Redemption

Chapter Four Cold Despair

“This isn’t a good sign.” The draconian pointed toward the main street. The straggly clumps of brown grass looked sad and thin, like the hair on a balding man’s head “Not good at all.”

Shutters banged in the wind, and curtains fluttered in open windows. Signs proclaiming a cobbler and a blacksmith were weathered and nearly impossible to read. Other signs, farther down the street, were bleached beyond recognition and hung crookedly, rhythmically thumping against posts.

Not a single building looked well maintained. The roof of the closest business, a cooper judging by the rotted and split barrels out front, was caved in. Paint on overhangs and trim was cracked and peeling and resembled dried fish scales. Flower boxes sprouted weeds, and everything was pitted by the windblown grit, which seemed a permanent feature of the area.

Dhamon pointed to a lopsided well off to the side of an equally tilting one-story building. “You’re wrong, Ragh. There is something good about this place. At least I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the local folks’ reaction to our scales.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of making a joke, Dhamon.”

“I’m not.”

Dhamon and Fiona headed to the well. The leaning building was precariously poised over a recently formed sinkhole. The ring of stones around the well was on the verge of crumbling from age and lack of repair, and as Dhamon rested his hand on a stone, it fell and he nearly lost his balance. It was oddly cold near the well.

He noticed that Fiona was shivering, but she refused to complain about it. She hadn’t said more than a dozen words to him in the past few hours—though she had talked with Ragh. Her silent treatment of him was unnerving, and he considered trying to draw her out.

His thirst took precedence. “Hope the water’s as cold as the air,” he mused. He could smell the water far below, fresh and inviting, and he eagerly snatched up the rope and bucket. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty, Fiona.”

Fiona reached for the bucket, her eyes first glimmering hopefully, then her lip curling downward as she saw the bucket had no bottom. She tossed it aside and it came off the frayed rope.

“I’ll find a bucket,” Dhamon told her. “Bound to be something in this town that will—”

Fiona spun, heading toward the closest shop.

“All right,” Dhamon said. “You go find a bucket then.”

Ragh took her place at the well. “I’d crawl down there for something to drink if I was certain the stones wouldn’t give way.” The draconian leaned over the edge and looked down hungrily. His knee brushed a stone, and several shifted. “I think a strong wind might blow this over.” He looked up and met Dhamon’s gaze.

“There can’t have been anyone around here for years.”

“Aye, that’s for certain.” Dhamon indicated the sinkhole behind the leaning building. “The people obviously left when the land became unstable.”

“Maybe.” The draconian wore an uncertain expression. “Did you take a good look at the front entrance to the inn over there?”

Dhamon pushed away from the well, sending a stone to the water below. He returned to the main street. The inn the draconian mentioned was a few buildings down and at one time must have been quite impressive. There once had been three storys to it, though half of the top floor was gone. The building was a mix of wood and stone, with the stone painted dark green, but only flecks of the color remained. A broken bench on the sprawling porch was inlaid with bits of shells and bronze beads. The sign, lying split in two on the steps, proclaimed it the Enchanted Emerald Hostel. Trousers flapped on the steps, the belt snagged in a crack which kept them from being blown away. The matching shirt was caught under the bench. There were shoes, too, and a pipe. A tobacco pouch was sticking out of one pocket. It was as if someone just had taken off their clothes, laid them out, and walked away. As Dhamon and Ragh looked around, the breeze whipped cold around them, and their breath feathered away from their faces. Then the wind warmed slightly, leaving them with an apprehensive feeling.

“Maybe it wasn’t the sinkholes that made people leave,” the draconian said, as he tested the steps and warily climbed up.

Dhamon peered up the street, where more garments were strewn against buildings and steps and overturned carts—wherever the wind had left them. “Maybe it was something else. Let’s take a quick look around, get some of that water and some supplies, and then get out of here.”

“You show intelligence for a human. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, either.” The draconian gingerly prodded the door open and poked his head inside. “First I’m going to see if this town has a name, try to figure out where we are. There must be some maps around a place like this. With luck I’ll find one. Then we can look for a way out of here and be on our way—after Nura Bint-Drax.”

