Dhamon had fought their like before, namely the red spawn of Malys. His lip involuntarily curled up in a snarl at the memory mixed with the sight before him.
Several spawn had whips, and they obviously delighted in using them on the ogre slaves. Dhamon watched as an especially frail-looking slave didn’t move fast enough for one of the spawn. The spawn lashed at the ogre viciously, then moved in and spat a gob of acid that sizzled on the ogre’s lacerated back. The ogre didn’t howl in pain, as Dhamon expected. He merely shuffled back to the ropes and returned to the hole in the ground for another load.
From the smaller hole set against the hill, humans and dwarves brought out more crates of ore, followed by two additional ogre slaves who were so hunched over it looked as though they were crawling on the ground.
Fiona shuddered. “You could have told me the truth of this place and I would’ve come,” she said to Dhamon. “For this reason alone.”
“I didn’t know,” he replied.
“Maldred did.”
Then my friend Maldred would not have needed to use his ensorcelltnent on you, Dhamon thought, recalling how righteous the Solamnic Knight was when she accompanied him to the Window to the Stars. She was saying something else, talking softly again, this time to Maldred. Dhamon wasn’t listening. He watched the spawn whip the miners, spit at the ones who moved too slowly, claw at the sturdiest of the lot to keep them in line. He was counting the spawn, searching for other guards and taskmasters and wondering if he should have left all of this business to Maldred and his Solamnic puppet and struck out deeper into the swamp on his own, in search of his cure. Dhamon’s right hand drifted to his sword. It tingled slightly, and this puzzled him.
There were a dozen spawn on the grounds, nothing else that he could see in the foliage along the perimeter. But there were more in the mine, he was certain of it. And he needed to know just how many more.
He motioned to Maldred, making a few gestures with his fingers—the silent language of thieves Rikali had taught him. For an instant he wondered how the half-elf was doing. Angry that she’d been left behind, for certain. Still, she was safer this way, Dhamon told himself. And he was better off without a relationship. Still, he found himself missing her.
The big man nodded and gestured back to Dhamon, his fingers fluttering. Then he began whispering orders to the ogres.
Dhamon raised his arm, the blade of Tanis Half-Elven flashing in the light. Then, dropped it down as a signal and he raced forward, the ogres and Maldred charging behind him. Fiona joined the charge, heading toward an impressively large spawn that was lashing a recalcitrant dwarf. She nearly slipped, as the ground was marshy despite the absence of rain. The pounding of their footsteps was like muted thunder, and water and mud sprayed in their wake.
The spawn were startled, but were astonishingly quick to react. A few grabbed slaves and used them as shields. Others inhaled sharply, then puffed out gouts of acid to coat the charging ogres. Donnag’s men cried out in surprise and pain, but didn’t retreat.
“Spread out!” Maldred barked in the common tongue, repeating it in ogrish.
The words haunted Dhamon. It was what Gauderic had called to the mercenaries in the Qualinesti Forest when they faced the green dragon. For a moment, Dhamon saw the forest again, the elves and humans racing along the river and toward the green dragon—racing because he countermanded Gauderic’s order that they flee. “Spread out!” he heard Gauderic cry inside his head. But that forest was a very long way from here, the men who fought the dragon all dead. And Gauderic, Dhamon’s friend and second-in-command, was dead too, by Dhamon’s hand. Dead and buried.
“Spread out!” Maldred hollered again.
Swallowing hard, Dhamon raced toward the closest spawn, crouching beneath a cloud of acid spittle and leaping forward, ramming his shoulder into the creature’s stomach. His arms pumped. Tanis’s blade stabbed into the beast’s chest again and again as the pommel tingled merrily.
The creature lay struggling, and Dhamon thrust the blade in one more time, noting that the elvish script along the blade glowed faintly blue. Then he pushed himself off the beast, just as it dissolved in a shower of acid, which miraculously did not settle on him. He heard the sound of whips cracking and the thud of weapons striking spawn flesh all around him. Without pause, he pressed his attack on another spawn, darting around a pair of gaunt ogre slaves who stood staring in disbelief at what was transpiring. He vaulted over a crate of ore and slammed his foot into the chest of another spawn, knocking the beast off balance and sending the whip flying from its clawed fingers. But its wings beat furiously to keep itself upright, and it inhaled sharply and spit furiously at Dhamon, the acid breath striking him in the chest and its claws tearing through what was left of his leather vest. The acid didn’t affect Dhamon, though it fell around him, and he realized it was the sword’s magic keeping him safe. The tingling persisted.
“It signals the presence of dragonkind,” he speculated of the tingling sensation. And the spawn were certainly birthed by dragon magic. Then Dhamon concentrated solely on the battle. He slammed his teeth together and drew his blade back and swung it with all his strength at the creature. He struck it in the side of its head, easily cleaving through the bone and through the beast’s brain. Then he pulled his sword free and sprinted away, as the spawn melted into a cloud of acid that rained down on the ground.
He headed toward the smaller mine, where a malshaped spawn was emerging.
“An abomination,” Dhamon whispered.
As grotesque as the spawn were, this creature was far worse. Its head sat on a thick neck on which ropelike veins stood out. Its wings were stunted, one being scalloped like a bat, the other rounded and a little longer. The beast had three arms, the third growing out of its right side, several inches below the more normal-looking arm. And the hand that extended from the third limb looked small and smooth, the size of a kender’s or a gnome’s. The abomination’s eyes were overlarge and bugged away from its head, perched on either side of a wide, pug nose. It had a tail, longer than the spawns’, and at the end of it was the snapping maw of a snake.
“Monster,” Dhamon spat. Abominations were created through the same process as spawn, he had learned. But rather than humans, the dragon substituted elves, kender, dwarves, and gnomes. No two abominations looked the same, and the other dragon overlords were not known to purposefully create them. Save the Black. The corrupt overlord of the swamp favored her corrupted “children.”
“You’re next,” Dhamon said to it.
But Fiona was nearby and beat him to the creature. Her sword arced above her head and cut through its third arm. It clawed furiously at her with its two remaining limbs, the nails raking uselessly against her plate.
As Dhamon looked about for another target, he saw her raise the sword high and bring it down on the beast’s collarbone. There was a sickening crunch, then she turned away as the thing burst into a stinging cloud of acid. Their eyes met for a moment, hers filled with a mix of anger and eagerness for the fight, Dhamon’s with an equal and fierce determination.
Without a word Dhamon raced toward Maldred. While the ogre mercenaries were dealing with the remaining spawn, the big man was questioning one of the slaves.
“How many in the mines?” The words were in the ogre tongue, but they were simple, and Dhamon knew enough of them to understand. “Spawn. The black creatures. How many?” The slave didn’t answer. “The masters,” Maldred tried. “Your masters. And tell me about the mines below.”