Downfall

CHAPTER THREE Windfalls

“I’d prefer not to kill you.” Maldred stood in the center of a well-beaten trail that cut through the heart of the Kalkhist Mountains. He was bare-chested, with his deerskin shirt tied about his waist. The midday sun was baking his already-tanned skin and had brought out beads of sweat that slowly ran down his chest and gathered at the waistband of his trousers. The steady breeze that teased his short ginger hair spun the dirt around his boots into dust devils. He gripped his two-handed sword in damp hands, wielding it as if it were no heavier than a twig and pointing it in the direction of a stoop-shouldered grizzled man who sat on the driver’s platform of a bulging covered wagon. “Your death would not profit me, old one.”

The man sputtered but said nothing, gripped the reins even tighter and stared in disbelief at Maldred. He blinked rapidly, as if doing so might make the big man go away.

“Now,” Maldred warned.

“By all the vanished gods, no,” the man said—not in response to Maldred’s command, but to the unthinkable and very real situation he found himself in. “This cannot be real.”

“It’s as real as this damnable, rainless summer. Get down off the wagon. Now. Before I lose my patience.”

“Gran’papa, don’t listen to him!” A gangly youth poked his head through a slit in the canvas and climbed up front. “He’s only one man.”

“He should listen to him, son.” Dhamon stepped from behind a boulder, broadsword in hand, blade catching the sun and reflecting it so brightly that the old man squinted. The skin was red and peeling on his shoulders, cheeks, and nose, the rest of his sweaty skin so darkened from the sun that it looked like he was carved from oiled cedar. He looked unkempt and primitive, with his feet bare, remnants of thin scab lines across his naked chest, dressed only in the shredded remains of his trousers— which did little to hide the strange-looking scale on his leg. He’d not shaved since Rikali tended to him, so his jaw looked shadowed, clouded by his new beard. When he curled his lip upward in a snarl and narrowed his black eyes, the youth quivered.

Rikali slid from behind an outcropping on the other side of the pass, long knife outstretched and pointed at the dark-skinned man sitting atop the second wagon. Fetch was at her side, growling and clawing at the air in a reasonable effort to appear menacing.

“Get down, old man, and raise your hands,” Maldred’s voice was steady and commanding. “And tell the others to do the same. Your lives are worth more than whatever it is you’re hauling. We need your cooperation. I don’t want to have to say it again.”

There were three wagons stopped in the pass, each heavy and each pulled by several large draft horses. A “sumptuous find,” Rikali eagerly pronounced it when she spotted the small procession on her scouting trip.

The old man swallowed hard, dropping the reins. He whispered something to the boy and shakily climbed down from the wagon, trembling from fear and casting his eyes back and forth between Maldred and the weird kobold creature. The youth followed him down, glaring at Maldred and casting worried looks Dhamon’s way.

“Brigands,” the old man wheezed when he’d found his voice again. “Never been robbed in all my life. Never.” Louder, he said. “Better do what they say, son. Everybody out!” To Maldred he added, “Don’t you hurt none of my people. Not a one! You hear me?”

“Hands away from your sides,” Maldred continued, nodding to Dhamon. In response, Dhamon crept forward, taking a thin knife from the old man’s belt, tossing it to the far side of the trail, cautiously eyeing the youth for weapons.

“Now stand over there. And be quiet,” Dhamon ordered. He gestured with his sword to the opposite side of the trail, where a gray rocky wall stretched toward the cloudless, bright blue sky. “All I want to hear is the sun baking your sorry faces.”

Fetch scampered around to the back of the small caravan, hoopak in hand, using it to prod the rest of the merchants forward. The man who climbed off the last wagon moved too slowly for the kobold’s liking, so he thwacked him across the back of the knees. The man fell, and Fetch whacked him with the hoopak a few times. He was quick to rise.

Without his hooded cloak, which Rikali said had to be thrown away because it was so smelly, the kobold presented a frightening figure to the humans, despite his small size. He spat at a portly middle-aged woman who clutched a canvas sack in front of her, and he pointed with his hoopak, indicating she should drop it on the ground. She shook her head furiously, held it tighter, and shouted “Demon!”

