Downfall

CHAPTER NINE Life from Death

The rain made the rockface cruelly slick, and Maldred had to use all of his strength to struggle up it, digging fingers into cracks, his feet scrabbling, arm muscles bunching, and finally pulling himself up onto a wide ledge. Catching his breath, he tossed his rope over the side, braced himself, and pulled Fiona up to join him. He held her in his arms for a moment, the others waiting below.

“It is fortunate you decided to join us,” Fiona told him.

“Yes, I decided the matters I needed to address in town could wait.” Maldred’s face was cloudy, recalling Donnag’s orders to stay behind. The chieftain would find out soon enough that Maldred and Fetch joined the mission to Knollsbank. Maldred wondered what could be so dangerous in these hills, and he hoped his presence and sword skill would be enough to keep this from becoming a death’s errand.

“Something troubles you?”

“Wolves, Lady Knight. The wolves that raid the goats.”

Maldred doubted wolves truly were the cause of the goatherders’ problems.

“We will send the wolves hunting for food elsewhere,” she said.

His face lightened as he banished his thoughts of death and Donnag. “You are indeed fair,” he said, his eyes capturing hers and twinkling with an inner light. “I swear by all I hold dear you surely take my breath away.” His words sounded achingly sincere.

“I think it is this height that is making it difficult for you to breathe, Maldred.”

“No,” he chuckled. “It is you, Lady Knight.” He dipped his head and met her lips, the kiss long and forceful.

When he pulled back she blushed and eased herself away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and glancing down the steep ridge. They were too high to see the crumbling buildings, the misshapen ogres, and the poor humans and dwarves struggling to barely eke out an existence in Blöten. The rain, coupled with the heat of summer, had engendered a mist around the ogre city, a pale pink and gray halo that made the place look serene and beautiful and very remote from this high vantage point—a magical city from children’s bedtime stories where everyone lived well and happily. Not used to the altitude, a feeling of dizziness overtook her and she stepped back to lean against Maldred.

“Are you all right, Lady? Not that I mind.”

“I don’t look like much of a lady in these clothes,” she said. He’d managed to convince the Solamnic to leave her plate mail at Donnag’s, since it was not proper attire for climbing mountains. She had staunchly disagreed, and Rig voted with her just to side against Maldred, but then, she got a good look at just how sheer and dangerous the mountain was. And so she was wearing a pair of tan breeches and a long-sleeved black tunic, man’s garb, tucked in at the waist. Rikali had grudgingly offered to share her more fine and more colorful clothes, and was secretly pleased to discover them too small for the muscular Knight. “In fact, Maldred, I look like an old field hand.”

“You do not take compliments well, Lady Knight,” he said, dropping the rope over the side. “Perhaps that is because the company you’ve been keeping does not think to offer them. And perhaps they do not have the good sense to realize what they have in their presence. I mean the big stupid mariner—Rig. You cannot marry him, Fiona.”

“People really live up there?” she asked, changing the subject. Her eyes remained locked on Maldred.

“Goatherders in the village of Knollsbank—and from other smaller villages. They know better ways around these mountains than I, and likely would have chosen a much simpler path. Chieftain Donnag says they climb these rocks easier than most people walk. And, of course, goats live up here too.”

“And wolves, apparently,” Rig added. The mariner was the next to arrive, using the rope primarily as security, climbing as Maldred had done, as if he was born to the activity. Like scaling the masts of a ship, he fondly mused as he finished with this portion of the ascent. He was weighted down with his weapons, the glaive strapped to his back. Dhamon followed him, Fetch on his shoulders.

Maldred started up the next section of rock, Fetch accompanying him this time, while Dhamon stayed behind to wait for Rikali. The half-elf skittered up the mountain like a spider, not needing the rope, as her fingers and sandaled feet found cracks and crevices the others had somehow missed. It was a skill she learned from the thieves’ guild in Sanction, fitting her fingers and toes into the narrow crevices between the bricks that made up the exteriors of the nobles’ walled houses. Dhamon helped her up on the ledge, just as Fiona turned to go.

Just then, the mountain rumbled slightly, as it had a few times since they began their climb. Rikali clung to Dhamon, feigning fright and then becoming genuinely afraid when the tremor continued unabated. Her hands nervously massaged the muscles in Dhamon’s arms. When the tremor finally passed, she let out a deep breath and grinned slyly.

The rain had continued steadily for the past several days, at times pounding down, and at other times, like now, a fine drizzle, the sole purpose of which seemed to keep them from bearing the brunt of the otherwise hot day. Rikali now turned her face up to catch some of the rainwater in her mouth, then dropped her chin to his chest again. “Dhamon Grimwulf, I love you.”

“Rikali, I…”

“You lovebirds joining us?” Rig had made it up to the next ledge and was peering down at the two. Fetch was at his shoulder, red eyes twinkling mischievously.

Dhamon reached for the rope, not noticing the clouded expression on the half-elf’s face. He had nearly made it to the next ledge when he felt his leg tingle with warmth from the scale. It gave him little warning this time, turning instantly to a fiery heat. He gripped the rope, his eyes squeezing shut, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He tasted blood in his mouth, then put all of his effort into simply hanging on as he was wracked by wave after wave of intense heat and bone-numbing cold.

Each time the pain was profound. And each time it was different, hotter, then so cold, shifting violently back and forth. Now from behind his eyelids he saw nothing but red, the flames of a fire, the breath of the dragon overlord who had cursed him with the scale on his leg. He fought to focus on something besides the flames, real or imaginary, it didn’t matter. Anything that might lessen the pain. For an instant he saw the face of a Kagonesti, soft and beautiful. But then the red overwhelmed it and he saw a pair of blinking red eyes.

“Dreaming,” he croaked. He bit down hard, almost relishing that pain.

“Dhamon?” Rig was looking over the side, waiting to hoist him up.

Rikali was nervously prancing about on the ledge below, realizing what was happening.

“Dhamon!” Rig shouted.

