Downfall

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Donnag’s Promise

Dhamon stood at the base of the stairs, looking out on what served, decades past, as the manse’s dungeon. He wondered where the current dungeon in Blöten was—where the ogre chieftain locked away those who crossed him or who fell out of his favor. Or perhaps he simply killed all the scoundrels and saved the paltry expense of housing, feeding, and guarding them.

Dhamon was certainly dressed for a dungeon—his clothes filthy and torn from his arduous trek, his hair dirty and matted, the stubble on his face thick and uneven. He stank of sweat, so strongly that he even offended himself, and his boots were thickly caked with muck.

Iron manacles dangled rusted shut from the tall ceiling and dripped with moisture. In a near corner sat a weathered wooden rack, discolored with what Dhamon was sure was blood, and behind a veil of cobwebs was suspended a cage filled with pieces of a human skeleton.

Just beyond the torture implements were massive chests filled to bursting with steel pieces, elegant golden statues, high vases, and coffers spilling strings of pearls into puddles caused by rainwater seepage. The great chamber was illuminated with expensive crystal oil lamps that glimmered between once—exquisite tapestries that had been irreparably damaged by mold.

Weapons hung on one wall, their blades catching the light. Another wall displayed shelves of baubles and trinkets—carved animals with wings and horns and jeweled eyes, precious shell arrangements crafted by Dimernesti artisans, and vials of exotic perfumes, that—though stoppered—still sweetly scented the air.

And there was more. He padded toward the center of the great room.

Inside the former cells, the doors of which had long ago been removed, more wealth could be observed—coins and carved ivory tusks, ornate chests as valuable as whatever was locked up inside them; gem-encrusted busts of minotaurs and other creatures.

“This is our main treasure room, Dhamon Grimwulf,” the chieftain said proudly. He stepped out from an alcove, taking Dhamon by surprise. The chieftain had not used the same staircase as Dhamon, suggesting the existence of secret passages. “The rough gemstones you gifted to us are being cut as we speak. Then they will be given a good home here among our rare and esteemed collection, some set into fine pieces of platinum and gold that will adorn our fingers. We so like gems. It gives us much pleasure to look at them. Others will be stored away so we can admire them later—when we tire of what we normally wear.”

Dhamon looked away from Donnag to study an urn that appeared to be made of solid gold.

“And we can never have too much wealth, can we?” This was not truly a question. Donnag came farther into the room, drawing his cloak up around him before stepping over one of the puddles. He strode toward a platinum-edged throne and eased himself down, sighing and yawning and steepling his big, fleshy fingers. From this position, he could better keep an eye on Dhamon and the array of treasure. “Wealth makes rulers more respected, we think. But it makes us more envied.”

Dhamon padded toward a case filled with necklaces and rings. He leaned against it nonchalantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Maldred entering the room. The big man must have used the same hidden staircase as Donnag.

“Take as much as you desire—within reason—for you and your half-elf harlot,” the ogre chieftain continued. “We do not mind. Indeed, we wish to be generous to you, who have aided Knollsbank. We so love our milk and goat meat.”

Dhamon nodded a greeting to Maldred and selected two gold chains, thick and dotted with emeralds and sapphires. He added a pearl and ruby ring, suitably flamboyant for Rikali’s tastes, and a thin jade bracelet that was elegant and cool to his touch, something he would prefer she wear. There was a jade egg, the size of his thumb, sitting on a small wooden base. The egg had a colorful green and orange bird painted on it, with dabs of white to simulate clouds. She might like this, too. He tucked them all in a pocket and made a mental note to ask Maldred just how familiar he was with Donnag and the manse—and how friendly.

“You have an eye for what has value, Dhamon Grimwulf,” Donnag observed.

Dhamon was picking through a coffer filled with jewels now, selecting a few and holding each up to the nearest lamp. One ruby that caught his eye was the centerpiece of a hammered gold brooch. After a moment’s consideration, he claimed this prize, too.

“There will be more. Much more,” Donnag said, “after you return from the swamp. Another small errand for us.”

Dhamon laughed long and hard, not stopping even when Donnag’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You think I’m going on another errand for you, your lordship? You claimed wolves were slaughtering the goats in the mountain villages. And yet, the villagers had informed you about what they believed was the real threat. I don’t think I trust you. Your errands are far too deadly.”

“We have been very busy,” Donnag quickly replied. “And sometimes in our crowded schedule we do not listen closely to messengers from villages. We apologize if we did not communicate the true threat that menaced the village of Knollsbank.”

Dhamon selected a dark sapphire cloak clasp, intending to keep this one for himself. “Nor will I join the ogres you’re sending with the Solamnic to the ruins of Takar. Believe me, her brother’s dead. Rig saw it in a vision inside the mountain. Her trip is a fool’s errand.”

Donnag’s lips formed an exaggerated scowl, looking almost comical with his dangling gold hoops. Then he, too, laughed, the sound echoing oddly off the mounds of riches. “And you think we are sending our men into the swamp at the behest of a woman? To Takar? For her brother, whom we’ve never met? For a woman? A human woman? Pfah! You are most amusing, Dhamon Grimwulf. We should have you in our lofty presence more often. We have not laughed so hard in a very long time. We like you.”

Dhamon pocketed a few small gems, flawless specimens, he believed, and likely more lucrative than all the baubles he’d already claimed. “Then why send the men? And why bother with the Solamnic’s ransom?”

