Dragons of a New Age

18 A Knightly Confrontation

Caergoth’s harbor was considerably larger than the one in New Ports. Banks of docks stretched out into a bay deep enough to accommodate galleons, drakkars, galleys, and dromonds. The harbor was filled with ships in various states of repair, and most of them had been damaged after a run-in with the Gale.

Rig pointed to a galleon in dry dock that had a gaping hole in its bow near the waterline. He said he was surprised it hadn’t sunk before reaching the harbor; probably it had hit an iceberg. The crew must’ve had to pitch cargo overboard to keep its bow high enough to make it into port.

After her harrowing encounter with the Gale, Flint’s Anvil also had a narrow brush with an iceberg. The strait between Southlund and the White’s territory was filled with bergs and blocks of ice that looked like tiny islands. Navigating around the ice was difficult, especially considering that the blocks on top of the water might be only a fraction of the size of the ice just below the surface. Rig was up to the task, however, and Dhamon and Jasper thought the mariner attacked the predicament with cautious enthusiasm. Under Rig’s guidance, the Anvil eased its way through the frigid obstacle course and around a particularly threatening iceberg without putting a single scratch on the hull.

The ship was assigned a spot at the western end of the harbor, and soon she was lashed to the dock with her sails down. Blister asked to stay on the ship with Shaon. The two were becoming friends, and the dark-skinned woman said she could use help checking all the lines and sails. The kender put on brown leather gloves that had a magnifying lens attached to the thumb of the right hand, “to make examining the ropes easier,” she explained.

Groller was appointed the task of purchasing barrels for fresh water and having them filled and delivered. The red-haired wolf, which had been hiding somewhere below deck for most of the trip, was at his side when he left the ship. Jasper decided to tag along, pleased at the prospect of being on solid ground and mildly curious how a deaf half-ogre, if he truly was deaf, would make a commercial transaction. The dwarf grimly suspected he’d end up making the arrangements himself. He scowled and fished about in his pocket to be sure he had enough coins for the barrels.

The three other deckhands were granted a few hours leave, but Rig gave them strict orders that they were to report back well before sunset. The Anvil wouldn’t be staying the night in Caergoth.

That left Dhamon and Rig standing at the railing, looking toward the shore. It was an old port, from the look of the faded and chipping paint on the wharf and many of the taverns and inns that dotted it. And though it was a busy one, and likely a profitable one, it didn’t look like the building owners were reinvesting any of their gains in maintaining their establishments. The newest structures were tall wooden towers, three of them, perched near the shore and stretching high into the air. Poised on platforms at the top were men who looked toward Southern Ergoth, spyglasses to their eyes. They were looking for signs of trouble, namely from the White who lived there.

The people who walked up and down the wharf were mostly sailors and deckhands on leave or on errands. There were several who looked like businessmen with work to conduct along the shore, and there were small groups of travelers who had just gotten off of ships or who were looking to book passage. A few women moved between them all, their attention fixed on the smattering of stalls that sold clams and shell fish.

A pair of fishmongers walked near the buildings and at the edge of the docks—trying to sell to anyone whose clothes looked reasonably intact and therefore might have coins in their pockets.

“Seems someone who had enough gold to sail to Schallsea would have enough to buy some decent clothes,” Rig muttered. The sea barbarian was clad in dark green leather pants, and a pale yellow silk shirt with voluminous sleeves. He wore a band about the top of his head that was made of braided red leather that nearly matched the sash about his waist. The headband had thin tails that hung down to his shoulder blades and flapped in the gentle breeze.

Dhamon shrugged indifferently.

“Can’t catch the ladies’ eyes looking like you do.”

“Maybe I’m not trying to.” Dhamon stepped back from the rail and looked up into the cloudy sky.

Rig followed his gaze. “I don’t like the look of them,” the big mariner stated flatly. “That’s why we’re not staying.”

