Redemption

Chapter Thirteen Reunion in Blood

“Do you really think this raft is going to hold all of us?” Ragh was helping to wrap twine around a dozen thin logs they’d lashed together, his stubby claws fumbling at the task. “I’m pretty heavy and Maldred’s…”

“Aye, I know. The ogre’s no lightweight,” Dhamon said. “No, I don’t know that this raft will hold us. But all of us can’t damn well swim. We have to try something.”

Ragh gave him a skeptical look, remembering the incident at sea during the storm. “You’re mad, my friend.”

He helped push the makeshift vessel out onto the river and cautiously climbed aboard, setting his great sword carefully down in front of him. The raft didn’t sink when Maldred and Dhamon joined him, but it rested low in the water, tilting precariously in whichever direction someone leaned. Ragh kept a claw on the sword’s pommel so he could hold onto the weapon in case it started to slide off.

Ragh had suggested they walk to the coast, but Dhamon said travel across the overgrown land was impossibly slow, and he needed to get to Throt as quickly as possible. Ever since he’d given up on finding Fiona, and seen the vision of the shadow dragon in the crystal ball, Dhamon had pushed them to take risks. Not one of the three had slept a wink in the past twenty-four hours, but only Dhamon looked alive, alert.

“We could still march to the coast, take shortcuts and…” Ragh swallowed the rest of his words as the wind blew away the edges of Dhamon’s hood. The draconian noticed the right side of Dhamon’s face was almost completely covered in small, black scales, and only a patch on his neck was still flesh. Dhamon’s hands were completely covered, too. The old sorcerer’s garment he was wearing hid most of it from prying eyes.

“No, we’re taking this raft.” Dhamon stood grimly at the back, using the haft of the glaive to pole the raft along in the shallows. The draconian had to admit they were moving considerably faster than would have been possible if they were trudging through the thick grass.

Ragh looked to the east, his interest caught by a trio of lounging crocodiles and the cloud of flies that haloed them. “But this raft won’t make it across the New Sea, you have to admit. It might not even make it to the New Sea.”

“No, this raft won’t, but a ferry will,” Maldred interjected. “That’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it, Dhamon? Finding a ferry along the coast?”

That was indeed Dhamon’s plan, but he didn’t bother to nod to the ogre-mage. He was scanning the river ahead, the thick foliage on both sides. He was thinking about the baby he had seen in Riki’s arms in the crystal ball vision and wondering if it was a boy or a girl and if in some small way its looks favored him. He used to be good-looking, he mused, before these terrible scales began to spread. At least the child would have a family life with Riki and Varek, something Dhamon unfortunately had been deprived of, as far as he knew. Funny, he could remember almost nothing of his boyhood, couldn’t recall his own mother and father—probably he was an orphan.

“If I can make it safe for them, the child will have a good home,” he murmured.

“What did you say, Dhamon?”

“Nothing, ogre.”

Maldred gave a great sigh, hung his head. Within a few moments, he was asleep.

Dhamon couldn’t afford to rest. He wasn’t hungry either, and his forced pace hadn’t allowed his companions any time to eat. They could eat later. Perhaps he’d want food later, too. He didn’t need much rest anymore, or much food. His senses were keen, his strength remarkable. It was amazing what little it took to sustain him.

Most of the time he felt stronger than ever, bristling with energy By the same token, every inch of him dully ached! He was nauseated half the time, and the other half his head throbbed. His feet hurt always, as they were growing and straining the limits of his boots. Damn the shadow dragon! he cursed inwardly with each breath. Thankfully the sleeves were long on this old sorcerer’s robe and helped to conceal his ugly form. When he came upon Riki and the child, he didn’t want them to see what was happening to him. If only I see them while there is still something human about me, he thought.

