Downfall

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Entanglements

At dawn the ogre mercenaries gathered outside Donnag’s palace, standing at attention in the drizzle. The chieftain was with them and impressing upon them their mission, which was to follow the Solamnic Knight to the ruins of Takar. There she would deliver the ransom, and there they were to help her regain her brother or her brother’s body, if it came to that.

“Guard her and the baubles as if you were guarding us,” Donnag intoned.

Passersby gawked at the assemblage, some murmuring how unusual it was to see Blöten’s ruler out at this early hour, others wondering why the ogre force was gathered and why a Solamnic Knight was walking around so freely and why she seemed to claim the chieftain’s favor.

Donnag was regally dressed. A long, dark red cloak trimmed with gems and gold brocade dragged in the mud behind him. His posture was stiff and imperious, his stride purposeful. He’d spent the past two days inside his bed chambers, recovering from the injuries Dhamon had inflicted upon him, and he felt good. Grim’s magic was strong, making him as healthy as he was prior to the incident, perhaps even healthier. But the old healer’s magic was not good enough to regrow the few teeth he’d lost in the brawl or to soothe his ire over being bested by a human.

“I’m surprised Donnag lived up to his word, Fiona,” the mariner whispered. He nodded toward a wooden chest filled with gems and coins. Donnag had paused in front of the chest. He was eyeing its contents and dropping a few more bits of jewelry inside. The ogre chieftain motioned for the lid to be closed. Two thick leather straps were wrapped around it, and it was fastened to the back of the largest ogre.

“The world gives us surprises,” she answered the mariner.

“Maybe. But, you still can’t be serious about this.” Rig raised his voice slightly, after Donnag was pacing again and was now a good distance away. “I told you I watched your brother die. One week ago to this day. Inside that… that… mountain. Fetch used this eye-shaped pool left behind by the Black Robes, and he conjured up an image of Shrentak’s dungeons.” The mariner had spent most of the evening telling the Solamnic about their trip to the ruins and along the underground river, and about the visions Fetch had called forth. “I watched Aven die, Fiona.” And then I watched Fetch die too, the mariner added silently to himself.

She met his gaze, her eyes bright with determination, though rimmed with the tears she fought to keep in check. “Rig, you don’t know that for certain,” she said stubbornly, repeating the words she told him last night. “It was a vision. You weren’t actually there in Shrentak. He might still be alive.”

The mariner shut his eyes and took a deep breath, opened them and noticed that her lip trembled almost imperceptibly. “It was real enough, Fiona. How many times do I have to describe it?”

“And even if it was real,” she said, “I want his body back. If he is dead, he deserves a proper Solamnic burial. I’ll not have him rotting in the Black’s lair. I’ll use the ransom to rescue his body.”

She drew her shoulders back, thrust out her chin, and forced her tears back. “A very proper burial.” She made a move to walk away from Rig. But his hand reached out and gently closed around her arm, and he gently turned her to face him.

“Fiona…” he began.

“You’re not going to change my mind.” As an afterthought, she added softly, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to come along.”

“Oh, I’m coming with you, all right. I’m not going to leave you and…”

She tugged on his shirt, interrupting him, turning her face to the ogres and pointing to one in the center of the front line. “That man has been to the ruins of Takar before. He’ll guide us.”

He was a barrel-chested ogre in boiled leather. His skin was dark brown and wart-riddled, and his eyes were as gray as the rain clouds overhead.

“His name is Mulok, and he’s old, I’m told, for an ogre. He was at the ruins when the Black was just settling down in her swamp.”

Rig rolled his head to work a kink out of his neck. He released her arm and lowered his voice. “I could lead us to Takar. Alone. You and I and that chest of gems.”

“Neither you nor I have been there, we’ve directions only. It is fortunate one of Donnag’s men has actually been to the ruins.”

“But we have reliable directions.”

“Having Mulok with us is better, I think.” She took a step back. “Maldred has confidence in him. Besides, you ‘steer by the stars, and we haven’t seen anything but clouds for quite some time.”

“I don’t know about this.” Rig thrust his thumbs behind his belt, his fingers drumming against the leather. “I don’t like it, Fiona. I don’t like this plan.”

She let out a long breath and steepled her fingers, let the silence settle around them. He was used to the gesture, which she subconsciously practiced when she was upset. After a few moments, she continued, “Rig, the plan is simple, and we’ve been over it before. The bozak, the old draconian who approached the Solamnic Council, is stationed in Takar. I’ll recognize him. The gold collar studded with gems, the scars on his chest. When I saw him… well, he was so distinctive that I’ll have no trouble picking him out. We find him. We give him the gems. And he releases my brother—or my brother’s body. There’s enough gems and coins that we should be able to ransom other prisoners as well. The plan will work. It has to.”

Rig frowned. “I don’t believe you can trust Sable’s minion—this old draconian. He might not be waiting for you at Takar. He might have given up waiting. Or he might have been lying to you and the council all along, which is what I suspect. I don’t trust or like his Lordship Donnag. I certainly don’t like Maldred—he admitted to being a thief. And I don’t like Dhamon. Not anymore.”

“Did you ever?” Her voice had an edge to it. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Maldred’s approach drew her attention.

He was dressed in black leather armor, and a dark green cloak hung from his massive shoulders. A two-handed sword stuck out behind his neck. His hair was cropped close to his head, making his face seem even more angular and striking.