“Clouds are clouds. What’s wrong with them? Are they too worn for your taste?”

“The sky always carries a message, Dhamon—for those of us smart enough to read it. And that message is usually written in the clouds. When the clouds are flat, like sheets, the air is calm and the temperature’s stable. The journey’ll be easy. These clouds are bloated, and they’re gray at the bottom. That means they’re filled with rain, and it’s only a matter of time before they let it loose. The only question is, will it be a simple downpour? Or will it be a big storm?”

Dhamon slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the silk banner Goldmoon had given him. He remained silent.

“I don’t mind rain, and a little squall never hurt any decent sailor. But we’ve still got a way to go to get by Frost’s territory—and a potential storm with icebergs thrown in the mix is something I’d rather not deal with. This will be my ship after I drop you in Palanthas, and I want it in one piece.” He glanced at the dry-docked galleon. “So, we leave before sunset.”

Dhamon padded past the mariner and followed the plank down to the dock.

“Hey! Where are you going? We’ll be leaving in a couple of hours.”

“I’m going to talk to some of the sailors. Maybe they came from the north. And maybe they were smart enough to read the clouds there. Might give us an edge.”

“Shaon! Mind our ship!” Rig bellowed. “Wait, Dhamon. I’ll join you.”

As he brushed by Blister, the mariner added, “I’m really sorry about your little friend.”

Jasper and Groller stood on a wood-plank sidewalk that stretched along the street just beyond the docks. Caergoth was Southlund’s capital, and as such it was a good-sized city with an enticing waterfront. Several of the buildings had colorful awnings spread over the walk in order to keep the rain or sun off the shoppers, depending on the weather. Other businesses had signs in their windows advertising specials that might lure potential buyers inside—clam chowder, bitter grog, eelskin boots, dyed leather tunics, and the like.

The dwarf stared at the half-ogre. “You really can’t hear me, can you?” Jasper asked.

Groller stared back and raised an eyebrow. The half-ogre couldn’t hear anything, but his other senses worked. His eyes took in the exasperated expression on the dwarf’s face. Groller pursed his lips and brought his arms out in front of his body, forming a circle with them parallel to the ground. Then he nodded toward a barrelwright a half-block away. Jasper hadn’t noticed the sign that displayed a stack of wooden barrels until the half-ogre pointed it out.

Without waiting for a reply, and since he couldn’t have heard one anyway, Groller turned and began walking toward the shop. The red wolf padded at his side and drew the stares of passersby.

Jasper started to call out, to ask Groller to walk slower. But he stopped himself. “Yelling at a deaf man,” he muttered. He cursed softly and hurried to catch up, which was not an easy feat given the quick, long stride of the seven-foot-tall half-ogre.

Just outside the shop, Jasper managed to close the distance. Panting, he tugged on Groller’s vest, and the half-ogre turned and looked down.

“Mmm. How do I do this?” Jasper grumbled to himself. “We need eleven barrels. Did Rig tell you how many? Of course he couldn’t have. You wouldn’t have been able to hear him. Good thing I came along.” He made a motion with his arms, like Groller had, forming a circle in front of his chest. Next, he formed a cup with his hand and pretended to drink.

The half-ogre grinned and nodded.

“So you can understand me,” Jasper said. “Or, at least I think you can.” He held up his hands and spread his fingers wide. Then he formed fists and let one index finger stand up.

“Ee-lef-en,” Groller answered. “Burls. Ino. Em not stoopped. Jus def.”

His words were difficult to make out. But Jasper caught the gist and nodded furiously. The pair went inside.

Groller strolled up to the counter, and a thin, elderly shopkeeper emerged almost immediately from behind a curtain. The dwarf, who stood at the back of the shop to watch, suspected the shopkeeper was alerted by the creaking of the floor beneath the half-ogre’s feet.

