“Not in Southern Ergoth. No snow. Not cold enough. Not in Qualinesti.” Dhamon had been to the latter land, and he knew it to be lush and stirring with growth no matter what time of the year. “We can’t be far from Southern Ergoth,” he told himself.
He started down the trail to the north, first at a walk, then at a loping run. It felt good to stretch out, the running freed his mind. As long minutes passed, then an hour or more, the sky lightened further, but he still saw no signs of people. The trail had become overgrown with scrub grass.
When he heard another crow, he spun to the west, picking up two birds gliding to land somewhere behind a ridge of rocks. He noticed other ridges and wondered if they had been engineered by men rather than nature. They looked a little too uniform. Deciding to take a closer look, he jogged toward the next ridge, only to stop in his tracks before he’d crossed a quarter of a mile.
The pain started with a brief hot stab in his right leg, which quickly became pulsing waves radiating outward from the scale. It raced up into his chest and down his arms until no part of him was spared.
Within moments, he felt as if he were being boiled alive. The intense heat brought him to his knees, and he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He pitched forward, oblivious to the sharp rocks biting into his face and bare chest.
The piercing cold waves started next. His teeth chattering, he shivered involuntarily and curled into a ball. Wracked with agony, he feared he would pass out at any moment. Normally he welcomed the sleep forced on him by the dragon scale, but not this time, not when he was lost in an unknown land and too far away from Ragh and Fiona. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he focused on staying awake and riding out the alternating icy and fiery jolts. Over and over he reminded himself why he needed to stay alive.
There were things he had to do before he died, he knew. He had to deliver Fiona to the safekeeping of the Solamnic Knights, and he had to find Maldred. Dhamon felt certain his friend was still alive in Shrentak or being held prisoner somewhere in the surrounding swamp. He owed it to Maldred to find him and get him out of there.
Above all, there was the matter of Rikali and his child. He pictured the half-elf the last time he had seen her, slight and pale-skinned and very pregnant. He’d traveled with her for many months, enjoying her company but unwilling to make a deeper commitment. They’d parted ways for a time—Dhamon’s decision—and when she came back into his life, it was on the arm of a young husband who thought the child she carried was his. However, Rikali confessed to Dhamon that he was the real father. Somehow he knew she was telling the truth. Dhamon couldn’t let the dragon scale defeat him until he found Rikali and saw his child, made sure they had enough wealth to keep them safe in this dragon-infested world.
After a long time, the intense heat receded, and the numbing cold became a faint memory. This painful episode had lasted, he guessed, a half hour; that was the longest yet. The episode left him weak and nauseous, and he lay still for several minutes until he could catch his breath. Slowly he got back up on his feet.
“In the name of the Dark Queen!” he cursed. He glanced down at his right leg. It was completely covered in new, small scales emanating from the large one. His chest tightened—how long did he have left before the damnable dragon-magic consumed him?
He balled his fist and slammed it against the large scale. He tried to cover up the scales with his trouser leg, but the material was so tattered it scarcely covered anything. He continued trudging toward the ridge. He hadn’t a single coin, but maybe he could persuade someone to give him some clothes when he found the nearest town—provided the townsfolk didn’t run from him in terror, thinking him a monster.
“Clothes and water,” he said aloud. Fiona and Ragh must be thirsty and hungry too.
He reached the first ridge and, finding nothing there, continued to the next. In the distance now he could see signs of civilization. Dhamon turned and retraced his steps to the beach.
It was early morning before he returned to Ragh and Fiona. The draconian stared at the scale-covered leg and opened his mouth to say something. A sharp look from Dhamon cut him off.
Fiona had regained consciousness and was absently twirling her fingers in her hair. There was no hint that she realized that Dhamon had saved her life or that he had been gone for hours. Dhamon passed by Ragh and joined her warily.
He inspected the unsightly purple welt on her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
She frowned. “Hungry.”
Dhamon knew she was feeling other things, too. She had to be feeling pain, judging by the bruises on her arms and by the way she favored her left side.
“I found a town, Fiona. It’s some miles to the west. Do you feel up to a long walk?”
For the first time since leaving Shrentak she looked at him as though she heard him and brightened.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gave a gentle tug. “Let’s go, shall we? There’s bound to be some food and water there.”
Dhamon led her over the ridge and down the trail. Ragh followed at a short distance. It was past noon by the time Dhamon brought them to the place from where he’d seen the town. Clumps of weeds tumbled across a hardscrabble expanse. It was bleak and chilly in this strange desert. Autumn had settled deeply over the land. The ground was cut here and there by narrow, rocky ridges pocked by shallow, bowl-shaped depressions. The dust in the air settled in Dhamon’s mouth and aggravated his thirst.
“Ugly,” Ragh observed, spitting out some of the grit. “This is an ugly place.”
There wasn’t a trail leading to the town that Dhamon could see, and as they walked, he looked for any tracks. Outside of prints from a single wild pig, all he discovered was a nest of beetles and a coarse dirt that blew across the ground.
Fiona fell back, keeping even with Ragh.
“How did he get them?” the draconian asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“All those scales?” Fiona did nothing to keep her voice low. “The large one came from Malystryx, the red dragon overlord.”
“But it’s black scale, not a red one.”
“It was stuck on the chest of one of her Dark Knight agents, whom Dhamon bested. As the Knight died, he pulled the scale free and shoved it against Dhamon’s leg, where it became embedded. Somehow she controlled the Dark Knight through the scale. Dhamon became Malys’ puppet, too, until a shadow dragon, working in concert with a silver dragon, broke her control.”
“But it’s…”
“Black,” Fiona finished. “The scale turned mirror-black in the process. Probably because the shadow dragon used its black blood for the spell to free him.”
Ragh suppressed a shudder.
Dhamon stopped, turned, and faced them. “It was just a few months later that all the pain began, if you must know. It was some months after that when the smaller scales began sprouting. To tell you the truth, I think they’re killing me.”
The draconian stared at the back of Dhamon’s leg. The small scales were mostly black too, but a few were cerulean blue and the shade of smoke. He spied a few more that had cropped up around the ankle of Dhamon’s other leg.
“Dhamon… Those scales…”
“Aren’t your worry.” Dhamon pointed toward the horizon. “Not too many miles to the town. A couple of hours’ walk at best. We’ll get there by early afternoon, find an inn.”
“What are you going to buy dinner with?” the draconian asked testily, as he thumped his stomach.
“Certainly not with your charm.” Ragh’s gaze again dropped to the scales on Dhamon’s legs.