“Leave her be,” Rikali said as she joined the kobold. “There’s plenty of other things for us. Let the ol’ bag keep her precious ol’ bag.” She chuckled at her own keen sense of humor.

Rikali and Fetch shoved the merchants forward. There were nine all together, eight adults and two of those, by their dusky skin, Ergothians like Rig—a long way from home. All were alternating expressions of fear with whispering curses. The grizzled man was the loudest.

“You can’t earn an honest way in the world! Shame!” he muttered.

“This is honest enough to suit us,” Rikali shot back. She lined the merchants up and looked each one over carefully, her hand darting out to snatch the arm of one of the Ergothians. “The silver bracelet. Take it off. That’s it. Now hand it over to me. No tricks. Slow. Ah, it’s a beauty.” She tried to slide it on her wrist, but found it much too large. She hollered for Fetch, and the kobold scrambled over and hooked the bracelet around her knee, just above her boot cuff.

“Yer welcome, Riki dear,” the kobold told her, grinning when a few of the merchants gasped to hear that the demon-creature could speak.

“Fetch!” This time Dhamon was calling for him. “Check the wagons. Make sure there’re no surprises inside.” Dhamon and Maldred turned their full attention to the line of merchants, hot and defeated and looking for some measure of mercy.

Dhamon sneered at the Ergothians and drummed the fingers of his free hand against his belt. His eyes narrowed, as if telling them “give me an excuse for a fight.”

“No need for anyone to get hurt,” Maldred said, offering the merchants a bit of reassurance.

A few of them relaxed at his words. But the Ergothians watched Dhamon warily. The old man showed a little courage and ground his heel into the edge of the trail. “Hurt? Stealing from us isn’t hurting us? You’re taking everything we…”

“Shush, Abril,” the portly woman whispered. “Don’t provoke them. They’ve a little demon that serves them.”

Without warning the mountain rumbled. But rather than quickly dissipating, the quake grew in intensity, pitching the old man to the ground and causing Dhamon and everyone else to scramble to keep their balance. Fetch had been climbing into the lead wagon when the trembler struck, and he cursed shrilly in his odd language as his head thumped against a crate inside. He cursed again and poked his head out from under the canvas flap, hollering in an odd, snarling language.

“It’s nothing,” the big man consoled Fetch. “A slight tremor. Happens all the time in the Kalkhists—ever since the Chaos War.”

“It’s not a tremor. It’s the very earth angry at you!” the portly woman said. “Stealing from good people! The spirits of the gods are furious with you!” She instantly stepped back and rounded her shoulders, terrified of the bandits and that her words might provoke them.

The others seemed cowed too, except for the old man who continued to glare as Maldred explained that there was a stream about two days away by foot, perhaps a little more, where they could get something to drink and rest for the night before moving on. He tossed them his largest waterskin to share sparingly until they got there. And beyond that, Maldred said, there was a trail to the south that would eventually take them to either of two dwarven towns—though the farthest might have fewer accommodations available.

“But likely you know about those towns,” he finished.

“You were probably heading to one of them, or to a larger human settlement even farther south.”

“No. They were heading to the coast,” Dhamon guessed, smiling thinly when a surly look from the youth acknowledged the correctness of his suspicion. He padded by the Ergothians, noting they too had relaxed a bit. All bluster, he thought. “Maybe to Kalin Ak-phan. It’s got some size to it. They’re toting enough goods to sell to a ship captain there. Especially with all these horses.”

“Well then,” Maldred said. “We’ve saved them quite a trip, haven’t we? The coast is a considerable distance, too far to travel in this heat.”

“So feel free to thank us,” Rikali taunted. She dug the tip of her boot into the gravelly ground and stirred it up. “Indeed, we…” She stopped as she spotted a flash of gold peeking out beneath the sleeve of one Ergothian, and she slipped closer to examine it. In a heartbeat, the once-seemingly acquiescent man darted forward and managed to grab her, spinning her toward him and snatching the knife from her grip. He was surprisingly strong. He shoved the blade under her throat. “Stay still!” he barked to Maldred.

