Redemption

Chapter Six Bev’s Oar

“They call this dismal patch of dirt Nostar. A big island, as far as islands go, but a pretty big nothing as far as I’m concerned.” Ragh walked between Dhamon and Fiona, a battered map held between his clawed hands. The scroll he’d retrieved from the inn had yellowed edges that flaked off when his scaly fingers brushed against them. “I’ve been just about everywhere on Krynn—and I visited here at least on three occasions. The last time was… oh, I guess forty or fifty years ago. Not long enough, if you ask me.”

When neither of his companions commented, he continued, “I didn’t recognize it at first. Nostar wasn’t like this then. Not that this island was ever anything special, but it didn’t try to make you a permanent part of the landscape by pulling you down into a sinkhole. There was grass most places, a lot more trees, and some hills here and there.” The last he said wistfully, gazing out over the relatively flat ground scarred by sinkholes and piles of rocks. He shook his head. “I certainly remember a lot more green.”

Using a craggy gray rock formation dubbed the Three Brothers, to the west, and the sea to the east, they had decided to follow what the map showed as a road running toward a sizeable mining settlement.

The map suggested the road was substantial, but what remained of the road was almost completely overgrown by the scabrous brown grass, and there were a few places where sinkholes had destroyed entire sections of it. They could see wagon ruts where some wagons had gone around the sinkholes.

“That’s a good sign,” Ragh said. “Means there’s somebody other than us still alive on this gods-forsaken rock.”

The map showed that Nostar stretched roughly sixty miles from east to west and forty north to south.

There were only a dozen town names indicated on the map, and these were clustered around the northern and eastern part of the island—all but two of them set back a couple of miles from the coast. Of the two towns perched directly on the shore, they decided to head to the closest one, a place called Bev’s Oar, a mile or so north of the eerily deserted mining settlement.

Studying the map, Dhamon saw that the interior of the island was practically devoid of notation, save for one egg-shaped lake and two scrawled words that had been added in a different hand than the map maker’s—Hobgoblin Village. He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s why there were never many towns on Nostar and why the ones that are here are small,” Ragh said. “Most of the population is goblins and hobgoblins, bugbears, and their kin. Or it used to be anyway, last time I happened by. Not many humans and elves, and they always stayed near the coasts, fishing and mining. From what I remember, the goblins left the humans pretty much alone.” Ragh rubbed at his chin.

“Of course, things could’ve changed.”

“Things have changed,” Dhamon said flatly. “Consider that nameless place we just came from.”

“It’s got a name. Slad’s,” Ragh said. “According to the map it’s called Slad’s Corners.”

“It’s called empty now. Let’s hope Bev’s Oar has a decent population and at least a few ships in port.

I want to book passage to Southern Ergoth as quickly as possible.” Dhamon had noticed more scales sprouting since they’d left the vacant town, a scattering on his left leg—which Ragh and Fiona also noticed—and a dozen more on his stomach. He feared he had little time left to atone for the mistakes in his life. He intended to take Fiona to the Solamnic stronghold, find Maldred, make sure Riki and his child were safe. Thinking about it all quickened his pulse. “My guess is we have another seven or eight miles to cover before we reach Bev’s Oar and…”

Ragh was quick to point out their map predated the war in the Abyss, when new land masses rose from the earth. “The island might be bigger now, so it might be twice as many miles to this Bev’s Oar.

Maybe more. That’s assuming Bev’s Oar didn’t break off into the sea. And it’s a long way after that to Southern Ergoth,” the draconian mused. “Of course, there’s no telling, really, the size of this damn place and just how far we have to go.”

Dhamon groaned. “It doesn’t matter how big it is, let’s get going.”

Nostar was south of Southern Ergoth by more than eighty miles according to Ragh’s map. It was about half that distance to Enstar, an island twice this one’s size. They might stop over in Enstar, but “too far to swim,” Fiona said absently.

Dhamon gave her a sideways glance. Sometimes he couldn’t tell whether she was listening or not. There was always a fixed, dazed expression on her face. Her words now were tinged with anger. “I’m not going to swim forty miles or eighty miles, Dhamon, and I don’t know why you keep harping on Southern Ergoth. You do need to find us a ship, Dhamon, so you can take me to the New Sea. Rig and I are to be married soon on the coast across from Schallsea Island.”

She made an exasperated sound, but for an instant her eyes had sparkled with life, before her face resumed its disturbing blank expression. Though tired and hungry, she resumed their trek toward Bev’s Oar, while Dhamon and Ragh purposefully fell back.

