Downfall

CHAPTER SEVEN Grim Kedar’s

“You’re crazy! Join him?” The mariner’s eyes were wide, mouth working soundlessly as he tried to figure out what else to say to Fiona.

“Join me?” Dhamon, too, was momentarily stunned. Then his face quickly slipped into its stoic mask and his eyes grew hard. His teeth clicked lightly together and he alternately clenched and relaxed his fingers as he waited for Fiona to explain herself.

“Join a band of brigands? I’d say that’s hardly the Solamnic thing to do. Might tarnish your shinin’ plate mail.” Rikali sidled up close to the Knight. “Besides, Fee-ohn-a, we don’t want you to join us. The four of us do just fine by ourselves. The two of you wouldn’t fit in. And wouldn’t be welcome.”

Fiona none-too-gently nudged the half-elf away, causing Rikali to puff out her chest, thrust her chin up, and make a defiant fist. Maldred put a hand on the half-elf’s shoulder, keeping her from taking a swing at the Knight.

“I need coins, Dhamon. Gems, jewels, lots of them. I need them quickly. Immediately. And you seem to know how to get them.”

Rig slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. Softly, he said, “It won’t work, Fiona. You can’t make a deal with evil. I can’t believe you’re considering this. By all the vanished gods, I had no idea this was going through your head.” The mariner watched the Knight, a myriad of emotions playing on his face—above all, annoyance.

The Solamnic had everyone’s attention. “My brother is one of several Solamnic Knights held captive in Shrentak,” Fiona began. “He’s been there for nearly two months. And I mean to see him free.”

“Shrentak, the heart of the swamp,” Rikali whispered. “Now that’s a right foul place to find yourself in.” The half-elf wrinkled her nose and leaned against Dhamon, who in turn leaned more heavily on his cane.

“Sable, the black dragon overlord, holds them—and others—in her lair. And I intend to free my brother and as many other Knights as I can. I’ll have to use plenty of coin to ransom them.”

Dhamon stood silent for several moments, the rain and her words sobering him. His dark hair was plastered against the sides of his head, the grime on his face and hands slowly vanishing under the constant torrent. The fire behind him was out, plunging the camp into darkness. Still, there was just enough light from the lightning that danced overhead to register his grim expression. A touch of anger burned in his eyes, the skin on his face was taut like a drum.

“You should listen to Rig,” Dhamon told her. “Ransoming them, making a deal with a dragon, that’s foolishness indeed. You should know better.”

“I’ve no choice.”

“Contact your mighty Solamnic Council. Doubtless they ordered the Knights into the swamp in the first place. They can send more Knights to rescue them.”

She shook her head. “Yes, the council sent my brother and the other men. For what purpose is a mystery. And yes, the council has tried to rescue them. Twice garrisons have gone in. And twice, no one has returned.”

“Send another.” His words sounded hard and brittle. “It would be an honorable cause.”

Rikali thrust out her bottom lip and nodded agreement.

“The council refuses,” Fiona practically hissed. “In all its infinite wisdom it has decreed that no more lives will be… ‘thrown away, were the words.”

“Then hire mercenaries.” This from Maldred.

“We’ve tried,” Rig added. “But no amount of coin, it seems, will lure people into Sable’s swamp.”

“Smart people,” the half-elf cut in.

“But coin will get my brother out,” Fiona continued. “One of the dragon’s minions recently contacted the council and said Sable would ransom the men for enough coin and gems. Dragons horde treasure.”

“But you can’t trust a dragon.” Dhamon’s words were ice.

So I’ve told her, Rig mouthed.

“I don’t have any choice,” she repeated firmly. “He’s my brother.”

Dhamon shook his head. “And he’s probably dead. Or for his sake you should hope he is.”

“I don’t believe that. I’d know if he were dead. Somehow I’d know.”

Dhamon let out a breath between his clenched teeth and cocked his head to catch a glimpse of a long fork of lightning. He squinted through the rain. “And the council, Fiona, what did they contribute for this ransom?”

Thunder rocked the camp and the lightning overhead intensified, jagged fingers bouncing from cloud to cloud.

The rain was drumming down even faster now.

“Nothing,” she finally said. “Not a single piece of steel. They said they would have no part of this, didn’t believe the minion’s offer to ransom the men. They’ve written off the Knights, the council has, considering all of them lost. Dead.”

“Then why…” Dhamon began.

“I’m doing this on my own. And I’m risking my standing as a Solamnic Knight.” She crossed her arms, looking more defiant than Dhamon ever recalled seeing her. “I don’t care how I get this treasure, Dhamon Grimwulf. I’ll rob hospitals with you. Merchant wagons. I’ll do whatever it takes short of killing. I’ll…”

“… be joining our fine, but humble company of thieves, it seems, Lady Knight,” Maldred finished. Rikali spat at the ground, and Fetch’s eyes glowed red. Dhamon’s expression was unreadable, though his unwavering eyes were on Maldred now, not Fiona. “Pity, however, that we have no wealth at present to contribute to your worthy endeavor, Lady Knight,” the big man continued. “Nothing. We squandered nearly everything Dhamon recovered from the hospital. But we are traveling to Blöten, to drop off some supplies. And there, I am certain we can arrange for a way to gain considerable wealth. Enough for your ransom.”

Fiona’s stiff posture relaxed just a little. “I am to meet Sable’s minion in Takar. He lives there, somewhere. It shouldn’t be hard to find him and…”

“And this man is…” Dhamon prompted.

“Not a man, Dhamon. A draconian. The dragon has assigned him there.”

“Lovely,” Rikali interjected. “And you’ll recognize him, I suppose.”

Fiona nodded. “He has a gold collar welded about his neck. And a deep scar on his chest. I’d recognize him.”

“A charmin’ fellow, I’m sure,” Rikali added.

Fiona ignored the half-elf, who was now grumbling about the swamp and the Knight, and about four thieves being more than enough for their small company. The Solamnic continued to watch Dhamon and Maldred. “Blöten is not very far out of the way,” she said finally. “I’ll go with you.”

Behind her, Rig cupped his face with his hands.

The rain turned soft, but maintained a steady downpour until dawn, a sheet of driving gray that kept them thoroughly soaked, and turned the trail that wound between the rocky ridges into mud.

“You should return to Khur,” Dhamon told Rig as the mariner was saddling his big mare. The horse was not as good as the one Dhamon had stolen from him. Its back swayed and there was a large lump on one rear leg. “The country’s more hospitable, safer for you and Fiona. Talk her out of this nonsense. Dragons… and draconians… are not to be trusted. She’s wasting her time.”

