“What are you looking for?” she asked him.
“My glaive. Sat it here when I tried to sleep. Before the snakes came. This is the right tree. It was right here. See?” He stabbed his finger at the impression. “Then the snakes came and…”
“Maldred says they were enchanted. Not really snakes at all. Simply vines brought to life through a spell. He knows because he dabbles in magic.”
“Well, he’s just full of surprises, ain’t he?” Rig’s fingers were prodding at the ground. “Anyway, it must be a powerful spell to bring all of those slimy creatures after us. Something that would’ve been out of Feril’s realm.”
“Dhamon thinks…”
“Yeah, I know, maybe a minion of the black dragon. Or Sable herself. I got ears. But I don’t think so. Dragons leave bigger tracks. And besides, I don’t care what Dhamon thinks.”
“He didn’t say a dragon, he said a…”
Rig dismissed her words with a beckoning wave of his hand. He found a footprint, a small one, no longer than his open hand. Then another and another, narrow and childlike. He pointed to them. They led off into a bog.
She crept closer and examined them herself. “Maybe an elf,” she said. “Maldred!”
Rig scowled when he heard the big thief sloshing over. Maldred knelt next to Rig, and Dhamon padded a few feet away, examining more of the small footprints.
“Fiona is right,” Maldred said. “It could be an elf. There used to be plenty of elves in these woods before the Black moved in and turned everything into a swamp.”
Rig moved away from Maldred and Fiona, edged closer to the bog, which spread to the west as far as he could see in the torchlight. “Damn. Took my glaive, some faerie or little elf, maybe whatever made it rain snakes. Maybe it rained snakes so the little demon could make off with my weapon. My very magical weapon. Better have your ogre friends look around the camp and see if anything else is missing. See if they can spot my glaive.”
He tested the ground at the edge of the bog, his boot sinking deep.
“You’re not going after the weapon,” Fiona stated. “It’s too dangerous.”
It might not be too dangerous if you came with me, he mused. He almost said it aloud, but he didn’t need to. She must have picked up on what he was thinking.
“If the circumstances were different,” she began, “if we weren’t going to Takar to ransom my brother, we’d all go with you and help you find the glaive. But a weapon isn’t worth…”
A wave of his hand dismissed the rest of her words. A frown was etched deep in the mariner’s face. He treasured weapons, had ever since he was a youth and stole aboard a ship to escape an unfortunate home life. The glaive he’d been toting around was remarkably enchanted, and he prized it above all the others he had strapped to him. An artifact, Palin Majere had called it, from a very long ago time. It had been given to Dhamon Grimwulf by a bronze dragon, discarded after Dhamon had nearly killed his friends with it—including the mariner. Rig was quick to snatch it up. It parted metal like it was parchment.
“Took my glaive,” he repeated. “Now how am I gonna get it back?”
Dhamon persisted in examining the footprints as he listened to the mariner continue to grumble. For a brief moment he considered asking Wyrmsbane where the glaive was. But he quickly discarded the notion, not wanting to do any favors for the mariner. He would save the magic of Tanis’s sword for his own questions, which might, tomorrow morning, involve these small footprints that troubled him.
“Too dark,” Dhamon said, finally giving up on the footprints. He rejoined the ogres, seeking out Mulok and sharing some more of the bitter drink, then he began examining the ogre corpses.
Fiona backed away from the shaggybark and Rig, and instructed her charges, via Maldred, to search through the dead ogres’ belongings. “Just in case other things are missing,” she said. “Make sure they gather any rations they find.”
Mulok and the other ogres busied themselves stacking their dead comrades around the base of a cypress tree. It wasn’t practical to bury them here, or to burn them. Maldred said they’d be left for carrion—after they were first stripped of any weapons and armor that could be used.
Rig noticed Dhamon pluck a large silver ring off the hand of one corpse and stuff it in his pocket. He watched him take a silver bracer off the arm of another and slip it in his pouch, then move on, pretending to be interested in the lianas. The mariner was disgusted, shaking his head and wishing ardently that he’d never crossed paths with Dhamon Grimwulf, and that the Solamnic Knights had agreed to this ransom. They could’ve done it for Fiona, who had dedicated her life to the Order. It would have saved Fiona and him time—weeks. They wouldn’t have had to struggle across the length of the Kalkhists following Dhamon and Maldred, and they wouldn’t have gone to the village of goatherders on an errand for the arrogant ogre chieftain.
And they might have gotten to the old bozak draconian in Takar in time. Fiona’s brother might have lived.
“If the dragon was to be trusted about accepting a ransom,” Rig grumbled. “If the draconian was in Takar. If. If. If.” He growled from deep in his throat. He wanted desperately to go after his glaive. But if the person—or creature—who took it was responsible for all the snakes, he suspected he’d be throwing his life away. And he wanted to go to Shrentak, a notion he’d allowed himself to become obsessed with, and rescue all the people held there. “Shrentak,” he hissed.
The mariner spotted Dhamon and Maldred conferring by one of the torches. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he made his way toward them. Fiona was nearby. Good, he thought, she’d get an earful of what he had to say.
“The chest.” Fiona was pacing in a tight circle as she talked. Her hands were shaking, her shoulders uncharacteristically rounded. “Something took the chest. With the gems and coins. The ransom for my brother!”
“For your brother’s body,” Rig corrected her.
Her eyes were fire when she stopped inches from the mariner. Her lips were moving wordlessly. The mariner knew what she was thinking. If they hadn’t wasted time trying to collect a ransom with Dhamon and his overlarge friend—if the Solamnic Council had simply given her the coins she needed—her brother might still be alive. Maybe.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” the mariner told her, though he didn’t completely believe that. “Ransom or no, that dragon wasn’t going to let him or any of those other Knights free. It was probably all a sick game. So we’re walking through this damned swamp for nothing. This whole expedition is pointless, Fiona. How many times do I have to tell you that I saw your brother die?”
She started to say something, but he cut her off.
“So you want his body for a proper burial. That’s admirable. But so far this has cost the lives of ten ogres. And my glaive. And now the chest with all the loot is gone, too. No ransom. No body. We’re not where we’re supposed to be. Let’s just go home. We can honor your brother by…”
“You can’t say that,” Fiona countered desperately. “You can’t say this is all pointless. Maldred had sent scouts ahead—before the snakes came. They’ll find the ruins of Takar and…”
Dhamon nodded. He had silently padded up on the two, listening intently to their conversation. “Maldred sent two good scouts.” He gestured to the south. “They should be back soon, if we’re as close to the place as Mal thinks.”
“I think we’re practically right on top of it.” This from Maldred, who was still looking about to make sure no more snakes were descending.