Jean Rabe - Redemption

“Dead.”

“I sent more spawn,” Nura quickly cut in. “I sent more to be certain Dhamon Grimwulf would be captured. The second force was more formidable—larger in number and stronger, more resourceful—the manticore could not best them all.”

“No? I tell you most of those spawn are dead, too.” The magical vision in the fog now shifted to show what remained of Nura’s formidable force—eight bedraggled spawn flying erratically back toward the swamp, a horrendous storm raging all around them.

“And Dhamon?” Maldred asked in a whisper. “Is he dead, too?”

The dragon growled, and the cave shook once more. If there were words buried in the growl, Maldred could not discern them.

When the rumbling subsided, Maldred met the dragon’s gaze. “If Dhamon Grimwulf lives, he will come back to Shrentak. He left me there, and the bond of friendship is too great between us. He will not allow himself to abandon me. He will be back soon, looking for me.”

The dragon blinked, and in response the veil of fog disappeared. “My magic does not reveal the precise location of Dhamon Grimwulf and his companions. However, it does give me a sense of where he is headed, and it is not to Shrentak.”

“Alive,” Maldred breathed in relief. “Dhamon is still alive.”

“Tell me, master,” Nura quickly cut in. “Tell me where Dhamon Grimwulf is going, and I will send another force of spawn. Within days, I swear to you, Dhamon will be in this very cave and—”

The dragon growled more angrily then, the sound echoing off the stone of the cave and the vibrations threatening to crush Nura and Maldred to the floor. Dust and bits of rock fell from the ceiling, and a crack appeared in the floor. When the tremors finally ended, the dragon reached a shadow-gray talon to its head, scratching at the row of scales along its jawline. One the size of a plate fell to the floor, and this scale the dragon nudged toward Maldred. A pale green glow spread from the talon to cover the scale. The glow became cloudlike, obscuring the talon and scale, then after several moments winked out. The scale sparkled darkly with its own magical energy.

“You say the bond of friendship is strong between you,” the dragon said to Maldred. “Prove it. Take this scale and find Dhamon Grimwulf. When you break the scale, you and he will be brought magically to me.”

Maldred bent and picked up the scale. The edges of it were sharp and hot, slicing and burning his fingers. He hid the pain and held the scale in front of him, seeing his broad ogre face reflected in its surface. The scale was thin and hard, yet he knew he was strong enough to break it when the time came.

“As you wish,” he told the dragon.

“Do not tarry,” the dragon continued. “Sable’s swamp grows a little larger with each passing day. If you do not wish the swamp to swallow up your beloved ogre lands and your father, you’d do well to find Dhamon quickly. And make no mistakes this time.”

“He will be yours soon,” Maldred vowed. With one more nod to the dragon and a brief look of triumph at the snake-child, he whirled and left the cave.

Behind him, Maldred heard the dragon say, “I also have an errand for you, Nura Bint-Drax.”

The sea embraced Dhamon Grimwulf. Dark and turbulent, the water filled his lungs, and a wave rose up like a giant fist to pound him under the surface. In that instant—when everything was black and overpowering—he achieved a sudden lucidity. He realized that it would be easy to stop fighting. Just let the ocean pull him in deeper, suck in another few gulps of water, sink into oblivion with Rig—with Jasper, Raph, Shaon, and the others—people who had considered him a trusted comrade and who had died in his presence. This was his opportunity to join them. Perhaps his duty to join them.

He would suffer no more pain from the accursed scale, no more torment from the dragons that dominated Krynn and vanquished all hope. No more pain from losing friends, no more deaths on his hands. The scale on his leg was killing him anyway, each bout with it was worse than the one before.

Give up, he told himself. Everyone dies sooner or later. Just take the easy way, and die now. He started to relax and surrender, felt an odd chill overtake him, then an uncomfortable pressure against his ears. The water was doing its job, suffocating him. But as the pain increased, some part of him began to fight back.

Save Fiona and Ragh, he thought. Think of someone else for a change.

At the very last moment, when he felt his consciousness slipping away, he railed against the storm and the sea. He frantically kicked his feet, drove his arms down to his sides, and propelled himself upward. The scale would kill him soon enough, he knew, but he couldn’t die today. He had comrades to save and important things he still must do.

His head broke the surface. He coughed to clear his lungs. The taste of the saltwater was strong and sickening. Battered by the wind-whipped waves, he strained to see through the foam and the rain, all the while fighting to gulp precious air. The water was nearly as dark as the sky, but flashes of lightning occasionally turned it green-gray.

“Fiona!” he screamed. “Ragh!” He prayed to the vanished gods that his companions were by some miracle alive, that he hadn’t brought death to two more friends. “Fiona!”

The only response was an echoing boom of thunder and the mournful wailing of the wind. Dhamon bellowed again and again, between the times when he was washed under by the waves. It was a continuous battle to keep his head and shoulders above water, to peer through breaks in the swells, to see something… anything.

“Fio…” Dhamon’s voice trailed off. He felt certain he’d heard something. He taxed his senses, determined to pick up faint sounds through the crashing of the waves and booming thunder. The noise was loud, the sea cold and bruising.

There! He did hear something. A voice? Concentrating, Dhamon closed his eyes. Was it a hissing? By the Dark Queen’s heads! Were there spawn still searching for him?

“Find the man!”

“Lisssten! I hear him. The man isss shouting!”

“Mussst find the man!”

“Heard him!”

“Filthy spawn,” Dhamon muttered. “Pitiful, damnable creatures.”

“Man! Where isss the man?”

He briefly entertained the notion of taunting the spawn, purposefully trying to lure them closer and taking one or two of them with him to a sweet death beneath the waves. I n the end he didn’t want to give the black dragon’s forces the satisfaction.

How long Dhamon bobbed about in the sea, gulping air when he could, trying to remain hidden from the spawn… he couldn’t say. Finally he could hear no more hisses, and he guessed the spawn had given up and flown back to Shrentak.

His arms and legs felt impossibly heavy from the effort of treading water, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his sore eyes open with the constant pelting of saltwater. Still, he refused to be defeated, and he forced himself to resume swimming.

More sounds! Fiona? Or had the damn spawn returned? Had Ragh survived?

Dhamon held his breath to listen and once more tried to sort through the storm’s cacophony to define what he had just heard. Not words. A flapping noise, but not wings. The groan of wood? A ship? Yes, there was repeated creaking, shouted orders—a few nautical terms he remembered Rig using. The creaking grew louder, then ended in a sharp snap! There was a muted splash of something hitting the water, then screams and more shouted orders.

“What? Help!” Dhamon shouted. Was it truly a ship? It had to be! They were men’s shouts, panicked men, and he didn’t detect any spawn hisses. The groaning persisted. Timbers protesting the storm! How big a ship? Could the men on deck see him floundering in the water?