“You leave him be!” she hissed to Rig. She started up the rockface. “Hold on,” she urged him. “Lover, you just hold on.” The half-elf caught up with him, reached out and grabbed the belt that held his sword and ale skins. His trembling threatened to pull her off the cliff face.

In the span of a few heartbeats Dhamon started shaking even more. Rig pulled on the rope, Rikali climbing up with it, one hand in a vertical crevice, the other still clutching Dhamon’s belt. Between the two of them, they were able to drag him up to the ledge, where they tugged free his bow and quiver and laid him down away from the lip. Rikali hovered over him and pushed Rig away, clucking like a mother hen. “You keep going,” she told the mariner, waving her arm. “Dhamon and I will be just fine here. We’ll catch up in a few minutes.” Then she quickly thought better of the situation. “Mal!” she screamed. “He needs help!”

It looked as if Dhamon was having a seizure. The half-elf tugged a skin free from Dhamon’s belt, raised his head, and poured the liquor into his mouth, a good portion of it dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt. She massaged the muscles of his throat, helping it go down.

“That won’t help him, Riki.” Maldred had climbed down from the higher ledge, nudged Rig aside and squatted next to Dhamon. “It just makes him a little numb, is all.” He took Dhamon’s arm and gripped it as Dhamon gripped him back with all his strength, fingernails digging into the big man’s muscles. “That’s it,” Maldred coaxed, concern etched deeply in the lines around his eyes and mouth. “Ride it out, my friend.”

Rikali replaced the skin, pointedly ignoring the mariner and Fiona, who was calling down from above. “It’s none of your business about Dhamon,” she finally told them.

A few minutes later, Dhamon stopped shaking. He gulped in the damp air and opened his eyes. “I’m all right now,” he said, not arguing when Maldred helped him to his feet and helped him strap the quiver and bow on his back. He met Rig’s stare. “I am all right,” he repeated more strongly.

“The hell you are,” the mariner argued. “It’s that damned scale, isn’t it?”

Maldred brushed by the pair and started climbing again, dropping the rope when he got to the top and bracing himself to lift Dhamon.

“Aye, it’s the scale.” Dhamon grabbed the rope, relying almost entirely on Maldred’s strength to pull him up. The episode had exhausted him.

Rikali motioned for the mariner to go next. “Dhamon has these shakes once in a while. That’s all,” she said. “He gets over them and is good as new. Mal helps him through it. Mal’s his best friend. Dhamon doesn’t need your sympathy.”

The rest of the climb was in silence, and by late afternoon they reached a narrow plateau, where the goatherders lived. It was a small community, the homes a collection of tiny caves and lean-tos constructed of pine logs and skins set against the side of the mountain, which rose up for at least another four hundred feet. The residents were humans and mountain dwarves, the former short and thin, almost spindly, but obviously agile as monkeys. The latter were ruddy and stocky, somehow equally at home in this high outlook. All the men wore short, pointed beards, as though they had taken on the appearances of their four-legged charges. The air carried a pungent scent of wet goats, wet people, and something unidentifiable—and most unpalatable—that was cooking in a covered fire pit.

Rikali dug about in her satchel for a vial of perfumed oil and liberally applied it, adding a drop beneath her nose. “Better,” she pronounced.

“I’m Kulp,” an older human said, extending his hand to Dhamon. The two were near the fire pit, where several goatherders had gathered. “I lead this village, called Knollsbank, and I’m the one who sent word to his exalted Lordship Donnag that our herd is dwindling. Our gratitude to the lord for any help you can provide. Truth, though, I am most surprised he sent us aid. His lordship is not known for caring about these villages’ well-being.”

His lordship? Rig mouthed.

Maldred walked around the village, Fiona at his side, looking for some sign of the dread wolves. They made pleasant small talk with the people as they went, answering questions about the town far below, the styles of dress for the women, the music that was popular, the threat from the Black called Sable, what was going on in the world to the east of the Kalkhists. When Maldred revealed that Fiona was a Solamnic Knight who had stood up to the Dragon Overlords, all attention turned to her and the questions focused on the great dragons. The villagers had all heard of the overlords and knew what they’d done to Krynn. Yet none of them had seen a dragon, save a rare silhouette high overhead, and all of them were in disbelief that Lord Donnag would send someone as important as Fiona to help them.

On the opposite side of the village, Rikali locked her arm with Dhamon’s as he introduced himself and the half-elf. “These wolves that are slaughtering your goats, Kulp…”

“Wolves?” The goatherder scrunched his face in a question. “Wolves don’t live in these mountains. It’s giants. Giants are stealing our goats.” There was instantly a great sadness on Kulp’s face, as if he had lost a child. “Our herd is half of what it was in the spring. If it continues, by winter we’ll be finished. They took four kids last night who were being mothered on that ridge.”

Dhamon’s mind was working, his fingers drumming against his belt in irritation. “Giants?”

Kulp nodded. “So our messengers told Donnag.”

Dhamon drummed faster. Trust Donnag? he said to himself. Maldred said to trust him. Anger flared in his eyes, and Kulp stepped back, startled.

“So they haven’t actually hurt you, these giants?” Dhamon finally asked.

Kulp looked shocked. “Hurt? They hurt us most horribly! Taking our goats is hurting us, our livelihood. The goats are all we have. We won’t have the goods to pay Donnag’s taxes if this continues. We will have nothing to barter with and we will lose our home.”

“Pay Donnag?” Rig interrupted. The mariner had been edging over during the conversation.

“We pay the chieftain in milk and meat for the right to live on his mountain. Certainly that is why he sent you—to stop the giants so we can continue to meet his fees and taxes.”

“Giants?” The mariner growled and looked about for Fiona. Where was she—she ought to hear this evidence of the ogre chieftain’s fiendishness. He spotted her and Maldred leaning over a small pen where a mother goat and three newborns rested.

Dhamon cleared his throat. “And where are these so-called giants…”

“We believe the giants live in those caves, Mister Grimwulf.” Kulp was pointing toward a peak that rose up high away from the village. “Some of our young herders fought one and thought they’d killed it. Said it was a massive creature with long arms and wicked claws. It must have only been stunned and then came to, escaping as they tried to drag it here. A few of them tracked it, heading toward that peak.” He dropped his gaze and shook his head. “But those young men did not return.”