“No animals in here!” the thin man shouted. He stood just barely over five feet, and he wore a shirt that was a couple of sizes too big. A leather apron hung from his neck. “I mean it. No—”

The red wolf’s ears flattened against his head and he growled softly, and the shopkeeper stopped protesting. Groller pointed to a row of barrels stacked against the wall. He pulled a small hunk of slate from a deep pocket and fumbled with a piece of chalk. He held it before the shopkeeper.

The man shook his head. “I can’t read.”

Groller returned the slate to his pocket. “Ee-lef-en,” he said slowly. The half-ogre thrust his thick fingers into his vest pocket and pulled out a few coins. “Ee-lef-en burls fild wid wadder.” He handed the coins over. “Livered to docks—Flindsez And-val.”

The shopkeeper looked at him quizzically and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Eleven barrels?”

The wolf barked and wagged its tail.

“Delivered to the docks?”

The wolf barked.

“The ship’s name?”

“Flint’s Anvil,” Jasper offered.

The wolf barked again.

“So you haven’t been deaf your whole life,” Jasper observed, following Groller out of the shop. “You had normal hearing—at least for a while. Otherwise, you couldn’t talk. I suspect you talked better at one time. Probably hard to make the words sound right if you can’t hear them.” He tugged on the half-ogre’s sash to get his attention.

Jasper pointed to his own ear, then balled his fist and made a motion as if he were wadding something up and throwing it away. Then he pointed to Groller and shrugged his shoulders.

“Def tree years,” Groller answered.

The dwarf pointed to a man and woman who were entering a leatherworker’s shop. A young boy trotted behind them. Then Jasper pointed to the half-ogre.

“No fam-lee. No more. Allufum ded.” The half-ogre’s scarred face grew sad, and he bent to scratch behind the wolf’s ears. “Ohnlee Feweree.”

Jasper cocked his head, not understanding the last bit.

Groller drew his lips into a thin line, squinted as if he was mad. Then he curved the fingers of his right hand and held them over his heart. His hand flew up violently, suddenly. Then Groller’s face softened, and he reached down to pet the wolf again.

“Angry. Mad,” the dwarf muttered. “Fury! The wolf’s name is Fury. I understand.” Jasper grinned and realized it was his first smile in days.

Groller, not hearing Jasper, nudged the wolf along and shuffled past the dwarf. Jasper watched him saunter into an inn that advertised a special on clam chowder and dark rum. The red wolf dutifully sat outside to wait. The dwarf licked his lips and felt for the steel in his pockets. “Plenty of coins,” he whispered. “And I am hungry.” He glanced at the harbor for a moment and then joined Groller.

Dhamon stopped to talk to the first mate of a carrack. The man was standing on the shore, looking toward a row of stone and wood buildings that were near the docks. He was eyeing one in particular. It had a large sign above the door that depicted an overflowing tankard of ale. The mate cleared his throat, licked his dry lips, and mentioned he was thirsty, but he continued chatting with Dhamon. Rig was quick to step between the pair.

“We’re heading up the coast,” Rig interjected. “I overheard you tell Dhamon that your ship came down from there yesterday.”

The mate nodded. “Weather’s holding,” he said. “Or it was. Our last stop was Starport, about ninety miles to the north. Those men pulled out several hours after us—judging by the time they got here. Maybe you should talk to them.”

He pointed at a group of uniformly-clad men about a hundred and fifty yards away. There were a dozen of them; all wore steel armor that had been painted black. From their vantage point on the Anvil’s deck, Dhamon and Rig hadn’t been able to see them.

Over his armor, each man wore a dark blue tabard with a gray skull and a white death lily embroidered on the front and back. They were huddled together, as if deep in discussion.

“Knights of Takhisis,” Dhamon whispered.

Though the Dark Queen of Krynn vanished with the rest of the gods, her knighthood had remained intact. It was one large order, but it had also fragmented into various divisions that fell under the auspices of powerful commanders who were spread across Ansalon. The knights still fought battles to defend the land their commanders claimed or to enlarge territories. Some worked as military forces for cities, and the commanders had prestigious positions in the government. A few groups had overrun cities and claimed them for the knighthood.

