Dhamon closed his eyes, the blackness swallowing Rig and Rikali and the kobold. He focused on the incident, shivering slightly from the memory, and shutting out the sounds of the crackling campfire and the hushed conversation of Fiona and Maldred. At length, he opened his eyes and reluctantly began his story.
Dhamon Grimwulf looked different, his face fuller and form a little thicker. His ebony hair hung only to the bottom of his jaw. It was trimmed evenly and well combed. His face was smooth and clean-shaven, his skin only lightly tanned, his clothes were in excellent repair. Beneath his wooly coat, he wore leather breeches and a chain mail shirt. And strapped around his waist was a recently forged long sword, a gift from the Qualinesti for taking on this difficult task.
The mountains were different, too, not as steep, though still craggy and made perilous because of winter. Ice coated the narrow trail that Dhamon was leading a group of men and women down. Bundled in furs and weighted down with supplies and weapons, they picked their way tediously along the western ledge until they reached the bottom of the foothills where the snow and ice gave way to forest that was somehow more hospitable.
“Your orders, Sir!” the lead mercenary snapped. He was young and eager to please, and stood rigidly at attention.
Dhamon eyed his line of charges, nearly four dozen mercenaries gathered at the request of Palin Majere in the city of Barter, deep off Ice Mountain Bay. Most of them were battle-tested Qualinesti elves. The Qualinesti had sought Palin’s help against a young green dragon.
One of the mercenaries was an Ergothian, who by the number of daggers he carried and his confident swagger reminded Dhamon of Rig. And there were a few other humans in the mix.
Three elves were women, so small and slight they looked like children. By their cold eyes and the numerous scars on their arms, Dhamon was certain they were the most seasoned warriors in the group. He intended to rely heavily on them.
It had been several years since Dhamon commanded men, and that was for the Knights of Takhisis. But issuing orders and not second-guessing his own decisions still came easy, and he spit out commands as if this collection of mercenaries—volunteer and paid—were Dark Knights. His experience leading men had prompted Palin to approach him about this mission. That, and his experience with dragons.
“It’ll be dark soon. Set up camp and we’ll rest for a few hours,” Dhamon told them. “We’ll break before dawn. Gauderic, assign a watch.” No watch for me this night, he decided. He was so very tired. Just a few hours of sleep would put him back in top form. A few hours’ respite from the walking and the wind and the memories that gnawed at his mind. There’d been no time for rest since he and his companions—Rig, Fiona, Feril, Jasper—fought the dragons at the Window to the Stars portal in Neraka nearly four months past.
At the Window, an ancient stone ruin that had once held enough magic to act as a passageway to other realms, Malystryx had summoned all of the other dragon overlords. Gellidus the White, Beryllinthranox the Green Peril, Onysablet from the swamp, and Khellendros the Storm Over Krynn—agreed to help Malys ascend to godhood. All of them had been collecting powerful magical artifacts, intending to use the energy released in destroying them to turn Malys into the next Takhisis, god-queen of the dragons.
Dhamon, Rig, and their small band of heroes had likewise been collecting artifacts, to keep them from the Red. And they traveled to the Window to the Stars in an effort to stop Malys’s transformation.
It was a foolish undertaking Dhamon realized even then, a handful of mortals going against dragons—the most powerful dragons on Krynn. Still, his heart burned with a righteous fury the night that they made their way up a winding path to the plateau that held the Window. Then his heart nearly stopped at the terrifying sight of the massive dragons gathered there.
One of the overlords spotted them as they were hunkered down behind some rocks. Fortunately, Malys was in the midst of some intricate enchantment and was pulling energy from the gathered artifacts. She refused to be distracted, which bought Dhamon and his comrades precious seconds.
Dhamon rushed forward, intending to fight Malys. He vowed to exact revenge for the scale that was on his leg and to end her tyranny. He also expected to die. Help came from an unexpected source—The Storm Over Krynn. The great blue dragon tossed a lance Dhamon’s way, one of the original dragonlances and one of the most arcane weapons ever forged on Krynn.
Amid all the fire and the chaos of that terrible night, the great red overlord was seriously wounded by the lance Dhamon wielded. And she was tossed into the Blood Sea by her blue dragon rival. The massive blue gained the power Malys sought that night.
Dhamon was certain Khellendros could slay them all with a single swipe of his claw, and that the dragon with but a thought could become as powerful as Takhisis. However, rather than using the mystical energy to ascend to godhood, the blue used it to activate the ancient portal, the Window. The dragon, called Skie by men, gave Dhamon and his companions leave—his boon to recognize their contribution in foiling the red dragon’s plans. Then the massive blue flew through the Window and disappeared.
After Dhamon and the others left the Window to the Stars, some of them vowed to continue their struggle against the overlords—in their own fashions. His beloved Feril returned to her Kagonesti homeland of Southern Ergoth, saying she needed some time alone to think matters over, and some time to study the White called Frost. For a time, he told himself that she would return and they would be together again. That thought helped to bolster Dhamon’s spirits and keep his fire kindled against the dragons and their minions. But the weeks passed without any word from her, and then a few months strolled by carrying whispers that she’d found another.