Dhamon watched Ragh ease inside the building, the old door banging shut behind the draconian, then he followed the street a little farther, looking for a tavern. He hoped to find mugs for water, and perhaps some bottles of spirits to ward off the autumn chill. Along the way, he glanced at the discarded, dirt-pitted clothing along the street. His route took him past a baker’s. The loaves of bread behind the window looked like bricks resting on a bed of grit. There was evidence some insects had feasted on the loaves but no sign of rats or birds. Peering into the shadows, he spotted interior counters filled with long-hardened treats, as well as a faded dress and apron, slippers and a hat that were spread out on the floor in the center of the room. Nearby was a child’s dress, a doll, and what looked like the collar of a dog.

“No people. No animals.” Dhamon moved to the next building, one that in years past had been gaily painted with strange symbols. He traced one of the symbols with his finger. He’d seen something like it before, perhaps in an arcane tome shown to him by his friend Maldred. Remnants of a bead curtain clicked in the doorway, and the scent of something not unpleasant wafted from inside. Thinking this might have been a sorcerer’s place, and therefore a place that held information about the strange town, he momentarily forgot his thirst and hunger and his caution. He pushed aside the beads and went inside.

Fiona was inside a farmer’s store and had propped the door open to let in more light. Goods were neatly displayed on shelves that lined three walls of the room. At first glance she didn’t see any buckets, but she did spot a large salt-glazed pitcher that she was quick to snatch up. She brushed away a cobweb and blew the dust off a section of countertop, placed the pitcher on it, then proceeded to fill up a leather bag she had pilfered. On the shelf closest to her was a small set of tarnished silverware, and these she added to her collection.

“Dhamon should be doing this—stealing—not me,” she muttered darkly. “He’s the thief. A liar and a thief. Just like his ogre friend Maldred. Liar. Liar. Liar.”

She gave the shelves a closer inspection. There were various-sized nails, hammers, and an entire rack devoted to building tools. There were lengths of rope, one of which she selected to replace the rotting one at the well, and there were a half-dozen lanterns and a large glass jar of oil. She made a note to return and fill a couple of the lanterns so they’d have some light when the sun completely disappeared—which would be very soon, judging by the sparse orange light fading from the shop.

Bolts of cloth were arranged near the floor, none of them appealing to her. They appeared common and were covered with dirt and webs. She spotted a pair of hunting knives, and these were quick to find their way onto her belt. They would do until she was fortunate enough to stumble upon a long sword.

There didn’t seem to be a real weapon or shield in here, however. She would have to look for an armorer’s after she drank her fill.

Shovels, hoes, and rakes were leaned neatly behind the counter and against the center of the back wall. There were bins labeled “beans,” “wheat,” and “rye,” on which insects had feasted. One barrel contained a mass of tiny onion starters, so hard and shriveled nowadays they could pass for marbles.

Looking behind the counter, Fiona shivered when a cold gust of wind rushed into the shop. After a moment, the air warmed a little. In the growing shadows she stared at a pair of trousers, a black tunic, and a smock, laid flat on the floor with shoes at the end of gathered cuffs. A brimmed hat sat about a foot above the collar, and at the end of a sleeve was a quill. It looked like the shopkeeper, departing on some mysterious errand, had carefully taken off his clothes and left them behind.

Underneath the countertop was a coin jar, practically filled with steel pieces. Fiona reached for the jar, then hesitated. “I am a Solamnic Knight,” she said. “In the name of Vinus Solamnus, what am I doing?” Her fingers fluttered hesitantly above the jar. “If only Rig was here, he’d—”

“But I am here.”

She whirled around, looking for the voice. “Rig!” Her heart leaped in delight. “I knew you’d find me!

I just… where are you?”

She didn’t see anyone; she was all alone in the shop.

“I am in the back room. Behind the curtain. I have missed you very much, Fiona.”

She hastily dropped her leather bag, pushed the curtain aside, and rushed into the darkness.

“No sorcerer’s dwelling.” Dhamon was standing in the center of a small room. At least it wasn’t the kind of room that had been decorated by any sorcerer he was familiar with. The walls were covered with garishly dyed animal skins, more of the cryptic symbols he’d seen on the outside of the building—brighter than those on the outside, because the sun hadn’t bleached them. Several narrow shelves held the skulls of small animals and crystal bowls with layers of colored sand. The place had at the same time a barbaric and gaudy look. There were jars filled with dried substances, pressed flowers and herbs, small bells with painted symbols on them, collections of bead and feather-festooned sticks. By the way they were arranged, it looked as though this had been a shop and all the oddities were for sale. There was an impressive tapestry, showing a quartet of rearing pegasi over the body of a two-headed bear. And there was the intriguing smell that had lured him in here. It emanated from a tray filled with bulbous roots—all of them apparently fresh and without any of the dust that covered everything else.