“You’ll not be allowed at the wedding ceremony, Dhamon,” she called over her shoulder, “causing all this bother.”

Dhamon ached inside for what Fiona had become, a mockery of her old self, and he wondered why the Chaos wight couldn’t have stolen the memories of Rig away from her. It might have made her a little easier to deal with. How much of Fiona’s madness has found its way inside me? he thought. And what did the wight rob me of? He shook off his unanswerable thoughts, pointing to Ragh’s map.

“Somehow we must find passage on a ship at Bev’s Oar. But we’ll need to get some warm clothes, first. At least Fiona and I need warmer clothes.”

“I can feel the bite of winter, too,” Ragh said.

Dhamon’s finger drifted a little to the west on the map. “That river’s not too far off our course, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes at the most. We can store up on water. And I could do with a bath.” He hated the thought of delaying the journey to Bev’s Oar, but Dhamon was worried about how he looked.

The scales were bad enough—the scales and the filth made him look truly monstrous, he thought. He needed to clean up.

The river turned out to be a narrow creek no more than half a foot deep, but the water was clear and cold. Dhamon scrubbed himself raw, while Fiona stoically went downstream for privacy.

“You’ve got even more scales now, I see,” Ragh said, nodding at Dhamon’s legs. His right leg was solid scales, shining slickly from the water. The left was spattered with them.

Dhamon didn’t reply. He didn’t try to cover them anymore—there wasn’t enough material left in his tattered clothes. He avoided the draconian’s accusing gaze and stared instead at the water. The man staring back had a hard look to him, dark eyes hiding all manner of mysteries. He had a handsome face, with high cheekbones and a firm jaw, but he was gaunt from lack of food, and his uneven beard and tangled mass of hair made him look like a brigand.

“Fiona!” Dhamon heard her sloshing along the creek. “May I have one of those knives?”

The Solamnic Knight looked up without recognition. She had cleaned up nicely, though her face looked raw with scars, and the cut on her forehead was still swollen and ugly.

“A knife, please?”

In a move so fast it surprised him, Fiona drew one of the knives from her belt and thrust it forward, its tip hovering in front of Dhamon’s stomach. “Will this knife do?” Her eyes were vacant, her voice ice. She inched the blade forward until its tip pressed into his flesh. Her free hand drifted down to the second knife. “Or do you want to borrow two?”

He didn’t reply and he didn’t retreat. He just stared into her eyes, hoping to connect with sanity.

“Just why do you want to have one of these knives, Dhamon? Do you want to use my own weapons against me?” She tugged the second knife free, but held it at her side. “Or maybe you want to—”

“Cut his hair with it.” Ragh grabbed the threatening knife. He’d moved up behind her silently. He passed the knife pommel first to Dhamon, who after a moment backed away.

“Oh. Cut his hair.” Fiona turned and knelt at the edge of the creek. She transferred her remaining knife to her right hand and speared a crawfish on the pebble-lined bottom. She worried the blade at its shell, pulled out the flesh, and stuffed it into her mouth.

Looking at her, Dhamon felt more pity than anger. He quickly shaved and cut the tangles from his air.

Though his hair was uneven and hung to just above his shoulders, he looked more presentable. Sticking the knife in his belt, and acknowledging Fiona’s glare for doing so, he led his two companions back to what was left of the road. He didn’t stop for rest or speak again until, an hour later, the silhouette of a town came into view.

It was a mining colony at the road’s end, just as indicated on Ragh’s map. The mining town was empty, and they quickly bypassed it for fear there might be another Chaos wight haunting the place. They continued to follow faded wagon tracks until just before sunset when they camped in the open away from a fresh cluster of sinkholes. The sunset was the only dash of color on the land, painting the ground a pale orange and making the edges of the low-hanging clouds look like liquid gold. They drank in the beautiful sight without speaking. Fiona and Ragh settled in for the evening when the last of the color faded. Dhamon sat watch all during the night, listening to the soft snores of the draconian and the surf washing against the nearby beach. He stared out into the darkness as he felt the heat begin to radiate from the large scale on his leg. Clamping his teeth shut and swallowing a scream., he dug his fingers into the earth and endured another painful episode without waking the others. It was a night of excruciating agony.

All the while he thought of Riki and his child—his need to see them before he died, needing to know that they were all right. There was Maldred to consider, too, and other things to atone for if there was time. Before the torment sent him spiraling into unconsciousness, he prayed to the vanished gods that he had enough days to set things right.

There was a cemetery on the outskirts of Bev’s Oar, most of the graves marked by wooden planks the color of the earth. Rows of markers stood as straight as soldiers’ ranks, the ground hard-packed and forbidding with silt blown across it by the wind.

