Riki raised an eyebrow, but Ragh had already raced past her, catching up with Fiona, whose sword was drawn, her knuckles white against the pommel, the blade clean and shining.
Chapter Nineteen
Into the Lair of the Shadow Dragon
His senses reeled. The smell of the mountains overwhelmed him—the very stone, the dirt and dust squeezed into the cracks, rotting pine needles from dead trees, the molted feathers of hawks that lined unseen nests. Goats had passed this way not too long ago, he could tell, and at least one wolf that was no doubt tracking them. There was the scent of some kind of carcass inside a crevice.
“A dead rabbit, maybe, hauled up high by an owl,” Dhamon said. He thought he could smell the owl, too, amazed at the intensity of the musky scent. “It’s eating the rabbit.” Dhamon now could hear the owl and the scratching of its claws as it ripped the meat, the tugging sound of its beak as the flesh was pulled away.
He heard the breeze stir the pine needles, those clinging to stubborn little trees wedged in earth-filled cracks, and those that had fallen and were whirling across the rock face. He heard faint taps and after a moment realized they must be the hooves of the goats striking the rocks. How far away were they? He suspected they were a good distance. Just how far can I hear? A bird cried, a jay from the distinctive sound, and there was a sharp intake of breath that was louder than anything. This was accompanied by the repugnant odor of sweat and oil.
“Maldred. I wondered how long it would take you to catch up with me.”
The ogre-mage’s breath was irregular and deep. Maldred didn’t say anything right away. He bent over, hands clamped on his knees, face a darker blue than normal from the exertion. Finally he stood and looked up to meet Dhamon’s eyes.
With wide eyes the ogre studied Dhamon, then finally looked away, finding something on the mountainside in which to be interested.
“Aye, Mal, the dragon’s magic is still changing me.” Dhamon reached a hand up to the left side of his face. There was no human skin there now, only scales. There was no human skin left anywhere on him.
“I’ve got a fire in my chest that’s raging, and it’s taking too much effort to keep the beast out of my head.” He glanced up at the mountains. “I’ve never been afraid of dying, Mal. No man escapes that fate, so why fear it? But I wanted to see my child first. I wanted to say some things to Riki, apologize to her, and to Fiona too….”
Maldred opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it.
Dhamon took off running again. He suspected there was an entrance to the dragon’s lair nearby. He could feel the truth of that instinct as he increased his speed and as Maldred’s scent fell behind.
The cave mouth was small as far as dragons were concerned, but effectively cloaked. It was difficult to spot at first. He doubted that it was easily noticed by those men or creatures traveling north from Throt to Gaardlund or Nightlund. Merchants and mercenaries would pass by, none the wiser. The climb was steep and treacherous—even for someone like himself. Further masking the entrance was an irregular overhang that cast a long shadow across a wide swath of broken, jagged rocks. Deep inside that shadow was the opening.
The low roof made a very tight squeeze for the shadow dragon, one that would probably cause it to shed a few scales from its back and belly. Perhaps it was an entrance the dragon rarely used but held in reserve, but because the dragon had known of the entrance, he had inadvertently communicated that information to Dhamon.
Dhamon didn’t know that with a single spell the dragon could turn himself into a shadow—as thin as a sheet of parchment and flowing as smoothly as water. He didn’t know that the shadow dragon could follow wherever the much smaller Nura Bint-Drax was able to go. Dhamon didn’t know that the dragon actually preferred this way in and out of his lair because of its smallness and remoteness.
“Do you see it? A way in?” Maldred had caught up once more and was peering into the shadows and seeing nothing. He was shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. The other hand was clenched around the haft of the glaive. Dhamon’s hands had changed radically just in the past hour. Now they were claws, similar to Ragh’s, but with longer curled talons that made grasping difficult. Dhamon didn’t object when Maldred claimed the polearm that he had been forced to abandon. He didn’t seem to care that the ogre-mage also carried the pouch with the magical miniature carvings, which Dhamon had discarded when he grew out of his clothes—or rather, burst out of them.
“The cave?” Maldred pressed. “Do you see it?”
“Aye,” Dhamon said in a hush, his voice rich and strange. “There’s a small entrance. It’s our best way in, I believe. It looks too small for such a creature, but I sense the way is not unattended, as I had hoped it would be.”
“There are guards?”
“Aye. Two, I think. That’s all I sense in any event. And they’re relatives of yours.”
Indeed, the guards were a pair of overlarge ogres, crude, muscular brutes who stood outside the cave.
They were reasonably attentive, however, considering their forsaken post. Great double-axe polearms were propped near them, each larger than the glaive. From the ogres’ waists hung thick-bladed broadswords and long knives. One carried a crossbow. Strapped to their huge thighs were more knives, and lashed to their backs were long quivers filled with javelins.
“Walking armories,” Dhamon mused. He knew he could take these two ogres—he could take a dozen now—but it might be a noisy fight and alert the shadow dragon.
Despite all the weapons, they weren’t wearing armor, making them vulnerable. No shields were in evidence. Each displayed an odd tattoo splayed across his naked chest, and each wore a loincloth made of the hide of some large lizard.
Not a tattoo, Dhamon noted, after a moment. Scales, I think.
Yes, he was certain—they were small patches of scales.
“So the ogres’re pawns of the dragon,” Dhamon whispered. “Just like me.” Would they eventually become spawn or abominations like himself? he wondered. He was still changing, becoming incredibly strong, he realized—he intended to make the shadow dragon regret that mistake, before his soul vacated this grotesque body. He shivered at the thought of what he must look like now. He glanced at Maldred.
The ogre-mage looked quickly away.
“What do you see, Dhamon?” Maldred asked.
“As I told you, I see a pair of your ugly kinsmen guarding our way in.” Dhamon quickly described them. “I don’t believe they have seen us yet. We’re too far away, and they seem very relaxed.” Yet Dhamon was able to see them clearly with his extraordinary vision.
“There are two other ways in, the closest at least a mile from here,” Dhamon said.
“Probably guarded by something else.”
“Aye. Better guarded, I’d wager, if it’s more accessible. Anyway, I don’t want to waste more time searching. I count my life in minutes now, Mal.” Dhamon paused, rubbing his chin. “You swear you have never been here? You don’t know this lair?”
Maldred shook his head, his white mane of hair tangling around his shoulders. “I told you, Dhamon, no more lies. The dragon summoned me to his cave in the swamp, yes. I knew he had more than one lair.
It is said all the dragons do, and Nura Bint-Drax bragged of those she had visited. But I’ve never been here.”
“I wonder if Nura is here, too.” Dhamon said. “The dragon favors her over you.”
“No one favors me,” Maldred said with a nod. “Maybe my father. Now about the two ogres….”
“I suppose you’ll insist they be spared, that all ogre life is sacred. Weeks ago I would have disagreed.” But the changes taking place inside him and all the things that had happened to him had made Dhamon feel that life was a precious thing. “Even ogre life is sacred? Maybe you’re right. I suppose I can lure them out and—”