“We’ve stayed in worse,” Dhamon agreed, looking at the ramshackle inn, then at the tower. “This healer, if she’s alive, might not see me this late.”
“I suppose, but… hey!” Maldred was out of the shadows in an instant and starting toward the wagon.
With a loud crack, one of the rear wheels had fallen off, tipping the wagon and spilling a few of the barrels. The man who’d been unloading them was trapped beneath three of the barrels, and his partner who’d been attempting to fix the wheel was pinned under the wagon. A few passersby were watching, but only one of them attempted to help. This was an old fellow who couldn’t budge even one of the big barrels. The man beneath the barrels groaned loudly for help, while his partner pinned beneath the wagon offered only a whimper. The moment he reached the wagon, Maldred put his back to the task, straining his muscles in an attempt to lift it Too many barrels remained on the wagonbed, weighing it down.
“We’ll have to offload some of these barrels first,” he grunted to Dhamon, who had materialized at his side. “We’ll have to lighten the load before we can hope to lift the wagon. The barrels must be filled with bricks.”
Maldred turned to help the man caught under the barrels and picked up the first one. “This feels like a ton of bricks,” he said, as he moved it aside and reached for the second. Dhamon was already working on the wagon. Bracing his legs, he hooked his fingers under the wood where the broken wheel canted. Looking down at the trapped man, he saw the pain in his eyes and the trickle of blood spilling out of his mouth. “Not good,” he muttered. Dhamon took a deep breath and bunched his muscles, bent at the knees and slowly raised the wagon.
“Mal… Pull the man out.”
Maldred had just taken the last barrel off the man. He set it down and whirled on Dhamon. “By my father,” he started, “how could you have…”
“The man,” Dhamon said. “Pull the man out. Please.”
Maldred did just that, and the previously inert citizens fell to helping the two wounded men inside the ramshackle inn. Dhamon set the wagon on the ground, brushed off his hands, and headed back down the street toward the shadows of the spire.
“Wait a minute, Dhamon.” Maldred followed him, and despite his longer strides was not quite able to keep up.
Dhamon walked faster, ignoring Maldred. He was surprised to find the sivak still in the shadows across from the old sage’s tower. The wingless draconian could have taken the opportunity to part company with them.
“What?” Dhamon turned to his large friend.
“Dhamon, how did you do that? Lift the wagon?” Maldred’s eyes were daggers. “I couldn’t lift the wagon and I’m an—”
“Ogre,” Dhamon finished. His face showed anger, though it wasn’t directed at his friend. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how I’m able to do a lot of things—run for hours without getting tired, sleep little and hear so well. I don’t know.”
“In that village, Polagnar,” Maldred cut in, “you stopped me from killing the sivak. With one hand you stopped my blow. That’s been bothering me. In the caverns with the ships, when the rocks held my legs. I should’ve known something was wrong, when you so easily moved those rocks.”
“I wasn’t as strong then as I am now.” Dhamon could have added that he didn’t like feeling this strong, didn’t like it one bit. “I think it’s the scale.”
“Scale? Scales, Dhamon. Spreading like a rash on your leg. You kept that and your strength from me.”
“You made me believe you were human. Everyone has secrets, Mal.”
“It might not be the scale,” Maldred offered. “Maybe it’s—”
“I know of no other explanation.”
There were several minutes of silence as the threesome stood in the growing shadow of the spire and watched the doorway across the street.
“No. I suppose you’re right,” Maldred said after a time. “I suppose it would be the scale.” The big man let out a deep breath, and his shoulders slumped. “We’d better hope that sage is alive and in there,” he said, “before you burn out like candle.”
“Aye, I hope she is in there, but I want to watch the place a bit longer first. We’ve seen no movement yet.”
They watched the building for another hour, until twilight overtook the town. Just as Dhamon decided to approach it, two spawn flanking a draconian came out. Three human slaves shuffled behind them, dragging bloodied canvas sacks that from the shape of them probably contained bodies. The draconian was a bozak, birthed from the corrupted egg of a bronze dragon. The creature wasn’t quite as tall as Dhamon, but it was much broader in the chest and wore a mix of boiled leather armor and chain. Its wings were folded tight against its back, and in its hands was a wickedly barbed spear festooned with black ribbons.
Ragh grumbled a word that Dhamon couldn’t make out. “One of Sable’s agents,” he whispered. “I remember him from my time with the dragon.”
“And the spawn? Are they familiar, too?”
The sivak shook its head. “I refuse to pay attention to their kind. They are not worthy of my interest.”
“If this sage exists. If she’s alive,” Dhamon said, “she might be allied with the dragon, too.”
Maldred shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet and yawned again. “All right, Dhamon. I’m going to get us a room at that inn.” He gestured down the street. A quartet of burly men were working on the wagon that was still out front. Someone had taken the two mules away. “Then I’m going back to the marketplace and visit a tavern or two.” He looked at the sivak. “Dhamon, keep Ragh with you. When you’re done here—whether or not you decide to approach this sage tonight—meet me later at the inn.”
“Aye,” Dhamon acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the old building’s front door. He and Ragh waited across the street for nearly another hour, watching only three more spawn leave the building in that time. The flickering started again.
They finished the rest of the dried boar. Dhamon washed it down with some liquor, which he did not share. He was finally ready to head toward the building, despite the number of people strolling nearby—apparently headed toward a tavern at the end of the street—when a sound drew his attention.
A trio of ragged young boys were running south, mindless of the dark and the puddles, shouting. Others were moving in that direction, too, and within minutes the street was cleared.
“Now,” Dhamon said. He strode purposefully toward the building, eyes trained on the entrance and picking through the darkness. The flickering was a torch well back from the doorway. The air was fusty under the arch, smelling of dampness and of the rancid fat the torch had been liberally soaked in. There was no door, just steps that led up and inside the place. Dhamon took them two at a time. Within moments he was standing in a spacious, round alcove.
The walls here were black, too, though not because of a fire. They were covered with mosaics made of onyx and chert chips, and, looking close, Dhamon could make out the images of men in slatecolored robes.
“A place of Black Robe sorcerers,” he whispered, pointing at the figures. “Look here.” His finger reached higher along the wall to an orb made of black pearl chips. “Nuitari. Their moon of magic.”
The sivak watched out of politeness. The mosaic meant nothing to him. He glanced away toward where a stairway led down off the circular alcove. Nearby was a hallway. Ragh waited patiently until Dhamon was done studying the wall.
Then Dhamon pointed to the alcove floor. It, too, was covered with mosaics and made in the image of Nuitari. He saw the stairs that led down, but he looked to the hallway and took it instead. The hallway was curving and rounded. “Like the inside of a snake,” he whispered. He was struck with the thought that the building was swallowing him and the sivak. He shuddered and turned back, deciding to take the stairs down, instead.