He knew Ragh stole glances at him, as they followed the winding river under a waning sun. Dhamon was determined not to let the draconian know he was suffering from the shadow dragon’s magic, so he spent his time looking at everything but his two passengers. The view of the Black’s land was better from the river, and he imagined he might actually enjoy the journey were the circumstances different. The leaves of the cypress trees were a vivid emerald and decorated with colorful parrots, their long tails looking like ribbons tied to the branches. Though they were some distance away, he could see the fine detail on the birds, and hear their soft whistles. Their noise ebbed and flowed and at times added to the pounding in his head. He could make out the very edges and veins of the leaves, and hear their rustling, hear the little waves lapping against the raft, against the bank, hear unseen animals pattering through the brush, and by the sounds they made he guessed at what kinds of animals they were. He heard the snarl of a panther, the soft step of a deer, the growl of… something that wasn’t a normal creature.

He pulled the glaive haft from the water and peered cautiously to his right. Not enough racket for a dragon, too much for a spawn or draconian. The creature growled again.

“What is it, Dhamon?” Ragh was staring to the right also, careful not to rock the raft and furious when Maldred woke up, leaned over, and nearly upset all of them.

Dhamon saw a branch move. It was inland from the river by better than three dozen yards. Probably nothing to be concerned with, but somehow he could see very well at that distance, even through tiny gaps in the dense foliage, and so he continued to stare. A large, scaly green hand shifted the branch. He made out the olive-hued torso of a lizard creature, a spear held in one of its clawed hands. A lizardman?

No, he thought after more scrutiny. Too large, its scales were more pronounced. He couldn’t see all of the beast, only tantalizing parts, but after a moment he was able to figure out just what it was.

“Abakali,” he growled low. “A stinking bakali.”

Bakali were an ancient race and at one time were thought extinct. Better for all concerned if all the bakali were dead, Dhamon thought. Though cunning, bakali were not especially bright, though they were strong and brutal, and they tended to serve whatever master offered the best rewards. There were small, scattered tribes of them in the Black’s land, and Dhamon knew from encountering a hunting party a few years ago that at least some of them worked for Sable. This bakali was by itself, probably looking for something to eat. The way it was slinking, it was stalking something.

“Not my concern.” He started poling the raft again, a little more slowly, watching the creature out of curiosity. Then he saw that it wasn’t alone after all. There were at least three more bakali—a small force, nothing that could deter him. His heart skipped a beat a few moments later when his extraordinary vision revealed just what they were stalking.

“Ragh,” Dhamon spoke softly, though he knew the bakali were unaware of the three of them on the raft, and certainly couldn’t hear them at this distance. “There’s Fiona.”

This time Ragh’s surprised reaction almost upset the raft. “The Solamnic? She’s not dead?”

“Not yet,” Dhamon commented dryly, “but it looks like some big, ugly bakali are trying to change that.” Although Dhamon, equally surprised to see the Knight, was glad Fiona was alive, he also felt resentful that she had reappeared now to delay his trip. “Damn it all.” He was determined to keep her from ending up in the bakali’s stomachs, however.

Had she managed to find their tracks and was following them for some reason? He hurriedly poled the raft toward the shore, indicating with a finger to his lips that the draconian and Maldred should keep quiet. He gestured toward the bakali, though he had lost sight of Fiona. He concentrated, trying to pick through the sounds of the swamp.

The sounds intensified. The ruckus from the birds and other unseen creatures grew eerily louder, though the animals apparently weren’t coming closer. All of the sounds were becoming annoyingly indistinguishable to Dhamon’s super-sensitive ears.

“Ragh, stay here and watch the ogre. Keep your eyes open for trouble.”

Ragh and Maldred obviously hadn’t noticed a change in the sounds of the swamp. Ragh… Dhamon could hear the draconian’s raspy breathing a little too clearly could hear Ragh’s heart beat, hear Maldred’s too—it beat slower and louder than his own or Ragh’s.

“You’ll need help.” The draconian spoke softly, Dhamon knew, but it sounded like a shout to his ears.

Dhamon shook his head. “Small stuff. I certainly can handle four bakali by myself.” Even his own words sounded booming in his ears. “Watch the ogre, I say. We can’t afford to let him get away and warn the shadow dragon.” He tugged a corner of the raft onto the shore to anchor it, then, shouldering the glaive, he headed inland.