“They’re still in considerable numbers, even though their goddess is gone,” Rig mused. “I wonder which petty general these work for. At least with their factions divided, they’re no real threat anymore.”

Dhamon shook his head. “They’re armed and armored. They’re a threat.”

“There’s a ship full of ’em,” the mate cut in. “That small galley over there. They might have better information for you.”

“You could be right. Thanks.” Rig tossed him a copper coin. “Your next drink’s on me.” Then he strode toward the group.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Dhamon called. “They’ve probably got things on their mind other than talking to us.”

Rig either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. Dhamon’s fingers slid to the pommel of his sheathed sword, and he followed a few yards behind.

“Heard your ship came down from the north!” Rig’s deep voice cut across the sand that separated him from the knights.

The men turned and revealed what had been at the center of their huddle—a young elven woman.

“My, my,” Rig said in a low voice. “I think I’m in love.”

“I thought you were in love with Shaon,” Dhamon whispered.

“I am. Or close to it.”

The woman was tanned and shapely, dressed in tight dun-colored leggings, and a sleeveless, fringed chestnut tunic that clung to her slightly muscular frame. Her long, light brown hair was thick and curly and flared away from her face, covering up her shoulders and looking like a lion’s mane.

She sported several tattoos. On her face was an artfully-painted orange and yellow oak leaf. The stem curved around and above her right eye, and the leaf draped over her cheek, with the tip extending to the corner of her mouth. A red lightning bolt stretched across her forehead. From a distance it looked like a headband. Finally, on her right arm, from the elbow to the wrist, was a blue and green feather. The tattoos marked her as a Kagonesti, a wild elf.

She glanced briefly at Rig and Dhamon, then stared into the face of one of the knights. A band on his arm indicated he was an officer and in charge of the group.

“The dragon won’t stop with Southern Ergoth,” she was saying. “You have to realize that.”

Rig and Dhamon were close enough now to hear her words.

“If something isn’t done, if someone doesn’t stand up to him...”

“What?” the officer returned. “The Kagonesti will never get their homeland back?”

There was muffled snickering from a handful of the knights.

“He’s corrupted nature,” she continued. “Southern Ergoth is an icy wasteland. Nothing grows there anymore. What if he travels here next?”

“I think he likes Southern Ergoth just fine,” the youngest knight said. “I think he’s satisfied and will stay put.”

“Besides,” the officer said. “We’ve our orders to consider, and they don’t include dealing with a dragon.”

She inhaled sharply. “But what if Frost doesn’t stay put? He truly might come here next—or menace some other land. You could help me.” The Kagonesti stared at the officer. “Please. You could take your ship there. Together maybe we could—”

“What? Together we could die? I understand your concern, but there’s nothing I can do. We’re here to recruit more knights, miss, and that’s a task I’d rather concentrate on. It’s good for our order.”

The Kagonesti’s shoulders slumped, and she turned to walk away. One of the knights took a step after her and grabbed the back of her tunic. He spun her around, and moved in closer. “Why don’t you join us?” he asked. He brought his other hand up to her mane of curls. “We’d make room for you on the ship.”

Behind him, the officer frowned and ordered him back into line. The young knight hesitated, and the Kagonesti kicked at his ankles. “Join you? Never,” she hissed. “I’ve more important things to deal with.”

He released her hair, and the Kagonesti started to walk away. But the young knight followed her, slamming his shoulder into her back and knocking her face first into the sand.

“Can’t even stand on your feet. How can you stand up to a dragon?” he taunted. The knights on either side of him laughed loudly.

Dhamon heard the officer reprimand the young knight. He also heard the shushing sound a blade makes when it’s being drawn. Rig took a step forward and brought his right arm up, raising his cutlass level with the offending knight’s throat.

