The Lake of Death

21

This time they flew. Grannaluured sat between Feril and Ragh, thick arms wrapped around one of Dhamon’s back spines. The dwarf’s stubby legs were clamped as tight as she could, her eyes fixed intensely on Feril’s back.

Ragh allowed himself to be slightly cheerful. He’d never fancied the company of dwarves before—though he’d taken the shapes of the dozens of dwarves he’d killed to infiltrate various communities and gain information for Sable. This dwarf was different than most, however. She was thoroughly pragmatic, good-natured and amusing, certainly daring, and above all of that, an excellent cook. He decided he’d get to know her better when they landed.

He felt the air streaking past his ears, the whistling wondrous music that coaxed a few tears down his cheeks. Squeezing his legs to make sure he had a solid perch, he raised his arms to his sides and spread his fingers wide. He dreamed he was flying. He looked down after several minutes. They were well beyond the Kharolis foothills and just south of the ruin of Skullcap, flying low and fast over a stretch of plains that were still green. They passed a farm, and Ragh made out three large wagons being filled with the last of the harvest. He thought he could smell the cut grain, though smelling anything other than the sharp scent of the dwarf and the ghastly odor of Dhamon was likely his imagination. By the Dark Queen’s heads, the female dwarf needed a bath and Dhamon needed…needed…to be a human again!

Hours passed. The sun was straight overhead. Its warmth bathed his shoulders and cut any bite of the wind. The sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue that reminded him of…what? The color of Nalis Aren, he decided. He shook the memory of the lake from his mind and continued to daydream as the land slipped by below.

He noticed a herd of what at first glance he thought were horses, but as Dhamon dipped lower, Ragh made them out as centaurs, perhaps a nomad band from the Plains of Dust in search of more hospitable territory and better hunting grounds. Miles later he spotted a smattering of small farms, a village, and a herd of sheep that moved like a wave of white across a pasture when Dhamon flew too close and frightened them.

Hours later, he caught a glimpse of another blue to the north, the shore of the New Sea. As the sun was starting to set, the edge of the swamp came into view. Ragh’s heart began to sink.

“Home,” Ragh thought he heard the dragon murmur.

The draconian shuddered.

Dhamon dived toward the marsh that marked the outer perimeter of Sable’s realm. He wasn’t a bit tired; he relished the sensation of flying. Years past, when he was a young Dark Knight, he had blond hair and smooth skin not yet scarred by battles. He had been determined and persistent, climbing fast in the ranks and distinguishing himself first as a battlefield medic, then as a commander of men. He was decorated with medals and ribbons, then he was given a far greater honor—he was partnered with a blue dragon. He and the dragon, whose name was Gale, had formed a fast bond and led various campaigns into Solamnic lands.

Yes, he had long blond hair then, he thought, clearly remembering his youthful face and blue eyes. He nearly had died during one campaign, when he was trapped on foot and some distance from Gale. He would have died, too, had not an aging Solamnic Knight taken him in and nursed him back to health, all the while turning his mind away from the precepts of the Dark Knights. Then he met Goldmoon; she had convinced him of right and goodness, and for a time he became her champion. Once again a leader of men, he had guided Feril, Rig, Fiona, and the others against the dragon overlords, and he still had his blond hair.

A scale changed all that; one of Malys’s puppets had branded him with it, attaching it to his thigh. At first unbeknownst to him, the scale had controlled him, though it gave him pain and he raged against it. Had it not been for a silver dragon named Silvara and the shadow dragon that cursed him, he likely would have remained under Malys’s control until one of them died. Lying in the cave of the shadow dragon, lying in a pool of its black blood, Dhamon’s hair had turned black, his eyes also black. His soul started to blacken, too, thanks to the insidious magic the shadow dragon secretly had worked upon him.

The dragons that had manipulated him were responsible for much of the bad fortune that swept across Krynn. Did he really want to be human again and risk running afoul of the dragons? Human, he was powerless against them…he knew that truth from his stint as Goldmoon’s champion. Oh, you could have minor victories against dragons, but nothing that made a real difference in the world.

Did Dhamon really want to give up all his strength and power? He clenched and unclenched his talons, feeling his leg muscles ripple. He spread his wings and glided down toward the marsh, enjoying the rush of air. He wondered if his passengers, the three riding on his back, were enjoying the flight. Puny as they were, compared to his great size and power, he could barely feel them back there.

Had Gale been able to feel him?

He landed on the soft earth, his clawed feet sinking into the ooze of the marsh. Dhamon stretched his front legs. His tail twitched as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. Myriad scents struck him—the loamy soil, the broad blooms clinging to vines, stagnant water all around. Nothing was truly unpleasant; the complex mix was heady and somehow comforting because it smelled of home.

“Home,” he rumbled softly, his voice carrying now to the ears of his companions. Had he actually missed the swamp? Had he come to enjoy its damp and fetid embrace? Dhamon moved forward into a stand of trees as his companions slipped from his back and followed him.