Matters swiftly grew worse as he disappeared through the trees and out of sight of the raft. The sounds of the morass quickly became overwhelming, practically deafening. The drone of the insects and chatter of the birds was almost vicious, the rustling of the leaves resounding. Dhamon staggered and dropped the glaive to throw his hands over his ears. It didn’t help. A big cat snarled, the sound like a mighty roar. The river rolled by, sloshing thunderously against the bank wells. He slammed his teeth together and threw his head back. How could he help Fiona when he couldn’t help himself? What by the names of all the vanished gods was happening to him now?

“Ragh,” he gasped, wanting to tell the draconian to go after Fiona in his stead. Was he speaking loud enough?

Could the draconian hear him? He shouted the draconian’s name now, the single word like a dagger thrust into his ears. Parrots screeched overhead, adding to the agony. The chitter of the insects swelled impossibly, slender branches rubbed against each other and echoed brutally in his head.

He heard his heart pounding, thought he heard the blood rushing through his veins in rhythm with the river. His breath sounded like powerful gusts of wind.

“Quiet,” he prayed. “Fiona. I have to help Fiona. Everything needs to be quiet.” Amazingly, in the next breath the cacophony lessened, startling him. Although still loud, it was no longer earsplitting, and he could think. Quiet. Please, please, make it quiet. Centering his thoughts on that one idea, he discovered that he could diminish some of the individual sounds—though it took some effort. He concentrated more intensely until all the noises lessened and became bearable.

His hearing restored, he retrieved the glaive and plodded forward. With each step he felt better. He listened for the hisses and growls of the bakali. He was able to pinpoint these noises, bringing them to the fore, then he heard something else—the hiss of steel, a sword being drawn, a feminine intake of breath.

Peering through the giant blooms of lianas, Dhamon spotted Fiona in a fighting stance in a small, mossy clearing.

There was something different about her, he immediately thought. Something . . . her face! The acid scars were gone. The hair that had melted away had returned. That shouldn’t be! Worry over that later, he told himself. Worry about the bakali now.

She was closing in defiantly on a towering bakali. The creature, looking like a cross between a man and a crocodile, with spiky ridges and armorlike hide, was easily eight feet tall. Slavering jaws clacked as it darted in, bone club held high.

Three others, armed with large bone clubs, were grouped on the side of the clearing closest to himself.

Dhamon stepped out into the open, readied the glaive, and rushed at them.

Although the bakali seemed utterly reptilian with thick hides, they walked on two legs and had their own language like men. One of the three had a thicker brow, another’s hide was brighter, looking the shade of trillium leaves, and the last had narrow shoulders and incongruously thick forearms. Otherwise they looked remarkably similar—ugly. All of them had wicked-looking claws and narrowing eyes that locked fiercely onto Dhamon.

In a half-dozen long strides he reached the lead bakali, drew the glaive back and swung it hard in front of him. The creature snarled curses in its ancient tongue and raised its bone club high, but it never got the chance to use its primitive weapon. The axe-like blade of the glaive clove through the bakali’s chest, practically cutting it in two. The two other creatures hesitated, then as Dhamon continued his charge, the smaller one turned and fled. Within a heartbeat, the laggard met the same fate as the first bakali.

Behind him, Dhamon could here the thunk of Fiona’s sword against the hide of the biggest bakali. He paused and sniffed the air, smelling the blood leaking from the two he’d just slain and the one Fiona had obviously wounded. The smaller bakali was heading toward twin shaggybarks at the far end of the clearing, and Dhamon had to stop it before it could call for any others that might be nearby. This creature had a slightly different odor. Perhaps it was carrying an unguent or perhaps it was a female in cycle.

Just as Dhamon reached the shaggybarks the bakali jumped out between the two trees and hurled something at him. Three silvery shards flashed at him like shooting stars. Dhamon veered, but too late. All three found their mark, two in his stomach, one in his shoulder. They were metal barbs that dug through his sorcerer’s robes and bit into his flesh.

As Dhamon darted around the largest tree, the bakali hurled three more of the metal barbs at him, striking with accuracy. Dhamon howled in pain as he raised both hands over his head, bringing the glaive down for a killing blow. The bakali had turned, but the blade clove its back before it could take more than a couple of steps.

