“We’ll get you out of there,” he whispered. He edged away and made his’ way around the rest of the village, cutting back to where he’d left Maldred and Varek. He related everything he’d seen.
“We can rush in,” Varek began. “We can—”
Dhamon’s stern look stopped him.
“There are at least eighteen spawn, and only three of us. And a sivak that, by a quirk of fate, will probably pose no threat. You’ve no weapon, and I’ve a knife. I think our best course is to sneak in at night and come at the pen from behind.”
Varek cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “How about this? The three of us will come at the village from different sides and rush in on my signal, gain a little element of surprise. Confuse the spawn and separate them shift opponents when necessary, finish it and get Riki and…”
“…commit suicide,” Dhamon finished. He let out a deep breath and cupped his forehead with his hand. “How about I better the odds a bit first? Get rid of a few spawn before you charge in?”
Dhamon quickly laid out a plan, then darted toward the spawn’s village.
* * * * *
Dhamon closed on the huts, crouching behind a shadblow bush and waiting until a pair of spawn passed by. He scuttled across the few yards of open ground to the back of the closest hut, pressing his ear against the scale-covered reed wall and listening intently. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the hissing of the snakes everywhere.
He used his knife to cut through the wall, noting that the snakeskin was thick and fleshy and bled. He persisted, cutting the thatch that lay beneath, fashioning a doorway and slipping inside. He nearly gagged from the smell of sweat, waste, and things he didn’t care to try to identify. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior. It took him several moments more to pick through the jumble.
The hut was empty of spawn and humans, but it was crowded with all manner of other things. A thick mat of furs and cloaks made up a bed, the cloak on top bearing a Solamnic symbol from the Order of the Rose. A shield with a rose on it was propped nearby. Backpacks and satchels were strewn everywhere, most of them shredded and empty. From some objects spilled out. He snatched up a locket. Silver or platinum, it was too dark in here to tell, but it was heavy enough to have value. Dhamon thrust it in his pocket and moved toward the doorway, stepping over the remains of a wild pig that had probably served as a spawn’s dinner. Other scraps of spoiled meat and rotten fruit were strewn haphazardly about. There were crates piled up near the entrance, some labeled in Elvish and some in the common tongue. The latter, which Dhamon could read, proclaimed that at one time they contained wild blackberry wine from Sithelnost in the Silvanesti Forest to the east. Dhamon gently jiggled the crates, surprised to find them nearly full.
He looked at floor around him and considered poking through some of the packs, but noise just outside the entrance he ducked behind the crates.
There was hissing, two or three spawn conversing. The word “elf” surfaced several times, “human” only once, then the sibilant voices moved away. Dhamon felt his legs cramp and was ready to move, but there was more hissing, and a moment later a spawn entered the hut. The creature yawned and stretched as a human would, then eyed the bed and made its way toward it. The spawn paused and sniffed the air. It had started to turn when Dhamon sprang from behind the crates, knife in his hand and aimed at a spot between the creature’s wings. The blade sank in easily and found the creature’s heart. Before the spawn was able to see who had inflicted the mortal blow, it exploded in a burst of acid that showered Dhamon. The acid ran off his skin, stinging and sizzling, leaving small holes in his trousers.
Dhamon returned to crouch behind the crates, hoping fervently that other spawn hadn’t heard their fellow die. For several minutes Dhamon remained still, listening to his own breathing and the sound of a faint breeze rustling the thatch on the roof. Satisfied he’d disposed of the spawn without alerting anyone, he took the tip of the knife and pried at one of the crates, grinning wide when he discovered that indeed bottles of blackberry wine were inside. Dhamon wanted nothing more at the moment than to splash some of the alcohol down his throat, but he only had time to grab an empty backpack and put three bottles inside, padding them with a Solamnic tabard he spotted. Slipping the pack over his shoulders, he headed toward the slit he had cut in the back of the hut. Just as he pulled the reeds aside and made ready to leave, he heard a soft footfall behind him at the entrance to the hut.
“A man?”
Dhamon released the reeds and whirled to see another spawn, stooped and framed by the entrance. Dhamon dove for the Solamnic shield as the creature stepped inside.
“Man new to village. New man ssshould not have weapon.” The spawn held out a clawed hand.
“Man give weapon and drop ssshield. Man behave.”
“Not this day,” Dhamon whispered. He held the shield in front of him and slashed upward, the knife drawing a line of acidic blood across the creature’s neck. Its claws shot up to its throat, and it made a gurgling sound, just as Dhamon knelt behind the shield. There was another blast of acid, and Dhamon was alone again.
He quickly returned to the crates and waited several more minutes. When no more spawn entered the hut, he slipped over to the bedding and rearranged it, hiding the cloaks eaten through by acid. He didn’t want a creature to come in here after he’d left and discover signs of a fight. Fortunately when spawn died, they left no corpses behind.
He hurried out the rear of the hut, and dashed to the treeline a half-dozen yards away. He dropped his wine-filled pack behind a shadblow bush, then scanned the village again. When he was certain he wouldn’t be spotted, he ran to the next hut. He kept the Solamnic shield with him. There were many hissing voices inside this hut, so Dhamon moved on to another, which sounded empty. He cut through the scales and reeds and made his way inside. This smelled as bad and looked much the same as the other hut he had visited. A jumble of booty was strewn everywhere: cloaks bearing Solamnic symbols from Knights of the Sword and Knights of the Rose, satchels, bins, scraps of food and bones, a dead snake that had a few bites taken out of it. Three swords were stuck in the ground next to what passed for a bed. From the center one’s pommel hung a palm-sized silver symbol on a chain. It was a bison’s head, the horns of which looked to be made of chips of black pearl.
“Kiri-Jolith,” Dhamon whispered, as he quickly snatched the chain. The symbol represented the Sword of Justice, Krynn’s god of honor and war who at one time was the patron of the Solamnic Order of the Sword. Kiri-Jolith had left years ago with all of Krynn’s other gods, and the Solamnic Knights who must have died in this village had no one to hear their prayers. And now Dhamon had an antique that would fetch a fair price, despite its pits and marring. Dhamon rubbed at some dried blood that was along the edge, then put it in his pocket.
He thrust the knife in his waistband and appraised the three swords, selecting the center one, which had the keenest edge. “Finally, a decent weapon,” he whispered. Not far from the makeshift bed was an upended crate on which sat a large, stoppered ceramic pot and a tiny silver box. Inside the pot was a mixture of herbs, all carefully preserved and too bulky for him to manage at the moment. The little silver box was another matter, as it easily fit in his hand. He frowned, for, despite its small size, it had a lock on it. “Later,” he mouthed, stuffing it in his pocket and hearing it softly clink against the Kiri-Jolith symbol. There were many bulging satchels and sacks, and a cursory examination revealed clothes in most and roots and powders in a few others. Dhamon suspected the knights must have had a battlefield medic with them.