“Sorcery, yes, but not from one of Palin’s ilk. Maybe those roots are edible, but I’m not that hungry.”

A search revealed tinder and steel, and Dhamon lit an ornate lamp filled with a heady, musky oil. His head spun from the oppressive scent, making him feel intoxicated, and he made a move to douse the lantern but stopped himself when the light spread and bathed the place in a warm glow. He spied more curiosities, including a few preserved animals—a coiled exotic snake, a curly tailed lizard, and a hedgehog with six legs, but he couldn’t find a single scrap of parchment that would give him a clue to their location.

Curtains and beads hung from a beam that stretched across the back of the room, perhaps separating the little shop from the owner’s living quarters. He might find documents there.

When he ventured behind the beads, he found a much larger room with a silt-covered table no higher than his knees. He brushed away the dust and set the lantern on the table, frowning to see his disheveled state reflected in the surface. The table was fashioned of polished walnut and inlaid with silver—a real showpiece. Spaced around it were overstuffed pillows, all coated with dust and the husks of insects. In the center of the table was a pile of fingerbones and petrified chicken feet, painted wooden cubes, and a cup containing dried green leaves.

Scarves and ribbons hung from the ceiling, and there were rows of shelves holding tiny preserved animals, monkey skulls, crystal sculptures of insects, jars of sand and powders, and fragile-looking scrolls.

Dhamon’s eyes settled on the latter. Maybe there’s a map here after all, he thought.

He reached for the thickest scroll, his hand brushing a carved bear the size of a plum. It was one of many carved animals, ranging in size from a small cherry to a large apple, that dangled on strings from the upper shelves. Colorful wedges of glass also dangled and caught the light from the lantern and sent whirling patterns around the room. Watching them made him dizzy.

Not a sorcerer at all. A fortune teller’s place, he decided, with a measure of disappointment. One long gone from this town. Stuffing the thick scroll under his arm and reaching for the others, his gaze fell on the largest pillow. A purple robe shot through with metallic threads lay across it. Bracelets lay nearby, earrings too, and an elaborate hat of some sort. There were thin wooden cards spilled at the end of a sleeve. On two of the other pillows were strewn more abandoned clothes.

“Customers long gone, too. We should do our best to be long gone from here,” he muttered to himself anxiously.

“Rig! Rig! I can’t find you. It’s so dark in here.” Some sane part of Fiona knew Rig couldn’t possibly be anywhere in this place, knew she should leave and get Dhamon. That part of her was overwhelmed by the madness that had taken root. “Rig! It’s so hard to see in here. Come outside with me. It’s too dark in here. And it’s cold. It’s very, very cold.”

“Cold as the grave.”

“What did you say, Rig?” She glanced behind her, where the curtains fluttered, and considered retreating to the shop to get one of those lanterns. Perhaps Rig was hiding, hurt, scarred by the spawn and draconians that they had battled in Shrentak. Maybe he didn’t want her to see him with scars and deformities. It didn’t matter to her what he looked like. She loved him.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re scarred,” she cooed, her fingers touching her own acid-blemished face. “I will always love you.”

She paused and listened, then repeated. “I can’t see you, Rig. What did you say?”

“I said I am here, my lovely lady, waiting for you. I have missed you so very much.”

“I’ve missed you, too, and—”

A swirl of black separated from the shadows. Spinning like a small whirlwind, the black swirl produced no breeze, but it exuded a sudden wave of intense cold.

“Rig!” Fiona stared at the shifting mass, trying to see behind it and find Rig, warn him of the mysterious whirlwind. “Rig! Be careful, my darling, I—”

“Dear Fiona, I have been praying you would come to me.” The voice was Rig’s, but she realized in horror it emanated from the black swirl.