Rig and Fiona, who’d sworn their love for each other and vowed to marry, traveled to the coast of the Blood Bay on the Blood Sea of Istar. Dhamon had made no attempt to stay in contact with them.
The sorcerer Palin and his wife Usha went to the Tower of Wayreth to pursue their studies of the dragon overlords. It was Palin who remained closest to Dhamon through magical and mundane messages and who asked the former Knight to assist with various tasks.
The kender Blister went to the Citadel of Light to study the healing arts under Goldmoon’s expert tutelage. Dhamon had heard she was doing exceedingly well, but he had not visited her since they parted company after the Window.
Groller went to who knew where. The deaf half-ogre had his own personal demons to deal with. Dhamon suspected Palin knew where Groller was, but he never bothered to ask the sorcerer. It wasn’t his concern.
And Dhamon… who went away on this mission prompted by Palin—a mission to slay a young green dragon who was tyrannizing the Qualinesti in this part of the forest—was so very tired. Just a few hours sleep was all he needed. A little time.
But there was no time to himself. No time to think. No time to forget about the dragons. Dhamon and his men were at the edge of the forest now.
“Sir?”
The lithe elf named Gauderic roused Dhamon from his musings. Gauderic was his second-in-command, and in the short time they’d been together the elf had earned Dhamon’s respect and friendship.
“Windkeep is along that river.” Gauderic pointed to the southwest, where a thin ribbon of dark blue cut through the trees. The setting sun sent just enough light through the canopy to fling sparkling motes of orange across the swiftly moving water. “Sir, we’ll be able to get…”
“More mercenaries there, Gauderic, “Dhamon finished.
“I know. Forty or fifty, Palin told me. We’ll be there before noon tomorrow. Get some rest.”
The air was chill as they struck out before dawn, cold enough to make their cheeks rosy and to keep their bare hands buried deep in their pockets. Still, it was not near so cold as what they breathed on their arduous trek through the Kharolis Mountains to get here. The air smelled rich and so full of life.
The men would follow Dhamon without question, most admiring him to the point of hero-worship—he’d shaken off the mantle of a Dark Knight, dared to stand up to the Dragon Overlords, and was the chosen hero of Goldmoon and Palin Majere, two of the most powerful and influential people on the face of Krynn. Dhamon Grimwulf was a living legend, his deeds whispered regularly, and in his company they envisioned being part of some grand and glorious feat that would be the stuff of tavern tales. Their spirits were impossibly high.
However, it did not take long for those spirits to plummet.
Dhamon led his men into Windkeep and discovered that the elves who were to join them were dead—as were all the rest of the villagers. Nothing stood in Windkeep. The birch log homes, so lovingly constructed by their owners, appeared as so much wreckage. Bolts of fine cloth flapped like pennants amidst splintered furniture and broken dishes. Toys were pressed into the earth, as if the people had carelessly stepped on them in their panic—not realizing there really was nowhere to run. The dead were everywhere—old and young, innocent infants, dogs that had stayed with their masters to the very end.
At first glance, it looked as if the bodies that littered the area around what was once the great house had been dead for a few weeks. Dhamon and his second knelt by the corpse of an elven woman. Both fought to keep from retching. What was left of her tunic had practically melted into her colorless flesh. Her hair was oddly brittle, crumbling like spun glass when they touched it. Her exposed skin was bubbled and grotesquely scarred. Bone showed through in places where the flesh had been eaten away— not by animals or insects. No living creatures of any size could be found in the village remains.
“A dragon,” Dhamon whispered.
“Sir?” His second stepped away from the corpse only to find himself staring at another body equally as ghastly, made worse on closer inspection because it cradled a dead babe to its rotting chest. Gauderic whirled and doubled over, vomited until he was weak. Several minutes later when he regained his composure, he found Dhamon kneeling by an uprooted tree, studying something on the ground.
Dhamon pushed himself to his feet, his hand pressing into the scale on his leg. The scale was tingling faintly. It was a warm sensation he dismissed as nerves. “The wind from the dragon’s wings destroyed the homes and uprooted a few saplings. Its breath slew these people. I’d say it was recent, within two or three days.”
“No large tracks,” a young elf argued. “A dragon would leave tracks. Any creature that size would. I’ve seen dragon tracks! I don’t think there’s any…”
Dhamon padded away from the center of the village, careful not to step on any of the bodies. At the edge of the pines that ringed what was once Windkeep, he looked outward and motioned for the young elf.
“Out here.” Dhamon pointed several yards away to a clearing. He headed toward it, the young elf silently on his heels.
“For the love of all the firstborn,” the elf breathed. He was staring at a depression, a footprint nearly as long as he was tall. The clearing he gaped at, one filled with small trees and bushes, had been flattened by a great weight.
“The dragon stood here,” Dhamon said, then he turned and pointed toward Windkeep. “And he managed to kill all those people.”
“How?”
Dhamon gestured for his men to join him at the edge of the village. The troop of humans and elves stood at attention, their eyes—wide in disbelief—continued to scan the ruins and bodies. “This dragon is fairly small.”
“Small?” he saw Gauderic mouth. The once-brave man had grown pale.
“I would guess from the footprint that he’s less than sixty feet long. Palin was certain we could best him with all of you and the men who were to join us. I agree. He’s far from an overlord, and he’s not a brave dragon, taking on this village from such a distance. Perhaps he fears men. The hunting parties he has been attacking have been small.”