Maldred moved closer, his boots crunching softly over scattered coins. Dhamon was preoccupied with inspecting the treasure and did not see the big man and Donnag exchange meaningful glances.

“Why would you—ruler of all of Blöde—stoop to help a Solamnic Knight? Or why pretend to?”

Donnag’s gaze left Maldred. He grinned. “Why, Dhamon Grimwulf, the Solamnic Knight is helping us, rather than we helping her. We have been told she is exceptionally able in a fight—as good as any two of my best warriors! And therefore she might prove unwittingly useful to us in the swamp. Besides, we so love the thought of a Solamnic Knight at our beck and call. The treasure we gave her to lure her along is insignificant as far as we are concerned. And it will be returned to us anyway. As for the forty men, they are to help us strike at the Black again. You see, we have a plan…”

“… which on second thought really doesn’t interest me,” Dhamon shot back. “Sorry I asked about it.” He stood, smoothing his hands on his leggings and glancing around to see what other items might appeal to him. “However, what does interest me is my sword. I’d like it now.”

“I’m interested in your plan, Lord Donnag.” This from Maldred.

Donnag nodded to the big man, who had moved to stand between two marble sculptures of dancing faeries, his elbow resting on the head of one. “Ogres used to supervise the humans and dwarves at the Trueheart Mines. Ogres, that at one time, were loyal to us.”

Maldred cocked his head.

“The Trueheart Mines. In the swamp. Ogres who have switched their loyalty to the Black are in charge there. Perhaps they crack the whips.”

“And what do you intend to do with these traitorous ogres?” Maldred seemed genuinely curious.

“Nothing. We are interested in the ogres’ workers. Ogres of our kin have been captured, as we explained before, in vile retaliation for the slaying of many spawn.

They are being slaved to death there, and we will not permit that!”

“So you want those ogres freed,” Dhamon observed. “That seems like a reasonable goal.” Much softer, he said, “That ought to make the rain continue for at least another month or so.” From several feet away, he was eyeing the wall of weapons now. “But Fiona thinks your men are going to Takar,” Dhamon added.

Donnag didn’t reply. His attention was directed to a silver buckler, in which his toothy visage was clearly reflected.

“Ah, Takar and the mines are in the same general direction,” Maldred observed. He was idly rubbing his chin. “Lady Knight has never been to either place, and she won’t discover the ruse until it’s too late. And then she will be forced to help anyway, as she abhors slavery. Yes, I like this plan. I think I will go on this errand for you, Donnag.”

“Maldred, Fiona will believe you are helping her,” Dhamon said, his voice cautious. “You told her…”

“… that I am a thief,” Maldred finished. “It is her fault if she does not understand that I am also a liar. At least she will have an escort into the swamp, and she has gained what she sought—a ransom for her brother— though it will do her no good, and eventually it will be returned to Lord Donnag. And I will have gained what I prefer, a bit more of her charming company. She is truly easy on my eyes.”

“So you want to steal her away from Rig,” Dhamon whispered. “Like you stole the merchant’s wife. And many others. Always the thief, my large friend. I wonder if you’ll keep her any longer than you did the others?”

Maldred smiled warmly and gave a shrug of his big shoulders. He paced down a row of chests. “I saw her fight those trolls. A great swordswoman! Indeed, she must have been truly formidable to have helped you at the Window to the Stars. A swords woman with a fierce heart and fire in her blood! Ah, I do fancy her, Dhamon. Perhaps I will keep her around for a little while.”

“And if she shirks off that spell you have cast to win her favor…”

“Then what have I lost? Love is fleeting, after all. Eventually I will let her go anyway, unharmed, in honor of your friendship with her. To you, Dhamon Grimwulf, I have always kept my word.»

“I don’t care what you do with her,” Dhamon said. “I just want my sword, as promised.”

Maldred’s face took on a strange expression. “Doesn’t it at all bother you, Dhamon, that your Solamnic friend is being so deceived?”

“Former friend.” Dhamon edged his way closer to the weapons. “And, no, it doesn’t bother me. In fact, I find the whole business amusing.” He paused at a coffer brimming with jewels and drew a handful of necklaces from it. He carefully reached behind him and placed them in his satchel, fastened it, and decided he was finished with petty baubles. “The sword, Donnag?”

The ogre chieftain frowned, his attention finally drawn away from his own reflection. “Maldred is going into the swamp at my request. He says you are his friend and partner. We think you should join him. Fight for me, Dhamon Grimwulf, and we will reward you beyond your dreams.”

“No thanks. The trolls provided enough exercise. I’m not going along to the mines, or to anywhere else in Sable’s domain for that matter.” He cast a quick glance at the alcove from which Donnag and Maldred had entered the room. There was no indication of anyone else back there. The three of them were alone.

Donnag raised his hand to object. “But you are a warrior and…”

“The sword. Our deal. Remember? I’m not going to ask again.” Dhamon pointed to the wall. “You have the gem-stones from the valley. Knollsbank and the other villages are safe from the ‘wolves. Now I want what’s mine. My weapon of choice.”

“Very well, Dhamon Grimwulf.” Donnag gripped the arms of his throne and pushed himself to his feet. “You shall have our very special sword. As promised.” The ogre chieftain walked slowly toward the wall of weapons. His face was somber, his eyes fixed ruefully on the weapons, as if he was loath to give away even one and diminish his fine collection.

