Downfall

CHAPTER TWO A Change in the Scenery

“Hmm?”

“Rig, I think I heard something.”

“Just got to sleep,” he protested. “Didn’t hear anything. I… wait…” The. mariner stifled a yawn, reluctantly slipped away from Fiona, and shook off a wonderful dream. He’d been captaining an impressive galley on the Blood Sea, and all his old friends were in the crew—Palin and his son Ulin, Groller and Jasper. Two women were draped on his arms—Shaon, an ebony-skinned beauty who dressed in tight, colorful garb, the other a fair-complected, red-haired Solamnic Knight in gleaming plate mail.

He stretched his legs and wrapped a long red curl around his thumb, inhaled its flowery scent and released it, then climbed out of the cramped bed.

There was a whistle, soft at first, repeating a pattern. It grew shriller and came from somewhere outside. Footsteps—someone running. Rig groggily gathered the sheet about his waist and shuffled to the window, brushing aside the canvas curtain and looking down onto the street below. The collection of century-old wood and stone buildings that stretched away beneath him was illuminated by the full, bright summer moon. Only a few lanterns burned outside a handful of taverns.

He worked a kink out of his neck and yawned wide as the whistle blew again. “Couple’a dwarves,” he observed. “They’re running down a side street. One of them’s blowing a whistle. Nothing to… wait a minute. One of them’s putting on a jacket. I think it’s a town guard. And I see two more following them. Ah! There’s a Legion of Steel Knight. And another one!”

Behind him, Fiona started to don her armor.

Dhamon was running now, ignoring the gravel that bit into the bottoms of his bare feet. A slight, gray-cloaked figure cut toward him from an alley, a large satchel slung over its shoulder.

“Pigs,” came a breathy curse, as the figure closed the distance between them. A gust of warm summer wind caught the hood and threw it back, and a mass of long, curly white hair spilled out, sparkling like spun silver in the moonlight. “Pigs!” she repeated. “Damn you, Dhamon Grimwulf, for your clumsiness. Yours was supposed to be a quiet job, though the riskiest. Slip into the hospital as a patient. Then slip out with…”

Dhamon thrust the small pouch at her, freeing his hand so he could draw his new sword. “How many are following?”

“Five. Three dwarves. Two Knights. Knights! Truly wonderful, Dhamon,” she said as she shook the pouch at him and continued to run at his side. “I visited the silversmith all nice and quiet.” She jiggled the satchel over her shoulder so he could hear metal clinking inside. “I should’ve handled the hospital instead. I could’ve done it nice and quiet. I should’ve been the one to…”

“Rikali, you couldn’t have carried all of this,” came the reply.

I could’ve, she mouthed, as they ran. “But I wouldn’t’ve liked the stink,” she added aloud.

The whistle blew behind them again, and it was punctuated by shutters being flung open, questions flung into the darkness. The number of pounding feet grew, all the sounds eerily muted by the dwarven buildings.

Several blocks away, beyond Dhamon’s vision, a small crowd was assembling on the street—a few members dressed in guard jackets and tabards. The majority of them were curious late-night revelers who’d come straggling out of the taverns to see what the to-do was about. These latter were marked by their staggering gaits and loud voices. “Did someone say Sanford’s was robbed?” One of them hollered. “And the bakery?”

Among them were two distinct figures, strangers to Ironspike—one with a considerable collection of pouches and water skins hanging from his waist. He was dressed in deerhide breeches and a shirt, and he seemed overly large and imposing compared to the cloaked one at his side, who was barely taller than his knee.

“The bakery?” a few of the revelers repeated.

Meanwhile, Dhamon and Rikali raced along and turned onto the main street, outdistancing the dwarves and the armor-encumbered Knights chasing them.

“There they are—Mal and Fetch! I hope they did as well. Worthless, Fetch is,” Rikali stated, spitting on the ground, her eyes on the small man. “Fetch is nothing but worthless.”

“Maldred!” Dhamon shouted.

His back to Dhamon, the larger figure raised a hand, then reached behind him and pulled a two-handed sword from a latticed sheath that hung between his broad shoulders. He turned.

“Thief!” A cry cut through the air from behind Dhamon and Rikali. One of the Legion of Steel Knights had caught up and was rounding the corner. “They’ve robbed the hospital!”

“Pigs! They’re comin’ at us from both sides of town!” Rikali noticed the growing tavern crowd near Maldred and Fetch. “We should’ve ducked in an alley.”

“Full moon,” Dhamon shot back. “They’d have seen us.”

“Should’ve been more careful.” She sucked in a breath, increasing her pace.

“I really didn’t think they’d discover my handiwork so soon,” Dhamon offered.

“C’mon,” Rikali urged him. “Move your big feet faster. We’ve got to get out of here before the whole stinkin’ town wakes up.” She closed on Maldred and Fetch, Dhamon following her with hobbled feet.

Rig was struggling into his pants and boots while gazing out the window. The mariner saw that other windows were opening, lanterns were being lit. Dwarves were sticking their heads out and trying, like himself, to figure out what was going on. Rig heard shouted questions and the faint cry of “Thieves!”

