Jean Rabe - Redemption

“I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” the draconian said flatly. “This was the worst time, so far. You haven’t moved for hours. I was afraid I’d have to deal with the mad Knight and the blue-skinned ogre all by myself.”

So the draconian hadn’t killed Maldred yet. Too bad. Dhamon propped himself up on his elbows and rolled his head to work out a kink in his neck.

Ragh leaned closer. “How are you feeling?” There was genuine concern in the draconian’s voice, and this distressed Dhamon.

“Fine,” Dhamon said. Then truthfully: “More than a little sore. Did you get me out of the city?

Where’s Fiona?” And where’s Maldred for that matter? he thought.

“Sore. You feel sore. But you feel all right otherwise?”

Dhamon frowned and raised his right hand to push Ragh away so he could stand up. He stopped and swallowed hard. The back of his right hand was entirely covered with scales, and there were pearl-sized scales on his wrist as well. He gaped at his arm, completely covered with scales the size of steel pieces.

His left arm was the same, though the scales hadn’t yet spread to his left hand. He touched the scales on his arm, and only when he pressed down hard did he register the slightest sensation.

“By the vanished gods.” Dhamon jumped up, seeing Fiona and Maldred watching him warily from nearby. He moved away from them to the far side of a willow trunk. Ragh followed him.

He knew the scales were spreading, but this was all happening so fast. It seemed he might only have hours left before his transformation—into what?—was complete. He might not have time to confront the shadow dragon. Dhamon checked out the rest of his body. His legs were almost solid with scales—all the size of coins save for the large one on his thigh. There were also scales on his stomach and chest, and feeling around, he discovered several on his back.

“There’s… more on your neck,” Ragh told him.

Dhamon reached up and touched his neck, where the scales were like a choke collar spreading down to his shoulders. His fingers danced over his face, finding a few more on his cheek, one on his forehead.

Had the shadow dragon out of vengeance sped up the foul magic? Had he learned that Dhamon balked at fighting the Black and was now circling back to the shadow dragon’s lair?

He leaned against the tree, closed his eyes. A sense of hopelessness washed over him. He’d always prided himself on being strong. Alone in life. His only real family had been the Knights of Takhisis, and there was no coddling there. Strong, independent, fearless, and driven—those qualities had directed his life. At this moment, all of those qualities were of no use, all had forsaken him.

If Riki was here she would hold him, tell him everything was all right, that they would find him a cure for all his agony. She would be lying, but her words and warmth would be appreciated, as he had never appreciated them before, when she was actually with him. Palin—he was another one who would fuss over him, poke and prod and make some effort to remedy the situation, then fall to studying him like a specimen in his laboratory. Maldred… the friend Maldred had been… Maldred used to rage against the world with him. But none of those people were here now. He’d never appreciated them anyway. This crisis was his to face alone.

How long before my soul slips away?

Dhamon opened his eyes and scolded himself. He began to fight his anguish and substitute fury. The damn shadow dragon better speed up the magic even faster, Dhamon thought, better kill me quick before I reach him! Dhamon suspected he was beyond a cure now anyway, but he would force the dragon to spare Riki and his child—and then he would exact some measure of retribution.

The draconian fidgeted in front of him, wanting to say something but quiet behind the invisible barrier Dhamon had erected with his aloof, burning eyes.

“Leave me alone, Ragh.”

The draconian stepped back a pace but continued to stand there, studying Dhamon. Finally he looked away when Dhamon’s gaze became too uncomfortable. Ragh batted at a large insect that landed on his chest. Dhamon watched it fly away, only to be replaced by another.

He can feel the fly bites, Dhamon realized. He couldn’t. Dhamon could feel the breeze blowing against only parts of his skin, not where the scales grew.

“How far are we from Shrentak?”

“Two miles I’d say, Dhamon, maybe three. We came here in a hurry when it was dark so it was hard to tell just how far we—”

“What about Maldred?”

Ragh folded his arms. “Maldred scooped you up after you fell unconscious in the street. Said we had to move quick and get out of the city before Nura came back with reinforcements. Fiona and I started to argue, but then…” The draconian shifted his weight. “Everything got quiet. I mean everything. Lights that were burning in windows started going out. The drunks disappeared. Not even a rat moved in the alley. Maldred said the naga had allies in the city and that it wouldn’t be safe for us to stay. So we stopped arguing and followed him. To tell you the truth, I think Maldred helped you—all of us—out of a bad spot.”

Dhamon rubbed his back against the trunk. There weren’t so many scales on his back. He glanced down at the back of his right hand, opened and closed his fingers.

“They… the scales,” Ragh began. “They started growing even faster, once you were unconscious, spreading like some dark rash. Maldred tried to work some magic to stop them. I think he managed to do something to at least slow them down. We didn’t notice any more cropping up after dawn.”

“Where’s my glaive?”

The draconian glanced around. “Fiona has it. She grabbed it when you dropped it, and she hasn’t let go of it since.”

“I heard a crocodile a while ago. The river has to be near.”

Ragh nodded. “A tributary. My nose’ll lead us right to it.”

“I can’t smell the water.”

“I can’t imagine why not.” There was a wry look on Ragh’s scaly visage. He pointed to the northeast.

Dhamon spent quite a while in the clean water. Not only did he want to scrub away the stink, he wanted time away from his companions’ prying eyes. Doffing his tattered clothes, he discovered more scales—a few on the tops of his feet, under his arms. Each time he touched one he hadn’t noticed before, he silently cursed the shadow dragon and the day he’d first met the mysterious creature. He scrubbed his clothes and found some humor in the notion that since he’d left the Knights of Takhisis he had a hard time keeping any of his garments intact for long. He didn’t quit until enough of the smell was gone from his pants and tunic that he could live with himself. He put them on, climbed out of the river.

The soreness persisted in his limbs. If anything the pain had become worse, a dull throb that was echoed by a pounding in his head. While annoying, the pain would keep him alert and angry and feed his obsession with the shadow dragon.

“Rig!”

Fiona came scurrying toward him, holding the glaive over her shoulder, and smiling widely.

“I had a horrible dream, Rig. I dreamed you died in Shrentak.” She thrust the glaive at Dhamon, then wrapped her arms around him, holding him close and pressing her face against his chest. Dhamon squirmed uncomfortably.

Behind her came Maldred, thick eyebrows raised and mouthing the word, “Rig?”

Dhamon wasn’t sure why he did it, perhaps to unsettle the ogre-mage or perhaps because some of her madness had rubbed off on him through the wight, but now he returned Fiona’s embrace, kissing her forehead. They held each other until Ragh began pacing around them. Dhamon slowly released the Knight.