“Graves are old,” Ragh stated.

“Most of them,” Dhamon said. He pointed far to his left, where two more recent graves told them someone was still alive in town to do the burying. Dhamon reached into his pocket and felt the coins he’d taken from the skeleton. He tugged a few out, the light catching them and glinting. “We’ll get something to eat in the town, get some clothes, a passage.” Get off this rock and be about my business—fast, he added to himself.

Dhamon inhaled deep—his keen senses picking up the smell of the earth, the rotting wooden grave markers, and the faint scent of bread baking, cinnamon. He pointed down a path to the row buildings about a half mile away. “Just through this graveyard and—”

“Wonder who’s buried here?” Fiona had wandered away and was staring at the marker on the grave that seemed to be one of the most recent. Dhamon and Ragh joined her. The marker was a polished plank of walnut that looked like it was once the back of a chair, and carved on it were the words: Died After The Sun Went Down.

A chill raced down Dhamon’s spine, and suddenly the smell of the bread wasn’t quite as tempting. He looked at the other markers. The oldest were the hardest to read, the sea air and the years weathering them badly. However, they had the most information on them—names and dates: Mavelle Colling, Beloved Wife and Sister; Wilgan G. Thrupp, Died of the Sweating Sickness; Bold Bolivir, Treasured Husband and Son; Ann-Marie, Cherished Grandmother; and more. Graves that appeared less than two or three decades old lacked any detail. There were no names, no real dates. One said: Tall Man. Another: Old Woman. Some said: Died Today, though “today” had to have been a year or more ago judging by the condition of the packed earth.

Little Boy, Red-Haired Man, Fishing Man, Thin Elf, One-Eared Goblin, Woman in Apron, Lovely Young Girl, Tavern Owner, and the like.

“What in the levels of the Abyss?” Dhamon breathed. “What kind of a weird cemetery is this?”

Ragh was tracing the more informational message on a very old, chipped stone. “Beven Wilthup-Colling, Proud Founder of Bev’s Oar. Born in the summer of the Year of the Storms, Died at age sixty in the Year of the Great Turtles.”

“I’m done sightseeing at this cemetery,” Fiona said. “All this death is depressing. Death surrounds you, Dhamon. Let’s go into the village.”

Dhamon grabbed her arm. “Aye, Fiona, we’re going into that village. But this cemetery has given me a bad sense about the place. You and Ragh shouldn’t go in until after I’ve made sure it’s safe.”

“Dhamon the hero,” she said tonelessly.

“I’m no hero,” he said.

“No, I guess you’re not. A hero would have saved Jasper and Shaon.”

Dhamon snarled, thrusting Fiona at Ragh. “Keep her here until I get back.”

“Who were Jasper and Shaon?” Ragh asked.

The dwarf Jasper was a very good friend, Dhamon thought. I almost killed him but it wasn’t my fault, the red dragon controlled me. I couldn’t save him later on at the Window to the Stars. Fiona knows. She knows the list. Jasper—one more name on the list of people who died because they adventured with me. Shaon… A dragon I once rode killed her.

“Who were Jasper and Shaon?”

“The two of you stay here until I come back,” Dhamon said tersely. He wasn’t about to add Fiona to the list, or the draconian for that matter.

“And if you don’t come back?” Ragh asked.

Dhamon hurried down the path toward Bev’s Oar.

He sighed with relief when he was beyond the graveyard and at the edge of town. The first few buildings he saw were relatively new and well-maintained, with brightly painted eaves and shutters and dried flowers arranged in pots outside the doors. Signs hung above businesses, the pictures on them showing a tavern, fishmonger, inn, and weaver. So far, so good. Things looked normal.

“Thank the Dark Queen’s memory,” he breathed. “People.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but part of him didn’t expect the dozen or so men and women who strolled along a cobblestone street that served as the main thoroughfare—he could hear the indistinct click-clack of their heels, an altogether welcome sound. A dog yipped as it playfully chased a lanky young man around a corner and down a side street. A matronly woman clucking at a child at her side carried a basket filled with bread. Dhamon took a few steps down the street, his own heels clacking on the cobblestones—indeed a comfortable sound, he told himself, after all they’d been through. He considered waving to get Ragh’s attention, have them both hurry into town right now, but he didn’t know how the people would react to his scales. If they didn’t accept him, they wouldn’t accept the draconian. He had to check things out a little more.