“Tracking the giants now—tracking anything—is not possible,” Dhamon said, looking at the ground. What earth there was consisted of broad patches of mud from which sprouted tall grass. There were small gardens, reasonably protected from all the rain by a network of skins and lean-tos. But mostly there was shale and granite and goat droppings.

Dhamon looked toward the lofty peak, squinting through the rain to spot caves where the goat-raiding giants might live. “Kulp, that’s another several hours climb, at the very least. We’d like to stay here the rest of the day, get an early start.”

The village leader clapped his hands loudly. “We will make accommodations for Donnag’s men,” Kulp said. “And we will feed them well.” Then he was off to evict a family to make room for the companions for the evening.

The rain had stopped for a few hours during the night, and beneath the scant stars that poked through the wispy clouds they were fed a meal of boiled roots, spicy broth, and hard bread. The broth was what had been simmering throughout the day and tasted surprisingly good despite its strong smell. The bread was among the foodstuffs the herders received regularly in barter from Blöten. There was a strong liquor, which the herders made themselves and Dhamon pronounced acceptable.

Maldred instructed the half-elf not to let the kobold out of her sight while they were in the village, not wanting him to stir up any trouble. He spoke in whispers to Dhamon, vowing that when they returned to Blöten he would make sure Donnag kept his part of the bargain. The sword would be his—along with plenty of baubles for dealing with giants rather than wolves. When the big man left their company, Fiona followed him until they were alone beside a spindly rock. That is when Maldred drew her into his arms.

Dhamon spied them, casting a glance at Rig who was engrossed in a conversation with one of the villagers. He looked back at Maldred and Fiona, who were kissing. Maldred’s fingers were wound tightly in the Knight’s hair.

Dhamon shrugged and sat facing Rig, engaging him in conversation to keep him distracted.

Dhamon asked the mariner about his wedding plans and about whether Fiona had managed to convince him to join the Knighthood.

Rig was quick to talk about the former and preferred to avoid the latter. “We are to be married on her birthday, a tradition among the women in Fiona’s family,” he happily explained. Yet there was an edge in his voice. “It’s not so long from now. Two and a half months. In fact, we…” His words trailed off as he spotted the Knight walking toward them.

“Where’ve you been?” Rig was quick on his feet and took her hand. “You’ve been…”

“… visiting with some of the villagers,” Fiona returned.

Dhamon was startled at the lie and strolled away, finding Rikali perched on a ledge overlooking Blöten. He looked over his shoulder to see Fiona and Rig engaged in conversation.

“Fiona, that Donnag is far from a good man,” the mariner said, keeping his voice low. He told her about the milk and meat tax here, the heavy taxes the humans bore in Blöten, the fear all the people had for the ogre chieftain, how oppressed everyone was in his realm. How wolves had become giants.

“I know,” she said finally, her face soft and a little sad. “And it is good that it bothers you. It bothers me, too. But we can’t right all the wrongs in this world, Rig. We have to choose our battles. And bad as Donnag is, the Black in the swamp is far worse. The ogre protects these people from her, and his forces work to keep the swamp from swallowing up these mountains. So by helping Donnag, in one respect we are fighting her. And if you get rid of Donnag, being overtaxed would be the least of these people’s worries.”

The mariner sat silently, digesting her words. “I still don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to agree with it,” he said, sighing as raindrops trickled down the end of his nose. “I don’t have to like the fact we’re going to accept coins and gems for the ransom of your brother from that evil… creature. Provided he comes through, which I still doubt. And I don’t have to like all this rain. This isn’t right. These mountains should be dry as a desert.”

“A while ago you were complaining it hadn’t rained in weeks.”

“Didn’t mean I wanted it to rain for weeks.”

He tried to slip his arm around her, but she was on her feet and heading toward their borrowed lean-to, from where they watched the rain pound the rocky plateau for the rest of the evening.

Morning was no different, the rain continuing, slapping against the rocks and drenching everything and everyone. Only the goats seemed not to mind. Lightning arced through the sky, and the thunder that chased it sounded loud and eerie in the mountains.

“Up there,” Maldred said, pointing toward a series of black holes. “Maybe the giants are in all of them if they’re spread out, maybe all bunched together in one—but I hope not. I’d rather deal with them one at a time. In any event, we’ll have to search a little until we find them. The dwarves I spoke with last night are certain there are only three because of the tracks they spotted.”

“Only three,” Rikali murmured. “They’re giants. I would think three are plenty more than enough.”

“Well, at least we know what we’re up against,” Dhamon said.

“Have you ever fought giants?” Rikali asked mockingly as he started up the ridge.

“Once. When I was with the Knights of Takhisis. There were two of them, and each had two heads. Ettins, my commander called them.”

“Well, you obviously came out on top. You’re here. Were they very tough? How big do giants run?”

He shook his head, not caring to answer her stream of questions until they reached level ground again. After a few dozen feet of climbing he motioned to her, pointing to evidence of the giants—the gutted carcass of a goat wedged tightly between two rocks, the bones of another goat some fifty feet above.

Rikali covered her mouth and gagged.

“Messy eaters,” Fetch observed as he yanked a twisting horn off the carcass and held it up to his ear as if he might hear the ocean. Picking off a few pieces of rotten flesh, he stuck the horn in his belt. “Parents never taught them to clean up when they were done eating. Bad giants.”

“Three caves, and nothing. Nothing but rain and goat bones. They’ve been here, but they’re not here now. Doesn’t look like they’ve been here for a couple of weeks.” Rig leaned against the cliff and looked up at Dhamon who was climbing higher, his clothes looking dark as charcoal against the glowering sky. The mariner patted his stomach as it grumbled. “Sky and my gut tell me it’s about sunset. An’ there isn’t much left of the mountain.” He tugged a piece of boiled root from his pocket, snapped it in two, and popped a piece in his mouth.