“Apologize to the lady!” Rig demanded.

“Apologize? Because she’s clumsy?”

There was more laughter. And another reprimand.

“Rig,” Dhamon’s tone was soft, but insistent. “There’s a dozen of them and one of you. Bad odds—even if you’re good with that blade.”

The mariner hesitated. The elf rose to her feet, grabbed her pack, and scampered away from the knights. Rig saw that she was safe, then he lowered his weapon.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Dhamon suggested. “No one’s been hurt.”

Rig took a step back, and in that instant the young knight took a step forward. Itching for a confrontation, he drew his long sword, spread his legs for balance, and eyed the mariner. “Afraid to defend a woman?” he sneered. “Or maybe elves aren’t worth it.”

Rig raised his sword again.

“Don’t do it,” Dhamon pleaded.

“I know you!” the officer exclaimed. He was pointing at Dhamon and ignoring the upstart knight in his charge. The officer’s eyes grew wide. “Last year in Kyre, near Solanthus. At the home of the old Solamnic knight. You were...”

“You must be mistaken,” Dhamon said tersely.

“I don’t think so. I saw you! Subcommander Mullor was there. You killed him.”

“I said, you must have been mistaken.”

“I don’t think so, I...”

“The lady’s with me!” the young knight barked, drowning out his superior’s words. “Run back to your ship while you’ve the chance, you dark excuse for a frightened gully dwarf!”

“Run? Frightened?” Rig erupted. “Never!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw Rig and the young knight close. The big mariner parried the knight’s awkward swing. Four other knights drew their blades but held their positions.

“Fight!” someone yelled from a distance. “Come on!”

The young knight raised his long sword high over his head and brought it down hard, trying to land a blow on Rig’s shoulder. The mariner was fast and brought his cutlass up to parry the attack. The knight’s blade clanged harmlessly away, and Rig countered with a swing aimed at the young man’s thigh. Dhamon breathed a sigh of relief that the mariner was only trying to wound—not kill.

The knight had some skill, and he stepped back and met the mariner’s blow with his own sword, catching it just below its hilt. The tactic kept the knight from getting hurt, but his long sword snapped from the angle of impact, and the blade spun to the sand. Cursing, the knight threw the useless pommel to the ground and glared at Rig.

Again, Rig lowered his blade, if only for an instant. Two more knights strode forward. The first circled to the mariner’s right. The other met him head-on and swung in a wide arc aimed at his chest.

Rig dropped to a crouch as the blade passed above him, and plucked two daggers from the cuff of his boot with his left hand. He stuck one dagger between his teeth, the other he gripped and waved at the advancing knight.

“I am not mistaken!” The words exploded from the officer’s mouth, and Dhamon swiveled his head in time to see the officer jabbing a finger at him. “Your hair’s longer, but I do remember you. Get him!” The officer yanked his long sword free and rushed forward. The knight near him followed his lead.

“Look!” bellowed a voice from somewhere on the docks. “There really is a fight!”

In one fluid motion, Dhamon drew his sword and met the charge of the lead knight. Their swords clashed loudly. He whirled in the sand and met the second knight’s swing just in time to keep his sword arm from being severed.

The officer darted in, slashing, and Dhamon tensed his leg muscles and leapt straight up, tucking his legs in toward his chest. The blade sliced just below the toes of his boots. As he came down, Dhamon shot his right leg forward, striking the officer hard in the chest and knocking him down.

Graceful as a dancer, Dhamon landed on his left foot and spun to meet the second knight’s rush. The man’s charge was slowed over the sand, and Dhamon was able to dodge the wide swing.

Dhamon slashed at the knight, but the blow rebounded off the black armor. His second swing fared better, and his blade sank deep between the knight’s shoulder and chest plates. With a groan, the knight fell forward. Dhamon pulled hard to free his blade.