Dhamon tugged the glaive free, seeing the bakali was mortally wounded, pathetically clawing at the ground in a useless attempt to escape. He ended its misery.

Then he loped back toward Fiona, who seemed to be losing ground in her fight. He smelled human blood now—hers, his own—and something else. It was a biting scent he couldn’t identify, but one similar to that emanating from the small bakali.

He sniffed, and his pace involuntarily slowed, legs feeling suddenly heavy. Curiously, the constant ache in his limbs had lessened. He was starting to feel numb.

“Poison.” Shouldering the glaive, Dhamon frantically plucked at the several metal barbs stuck in him.

The odd smell was some sort of poison. He noted a residue of white paste on the sharp tips as he pulled them out, one by one, and tossed them away.

“Damn it all,” he muttered. Dhamon forced himself to keep moving, though he felt overcome with sluggishness. He could tell his heart had slowed. He could call for Ragh again, though he knew the raft was probably too far away. “Damn the dragon and damn me.” The poison made him groggy, but he guessed it wouldn’t kill him.

A few steps more and he was at Fiona’s side. He dazedly noted where the bakali had raked her left arm. Fiona barely nodded at him. She was faltering. Fatigue, he decided, or maybe more poison. Tired and wounded, she was losing her fight with the bakali.

Dhamon stepped between her and her foe and took a high grip on his weapon.

“Foul beast,” he cursed. He thrust forward with the glaive, ramming the tip of the blade into the bakali’s stomach. The lizard-creature swung back wildly, grazing him with its claws.

“Again,” Dhamon told himself, summoning all his energy to swing a second time at the determined creature. This hit cut deeper and made the thing yowl. Worry spread across its reptilian visage. Glancing over its scaly shoulder, the bakali saw the fate of its companions.

The bakali chattered at Dhamon as it backed away, working hard to stay beyond the reach of the glaive. Dhamon couldn’t understand what the beast was saying, probably in its native language. Probably it was pleading for its life. Dhamon could smell the stench of its fear. He could taste its fear. Shuddering at the disturbing sensation, Dhamon forced his heavy limbs to move just a little quicker so he could end this struggle.

“You ssshould hunt creatures with four legsss, not two,” he told it. His words were slurred and his tongue thick, but he found his heart beating a little faster from the excitement. He heard Fiona creep up behind him, and he heard her take a deep breath just as he swung hard, putting all his strength behind this final blow. The blade parted the bakali’s thick flesh like parchment, and the creature’s black blood splattered Dhamon. A second swing took the creature’s head off, and at that very moment Fiona acted.

She thrust her enchanted blade deep into Dhamon’s back.

Dhamon screamed at the shock and pain, dropping his weapon even as the female knight pulled her sword out of him for a second blow. He stumbled around, took a step back and tried to retrieve his weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. Fiona circled in the opposite direction, slashing at him from the side, the blade sliding between his ribs. Either of her blows would have killed a normal man, but Dhamon’s extraordinary strength kept him on his feet. Fiona shouted her frustration. Her third swing had more thrust and caught him in the legs. He fell to his knees and flailed forward, trying to knock her sword away.

It was her madness that was causing this betrayal, he knew, and it was the poison in him that was keeping him from a proper counterattack.

“Fiona, it’sss me, Dhamon! Ssstop!”

His shout was slurred, although it would take more than volume to reach some part of her mind that might still be sane. Dhamon shouted again, more weakly. He barely managed to dodge beneath her next swing, and the next. “Ragh!” he cried. “Ragh!”

“Call for your wingless pet all you like,” Fiona sneered. “Fil kill him, too.”

Dhamon had stood up to draconians, spawn, dragons, and survived all of them. How could he die now, the victim of someone who, in his righteous days, he considered a friend? Move! he told himself.

Get clear, talk some sense into her. Get the glaive. Get help. Help!

He felt the warm stickiness of his blood on his back and side, blood running down his leg. The coppery scent of it grew strong. He guessed her blade had broken his ribs. “Fiona,” he pleaded. “It’sss me. Dhamon. Remember? Ssstop, or you’ll kill me.”