Fetch scampered up after Dhamon, Rikali following him and scolding the kobold about something.

“Perhaps they’ve moved on,” Maldred suggested.

Fiona’s shoulders sagged. “I need the reward Donnag promised. I need those forty men.”

“Ogres,” Rig cut in. “He promised you ogres, Fiona.” Softer, he muttered that the chieftain’s promise was worth about as much as the goat carcasses they found.

“Ogres are men, Rig,” she returned. “And I would welcome their help.”

Maldred stepped between the two of them, eyes twinkling at the Solamnic. “You’ll get the men, Lady Knight. We will search in one or two more caves and then leave. I will explain to the chieftain that we did our best, and that maybe they’ve moved on and will pose no more threat to Knollsbank. As long as the menace is gone, Donnag will keep his word about the men.”

Will he? the mariner’s arched eyebrows asked.

“Up here!” Dhamon called. He was standing on a ledge before a high, narrow slash in the rocks. The cave mouth looked jagged and irregular, as if the talon of some great creature had torn the mountain open.

“Find a trace of them?” Maldred called from below.

Dhamon shook his head. “No trace. But I did find something else very interesting.” And then he vanished inside the cave, with Fetch and Rikali behind him.

“Lady Knights first.” Maldred bowed to Fiona, who started up the ridge. He made a move to follow her, but Rig put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s my woman,” the mariner said simply. “We’re gonna be married in a few months. I don’t like the way you’re always looking at her. And I’m tired of you occupying her time.”

Maldred grinned. “I’d say she’s her own woman. And you’re not married yet.” Then he pushed in front of the mariner before the astonished Rig could say anything.

The mariner stood alone on the ridge for several minutes, listening to the rain pattering against the rocks and glancing down at the village, which looked like scattered doll houses, the people and goats merely bugs meandering around in senseless patterns amid the puddles that he hoped would become a lake and swallow Knollsbank up.

Little light filtered in from outside, but it was just enough for Dhamon to see this wasn’t a normal cave. He stood inside the tall, narrow entrance, on an ancient mosaic floor made of variously colored stone chips. Six lofty pillars stretched from floor to ceiling, at least forty feet high. They were gigantic tree trunks, practically uniform in girth, and he wondered what engineering feat brought them up this mountain and then fitted them inside this place. They were practically white with age, and carved with the images of dwarves standing atop each others’ shoulders. The one at the very top of each column wore a crown, and their upreached arms seemed to support the cavern’s roof.

“By my breath!” Rikali slipped in beside him, Fetch sliding between the pair.

“A torch,” Dhamon began. “I want to get a better look at this.”

“Fee-ohn-a has them in her pack,” Rikali said unpleasantly.

When the others finally joined them and a torch was lit, many more dwarven images were revealed. Carved into the walls of the cave, each visage was different and incredibly detailed: men, women, children, some warriors by their helmets and scarred faces, others religious folk by the symbols worn around their necks. A myriad of emotions were displayed on the faces: happiness, pride, grief, love, wonder, and more.

The floor was smooth and level. The chips of painted stone were tiled across it to form the face of a most impressive dwarf, wild hair flaring out to touch the cavern walls, the pillars practically framing an aged, wise-looking leader. The color had faded, but Dhamon surmised the braided beard was bright red at one time, and the beads woven into it were tinged with silver and gold. The wide-set eyes were sunken and black, forming braziers that might have been used in some long-ago ceremony.

“Reorx,” Dhamon said, his hand drifting down to the pommel of his sword. The nape of his neck was tingling. Something didn’t feel right in this place, but he couldn’t identify what was wrong. He stared into the image’s eyes. It was like someone was watching him, a sensation he learned to identify when he was with the Knights of Takhisis. He wanted to be back in Blöten, with his new sword and on his way. He glanced away and to the pillars. “This must be one of Reorx’s temples.”

“Who?” Rikali tugged on his sleeve. “Who is Re-or-ax?”

“You don’t know?” This from Fetch.

The half-elf shook her head.

“A god,” Dhamon said softly. “A dwarf I once knew, Jasper, told me a lot about him. Jasper considered himself a priest of Reorx. Even after the gods left.”

“And this Jasper, did he ever meet Re-or-ax?”

Dhamon shook his head.

Rikali made a tsking sound and whispered it was foolish to revere someone you’d never met. She raised her voice. “Well, did this Re-or-ax accomplish much when he was around? Other than to have temples built to him high in some stupid mountain?”

“According to dwarven tales, Riki, the High God was disturbed at the jumbled chaos all around him. He whittled twenty-one sticks, the stoutest of which became the god Reorx.” Dhamon pointed at the image on the floor. “Reorx said he would make a world, round and sturdy, in his own likeness. He was called the Forger, and by striking his hammer at the jumbled chaos, the sparks became stars. The last blow birthed Krynn. I’d say that’s accomplishing quite a bit.”

“So the tales say,” the half-elf laughed. “You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you? Not that it matters none, what with all the gods being gone anyway.”

Dhamon shrugged. “When the gods were here, the dwarves considered Reorx the greatest of all the powers. Humans saw him merely as Kiri-Jolith’s helper. But the dwarves…” His voice drifted off and again he found himself staring at the pits that made up the image’s eyes. “It is said that Reorx’s next-greatest creation was the Grey-stone of Gargath, which led to the creation of dwarves, gnomes, and kender.”

“So the tales say,” Fetch added.

“Greystone. So he made a rock. And did you ever worship this Re-or-ax, lover? You seem to know a lot about him.”

“The only vanished god I ever revered was Takhisis,” Dhamon answered flatly. He recalled being regaled with tales of the Queen of Evil Dragons from the time he entered the Knights of Takhisis. But none of her priests’ old worship halls were as impressive as this place. This place definitely intrigued him, perhaps in part because he still had that tingling sensation. He decided he would look around for a few moments, then head back down the mountain, demanding Donnag relinquish the blade.

“And why are you so terribly certain this place was a temple to Re-or-ax? Not just a palace belonging to some old rich dwarf?”

