Downfall

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Trueheart and Battered Spirits

A noise in the brush caused Maldred to jerk away, his hands reaching for the pommel of the sword strapped to his back, stopping when he recognized the two ogre scouts he’d sent out a while back. The creatures looked shocked by the aftermath of the battle, and Maldred gave them a curtailed version of the events.

The scouts reported quickly, Maldred and Dhamon listening attentively, while Fiona gave Rig an inquisitive look.

“Are you certain we’re not near Takar?” she asked.

Rig nodded. “But I don’t know where we are.”

“I do. We’re less than a mile from the Trueheart Mines,” Dhamon said, squarely facing the mariner, his eyes dancing in the torchlight. “If you want to rescue somebody, there are plenty of prisoners there in need of it.”

Fiona looked incredulously between Dhamon and Rig, then let out a deep breath from between her teeth and angrily took a step toward Maldred. Dhamon’s hand slammed against her breastplate, stopping her. Maldred was talking to the scouts in the ogre tongue, gesturing at the force of the mercenaries, and then to the south.

“He’s getting them ready,” Dhamon explained. “Issuing a few orders. You know how that is, Fiona. Soldiers need instructions before a fight.”

Rig batted Dhamon’s arm down. “You and Maldred lied to her. You promised her a small army of mercenaries.”

“I didn’t promise her anything.”

“Maldred, Donnag…”

“Well, Rig, there’re thirty mercenaries left—after the snakes.”

“For Takar,” Rig stated flatly. “They were to be for Takar.”

“We didn’t want to go to Takar,” Dhamon returned. “I certainly had no intentions of going there—or anywhere else in this blessed swamp, for that matter. You should have realized that days ago, Rig.” His voice was icy, his stare hard and unwavering. “Maldred had his own agenda, and he thought he could use your sword arms. You’re good in a fight, the both of you. And he seems quite fond of Fiona.”

“Fiona,” Rig stated softly. “This is all about her. Maldred is more than fond of her. He lied to her just to keep her around.”

Dhamon didn’t reply to that. “I suspect you two would’ve gone along with us from the beginning if you weren’t so bent on going to Takar to ransom a Solamnic Knight. Sorry, a Knight’s body. Maldred’s plan is equally as noble as yours. Just not quite as dangerous—or futile.”

“We’re not going any farther.” Fiona stepped back, wrapping her fingers around the pommel of her sword. “With any of you.” Her tone was as venomous as Dhamon’s, her posture rigid. “Rig was right all along, and I was a fool not to listen to him. What was I thinking? Are my senses so muddled that…”

Rig took her arm and pulled her a few feet away from Dhamon. “We can’t afford too much of a confrontation here,” he whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between Dhamon and Maldred, who was still occupied with issuing orders. Several ogres had joined the big man.

“Wish I could understand them,” he grumbled. “Can’t trust them. Don’t know what they’re saying.” His expression softened when he looked at her heart-shaped face. “Listen, there’re way too many of them, and I know for certain now that there’s not a single one of them that can be believed.”

“I agree. Can we find the way to Takar alone? If my brother is truly dead…” She let that thought trail off, inhaled deep and adopted her military posture again. “It is my fault for not finding another avenue to raise the coins and gems. And now the ransom I had managed to extract from Chieftain Donnag is gone.” She eased her fingers away from the pommel of her sword and steepled them in her nervous gesture.

“Fiona…”

“Oh, Rig. Maybe I don’t need the coins. If we go to Takar I can find that old draconian. I’d recognize him in a heartbeat. Perhaps I can persuade him to tell me for certain if my brother is truly dead. I must have something more than your vision. Maybe, just maybe, the black dragon might release him…” She paused. “My sword has value, my armor. Perhaps everything isn’t lost.”

Rig placed his hands on her shoulders. “Fiona, please. Let’s stop this. Forget Takar. If you want to honor your brother, forget his plight. Forget all of this. Let’s go to Shrentak instead, try to rescue the prisoners there who are still alive. Maybe where a garrison of Knights failed, two people could succeed. Unnoticed. Slipping in and out. That would be an honorable thing to do.”

Her face softened for a moment, her eyes watering, her posture relaxing. It looked as if she might agree with him, but then Maldred strolled over, reached out and thumped her shoulder, drawing her attention. Fiona’s eyes met his and instantly brightened.

“Fiona,” Maldred began. He was holding a torch, which sharply revealed the planes of his face and the injuries he had suffered, his wide, dark eyes that held hers despite her fury. “We mean to free the ogres that the Black works as slaves in the Trueheart Mines. They’re Donnag’s people, good men all of them, and the dragon’s killing them with the work. Dhamon and I want your help.”

“We don’t intend to help!” Rig said, glaring venomously at Dhamon and Maldred. “We don’t intend to go another step with the likes of you!”

“We had our own agenda,” Maldred admitted. “It just happened to be convenient that you wanted to travel through the Black’s swamp. We thought we could use your fighting skills along the way. You’re good in a brawl, the both of you. We certainly would have lost more ogres to the snakes if you’d not been with us.”

Maldred made a gesture with his hand and turned. Fiona followed him. Rig watched dumbstruck as the two of them walked toward the assembled ogres. Maldred addressed them now.

“Fiona? What are you doing?”

She kept pace with Maldred and did not acknowledge the mariner.

“Wish I could understand you, Fiona,” Rig grumbled. “Can’t. Can’t trust them either. Can’t understand anything of what they’re saying.” His expression softened a little when he looked at Fiona. Her face was calm, which troubled him.