Behind him, the officer was rising and reaching for his fallen sword. Dhamon dashed forward and kicked the blade away, then slammed his boot heel into the man’s stomach to keep him down. Two more knights advanced on him.

“My money’s on the knights!” someone called.

“I’ll take the long odds on the black man!”

Dhamon watched one of the knights rush in. Drawing his blade back over his shoulder, he spun as he sliced ahead. The blade connected with the knight’s neck, instantly decapitating him.

“Double my money on the blond!” someone cried. “The beggar was just playing with ’em!”

A crowd was forming around the combatants, and the clinking of steel coins mingled with the clanking of swords.

Risking a glance toward Rig, Dhamon saw that the mariner was barely working up a sweat. Two knights were on the ground, a dagger in each of their throats. Two more knights faced him. Never more than two on a single foe, Dhamon knew. Greater odds would be dishonorable.

The mariner waved his sword about to meet the charge of his attackers. The fingers of his left hand flew to his waist and tugged free his red sash. He began making wide circles in the air, the sash whipping and whistling. It was weighted, like a bolo, and too late the knight darting forward realized the mariner’s intent.

Rig tossed the sash forward. Spinning, it wrapped about the sword arm and head of the closest knight. The man paused to untangle himself, and in that moment, Rig darted forward and rammed his cutlass between a thin gap in the knight’s breastplate. The man pitched backward, the sword lodged deep in his stomach.

Seemingly weaponless, Rig dropped to the sand, avoiding a mad slash by his second foe. At the same time, he reached into the V of his silk shirt, and his fingers came away with three more daggers. The first he hurled at the foe towering above him. The dagger skewered the knight’s hand, causing him to drop the long sword.

The other two daggers Rig held in his right hand. As he jumped to his feet, he flung his left hand forward, releasing a shower of sand into the weaponless knight’s face. Blinded, the man cast his head about and stepped back, but Rig pressed the attack and jammed the twin daggers into his side.

“No!” Dhamon cried. He darted below the swing of his own closest foe and waved his sword to catch Rig’s attention. “These are knights!” he bellowed. Again he dodged a well-timed attack. “They fight honorably! No more than two on you at a time. And you should fight honorably too!”

Two knights pressed their attack against Dhamon, drawing his attention away from the mariner. One of them, a stout, muscular man, lunged to the left, but it was a false attack. He quickly stepped right and thrust forward at Dhamon’s unprotected chest.

Dhamon pivoted just in time to avoid being run through, but the stocky knight’s blade sliced his tunic. A thin line of red appeared and soaked through the worn cloth. Dhamon stepped back to avoid another swing and found himself in the path of the second knight’s blade. Though not as skilled as his fellow, the knight’s aim was lucky, and his sword sliced into Dhamon’s arm, just below his elbow.

Dhamon gritted his teeth. The cut was deep, and he felt the warmth of his blood. He fought to ignore the pain and tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.

The stout man thrust again. Dhamon dropped to his knees and felt the air ripple above his head from the strength of the man’s swing. Without hesitation, he drove his blade upward, impaling the muscular knight. In the same instant, he slammed his elbow into the second knight to force him back.

The second knight moaned and retreated a step, and watched the expert swordsman fall forward, driving Dhamon’s blade even farther into his gut as his body struck the sand.

Someone in the growing throng yelled “Bravo!” And a cheer from the onlookers went up. “Pay up! The beggar killed another one!” someone yelled.

“Let’s call an end this!” Dhamon hollered above the applause. “Now!”

He spied the officer struggling to his feet, aided by the knight who’d just fought Dhamon.

“No one else has to die!” he said. He rolled the body of the stout knight over, planted a foot on his stomach, and pulled his long sword free. He waved the blade menacingly in an arc over the fallen man.

The two men fighting Rig stepped back, watching Dhamon. But they kept their swords up, ready to resume the battle.

