[Dhamon 03] - Redemption Read online

  DragonLance

  Redemption

  Dhamon - 03

  Jean Rabe

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  Chapter One

  Wind and Scales

  The creature’s leathery wings beat strong and steady as it climbed into the night sky and cut its course against a violent wind. The full moon illuminated a manticore easily the size of a hatchling dragon. It had the body and coloration of a lion, a disconcertingly human-looking visage, and a long, ropy tail ending in a clump of deadly spikes. Without warning the manticore threw back its head and roared, an eerie sound that sliced through the howling wind and sent shivers down its three passengers’ spines.

  Dhamon Grimwulf sat just behind the head of the manticore, wedged with Fiona between two of the spikes that ran the length of the creature’s back. He leaned as far to his right as safe and practical, avoiding the manticore’s flailing mane, but the wind stung his eyes and caused the ragged garment’s sleeves to billow and snap like a sail. He thought the wind oddly warm, despite it being early fall and so late at night, and despite their flying at least forty feet above the tallest trees of the black dragon’s swamp.

  Fiona’s breath was warmer still, and gentler, against his neck. The Solamnic Knight’s arms were wrapped around his waist, her chest pressed tight against his back. She spoke into his ear.

  “I must buy a fine gown for my wedding, Dhamon. When we reach a city… it won’t be long until we reach a city, will it?”

  Never mind, Fiona, that you haven’t a single steel piece in your pocket, Dhamon thought, or that there will be no wedding. Your beloved Rig is dead, and you are mad. You and I saw him die an arm’s length away.

  “My mother always told me I look best in blue,” she added.

  “Colors don’t matter, lady. Only thing that matters right now is that this damnable beast is flying too fast.” The grumbling came from Ragh, the sivak draconian who was perched precariously behind the Knight. “Much too fast in this strong of a wind.”

  He repeated his complaint twice more, getting no reply—either because Dhamon or Fiona didn’t care or couldn’t hear his whispery-hoarse voice above the wind and the beast’s noisily flapping wings. The draconian was clearly distraught, and his legs were growing numb because he had them clenched so tight around the manticore’s haunches. Ragh dug his stubby claws in for good measure, feeling the manticore’s coarse hide ripple in protest. The creature roared again.

  “And we’re too damnably high.”

  Though most sivaks could fly—they were the only draconians who could naturally do so—Ragh had lost his wings to a cruel punishment and had no desire to see if he could survive a fall from this lofty position.

  He kept his eyes trained on the back of Dhamon’s head, sucked in a deep breath, and tried to calm himself—fighting the sensation that his stomach was rising into his throat. After nearly an hour had passed and the air had cooled a little, the draconian indeed managed to relax—if only slightly. He decided to chance a brief look below. Peering at the darkness underneath that marked the weave of cypress branches, Ragh spotted a gap in the foliage and through this caught a glimpse of a silver ribbon, which was the moon reflecting off a river tributary. There wasn’t much more of the swamp to clear now.

  Training his eyes to the west—the direction in which they were headed—Ragh spotted what looked like a pane of black glass, which was the New Sea. Beyond it, barely visible, stretched the wrinkled landscape of the Eastwall Mountains of Abanasinia. A bank of pale gray clouds hung above the peaks like a mantle, and yellow threads of lightning flickered inside the clouds.

  Far beneath them, Ragh sensed something worse than a storm brewing. There’d been a prickling at the back of his scaly neck ever since they had left the ground, his uneasiness growing worse by the minute. He’d told Dhamon right away, but Dhamon said he didn’t detect anything. That was better than an hour ago now. They certainly seemed to be all alone up here, high in the sky. Nothing was around to bother them.

  Still, Ragh took another glance down, this time after several minutes spotting… something… his eyes were far too keen to play tricks on him. There was something there, something definite paralleling their movement, a black shape amidst the darkness of the tree tops. No, two shapes. Maybe three. Definitely three. But everything was too murky, and they were moving too fast to make out details, save that the “somethings” had wings and were sizeable.

  Perhaps he should shout to Dhamon Grimwulf and Fiona that he’d seen… something. Shout that something definitely didn’t look right about the shapes following them. He was certain he could be heard above the wind and the wings if he truly wanted to be heard. Perhaps the manticore should dive and hide in the uppermost canopy of the swamp rather than cut through the open sky where there was no cover.