They were arranged from left to right, shortest blades to longest. The former included daggers, some of which were no longer than a few inches. The latter would have been impossible for Dhamon to use because of their size, though some of the largest and strongest ogres in Blöten might have managed them. More than a hundred daggers and swords in all, and all valuable either because of the workmanship, materials, or because they were richly enchanted from a time when magic was plentiful in the world. There were a few axes in the mix, also ornate, twin glaives, and a dozen dwarven throwing hammers.

Donnag sighed and reached up and carefully took down one long sword just above his head. He pivoted slowly, as if to let the blade dance in the light of the torches, and held it out. “The sword of Tanis Half-Elven.”

Dhamon stepped forward and took the blade, his fingers reverently clutching a pommel that was striped with silver, bronze, and blackened steel. The crosspiece was platinum, formed in the shape of muscular arms that ended in talons grasping bright green emeralds. He passed it back and forth between his hands, feeling its perfect balance and noting the exquisite blade etched with dozens of images—wolves running, eagles in flight, great cats crouching, snakes entwining boars, horses rearing.

“A magnificent weapon,” Dhamon said appreciatively. He pivoted, moving the blade with him, as if he were fighting an unseen foe. “A work of art.”

“It suits you,” Donnag said. “A famous sword for a famous swordsman—for Dhamon Grimwulf, who dared to make a stand against the dragon overlords.”

Dhamon continued to work with the sword, then relaxed for a brief moment, holding the long sword parallel to his leg. He tightened his grip on the pommel, and then suddenly leapt forward, clearing in a heartbeat the space between himself and the ogre chieftain, and slamming his elbow into the ogre’s massive chest.

Surprised and sputtering, Donnag stumbled, his shoulder striking a coffer and tipping it, sending coins and gems clattering across the floor. Dhamon kicked out as hard as he could at Donnag’s unarmored stomach. The blow was enough to completely unbalance the ogre, and he fell heavily to his back, knocking over several small sculptures and shattering crystal vases.

Without pause, Dhamon shot forward again, grinding his boot heel into Donnag’s stomach and sweeping the blade down to menace the ogre’s throat. “Don’t move,” he hissed, “Or Blöde’ll be looking for a new leader.” He cast a quick glance to the alcove—no ogres stepped out. “A leader who brings guards into his treasure room.”

“What in the layers of the Abyss are you doing?” Maldred shouted. He made a move to approach, but Dhamon warned him back by pressing the tip of the sword in Donnag’s throat until it drew a drop of blood.

“Keep back!” Dhamon returned. “This is between Donnag and me.”

Even as Dhamon glanced at Maldred to make sure the big thief was staying put, Donnag acted. Using his great size to his advantage, he rolled to the side, dislodging Dhamon. At the same time, his massive hand caught Dhamon’s ankle and he pulled, yanking him back into a marble pedestal and momentarily stunning him.

Maldred leapt over a small chest and tried to insert himself between Donnag and Dhamon. “Stop this!” Maldred hollered.

The ogre chieftain brushed by the big man, reached down and grabbed Dhamon’s ankle again, hoisting him until he was suspended upside down, his dangling fingers brushing the stone floor.

“We shall kill him for this atrocity! We give him Tanis Half-Elven’s sword and he tries to slay us with it! Unbelievable, this is! We shall kill him slowly and painfully!”

Maldred was at his shoulder. “There must be a reason, a fit of madness. He is my friend and…”

“… he has signed his death warrant!” Donnag ranted. “We shall skin him and leave his flesh for the carrion to feast on. We shall… argh!” The ogre doubled over and dropped Dhamon, who had regained his senses and managed to stab the ogre’s calf with the pin of his sapphire cloak clasp.

Dhamon rolled away from the cursing ogre, fumbled about on the floor for the ornate long sword and crouched, ready to meet Donnag’s charge. When it didn’t come, Dhamon stood up and slowly advanced.

“How dare you, insolent human!” Donnag yelled. His ruddy face was reddened further by anger. “We shall…”

“… die if you don’t give me the real sword of Tanis Half-Elven,” Dhamon finished. He darted in and swept the sword at the ogre’s legs, slicing through his expensive trousers and drawing blood.

The chieftain howled and retreated. At the same time Maldred rushed in, planting himself firmly in Dhamon’s path.

“Get out of my way, Maldred,” Dhamon spat each word with emphasis. His eyes were dark, his pupils invisible, his lips were curled in a feral snarl. “I’ve been deceived for the last time by this pompous, bloated creature!”

Maldred stood pat, ready to intercept his friend. “He leads all of Blöde, my friend. He’s powerful. He commands an army, here and scattered in the mountains.” The words rushed from the big man’s lips. “You can’t fight him, Dhamon! Take the sword and run! Flee the city and I’ll find you later.”

“I’m not running anywhere.” With that, Dhamon lunged to his right and Maldred stepped to meet him. Too late, the big man realized Dhamon’s move was a feint. Instead, Dhamon spun to his left, feet churning over stone and coins, leg muscles bunching and pushing off.

Dhamon vaulted a long iron box and bowled into Donnag, knocking him back again. The ogre fell heavily to the floor, and lay awkwardly across a mound of steel pieces. Dhamon drove the pommel of the sword against the ogre’s face, satisfied when he heard the bones crunch. Donnag moaned as Dhamon continued the onslaught, hammering the pommel down repeatedly and breaking several teeth. Again Dhamon pressed the blade to the ogre’s throat, glancing over his shoulder at Maldred.

“Back off, Mal!” Dhamon hissed. Maldred was quick to comply. “I’ll separate Donnag’s head from his ugly royal shoulders without a second thought.” Dhamon’s chest was heaving from the exertion, his body slick with sweat. The pommel felt slippery in his grasp, and he pressed the blade down a bit more.