“Sir!” It was one of the human mercenaries. Dhamon recalled the man had an elven wife, and though she was safe in their home in New Ports far to the north and on the other side of the mountains, she had close ties to this land. “If we turn back, the dragon will keep on killing. It’s bad enough that the Green Peril holds this realm. But she…”
“Doesn’t so wantonly slay her subjects. At least not anymore,” Dhamon finished. “Aye. But perhaps this young one is simply beneath the notice of the Green.”
“Or perhaps not,” Gauderic muttered. “Perhaps the Green Peril does not care about her ‘subjects’ and…”
Dhamon cleared his throat. “I say we press on and find this dragon and deal with him.”
A chorus of murmurs from most of the men indicated they weren’t eager to face a dragon without adding to their number. But Dhamon began issuing orders, and they nervously fell in line, some continuing to stare mutely at the bodies. Gauderic was quick to assign his two brothers and his friends the task of digging graves, using the few tools they could salvage. And the following morning, after a simple ceremony to honor the dead had been conducted, the mercenary band continued on.
The Qualinesti Forest, called Beryl’s Forest by those who lived outside it, as well as by some of those who lived within and claimed fealty to the overlord, was truly impressive. Even before the dragon staked a claim to the land in the midst of the terrible Dragon Purge, it was a vast, ancient woods with more than a thousand varieties of trees.
But after the dragon arrived and began altering the land, the forest turned strange and primeval. Now, trees stretched more than a hundred feet toward the sky, their trunks thicker around than a bull elephant. Vines choked with flowers that could handle the coolness of winter wound their way up maple and oak giants and scented the air with an almost oppressively sweet fragrance. There were a few patches where something wasn’t growing. Moss was thick everywhere, however, and spread in all directions in dazzling shades of emerald and blue-green. Ferns as tall as a man overhung streams and shaded dense patches of fist-sized mushrooms. Leaves were green and vibrant. Life was teeming.
The birds were plump and healthy from the abundance of fruit and insects. Gauderic pointed out several types of parrots that would normally be found in tropical lands. Small game thrived and skittered out of the path of the men. Rabbits and other animals had multiplied in staggering numbers. There were a few trails, made by the Qualinesti who traveled from village to village or who hunted along the Windsrun River. But the magic of the forest kept the trails from becoming well worn. Moss and vines grew across them almost as quickly as they were tramped down by booted feet. Each trail Dhamon found looked like it had been newly forged.
Dhamon recalled that Feril had talked about this forest, which she had ventured into with Palin and the dwarf Jasper Fireforge. The Kagonesti considered it intoxicating. He could almost picture her face in the whorls of a great oak. His eyes took on a softness when he thought of her, and his fingers reached up to touch the patch of bark he envisioned as her cheek.
“Sir! I’ve found tracks! Over here!” The excitement was high in the human scout’s voice. He was one of four who had fanned out from the main trail. “Look, they’re difficult to make out, sir, and I almost missed them. But here’s an impression. And here’s part of another one.”
Dhamon shook off his musings, knelt, and traced the impression of a print. He was a skilled tracker, schooled by the Knights of Takhisis when he joined their ranks as a youth, taught more nuances by an aging Solamnic Knight who befriended him and lured him away from the dark order. His time with the Kagonesti Feril had further improved his mastery. Feril, he thought again.
The young man waited for Dhamon to say something.
“Aye, they are dragon tracks,” Dhamon confirmed, his voice even but hesitant. “Hard to tell how old they are.”
“And our course follows these tracks!” The young man beamed. He was saying something else, but Dhamon wasn’t listening. He was studying the flowering ground cover that had been pressed into the earth. The tracks belonged to a larger dragon than the one that apparently destroyed Windkeep, and already the forest was recovering from the weight of the dragon’s tread. Moss had sprung up, small broken branches were mending.
Dhamon felt the scale on his leg tingle uncomfortably. “Nerves,” he whispered. He rose and scanned the brush for more prints, noting that the young tracker was doing the same. The man gestured to the west, toward what looked like a tamped-down patch of fern grass, and the pair started for it. But they stopped in a heartbeat when a strangled cry cut through the air behind them.
Birds shot from the trees in a great cloud of squawking color, and small animals that had been hidden by the undergrowth burst away in a wave. There was a thrashing to the south, larger animals also running, and there was the pounding of boots across the ground—the mercenaries were also fleeing.
Dhamon whirled and sped back toward the trail, mindless of the branches that whipped at his face and tugged at his cloak. The young tracker did his best to follow.
“Run!” Gauderic was hollering to the men. “Spread out and run!”
“Fool elf!” Dhamon cried as he rushed toward the river bank. He hurried past a thick clump of willow birches, leaping over a large rock and sidestepping a stagnant puddle. The green of the forest was a blur as he raced toward his men.
“Charge the dragon!” he bellowed. “That’s an order, Gauderic! Charge and fan out! Come at the beast from several directions! Don’t you dare turn tail!” It took him only a few moments to corral the men and force them forward.
And it took another few minutes for half of his men to die.
