Downfall

CHAPTER ONE Healthy Earnings

“A dragon chew on you for a while and spit you out?” Rig Mer-Krel asked as he leaned against the doorframe, eyeing a patient who was almost completely sheathed in bandages.

The mariner scowled—not from the lack of an answer or at the patient’s sorry appearance, though the latter was more than a little disconcerting—but from the smell that permeated the small room and clung to his nostrils. Rig swallowed and nearly gagged, a nasty taste settling in his mouth that he attributed to the odd odor.

The heat made things worse, he decided. He was certainly miserable from it, his clothes drenched with sweat. This was the middle of an exceptionally hot summer, a month called the Dry-Heat by the area’s residents, and the air in this place felt brutally heavy and close. The narrow gap beneath the drawn shutters allowed only the suggestion of a breeze. Rig considered opening the shutters wide to get the air circulating. But he didn’t intend to stay long, and he had no desire to make the patient more comfortable.

“This being such a big hospital, it’s a wonder they couldn’t have found you a longer bed. And somehow a room that didn’t…” Rig sniffed hesitantly, trying futilely to identify the scent, “…stink quite so much. But maybe the folks who run this place don’t especially like you, either.”

Only the man’s head and feet weren’t bandaged, and the latter hung well over the end of the bed frame. A pair of scuffed boots rested beneath his heels on a violet rug. The mariner edged farther into the room and studied the man’s sweat-slicked face. His cheekbones were high and hollow, his skin tanned, and his overall appearance was slightly gaunt, as if the patient hadn’t been eating properly for some time. A thin, crescent-shaped scar Rig didn’t remember ran from just below the man’s right eye and disappeared into the start of an ill-trimmed beard as night-black as the tangled mass of hair splaying out like spilled ink over the small pillow. The man twitched fitfully in his sleep, eyes moving beneath closed lids, jaw working, and long fingers alternately clutching.

Rig found himself nearly overwhelmed by the smell. He retreated a few steps and coughed, a useless attempt to clear his lungs. “You hardly fit on that,” the mariner told him, though he understood now the man wasn’t listening—hadn’t been listening to a single word.

The mariner shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to speak for his own benefit. “Well, what do you expect? Ironspike’s a dwarven town, so I guess all the furniture’s dwarf-size.” He tilted his head toward a stunted chair, where an attempt had been made to neatly fold the shredded remains of the patient’s clothes. “Man in the hall said something clawed you up pretty bad.”

“A big mountain cat, most likely.” This from behind the mariner.

Rig whirled to see a thickset dwarf dressed in gray, framed by the doorway. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her ruddy face, and the wrinkles of several decades fanned out from her narrowed eyes to add to her unpleasant countenance. She tapped her foot and glared at the dark-skinned man. “You shouldn’t be here,” she lectured, adding a finger wag to emphasize her point.

“How is he?” Rig asked, offering his best congenial smile.

Her expression didn’t soften. “Your friend’s wounds aren’t at all deep, but they are numerous. He was delirious when they found him at the edge of town early this morning, and he hasn’t regained consciousness since his cuts were dressed.”

The mariner let out a low whistle and crossed his arms. “When will he…”

“Regain consciousness?” It was her turn to shrug. “A day, two. It’s hard to say.” Her voice reminded Rig of gravel bumping around in the bottom of a bucket—coarse and unappealing. “If he does wake up, we’ll probably keep him for a day or two longer—to make sure he hasn’t caught something foul from whatever clawed him. It was quite lucky for him we had this vacant room.”

“He doesn’t look so lucky,” Rig muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “Must be a dozen rooms in this…”

“Hospital.” The eyes eased wider a bit. “On this floor. Two dozen rooms all together, and all of them filled. We’re the largest hospital east of the Kalkhists.”

“You get lots of folks clawed up these days?”

She shook her head and huffed, the air escaping from her lungs like a kettle left too long on the fire. “I wish animal attacks were all we had to treat. A couple’a days ago some Legion of Steel Knights fought an army of goblins a few miles outside of town. The wounded are being tended to here. A couple’a the wards upstairs have as many as a dozen patients each in them.”

Rig turned his back on the woman and regarded the patient again.

