Jean Rabe - Downfall

"By all the vanished gods," Rig said in a hushed voice. He stared at the body for a few minutes. "Aven's dead." Then he pulled back from the door to look at the half-elf. She was peering into another cell, whispering about humans, elves, and kender. Something about a smattering of dwarves.

"I think there's a gnome in there, too," she said to herself. "A little man with a really big nose." Then she stepped back and glanced at Rig and then down the hall, which was an illusion but more than an illusion. Her eyes asked if they should continue their exploration.

Curiosity had gotten the better of Dhamon, and he had entered the corridor, too. He was at the far end, peering into a cell and then moving on, rounding a corner. He was impressed by the magic, able to smell the foulness of this place rather than the mustiness of the cavern he knew he was inside. But everything here seemed so disturbingly… palpable.

There was a door, narrower than the others, with a tiny window in the center of it. Dhamon crouched and looked through the opening, coughing because of the strong smell. He didn't notice the man inside, not immediately. There was a jumble of other things competing for Dhamon's attention-wooden bins and chipped crockery stacked high on shelves, alongside metal and bone implements, the use of which he cared not to contemplate. It was obvious this place was used for storage. There were chains hanging on the far wall. Most of them were rusted because of age and all the moisture, but a few were newly forged. From the ceiling more chains hung, along with ropes and barbed whips.

It was when he craned his neck, and discovered his face could pass through the wood, that he saw the man. The man was naked, back to Dhamon, skin covered with massive sores and tangled hair fanned out around his shoulders like a lion's mane. He was sitting upright, almost proudly so, and his bones stood out in appalling clearness, reminding Dhamon of the cadavers the priests in the Knights of Takhisis demonstrated battlefield surgery techniques on. There was a copper bowl filled with scummy water sitting next to him, and a few moldy crusts of bread near it.

Dhamon wondered why the man hadn't used some of the implements in this room to escape. There were certainly sharp enough objects on the shelves to worry at the wood of the door. But when the man turned, Dhamon had his answer.

There was an iron collar about his neck, and it was fastened with a short length of chain to the wall, so short as not to permit the man to stand. He could not reach any of the objects that might help to gain him his freedom. The man was young, Dhamon could tell from the smoothness of his gaunt face and the dark blue of his eyes. And he was important.

There was a tattoo on his arm just below his shoulder, artfully rendered and colorful, depicting the claw of a blue dragon holding a red banner. Dhamon wasn't about to go close enough to read the writing on the banner. He didn't need to; he'd seen he symbol before. It belonged to a particular Taman Busuk wealthy military family that had allied themselves with the Dark Knights. So the prisoner was from money and was from Neraka, was likely connected to the Dark Knights there, if not one of the Order. Perhaps Sable was ransoming him, and perhaps there was some merit to Fiona's belief that the dragon would take treasure in exchange for her prisoners-some of them, anyway.

The man's eyes widened and he opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak to his visitor. Dhamon pulled back from the cell and continued on, not wanting to hear what the apparition had to say. This vision alone was disturbing enough, no need to add to the gloom with words.

He rounded another corner, still more cells. How many people did the dragon keep locked up in her dungeons? From his quick glances he could tell most were human, and by their conditions it looked like they'd been here anywhere from a few hours to several months.

Dhamon had been in dungeons before, when the Knights of Takhisis kept prisoners for political reasons. He'd ushered his share of prisoners into cells. But never had he been in a prison so deplorable as this vision indicated. The suffering was even almost too much for Dhamon to bear.

"Enough of this," Dhamon said finally, when he spotted a cell where no living prisoners remained. Corpses had been stacked like cord wood along one wall. "It's past time to leave this hellish place." He shook his head, as if to clear it, then strode away from the image and toward the river, which he was certain had risen further.

"No," Rig objected. The mariner had been following Dhamon, staying a few yards back and watching his reaction to the scene. "I want to see more," Rig continued. "Fetch, show me all of Shrentak. I want to know how to get into that damnable dungeon!"

The kobold sighed, his shoulders drooping. He looked to Rikali for support. But for once, she said nothing. She was glancing down the ghostly corridor and toward the river, where Dhamon was standing.

"More, Fetch! Show us a way in!"

"No!" Dhamon spun, returning from the river's edge. He walked back through the prison corridors, which were growing more transparent, striding resolutely up the dais's steps. His face retained its stoic mask, but his eyes had lost their hardness, and his lips twitched. He'd caught a glimpse inside several more cells along the way, and the sight bothered him. However, he wouldn't admit that, even to himself. "The river's rising," he said evenly.

At that warning, the half-elf sprang away from the magical pool and hurried down the steps, brushing by Dhamon. "I don't want to drown," she softly wailed. "I want me a fine house."

The mariner let out a deep breath and swept his hand to the side. "If this vision is to be believed, and I think it is, Fiona's brother is dead. I have to tell her. If, or when, I see her again."

The kobold started to rise.

"Wait, Fetch!" Dhamon said, an idea forming. He saw Rig's eyes narrow. "One more question."

"I thought you decided we were done with the magic pool," the mariner muttered.

The kobold's shoulders sagged. I'm tired, he mouthed. Indeed, he looked spent, and the green light that haloed him made him look shriveled. "I can't," Fetch said in a strained voice. "I just can't."

"Ask it about the rain," Dhamon persisted. "Where is all of this coming from?"

"The sky. The clouds," Rig said. "That's where the rain is coming from. I really don't know you anymore, Dhamon Grimwulf. You're a selfish churl. Look at him. He's exhausted. I pushed him too hard as it was."

"What is causing it to rain?" Dhamon's words were clipped.

The mariner moved to leave, but something stopped him. The Shrentak vision had melted and again the pool showed a black spot on its surface, as Fetch resumed stirring the magic at Dhamon's demand. "The swamp. So what?" Rig grumbled. "The rain's somehow coming from the swamp. But it ain't even raining there, according to that image. So…"

"This rain isn't natural, Rig. Can't be. It's rained more in Khur in the past few days than probably the past couple of years. Simply out of morbid curiosity, I want to know what's responsible. The information could be valuable. And this…" He waved his hand at the pool. "This apparently is one sure way to find out."

The image focused more sharply on a marshy glade ringed by a tangle of ancient cypress trees with roots that sank deep into the muck. Lianas flowed from the branches, forming a flowery curtain. Colorful parrots were thick in the trees, and a dawning sun managed to peek through a break in the closest canopy.

"There, ask it about that." Dhamon was pointing at a shimmering, yet shadowy image behind a veil of purple flowers. "There's something hiding there. Ask it if that thing's responsible for the rain. Can't hardly make it out. Might be part of a dragon."