  “Fiona,” he growled. “We might have company. Fiona?”

  No reply.

  “Dhamon?” Ragh persisted. Perhaps the shapes were nothing more than a few giant owls, coincidentally headed in the same direction. Or perhaps the strong wind might be tossing the branches a certain way to create shadowy illusions. He craned his neck around Fiona’s slender shoulders. Dhamon had his head thrown back and was letting the wind rush across his face, enjoying the ride in the way Ragh used to enjoy flying when he had wings. If Dhamon—with all of his preternaturally sharp senses—was not at all concerned, the draconian told himself, then he needn’t be concerned either. But… he did see something.

  Or did he? Ragh squinted and blinked away the tears caused by the wind, stared downward, trying to again find the shapes. There was nothing there now. He stared for several minutes. Nothing but treetops. So… no reason to alert Dhamon after all. No reason to be dismissed as a worrier, chided about his nerves. The sivak sighed and withdrew his claws from the manticore’s hide, placing them lightly around Fiona’s waist. Then, like Dhamon, he canted his head back, closed his eyes, and let the wind stream across his angular, silver face.

  Dhamon had heard the draconian, had also heard Fiona say something about Rig. He ignored them both. He was trusting that the manticore knew the way to Southern Ergoth, to the Solamnic outpost on its western shore where he wanted to deposit Fiona. The female Knight had slipped into madness following Rig’s recent death in the black dragon’s city, and Dhamon realized she needed someone to tend to her. He considered himself neither qualified nor obligated to do so. Still, he knew that no matter how insensitive he’d been to people lately he couldn’t simply abandon her. And so, this aerial voyage.

  “Rig’s dead, Fiona,” he said, as much to himself as to her. Dead and likely filling the bellies of the foul creatures on display in the city. He doubted the black dragon’s lackeys went to the trouble of burying anyone. Dhamon had never truly considered Rig a friend, at least not a close one, but he had respected the mariner and he had, in grudging fashion, admired him, at times envied him. The mariner’s death sat uneasily on his conscience, as if there was something he could have done to prevent it. One more departed companion to add to Dhamon’s list. To know me is to risk death, he grimly mused.

  Dhamon sighed and breathed deep of the air, which was cooling as they flew farther and rose higher away from the heart of the black dragon’s realm. He realized some part of him was relishing this crazy ride. It reminded him of the times he was paired with a blue dragon in the Dark Knights’ army. He rode that swift dragon at every opportunity, reveling in flying high above the world, feeling cocooned by the air, the wind, the clouds, and the sky.

  A myriad of smells filled Dhamon’s keen senses: the muskiness of the manticore that bore them; the fetidness of the damp land below; and now the pleasant and salty scent of the New Sea, signa
ling they were finally beyond the swamp and over the water. There was also the faint sulfurous smell of a blacksmith’s shop, which he attributed to Ragh—all sivaks seemed to carry that odor like a brand. Too, Dhamon could smell his own rankness, clothes covered with dried blood and sweat, skin and hair coated with days of grime. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  Beyond the New Sea lay the mountains that were their destination. He let his thoughts drift and the wind consume him. There would be time enough to address his worries when his feet were again on the ground and when Fiona was in other hands.

  Suddenly Dhamon felt the manticore tense beneath him. He opened his eyes and looked over the great beast’s side. Through the beating wings he spotted three black shapes rising from the blackness of the New Sea. The shapes were difficult to discern, and if the moon was not out, their coloration would have rendered them effectively invisible.

  “Spawn!” Dhamon cursed. He drew his sword with his right hand and firmly twisted his left in the manticore’s mane. Fiona’s sword was already out, though she kept one hand hooked in Dhamon’s belt.

  The manticore tucked its wings against its sides, turned, and dived on the lead creature. Ragh again dug his claws into the manticore and swore inwardly for not warning Dhamon about the somethings he’d seen a while ago.