Dhamon was at his side, wearing a green leather vest, dark and embellished with an intricate leaf pattern. It was laced across the front, but was open enough to reveal the muscles of his chest. His trousers were short, ending at mid-thigh and made of a tightly woven canvas dyed black. Dhamon was making no attempt to hide the scale on his leg. His cloak was made of an olive-hued reptile hide, thin and supple. His hair had been trimmed a little shorter, just below his jawline, and his face was clean-shaven. A long sword hung from a tooled black leather scabbard, and Dhamon kept one hand on the pommel as he walked. The other hand had a bandage wrapped around it.

“I am glad you changed your mind,” Maldred said to Dhamon.

“I haven’t… exactly.” Dhamon had explained to Maldred a few minutes ago about his question to the sword and the vision it gave him of the swamp.

“Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re coming with us—even though it was Wyrmsbane that apparently convinced you.”

Dhamon shrugged. “I’ll come with you for a time.”

Maldred glanced at the sword. “Until it gives you more information?”

Dhamon nodded. “The sword hints that I need to journey into the swamp. And I’d rather do that with company. Aye, at least for a time. So I’m swallowing my words. I’ll help you with the mines first. And then we’ll part company, and I’ll pursue my own quest.”

Maldred lowered his voice when he caught Rig watching them. “We’ll not be parting company, my friend. I am with you to the end. We will find a remedy for that scale that vexes you. So after the mines, with or without the fair Solamnic at my side, I’ll follow wherever that sword might lead you.”

Dhamon caught the mariner’s stare, then pivoted so he faced away from Rig. “We’ll discuss this sword and where it might lead later…”

“When we’re far from Donnag,” Maldred finished.

“Aye, I fear he will seek retaliation.”

“His lordship will do nothing at all to you,” Maldred said. “He’ll not raise a hand against you. But he’ll likely never make another deal with you.”

“That is a certainty on my part.”

“In any event, Donnag and I had several long talks over the past two days—while Grim Kedar was summoned on and off to tend to him. About how you had the sword you wanted, and he had his life. About keeping one’s word, and the price for deceiving others.”

Dhamon raised an eyebrow.

“He deceived me too, my friend. Wolves. Hah!” Maldred grinned slyly. “And if he wants to keep our friendship, leaving you alone is the price.”

“He is full of lies.” Dhamon’s voice was flat. He was watching Donnag out of the corner of his eye. The ogre chieftain was parading in front of his mercenaries again.

Maldred softly chuckled. “Well, here’s one lie you’ll find amusing. He told Grim he tumbled down the stairs in his manse and broke his jaw. And Donnag told his guards the same tale.” Maldred reached up and fingered a platinum chain that hung about his neck and extended under his leather tunic. There was a bulge on his chest, where the Sorrow of Lahue was nested. “It wouldn’t do for the ruler of all of Blöde to admit to being tromped by a lowly human.”

“Still,” Dhamon began, “I’ll feel better away from here.”

Maldred slapped his friend on the back. “And what of Rikali?”

“She’s still mending at Grim’s. The injuries she suffered from the fall were evidently worse than I thought. She’ll be there another few days.”

“And does she know you’re not waiting, that you’re leaving with us?”

Dhamon nodded. “Aye. And she’s not too happy about it.”

Maldred’s expression clouded. “Does she know you’re not coming back?”

Dhamon knew from a brief conversation with Rig that the half-elf had drifted in and out of consciousness on her return trip to Blöten and wasn’t aware Dhamon had left her behind. Rig hadn’t told her, apparently considering the whole matter none of his business. Dhamon visited with her late last night at the ogre healer’s, and told her he would see her when they returned to Blöten from their trip into the swamp.

“No,” he answered. “She doesn’t know. And at least I don’t have to worry about her following us. She hates the notion of slogging through a swamp.”

“To the bottom layer of the Abyss with you, Dhamon Grimwulf,” Rig whispered. The mariner had crept close enough to hear the last bit of their conversation.

The swamp closed about them. It was muggy, hot, and stifling, and though what little they could see of the sky was notably overcast, it was devoid of the rain that was continuing to batter the mountains. Fiona struggled to stay in step with the ogres. Her Solamnic armor made her miserable. Still, she refused to remove it. Not even Maldred could convince her.

Their lungs felt saturated with the heady fragrance of lianas mingled with the fetid odor of stagnant pools. Hundreds of eyes watched them—snakes that dripped like vines from cypress branches, bright red and yellow parrots that flitted down from high above to pass just above their heads before disappearing again in the foliage.

Green became their world—vines, leaves, moss, ferns, even the green scum resting on the pools of water. The huge trees formed a vast canopy, and on the rare days when the sun poked through the clouds in the afternoon, only diffuse rays made their way down to the boggy forest floor. Sometimes the ogre mercenaries resorted to torches, as the swamp was so close and dark it seemed perpetually night. Dhamon wondered how anything managed to grow here. Dragon magic, he decided.

Lizards darted out from under their feet. Something in the brush moved to the side of the ogre column, unseen but obviously paralleling their course. A great black cat lounged on a low-hanging branch, yellow eyes trained on them, giving a yawn. There were noises that hinted at other watchers. The chitter of monkeys, the snarl and snap of an alligator, the mournful cry of an unfamiliar creature that sounded uncomfortably close. There were a few tracks of massive creatures with webbed feet. The ogres talked about hunting giant crocodiles come evening, wanting to supplement the rations Donnag had provided with fresh meat.