Dhamon brushed by the half-elf and glanced toward the far end of the chamber, where there was an altar carved to look like a forge with an anvil atop it. Two shadowy alcoves extended behind it. “Aye, this was a temple to Reorx the Forge. Wonder that the Knollsbank folk didn’t mention this, especially the mountain dwarves.”

Maldred was at the entrance, examining the stone. “Probably didn’t know it was here. The rocks are sharp, Dhamon, not worn like they are everywhere else on the mountain and around the other cave openings. I’d say one of the tremors opened this place up, and not very long ago.” His fingers fluttered over the edges, drawing back as he cut himself. He licked the blood away and joined Dhamon. “I would guess this hasn’t been open more than a month. Feel how dry it is inside here? Despite the rain?”

“It smells old,” the half-elf said, wrinkling her nose. “Smells like a musty cellar in someone’s house.” She stood in front of one of the pillars, fingers tracing the features of a face at eye-level. “Said I had my fill of dwarves, I did,” she mused aloud. “But I might make me an exception. Might be something valuable here in this temple to Re-or-ax.” She pointed to the image of a dwarven priest a dozen feet above the floor. The figure had chips of onyx set for eyes.

“We shouldn’t try to take anything.” Fiona was looking at another pillar, this one filled with the broad faces of female warriors. “To defile a temple is wrong. Sacrilege, no matter your faith.”

The half-elf cackled and adopted an exaggerated hurt look. “I have no faith. The gods are gone, Lady Knight. So this is a temple to nothin’. Absolutely nothin’. Pigs! I can take whatever I please. I won’t be defiling anyone or anythin’. And there ain’t no gods around to come and damn me for it.”

Fetch had begun climbing a pillar, using the ears as handholds and the mouths for his toes.

Maldred glanced up at the kobold and shook his head. “Come on down, Ilbreth,” he said sternly.

The kobold’s head spun in surprise at Maldred using his real name—which he did only when he was very mad or earnestly wanted to get the creature’s attention—and the kobold nearly lost his grip.

“Dwarven gods are of no concern to us. We’ve got giants to find, my little friend, and then…”

Fetch was holding onto an ear with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. His mouth was open, as if to speak, but his surprise kept the words from coming out.

Dhamon spun instinctively, retrieving his bow in the same motion. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, fitted it, and aimed—at what?

“Thought I saw the cave move,” the kobold finally managed to gasp. “I really thought I… there! A giant!”

Something was watching us! Dhamon released his arrow at a huge creature that suddenly came shambling out of the wall. But it wasn’t a true giant. It was only a little larger than an ogre, with overlong arms and clawed hands. It looked like it was made of stone.

The creature reached out, batted Dhamon’s arrow away before it could find its mark, and snarled ferociously. The creature had the face of an old man, wrinkles looking like cracks in stone, cheekbones exaggeratedly angular, nose long and curved down like a beak. Its eyes were pupiless and dark gray, and its teeth were jagged and shot through with black lines, making them look like shards of granite.

Dhamon immediately set another arrow and fired, this missing the creature by several inches. His hand moved lightning fast as he fitted a third and aimed more carefully this time. The creature’s eyes locked onto his, just as Dhamon pulled the bowstring back and released it.

“Damn,” he swore, as he watched the arrow glance off the thing’s bony-looking shoulder. He dropped the bow and shrugged out of the quiver. “Wasted my coins on this in Blöten. Should stick with what I know.” He drew his sword and advanced.

The others were doing the same, drawing weapons and moving in cautiously, studying the creature—the likes of which none of them had seen. They formed a semicircle about it, the creature keeping its back to the wall and eyeing all of them.

“Wh-wh-what is it?” Fetch squeaked from his perch on the pillar.

“Pigs if I know!” Rikali spat. “It’s ugly, whatever it is. Probably the giant that’s been eatin’ all the goats.”

“I don’t know what it is, but it ain’t a giant. Giants look a lot more human than that,” Rig mused. “Yah! Over here!” His shout drew the thing’s attention. The creature took a step toward the mariner and opened its maw, snarling now like a maddened beast. “I’ll gut you like a…”

“Wait, Rig!” Fiona cut in. “We’re the intruders here. We shouldn’t just attack the beast. We don’t know what it is. And we don’t know if it truly means any harm.”

“You’re right,” Maldred told her. “I revere life and…”

“Oh, it means us harm all right,” Rig shot back. “Just look at it.”

The creature stood still for several moments, its head moved jerkily, taking in Rig, Fiona, Maldred, Dhamon, and Rikali. A thick, black tongue wagged out to wet its bottom lip, then it snarled again, and with a speed that seemed peculiar for its malshaped body, it rushed toward Maldred.

Dhamon moved in that instant, too. He was quicker than the stony creature, darting in between it and Maldred. “I could use the exercise. I’ll take him!” he hollered, as he drew a deep breath, pulled back, and swung. He braced himself, expecting to be jarred for striking the creature’s stony chest. But the creature’s flesh was soft like a man’s, yielding when the blade connected, and the bones beneath crunching from the violent impact.

Both it and Dhamon were surprised. The creature glanced down at the line of dark green blood forming across its middle. It rubbed a hand against the wound and brought its claws up to its eyes, as if to study its own blood. It howled then, long and angrily, and it slashed at Dhamon.

Dhamon barely managed to drop beneath the swipe of its needlelike claws. Then he swung again, connecting with the creature’s distended abdomen this time. The creature cried in pain, the sound echoing hauntingly off the cavern walls and bringing a squeal from Fetch.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw Rig and Maldred edge closer. “I said he’s mine!” Dhamon called to the mariner. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind help defeating the creature, he just had no desire to fight side-by-side with Rig again. “Back off!”

“It’s your neck,” Rig said as he retreated.

Dhamon slid to the side so he would be between the mariner and the creature. It howled once more, remaining fixated on Dhamon, who noticed that the wounds on its chest and stomach had stopped bleeding.

“So you heal quickly,” he commented. “I can fix that.”

