Maldred eased himself from the wagon, swaying a little from the effects of his fever, and padded to the massive wooden gates. He looked up at the pair and raised his good arm, balled his fist and circled it once in the air, then brought it down against his waist. Then he spoke, nearly shouting, his words sounding like a series of snarls and grunts.
Next, Maldred motioned to Dhamon, making a gesture Rig recognized as "wealth," or "coin," a signing word his deaf friend Groller taught him. Rig instantly thought of his companion, wondering if he'd found work on a ship somewhere or had elected some cause to champion. Perhaps he was assisting Palin Majere. The mariner regretted not staying in touch with Groller and found himself wishing the half-ogre were here. He would be handy in this city, though he would not be able to hear what was being said, and he was someone Rig could trust. If I get out of this, he mused, and after the matter of Fiona's brother is settled, I'm going to find my old friend.
Dhamon tugged the Legion of Steel ring off his hand and tossed it to Maldred. Again Maldred issued a string of growls and grunts, punctuating it by hurling the ring up at the ogres. The larger's arm shot out, warty fingers closing over the bauble. He brought it up to his eyes, then smiled, revealing yellowed, broken teeth. He snarled back happily.
"Not good," Rig whispered to Fiona. "That man Maldred knows the ogre tongue. Worse, it seems Dhamon does, too. And don't tell me ogres are deep down good. I know better. I don't like it."
"Good that someone can understand the brutes," she softly returned. "Otherwise, I doubt we'd get past the gates."
"Oh, we'll get in all right," the mariner smugly replied. "But we might not get back out again." He watched the doors swing wide, as the pair of ugly sentries gestured for them to enter. "I really don't think this is a good idea."
Fiona ignored him, kneeing her horse to follow the wagon. Rig cursed, but tagged along, keeping his eyes alert. The doors creaked closed behind them, and a great plank lowered to lock them in place. They saw large crossbows mounted at the crest of the walls, and ladders leading up to them. "Wonderful," the mariner muttered. "This is such an enchanting place we've come to. We should vacation here."
The city spread out before them, too large for them to take it all in at one glance. Massive buildings, the facades of which were deteriorating from age and lack of repair, stretched toward the clouds overhead. Signs hung from some of the buildings, drawings indicating taverns, weaponsmiths, and inns, though whether the buildings were actually open and operating businesses was doubtful-some looked as though they might topple at any moment and few lights shone from within. The words on the signs were in some foreign language, looking like faded and chipped bugs dancing in an uneven line. Ogre tongue, Rig guessed, though he had never seen it written down before.
Growing puddles dotted wide streets lined with wagons and massive draft horses with sagging backs. A large ox was being groomed by a one-eyed ogre woman outside what appeared to be a bakery. The woman glared at the Solamnic and brushed the ox harder as the group streamed past her.
Nearly all of the other citizens they spotted were ogres, manlike creatures nine or more feet tall. They were all broad-faced with large, thick noses, some of which were decorated with silver and gold hoops and bones. Their brows were thick, shadowing large, wide-set dark eyes that glanced at the newcomers, then looked away. Their ears were overlarge and misshapen, most pointed like an elf's, but not gracefully so. And their skin ranged from a pale brown to a rich mahogany. A few were green-gray, and one who strolled slowly across the street in front of them was the color of cold ashes. They milled about sluggishly, as if the unusual wet weather had managed to dampen their spirits.
Many were in hide armor and toting large spiked clubs. The shields that hung from many of their backs were pitted and worn, some with symbols painted on them, others with hash marks that attested to victories, or crudely painted pictures of fearsome animals they'd likely slain. Some ogres wore tattered clothes and ragged animal skins, and were sandaled or had bare feet, all looking filthy. Only a few were dressed in garments that appeared well made and reasonably clean.
There were some half-ogres in the crowd, and these were also dressed raggedly, their features closer to human-looking. One was a peddler hawking smoked strips of gray meat from beneath an awning that swelled away from a boarded-up building. A trio of ogre children hung around him, alternately begging for food and taunting him.
"Our good friend Groller's a half-ogre," Rig said, his voice low and his words intended only for Fiona. "But he's far removed from these creatures."
She nodded. "These people, Rig. Ogres were once the most beautiful race on Krynn. It is said no other race equalled their form."
"Beautiful. Pfah!"
"They were beautiful. But they fell from the grace of the gods during the Age of Dreams. Now they're ugly and brutal, shadows of what their ancestors were."
"Well, I don't care for these shadows," Rig said. "And I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." His hands tightly gripped his mare's reins, the wet leather cutting into his finger joints, and his eyes drifting from one side of the street to the other, looking for a face with the tiniest spark of friendliness. "We're definitely out of place here, Fiona. I'm so uncomfortable my skin feels like ants're crawling all over it."
"Wait, there're some humans here." Fiona leaned forward in her saddle and pointed west, down a side street they were passing.
Indeed there were about a dozen men, dressed even worse than the ogres. They were toting sacks from a building and tossing them into a wagon that sagged and looked stuck in the mud. There were words cut into a sign that hung from the building, but Rig and Fiona had no clue what they meant. Two mountain dwarves were working with the humans-and unlike the ogres and half-ogres, none of them seemed to be carrying visible weapons.
"I truly don't like this," the mariner continued. "In fact…" He cast his head over his shoulder, looking at the gate receding behind them. "Fiona, I think we should…"
"Maldred! You handsome swine!" A booming voice cut through the air, followed by loud, sloshing footsteps. "It has been too long indeed!" The speaker was an ogre, one of the better dressed of the lot, who was splashing his way through the puddles toward them. He had massive shoulders, from which draped a black bear skin, the head of the animal resting to the side of his thick neck, the rear claws dangling down to rake the mud. He continued talking loudly, though in the ogre tongue now, the bear head bobbing along with his broad gestures.
Maldred walked into the ogre's embrace. But the ogre quickly backed away when he noted Maldred's condition. Gesturing at Maldred's bad arm, the creature eyed the rest of the entourage, quickly determining that the half-elf and the other human were also injured. He chuckled deeply when he spotted Fetch. The kobold scampered down from the wagon and practically swam through a puddle to reach the pair.
"Durfang!" Fetch squealed. "It's Durfang Farnwerth!"
"Fetch! You stinking rat! I haven't seen you in years!" the ogre boomed in the common tongue-apparently for Fetch's benefit. He bent over and scratched the kobold's head. "Seems you have not been taking good care of my friend-or his companions."
The kobold shrugged and cackled shrilly.
"You folks need a healer," the ogre continued, standing and meeting Maldred's gaze. "A good one."
Maldred nodded, pointing to Dhamon and Rikali. "My friends, first."
The creature scowled and wriggled his lips. "As you desire, Maldred," Durfang finally said. Then his eyes drifted to Fiona, narrowing with curiosity. He returned to the ogre tongue, speaking to Maldred quick and low, his face animated and concerned-relaxing only after Maldred said something evidently reassuring. "Okay, all of you, follow me."