The mariner cinched the saddle and made a clucking sound in his throat. “Glad to see you’re so concerned about our safety.”

“I’m not.” Dhamon’s face was impassive, his voice steady. “I’d just rather not have your company.”

“All the more reason, then, for Fiona and me to come with you. I know once she gets her mind set on something I can’t change it. But I’m not going to help any of you swipe a single steel piece.”

“A waste of time,” Dhamon repeated.

“It’s our time to waste.”

The trail they followed had become a meandering brown snake that rippled with thick rivulets of water. At times it gently wound its way through the mountains, with steep rocks rising on both sides. But often it coiled around the edge of the western slope, as it was doing now, climbing a near-vertical cliff face, the top of which disappeared into dark gray clouds on one side, on the other a two-hundred-foot drop-off that yielded to Sable’s immense swamp. A thin strip of cloud hovered above a section of the swamp, a few of the giant cypresses stretched through it, their tops decorated with large parrots.

Rikali sloshed ahead, probing with Dhamon’s cane to make sure the way was safe for the horses and wagon. Though complaining about the task, she had suggested that it be done and that she be the one to handle it.

“My eyes’re better’n yours,” she had said to the men. Softer, so Rig and Fiona could not hear, “and I don’t want anythin’ happenin’ to our gems. No tumble down the mountainside to lose them after all we went through to get ‘em.” She knew Dhamon was still favoring his ribs and that Maldred couldn’t use his right arm. And although her own scrapes and bruises hadn’t yet healed, she recognized she was the best choice for guide. The only thing wrong with Fetch seemed to be the repulsive odor he was exuding from being so thoroughly wet, but Rikali didn’t trust the kobold to lead the wagon.

Maldred sat on the wagon bench, eyes trained on the half-elf, his wounded arm still tucked close to his chest. Dhamon, who sat next to him, could tell he was feverish. Dhamon had the reins and was watching Rikali carefully, too, though it was clear from his blank expression his mind was elsewhere.

Fetch was behind them, sitting cross-legged on the tarp that covered the bulging bags of gemstones. He’d fastened the tarp down tightly at Maldred’s orders. Rig had been eyeing the tarp, and the kobold felt certain he was trying to guess what was underneath. Supplies, hah! Fetch had decided from the very beginning that he didn’t like the dark man—didn’t like the way he swaggered, the way his eyes flared from time to time with belligerence, the way he dressed, and the kobold certainly did not like all the weapons he carried.

The kobold didn’t care for the Knight, either, but he knew Maldred was at least mildly interested in her, so voicing too much resentment there would be wasting words.

Fiona and Rig rode side by side behind the wagon, the entire procession moving slowly, the mariner frequently glancing at the tarp.

“They’re talking,” the kobold informed Maldred, his beady red eyes fixed on the mariner, hoping to unnerve him. “All this rain, the patter, making it too hard fer me to hear what they’re saying. Something ‘bout Knights an’ prisoners an’ Shren-something, can’t make out the rest. Wagon’s creaking, too. Hope it doesn’t fall apart. Loaded down with gems and water. Water. Water. Water.”

“I thought you wanted it to rain.”

The kobold made a noise that sounded like a pig snorting. “Not this much, Mal. Can’t even light up my old man. Tobacco’s all damp. In all my days I’ve never seen it rain so much at one time in these mountains. It ain’t right. Ain’t natural. It could stop anytime now an’…” As a booming clap of thunder cut the kobold off, he dug his small claws into the tarp. “An’ what’s this business about you helping that Solamnic Knight get coins an’ gems an’ such? Since when do we share our booty with the likes of her?”

Maldred chuckled. “I truly have no intention of helping her. And I certainly won’t share any of what we have in the wagon.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s for Dhamon’s sword,” the kobold grumbled. “Damn expensive sword.”

“But she believes I will help her,” Maldred continued. “And that thought warms my heart.”

“And keeps her hanging around.” Fetch made a face. “But she’s a… well, she’s a Solamnic Knight. Trouble. Very big trouble. Besides, she’s going to marry that man.”

“But she isn’t married yet. And I fancy her.”

“Fancy.” The kobold snarled again. “The last woman you fancied was the wife of a rich Sanction merchant an’…”

“She didn’t have so much spirit as this one,” Maldred returned. “And wasn’t quite so pretty. Besides, Lady Knight and the dark man are heading toward Takar, and eventually, deeper into the swamp. I suspect we could turn a good profit by going along—at least part of the way.”

At mention of the swamp, Dhamon snapped to attention. He shot the big man a protesting glance. “You can’t…”

“What’s this about profit?” Fetch cut in. “How much profit?”

“There are people in Blöten who are concerned about Sable and her swamp. They’ll pay well for any information garnered from a scouting party.”

“I’m not going on your little scouting party,” Dhamon said. “Bad enough you invited Rig and Fiona along.”

Maldred shrugged. “If I hadn’t, they’d have followed us anyway. Lady Knight is headstrong. Better we keep track of them.”

Dhamon found himself agreeing. “But I don’t have to like it,” he said. Then he reached behind the seat and for the jug. Shaking it, he scowled. There was little left. He unstoppered it, drained the last of the spirits, then tossed the jug over the side of the mountain and watched it disappear into the mist.

Just then, Rikali slipped, the cane flying from her fingers and clattering over the edge. Dhamon pulled back on the reins, stopping the horses before they could trample her. Spitting and cursing, she picked herself up and brushed at the mud on her back. The half-elf looked up at Maldred and vehemently shook her head. Her long white hair was plastered against the sides of her body, streaked with mud. “It’s like a damn stream ahead!” she hollered. “Pigs, but water is gushing down it. It’s too slippery. We’ll have to stop.”

“Fetch!” Dhamon gestured to the kobold.

Muttering all the way, the small creature clambered down from the wagon and skidded toward the half-elf, falling twice before he reached her. He glanced down the merchant trail that continued to wind its way along the edge of the Kalkhists, his red eyes looking like tiny beacons through the gray sheet of rain. He skidded past Rikali and glanced around the next curve, scowled, and looked up, squinting as the rain pounded against his face.

“She’s right. It’s pretty bad,” he called to Dhamon. “But waiting ain’t gonna help.” He pointed. “No sign of this letting up anytime soon. Only gonna get worse.”