“And our beds aren’t dwarf-sized,” she continued. “This room was intended for children, and its former occupant was released yesterday afternoon. A youngster fully recovered from the pox.” Her eyes twinkled with an inner light, and she almost smiled. “A good lad. We burned the sheets, cleaned, and…”

“Ha!” Rig let out a clipped laugh when he finally noticed the pastel blue paint on the walls and the crude chalk drawings—a string of frogs and bunnies circling the room at waist-level.

The sun was setting outside. The pale orange light slipped beneath the gap in the shutters and stretched toward an upended crate on which sat a one-eyed rag doll with scraggly yarn hair. Nearby were cornhusk soldiers and colorful wooden blocks. There was another bed in the room, empty and even smaller, covered with a quilt dotted with pink and yellow kittens. He laughed again. “Wait’ll Fiona sees this. She’ll be greatly amused. ‘Course she’ll probably have to visit the Knights, too, while she’s here.”

“The Knights won—in case you’re interested,” the dwarf added. Her foot tapped a little louder and she made a harumphing sound. “What few goblins weren’t killed were driven…”

“Must be keeping your healers busy. All these patients. Probably exhausted with all the conjuring and magical muttering.”

He didn’t see the dwarf ball her hands and set them on her wide hips. However, he couldn’t miss the sound of the kettle steaming again. “We don’t have healers, sir, not the kind who use magic. None of those gifted folks are within a couple hundred miles of here. Not that we need them. We know how to take good care of people. Very good care. A lot of the nearby villages bring their sick here. We’ve men who make strong poultices from herbs and…”

“Ah, so that’s what’s responsible for that remarkable fragrance.”

“…that work just as well as any magic. Probably better.”

Rig made a sound in his throat that could have passed for agreement.

“Your friend is receiving excellent care. Just wish we knew what to do about that thing on his leg. Might try to cut it out tomorrow.”

“It’s a dragon scale,” Rig volunteered, as he held his breath and bent over the bed again. “And you may as well leave it alone.” The patient moaned and twitched as if in the throes of a fever, his fingers clawing at the sheets now. The mariner retreated to join the dwarf. “I didn’t expect to find him. Fiona heard he was in the area, but you never know. We were close by and she wanted to track him down, so I came along. She’s stabling the horses now, and then she’ll be…”

“…not coming in here,” the dwarf finished evenly. “Visiting hours have been over for more than an hour, and our doors are closed—to the healthy. Spotted you slipping in a side entrance, and I came by to chase you out. Visiting hours start again tomorrow at midmorning. Sign says that quite clearly. If you’d bothered to read it. You and…”

“Fiona.”

“… can come back tomorrow.” She backed into the hall and pointed to a far door. “Your friend might be better then.”

“Ma’am, I’ve never considered Dhamon Grimwulf my friend.” Rig politely nodded and walked past her, his boot heels clicking rhythmically against the tile floor.

When the footsteps faded to nothing, a shadow slid out from under the smaller bed and glided toward Dhamon. “Thought that man would never leave,” the stranger whispered in a breathy voice that sounded like a hot breeze over sand. “Standin’ in that doorway and just lookin’ at you, not sayin’ nothin’ worthwhile, and then that stumpy woman came by. Pigs! Where were his manners? Didn’t even bring you any flowers or sweets.”

The figure was slight, draped in a hooded gray cloak so dark it looked like a piece of the night sky come to ground. From inside the hood came a sharp intake of breath. “Och, but that stench is strong.”

Dhamon stopped his twitching act, opened his eyes, and gave his visitor a slight smile. “One gets used to it.”

A thin-fingered hand reached up and disappeared inside the hood, muffling a gagging sound. “I could never get used to that,” came the muted reply. “Good thing it’s you layin’ there, Dhamon Grimwulf, and not me. Phew!”

“Mal?” Dhamon ventured, changing the subject.

“He and the little man are in town. They’ll be makin’ their rounds tonight. Like me. Just as we planned.” Then the figure dropped a small leather pouch into one of Dhamon’s boots and glided silently out into the hall.

Shortly before midnight, Dhamon rose and stretched and rubbed the backs of his calves, which were achingly sore from resting against the too-small bed’s footboard. He crept to the doorway, listening for noises.

Nothing worth worrying over, he determined. Just the faint hiss of his own breath and an occasional moan from patients in other rooms. No one was about. It seemed even the caregivers had finally gone to bed.