He hurriedly finished dressing as he glanced up and down the streets from his third-floor vantage point. There! His mouth dropped open. Rig spotted none other than Dhamon Grimwulf, running off to his right toward the main street. There were three others with him. “Dhamon! He’s… he’s out of the hospital!”

“You’re sure it’s him?” Fiona was strapping on her leg plates.

“Of course it’s him! And it looks like he’s being chased,” the mariner said. He fumbled about behind him for his belt. “They’re… no!”

Beneath his window a dwarf was readying a heavy crossbow, steadying it on a horsepost and aiming it in Dhamon’s direction. Though it would be a long shot, Rig didn’t want to take any chance that the dwarf might be successful. He muttered a string of curses, acting without thinking.

Rig dashed to the bed, reaching under it and grabbing the brass chamber pot. He slid to the window, quickly took aim, and hurled it down, soundly striking the dwarf and cracking the stock on the weapon. The mariner ducked his head back inside and reached for his sword. He glanced at his plethora of daggers all laid out neatly on his chair and bit his lip. He looked wishfully at his precious glaive propped up against the wall. “No time,” he muttered, heading toward the door.

Fiona snatched her shield and was quick on his heels.

Four jacketed dwarves had reached the large man called Maldred. All three were brandishing short swords. The fourth was blowing away on a whistle, red cheeks puffing out almost farcically.

“Outofourway!” the lead one huffed so fast the words buzzed together like an angry hornet. “Movemovemove!”

“Move!” another shouted more distinctly, waving at Fetch. “Move! Damnable kender, move! What’s all this about? Who sounded an alarm?”

“I ain’t no kender,” the small man spat.

“Movemovemove!”

The large man smiled wide and brushed a lock of short ginger hair out of his eyes. “Public street,” he said, as he maneuvered himself in front of them just as they tried to cut around toward Dhamon and Rikali. Dhamon was back to back with Maldred in a fighting stance. Dhamon eased the sack of purloined treasure off his shoulder, setting it on the ground and taking a practice swing with his stolen blade. Satisfied, he readied himself for the men approaching from the other end of the street.

Fetch made a growling noise and took a few steps away from Maldred, grasping a hoopak, an odd-looking oak weapon of kender design that consisted of a staff with a «V» at one end, to which a red leather sling was attached.

“Mal, we don’t have time to play games with dwarves,” Rikali warned. “Just kill ‘em quick.”

The lead dwarf heard that and cursed. He spun to the big man’s right, but Maldred was faster, cutting him off. He brought his leg up, striking the dwarf in the chest and punching the wind from his lungs. As the dwarf gasped, Maldred kicked him in the chest a second time, stunning him. A second dwarf paused, which was his undoing. Maldred tripped him, stepping on his sword as it struck the ground and snapping the blade. The third opponent pivoted to the big man’s left and found himself face to face with Fetch.

Fetch sneered, stopping the dwarf in his tracks.

“Th-th-that ain’t no kender. It’s a weird little monster,” the dwarf stammered.

“How rude,” the small man returned, snarling and kicking out ferociously. Fetch missed, however, and landed on his rump, his hoopak tangled in his cloak.

At the same time, the fourth dwarf took a few steps back, continued to blow on his whistle, and frantically pumped his arms up and down at the crowd down the street, as if he were some kind of bird trying to take flight.

“Mal…” Rikali said again.

“Put your blade away,” Maldred advised the dwarf who was still standing in front of Fetch. He leveled his great sword, facing the dwarf. “Take a deep breath, go back to bed, and live to see tomorrow.”

“Mal, we don’t have time…”

“Thieves!” hollered a Legion of Steel Knight, the lead of the growing pack approaching from Dhamon’s direction.

“We’re gonna get trapped in the middle!” Rikali spat.

“Your sword…” Maldred warned the dwarf again.

“Put your own sword away,” the guard retorted. “Thieves!” The dwarf feinted to his left, but Fetch was quicker, jumping to block the guard’s path. The small man twirled the hoopak ahead of him to keep the dwarf at bay.

“I’d prefer not to kill any of you,” Maldred said ominously. His voice was deep, rich, melodic, almost hypnotic. “Your deaths would not profit me.” He lashed out with his foot, tripping one of the dwarves who was trying to get up.

The approaching crowd was only a few hundred feet away now.

“Pffah!” taunted the guard in front of Fetch. He thrust the sword at the small man and grumbled when it was parried with the hoopak. “Maybe I’d prefer not to kill you—or your tiny monster!” He spun to his right, avoiding a jab from Fetch and ending up in front of Maldred.

“I’m warning you,” Maldred cautioned.

The dwarf ducked beneath Maldred’s sword and made another attempt to get around the big man.

“Mal!” Rikali was bouncing back and forth nervously on the balls of her feet, looking up and down the street and appraising the charging mobs.

“I’m sorry,” Maldred said to the dwarf, a tinge of regret in his sonorous voice. “Truly.” He drove the pommel of the sword down hard on top of the guard’s head. There was a disturbing crack, and the dwarf fell and lay still. Maldred turned his attention to the other weaponless guard who had finally struggled to his feet. The big man intended to repeat his peaceful offer, but Rikali darted in front of him and thrust out with her knife. The guard sidestepped her, though the blade cut through his jacket and fear made the color drain from his ruddy face.

