Downfall

CHAPTER FIVE Talk of Redemption

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t haul your loathsome carcass back to Ironspike and let them hang you. One reason! Hell, I ought to supply the rope and pick out the tree. Robbing a hospital—from injured Knights no less. Knights, Dhamon! Big-as-you-please Legion of Steel ones.” Rig sat heavily on the ground. Dhamon glanced over his shoulder at the jug of spirits, contemplated hollering for Fetch to bring it to him.

The mariner rested the glaive on his knees and glared at the Legion of Steel ring on Dhamon’s hand. “One damn reason! And don’t you even think about saying ‘for old time’s sake’.”

Dhamon looked away toward the dying campfire, where Maldred, Rikali, and Fetch were attempting to entertain a furiously pacing Fiona.

“Maldred wouldn’t let you s’haul me anywhere,” Dhamon finally said. His words were slurred a little. He nodded toward the big man. “Tha’s Maldred.”

Rig snorted. “Right. Maldred. You’ve told me his name three times now—whoever in the deep levels of the Abyss Maldred is. He’s worse off than you are, arm all bandaged like that. You’re limping—and dead drunk. A fine pair of cripples you are. An’ that elf…»

“Rikali’s a half-elf.”

“She’s hurt, too. An’ the clothes she’s wearing, the paint on her face, all that jewelry.”

“Leave her outta it.”

“The whole lot of you stink worse than three-day-old fish.”

Dhamon shrugged, his face unreadable.

“Where’s Feril?”

No answer.

“And that… creature?”

“Fetch,” Dhamon said, blinking and trying to bring Rig completely into focus.

“He’s a… kobold.” The word sounded like the mariner was spitting out a bad piece of meat. “A two-legged rat. A damnable, stinking little monster the likes of which me and Shaon fought more than once in the Blood Sea Isles and…”

“Aye, that he is. A s’kobold. But he works for Maldred, and he’s harmless enough.”

“Harmless. Ha! You’re all a wretched bunch of thieves as far as me and Fiona’re concerned.” Rig shook his head in disgust, the sweat flying off his face. “Stealing from the hospital. Burning down a stable and taking half the town with it. Did you know that? Half the town burnt to cinders. Do you care? And stealing horses. Where are our horses? The ones we rode into Ironspike. You were riding mine out of town last I saw. Your elf… half-elf… had Fiona’s. Our horses! All I can see are what you’re using to pull that old wagon.”

“Sold those horses some days ago to a camp s’of bandits.”

“You stranded us in that dwarven town!” The mariner tightly gripped the haft of the glaive and narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t have even been there if Fiona hadn’t heard you were in the area, heard what you’d been up to. Probably had it in her pretty head that she could redeem you. Ha!” The veins in his neck bulged like thick cords, and he let out a deep breath between his clenched teeth. “Those were damn good horses, Dhamon. Expensive. What we’re riding now’re…”

“If I recall, we got quite a s’few steel pieces for your horses.”

“Why, I ought to…”

“Kill me?” Dhamon’s expression lightened and he laughed, rocking back on his haunches and almost losing his balance.

“That’d be too good for you,” came Rig’s clipped reply. Another breath of steam. “Too easy. I ought to drag your sorry self off to prison and let you rot there for the rest of your miserable life. No Palin Majere or Goldmoon nearby to save you. And neither you nor that man you call Maldred would have a hope of stopping me.”

“Me? Stop you? Not at the moment s’anyway.”

Rig growled from deep in his throat and ground his heels into the dirt. “I don’t understand, Dhamon. What’s happened to you?”

Dhamon’s fingers unconsciously worried at a thread hanging from his shirt. His fingers felt thick and clumsy from the alcohol. “The Dhamon Grimwulf you knew is dead. I’m a different person, Rig. You have to accept that.”

Rig was silent for several moments, probing Dhamon’s face and waiting for him to continue. He’d seen Dhamon Grimwulf ragged before, wearing the dirt of a hard-traveled trail. But this was different—far worse, his hair tangled, face covered with stubble, fingernails cracked and caked. Rig shuddered.

When it was clear Dhamon wasn’t going to volunteer any explanation, the mariner pressed him on a different matter. “So you’re with that woman over there. I can tell by the way she watches you. Interesting looking company. But where’s Feril? She know what’s going on with you?”

At this repeated mention of the Kagonesti Dhamon once claimed to love, his dark eyes flashed with anger, then he dropped his gaze to study the tip of his worn boot.

The mariner made a clicking sound, shook his head, and finally relaxed his grip on the glaive. “You know that Fiona’ll demand you go back to that town and stand trial for what you did. It’d be only right. Me, I think they’d hang you. And I think maybe I’d help.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Dhamon lifted his head to stare at Rig. “Besides, I’m not going back s’there.”