“Rig?” Fiona stared in disbelief. “Y-y-you can’t be Rig. You’re not…”

Suddenly the room lightened and all the shadows were banished as from the center of the swirl burst an eerie, yellow glow. As Fiona watched, the swirl became black flames licking at the air, then changed into spiraling smoke. The wisps stopped spinning and wove themselves into a human form. The eerie glow at the center of the form receded but did not disappear completely. Although by some gift of magic Fiona hoped to see Rig, what she saw instead was a duplicate of herself.

“I have waited a long time,” the Fiona-image said, still adopting Rig’s voice. “It has been nearly a year since someone has passed this way.”

Fiona took a step back. “I-1-I don’t understand. What’s happening? Rig? Where’s Rig? What…?”

She turned to flee, but the Fiona-image shot out a hand to grab her wrist.

Fiona screamed, for the mirror-Fiona felt as cold as the coldest ice. “Let go of me!”

“But, dear Fiona, I truly have been waiting for you.” The Fiona-image twirled her around, its fingers digging deep into her flesh and drawing blood, its white-hot pinpricks of eyes boring into her.

With her free hand Fiona drew one of the knives at her belt and plunged it into the chest of her double. The blade sank in, but there was no blood, and the creature seemed unaffected.

“So long since real people have been here,” the duplicate Fiona said. The Fiona-image no longer boasted Rig’s voice, but used one that was low, musical, and inhuman. It glanced at the knife protruding from its chest and smiled mischievously.

“Y-y-you sounded like Rig,” Fiona stammered. “You tricked me, made me think . . . what are you, anyway?”

“Your mind gave my voice its sound, sweet Fiona.” The duplicate-Fiona opened its mouth wide, and where its teeth should be there were instead motes of sparkling light.

“You sounded like Rig, and you look like me, and…”

“I look like my victims, Fiona. It is what I do, what all of my kind do.”

“After you kill me,” she stated, “my clothes will lie empty, too.”

The duplicate-Fiona shook its head, hair trailing away from its head like tendrils of red-tinged smoke.

“True, my brethren and I killed all the people who lived here, so greedy were we then. And foolish. We thinned the population too much, and so we do not kill very often now. We only feed. It has been so long since I fed. This island, so few come here anymore, Fiona. We must protect our cattle now and allow the herd to multiply.”

The color drained from Fiona’s face. “Are you some kind of vampire then?” She’d heard legends of such grisly undead. “By the breath of Vinus Solamnus, are you—?”

“Not vampires,” the Fiona-image chuckled. “We are products of Chaos.”

The Fiona-image studied the female Knight, glowing eyes caressing her form, delving into her mind and trying unsuccessfully to make sense of its latest victim. “You are most interesting… Fiona. Your memory is turbulent, names and faces changing places incessantly. Yet this Rig is the name most important to you. This man seems to be the center of everything.” The Fiona-image paused, then resumed speaking in the mariner’s unmistakeable voice. “You are clearer and better focused when thinking of Rig, but the rest of your thoughts are warring and imprecise. They wax and wane like the sea.”

“You’re a creature of Chaos? The god?”

“A spawn of Chaos, born in the deepest Abyss. I am death and power, and I am now all alone in this town. My brethren left after we fed too much on the people here. We fed on them all, and their babies and pets and those who came looking for them. When no one was left, my brethren moved on, but I stayed. I feed now on those few who from time to time happen to pass by.”

“You killed… everybody in this town!”

“That was a long time ago. We fed on their memories, and when they had no more memories they had no futures. They became nothing years and years and years ago,” the creature replied in Rig’s voice.

“They ceased to exist.”

“Worse than murder.”

“They left their trappings behind. Pathetic clothing and belongings to mark their brief existence.”

“Filthy undead!” Fiona struggled against the grip of her evil image, but her body would not respond.

She tried to grab her other knife, but her fingers would no longer cooperate.

“I am death and power,” the Fiona-image repeated in Rig’s voice. “I am hunger, and I must be sated.”

The Fiona-image leaned forward, eyes blinding, lips parting, motes of light sparkling.

“No!” the true Fiona said defiantly. “You’ll not succeed!” But she felt powerless, already defeated.

“Please, no.”

The mirror-image of Fiona gently cupped the female Knight’s head in its hands, leaned closer, and kissed her.