“Lady Knight,” Maldred began. He talked softly, so Rig would not hear. “Dearest Fiona, it is true that we have our own agenda, one I was obviously wrong to keep from you.” His voice was deep and even, so pleasant to listen to, almost like a melodic chant. “But I honestly want to rescue your brother in the process. We’ll free these ogres, then go directly to Takar. You have my word. You can trust me, my love.”

She continued to stare into his eyes. “Rig believes my brother is dead. He said he saw a vision…”

“I heard him. And Dhamon told me that as well. But you cannot trust a vision, Fiona. You cannot trust Rig. Remember, he does not deserve you. Above all, you must have hope that your brother is alive. I would very much like to meet him, you know. Continue to the mines with us and then we’ll go to Takar and find this old draconian you spoke of.”

“The scarred one,” she said softly. “The one with the heavy gold collar.”

“Yes, we’ll find him. Stay with me. And we’ll gain your brother’s release.”

“But I’ve got no ransom.”

“We’ll think of something. The mines themselves are filled with silver.”

She shook her head, her red braids lashing behind her like a whip. Still, her eyes did not leave his, and her fingers remained clenched around the pommel of her sword. Fiona blinked furiously, as if trying to clear her head. For a moment she felt faint, and bent her knees to steady herself. When she regained her composure, her eyes were bright and filled with ire.

Fiona met Maldred’s surprised stare. “No. I don’t know what I am thinking. Talking to you. A thief. And a liar. You’ll get no help from me in these mines you’re going to, Maldred. This deception you’ve contrived, leading me away from Takar. I’m leaving your little band. I believe Rig. I believe my brother is dead. And I believe I could have prevented this tragedy if I had found another way to raise this ransom. If only I would have acted sooner.”

Rig was silent, watching the two, his glance occasionally resting on Dhamon, who was only a few feet away. All around them the ogres were gathering into a column and inspecting their weapons, chattering softly in a tongue that sounded primitive and coarse. Finally, Rig crept closer to Fiona, intent on hearing the conversation between her and Maldred.

“Fair Lady Knight.” Maldred’s words grew softer, more musical, his expression relaxing, too. A hand hidden in the folds of his cloak began gesturing to aid in his incantation. Her anger had lessened his hold on her, and he had to correct that. “Lady Knight, from high above when I was held captive in the trees I watched you battle the snakes. You are worth any four of these men, more formidable than I originally believed. I need your help. Please.”

Her expression calmed a little, and her fingers eased from the pommel of her sword.

Maldred’s lyrical voice continued. “Dozens of ogres are being forced to work the mine. They are beaten, fed barely enough to live. It is slavery, Lady Knight, of the worst kind. And it needs to be stopped. It is a problem I had intended to rectify before you came along. You merely make the task less onerous.” The fingers of his hidden hand fluttered even faster. “I should have been honest with you, I realize that now. But I feared you would not accompany us. I promise you, Lady Knight, if you help us free the ogres, then we will discover the truth about your brother. If he lives, he will be freed. You have my word. Stay with me.”

“All right. I will stay with you.”

“No!” Rig roared. He had inched close enough to hear some of what the big man had said. “Fiona, you can’t trust him. Can’t trust Dhamon. Can’t believe any of this.” He interposed himself between the Solamnic and Maldred. “You can’t be serious.”

Her expression was odd, her eyes unblinking. “Slavery is wrong, Rig, and freeing the ogres from the mines is just and honorable. I will help Maldred. And then we’ll all go to Takar.” She turned and took a position at the beginning of the column. Dhamon moved to stand at her side.

Maldred appraised the mariner for a moment. “She has fire,” he said finally. “And a rare sword arm.”

“This isn’t like her,” Rig stated. “Agreeing to help the likes of you. Thieves. Liars. Freeing ogres. I don’t understand it.”

Maldred shrugged and headed to the front of the column.

“Not like her,” Rig repeated. “By the blessed memory of Habbakuk, what is going on with her? And with me?” I should leave, he told himself. But I can’t leave her. Not alone with the likes of these people. And I want my damn glaive back.

The column was moving. Rig took a last look at the ogre bodies encircling the massive cypress tree. Already lizards were scampering over the corpses, biting at the exposed flesh. A raven was perched on a stout ogre’s stomach, plucking at the skin through a rent in the armor. Shuddering, the mariner followed the last of the ogres, fingers still squeezing the pommel of his sword, eyes darting all around looking for movement in the vines. For a moment he wished more serpent-vines would appear and whisk away Dhamon and Maldred and all the ogres. Then it would be just he and the Solamnic Knight again.

The mercenaries were forced to make their way single-file, the swamp so overgrown that at times they were practically squeezing between cypress trunks. Rig lost sight of Fiona, Maldred, and Dhamon shortly after they’d left the clearing. He was worried about the Solamnic, furious over the loss of his glaive. In the back of his mind he kept visualizing the small footprints and telling himself he should talk to Fiona again, make her listen, cut their losses, and get out of here. Around him all he could see were the dark shapes of trees, barely discernible in the light of the few torches the ogres carried.

“I’m going to die here,” he thought, not meaning to say the words out loud. “To snakes or treachery.”

They hadn’t traveled far, a mile or perhaps a little more, when the night’s blackness gave way to the lights of torches and fires burning merrily ahead. There were sounds—snaps, cries, curses, grunts. The ogres were moving quickly now.

