“I know you love your brother,” Rig said in a low voice to Fiona. “But I don’t think he’d approve of this. Hell, I don’t approve.” They sat side by side on a flat rock, inured to the rain. “Keeping company with these people, heading to Blöten. That’s the heart of ogre country. It doesn’t feel right. And it’s damn dangerous.”
“I need to raise a ransom, Rig. How else can I get it? These… people… are my best chance. I have nothing— through the years I’ve tithed it all to the order. You haven’t enough. And you haven’t a better idea.”
The mariner snorted and draped an arm around her shoulders, frowning when she didn’t sag against him as she usually did. Her posture was as stiff as her armor. Water trickled out from between gaps in the plates and spilled over the lips of her boots. “I don’t trust Dhamon. And what about this man Maldred? We know nothing about him other than that he’s a thief.”
“I recall you telling me you were a thief once.”
The mariner shook his head, grinding his heel against the slate. “That was a lifetime ago, Fiona. Feels like it anyway. And I wasn’t a thief. I was a pirate. There’s a big difference. At least to me there is.”
“Those whom you stole from might disagree.” She sighed and softened her tone. “Look, Rig, I really need to raise this ransom. And soon. This is my best idea. Maybe if there was more time… but there isn’t. His life is at stake.”
“Do you really think this draconian will be waiting around for us?”
“He told the Solamnic Council he was stationed in Takar.”
“And you trust him?”
She shrugged. “What choice do I have? Besides, there’s no reason he’d lie to the council about his whereabouts if he really wanted to collect some treasure for Sable. And there’s no reason he would’ve approached the council about a ransom in the first place if the dragon wasn’t interested in adding to her horde.”
“And if you can manage to raise the ransom, and get to Takar, you’ve still got to find this draconian. I’d wager there are quite a few draconians and spawn there.”
She let out a deep breath. “That, I’m certain, will be the easy part. I will recognize him, Rig. I know it. His name is Olarg, and the scar was singular.”
“Fine. So you’re sure you can find him. And are you as certain this draconian will simply hand over your brother for a big sack of…”
“I’ve no alternative but to believe it. And Dhamon and Maldred are our best chance of raising the coin. Maybe our only chance. My brother must be set free. Then we can put all of this behind us and be married.”
Rig raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to look into her face. She was watching the bare-chested Maldred, who was resting against the wagon, his face tipped up into the rain.
“And what about Dhamon? After this is all over—one way or the other?”
“Dhamon needs us to believe in him, and you know it. He needs another chance. He’s a good man, Rig. Deep down. Too good to cart off to prison, no matter what he’s done recently.”
Her words genuinely surprised him. “Doesn’t sound like you, Fiona. I thought you told me justice demands people pay for their wrongs.”
“Justice,” she repeated. “Where’s the justice in this world? My brother is in Shrentak. And Dhamon is going to help me get him released. That’s the justice I want—my brother free. Besides, Dhamon is really a good man. Deep down good.”
I’m a good man, too, the mariner thought ruefully, as he picked a spot on the ground and settled down for another drenched and sleepless night.
Two days later, the rain still falling, though more gently now, they stood at the gates of Blöten, a once-great city nestled high in the Kalkhists, the mountains ringing it like a spiky crown.
A crumbling wall nearly forty feet high wrapped around the ancient capital. In sections it had 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. Across the top where the walls seemed in the worst repair, spears were jabbed in, angled outward and inward.
“Broken glass and caltrops are spread across the top everywhere,” Fetch informed the mariner. “For the purpose of keeping the uninvited out.”
“Or to keep everyone in,” the dark man returned. “It looks like an enormous prison to me.”
Atop a barbican that seemed so weathered it might crumble at any time, stood two grizzled ogres. Stoop-shouldered and wart-riddled, their gray-green hides slick with rain, they glowered down at the small entourage. The larger had a snaggly tooth that protruded up at an odd angle from his bottom jaw. A dark purple tongue snaked out to wrap around it. He growled something and thumped his spiked club against his shield, then growled again, issuing a string of guttural words lost on all save Maldred and Dhamon.
Maldred eased himself from the wagon, swaying a little from the effects of his fever, and padded to the massive wooden gates. He looked up at the pair and raised his good arm, balled his fist and circled it once in the air, then brought it down against his waist. Then he spoke, nearly shouting, his words sounding like a series of snarls and grunts.
Next, Maldred motioned to Dhamon, making a gesture Rig recognized as “wealth,” or “coin,” a signing word his deaf friend Groller taught him. Rig instantly thought of his companion, wondering if he’d found work on a ship somewhere or had elected some cause to champion. Perhaps he was assisting Palin Majere. The mariner regretted not staying in touch with Groller and found himself wishing the half-ogre were here. He would be handy in this city, though he would not be able to hear what was being said, and he was someone Rig could trust. If I get out of this, he mused, and after the matter of Fiona’s brother is settled, I’m going to find my old friend.
Dhamon tugged the Legion of Steel ring off his hand and tossed it to Maldred. Again Maldred issued a string of growls and grunts, punctuating it by hurling the ring up at the ogres. The larger’s arm shot out, warty fingers closing over the bauble. He brought it up to his eyes, then smiled, revealing yellowed, broken teeth. He snarled back happily.
“Not good,” Rig whispered to Fiona. “That man Maldred knows the ogre tongue. Worse, it seems Dhamon does, too. And don’t tell me ogres are deep down good. I know better. I don’t like it.”
“Good that someone can understand the brutes,” she softly returned. “Otherwise, I doubt we’d get past the gates.”
“Oh, we’ll get in all right,” the mariner smugly replied. “But we might not get back out again.” He watched the doors swing wide, as the pair of ugly sentries gestured for them to enter. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
Fiona ignored him, kneeing her horse to follow the wagon. Rig cursed, but tagged along, keeping his eyes alert. The doors creaked closed behind them, and a great plank lowered to lock them in place. They saw large crossbows mounted at the crest of the walls, and ladders leading up to them. “Wonderful,” the mariner muttered. “This is such an enchanting place we’ve come to. We should vacation here.”
The city spread out before them, too large for them to take it all in at one glance. Massive buildings, the facades of which were deteriorating from age and lack of repair, stretched toward the clouds overhead. Signs hung from some of the buildings, drawings indicating taverns, weaponsmiths, and inns, though whether the buildings were actually open and operating businesses was doubtful—some looked as though they might topple at any moment and few lights shone from within. The words on the signs were in some foreign language, looking like faded and chipped bugs dancing in an uneven line. Ogre tongue, Rig guessed, though he had never seen it written down before.
Growing puddles dotted wide streets lined with wagons and massive draft horses with sagging backs. A large ox was being groomed by a one-eyed ogre woman outside what appeared to be a bakery. The woman glared at the Solamnic and brushed the ox harder as the group streamed past her.