The Legion of Steel sentries had just made another pass down the hall, which meant they’d be patrolling the grounds within a moment or two. Three predictably monotonous and slow circles the Knights always made, vigilantly guarding their injured brethren. Dhamon had been «listening» to the hospital since he arrived shortly after dawn and had the Knights’ dull routine memorized. He knew he would have a little more than a half-hour to work undiscovered.

More than enough time.

Dhamon padded to the window and opened wide one of the shutters, breathing deep the warm fresh air that offered him some respite from the pungent salve they’d smeared all over his body. He wondered how even an unhealthy man could bear the stuff, the cure seeming worse than the malady. Craning his neck this way and that, he spotted no one out on the street. Only indistinct sounds reached him, muted music and off-key singing coming from a tavern down the block. He began to unwrap the bandages, the moonlight revealing his lean, athletic body glistening with a sheen of sweat. His chest was well defined, his stomach taut, his legs muscular. On the center of his right thigh sat a dragon scale, glossy black and shot through with a line of shimmering silver. Around the scale and all over the rest of his tall form were dozens of crisscrossing claw marks. Only his face had been spared the assault, and it was angular and handsome—despite the unkempt hair crowning it.

Dhamon blotted some of the foul mixture off his chest and arms with the ends of the bandages and took one more glance up and down the street. The grounds weren’t empty any longer. His dark eyes flashed as he studied a stubby form walking awkwardly on the dried grass that made up the narrow lawn of the hospital. He continued to watch until he was certain it was a drunk dwarf trying to find his way home. When the dwarf finally stumbled onto the street and out of sight, and after he watched the Legion of Steel sentries begin to make their first pass, Dhamon reached for his clothes. They were in bad shape. Even his leather vest bore the crisscrossing cuts. Beyond that, they were worn, the color faded so badly and the fabrics so thin they should have been discarded long ago.

He retrieved the leather pouch from his boots and left them sitting on the carpet at the end of the bed. No use putting them on and clomping through the halls, he thought. His bare feet would be more silent. He carefully closed the shutters and returned to the doorway, again listening for sounds beyond. Still nothing. Good, he mouthed, as he slipped into the hall and padded by a string of lanterns, hung evenly along the wall. Only one was lit, however. As the night got older, all the others had been extinguished and the only one that remained burning had its wick turned down to a soft glow.

Dhamon glanced in two open doorways as he went, picking through the shadows to spy Knights in thick bandages, some softly moaning even in their sleep. A few were missing legs and arms. Then he passed by a door marked “Caregivers Office,” where soft light seeped out along the floor. With a little effort, he could make out the muffled conversation of two dwarves. They were discussing the status of a patient. Not his concern. Dhamon moved on.

Heartbeats later he reached the end of the hall, where a wide curving stairway stretched into blackness. Like a cat, Dhamon silently glided up the steps and soon found himself on the top floor, where another lone lantern provided ghostly light. He started toward the opposite end of the hall—he knew from eavesdropping on the caregivers that this was where he needed to go. Then suddenly he stopped and pressed himself against a wall as a young dwarf carrying a bucket filled with soiled bandages emerged rather noisily from a room and nearly brushed against him. The dwarf didn’t see Dhamon; his wide, glum face was fixed on the bucket, and he was grumbling to himself in his native tongue. The dwarf didn’t smell Dhamon either—an even worse odor was coming from the room he’d just vacated.

When the dwarf disappeared down the stairs, Dhamon poked his head inside the room to make sure nothing there would upset his plans. There were a dozen men stretched out on beds, in various states of injury and all being treated with one reeking balm or another—the redolent mix competed with the repugnant smells of gangrenous flesh and blood, fresh and dried. The form on the nearest bed was not breathing and gave off the almost-sweet odor of death. Dhamon had been on enough battlefields to recognize this scent. Deciding this fatality was perhaps what the dwarf was so glum about, and none of his concern, he edged toward his goal.

The hallway was eerie, still and hot. Wheezing, moans, coughs, and snores echoed hauntingly, raising the hairs on the back of Dhamon’s neck. Each step he took was a cautious one, for in places the tiles were slick, with perhaps blood or sweat, or from something the dwarves had used earlier for cleaning.

At last he reached the end of the hall and stood in front of a closed door. This was it, he was certain, the only door on this level that boasted a padlock. The heavy iron lock straddled two thick metal strips connecting the frame to a very sturdy-looking door.