A mist hung above the ground everywhere. This, too, was green and was birthed by the summer’s heat evaporating some of the swamp’s moisture. It put Dhamon on his guard, as he suspected it could hide all manner of things. The swamp took on an almost haunted appearance, the mist a chorus of pale green ghosts they had to walk through.

Dhamon spent the first few days trailing behind the ogres, who were forging their path through the foliage. He queried the sword each day, asking it again about a cure. Sometimes he received nothing. And sometimes he gained more visions of the swamp, mirror images of what he first pictured in that Blöten alley.

Fiona was at the head of the column. She was paying far more attention to Maldred than to Rig, who sometimes drifted back to walk with Dhamon, though they did not speak. Often Rig stayed toward the center of the column, where he could keep an eye on the Solamnic Knight, and take occasional glances over his shoulder to watch Dhamon.

Dhamon mused that the mariner had become practically invisible—or forgotten, as no one paid him any heed. Dhamon was pleased Rig was leaving him alone. He preferred to keep to himself, talking only when Fiona or Maldred wandered back to check on him, or when one of the ogres tried to engage him in a game of chance.

The morning of the fifth day brought them to a river. The insects were thick around the water, which at its deepest point was up to Dhamon’s armpits. But the insects didn’t seem to bother the ogres—or the alligators and crocodiles that lounged in profusion along the banks. Dhamon suspected it was only the number in their entourage, and the size of the ogres, that kept the swamp denizens from making a meal of them.

Later that morning, Rig drifted back to walk with Dhamon again. The two men didn’t acknowledge each other, though they slogged over the marshy ground practically shoulder to shoulder. When the shadows became so thick they knew the sun had set, the column slowed, and the ogres began to set up their camp. Rig moved forward to find Fiona. The Solamnic Knight was deep in conversation with Maldred, so the mariner drifted away, becoming invisible again.

Dhamon distanced himself from the camp, careful to keep it in sight, however. Stabbing the end of his torch into the ground, he crouched in front of a stagnant pool, drew Wyrmsbane, and stirred the water with the sword’s tip. “A cure,” he whispered. “A remedy for this scale.”

He was concentrating fiercely, hunkered in front of the pool until his leg muscles stung from being forced into this position for so long. There was no tingling from the sword, no image, no chilling pommel. Nothing. “A cure,” he repeated.

Dhamon recalled that the old Sage of Kortal said the sword did not function all the time, that it had a will of its own. And indeed it hadn’t responded to him every day. So Dhamon refused to give up hope of finding what he wanted. He held his position a few minutes longer and focused all of his thoughts on the sword and the scale on his thigh. “A cure.”

Nothing.

He let out a deep breath, the air whistling out softly between clenched teeth. He would try again in the morning, before they were on the move again. He would return to Maldred and… the pommel grew cool in his hands. It was a welcome sensation, cutting the heat of the swamp and causing his heart to leap. He stirred the water and again focused all of his thoughts on the scale on his leg and on finding relief from it. A moment later he saw an image in the pool.

It was a green vision again, thick leaves and vines, lizards and birds moving in and out of view, swamp flowers and massive ferns. Again, there was no tugging to tell him which direction to proceed, and no sun or moon visible in the pool to help point the way. But this time there was more. Through a slight gap in the leaves, Dhamon made out stone-bricks or a statue, he couldn’t tell. But it was something made by man, smooth and worked. When he concentrated on that, the pommel tingled.

He mentally begged it to show him more, but the vision dissolved. He rested back on his haunches and sheathed the sword. Maybe he would wait to try again when they reached the mines. Perhaps it would give him more distinct images if he gave the magic a rest.

Dhamon returned to camp, settling himself several yards away from the mariner—on the only solid patch of ground that hadn’t been staked out by the ogres. He saw Rig watching him. The mariner had rested his glaive against the trunk of a massive shaggybark. Dhamon mused that Rig seemed to collect the weapons he discarded. The mariner wouldn’t be getting this sword, as Dhamon knew he wouldn’t be discarding Wyrmsbane while he lived.

Then Dhamon leaned his back against the tree, a gnarled root prodding discomfitingly into his leg, and he closed his eyes and futilely attempted to sleep. The sounds bothered him too much, festering in his mind. The cries of hidden birds and great cats, the movement of leaves in the lowermost canopy. More than that—the conversations of the ogres bothered him. He wished he could understand them better and could pick out more than a few words here and there. He couldn’t bring himself to trust them, as they were mercenaries of Donnag. He wanted to know exactly what they were talking about, and he wanted Maldred to share his concern about their loyalty.

He heard the squishing of footfalls and opened his eyes. The ogre called Mulok was approaching. Dhamon considered waving him away, preferring to be alone. But the big ogre carried a large skin of spirits with him, and so Dhamon gestured Mulok closer.

Dhamon noted that Rig was still watching him. Fiona was several yards away. She was softly illuminated in the light of a tall torch stuck into the ground. She gave Dhamon an occasional glance, but most of her attention was conferred on Maldred. She was standing close to the big man, and his hand had enfolded hers.

Mulok took a long pull from the skin and passed it to Dhamon. The ogre knew a smattering of the common tongue, and tried to engage Dhamon in a conversation about a large boar he had spied earlier in the day and tried unsuccessfully to catch. Dhamon listened politely and took several long swallows of the alcohol. It was slightly bitter, but not at all unpleasant. He found it heady, and after one more swallow passed it back and nodded his thanks.