Those charging well ahead of Dhamon were caught in a cloud of foul chlorine. They fell screaming, twitching, clawing at their faces and clothes, sobbing uncontrollably. A few thought quickly to roll into the river, where the chill water helped to wash away the horrible film of the green dragon’s breath. But most just gave up in the face of all the pain and succumbed.
Dhamon raced toward the front of the line, nimbly avoiding the fallen mercenaries. Bubbles spread across their chins and foreheads like those he’d seen on the elven villagers. Those at the very front had fared even worse, as they had shouldered the brunt of the dragon’s breath. The chlorine gas was deep in their lungs, the chemical so caustic it was eating away at them inside and out.
“Murderer!” Dhamon cried to the dragon.
The great beast cast a long shadow across the trail. It was half-in, half-out of the river, had probably lain in wait for them, rising to surprise them with its cloud of deadly gas. It was indeed much larger than the rogue dragon they were hunting—roughly a hundred feet from nose to tail tip.
The supple plates on the dragon’s belly glimmered like wet emeralds, catching the morning light that seeped through the branches. The scales on the rest of its body were shaped like elm leaves and ranged from a drab olive shade to a dark, bright blue-green that nearly matched the needles of the tall spruces nearby. The dragon’s eyes gleamed dully yellow, and were cut through by black catlike slits. A large crested ridge the color of new ferns ran from the top of her head down her neck, disappearing in the shadow of leathery wings. She had one horn, on the right side of her head, black and twisting away from her, misshapen like an accident of birth. There was no nub where the second horn should have grown.
The few mercenaries left were backing away, mesmerized by the sight of her, afraid to turn their backs to her.
“Fight her!” Dhamon heard himself scream. “Don’t back down! Don’t run!”
The mercenaries paused for just an instant, looking to Gauderic, who was still standing. “No,” he mouthed to Dhamon in disbelief. But Dhamon furiously shook his head at his second-in-command and gestured for them to move forward.
“Fight her!” Then Dhamon charged, his feet churning over the ground, then flying out from under him as he slipped in a muddy puddle.
In the same instant, the dragon darted forward, brushing against the forest giants and somehow not harming them. Her tail cracked out like a whip, striking the trio of elven women who were advancing on her, swords shining and wet from the chlorine that still hung in the air.
Dhamon’s lungs burned. The chlorine threatened to suffocate him. He made a move to rise, but stopped, watching from his prone position the horrifying tableau that was playing out before his eyes. The sounds were overwhelming—the moans of the men, the shrill cries of the birds, the pounding of his heart. Louder still was the sharp intake of the dragon’s breath. The tingling warmth of the scale on his leg was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Not nerves, he realized. Something else.
He saw one of the elven women leap at the dragon, swinging her sword wildly. The dragon exhaled, a second whirling gout of the chlorine gas. Dhamon managed to avoid the brunt of it, rolling behind a dead mercenary and feeling the caustic mist settle on his clothes and chain mail. His skin stung harshly.
But the elven women were not so lucky. The sickly yellow-green cloud billowed and enveloped them. As one they screamed, a horrid chorus that made Dhamon gag. The thumps of their bodies hitting the ground was soft. The cloud continued to drift outward.
“Damnable beast!” Dhamon heard Gauderic cry. His second-in-command drew in close to the dragon’s belly and struck out with his blade. The weapon bounced off the plating and Gauderic nearly lost his grip on it. He redoubled his efforts and struck harder, putting all of his strength into it and this time meeting with more success. The dragon issued a tremendous roar that momentarily deafened everyone.
Only a dozen of the mercenaries had survived the dragon’s last onslaught and had angled in close enough to strike. As far as Dhamon could tell, those brave ones were trying to follow his orders.
“Stay away from its mouth!” Gauderic was shouting. “Stay close to its body. Hit it low and keep moving! Circle and strike!”
The dragon was sweeping her tail through the foliage, brushing the corpses into the river. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw blood trickling down the dragon’s green scales. Gauderic had opened a wound inside the beast’s rear leg, and its blood ran freely, pooling on the ground. One of the elven mercenaries had managed to plunge his sword between the large scales on its front leg. Not able to pull the blade free, he reached for twin daggers at his side and continued the attack.
Suddenly the dragon reared up and roared. Hope swelled in Dhamon’s chest. There was a chance! However, the scale was becoming increasingly painful. He gulped in the caustic air and tried to move forward, but a knifing pain shot up his leg and rooted him to the spot.
The dragon’s roar changed pitch and faltered. Gauderic cried jubilantly. Through a haze of pain, Dhamon realized his second-in-command was practically covered with the dragon’s blood, and brave Gauderic was continuing to worry at the dragon’s wound.
The dragon thrashed about, head twisting this way and that. Then eyes locked onto Dhamon, and her great, mottled lips pulled back in a sneer. For an instant Dhamon’s heart froze. He managed to scuttle to the side, leaning behind a tree and trying to blot out the burning sensation on his leg.
“Can’t fight like this,” Dhamon spat. “Worthless. I’d be throwing my life away. No help to them.” Then, though a part of him knew better, he turned away from the battle and from Gauderic and hobbled off through the ferns. “No hope for them.”
The sounds of battle grew dimmer. Not only because Dhamon was putting distance between himself and the dragon but because the last of his men were dying. He heard a loud sizzling sound. Then he heard Gauderic’s voice, little more than a whisper now, cry, “She commands magic! The dragon has magic!”