Dhamon opened the leather pouch. Too far from the lantern, he relied on his well-practiced fingers to locate what he needed. Kneeling in front of the door and slowing his breathing, he selected two thin metal picks and went to work. His large, sweaty hands and long fingers made the task difficult, but he persisted and the mechanism finally rewarded him with a faint click. He cupped his hand behind the padlock so that when it swung open it wouldn’t strike the wood, then he carefully removed the lock and laid it on the floor, hesitating only when a loud, throaty moan cut through the air. It was followed by a string of deep coughs, then the patient quieted. Dhamon waited a moment more, then opened the metal strips and tried the door handle.

He scowled and cursed under his breath. Padlock wasn’t good enough by itself, he mouthed, as he brought the picks up to the keyhole and worried them inside. One snapped off, a quick, sharp sound, and he sucked in a breath and waited again. Nothing. Just snores and soft whimpers of pain, a bed creaking as someone rolled over. Another moment and he selected a longer pick, nearly dropping this one in his clumsy fingers. Silently reproving himself, he wiped his hands on his pants and resumed the job.

It seemed like hours rather than mere moments before he finally defeated the second mechanism. He replaced the tools, dried his hands again, and tried the handle. This time the door opened—into pitch blackness. Damn my human eyes, he thought. But he wasn’t to be undone. Not after going to all that trouble of getting inside the hospital. Rising, he slid down the hall, ever alert for waking patients and more dwarf caregivers, glancing in the rooms he passed to make sure no one was stirring.

He plucked a lantern from the wall and lit it, quickly and quietly returning to the dark room. Then Dhamon slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He breathed deeper now, uncomfortably so. There was no window in here and the room was as small as a pantry, the air inside dead and stifling. He worked the wick, coaxing more light and revealing shelves upon shelves from floor to ceiling, all containing wooden bins, satchels, coin purses, and more. There was little space to move. Each item was painstakingly labeled with the owner’s name—safe from thieves who might slip into patients’ rooms and steal their valuables while they were too sick to resist, safe until their owners were well enough to leave, or in the most unfortunate circumstance, until survivors arrived to claim them.

A smile spread wide across Dhamon’s face as he noted that the shelves had built-in ladders to accommodate the short dwarves. He wouldn’t need the ladders. He guessed ten minutes had passed since he left his room. Twenty minutes or more left. Still more than enough time.

Setting the lantern on the floor he began opening one pouch after the next, swiftly collecting pieces of jewelry—rings mostly, but also a few thick gold and silver neckchains that belonged to the wealthier Knights. There were a few feminine pieces, one an old dainty ring set with tiny pearls, another a delicate cloak pin. They either belonged to lady Knights or were keepsakes from wives and lovers.

Dhamon discovered a small velvet purse filled with loose black pearls—a good find, as most of the pouches contained only coins. Behind the purses he found a sizeable leather bag and two well-worn backpacks, one with a crude broken arrow lodged in it. He set the bag and the largest backpack carefully on the floor, trying not to make a sound, opening them and nudging the lantern close. A neatly folded spare tabard was inside one, bearing the Legion of Steel emblem. He discarded it and emptied the other backpack, too. All they carried were garments.

Then he returned to the shelves and moved faster. Within moments rings and bracers found their way into one backpack, along with coin purses filled with steel pieces, daggers with ornate handles, and a variety of other small, valuable objects. He used the tabard for padding so the baubles wouldn’t «chink» together. Coins and jewels were stuffed into the sack.

Dhamon ignored swords and axes labeled with patients’ names. Too cumbersome, he decided, and many a man would let his coin purse disappear but would hunt forever for a favorite weapon. Ah, but not this sword. Dhamon decided he would not be leaving this behind. He paused for a moment in front of a broadsword sheathed in a scabbard covered with the fine-tooled images of flying hippogriffs and pegasi. He drew it, noting it was sturdy and elegant and well balanced, undoubtedly belonging to a Knight of some importance. The pommel was inlaid with brass and ivory and bore a hallmark.

“Now it belongs to me,” he whispered, “until I gain something better.” He strapped it around his waist and left his own sword hanging on a hook, the tag dangling from it reading “unknown human patient, Room Four.” Then he made his way to other bins. There were more coins inside, a ruby brooch that he snatched up and thrust in a pocket, and a heavily jeweled Legion of Steel ring that he decided must belong to a commander laid up here—perhaps the same owner of the broadsword. Dhamon pushed the ring on his index finger and continued.