Rig closed his eyes and tried to calm his temper, counted three breaths, then opened them again and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But only because I’ve got too many other things to worry about right now than carting a dirty drunk back down through the mountains. You’re just not worth it. But it’d be the right thing to do. The honorable thing. Remember that word, Dhamon? Honor? You used to say it often enough. ‘Live by honor. And you got me to believe in it.”

“Honor’s a hollow s’word, Rig.”

The mariner’s next words were slow and deliberate and drawn out. “You owe me an explanation.”

Dhamon tipped his head back and stared at the night sky. A growing number of clouds hid most of the stars, but a few twinkled through. He thought he saw a tongue of lightning and the flash, real or imagined, made him recall Gale, the blue dragon he once rode when he served with the Knights of Takhisis. “I owe no one. And you trailed me s’here for nothing. Your horses are gone. And you’ll get nothing out of me for them.” He felt some of the alcohol’s effects fading away, his head starting to throb, and he wished the jug were within arm’s reach so he could make himself thoroughly numb again. He glanced over at Maldred—the jug was at his feet. Not that terribly far away.

Rig slapped his thigh, pulling Dhamon’s attention back. “Wish we hadn’t found this camp. Wish Fiona and me…”

“I wish you weren’t here either.”

“Damn fate.”

“What, Rig? You blame it on fate that you happen to be in the same stretch of mountain? Coincidence?” There was another flash in the sky, this one real. Dhamon’s eyes sparkled at the possibility of rain. He shook his head. “I don’t believe such a faerie story. I believe you were looking for us.”

Rig snorted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You think you’re so important,” he mumbled. The mariner closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them. “We took the first decent trail we could find through the Kalkhists and we met up with some merchants—offered them protection in exchange for a ride. They were quick to take our offer, seems the folks who still have to travel these passes are skittish with all the recent robberies and are taking on sellswords. Seems there’s a thieving band that’s been raiding wagons up and down this range—a giant of a man, a black-maned brigand, a painted woman, and a… creature.”

“Guilty,” Dhamon cut in, squaring his shoulders as if in pride.

“The merchants took us to the next town and we bought a couple of old draft horses there,” he said, pointing toward the south, where Dhamon squinted to make out two big mares. Even in the darkness it was obvious they weren’t as well bred as the pair Rig and Fiona had in Ironspike. “And then we continued on this trail. Saw your fire when we intended to stop for the night and thought we’d take a look. Thought you might be the merchants we befriended. But it was purely a coincidence we crossed paths.”

“Pity we weren’t the merchants.”

Rig stared at him for several minutes, his brow furrowing with a dozen thoughts. Then his eyes trailed away to watch Fiona.

The Solamnic was sitting on a log near Maldred, occasionally glancing Rig’s way and steepling her fingers—a gesture she practiced when she was uncomfortable. The half-elf was standing at Fiona’s shoulder, alternating between inspecting the Knight and casting flirtatious looks at Dhamon. She strolled the length of the wagon, hips undulating and shoulders swaying. The kobold was sitting cross-legged at the big man’s side, his glowing red eyes focused solely on the mariner.

“You’re welcome to share our camp tonight, Rig.” Dhamon finally broke the silence. His mouth felt dry. Another glance at the jug. “This is ogre country, and you’re safer with us than on your own, especially this late at night. In the morning, we’ll go our separate ways. You should head back into Khur—if you’re smart.”

Rig’s eyes cut into Dhamon. “You owe me an explanation,” he repeated with more force. “Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?”

Dhamon sighed. “And then I suppose you’ll let me get some sleep?”

The mariner said nothing, continuing to stare.

“All right,” Dhamon relented. “For old time’s sake.” He settled himself into a more comfortable position, but grimaced when he heard the scrabble of small feet.

“Dhamon’s gonna tell a story,” Fetch said with glee, revealing that he’d been using his acute hearing to eavesdrop on their conversation. The kobold picked a spot near Dhamon, just outside the reach of Rig’s glaive, then he waggled his bony fingers to get Rikali’s attention. He pulled out the ‘old man/ already filled with tobacco, hummed at his finger and thrust it into the bowl, lighting it. Then the kobold puffed away, blowing smoke rings in the mariner’s direction.

The half-elf glided over, kneeling behind Dhamon, and languidly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She nuzzled his neck and winked slyly at Rig.

The mariner looked across the camp to Fiona, who nodded as if to say, “I will stay here and keep an eye on Maldred.” She turned her attention back to the big man, intending to learn something about this band of thieves.

“You’ve questions, Lady Knight,” Maldred began, his expression gentle and his good hand relaxed on his knee. He let the silence settle between them before continuing. “I can tell it from your face. It’s a beautiful face, one that is most easy on my weary eyes. But you’ve some unbecoming worry wrinkles here. All those questions surfacing.” He reached up and tenderly touched her forehead, where her brow was creased in thought. “Your mind is working far too hard. Relax and enjoy the evening, it’s finally cooling a bit.”