Maldred nodded significantly to the one who continued to blow the whistle. Stop that ruckus, he mouthed. At the same time, he kept an eye on the crowd that would be upon them in a moment. “I said I’d prefer not to kill you.”

“Thieves!” A Legion of Steel Knight was shouting orders. “Catch them!”

The dwarf facing Maldred growled. He spit out the whistle and risked a glance at his dead companions— Rikali had just finished off the unarmed one. He fumbled for the sword at his waist, tugged it free and drew back. “There’s too many of us. We’ll stop you!” Then he ducked beneath the swing of the big man’s blade. Too late, the dwarf realized his opponent was a master. Maldred’s sword swept wide and down in the opposite direction, and the guard’s head fell with a dull thud.

“Hurry!” someone hollered. The crowd was only a few yards away.

“Yes, hurry,” Rikali said.

“Where’re the horses?” Dhamon gasped as he grabbed the leather sack and slung it over his shoulder. He parried the swings of the first Legion of Steel Knights who’d reached him.

“Mal didn’t bring any horses,” she answered, as she, too, engaged one of the Knights. “Rode our last ones out ‘til they were all but dead and thought we’d get some new ones here. You know I like a little shopping now and then.”

“Wonderful,” Dhamon said. He was besieged by Knights and looking for openings. He found one and swept his sword past one man’s guard, cutting deep into his leg. The Knight dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his thigh.

The others were equally beset.

“Surrender!” someone hollered. “Surrender and you’ll live!”

“That man! He has the commander’s sword.” This from a Legion of Steel Knight.

“Kill him!” A gravelly dwarven voice. “Kill the thief!”

“Guess surrender’s not an option now,” Rikali said.

Dhamon was exchanging blows with two dwarves.

“I’d prefer not to kill you,” Maldred announced to the dwarves who had reached him.

“Don’t be so polite,” Rikali shouted to the big man. “I repeat, let’s kill ‘em quick and be on our way—before even more come.” She gathered the hem of her cloak in her free hand. In one fluid motion, she danced forward and whipped the cloak about the sword of a charging dwarf. At the same time, she thrust up with the knife into a Knight’s vulnerable neck, whirled, and slashed at another dwarf, cutting through his tabard and deep beneath. “Look at the lights bein’ lit about town, Mal. Can’t you hear all the voices? Everyone’s wakin’ up! These odds are ugly enough, but in another few minutes they’re gonna be too ugly to handle. There’s lots of Knights around. Do somethin’!”

Dhamon drove the pommel of his sword down on the helmeted head of a dwarf, denting the metal and stunning the man.

“Yeah, do something, Mal,” Fetch parroted.

The big man growled deep in his throat and instantly dispatched two in front of him, spraying the crowd with blood. Those next in line backed up and held their swords in front of them in an effort to keep him at bay and take better stock of the situation.

Fetch thwacked his hoopak soundly against the hands of his foe, the blow causing the dwarf to drop his sword. “I’d prefer not to kill you,” Fetch sneered, imitating Maldred. The dwarf held his arms out to his side in surrender and backed up, and Fetch let out a victory whoop.

A few of the other dwarves were retreating, trying to push the crowd back so the Legion of Steel Knights who had come from the hospital could circle the thieves and deal with them. But there were a dozen town guards in the mix, and they continued to press forward. It was on these that Maldred and Fetch concentrated.

Rikali sliced at the dwarves on her side, who slightly outnumbered the Legion of Steel Knights. She guessed there were more than a dozen in the group facing her and Dhamon, and she wasn’t going to look over her shoulder to see how many more there were. One of her attackers was an especially good swordsman, and she couldn’t quite manage to upset the rhythm of his swings nor wrest the blade from his grasp. “Mal, more’re comin’ fast. I hear them! Knights all a’ clangin’! I don’t want to die in this town! Do somethin’, Mal!”

The big man finally mumbled an acknowledgment, then let out a keening cry that sounded like a chorus of angry gulls. He swung his great sword in an arc over his head, the metal fairly singing and catching the moonlight. The light skittered along the blade and a shower of sparks-like swarming fireflies—leapt into the crowd, catching hold of the dwarves’ garments. Maldred ran forward into the mass of startled dwarves. Unnerved by Maldred, or more likely frightened by the rash of fires, they parted like a wave. Fetch was quick to follow the big man, swinging his hoopak against the backs of those who were too slow to get out of his way and accidentally striking Rikali in the process.

On Dhamon’s side, the dwarves also retreated. But the Knights, though momentarily stunned by Maldred’s magical display, stood their ground.

Rikali spotted more dwarves emerging from their homes, most toting weapons of some kind—even makeshift ones, torches, a few crossbows—and these latter especially worried her. There would be too many now for Maldred to chase or to scare. Or to fight.

Dhamon saw Rig and Fiona running down the street. The mariner was shouting something and waving. Fiona was moving quickly despite her Solamnic armor, the torches illuminating her disbelieving, wide-eyed face.