Mulok dug in his pocket for painted stones, elements of a simple game the ogres enjoyed. Dhamon reluctantly agreed to play, and was fishing about in his pocket for a few copper coins when the howl of an ogre cut across the camp. Dhamon jumped to his feet and drew his sword. Mulok dropped the stones and reached for his club.

With only two tall torches burning, there was little light—just enough to make the clearing the ogres had made by tromping around seem truly spooky. The ogres had been milling around, flattening the last of the saw grass, their dark shapes difficult to discern because of the tall, thick foliage that ringed the clearing. Dhamon moved toward the nearest torch—to where he’d last spotted Fiona. Mulok was tromping behind him.

But before he took more than a dozen steps, Dhamon felt himself being lifted, snakes dropping from the canopy and wrapping around his arms and chest and hoisting him skyward. The air was filled with the hissing of hundreds of snakes.

Within the passing of a heartbeat, Dhamon’s left arm was pinned. But his sword arm remained free. With it he slashed out at more snakes dropping down on him and seeking to entwine him further. His frenzied swings managed to stop any more from slithering closer, at least for the moment. Keeping his eye on other snakes he saw massing above, he wielded Wyrmsbane against the serpents that already had a firm hold on him, swiftly cutting himself free and dropping in a crouch to the soft ground below.

Dhamon suspected only a few minutes had passed. And in that time several of the ogres in the company were being hauled, struggling and cursing, into the lower canopy. Maldred was among them. The big man’s arms were lashed to his sides, and one snake was wrapped around his legs, holding his limbs tightly. Maldred was trying with all his considerable strength to extend his arms and break his bonds. But the snakes were resilient, defying his attempts and twisting ever tighter. They cut into the exposed flesh on his arms and drew blood.

On the ground, Dhamon was barely managing to elude more of the dropping snakes. He crouched as one tried to whip about his chest. He swung Wyrmsbane at a thick constrictor that was dropping toward him, striking it, but only managing to bat it away. Veins knotting like cords in his arms and neck, he swung a second time, slicing through the constrictor and releasing a spray of gray-green blood.

In a matter of moments, he had cleaved several snakes in two and was standing on a severed section that continued to writhe. In the scant light of the torch he could see the mouth that snapped open to reveal rows of needle-fine barbs. Odd. He looked closer. Not teeth, exactly. There was something else unusual about the dead and dying snakes that lay around him.

They looked more like vines, like the lianas that hung everywhere in the swamp. He dropped beneath a hissing serpent, and his hand shot out to feel one of the dead snakes. They felt like vines, too, devoid of scales. “What are these beasts?” he said to himself. Then he was shaking off his curiosity, rising and slashing at another approaching serpent.

“Dhamon!” Maldred called from above. He was hidden in the lower canopy, but Dhamon could hear him thrashing. “Some help here!”

More ogres were caught and disappeared aloft. Others were swinging swords and clubs at snakes that continued to drop from the canopy and lash about for more victims. The snakes made a hissing that grew in intensity, the sound virtually blotting out the shouts of the ogres.

Fiona sliced through an especially thick snake twisting toward Dhamon. He saw her and nodded, then dropped to his stomach when he felt the brush of a serpent against his back. He rolled and slashed upward, cutting off the head of another one. With his free hand, he reached up and grabbed another snake that had dropped to entwine him. Holding his magical blade between his teeth, he climbed up this last snake as if it were a contorting rope.

“Dhamon!” Fiona called to him. “I can’t see Maldred!” She had cleaved through at least a dozen of the creatures and parts of them were wriggling and snapping on the ground. The torchlight revealed that her silver mail was spattered with dark green slime. Her face grim and eyes wide. “He must be above with the others. Dhamon!”

Dhamon couldn’t reply, the blade in his mouth as he continued to climb. He stopped about twenty feet above the ground. Hanging on tight with one hand, his feet clamped about the constrictor to keep it from jostling him too much, he swung out with his sword wildly, cutting through a black snake hurtling toward him. He sliced through it easily, slamming his eyes shut as the blood sprayed him. Acidic, it burned his skin, and he almost fell off in surprise. He could see a few other black snakes among the green majority. They were wrapped around ogres, biting at their faces and hands. After a few moments of struggling, the ogres hung limply in their coils. Dhamon called a warning to the ogres fighting on the ground to beware the dark snakes. But the hissing of all the snakes had grown so unbearably loud that the ogres weren’t able to hear him.

He climbed higher still, marveling at the length of these snakes. He was more than fifty feet off the ground, and the snakes were longer yet—Dhamon couldn’t see the end of the one he was climbing.

“Maldred!” Dhamon screamed his friend’s name. “Maldred!”

He tried to blot out the hissing as the snakes continued to lower themselves through the canopy to the ground. He thought he heard his friend’s familiar deep voice coming from somewhere above him. He climbed higher, then paused again, when the snake he was clinging to began to thrash wildly, threatening to dislodge him. He stretched across to a thick branch, releasing the snake he’d been climbing, then with a quick motion he sliced through the snake. The thing fell to the ground, and he swung about and continued up the tree, disappearing amid the broad leaves of the lowermost canopy.