Dhamon feinted to his right, the creature following him with both arms stretching out as far as it could reach. Then he spun to his left, crouched beneath the beast’s claws, and drove his blade up, running the creature through. Blood spilled out, releasing with it the overpowering smell of decaying leaves. Dhamon gagged and stepped back, tugging the sword free and expecting to watch the creature fall.

Instead, it screamed maddeningly and clutched at the wound, eyes darting from the blood that flowed over its claws to Dhamon.

“Pigs, lover!” Rikali shouted. “Just kill the beastie and be done with it!”

“Tough to kill,” Dhamon grumbled as he made a move to step forward again.

“My turn!” Maldred cut in. The big man darted up, his great two-handed sword held above his shoulder. “Stay low!” he called to Dhamon as he swept the blade in a high, wide arc. The metal shimmered as it connected with the beast’s flesh, then it continued on, passing through the neck. The head plopped to the floor, the creature’s body falling a heartbeat later.

“Impressive,” Dhamon stated.

“Guess the two of you didn’t need any help,” Fiona said. She brought the torch nearer so she could get a better look at the creature. She glance at Maldred, then at Dhamon. “But I still think you were a bit hasty. It might not have been hostile. Dhamon attacked it first. Provoked it with the arrows. Not everything that looks different from us is an enemy.”

The half-elf sheathed her knife. “It was mean, all right. And ugly. What were you gonna do, Fee-oh-na? Talk it to death? Or maybe invite it to join the Solamnic Knights?”

The mariner padded up to Fiona’s side, glaive grasped tightly in his hands. He stared at Maldred’s sword, the dark green blood on it. He watched the big man pull a cloth from his pocket and wipe the blood off, pausing to sniff the cloth before tucking it into his belt.

“Smells very strongly of copper,” he commented to the mariner.

“Blood is blood, doesn’t matter what it smells like, or what color it is. At least the thing’s dead.” After a moment’s pause, Rig nodded to the two-handed sword. “Nice blade.”

“It was a gift from Donnag. To replace a weapon I lost many days ago.”

The mariner prized weapons. The glaive he carried was magicked, able to pass through armor as if it were parchment. And he had a penchant for collecting weapons, especially coveting enchanted ones. He glanced at Maldred’s blade again, wondering if there might be some magic about it because it so easily cut through the creature. Shrugging, he quickly decided he didn’t care; if it was a gift from Lord Donnag, it wasn’t anything he was interested in. Then Rig knelt by the slain creature and examined its feet. “Had to have been one of those giants they were talking about. It would make big enough tracks for a common man to think it a giant.”

“Probably,” Dhamon said, padding closer. “But we might as well make sure. We can check down those alcoves, see if we can find any goat carcasses and…” The tingling sensation was back for just an instant. Was something else watching him? He turned and glanced at Rikali.

The half-elf was against the cavern wall, studying some of the carved images of dwarven children, tracing something with her fingers and making faces. For an instant it looked like one of the carved heads was making a face back. Dhamon blinked and looked closer.

“Riki!” He warned.

Too late! A second beast separated from the wall and grabbed for the half-elf, one claw completely circling her slender waist and raising her above the floor. As Dhamon dashed forward, the creature drew the other claw to her throat and growled loudly.

Dhamon skidded to a stop,the others behind him.

Rikali struggled frantically, but couldn’t break the thing’s grip. It was larger than the first, though not quite as tall. It had a wide chest and a big pot belly. Its legs were thick like tree trunks, and its feet were long and ended in claws that curled in on themselves. It met Dhamon’s gaze, and as he inched forward it squeezed Rikali tighter. She screamed.

“Stop!” Maldred called to Dhamon. “It’s threatening us.”

“Aye,” Dhamon returned. “That’s clear enough. We come any closer and it kills her, it seems.” Behind him, he heard a soft «shushing» sound, recognizing it as Rig tugging daggers free.

“It probably wants us to leave,” Maldred continued. “Doesn’t want to end up dead like its friend. Fiona’s right. We’re the intruders. But if we leave…”

“It’ll probably still kill Riki,” Dhamon finished. With that, he sprang toward the creature, pulling his sword over his shoulder and swinging hard, biting deep into the beast’s side. He jumped back quickly. The creature howled in surprise and savagely flung the half-elf to the ground, stepping on her as it advanced on Dhamon.

Fiona dropped the torch and rushed forward, and found herself being flung toward one of the pillars by yet another creature. This third beast had also emerged from the walls, shrugging off its camouflage and soundly striking the Solamnic Knight again, sending her weapon and the torch flying. The torch sputtered at the entrance, making it more difficult to see the two creatures.

Stunned, Fiona made it to her knees and shook her head to clear her senses.

“By all the vanished gods, what are these things?” Rig cried in disbelief as he peered into the shadows and pivoted to face the creature that was pressing its attack on Fiona. The mariner swept the glaive out, completely slicing through an arm and lodging the crescent blade in the thing’s ribcage. “They certainly aren’t true giants.”

Unlike its dead brother, this creature didn’t cry in pain. It only glanced at the stump where its arm had been, at the blood spurting from it, and at the glaive lodged deep in its flesh. It snarled once at the mariner and tugged the weapon free with its remaining hand, tossing it far across the cavern where the weapon was lost in the darkness. Then the beast returned its attention to Fiona, who was just now struggling to her feet.

“What are these things?” the mariner repeated as he drew a long sword and a dagger and advanced again. Fiona stepped back to give Rig fighting room, as she scanned the floor for her sword.

Despite its grievous wounds, still the creature fought fiercely, reaching out with its remaining arm toward the mariner. Rig’s sword was held high above his head, and was coming down like an executioner’s axe. With all of his strength behind it, the blade cleaved the creature’s other arm. Without pause, the mariner moved in closer and repeatedly drove a dagger into its stomach, groaning when green blood erupted to splatter him. It fell to its knees, but refused to die.

Meanwhile, Maldred was concentrating on the other creature, drawing it away from Rikali and giving Dhamon a chance to slip around behind it.

