Downfall

CHAPTER TWELVE Return to Blöten

Dhamon stopped swimming shortly after he turned to follow the narrow branch-off, which he’d nearly missed; there was no reason to put in the effort. The current was so strong he was like some bit of flotsam being propelled along. He concentrated on keeping his legs straight and his arms tucked in close, hoped he didn’t brush up against any sharp rock walls. His head pounded and his lungs cried out for air, but there was none to be had—not a single air pocket since he’d gulped his last breath in the green-lit chamber. There was only this total darkness and a sound constant and deafening.

He felt himself growing lightheaded, found himself thinking of Feril and the dragons and of the night at the Window to the Stars. His leg was tingling, had been since they’d started exploring the old chamber of the Black Robe sorcerers. It began to radiate its waves of intense heat and bone-numbing cold just as he’d asked Fetch to discover the source of rain. And it became worse just before he left the chamber—which was the real reason he left Rig and Fetch behind. When the pain took hold of him, he could think of nothing else.

The corridor angled sharply and threw him against a jagged rock. For a brief moment, he thought that drowning here might be a blessing—no more pain. Someone would find a corpse with a souvenir from a dragon overlord affixed to its rotting leg. Then he felt a surge, felt rocks brush his stomach, felt himself sinking, being propelled through a curtain of pummeling water that drove the last of the air from his lungs and pushed him under. His eyes’ were still open, but all he could see was dark, murky gray. Then the water turned paler, the color of dense fog, and he was borne down deeper. He made out shapes. Odd—a stone home? A covered well? A wagon? All underwater.

Dhamon was forced all the way to the bottom by the powerful water of the falls. He felt his feet touch something solid, and he was able to push himself up, and then he thrashed when he broke the surface. It was all he could do to tread water, the pain was so intense from the scale, threatening to overwhelm him and send him under again. The violent tremors started in his muscles, and he mindlessly drove himself toward the shore, concentrating on a patch of muddy ground, gulping in air, and trying to blot out the possibility of death. He managed to reach the bank and pull himself halfway out of the water when he finally surrendered to exhaustion and the icy—hot pain, and slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

Rikali’s head broke the surface just behind him. She greedily swallowed the fresh air. “Pigs, but I thought we were gonna die, lover! Never thought I’d be so grateful to see all of this rain. It’s beautiful!” She tread water and breathed deeply, listened to the roaring of the falls behind her and the near-silent patter of the rain. “Dhamon? Where are you, Dhamon?”

Panic gripped her heart when he didn’t answer. She furtively glanced about, spotting him on the bank, half in the water. Then she hurriedly swam toward him, pulled herself out, and turned Dhamon over onto his back. She let out a deep breath when she saw his chest rising and falling, and then she busied herself with cleaning the mud off his face. His limbs were quivering.

“It’s that damnable scale,” she hissed. “Together we’ll find a cure for it, lover. Should’ve asked that pool, made Fetch wiggle his tiny fingers and ask about healing you. About how it could be done. Finding you help is more important than Shrentak and this rain. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Am I so selfish I didn’t think of that?” Then she was smoothing his hair away from his face, which was tight with pain. She tugged him out of the water, glancing up at the falls and idly wondering about the kobold. “He’s worthless, Fetch is. If he had been thinkin’, he would’ve asked the pool about your scale. It’s his fault, it is. Not mine. All his fault. He thinks he’s so smart. Well, he isn’t smart at all. Worthless. But don’t you worry, lover. After it stops rainin’ and all of this water dries up, we’ll go back there to that cave and have another look at the pool. We’ll find a cure for that scale. I promise.”

She did her best to cradle Dhamon, rocking him and brushing the mud from his tunic. “And when you’re all healed we’ll find a spot for our grand house. We’ll have a dinin’ room bigger than the one in Donnag’s palace and rooms for little ones that’ll grow up handsome and look just like you. And we’ll have a garden that goes on forever filled with strawberries and raspberries, and I’ll plant grapes, too. Maybe we’ll learn how to make wine. The sweet kind. You’ll see, lover, it’ll be…”

Just then Rig’s head broke the surface, the mariner sputtering and gasping, his glaive held firmly in his hand. He took a deep breath, then dove again, surprising Rikali and bringing her to her feet.

“What’re you doin’?” The half-elf glanced at Dhamon to make sure he was still breathing, and then padded to the edge of the basin. She stared through the mist and saw the mariner surface again, the kobold cradled against his chest. She waved to get the mariner’s attention, then returned to Dhamon. His eyes fluttered open, and she grinned.

“Feelin’ all right?” she asked.