The big man gestured down the trail, and Rikali and Fetch moved slowly ahead, stopping at the bend to wait for the wagon to catch up, and guiding the horses around the next outcropping. It was difficult going, as a significant portion of the trail was washing away, and what was left was barely wide enough for the wagon. When the wagon rounded another curve, Fetch let out a whoop. His feet flew out from underneath him. Hands flailing in the air, the kobold slipped toward the edge.

Rikali grabbed his bony wrist just as his body shot over the side. She let him dangle in the air for a moment, treasuring the terror—filled look on his face before hauling him to safety and hoisting him up on the back of one of the horses. “Worthless,” she muttered, turning and resuming her task as solo guide. “You are completely worthless, Fetch.”

What would have taken them only a few hours, took them nearly the entire day and almost resulted in a catastrophe when a wheel slipped off the trail. It required Rig, Fiona, and Dhamon to set it back on.

They camped that night on a small plateau that was free of mud—the rain had washed all the earth away, revealing a layer of slate that gleamed slickly black when the moon made a brief visit. The rain was also threatening to dislodge the few saplings that sprouted from the cracks in the cliff face. The small trees were whipping about unmercifully in the wind that had picked up and that was driving the rain nearly horizontally.

The deluge continued throughout the night, lessening with the morning and then increasing again at sunset. The sky was masked with clouds, billowy and dark and rumbling with constant thunder. Occasionally the ground shook beneath them, and though it was not as threatening as the earlier tremors, it unnerved Fetch, Rikali, and Maldred. Dhamon remained impassive to the weather and small quakes.

Rig and Fiona kept to themselves for the most part, and Dhamon managed to avoid their company by losing himself in Rikali’s arms. The half-elf was suspicious enough to wonder why Dhamon had become so devoted all of a sudden. She couldn’t help but notice the mariner’s eyes narrow every time she kissed Dhamon.

“I know you love your brother,” Rig said in a low voice to Fiona. “But I don’t think he’d approve of this. Hell, I don’t approve.” They sat side by side on a flat rock, inured to the rain. “Keeping company with these people, heading to Blöten. That’s the heart of ogre country. It doesn’t feel right. And it’s damn dangerous.”

“I need to raise a ransom, Rig. How else can I get it? These… people… are my best chance. I have nothing— through the years I’ve tithed it all to the order. You haven’t enough. And you haven’t a better idea.”

The mariner snorted and draped an arm around her shoulders, frowning when she didn’t sag against him as she usually did. Her posture was as stiff as her armor. Water trickled out from between gaps in the plates and spilled over the lips of her boots. “I don’t trust Dhamon. And what about this man Maldred? We know nothing about him other than that he’s a thief.”

“I recall you telling me you were a thief once.”

The mariner shook his head, grinding his heel against the slate. “That was a lifetime ago, Fiona. Feels like it anyway. And I wasn’t a thief. I was a pirate. There’s a big difference. At least to me there is.”

“Those whom you stole from might disagree.” She sighed and softened her tone. “Look, Rig, I really need to raise this ransom. And soon. This is my best idea. Maybe if there was more time… but there isn’t. His life is at stake.”

“Do you really think this draconian will be waiting around for us?”

“He told the Solamnic Council he was stationed in Takar.”

“And you trust him?”

She shrugged. “What choice do I have? Besides, there’s no reason he’d lie to the council about his whereabouts if he really wanted to collect some treasure for Sable. And there’s no reason he would’ve approached the council about a ransom in the first place if the dragon wasn’t interested in adding to her horde.”

“And if you can manage to raise the ransom, and get to Takar, you’ve still got to find this draconian. I’d wager there are quite a few draconians and spawn there.”

She let out a deep breath. “That, I’m certain, will be the easy part. I will recognize him, Rig. I know it. His name is Olarg, and the scar was singular.”

“Fine. So you’re sure you can find him. And are you as certain this draconian will simply hand over your brother for a big sack of…”

“I’ve no alternative but to believe it. And Dhamon and Maldred are our best chance of raising the coin. Maybe our only chance. My brother must be set free. Then we can put all of this behind us and be married.”

Rig raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to look into her face. She was watching the bare-chested Maldred, who was resting against the wagon, his face tipped up into the rain.

“And what about Dhamon? After this is all over—one way or the other?”

“Dhamon needs us to believe in him, and you know it. He needs another chance. He’s a good man, Rig. Deep down. Too good to cart off to prison, no matter what he’s done recently.”

Her words genuinely surprised him. “Doesn’t sound like you, Fiona. I thought you told me justice demands people pay for their wrongs.”

“Justice,” she repeated. “Where’s the justice in this world? My brother is in Shrentak. And Dhamon is going to help me get him released. That’s the justice I want—my brother free. Besides, Dhamon is really a good man. Deep down good.”

I’m a good man, too, the mariner thought ruefully, as he picked a spot on the ground and settled down for another drenched and sleepless night.

Two days later, the rain still falling, though more gently now, they stood at the gates of Blöten, a once-great city nestled high in the Kalkhists, the mountains ringing it like a spiky crown.

A crumbling wall nearly forty feet high wrapped around the ancient capital. In sections it had collapsed, the gaps alternately filled with boulders piled high and mortared in place, and with timbers driven deep into the rocky ground and held together with bands of rusted iron. Across the top where the walls seemed in the worst repair, spears were jabbed in, angled outward and inward.

“Broken glass and caltrops are spread across the top everywhere,” Fetch informed the mariner. “For the purpose of keeping the uninvited out.”

“Or to keep everyone in,” the dark man returned. “It looks like an enormous prison to me.”

Atop a barbican that seemed so weathered it might crumble at any time, stood two grizzled ogres. Stoop-shouldered and wart-riddled, their gray-green hides slick with rain, they glowered down at the small entourage. The larger had a snaggly tooth that protruded up at an odd angle from his bottom jaw. A dark purple tongue snaked out to wrap around it. He growled something and thumped his spiked club against his shield, then growled again, issuing a string of guttural words lost on all save Maldred and Dhamon.

Maldred eased himself from the wagon, swaying a little from the effects of his fever, and padded to the massive wooden gates. He looked up at the pair and raised his good arm, balled his fist and circled it once in the air, then brought it down against his waist. Then he spoke, nearly shouting, his words sounding like a series of snarls and grunts.

Next, Maldred motioned to Dhamon, making a gesture Rig recognized as “wealth,” or “coin,” a signing word his deaf friend Groller taught him. Rig instantly thought of his companion, wondering if he’d found work on a ship somewhere or had elected some cause to champion. Perhaps he was assisting Palin Majere. The mariner regretted not staying in touch with Groller and found himself wishing the half-ogre were here. He would be handy in this city, though he would not be able to hear what was being said, and he was someone Rig could trust. If I get out of this, he mused, and after the matter of Fiona’s brother is settled, I’m going to find my old friend.

