“Go home,” Shaon snapped.
He shrugged and awkwardly lumbered down the plank, muttering about yellow beasties with tentacle tails and lovely rude women who didn’t appreciate his obvious charms.
The sea barbarian fidgeted with her lace collar of her gown. It suddenly seemed tight and scratchy, uncomfortable, and her eyes had become irritated, filled with water. She’d so wanted Rig to see her like this, beautiful.
The wolf led Palin, Feril, and Dhamon beyond the city, east toward the foothills of the mountains. For hours they walked, until the day melted away and Palin’s chest began to heave from the exertion. The sorcerer was accustomed to walking up and down seemingly endless stairs in the Tower of Wayreth. But he was far from the young man who journeyed for an extended time across the country with his cousin, Steel Brightblade, and who then fought against Chaos in the Abyss. This journey was long and taxing, and his pride prevented him from staying behind or asking the others to slow their pace. He tried to ignore the tightening feelings in his chest, to concentrate on magical theories, the threat of the dragon overlords, and to think about Usha.
Feril and Dhamon seemed tireless. The Kagonesti had shortened the long skirt, and expeditiously created a ragged green dress that hung just above her knees. She apologized to Palin for ruining the gown but he shook his head and said he understood. Peril’s pace was quicker without the long folds about her legs.
Sunset found them many miles from Palanthas’s outer guard posts, sitting on the damp ground and relaxing against the massive trunk of a dead tree. Palin closed his eyes. The muscles in his legs ached, his feet throbbed, and he imagined he had blisters upon blisters on his soles. Despite his soreness and the roughness of the bark against his back, sleep quickly claimed him.
Dhamon sat next to Feril, looking sadly into her eyes. “Ogres can be awful. I’ve been in their camps before, and I know they don’t treat prisoners well. They’re malicious. Our friends might not be whole—or alive.”
“Let’s hope for the best,” she whispered. “With Palin and me, there’s magic on our side. Things might work out. They have to work out—I couldn’t bring myself to deliver any bad news to Shaon.”
The Kagonesti snuggled closer and rested her head on Dhamon’s shoulder. A gracefully pointed ear edged out between her curls and tickled his cheek. He sighed and laid his head back against the tree, quietly slipping his arm around her shoulders. I might not have much faith in magic, Feril, he mused, but I have faith in you. The two fell asleep quickly, their soft snores mingling with Palin’s.
Shortly after midnight, the wolf slipped away.
Feril followed Fury’s tracks in the morning, only slightly perturbed that the wolf hadn’t waited for them. His tracks were plain enough in the patches of mud and stretches of sandy soil. Even Palin and Dhamon could read them without much trouble.
The next nightfall found them reunited with Fury and hiding behind a low hill while spying through a gap in the rocks. The sky was cloudless, and the stars glimmered down on a disheartening scene several yards distant—a pen full of captured people.
The people milled about, their sullen faces lit by a campfire that burned nearby. An ogre with dark yellow skin and stringy green hair sat in front of the flames, turning a charred deer leg over and over and mumbling to himself.
“There must be fifty or sixty in the pen,” Feril whispered. There were so many that few had enough room to sit or lay down. She saw some sleeping on their feet, leaning against the rail. “I think I see Groller. But I only see the one ogre in front of the fire. We could easily take care of him.”
“There’s bound to be more than one,” Palin quietly returned. “They’re brutal and strong but they never travel alone.” He craned his neck above the rise, risking being spotted. “Over there. I count eight figures against the far hill I’m not sure they’re ogres, they look less bulky. They might be humans. There’s a tent nearby, and there’s probably more inside it. Getting your friends out isn’t going to be easy.” The sorcerer drew back and looked thoughtfully at his traveling companions.
“I want everybody freed,” Dhamon whispered, “not just our friends. I’ll go around to the other side, see if I can slip into the tent and deal with any ogres there.”
“I think I can sneak into the camp and make sure Rig, Groller, and Jasper are in the pen,” Feril whispered.
“Be careful,” Dhamon cautioned.
She nodded and offered him a slight smile, then she slipped away.
“I’ll try to hold the ogres outside at bay,” Palin said.
“You don’t have a weapon,” Dhamon warned.
“I don’t need one,” Palin replied. He mentally rehearsed a series of enchantments, trying to select which one would be the most appropriate.
Fury followed Dhamon’s retreating form, but the Kagonesti continued to stalk forward. A dozen different scents assailed her. The stench of the captives, their sweat and fear, the rankness of the ogres who apparently went months without bathing. There was a dung pile nearby, and as she darted behind it, the ogre at the campfire looked up and sniffed. He grunted, then he eyed his blackened deer meat and fell to devouring it. Feril edged forward.
She passed by a mound of discarded antelope and deer carcasses. The wind shifted, and she nearly gagged on the scent of rotting flesh that still clung to the animals’ bones. She also picked up the strong odor of mead. The ogres were drinking, at least some of them. Perhaps they’d imbibed enough to dull their senses and make our job easier, she thought.
The Kagonesti hurried toward the pen, crossing an open area. Her heart raced as she saw the eight figures Palin had spotted. They were most definitely not ogres. There were two Dark Knights and six manlike creatures who were quite tall.
Their thick hair hung in twisted locks and was decorated with feathers. Their long-limbed, muscular bodies were treaked with blue paint.
She also saw a group of ogres, a little more than a dozen, leaning against an embankment and chewing on haunches of animal flesh. Palin couldn’t have counted them. They were behind the tent Dhamon was heading toward. He’d see them, of course, but there were simply too many to handle. She hoped he wouldn’t try anything foolhardy. She reached the pen, rolled under a low rail, and quickly lost herself in the crowd.
“Feril!” The hushed voice was Jasper’s. His stubby hands tugged at her dress. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you,” she replied. “Is Rig alive?”
The dwarf nodded toward the center of the pen. Groller stood next to Rig, who towered above most of the people. The big mariner grabbed her shoulders and positioned his body to help hide her from the ogre who’d just finished his meal and was sauntering toward the pen. The other prisoners pressed in closer, curious about the newcomer.
“No!” Rig spat. “Keep back. The ogre will figure out something’s wrong.” The big mariner’s fierce look and Groller’s stance forced half of the other prisoners away. “Where’s Shaon?”
“On the ship,” Feril quickly explained. “Someone had to stay behind and look after the Anvil. But Dhamon’s here. So is Palin Majere.”
“Who?”
A boom rocked the campsite, a thunderous noise that jarred everyone and brought gasps to the lips of most prisoners. The odor of charred flesh filled the air to such an extent that it made Feril’s eyes water.
“That would be Palin’s doing,” she whispered. “He’s a sorcerer. Come on, we’re all getting out of here.” She rushed toward the railing and hesitated when she spotted a gaping hole in the center of the campsite—where the eight figures had been. A curl of smoke drifted upward. The lone ogre that had been approaching the pen also stared at the crater. The slack-jawed ogre was taken by surprise when the prisoners broke through the railing and quickly trampled over him.