Jean Rabe - Redemption

The hallway door creaked open, torchlight spilling in.

“Maybe I can help.”

“Maldred!”

“Dhamon, my friend, how do you manage to find yourself in such hopeless predicaments?” Maldred ducked his head to pass through the doorframe, the torchlight revealing he was in his true ogre form. His wide, blue shoulders were a tight fit in the hallway, and the top of his white-maned head brushed the ceiling. Despite his ragged clothes, he was a welcome sight. The torch was small in his large fist.

“But… how, how did you get out of Shrentak, and how did you find us here?” an astonished Dhamon asked.

“I have magic, remember?”

Dhamon glanced at Ragh, who shrugged. Fiona’s eyes were narrowed, but she said nothing. Maldred passed Dhamon the torch, then knelt on the ground, fingers spread wide over the hardened clay. His long white hair fell over his shoulders and down his arms and hid his face. The torchlight danced across his form, exaggerating his massive muscles and the thick veins that stood out.

“What are you doing?” This question came from Ragh.

“Magic. Will you keep it down?” Maldred started humming softly, a tune with no identifiable melody or predictable rhythm. As it quickened, his fingers burrowed in the softening clay. Ripples spread outward from his hands, the clay becoming like mud.

Dhamon found he could more easily move the bars. Ragh’s also gave way a little.

“A little more,” Dhamon coaxed.

“Trying,” Maldred replied, as he interrupted his humming. “Odd,” he added. “It’s getting cold in here.”

The magic humming resumed. Dhamon dropped his torch and worked faster with both hands. The cold meant the presence of wights. Eyes darting, he looked in the shadows for glowing, undead eyes. His breath feathered away from his face as he wrenched the wall of bars loose.

“The shadow men are coming,” Ragh growled.

“Aye,” Dhamon said, stepping to the other cell and helping the draconian work on those bars. With one final heave, the two loosened the bars enough so Ragh and Fiona could squeeze out.

Fiona clutched the bundle of clothes to her chest. Breath misting in front of her, she fixed her eyes on Maldred.

“Liar. Liar. Liar,” she said.

Dhamon shivered to feel the air growing colder still. “Mak we’ve got to get out of here now. There are…” He swallowed his words as he glanced to the far end of the hallway where three distinct shadows had separated and formed manlike images. Their eyes glowed eerily, and their insubstantial hands reached out at them, claws elongating like slithering serpents.

“By my father!” Maldred boomed. “What are those strange creatures?”

“Around here, they call them shadow men,” Ragh answered.

“Foul undead,” Dhamon spat. “Wights! And we’ve got nothing to fight them with!”

Maldred reached for his sword, and the shadows cackled.

“That won’t work,” Dhamon said. He started backing his companions toward the door at the other end of the hallway.

“Maybe this will work.” Maldred pulled something out from under his ragged tunic, cradling it in front of him so the others couldn’t see. “I’ll get us all out of here,” he said. He focused his magical and physical energy, gripped the dragon scale hard, and snapped it in two.

“Liar. Liar. Liar,” Fiona repeated venomously, as a swirling gray mist rose up around them and transported them out of the jail.

Dhamon was confronted by a vast emptiness, unending black stretching in all directions. There was nothing to hint at shapes or shadows, but he felt as if he was moving, his feet dangling yet touching nothing. He held his arms up, then stretched them out in front of him and to his sides, his fingers feeling only warm, humid air.

It was a startling change from the cool breeze that had wafted into his jail cell and comforted him until it turned into the frightening, cold currents of the Chaos wights.

He tried to call for Maldred but sucked in a fetid taste and scent. He couldn’t hear himself, couldn’t even hear the beating of his own heart. The taste and scent increased.

It was all magic, he knew, and he should have asked, when Maldred cast his spell, that they all be spirited away to Southern Ergoth, to the far coast where the Solamnic outpost stood. But Maldred had acted too fast. Dhamon hadn’t had a chance to tell him where they were going, so now where was he taking them? Perhaps the Qualinesti Forest, perhaps the eastern shore of Nostar. Certainly not back to the ogre lands.

Dhamon was more curious than worried, as any magic created by Maldred was bound to be a positive enchantment. He called out to Fiona, however, on the chance she might be able to hear him, to reassure her that everything was all right and that she had no cause for alarm. He received no reply.

He continued to float in the nothingness, noting that he was feeling increasingly fatigued—either because quite a bit of time was passing or more likely because Maldred’s spell was somehow sapping his energy. Perhaps Maldred was drawing on his energy.

“Maldred,” he tried to call again. This time at least he heard himself.

A change occurred in the air. The temperature grew warmer still and the fetid smell much stronger.

There were variations in the blackness now, suggestions of blues and grays and faint images that resembled shields, as though rows of knights were standing on each other’s shoulders, three or four men high. He shivered, though it was warm, not cold.

“Maldred?”

“Here, Dhamon.”

“Where are we?”

“My spell’s taken us far away from that jail.”

Dhamon heard strange sounds: a rough, constant “shushing”, the flutter of something like leaves blown in the wind, the muted cry of a shrike, and the throaty cry of a burrowing owl.

“Mal, where?”

It was still night, wherever they were. They were no longer near the sea; there was not a trace of salt-tinged air. However, Dhamon thought he detected the sulfurous scent of a blacksmith’s shop, and now he could sense the draconian and the familiar presences of Fiona and of Maldred. The rank smell overpowered everything, however.

“Where have you taken us?”

“Someplace safe.”

Dhamon blinked as the wall of shields began to move, as though the unseen knights were taking two steps forward and then back, repeatedly, keeping rhythm with the shushing. Before he could bring this to Maldred’s attention, the shield-wall slid out of sight, replaced by thick gray patterns intersected by strands of green so dark they looked black. He stopped shivering.

Concentrating, Dhamon stared until he could focus. He discerned that he was inside a cave. The dark patterns were shadows created by outcroppings and recesses in the stone, the green was moss-covered vines that hung down to the ground and were disturbed by a gentle breeze that was stirring. Leaves continued to rustle, from just beyond where the cave mouth must lie. He turned slowly, finding the silhouettes of Fiona and Ragh only a few yards away. He also saw Maldred, who was speaking softly in words he couldn’t understand, no doubt casting another spell. A moment later a globe of light appeared in Maldred’s hand, and as it grew he tossed it toward the ceiling, where it hovered.

The cave was immense, and the light didn’t penetrate the deepest darkness.

“Liar. Liar. Liar,” Fiona hissed as she locked eyes with Maldred. The Solamnic Knight, standing next to the draconian, squeezed her bundled clothes against her chest and glared back and forth between Dhamon and Maldred. “The both of you are liars.”

Dhamon looked at his old friend. “Mal,” he said, “I was planning to come rescue you. Why, if we hadn’t gotten ourselves stranded on that accursed island of Nostar, Ragh and I would’ve finished taking Fiona to Southern Ergoth and then come back looking for you. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind casting another one of those quick spells and taking us to Southern—”