Dhamon tugged the Legion of Steel ring off his hand and tossed it to Maldred. Again Maldred issued a string of growls and grunts, punctuating it by hurling the ring up at the ogres. The larger’s arm shot out, warty fingers closing over the bauble. He brought it up to his eyes, then smiled, revealing yellowed, broken teeth. He snarled back happily.

“Not good,” Rig whispered to Fiona. “That man Maldred knows the ogre tongue. Worse, it seems Dhamon does, too. And don’t tell me ogres are deep down good. I know better. I don’t like it.”

“Good that someone can understand the brutes,” she softly returned. “Otherwise, I doubt we’d get past the gates.”

“Oh, we’ll get in all right,” the mariner smugly replied. “But we might not get back out again.” He watched the doors swing wide, as the pair of ugly sentries gestured for them to enter. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Fiona ignored him, kneeing her horse to follow the wagon. Rig cursed, but tagged along, keeping his eyes alert. The doors creaked closed behind them, and a great plank lowered to lock them in place. They saw large crossbows mounted at the crest of the walls, and ladders leading up to them. “Wonderful,” the mariner muttered. “This is such an enchanting place we’ve come to. We should vacation here.”

The city spread out before them, too large for them to take it all in at one glance. Massive buildings, the facades of which were deteriorating from age and lack of repair, stretched toward the clouds overhead. Signs hung from some of the buildings, drawings indicating taverns, weaponsmiths, and inns, though whether the buildings were actually open and operating businesses was doubtful—some looked as though they might topple at any moment and few lights shone from within. The words on the signs were in some foreign language, looking like faded and chipped bugs dancing in an uneven line. Ogre tongue, Rig guessed, though he had never seen it written down before.

Growing puddles dotted wide streets lined with wagons and massive draft horses with sagging backs. A large ox was being groomed by a one-eyed ogre woman outside what appeared to be a bakery. The woman glared at the Solamnic and brushed the ox harder as the group streamed past her.

Nearly all of the other citizens they spotted were ogres, manlike creatures nine or more feet tall. They were all broad-faced with large, thick noses, some of which were decorated with silver and gold hoops and bones. Their brows were thick, shadowing large, wide-set dark eyes that glanced at the newcomers, then looked away. Their ears were overlarge and misshapen, most pointed like an elf’s, but not gracefully so. And their skin ranged from a pale brown to a rich mahogany. A few were green-gray, and one who strolled slowly across the street in front of them was the color of cold ashes. They milled about sluggishly, as if the unusual wet weather had managed to dampen their spirits.

Many were in hide armor and toting large spiked clubs. The shields that hung from many of their backs were pitted and worn, some with symbols painted on them, others with hash marks that attested to victories, or crudely painted pictures of fearsome animals they’d likely slain. Some ogres wore tattered clothes and ragged animal skins, and were sandaled or had bare feet, all looking filthy. Only a few were dressed in garments that appeared well made and reasonably clean.

There were some half-ogres in the crowd, and these were also dressed raggedly, their features closer to human-looking. One was a peddler hawking smoked strips of gray meat from beneath an awning that swelled away from a boarded-up building. A trio of ogre children hung around him, alternately begging for food and taunting him.

“Our good friend Groller’s a half-ogre,” Rig said, his voice low and his words intended only for Fiona. “But he’s far removed from these creatures.”

She nodded. “These people, Rig. Ogres were once the most beautiful race on Krynn. It is said no other race equalled their form.”

“Beautiful. Pfah!”

“They were beautiful. But they fell from the grace of the gods during the Age of Dreams. Now they’re ugly and brutal, shadows of what their ancestors were.”

“Well, I don’t care for these shadows,” Rig said. “And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.” His hands tightly gripped his mare’s reins, the wet leather cutting into his finger joints, and his eyes drifting from one side of the street to the other, looking for a face with the tiniest spark of friendliness. “We’re definitely out of place here, Fiona. I’m so uncomfortable my skin feels like ants’re crawling all over it.”

“Wait, there’re some humans here.” Fiona leaned forward in her saddle and pointed west, down a side street they were passing.

Indeed there were about a dozen men, dressed even worse than the ogres. They were toting sacks from a building and tossing them into a wagon that sagged and looked stuck in the mud. There were words cut into a sign that hung from the building, but Rig and Fiona had no clue what they meant. Two mountain dwarves were working with the humans—and unlike the ogres and half-ogres, none of them seemed to be carrying visible weapons.

“I truly don’t like this,” the mariner continued. “In fact…” He cast his head over his shoulder, looking at the gate receding behind them. “Fiona, I think we should…”

“Maldred! You handsome swine!” A booming voice cut through the air, followed by loud, sloshing footsteps. “It has been too long indeed!” The speaker was an ogre, one of the better dressed of the lot, who was splashing his way through the puddles toward them. He had massive shoulders, from which draped a black bear skin, the head of the animal resting to the side of his thick neck, the rear claws dangling down to rake the mud. He continued talking loudly, though in the ogre tongue now, the bear head bobbing along with his broad gestures.

Maldred walked into the ogre’s embrace. But the ogre quickly backed away when he noted Maldred’s condition. Gesturing at Maldred’s bad arm, the creature eyed the rest of the entourage, quickly determining that the half-elf and the other human were also injured. He chuckled deeply when he spotted Fetch. The kobold scampered down from the wagon and practically swam through a puddle to reach the pair.

“Durfang!” Fetch squealed. “It’s Durfang Farnwerth!”

“Fetch! You stinking rat! I haven’t seen you in years!” the ogre boomed in the common tongue—apparently for Fetch’s benefit. He bent over and scratched the kobold’s head. “Seems you have not been taking good care of my friend—or his companions.”

The kobold shrugged and cackled shrilly.

“You folks need a healer,” the ogre continued, standing and meeting Maldred’s gaze. “A good one.”

Maldred nodded, pointing to Dhamon and Rikali. “My friends, first.”

The creature scowled and wriggled his lips. “As you desire, Maldred,” Durfang finally said. Then his eyes drifted to Fiona, narrowing with curiosity. He returned to the ogre tongue, speaking to Maldred quick and low, his face animated and concerned—relaxing only after Maldred said something evidently reassuring. “Okay, all of you, follow me.”

“To Grim Kedar’s?” Maldred asked.

“He is the best.”

