“Sold those horses some days ago to a camp s’of bandits.”
“You stranded us in that dwarven town!” The mariner tightly gripped the haft of the glaive and narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t have even been there if Fiona hadn’t heard you were in the area, heard what you’d been up to. Probably had it in her pretty head that she could redeem you. Ha!” The veins in his neck bulged like thick cords, and he let out a deep breath between his clenched teeth. “Those were damn good horses, Dhamon. Expensive. What we’re riding now’re…”
“If I recall, we got quite a s’few steel pieces for your horses.”
“Why, I ought to…”
“Kill me?” Dhamon’s expression lightened and he laughed, rocking back on his haunches and almost losing his balance.
“That’d be too good for you,” came Rig’s clipped reply. Another breath of steam. “Too easy. I ought to drag your sorry self off to prison and let you rot there for the rest of your miserable life. No Palin Majere or Goldmoon nearby to save you. And neither you nor that man you call Maldred would have a hope of stopping me.”
“Me? Stop you? Not at the moment s’anyway.”
Rig growled from deep in his throat and ground his heels into the dirt. “I don’t understand, Dhamon. What’s happened to you?”
Dhamon’s fingers unconsciously worried at a thread hanging from his shirt. His fingers felt thick and clumsy from the alcohol. “The Dhamon Grimwulf you knew is dead. I’m a different person, Rig. You have to accept that.”
Rig was silent for several moments, probing Dhamon’s face and waiting for him to continue. He’d seen Dhamon Grimwulf ragged before, wearing the dirt of a hard-traveled trail. But this was different—far worse, his hair tangled, face covered with stubble, fingernails cracked and caked. Rig shuddered.
When it was clear Dhamon wasn’t going to volunteer any explanation, the mariner pressed him on a different matter. “So you’re with that woman over there. I can tell by the way she watches you. Interesting looking company. But where’s Feril? She know what’s going on with you?”
At this repeated mention of the Kagonesti Dhamon once claimed to love, his dark eyes flashed with anger, then he dropped his gaze to study the tip of his worn boot.
The mariner made a clicking sound, shook his head, and finally relaxed his grip on the glaive. “You know that Fiona’ll demand you go back to that town and stand trial for what you did. It’d be only right. Me, I think they’d hang you. And I think maybe I’d help.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Dhamon lifted his head to stare at Rig. “Besides, I’m not going back s’there.”
Rig closed his eyes and tried to calm his temper, counted three breaths, then opened them again and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But only because I’ve got too many other things to worry about right now than carting a dirty drunk back down through the mountains. You’re just not worth it. But it’d be the right thing to do. The honorable thing. Remember that word, Dhamon? Honor? You used to say it often enough. ‘Live by honor. And you got me to believe in it.”
“Honor’s a hollow s’word, Rig.”
The mariner’s next words were slow and deliberate and drawn out. “You owe me an explanation.”
Dhamon tipped his head back and stared at the night sky. A growing number of clouds hid most of the stars, but a few twinkled through. He thought he saw a tongue of lightning and the flash, real or imagined, made him recall Gale, the blue dragon he once rode when he served with the Knights of Takhisis. “I owe no one. And you trailed me s’here for nothing. Your horses are gone. And you’ll get nothing out of me for them.” He felt some of the alcohol’s effects fading away, his head starting to throb, and he wished the jug were within arm’s reach so he could make himself thoroughly numb again. He glanced over at Maldred—the jug was at his feet. Not that terribly far away.
Rig slapped his thigh, pulling Dhamon’s attention back. “Wish we hadn’t found this camp. Wish Fiona and me…”
“I wish you weren’t here either.”
“Damn fate.”
“What, Rig? You blame it on fate that you happen to be in the same stretch of mountain? Coincidence?” There was another flash in the sky, this one real. Dhamon’s eyes sparkled at the possibility of rain. He shook his head. “I don’t believe such a faerie story. I believe you were looking for us.”
Rig snorted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You think you’re so important,” he mumbled. The mariner closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them. “We took the first decent trail we could find through the Kalkhists and we met up with some merchants—offered them protection in exchange for a ride. They were quick to take our offer, seems the folks who still have to travel these passes are skittish with all the recent robberies and are taking on sellswords. Seems there’s a thieving band that’s been raiding wagons up and down this range—a giant of a man, a black-maned brigand, a painted woman, and a… creature.”
“Guilty,” Dhamon cut in, squaring his shoulders as if in pride.
“The merchants took us to the next town and we bought a couple of old draft horses there,” he said, pointing toward the south, where Dhamon squinted to make out two big mares. Even in the darkness it was obvious they weren’t as well bred as the pair Rig and Fiona had in Ironspike. “And then we continued on this trail. Saw your fire when we intended to stop for the night and thought we’d take a look. Thought you might be the merchants we befriended. But it was purely a coincidence we crossed paths.”
“Pity we weren’t the merchants.”
Rig stared at him for several minutes, his brow furrowing with a dozen thoughts. Then his eyes trailed away to watch Fiona.
The Solamnic was sitting on a log near Maldred, occasionally glancing Rig’s way and steepling her fingers—a gesture she practiced when she was uncomfortable. The half-elf was standing at Fiona’s shoulder, alternating between inspecting the Knight and casting flirtatious looks at Dhamon. She strolled the length of the wagon, hips undulating and shoulders swaying. The kobold was sitting cross-legged at the big man’s side, his glowing red eyes focused solely on the mariner.
“You’re welcome to share our camp tonight, Rig.” Dhamon finally broke the silence. His mouth felt dry. Another glance at the jug. “This is ogre country, and you’re safer with us than on your own, especially this late at night. In the morning, we’ll go our separate ways. You should head back into Khur—if you’re smart.”
Rig’s eyes cut into Dhamon. “You owe me an explanation,” he repeated with more force. “Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?”
Dhamon sighed. “And then I suppose you’ll let me get some sleep?”
The mariner said nothing, continuing to stare.
“All right,” Dhamon relented. “For old time’s sake.” He settled himself into a more comfortable position, but grimaced when he heard the scrabble of small feet.
“Dhamon’s gonna tell a story,” Fetch said with glee, revealing that he’d been using his acute hearing to eavesdrop on their conversation. The kobold picked a spot near Dhamon, just outside the reach of Rig’s glaive, then he waggled his bony fingers to get Rikali’s attention. He pulled out the ‘old man/ already filled with tobacco, hummed at his finger and thrust it into the bowl, lighting it. Then the kobold puffed away, blowing smoke rings in the mariner’s direction.