“Let her go!” the big man snapped. “Now!”

“Not all merchants are easy marks!” The Ergothian returned. “We don’t all give up our goods to brigands!” His companion reached under his shirt and pulled two wavy-edged daggers from hidden sheaths. “We heard about robberies along the trails, and we came well prepared. Now you back away! And you drop your weapons.”

Maldred and Dhamon didn’t budge. Neither made a move to surrender their weapons.

“If you kill her,” Dhamon said flatly, “that’ll just mean fewer ways to divide the spoils.” He noted Rikali’s outraged expression but kept his blank face. “Besides, she complains a lot. And we could do with a bit of blessed silence.”

After what seemed like several long minutes, where the only sound was the wind rustling through the pass, Dhamon rolled his shoulders, a signal to Maldred that he had sized up the Ergothians and was ready.

Maldred took a step closer to the two Ergothians, watching the other merchants out of the corner of his eye. “You’ll be dead before you can cut her throat,” he stated. “I’m faster than you. And I’d really prefer not to kill you. Certainly you have relatives somewhere who would prefer you stay alive. So why not drop the blades? You’ll live to see tomorrow.”

The Ergothians held their position for a heartbeat, then Dhamon flinched, forcing their hand. The one with the twin daggers lunged. Maldred effortlessly swept his sword up, slicing through the man’s right arm. The limb fell to the ground, and the Ergothian dropped to his knees, screaming and holding the stump while blood sprayed the horrified merchants.

At the same time, his companion pressed the knife into Rikali’s throat, but the half-elf was quicker. Before the Ergothian could cut her, Riki’s hands shot up to grip his arm. Throwing all of her strength and weight against it, she pried his arm back. The half-elf scrambled away just as Dhamon stepped forward and swung his sword, cutting deep beneath the man’s ribs and killing him instantly.

The portly woman shrieked in terror. The boy sprang into action, his feet churning over the gravel until he was close to Maldred. He launched himself at the big man’s back and grabbed hold of him by wrapping his arms around Maldred’s thick neck. His grandfather moaned with fear. Rikali spun back to the corpse, plucked the gold bracer off its wrist and fitted it high on her arm. Then she retrieved her knife.

Dhamon held his bloodied sword out, directing the rest of the merchants to stay in line or they’d be next to die. “I’m not as charitable as my large friend,” he hissed. “I’ve no qualms about killing any of you.”

Everyone nervously complied, their eyes locked on the scene playing out before them, the old man begging for his grandson’s life. The youth’s arms were wrapped around Maldred’s neck, his knees pummeling the big man’s back. But Maldred seemed unaffected.

Rikali slipped behind the pair and pried the youth off, tossing him to the ground and grinding her boot heel into his stomach. “I’d hate to see Maldred kill you, boy,” she hissed, waving her knife for emphasis. “He’d keep us up for days fretting about it, moaning about how sacred life is and all that rot. ‘Course, Dhamon could do it and save Maldred the grief. Dhamon wouldn’t moan over the likes of you.” The boy struggled for a moment more, until he was silenced by her icy stare. He lay still.

“Fetch!” Dhamon wiped the blood off his sword onto the dead Ergothian’s shirt. “What did you find?”

The kobold’s head poked out of the second wagon, a dark red cap resting awkwardly on his small head. “First one’s filled with clothes and such!” he called out, hooting when Rikali let out a whoop. “This one’s got some food and spirits and boo-ti-ful smoking pipes.” He held out an exquisitely carved sample of a bearded old man, the stem rising from his head. “Pipes for me, tobacco. Lots of tobacco. There’s some crates I can’t get into. Lots of nails in them.” He scampered out of the wagon and ran to the third. “Maybe our luck’ll be better here.”

