Jean Rabe - Betrayal

“Who are you?” the half-elf paused and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at Dhamon and the sivak.

“We are none of your concern,” Ragh returned.

“You’re missing your wings,” the half-elf purred. He glanced at Dhamon. “And you are missing your manners. I asked your names.”

“None of your concern,” Dhamon parroted. He’d begun to sweat, though not from nerves. He was feeling the heat of the scale on his leg, catching images of black scales and yellow eyes from the spawn and feeling the familiar uncomfortable warmth pulsing through his body. He knew the intense cold would start soon and incapacitate him.

“What is your business here?” the spawn asked.

“We bring information,” the sivak quickly said.

The spawn prodded the half-elf up the steps. “Thissss information,” the spawn prompted.

“You can tell it to me. I will sssee that it gets delivered and that you get paid—if it is worth it. Tomorrow you will get paid.”

Dhamon shook his head. The fingers of his left hand found a niche in the wall to grab onto. His right hand squeezed the pommel of the sword, as if those gestures might help diminish the pain.

“This is important information. Too important to give to you.”

The spawn shoved the half-elf along now, growling at him. “I am listening, human. Tell me thisss information. Mistressss Sable’s agent is not here. Nura Bint-Drax will not be here until tomorrow or the day after that. It is she who will pay you.”

Dhamon shuddered at the name, recalling the naga from the spawn village. “Nura Bint-Drax…”

“… is Sable’sss chief agent here,” the spawn finished.

“Our information can’t wait,” Dhamon began, thinking quickly. “We know of a scheme…” He gulped in air, feeling an icy jolt shoot through him. It was followed by intense heat, as if he’d been branded. He forced himself to concentrate.

The spawn tapped its clawed foot against the stairwell. “Give me thisss important information.”

“That is not for your ears,” Ragh cut in.

The spawn hissed, acid pooling over its lip and trailing down to strike the step. It moved close to the sivak. “I decide what isss for my ears. I—”

Dhamon stepped back just in time to avoid the cloud of acid that showered the stairway and the sivak. He’d skewered the spawn in the back with the Solamnic long sword, instantly slaying it.

“There are more of them,” he gasped, nodding down the stairwell. “Spawn or draconians. I hear them hissing.” He sagged uselessly on the steps, still holding onto his weapon. Ragh was hurt from the acid, especially where it struck the area along his neck where the scales had worn away. Despite the pain, he rushed by Dhamon, claws reaching into the darkness beyond to meet spawn flesh. Dhamon heard another splash of acid, signifying the death of another of Sable’s minions, then felt the sword tugged from his fingers. Ragh had taken it and was using it against another advancing spawn.

Black scales formed a curtain so wide Dhamon couldn’t see around it. After a few moments, there was a break in the darkness—immense yellow eyes that glowed dully, cut by black-slitted pupils that stared straight ahead.

The eyes closed and there was only the black wall of scales again. Dhamon shook his head, banishing the dream and waking in darkness with a pounding head. He leaned against a paneled wall covered with mildew. The air was still and musty, carrying with it the strong scent of decay and a softer odor hinting of a blacksmith’s shop. The sivak was nearby. After a few moments his keen eyes perceived shades of black and gray, and something paler that was evidently giving off heat.

“Ragh?” he whispered. He could hear the draconian breathing. Concentrating, he swore he could also hear its heartbeat, much slower than a human’s. “Ragh.”

The draconian made a sound.

Dhamon brushed his sweat-damp hair away from his eyes and pressed his ear against the wall. There were at least two spawn talking beyond the wall, arguing softly in their odd, sibilant language, which featured a smattering of human words. It seemed they were discussing something about an elven trapper who had caught a most unusual lizard. They talked for several minutes, then moved away. Dhamon reached a hand to his waist, discovering that the sivak had returned his sword.

Dhamon’s legs were cramped, and he tried to straighten them but only managed to kick the sivak. He had little room to move. “Where are we?” he whispered.

“A house box,” Ragh returned.

“A what?”

“A house box.” The draconian paused. “I believe you humans call it a… closet.”

Wonderful, Dhamon thought.

“After I killed the spawn, I had to find some spot to put you, somewhere that spawn or draconians wouldn’t think to go. You were…” the sivak searched for the words.

“Unconscious. Delirious. I know.” Dhamon almost thanked Ragh, but caught himself. He could not bring himself to acknowledge that he owed the draconian anything. Again he wondered why the sivak hadn’t left him or turned him over to some authority in this place. He knew if Ragh hadn’t found somewhere to hide him, he would probably have been discovered and captured, possibly killed. He made a move to stand, bumping his head on a shelf, softly swearing. There were garments hanging in here, rotting ones that felt small, as if they belonged to an elf or to a child.

“This isn’t the home of a healer or sage,” Dhamon said, careful to keep his voice to a whisper.

“Maybe at one time, but not now. Let’s go find Maldred.”

Finally he maneuvered himself around until he was standing straight and feeling about for a latch. Pressing his ear to the door to make sure no creatures were beyond, and keeping his hand on the pommel of the long sword, he eased outside.

The sivak followed him into a narrow, torchlit, curving hallway. Dhamon caught himself staring at Ragh. The draconian wore the form of a spawn, black as pitch, with wings that swept gracefully down to the back of his thighs. There was no trace of the scars that had riddled his silver body.

“I forgot,” Dhamon said quietly, “that you take on the form of what you kill.”

“Can take on the form,” the draconian corrected. “If I choose too.” He pointed to his right, where the hallway curved and the torchlight barely reached. “There is another staircase,” he indicated. “It goes up and smells unused. There are several other halls and rooms here, two smelling of recent death. I was about to leave you in the closet to investigate, but more spawn came along, and I decided to avoid them.”

“And I woke up.” Dhamon looked down the hallway in the other direction. “Do you know how to get out of here?”

A nod.

“Let’s…” He stared past the sivak. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. “Let’s investigate just a bit more.” He found himself thinking of Palin Majere. It was many long months since the two of them had worked against the great dragons. He remembered that Palin favored the higher levels of the Tower of Wayreth.

“Sorcerers build towers, I think, because they put themselves above the common man. They look down on the world from the top. The sage was a Black Robe sorcerer, so she might be found as high as she could climb.”

Dhamon hurried toward the staircase, Ragh following him, quietly objecting. “You said the healer could not possibly be here.”

The stairs were confining, the slate steps worn. Dhamon had to tuck his shoulders in and put his head down to make his way up them. Ragh had much more difficulty, with his nine-foot frame. He scraped his scaly skin against the stone and left a stripe of blood on each side of the stairwell. The steps wound upwards for more than thirty feet, emerging onto to a small landing made of chips of volcanic glass, and branching into an equally narrow corridor with a high ceiling. Straight ahead was a thin wooden door, its black paint chipped and faded.