At the front of the column, Dhamon brushed aside a veil of moss and caught a first look at the Trueheart Mines. Crates of rocks filled a stretch of marshy ground that had been cleared with axes and was now dotted with decaying stumps. The mine itself was a great hole in the ground, a gaping pit from which light beamed out, and into which thick ropes tied about a few cypress giants led. There was a smaller maw, this set into a low hill, and light shone out of that, too.

Ogres were moving around, shadows of the creatures that followed Dhamon and Maldred. They looked emaciated, their flesh and what was left of their clothes hanging on them, their eyes vacant. Some were climbing up the rope out of the hole, crates filled with ore strapped to their backs. It looked like it was all they could do to make it to the surface, crawling on hands and knees until their black spawn guards undid the clamps that held the crates. The crates emptied, they were again strapped to the ogres’ backs, and the creatures returned to the mines.

The spawn were hideous, resembling draconians to an extent, but they were jet black like a starless sky. Their wings were short and dull compared to the scales on their torsos that gleamed wetly in the light. Their snouts were vaguely equine, covered in tiny scales, and their eyes were a drab yellow, narrowed in malevolence. They had stumpy black tails, which were constantly twitching, claws that were constantly opening and closing. A stunted spiny ridge ran from the tops of their heads to nearly the tips of their tails. Their breath escaped from them in a hiss, making the clearing sound like it was filled with snakes and instantly bringing back memories of the ensorcelled vines.

The sight of the spawn sent a shiver down Dhamon’s back. They were repulsive and unnatural, and he wondered just how many of them Donnag’s forces had managed to slay in the «nest» the ogre chieftain said they’d found. Dhamon knew from his association with the sorcerer Palin Majere that spawn were created by the dragon overlords. The great dragons used something of themselves and something from a true draconian, and they used human captives for the bodies. Those ingredients, coupled with a powerful spell, brought the spawn into existence, and somehow made them unswervingly loyal to the Uragon who created them. They did the dragon’s bidding without question, and they seemed to take delight in killing things.

Dhamon had fought their like before, namely the red spawn of Malys. His lip involuntarily curled up in a snarl at the memory mixed with the sight before him.

Several spawn had whips, and they obviously delighted in using them on the ogre slaves. Dhamon watched as an especially frail-looking slave didn’t move fast enough for one of the spawn. The spawn lashed at the ogre viciously, then moved in and spat a gob of acid that sizzled on the ogre’s lacerated back. The ogre didn’t howl in pain, as Dhamon expected. He merely shuffled back to the ropes and returned to the hole in the ground for another load.

From the smaller hole set against the hill, humans and dwarves brought out more crates of ore, followed by two additional ogre slaves who were so hunched over it looked as though they were crawling on the ground.

Fiona shuddered. “You could have told me the truth of this place and I would’ve come,” she said to Dhamon. “For this reason alone.”

“I didn’t know,” he replied.

“Maldred did.”

Then my friend Maldred would not have needed to use his ensorcelltnent on you, Dhamon thought, recalling how righteous the Solamnic Knight was when she accompanied him to the Window to the Stars. She was saying something else, talking softly again, this time to Maldred. Dhamon wasn’t listening. He watched the spawn whip the miners, spit at the ones who moved too slowly, claw at the sturdiest of the lot to keep them in line. He was counting the spawn, searching for other guards and taskmasters and wondering if he should have left all of this business to Maldred and his Solamnic puppet and struck out deeper into the swamp on his own, in search of his cure. Dhamon’s right hand drifted to his sword. It tingled slightly, and this puzzled him.

There were a dozen spawn on the grounds, nothing else that he could see in the foliage along the perimeter. But there were more in the mine, he was certain of it. And he needed to know just how many more.

He motioned to Maldred, making a few gestures with his fingers—the silent language of thieves Rikali had taught him. For an instant he wondered how the half-elf was doing. Angry that she’d been left behind, for certain. Still, she was safer this way, Dhamon told himself. And he was better off without a relationship. Still, he found himself missing her.

The big man nodded and gestured back to Dhamon, his fingers fluttering. Then he began whispering orders to the ogres.

Dhamon raised his arm, the blade of Tanis Half-Elven flashing in the light. Then, dropped it down as a signal and he raced forward, the ogres and Maldred charging behind him. Fiona joined the charge, heading toward an impressively large spawn that was lashing a recalcitrant dwarf. She nearly slipped, as the ground was marshy despite the absence of rain. The pounding of their footsteps was like muted thunder, and water and mud sprayed in their wake.

The spawn were startled, but were astonishingly quick to react. A few grabbed slaves and used them as shields. Others inhaled sharply, then puffed out gouts of acid to coat the charging ogres. Donnag’s men cried out in surprise and pain, but didn’t retreat.

“Spread out!” Maldred barked in the common tongue, repeating it in ogrish.

The words haunted Dhamon. It was what Gauderic had called to the mercenaries in the Qualinesti Forest when they faced the green dragon. For a moment, Dhamon saw the forest again, the elves and humans racing along the river and toward the green dragon—racing because he countermanded Gauderic’s order that they flee. “Spread out!” he heard Gauderic cry inside his head. But that forest was a very long way from here, the men who fought the dragon all dead. And Gauderic, Dhamon’s friend and second-in-command, was dead too, by Dhamon’s hand. Dead and buried.

“Spread out!” Maldred hollered again.