Maldred looked uncertain, glancing between his friend and Donnag. “Dhamon, leave him be. Let’s get out of here. He’s truly good for Blöde. Kill him and you’ll throw this country into one petty war after another. You’ve got the sword, plenty of gems. I know a hidden way out of the city and…”

“You don’t understand, Maldred, I don’t have the sword.” Dhamon had moved his free hand to Donnag’s throat, pressing on his windpipe. The ogre gasped and flailed about with his massive arms. Maldred crept close and looked down over Dhamon’s shoulder into the chieftain’s rheumy blue eyes.

“Is that true?” the big man asked.

Donnag didn’t answer, couldn’t as nearly all his air supply had been cut off. But the expression in his eyes served, and Maldred nudged Dhamon. “Get off him.” Maldred’s words were cold but commanding, and after a moment’s pause, Dhamon relented. Still, he kept the long sword aimed at Donnag’s thick neck.

The ogre chieftain rubbed his throat and glared at Dhamon, swallowed hard, and then made a move to get up. This time it was Maldred who kept him in place, setting his foot squarely on the chieftain’s chest. He spoke to Dhamon. “How do you know that’s not Tanis’s sword?”

“I know.” Dhamon studied the ogre’s ugly face. “I know because I know Donnag. He deceived us about Knollsbank’s woes, he intends to deceive Fiona. The truth and he are strangers, Maldred. Why would he give me the real sword when he can deceive me with a pretty piece like this?” Dhamon spat at the ogre and tossed the sword away. He drew the broadsword he still carried, the one stolen from the hospital, and waved it in front of Donnag’s eyes.

“We have guards,” Donnag managed.

“Not down here,” Dhamon cut in. “I noticed that you left them all upstairs. Don’t trust them down here, do you? Afraid they’ll take a bit of your horde? Your fear has made you vulnerable. Your treasure is your weakness, your lordship. Well, you won’t have to worry about your precious collection any longer. Dead men can’t spend steel. And since you haven’t got any heirs, Maldred and I might as well help ourselves to whatever we can carry. Then we will let the guards down here for their turn. Rig and Fiona can take whatever they want, too. And your whole country be damned.”

“Wait!” For the first time there was real terror in Donnag’s eyes. All of his haughty indignation vanished. His lower lip slightly trembled. “We will give you the real sword. We swear! Let us up, Maldred.”

“No.” Dhamon waved the blade closer. “Where is it?”

“In… it’s in that steel box.” Donnag’s chest heaved in relief as Dhamon backed away, toward the box he had leapt over to reach the ogre.

“Watch him!” Dhamon said to Maldred. Then he was kneeling in front of the box, ramming the tip of the broadsword into the lock-snapping the sword and breaking the lock. Sweaty hands threw back the lid, which clanged loudly against the stone floor.

The sword that lay inside was not held in velvet or resting in a sheath, as befitting a weapon of its status and history. Rather, it was at the bottom of the box, amid silver pieces, leather thongs from which dangled rough gems, small pouches, and other knickknacks.

Dhamon carefully moved the coins aside and lifted the blade, an eager gleam in his eyes. It was a long sword, the edge etched in an elvish script he couldn’t read. Its cross-piece bore the likeness of a falcon’s beak. It was not nearly as ornate as any of the other weapons hanging on the dungeon wall, and its workmanship was not as fine as the sword the ogre had tried to pass off to Dhamon. Still, there was something remarkable about it. He held his breath as he stood and slowly swung the weapon in front of him.

“Wyrmsbane,” he whispered. Dhamon raised the blade parallel to his face, his dark eyes reflected in the polished steel. Was it his imagination, or did the metal give off a faint light of its own? Perhaps it was the elvish script, a written spell that caused the soft glow.

“Dhamon?” Maldred was at his shoulder.

Dhamon’s attention snapped back to Donnag, who was standing against a pillar, the great leader of Blöde nervously watching them. “I asked you to watch him.”

“It’s all right,” Maldred said. “He’ll do nothing against us now.” As an afterthought, and much softer, he said,“And I am watching him… very closely.” The big man nodded to the sword. “Wyrmsbane, you said?”

“One of the names the sword was given.”

“And you’re sure this is the fabled weapon?” Maldred’s eyes darted to the wall of swords, then back to Donnag, who hadn’t moved an inch.

Dhamon nodded. “It fits the description the sage gave me.”

“The sword of Tanis Half-Elven.”

“It’s had many owners through the decades. Many names. Most know it as Wyrmsbane, sister sword to Wyrmslayer.”

“Wyrmslayer? The blade the elven hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the second Dragon War?”

Another nod. “Wyrmsbane was said to be not as powerful, though it was forged by the same Silvanesti weaponsmiths during that Dragon War. Legend says this blade was given to the kingdom of Thorbardin. And from there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven’s hands. It was said to be buried with him.”

“The thief claimed to have robbed Tanis’s grave,” Donnag croaked.

Dhamon glanced into the steel box and idly wondered if some of the other trinkets also once belonged to the famed hero of Krynn’s past. “Redeemer, it was also called,” he continued. “What Tanis called it, I believe. Because it was forged to redeem the world from the clutches of dragonkind.”

Donnag cleared his throat. “You have what you want. Now leave, the both of you.” There was no power behind the words. It was as if the chieftain was pleading with Dhamon rather than ordering him.