Four men lay dead at the big mariner’s feet, all with blades sticking out of their still forms. Dhamon’s sword had claimed three. Of the five remaining knights, one looked seriously injured and probably wouldn’t live—one of Rig’s daggers was embedded near his neck. The knight who had started the fray was still weaponless and unharmed.

“Rig!” Dhamon called.

“You’re hurt!” the mariner returned. “But we can still take ’em! Easy!”

“No! It’s over.”

Rig cursed and held his position. Then he grudgingly nodded and lowered the daggers he held in each hand.

The Knights of Takhisis relaxed, but only a little. At their officer’s orders, they guardedly sheathed their long swords.

“Pay up!” someone in the crowd called. “The knights lost.”

“But they’re not all dead!” someone else countered.

Rig started retrieving his weapons, tugging them free from the fallen knights. He wrapped the sash around his waist and stuck daggers in each of his boots and under his shirt. He grasped his cutlass firmly, then stuck it in the band of his sash.

Dhamon dropped to his knees on the sand. He laid his sword in front of him and bowed his head, mumbling a prayer for the dead men as drops of his own blood spattered on the ground. He had several deep cuts on his arm and chest, and his shirt was more red than ivory now.

“Dhamon,” Rig hissed. “What are you doing? Let’s get out of here.” The mariner had spied more knights filing off the ship. The numbers were considerable. “Dhamon!”

The prayer finished, Dhamon stood. “We’re sailing out soon,” he told the officer. “We don’t want any more trouble.”

“You’ll get none.” The officer nodded and instructed his men to collect the dead. He fixed Dhamon with a steady stare. “But I wasn’t mistaken about you.”

Dhamon looked at his blade, covered with blood. He didn’t sheath it, but he carried it low and to his side so it couldn’t be misconstrued as a threat. He turned toward the Anvil’s dock. Rig followed.

“All this talk of honor, Dhamon,” Rig clucked. “Were you a knight?”

“Well, no. I always wanted to be a knight,” Dhamon answered, fixing his gaze on the tips of his boots and remembering Blister’s lesson. “My uncle was a knight. I guess I wanted to be like him.”

“You’re good in a fight,” the Kagonesti said. She’d come up behind the pair, and now touched Rig’s shoulder to get his attention. “It was amazing.”

“I’ve never lost a fight,” the mariner boasted.

“I’m trying to gather some men,” she began, “to go after the White. I know some nature-magic, but I can’t do it alone. I could use your help.”

“We’re going north,” Rig said.

“We need to tend to something in Palanthas,” Dhamon added. “I promised to deal with it first. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Then perhaps you’ll help with the dragon?”

“Maybe,” Dhamon answered. He’d reached the dock and knelt next to it at the water’s edge to clean his sword.

“I would like to leave this place,” she admitted. She glanced over her shoulder, toward where the fight had taken place. The crowd was finally breaking up, but one of the knights stood, watching the trio.

“Another mouth to feed and water,” Rig muttered. “At least it’s a very pretty one.”

“Ferilleeagh Dawnsprinter, once of the Foghaven Vale tribe,” she said, extending a slender hand to the mariner. “Please call me Feril.”

“Rig Mer-Krel,” the mariner said. He bowed deeply and swept his hand in a gracious arc, then captured hers and brought it to his lips. He gently released it and motioned to Dhamon. “This is Dhamon Grimwulf, an honorable fighter. And there is my ship—the Anvil.”

She arched an eyebrow at the carrack’s name, but smiled. “It’s a fine ship.”

Rig cast his head skyward, then scowled. The clouds had grown darker. “Dhamon, won’t you show the lady on board? I’m going to find my men. I think we’d better set sail as soon as possible.”

Blister fretted over Dhamon, and—with Shaon’s and Feril’s help—finally coaxed him to sit on a coil of rope that was lying against the rear mast. He wasn’t used to so much attention, but the Kagonesti’s fingers stroking his forehead felt good.