Swallowing hard, Dhamon raced toward the closest spawn, crouching beneath a cloud of acid spittle and leaping forward, ramming his shoulder into the creature’s stomach. His arms pumped. Tanis’s blade stabbed into the beast’s chest again and again as the pommel tingled merrily.

The creature lay struggling, and Dhamon thrust the blade in one more time, noting that the elvish script along the blade glowed faintly blue. Then he pushed himself off the beast, just as it dissolved in a shower of acid, which miraculously did not settle on him. He heard the sound of whips cracking and the thud of weapons striking spawn flesh all around him. Without pause, he pressed his attack on another spawn, darting around a pair of gaunt ogre slaves who stood staring in disbelief at what was transpiring. He vaulted over a crate of ore and slammed his foot into the chest of another spawn, knocking the beast off balance and sending the whip flying from its clawed fingers. But its wings beat furiously to keep itself upright, and it inhaled sharply and spit furiously at Dhamon, the acid breath striking him in the chest and its claws tearing through what was left of his leather vest. The acid didn’t affect Dhamon, though it fell around him, and he realized it was the sword’s magic keeping him safe. The tingling persisted.

“It signals the presence of dragonkind,” he speculated of the tingling sensation. And the spawn were certainly birthed by dragon magic. Then Dhamon concentrated solely on the battle. He slammed his teeth together and drew his blade back and swung it with all his strength at the creature. He struck it in the side of its head, easily cleaving through the bone and through the beast’s brain. Then he pulled his sword free and sprinted away, as the spawn melted into a cloud of acid that rained down on the ground.

He headed toward the smaller mine, where a malshaped spawn was emerging.

“An abomination,” Dhamon whispered.

As grotesque as the spawn were, this creature was far worse. Its head sat on a thick neck on which ropelike veins stood out. Its wings were stunted, one being scalloped like a bat, the other rounded and a little longer. The beast had three arms, the third growing out of its right side, several inches below the more normal-looking arm. And the hand that extended from the third limb looked small and smooth, the size of a kender’s or a gnome’s. The abomination’s eyes were overlarge and bugged away from its head, perched on either side of a wide, pug nose. It had a tail, longer than the spawns’, and at the end of it was the snapping maw of a snake.

“Monster,” Dhamon spat. Abominations were created through the same process as spawn, he had learned. But rather than humans, the dragon substituted elves, kender, dwarves, and gnomes. No two abominations looked the same, and the other dragon overlords were not known to purposefully create them. Save the Black. The corrupt overlord of the swamp favored her corrupted “children.”

“You’re next,” Dhamon said to it.

But Fiona was nearby and beat him to the creature. Her sword arced above her head and cut through its third arm. It clawed furiously at her with its two remaining limbs, the nails raking uselessly against her plate.

As Dhamon looked about for another target, he saw her raise the sword high and bring it down on the beast’s collarbone. There was a sickening crunch, then she turned away as the thing burst into a stinging cloud of acid. Their eyes met for a moment, hers filled with a mix of anger and eagerness for the fight, Dhamon’s with an equal and fierce determination.

Without a word Dhamon raced toward Maldred. While the ogre mercenaries were dealing with the remaining spawn, the big man was questioning one of the slaves.

“How many in the mines?” The words were in the ogre tongue, but they were simple, and Dhamon knew enough of them to understand. “Spawn. The black creatures. How many?” The slave didn’t answer. “The masters,” Maldred tried. “Your masters. And tell me about the mines below.”

A response came, but the ogre slave’s voice was indistinct, and Dhamon wasn’t close enough yet to hear the words.

“Ten spawn.” Maldred called to Dhamon, pointing to the smaller mine and using the common speech. “Another dozen in the larger one. A few draconians.” He nodded toward the gaping maw in the ground. “Fiona and I will take the large mine.”

Dhamon scowled. His sword made him the better man to deal with the spawn and draconians, and any abominations that might be around. And for an instant he considered arguing that point. But the smaller mine presented the lesser threat. “All right,” he answered. “Then Rig and I will take the other mine.”

Maldred nodded. The mariner was already in the clearing, threading his way through the ogre mercenaries and weaving around dumbstruck slaves and crates of ore. He had a long sword in one hand, three daggers clasped in the other. He was heading toward Fiona, who’d just dispatched another abomination.

“Lady Knight!” Maldred boomed across the clearing. “I need your help!”

She glanced up and saw Maldred, hurried in his direction, either not seeing Rig or ignoring him. The mariner stared as she rushed by. He intended to follow, but saw two dark shapes emerging from the smaller mine. A spawn and an abomination. He shook his head and ran toward them, feet churning up the marshy loam. Drawing back, he hurled his daggers, all three landing in the chest of the abomination and turning it into a cloud of acidic vapor. The spawn advanced to meet him.

The Solamnic could barely hear Maldred above the sounds of battle and the cries of the ogre mercenaries. He was gesturing, eyes locked onto hers. “Lady Knight. You and I will venture into the main mine.” Even as he was explaining his plan, a spawn emerged from the gaping hole. Dhamon charged it, bringing his sword down on its spiky crown and cleaving its head in two before it could clear the entrance.

“There are many ogres toiling below. And some humans.” This last Maldred told Fiona as almost an afterthought. “We must kill the spawn and free the miners. Dhamon and Rig will deal with the other mine while the mercenaries stand watch up here and handle any spawn we might chase out.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his. “As you desire,” she said.

“This is so unlike you, your spirit dampened. You give in to me far too easily,” he said, perhaps regretting the spell he had cast over the Solamnic. He took her by the arm and led her to the main shaft. Soon they were lowering themselves down the ropes.