Far below, the cagey ogre named Mulok had put his back to a cypress tree and was swinging an axe in front of him like a scythe. With his other hand he was jabbing his sword above his head, keeping additional snakes from dropping on him.

Fiona darted about, continuing to wreak havoc among the creatures. Only one had managed to wrap around her, but she killed it before it could lift her. Her Solamnic plate was helpful—the only good thing about wearing it into this swamp. The snakes found it difficult to get a hold on the metal. They slid off and became easy marks for her swordsmanship.

The ogres quickly noticed her success, watching her as they battled their own snakes. They instantly developed a respect for this human woman whom they previously only tolerated.

Suddenly there was a crashing overhead, twigs snapping. The body of one of the green-skinned ogres dropped like a boulder, the impact spraying marshy water around on the ground. The nearest ogres howled in anger. Their fellow was clearly dead, his mottled skin a mass of bites and wounds.

Another fell, and Fiona shouted orders to the dazed ogres, hoping some could understand her. One did, the white-skinned shaman Maldred introduced her to. She couldn’t recall his name, but she waved to him. He interrupted a spell he was in the midst of casting, and shouted in the ogre tongue in an effort to translate her words for his fellows. A moment later the ogres had regrouped alongside the Solamnic Knight in the center of the clearing, backs together and blades flashing in the meager torchlight. The ground was covered with the severed pieces of snakes, still writhing and snapping, some finding boots to bite, others being crushed beneath heels.

“Maldred!” Dhamon continued to howl from high above. He had managed to climb out on a sturdy branch between canopies, which were draped with snakes. As he made his way toward the trunk, he sliced through a number of them. Other snakes hung from higher branches, and he sidestepped these and occasionally hurled one down as he went. “Maldred!”

“Here! I’m up here, Dhamon!” The deep voice was muffled, but clear enough.

“Keep talking so I can find you!”

Another voice intruded, which Dhamon recognized— Rig’s. The mariner also had been captured and carried aloft by the serpents. He seemed to be close by. The moonlight that filtered down through the higher canopies showed the dark-skinned man trussed up against the trunk of an adjacent tree. Four thick snakes had wrapped around him, while a fifth was snapping at his face. Dhamon sliced through another snake as he started toward the mariner, then decided against it and turned instead toward the sound of Maldred’s voice. Like a skilled tightrope walker, Dhamon balanced on another branch, leapt to one extending from a massive elm, and edged along, grabbing at the snakes that hung down and using them to help keep his footing. He paused twice to pluck the sword from his mouth and slay a pair of offending black snakes, grimacing when the acidic blood stung his skin.

Maldred was nearly twenty feet above him, tied with snakes to a thick branch. All around him the foliage of the cypress moved, alive with the creatures that were as long as a hundred feet. Dhamon climbed hand over hand up a thin, ropelike snake, slaying it when he’d reached the next branch. Then he sidled in toward the trunk, dodging another pair of black vipers. He used the sword to help him climb, the blade sinking into the wood as he made his way up to Maldred. The snakes were thicker here, sheathing the big man. Dhamon fought his way through a curtain of thin green snakes, then nearly toppled from his lofty perch when he felt one slip down the back of his vest. His free hand groped for the offending snake while the creature bit at his flesh. Finally feeling the snake with his fingers, he tugged the creature out of his vest, flinging it away. He cut through a few more serpents before he reached Maldred. The big man’s face was dotted with bite marks, his cheeks badly swollen.

Dhamon started hacking through the snakes as if he were sawing through rope. Green and black blood sprayed him, and he stopped only to bat away a thin one that dropped down and tried to wrap itself around his neck.

“Nearly there,” he told Maldred. A large green snake dropped down and clamped its teeth into his exposed thigh. Dhamon jammed the pommel of the sword down hard on the creature’s head, stunning it. “Just a few more and I’ll have your arms free.”

“And that will be a third time you’ve saved my life, my friend,” the big thief managed to gasp. “I’ll owe you…”

“Nothing,” Dhamon finished. “You helped me gain Wyrmsbane. There. Almost through just a little…” Dhamon stiffened. He felt something tightening painfully around his waist. “A little more,” he gasped, as he bent to finish the task.

He hadn’t quite cut all the way through the snakes that imprisoned his friend when Maldred finished the job by flexing his muscles and tearing the last one from his body. Gasping, the big man’s hand shot forward, fingers closing on the constrictor wrapped around Dhamon’s waist and squeezing hard. He crushed the creature, ooze seeping out to stain his massive hand.

“It has no bones,” Maldred said, as he brushed the dead creatures away and shakily balanced on the branch. “Sorcery was at work, my friend, and I would love to study this if the circumstances were different. Someone of considerable power has animated the vines.”

“Aye,” Dhamon agreed, motioning toward other branches where ogres were held. “And that someone is making a mess of Donnag’s army.”

They hurriedly made their way from branch to branch. Staying together, they kept the snakes off each other while liberating the remaining ogres. Those freed in turn worked to release their brethren, the ogres having a much harder time of maneuvering their large bodies on the branches.

Far below, Fiona continued to command the ogres to shift their circle, never staying in the same spot for more than a few moments. No more had been grabbed since she had maneuvered them into a circle formation. The white-skinned ogre stood in the center, weaving his hands in the air. The air shimmered around his fingertips. Then the shimmering spread outward to resemble a cloud of fireflies. The lights danced yellow and pale orange and swarmed around the snakes that continued to drop from the canopy. As the lights grew brighter, the snakes stopped writhing. After several moments, they hung, unmoving, appearing to be nothing more than flower-covered vines amid dissipating lights.