“Then I will meet you there shortly, Durfang. I have a cargo to arrange safe-keeping for. And that takes precedence over my well-being.”

The large ogre scowled, but didn’t argue.

Dhamon leapt from the wagon, cringing at the strain. He sloshed toward Maldred, using gestures rather than talking, the quickness of hands hinting at an argument.

“The cargo will be safe with me,” Maldred whispered.

Dhamon’s eyes became slits, flickering between Maldred and Durfang.

“On my life, Dhamon,” Maldred added. “You know we have to keep the wagon somewhere tonight, or maybe for the next few days depending on when Donnag will see us to negotiate over the sword you want. He might not be available immediately. And we just can’t leave the wagon out on the street. Not in this city. And if we guard it, the scurrilous element will only become curious. We can’t take that risk.”

“How about a stable?”

Maldred shook his head. “Not safe enough. Too public. Too many people going in and out.”

“Where then?” Dhamon asked, his voice difficult for Maldred to hear above the rain.

“I have friends in this city whom I can rely on and who owe me a few favors. I’ll see who among them seems the most trustworthy today.”

Dhamon nodded. “On your life, then. But just in case, I’m keeping some trinkets with me.” He returned to the wagon, tugging a backpack from beneath the seat and throwing it over his shoulder. “And be quick about it, Mal. You need tending far more than Riki and I.”

Rikali and Fetch each claimed a small, gem-stuffed satchel before Maldred drove the wagon away, cleverly ignoring the mariner’s persistent questions about what kind of supplies they had brought to Blöten to sell. Dhamon knew Rig didn’t believe for a moment there were genuine supplies under the tarp.

Rig and Fiona walked their horses behind the trio, the mariner cursing softly and repeating what a bad idea this was at every opportunity. Their ogre guide, who had not uttered a word since Maldred left, took them down one side street after another. Some buildings had been boarded up, others were in ruins because of fire. A few ogres sat on a bench in front of one gutted building, talking and grunting loudly and eyeing the small group. One rose and thumped a club against his leg—but sat back down quickly after Durfang snarled in their direction.

“You hungry?” Fetch asked, glancing up at the Solamnic. “I’m starving. We haven’t eaten for at least a day.”

Fiona, who hadn’t realized the kobold was talking to her, kept walking.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Rig answered for them both.

Grim Kedar’s was a squat building—compared to those that rose around it. Its front was as gray as the skies overhead, and a wood plank sidewalk that had once been painted red sagged in front of it beneath a canvas awning that looked as hole-riddled as Karthay cheese. A weather-beaten sign out front depicted a mortar and a pestle with tendrils of steam rising from the bowl to form a ghostly ogre skull.

“Very bad idea,” Rig growled as he tied the horses to a post and followed Fiona inside.

They were ushered by Fetch to a table with overlarge chairs that tottered on uneven legs. Two ogres commanded the only other table in the room, clutching steaming mugs that released a bitter smell into the air. They flaunted a collection of small pouches and daggers. Fetch, who climbed up the table leg to sit next to Fiona, explained the ogres were busy bartering for something— he couldn’t tell what because he didn’t know hardly any of their language—and that the daggers were being displayed in the event of a double-cross. The kobold’s eyes gleamed eagerly, hoping to witness a fight.

Rikali and Dhamon stood at a small counter, behind which rose, at merely eight feet, a pasty ogre with a smattering of dark green hair on his mottled head. His pointed ears were pierced with dozens of small hoops, and a metal stud pierced the bridge of his nose. He grinned at his customers, revealing yellowed teeth so blunt and even it appeared as though they’d been filed.

“That’s Grim,” Fetch whispered to Fiona. The kobold didn’t bother addressing the mariner, though he shot the occasional dark glance at him. “He’s a healer. The best in Blöten, probably the best anywhere on Krynn. Sells tea said to ward off diseases and he’s known for having herbs that’ll counteract most poisons.” The kobold gestured to the mugs the ogres were drinking from. “Maybe we should get some, too. All this rain can’t be good for you humans. Might be something goin’ around.”

Rig growled.

“He’ll fix Dhamon and Riki up good as new. Maybe even do something about the scale…” The kobold stopped.

“We know all about the scale on Dhamon’s leg,” Fiona said.

“But you don’t know that it…” The kobold let the words hang, his gaze following Rikali and Dhamon, who walked behind the counter and through a beaded curtain that clacked noisily as they passed through it. “That’s where Grim does all of his serious healing. I went back there once with Maldred after he got cut up bad in a tavern brawl. Course, the other ogres in the fight were beyond repair.”

Rig made a move to rise and follow Dhamon, but the kobold scowled and shook his head.

“Let’s stay here,” Fiona suggested. She dropped her hand below the table and rested it on Rig’s leg. “And let’s stay alert.”

“I don’t like this place,” the mariner said. “I’m only here because of you.” His eyes wandered from the front door to the ogres and back to the beaded curtain, his jaw working tensely. “I don’t like this at all.”

Behind the curtain were a few large tables stained with blood and other unidentifiable substances. Dhamon climbed up on one of the cleanest ones and tugged free his shirt, revealing that the right side of his chest was a massive purple-black bruise.

Grim stood silent, his eyes fixed on the injury. Dhamon in turn inspected the ogre more closely. He was ancient, his pale skin covered with small wrinkles. The flesh sagged on his arms and around his jaws, giving him the visage of a bulldog. Veins were visible on his forehead, which was knitted in concentration. Only his hands looked smooth, seeming incongruous to the rest of his body. The nails were well manicured and not a speck of dirt was visible. A simple steel ring circled his right thumb. There was writing on it, but Dhamon couldn’t make it out. There was an odor about the ogre that Dhamon found vaguely reminiscent of the hospital in Ironspike, but it was not near so pungent.

The half-elf was chattering softly to Dhamon and the ogre, though both were ignoring her. She climbed atop another table and sat watching the ogre shove Dhamon onto his back and inspect his ribs.

Grim prodded Dhamon’s ribs and muttered in the ogre tongue—to himself, not his patient. Then he turned his attention to the scale, which he could see through Dhamon’s tattered pants. The ogre curiously touched it and traced its edges, ran a thick fingernail down the silver line. Dhamon sat up and shook his head.

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” he explained. He tried the words again, in a broken ogre dialect.

But the ogre healer pressed him down on the table again, waggled a finger and pointed to Dhamon’s lips indicating he should be quiet. Grim pulled a thin-bladed knife from a sheath on his back. When Dhamon realized the ogre intended to cut the pants off, he rolled away, wincing. He quickly undressed, placed his tattered clothes, satchel, and sword aside, again trying to explain about the scale while being pressed back on the table, harsher this time.

