“Isn’t good enough.” Dhamon rose too, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed Maldred had set down the fork and was looking back and forth between the two.
The chieftain growled. He clapped his hands, and a human serving girl who’d been hovering in an alcove brought out a large leather satchel. Empty. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed.
“We anticipated that my son’s friend might want something more tangible,” Donnag said, his tongue working as if the words were distasteful in his mouth. “I will summon my guards who will escort you to our treasure chamber, and you may fill that bag as you desire. Then, Dhamon, you may leave.”
Dhamon shook his head. “I’ll take that—filled with your finest gems—as payment for freeing the slaves. But you will still owe me.” His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. Maldred tried to catch his friend’s gaze, but Dhamon’s eyes were locked onto Donnag’s.
“I don’t understand,” the chieftain angrily sputtered. He turned to the serving girl. “Guards! Get them now.” Softer, he said, “I had hoped we wouldn’t need the guards. I had hoped this time the three of us could converse civilly.”
“No,” Dhamon interjected. “No guards.” He turned to the girl and gave her a withering look. “You stay here for the moment.”
The girl froze like a statue. “Impudent man,” said Donnag. “Though you are a mere human, we have been more than generous with you. We have treated you better than we have ever treated others of your kind. That sword you carry…”
“Wyrmsbane. Redeemer,” Dhamon hissed.
“…the sword that once belonged to Tanis Half-Elven. We gave it to you.”
“Sold it to me,” Dhamon corrected. “For a veritable fortune.”
Donnag’s eyes were thin slits. “A most valuable sword, human.”
“A worthless sword. I bet Tanis never owned this thing. Never touched it. Never saw it. Never knew this accursed thing existed. You cheated me.”
Before Donnag could say anything else, Dhamon sprang back from the table, knocking over his chair, drew Wyrmsbane, and sprinted toward the ogre chieftain.
“Guar—” was all Donnag managed before Dhamon’s fist slammed hard into his stomach, knocking the ogre back into his chair.
“It’s not worthless,” Donnag gasped, trying futilely to rise. “Believe me, it’s not. In fact—”
“It’s a piece of cow dung,” Dhamon spat. “Just like you. Its magic doesn’t work, Donnag.”
The ogre sadly shook his head and settled back into the chair, trying to recover his dignity. He looked around for his son but could not see past Dhamon to Maldred, who was watching everything stonily, giving no hint of his emotions.
“Magic works different now than when that blade was forged. Perhaps now—”
“I think you knew all along this thing was useless.”
The chieftain lifted a shaky hand in a gesture of argument, and in response Dhamon rammed his knee into the ogre’s gut and leveled the sword at his throat. Behind the pair, Maldred slowly rose and warily backed away from the table.
“Dhamon…” the big man warned.
“Useless! Though I suppose this sword might prove useful for ending your petty life.”
Dhamon glanced at the elven runes that ran along the blade’s length, flaring up as if the sword knew it was being discussed, glowing faintly blue. He couldn’t read them, however. What did he know or care of their meaning? All he knew was that Wyrmsbane, the true sword of Tanis Half-Elven, was elf-forged and was said to have many other owners and names through the decades. It was reputed to be a sister sword to Wyrmslayer, Dhamon also knew, the blade the elf hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the Second Dragon War.
Legend said the blade had been bequeathed by Silvanesti weaponsmiths to the kingdom of Thorbardin. From there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven’s hands. It was said to be buried with the great Hero of the Lance. Donnag claimed he came by it through a grave-robbing thief.
“I really should kill you,” Dhamon stated. “I’d be doing this country a favor.”
“Maldred, son,” Donnag gasped. “Stop him.”
Dhamon tensed, expecting his friend to do something to protect his father. Maldred stood, watching stonily.
“Leave us,” Dhamon ordered the serving girl, who was standing petrified against the wall. “Say nothing to anyone. Understand?” His eyes were ice, and the girl ran quickly from the room, dropping a tray filled with wine glasses. Dhamon paused, listening for her retreating footsteps, making sure no others were approaching.
“You’re worthless, Donnag,” he continued ferociously. “Just like this sword is worthless! The only difference is this sword doesn’t breathe and steal good air from people more deserving of life than you. The sword of Tanis Half-Elven? Ha! I very much doubt it. This thing should be melted and poured down your throat.” Dhamon’s face was red, anger deeply etching his features, his eyes so dark and wide they looked to Donnag like bottomless pits.
The ogre chieftain tried to say something, but Dhamon’s free hand shot up and gripped his throat. The ogre paled, his normally pasty complexion looking deathly white now.
“I’ll grant you this sword kept me safe from the spawn’s breath—their acid didn’t burn me. I’ll grant you that.”
“Dhamon…” Maldred warned, padding a few steps closer.
“But Tanis’s sword was said to find things for its wielder. Locate treasure and artifacts. Now, that would really be something valuable.”
Donnag’s eyes were pleading with him. Dhamon’s fingers dug deeper into his throat and his knee pressed harder. “I’ll also warrant you that the blade seemed to select the Sorrow of Lahue from all the baubles in your horde when I asked it for something worth my while.”
“Dhamon…” Maldred was just behind him now.
“It didn’t find what I truly wanted—a cure for the damned scale on my leg. Visions of the swamp, it gave me. Strange shadowy visions. It teased me, Donnag. Taunted me like a spiteful vixen. Worthless!”
Maldred stepped to the side of Donnag’s chair, glancing briefly at his father before catching Dhamon’s livid stare. “He is my father, Dhamon,” the ogre in human disguise said softly. “I’ve no great love for him, else I’d be living here instead of traveling with you. But if you kill him, running this country falls to me. That’s something I would not shirk, but I’d prefer it didn’t happen for a long while.”
Dhamon’s jaw was working as he relaxed—slightly—his grip on Donnag’s throat. “I should run you through with this worthless thing, your worthless lordship.” He smelled something then, and it brought a faint smile to his lips. The ogre chieftain had soiled his regal garments.
“I’d leave this accursed sword here, but you’d only find some other fool to sell it to. I don’t want you to profit from it a second time.”
Donnag gasped for breath. “Wh-wh-what do you…”
“What do I want?” Dhamon dropped his hand from Donnag’s throat. The ogre gulped in air. Dhamon paused. “I want… I want… ? I want never to see you again!” he said angrily. “To never find myself in your lovely city again. For that matter, to never set foot in this wretched country again. And…” A true smile appeared on his face, as he spotted the dropped empty satchel. “And I want two satchels filled with your most exquisite gems. One for me and one for your son. I’ll fill my pockets, too. And I’ll drape chains and bangles around my wrists and arms. That’s not all. I want something more.”
“Wh-wh-what more?”
Dhamon shrugged, thinking. Donnag looked helplessly at his son, who made a show of looking unconcerned about his fate.
“A wagonload of treasure. Two wagonloads, Donnag. Ten! I want ten times what I paid you for this damn sword!”