“Clothes. Good. You need some clothes,” Rikali told Dhamon. “And you could do with some, too,” she added to Maldred. “Of course, I can always…” She grimaced. The Ergothian missing an arm moaned louder. “Shut up!” She pounced on him, cracking him in the side of the head with the haft of her knife and knocking him out. He lay in a pool of spreading blood which seeped under the toes of Rikali’s boots. Turning to the portly woman, who had broken out sobbing, she added, “If you don’t want him to die, you better lose some of your skirt and tie off that stump. Put some pressure on it. Don’t need to be wearin’ so much in this heat anyway.” She pivoted and returned to Dhamon, rubbing her soles on the ground in an effort to get the blood off. “Now, about some new clothes…”

A cacophony of high-pitched screams from the third wagon cut her off. “Watch them,” she said to Dhamon and Maldred, pleased with herself that she gave an order for a change. “He’s worthless, Fetch is.” Then she was dashing toward the sound.

“Monster!” Rikali shrieked a moment later. “There’s a horrible monster in here!”

Dhamon, holding his position, glanced among the merchants and the small caravan. He gestured with his head to the last wagon, and Maldred jogged toward it. The big man thrust his head in the flap and immediately pulled it back out. Rikali scrambled out behind him, holding only the haft of her knife. The blade was missing. Fetch was close behind her, thin cuts crisscrossing his small torso.

“Pigs!” Rikali fumed. “Pigs, but there’s some odd-looking beastie tied up in that wagon.” She glared at the merchants, waving her knife handle.

“It’s not a monster,” one of the men quickly offered. “It’s just an animal. Leave it be. Please.”

Dhamon singled out the wailing merchant and directed him to the wagon. Maldred pushed the man inside, while Dhamon tried on the boots of the dead Ergothian and pronounced them a reasonable fit.

A few moments later the merchant came out leading an unusual creature by a thick rope he had looped about its neck. The thing was as large as a fat calf, but looked like an insect for the most part, with six chitinous legs and feelers that twitched slowly in the air. It had saucerlike black eyes that swiveled back and forth to take everything in, and a small nose that quivered and was aimed toward Maldred. It began to sniff, its purple tongue darting out to lick bulbous lips.

“Bring it over here!” Dhamon called. “Mal, stay back from it. I heard about them when I was stationed in Neraka. The thing eats metal.”

“So I discovered,” Rikali complained. “That was my favorite knife. Filched it from a handsome noble in Sanction last year. Had lots of sentimental value.”

The merchant led the creature like a dog, keeping it in line with the rest of the merchants and clucking softly to it and calling it Ruffels.

“You want it to live… you want to live… you start heading down the mountain,” Dhamon demanded. “Now. All of you—and that beast. Keep going and don’t look back. As I said, I’m not so generous as my large friend. I’ve truly no qualms about killing each and every one of you.”

The youth grabbed his grandfather and started down the trail, the portly woman following, still sobbing hysterically, and two men bringing up the rear, carrying the injured Ergothian. The man with the insect-pet was last.

“Wait!” Rikali called, bounding after them. “Is that beastie valuable?”

The man kept walking and shook his head. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed and she scratched her chin, deciding she was being slighted, that he hadn’t at least properly answered her. She waited a moment, then ran to catch up. “Then if it’s not worth anythin’, you won’t mind leavin’ it behind.”

He tugged the beast closer and clucked to it. “Please,” he said. “You’ve taken everything of value. Don’t take Ruffels. He’s a pet.”

She leaned forward and jerked the rope away, pushing the merchant with her free hand. “I’ll have this, too. He’s worth somethin’, this beastie is. I’ll just bet. Sell him somewhere for a good turn of coin.” She shook her fist at the odd-looking creature. “And he owes me for my sentimental knife.” Then she waved the merchant down the hill. “You’d best catch up with the rest before we decide to sell you, too. You’re not so old and ugly. I could get me a few steel for you in an ogre town!”

It took some maneuvering to turn the wagons around in the pass and point them west. While Maldred, Dhamon, and Fetch handled that job, Rikali inspected the metal-eating creature. “Gonna sell you, I am,” she told it. “Buy me some fine rings with the coin. Someone’ll want a peculiar beastie like you. Rich people’re always wantin’ peculiar things. Ruffels. Gonna change your name first. Call you Fee-ohn-a, I think. Yeah, I like that. Fee-ohn-a the peculiar beastie.”