When he could fit no more in the leather bag and when the backpack was straining its seams, he filled his pockets with small pouches, tying a few to his sword belt. A final pouch, small, but made of expensive material, he clenched between his teeth.

Able to carry no more, he blew out the lantern, opened the door, and peeked into the hallway. Still empty. He wriggled into the heavy backpack and hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He stood like a statue for a few moments, listening intently, picking through the soft moans and snores for noises of alarm and getting used to the weight of his new possessions. Satisfied all were soundly asleep, he closed the door behind him, glided down the hallway, and reached the stairwell. His goal was to return to his room as quickly as possible, retrieve his boots, and slip out the window.

But the Legion of Steel sentries coming up the stairs altered his plans.

Dhamon’s throat went dry. He couldn’t have guessed wrong on timing the sentries. What had happened? Hugging the shadows, he skittered down the hall, sweaty feet softly squeaking against the tiles as he strained to hear the Knights’ hushed conversation.

The body he spotted a few minutes ago! They were coming upstairs for their dead comrade. And eventually, their dead comrade’s personal effects.

Dhamon scowled and slipped into the next doorway, one of the large wards filled with a dozen patients and the smells of balms, blood, and soiled sheets. He held his breath and headed toward the back of the room where the shadows were thickest, and where he knew a window would be—a stirring of air told him so.

Have to hurry, he urged himself. Come on!

“Who’re you?” This from a patient only a few feet away. The Knight was propped up on several pillows.

Come on! Dhamon had the shutters open. Another moment and he was standing on a narrow stone ledge.

“Who?” the patient persisted. “What’re you doing?”

It was hard to navigate the ledge with the bulging pack on his back. The fingers of one hand dug into the cracks between stones, the other hand gripped the heavy sack on his shoulder. Shuffling along on the balls of his feet as his heels hung over the edge, he worked to keep his balance. The ground was roughly ten feet below.

“A wild man,” he heard a patient say, likely the Knight who spoke to him. “A wild mountain man with hair like a bear went out there… out the window.”

Dhamon balanced the sack on his shoulder and reached for his knife. Not there. He had forgotten. Damn. Lucky for the man, Dhamon thought to himself, for his instinct was to climb back in to slit his throat.

Dhamon hoped the patient was talking to himself or to another bedridden fool, not one of the passing Knights or caregivers. Time was wasting. He scurried along the ledge toward a drainpipe. Testing the pipe with his weight, he slid down, his knees thunking and the small pouch falling from his teeth. “Damn!” he spat at the falling pouch and the noise he’d made.

Crouching behind a low, wide bush and releasing the large sack, his hands flew across the ground around him searching for the lost item, his fingers pushing aside twigs and rocks. “There!” he whispered to himself. The dirt stuck to his feet and fingers. Dhamon idly rubbed his hands on his trousers and caught his breath.

I’ve not been discovered, he told himself. Maybe I can sneak back to my window, get my boots… then be on my way.

He could still hear music drifting faintly from the tavern. It sounded better this time, with no one singing along. He peered out from behind the bush. There were three dwarves on the street, just wandering into his line of sight beyond the hospital’s brittle lawn. Two of them were supporting the third. Leaving his plunder hidden behind the bush, Dhamon crept like a crab along the wall, back to the center of the hospital where he judged his room to be. He paused beneath the window for only a moment—but it was long enough. Dhamon heard voices inside—two dwarves talking worriedly about a missing, delirious patient who’d unbandaged himself. A search was to be immediately mounted with the aid of the Legion of Steel Knights.

“Splendid,” he hissed. He would miss those boots. Whirling, he hurried back to the bush and snatched up the sack and backpack, holding the small pouch in his free hand. The dwarves were still on the street. One of them was sitting stiffly, the other two were trying to tug their woozy friend to his feet.

Certain they were too full of spirits to notice him, Dhamon strolled nonchalantly toward the trio, the dry grass softly crackling beneath his feet. A moment later, he was beyond them, heading for the far end of town where he knew the stables sprawled. Walk normally, he told himself. Be calm. Arouse no suspicion.

He had nearly reached Ironspike’s main thoroughfare when he heard a loud, shrill whistle from behind him. It was followed by the pounding of several pairs of feet.