“Should kill myself,” Dhamon hissed between clenched teeth. “Kill myself and be done with all of this. Not hope like some fool that Mal’s healer exists.” He’d toyed with the idea of suicide several times, but he either could not find the courage or he found a reason to hope things would change, found some notion to cling to—like Mal’s mysterious healer in the Plains of Dust.
“If she exists.”
He’d even begun to believe that perhaps the spasms were finally over. It had been nearly four weeks since the last episode. A part of him knew better, though, and tonight was the worst yet. In the past the pain had persisted until he passed out. This time it seemed he was not to be granted that mercy. In the back of his mind images flashed of the great red called Malys, the shadow dragon, and the silver. He saw other images, too, bronze and blue scales and wings, and he wondered if his mind was imagining it all or if dragons of those hues were passing by overhead right now. The scale gave him the ability to sense if dragons were nearby.
He lay in torment in the stream for nearly an hour, tears running from his eyes, chest heaving, sucking in the fetid air of the place, images of bronze and blue and black dragons clouding his thoughts. When the waves of fire and ice finally became irregular and diminished in intensity, he crawled out of the stream and up the bank, finding flat, higher ground. He threw himself on his back and stared up at the myriad of stars that he could see through a gap in the foliage. He did his best to blot out the pounding in his head. When the warm air finished drying him, he climbed to his feet, fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers.
Dhamon tugged down his pants and hunched over to study his leg. The large black scale on his right thigh faintly reflected the starlight and illuminated several scales the size of steel pieces that had sprouted around its edges. He counted the small ones—eleven-two more than he had a few weeks ago.
“What is happening to me?” he breathed. Mal knew about the one, large scale that had once belonged to the red overlord. Palin Majere, Feril, and a host of others knew about the scale, too. No one knew about the growing number of smaller ones. He’d managed to keep this unfortunate development all to himself.
He pondered returning to the camp and stealing Maldred’s knife. He was as stealthy as any thief. The half-elf had taught him well. He could leave Maldred and Varek, slip away, end his life with a slash of the knife, end this misery.
“I should,” he told himself. He tossed his aching head back to again study the stars. He didn’t recognize the constellations. It had been weeks between this and the last episode, he reminded himself, weeks of freedom in which he and Maldred had indulged in pleasures in various ogre towns. He had honestly enjoyed the time with his friend.
“I should,” he repeated.
But then the scale wins. He’d never been one to completely give up on himself. Krynn? Yes. He gave up on the world long months ago when he decided the overlords could not be bested. His friends? He gave up on most of the ones who hadn’t died in his company. Palin Majere could do nothing about the scale. Feril left him. Fiona and Rig—the latter seemed always at odds with him—had given up on him and he on them. He had given up on most of them—but not Maldred.
“I should, but not yet. Not just yet.” There was the healer the map pointed to. She was his last hope. There was the pirate horde, which came first. “Then the healer.”
Oh, and there was the half-elf to rescue. Dhamon wasn’t in the mood to rescue anyone except himself. If they did not come to this village Polagnar within a day or two, he’d do his best to talk Maldred into giving up on Riki and just pursuing the pirate treasure. Let Varek worry about his wife. Dhamon had the scale to worry over. He knew he was living solely for himself, but damn the consequences, and damn anyone who got in his way.
“Damn me,” he said.
Exhausted from his ordeal, he returned to the spindly shaggybark. Nobody was awake. Nobody had noticed that he had been gone. He grabbed a flask of ale. A faint rosy light was intruding in the sky overhead, suggesting that dawn was only an hour or so away. He propped his back against the trunk and took a long pull from the flask. The ale helped to numb the throbbing in his head, which usually continued for up to a few hours after an episode. Enough ale numbed just about anything, he had learned. He drank nearly all of it, then replaced the cork and waited for his companions to wake up.
Chapter Eight
Thorns of the Mangrove
Maldred was examining a veritable wall of close-packed bushes, trees and flower-covered vines that stretched to the north and south as far as they could see. It rose more than a hundred feet toward the sky.
His enchanted map had led him here, when he asked it again to reveal Polagnar. He looked for the shortest route, and now he wondered if that was a mistake.
“Does your map say how far it is around .this… this…” Varek couldn’t find words to describe the barrier formed by the tight weave of plants. “Is there another way to Polagnar?” When Maldred didn’t supply an answer, the young man looked to Dhamon. “It’s been three days since they took my Riki. Is there a faster way?”
Dhamon breathed-deep. The scents here were intense and for a change pleasant—far different from the fetid odor of decaying plants and brackish ponds that had been more his experience lately. The light filtering down revealed water spreading away from the wall’s roots. He carefully stepped forward, discovering that the ground sloped sharply downward past the water’s edge and the water actually went up to his thighs. He tugged at the tightly knit branches in front of him.
“Mangrove,” Maldred pronounced, inhaling deep.
“Aye. It certainly is a mangrove, my large friend. And a strange and threatening one, if you ask me. Perhaps it’s time we gave up on Riki and—”
Maldred shot Dhamon a withering glance.
“What’s a mangrove?” Varek stared at the water.
“Something unpleasant,” Maldred answered.
“Still, I don’t know what—” Varek continued.
“A mangrove is this,” Dhamon said irritatedly, waving his hand at the plants, then the water. “It’s all of this. And it’s a bad sign to run into a mangrove, a sign that we shouldn’t be here.”
Varek looked to the south. “Then we’ll simply head around this mangrove to find my Riki and—”
“I’m certain,” Maldred cut in, “those thieves wouldn’t have bothered to take Riki around the mangrove. That would take far too much time. I’m equally certain Dhamon doesn’t have the patience to take the long way either.”
He consulted the enchanted map, noting again the location of the spawn village. He carefully replaced the map in the bone tube and thrust it in the waistband of his trousers, then stepped forward and joined Dhamon. Tugging at the smallest branches, with considerable effort he forged a path and slipped inside the living green wall.
“Wonderful,” Dhamon mused, as he went after his large friend. Varek followed at their heels. They continued to press forward, squeezing between spindly trunks and closing their eyes when fingerlike branches scratched at their faces. They came upon thick sections of sharp thorns, and Dhamon maneuvered himself past Maldred, plucking a knife from his friend’s belt as he went. He used the knife to cut away some of the branches. As he watched, the foliage instantly repaired itself and grew even thicker behind them.