Dhamon was running toward the smaller mine. He waved his sword to get Rig’s attention. The mariner had just vanquished a spawn, his skin was a mass of boils from the acid, his shirt shredded from the creature’s claws. Coupled with the snake bites on his face and hands, he looked like he shouldn’t be standing. But his shoulders were square, his eyes clear, and he was watching Fiona and Maldred climb down the ropes. “Fiona!” he called. “Don’t go with him!”

Dhamon shook his head and pointed to the smaller mine entrance behind Rig. “There are ten spawn inside there. Maybe more,” he told him as he entered the shaft.

“We’ve got to take them before we can get the rest of the slaves out.”

Rig stood indecisively for a moment, then, shaking his head, he followed Dhamon, thrusting his aches and pains to the back of his mind and telling himself when they were done here, he and Fiona would be on their way and all of this would be a bad memory. They would never have to look at Dhamon Grimwulf again.

The smaller mine had narrow tunnels that were barely six feet tall. It was being worked by human and dwarf slaves, diligently mining the thick veins of silver. Rig and Dhamon found their way through the winding shafts, guided by guttering torchlight and the sound of whips and snarls.

They came upon two spawn who were unaware of what was transpiring above. The sounds of picks against the rock was loud enough to drown out the battle overhead. Dhamon killed one before it could react, slamming his eyes shut when the cloud of acid came. Then he bowled into the second, ramming the sword into its chest. It clawed him deeply as it went down, then melted into acid and a stringent cloud.

“So the spawns’ dragon-acid cannot harm me,” Dhamon muttered. “Thanks entirely to you.” He glanced at Wyrmsbane. “But the creatures’ claws are another matter.” He wiped at a line of blood running from a slice across his chest.

Rig didn’t pause to see how Dhamon was faring. “I don’t want to be here,” he hissed, admitting to himself, however, that freeing these people was far from a bad idea. He bolted down the tunnel, shouting to the humans and dwarves to drop their picks. Then he was pulling on their chains, which were weak and rusting from the moisture of the Black’s swamp. His muscles bunched, and he tugged free link after link, shutting out the grateful voices.

“If I had nay glaive, I’d be cutting through this metal like it was parchment.”

Hands touched him in thanks. “Shrentak,” he mumbled as he picked up other chains and tugged them apart and told those freed to head for the surface. “I should be doing this in Shrentak.”

After they freed more than a dozen slaves, Dhamon and Rig worked their way down another corridor, crouching and readying their weapons when they spotted the dull yellow gleam of spawn eyes.

In the main tunnel, Maldred and Fiona were busy freeing ogres. They’d found one too weak to move, starving and beaten. Maldred killed him quickly, speaking softly in the ogre tongue and closing the dead slave’s eyes. “A righteous enough cause for you, Lady Knight? Even though these are ogres?” he asked. He frowned when he saw Fiona’s blank expression. Had he spent too much effort on his last charming spell, and was she too far under his influence? “Have I put out all of your fire, Lady Knight?” he asked. “I must see later about giving at least some of it back.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, she headed toward a hissing sound coming from a shadowed alcove. A draconian stepped into the torchlight, and from a few yards away it cautiously regarded her.

The creature was a bozak, birthed from a corrupted bronze dragon egg a long time ago when Takhisis walked the face of Krynn and she used these creatures as commanders during the War of the Lance. His bronze-hued scales glimmered in the light of the torch, making him appear almost regal. The scales were the size of coins across most of his frame, smaller along his face and hands where they were flat and smooth like the scales of a fish. His wings were short, too stunted to allow him to fly. But were he not in such tight confines, he could use them to glide short distances.

The bozak was not much taller than Fiona, and was not as muscular as Maldred. But he looked powerful. Battle-tested and old. He wore a gold collar about his neck. It was studded with bronze spikes, and at irregular intervals chunks of onyx, sapphires, and garnets were scattered. It was a singular piece of jewelry, and some part of Fiona’s mind recognized it. Recognized that and the deep crisscrossing scars across its chest.

It was the draconian who had appeared before Fiona and the Solamnic Council, the one that was supposed to be in Takar, and the one that had information about her brother. But only a small part of Fiona’s mind registered this ironic fact.

The creature opened his mouth as if to speak, but Fiona cut it off.

“Foul beast!” she hollered as she raised her sword high above her head.

Momentarily puzzled, the bozak took a step back and began gesturing with his hands, instantly forming a shimmering gray web in the corridor to keep her and Maldred away from it.

“Foolsss,” it spat. “Ssshining Knight, you’ll not take thessse minesss. The missstresss holdsss them. As she holds others, and you might…”

Fiona stabbed her sword into the web and fought her way through the sticky mass. Then she pressed her attack, even while it was in the midst of another spell. She sliced into the creature’s belly, not letting it finish its vile speech. Deep under Maldred’s enchantment, she was oblivious that this was the creature she had planned to meet at the ruins of Takar, the creature she had raised the ransom for. The creature that was her hope of regaining her brother. Only a small part of her mind noted that the Black’s minion was instead at the Trueheart Mines, where she was tricked into going.

She drew her sword back again and struck out at its neck. The head lopped forward as the thing dissolved into bones, leaving the gold collar behind. Maldred tugged her back just in time—for the bones burst apart, sending deadly shards through the air while bouncing off her armor.

Then she and Maldred were rushing down the tunnel.