Then Dhamon heard nothing else but the snapping of twigs beneath his feet and the pounding of his heart. The pain in his leg seemed to decrease with every yard he put between himself and the dragon. He wandered in the woods for several days, fully expecting the dragon to track him and kill him, too. But when that didn’t happen, he found his way back to Barter.
It was late at night. Only one tavern was open.
None inside seemed to recognize him, or notice his tattered clothes and matted hair. He’d abandoned the chain mail shirt at the edge of town. Settling himself at an empty table, Dhamon Grimwulf began drinking. Drinking a lot and considering what he would tell Palin Majere.
“Ale!” Dhamon slammed his empty mug against the table, shattering it.
His outburst quieted the crowded tavern for but a heartbeat, then dice games and muted conversations resumed. An elf serving girl, so slight she looked frail, hurried toward him, fresh mug in one hand, pitcher in the other. Expertly dancing her way through the maze of tightly packed tables, she sat the mug in front of Dhamon and quickly filled it.
“S’better,” he offered, his voice thick from alcohol. “I’m thirsty tonight. Don’t let me go dry again.” He took a long pull from the mug, draining it as she watched, then thumped it on the table, though not so hard this time. She poured him another and wrinkled her nose when he loudly belched, his breath competing with his sweat-stained clothes to assault her acute senses.
“Tha’s a good girl,” he said, reaching into his pouch and retrieving several steel pieces. He dropped them in her apron pocket and noted smugly that her eyes went wide at his substantial generosity. “Leave the pitcher.”
She put it within his reach and busied herself brushing at the ceramic shards of his first mug, sweeping them into the folds of her skirt.
“You’re quiet,” he continued. His dark eyes sparkled in the glow of the lanterns that hung from the rafters and softly illuminated all but the farthest corners of the dingy, low-ceilinged establishment. “I like quiet women.” He stretched out a hand, his armpit dark with sweat, and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, tugging her onto his lap and sending the gathered shards to the floor. “An’ I like elves. You remind be jus’ a bit of Feril, an elf I was in s’love with.” He waved his free arm in a grand gesture, knocking over the pitcher and bringing a curse from an old half-elf whom he splashed at an adjacent table. Save for himself and the glowering old half-elf, and two men chatting in front of a merrily burning fireplace, the tavern was filled with full-blooded Qualinesti.
“Barter is primarily an elven village, Sir. Most everyone who lives here is Qualinesti.” She smiled weakly at the irritated half-elf, who was wringing the ale from his long tunic. He softly cursed in the Qualinesti dialect and fixed a sneer at Dhamon with his watery blue eyes.
“Aye, tha’s true, elf-girl. There aren’t many humans aroun’ these lands,” Dhamon said. “They’d make the chair legs an’ the ceilings a might s’taller if there were. Not many humans at all.” His expression softened for a moment, his eyes instantly saddened and locked onto something the serving girl couldn’t see. His grip relaxed, though he didn’t release her, and with his free hand he reached up to gently trace a pointed ear. “Or s’maybe there’s one too many humans. Me.”
She took a good look at him. Had it not been for the tangle of long jet black hair that hadn’t seen a comb in days, and a thick, uneven stubble on his face, she would have considered him quite handsome. He was young for a human, she guessed, not yet thirty. He had a generous mouth that was wet with ale, and his cheekbones were high and strong and deeply tanned from hours in the sun. His shirt and leather vest were open, revealing a lean, muscular chest that shone from sweat as if he’d oiled it. But his eyes were what captured her attention. They were compelling and mysterious, and they held her gaze like a vise.
“Let me go, Sir,” she said, though she did not struggle, and though her words held no conviction. “There’s no need to cause any trouble here.”
“I like quiet women,” Dhamon repeated. For an instant there was a brightening in the eyes, as if a secret thought were working behind them. “Quiet.”
“But she don’t like you.” It was the ale-spattered half-elf. “Let her go.”
Dhamon’s free hand dropped to the pommel of the sword at his waist.
“No trouble,” the girl urged, still staring into his eyes. “Please.”
“All right,” Dhamon finally agreed. He released the girl and the sword, wrapping both of his hands around the mug. He narrowed his eyes at the half-elf, then shrugged. “No trouble.” To the girl, he added almost pleasantly, “Bring me another pitcher. And not this rot you’ve been serving me. How about some of that fine elven wine I’m catching a whiff of. The stronger the s’better. The kind you’ve been bringing the rest.”
“Maybe you’d better leave,” the old half-elf suggested as soon as the girl was gone. His voice was uncharacteristically deep and scratchy. “You’ve had more than enough to drink already.”
Dhamon shook his head. The muscles in his back tensed. “I haven’t had near enough to drink—still awake, ain’t I? But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be on s’my way soon enough. With first s’light I suspect. Then you and none of the s’other Qualinesti will have to stomach me anymore.”
The half-elf took a step closer, and Dhamon saw himself reflected in a large polished medallion that dangled from a fine chain about his neck.
He scowled at the disheveled image.
The half-elf lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Go drown your sorrows somewhere else.”