The air suddenly had turned cold, and Dhamon could see his frosted breath. He dropped the scrolls he’d been examining and wheeled around, seeing nothing alarming but hearing something that he at first thought sounded oddly like the coo of a morning dove. He listened more closely, realizing it was the soft and distant laughter of a woman. He knew the woman’s voice.

Feril? Was it Feril? His eyes flew wide and his pulse quickened. Feril was the first and only woman he had truly loved, a Kagonesti from Southern Ergoth who had been one of the few who survived the curse of his companionship. She had sensibly left him long ago. He’d not seen Feril for some time, but his love for her was still strong.

“Feril.” The word was a hopeful whisper.

The laughter turned into brittle giggles, the voice changing, metamorphosing, but still achingly familiar as Feril. In his excitement he didn’t notice that the room was growing ever cooler as the voice rippling with laughter drifted closer.

“Feril?” Please by all the vanished gods let it be her, he thought.

The giggle persisted, but now he understood a few words—Dhamon, lover, hold me, miss you. No, he was wrong, it was not Feril, he had been tricked. But it was someone else he loved.

“Riki?” It could be her. The voice was thin and pleasant and sounded somewhat elven.

Lover. Lover. Lover, Dhamon heard.

“Riki.” He was certain now that it was the half-elf. Relief flooded his emotions. He needed to talk to Riki, had desperately wanted to talk so he could set some things straight, make sure she was all right and well cared for. Had she delivered the child yet? Was it all right? His child! No. She couldn’t have, he thought, not yet. The time was too soon. It would be soon, several days maybe, a week, no more than a month.

Lover. Lover. Lover.

Yes, Riki often had called him that, when they were together. Lover.

“Riki, where are you? Riki, it’s me, Dhamon! I’m in here, Riki!” After he called her name, however, he chastised himself. Though the half-elf—even after she’d married—had followed Dhamon numerous times, she could not have followed him through the Qualinesti Forest and across the sea to here… wherever here was. It simply was not possible. Or was it?

The laughter and lyrical words were definitely Riki’s.

“Impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible, Dhamon. I am here, and I have missed you so. Have you missed me, too?”

The voice and the laughter swelled in volume, and the air grew colder still. Cold like at the well and on the steps to the inn where he’d left Ragh. Cold as harshest winter.

All at once Dhamon sensed a presence within the cold, and in that instant the laughter changed again, taking on a manly tone that at first sounded similar to Maldred, then quickly became dark and menacing and completely unfamiliar. Inhuman. Dhamon knew the voice was meant to scare him. Instead, it only served to anger him. The voice was not Feril, and it was not Rikali.

His hand instinctively dropped to his side, his fingers folding around air. The sword! He’d dropped it in the sea during the storm.

How could he be so stupid as to forget he was weaponless? Was he affected by the drugged oil in the lamp? Was that making him hallucinate? They were all weaponless. Where were Ragh and Fiona?

“Fiona!” Where was she? A moment’s concentration, and he remembered that the Solamnic Knight had wandered away from him at the well when she went off in search of a bucket. And Ragh! The draconian was at the abandoned inn.

In a strange town with no signs of life, why had he allowed his two companions to go off on their own? It wasn’t safe, especially with the whole area cursed by sinkholes. It wasn’t like him to be so inattentive and careless. A former Dark Knight, he usually knew to keep his command together. What in the Dark Queen’s memory was wrong with him? Was he under some kind of spell?

“Fiona! Ragh!”

“It was my doing, Dhamon Grimwulf. With only a suggestion, I lured your companions away from you. Separated, you are far easier to deal with.”

Dhamon turned, looking for the voice, and somehow not expecting to see a person. A spawn perhaps.

The spirit of the fortune teller who once owned this shop. Some magical creature. There! A shadow spilled out from under the table, running across the floor, pooling like oil a few feet away. Smoky tendrils rose from it, twisting and thickening, and finally forming an image that vaguely looked like the lizardmen that had populated the black dragon’s swamp. But unlike the lizardmen, this image had glowing yellow-white eyes and misshapen horns sprouting from the top of its head. Dhamon doubted that was the creature’s true form, but it was sufficiently hideous to unsettle even him.

