Jean Rabe - Downfall

Dhamon glanced at the entrance as a few patrons left, slamming the tavern door shut. The barkeep was cleaning up, getting ready to close. "These things you speak of? Material goods?"

"Wealth?"

Dhamon nodded.

"Probably."

"Intangibles?"

"Like the perfect woman? Like happiness? Hah! I doubt anyone can find happiness with all of these dragons in control. And as for a perfect woman-there is no such thing-human, elven, or any other race for that matter. A good woman-now that is another matter. But you look for her with your heart, young man, not some legendary elf-forged artifact." He hunkered even closer to the table, his voice dropping as he rested his chin on the lip of his tankard. "I truly doubt Tanis Half-Elven used the sword to find him riches-or anything else for that matter. Only a thief or a desperate man would so use a fine blade in such a way."

Dhamon eased himself several inches back from the table. "And it's here in town, you say? This Redeemer? What does this grave robber want for it?"

"More than the likes of ye could afford."

"Maybe," Dhamon returned. "But I intend to bargain sharply for it. Where is it? Who is this thief and where can I find him?"

The old man let out a clipped laugh. "And now ye come to the heart of just why I let ye ply me with drink and steel. The sword was here. And the thief was here. Last week or the week before. The days blur for me, ye know. Me friend Ralf got a look at it, and said it was a beauty-said it was the real thing. No question."

"I don't understand…"

"Word on the street and among the guild was that the grave robber indeed intended to sell it-and some other trinkets he came by which he stole them from dead folks. But Kortal was only a stopover for him, a place to spend the night and buy some supplies. He wasn't expectin' to sell the sword here in Kortal. Town's too poor. He was headed to Khuri-Khan, a larger city with larger coffers and where the men and the creatures who roam the streets would have a keen desire for such an artifact, and the steel to pay for it. The thief would have gained a likely fortune for it there."

"Would have?"

Caladar yawned and eased himself away from the table. Standing, he held onto the back of his chair for a few moments to steady himself. Then he reached for the jug. "Would have indeed. But ogres are thick in the Kalkhists, and Kortal sits at the edge of the mountains. Ogres found out about the thief and sought him out. And Ralf told me they took him to Blode-where some high-and-mighty lord was gonna give the little grave robber just the fortune he was lookin' for."

Dhamon focused on the sword, running his fingers over the crosspiece and tracing the bird's head and beak. He expected it to tingle, the pommel or the blade, if it was so richly enchanted as legends claimed. But it felt no different than other swords he had wielded. Metal against his skin. Though he admitted to himself again that it was very keenly balanced.

Perhaps if he could read the elven script. Perhaps Mal-dred could read it. His big friend always seemed to amaze him. Or maybe…"

"Wyrmsbane," he pronounced. "Redeemer."

It wasn't a tingling. He'd held other enchanted weapons that seemed to vibrate slightly in his grip. But there was… something. A presence almost, a sense that the sword was aware of him. He concentrated intensely and closed his eyes, shut out Donnag's labored breathing. Dhamon was aware only of the sword now, the metal pommel in his grip, initially cool to the touch, then warming a little.

"Wyrmsbane," he repeated softly.

What do you seek?

His eyes flew open and stared at the blade. Did he hear the words, or were they just in his head? He glanced at Maldred. His friend was keeping an eye on Donnag, occasionally looking Dhamon's way. His face would have registered something if he would have heard the blade speak.

What do you seek?

Dhamon swallowed hard and thought quickly. How to test the sword of Tanis Half-Erven? "Wyrmsbane, what is the most valuable bit of jewelry in this room?" There were certainly plenty to pick from. Maybe that crown in the case, Dhamon mused. "What is most valuable?"

The sword did nothing, communicated no message and formed no picture in his head. Perhaps he'd only imagined it speaking to him. What do you seek? Hah! He was so tired, after all. It was nothing more than a waking dream. He saw Maldred watching him, Donnag, too. There was a look of trepidation on the latter's face- perhaps because he feared Dhamon would get angry if the sword didn't perform some magical trick. If so, Dhamon might slay him in retaliation.

Donnag saw Dhamon studying him, and the chieftain quickly looked away. So that's it, Dhamon thought. This sword isn't the right one either. Sure, it matched the description the old man in Kortal gave him, but it wasn't especially exquisite-like the other enchanted swords he'd seen had been. A copy? That certainly wasn't beyond the ogre. Deceiving others came so easily to Donnag.

I just might slay him, Dhamon thought. Maybe with this forgery. He sighed and took a step forward, still pondering whether to leave the chieftain alive. He intended to keep the sword anyway, if only because it was so well balanced. He needed to search about for a suitable scabbard to fit it. Likely Donnag had plenty of them around here, too, studded with jewels.

He turned toward the wall of weapons, then abruptly stopped moving when his palm grew cool, as if he'd thrust his sword hand in a mountain stream. Then his hand began to move, though not of his own volition. The sword he still grasped was moving it, turning Dhamon toward the far reaches of the treasure room where the light was dim. It began to tug him there-gently. He could have easily resisted, dismissed the sensation as part of him being so tired.

What you seek.

Did he just hear those words? Did Donnag and Mal-dred, too? Had he imagined them again? A trick of his hunger and fatigue? No matter, he took a step in that direction and then another, the sword leading him as if it was a divining rod.

"Dhamon? What are you doing?" Maldred's voice dripped with curiosity.

"Watch him," Dhamon answered.

The big man pivoted so he could keep an eye on Donnag and Dhamon, though he realized the ogre chieftain didn't really need watching-not at the moment, anyway. He was riveted to the spot watching Dhamon handle the sword.

Dhamon stopped amidst shadows thick and ominous. He stood in an alcove brimming with gilded vases as tall as a man and thin pedestals displaying dainty figurines of elves and sprites. He imagined they would be breathtaking, if there was enough light to make out their features. His hand grew cold and dry, as if the pommel he gripped was ice. It was an odd sensation, as the rest of his body was hot from the oppressive heat of the summer, and he was sweating. The sword seemed to be trying to draw him farther into the small room, and after a few deep breaths, he obliged. He realized the place wasn't an alcove after all, but another cell. His eyes picked through the darkness and spied manacles on the wall, high up and too large to be used on a human, perhaps even too large for an ogre. Had there not been so many valuable trinkets sprinkled here and there, and had there been a proper light source, he might have investigated further out of curiosity.

But the sword was pulling him over to a corner, to a pedestal and a water-damaged black wooden box that rested atop it. Dhamon opened it, running his fingers over the small object inside.

"Beautiful," he said, imagining what it must look like.

"No!" Donnag moaned.

Maldred swung on the ogre chieftain and with a pointed finger kept him from budging. "Dhamon? What is it?"

Dhamon held the sword with one hand as he reached out with the other to grab a gem about the size of a large lemon. The chill dissipated from his hand, and the gentle urging of Wyrmsbane stopped. He retreated from the alcove and stepped beneath a lantern.