Caladar’s right hand shot forward. The speed of his acquisitive gesture surprised Dhamon. “Ye think that by plyin’ me with drink and coin I’ll tell ye more?”
Dhamon didn’t answer. His dark eyes locked onto the old man’s pale gray ones.
“Ye’d be right.” The sack disappeared in the folds of the robe. “Ye wouldn’t’ve been a decade ago, when I had me more money and more respect, and I had some righteousness about me, too, and a good dose of morals. But I figure now I haven’t got me that many more years left, and so I could use the means to enjoy them.” He raised the tankard to Dhamon in a toast.
“The sword…” Dhamon prompted.
“It be called Redeemer. Be ye lookin’ for it ‘cause ye need to be redeemed?”
Dhamon shook his head, his eyes never leaving the old man’s face.
“It was laid to rest with Tanis Half-Elven—after he was brutally slain. Skewered in the back, according to the story I heard, an ignoble way for a noble man to die. Buried with him, hands placed around the pommel. The story says.” Caladar shuddered. “If the gods hadn’t abandoned Krynn they would’ve watched over Tanis’s body, wouldn’t’ve let some common thief…”
“Shhhh!” Dhamon drew a finger over his lips, as the old man’s voice had been rising.
Caladar wrapped both hands around the tankard and shakily raised it to his thin lips. He took several big gulps, then carefully set it back on the table and wiped his lips on his shoulder.
“Old man…”
“Caladar,” he corrected. “Caladar, Sage of Kortal.”
“Aye, Caladar. This sword…”
“Ye should have known me in my younger days. Hah! Even as recent as a decade ago, I was truly a great sage. A wise man people came to see for miles and miles around, askin’ advice, hearin’ the old tales, learnin’ of Krynn’s ancient secrets. My mind was so keen that…” His words trailed off to note Dhamon’s fingers drumming on the pitted tabletop.
Caladar edged the tankard toward the center of the table, and Dhamon refilled it, scowling slightly to note that this second jug was now empty. He motioned for a serving girl and plunked two steel pieces in her palm. Another, he motioned. How could that old man drink so much and still stay alert? Dhamon himself had finished only two tankards of his own, and felt a little sluggish because of it.
“Redeemer,” Caladar stated, eyes smiling as he watched the young woman return with another jug.
“Aye, Redeemer.”
“Also called Wyrmsbane.” Caladar took another pull from the tankard, and his words faltered. “Elven made and elven enchanted. Elven script along the blade. The significance of that? That’d be your guess?” He shrugged. “Crosspiece in the form of a bird. Odd, considerin’ it was supposedly forged to fight dragons and their kin. Ye would think it would have the likeness of a dragon on it. Maybe its maker just favored fowl.” He paused and chuckled, leaned back in the chair and scowled when Dhamon glared at him impatiently. “Against scaly folk it is a shockin’ thing to behold, Redeemer—or so the tales say. Tanis supposedly slew many draconians with it, the blade inflictin’ grievous wounds quickly and with frightenin’ accuracy. Scaly folk cannot harm the blade, or so…”
“… the tales say,” Dhamon finished.
The old man nodded. “Not that they couldn’t harm the sword’s wielder.” He giggled, a thin cackling laugh that raised the hackles on Dhamon’s neck.
“There’s more…” Dhamon pressed. He reached for the man’s tankard again, but Caladar waved off a refill.
“I intend to take that jug home with me,” he stated. “And if I drink me another drop now, I won’t be finishin’ my tale or findin’ me way to bed.”
Dhamon softly drummed on the table top and again fixed his eyes on the old man’s.
“Yes, there is more. Or so the tales say. Redeemer, though not as strongly enchanted as its sister sword, was magicked with the ability to find things.” The thin cackle again. “Perhaps Tanis was a might forgetful and needed the sword to tell him where he put his boots when he took them off at night. But I think not.”
Dhamon drummed a little louder.
“Redeemer can find things, somehow. Was said to find as many things in a day as there were moons in the sky— which was three when the blade was forged by the Silvanesti. But mind ye it was also said not to function all of the time. Perhaps only when it wanted to. Perhaps it could only find things nearby, within the distance of the magic. Or perhaps it would only work for certain individuals. A legendary sword such as that must surely have some rules of its own. Or maybe it has a will of its own.”
Dhamon glanced at the entrance as a few patrons left, slamming the tavern door shut. The barkeep was cleaning up, getting ready to close. “These things you speak of? Material goods?”
“Wealth?”
Dhamon nodded.
“Probably.”
“Intangibles?”
“Like the perfect woman? Like happiness? Hah! I doubt anyone can find happiness with all of these dragons in control. And as for a perfect woman—there is no such thing—human, elven, or any other race for that matter. A good woman—now that is another matter. But you look for her with your heart, young man, not some legendary elf-forged artifact.” He hunkered even closer to the table, his voice dropping as he rested his chin on the lip of his tankard. “I truly doubt Tanis Half-Elven used the sword to find him riches—or anything else for that matter. Only a thief or a desperate man would so use a fine blade in such a way.”
Dhamon eased himself several inches back from the table. “And it’s here in town, you say? This Redeemer? What does this grave robber want for it?”
“More than the likes of ye could afford.”
“Maybe,” Dhamon returned. “But I intend to bargain sharply for it. Where is it? Who is this thief and where can I find him?”
The old man let out a clipped laugh. “And now ye come to the heart of just why I let ye ply me with drink and steel. The sword was here. And the thief was here. Last week or the week before. The days blur for me, ye know. Me friend Ralf got a look at it, and said it was a beauty—said it was the real thing. No question.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Word on the street and among the guild was that the grave robber indeed intended to sell it—and some other trinkets he came by which he stole them from dead folks. But Kortal was only a stopover for him, a place to spend the night and buy some supplies. He wasn’t expectin’ to sell the sword here in Kortal. Town’s too poor. He was headed to Khuri-Khan, a larger city with larger coffers and where the men and the creatures who roam the streets would have a keen desire for such an artifact, and the steel to pay for it. The thief would have gained a likely fortune for it there.”
“Would have?”
Caladar yawned and eased himself away from the table. Standing, he held onto the back of his chair for a few moments to steady himself. Then he reached for the jug. “Would have indeed. But ogres are thick in the Kalkhists, and Kortal sits at the edge of the mountains. Ogres found out about the thief and sought him out. And Ralf told me they took him to Blöde—where some high-and-mighty lord was gonna give the little grave robber just the fortune he was lookin’ for.”
Dhamon focused on the sword, running his fingers over the crosspiece and tracing the bird’s head and beak. He expected it to tingle, the pommel or the blade, if it was so richly enchanted as legends claimed. But it felt no different than other swords he had wielded. Metal against his skin. Though he admitted to himself again that it was very keenly balanced.
Perhaps if he could read the elven script. Perhaps Maldred could read it. His big friend always seemed to amaze him. Or maybe…”
“Wyrmsbane,” he pronounced. “Redeemer.”