“Handsome thieves.” She toyed with a thin gold hoop that hung from his ear, then grinned wide and snuggled closer. “Now, about those pants.”
“No,” Dhamon’s answer was curt. He held her stare until he was certain she was more than a little uncomfortable. “When it’s dark,” he added after a few moments. “Then I’ll lose the trousers.”
“A thief and a proper gentlemen,” she cooed, eyes again drifting to the gold chain around his neck.
“So who’d you steal all o’ those gems from anyway, honey?”
Dhamon laughed. “Those I earned,” he said.
“Earned? Wanna tell me about it?”
Dhamon shook his head.
“Then how ’bout you tell us in exchange for something to drink?” Satin stood above the pair, a long-necked ceramic jug in each hand. “Spiced rum, right?” She moved so quietly that Dhamon hadn’t even heard her return.
He sat up in the bed and reached for what looked to be the larger of the two jugs, thumbed the cork off it and drank copiously, letting the potent liquor slide down his throat. It burned for a moment, then turned into a pleasant warmth that spread to his head and chased the aches and pains away. He took another long swallow and offered the jug to Elsbeth.
“Oh, no, honey,” she cooed. “I’ll have some after.”
“There might not be any left after,” Dhamon shot back. He took another deep pull and held the jug beneath his nose. The scent of the spiced liquor was preferable to Passion of Palanthas and whatever sickly sweet fragrance Satin had managed to sprinkle on herself. Satin thrust the second jug toward the other bed. Maldred’s arm shot out from beneath the sheet to grab the neck of it. He mumbled a “thanks” as he pulled it beneath the covers.
“Yes, after, Mister Grimwulf,” Elsbeth purred. “I’ll share some after you tell us the tale of those gems. And after it’s dark.” Once more she playfully tugged on his pants. Satin joined them, climbing over Dhamon and sliding down along his other side. “If your tale’s a good one, dear, I’ll fetch us another jug of rum. Or two.”
Dhamon’s dark eyes gleamed. He wasn’t much for bragging or storytelling, but it was still light outside and there was plenty of time. He ran his thumb around the lip of the jug, downed nearly half of it in another deep swallow, and began.
“Mal and I had to run an errand for Blöde’s ruler, an ugly-cuss ogre named Donnag. Our job was to rescue some slaves from a silver mine for his lordship and to haul the freed slaves back to Blöten. Cheery place, Blöten.”
“It was the black dragon Sable’s silver mine,” Maldred pitched in from beneath his sheet. “The mine was guarded by spawn.”
There was a pause. “But as I said, Dhamon is good at slaying spawn. He’s just not good at dealing with the folks of Blöten. Dhamon, go on. Tell them all about our trip to the ogre city….”
Chapter Five
Remembering Blöten
Dhamon, Maldred, and the freed slaves from the silver mines stood before a crumbling wall that was fifty feet high in places, the taller portions being the most intact. In some sections the wall had completely collapsed, the gaps alternately filled with boulders piled high and mortared in place, and with timbers driven deep into the rocky ground and held together with bands of rusted iron and thick rope. Spears were jabbed into the tops of the wall, the points angled crazily to ward off intruders.
Atop a particularly weathered barbican stood a trio of well-armored ogres. They were stoop-shouldered and wart-riddled, their gray hides covered with boils and scabs. The largest had a broken tooth that protruded at an odd angle from his bottom jaw. He growled something and thumped his spiked club against his shield, then growled again and pointed at Dhamon and Maldred. He raised his club threateningly and spat. The guard was suspicious. He knew Maldred but wasn’t familiar with the blue-skinned ogre mage in this mundane human form.
Maldred answered the guard in the same guttural tongue. He practically shouted, as he reached his hand to the pommel of his sword. The other he dropped to the coin purse at his belt, and after a moment’s hesitation he untied the coin purse and heaved it up to the guard. The ogre narrowed his bug eyes, set down the club, and thrust a doughy finger in the purse to stir its contents. Apparently satisfied with the toll—or bribe—he growled to his companions, who opened the gate. Inside, ogres milled about on the main street. From nine to eleven feet tall, they varied greatly in appearance, though most had broad-faces set with large, thick noses—some of which were decorated with silver and steel hoops and animal bones. Their skin tended to range from a pale brown, the shade of Dhamon’s boots, to a rich mahogany. There were some that were a sickly looking green-gray, and a pair strolling arm-in-arm across the street were the color of ashes.
“Rikali might still be here,” Maldred said to Dhamon as they entered the city. “After all, you told her you were going to come back for her. The healer Grim Kedar would know if she’s around, and his place is not far.” The big thief gestured toward the southeast section of the ogre city. Dhamon shook his head. “Mal, If Riki was smart, she wouldn’t have waited for me. If she did bother to wait…”
He paused as he worked a kink out of his neck. “Well, then she isn’t very smart, and that’s her own damn fault for not moving on. I hope she’s happy here. Me? I’ll be gone. We intend to be in and out of this place in a couple of hours, right?”
Down a side street Dhamon noted a dozen ogres loading big canvas sacks on wagons. The workers wore tattered clothes and ragged animal skins, and they wore sandals or had bare feet. Every one of them looked filthy, every bit as bad as the freed slaves who continued to shuffle along behind him and Maldred.
“I don’t want to be here,” one of the few freed humans whispered fearfully. Dhamon’s keen hearing picked up the conversation, and he mentally agreed with the fellow.
“It’s better than the mines,” the dwarf at his side returned. “Anything is better than that hellhole. I don’t see anyone in chains here.” The human and the dwarf continued their muted conversation. The ground they trod on was damp, as if there had been a lot of rain recently, an unusual occurrence for these normally arid mountain lands. The sky overhead was thickly overcast, threatening rain and casting a gloomy pallor over an already gloomy place.
“This is a lovely city,” Dhamon wryly mused.
“Indeed,” Maldred said, and meant it.
Within the hour—after a brief stop to buy a few jugs of the heady ogre ale Dhamon had acquired a taste for—they were seated at a massive dining room table in Donnag’s manse. The freed slaves had been taken away somewhere by Donnag’s guards, and Maldred was assured they would be well cared for.
“We are pleased you aided in the return of our people, Dhamon Grimwulf. Most pleased.” The ogrechieftain sat in a chair that could have passed for a throne, though the padded arms were worn, frayed especially where his clawlike fingers caught at the threads. “You have our deepest gratitude.”
Maldred glanced at his father, then turned his attention to the sumptuous repast in front of him and dug in. Dhamon kept his attention on Donnag, not having much of an appetite for eating in an ogre manse. He was glad the ogre ruler had dismissed his guards in order to talk to Dhamon and Maldred, his son, in private.
“You owe me far more than your thanks, your lordship,” Dhamon said, an obvious edge to his voice. The rings that pierced Donnag’s lower lip jiggled, and his eyes widened imperiously.
“In fact, you owe me considerably, you bloated excuse for a—”
“This is an outrage!” Donnag stood. A rush of color came over his florid face, and he raised his voice. “Our thanks—”