  They were particularly large spawn, each at least eight feet tall, broadly shouldered, and vaguely man-shaped. Glossy black against the blackness of the New Sea, their scales caught the moonlight and made them shimmer like oil. Through the wind Dhamon heard their scalloped wings beating, faintly heard their almost-in-unison intake of breath, their jaws opening wide. He braced himself.

  The lead spawn was the first to release its spray of acid. Under the right circumstances, it would have drenched the manticore and its riders, seriously injuring them all and probably causing them to fall to their deaths. But the manticore had angled itself with the wind, cutting the force of the acid-spray. Only the manticore and Dhamon were hit, and only lightly.

  “Aye, but you are a smart beast!” Dhamon called to the manticore. “You use the wind to our favor!”

  The spawn hovered, keeping their distance and hurriedly communicating in a collection of hisses and grunts. Dhamon strained to catch the few intelligible words, but even his uncanny hearing couldn’t entirely cut through the shrieking wind and the loud, insistent flapping of the manticore’s wings. All he managed to pick up were the words “attack” and “ssslay,” both of which seemed staples in spawn vocabulary.

  Suddenly the middle creature raised its claws, and the other two flew off to either side, attempting to circle the manticore and its riders. Dhamon stretched as far as he dared, leading with his sword and swinging, but he couldn’t quite reach the nearest spawn—it was just beyond his range. That meant it was also too far away to claw at him but close enough to breathe on him—and this time the spawn was on the quiet side of the wind. The spawn released a gout of acid that splashed against Dhamon’s tunic and burned through to his skin. Most of the spray caught Fiona, however.

  “Come closer!” Dhamon shouted at it in frustration. “Fight me, you scaly demon!”

  Behind him, he felt Fiona lurch in pain, nearly dislodging him because she was holding fast to his belt. Somehow she held on and was swinging at the spawn on the other side. She shouted in triumph as she landed what felt like a solid blow.

  “Fight me!” Dhamon shouted at the nearest spawn, which was readying another blast of breath. “Fight…” The rest of his words were lost as the manticore roared louder than before, the sound piercing him and making him so dizzy he nearly lost his grip.

  Without warning, the manticore shifted its position, head thrown back so its mane fell across Dhamon, covering him like a blanket. The creature was angled nearly straight up, desperately trying to evade the acid spray, and Dhamon, Fiona, and Ragh threw all their efforts into simply holding on and not being sliced by the back spikes that were cutting into them. As it climbed, the manticore’s wings beat at an odd angle, so ungainly that Ragh was surprised the creature could stay aloft. A keening came from the frantically beating wings, a shrill whistling that drowned out the wind and filled their senses, made them feel as if hundreds of heated needles were pricking at them.

  “Hold on!” Dhamon yelled to Fiona, shaking his head to work it free of the mane so he could see.

  Another roar, and Dhamon believed he’d heard nothing so deafening in his entire life. Not even the roar of the blue dragons on a battlefield matched this eruption. Gritting his teeth, he barely managed to sheathe his sword and with his free hand flailed about behind him until he grabbed a fistful of the Knight’s tunic.

  “Fiona, hang on!” Don’t become one more name to add to the list of dead comrades, he thought.

  As the painful noise continued, Dhamon sucked in a breath, his chest achingly tight. The sound became unbearable to a man whose hearing was so sharp. The multitude of stabbing needles felt like fiery daggers now, and at the same time, as they climbed upward, he felt as if his body was being pressed down by heavy stones.

  “Can’t breathe.”

  He was growing stupefied, as if he were drunk. He felt his blood pounding against his temples, and he was certain he would black out at any moment. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue, hoping to create a different pain that would keep him alert. He wound his hands tightly in the mane and in Fiona’s tunic. The sound is torturous, he thought. Does the creature mean to kill the spawn and us, too?

  “Stop!” he shouted to the manticore. “You’ll kill us!” Then he bit down on his tongue again and tasted blood.

  The sound was also brutal to the spawn. The two smaller spawn slammed their clawed hands over their ears in a futile effort to block out the noise. Dhamon twisted, and through a haze of pain spotted the largest spawn—the closest one—the one who offered the greatest threat. But the enemy was helpless, rather than dangerous. It contorted in the air, wings beating erratically, then abruptly it bucked and seized and plunged like a rock. It finally regained control at the very edge of Dhamon’s vision. It hovered there for but an instant, then resumed its dive toward the New Sea until it disappeared from his sight.