A hint of a smile tugged at Dhamon’s face, then he opened his mouth to argue, but a gust of chill evening wind interrupted him. The tavern door flew open wide, banging loudly as two more elves entered. They were dusty and haggard-looking, the one carrying a gnarled staff a stranger to his eyes, the other very familiar and decorated with dried blood stains.
“Gauderic,” Dhamon whispered. His face grew ashen as if he’d seen a ghost.
Gauderic likewise noticed him, nudged his companion, and pointed. “That’s him! That’s Palin Majere’s worthless champion!”
At the same time, a colorful skirt swished loudly. “Here’s your elven wine, Sir!” the serving girl musically announced. She gasped as the two elves charged toward them, pounding across the hard-packed dirt floor as they made their way around the tables.
Dhamon stood up, cracking his head on a beam of the low ceiling and bumping into the girl. She fell back against the ale-spattered half-elf, soaking him again as the pitcher slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor.
The half-elf cursed and tried to help the girl to her feet, but they both slipped on the spilled wine, fell in a heap, and became tangled in her skirt. Dhamon ignored them and grabbed the edge of his table, upending it and positioning it as a shield against the two newcomers. The stranger collided with the tabletop and made a sickening thud, as Gauderic nimbly sidestepped the obstacle and raised his sword high.
“Dhamon Grimwulf!” he shouted. “You ordered us to charge the dragon! Charge and die!” He swung the sword in a wild arc above his head, sending the nearby patrons scrambling for cover, wine mugs in tow. “We shouldn’t have listened to you!”
Dhamon kicked Gauderic in the stomach and sent him careening into an abandoned table.
“Noooo!” the serving girl hollered, as she finally managed to pick herself up. She awkwardly scampered through the maze of tables to the back room. “Silverwind! We’ve got trouble! Silverwind! Call the Watch!”
“I didn’t want trouble,” Dhamon grumbled. “I just wanted something to drink.”
Both of the elves had recovered and were coming at him now, though the stranger was a bit groggy and blood ran from his nose. Furniture was being moved toward the walls to better accommodate the fight, and whispers and murmurs of speculation filled the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw the two human men wagering coins. A few of the elf patrons had their hands on their weapons, and Dhamon had no doubt whose side they would take if they decided to join in.
“My wife and sister!” the stranger spat. “Dead! Dead because of you!”
“My brothers and friends!” Gauderic added.
“I didn’t force anyone to come with me!” Dhamon returned. He stooped to keep from bumping his head against the six-foot ceiling. He swung his own blade down, using the flat edge of the weapon and striking the stranger on the shoulder. “Dragons are dangerous! They kill people, dammit! That’s just the way of it and you know it, Gauderic!”
“The green didn’t kill you!” Gauderic returned. “You were lying on your belly, avoiding the fight! You were busy watching your men die!” He wiped the blood that ran from his lip with one hand and drove his other fist hard into Dhamon’s stomach. Dhamon doubled over, and the stranger followed through by swinging his staff solidly into his side.
“You’re coming with us, Dhamon Grimwulf,” the stranger added. “We’re turning you over to the authorities. You’re going to stand trial in Barter! And there won’t be anyone to speak in your defense. I want your death for the death of my wife and sister.”
“Death for death,” came a cry from a corner of the room.
“Try him here!”
“We don’t need a trial!” another patron shouted.
The stranger swung the staff at Dhamon again.
Dhamon felt his ribs crack, the pain instantly sobering him. “I didn’t kill those men. The dragon did. I’ve no quarrel with you,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I don’t even know you.” This he directed to the stranger. “Leave me be!” Favoring his side, he crouched and spun, somehow avoiding blows from both elves. “Leave me be!”
“You ordered them to fight the dragon!” Gauderic repeated. “Ordered them! You should have at least fought and died with them! Coward!”
“You didn’t die either,” Dhamon argued flatly. He brought his sword up to parry another swing of the stranger’s staff. Dhamon’s leg shot up, cracking his boot hard against the chin of the stranger and stunning him. The elf fell to the floor and Dhamon kicked him hard for good measure. He wouldn’t be getting up for quite a while. “I didn’t force anyone to go against the dragon, Gauderic. I didn’t force you.”
“Didn’t you?” Gauderic sneered. He took a step back and caught his breath. Both men eyed each other, chests heaving and knuckles white on their sword pommels. “Palin’s champion! A real hero. You ordered…”
“So I was wrong!” Dhamon spat. “Maybe. But you lived. You lived!”
“Only me!” Gauderic retorted. “And only because the dragon let me!” The elf’s breath was ragged now, green eyes narrowed to slits. “She’d killed them all. All! And I was next. She dropped her head down so close I could see my face reflected in her eyes and feel her breath so hot against my legs. Stared at me and left! At first I thought I was just too inconsequential to be bothered with. Then I realized she was leaving me alive so word of her deeds this day could be spread to other men. I spent hours searching the river, hoping to find at least one more survivor, hoping to find you. All I found were corpses. I eventually found every mercenary—save their glorious leader. And I buried every one of them. It took me days. In that time the dragon came back twice to watch me.”
Dhamon lowered his sword and shook his head.
“I wanted to bury you, too.”
“Kill him!” came a wine-thick voice from a corner. “He let our brothers die! He should die, too!”