She bared her teeth but stayed her next blow. There was a tempest in her eyes—eyes seething out of control. He felt an uncharacteristic tug of fear at that look.

“It’sss me, Dhamon.”

“Of course I know who you are!” Her words came fast and hard, like lightning and thunder from the storm inside her. “I know! The mighty Dhamon Grimwulf—failed Dark Knight, failed champion of Goldmoon. Failed. Failed. Failed. The only thing you’re successful at is killing people. Killing your friends. By the memory of Vinus Solamnus, Dhamon, I will kill you!”

She darted in, and this time it took all his luck to stay out of her reach. He brought his arms up defensively, but hadn’t the strength anymore to evade her blows. The blood he’d lost and the poison that was coursing through him were taking a heavy toll.

“Rig’s dead, Dhamon,” she said bitterly. Fiona lunged, her blade solidly striking his arm and sending a few scales flying. She was toying with him now—confident she had him and drawing out the end to her own satisfaction. “Rig’s dead, and you killed him!”

Dhamon shook his head, somehow managed to fight his way to his feet. Dizzy, he nearly pitched forward but squared his shoulders and jumped back just in time. She’d have run him through with her fierce swing. He held a hand. “I didn’t kill Rig, Fiona, I…”

“Liar!” She swung her long sword at waist-level now, piercing Dhamon’s robes and drawing another line of blood. “Monster!” she howled, spying the scales on his stomach. “Spawn! You killed Rig as surely as if you’d plunged the blade in his heart. You took us—took him—from the dungeons, but you didn’t do anything to save him.”

“Fiona, listen…”

“We were abandoned in Shrentak, Rig and me. You didn’t care what happened to us. Not you, not your lying ogre friend. You killed Rig, Dhamon Grimwulf, just like you killed everyone else who got too close to you.” The female Knight lunged again, slashing at him, still toying with him, Dhamon knew. He didn’t have the strength anymore.

He dropped to his knees.

“Praying, Dhamon?” Fiona taunted. “Are you praying to the gods to be saved?” She tossed back her head and laughed. “Well, the gods aren’t in this accursed swamp, Dhamon. It’s just you and me, and I’m not going to save you. I’m going to kill you.”

Dhamon didn’t fear death. At times he’d wished for it. But if he was dead he would never meet his child. He would never be able to help Rikali. Ragh! He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Help!

There was a sour taste on his tongue, which he recognized as the poison mixed with his blood.

“First it was Shaon,” Fiona spat. She paced around him. “She was Rig’s first love, you know. He told me all about her—someone I would have liked, I think. Oh, you’ll say you didn’t kill her, either, that you weren’t responsible, but she died to the blue dragon you rode when you were a Knight of Takhisis, didn’t she? Shaon wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t brought her into contact with that dragon.”

It was getting difficult to hear Fiona, all he heard was a rushing noise, like a crashing wave filling his ears. Was it his blood pumping? His heart trying to beat? No, he heard his heart faltering. Did his child in some small way favor him?

“Next it was Goldmoon. Wait. You didn’t kill her, did you, Dhamon? You only tried to—with that weapon over there, the one lying on the ground. You gave it to Rig, all red with Goldmoon’s blood.

Didn’t want it anymore because it wasn’t good enough? Not good enough at killing? Didn’t want it because you weren’t able to slay Goldmoon with it?”

With her foot, she nudged the haft of the glaive away from Dhamon. “Want to see if it’s good enough now? Want to try to kill me with it? OK, pick it up.”

Dhamon shook his head. He willed his fingers to reach for the weapon.

“Then it was Jasper. Sorry, you didn’t thrust a blade into his heart either, did you? But you might as well have. He was with you—we all were with you—at the Window to the Stars. We were united against the overlords, intending to stop the new Takhisis from being born. Oh, we were very righteous! Jasper died there, at the claws of a dragon, died because you led us all to that fateful spot.” This time she nudged the haft against his leg. “Pick it up.” She raised her voice, spitting each word. “And Fetch. From what Rig told me you killed the poor kobold, too. You forced him to use Black Robe magic until it sucked the life out of him. My beloved Rig had his life sucked away because of you too!”