Rikali and Dhamon ignored all of them, capitalizing on the momentarily stunned Legion of Steel Knights and whirling to follow Maldred, who had chased a group of dwarves beyond the stable.

As Maldred stopped and threw open the stable door, Fetch darted inside. The big man gestured at Rikali and Dhamon. Hurry, he mouthed. Behind the pair, a half-dozen Knights were running toward them. More dwarves were charging, cursing as they came, hollering “Thieves!” at the top of their lungs. Only the dwarves’ stubby legs kept them from overtaking the Knights. A quarrel struck the stable, inches from Maldred’s hand.

In the middle of the dwarves could be seen Rig and Fiona. The Solamnic Knight’s eyes were fiery, and she was resolutely threading her way through to the front of the angry crowd.

“Inside!” Maldred urged, ducking as a quarrel whizzed over his head.

A heartbeat later he followed Rikali and Dhamon into the stable and slammed the door shut, throwing the bar across it. Maldred motioned for Dhamon to do the same with a side door that was barely discernible in the dark, cavernous interior.

“Oh, this is great!” Rikali jeered. “You’ve trapped us, Mal! Like rats, we are. And it stinks in here. Pigs, I see there’s a Solamnic Knight in town on top of the dozen or so Legion of Steel Knights who aren’t laid up in the hospital! That’s all we need. A shining-in-armor Solamnic Knight!”

“She’s an old friend of mine,” Dhamon said as he brushed by.

“Friend?” Rikali put her hands on her narrow hips. “You have bad taste, lover. Least you used to. No one needs a Knight for a friend. They’re trouble—at least for the likes of us.”

“Quit complaining,” Fetch said. He was huffing and wheezing, rolling a barrel to prop against the door. “Give me a hand.”

“Oh, that’ll work, wee man,” Rikali said wryly.

“No. Fetch has the right idea,” Dhamon said. He gestured to the center of the stable, where they could see the outline of a big wagon.

Maldred patted Rikali’s shoulder as he rushed by and grabbed the front beam of the wagon. The muscles in his arms bunched, the veins on his neck stood out like ropes as he began to pull. The horses started whinnying nervously as Dhamon, dropping the backpack and leather sack, got behind the wagon and pushed.

Fetch scampered up into the wagon bed, tugging free a half-dozen canvas sacks. “Coins from the bakery, which was my idea to rob,” he said as much to himself as to Dhamon. “Coins from the weaponsmith’s. Spoons and candlesticks from an old manor. Stuck it all in here, Mal and me. Thought we were gonna use the wagon to ride out of town on.”

Outside, the dwarves pounded on the doors, frightening the horses further. That was nothing compared to the tremor that suddenly shook the building. Someone outside shouted “Earthquake!” Another cried “Sorcery!” Finally the ground stopped trembling.

Fiona’s voice cut above the din, shouting to be heard. “Dhamon Grimwulf! Come out at once!”

Rikali braced her back against the doors and gritted her teeth as blows continued to rain against the entrance. “Hurry, fellows,” she urged. “This stable is sturdy ‘ole dwarven construction. But it ain’t gonna hold forever. Not with them poundin’ on it, and not with the ground grumblin’ so.” Fetch joined her and copied her stance, small legs spread wide. “Oh, you’re a great help,” Rikali said sarcastically, looking down at the small-sized one.

Then the ground trembled again.

“Is there another way in?” came the cry from outside.

“The hayloft!” came an answer. “An’ the side door!”

“I’ve got an axe! Let me up front! I’ll chop the door down.”

“That’s my stable! Don’t ruin it! Talk ‘em into coming out!”

“Boost me up. Human! Boost me up!”

“Find a ladder!”

“Thieves! They stole from the wounded Knights! Kill them!”

“Hurry, Mal!”

“Yeah, hurry!” Fetch added.

Dhamon and Maldred braced the wagon against the door and locked the brake in place just as an axe-head started breaking through the wood. They heard scrabbling against the wall outside, as if someone were trying to climb the wall. They heard the strangled cry of a dwarf. Then a thump.

“Try again. Boost me this time!” It was a human’s voice, though not Rig’s or Fiona’s. Probably one of the Legion of Steel Knights.

“Where’s the ladder?”

“Forget the ladder.” It was Rig’s voice, laced with anger. “Move aside. I’ll open your damn door.”

“My stable!”

“Not going to hold them for long,” Dhamon observed.

“Really?” Rikali said in feigned surprise. “Have you a next move, Dhamon? Mal? I’d rather not die in this dungheap.”

“Dhamon Grimwulf! Come out! This is Fiona!”

“The planks! Pry the planks free!”

“Damnable thieves!”

Dhamon dashed to the side door and began sliding crates and barrels in front of the door, anchoring the mass with pitchforks he thrust into the ground. There was pounding on this door, too.

Maldred retreated to the back of the stable, ignoring the jittery horses, Rikali’s complaints, and Fetch’s apologies. He splayed his fingers wide over the wood and felt the coarse grain.

“It’s hard to see in here,” Fetch grumbled. “For Mal and Dhamon especially.” He jumped when an axe blade smashed through a plank. “I’ll get us some light.”