Just a block or two more, he thought. So far no one had pointed at him and shouted in fear. Just one more block… Dhamon stopped in his tracks. While the buildings on this end of town were well-constructed and kept up, those down the first side street appeared thrown crazily together. A few were made of the hulls of ships, one even had a mast sticking out of its roof. Another was fashioned of vegetable crates stacked six or seven feet high, with a sail lashed over the top to keep out the rain. Next to that was a small dwelling made of woven sticks and fronds, looking like a hut one might find in a jungle.

Curious and alarmed, he continued on, spotting a residence built out of stones—as well as any dwarf could construct it. Next to it, however, was a mound of earth with a small door set into it and a ship’s porthole carved into the side to serve as the window.

There were homes that looked like they were made of the remains of torn-down buildings. There were a half-dozen lean-tos, inside of which two hobgoblins sat eating charred rodents. They quietly regarded Dhamon for a few moments, then one gave him a wide grin and a welcome nod.

“Hobgoblins,” he muttered. No wonder no one was pointing at him.

With each step he took, a part of Dhamon told him to go back to Ragh and Fiona and find another town as a safe haven. But finding another town would take time. He touched a scale that had just recently appeared on his wrist. He didn’t have much time.

A trio of elves were patching the thatch on a narrow, two-story building. Across the street from the elves, a goblin watched and offered suggestions in broken Common. After a moment, Dhamon realized the elves were following the goblin’s advice.

“Something to eat,” he said to himself. “Clothes, passage. That’s all we want. Not much. Then we’ll get off this damnable rock as fast as possible.” He needed some herbs, too, for Fiona’s wound, but the wound was far from life-threatening, and he wondered if it was better to let the Knights on Southern Ergoth tend to her rather than waste another moment here. “Where’s the docks?” Dhamon mused. He’d go just a little farther, explore down some more side streets to the north. If there was a fishmonger, there had to be at least fishing boats—and all it would take to get them to Southern Ergoth was a big fishing boat and someone who knew how to captain it. Anything that will float, he told himself. “There has to be—”

“Good morning!”

Dhamon whirled to see a gawky looking human with a mop of dirt-brown hair and a reed-thin mustache. The human was wearing a pressed white tunic with an insignia over his right breast, and he had a long red sash around his waist that caught the faint breeze and flapped at his knees. At his side was a hobgoblin wearing a ship’s flag for a cape.

“Good morning to you!” the man repeated, extending his hand.

“And to you,” Dhamon cautiously replied, his unease multiplying as he studied the pair. The hobgoblin wearing the odd cape grinned wide, and a line of drool spilled over its lower lip and stretched to the ground.

“You’re a stranger to Bev’s Oar.” This came from the man. The man glanced casually at Dhamon’s scale-covered legs, then, dismissing them, met Dhamon’s gaze.

Obviously I’m a stranger, Dhamon thought. “Aye,” he said, finally shaking hands with the man and noting his firm grip. “I am new to this part of Nostar.”

The hobgoblin grinned wider still and nudged the gawky man.

“Oh, yes. Excuse my manners. Welcome to our humble town!” The man patted Dhamon on the shoulder. “Always happy to see a new face. You’re lookin’ pretty tired. Must have traveled quite some distance to get here.”

Obviously. “The storm the other night,” Dhamon began in an effort to appear friendly. “I was washed ashore and—”

“Took the roof off the bait shop. That was quite a row, wasn’t it… Mister…?”

“Grimwulf.”

The man frowned, worrying at a button on his tunic. “What a… grim name.”

Dhamon hadn’t yet decided whether to mention he had companions. “Listen, I—”

“Bet you’re hungry, too. You could do with some sleep and some new clothes. Definitely some food. Definitely some clothes. Looks like you haven’t eaten in days. So thin. We’ll fix you up… Mister Grimwulf. In Bev’s Oar we take good care of folks.”

“There be no strangers here.” This curious remark came from the hobgoblin.

Dhamon looked back and forth between the two. “Then if there are no strangers, who—”

The gawky man beamed. “I am the lord mayor of Bev’s Oar. This is my assistant.”

The hobgoblin nodded, more drool spilling over his lip and pooling at his toes.

“Assistant.” Dhamon’s face clouded.

The mayor caught his expression and sadly shook his head. “My very able assistant. The folks in Bev’s Oar have no prejudice… Mr. Grimwulf.” He pointed to the scales on Dhamon’s leg. “We accept everyone, including you.” His point made, he again raised his eyes level with Dhamon’s. “Now about gettin’ you some food and clothes.”

Dhamon took a chance. “I have two companions waiting just outside of town.”

“Well, hurry and fetch them. I doubt the inn will be servin’ breakfast for too much longer.”