Dhamon scooped up one of Rikali’s daggers and leapt in, intending to stab the beast in the back. The creature sensed him, swiping with one claw at Maldred, then whirling and clawing at Dhamon.

Dhamon ducked beneath the beast’s arms and jabbed upward into its rib cage with the dagger, while in the same motion he swung the sword into the thing’s thigh. Dark green blood spattered down at him, blinding him. But he thrust and swung again and again, even as Maldred came at it from the other side.

Out of the corner of its eye, the beast spotted Rikali, who was grumbling and sluggishly picking herself up. Ignoring Dhamon and Maldred, the creature moved the fight toward her, viciously kicking out with a leg and raking its curled nails across her leg. She gasped and fell back.

“Pigs! Can’t the two of you kill that beastie!”

“Trying,” Dhamon replied, as he drove the dagger so deep into its stomach it was lodged there.

At the same time, Maldred swung down hard, slicing through the creature’s leg and crippling it. As the beast fell and twitched on the floor, the big man continued to slash at it. Dhamon crouched over it and plunged his sword into where he guessed its heart would be, slamming his eyes shut as more blood spurted on him.

Behind them, the mariner continued to struggle with his creature.

“Tough to kill!” Rig shouted. Though the beast had no arms, it still lunged toward him, crawling on its knees and snapping. It managed to stand, and as Rig stepped back to ready another swing, it kicked out with a clawed foot.

Fiona recovered her blade and joined him.

“No harmful intent, huh?” he mused to her as, exhausted, he shoved the long sword through its stomach. The creature sagged forward onto Rig, toppling him and burying him beneath its heavy body. Fiona rolled the thing off him, and the mariner got to his feet, stabbing it one more time to make sure it was dead.

“What a mess,” the mariner observed, plucking at his blood-soaked shirt. Then he headed toward where the creature had thrown his glaive. “Ah, here it is.”

Meanwhile, Rikali was holding her throat and coughing violently. “Pigs!” she spat. “I thought that horrible beast was going to kill me!” She shook out her arms and legs and stumbled toward Dhamon. “But you saved me, lover.” She kissed him loudly on his cheek, then bent over the creature, with some effort tugging the dagger free. “This is mine!” she said, waving the dagger at the body.

Dhamon sheathed his sword and studied the wall the creatures had been hiding against. There were no hidden niches he could find. Their coloration seemed to be all the camouflage they needed.

Rig was poking at the wall with the butt-end of the glaive, making sure there were no further surprises. Fiona had rescued the torch and held it high behind him.

“Three of them,” Rig said, after he’d checked all of the walls. “Just like Kulp’s folks said they’d spotted tracks for. Guess that means you can come down now, Fetch.” He looked up at the kobold, still clinging to the pillar. But the kobold shook his head, gesturing wildly. “We got them all. You’re safe.”

Fetch shook his head even more exaggeratedly, almost comically.

“He’s right,” Rikali said, her face paler than normal. “We didn’t get them.” The half-elf pointed to the first one that had been slain, the decapitated one.

The head and body had somehow moved toward each other, and the companions stared as the two pieces began to reattach themselves. The rocky-hued flesh flowed like water from the stump that had been its neck, capturing the base of the head and adjusting it until it fit properly. At the same time, the wounds on the rest of its body were closing. The chest began to rise and fall regularly, and the eyelids fluttered open. A moment later it was climbing to its feet, snarling.

Maldred rushed forward, tugging his sword free and swinging.

“This one, too!” Dhamon pointed. Then he turned and joined Maldred to fight the creature who had raised itself from the dead.

The armless body of the creature Rig had slain was twitching, the wounds on its chest and stomach sealing as they watched. Its face was drawn together in concentration. A barely discernible «skritching» sound came from nearby.

“In the name of Vinus Solamnus,” Fiona hushed. “Look at this.”

The noise was made by claws moving across the tiled floor. The arms the mariner had cut off the downed creature were crawling back toward the body. They moved purposefully, arranging themselves against the shoulders, the skin flowing to reattach them.

“Awh…” Rig grumbled. “They’re definitely not giants. They’re damnable trolls.” He stomped forward, pinning one of the wriggling arms beneath his boot, and picking up the other and yanking it away from the shoulder before it could completely reattach. He heaved it out of the cave. Then he drew his sword and struck the torso again and again, sending a shower of blood spraying in the cave. “Keep hitting them,” he explained between swings, “or they’ll come back to life.”

“I thought trolls were supposed to be green,” Fiona said as she moved to the third creature, which Maldred had sliced the leg off of. The leg was rolling toward the body, and she thrust the flame at it and watched the skin bubble and pop.

“Well, most are,” Dhamon said, as he and Maldred simultaneously skewered their foe. “Good idea, what you’re doing, Fiona. You can burn trolls. They can’t come back to life if they’re cinders. Bring your torch over here when you’re done.”

“I thought these stinking things were only found in swamps and forests,” she continued. Her free hand drew her sword and she hacked at her target, which was futilely attempting to hobble away. She heard movement behind her and whirled, thinking it another troll coming up behind her. It was the half-elf, edging closer for a better look.

But the moment’s distraction served to the troll’s advantage. It reached a hand out and swiped at Fiona’s face, the claws digging into her cheek and causing her to cry out. She spun back instinctively, swinging hard and slicing through the creature’s arm at its elbow. The claws remained attached to her face, as if the limb had a life of its own.

“That’s disgusting,” the half-elf spat, as she tugged the arm free, taking some of Fiona’s flesh with it. Then she dropped the limb to the cavern floor and snatched the torch from the Solamnic, thrusting the flame to the arm and gagging at the smell of the burning troll flesh.

“Damnable beast!” Fiona cursed. Her free hand held over her injured cheek, she swung at the creature more fiercely, severing its other arm. It howled angrily at her and tried to roll away, but she pressed her attack, repeatedly hacking at it until it was still. Then she threw the dismembered pieces away from the torso and glanced about for her torch.