“This won’t be enough either, eh?” Dhamon had been in the wagons, eyeing the contents, picking up objects and running his fingers over them. He noted makers’ marks on some, which in some circles added to their value. But he could find nothing especially worth all the trouble.

“Valuable, to be certain, but not wildly so. And not what we need to deal with a certain man. We’ll still need to visit the valley. But… I know a bandit camp where we can sell all of this. Should give Rikali and Fetch enough to stop complaining for a while,” Maldred told Dhamon as they made sure the merchants’ horses were tied tightly. “We might make more in a town.”

“No.” Dhamon drew his lips into a thin line, his dark eyes flashing. “We don’t want to risk running into people who saw these merchants earlier—or saw others we’ve run across.”

Maldred nodded his agreement. “Very well, then. We’ll keep one of these wagons, or get a new one—which is my preference. In the bandit camp. We’ll need at least one good wagon for the valley.”

“The gems you mentioned, and the mine…” Dhamon’s face became serious, his eyes intense. He brought a hand up to scratch at the stubble on his chin, then he met Maldred’s gaze.

“If fortune favors us, we’ll be done with robbing merchants for a while. This is the first time one of these caravans has put up a fight. Next time we might come across mercenaries.”

“I’m spoiling for a good fight!” Fetch was dancing around the big man and twirling his hoopak. “We can take on anything. Can’t we Dhamon? You’ve never lost a fight!”

Dhamon ignored the kobold, jumping into the second wagon. There was a large water barrel inside, and he nudged the lid open, drank deep, and splashed water on his face and chest. Then he began prying at the crates that Fetch couldn’t open, while Maldred retrieved their horses and tied them to the last wagon.

A scream interrupted them.

Rikali stood in the middle of the trail, yelling at the metal-eating creature and waving her fists. The buckles on her boots were gone, so was the bracelet about her knee and the gold armband. Her right hand was devoid of rings. “I’ll kill it!” she hissed. “My jewelry. Quick as a rabbit that cursed beastie grabbed and ate it!”

The creature’s nose twitched, and its tongue snaked out to lick its lips. It trundled toward her, eyes locked onto the rings that still sparkled from her left hand.

“Dhamon!” She swung at it wildly, clawlike fingernails raking the beast’s tender skin. The creature made a sniffling sound and skittered back a few feet, but its nose continued to twitch. “Dhamon, get over here!”

He peered out of the wagon, grinning at her predicament. “Fetch!” The kobold hurried over. “You’ve got nothing metal on. Take that thing and tie it back in the wagon where you found it.”

Fetch grumpily did so, getting some help from Maldred to boost the creature up and under the canvas, keeping away from its front legs and its metal-devouring mouth. This wagon was held together with wooden nails and there wasn’t a trace of metal anywhere on it. “We don’t keep this wagon,” the big man said. “Or this creature for long. Let’s get moving.”

Dhamon picked his way along the mountain trail, scouting ahead as the sun melted into the horizon, painting the Kalkhists with a soft orange glow. He relished his time alone, no one to badger him with small talk and questions he didn’t want to answer. No one to make any demands of him.

When he was in the company of Maldred and Rikali he often ranged ahead, as he was doing now, seeing if there were any obstacles along the course they would take in the morning. Or if there were any strangers in the area who might bother them during the night. It was his excuse for some silence and peace.

Despite the approaching evening, the heat didn’t seem to be letting up. The air was thin this high in the mountains, and coupled with the temperature, Dhamon found it a little discomfiting. He paused to rest on a flat rock, fishing about in his pocket for a piece of candy. Fetch had found a small bag filled with sweets in one of the merchant wagons, and Dhamon made sure it was divided—before the kobold could manage to devour it all.

He stared at the vanishing sun for several moments, breathing as deep as was comfortable and savoring the sugar on his tongue. Then he glanced down the trail. It was just wide enough for the wagon. They would be taking the fork to the north, according to Maldred’s directions. The man he needed to see was to the south, but there was the matter of gaining more treasure before they could take that trail.

