Jean Rabe - Downfall

"Dhamon?" Maldred was at his shoulder.

Dhamon's attention snapped back to Donnag, who was standing against a pillar, the great leader of Blode nervously watching them. "I asked you to watch him."

"It's all right," Maldred said. "He'll do nothing against us now." As an afterthought, and much softer, he said,"And I am watching him… very closely." The big man nodded to the sword. "Wyrmsbane, you said?"

"One of the names the sword was given."

"And you're sure this is the fabled weapon?" Maldred's eyes darted to the wall of swords, then back to Donnag, who hadn't moved an inch.

Dhamon nodded. "It fits the description the sage gave me."

"The sword of Tanis Half-Erven."

"It's had many owners through the decades. Many names. Most know it as Wyrmsbane, sister sword to Wyrmslayer."

"Wyrmslayer? The blade the elven hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the second Dragon War?"

Another nod. "Wyrmsbane was said to be not as powerful, though it was forged by the same Silvanesti weaponsmiths during that Dragon War. Legend says this blade was given to the kingdom of Thorbardin. And from there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven's hands. It was said to be buried with him."

"The thief claimed to have robbed Tanis's grave," Donnag croaked.

Dhamon glanced into the steel box and idly wondered if some of the other trinkets also once belonged to the famed hero of Krynn's past. "Redeemer, it was also called," he continued. "What Tanis called it, I believe. Because it was forged to redeem the world from the clutches of dragonkind."

Donnag cleared his throat. "You have what you want. Now leave, the both of you." There was no power behind the words. It was as if the chieftain was pleading with Dhamon rather than ordering him.

"A test first," Dhamon told Maldred. "Just to be absolutely certain. And just make sure, Maldred, you keep your eyes on Donnag." He went over to what he believed was the very center of the old dungeon and slowly turned to take it all in, though in truth that was impossible, as he could not see into the reaches of all the cells that extended from the chamber. Then he gripped the pommel with both hands and closed his eyes. The other two watched him intently.

"‘Tis a very old blade, this one ye be askin' me about." This from a slight man so bent with age he looked like a crab folded in a shell. Wispy hair, like a spiderweb, clung to the sides of his head, and a thin beard extended from the tip of his chin down to the folds of a drab weatherworn robe. He was hunkered over a table in a dingy tavern in the rough section of Kortal, a town east of the northern Kalkhist Mountains in the territory of the red dragon overlord.

"I'm interested in old weapons, Caladar," Dhamon said as he reached and grabbed the old man's tankard, brought it toward him, and from a jug he'd purchased-the second of the night-refilled it. The old man's hands closed greedily around the tankard and he drank deep, his eyes bobbing shut in pleasure.

"I've not tasted anything quite so sweet in quite a few years," Caladar mused. He carefully set the tankard on the table, his fingers feeling clumsily thick after imbibing so much alcohol. "I haven't been able to afford it."

Dhamon reached beneath the table and glanced around the room. It was very late, and only a few other tables had patrons, who were engrossed in their own drinks and tales. He tugged free a brown leather bag and pushed this across the table toward the old man.

Caladar's right hand shot forward. The speed of his acquisitive gesture surprised Dhamon. "Ye think that by plyin' me with drink and coin I'll tell ye more?"

Dhamon didn't answer. His dark eyes locked onto the old man's pale gray ones.

"Ye'd be right." The sack disappeared in the folds of the robe. "Ye wouldn't've been a decade ago, when I had me more money and more respect, and I had some righteousness about me, too, and a good dose of morals. But I figure now I haven't got me that many more years left, and so I could use the means to enjoy them." He raised the tankard to Dhamon in a toast.

"The sword…" Dhamon prompted.

"It be called Redeemer. Be ye lookin' for it ‘cause ye need to be redeemed?"

Dhamon shook his head, his eyes never leaving the old man's face.

"It was laid to rest with Tanis Half-Elven-after he was brutally slain. Skewered in the back, according to the story I heard, an ignoble way for a noble man to die. Buried with him, hands placed around the pommel. The story says." Caladar shuddered. "If the gods hadn't abandoned Krynn they would've watched over Tanis's body, wouldn't've let some common thief…"

"Shhhh!" Dhamon drew a finger over his lips, as the old man's voice had been rising.

Caladar wrapped both hands around the tankard and shakily raised it to his thin lips. He took several big gulps, then carefully set it back on the table and wiped his lips on his shoulder.

"Old man…"

"Caladar," he corrected. "Caladar, Sage of Kortal."

"Aye, Caladar. This sword…"

"Ye should have known me in my younger days. Hah! Even as recent as a decade ago, I was truly a great sage. A wise man people came to see for miles and miles around, askin' advice, hearin' the old tales, learnin' of Krynn's ancient secrets. My mind was so keen that…" His words trailed off to note Dhamon's fingers drumming on the pitted tabletop.

Caladar edged the tankard toward the center of the table, and Dhamon refilled it, scowling slightly to note that this second jug was now empty. He motioned for a serving girl and plunked two steel pieces in her palm. Another, he motioned. How could that old man drink so much and still stay alert? Dhamon himself had finished only two tankards of his own, and felt a little sluggish because of it.

"Redeemer," Caladar stated, eyes smiling as he watched the young woman return with another jug.

"Aye, Redeemer."

"Also called Wyrmsbane." Caladar took another pull from the tankard, and his words faltered. "Elven made and elven enchanted. Elven script along the blade. The significance of that? That'd be your guess?" He shrugged. "Crosspiece in the form of a bird. Odd, considerin' it was supposedly forged to fight dragons and their kin. Ye would think it would have the likeness of a dragon on it. Maybe its maker just favored fowl." He paused and chuckled, leaned back in the chair and scowled when Dhamon glared at him impatiently. "Against scaly folk it is a shockin' thing to behold, Redeemer-or so the tales say. Tanis supposedly slew many draconians with it, the blade inflictin' grievous wounds quickly and with frightenin' accuracy. Scaly folk cannot harm the blade, or so…"

"… the tales say," Dhamon finished.

The old man nodded. "Not that they couldn't harm the sword's wielder." He giggled, a thin cackling laugh that raised the hackles on Dhamon's neck.

"There's more…" Dhamon pressed. He reached for the man's tankard again, but Caladar waved off a refill.

"I intend to take that jug home with me," he stated. "And if I drink me another drop now, I won't be finishin' my tale or findin' me way to bed."

Dhamon softly drummed on the table top and again fixed his eyes on the old man's.

"Yes, there is more. Or so the tales say. Redeemer, though not as strongly enchanted as its sister sword, was magicked with the ability to find things." The thin cackle again. "Perhaps Tanis was a might forgetful and needed the sword to tell him where he put his boots when he took them off at night. But I think not."

Dhamon drummed a little louder.

"Redeemer can find things, somehow. Was said to find as many things in a day as there were moons in the sky- which was three when the blade was forged by the Sil-vanesti. But mind ye it was also said not to function all of the time. Perhaps only when it wanted to. Perhaps it could only find things nearby, within the distance of the magic. Or perhaps it would only work for certain individuals. A legendary sword such as that must surely have some rules of its own. Or maybe it has a will of its own."