Tents were scattered in the shadows of the buildings. A row of lean-tos stretched across the western edge of the town. People huddled under them seeking respite from the rain that pounded down on everything.
“If we had the map, we could be sure this was the right town,” Dhamon said. He stood on a rise that circled the town, which rested in the middle of a bowl-shaped depression. Cypress trees grew in profusion along the rise and half-way down it, vines and snakes draping thickly from their branches. Maldred rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s the town, all right. I memorized as much of the magical map as I could. This is the only town it could be.”
Dhamon inhaled sharply. “I hope you’re right, my friend, but your map implied this healer was in the Plains of Dust. We’re clearly back in Sable’s swamp.”
They stood silent for several minutes, watching the rain beat down, turning the streets into rivers of mud, painting everything ever more dismal looking.
Ragh cleared his throat. “This town was in the Plains of Dust until some time earlier this year.”
Dhamon gave the sivak a puzzled stare.
“Sable’s swamp has been growing. Common news, I know, but most don’t realize just how fast it’s growing,” the sivak continued. “I believe the dragon will soon claim all of the Plains.”
“She did this to the town?” Dhamon asked, gesturing at the rubble. The sivak shrugged. “Her. Her allies. The swamp. It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” I just want to be free of the damn scale, then be free of this land, Dhamon told himself. He started down the rise, angling toward the line of tents, intending to talk to the people there. He hadn’t taken more than a few dozen steps when the sivak caught up with him, stopping him with a clawed hand on his shoulder.
“What you’re looking for, you won’t find there,” Ragh said.
“I’m just looking for information, to see if anyone here’s heard of the healer.”
Ragh shook his scaly head. “They’re not going to talk to you.” He pointed a claw at Dhamon’s attire and then at Maldred’s. “You look like escaped slaves or deserters from some army. Certainly people to be avoided.”
He directed his next words at Dhamon. “You, they might think, are some sort of dragon-spawn.”
Dhamon still wore the Solamnic tunic. It was muddy, sweat-caked, and ripped in several places. His trousers were torn, revealing the scales on his leg. There were more than three dozen of the smaller scales now, covering his thigh and creeping down his calf.
Though Maldred was still maintaining his human form, his clothes were in tatters, barely hanging on him, and his chest was crisscrossed with welts from a briar bush he’d walked through.
“I don’t care what we look like,” Maldred said. “We’ll make them talk to us.”
The sivak made a hoarse sound. “Come with me.” Ragh picked his way down the opposite side of the rise.
Dhamon opened his mouth to argue but decided to follow the sivak. Only a few of the people they passed gave them a second look as they edged into the town. Most of the humans who walked about were dressed poorly, though not as raggedly as Dhamon and Maldred. A handful had rusted chains about their ankles, while others carried heavy sacks for spawn that walked in front of them, leading them as though they were pack animals. Most of the people seemed to be laborers. One group worked hard to reinforce what appeared to be the largest still-standing building. A handful of men and women were dressed in clean clothes that were in good repair. These people gave the workers as well as Dhamon and Maldred a wide birth.
“Information brokers,” Ragh said of the better-garbed individuals. “They come here from throughout Sable’s realm and the Plains and from as far away as New Ports and Khuri-Khan. They sell news of happenings in Ansalon to the dragon’s allies. They are paid very well, depending on the usefulness of their information. Some sell creatures. Sable has quite a menagerie in towns throughout the swamp. She pays small fortunes to those who can bring her unique animals.”
“These slaves…?” Dhamon pointed to a trio in chains.
“Some sell people here, but for these she does not pay nearly as much as for information or unusual creatures.”
They took what appeared to be the widest, most-traveled street, and as they made their way along it and deeper into the town Dhamon noticed a number of small, one-room buildings constructed of weathered wood planks and draped with lizardskin or oiled-canvas roofs. Ragh stepped toward one, pointing to a crudely painted sign that said it was a tailor’s.
“You have coins from the Legion Knights,” Ragh stated.
Dhamon felt in his pocket for the coin purse. He squared his shoulders and disappeared through the doorway, Maldred following after and making sure the sivak would guard the entrance. They emerged from the shop several minutes later, Dhamon dressed in a shadow-gray tunic and black leggings. There was a belt-pouch strapped around his waist, and in this he hid his dozen remaining coins. Maldred wore drab garb as well, a shirt and trousers of faded dirt-brown. They made another stop, this one at a market run by the only dwarf they’d seen. Dhamon was hungry and tossed the proprietor a few coins for a flask of liquor and three-dozen thick strips of dried boar meat. Some he passed to the sivak. He took a few for himself and gave the rest to Maldred.
“T’ain’t seen you here ’ fore,” the dwarf stated, eyeing Dhamon and Maldred with narrow eyes.
“Because you haven’t looked,” Dhamon lied. “Though I’ll admit I’m not one to frequent this town.”
The dwarf stuffed the coins in his pocket and waved a stubby arm at other jars containing more meats and pickled fish. “Interest you in anything else?” the dwarf asked. Dhamon shook his head.
“I’m interested in old and unusual things,” Maldred interjected.
“Lots o’ old things ’ round here,” the dwarf said. He glanced around Dhamon to see the sivak in the doorway, scowling and shaking his head at the creature. “Old creatures, draconians…”
“People,” Maldred said. “Very old people.”
The dwarf stroked his beard.
“Ever hear of a sage,” Dhamon asked, “an old woman who—”
The gravelly laugh filled the small shop. “Sage? There’s one on every street corner.”
Maldred drummed his fingers on the dwarf’s counter. “An old woman. Very old. A sorceress and a healer.”
“Said to predate the Cataclysm,” Dhamon added.
The dwarf’s eyes fairly twinkled. “That would be Maab. Mad Maab’s what some call her. She used to be a Black Robe sorceress. Before the Chaos War. Before the gods fled. Before the black dragon came and swallowed this town up into the swamp. Some say she was born long before the Cataclysm, but that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”
“You’ve seen her?” Dhamon couldn’t keep his eagerness in check.
“No. Never. Though I’ve friends who claim to have seen her decades back. No one’s admitted to seeing her for years.”
“Dead?” Dhamon asked.
“Might be dead. Probably is dead. Word was she tried to keep the swamp from takin’ this place.”
“And…?” Maldred pressed.
“Well, the swamp’s all around us, ain’t it? This place is all but fallen down.”
“Where is her tower?” Maldred’s fingers clutched the edge of the countertop, the knuckles turning white. “She was supposed to live in a tower.”
“Oh, it’s still here, so to speak. A tower with the mouth of a dragon.” The dwarf gave them directions.
Dhamon and Maldred hurried down the street, Ragh following them at a respectable distance. They didn’t stop until they reached the marketplace. Dozens of sights, sounds, and smells assaulted them—none of them pleasant.