Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

“I need to think and talk things over, Feril. Come talk with me alone.”

Dhamon glided deeper into the swamp, Feril following and motioning Ragh and the dwarf to stay put. She left the satchel with Obelia inside in Ragh’s care. Her gesture surprised the sivak, as she was showing a new trust in him.

“We’ll be all right here,” Ragh told Grannaluured. “This is the far border of Sable’s land. Not so many beasties out this way. They stick to the heart of the swamp and along the river.” He pointed to a dry patch of stunted saw grass that stretched out from the base of a black walnut. “Why don’t we wait there for them? Lots of roots and herbs around here, I reckon. Maybe Dhamon will catch us something tasty that you can cook up. I’m hungry again.”

“If he doesn’t catch something, I have some salted wild pig among my stores. Not a lot, but it’ll do, and it should get eaten anyway before it goes bad.”

“Yum, salted pig.” Ragh grinned. “One of my favorites. Sun’s going down, and it gets dark in the swamp early. Let me help you get started. We don’t have to wait for those two. Dhamon eats on his own, basically whenever he feels like it, and I don’t think that elf in love with nature eats meat.”

“Pity.”

“Yeah, pity,” said Ragh unconvincingly.

“More for us then,” she said cheerily. “Maybe I should get dinner started.”

Ragh did a bad job of hiding his eagerness. “I’ll hurry and get a fire going, Needle. While we’re waiting for that meat to cook, you can tell me about some of these pretty pictures.” He touched a silvered talon to one of her tattoos.

Grannaluured beamed. “I like to talk about my art,” she said. “I could probably give you a tattoo if you want one, Ragh. I’ve needles that are long and sharp, and they’d probably go through your skin. I’d like to try anyway. Something colorful. A dragon’s head like I gave Dawnsprinter, perhaps?”

The sivak growled softly. “Let’s get that salted pork going first.”

Dhamon and Feril settled down a fair distance away from Ragh and Grannaluured, where the canopy of trees was close and dense, cutting the light. This section of the swamp was low-lying and often flooded. There was a river nearby, sloshing against the banks. Too, they could hear the splashing of otters and the calls of wood ducks. Closer to the swamp’s heart, there’d be too many alligators and other predators, and smaller animals knew to stay away.

Low to the ground were dotted clumps of buttonbush, swamp roses, weeping willow seedlings, and patches of smooth alder. It was a world of shadows here, under the weave of branches, but both had keen eyesight.

“Welcome to my home, Feril.” Dhamon let his talons sink into the rich, black soil. “My lair is a long way from here, near a lake with a perfect chokeberry bush.”

“Your home. It is beautiful. So untouched.” Her face bore a wistful expression.

“Untouched by man for the most part, Feril. The villages are far apart, but even they have been corrupted by the Overlord. The forest is unnaturally thick here, just as Beryl twisted and thickened the woods in Qualinesti. It shouldn’t be like this.”

“Corrupted.” Feril looked pensive now. “I have a hard time seeing it like that. It is beautiful to my eyes.” She tipped her head back, her fingers caressing the flowers. She looked for the birds that were rustling the leaves far overhead. “What do you want, Dhamon Grimwulf? Do you want this swamp? I couldn’t blame you, but I know I still want that treasure you promised. It would go a long way toward helping the refugees and overcrowded villages on the islands.”

An awkward silence settled heavily between them. Feril just wanted his treasure, Dhamon thought. She didn’t really care about him, didn’t care if he became human again, not really. No, he argued with himself, she wanted the treasure because she was an honorable do-gooder. That was one of the things he admired about her. Too bad if she only got a pinch of the treasure, no matter what. She wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Do-gooders know so little about treasure. He glanced over at her, fingering flowers. Pathetic? Admirable?

For several minutes the only sounds came from the swamp—the soft splash of the otters, the cry of a hawk, the rustling of leaves. Dhamon listened to the land, smelled it, let the scent of the swamp roses luxuriate in his mouth. He watched Feril, who sat unmoving, head still tipped up and eyes searching for something.

What did she really want? What did he really want?

Feril and his treasure, he knew. Impossible to have both, it seemed.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the Feril of old. She was so light now, his scales so thick, he couldn’t even feel her when she touched him. He could faintly smell her and the flowers she clutched. In the back of his mind he saw her from years ago—the proud, strong Feril with long hair and tattoos on her face, and the Feril now. If he was a man, he could feel the softness of her skin again.

What did he want?

Ragh sat against the trunk of a pin oak, fingers interlaced across his stomach. “Needle, tonight, last night, I’ve not…”

“You don’t like my cooking?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do. Very much. I was going to say I’ve not enjoyed cooked food this much for some time.”

“Cooking’s for civilized folk, Ragh. Never thought of draconians as…” She stopped and scowled, half at herself. “Sorry, didn’t quite mean it like that. I just sort of…used to…picture draconians as eating things raw, all the time.”

“Like wild animals.”

“And more for eating elves than keeping company with them.”

Ragh swatted a beetle crawling on his knee. “You’d be picturing us right, for the most part.”

“I see now that you’re not a typical draconian.” Grannaluured was fishing around in her pack, tugging out her pillow and a cloak, then pulling out a drinking flask and tossing it over to the grateful sivak.

“Most of the times I had cooked meals I was wearing someone else’s form—a dwarf, an elf, a human…they all can stroll inside a tavern and order up the special of the evening. A draconian…well, there’s not many places we can do that safely, though I’ll admit to frequenting a few inns in Shrentak when I worked for Sable.” He held up the flask, running his fingers around the lip. “What’s this we’re drinking tonight?”

“That’s real good stuff, Ragh. Dwarven ale made deep under the mountain. Came from a master brewer I spent some time with. You drink it down and it’ll lighten the load in my pack. Maybe when that ale fuzzies your brain a little, you’ll let me give you a tattoo and tell me the tale of what happened to your wings.”

Ragh grimaced. “No to the tattoo. You can give another one to the elf if you want to lighten that pack by getting rid of some of that paint.”

“Dye.”

“As for the wings…” He pulled the cork out of the flask and took a deep pull. “In the memory of the Dark Queen, this is good stuff, Needle.”

“As for the wings?”

“I mentioned that I used to serve the overlord Sable. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done lots of things I’m not proud of. Anyway, one day she tossed me off to one of her minions…or so I’ve been told. There are some things I don’t remember, and losing my wings is one of them.” He took another long swig. “I’m glad I don’t remember that part, Needle, but I do remember the flying. Wonderful flying…” He finished the ale and let the flask fall from his fingers. He leaned his head back against the trunk and closed his eyes.

He didn’t open them again until some time had passed. It was deep in the evening; owls were flying overhead. There was no sign of Dhamon or Feril, though that didn’t surprise the sivak. He figured they were still talking somewhere. They both liked to talk; they could talk a kender’s head off.