Dhamon joined Maldred, dragging the sacks that had been in the wagon. “I’ll saddle some horses.” He had noted a dozen full-sized steeds, two exceptionally large. If the Legion of Steel Knights had other horses, as Dhamon suspected they did, they were likely kept at a camp outside of town. The rest of the stalls contained ponies, stocky ones ideal for dwarves. He hurried at his work, selecting the two largest and leading them to the back of the stable.

Maldred closed his eyes and started humming, a low sound that came from somewhere deep in his throat and that fluctuated in pitch and tempo like a complex piece of music. His fingers fluttered up and down the planks. His fingertips lingered on the nails that held the wood together, and as he continued humming, the nails grew warm and faintly glowed.

“There, that’ll help!” Fetch announced. The small man had started a fire with a pile of hay in the center of the stable. “Now we can see better.”

“You scaly little idiot!” Rikali screamed when she realized what he had done. The light revealed the anger on her face. Her skin looked like smooth alabaster in the fire’s glow, her wide eyes a pale watery blue outlined heavily with kohl, her lips thin and painted crimson. She snarled to reveal a row of tiny, pointed teeth, so small and uniform they looked filed. “You’re worthless!”

Before she could reach the fire and attempt to put it out, it had begun to spread, racing along the floor on the scattered straw, then jumping from bale to bale. The horses’ nostrils flared in fright. They were neighing anxiously in their stalls, pulling on the ropes that held them. The fire was spreading toward the animals, was spreading toward everything, and Rikali’s efforts to stamp it out were ineffectual.

“Mal!” Rikali called. “We have another problem! Fetch decided to burn down the buildin’.”

Maldred continued humming.

Cries of “Fire!” resounded outside. A dwarf hollered to start a bucket brigade. Another was yelling to leave the blaze be, to let it kill the thieves who would steal from the wounded Knights who risked their lives to save the town from the goblin army.

Dhamon had the two largest horses saddled and was returning to select another one or two. He sucked in his breath when he heard one of the center beams groan and saw the flames rising. “Riki!” Dhamon hollered. “Saddle one more for you and Fetch. Be quick.”

She grumbled but complied, futilely kicking dirt on the flames as she turned and made a grab for a saddle. An axe splintered the door. She decided bareback was a better idea. Coughing and blinded, she cried out. Fetch tugged on her cloak.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t think about the fire spreading. Wanted to try out that fire spell Mal taught me.”

“You’re always wantin’ to try that spell.”

“Just wanted everyone to see better.”

She reached down and grabbed him about the waist, hoisted him up onto the horse, then got on behind him. “Shut up,” she said. “Just shut up and hold on.” She snatched the rope of another horse and jabbed her mount in the ribs with her boot heels, urging it forward and tugging the other one to follow. The other ponies were fighting their ropes, rearing frantically in the face of the fire and billowing smoke. The sound of the panicked animals and the crackling flames, the hacking of the axes against the front door, the shouts of the dwarves and of Rig and Fiona all made it difficult for her to think. “Dhamon!” Rikali screamed. “I can’t see you. Dhamon!”

Dhamon followed her voice and managed to grab her horse and lead it to the back, where he began loading up the other horse with the sacks that had been in the wagon. Rikali was coughing deeply, Fetch, too, and Dhamon’s eyes stung from all the smoke.

Then Dhamon spun and ran to retrieve his own precious plunder, relying on his memory as the smoke and flames obscured everything.

“I’ve got the door down!” Rig’s voice called. “Help me move this wagon!”

“Thieves! Let them burn!”

There was a dwarf’s voice—staccato and commanding—shouting orders. Voices swelled with the billowing smoke, angry and curious and filled with fear and outrage. A Legion of Steel Knight issued orders to his men.

Maldred was humming louder, his fingers moving faster, dancing in the air now. His fingers beckoned to the nails as they worked themselves out of the wood, the planks groaning in the process. The air all around was hot, the flames were growing wilder behind him. The wagon shifted, dwarves and Knights spilled inside, and some were immediately trampled by horses trying to escape.

Dhamon hoisted the leather sack onto the largest horse and thrust the reins into Maldred’s hand. He struggled to slip on the backpack and heaved himself into the saddle of the other horse.

Maldred formed a fist with his free hand and struck the back wall of the barn. The wood groaned a final time, then the entire back wall of the stable began to topple.

In an instant the world was consumed by fire and chaos, and by heat as intense as red dragon’s breath. The great gout of fresh air fed the flames, sending them dancing into the upper reaches, into the hayloft, onto the thatch roof. A hellish orange blaze devoured the wood and sent a billowing mass of thick gray smoke high into the night sky. The fireball chased Rig, the Knights, and the dwarves back outside, where they gasped and choked.

“Dhamon!” Rig’s voice. Then Fiona’s. But the words were drowned out by the thundering hooves of their stolen mounts as Dhamon, Rikali, Maldred, and Fetch escaped Ironspike, driving a handful of freed horses and ponies before them.

“So hot,” Rikali moaned. She shuddered as she looked over her shoulder at the fire that had spread from the town’s stable to a half-dozen other buildings. “I stink with smoke. I’ve blisters on my arms. My face! Fetch, is it…”

“Your face is lovely as ever, Riki, though that garish stuff you paint on your eyes is running down your cheeks like black rain. Hey, my robe!” Fetch started squirming. The hem had caught on fire. He slapped at it with his diminutive hands.

