to swim with the current. Rikali took a last look at Rig and Fetch, then followed after Dhamon, the green light fading as they swam from the chamber and were swallowed by the absolute blackness.

Rig stared at the kobold. Was the green light playing tricks? Simply making the kobold look… older? An illusion. Perhaps it was something from the pool, maybe it took the kobold’s energy. And, perhaps when the kobold rested he would revert to his more youthful appearance. The mariner wished Palin Majere was here. The sorcerer would know what to do. Though he wondered whether Palin would have toyed with the pool to begin with.

“We have to leave,” he said finally, scowling when the creature twitched and wheezed. “You all right? Fetch?”

The kobold shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest. His eyes had faded further. “No, I’m not all right,” he hissed. “Damn Black Robe magic. Said there was a price. I paid it all right. A big one.”

The mariner seemed genuinely concerned for the creature and took a closer look at him. The usual mix of scales and skin beneath the robe, though the color had changed, still had the stench. But when the kobold looked up to meet his stare, the mariner noticed something else different. It was an illusion or a trick of the green light.

There were wrinkles about his eyes, like an aging human would exhibit, and the hairs that grew in scattered clumps along the sides of his head were a smattering of red and gray, and there weren’t as many of them. Rig extended a hand, and the kobold took it, grimacing a little when he got up.

“Ache a lot,” Fetch said. His shoulders shook as he turned from the mariner, stuffing his fist in his mouth to choke back a sob. “Stolen,” the kobold repeated. “Years.”

“What’s a few years? Besides, whatever happened, it’ll probably just wear off. Just like Dhamon suggested. And there is that pasty-faced ogre in Blöten.” Rig adopted a light tone, hoping to get the creature moving. “Grim, right? We’ll go see Grim.” He looked at the river. If I had any sense, he thought to himself, I’d leave this little thing right here and swim for it.

The kobold had squared his diminutive shoulders. “It stole more than just a few years. My arms and legs feel stiff. Hurts to move ‘em. Don’t see quite so well. Everything’s a little fuzzy.”

By the blessed memory of Habbakuk, I’m feeling sorry for the little rat, Rig cursed himself. I’m the one who demanded a couple of questions, so I’m partly to blame. Still, the creature’s a thief, he continued. A thief and probably a murderer who doesn’t deserve any sympathy.

“We have to go, Fetch,” he repeated. The sound of the river seemed louder, and he glanced at it again. It had started to spill out onto the floor of the chamber. There wouldn’t be much of an air pocket now.

“Ilbreth,” the kobold answered after a moment. His voice was soft and raspy. “My name’s Ilbreth. And you’re not so bad. For a human.”

It’s Fiona, the mariner thought. She’s rubbed off on me and made me soft. Aloud, he said, “C’mon, Ilbreth.” He turned and left the dais, kicking at a few rocks and skulls. “I ain’t waiting any longer on you,” Rig added unnecessarily. But he did wait, and when the kobold didn’t join him, he turned and glanced back.

Fetch was lying on the ground, not moving.