Finished with his quick inspection, he crouched to one side of the entrance, waiting and listening. There were no crates in here to conceal him, but the shadows were thick enough to hide in. A barrel-chested spawn shuffled into the hut, hissing and grumbling to itself. It was the largest of the creatures Dhamon had seen wandering through the village, with a great bull neck. Dhamon picked out the words “snake” and “food” before he decided that the spawn was far enough into the shadowed interior that he might strike at it without being seen. This one took three blows in rapid succession. Dhamon relied on the shield to protect him from the usual acid burst. As before, he did his best to conceal objects that had been damaged by the acid, and moved on, slipping out the back and scurrying onto the third hut.
There were still at least fourteen spawn in the village, and he wanted to take out a few more before they noticed their numbers dwindling.
The next hut held two of the creatures, both sleeping, making a grating and sibilant sound that passed for snoring. He crept toward the largest, moving fluidly, holding the shield in front of him and nearly retching when he got a good whiff of what the spawn was holding in its claw—a partially gutted monkey that was spoiling in the heat. When he was directly over the creature, Dhamon held his breath and rammed the tip of the sword into the beast’s heart, then leaped back when the acid burst came. Without pause, he whirled and stepped toward the other one, which was still sound asleep. He slashed at its chest, eliciting a strangled howl. He slashed again and brought the shield up just in time as this creature, too, exploded.
The interior of the hut sizzled. The reed and snakeskin walls adjacent to the beds threatened to dissolve and topple at any moment. The twine that held the hut together had disintegrated in places. At a quick glance. Dhamon saw something shiny on the floor and bent to scoop it up: a thin silver bracelet. Rikali might like it, though it wasn’t as gaudy as what she usually preferred.
“Nat? Is that you, Nat?”
Dhamon turned to see a young broad-shouldered man at the hut’s entrance.
“Sorry. You’re not Nat.” He had short-cropped hair the color of dry grass. It was uneven and dirty, and though his skin looked reasonably clean, he stank strongly of sweat. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Nat’s,” Dhamon lied. He motioned the man closer and was surprised when he complied without suspicion. When the young man was an arm’s length away, Dhamon shot forward and grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and clamped a hand over his mouth before he could cry out. He eased the struggling man down to the ground, one arm wrapped around him to keep him from breaking free.
“I want some information,” Dhamon hissed in his ear. “You supply it, and you’ll live. Stay still.” He waited for the youth to nod his head, then slowly drew his hand away.
“The spawn in the village. How many all together?”
“Tw-twenty… maybe twenty-four,” came the stammered reply. “Sometimes more. I don’t bother to count them unless it’s my turn to fill the plates. They come and go.”
“How many today. Now?”
“Less than usual, I think. Some went hunting.”
Dhamon drew his lips into a thin line. “They force you to serve them. You are slaves.”
The young man shook his head. “No. It’s not like that. We’re not forced. We—”
“Magic, then. Someone’s ensorcelled you.” Dhamon growled deeper and clenched his free hand. He turned the youth around so he was facing him, holding the Solamnic sword threateningly to his throat.
“Who? Who is forcing you to serve the spawn?”
The man shook his head. “N-no one, I said. We help them willingly. It’s our choice.”
“Why? Why do you serve the spawn?”
“It’s safe in this village,” the man said. “In other spawn villages, too. If we serve the spawn, we don’t have to worry about being turned into spawn. Someone has to serve them.” He was sweating from the heat but more from fear of Dhamon. He stared at the sword. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“It’s better than working in the black dragon’s silver mines,” the man added. “Better than being dead. This is the black dragon’s land, and the spawn are her children.”
“And you’re sheep. Pitiful, weak sheep.”
“It’s not so bad really. You’ll see. The spawn will catch you, and you’ll be allowed to serve them.”
“Or put in the pen if I refuse.”
The man shook his head, dirty hair flying. “No. You’re human. They’re not caging the humans.”
“Why? What are they planning to do with the others?”
The man drew his lips together and folded his arms in front of his chest.
“Why?” Dhamon persisted louder than he had intended. “Why are the other races being sold to the spawn?”
“That is not your concern,” the man replied finally. “In fact…”
With a move so quick the young man couldn’t react, Dhamon raised the sword and brought the pommel down hard against the side of his head, stunning him. “I should’ve killed you,” Dhamon whispered, as he dragged the man to a bed and tied him up, using a piece of fabric. He stuffed the edge of a cloak in the man’s mouth, then slipped out the back.
He had to cross more than thirty feet of open space, stepping on hissing snakes as he went, but he accomplished this without being seen. A second later, and he was inside. He knew he had to work more quickly now, in the event the young man woke up or someone discovered him.
“Should’ve killed him,” Dhamon repeated.
Dhamon managed three more huts, seven in total, slaying ten of the spawn, before starting back toward Maldred and Varek. Finally he heard what might be an alarm. A horn sounded loud and long and thoroughly unmelodious. He glanced behind him, across a dozen open feet that stretched toward the thick foliage of the swamp. He could make it to the trees, hide until he determined what the horn meant. There was a large scaly willow back there. He could wait beneath the veil of leaves and… He spied two spawn coming his way, patrolling the perimeter of the village. They didn’t seem unduly agitated because of the horn, which sounded once more, then ceased. Another slice with the sword, and Dhamon had cut his way into a small hut. A moment more and he was inside, pushing the flap of snakeskin closed and pressing his ear to the wall, listening. Had the two spawn seen him?
He heard them walk by, hissing and talking, stopping nearby to converse in their odd language in which were interspersed a few human words. He caught several words repeated in the common tongue, ones perhaps that had no equivalent in their own language: “Man,” “human,” “dwarf,”
“missstresss,” and something, over and over, that had more emphasis. “Nur—” something. When he was certain the spawn had moved on, he looked at his surroundings. This hut was the cleanest of those he had visited, and the largest, but it was practically empty. There were a few chests sitting side by side across from a makeshift bed that was much thicker with cloaks and furs than the others. The air in here smelled musky but not unpleasant. There were no scraps of food anywhere. He glided to the doorway, crouching beside it. He heard the horn again, the notes staccato now. A spawn passed by the hut.
Come in here, Dhamon willed the creature. He wanted to take out another two or three if he could. Another spawn passed within his vision, this one followed by three young humans. Come in here, you slimy, damnable….
He gasped and pulled back from the entrance, feeling the tingling against his palm matched by the tingling in his leg. Before he could take another breath, the sensation on his thigh became hot and painful, as if a branding iron had been thrust against his skin. He dropped the shield and grabbed his thigh. Waves of heat raced outward from the scale on his leg, rushing to the ends of his fingers and toes and making it difficult to grasp the sword.