Rikali hissed and helped him put it out. “Worthless,” she pronounced. “Absolutely worthless, Fetch.”

“Sorry,” he answered. “But at least nobody’ll be following us. Ponies and horses are either dead or long gone. The humans have nothing to ride. Dwarves are gonna be trying to put out the fire rather than worrying about us. Gonna have to work hard to keep the whole town from burning. Summer’s made everything so dry. Water’s not so plentiful.”

“The Knights, though” Rikali suggested.

“Yeah, the Legion of Steel Knights aren’t gonna forget that their wounded brothers were robbed. Them, we can worry about.”

The four didn’t slow their horses until the fire and smoke were far behind, the scent of the blaze a memory, and a rose-petal dawn was creeping over the sky.

The land that stretched directly before them was barren and scrubby and flat. There were clumps of prairie grass, scattered like tufts of hair on a balding man. They were dry and rustling in the scant breeze, and balls of dried weeds spun recklessly across the quartet’s path. Summer, never kind to Khur, had been especially brutal this year— the rains more infrequent than usual, the temperature higher, the wind too slight to grant any measure of relief.

A little distance to the west the scenery changed dramatically. Foothills rose toward the towering Kalkhist Mountains, jagged and imposing upthrusts of granite shielded by steel-gray clouds There were a scattering of stunted oaks and bushes. All of the plants looked like they were dying, except for the aromatic gray-green sage that thrived in such heat.

Maldred shrugged out of his shirt, tying it about his waist. His muscles gleamed with sweat. He tugged one of the waterskins free from his belt, drained it, and snatched free another, which he passed to Dhamon.

Dhamon looked thin riding next to Maldred, and his ropy muscles were dwarfed by the big man’s thick arms, barrel chest, and square shoulders. Some of his cuts had been healed completely by the hospital’s medicine, but the deeper ones had opened during the fight in town and glistened with oozing blood.

“Rikali,” Maldred called, “you didn’t need to scratch him quite so much.”

“You said Dhamon had to look in a bad way,” she cut back. “You said he needed to be convincing.”

“Not that convincing,” Maldred softly returned.

She shrugged, tossing her thick mass of hair. “Dhamon didn’t complain.”

“I was more than convincing,” Dhamon admitted to the big man. “I should’ve pulled it off without a hitch. I’m not sure just what went wrong. I hadn’t taken into account that patient dying, I guess.”

Maldred grinned and lowered his voice. “Yours was the riskier venture in town. The rest of us robbed closed businesses. Besides, it added a little excitement in our lives. No harm done to us. And we’ve fine horses to show for it.” He took a long look at Dhamon and sniffed. “You need some new clothes, my friend. Rikali pretty well shredded those, and they… stink. All of us could do with some new outfits. I doubt the smoke will leave these.”

The miles fell away as the sun clawed its way into a slate blue sky, pushing the temperature higher. To the north Rikali spotted a small copse of trees and tall green grass, a virtual oasis for Khur. At first she truly thought it a mirage, blinking furiously, believing it would disappear, but then she spied a raven suspended above a tall tree. It climbed upward into the sun, where she lost track of it for a moment, then it dropped, banked, and dove into the canopy and vanished. She urged her exhausted horse in that direction, releasing the reins of the other, which continued to follow her. As the first shadows touched her, she slipped from her horse’s back, complaining about her sore back and stiff legs and her smoky clothes and Dhamon’s medicinal stench. She led the animal through the dozen trees that grew here and along the small stream that lazily wended its way along the base of the Kalkhist foothills. “Blessed shade,” she said as she stretched, lifted Fetch to set him on the ground, and watched the horses drink.

“I could use a little rest,” Dhamon confessed to Maldred.

“No argument.” The large man looked over his shoulder. “At least not for the moment.” He slid from the saddle and led his horse to the bank. “Probably feeds a tributary of the Thon-Thalas River,” he said, gesturing with his head at the water. The famed river wound its way through part of Khur and into the Silvanesti Forest, where it eventually joined up with the Thon-Rishas, which meandered deep into the swamp on the other side of the Kalkhists.

“The stream’s half of what it would normally be,” Dhamon noted, pointing at the dry bank where part of the ground was cracked and patterned like shingles. “But at least the summer hasn’t dried it up completely.”

Maldred shook his head, the sweat flying from his face and hair. He took off his boots and lowered his thick toes in the water. Then he bent and filled two skins and clipped them on his belt. He passed a third skin to Dhamon. “For when you really need it,” he said. “It’s all I have, so take care.”

“Thanks.”

“Was your friend,” Rikali said, interrupting their conversation. She had her hands on her hips and her head was cocked to one side, as if she was lecturing a naughty child. “Was. Was. Was your friend.”

Dhamon pursed his lips and tethered his mount to a low branch that overhung the bank. He wondered what she was talking about, but knew he didn’t have to ask— she’d explain sooner or later.

“The Solamnic. I was thinking about her as we were ridin’, hair as red as them flames. I’d say she was your friend. Them rigid types don’t forgive thefts and murder. She’ll be your enemy now.”