Dhamon nodded as he struggled to his feet. He was still sore, but focused on the mariner and the kobold. Rig’s face was cut in several places, likely from colliding with sharp rocks underwater, and the kobold’s cloak was in tatters. The mariner wiped at the blood as he dragged himself out of the basin, dropped the glaive onto the shore, and gently laid Fetch’s body down.

“What’s wrong with Fetch?” Rikali took a tentative step toward them.

Rig plopped down next to the kobold’s body and stared at the falls.

“Fetch?” she repeated hesitantly, then adopted a scolding tone. “I was wonderin’ if you two were gonna make it. All of that playin’ with the magical pool. You might have hurried up a little…”

“Ilbreth’s dead,” Rig said simply.

The half-elf sucked in a breath and stumbled toward the bank, dropping to her knees and gently shaking the kobold’s body. “Die on me?” She glanced at Rig, looking for an explanation. “Fetch wouldn’t die on me. He just wouldn’t.”

He continued to watch the falls.

“Poor Fetch,” she cooed. She fussed over the body, fighting back tears, then her thin fingers searched, tugging free the gold nose ring she coveted and thrusting it in her pocket. She found a few pearls and an uncut amethyst in a small pouch, the latter no doubt a souvenir from the valley of crystal. These, too, she claimed. Then she jerked free the pouch containing the old man pipe. Rig’s hand shot out, surprising her, and his fingers closed around the pouch. The mariner took it from her and solemnly placed the pouch on the kobold’s chest.

Dhamon moved to a section of bank several yards away. He waded into the water and began washing the rest of the mud from his clothes and hair, keeping his back to the dead kobold and keeping his shoulders square. His head was thrown back as he looked up into the mountains, the tops of which were obscured by the clouds. He rubbed his arms, trying to work some of the soreness out of them, and turned his neck this way and that.

“Gonna save these pretty baubles to remember poor Fetch by,” Rikali said as she joined him and began washing the mud from her clothes and hair. “We’ll keep them in the library on a shelf where all of our company can see them when they come to visit.”

“You can’t read,” he said tersely. “What would you possibly want with a library?” He cupped his hand over his eyes to help keep the rain out as he continued to study the nearest cliff face.

“I’m very smart, Dhamon Grimwulf. I could learn to read,” she said, tucking the amethyst and pearls into a pouch at her waist, retrieving the nose ring and pushing it on her little finger. She thrust her chin out defiantly. “You could teach me to read.”

Dhamon pointed to a narrow trail. Water was running down the trail, and at first he mistook it for a stream. But there was a signpost next to it, and he decided that marked it as a road. “We can follow that back to Blöten. Rig?”

Rig was hunched over beneath a tree, using the blade of his glaive to scoop at the mud and dig a grave for the kobold.

“Now ain’t that touchin’?” Rikali noted, glancing at the kobold’s body, then at the mariner. “Thought they couldn’t stand each other.”

Dhamon was studying the trail. “Probably the shortest route, but it doesn’t look like the easiest. We could take the long way around, but Maldred’s probably well ahead of us, and I want to get back to Donnag’s as quickly as possible.”

“But Dhamon, I’m so tired,” Rikali pleaded. “We been walkin’ and swimmin’ the whole night. It’s so early in the mornin’, probably not much past dawn. Can’t we sleep for just an hour or two? Ain’t slept in more than a day. And find us somethin’ to eat. Please. I’m so hungry.”

He paused for a moment, considering the idea. Then he shook his head and started off. The half-elf glanced over her shoulder. Rig was still working on the grave. Without a second thought, she hurried to catch up to Dhamon.

Dhamon and Rikali had difficulty climbing the slippery trail. They held onto the signpost and rocks to help them keep their footing. It was slow going, and occasionally the half-elf peered down at Rig, who was still busy.

“First I want to have a little chat with Donnag about this fool’s errand he sent us on. Then I want to tell him about the little girl in the vision, the one that perhaps is causing all of this rain. He might know what it’s about,” Dhamon explained to the half-elf. “Of course, that information is going to cost him.”

“Cost him a lot,” Rikali said.

“I think it’s raining ‘cause his last patrol killed some of the Black’s spawn. A lot of them, according to that tale he told us at dinner. The rain is some kind of retaliation. I just don’t know what precisely the little girl has to do with it.”

“Lover, you can’t be serious. It was a vision, a magical dream Fetch called up out of that pool. You don’t even know if it’s real.”

“Real? The first vision showed us the way out, didn’t it? I’d say that makes it real. Shrentak seemed real enough.”