The ogre knew how to handle difficult patients, and he made Dhamon feel vulnerable and uncomfortable as he continued his brusque examination, which must have taken at least half an hour and included ogling the diamond that dangled from the thong on Dhamon’s neck. Then he made a clacking sound. Reaching into one of the many pockets in his patched robe, he tugged free a root and snapped it, letting the juice dribble onto Dhamon’s chest where he smeared it into a pattern.

The clacking continued and became primitively musical as his long, knobby fingers worked over the obvious wounds and bruises, always returning to the scale. The ministrations reminded Dhamon of Jasper Fireforge, who had healed him more times than he cared to count. Jasper’s work had seemed much more caring, however, the actions of the ogre healer were uniform and practiced, yet detached and sometimes almost harsh.

Dhamon fervently wished either Maldred was here or that he, himself, was elsewhere. Then he felt a warmth begin to flow through him. It wasn’t the painful sensation associated with the dragon’s scale, however, but one similar to the relaxing calm he had felt when Jasper tended him. The ogre stopped his clacking and welcomed Maldred, who had arrived, and who had quite a mastery of the strange language. Dhamon started to drift off toward sleep when the pain intensified all of a sudden. The ogre healer was tugging at Dhamon’s scale.

“No!” Dhamon shouted, sitting bolt upright and throwing his hands over the scale. “Leave it!”

Grim tried to press him down again, but Dhamon successfully fought against it, arguing with words he was certain the healer couldn’t understand but couldn’t mistake their meaning. The pasty ogre shook his head and snarled, pointed to the scale and made a surgical gesture that was clear.

“Remove the scale and you’ll die.” The words repeated inside Dhamon’s head. Then the scale was heating up like a branding iron again, sending agonizing waves through every part of his body. There was no gentle, teasing warmth to warn him this time. The pain struck like a hammer, over and over, seeming to drive him into the table. His muscles constricted and he shook uncontrollably, his teeth grinding together and his hands clenching so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms. He raised his head and sucked in great gulps of air. He tried not to cry out. But a strangled moan escaped his lips and his head fell back hard against the table.

Rikali was at his side, fingers moving over his face, alternating stern and worried looks between Grim and Maldred.

Maldred’s hand was on the scale now, and he was arguing with the healer. Dhamon wished he could understand more of what was being said. Finally Grim backed away, shaking his head and making an almost-human tsk-tsking sound.

“What’s going on in here?” Rig’s head poked through the beaded curtain, and immediately all eyes were on the mariner.

“Nothing,” Maldred said. “Wait outside.”

“What are you doing to Dhamon?” The mariner could see Dhamon shaking, the sweat covering Dhamon’s limbs and the odd-colored liquid on his chest that had come from the discarded root.

The ogre healer took a step toward Rig, eyes narrowed and a hiss of growled words issued rapidly from his mouth.

“It’s all right,” Dhamon breathlessly cut in, the episode finally abating. A part of him was bothered that the mariner seemed concerned for his well being. He wanted to sever all his ties with the man.

Rig grumbled, but slipped outside to rejoin Fiona. His eyes grew wide when he realized the beaded curtain he had moved aside wasn’t truly beads. It was a collection of painted finger bones.

“Rig’s a little jumpy,” Dhamon explained to Maldred. “Always has been a jumpy guy. I told you we should have stole their horses again and not let them follow us.”

The big man passed Dhamon his clothes. “Feeling any better?”

“Remarkably better.” The ogre passed him a cloth. Dhamon wiped the concoction off his chest, eyes widening when he discovered the bruise was gone, and no mark was left behind. Even a few of his old scars had disappeared. “Remarkable,” his whispered. “What do I owe this man?”

The ogre healer turned and pointed to the diamond that dangled about Dhamon’s neck.

“So you can understand the human tongue after all,” Dhamon said, tugging the gem free and passing it over— despite Rikali’s protestations. “Will that pay for Mal and Riki too?”

Grim nodded and set to work on the half-elf, while Maldred undressed and, with Dhamon’s help, climbed on another table. Rikali’s wounds were easy to cure and required little time. When Grim finished with her, she glided toward Dhamon and prodded him here and there, pronouncing the healer’s work more than satisfactory.

“Mal, what about the wagon?” She was whispering, fearing those in the outer room might hear her. “All those… uhm… our cargo. What did you do with the wagon and…”

Grim waved a hand at the half-elf, trying to silence her as he worked. But Rikali would not be dissuaded. She hovered around Maldred’s table, just out of the healer’s reach, dodging when he made a move to push her.

The healer snarled when he removed the bandage on the big man’s arm and saw traces of gangrene. Dhamon recognized the seriousness of the injury, too, as he had tended many fallen Knights of Takhisis on battlefields and had been forced to amputate limbs. He drew Riki away and held her close as Maldred moaned. The healer busied himself applying another root to the wound.

Grim glanced over his shoulder, meeting Dhamon’s gaze. “Tomorrow,” he said, the first word he’d spoken in the common tongue. “Come again then. For Maldred. After mid sun.” He suggested several reasonably safe areas they might go to pass the time, and then he dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

But Maldred beckoned Dhamon closer, then gave him quick and quiet directions to the wagon. “In the event Grim isn’t able to put me wholly right, you’ll be on your own with it.”

The big man intended to say more, but the ogre healer growled and spun Dhamon away from the table, then forcibly guided him and Rikali through the bead curtain after they’d retrieved their satchels. Fetch was waiting for them atop the counter. Rig stood and put his hands on his hips, as if to say, “well?”

“Maldred needs to rest here a while,” Dhamon began, not intending to tell them the big man was most certainly going to have to have his arm amputated. “Rikali and I are going for a long bath, at something that serves as a bathhouse down the street. Then we’ve some shopping to do—that is provided we can find the right stores and some clothes in Blöten that might fit us.”

“Dinner,” the half-elf chimed in. “Rare meat and somethin’ sweet.” She wrapped her arms about Dhamon’s waist and stretched up to nuzzle his shoulder. “And wine, the expensive kind.”

“I’m coming!” Fetch decided. Softer, he said. “But ya ain’t gonna find anything better here than bitter ale.”

“I doubt Rig and Fiona will want to follow us around for the rest of the day,” Dhamon said. “So…”

Fiona cleared her throat. “On the contrary, Dhamon. Rig and I wouldn’t think of abandoning you and the fair Rikali in this ogre den.”