The north fork appeared less-used, with scrub growing in patches here and there, and wheel ruts so shallow he could barely make them out. Dhamon scooted off the rock and headed north. Just for a few minutes, he told himself, just for a little more time alone.

It wasn’t that Dhamon didn’t like his current company, he simply believed he needed some solitude once in a while. Maldred had become his closest comrade and partner, and Fetch had a few endearing and useful qualities. Rikali… well, she wasn’t at all like Feril, the elf he used to keep company with and whom he often thought of. But when he looked past the cosmetic paint and her constant prattle, Rikali was all right. She was here, and Feril was…

“Gone,” he stated softly. He was staring at the ground, at a feather from a jay that had fluttered to the side of the path. Feril had a tattoo of a bluejay feather on her face. Dhamon closed his eyes and pictured the Kagonesti, the memory bittersweet. A part of him wished she was with him. But she wouldn’t approve of his current lifestyle. She might like Maldred, however, he mused.

Dhamon scowled as he continued to follow the trail around a bend and discovered it was blocked by fallen rocks. The tremors likely had caused it, he decided, as he clambered up the pile and peered over the top, trying to see just how much of the trail was obstructed. A rock wall rose on the east side of the path, and much of its face had crumbled loose to block the way. Dhamon could tell it should pose little problem beyond this point—after this pile was cleared.

Maldred was strong. Between him and Dhamon, and with some help from Rikali and Fetch they should be able to manage it without too much trouble. And provided there weren’t any more tremors in this section of the mountains. The tremors had bothered him more than a little, as a force of nature was something he couldn’t stand up to. But apparently the tremors were something he had to put up with here, including the results—such as this blocked path.

Dhamon bent to the task of clearing the way himself, the activity feeling good and keeping his mind off Feril and all manner of other things that festered at him when he grew introspective. He worked until dark, the heat letting up only a little. He hadn’t cleared all of it, but the worst was out of the way. He could tackle it again in the morning to finish the job. Exhausted, sweat-soaked, and very hungry, he retraced his steps along the trail and back to where he’d left the others to make camp.

Night didn’t soften Dhamon’s features. The angles of his face still looked hard, his eyes were dark, his demeanor as usual unreadable. His stubble had thickened, and he rubbed his fingertips across it, making an almost imperceptible sound. His jaw worked and the muscles in his sword arm tensed and relaxed as he considered the plunder from the wagon and the sale of the goods. He was silently cursing the merchants for not having more wagons or anything of extraordinary value inside.

He and Maldred sat just close enough to a small fire that they could see the coins they were counting. Fetch materialized every once in a while to turn the meat roasting on the spit and to make sure he wasn’t being cheated of food or money. Rikali was nearby, trying on garment after garment she’d claimed as part of her spoils from the wagons and trying unsuccessfully to catch Dhamon’s attention.

“Acceptable,” Maldred announced when he’d made four piles of coins and placed them in four leather pouches. Two were larger, and he tossed one to Dhamon and tied the other large one on his own belt. “Coin and food.”

“Drink,” Dhamon added, his darker thoughts abandoned. He gestured to a jug of strong, distilled spirits that sat within his reach. He reached toward the jug, his hand folding about the handle. “Good drink.”

“And new clothes, my good friend.” Maldred had abandoned his deerskin breeches and shirt in favor of lightweight trousers and a thin, billowy tunic the shade of pale lilies. He’d found only a few things to fit him in the merchant stores, enough for two changes of garb with one shirt to spare and a cloak that hung just past his knees. Though he was only a few inches taller than Dhamon, his shoulders were much broader, his chest, arms, and legs thick and heavily girded.

Dhamon had more to choose from, and he had selected expensive, dark-colored garments that draped his lanky frame. He’d also helped himself to a ropelike gold chain, at Rikali’s insistence. Hanging from his neck, it gleamed in the firelight.