“A girl making it rain? Hah! I bet Fetch was asking it a different question, nothing about rain. That’s what brought up the girl. I bet he was thinking about some place nice and warm and dry where he could find some sweet company and…”

Dhamon vehemently shook his head. “No. The girl is the cause. She’s drowned out villages, one at the base of these falls. Knollsbank could well wash away, too. This rain is far from natural.”

Rikali cocked her head and furrowed her brows. “Why’d anybody want to make it rain that much? Why’d anyone want to flood out villages of goatherders and farmers? Doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you’re a black dragon wanting to make your swamp bigger and seeking revenge.”

They continued to pick their way up the trail, which in fact had become a widening stream now. They had to periodically grab onto rocks to keep their feet from slipping out from underneath them. Rikali glanced over her shoulder again. Rig was nowhere in sight.

“Besides, it was a little girl, not a black dragon,” Rikali continued.

“Dragons are powerful, Riki. The dragon could take the form of a girl, or the girl could be the agent of a dragon.”

“A little dragon girl? How do you know so much about dragons, lover? Must come from all that readin’ you can do. You should teach me readin’. I thought you were through with dragons, anyway.”

Dhamon let out a curt laugh. “I am through with them, Riki dear.”

The half-elf beamed and worked to keep up with Dhamon.

“I don’t want to have anything more to do with them.

But the information about the girl is valuable. I suspect the ogre will pay me a good bit of coin for it—in addition to the sword I want.”

Rikali tittered and reached out to grab Dhamon’s elbow. But her hands went flying as she stepped on a moss-slick rock and her feet shot out from under her. She landed with a smack in the center of the stream, sending water showering around her. Dhamon whirled to reach for her, but too late. She started to slide with the stream down the mountainside.

Rig had finally finished his task and was coming up from the base of the trail. He rushed and made a grab for Rikali, but only managed to tear her sleeve as she passed by pell-mell. Rig dropped his glaive and dove in after her. A moment later he surfaced and waved to Dhamon.

“Dhamon, you better get down here!” He was wiping blood away from a gash on her cheek. “She’s hurt.” There was blood on her forehead, too, and running from her nose. She moaned softly, her fingers and lips twitching. The mariner gently opened her lips to look inside her mouth. Two teeth were broken, the remnants of one buried inside her cheek. He tugged it out.

Rig gingerly prodded her ribs. “Nothing broken here. Dhamon!”

Dhamon hadn’t moved. He stood a few dozen feet away, up on the mountain, watching them.

Rig continued to shout. “Heard you say something once about treating Knights on a battlefield! How about a little help? She’s your girlfriend, after all.”

“She only thinks she is,” Dhamon said so softly Rig couldn’t hear. He waited a moment before sliding down the trail to join Rig. “We don’t have time for this… delay,” he said, his voice heavy with irritation. He knelt over the half-elf and smoothed the hair away from her face. He thought she looked pretty, with her expression serene and her face devoid of the usual heavy makeup. He felt around her neck, turned her head this way and that, his ministrations as gentle as possible.

“She’s okay,” he told Rig. “Her head hit a rock, see?” He tilted her head slightly, showing the blood that stood out amidst her silver-white locks. “Nothing too serious. She’s breathing regularly.” He felt around the head wound. “She’ll have a good-sized bump when she comes to.” Then Dhamon stood up and held his hands to the rain, letting it wash away the blood. “And she will come ‘round soon enough. This rain will help.” He turned and started back up the mountainside.

“Wait a minute.” The words flew angrily from the mariner’s mouth. “She’s your woman. You’re not going to leave her here.”

“Riki’d understand,” Dhamon replied. “I’ve got to pick up an important package from Chieftain Donnag and sell some valuable news to him. The sooner he learns about the rain, the more it’ll be worth. And I’ve got to find Maldred. He’ll want to know about the rain, too. Riki’ll catch up with us. She’s more resourceful than you think.”

Rig stared incredulously. “First Fetch, now Riki…”

Dhamon’s face was impassive. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his lips were a thin line. And his eyes were cold.

That image of Dhamon would remain etched in the mariner’s mind for the rest of his days, showing him how callous a person was capable of being. Might as well be stone beads—they held no hint of compassion. There was only calculating purpose. Rig saw that. Dhamon’s eyes showed cunning and selfishness. There was no trace of the man he’d known in the past, they were not the eyes of the former Dark Knight who’d answered Goldmoon’s cry for a champion and who’d intrepidly led them to the Window to the Stars; no shadow of the hero who dared to stand up to the dragon overlords and who, though not gaining Rig’s friendship, had most certainly gained his respect.

“Get used to it Rig,” said Dhamon, reading his thoughts. “I’m not the man you knew.”