“Thank you for speaking for me,” Rig said under his breath. Louder, he said, “A warm bath sounds like a wonderful idea.”

The following day found Dhamon in different clothes. They were not new and not the best fit, the pants being too baggy for his lithe frame. Still, they were clean, a dark yellow, the shade of dying birch leaves. He also wore an oddly striped, faded blue-and-red tunic that was overlarge and draped to his knees. With the application of a few steel pieces he’d managed to talk an ogress, who was an adequate seamstress, into fashioning ties about his ankles so the pantlegs ballooned out and fell in folds. A fine leather belt wrapped about his waist only twice. Somehow the seamstress was also able to provide a deerskin vest that fit him nearly perfectly. It showed little wear, and was decorated by polished brass studs that formed a half-moon in the center of the back. Human-sized boots, which he’d spied in her shop, completed his new outfit. He suspected the boots had been taken in a raid or removed from an unfortunate soul who found his way into slavery here. But they were superbly fashioned and would have cost four times as much in a human city.

“So handsome, you are, Dhamon Grimwulf. Haven’t seen you lookin’ so fancy since that day I met you,” Rikali told him. “We look quite fine together, you and I.” The half-elf’s hair was piled in locks atop her head. She’d decorated it with jade clasps in the shapes of butterflies and hummingbirds, bits of jewelry she’d taken from one of the merchant wagons. Her face was again painted, eyelids a bright blue, lashes made long, and lips a rich crimson.

She tucked her arm beneath his, expecting to accompany him to get the wagon, but he instead directed her and Fetch to meet him outside Grim Kedar’s later.

Alone, Dhamon strolled down a street that led to the east, where the tops of the towering Kalkhists disappeared into low-hanging clouds. Indeed, Dhamon mused to himself that he hadn’t seen clear sky since the night Rig and Fiona stumbled upon their camp.

He stopped at a squat building, one in far better condition than its neighbors. It appeared the ogre who maintained the place took a little bit of pride in it. Stepping inside, he was met with a growl and narrowed eyes. The ogre behind a great table that served as a counter pointed a stubby finger and gestured for Dhamon to leave.

But Dhamon shook his head and jiggled a small pouch on his belt.

The finger dropped and the growling stopped, but the eyes narrowed even further. The ogre cocked his head and glanced at the rear wall, from which hung all manner of long-hafted weapons—all too unwieldy for Dhamon.

“I want a bow,” Dhamon began, jingling the pouch again.

The ogre shook his head and shrugged a misshapen shoulder.

Dhamon let out a deep breath. “So I’d better learn a bit more ogre-speak if I traipse around these mountains any longer or ever come back to this cesspool,” he muttered. He drew his lips into a thin line, met the ogre’s stare, and pretended to draw a bow and nock an arrow as he said a few words in broken ogre.

Minutes later, Dhamon was continuing down the winding, narrow street, a long bow and a quiver filled with arrows strapped across his back. Following the incident with the dwarves in the valley, he’d resolved to acquire a distance weapon.

Another stop, and he purchased three skins of the strongest liquor available in the city. Two dangled from his belt. And the third was in his hand. He took a long pull from it before he clipped it onto the belt.

The several ogres he passed gave him a wide berth. It was clear they had no respect for humans, as they spat at the ground when he neared, snarling, and wrinkling their warty, hooked noses. But there was something about Dhamon’s bearing and expression that kept them from accosting him. He dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword, and they moved to the other side of the street, not daring to look over their shoulders until they were several yards behind him.

His next stop was where the street dead-ended at a large building. There was no roof, only walls of stone and wood, and a double-wide rotting door that rested slightly open.

Dhamon poked his head inside, then instantly pulled it back out. There was a whoosh and a thud as a great two-handed battleaxe descended in the space where his neck had been a moment before. Mud and water flew when the blade struck the ground, spattering Dhamon’s tunic and causing him to curse loudly.

He kicked the door open and drew his sword in the same motion, darted inside and braced himself to meet an impressively large ogre. The creature was easily ten feet tall with broad shoulders and a considerable paunch that swelled over a thick leather belt. The ogre hefted his axe again, a yellowed, crooked smile spreading across his pudgy face, his drab green eyes gleaming.

Dhamon stepped back, into a deep puddle. With no roof, it was raining as steadily inside the building as it was outside. “Maldred!” Dhamon shouted, oblivious to the muck. “I am with Maldred!”

The ogre paused a moment, smile disappearing. His shaggy brow furrowed. His hands still clenched the axe, but the menace had lessened in his eyes.

“Maldred,” Dhamon repeated, when the large brute took a step forward with a threatening snarl. In broken ogre-speak, he added, “Our wagon. Maldred asked you watch. You have. I have come to claim our wagon.”

The ogre looked to the back of the building—the glance was enough to let Dhamon know he understood clearly. The wagon was cloaked by the shadows. Dhamon walked toward it, careful to keep an eye on the ogre and to keep his sword at the ready. Only one horse was tethered nearby. Dhamon worked quickly to harness it to the wagon while he scanned the area for the other horse.

“Damn,” he swore softly when he spotted blood against the back wall. There was a hank of mane, and from beneath a pile of wet, moldy straw, a hoofed leg protruded. “Got hungry, didn’t you?” He didn’t expect the ogre to understand or answer. “Picked out the biggest one to eat.”

The creature padded closer, sloshing through the mud. He still held the axe in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth.

Dhamon busied himself checking beneath the sodden tarp, keeping an eye on the brute. “Got greedy too, didn’t you? Or at the very least, curious.” He noticed the sacks had been rearranged in the wagon bed, and though he couldn’t be sure if there was anything missing, he decided to play a hunch. He pointed the sword at the ogre. “Give back. Sacks you took. Give back.”

“Thwuk! Thwuk!” The ogre snarled as he closed in, bringing the axe up over his head in a great threatening show. “Thwuk not take from Maldred!” But Dhamon wasn’t in the mood to be intimidated. He darted in and swept his sword across the creature’s belly, then leapt back as a film of dark blood sprayed out. The ogre howled, and the axe slipped from his fingers, which were now furiously clutching his stomach. Blood spilled out over the brute’s hands as he dropped to his knees, a mix of anger and surprise on his ugly face.

He growled deeply at Dhamon, red spittle trailing over his bulbous lip. Then he cried out once more as Dhamon stepped in again and slashed the blade across his throat. The ogre pitched forward dead.

“Hope you weren’t too good of a friend to Maldred,” Dhamon mused, as he wiped his sword on the brute’s clothes and sheathed it. He quickly tossed the straw over the dead ogre, avoiding the insects that swarmed over the horse haunch.

