Jean Rabe - Redemption

“You can’t take any of those things. This is my shop now.”

Maldred brushed by him, glancing down at Sabar. “You say we’re not physically here. Then how can I keep these things? I might be able to use them to help Dhamon slow down the magic that’s turning him into a spawn.”

She took from him a collection of preserved leaves, tiny feathers, and a packet of coarse red powder.

“My magic will keep them for you,” Sabar said.

“We’ve got one more stop,” he told her. “Across the street. That spawn I saw, I’m going to—”

The young ogre opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out.

“Give me that crystal ball, ogre.”

In a flash Maldred found himself back sitting on the front of the raft. The first rays of the morning sun were stretching across the river, setting it to shimmer.

Ragh snatched away the crystal ball on a jeweled base, and thrust it into his pouch, tying the pouch to a belt he’d fashioned of a strip of cloth. The raft tipped precariously. Ragh shifted his balance and resumed poling with the glaive.

“I’ll take care of the lady and the crystal for a while,” Ragh said tersely.

“I wasn’t finished!” Maldred fumed.

“You were at it plenty long,” Ragh returned. “Too long. I shouldn’t’ve let you use it in the first place.

Not without Dhamon up and watching. How do I know what you’re up to?” After a moment: “Did you find anything to help him?”

Maldred glowered at the draconian, debating whether to fight him. The draconian would be a formidable foe, but Maldred considered himself smarter and stronger and was certain he could best the creature. But to what end?

“I found something where I went,” Maldred finally answered. In one meaty fist he held several feathers, leaves, and a small pouch of powder. “But we have to wait for Dhamon to regain consciousness.

He has to accept the magic for the spell to work.”

“He might never wake up,” Ragh said sadly. “If he does, I’m not sure he’d accept any magic from you.”

Fiona sat uncomfortably on the shore of the New Sea, in the middle of a patch of sharp-smelling ferns.

Her wrists were bound with a heavy strip of cloth from Dhamon’s robe, with a sweat-stained gag in her mouth. The tip of her own sword prodded her from the back, whenever the female Knight moved a little too much.

Ragh held her weapon, and he was lying concealed in the taller ferns behind her. Dhamon stood wobbly a few yards behind them, effectively cloaked by late afternoon shadows and a veil of willow leaves. Maldred was with Dhamon, watching everything and remaining silent. The ogre-mage had been quiet and busy ever since Dhamon came to at about midnight, a little better than three days after Fiona had attacked him.

Dhamon still ached terribly from the scales, which covered him almost completely now. There were only three significant patches of human skin remaining—on the left side of his face, down his left side, and across the small of his back. Maldred had cast a spell on him, a particularly uncomfortable enchantment that he’d initially objected to out of distrust. Oddly, Ragh had sided with the ogre-mage, saying the spell might stop the spread of the scales. After a fashion, Dhamon relented, and not a single scale had sprouted since the spell. Neither had a single one disappeared.

Dhamon had abandoned his boots because of the scales on the tops of his feet and the thick gray skin tough as boiled leather covering the bottoms of his feet. He barely registered the rocky ground and exposed roots he trod on anymore.

The wound on his back was the worst, but Dhamon’s ability to heal was remarkable, considering how deep Fiona had cut him with her sword. His back wound should have killed him, he knew. It would have instantly killed any normal man. And he hadn’t completely recovered. The fever racing through him could be from that wound or the scales or even Maldred’s spell. Whatever its source, the fever added to his misery.

His fever and the soaking heat threatened to pitch him to the marshy loam. He focused his efforts on remaining alert and leaned on the haft of the glaive for support.

Ragh cast him a worried look.

“I’m all right,” Dhamon muttered. Surprisingly, he found some comfort in the draconian’s concern.

Odd that fate had put him in league with a sivak at this juncture in his life. When he belonged to the Knights of Takhisis they had relied on sivaks as spies and informants, but he never placed any amount of real trust in any of the creatures. Until meeting Ragh, he had loathed the lot of them. “Really, Ragh, I’m all right.”

The draconian gave him a skeptical look, then returned his full attention to Fiona. He crawled forward to wipe the sweat off the Knight’s face, then returned to his post behind her. Dhamon dragged his tattered sleeve down his left cheek, trying to wipe away the trickles of sweat, but this garment was soaked and did nothing to help matters. Thirsty again, he thought. I need more fresh water, maybe more rest. I need to stand on the shore and catch the breeze. Dhamon was not about to allow himself any of those luxuries, for of his three companions, the draconian was the only one he believed he could trust, the only one to his knowledge who had not betrayed him.

Fiona squirmed and tried to spit the gag out of her mouth. Ragh poked her with the tip of the sword again.

“Stay still, Knight,” Ragh warned her with a growl. “Unless you want to—” With his free hand he parted the ferns. “Dhamon! Another boat. This one’s turning to shore.”

Dhamon shifted so he could peer through the leaves and watch the New Sea. The sea was black near the shore from dark algae growths that swirled like oil on the surface. Farther out the water was a brilliant blue, mirroring the color of the cloudless sky. The waves were a little choppy from a slight wind. Sunlight flashed on the surface.

A boat was indeed cutting toward them. It was small and with a single square, dirty-white sail, so, Dhamon guessed, it was a fishing boat. As it neared, he could smell the fish and chum. His sharp eyesight picked out nets gathered along the sides, a long gaff hook propped against the rail, and the open barrels of bait near spools of line.

“Got a nibble,” Ragh said in a hushed voice.

“Don’t be so certain yet,” Dhamon returned. “Let’s see how close it comes.”

Dhamon knew that it must look like a trap. The Solamnic Knight sitting on the shore with her hands tied in front of her and a gag in her mouth. It screamed trap, especially given that she was in the Black’s realm where all manner of malicious men and creatures held sway, none of whom would hesitate to use a beautiful victim to lure others into their savage clutches. And now we take our place among those malicious creatures, Dhamon sadly thought. At the moment we are no different than Sable’s minions.

But what choice did he have, he reminded himself. Fiona would not willingly help them gain passage, and she had to be treated as a renegade. Fiona… unblemished Fiona. After he’d regained consciousness, he had asked her why she attacked him and also what unearthly force had healed the acid scars on her face and neck. To the first question she replied, “Seeking justice.” To the second she said simply, “The sword healed me.” Dhamon knew the sword was not capable of restoring her looks, so the mystery persisted.

Repeatedly he had pleaded with her to help them attract the attention of a ship. “Never, never, never,” was her reply.

So she was helping unwillingly. He would not permit Maldred to don his human guise.

“No, let no one be deceived as I was,” he bitterly told his onetime friend. “You are an ogre.”