Had Dhamon just said those words? the mariner wondered, or was he remembering what Dhamon had said one night in the Kalkhist Mountains? It didn’t matter. They were true. Rig was staring at a stranger. The mariner had known thieves in his younger days, and had proudly kept company with pirates—whom he considered a few notches above common thieves. None of them had been like this Dhamon, a Dhamon he really didn’t know.

“You’re not human,” Rig said softly.

Dhamon laughed. Then, without a further word or a gesture, he turned and started climbing the trail again, going a little slower and holding onto rocks so he wouldn’t take a spill like the half-elf.

The mariner reached up to his shoulder with one hand and yanked until one of his sleeves came loose. He wrapped it around the half-elf’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. The mariner gazed up at the watery trail, then at the half-elf, scooped his arms under her knees and shoulders and picked her up. “Awww… by the blessed memory of Habbakuk!” He saw her left arm hung crookedly, and there was an ugly knob where a bone was trying to break through her skin. “It’s broken, I’d guess.” He laid her back down, started looking around. “I’ll need some wood,” he said to himself. “Never set any broken bones before, and I’m not going to start now. Might cause more harm than good. But at least I can keep it from flopping around.”

He sloshed over to the partially submerged remains of what appeared to be a house and pulled a board free. “Yeah, something like this will do.” Then he took off his shirt and started ripping it into strips to fashion a crude splint. “Damn Dhamon Grimwulf to the bottom layer of the Abyss,” he growled.

Rikali moaned softly. Her face contorted in obvious discomfort as she fought her way back to consciousness. The fingers of her good hand fluttered down to touch her stomach. “The babe,” she whispered. “Please let my baby be all right.”

Rig stared in shock. “You’re with child? Does Dhamon know?”

She shook her head. “And you won’t tell him.” Then she drifted away into unconsciousness again.

The mariner worked to juggle all of his possessions. All his daggers were strapped across his chest, the long sword dangled at his side, the glaive he strapped to his back again. He had to move things around a bit to get comfortable. It was difficult for him to carry everything, and the half-elf too, but somehow he would manage.

Rikali groaned as he shifted her weight in his arms. Rig looked up the mountain. “Guess we’ll have to try this trail,” he decided. “But we’ll take it slow.”

Fiona stood rigidly in her Solamnic plate, which she had polished to a mirror finish upon her return from the dwarven catacombs. The job had given her something to do while she waited for Rig and Dhamon, and while Maldred was secreted away in his meeting with Chieftain Donnag.

Her hair was tied uncharacteristically in twin tight braids at the back of her neck. The gash on her cheek had been healed by the ogre shaman—at Maldred’s insistence and expense. Her limbs still ached a little from the arduous adventure up the mountain and into the dwarven ruins and then back to Blöten. But her appearance didn’t give any hint of her real fatigue.

She squared her corners as she paced in the mud in front of the men Donnag had provided as escort for her ransom. It was just as he’d promised. They were hardy ogres, forty of them, the shortest towering above her at nine feet. All wore bits of armor, mostly boiled leather plates with metal studs scattered in random patterns. Perhaps the designs signified something in the ogre language. A few had chain shirts and leather greaves, and some of the armor pieces looked almost new. Nearly all wore some kind of helmet, and a few sported long cloaks of a thin, dark fabric—made darker by the continuing rain. They stood at attention, shoulders straight and with an impressive posture unlike the stooped appearance exhibited by most of Blöten’s residents.

Though she suspected they resented her because she was a human—a female—and above all a Solamnic Knight—she was certain she had their loyalty, as Chieftain Donnag had instructed them to follow her every order unto death if need be. She also suspected they were being paid handsomely, though she did not know if Donnag or Maldred had handled the costs, and she did not care to know.

Only a few of them could speak her tongue, and those who spoke it haltingly also mispronounced half the words. Maldred said all of the men were well-trained fighters who had skirmished with the dwarves of Thoradin, hobgoblins and goblins of Neraka, and the spawn and abominations that encroached into Donnag’s foothills from the swamp. Their muscular appearance and thick scars hinted at numerous previous battles.

They were certainly a homely bunch. Most had warts and boils dotting their exposed skin, the rain plastering their scraggly hair to the sides of their heads. Others had teeth protruding upward or downward from their lips. A few were missing pieces of ears. One had an almost cadaverous nose. Their skin ranged from a light tan, the color of sand, to a dark brown, the shade of a walnut tree’s bark. There was one trio of brothers, who had skin that was tinged green, which Fiona thought made them look perpetually ill. And there was one whose skin was nearly as white as parchment. Maldred had explained this individual was a burgeoning shaman, schooled a little in the healing arts, and that his presence might be a boon—depending on what swamp denizens crossed their path.

