Dhamon was uncertain how long they’d been in the midst of the clouds, minutes most likely, though it felt much longer. His fingers ached from holding onto the mane so tight, and with each breath he sucked in chill rain. Finally, the cold began to settle over him, seep into his bones, and he wondered how Fiona, even Ragh, could endure the same torture.
How long does the manticore intend to stay in the storm clouds? Dhamon wondered. The cloud bank had looked immense, and it seemed as if the storm could stretch all the way to Southern Ergoth. How long could the manticore keep flying in this foul weather?
As if in answer to his question, the manticore roared and wheeled, dropped, wings tucked close, slipping below the clouds for a look to the east. The creature wanted to see if the spawn had given up.
Dhamon tried to peer through the haze and rain and the whipping mane, leaning to look beyond the manticore’s head. “By the memory of the Dark Queen,” he cursed. There they still were, nearly a dozen spawn still coming, fighting their way through the abominable storm. Well, they’d lost at least some of their pursuers, he thought, until Ragh shouted a warning, and he felt a splash of acid on his back. Some of the accursed spawn had managed to work themselves above them and were attacking the manticore.
Twisting, Dhamon drew his sword just as the manticore spun about again. The rain came at Dhamon sideways, blinding him so all he saw were shifting masses of gray, flashes of lightning, and the streak of a spawn’s black claw. The spawn’s sibilant cry blended with the rush of the wind as it raked Dhamon’s sword arm. At the same time it breathed a gout of acid almost straight in the manticore’s face. The creature bucked and rolled but somehow kept its equilibrium, as it tried to dodge the spawn.
Flying alongside them, the spawn taunted Dhamon. Fragments of words were heard above the wailing chorus of the storm.
“Grab you,” it said. “Take you.”
Dhamon shuddered as he swung recklessly at the creature. He put all of his strength into the blows, as he was also fighting against the wind. He finally managed to connect, but it was a glancing blow. The spawn darted in and swooped back, clawing him and cackling. “Capture you.”
“No!” Dhamon shouted. “You’ll not take any of us!” If the spawn didn’t mean to kill him, then it must plan to return him to Shrentak to face some obscene punishment or to be turned into a spawn—Nura Bint-Drax had tried to do that to him once before. “We’ll die first!” Dhamon meant it. He was certain the scales on his leg were killing him slowly anyway.
“Take you!” another repeated, as spawn surrounded them.
A swirl of black moved in front of Dhamon, howling with the howling wind. Another swirl. Dhamon swung at one, as he felt the manticore jerk and thrash. He felt another splash of acid mixing with the beating rain, his tattered tunic dissolving and falling in shreds, his skin burning. The manticore shrieked in pain and struggled to keep its balance, stay aloft. Now he heard Ragh screaming. More splashes of acid.
The manticore roared, words Dhamon barely made out. “Blind. I am blind.”
By all the gods of Krynn! Dhamon thought as one more blast of acid caught him and splashed over all of them and the manticore. He continued to swing wildly, so wildly that Fiona, hanging on to his belt, nearly lost her grip.
Behind Fiona, Ragh was flailing with one clawed hand, ineffectually batting at a particularly large spawn that was dogging him. Despite the gale, the spawn could maneuver—awkwardly—but its stinging breath was offset by the angle of pursuit and the storm’s deluge.
“Solid ground!” Ragh muttered. “We should have stayed on the ground!” Then he felt a solid strike of acid wash over his back. The manticore felt it too. The creature’s hide rippled and twitched, its tail was flung back to whip its spikes at a foe it couldn’t see.
“Grab you!” a spawn above Dhamon shouted, the words mere whispers in the heinous storm. “Take you to the massster!”
Which would be Sable, Dhamon thought. We’re nothing, insignificant, he told himself again. Nothing next to an overlord. What damage I did in Shrentak was nothing in the dragon’s scheme of things. How could such a massive dragon be so petty as to command its forces to pursue us?
“I’m nothing!” he yelled as he drove his blade straight up, the effort nearly toppling him and Fiona.
The blade would have struck home, was aimed where the spawn’s foul heart beat. But at that very moment, another spawn had managed to slice through one of the manticore’s wings. The manticore gave a deadly cry and plummeted, as its passengers desperately tried to keep their grip.
“Grab the man!” one of the spawn shouted. The shout was repeated, other words mixed in.
“Ordersss!”
“Take the man!”
The cries were all whispers to Dhamon. His world became a swirling mass of gray, the sheet of punishing rain, the bludgeoning wind. Beneath him, the manticore made a heroic attempt to stop its fall, but its muscles worked futilely in an effort to beat its useless wings. The creature whipped its head frantically as it dropped, and the rain-slick mane slipped from Dhamon’s fingers.
An instant later, Dhamon’s sword slipped from his hand.
Spawn claws fumbled desperately to grab Dhamon, but they only closed on air. Dhamon fell from the manticore’s back, then Fiona and Ragh too, heartbeats later. The wind spun around him, the rain hammered him, Dhamon tried to right himself and grab onto… anything. A few spawn buzzed in close, clawed hands outstretched and reaching, but none could catch him as he twisted and plummeted.
“I’m sorry,” Dhamon screamed, aiming the apology at Fiona. “Terribly sorry.” Sorry for tricking her, months past, to get her and Rig to help him and Maldred free some ogre slaves. Sorry that he let her and Rig go off alone to Shrentak to try and save her doomed brother. Sorry she ended up in the black dragon’s dungeons. Sorry that Rig was dead and that she would be joining him now. To know me is to die, he thought. To…
His musings ended as he slammed into the storm-tossed sea.
Chapter Two
Sheep’s Clothes
The child sat on a low, moss-covered rock, bare feet grazing a stagnant puddle, toes lazily stirring circles on its surface. The insects were thick around her, a living fog that kept a respectful distance, not even a gnat daring to land upon this child.
She hummed softly, an old elven tune she’d heard months past and had taken a liking to, and the flies buzzed seemingly in harmony. Occasionally the shrill cry of a parrot intruded, and in the distance there was the snarl of a great cat and the noise of something large splashing in the river—but all these sounds accommodated the child’s melody and pleased her. A smile tugged on the corners of her dainty mouth, and she tipped her head back to catch the late afternoon sun. Its rays were diffused by the swamp’s thick canopy, but they were still intense enough to make the temperature hot and steamy—the way the child preferred it.
Finishing the tune, she glanced down at her reflection, tinted a pale olive green by the wispy growths on the water. A cherubic face with wide, innocent eyes stared back, and soft, coppery curls moved about her shoulders, teased by a nonexistent breeze. She let out a deep breath, fluttering the ringlets that hung down over her forehead, then she kicked her feet, the littler plops summarily dismissing her reflection.
She smoothed at her dress, which appeared to be made of fragile flower petals, and brushed at a spot of water on the hem. Then she spun around and eased herself down on the other side of the rock, giggling when the ferns that grew in profusion there tickled her legs.