It took nearly two hours for both silver mines to be cleansed of spawn and abominations, and of two enormous constrictor snakes that had been used to keep the slaves in line. Maldred and Fiona searched niches and cutbacks, she calling out in the common tongue and he in ogrish to find more slaves. The mines were immense, and it could have taken more than a day to fully explore them. Maldred wasn’t willing to devote that much time, as he wanted to get the freed ogres back to Blöten before any more spawn or other swamp denizens came by. He told Fiona that perhaps Donnag would send more men back here later—if those ogres who were freed provided information that necessitated a return trip.

“After you, Lady Knight.” Maldred bowed and extended a hand, and Fiona grabbed the rope and pulled herself up.

He followed. “She has served her purpose,” he mused aloud. “A most fine sword arm.”

Dhamon and Rig were already in the clearing above, marshaling the freed slaves into some semblance of order and placing those who could barely walk under the care of the ogre mercenaries. Three mercenaries had died to the spawn and abominations, including the white-skinned shaman.

The mariner had a new concern. He didn’t want to return to Blöten, and he didn’t want the freed humans and dwarves going there either. He knew how badly nonogres had it in that city. His stomach knotted. Taking them farther away would mean that much more time lost from his plan of slipping into the Black’s lair and freeing whoever was still alive in her dungeons. “Shrentak,” he said. The word sounded like a curse.

“Shrentak? And what would you want with that most wondrous and hallowed place?” The voice was lilting and silenced the murmurs of the freed slaves and mercenaries.

Rig cocked his head and looked around for the speaker. All he could see were the wart-riddled bodies of the mercenaries and the beaten and frail forms of those they’d rescued. Fiona was just emerging from the larger mine. It wasn’t her voice. Maldred crawled out behind her.

“Lose your tongue, o’ man the color of night?” the voice persisted.

Dhamon was looking for the speaker, too, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He clutched his sword and motioned for Donnag’s men to circle the freed slaves and protect them. Then he took a step toward a line of cypresses. He thought he saw something dart behind a trunk. He squinted and took another step.

“Dhamon!” Maldred shouted. The big thief was gesturing at the canopy.

Dhamon glanced up, and his eyes widened in surprise. The leaves of the cypresses were falling, as if the tree were dying in a moment’s time. But the leaves didn’t flutter to the ground, they began hovering. A heartbeat later they were rising and swooping—heading straight toward Dhamon and Rig.

“What in the blessed memory of Habbakuk…” Rig began. He drew his sword to meet this new threat, which Dhamon was already attempting to engage.

The leaves shimmered in the torchlight, the green melting from them to be replaced by grays and blacks and browns, many of which were difficult to discern against the shadows of the swamp. The leaves continued to transform, growing wings and tails.

“What are they?” Rig hollered.

Dhamon shrugged and readied to meet this new mysterious threat.

There were hundreds of the things—roughly the size of blackbirds, though they were not birds. They had batlike wings that were more membranous than leathery. Their heads resembled that of mosquitos—complete with needlelike noses that dripped something viscous.

Dhamon reached up to knock one away, discovering that their bodies were segmented and hard like the shell of a beetle. He swung at another, slicing it in two and releasing a foul red gore.

“Stirges!” Fiona hollered.

“What?” This from Dhamon.

“Stirges. They’re… they’re insects. They’ll drain your blood!”

Dhamon was quick to react, for the creatures were already swarming him. Though he swung his sword high above his head, cleaving some in two, several dove at his chest, their needlelike stingers stabbing into his flesh. He hollered, in surprise and pain, as they began feasting on his blood.

He heard Fiona behind him, sword whistling as she cut through the foul creatures. The Solamnic was protected by her plate mail, the stirges flying at her and stunning themselves by colliding with the metal. She was careful to cover her face with one arm. And she continued to strike at one after another as she made her way toward Rig.

The clearing was filled with growls from the ogres, who had never encountered such malevolent insects and who were plucking them off their bodies and squishing them in their bare hands; screams from the freed slaves; the soft thud of the dead stirges hitting the ground; smacking sounds from the creatures gorging themselves.

Bare-chested, Dhamon was an easy mark for the little beasts. A dozen were latched onto his chest and his back. He scraped some off his legs, stomping on them before they could take to the air again.

“They’re not that difficult to kill!” Maldred was shouting.

“No,” Dhamon muttered, as he jabbed at the stirges who flew in to take their dead brethren’s place. “There’s just so many of them! Too many!” He felt weak, and realized it was because so much of his blood had been drained. “They could destroy us,” he shouted to his friend.

“I’m not going to die here, Dhamon Grimwulf!” Maldred returned. “I promised to help you with that scale, remember?”

I won’t have to worry about the scale, Dhamon thought. If we can’t get rid of these deadly pests, soon the scale will be the smallest of my concerns. He hefted Wyrmsbane with one hand, using it to fend off the creatures diving on him. With his other hand he began plucking at the insects, squeezing them in his hand until the chitinous shell broke, then hurling them on the ground and stomping on them for good measure. His hand was slick with his own blood that they’d drained, and he whirled about to see that the ogres’ hands were bloody as well. They’d all abandoned their weapons, using their hands to squeeze the life from the stirges. Dhamon considered doing that as well, but he was loath to drop the long sword, and wasn’t about to leave himself too open by taking a moment to sheathe it.