Some of the ogres carried only one weapon, this being a large curved sword that she’d learned was forged here in Blöten and given to those who’d found favor with Donnag. Others were practically as weighted down as Rig—axes strapped to their backs, crossbows meant for human hands hanging from their belts, long knives in sheaths strapped to their legs, spiked clubs clutched in their fists. They’d need all these weapons and more, Fiona thought. They’d need luck and the blessing of the absent gods.

And what did she need? Fiona mused. A good dose of common sense? What was she doing here? Committing one impropriety after another, she admonished herself. Consorting with thieves, who were also likely considered murderers, making a deal with a despicable ogre chieftain, commanding a squad of ogres. She was certain the Solamnic Knighthood wouldn’t approve. Deep down, she didn’t either. Perhaps they would release her from the Knighthood if they discovered all that she’d done. And her brother? What would Aven think of the lengths she pushed herself to in her effort to ransom him?

“Aven,” she whispered. It will be all right, all of this, she told herself, if she could gain his freedom. Time enough to atone for her deeds after her brother was at her side.

Still… second thoughts were nagging at her sensibilities. Perhaps she should give up on all of this now.

“Fiona!” Maldred called to her. He was emerging from Donnag’s palace and jogging toward her, a smile spread wide across his face. “Dhamon is all right, and is on his way here.”

She pushed her concerns to the back of her mind and waited for him. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

“That is good news,” she returned, looking up into his clean-shaven face. “I am glad no misfortune befell him in the cave-in.” Despite her words, Fiona seemed unruffled by the news. She was making it a point to appear stoic and detached in front of her ogre troops. “And you know this about Dhamon because…”

“Remember? I am a thief who dabbles in magic.” Maldred’s eyes locked onto hers. “Dhamon found a way out of the mountain many miles away from where we came out. He will be at least another day or two in arriving here.”

“And Rig?”

Maldred’s lips tugged downward. “The mariner is trailing behind him. He is all right, too. Do not concern yourself with him.”

“I will not concern myself with him,” she echoed softly.

In fact, it was two mornings later, the rain slowing to nearly a drizzle, when Maldred came out of Donnag’s palace and approached Fiona in the ogre chieftain’s garden. There were no flowers, just a myriad of weeds nurtured by the rains. Most were thorny, with twisting gray-green vines that tried to claw their way up the few statues scattered about or that sent runners across the cobblestone paths. The garden filled a circular courtyard off Donnag’s grand dining room, and it scented the air with a mix of pleasant and pungent fragrances.

She had been summoned to meet Maldred here, and he softly touched her cheek to get her attention. “Dhamon was spotted entering the south gate a few hours ago. He is meeting with Chieftain Donnag as we speak.”

She stood straight, her eyes wide. “And Rig? Is he with Dhamon?”

Maldred shook his head. “It seems Rikali is injured. The sentry reports that Rig arrived later and took her to Grim Kedar’s.”

The Solamnic looked a little puzzled that they would not all be together. She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “What about the kobold?”

“Dead,” said Maldred, rubbing his chin ruefully.

“I must go to Grim Kedar’s, then,” she said finally. “If Rig is there, I certainly should…”

Maldred’s eyes flashed. “Why? They will find their way here soon enough.”

She cocked her head. “I suppose they will. But I should go to Rig.”

“Why?” Maldred moved closer and took her hands. He gazed into her eyes. “Do you love him so terribly much, Lady Knight?”

She returned his look. Fiona knew she could so easily lose herself in Maldred’s enigmatic eyes. “I don’t know. Months ago I was certain I did. I had no doubts. But now… I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Maldred said. “He does not appreciate you, so few of his words are filled with compliments.” His sonorous voice had turned melodic. “He is so unlike you.”

“Unlike me,” she repeated softly, still staring into his eyes, wanting him to talk some more just so she could listen to his mesmerizing voice. Rig used to talk to her at length, when he was first trying to impress and woo her.

“You must not marry him,” the big man said. “Your heart belongs to me.”

“I will not marry him,” she repeated. “My heart belongs to you.”

Maldred smiled. Had Fiona not questioned her own feelings toward the mariner, the enchantment would be so much more difficult. But her doubt gave him room to manipulate his magic. He bent close to her, brushed her lips with his.

She stepped into his embrace, tracing his jaw with her fingertips, easing away from him finally, almost reluctantly. He extended his arm and nodded to a canopied wooden bench. They walked there together, slowly.

“I will check on Dhamon. Wait for me here, Lady Knight.”

“Of course I will wait for you.”