Jean Rabe - Redemption

There was a sour taste on his tongue, which he recognized as the poison mixed with his blood.

“First it was Shaon,” Fiona spat. She paced around him. “She was Rig’s first love, you know. He told me all about her—someone I would have liked, I think. Oh, you’ll say you didn’t kill her, either, that you weren’t responsible, but she died to the blue dragon you rode when you were a Knight of Takhisis, didn’t she? Shaon wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t brought her into contact with that dragon.”

It was getting difficult to hear Fiona, all he heard was a rushing noise, like a crashing wave filling his ears. Was it his blood pumping? His heart trying to beat? No, he heard his heart faltering. Did his child in some small way favor him?

“Next it was Goldmoon. Wait. You didn’t kill her, did you, Dhamon? You only tried to—with that weapon over there, the one lying on the ground. You gave it to Rig, all red with Goldmoon’s blood.

Didn’t want it anymore because it wasn’t good enough? Not good enough at killing? Didn’t want it because you weren’t able to slay Goldmoon with it?”

With her foot, she nudged the haft of the glaive away from Dhamon. “Want to see if it’s good enough now? Want to try to kill me with it? OK, pick it up.”

Dhamon shook his head. He willed his fingers to reach for the weapon.

“Then it was Jasper. Sorry, you didn’t thrust a blade into his heart either, did you? But you might as well have. He was with you—we all were with you—at the Window to the Stars. We were united against the overlords, intending to stop the new Takhisis from being born. Oh, we were very righteous! Jasper died there, at the claws of a dragon, died because you led us all to that fateful spot.” This time she nudged the haft against his leg. “Pick it up.” She raised her voice, spitting each word. “And Fetch. From what Rig told me you killed the poor kobold, too. You forced him to use Black Robe magic until it sucked the life out of him. My beloved Rig had his life sucked away because of you too!”

All at once Fiona looked odd to Dhamon, hazy, like a chalk drawing running in the rain. All the edges were soft, her voice blurry. He couldn’t hear his heart anymore, no birds or animals, no rushing in his ear.

He sensed she was yelling from the expression on her face, but he heard only whispers—her voice and… Ragh’s?

“Murderer. You killed Rig! You killed them all.”

He caught a glimpse of something sparkling red, moving against the orange sky. It was his blood on the edge of Fiona’s sword, and the blade was driving down again. Dhamon waited for oblivion.

“I tried to stop Maldred.” Ragh’s whispery-hoarse voice. “I tried to… Dhamon!”

Fiona’s blade coming down. Chalk running in rain. Dhamon pitched onto his back and watched a streak of intense blue wash all the chalk away.

The streak was Maldred, though Dhamon was beyond knowing any reality. The ogre-mage hurtled over Dhamon and collided with Fiona, throwing the surprised Knight off-balance. His elbow slammed into her jaw. His fingers closed over the crosspiece of the sword and yanked it from her grip, then he tossed it beyond her reach.

Maldred looked to Ragh.

“She cut him pretty bad,” the draconian answered. He leaned over Dhamon, palm pressed against a wound on his side, trying to stop the blood. “I thought you were trying to fool me, ogre, when you said you heard Dhamon calling for me. I thought you were just trying to get away”

Maldred didn’t reply, but glanced at Fiona to make sure the Knight wasn’t moving—he’d hit her soundly enough. “By my father, she did nearly kill him.”

“Nearly?” Ragh shook his head. “Look at all this blood. I’d say she accomplished the task. He’s dead, ogre. His body just doesn’t know it yet. Look at all this blood.”

The draconian’s hands were covered, the ground was soaked, and Dhamon’s robe was dark with blood. Maldred gingerly turned Dhamon over and saw the wound on his back.

“There’s more blood on the ground than there is inside him,” Ragh said, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“What you’re doing, it’s not good enough,” Maldred told the draconian. “Dhamon’s a healer of sorts. He told me he was one time a battlefield medic with the Dark Knights. I picked up a few things from him, and from an ogre healer, Grim Kedar.

“Get me some moss, and hurry,” Maldred continued. “Whatever you can find. Some roots—from three-leaved flowers, the purple and white ones that grow close to the ground. Make sure you don’t break the roots. I need the sap that’s in them.”

Maldred ripped strips from Dhamon’s robe, using them to staunch some of the bleeding. His eyes followed the draconian, who had scooped up the two-handed sword and the glaive, awkwardly carrying both while searching around the bases of small shaggybarks. “You’ll make faster time without those,”

Maldred called. “I won’t try to take them. I wouldn’t need weapons to kill you.” Then he turned back to Dhamon.

“I’m not a healer, dear friend,” he said, knowing full well Dhamon couldn’t hear him, “but I watched Grim often enough, and the old one taught me a few things. I’ll try to save you….”

The ogre-mage hummed from deep in his throat. There was no discernible pattern to the melody, nor did it sound pleasant or all that musical, but Maldred kept at it, concentrating on his humming, and all the while he continued to press on the wounds.

“Watch Fiona,” the ogre-mage said, briefly interrupting his magic when Ragh returned with the moss and a couple of roots. “She’s starting to come around. Sit on her if you have to. I can’t deal with her and Dhamon both, and he’s obviously the priority”

The draconian frowned, clearly not liking to be ordered around, but he thrust that irritation aside and complied. He didn’t have to sit on Fiona. She was still groggy from colliding with Maldred, trying to raise herself up on her elbows and failing. She blinked and rolled her head from side to side, looking up at Ragh and moaning piteously.

“Did I kill Dhamon?” she asked.

Ragh looked over his shoulder at Maldred. “Maybe,” he said. He shivered when her eyes brightened and she smiled.

“Ugly song,” she commented.

Maldred’s tune continued for a long time: until twilight, until he nearly lost his voice. “Dhamon should be dead, but…” he murmured at one point, his voice as raspy as the draconian’s.

“But…” The draconian waited, glancing back and forth between Fiona, who had been permitted to sit up, and Dhamon, who still lay unconscious and pale. In Ragh’s arms were cradled the glaive, the great sword, and Fiona’s bloodied long sword, which he’d retrieved.

“But he’s alive,” Maldred returned. “He’s a long way from healthy, though I think he’s going to make it. He’s lost too much blood, and a couple of ribs are broken. I’d like to get him to a real healer.”

“We’ll have to settle for getting him back to the raft right now,” Ragh said. “I’d rather be on the river at night than around this part of the swamp.” He prodded Fiona to her feet and nodded toward the river.

“I wish I knew what to do with her.”

Maldred snorted. “We’ll take her along until Dhamon comes to and decides.”

“Dhamon Grimwulf will kill me,” Fiona spat, “as he kills everyone who gets close to him. As he’ll kill both of you some day.” Then she grudgingly struck off toward the river. She caught Ragh’s cold look.

“You’ll agree it’s too bad I didn’t kill him.”

“Yes, too bad,” Ragh said softly. “Better that Dhamon die, than become a misshapen monster like me.”

Fiona smiled.

“Move, Knight!” Ragh snapped, “and your weight damn well better not make the raft sink. I refuse to swim across the New Sea.”