Fetch had managed to find some children’s clothes to fit into, though the colors and design made him hiss-sky blue with embroidered birds and mushrooms along the sleeves. Fortunately, he also managed to find a kender-sized wool cloak the shade of charcoal with a hood. He vowed to wear this when they came close to civilization— no matter how hot it was. Though others of his kind rarely bothered with clothes, Fetch had come to appreciate well-made garments—if for no other reason than because they helped to disguise his race. He muttered that he needed to find more appropriate attire down the road. He certainly didn’t want to stride into any sizeable city looking like this.

At the moment, he was getting ready to smoke his prized acquisition, the old-man pipe, as he called it. Humming and gesturing with his fingers, he began to execute a simple spell. He fingered the intricately carved beard and tamped the tobacco down tight. The spell magically helped the tobacco catch fire. He puffed to get it going, and let his teeth click comfortably against the stem.

Rikali fared the best, in her opinion, discovering all manner of tunics and skirts and scarves and baubles. She’d been occupied for more than an hour since they’d stopped, trying things on again and again and twirling to unheard music.

Those things that didn’t suit her sense of fashion, along with practically everything else in the wagons, had been sold at the bandit camp. Dhamon conducted the bargaining, gaming more than Maldred had guessed likely for the lot. They’d purchased a different wagon there, one that had high sidewalls and a big canvas tarp. Maldred contended it was even sturdier and more appropriate for the trip to the valley than the ones they sold. And they’d kept two draft horses to pull it.

“The trail you want to take is narrow,” Dhamon told him.

“I know, I’ve used it before. It’s my favorite route to the valley. Not so easy to navigate, and therefore not often used.”

“So, are you going to tell me precisely what’s in this valley?” Dhamon prompted. “Diamonds, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Why so secretive?”

“I thought you liked surprises.”

“Never said that. You must be thinking of Riki.”

Maldred grinned and shook his head, reaching forward and tugging free a hunk of meat. “There will be windfall profits, partner,” he said, “if we can pull it off. I wouldn’t even consider attempting it without you.”

Dhamon’s dark eyes gleamed, reflecting the light and his curiosity.

“It will be easy, I think. All we have to do is…” Maldred caught Rikali listening and shook his head. “Best I keep the details to myself until we get there.” He lowered his voice until Dhamon had to strain to hear him. “Fetch’ll do whatever we want, go wherever we tell him. But we don’t need Rikali getting all excited and upset. Trust me?”

“With my life,” Dhamon said. “Keep your surprise for a while longer.”

The big man rose and stretched and cocked his head back to take in the night sky. A riot of stars winked down, and he raised a finger to trace a design in them. “I, too, trust you with my life, my friend. I’ve not said that to another man before. But in the four months since you’ve drifted into my company I’ve come to think of you as a brother.”

Dhamon reached for the jug and unstoppered it, drank greedily for several moments. “I’ve had… few friends I could trust like that, either.”

Maldred chuckled. “I can read your mind, my friend. What are you thinking about? Palin Majere and the mystic Goldmoon?” Maldred stopped tracing stars. “I’d say your travels at their behest added to your character, Dhamon Grimwulf. And taught you the true meaning of friendship.”

“Aye, perhaps,” Dhamon agreed, raising the jug in toast. “Friendship is important.” He drank deep again, then met the big man’s gaze. Dhamon’s eyes were unblinking. “I’ve told you considerable about my past,” he said evenly. “But I know little about you.”

“Nothing much to tell. I’m a thief. Who dabbles in magic.” He padded from the fire and stretched out on a blanket, hands cupped behind his head as a pillow. Fetch scampered over, took a last puff on his pipe, shook out the tobacco, and carefully put the pipe away. Then he curled up between Maldred’s feet and in an instant was softly snoring.

Dhamon tugged free a hunk of charred meat and chewed on it almost thoughtfully. The odd beast called Ruffels was tasty and tender. He had slaughtered it himself on his return from the scouting trip. No one in the bandit camp would buy the accursed creature, and it had gobbled down a few more pieces of Rikali’s jewelry.

“Do you like this?” Rikali had slid behind him, draping a gossamer-fine scarf in front of his eyes.

“Very pretty,” he replied, craning his neck and glancing up at her.

