Jean Rabe - Redemption

Listening to him, Ragh nudged Fiona awake. The Solamnic rubbed at the sleep in her eyes.

“Ragh, Fiona, we’re leaving now,” said Dhamon, grabbing them and heading for the door.

“Thank you, Rig,” Fiona said as she stepped outside.

Ragh was quick to follow her.

“It is too soon, Dhamon Grimwulf,” Nura warned. “We need to make preparations and develop a plan. It is too soon to disturb Sable.”

Dhamon slammed the door behind him and waited, waving away Ragh’s questions. Within a few moments Maldred and Nura joined them on the street.

The Ergothian pulled herself up and thrust a finger at Dhamon’s chest. “You are my master’s tool, Dhamon Grimwulf,” she said threateningly. “You’ll follow my orders from here on out. I’ll have no more of your—”

He jabbed a finger back at her. “I’ll have no more of you.” In a move that caught her completely off guard, Dhamon shouldered the glaive, took a step back and swung it at her. The blade whistled through the night air and sliced into where she’d been standing but a heartbeat before.

Nura was lightning fast. Narrowly dodging the blow, she stepped behind Maldred. “My master will slay you for your impudence!” she sputtered.

Dhamon circled round. “I think not,” Dhamon said, taking another swing. Maldred drew his sword and held it defensively in front of him, unenthusiastically protecting the naga. Behind them, the Solamnic pulled her own long sword and began talking to it. Ragh backed up and assumed an aggressive stance.

“The master wouldn’t dream of slaying me, Nura. I am the one, after all. His precious tool. He’s been preparing me for the past few years, hasn’t he? He planted the magic in me some time ago. As you said, you’ve been testing me. All that work… even a dragon wouldn’t slay someone he’s got so much effort invested in.”

Nura’s hands were working, fingers glowing and tracing patterns in the air. “You are the one,” she said, “and I will force you to cooperate.” Arcane words spilled from her lips, and the glow intensified.

“What about me, magic lady?” This came from Ragh, whom Nura had made the mistake of ignoring. The draconian slashed at the Ergothian’s back, claws cutting through her tough skin. Nura shrieked with pain. Her spell was squandered in that moment, and the glow of the magic faded.

“Fool!” she cried. “All of you are fools! The master will never cure you now, Dhamon Grimwulf.

He’ll have the hobgoblins feast on your child!” She edged around Maldred, jockeying for advantage over Ragh and Dhamon.

Suddenly the Solamnic Knight brushed Dhamon aside and sprang forward, the tip of her sword aimed right at Nura’s heart. She managed to prick her, as Nura dodged.

“You will cooperate! All of you!” Nura howled, as she reached behind and slipped her hand inside Maldred’s shirt to retrieve the shadowy scale. She cracked it just as Fiona lunged again, disappearing and leaving the Solamnic Knight confused.

Dhamon heard the tavern door opening, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a half-dozen drunken men stumble out, intent on watching the fireworks. He paid them little attention, turning his anger on Maldred now. Fiona stepped on one side of the ogre-mage, and Ragh took the other.

“Let’s take the monster once and for all,” Fiona said.

“No, leave him alive,” Dhamon said.

“Alive? Why? What are we doing, Dhamon?” the draconian sputtered.

Dhamon leveled the weapon at Maldred’s chest. “The ogre is going to take us back to the shadow dragon.”

The draconian raised his brow in puzzlement. “Not a good idea.”

“The shadow dragon wants us to tackle Sable, because he’s not powerful enough to do it himself. That must make us more powerful than the shadow dragon is, right? So we’re going to attack the shadow dragon instead.”

“Dhamon, you can’t!” Maldred argued. “You—”

“Can’t I? I’ll find a way to make the damn dragon call off his hobgoblins and leave Riki alone. I’ll make him cure me of these scales. The shadow dragon claims he’s made me formidable? Well, let’s see just how formidable I am! And you’re going to take me there, Maldred. Right now, before the naga comes back…” Dhamon’s words trailed off in a strangled cry.

He crumpled to his knees as the glaive fell from his hands. A second later he was writhing on the street, jabs of intense cold and incredible heat warring inside his body. “The scale,” he gasped. One moment it was as though he was in the middle of a bonfire, the next as though he was adrift on a glacial lake. His muscles twitched wildly, and he shrugged off Fiona’s attempt to comfort him.

Ragh looked with uncertainty between Dhamon and Maldred, then as the ogre-mage took a step forward, the draconian reached down and snapped up the abandoned glaive. He was unfamiliar with the weapon, but it gave him a reach that kept Maldred at bay.

“He’s dying,” Fiona said. She touched Dhamon’s forehead, then pulled back in shock. “Rig’s burning up! My beloved’s dying.”

More men came out of the tavern, all keeping a respectful distance and all watching curiously as they chattered.

One started waving chaotically, and Ragh growled, noting the gesture was meant to attract a passing spawn guard.

“Wonderful,” the draconian muttered. “Look down the street. We’re going to have company.”

Dimly Dhamon heard the insectlike buzz of the tavern-goers, felt Fiona’s fingers brushing the hair away from his face, felt the intense heat and cold.

“Rig is dying,” she repeated. “Dying!”

Dhamon found himself agreeing with her. He was dying. The pain had never been so bad before. He found himself falling away into an emptiness.

The grass was soft and cool, and Dhamon thrust his fingers into it until he could feel the damp earth beneath. So he wasn’t dead, not yet. He was mildly saddened at this realization, as death would have solved all of his problems.

Death would have ended the pain from the scales.

If there was a place where spirits found peace, he would rather be there right now. It had been a long time since he’d known any real contentment.

Since he wasn’t dead his problems persisted. He realized some time had passed since the episode in Shrentak, and though his eyes were closed, he could tell it was midday, probably by the amount of light seeping through his eyelids.

He ached from the scales and found himself wishing for a big jug of that ale he’d drunk in the tavern last night. He couldn’t remember when he’d hurt this much following an episode. It felt as if he’d sparred with a few dozen bakali.

His throat was dry his tongue felt swollen, and he had trouble working up some saliva to swallow. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing shallow, deciding he ought to learn more about his surroundings before letting anyone know he was awake.

The breeze felt slightly warm against his face, and he picked up the faint, telltale odor of Ragh, like a blacksmith’s shop. He could smell little else, save a trace of chicory and—something else—sheep. He himself still reeked from the water and sludge he’d waded and swum through to catch a glimpse of Sable.

So he was still in the swamp, he guessed, somewhere outside of Shrentak. He heard the striking song of a heron and the distant snap of a crocodile’s jaws. There were no sounds of city life or of people. He could hear plenty of leaves rustling, and willow branches, as well. He was lying partially in shade, an effort on someone’s part, probably Fiona, believing him to be Rig, to keep him out of the oppressive heat.

Opening his eyes just a crack, he spied sunlight streaming diffusely through a veil of leaves. Wider, and he spotted the draconian’s scaly visage—Ragh bending over him.