All at once Fiona looked odd to Dhamon, hazy, like a chalk drawing running in the rain. All the edges were soft, her voice blurry. He couldn’t hear his heart anymore, no birds or animals, no rushing in his ear.

He sensed she was yelling from the expression on her face, but he heard only whispers—her voice and… Ragh’s?

“Murderer. You killed Rig! You killed them all.”

He caught a glimpse of something sparkling red, moving against the orange sky. It was his blood on the edge of Fiona’s sword, and the blade was driving down again. Dhamon waited for oblivion.

“I tried to stop Maldred.” Ragh’s whispery-hoarse voice. “I tried to… Dhamon!”

Fiona’s blade coming down. Chalk running in rain. Dhamon pitched onto his back and watched a streak of intense blue wash all the chalk away.

The streak was Maldred, though Dhamon was beyond knowing any reality. The ogre-mage hurtled over Dhamon and collided with Fiona, throwing the surprised Knight off-balance. His elbow slammed into her jaw. His fingers closed over the crosspiece of the sword and yanked it from her grip, then he tossed it beyond her reach.

Maldred looked to Ragh.

“She cut him pretty bad,” the draconian answered. He leaned over Dhamon, palm pressed against a wound on his side, trying to stop the blood. “I thought you were trying to fool me, ogre, when you said you heard Dhamon calling for me. I thought you were just trying to get away”

Maldred didn’t reply, but glanced at Fiona to make sure the Knight wasn’t moving—he’d hit her soundly enough. “By my father, she did nearly kill him.”

“Nearly?” Ragh shook his head. “Look at all this blood. I’d say she accomplished the task. He’s dead, ogre. His body just doesn’t know it yet. Look at all this blood.”

The draconian’s hands were covered, the ground was soaked, and Dhamon’s robe was dark with blood. Maldred gingerly turned Dhamon over and saw the wound on his back.

“There’s more blood on the ground than there is inside him,” Ragh said, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“What you’re doing, it’s not good enough,” Maldred told the draconian. “Dhamon’s a healer of sorts. He told me he was one time a battlefield medic with the Dark Knights. I picked up a few things from him, and from an ogre healer, Grim Kedar.

“Get me some moss, and hurry,” Maldred continued. “Whatever you can find. Some roots—from three-leaved flowers, the purple and white ones that grow close to the ground. Make sure you don’t break the roots. I need the sap that’s in them.”

Maldred ripped strips from Dhamon’s robe, using them to staunch some of the bleeding. His eyes followed the draconian, who had scooped up the two-handed sword and the glaive, awkwardly carrying both while searching around the bases of small shaggybarks. “You’ll make faster time without those,”

Maldred called. “I won’t try to take them. I wouldn’t need weapons to kill you.” Then he turned back to Dhamon.

“I’m not a healer, dear friend,” he said, knowing full well Dhamon couldn’t hear him, “but I watched Grim often enough, and the old one taught me a few things. I’ll try to save you….”

The ogre-mage hummed from deep in his throat. There was no discernible pattern to the melody, nor did it sound pleasant or all that musical, but Maldred kept at it, concentrating on his humming, and all the while he continued to press on the wounds.

“Watch Fiona,” the ogre-mage said, briefly interrupting his magic when Ragh returned with the moss and a couple of roots. “She’s starting to come around. Sit on her if you have to. I can’t deal with her and Dhamon both, and he’s obviously the priority”

The draconian frowned, clearly not liking to be ordered around, but he thrust that irritation aside and complied. He didn’t have to sit on Fiona. She was still groggy from colliding with Maldred, trying to raise herself up on her elbows and failing. She blinked and rolled her head from side to side, looking up at Ragh and moaning piteously.

“Did I kill Dhamon?” she asked.

Ragh looked over his shoulder at Maldred. “Maybe,” he said. He shivered when her eyes brightened and she smiled.

“Ugly song,” she commented.

