[Dhamon 03] - Redemption Read online

  The landscape was as dismal as Dhamon’s mood, the scrub grass dead and plastered against the ground, the scant trees leafless and wedged between rocks—everything brown and gray and chill. Fall had a firm grip on the place. He knew all of this country probably wasn’t so depressing, that farther down the trail in either direction would be villages, and that quite a bit farther to the north would be larger towns. There would be fires burning. Pleasant conversation and warm food inside dry homes. There would be life.

  “And I all I think about is death,” Dhamon muttered to himself. He stood several yards away from the others, keeping a wary eye on Fiona. He saw that the skin of her sword arm was bubbled and scarred from the spawn’s breath and that part of her hair was melted away. Her cheek and neck also had been hit by the acid, and Dhamon knew she would never look beautiful again. Yet she behaved as though in a trance, showing no awareness of her injuries.

  “You’re going back to Shrentak, aren’t you, Dhamon?” the draconian asked after a long silence. His eyes continued to follow the flashes of lightning. “For your big friend Maldred?”

  “Aye,” Dhamon said, watching Fiona stretch out under a rocky overhang. The ground looked reasonably dry there. “As soon as possible I will go back. Maldred will trust I’ll come looking for him.” He paused. “If he’s alive.”

  “You’ve still got Nura Bint-Drax to slay,” Ragh added. “She might still be in the city.”

  “If she crosses my path.”

  Nura Bint-Drax, a naga and agent of the black dragon, had caused Dhamon all manner of problems in the past months. Ragh had been her slave, and she’d bled him countless times to create spawn and abominations. Ragh would be her slave still, had Dhamon not liberated him.

  “I will make sure her path crosses ours, Dhamon Grimwulf. We will slay her together.” The draconian studied him, waiting for a reply and receiving only silence.

  The rain had plastered Dhamon’s long, black hair against the sides of his face and made his tan skin gleam.

  He was striking and formidable looking, with intense black eyes that held mystery, a firm jaw, and a thin but muscular body that was draped in acid-ravaged clothes. Through a rent in his right pant leg, a large black scale was visible. It was shot through with a line of silver. All around it Dhamon’s skin was pink, tender-looking. Ragh had been with Dhamon when the old sage removed the smaller scales. Dhamon was unconscious when the sage proudly told Ragh that she could remove the larger one, too, cure Dhamon completely—for a price. She said Ragh was the price, and the draconian reacted violently, slaying her and hiding her corpse. When Dhamon woke up, the draconian told him that the old woman had given up and left.

  The draconian was convincing. Dhamon believed him.

  Ragh felt only mildly sorry about the lie. The draconian had come to… he mulled over the words, finding like too strong, but tolerate inadequate… he had come to accept the company of the human. Ragh appreciated Dhamon’s strength and drive. And he intended to keep him close by to aid in the matter of Nura Bint-Drax.

  “She will cross our path, Dhamon Grimwulf,” the draconian repeated his vow firmly. “I promise you that. And we will slay her.” Then he lay down, and despite the rain fell quickly asleep.

  Dhamon woke the draconian several hours later with a none-too-gentle nudge. “I was a fool to let us rest in the open.” It was still raining, a spitting drizzle. He nudged the draconian again. “Move, and be fast about it.”

  Ragh lumbered to his feet, catching a glimpse of Dhamon’s leg. A dozen new small scales already had sprouted around the larger one. “Dhamon…”

  “Fast.”

  The draconian scowled to note that a puddle had deepened around him while he’d slept and that half of his body was now coated with mud. He began brushing at the dirt and mud, but Dhamon repeated the order and gestured toward the manticore, with a drenched and blank-faced Fiona already perched on its back. Then Dhamon nodded east toward the New Sea. Above it, specks of black hung like ink spatters in the dismal-looking sky.

  The draconian squinted and shook his head. “You’re thinking that’s more spawn?” A growl grew from deep in his chest. “Could be birds. A flock of big ones.” But there was that prickling at the back of his neck again.

  “Aye, they’re spawn.” Dhamon headed toward the manticore. “From the look on your ugly face, I don’t think I have to tell you.”

  “I’d rather face such a foe on solid ground.”

  Dhamon would have preferred to face the spawn on land too—Maldred was at his side, and if Fiona had her sword and her wits about her. They might stand a chance, then—a small chance. When he spotted the spawn minutes ago his first thought had been to fly on the back of the manticore to safety in the closest town. But spawn wouldn’t be deterred by a town, and their presence would only endanger the citizens there. No, the best chance was to lose them in the sky, evade a fight, something Dhamon found decidedly distasteful.

  “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 cour
age 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.

  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 bre
ath 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.