There was a snarl behind him—Mulok. The big ogre was plucking the stirges off Dhamon’s back. Dhamon felt blood spatter him with each creature the ogre squeezed. Then he felt the ogre’s back against his, slick with blood. Others were copying Mulok, standing back to back; those who didn’t were falling.

“No! Mugwort!” Maldred cried to the largest ogre, the one who toted Fiona’s chest of gems through the swamp. The great ogre dropped beneath a cloud of black, winged bodies. He flailed about on the marshy ground for a moment, then lay still. More of the creatures descended on his body, their smacking noises hideous.

“Enough of this!” Maldred was battling several of the creatures. He tugged a few free and then began gesturing. An instant later, Mugwort’s body—and all the stirges blanketing it—were engulfed in a crackling ball of flame.

The ogres nearby began plucking the stirges off themselves and throwing them on the bonfire, the insects shrieking and popping and releasing a nauseating stench. There was another burst of flame, and then another, as Maldred ignited the corpses of other fallen ogres and slaves.

Finally he tended to himself, tearing one bloated insect after another from his arms and legs, backing toward a pair of Donnag’s ogres and shouting for them to pull the last ones off his back.

Rig and Fiona were standing back to back, a ring of dead stirges at their feet. The Solamnic battled the insects without a word, one hand clenched tightly on her sword, the other reaching up to grab stirges from the air and crush them. Rig was vocal, cursing the swamp and the insects, Maldred, Dhamon, the chieftain Donnag, all the lost gods. The faster the words flew from his lips, the faster his hands moved; he had abandoned the sword, dropping it at his feet in favor of grabbing and squishing the creatures.

“Stirges, huh?” Rig said. “Damn big mosquitos, if you ask me. Fought them before?”

“Hu-uh.” Fiona, too, was busy.

“This many of them?”

A shake of her head.

“Where?”

“Once. When I was visiting the isle of Cristyne. But there were only a small number of them. We’d disturbed a nest. We got out of there fast.”

“We’re winning!” Maldred shouted from across the clearing.

Only a few dozen of the stirges remained, and soon they were dead, too. The ground was covered with black bodies, an insect carpet that crunched as the ogres and slaves trod across it to see if any of their fallen comrades survived.

Rig kicked through the mound in front of him, finding his sword and quickly retrieving it. He shook his head. It was covered with blood—his and the stirges. He scowled as Dhamon approached him, Maldred behind him.

The fires were burning out all around the clearing, but Dhamon was peering into the dense cypresses that surrounded them. “I was certain I heard a voice…”

Maldred nodded.

“I heard it right before these creatures came.”

“Yeah,” Rig said. “Soft and pretty—these… stirges… were anything but. Bet she brought the snakes, too, our mysterious lady. Doesn’t want us in the swamp. Or maybe she just doesn’t want us near Shrentak. The stirges came right after I mentioned that place.”

Dhamon’s eyes narrowed. He thought he spied something with a metallic gleam moving between the fern leaves.

“Shrentak…” The voice was feminine and breathy, the same one they’d heard before the insect onslaught.

“Shrentak would welcome you, o’ man the color of night,” the voice continued. “There are always a few empty cells.” A veil of lianas parted and the figure of a young girl glided into the clearing, her coppery hair disturbed by continuous motion. She appeared no more than five or six, yet she spoke like a much older woman, with a seductress’s voice. And in her small hand she clasped Rig’s glaive, a weapon she shouldn’t have been able to lift. The blade glimmered in the light.

“The girl…” the mariner began.

“From Fetch’s vision,” Dhamon stated.

Their eyes grew wider as a silvery-gray mist formed and encircled her free hand. Dhamon darted forward, able to take only a few steps before he found himself rooted to the spot, the stirge-covered ground shimmering around his boots and holding him fast like a vise. The silvery mist poured from her hand now, blanketing the ground like a low-hanging fog and swirling around everyone’s legs.

Twisting around, Dhamon saw that Rig and Fiona were likewise held. But Maldred was free, the mist somehow was unable to hold him. Now the big man was charging toward the child, bringing his two-handed sword from his back as he moved.

“Fool,” she said simply, gesturing again. “My mistress Sable, who waits in Shrentak, will be angry with you. She’ll order more than my little rain and earthquakes to gnaw at your kingdom.”

A streak of silver shot out like a lightning bolt from her tiny hand, grew to a diaphanous, sparkling cloud, and then draped Maldred like a net. In its misty light, the big man’s form shuddered and expanded, his ruddy skin rippling with even more muscles, and its rich color fading until it became practically white. Then it changed hue again, becoming a pale blue dotted here and there with warts and boils. His short ginger hair grew and thickened, turning stark white and flowing over his shoulders like a lion’s mane.

“What is she doing to him?” Fiona cried.

“Revealing him,” the waif replied evenly. “Chasing away his spell that paints a beautiful human form over his ugly ogre body. Revealing the son of Blöde’s Donnag—my mistress’s enemy!”

When the transformation was complete, Maldred stood more than nine feet tall, an ogre more awesome and imposing, physically, than any of those who accompanied them to the mines. His clothes were now in tatters, barely covering his massive body.

Dhamon stared dumbstruck at the creature he had considered his closest friend. There was no trace of the Maldred he knew, not even the eyes were recognizable.

Fiona and Rig were likewise astonished. The Solamnic felt faint at the sight, the shock of which was enough to drive off at least some of the magic Maldred had cast upon her. She shook her head, trying to chase away… something, she couldn’t tell what. Fiona’s memory seemed hazy. Still, a dozen thoughts rushed at her: the deceptions played upon her and Rig, the trip through the dwarven ruins, the fight in the mines. An image flashed in the back of her mind, of a bozak draconian. One with a gold collar. Had she slain him?