The half-elf had carried it to Dhamon, who was burning the troll he and Maldred had slain for the second time. The Solamnic reached for her backpack, retrieved a second torch, and quickly lit it and went to work.

Behind her, Rig was calling for some fire.

“Yuck.” This came from the half-elf, who had picked up a troll foot, the toes of which were jerking. She tossed it Fiona’s way, and busied herself by retrieving the other pieces the Solamnic had scattered, and complaining each time she found something that wriggled.

“Here!” Fetch hollered. “Look over here!” He was gesturing toward the base of the pillar he clung to. A head had rolled there, and was continuing to roll toward the entrance as if it were attempting to make an escape.

“I’ll get it,” Rig returned. He tromped over to the pillar and hauled back on his leg, intending to kick the head out of the cave.

“Stop!” Dhamon brought his torch over and applied it to the head, grimacing when it opened its mouth and screeched. “There are tales that amputated troll limbs can regrow entire bodies.”

“Since when did you believe everything you heard?” The mariner brushed by him and checked on Fiona.

It took the better part of an hour to cut up the trolls and burn them in a large bonfire, which made the cavern reek of charred flesh.

“I’m not certain we got all the pieces,” Dhamon said as they stood at the cavern entrance, where everyone had retreated for clean air. He kept his eyes trained on the blaze, occasionally glancing to the walls and the pillars, where the carved dwarven images were more illuminated now.

Then, while Maldred and Rig took turns watching the fire as it dwindled, using their swords to push back fingers and feet that tried to crawl away, Dhamon tended to Fiona.

“It might scar,” Dhamon told her as he cleansed her torn cheek with a little of his alcohol. “But the healer in Blöten, Grim Kedar, is amazing. He might be able to help you.”

“I will be fine.”

“You’re cut to the bone. I’d like him to look at you. No telling if you might get some infection or disease. You shouldn’t take any chances with something like this. Those creatures’ claws were filthy.”

“I’m surprised you care.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly. “But it’s pretty clear that Maldred does.”

“Fine. All right then. I’ll see this Grim Kedar fellow when we return to Blöten.”

Rikali glided up to the pair. “Oh, I don’t know, lover, I think a scar would give the Lady Knight a bit more character.” Then the half-elf glided away, before Fiona could think to reply. Dhamon stifled a chuckle.

“Couldn’t you have done that outside?” Fetch asked the companions, finally climbing down from the pillar and holding his nose. He pointed to the pile of smoldering ashes. He had refused to budge until he was positive the trolls would not be coming back to life. The kobold waved his hand in front of his face. “It stinks worse’n me.”

“That’s debatable,” said the mariner. “Anyway, it’s still raining, so we couldn’t’ve burned them outside.” He sharply added, “And thanks for all your help with this.” He gestured at the smoldering remains.

“Any time.” The kobold wandered away, inspecting the altar Rikali was sitting on, ogling his reflected face in its smooth surface for a few minutes before getting bored with that activity and disappearing to explore one of the alcoves.

“Most certainly these were the ‘giants’ the villagers were being pestered by,” Rig said after several minutes of silence. “Don’t have any souvenirs from them to show Donnag as proof we fixed the Knollsbank problem, though.” He glanced at Maldred. “Will the ogre take our word?”

“A better question,” interjected Fiona, “is will he keep his?”

“He will.” Maldred was looking out at the dark gray sky. There was no hint of light, telling him the sun had set more than an hour ago. “Either the trolls were trapped in here and got out when this fissure opened, or they’ve been in the mountains a while and started after the goats when whatever it was they were eating ran out—or was washed away by all this rain.”

“Does it matter?” Rikali asked. “The beasties’re dead. And we call this job done, pry the gems out of the pillars, and get out of here. Besides, we’re…”

“They were the giants for certain!” Fetch was dragging the carcass of a kid into the chamber. “All sorts of bones back there. An’ some stairs. But I wasn’t going down them alone.” He paused and dropped the bones. “Just in case there’re more of them trolls.”

Maldred motioned for Fiona, plucked another torch from her backpack. “We ought to make sure there aren’t three more.” Softer, for her ears alone, he added, “You are indeed an impressive warrior, Lady Knight. I watched you wield your blade. A match for any man I know. Probably any two.”

“It shouldn’t matter if there are more.” Dhamon snatched up the torch they’d used to light the troll bonfire. “But to make you happy, Mal, I’ll take the right passage.”

“And I will take the left, my friend.”

“Whoa!” Rig tromped past them, then whirled, hands held up to block them. “I agree with the half-elf. We met Donnag’s conditions. We killed the ‘wolves’—giants—whatever you want to call them. Now let’s go back to Blöten and see if Lord Donnag keeps his end of the bargain. He promised Fiona a chest full of treasure and men to guard it on the way to Takar. Let’s not take any more chances.”

Rikali clung to Dhamon’s arm. “Let’s go explorin’, lover. I’ll come along—for just a little while. Might find all manner of pretty little baubles for my pretty little neck.” She snaked out a hand and touched Rig’s shoulder. “We can go back to stinky old Blöten in a bit. After we take a quick look downstairs. Then I want to come pluck me those onyx eyes,” she gestured at the pillar, “before we return to Donnag. Stay up here if you’re ‘fraid.” Then she tugged Dhamon toward the alcove, and a moment later they’d disappeared inside.

Rig growled. “I don’t trust either of them.”

“Then go with them,” Maldred answered. “I’ll stay here with Fiona.”

The mariner drew his lips into a thin line and met Fiona’s gaze. His eyes told her he didn’t trust Maldred either.

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s a good idea to keep an eye on Dhamon.”

The mariner turned to follow Dhamon, though his thoughts were on Maldred and Fiona.

“Three hours at most!” Maldred called after Rig. “Try to judge your time and meet back here in three hours! Your torch won’t last much longer than that.” Softer, he added to Fiona, “to the left, then, my love.” He carried the torch and led her into the darkness. “Fetch,” he added, “stay right here and wait for us.”

The kobold scowled. He knew that tone. He sat down, staring at the embers glowing amid the pile of ashes.