The Solamnic Knight directed the ogres to shift the circle again to accommodate the magical reach of the shaman. Soon they were beneath another myriad of writhing snakes, and again the ogre’s fingers began to flutter.

High above, Rig peered through the shadows and watched Dhamon free Maldred and then several ogres. The mariner continued to struggle against the tightening serpents that had pinned him to the shaggybark trunk. His cheeks stung, and he felt the blood running down his face. “Stinking snakes,” he spat, as one darted in to snap at his nose. “To the Abyss with Dhamon Grimwulf and all these snakes.” He realized Dhamon wouldn’t be helping him soon, if ever, and that if he didn’t do something quickly to free himself, he’d die. It was getting very difficult to breathe. He nearly managed to escape twice, but each time more snakes came to take the place of those he had cast off.

It seemed hopeless, but Rig concentrated—not on his own situation but instead on the romance budding between Fiona and Maldred. “Won’t let him have her,” he managed to gasp, as another serpent dropped down threateningly. Opening his mouth wide, his teeth clamped down on the black snake, and he bit hard until it stopped moving. Rig gagged when the acidic gore filled his mouth. He spat it out and continued struggling. “Won’t leave her alone with him and Dhamon Grimwulf. Won’t, can’t… Finally!” he cried, as he slipped a hand free. His fingers immediately fumbled about his waist, closing on one of his numerous dagger pommels, and tugging the blade out. “You’re carrion now, you slimy serpents,” he hissed, as he viciously slashed through one snake and then another, and then two or three more, heaving the ropelike bodies away as far as he could.

After several minutes, he cut off the last one and sagged against the trunk to catch his breath. He spat repeatedly, trying to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. Then he fumbled at his waist for a waterskin and poured its entire contents down his throat. That seemed to help a little, but his tongue still burned. His dark eyes scanned the leaves above, alert for more snakes.

Spotting three descending on him, he leapt to another branch. The starlight spilled down here, from a gap in the uppermost canopy right above him. Rig glanced up, grateful for even a glimpse of the sky. It had been quite some time since he’d seen the stars. Fiona was right, he used them to “steer by,” always had—steering each ship he was on to some new port of call. The mariner contended that he could never get lost, not so long as there were stars to guide him. He felt better, seeing them, felt like he was in the company of old friends—ones who wouldn’t change and become thieves and who wouldn’t stare wide-eyed at men named Maldred.

“Waitaminute,” he hushed. The mariner actually looked at the stars now, not just admired them. Rig climbed a little higher, oblivious to the sounds of battle below. He could see more of the sky from his improved vantage-point, studied a few of the constellations. They were different before the Chaos War—he’d seen plenty of star charts from the time when three moons hung in the sky to know that. And he was acquainted with a grizzled old caravel captain who sailed under those constellations.

But these were the ones he grew up with and had come to consider his friends. He raised a hand, tracing the outline of a dragon’s wing. He wanted to study the sky a bit longer, but a loud hiss sent him scampering to the branch below. It was like climbing around the rigging of a ship, not especially difficult to him, though he’d been away from the sea for several months. Too many, he thought.

Below the mariner, Dhamon was cutting his way through a veil of descending serpents and making his way to a low branch. Dhamon leapt to the ground, the marsh absorbing his weight and sending a shower of malodorous water spraying in all directions.

Dhamon heard the hissing again, louder echoing off the thick trees, heard Fiona snapping orders, heard an ogre growl a series of garbled words in response, heard Maldred jump to the ground.

Fiona was nearby, and Dhamon and Maldred made their way toward her voice, lashing out at serpent-vines as they went. It seemed like forever before they were back in the clearing the ogres had made. Maldred was quick to join the circle of ogres the Solamnic was expertly directing. Dhamon stayed back, eyes darting about for more snakes, slashing at the ones descending on him.

Dhamon wrinkled his nose, deciding that the blood smelled worse than the healing balm they’d put on him in the hospital in Ironspike. He wouldn’t have minded the rain now, to wash some of the odor away. So many serpent-vines had been slain that he was practically tripping on them, and the stench was growing. He gagged as he concentrated on sweeping Wyrmsbane at the serpent-vines that continued to drop, though in decreasing numbers now. There were fewer snakes here simply because he and the ogres had already hacked through most of the vines that had been ensorcelled.

He ignored Maldred’s plea for him to join the circle. He certainly didn’t want to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with ogres that were swinging so wildly with their weapons that they were liable to hit him in the process. Besides, here, away from the throng of ogres, he could concentrate on keeping himself safe, not having to worry about protecting anyone around him.

There was a thick curtain of snakes at the edge of the camp, where none of the ogres had been fighting, and Dhamon made his way toward it, slicing through a few black serpent-vines as he went. He was careful as he approached, their hissing drowning out the sounds of the ogres in the circle, which was well behind him now.

“What magic birthed you?” he muttered, as he came at the curtain from one end, slicing through several serpents with one swing. “What could have possibly caused all of you to… argh!” A serpent-vine had dropped behind him, needle teeth sinking into his shoulder. The snake started wrapping its body around Dhamon’s neck, forcing him to drop Wyrmsbane. His hands shot up to his throat, tugging at the coils. Then suddenly the snake went limp, and he could easily unwrap it.