Gauderic snarled. “Told me you were a Dark Knight. That you gave it up. Maybe that was all a lie. Maybe you’re still one of them.”
“Dark Knight?” echoed throughout the room.
“Dark Knight of Neraka?” cried the old half-elf.
“That’s what they’re called now,” Dhamon said flatly.
There was a second wave of murmurs, the sound of a few swords being drawn, the creak of wood as patrons leaned against the tables to better take everything in.
There was the clink of more coins being wagered, shouted words in the elf tongue, a faint cry from the back room. This last voice was the serving girl’s, summoning the guard.
“Get the Dark Knight!”
“Kill the traitor!”
Suddenly plates were crashing to the floor. Chairs and benches were tipped over. Someone behind Dhamon hurled a mug, the heavy tankard striking his back. A boisterous curse of “death to the Dark Knight of Neraka” sounded. And from somewhere outside he heard a shrill whistle.
A silvery-haired elf was coming at him, using a chair for a weapon. Another had tugged free a table leg and was trying desperately to wield it like a club. Dhamon easily sidestepped this slightly inebriated pair and moved straight into the path of the old ale-drenched half-elf. The man lowered his head and lunged, ramming into Dhamon’s stomach and momentarily dazing him.
Despite the pain, Dhamon forced himself to react. He brought his sword pommel down with a thud against the old half-elf’s head, sending him to the floor. Dhamon swept the sword in an arc in front of him, keeping several other patrons at bay. He kicked out to his side, connecting with the jaw of a young elf who was merely trying to escape the press of bodies. Blood and teeth flew, and the unfortunate patron changed his mind and decided to join the fray, drawing a dagger and cursing loudly in several languages. The young elf angrily flung the blade at Dhamon, scowling when it bounced off the human’s right thigh and nearly struck another patron.
The edge of a short sword bit deep into his left leg. Dhamon tottered, then dropped to his knees, and a pitcher crashed against his head. Sweet-smelling elven wine soaked his hair and clothes, and rivulets of blood ran down his face from where the ceramic shards had cut his scalp in several places. He shook himself and sent a few shards thunking to the floor as he fought to remain conscious and pushed himself to his feet. He swung out wildly at an elf who was trying to skewer him with an iron poker, knocking the poker aside and bashing the man in the side of the head.
“Stop this at once!” the serving girl cried. She was somewhere behind the mass of elves and shouting as loud as she could manage.
“Stop this!” Another voice joined hers, likely the tavern owner’s. He was banging on a pot and adding to the cacophony, “Don’t break that! Put that down! Please stop!”
“I didn’t start it!” Dhamon cursed as he clumsily leapt over a charging elf wielding a long kitchen knife. He lost his footing and accidentally bowled over three others who were scrambling toward the door. He brushed against a table, and his right pant leg caught on a protruding nail. The fabric ripped, revealing the large midnight black scale on his leg. It was shot through with a vein of silver that caught the lantern light and shimmered.
There was a collective gasp when the elves spotted it, and from deep in the press of bodies someone cried, “Sorcery!”
“It’s from a dragon overlord!” Gauderic bellowed. He was standing on a chair at the edge of the fray, waving his sword. “A black dragon put it on him!”
“No, a black dragon didn’t,” Dhamon futilely corrected. It was the Red.
“He’s an agent of a dragon!” someone else hollered. “Kill him!”
“I’m no one’s agent!” Dhamon screamed as he drove the pommel of his sword down on someone’s head. Then as a dagger tip sliced into the back of his leg, he reflexively struck out with all of his strength at anyone who came close while trying to reach the door.
A half-dozen elves lay sprawled around him, with more dead or unconscious toward the center of the tavern where the fight began. The dirt floor was spattered with wine and blood. Nearly two dozen elves remained standing.
Mugs were hurled against Dhamon’s chest, some rebounding to strike the elves around him. Dhamon kicked out against those nearest to him, noting they seemed wary of the leg with the scale. And he continued to rain blow after blow with the blade and the pommel of his sword, shattering teeth and bones and spattering himself with elf blood.
Suddenly a log was heaved through the air, coming from one of the humans who had up to this point stayed out of the fray. As Dhamon ducked and watched it sail over his head, he was rammed in the back. The impact drove him forward into several elves, who started clutching at him. It was all he could do to hold onto his sword.
“Don’t kill him!” a cry rose above the din. It was Gauderic, who was forcing his way closer. “I want him to stand trial for his atrocities!”
Dhamon vaguely heard another shrill whistle, then another, heard the girl desperately pleading, heard an elf moaning. He felt fist after fist slam into his face, his chest, booted feet kick at him. He thrust forward with his sword just as Gauderic reached him. The blade—given to him by the Qualinesti of Barter—sank deep, crimson flowering on his tunic as the astonished elf dropped to his knees, then pitched forward eyes wide in disbelief. Dhamon’s sword was lodged in him.
As the elves turned their attention to the fallen Gauderic, Dhamon snatched the opportunity to shove past the last few patrons blocking the door. A heartbeat later he was out in the chill night.
The mariner swallowed. “Palin… what did he have to say about the green dragon and all the lost men?”
Dhamon shrugged. “I didn’t look for him.”
