Varek shuddered and dropped his gaze to the tip of his boots.
Dhamon’s attention drifted between the increasing number of crocodiles and Maldred. Ripples appeared in the mud, fanning outward from Maldred’s fingers and taking on a faint green hue. They raced over the water, making a soft slapping sound. At the same time the crocodiles gave the trio and the magic a wider berth.
“I’m making a bridge,” Maldred explained. He groaned, the ground groaning with him and his construct becoming thicker and solid, gleaming wetly in the late-morning sun. “I’m pulling up some of the mud from the bottom, making it solid, so we don’t have to risk a swim.”
He spouted more Ogrish, and the ripples of mud and water quickened into a dark blur, the green hue fading to reveal a foot-wide earthen path that stretched from their bank to a spot near the rowboats on the other side.
“I’d suggest we hurry,” Maldred said, nodding to a particularly large crocodile that had raised its nose against the bridge. There were other forms swimming around it, some vaguely dragonlike, some with six legs, others with two tails. They might have been malformed alligators or breeds of aquatic lizards.
“My bridge won’t last long,” said Maldred, “and it won’t keep our scaly friends at bay. So move.”
Dhamon practically ran across the magical bridge, feet splashing and sending a shower of mud behind him. Varek and Maldred followed. The three reached the foliage on the other side only moments before the muddy bridge dissolved.
“How did you…?”
Maldred put a finger to Varek’s lips. “I’ve considerable talent with magic,” he said quietly, “and I’ve no time to explain the mechanics to you.”
There was a path ahead, bordered by more of the scale-covered trees. The snakes were too numerous to count, hanging amidst the lianas and filling the air with a loud hissing. The leaves and flowers were black, the sawgrass the color of cold ashes. Nothing was green. Through a gap of midnight-colored elephant-shaped leaves Dhamon caught a glimpse of something angular, the building he’d spotted from the other shore. Closer, nailed to a shaggy-bark and almost obscured by vines, was a moss-covered wooden sign. He brushed the moss away. It read: Polagnar, population 232 50. Beyond that, and through a pair of cypress trunks, he caught sight of another hut. Dhamon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m going for a closer look. Wait here.”
Varek shook his head and pointed to a pair of footprints. They were larger than a man’s and ended in claws. “These tracks are all over the place.”
“Spawn prints,” Dhamon stated. “I’ll be back soon. Mal, remind our young friend about spawn, will you?” Dhamon darted off the path and into the foliage.
As Dhamon neared the village he slowed his pace to avoid stepping on snakes that writhed everywhere. Peering beyond the trees that ringed Polagnar, he saw a clearing carpeted with snakes, a squirming mass that stretched from one end to the other, without a single patch of open ground. He saw evidence of fire—the blackened and broken remains of homes and businesses—and of what had once been Polagnar. Primitive huts had been built between the ruins, and these were covered with a mix of thatch and thick patches of snakeskin. Large lizards sunned themselves atop the roofs. Across from the smallest hut was a ring of worked stones and a scorched beam, likely the fragments of a well. There was a massive constrictor wrapped around it.
As he passed behind the largest hut, he spied a livestock pen. There were at least three dozen elves, half-elves, and dwarves inside of it, as well as a handful of ogres. All of them appeared listless and gaunt. A few shuffled around, but most sat against the railing, not even raising a hand to bat away the clouds of insects that filled the air. Some were talking, but he was too far away to hear the prisoners.
He watched those in the pen for several minutes, noting there were two spawn serving as guards. He decided to move closer to get a better look at the inhabitants, then his attention was drawn to the opposite end of the village, where he spotted a few humans. Crudely dressed, they walked from hut to hut, brushing snakes aside with their feet as they went, and carrying food on large platters. Dhamon watched a young woman holding a shield covered with bread, fruit, and raw meat. She disappeared into one of the farthest huts. There was just enough light through the open doorway for Dhamon to see her give the food to a spawn. She came out carrying the empty shield. The shield was pitted and bore a Solamnic symbol, the Order of the Rose.
Between the spawn and the snakes that were everywhere, it sounded as if a hundred kettles were steaming away. The humans congregated around a pair of large moss-draped lean-tos, which he guessed served as their homes. Twelve snakeskin-covered huts, eighteen spawn that he could see. Bad odds.
Wonderful, Dhamon thought. I have a little knife for a weapon. He circled around so he could more clearly see the pen. The spawn that wandered through the village seemed to take turns keeping their eyes on all the prisoners.
“Wonderful,” Dhamon repeated aloud, as he glimpsed something beyond the pen. “A draconian. A sivak.” He glided closer, and his mouth opened in surprise.
The creature was easily ten feet tall, with shoulders broader than an ogre’s. Dull silver scales covered its torso and arms, becoming a segmented leathery hide along its tail. Its head was wide, set with jet-black eyes separated by a toothlike ridge that ran down its long snout. Spiderweb-fine white hair was scattered along its bottom jaw, matching the color of stubby horns that curved back from the sides of its head. One of the horns was split down the center. A thick chain was wrapped around its waist, another around its neck. Both chains circled a cypress tree and prevented the creature from moving more than a half-dozen feet in any direction. It had no wings, but its back bore thick scars to show where wings had been. Dhamon had seen enough battlefield injuries to tell that the wings had been amputated. Of all the draconians, only a sivak could fly, and this creature had been stripped of that ability. But why?
Dhamon mouthed. And why was a sivak being held captive?
The ends of the creature’s claws had been removed, leaving it with blunt humanlike fingers. Dhamon wondered if the same had been done to its feet. The beast still had teeth, plenty of them, but there was something wrong with the base of its throat, thick scarring and a fresh wound that didn’t look as if it had been caused by the chain. A crude attempt had been made to bandage the wound, but the cloth was caught in the chain and seemed only to help the wound fester. There were other scars on the creature’s massive body, mostly on its arms. As he watched, the young human woman with the Solamnic shield reappeared. This time she was carrying strips of meat, which looked as if they came from a large lizard. The sivak backed toward the cypress, and she dumped the meat on the ground, at the very end of where its chain could reach. The creature waited until she left, then moved forward and fell to devouring the food. Finished, it glanced up and sniffed the air, scarred lip curling upward. It turned and spied Dhamon. The sivak regarded Dhamon for several long minutes, eyes unblinking, nose quivering. It finally looked away, apparently uninterested, and returned to where its food had been placed, searching for a scrap it might have missed.
“They’re keeping it like a pet dog,” Dhamon whispered. “Why? And where’s Riki?” He wanted to find the half-elf quickly and be on his way. “There she is.”
He saw her, propped up between an elf and an ogre, looking half-dead. Her clothes were soiled and in tatters, and her hair and face were streaked with mud. She looked exhausted, and her shallow cheeks showed she hadn’t been eating. Her eyes were open and unfocused. Though she was in a direct line with Dhamon, she didn’t see him.