“Don’t bother to thank me.” It was the mariner. Rig had made it down from the canopy and slew the snake.

Dhamon quickly retrieved Wyrmsbane, and without a word he went back-to-back with the mariner as they worked their way along the curtain of serpents, eventually slaying all of them.

More than an hour after the assault began, the last vine was dispatched, and Rig gulped down the contents of another waterskin, still trying to get the taste of the blood out of his mouth. He retrieved the long sword he’d dropped, while Dhamon kicked small piles of serpent-vines, making sure they were all dead.

Nine ogres had died, either to venomous bites or falls from the canopy. A tenth remained missing. Fiona considered the fellow lost and decided no one should climb into the canopy to look for him. Then there might be two men missing.

“Our numbers have been cut by a fourth,” Maldred announced.

“By someone who doesn’t want us here,” Dhamon added.

“Obviously,” Rig muttered.

Murmurs of «Sable» rippled through the pack of remaining ogres, that one word distinguishable in their otherwise guttural language.

Dhamon turned to Mulok and spat out a series of simple words in ogrish, pointing at the corpses. Then he regarded Maldred. “Maybe the Black, like some of the ogres say, but I don’t think so. More likely one of her minions. If it had been Sable, we’d all be dead.” And if it had been her or another dragon, Dhamon thought to himself, I would have sensed it. The scale would have told me. Like it did when the dragon flew over the Vale of Chaos, and like it warned him of the big green in the Qualinesti Forest. “I would have known,” he said aloud.

Rig was rubbing the blood off his cheeks, gently pressing at the bite wounds and tugging free his last waterskin, upending it over his face and knowing he could refill it in a nearby stream. The wounds stung, and several felt swollen and tender. Maldred seemed to have fared just as badly but was doing nothing to tend to his injuries. The ogres were taking good care of themselves, using their water, some spreading the sap from roots they were digging up. Rig considered trying that, too, then decided better of it. Perhaps such ministrations were why they were covered with boils and warts and overall looked as ugly as they did. Dhamon seemed to have suffered only a few bites, and he blotted at these with a scrap of cloth soaked in alcohol.

Satisfied there was nothing else he could do for his wounds, the mariner began searching around the base of the shaggybark where he’d propped the glaive. He was certain he had found the right tree, as he recognized knobby roots that looked like giant spider legs. Yes, this was the right tree.

“Where?” he whispered. “Where is my weapon?” He knelt and felt the ground, found the impression the haft of the glaive had made. It was too dark to see any details, the tree was so far from the torches. “We’ll see,” he said, rising and striding toward Fiona. He stopped a few yards short of her, tugging a torch free and carrying it back to the shaggybark, unaware that she was following him and that Dhamon and Maldred were watching. The mariner stuck the torch in a solid patch of ground and knelt again.

“What are you looking for?” she asked him.

“My glaive. Sat it here when I tried to sleep. Before the snakes came. This is the right tree. It was right here. See?” He stabbed his finger at the impression. “Then the snakes came and…”

“Maldred says they were enchanted. Not really snakes at all. Simply vines brought to life through a spell. He knows because he dabbles in magic.”

“Well, he’s just full of surprises, ain’t he?” Rig’s fingers were prodding at the ground. “Anyway, it must be a powerful spell to bring all of those slimy creatures after us. Something that would’ve been out of Feril’s realm.”

“Dhamon thinks…”

“Yeah, I know, maybe a minion of the black dragon. Or Sable herself. I got ears. But I don’t think so. Dragons leave bigger tracks. And besides, I don’t care what Dhamon thinks.”

“He didn’t say a dragon, he said a…”

Rig dismissed her words with a beckoning wave of his hand. He found a footprint, a small one, no longer than his open hand. Then another and another, narrow and childlike. He pointed to them. They led off into a bog.

She crept closer and examined them herself. “Maybe an elf,” she said. “Maldred!”

Rig scowled when he heard the big thief sloshing over. Maldred knelt next to Rig, and Dhamon padded a few feet away, examining more of the small footprints.

“Fiona is right,” Maldred said. “It could be an elf. There used to be plenty of elves in these woods before the Black moved in and turned everything into a swamp.”

Rig moved away from Maldred and Fiona, edged closer to the bog, which spread to the west as far as he could see in the torchlight. “Damn. Took my glaive, some faerie or little elf, maybe whatever made it rain snakes. Maybe it rained snakes so the little demon could make off with my weapon. My very magical weapon. Better have your ogre friends look around the camp and see if anything else is missing. See if they can spot my glaive.”

He tested the ground at the edge of the bog, his boot sinking deep.

“You’re not going after the weapon,” Fiona stated. “It’s too dangerous.”

It might not be too dangerous if you came with me, he mused. He almost said it aloud, but he didn’t need to. She must have picked up on what he was thinking.

“If the circumstances were different,” she began, “if we weren’t going to Takar to ransom my brother, we’d all go with you and help you find the glaive. But a weapon isn’t worth…”

A wave of his hand dismissed the rest of her words. A frown was etched deep in the mariner’s face. He treasured weapons, had ever since he was a youth and stole aboard a ship to escape an unfortunate home life. The glaive he’d been toting around was remarkably enchanted, and he prized it above all the others he had strapped to him. An artifact, Palin Majere had called it, from a very long ago time. It had been given to Dhamon Grimwulf by a bronze dragon, discarded after Dhamon had nearly killed his friends with it—including the mariner. Rig was quick to snatch it up. It parted metal like it was parchment.

