“I’m still a little sore,” Maldred quietly admitted to Dhamon after a long silence. “And a little weak. But I guess I should just be happy I’m alive.”
“Ah, Mal,” Riki said. She slid closer, cringing when Dhamon wrinkled his nose at her. “Mal, don’t you worry. You’re too mean to die.”
Maldred rubbed the muscles of his injured arm and was barely able to make a fist. He frowned. “Had never been hurt like that going into the valley before. But then I’d never stayed as long, or had an earthquake to contend with on top of the dwarves. Never came away with as much, either.”
“Are we going back?” There was hope in the half-elf’s voice. “I mean, if we need all these gems to buy Dhamon his sword—which we shouldn’t ‘cause nothin’ in the world should be that expensive, maybe we could take a big old wagon back just for us and…”
He shook his head. “Not for a while, Riki. The dwarves will double their patrols. Maybe in a few months, perhaps right before winter sets in. Or maybe we’ll wait until just after the first snow. They wouldn’t expect anything then.”
Her eyes gleamed merrily.
“At least I’m on the mend,” he continued. “And thankful to feel at least something in my fingers. I know a good healer in Blöten who will finish the job. Have him take a look at the two of you also.”
“Doubt you’ll need him, Mal. Riki’s right, you’re too mean to be down so long,” Dhamon joked. His words were slurred, heavy with the alcohol he’d been drinking. An empty jug lay on its side at his feet. He awkwardly moved the new jug to between his thighs, his finger playing around the lip. “Besides, being hurt like this is a good excuse to take it easy for a while.”
Rikali slid over to sit between them, tugged Dhamon’s jug away and took a long pull from it, then coughed and sputtered. She handed it back and studied her fingernails. Sighing, she reached up and draped an arm across each of the men’s shoulders. “I figure we’re two days from Blöten, maybe less. I wonder if there’re grand shops to visit. Maybe Dhamon can’t buy his sword with all of that on the wagon. And if he can’t, we can keep all of that for ourselves, right?”
Maldred disregarded her. He glanced at a battle-axe that lay within reach, the firelight dancing off its blade, which held his attention. Finally, he looked away into the darkness and said, “Riki, we’ll have a grand time in Blöten celebrating our good fortune. And we’ll get you some new knives. And we’ll get Dhamon his sword, too.”
“I want to buy some more clothes. And perfume. And… Mal, did I ever tell you about this grand house I want built? On an island far… did you hear something?” Quick as a cat, she glided away from the men and peered off into the darkness on the far side of the camp. The fire cast tendrils of light toward the rocks and scrub grass, and the grass moved lazily to an almost imperceptible breeze.
Dhamon struggled to his feet, fighting to keep his balance. His hand fumbled for the sword at his waist, his fingers were thick from the alcohol. He favored his right side, and reached for a cane Fetch had fashioned from a tree branch. Maldred was a little slower to rise, hefting the battle-axe in his good hand.
“Did you hear it? Dhamon? Mal? It’s Fetch. He’s…”
There was a crashing in the dry brush, the sound of cursing, and the shrill voice of the kobold. A moment later a disheveled-looking black man tramped into the clearing, the kobold clinging to his leg. The man was soaked with sweat. In addition to a knapsack that hung from his back and several skins of water that dangled from it, he had a large sword strapped to his waist, and more than a dozen daggers in sheaths crisscrossing his chest. He was swinging a great two-handed polearm at Fetch while at the same time trying to shake the snarling creature off. But the polearm was much too long and unwieldy, and the kobold would not be dislodged. More crashing followed, the clang of metal and the hiss of a sword being drawn.
“Rig!” Dhamon shouted, his tongue feeling swollen from the distilled spirits. “Leave him be!”
The black man growled and kicked out with his leg, trying again to remove the kobold who bit down through the fabric and found his calf. Rig howled as Fiona charged into the clearing. She was quick to lower her weapon the moment she spotted Dhamon, though she didn’t sheathe her blade, and she kept her shoulders squared, ready for trouble.
“Call the little mutt off,” Fiona told Dhamon, glowering at him as her fingers tightened on the pommel of her sword. “Call him off now, or I’ll cut him off and toss him on your fire.” She raised the tip of the sword for emphasis, and her eyes narrowed and locked onto Dhamon’s like a vise.
“Fetch,” Dhamon said almost gently, “Let the man go.”
“Trespasser. Spy,” the kobold grumbled as he released Rig, swatted him for spite, and scurried to Dhamon’s side. The kobold puffed out his chest and bared his yellowed teeth, hissing. “Good thing I was patrolling, Dhamon.. Otherwise them two defenders of justice would’ve snuck up on us and stole all of our…”
“So good to finally meet some of Dhamon’s old friends!” Rikali cut in, cracking a forced smile and stretching out her hand. She glided toward the Solamnic Knight. “You must be Fee-ohn-a,” she said, her tone almost polite. “Dhamon has told me so very much about you. And you’re…”
“Very angry,” Rig stated. He ground the tip of the glaive into the dry earth. His eyes, like daggers, were aimed straight at Dhamon.
CHAPTER FIVE
Talk of Redemption
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t haul your loathsome carcass back to Ironspike and let them hang you. One reason! Hell, I ought to supply the rope and pick out the tree. Robbing a hospital—from injured Knights no less. Knights, Dhamon! Big-as-you-please Legion of Steel ones.” Rig sat heavily on the ground. Dhamon glanced over his shoulder at the jug of spirits, contemplated hollering for Fetch to bring it to him.
The mariner rested the glaive on his knees and glared at the Legion of Steel ring on Dhamon’s hand. “One damn reason! And don’t you even think about saying ‘for old time’s sake’.”
Dhamon looked away toward the dying campfire, where Maldred, Rikali, and Fetch were attempting to entertain a furiously pacing Fiona.
“Maldred wouldn’t let you s’haul me anywhere,” Dhamon finally said. His words were slurred a little. He nodded toward the big man. “Tha’s Maldred.”
Rig snorted. “Right. Maldred. You’ve told me his name three times now—whoever in the deep levels of the Abyss Maldred is. He’s worse off than you are, arm all bandaged like that. You’re limping—and dead drunk. A fine pair of cripples you are. An’ that elf…»
“Rikali’s a half-elf.”
“She’s hurt, too. An’ the clothes she’s wearing, the paint on her face, all that jewelry.”
“Leave her outta it.”
“The whole lot of you stink worse than three-day-old fish.”
Dhamon shrugged, his face unreadable.
“Where’s Feril?”
No answer.
“And that… creature?”
“Fetch,” Dhamon said, blinking and trying to bring Rig completely into focus.
“He’s a… kobold.” The word sounded like the mariner was spitting out a bad piece of meat. “A two-legged rat. A damnable, stinking little monster the likes of which me and Shaon fought more than once in the Blood Sea Isles and…”
“Aye, that he is. A s’kobold. But he works for Maldred, and he’s harmless enough.”
“Harmless. Ha! You’re all a wretched bunch of thieves as far as me and Fiona’re concerned.” Rig shook his head in disgust, the sweat flying off his face. “Stealing from the hospital. Burning down a stable and taking half the town with it. Did you know that? Half the town burnt to cinders. Do you care? And stealing horses. Where are our horses? The ones we rode into Ironspike. You were riding mine out of town last I saw. Your elf… half-elf… had Fiona’s. Our horses! All I can see are what you’re using to pull that old wagon.”