The creature opened its crocodilian snout, and a thin tendril-tongue whipped out and struck at the air inches from his face. When Dhamon didn’t flinch, the tendril retreated into a mouth that was shimmering and changing and receding to mold a human visage. In a few moments, the creature took on the aspects of Feril, the Kagonesti elf, then a pregnant Rikali, then Maldred, and finally the slain mariner Rig.

“Who or what are you?” Dhamon demanded, uncowed.

“A creature of Chaos,” the thing replied evenly, its breath creating snow that twinkled and fell, melting in the pool of black that remained on the floor coursing around its feet.

“Undead.”

“Perhaps,” the creature said in Rig’s voice, liking the rich accent of the dead Ergothian. “Undead, living, I have known no other existence. The people of this town called me a Chaos wight.”

“All the townspeople you killed.”

“Your companion…” The Rig-creature paused, head cocking as if searching for the right words, wispy tongue snaking out of its mouth and circling its lips. “Your woman companion… Fiona… she accused me of the same. In fact, she—”

Dhamon sprang away from the creature, leaping toward the wall and tugging down a narrow shelf.

Monkey skulls and vials of sand thumped against the floor. A lunge toward the creature and he swung the wooden shelf like a sword, snarling unsurprisedly to note it passed through the Rig-image as if nothing was there.

“Demon!” Dhamon cried, as he swung the shelf again and again, the force of his blow sending the scarves and curtains billowing and the ribbons flying, with no damage to the Chaos wight.

“Fool,” the creature returned. It thrust out an arm, smacking heavily into Dhamon’s chest and sending him back several feet.

The hand had certainly felt solid enough—and freezing cold. Dhamon stepped forward woozily and tried to swing the shelf into the wight’s arm. The creature laughed as the shelf passed through it.

“You do not have the ability to hurt me.”

Dhamon dropped the shelf and threw his hands up, fingers closing tight around the wight’s neck. The creature’s open mouth was wide and black like a cave, laughter echoing deep inside. Dhamon squeezed harder and for a brief moment thought he was actually causing harm to the other-worldly creature. He felt the wight shudder, but it was only to effect another appearance change.

“I told you that you cannot hurt me. You have no magic.” This time it took on the visage of Dhamon, speaking in his voice.

Dhamon shifted around, keeping even with his double. His eyes scanned the shelves and walls, looking for a weapon. You say I can’t harm you, he thought, but that could be false.

“No, it’s true, Dhamon Grimwulf. Your thoughts are open to me,” the Dhamon-image said. “You can inflict no pain.”

Then if you can read my mind, let’s see if you can predict this. Dropping his hands, Dhamon balled both fists and drove them into his double’s stomach. His hands went right through the creature and out the other side. It felt as if he’d plunged his arms into an icy mountain stream, and when he pulled them back close he noticed they were bright pink from the cold. He continued to spar with his double, hurling various objects at it. Dancing toward one wall, Dhamon scooped up animal skulls and threw them. He tried vials of the sand and powder, bound sticks, anything he could reach and grab and throw.

The creature followed him into the other room of the shop, where Dhamon continued to pelt it with objects—more skulls, bells, the strong-smelling roots. Those roots actually gave it pause, though no real damage was done.

Magic, Dhamon thought. The roots are magic.

“Yes. Only magic can hurt me. And I tell you this only because you do not have any magic about you.”

Likely there’s nothing magical in this entire town.

“Nothing that can hurt me. Years past I destroyed those things that could bring me pain.”

Dhamon yanked another shelf off the wall and swung it with as much force as he could manage.

There were times he had wished for death—when the scale on his leg gave him so much misery he couldn’t bear the torment—but he couldn’t let this petty creation of Chaos kill him here and now. There was Riki and his child and Maldred to find. There was Fiona to take care of. The wight had mentioned Fiona. Had the thing killed the female Knight?

“I did little enough to the troubled woman,” the duplicate-Dhamon said. “She is physically unharmed.”

Again Dhamon swung the shelf at his mirror image, again and again in a maddened flurry of blows destroying the shop.

“I did little to the scarred beast that goes by three names.”

Dhamon’s wild strokes continued, all ineffectual.

“Three names. Draconian, sivak, and Ragh. The beast thinks very highly of you, human—and that seems to trouble it.”

Despite the chill exuded by his opponent, Dhamon was sweating from the exertion. His rain of blows slowed. There has to be a weakness! his mind screamed.