“I didn’t kill anyone in that town.” Dhamon patted the horse, running his fingers through its tangled mane. “I might have, but I didn’t,” he added.

She shrugged and made sure he was watching her, choreographed a graceful display of slipping off her cloak and then squirming out of her tunic, dropping them and her small satchel on the bank to reveal her petite, pale form. She slowly waded into the stream and began bathing, making it a point to tend to her face first and remove the kohl that had run from her eyes. “Dwarves died in that town, Dhamon Grimwulf,” she said, cupping her hands to catch the water and throwing it over her hair. “And maybe some Knights who aren’t Solamnics. Doesn’t really matter how many or by whose hand. Dead is dead. And you were there in the middle of it.” She tucked her hair behind gently pointed ears that attested to her half-elf heritage, then she splashed water at him and wriggled her nose. “I tell you, you stink!”

“Aye,” Dhamon said softly, as he arranged his boots and new sword on the bank, peeled off what was left of his trousers and joined her in the river. “I certainly do.” The water swirled around his calves and then thighs. He waded in as deep as the stream bed allowed, until the water came up to his waist. There were scars on his body amid the scratches that Rikali had administered. They were older and thick, and most had faded so they were difficult to discern.

The half-elf traced some of the scratches. Her nails were long, clawlike, and they were covered with a thick black lacquer that stood out starkly against her parchment-hued skin.

“These will heal, lover,” she said huskily, fingers fluttering over her handiwork. “And they were your idea.” She kissed one of the longer scratches on his chest, her pale face and white hair contrasting markedly with his sun-bronzed skin.

“Everything heals, Riki,” he said softly.

Maldred was inspecting the four horses, announcing that two of them were especially fine and would bring a good price if they decided to sell them. Fetch followed him, pretending to study the big man’s ways with animals and apologizing profusely for accidentally setting the fire in the stable.

“You stink, too,” Maldred said, looking down and wrinkling his hawkish nose.

Fetch furiously shook his hooded head, backing away from the stream. But Maldred scooped him up with one hand and plucked away his smoky robe with the other. The hoopak and a small belt pouch fell free. Beneath the scorched fabric was a creature.

It was less than three feet tall and had the form of a man, but more resembled a cross between a rat and a lizard, with a rusty brown hide that was a mix of scales and skin. His stunted, dog-shaped snout had a smattering of reddish whiskers growing haphazardly from the bottom jaw that nearly matched the color of his long, pointed, batlike ears that hinted at his goblin ancestry. A kobold, Fetch was a poor cousin to the ancient and more powerful goblin race that often employed his kind as footsoldiers and lackeys throughout Khur and other desolate parts of Krynn. He had beady eyes set beneath a pair of short, curved white horns, and they glowed red like hot embers. “Please, Maldred,” Fetch implored in his thin, scratchy voice. His ratlike tail whipped about nervously. “You know I don’t like water. I can’t swim and I…”

Maldred laughed loud and deep and pitched the kobold into the stream. “See that he washes behind his ears, will you Rikali?” With that, the big man settled himself beneath a tree, his hands resting on the sack and backpack Dhamon had stuffed. Within moments he was asleep.

“That Knight,” Rikali persisted after she had finished washing Dhamon’s back. Her voice was soft so she wouldn’t wake Maldred and Fetch who, like a dog, now was curled in a ball between the big man’s feet. “Do you think she’ll follow us? She looked so… angry.”

“Jealous?”

The half-elf shook her head, water flying in an arc from her waist-length hair. “Me, jealous? Hardly, lover.”

“You’re always jealous, Riki. Besides, Fiona is with Rig—has been for about as long as I’ve known her. Last I heard, they were to be married this fall, on her birthday.”

“You know her first name…”

“I said we were friends. Rig was the dark man with her.” Dhamon had turned his back to the elf, was studying something in the water. He spread his legs and bent over slightly, letting his hands sink quietly beneath the surface.

“Is he a Solamnic Knight, too?”

“Hardly! Shhh.”

“Hardly,” she tittered. She watched him carefully with an appraising eye, then she grinned as he tried futilely to catch a fish that dove between his legs. Droplets arced away from him as he smacked the water and quietly cursed.

Quick as lightning, she drove her slender arm into the stream, then pulled it up to reveal a trout speared on her fingernails. She flicked the fish high onto the bank. “You used to be a Knight, Dhamon Grimwulf. Or so you claim.”

“Not a Solamnic,” he said, as he watched the fish flop about.

“And I’m not jealous,” Rikali cooed as she moved closer to him, spinning him around to face her. The half-elf’s finger snaked out to rub a spot of dirt off his nose. “Have I a reason to be?”

Dhamon said nothing, but he pulled her close.

It was early afternoon when Dhamon woke. He gently lifted Rikali’s arm off his chest. He rolled away and reached for his trousers. Before he could finish dressing, a wave of pain struck him and he grabbed for the scale on his leg, digging his heels into the earth. It felt like nails were being driven into his flesh. He bit his lip to keep from crying out and weathered the pain for several minutes. His skin grew feverishly hot and his muscles cramped tight.