  “Stop it!” Dhamon tried again, jabbing his heels against the creature’s sides. “Stop the noise or we’ll die!” The manticore did not pay any attention to him.

  Ragh had his chin tucked into his chest and his elbows squeezed against his sides, equally beleaguered, the sound and the pressures threatening to unseat him at any moment. Fiona, too, was fighting to stay conscious in the cacophonous onslaught.

  The remaining two spawn had their mouths open, screaming in pain, Dhamon felt certain, though he couldn’t hear them over the manticore’s keening. Blood ran from one creature’s nose and mouth, its eyes were wide and fixed, its wings were beating feebly now. A heartbeat later its wings stopped, and it joined the first in a swift plummet toward the water far below. The last spawn held on, its eyes narrowed, flitting between each of the passengers, lingering on Dhamon—who was the only one able to return its hate-filled glare.

  Lips quivering in a snarl, the spawn dropped several feet below them, gaining some distance, only to swoop up suddenly on the other side. The spawn darted in, slashing at the manticore’s wing, then retreated to a safe position again—all the while its mouth parted in a hideous, pained expression. Dhamon saw blood glistening in the moonlight, a long rent in the manticore’s wing that looked ugly and raw. Still, their massive mount managed to beat its wings, keeping its odd position, its keening continuing unabated as it shifted ever so slightly to once more surprise the spawn by materializing in its path. Then the manticore roared, whipping its tail and flicking out its spikes to catch the spawn in the chest.

  The spawn defiantly inhaled to fuel yet another gout of its caustic breath, but the spikes had caused mortal wounds, and the spawn burst in an explosion of its own acid. The manticore howled, as it bore the brunt of the blast. The acid ate away part of its mane and bubbled and hissed
against the hide of its forelegs. The manticore had caught some of the deadly acid directly in the face and on the undersides of its wings, too.

  Its wings slowed, the keening subsided. The pounding against Dhamon’s temples stopped too, and he could breathe easily again. Dhamon released Fiona and felt around behind him to make sure she was OK. He saw she had dropped her sword.

  “Fiona.” Louder, “Fiona!”

  “I’m all right.” Dazedly, she placed both hands around Dhamon’s waist.

  Ragh was grumbling behind her, glancing down to make sure no more spawn were coming. He gingerly withdrew his claws from the manticore—they were covered in the creature’s blood, he’d dug them in so deep.

  The three spawn were but a token force from Shrentak, a city rife with spawn. At least Dhamon felt certain the spawn had come from Shrentak, no doubt sent to exact revenge for the trouble he had caused there. In that city, several days earlier, Dhamon, Ragh, and Dhamon’s best friend Maldred had located an old sage whom they believed had the power to cure Dhamon’s malady—the dragon scale embedded in his leg that haunted and tormented him. While the sage was indeed able to remove all the newer, smaller scales that had sprouted around the original scale, she’d done nothing to remove the large scale. In fact, she had disappeared, leaving him and Ragh alone in the catacombs beneath her tower. Maldred had become separated and lost.

  Trying to find Maldred or leave, Dhamon and Ragh took a wrong turn and found themselves in the dungeons of the black dragon. Among the prisoners they freed were Fiona and Rig, two old comrades on a foolish quest of their own. During their struggle to leave the city, Dhamon had freed this manticore from a cage in the marketplace. They had left Maldred behind, fleeing to save their lives against overwhelming odds.

  “Left Maldred behind,” Dhamon muttered to himself. “Perhaps he’s dead, too.”

  Dhamon guessed that despite the still-ferocious wind, it would take the manticore less than two hours to cross the New Sea and reach the coast of Abanasinia. He was right. It was dawn by the time they made it to the mountains. The creature landed clumsily along the edge of a trail, clawed feet scrabbling in earth made slick by the light rain coming down. Dhamon attempted to examine the manticore’s wing, but the creature would have none of his indulgence. It licked the wound, then curled up as a dog might and quickly fell asleep. Ragh settled himself nearby and stared grumpily up at the clouds and the thin arcs of lightning that played overhead.