“But…”
“I’m done with Palin. I’m done with facing dragons and trying to make things right in this world. Nothing will ever be right again. I told you—we cannot win against the dragons.”
Rig shook his head. “You can’t mean that, Dhamon. After all we’ve been through and all we’ve seen! After all we’ve fought for!”
“I’ve seen enough. There’s no hope, Rig. I’m surprised you haven’t realized that by now. There’re no gods. They’ve abandoned Krynn’s children. There’re only dragons. Jasper was killed by a dragon. Shaon was killed by one I used to ride. All those men—and all the men and women I never knew. We’ve no chance against the dragons. Are you so blind that you don’t see that? Everyone will eventually fall to them. Everyone! So I’m making full use of whatever life I have left. I come first now. I do what I want. Take what I want. Work for whoever I please.”
“That’s wrong,” the mariner started.
“Wrong?” Dhamon laughed.
“Aren’t you ashamed of what you’ve done? The thefts and…”
“No.”
“Ordering your men to fight the dragon?”
“Fight or flee, the outcome would have been the same. The dragon would have hunted them down and slain them anyway.”
“Surely you regret killing Gauderic…”
“I have no regrets,” Dhamon snorted. His eyes were so dark, no pupils were discernible. “Regrets are for fools and for heroes. And I’m neither.”
“Feril would be shocked,” Rig muttered, trying to find some way to reach him.
Dhamon’s face was cold and dispassionate. “Feril is lost to me.”
“No.” The mariner shook his head, dismissing the notion. “I don’t believe that. I saw the way she was always looking at you. Why, you and her were…”
“Last I heard, she was keeping company with another Kagonesti elf on the isle of Cristyne. They’re probably married by now.”
“And so that’s how I met Dhamon,” Maldred was telling Fiona. “In a rundown tavern in Sanction. He was drunk and gambling, arguing with a half-ogre over a few pieces of steel. As bad of shape as Dhamon was in, he took out the half-ogre. Didn’t even have to draw a weapon.”
“And that impressed you?”
Maldred shook his head and let out a clipped laugh. “Not especially.”
“Then what?” Fiona seemed genuinely curious.
“It was his eyes. Like yours, they were filled with fire, and there was a mystery burning behind them, just waiting to be unraveled. Decided I wanted to get to know him, so I waited around until he sobered up. He and I have drifted in and out of each other’s company ever since. Dhamon saved my life twice—once about a month ago when we were far south in these mountains and accidentally came upon a pair of red spawn.”
“Dhamon’s fought them before.”
“That was evident.” Maldred turned his arm so Fiona could see the back of it, where just above his elbow a thick pink scar stretched toward his shoulder. “My souvenir of the day. Dhamon didn’t even get a scratch. Of course, if I hadn’t’ve set my sword down before they pounced on us—I was gathering some herbs for dinner— it would have been another matter. No one can beat me when I’ve a weapon. Anyway, I owe him. And I don’t mind the owing. I think we’re kindred spirits.”
Fiona heard a clap of thunder, tipped her face to the sky, and felt the first few drops of rain splash against her.
Fetch began to hoot.
“Blessed rain,” Maldred pronounced. “Been far too long since it rained in these mountains.” He looked skyward, stood, and stretched his good arm out to the side to catch more of the rain, opened his mouth wide to drink it in.
Fiona started toward Rig, but a second clap of thunder stopped her. It was followed by another, this once coming from beneath her feet. It was the mountain rumbling again, and she nearly lost her balance. The horses neighed nervously and the wagon creaked as the tremor intensified. Overhead, the lightning danced between the clouds, and the rain fell harder.
“It’s the lightning one has to fear, not the thunder,” Maldred said, lowering his head and catching Fiona’s gaze again. He bent his knees to help keep his balance as the mountain continued to shake. Concern was etched on the big man’s brow. “The earthquakes are different, Lady Knight. Another matter entirely. There’ve always been quakes in these mountains. Was a big one a few days ago. There’s been quite a bit more rumbling lately than I’m used to. Bothers even me.”
The ground stilled for just a moment, then it rumbled again, faintly at first, then growing stronger. Fiona lost her balance and fell against Maldred, who was quick to wrap his arm around her. The tremor lasted a few more minutes, then dissipated. She continued to stare into Maldred’s enigmatic eyes, then berated herself for being so slow to extricate herself from his arms.
Across the camp, Rig gaped at her. Dhamon brushed by the mariner, Rikali and Fetch on his heels. Dhamon opened an empty waterskin and held it out to catch the rain as he headed toward the wagon, intending to camp underneath it. “Fiona, I told Rig you’re welcome to share our camp tonight.”
She stepped in front of him, eyes bright, blocking his path.
“You’re not taking me back to Ironspike.” His head was still a little muddied by the alcohol, but his words were coming clearer and quicker.
“Not my plan.”
“You’re not taking me anywhere else to ‘atone’ for my crimes. I won’t let you.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
Dhamon tipped back his head and chuckled. “And you’re not going to change my ways, dearest Fiona. I’ve been through this with Rig. No redemption. I rather enjoy the way I’ve turned out.”
She took a step closer until the stink of his sweat and the alcohol on his breath stung her eyes. “I don’t want to redeem you, Dhamon Grimwulf. I want to join you.”