Then he used the rain to wash his hands and take a good look around. There were tall plants growing along the northern half of the building. They appeared well tended, and their tops nearly reached to where the roof had been. There was a huge hammock strung between what had served as the roof’s support beams, and beneath it was quite a collection of small barrels and satchels, likely the ogre’s possessions.

Dhamon tugged off his newly purchased tunic, sprayed with blood and mud, and tossed it behind a row of plants. Searching around in the wagon beneath a sack of gemstones, he recovered the fine shirt he had saved from the merchant haul and was quick to don it. Black, it complemented his baggy trousers and deerskin vest. He admired his dark reflection in a puddle near the ogre’s hammock.

Dhamon searched through the ogre’s possessions, finding only a small sack of gemstones—which the ogre might have stolen or more likely had been given in payment for watching the wagon. Dhamon tossed it in the wagon and continued to pick through the dead creature’s worldly goods, finding a pouch heavy with steel pieces, an ivory pommeled dagger, and bits of dried foodstuffs, which Dhamon sniffed unenthusiastically. There were a few other odds and ends, a small broken jade mermaid, and a bronze bracelet, thick with mud, which he sloshed about in the water that had filled the hammock.

Deciding there was little of value, Dhamon led the horse and wagon from the barn and propped the door shut.

“One final stop,” he told himself. “The most important one.”

An hour later, he found his way back to Grim Kedar’s.

Rig was across the street, leaning against an abandoned stone building and watching the entrance to Grim Kedar’s. His eyes appeared sunken, the circles beneath them dark, proving he’d slept little the previous night. A disheveled-looking human was cowering next to him, nodding and shaking his head as Rig grilled him with questions. The mariner had not spied a single human who was not shabbily dressed or who appeared remotely happy.

Fiona motioned for Rig to join them, but the mariner shook his head and continued talking to the stranger. She shrugged and turned her attention to the kobold.

“An unusual name,” she said, bending over until her face met his.

“Not my real name,” Fetch returned. “I’d guess you’d call it a…” He scrunched his features and tapped on his nose ring.

“Nickname?” Fiona risked.

He nodded. “My real name’s Ilbreth. I’m just called Fetch ‘cause…”

“Fetch!” Rikali was standing on the sagging walk and crooking her manicured fingers at the kobold. “Bring my satchel and get inside. Hurry up!”

“… I fetch things,” he finished, scampering to do her bidding.

Dhamon urged the horse toward the sagging wooden sidewalk, tethered it to a post and brushed by Rikali, whom he told to guard the wagon—with her life. Entering the establishment, he noted that even though it was just past lunchtime, there were no tea-drinkers or apparent patients. He rapped on the counter. The others came in behind him. A few moments later, Maldred emerged from behind the beads.

A wide grinn was splayed across the big man’s face, and his arms were spread to his sides. He turned once for inspection. There was no indication of injury, and Dhamon stared wide-eyed at his large friend.

“I thought he’d have to cut off your arm,” Dhamon said evenly.

“So did Grim,” Maldred replied. “Indeed, he tried! But I wouldn’t let him. Told him he had to work his magic and make me whole or I’d tell everyone he was nothing but a simple charlatan. And he could not afford such a reputation—at least not here. Of course, this cost me a bit more than what you gave him yesterday.”

Dhamon winced.

“Worth it, my friend. Grim is the best. Unfortunate, however, he is not so powerful as to stop all of this rain. I doubt these mountains have seen this much in the past few years. At least it’s giving all of Blöten a much-needed bath,” Maldred chuckled, then instantly grew serious. “The wagon?”

Dhamon nodded toward the street.

“Did Thwuk demand anything else for watching it?”

Dhamon shook his head. “Nothing else. I’m a shrewd negotiator.”

“That’s why I like you.” Maldred strolled toward Fiona, his eyes sparkling merrily and catching hers. “Now on to that matter of gaining you some ransom, Lady Knight.”

Dhamon cleared his throat. “We’ve an appointment this evening.”

Maldred raised his eyebrows as if to say, “you negotiated that as well?”

“We’re to have dinner with Donnag this evening to discuss various matters.”

“Then I’d best find something presentable to wear,” Maldred returned. “Join me, Lady Knight?”

“My ransom?” Fiona’s face was still wrinkled with worry. “Is the ransom part of the various matters?”

“Yes. We should gain you some wealth tonight, I think.” Maldred did not see Dhamon’s hard expression and narrowed eyes, as he was devoting all of his charm and attention to the Solamnic. The big man extended his arm, and she took it, strolling out of the shop with him and meeting the glare of the half-elf. Fiona looked across the street, but the mariner was nowhere in sight.

Rig had wandered down a cobblestone side street, one of the very few of its kind in Blöten. Nearly all of the streets seemed to be wide streams of mud. He skirted the largest puddles, avoiding them entirely was impossible. As the cobblestones ended and another swath of mud began, the businesses and dwellings that lined it became more rundown. He could tell a few of them were owned, or at the very least operated, by humans and dwarves, and they seemed to cater to the nonogre population. None of these shops had awnings or planks out front, just strips of deep, muddy clay. He glanced at his reflection in an overflowing horse trough. His stomach rumbled. He’d barely touched his dinner last night, while his companions ate heartily. He’d had nothing to eat today, not wanting any part of this place. But he was feeling a little weak, his head aching and hands shaking, and he knew he was going to have to eat something. He glanced up, looking for an establishment that might sell identifiable foodstuffs.

“Gardi? Izzat you Gardi?”

Rig realized that a gangly young man who had leaned out on a crooked stoop was speaking to him.

“Oh, sorry. Thought you wuz Gardi.” He turned and disappeared in the doorway, as the mariner sprinted forward and his arm shot out to catch the man’s wrist. The young man spat a foreign-sounding word, then gulped and his eyes grew wide when he took in all of the mariner’s weapons.

“S’okay,” Rig said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just want to talk. I’m new to town, and I was wondering…”

“Too bad,” the man said, relaxing a bit when Rig released him.

Rig cocked his head.

“Too bad you came here,” he said, a genuine look of sadness on his face. “Blöten’s not a good place to be—if you have the choice to be somewheres else. And I haven’t time to dawdle with you. Got money to earn. Taxes to pay. Taxes and taxes and taxes and taxes.”

Rig pulled a steel piece from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s hand. “Tell me about this place.”

“Taxes,” the young man repeated.

“Yea, I know,” said Rig. “So tell me where I can get something good to eat.”