“We can’t fight them in the air again from the back of that beast,” Ragh continued.
Dhamon made a snorting sound and was quick to climb up and settle himself in front of Fiona. “I count nearly three dozen of them, my silvery friend. We’ve got one sword among us. They’ll be here soon, so hurry if you want to join us—or stay here and face them alone on your solid, muddy ground.”
For a brief moment Ragh considered hiding himself in some crevice, letting the spawn follow Dhamon—no doubt he was their intended target because of the havoc he had wrought in Shrentak. But the draconian didn’t want to take the chance that some of the spawn would linger behind and find him alone—he didn’t mind dying, but not yet, not with his revenge against Nura Bint-Drax unsated. Besides, Dhamon would be useful in the fight against Nura Bint-Drax—if they could out-fly these devil spawn.
Dhamon tapped the fingers of his right hand on the pommel of his sword and grabbed hold of the manticore’s mane with his left. The creature spread its batlike wings.
Ragh was quick to lodge himself between a pair of back spines and dig his claws into the creature, as before. “I hope this beast has some more flying tricks.”
“They’re some distance behind us,” Dhamon said, as the manticore bunched its leg muscles and vaulted into the air. “I’m hoping we can lose them in the clouds.” He pointed toward a thick, dark bank high to the west. “Or we can get far enough away that they’ll just give up and go home.”
The wind was almost nonexistent over the Eastwalls, and the fine rain came down gentle and soothing. But it was also cool, and as they climbed and headed west, the temperature continued to drop.
When Dhamon rode a blue dragon with the Dark Knights, his uniform was thick and designed to protect him from the extreme elements. The tattered clothes he wore now were thin and soaked. While he registered the cold, he was not bothered by it. Fiona, however, also wore tatters and shivered uncontrollably against him.
“What is happening to me?” Dhamon whispered. He knew by all logic he ought to be shivering too, uncomfortably cold—and thoroughly exhausted. He’d stood guard while the others had slept for several hours. He hadn’t slept in nearly three days. Yet he was only mildly fatigued. Rather than feeling pleased about his surprising fortitude, he was worried and angered by it. In the past several hours he had watched as the small scales had again materialized around the large scale on his leg—all of the old sage’s work apparently for naught. His thigh itched constantly, and he suspected more scales were forming.
“There is no cure. I should’ve never gone to Shrentak looking for one.”
Black spawn wouldn’t be chasing them if he’d stayed away from Sable’s city. He wouldn’t be stuck on the back of this wounded beast headed toward the white overlord’s frigid land. Maldred would still be alive, safe, and planning some grand scheme to get riches for both of them. Rig and Fiona? Well, if Dhamon hadn’t gone to Shrentak, they’d likely both be dead, victims of beatings and starvation in the dungeons.
He felt Fiona shiver again. Despite her madness, her courage was admirable—she didn’t complain, not about the spawn, and certainly not about the cold.
But you’re going to get even colder before the day is out, Dhamon thought. That was only a certainty, provided they could escape the spawn and eventually reach Southern Ergoth. The island continent—save one stretch of land on its western coast—was covered in ice and snow, courtesy of the white dragon overlord, and the winds that whipped across the land were intensely bitter. But they had to fly over the frigid island, or at very least over one of its glacier-filled bays in the south, to reach the Solamnic outpost on the western shore.
If they couldn’t lose the spawn, they wouldn’t have to worry about the cold, the ice, or anything anymore.
The manticore roared as it climbed higher, and Dhamon could make out words.
“One chance,” the manticore said.
They were the first words the creature had spoken since Dhamon had rescued it from the foul city of Shrentak, and as payment had agreed to carry them to Southern Ergoth.
The manticore banked southwest, to where the clouds in the distance were the darkest. While the creature had fared well against the trio of spawn the night before, the manticore knew those coming now were too many to handle. The manticore roared again, loud and long and disturbing.
“The storm,” Dhamon understood the creature to say. “We will lose them in the storm. Or we will lose ourselves.”
For the better part of the day, the manticore somehow managed to keep a long lead on the spawn, and for a time Dhamon believed they might actually outdistance the vile things. But with the setting of the sun, the manticore tired, its sides heaving from its work. They’d passed over the road that ran between Solace and New Ports, only a few merchants on it this dreary day. Their course also took them over the Darken Wood and past Haven, then over Qualinesti, the ancient forest homeland of the elves. The scent of the rich loam was so strong it reached high enough to tease Dhamon’s keen senses. They had nearly cleared the forest when a shout from Ragh let them know the spawn were gaining.
“There are more than three dozen!” the draconian yelled with as much volume as his whispery voice could summon. “The Black must hate you fiercely, Dhamon Grimwulf, to send a small army after you!”
The prickly sensation was stronger, and the draconian was certain now it was more of a link than a warning, an indication that spawn he had “fathered” were near. Some of those in the pack that was closing in on them must have been made with his blood and Nura Bint-Drax’s heinous spell. The draconian reached a talon up to trace the thick scars on his neck and chest, where Nura had bled him to make the creatures.
“Dhamon! Urge this beast to go faster!” Ragh shouted, as he punched the manticore in the side in frustration. “I’ll not fall to spawn! I must live to see Nura Bint-Drax dead!”
The manticore was struggling to go faster, sides heaving, and voicing what sounded almost like human gasps. The creature was steadily working its way closer to the thickest of the storm clouds. From the heavy scent of rain in the air, the increase in the wind, and the frequent rumblings of thunder, Dhamon could tell it was a considerable storm indeed. He had no real desire to fly into the midst of it—as a Dark Knight he had ridden a blue dragon, one that could summon a storm, and he knew from experience that it was far from pleasant to pass through a storm with lightning dancing all around.
For a moment he considered commanding the weary manticore to land so they could take their chances on the ground, as the draconian had suggested. Then the manticore finally cleared the forest and the shore and headed out over the sea. A short time later they were under the storm clouds, and the rain and wind were pounding them.
The rain felt like icy darts, driven by a wind stronger than that they’d flown through yesterday The manticore was having trouble staying aloft. Dhamon shouted to Ragh, but the draconian couldn’t hear him. Just as the manticore banked, Dhamon struggled to look behind him, but they were inside the clouds now, and all he could see was an angry mass of swirling gray and occasional bright flashes where lightning arced. When the thunder came, it boomed so loud it shook them, and the wind gusted so strongly the trio were nearly dislodged from the manticore’s back. Dhamon desperately gripped the manticore’s mane, and Fiona held onto him tighter than ever.
This is madness, he thought, again wondering if he should have stayed on the ground. At least the spawn were an enemy he could fight. This storm—a worse enemy as far as he was concerned—was battering them mercilessly, and they could do nothing to defend themselves.