He searched for a clue as to which was the sub-commander, but with their backs to him, he couldn’t see any braid or insignia. His eyes locked onto the largest man, one with a broad back, taller than the others. First target. The knight thought of shouting a challenge, but his caution got the better of him. Better to be alive with diminished honor, he thought wryly. Dhamon raised the dagger over his shoulder.
“Surrender!” Fiona’s shout caught Dhamon by surprise. “So much for stealth,” he muttered, as the men whirled. Seven of them wearing the black chain mail of the Dark Knights drew long swords and cutlasses. The other four were sailors, and they fumbled for belaying pins and daggers.
“We’re responsible for the fires!” the young Solamnic continued. “And we’ll not hesitate to burn this ship, too. But we offer you your lives. Don’t be as foolish as your brothers. Drop your weapons! Surrender to us!”
The sailors hesitated, one of them glancing over his shoulder toward the burning ships. The large knight Dhamon had singled out rushed forward. Dhamon inhaled deeply and hurled a dagger. The blade pierced the man’s body just above his waist. The knight took a few more steps, then dropped his sword and fell to the deck.
Dhamon readied the other dagger.
“There’s ten of us!” one of the knights shouted. “Three of them. Let’s take ’em.” This knight darted toward the Solamnic, then pitched forward, clutching his throat. He gave a gargled scream before he died. Dhamon’s second dagger had hit the mark.
“We’ll make this offer only once more!” Fiona barked. “You can surrender and flee on the longboat, help your fellow knights on their burning ships—or you can die.”
“This ship can burn, too!” This came from the kender, who had climbed onto the deck. She was holding a jug in one hand, and the rag stuffed into the top of it was on fire.
The men glanced toward the fires on the other ships, and a second later their steel hit the deck. Only two knights remained defiant, sheathing their swords rather than dropping them. Fiona did not press the matter, and Feril darted forward, kicking the swords out of the men’s reach.
“Are there any others below deck?” the young Solamnic continued.
The men shook their heads. “The Red wants you,” one of the older knights sneered. He pointed at the Kagonesti. “The elf with the tattoos. Bad luck for you. The dragon’ll get what she wants. She always does.”
“Not always.” Dhamon moved forward and snatched up one of the fallen knight’s swords. He felt weak and dizzy, but he forced a thin smile to his lips. “Count yourselves lucky that you’re all still alive.”
“We left no survivors on the galley!” Feril added.
A knight toward the middle of the line took a step forward. His sword remained in his scabbard, but his fingers were edging toward it.
“Don’t try anything!” shouted Blister. The kender had moved up behind Fiona, and was holding the flaming jug toward the rigging. “And there’s more of us coming,” she added. The sounds of feet thudding against the hull backed her up. In a moment, three of the freed slaves stood behind her ominously. “If I were you,” the kender continued, “I’d listen to Fiona. She’s awfully good with that sword. And I’m getting pretty good at playing with fire.”
“Those of you with armor, lose it!” the Solamnic ordered. “You’re going over the side in the longboat. Unless you want that boat to sink to the bottom of the harbor from all the extra weight, you’d better get rid of it.”
Glaring back at them, the five knights slowly removed their black chain mail.
“Now over the side and into the boat!” Fiona’s face was grim. She waved her sword for emphasis. “Be quick!”
The four men who were sailors, not Knights of Takhisis, were the first to comply. That left the five knights. The oldest among them glowered at Fiona.
“She’ll get you, the dragon will,” he spat. “She’ll make you pay!”
Dhamon stepped toward the man, pointing his sword. “I’d worry about myself if I were you. I doubt the dragon rewards failure.” He clamped down on his bottom lip as he felt faint. The pain helped keep him alert, but he knew he wouldn’t be on his feet much longer. “Into the longboat! Now!”
The man opened his mouth to say something else, but the knights on either side of him grabbed him and hustled him over the rail. The remaining knights followed. Fiona and Feril lowered the boat, and Blister tossed the flaming jug over the other side of the ship into the sea.
When the men were safely in the boat, Dhamon stumbled to the mast, sagged against it, and slid down to the deck. He held his side, closing his eyes. “Fiona, when Jasper wakes up, could you have him...” The rest of his words were lost.
It was morning before Dhamon, Rig, and Groller opened their eyes. The three were in a well-appointed cabin paneled in sweet-smelling cedar. Dhamon and Rig were on beds, and Groller, too large for one of the narrow mattresses, was wrapped in blankets on the floor.
They were all bandaged and washed beneath fresh sheets. And an assortment of clothes were piled on a chair for them to try on—what had been left behind by the sailors and Knights of Takhisis.
“Didn’t lose a single patient,” the dwarf said proudly. Jasper was immensely pleased with himself, grinning broadly as he paced. “Though I’ll admit it wasn’t for the lack of your trying. Picking fights with that many of the Dark Queen’s knights. That was a dose of foolishness if you ask me.” He clucked concernedly at them. “Amazing how many sheets and shirts we ripped up just to make bandages. I think you lost more blood than you’ve got left in you.”
Dhamon was the first to stand, though somewhat shakily. Rig’s and Groller’s gazes locked on the black scale on his leg. Dhamon padded toward the chair and started picking through the clothes, selecting the drabbest of the lot.
“Leave me that red shirt,” the mariner said, as he struggled out of the bed. “Mind telling us what happened to that scale?”
“Yes,” Dhamon answered tersely. “I do mind.”
Groller sluggishly joined the two.
“Now, none of you move around too fast, understand? You were all less than an inch from death, and I don’t want any of my meticulous work undone. Or the ladies’ handiwork. They put on most of the bandages.”
Dhamon slowly drew on a pair of gray leggings, baggy enough to fit over the bandages on his legs. The cuffs hung just above his ankles. Next he put on a dark gray linen shirt, belted it with a black sash. The clean material felt good against his bruised skin.
Rig had the red shirt. Made of silk, its voluminous sleeves suited him. He picked out a pair of black leather trousers, started putting them on, and grinned when he noticed the half-ogre’s dilemma. Nothing was large enough for Groller.
The mariner snapped up a long green and black striped nightshirt, held it up to the half-ogre’s back and grimaced. Blood showed through the bandage wrapped around Groller’s chest. Rig ripped out the sleeves and handed Groller the altered garment.
The half-ogre struggled into it, testing the limits of the seams. The garment fell just above his knees, and wouldn’t button from midchest up. Groller scowled and shook his head when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Jasper tugged on the shirt to get Groller’s attention. The dwarf drummed his stubby fingers against his temple, shook his head and frowned.
“Jaz-pear zayz I shud not worry,” Groller translated. The half-ogre let out a chuckle and glanced down at his bare legs, each of which had a thick bandage on it. “But Jaz-pear haz clothez that fid. Jaz-pear haz zhoes.”
“Your boots are drying,” the dwarf replied, though he knew Groller couldn’t hear him. “They’re blood-soaked. Usha washed them. Usha can sew, too. She’ll fix something for you. I’m sure we’ve got days to go before we reach Dimernesti, wherever it is. She’ll make you something that fits.”