“A test first,” Dhamon told Maldred. “Just to be absolutely certain. And just make sure, Maldred, you keep your eyes on Donnag.” He went over to what he believed was the very center of the old dungeon and slowly turned to take it all in, though in truth that was impossible, as he could not see into the reaches of all the cells that extended from the chamber. Then he gripped the pommel with both hands and closed his eyes. The other two watched him intently.

“’Tis a very old blade, this one ye be askin’ me about.” This from a slight man so bent with age he looked like a crab folded in a shell. Wispy hair, like a spiderweb, clung to the sides of his head, and a thin beard extended from the tip of his chin down to the folds of a drab weatherworn robe. He was hunkered over a table in a dingy tavern in the rough section of Kortal, a town east of the northern Kalkhist Mountains in the territory of the red dragon overlord.

“I’m interested in old weapons, Caladar,” Dhamon said as he reached and grabbed the old man’s tankard, brought it toward him, and from a jug he’d purchased—the second of the night—refilled it. The old man’s hands closed greedily around the tankard and he drank deep, his eyes bobbing shut in pleasure.

“I’ve not tasted anything quite so sweet in quite a few years,” Caladar mused. He carefully set the tankard on the table, his fingers feeling clumsily thick after imbibing so much alcohol. “I haven’t been able to afford it.”

Dhamon reached beneath the table and glanced around the room. It was very late, and only a few other tables had patrons, who were engrossed in their own drinks and tales. He tugged free a brown leather bag and pushed this across the table toward the old man.

Caladar’s right hand shot forward. The speed of his acquisitive gesture surprised Dhamon. “Ye think that by plyin’ me with drink and coin I’ll tell ye more?”

Dhamon didn’t answer. His dark eyes locked onto the old man’s pale gray ones.

“Ye’d be right.” The sack disappeared in the folds of the robe. “Ye wouldn’t’ve been a decade ago, when I had me more money and more respect, and I had some righteousness about me, too, and a good dose of morals. But I figure now I haven’t got me that many more years left, and so I could use the means to enjoy them.” He raised the tankard to Dhamon in a toast.

“The sword…” Dhamon prompted.

“It be called Redeemer. Be ye lookin’ for it ‘cause ye need to be redeemed?”

Dhamon shook his head, his eyes never leaving the old man’s face.

“It was laid to rest with Tanis Half-Elven—after he was brutally slain. Skewered in the back, according to the story I heard, an ignoble way for a noble man to die. Buried with him, hands placed around the pommel. The story says.” Caladar shuddered. “If the gods hadn’t abandoned Krynn they would’ve watched over Tanis’s body, wouldn’t’ve let some common thief…”

“Shhhh!” Dhamon drew a finger over his lips, as the old man’s voice had been rising.

Caladar wrapped both hands around the tankard and shakily raised it to his thin lips. He took several big gulps, then carefully set it back on the table and wiped his lips on his shoulder.

“Old man…”

“Caladar,” he corrected. “Caladar, Sage of Kortal.”

“Aye, Caladar. This sword…”

“Ye should have known me in my younger days. Hah! Even as recent as a decade ago, I was truly a great sage. A wise man people came to see for miles and miles around, askin’ advice, hearin’ the old tales, learnin’ of Krynn’s ancient secrets. My mind was so keen that…” His words trailed off to note Dhamon’s fingers drumming on the pitted tabletop.

Caladar edged the tankard toward the center of the table, and Dhamon refilled it, scowling slightly to note that this second jug was now empty. He motioned for a serving girl and plunked two steel pieces in her palm. Another, he motioned. How could that old man drink so much and still stay alert? Dhamon himself had finished only two tankards of his own, and felt a little sluggish because of it.

“Redeemer,” Caladar stated, eyes smiling as he watched the young woman return with another jug.

“Aye, Redeemer.”

“Also called Wyrmsbane.” Caladar took another pull from the tankard, and his words faltered. “Elven made and elven enchanted. Elven script along the blade. The significance of that? That’d be your guess?” He shrugged. “Crosspiece in the form of a bird. Odd, considerin’ it was supposedly forged to fight dragons and their kin. Ye would think it would have the likeness of a dragon on it. Maybe its maker just favored fowl.” He paused and chuckled, leaned back in the chair and scowled when Dhamon glared at him impatiently. “Against scaly folk it is a shockin’ thing to behold, Redeemer—or so the tales say. Tanis supposedly slew many draconians with it, the blade inflictin’ grievous wounds quickly and with frightenin’ accuracy. Scaly folk cannot harm the blade, or so…”

“… the tales say,” Dhamon finished.

The old man nodded. “Not that they couldn’t harm the sword’s wielder.” He giggled, a thin cackling laugh that raised the hackles on Dhamon’s neck.

“There’s more…” Dhamon pressed. He reached for the man’s tankard again, but Caladar waved off a refill.

“I intend to take that jug home with me,” he stated. “And if I drink me another drop now, I won’t be finishin’ my tale or findin’ me way to bed.”

Dhamon softly drummed on the table top and again fixed his eyes on the old man’s.

“Yes, there is more. Or so the tales say. Redeemer, though not as strongly enchanted as its sister sword, was magicked with the ability to find things.” The thin cackle again. “Perhaps Tanis was a might forgetful and needed the sword to tell him where he put his boots when he took them off at night. But I think not.”

Dhamon drummed a little louder.