He breathed deep and pulled his wings in close, reached with his neck and rubbed against a thick cypress. As a dragon he could live a very long time, and he was powerful enough that he could claim his own territory, perhaps someday returning to challenge Sable for the swamp. If he became human, he would not live many more years, and he would be trapped in a frail body. If he stayed a dragon, he could build a treasure hoard that would be beyond the dreams of any human.

The Kagonesti came up to his snout, tugging on a barbel. He lowered his head to see her anxious expression. “What’s wrong, Dhamon?”

“I don’t know if I really want to be a man again, Feril. Maybe it would be better to remain a dragon. I just don’t know what I want. I don’t know why I brought you here.”

“By the grace of Habbakuk, Dhamon, we’ve gone through so much already on your behalf. I’ve gone through…so much. We’re not turning back now.”

He stared at her long and hard, ignoring the chatter of Ragh and Grannaluured, who were busy examining their packs to make certain nothing had been lost during the flight. For the first time he noticed the faint lines around Feril’s green eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her hair had white streaks now, too. Had this experience taken its toll? Had something happened to her in the Lake of Death? Had the ghosts cursed her somehow? Was she aging before his eyes?

He knew that the Dark Knights told tales about the dead Qualinesti, and maybe those tales were true after all.

“I need to think and talk things over, Feril. Come talk with me alone.”

Dhamon glided deeper into the swamp, Feril following and motioning Ragh and the dwarf to stay put. She left the satchel with Obelia inside in Ragh’s care. Her gesture surprised the sivak, as she was showing a new trust in him.

“We’ll be all right here,” Ragh told Grannaluured. “This is the far border of Sable’s land. Not so many beasties out this way. They stick to the heart of the swamp and along the river.” He pointed to a dry patch of stunted saw grass that stretched out from the base of a black walnut. “Why don’t we wait there for them? Lots of roots and herbs around here, I reckon. Maybe Dhamon will catch us something tasty that you can cook up. I’m hungry again.”

“If he doesn’t catch something, I have some salted wild pig among my stores. Not a lot, but it’ll do, and it should get eaten anyway before it goes bad.”

“Yum, salted pig.” Ragh grinned. “One of my favorites. Sun’s going down, and it gets dark in the swamp early. Let me help you get started. We don’t have to wait for those two. Dhamon eats on his own, basically whenever he feels like it, and I don’t think that elf in love with nature eats meat.”

“Pity.”

“Yeah, pity,” said Ragh unconvincingly.

“More for us then,” she said cheerily. “Maybe I should get dinner started.”

Ragh did a bad job of hiding his eagerness. “I’ll hurry and get a fire going, Needle. While we’re waiting for that meat to cook, you can tell me about some of these pretty pictures.” He touched a silvered talon to one of her tattoos.

Grannaluured beamed. “I like to talk about my art,” she said. “I could probably give you a tattoo if you want one, Ragh. I’ve needles that are long and sharp, and they’d probably go through your skin. I’d like to try anyway. Something colorful. A dragon’s head like I gave Dawnsprinter, perhaps?”

The sivak growled softly. “Let’s get that salted pork going first.”

Dhamon and Feril settled down a fair distance away from Ragh and Grannaluured, where the canopy of trees was close and dense, cutting the light. This section of the swamp was low-lying and often flooded. There was a river nearby, sloshing against the banks. Too, they could hear the splashing of otters and the calls of wood ducks. Closer to the swamp’s heart, there’d be too many alligators and other predators, and smaller animals knew to stay away.

Low to the ground were dotted clumps of buttonbush, swamp roses, weeping willow seedlings, and patches of smooth alder. It was a world of shadows here, under the weave of branches, but both had keen eyesight.

“Welcome to my home, Feril.” Dhamon let his talons sink into the rich, black soil. “My lair is a long way from here, near a lake with a perfect chokeberry bush.”

“Your home. It is beautiful. So untouched.” Her face bore a wistful expression.

“Untouched by man for the most part, Feril. The villages are far apart, but even they have been corrupted by the Overlord. The forest is unnaturally thick here, just as Beryl twisted and thickened the woods in Qualinesti. It shouldn’t be like this.”

“Corrupted.” Feril looked pensive now. “I have a hard time seeing it like that. It is beautiful to my eyes.” She tipped her head back, her fingers caressing the flowers. She looked for the birds that were rustling the leaves far overhead. “What do you want, Dhamon Grimwulf? Do you want this swamp? I couldn’t blame you, but I know I still want that treasure you promised. It would go a long way toward helping the refugees and overcrowded villages on the islands.”

An awkward silence settled heavily between them. Feril just wanted his treasure, Dhamon thought. She didn’t really care about him, didn’t care if he became human again, not really. No, he argued with himself, she wanted the treasure because she was an honorable do-gooder. That was one of the things he admired about her. Too bad if she only got a pinch of the treasure, no matter what. She wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Do-gooders know so little about treasure. He glanced over at her, fingering flowers. Pathetic? Admirable?