“I, too, think highly of you. You have not given up, though deep down you understand you cannot defeat me. Deep down you know I cannot be easily dismissed. You glance about for weapons, you scheme. Your mind does not stop. Impressive.”

“I don’t intend to stop! You’ll not slay me!” This time when Dhamon swung, the shelf flew from his sweaty fingers and impacted against a wall. More monkey skulls and jars clattered to the floor.

“I have no wish to slay you.”

Dhamon stepped back, chest heaving, eyes narrowed and locked onto the intense pinpoints of light that served as his duplicate’s eyes. “If you don’t want to kill me, then what’s this about?”

“If I slay you, Dhamon Grimwulf, you will be gone forever—like all the people in this town. I made that mistake once. If I only feed on you, there may come a day when you will pass through this town again, and I will feed once more.” The Dhamon-double raised a hand, flesh becoming black and wispy, finger-tendrils leading away and touching Dhamon’s chest.

Dhamon felt utter despair. He had no desire to put up any further fight. He felt helpless, hopeless, and at the thing’s mercy.

“Give in to me,” the Dhamon-wight said. “Give in completely.”

Dhamon relaxed and felt the finger-tendrils skittering across his chest. Still, some part of him rebelled against surrender, abject defeat. I can’t give in, he told himself.

“You cannot win, Dhamon Grimwulf.”

Dhamon dropped to his knees. I can’t give in.

“As strong as you are, you cannot best me.”

A tear slid down Dhamon’s face and his hands shook. Fight it!

“I must possess you, as I possess this town, but I will take from you only what I took from your companions.” The creature’s wispy black fingers feathered across Dhamon’s brow.

Don’t let it win! Fight it with everything!

The creature’s fingers continued to dance, then suddenly the hands drew back, and the creature tipped its chin up and roared. The Dhamon-form melted like butter. In the span of a heartbeat the wight took on the image of a lizardlike creature with thorny antlers.

“Don’t fight me!” it raged. “You cannot win! You only postpone my feeding, Dhamon. You cannot put it off forever!”

Dhamon took a deep breath and shakily got to his feet. He was trembling from the effects of the creature’s spell and from the cold the thing generated. It took considerable effort just to speak.

“The red dragon couldn’t defeat me,” Dhamon said, fully aware that the creature was reading his thoughts and learning about his confrontation with Malys and about the scale on his leg. “Neither will a lesser, petty creature such as you defeat me. Whatever it is you’re trying to do to my mind, I won’t let you!”

The creature retreated, floating above the floor and scrutinizing Dhamon as it had no previous victim.

“Your mind is strong, human, and, to my astonishment, I admit I find myself unable to steal a part of it… at this moment.”

“I can win,” Dhamon pronounced. “I might not be able to hurt you, but I can keep you from hurting me.”

The wight laughed cruelly, and its eyes grew brighter. “I will not let you win. Give me what I want, Dhamon. Drop your defenses and make this easy and painless for both of us.”

Dhamon defiantly shook his head.

“If you don’t give in to me,” the wight said, each word deliberate and drawn out, “I will slay the ones you call Ragh and Fiona.”

Dhamon sucked in a breath.

“You know I can and will do this, as they are not as formidable as you. I will suck their minds dry and for spite leave you all alone in this nameless place. When our paths cross again, I will once more attack you. Again and again I will come after your mind until I wear you down and succeed. You cannot hold me off forever. Give in to me if you want your companions to live.”

The silence was tense for several minutes.

“Nothing,” the creature repeated. “You can do nothing about it. Nothing, if you want your companions, your friends, to live.”

“What… what exactly do you want from me?”

The lips of the lizard-image parted, revealing glowing yellow teeth and a snakelike tongue that slowly unrolled and slithered toward Dhamon.

“One memory” the wight said. “That is all I require. I feed on the memories of the living. I’ll take only one from you. This time.” The tongue snaked around Dhamon’s neck and tugged him closer. Wispy fingers reached up and caressed Dhamon’s temples. “Just one, then you and your companions may leave this town. But if our paths again cross, I’ll take another memory. And another. Yet never all of them.”

For a few moments more, Dhamon resisted.

“Death for your friends,” the wight reminded. “Or one memory.”

Dhamon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and the creature entered his mind.