“Redeemer can find things, somehow. Was said to find as many things in a day as there were moons in the sky— which was three when the blade was forged by the Silvanesti. But mind ye it was also said not to function all of the time. Perhaps only when it wanted to. Perhaps it could only find things nearby, within the distance of the magic. Or perhaps it would only work for certain individuals. A legendary sword such as that must surely have some rules of its own. Or maybe it has a will of its own.”

Dhamon glanced at the entrance as a few patrons left, slamming the tavern door shut. The barkeep was cleaning up, getting ready to close. “These things you speak of? Material goods?”

“Wealth?”

Dhamon nodded.

“Probably.”

“Intangibles?”

“Like the perfect woman? Like happiness? Hah! I doubt anyone can find happiness with all of these dragons in control. And as for a perfect woman—there is no such thing—human, elven, or any other race for that matter. A good woman—now that is another matter. But you look for her with your heart, young man, not some legendary elf-forged artifact.” He hunkered even closer to the table, his voice dropping as he rested his chin on the lip of his tankard. “I truly doubt Tanis Half-Elven used the sword to find him riches—or anything else for that matter. Only a thief or a desperate man would so use a fine blade in such a way.”

Dhamon eased himself several inches back from the table. “And it’s here in town, you say? This Redeemer? What does this grave robber want for it?”

“More than the likes of ye could afford.”

“Maybe,” Dhamon returned. “But I intend to bargain sharply for it. Where is it? Who is this thief and where can I find him?”

The old man let out a clipped laugh. “And now ye come to the heart of just why I let ye ply me with drink and steel. The sword was here. And the thief was here. Last week or the week before. The days blur for me, ye know. Me friend Ralf got a look at it, and said it was a beauty—said it was the real thing. No question.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Word on the street and among the guild was that the grave robber indeed intended to sell it—and some other trinkets he came by which he stole them from dead folks. But Kortal was only a stopover for him, a place to spend the night and buy some supplies. He wasn’t expectin’ to sell the sword here in Kortal. Town’s too poor. He was headed to Khuri-Khan, a larger city with larger coffers and where the men and the creatures who roam the streets would have a keen desire for such an artifact, and the steel to pay for it. The thief would have gained a likely fortune for it there.”

“Would have?”

Caladar yawned and eased himself away from the table. Standing, he held onto the back of his chair for a few moments to steady himself. Then he reached for the jug. “Would have indeed. But ogres are thick in the Kalkhists, and Kortal sits at the edge of the mountains. Ogres found out about the thief and sought him out. And Ralf told me they took him to Blöde—where some high-and-mighty lord was gonna give the little grave robber just the fortune he was lookin’ for.”

Dhamon focused on the sword, running his fingers over the crosspiece and tracing the bird’s head and beak. He expected it to tingle, the pommel or the blade, if it was so richly enchanted as legends claimed. But it felt no different than other swords he had wielded. Metal against his skin. Though he admitted to himself again that it was very keenly balanced.

Perhaps if he could read the elven script. Perhaps Maldred could read it. His big friend always seemed to amaze him. Or maybe…”

“Wyrmsbane,” he pronounced. “Redeemer.”

It wasn’t a tingling. He’d held other enchanted weapons that seemed to vibrate slightly in his grip. But there was… something. A presence almost, a sense that the sword was aware of him. He concentrated intensely and closed his eyes, shut out Donnag’s labored breathing. Dhamon was aware only of the sword now, the metal pommel in his grip, initially cool to the touch, then warming a little.

“Wyrmsbane,” he repeated softly.

What do you seek?

His eyes flew open and stared at the blade. Did he hear the words, or were they just in his head? He glanced at Maldred. His friend was keeping an eye on Donnag, occasionally looking Dhamon’s way. His face would have registered something if he would have heard the blade speak.

What do you seek?

Dhamon swallowed hard and thought quickly. How to test the sword of Tanis Half-Elven? “Wyrmsbane, what is the most valuable bit of jewelry in this room?” There were certainly plenty to pick from. Maybe that crown in the case, Dhamon mused. “What is most valuable?”

The sword did nothing, communicated no message and formed no picture in his head. Perhaps he’d only imagined it speaking to him. What do you seek? Hah! He was so tired, after all. It was nothing more than a waking dream. He saw Maldred watching him, Donnag, too. There was a look of trepidation on the latter’s face— perhaps because he feared Dhamon would get angry if the sword didn’t perform some magical trick. If so, Dhamon might slay him in retaliation.

Donnag saw Dhamon studying him, and the chieftain quickly looked away. So that’s it, Dhamon thought. This sword isn’t the right one either. Sure, it matched the description the old man in Kortal gave him, but it wasn’t especially exquisite—like the other enchanted swords he’d seen had been. A copy? That certainly wasn’t beyond the ogre. Deceiving others came so easily to Donnag.

I just might slay him, Dhamon thought. Maybe with this forgery. He sighed and took a step forward, still pondering whether to leave the chieftain alive. He intended to keep the sword anyway, if only because it was so well balanced. He needed to search about for a suitable scabbard to fit it. Likely Donnag had plenty of them around here, too, studded with jewels.

He turned toward the wall of weapons, then abruptly stopped moving when his palm grew cool, as if he’d thrust his sword hand in a mountain stream. Then his hand began to move, though not of his own volition. The sword he still grasped was moving it, turning Dhamon toward the far reaches of the treasure room where the light was dim. It began to tug him there—gently. He could have easily resisted, dismissed the sensation as part of him being so tired.

What you seek.