“Took my glaive,” he repeated. “Now how am I gonna get it back?”

Dhamon persisted in examining the footprints as he listened to the mariner continue to grumble. For a brief moment he considered asking Wyrmsbane where the glaive was. But he quickly discarded the notion, not wanting to do any favors for the mariner. He would save the magic of Tanis’s sword for his own questions, which might, tomorrow morning, involve these small footprints that troubled him.

“Too dark,” Dhamon said, finally giving up on the footprints. He rejoined the ogres, seeking out Mulok and sharing some more of the bitter drink, then he began examining the ogre corpses.

Fiona backed away from the shaggybark and Rig, and instructed her charges, via Maldred, to search through the dead ogres’ belongings. “Just in case other things are missing,” she said. “Make sure they gather any rations they find.”

Mulok and the other ogres busied themselves stacking their dead comrades around the base of a cypress tree. It wasn’t practical to bury them here, or to burn them. Maldred said they’d be left for carrion—after they were first stripped of any weapons and armor that could be used.

Rig noticed Dhamon pluck a large silver ring off the hand of one corpse and stuff it in his pocket. He watched him take a silver bracer off the arm of another and slip it in his pouch, then move on, pretending to be interested in the lianas. The mariner was disgusted, shaking his head and wishing ardently that he’d never crossed paths with Dhamon Grimwulf, and that the Solamnic Knights had agreed to this ransom. They could’ve done it for Fiona, who had dedicated her life to the Order. It would have saved Fiona and him time—weeks. They wouldn’t have had to struggle across the length of the Kalkhists following Dhamon and Maldred, and they wouldn’t have gone to the village of goatherders on an errand for the arrogant ogre chieftain.

And they might have gotten to the old bozak draconian in Takar in time. Fiona’s brother might have lived.

“If the dragon was to be trusted about accepting a ransom,” Rig grumbled. “If the draconian was in Takar. If. If. If.” He growled from deep in his throat. He wanted desperately to go after his glaive. But if the person—or creature—who took it was responsible for all the snakes, he suspected he’d be throwing his life away. And he wanted to go to Shrentak, a notion he’d allowed himself to become obsessed with, and rescue all the people held there. “Shrentak,” he hissed.

The mariner spotted Dhamon and Maldred conferring by one of the torches. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he made his way toward them. Fiona was nearby. Good, he thought, she’d get an earful of what he had to say.

“The chest.” Fiona was pacing in a tight circle as she talked. Her hands were shaking, her shoulders uncharacteristically rounded. “Something took the chest. With the gems and coins. The ransom for my brother!”

“For your brother’s body,” Rig corrected her.

Her eyes were fire when she stopped inches from the mariner. Her lips were moving wordlessly. The mariner knew what she was thinking. If they hadn’t wasted time trying to collect a ransom with Dhamon and his overlarge friend—if the Solamnic Council had simply given her the coins she needed—her brother might still be alive. Maybe.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” the mariner told her, though he didn’t completely believe that. “Ransom or no, that dragon wasn’t going to let him or any of those other Knights free. It was probably all a sick game. So we’re walking through this damned swamp for nothing. This whole expedition is pointless, Fiona. How many times do I have to tell you that I saw your brother die?”

She started to say something, but he cut her off.

“So you want his body for a proper burial. That’s admirable. But so far this has cost the lives of ten ogres. And my glaive. And now the chest with all the loot is gone, too. No ransom. No body. We’re not where we’re supposed to be. Let’s just go home. We can honor your brother by…”

“You can’t say that,” Fiona countered desperately. “You can’t say this is all pointless. Maldred had sent scouts ahead—before the snakes came. They’ll find the ruins of Takar and…”

Dhamon nodded. He had silently padded up on the two, listening intently to their conversation. “Maldred sent two good scouts.” He gestured to the south. “They should be back soon, if we’re as close to the place as Mal thinks.”

“I think we’re practically right on top of it.” This from Maldred, who was still looking about to make sure no more snakes were descending.

“On top of what?” Rig boomed. “Certainly not Takar. We’re too far south from the ruins of Takar. So where’n the layers of the Abyss are you taking us, Maldred?”

The big man offered Rig a look of puzzlement.

“You heard me. Where’re you and this Mulok fellow leading us?”

“To Takar, as we agreed.”

“Like hell.” The mariner took a few steps back, so he could regard Dhamon, Maldred, and Fiona. He set his clenched hands against his waist, shoulders defiantly thrown back, lip curled up in a sneer. “We’re nowhere near Takar. Not at all where we’re supposed to be. And you know it, Dhamon.”

“Rig?” Fiona moved closer, though she positioned herself so she was between Maldred and Dhamon.

Three against one, the mariner thought. “I got a good look at the stars when I was snake bait. I can read the stars, you know, steer by them. I used to make a living by them. We’re south and east of Blöten. And, yes, the ruins are in that direction. But we’re too far to the south, and we’re not east enough.”

“Is that true?” A look of suspicion crossed the Solamnic’s face. She glanced up at Maldred.

“Impressive,” the big man stated. He thoughtfully rubbed his chin and met the mariner’s glare.

“So tell me, Maldred, Dhamon,” Rig persisted, “just where are we going, and why?”