“In any event, Donnag and I had several long talks over the past two days—while Grim Kedar was summoned on and off to tend to him. About how you had the sword you wanted, and he had his life. About keeping one’s word, and the price for deceiving others.”
Dhamon raised an eyebrow.
“He deceived me too, my friend. Wolves. Hah!” Maldred grinned slyly. “And if he wants to keep our friendship, leaving you alone is the price.”
“He is full of lies.” Dhamon’s voice was flat. He was watching Donnag out of the corner of his eye. The ogre chieftain was parading in front of his mercenaries again.
Maldred softly chuckled. “Well, here’s one lie you’ll find amusing. He told Grim he tumbled down the stairs in his manse and broke his jaw. And Donnag told his guards the same tale.” Maldred reached up and fingered a platinum chain that hung about his neck and extended under his leather tunic. There was a bulge on his chest, where the Sorrow of Lahue was nested. “It wouldn’t do for the ruler of all of Blöde to admit to being tromped by a lowly human.”
“Still,” Dhamon began, “I’ll feel better away from here.”
Maldred slapped his friend on the back. “And what of Rikali?”
“She’s still mending at Grim’s. The injuries she suffered from the fall were evidently worse than I thought. She’ll be there another few days.”
“And does she know you’re not waiting, that you’re leaving with us?”
Dhamon nodded. “Aye. And she’s not too happy about it.”
Maldred’s expression clouded. “Does she know you’re not coming back?”
Dhamon knew from a brief conversation with Rig that the half-elf had drifted in and out of consciousness on her return trip to Blöten and wasn’t aware Dhamon had left her behind. Rig hadn’t told her, apparently considering the whole matter none of his business. Dhamon visited with her late last night at the ogre healer’s, and told her he would see her when they returned to Blöten from their trip into the swamp.
“No,” he answered. “She doesn’t know. And at least I don’t have to worry about her following us. She hates the notion of slogging through a swamp.”
“To the bottom layer of the Abyss with you, Dhamon Grimwulf,” Rig whispered. The mariner had crept close enough to hear the last bit of their conversation.
The swamp closed about them. It was muggy, hot, and stifling, and though what little they could see of the sky was notably overcast, it was devoid of the rain that was continuing to batter the mountains. Fiona struggled to stay in step with the ogres. Her Solamnic armor made her miserable. Still, she refused to remove it. Not even Maldred could convince her.
Their lungs felt saturated with the heady fragrance of lianas mingled with the fetid odor of stagnant pools. Hundreds of eyes watched them—snakes that dripped like vines from cypress branches, bright red and yellow parrots that flitted down from high above to pass just above their heads before disappearing again in the foliage.
Green became their world—vines, leaves, moss, ferns, even the green scum resting on the pools of water. The huge trees formed a vast canopy, and on the rare days when the sun poked through the clouds in the afternoon, only diffuse rays made their way down to the boggy forest floor. Sometimes the ogre mercenaries resorted to torches, as the swamp was so close and dark it seemed perpetually night. Dhamon wondered how anything managed to grow here. Dragon magic, he decided.
Lizards darted out from under their feet. Something in the brush moved to the side of the ogre column, unseen but obviously paralleling their course. A great black cat lounged on a low-hanging branch, yellow eyes trained on them, giving a yawn. There were noises that hinted at other watchers. The chitter of monkeys, the snarl and snap of an alligator, the mournful cry of an unfamiliar creature that sounded uncomfortably close. There were a few tracks of massive creatures with webbed feet. The ogres talked about hunting giant crocodiles come evening, wanting to supplement the rations Donnag had provided with fresh meat.
A mist hung above the ground everywhere. This, too, was green and was birthed by the summer’s heat evaporating some of the swamp’s moisture. It put Dhamon on his guard, as he suspected it could hide all manner of things. The swamp took on an almost haunted appearance, the mist a chorus of pale green ghosts they had to walk through.
Dhamon spent the first few days trailing behind the ogres, who were forging their path through the foliage. He queried the sword each day, asking it again about a cure. Sometimes he received nothing. And sometimes he gained more visions of the swamp, mirror images of what he first pictured in that Blöten alley.
Fiona was at the head of the column. She was paying far more attention to Maldred than to Rig, who sometimes drifted back to walk with Dhamon, though they did not speak. Often Rig stayed toward the center of the column, where he could keep an eye on the Solamnic Knight, and take occasional glances over his shoulder to watch Dhamon.
Dhamon mused that the mariner had become practically invisible—or forgotten, as no one paid him any heed. Dhamon was pleased Rig was leaving him alone. He preferred to keep to himself, talking only when Fiona or Maldred wandered back to check on him, or when one of the ogres tried to engage him in a game of chance.
The morning of the fifth day brought them to a river. The insects were thick around the water, which at its deepest point was up to Dhamon’s armpits. But the insects didn’t seem to bother the ogres—or the alligators and crocodiles that lounged in profusion along the banks. Dhamon suspected it was only the number in their entourage, and the size of the ogres, that kept the swamp denizens from making a meal of them.
Later that morning, Rig drifted back to walk with Dhamon again. The two men didn’t acknowledge each other, though they slogged over the marshy ground practically shoulder to shoulder. When the shadows became so thick they knew the sun had set, the column slowed, and the ogres began to set up their camp. Rig moved forward to find Fiona. The Solamnic Knight was deep in conversation with Maldred, so the mariner drifted away, becoming invisible again.
Dhamon distanced himself from the camp, careful to keep it in sight, however. Stabbing the end of his torch into the ground, he crouched in front of a stagnant pool, drew Wyrmsbane, and stirred the water with the sword’s tip. “A cure,” he whispered. “A remedy for this scale.”
He was concentrating fiercely, hunkered in front of the pool until his leg muscles stung from being forced into this position for so long. There was no tingling from the sword, no image, no chilling pommel. Nothing. “A cure,” he repeated.
Dhamon recalled that the old Sage of Kortal said the sword did not function all the time, that it had a will of its own. And indeed it hadn’t responded to him every day. So Dhamon refused to give up hope of finding what he wanted. He held his position a few minutes longer and focused all of his thoughts on the sword and the scale on his thigh. “A cure.”
Nothing.
He let out a deep breath, the air whistling out softly between clenched teeth. He would try again in the morning, before they were on the move again. He would return to Maldred and… the pommel grew cool in his hands. It was a welcome sensation, cutting the heat of the swamp and causing his heart to leap. He stirred the water and again focused all of his thoughts on the scale on his leg and on finding relief from it. A moment later he saw an image in the pool.
It was a green vision again, thick leaves and vines, lizards and birds moving in and out of view, swamp flowers and massive ferns. Again, there was no tugging to tell him which direction to proceed, and no sun or moon visible in the pool to help point the way. But this time there was more. Through a slight gap in the leaves, Dhamon made out stone-bricks or a statue, he couldn’t tell. But it was something made by man, smooth and worked. When he concentrated on that, the pommel tingled.