Did he just hear those words? Did Donnag and Maldred, too? Had he imagined them again? A trick of his hunger and fatigue? No matter, he took a step in that direction and then another, the sword leading him as if it was a divining rod.

“Dhamon? What are you doing?” Maldred’s voice dripped with curiosity.

“Watch him,” Dhamon answered.

The big man pivoted so he could keep an eye on Donnag and Dhamon, though he realized the ogre chieftain didn’t really need watching—not at the moment, anyway. He was riveted to the spot watching Dhamon handle the sword.

Dhamon stopped amidst shadows thick and ominous. He stood in an alcove brimming with gilded vases as tall as a man and thin pedestals displaying dainty figurines of elves and sprites. He imagined they would be breathtaking, if there was enough light to make out their features. His hand grew cold and dry, as if the pommel he gripped was ice. It was an odd sensation, as the rest of his body was hot from the oppressive heat of the summer, and he was sweating. The sword seemed to be trying to draw him farther into the small room, and after a few deep breaths, he obliged. He realized the place wasn’t an alcove after all, but another cell. His eyes picked through the darkness and spied manacles on the wall, high up and too large to be used on a human, perhaps even too large for an ogre. Had there not been so many valuable trinkets sprinkled here and there, and had there been a proper light source, he might have investigated further out of curiosity.

But the sword was pulling him over to a corner, to a pedestal and a water-damaged black wooden box that rested atop it. Dhamon opened it, running his fingers over the small object inside.

“Beautiful,” he said, imagining what it must look like.

“No!” Donnag moaned.

Maldred swung on the ogre chieftain and with a pointed finger kept him from budging. “Dhamon? What is it?”

Dhamon held the sword with one hand as he reached out with the other to grab a gem about the size of a large lemon. The chill dissipated from his hand, and the gentle urging of Wyrmsbane stopped. He retreated from the alcove and stepped beneath a lantern.

The gem, dangling from a long platinum chain that sparkled like stars, fairly glowed. It was a pale rose in hue, and it was shaped like a teardrop. The light sparkled over its facets.

Donnag made a sound, like a choked sob.

“It’s a diamond, isn’t it?” Dhamon asked. He headed toward Maldred and Donnag.

The ogre chieftain nodded, a great sadness in his eyes. “The Sorrow of Lahue, it’s called. Named for the Woods of Lahue in Lorrinar where it was found. No one knows where it was mined. I came by it…”

“I don’t care how you acquired it,” Dhamon interrupted.

“Don’t take it. Please. Anything else. Whatever you can carry.”

“Flawless,” Dhamon observed.

“Priceless,” Donnag added.

“And now it’s mine.”

The ogre made another move to object, but a glance from Maldred stopped him.

“Consider it my payment for this information,” Dhamon began. “The rain that assaults your kingdom, and all of the Kalkhists, is not natural. It was called down by a being in Sable’s swamp—one who wears the guise of a child. I suspect it is all in retaliation for your forces slaying so many spawn. Or maybe it’s just the dragon’s attempt to enlarge her swamp. The rain has flooded many villages in the foothills. Perhaps it will ultimately wash away Knollsbank.”

Donnag paled, the gem forgotten for the moment. “How do you know this?”

“A vision. From deep inside your mountain.”

“Then the rain, the child, must be stopped. But how?”

Dhamon shrugged. “I’ve no clue. And it doesn’t concern me. I’ve no intention of staying in these mountains, so the rain won’t be bothering me for much longer anyway. Certainly you have sages under your royal thumb who can provide you with more information. Maybe they can tell you how to preserve your kingdom.” He turned to Maldred, tossing him the Sorrow of Lahue.

The big man was quick to catch the impressive gem and thrust it into a pocket.

“Your share in all of this,” Dhamon told him. He hefted the long sword. “I have what I was looking for, and I’ve some shiny knickknacks to amuse Riki. We will meet up again, my good friend. Perhaps in a few months. After you’ve run Donnag’s errand to the mines. And after you’ve finished playing with the Solamnic.”

Maldred nodded. “I’ll stay here a bit longer—with Donnag.”

Dhamon smiled knowingly. “Thank you, Mal.” Then he was taking the rusted stairs two at a time, wanting to quickly put some distance between himself and a very angry Donnag.

The chieftain’s ogre guards, who seemed to be aware of much that transpired in town, revealed that Rikali was at Grim Kedar’s. He stopped by there briefly and discovered she was sleeping.

Dhamon told Grim not to wake the half-elf, and left a leather pouch for her. It was filled with small baubles from Donnag’s treasure room—something shiny to help speed her recovery and to ease any ire she might have because he left her wounded in Rig’s company. Of course, he also tossed a valuable trinket Grim’s way to pay for Rikali’s care. Then Dhamon was moving again.

He found a dead-end alley far from the manse, dark because of the dense clouds that filled the sky and because of the closeness of the decaying walls that rose on three sides. He stripped and let the pouring rain wash him, cleansing the stink from his skin while at the same time invigorating him. For the better part of an hour he relished the sensation, unseen by the few ogres who shuffled past on the far end of the street. Then he scrubbed his clothes against a wall, beating out the blood and dirt and sweat that had clung to them.

When he was finished, he dressed and stood still for quite some time, concentrating on the rain, breathing deep of the air that smelled much sweeter than the musty atmosphere of Donnag’s treasure chamber. Next he tended to his hair, cutting the matted ends with Wyrmsbane. He used a dagger to shave, careful not to cut himself and wanting, for some reason, to look more presentable than he had in some time.