Her stiff posture proved she wasn’t yet willing to do that. She steepled her fingers again and sucked her lower lip under her teeth.

“We’ll not hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said almost angrily. They were the first words she had spoken to the stranger.

He raised an eyebrow. “I can see that,” he continued, his deep voice soothing and melodic, almost hypnotic. Fiona found herself enjoying listening to it, and that disturbed her more than a little. “Though perhaps, Lady Knight, you should be afraid of us. Some call our small band cutthroats, and many decent folks around here fear us. Still, I’ll not raise a weapon against you, at least not unless your rash friend over there…”

“Rig,” she said.

“Rig. That’s right. An Ergothian, correct? Dhamon mentioned him several times before. He’s a long way from home. Unless Rig starts something.” He traced her steepled fingers, his eyes still capturing hers.

“You’ve already hurt enough people,” she said. She shook her head when he offered her a drink from the jug of spirits, and she brushed a stubborn, sweat-soaked curl from her forehead. “In Ironspike, you killed several dwarves. Knights. And many buildings were burned.” She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, clasped and unclasped her hands, as if her fingers needed to be doing something.

“Lady Knight,” again the sonorous, musical voice. She relaxed just a little, opened her eyes, and found herself looking straight at him. His face seemed kind, yet rugged, and his nose was long and narrow like the beak of a hawk. “Lady Knight, I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it—or who didn’t ask for it by raising a weapon against me and our friends. All life is precious. And though I readily admit I am a thief, life is the one thing I am loath to steal.” He edged closer and smiled when her expression calmed. He stretched his good hand up and brushed away another damp curl. “Lady Knight, I won’t lie to you and say I’m an upright man. But I’m a loyal one.” He gestured to Dhamon and Rikali. “I stand by my friends and by my principles. To the death, if need be.”

“Ironspike. Justice would demand…” She was having trouble getting all the necessary words out and was getting lost in his eyes. She blinked and focused instead on his strong chin.

Maldred nodded. “Ah, yes, justice.” He laughed softly, melodically.

Her eyes narrowed, and the big man frowned and shook his head. “You’ve spirit. Your hair like flames, your eyes filled with fire. Spirit and beauty—and I’ll wager skill with a sword, else you wouldn’t have that armor. But don’t mar your face so with troubled thoughts.” Then his eyes caught hers again and held them unwavering. “Life is far too short for that, Lady Knight. Fill your mind with pleasant ideas instead.”

She felt her cheeks flush and mentally chastised herself for keeping civil company with the handsome rogue. “Dhamon stole from wounded Knights,” she said, her tone instantly hard.

“And you think he should be tried for that? I couldn’t let that happen,” Maldred interjected. “He’d be found guilty. And then I would lose my friend.”

She shook her head, her eyes still locked to his. “You don’t understand. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Ah, I see! You’re here to redeem your old companion. He’s not the same man you knew. But he’s the Dhamon I’ve become close to.” Maldred offered her the jug again, and this time she took it, surprising herself and drinking deep, then passing it back and glancing across the camp at Rig, who seemed caught up in whatever Dhamon was saying. She blinked, not used to drinking the alcohol, then it went to her head, making her hotter than the summer.

She made a move to join the others, feeling oddly vulnerable in the company of Maldred, but he put a hand on her knee. The warm, light touch was somehow enough to hold her in place.

“You can’t redeem Dhamon,” he said.

She drew her lips into a thin line. “I’m not here to redeem him.” Her hand drifted down to the pommel of her sword.

Rikali snuggled as close to Dhamon as she could, making a display of her affections for Rig’s benefit. She traced Dhamon’s jawline with her fingertips, then her thumb stretched down to rub the thong around his neck. It held the dwarf’s diamond that she coveted. The gem was hidden beneath his tattered shirt, and her teasing threatened to reveal it. Dhamon brushed all hands away. She scowled, then winked at him, amusing herself by toying with his boot laces. “Is this a tale I’ve heard, lover? Not that I mind hearin’ the same ones again. But if it’s a new one, I’ll pay more attention.”

Dhamon shook his head and looked at Rig. “There’s not any one thing that changes a man,” he began. “No one thing made you righteous and turned you away from being a pirate.”

Rig met his gaze. “And with you?”

“With me it was a lot of things. More than I care to remember or perhaps more than I care to count. We fought the dragons at the Window to the Stars. We lived, but we didn’t win. Nothing can beat the dragons. I guess that was the start of it—the realization we can never win.”

“The start?”

“Something else happened a long ways from here. Not too long after all of us parted company.”

The mariner raised an eyebrow.

“Seems like it was the other side of the world,” Dhamon mused. “In dragon lands. A forest held by Beryl, the great green overlord some call The Terror. There was terror, all right,” Dhamon said. “And death. And the tale is quite a long one.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”