The half-elf’s face was heavily made-up, her eyelids and lips painted the color of a ripe plum, her silver-white curls piled high atop her head and held in place by a jade comb she’d found in one of the wagons. She was wearing a dark green tunic made of a satiny fabric. It was a little too tight, which seemed to suit her. “And don’t you think I’m very pretty, too?”

Dhamon nodded and made a move to rise. But she dropped the scarf over his face and eased down next to him. He gazed appreciatively at her somewhat hazy and celestial form. “Riki, you’re very pretty.” He gave her a hint of a smile. “And you know it. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

She waggled her fingers at him, showing off the new rings she’d claimed from the merchant stores. She had tried unsuccessfully to talk him out of the old pearl ring he’d stolen from the hospital—and out of any of the best pieces from that haul. But the hospital booty had not been fairly divided. Still, there were several new bracelets on each of her wrists and around one of her ankles. She’d discarded her boots in favor of soft leather sandals that she also appropriated, and she had managed to find a thick gold ring to fit around one toe.

“You don’t need all that… decoration,” he said.

“Ah, lover, but I do.” She kissed the jeweled Legion of Steel ring on his hand. “It’s easier to carry my baubles than a heavy sack of coins. And they’re much lovelier to look at than minted pieces of steel. But some day I’ll trade all of this in for a fine house far from the dragons and Knights and this insufferably hot weather. On an island, I think. One that catches the cool breezes when the summer tries to get too unbearable. One where it never snows. A perfect, beautiful island. It’ll be just me and you there—and company when we invite them. And we’ll have a big strawberry garden ringed with a field of daisies.” She leaned close and kissed him, lingering so he could smell the sweet musky perfume she’d liberally applied. “And maybe we’ll have a babe or two to cuddle and watch grow up.” She shuddered and giggled. “But not for quite a while, Dhamon Grimwulf. I’m much too young for all of that, and I’ve too much o’ the world to see first.” She tugged free the scarf and kissed him again.

When she pulled back, her face was serious. “Tell me you love me, Dhamon Grimwulf.”

“I love you, Riki.” He said the words, but there was no ardor in them, and his eyes did not meet hers.

She smiled wistfully and teased the hair that hung over his high forehead. “Someday you’ll mean it.”

They settled down, nestled together, but Dhamon’s mind was elsewhere. Once again he had felt the scale begin to burn. It was a slight sensation at first, a not unpleasant warmth. It always started this way, the gentle warmth, almost comforting in a way, teasing him. And after several minutes, sometimes as much as an hour, the warmth began to build.

Now he gritted his teeth, trying to focus on Rikali’s sensual ramblings, but all he felt was the growing heat. Hot as a flame now, it felt like it was melting his flesh. All he heard was the pounding of his heart, so loud in his ears it was deafening. The jabs of cold started next, alternating with the burning until fire and ice pulsed outward from the scale with each breath he took. The pain was consuming him. Despite his best efforts, he started to shake. He slammed his mouth shut and felt his teeth involuntarily grind together, felt his fingers twitch and the muscles in his legs move uncontrollably.

In the back of his mind he saw the red dragon and the Dark Knight who, long ago, had cursed him with the scale. “Remove it and you’ll die,” the Knight had said, repeating the words in a whisper that sounded like a chorus of maddened ghosts. He saw, too, a glaive, the glaive that was now carried by Rig, though it had once been borne by Dhamon. Saw the glaive in his hands, saw it bearing down on Jasper Fireforge, cleaving into the dwarf’s chest and sorely wounding him. Saw his arms raise the glaive again and strike down Goldmoon, slaying her—or so he thought. He felt something then, in a small faraway place in his mind, grief and horror and a desire to be dead in Goldmoon’s stead.

As the pain mounted, he watched and watched. He saw it all happen again, watched the months melt away until a shadow dragon and he were in a cave. A silver dragon used her magic to alter the scale. Then memory vanished as the pain intensified, making it impossible for him to think of anything more.

Rikali snuggled even closer and kissed his damp forehead. Tears welled up in her eyes, her fingers closed about his arm. “It’ll pass, lover,” she said. “Just like always.”