Dhamon shook his head in disbelief, as if the vision of the blue-skinned ogre might disappear and Maldred return in its place. He twisted his head about to face the girl again.

“You’re not revealing anything!” Dhamon spat. “You’re making us believe our friend is a creature! Just like you created the stirges and the snakes!”

“Your friend is an ogre mage,” the girl continued. “Soon to be a dead one. I will relish giving this news to my mistress personally. Sable will reward me well.” She threw back her head and laughed, a cackling sound so incongruous to her small form. Miniature silver lightning bolts arced from her fingers and danced toward Maldred, who was still held by the shimmering mist. “Very well, indeed!”

“No!” Dhamon screamed. He tugged free of his boots, which were held by the child’s magic, and raced toward the girl, drawing Wyrmsbane as he went.

The child was faster. Lightning bolts struck the ogre in the chest, skin sizzling and popping and burning. Maldred twitched, but didn’t cry out. Rather, he fought against the cloudlike spell that held him in place, gesturing and humming loudly with his own incantation.

Dhamon was nearly upon the child figure when more bolts flew, again aimed at the huge ogre. They struck their mark once more—but a heartbeat after Maldred had retaliated with his own magic.

His spell complete, a burst of flame erupted from the ogre mage’s flailing hands. It was a riot of color, green and blue, crackling wildly and shooting forward like a gout of dragon’s breath. It grew and changed color, becoming a great fiery red-orange ball that, with a near-deafening “whoosh,” engulfed the child and several of the trees around her. Despite the wetness of the swamp, the trees burned, becoming cinders in an instant.

Dhamon skidded to a stop and stared at the smoldering trunks. The girl had been vaporized and was gone. Or was she?

He turned to Maldred, face filled with anger and a dozen questions.

The ogre mage sagged to the marshy floor, hands pressed against his blue chest as if that might lessen the pain. Dhamon rushed to his side and ripped strips from what was left of his own cloak, pressing them against the wounds.

“I am what I appear, my friend,” Maldred stated, his pained voice difficult to hear.

“It seems you are an expert at deceptions,” Dhamon replied. “You are every bit as accomplished a liar as your father.” He kept his words low, not wanting the others to hear. “I thought you were… are… a man, like me.”

Maldred gasped, fighting for breath. “Sometimes deceptions help to build friendships,” he answered. “But other than the form I wore, I have never lied to you, Dhamon Grimwulf. I think you know that.”

“You just never bothered with the complete truth.” Dhamon continued to blot at the wounds, relying on the skills he learned on numerous battlefields. “Does Rikali know?”

Maldred shook his head. “Fetch did. One of the few secrets he managed to keep.” The ogre’s eyes searched Dhamon’s face. “I’m sorry you had to learn this way. I…”

“Doesn’t matter, I guess,” Dhamon said. “A body’s a shell, after all. Just let me know if you’ve got any more interesting secrets. I hate surprises.”

Rig and Fiona moved toward them, for they too were released from the girl’s magic. The ogres and freed slaves had gathered in a circle around them, a few of the scouts cautious to keep a lookout toward the mines and the ring of cypresses.

“Donnag’s whelp,” the mariner said bitterly. “No wonder you fit in so well in Blöten.” He shook his head, then edged by a group of ogre mercenaries and slipped to where the child had been standing. “Told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

Fiona said nothing, her chest was so tight she couldn’t have talked if she’d wanted to. The Solamnic tried to picture the face of the human Maldred, the one with the mesmerizing eyes. There was only this blue-skinned ogre, which made her shiver in anger and disgust. Her hands trembled, the palms clammy. She tried to grip the pommel of her sword, but her fingers fumbled over it.

The image of a bronze draconian slipped into her mind again. She saw a golden collar fall to the floor of the mines. Had she dreamed that? Seeing the creature she was supposed to meet in Takar? Watching him die? Did she kill him? Indeed, how much of what she’d been through was real?

Suddenly Maldred’s eyes caught hers, holding them like he had done when he looked human. With a gesture and a concentrated thought, he released her completely from the enchantment, and she blinked furiously, shaking her head to clear it.

Dhamon helped the ogre mage to his feet, astounded by just how large and heavy he really was.

“We will take these people back to Blöten,” Maldred said. His voice was deeper and louder now. “Grim Kedar will see that they are healed, at my father’s expense. The humans and dwarves will be given a place to stay.”

“And then…” Dhamon asked. He intended to press deeper into the swamp, and though his friend was a blue-skinned ogre, he would still prefer to have Maldred at his side. Wyrmsbane had given him visions of the swamp when he asked it for a cure to the scale on his leg. He had no intentions of leaving this place until he was free of the scale and the pain.

“I don’t know about the likes of you, but I’m going after the girl,” Rig said. “She’s got my glaive. And I intend to get it back.”

“She’s not dead?” Dhamon seemed surprised, was certain he had seen her burned to ashes like the trolls.

Rig shook his head. “Hardly. I see her footprints leading away. And since she’s still got my glaive, I’m going to follow them. She’s heading west. We’re going in the same direction. Toward Shrentak.”

Dhamon left Maldred and stepped toward the mariner, who was intently studying the tracks. Wyrmsbane was still in his hand. He felt the pommel tingle, then grow cold.

What you seek.