Donnag was regally dressed. A long, dark red cloak trimmed with gems and gold brocade dragged in the mud behind him. His posture was stiff and imperious, his stride purposeful. He’d spent the past two days inside his bed chambers, recovering from the injuries Dhamon had inflicted upon him, and he felt good. Grim’s magic was strong, making him as healthy as he was prior to the incident, perhaps even healthier. But the old healer’s magic was not good enough to regrow the few teeth he’d lost in the brawl or to soothe his ire over being bested by a human.
“I’m surprised Donnag lived up to his word, Fiona,” the mariner whispered. He nodded toward a wooden chest filled with gems and coins. Donnag had paused in front of the chest. He was eyeing its contents and dropping a few more bits of jewelry inside. The ogre chieftain motioned for the lid to be closed. Two thick leather straps were wrapped around it, and it was fastened to the back of the largest ogre.
“The world gives us surprises,” she answered the mariner.
“Maybe. But, you still can’t be serious about this.” Rig raised his voice slightly, after Donnag was pacing again and was now a good distance away. “I told you I watched your brother die. One week ago to this day. Inside that… that… mountain. Fetch used this eye-shaped pool left behind by the Black Robes, and he conjured up an image of Shrentak’s dungeons.” The mariner had spent most of the evening telling the Solamnic about their trip to the ruins and along the underground river, and about the visions Fetch had called forth. “I watched Aven die, Fiona.” And then I watched Fetch die too, the mariner added silently to himself.
She met his gaze, her eyes bright with determination, though rimmed with the tears she fought to keep in check. “Rig, you don’t know that for certain,” she said stubbornly, repeating the words she told him last night. “It was a vision. You weren’t actually there in Shrentak. He might still be alive.”
The mariner shut his eyes and took a deep breath, opened them and noticed that her lip trembled almost imperceptibly. “It was real enough, Fiona. How many times do I have to describe it?”
“And even if it was real,” she said, “I want his body back. If he is dead, he deserves a proper Solamnic burial. I’ll not have him rotting in the Black’s lair. I’ll use the ransom to rescue his body.”
She drew her shoulders back, thrust out her chin, and forced her tears back. “A very proper burial.” She made a move to walk away from Rig. But his hand reached out and gently closed around her arm, and he gently turned her to face him.
“Fiona…” he began.
“You’re not going to change my mind.” As an afterthought, she added softly, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to come along.”
“Oh, I’m coming with you, all right. I’m not going to leave you and…”
She tugged on his shirt, interrupting him, turning her face to the ogres and pointing to one in the center of the front line. “That man has been to the ruins of Takar before. He’ll guide us.”
He was a barrel-chested ogre in boiled leather. His skin was dark brown and wart-riddled, and his eyes were as gray as the rain clouds overhead.
“His name is Mulok, and he’s old, I’m told, for an ogre. He was at the ruins when the Black was just settling down in her swamp.”
Rig rolled his head to work a kink out of his neck. He released her arm and lowered his voice. “I could lead us to Takar. Alone. You and I and that chest of gems.”
“Neither you nor I have been there, we’ve directions only. It is fortunate one of Donnag’s men has actually been to the ruins.”
“But we have reliable directions.”
“Having Mulok with us is better, I think.” She took a step back. “Maldred has confidence in him. Besides, you ‘steer by the stars, and we haven’t seen anything but clouds for quite some time.”
“I don’t know about this.” Rig thrust his thumbs behind his belt, his fingers drumming against the leather. “I don’t like it, Fiona. I don’t like this plan.”
She let out a long breath and steepled her fingers, let the silence settle around them. He was used to the gesture, which she subconsciously practiced when she was upset. After a few moments, she continued, “Rig, the plan is simple, and we’ve been over it before. The bozak, the old draconian who approached the Solamnic Council, is stationed in Takar. I’ll recognize him. The gold collar studded with gems, the scars on his chest. When I saw him… well, he was so distinctive that I’ll have no trouble picking him out. We find him. We give him the gems. And he releases my brother—or my brother’s body. There’s enough gems and coins that we should be able to ransom other prisoners as well. The plan will work. It has to.”
Rig frowned. “I don’t believe you can trust Sable’s minion—this old draconian. He might not be waiting for you at Takar. He might have given up waiting. Or he might have been lying to you and the council all along, which is what I suspect. I don’t trust or like his Lordship Donnag. I certainly don’t like Maldred—he admitted to being a thief. And I don’t like Dhamon. Not anymore.”
“Did you ever?” Her voice had an edge to it. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Maldred’s approach drew her attention.
He was dressed in black leather armor, and a dark green cloak hung from his massive shoulders. A two-handed sword stuck out behind his neck. His hair was cropped close to his head, making his face seem even more angular and striking.
Dhamon was at his side, wearing a green leather vest, dark and embellished with an intricate leaf pattern. It was laced across the front, but was open enough to reveal the muscles of his chest. His trousers were short, ending at mid-thigh and made of a tightly woven canvas dyed black. Dhamon was making no attempt to hide the scale on his leg. His cloak was made of an olive-hued reptile hide, thin and supple. His hair had been trimmed a little shorter, just below his jawline, and his face was clean-shaven. A long sword hung from a tooled black leather scabbard, and Dhamon kept one hand on the pommel as he walked. The other hand had a bandage wrapped around it.
“I am glad you changed your mind,” Maldred said to Dhamon.
“I haven’t… exactly.” Dhamon had explained to Maldred a few minutes ago about his question to the sword and the vision it gave him of the swamp.
“Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re coming with us—even though it was Wyrmsbane that apparently convinced you.”
Dhamon shrugged. “I’ll come with you for a time.”
Maldred glanced at the sword. “Until it gives you more information?”
Dhamon nodded. “The sword hints that I need to journey into the swamp. And I’d rather do that with company. Aye, at least for a time. So I’m swallowing my words. I’ll help you with the mines first. And then we’ll part company, and I’ll pursue my own quest.”
Maldred lowered his voice when he caught Rig watching them. “We’ll not be parting company, my friend. I am with you to the end. We will find a remedy for that scale that vexes you. So after the mines, with or without the fair Solamnic at my side, I’ll follow wherever that sword might lead you.”
Dhamon caught the mariner’s stare, then pivoted so he faced away from Rig. “We’ll discuss this sword and where it might lead later…”
“When we’re far from Donnag,” Maldred finished.
“Aye, I fear he will seek retaliation.”
“His lordship will do nothing at all to you,” Maldred said. “He’ll not raise a hand against you. But he’ll likely never make another deal with you.”
“That is a certainty on my part.”