“Who were Jasper and Shaon?”
“The two of you stay here until I come back,” Dhamon said tersely. He wasn’t about to add Fiona to the list, or the draconian for that matter.
“And if you don’t come back?” Ragh asked.
Dhamon hurried down the path toward Bev’s Oar.
He sighed with relief when he was beyond the graveyard and at the edge of town. The first few buildings he saw were relatively new and well-maintained, with brightly painted eaves and shutters and dried flowers arranged in pots outside the doors. Signs hung above businesses, the pictures on them showing a tavern, fishmonger, inn, and weaver. So far, so good. Things looked normal.
“Thank the Dark Queen’s memory,” he breathed. “People.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but part of him didn’t expect the dozen or so men and women who strolled along a cobblestone street that served as the main thoroughfare—he could hear the indistinct click-clack of their heels, an altogether welcome sound. A dog yipped as it playfully chased a lanky young man around a corner and down a side street. A matronly woman clucking at a child at her side carried a basket filled with bread. Dhamon took a few steps down the street, his own heels clacking on the cobblestones—indeed a comfortable sound, he told himself, after all they’d been through. He considered waving to get Ragh’s attention, have them both hurry into town right now, but he didn’t know how the people would react to his scales. If they didn’t accept him, they wouldn’t accept the draconian. He had to check things out a little more.
Just a block or two more, he thought. So far no one had pointed at him and shouted in fear. Just one more block… Dhamon stopped in his tracks. While the buildings on this end of town were well-constructed and kept up, those down the first side street appeared thrown crazily together. A few were made of the hulls of ships, one even had a mast sticking out of its roof. Another was fashioned of vegetable crates stacked six or seven feet high, with a sail lashed over the top to keep out the rain. Next to that was a small dwelling made of woven sticks and fronds, looking like a hut one might find in a jungle.
Curious and alarmed, he continued on, spotting a residence built out of stones—as well as any dwarf could construct it. Next to it, however, was a mound of earth with a small door set into it and a ship’s porthole carved into the side to serve as the window.
There were homes that looked like they were made of the remains of torn-down buildings. There were a half-dozen lean-tos, inside of which two hobgoblins sat eating charred rodents. They quietly regarded Dhamon for a few moments, then one gave him a wide grin and a welcome nod.
“Hobgoblins,” he muttered. No wonder no one was pointing at him.
With each step he took, a part of Dhamon told him to go back to Ragh and Fiona and find another town as a safe haven. But finding another town would take time. He touched a scale that had just recently appeared on his wrist. He didn’t have much time.
A trio of elves were patching the thatch on a narrow, two-story building. Across the street from the elves, a goblin watched and offered suggestions in broken Common. After a moment, Dhamon realized the elves were following the goblin’s advice.
“Something to eat,” he said to himself. “Clothes, passage. That’s all we want. Not much. Then we’ll get off this damnable rock as fast as possible.” He needed some herbs, too, for Fiona’s wound, but the wound was far from life-threatening, and he wondered if it was better to let the Knights on Southern Ergoth tend to her rather than waste another moment here. “Where’s the docks?” Dhamon mused. He’d go just a little farther, explore down some more side streets to the north. If there was a fishmonger, there had to be at least fishing boats—and all it would take to get them to Southern Ergoth was a big fishing boat and someone who knew how to captain it. Anything that will float, he told himself. “There has to be—”
“Good morning!”
Dhamon whirled to see a gawky looking human with a mop of dirt-brown hair and a reed-thin mustache. The human was wearing a pressed white tunic with an insignia over his right breast, and he had a long red sash around his waist that caught the faint breeze and flapped at his knees. At his side was a hobgoblin wearing a ship’s flag for a cape.
“Good morning to you!” the man repeated, extending his hand.
“And to you,” Dhamon cautiously replied, his unease multiplying as he studied the pair. The hobgoblin wearing the odd cape grinned wide, and a line of drool spilled over its lower lip and stretched to the ground.
“You’re a stranger to Bev’s Oar.” This came from the man. The man glanced casually at Dhamon’s scale-covered legs, then, dismissing them, met Dhamon’s gaze.
Obviously I’m a stranger, Dhamon thought. “Aye,” he said, finally shaking hands with the man and noting his firm grip. “I am new to this part of Nostar.”
The hobgoblin grinned wider still and nudged the gawky man.
“Oh, yes. Excuse my manners. Welcome to our humble town!” The man patted Dhamon on the shoulder. “Always happy to see a new face. You’re lookin’ pretty tired. Must have traveled quite some distance to get here.”
Obviously. “The storm the other night,” Dhamon began in an effort to appear friendly. “I was washed ashore and—”
“Took the roof off the bait shop. That was quite a row, wasn’t it… Mister…?”
“Grimwulf.”
The man frowned, worrying at a button on his tunic. “What a… grim name.”
Dhamon hadn’t yet decided whether to mention he had companions. “Listen, I—”
“Bet you’re hungry, too. You could do with some sleep and some new clothes. Definitely some food. Definitely some clothes. Looks like you haven’t eaten in days. So thin. We’ll fix you up… Mister Grimwulf. In Bev’s Oar we take good care of folks.”
“There be no strangers here.” This curious remark came from the hobgoblin.
Dhamon looked back and forth between the two. “Then if there are no strangers, who—”
The gawky man beamed. “I am the lord mayor of Bev’s Oar. This is my assistant.”
The hobgoblin nodded, more drool spilling over his lip and pooling at his toes.
“Assistant.” Dhamon’s face clouded.
The mayor caught his expression and sadly shook his head. “My very able assistant. The folks in Bev’s Oar have no prejudice… Mr. Grimwulf.” He pointed to the scales on Dhamon’s leg. “We accept everyone, including you.” His point made, he again raised his eyes level with Dhamon’s. “Now about gettin’ you some food and clothes.”
Dhamon took a chance. “I have two companions waiting just outside of town.”
“Well, hurry and fetch them. I doubt the inn will be servin’ breakfast for too much longer.”
Chapter Seven
Nameless Faces
The inn owner would take none of Dhamon’s coins for the feast she provided. The portly woman simply beamed at them and placed heaping plates of eggs, goat cheese, and warm bread on their table. She was also quick to fill their mugs with steaming cider. Fiona dug in without question, eating so quickly she barely chewed her food. Ragh, too, ate ravenously, pausing for breath only when he’d finished his first plate. Dhamon, however, warily picked at the meal, eyeing the inn owner and the lord mayor and his hobgoblin assistant. The last two were seated a few tables away, engrossed in whispered conversation.
Dhamon wanted to feel comfortable in this town that supposedly welcomed everyone, told himself he should feel comfortable. Ragh and Fiona obviously did. But he couldn’t wholly relax and dismiss every apprehension. People just weren’t this friendly, he knew from experience. Hobgoblins didn’t easily mingle with humans and accept into their midst strangers covered in scales. Better that they get some clothes and be on their way to the docks and to Southern Ergoth.