“A scabbard,” he remembered, as he peered out of the alley. “Should’ve looked around at Donnag’s, was going to. But I wanted to get out of there too badly.” Still, he suspected he could get a scabbard from the weaponsmith he had visited here before his Knollsbank trek. He’d trade his broadsword for it. “And something else suitable to wear.” He considered returning to the ogre seamstress, where he had earlier acquired his trousers and boots. Perhaps she had something else that would fit him. But he would wait until the sun was starting to set and he couldn’t be so easily spotted. Donnag might seek a little revenge for Dhamon’s stunt in the treasure room. Certainly the ruler had eyes and ears throughout the city, and Dhamon intended to be very careful until he could slip out under cover of darkness.

Come to think of it, there was another matter to address—the one that had brought him to Blöten in pursuit of this very sword. He’d been putting it off, dallying in the rain, fearing the consequences.

Dhamon padded to the back of the alley, finding a crate to sit upon. Gripping the pommel of Wyrmsbane with both hands, and extending the sword forward until its tip rested in a puddle, he closed his eyes and considered how to phrase this unusual request.

“A cure,” he stated simply after several minutes had passed. “A solution. An end.” Not to the rain, which was still drumming down steadily. “Redeemer, where is the cure for this damnable scale?”

He waited several minutes more, listening to the incessant patter of the rain, feeling the water pelt him, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, simply constant—as if it had been raining forever.

“Nothing.” He sighed and swirled the tip of the sword in the puddle, watching as the blade cut through his dark reflection. “What did I expect anyway? The perfect woman. Happiness. Intangibles. A way to escape this hellish curse.” He chuckled softly and closed his eyes. “No escape.”

What you seek.

Dhamon’s eyes flew open and the pommel grew chill in his hands. There, in the puddle, was an image, clouded and indistinct because of the shadows and the overcast sky. He leaned closer, seeing a little clearer. Leaves, tightly packed, the green color intense and so dark it looked almost black.

There was no physical tugging, as there’d been in Donnag’s treasure room when he sought out the most valuable trinket. Just leaves and branches, and a colorful parrot nearly hidden by a clump of vines. There was a lizard, too, but it skittered out of his mind’s eye, and also insects, as thick as the clouds overhead. He thought he glimpsed a shadow among the leaves, the size and shape of it impossible to discern. Perhaps merely the breeze rustling a limb. The shadow passed by again.

“The swamp. Something in the swamp.”

The pommel tingled slightly, perhaps telling him yes, perhaps arguing with him. He wondered briefly if he was hallucinating, so desperately did he want to be free of the scale’s pain. But the pommel grew colder still, and the vision persisted for several moments longer.

Afterward, Dhamon sat still, listening to the rain and feeling his heart pound inside his chest. It was beating excitedly, his breath coming raggedly. A cure, he told himself. One exists. The sword said so, said there was a way to get rid of this damnable scale or to make it stop hurting.

He laid Wyrmsbane across his legs and bent over it, smoothing the water away from the blade and keeping more from falling on the elvish script. He traced the foreign words with a fingertip, and for a moment he wished Feril was with him—she would be able to read this. But Feril was far away and Rikali couldn’t read either the elf or common language. The half-elf wouldn’t even recognize her written name.

One more look at the blade, and then he sat straight, back set firmly against the wall. He decided to wait here until the sky darkened to announce sunset. “Then a scabbard and clothes,” he repeated to himself. “After that, I’ll see if Riki is awake.”

And then, he thought, he’d do something about investigating the cure.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. But it quickly vanished and his fingers twitched about the sword as the scale on his leg started to throb again. Gently at first, so gently he tried to deny the sensation. Then within the passing of a few heartbeats, the pain grew intense and his body feverish. Dhamon’s hand hurt terribly, and he realized that he had unintentionally squeezed the blade of his sword and sliced through his skin.

He pulled his left hand back and stared at the cut flesh, blood pouring out over his palm and pantsleg. He cupped the hand to his stomach and rocked back and forth, as the scale began to send waves of agony through his body. His right hand still gripped the pommel, refusing to release the legendary sword, and his mind focused on the weapon in an effort to lessen the pain.

He gulped in the damp air as the tremors started, then he pitched forward into the puddle, his legs jerking and kicking, his head turning this way and that. Water filled his nose and mouth; he was face-first in the puddle now, gagging—

“I’ll not die here!” he managed to gasp. Through a curtain of pain, he summoned all of his strength and rolled onto his back, coughing up the rainwater, still clutching Wyrmsbane. Then the shadows of the alley seemed to reach out and engulf him.

Dhamon awoke hours later, lying on his back nearly submerged in the puddle, which had grown bigger because of the persistent storm. It was dark, well past sunset. He forced himself to his feet—awkwardly, then stumbled to a wall and leaned against it. His head was pounding, perhaps the aftermath of the episode, certainly in part because he was so hungry. His stomach growled.

He would eat after he saw to a scabbard, he told himself. And clothes. He would eat his fill, and then he would visit Grim Kedar’s again—to tend to his swollen, wounded hand and to see Riki. He would have to be exceedingly careful at the healer’s, as Grim would have been summoned to the manse to mend Donnag’s broken cheek and jaw. He would have to trust Grim.

“A scabbard,” he repeated, noting that the pommel tingled pleasantly in his uninjured palm, as if agreeing that was a good idea. He had more than enough wealth in his pockets to coax the ogre proprietors into opening their doors to him this late in the evening. “The finest scabbard available.”