Maldred’s tune continued for a long time: until twilight, until he nearly lost his voice. “Dhamon should be dead, but…” he murmured at one point, his voice as raspy as the draconian’s.

“But…” The draconian waited, glancing back and forth between Fiona, who had been permitted to sit up, and Dhamon, who still lay unconscious and pale. In Ragh’s arms were cradled the glaive, the great sword, and Fiona’s bloodied long sword, which he’d retrieved.

“But he’s alive,” Maldred returned. “He’s a long way from healthy, though I think he’s going to make it. He’s lost too much blood, and a couple of ribs are broken. I’d like to get him to a real healer.”

“We’ll have to settle for getting him back to the raft right now,” Ragh said. “I’d rather be on the river at night than around this part of the swamp.” He prodded Fiona to her feet and nodded toward the river.

“I wish I knew what to do with her.”

Maldred snorted. “We’ll take her along until Dhamon comes to and decides.”

“Dhamon Grimwulf will kill me,” Fiona spat, “as he kills everyone who gets close to him. As he’ll kill both of you some day.” Then she grudgingly struck off toward the river. She caught Ragh’s cold look.

“You’ll agree it’s too bad I didn’t kill him.”

“Yes, too bad,” Ragh said softly. “Better that Dhamon die, than become a misshapen monster like me.”

Fiona smiled.

“Move, Knight!” Ragh snapped, “and your weight damn well better not make the raft sink. I refuse to swim across the New Sea.”

The raft tipped dangerously with Fiona’s added weight. Ragh tore strips from her tunic to tie her hands behind her, and he ordered Maldred to watch her. However, the ogre-mage had to pay more attention to Dhamon, who was feverish and delirious.

As Dhamon had done, Ragh used the haft of the glaive to pole them along the shallow side of the river. The moon showed the way and provided enough light for him to nervously watch his charges.

“Why in honor of the Dark Queen’s brood am I doing this?” he muttered. “I could be away safe somewhere, away from the demented Knight and this treacherous ogre. Away from Dhamon, who might be better off dead.”

Dhamon twitched, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, which still showed mostly human skin.

Underneath bandages dark with blood his scales gleamed. As Ragh watched him, he saw a small patch of skin on Dhamon’s jaw darken and bubble. The area, about the size of a small coin, swelled and took on a dark sheen, became a scale.

“It’s my fault,” Ragh muttered. On their first expedition to Shrentak, he had gone into the city with Dhamon, to the old sage’s laboratory. Dhamon had sought a cure from the old crone and fell unconscious during his suffering from the scale. Dhamon never realized the old crone’s cure was working. While he was unconscious she had demanded as a price for the cure that Ragh stay with her as her dutiful pet.

Ragh took offense and killed her, hiding her body when Dhamon woke up, telling Dhamon she’d given up and left.

He had prevented Dhamon from gaining that cure he desperately needed.

It was his fault Dhamon was looking less and less human every day. He told himself now he might have forced the sage to help. Killing her had been the easy way.

“His fever is breaking,” Maldred turned to him and said.

“Maybe we should have let him die. Better that than to live as he is becoming,” Ragh said, watching his friend twitch as if caught in some dream.

In fact, Dhamon was dreaming. He was dreaming of the storm in Fiona’s eyes. He saw Rig trying to find his way through the storm. The dark-skinned mariner called Fiona’s name, then Shaon’s. Raph was there, too—a young kender who had died in Dhamon’s company. Jasper too, and countless nameless faces—Solamnic Knights and soldiers he’d killed on battlefields when he wore the armor of a Knight of Takhisis.

The storm raged wilder, its darkness obscuring all the faces, the thunder drowning out Rig’s cries for help. When the storm finally abated, an enormous cavern materialized, lit in places by streaks of lightning—not from a storm—from the mouths of blue dragons. The dragons flew along the ceiling, around rocky outcroppings and stalactites, swirling closer to the Father of All and of Nothing. Chaos.

Dragons fell, some batted away by the god’s hand. Others rose up and swooped in to take their place.

Lightning continued to streak, sulfur filled the air, and Chaos’ shadow grew monstrous wings.