He convinced himself it wasn’t so bad. Roughly two years ago a dying Knight of Takhisis had removed the scale from his own chest and bestowed it on Dhamon.

Dhamon fought to stay conscious as his mind propelled him back to the forested glade in Solamnia. He was kneeling over the mortally wounded Dark Knight, holding the man’s hand and trying to offer what comfort he could in the last moments of life. The man beckoned him closer, loosed the armor from his chest and showed Dhamon a large scale embedded in the flesh beneath. With fumbling fingers, the Knight managed to pry the scale free, and before Dhamon realized what was happening, the Knight had placed it against Dhamon’s thigh.

The scale adhered, molding itself around his thigh and feeling like a brand thrust against his unprotected skin. It was the most painful sensation Dhamon had experienced in his life. The scale was the color of freshly drawn blood then, and Malys, the red dragon overlord from whom it came, used it to possess and control people. Months later a mysterious shadow dragon, along with a silver dragon who called herself Silvara, worked ancient magic to break the overlord’s control. The scale turned black in the process. And shortly thereafter it had begun to ache periodically. At first, the pain was infrequent and fleeting.

Dhamon figured pain was preferable to being controlled by a dragon. But lately the spasms had been getting worse and lasting longer. He noticed Maldred watching him, the big man’s expression asking if Dhamon was all right.

Dhamon returned the stare, but his unblinking eyes were indifferent and implacable, hiding his attitudes, feelings, keeping everything a mystery. Then he blinked, the pain finally passing. He reached for the skin Maldred had given him, took a deep pull, his throat working hard, and replaced the cork.

“Bad?” the big man asked.

“Sometimes. Lately,” Dhamon answered, gingerly rising to his feet. The scratches on his chest and arms were healing. He was clean-shaven, his hair had been combed and tied at the nape of his neck with a black leather thong—compliments of the half-elf. His face looked youthful with all his hair pulled away from it.

Maldred, however, refused to abandon his troubled expression. “Maybe we can find a healer who…”

“A healer can’t do anything. You know that.” Dhamon changed the subject, pointing to the backpack and leather sack and the small pile of coin purses he’d brought out of his trousers, and the sacks filled with coins from his companions’ heists. “An excellent haul,” he pronounced. “A small fortune.”

Maldred nodded.

“Gold jewelry studded with gems, plenty of coins, pearls. Enough, hopefully, to purchase that…”

“Not enough,” Maldred interrupted flatly. “Not close, Dhamon. I know him.”

“Then the hospital… the risk… was wasted time.”

The big man shook his head. “We didn’t know how little or how much would be locked away. You did very well.”

“Not enough,” Dhamon parroted.

“Ah, but it might be just enough to purchase an audience with him.”

Dhamon frowned.

Maldred gestured at the haul, then opened his backpack and stuffed the smaller pouches into it, keeping one of the larger coin purses out and tossing it to Dhamon. After a moment, he reached back inside and selected a second pouch. “Better give these to Rikali and Fetch for their trouble.” He nodded toward the pair, both sleeping soundly a few yards away, close to each other. “Otherwise we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Dhamon gazed at Rikali for a moment, saw her eyelids fluttering in a dream, then he stretched and turned back to Maldred. “How long should we let them sleep? I know Riki’s not worried about any dwarves coming after us, but I’m not so unconcerned. Especially regarding those Legion of Steel Knights. They won’t let this go unavenged.”

Maldred glanced back the way they had come. Away from the stream the land looked as dry and inhospitable as any desert. “Ah, my friend, this is a most pleasing spot. I could stay beneath that great tree for a few days. It is cooler here, a more restful a place than I’ve known for a while.” His face looked serene, almost gentle, as he glanced at the stream and followed the progress of a floating leaf. It quickly clouded over as he said with a frown, “But don’t worry, my friend, such idling is not to be. We can’t afford to stay in any one spot too long. Not people like us. Not here. Because of those Knights and others we’ve crossed. And—most importantly—because we’ve quite a bit of work ahead of us.”

Dhamon cocked his head. “You’ve a plan?”

The big man nodded. “Oh, yes.”

Dhamon’s dark eyes glimmered. “Whatever it is, we’ll need to move quickly.”

“Aye.”

The half-elf made a sound, rolling onto her back as her thin arms moved like the wings of a butterfly.

“So this plan…” Dhamon prompted, when he was certain Rikali was still asleep.

“Will bring us great wealth. Gems, my friend. Some as big as my fist.” Maldred grinned, showing a wide mouth filled with pearly, even teeth. “We’re not terribly far from a valley in Thoradin, to the north and west, cradled by the high spires.”

“A mine?”

“So to speak. It will take us a week to reach it. Less, perhaps, as these horses are fine ones. We’ll take that trail.” His finger indicated a line that ribboned through the hills. He arranged the skins on his belt and adjusted the two-handed sword on his back. “We’ll get enough to purchase what you want, and we’ll likely have a good bit left over.”

“That’s a merchant road up there,” Dhamon observed.

“Where hopefully we’ll find a merchant wagon,” the big man added, a gleam in his hazel eyes. “We’re going to need something to haul all of our riches in.”