The kender turned her back to him, and fumbled with one of her pouches. When she spun around, he could see that she’d changed gloves. She had on a white pair that had especially thick pads at the fingertips. The kender reached up and prodded the gash on his arm, and the blood quickly turned the finger pads red. He saw her wince, but he thought it was from the sight of his wound. He didn’t know moving her fingers caused her pain.

“The shirt’s gotta go,” Blister ordered.

At Feril’s insistence, Dhamon raised his arms, and the Kagonesti gently tugged the tunic off. Shaon scowled at the bloodied garment, then picked it up and threw it over the side. Like a dying bird, it fluttered to the dock below.

“Didn’t look good on you anyway,” Shaon complained.

Dhamon resignedly leaned back against the mast and tried to relax. It didn’t work but he was grateful for the kender’s ministrations. His blood loss was making him feel lightheaded.

He watched Blister place the other glove over the line on his chest. It absorbed some of the blood and helped to clean the wound. So the gloves were specifically designed to tend to the injured, Dhamon mused. He idly wondered how many more pairs she had.

“What happened?” she asked as she continued to work.

“Just a little scuffle,” Dhamon replied.

“You’re learning to be a better liar,” Blister said crossly. “But you’ve got to work on being more believable.”

Feril recounted the story of the fight with the Knights of Takhisis, while Blister continued to fuss over him.

“I’ll need some water to clean this better,” the kender muttered. “We’ve plenty of barrels now.”

“I’m fine, Blister, really,” Dhamon groaned.

“No, you’re not.” The voice was deep. Jasper had returned. Groller and the red wolf were behind him.

Dhamon cocked his head and sniffed the air.

“We ah... stopped at an inn,” Jasper said as he came closer and grimaced. The scent of rum was strong on the dwarf’s breath. “Heard that a pair of... let’s see, foolish upstarts I think they called ’em... picked a fight with a unit of Knights of Takhisis.”

“That’s not exactly how it happened. Ouch!”

The dwarf’s fingers weren’t as gentle as Blister’s gloves.

“Did Rig fare worse?” Jasper’s voice was tinged with the slightest bit of concern.

“He didn’t get a scratch,” Feril replied. She quickly introduced herself and once again recounted the tale of the battle.

The dwarf looked closer at Dhamon’s wounds. “Not too terribly bad, but if I don’t do something, they’ll get infected. Can’t have you getting sick on us.” He knelt before Dhamon and closed his eyes. “Something Goldmoon taught me.”

With a new pair of gloves that were spongy, especially at the palms, Blister wiped at the wounds. Jasper mumbled some singsong words none of the others could make out. A line of sweat broke out across his wide forehead, and his thick lips trembled. He grew pale, and Dhamon’s arm and chest grew irritatingly hot.

“Oh!” the kender squealed.

Dhamon glanced down at his chest and saw the line of red fading, the rawness of the wound vanishing. He looked at his arm and watched the blood congeal.

Groller, eyes wide over the entire incident, helped Jasper to his feet.

“You will have scars,” Jasper said. “But you won’t get an infection.” The dwarf turned to Groller and touched the half-ogre’s sash. He pointed to the spot where Dhamon was injured, touched the sash again, and then used a finger to indicate a wrapping motion. His finger orbited the area of Dhamon’s injury several times.

The half-ogre spun on his heels and headed below deck. Fury sat back and continued to watch.

“Groller’s going to get some bandages,” the dwarf explained. “And I’m going to get some rest.”

By the time Rig and the other crewmen returned to Flint’s Anvil, Dhamon’s wounds were dressed. Shirtless, and with his long hair whipping about his face and neck, he stood at the rail and nodded to the mariner.

“Next port we’ll have to get you a few new shirts,” said Rig. Dhamon rolled his eyes. “We?”

The mariner ignored him and moved toward the wheel. “Shaon, raise the sails! We’re leaving!”