For several minutes the only sounds came from the swamp—the soft splash of the otters, the cry of a hawk, the rustling of leaves. Dhamon listened to the land, smelled it, let the scent of the swamp roses luxuriate in his mouth. He watched Feril, who sat unmoving, head still tipped up and eyes searching for something.

What did she really want? What did he really want?

Feril and his treasure, he knew. Impossible to have both, it seemed.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the Feril of old. She was so light now, his scales so thick, he couldn’t even feel her when she touched him. He could faintly smell her and the flowers she clutched. In the back of his mind he saw her from years ago—the proud, strong Feril with long hair and tattoos on her face, and the Feril now. If he was a man, he could feel the softness of her skin again.

What did he want?

Ragh sat against the trunk of a pin oak, fingers interlaced across his stomach. “Needle, tonight, last night, I’ve not…”

“You don’t like my cooking?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do. Very much. I was going to say I’ve not enjoyed cooked food this much for some time.”

“Cooking’s for civilized folk, Ragh. Never thought of draconians as…” She stopped and scowled, half at herself. “Sorry, didn’t quite mean it like that. I just sort of…used to…picture draconians as eating things raw, all the time.”

“Like wild animals.”

“And more for eating elves than keeping company with them.”

Ragh swatted a beetle crawling on his knee. “You’d be picturing us right, for the most part.”

“I see now that you’re not a typical draconian.” Grannaluured was fishing around in her pack, tugging out her pillow and a cloak, then pulling out a drinking flask and tossing it over to the grateful sivak.

“Most of the times I had cooked meals I was wearing someone else’s form—a dwarf, an elf, a human…they all can stroll inside a tavern and order up the special of the evening. A draconian…well, there’s not many places we can do that safely, though I’ll admit to frequenting a few inns in Shrentak when I worked for Sable.” He held up the flask, running his fingers around the lip. “What’s this we’re drinking tonight?”

“That’s real good stuff, Ragh. Dwarven ale made deep under the mountain. Came from a master brewer I spent some time with. You drink it down and it’ll lighten the load in my pack. Maybe when that ale fuzzies your brain a little, you’ll let me give you a tattoo and tell me the tale of what happened to your wings.”

Ragh grimaced. “No to the tattoo. You can give another one to the elf if you want to lighten that pack by getting rid of some of that paint.”

“Dye.”

“As for the wings…” He pulled the cork out of the flask and took a deep pull. “In the memory of the Dark Queen, this is good stuff, Needle.”

“As for the wings?”

“I mentioned that I used to serve the overlord Sable. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done lots of things I’m not proud of. Anyway, one day she tossed me off to one of her minions…or so I’ve been told. There are some things I don’t remember, and losing my wings is one of them.” He took another long swig. “I’m glad I don’t remember that part, Needle, but I do remember the flying. Wonderful flying…” He finished the ale and let the flask fall from his fingers. He leaned his head back against the trunk and closed his eyes.

He didn’t open them again until some time had passed. It was deep in the evening; owls were flying overhead. There was no sign of Dhamon or Feril, though that didn’t surprise the sivak. He figured they were still talking somewhere. They both liked to talk; they could talk a kender’s head off.

What did surprise him was the female dwarf. Enough moonlight had filtered down so that he could see her plainly. She had dragged the satchels under a narrow cedar and was rooting through the one he’d been carrying, pulling out the small magical baubles and holding them up to inspect them, one by one.

Ragh’s tongue was thick, and when he made an attempt to shout to her—wanting to warn her to take care—no words came out. He tried to stand and his first attempt met with abject failure. He was dizzier than he’d ever been. True, he’d finished off the flask, and though he recognized potent ale when he drank it, it shouldn’t have been enough to make him feel so dumb-headed and weak.

Did you drug me? he mouthed. Poison me?

He tried to get up again, this time getting to his knees just as the dwarf pulled out two vials filled with magical elixir. With a harrumph, she dashed them against the tree and dug into the satchel again.

“Hey,” Ragh managed. “Stop that!” The words came out all strung together and unintelligible, but his voice was loud and caught her attention.

She whirled around, suddenly agile despite her years, dropped his pack and stepped on it, grinding her heel against its precious contents. “Ragh, you should’ve stayed sleeping,” Grannaluured said as she reached for her pick. Ragh wobbled to his feet. Then she reached for the pack with Obelia inside and put it on her back. “Sleeping, you’d be the innocent, and here I was starting to like you.”

The draconian readied himself for her charge, though he was having a hard enough time just standing. Instead, she surprised him one last time, grabbing up the satchel she’d stepped on and dashing away between the trunks of two weeping cedars.

“Damn,” he said as he lurched after her, careening into trees and tripping over exposed roots. “Damn it, Needle. I was getting to really like you, too.”