“If I can make it safe for them, the child will have a good home,” he murmured.
“What did you say, Dhamon?”
“Nothing, ogre.”
Maldred gave a great sigh, hung his head. Within a few moments, he was asleep.
Dhamon couldn’t afford to rest. He wasn’t hungry either, and his forced pace hadn’t allowed his companions any time to eat. They could eat later. Perhaps he’d want food later, too. He didn’t need much rest anymore, or much food. His senses were keen, his strength remarkable. It was amazing what little it took to sustain him.
Most of the time he felt stronger than ever, bristling with energy By the same token, every inch of him dully ached! He was nauseated half the time, and the other half his head throbbed. His feet hurt always, as they were growing and straining the limits of his boots. Damn the shadow dragon! he cursed inwardly with each breath. Thankfully the sleeves were long on this old sorcerer’s robe and helped to conceal his ugly form. When he came upon Riki and the child, he didn’t want them to see what was happening to him. If only I see them while there is still something human about me, he thought.
He knew Ragh stole glances at him, as they followed the winding river under a waning sun. Dhamon was determined not to let the draconian know he was suffering from the shadow dragon’s magic, so he spent his time looking at everything but his two passengers. The view of the Black’s land was better from the river, and he imagined he might actually enjoy the journey were the circumstances different. The leaves of the cypress trees were a vivid emerald and decorated with colorful parrots, their long tails looking like ribbons tied to the branches. Though they were some distance away, he could see the fine detail on the birds, and hear their soft whistles. Their noise ebbed and flowed and at times added to the pounding in his head. He could make out the very edges and veins of the leaves, and hear their rustling, hear the little waves lapping against the raft, against the bank, hear unseen animals pattering through the brush, and by the sounds they made he guessed at what kinds of animals they were. He heard the snarl of a panther, the soft step of a deer, the growl of… something that wasn’t a normal creature.
He pulled the glaive haft from the water and peered cautiously to his right. Not enough racket for a dragon, too much for a spawn or draconian. The creature growled again.
“What is it, Dhamon?” Ragh was staring to the right also, careful not to rock the raft and furious when Maldred woke up, leaned over, and nearly upset all of them.
Dhamon saw a branch move. It was inland from the river by better than three dozen yards. Probably nothing to be concerned with, but somehow he could see very well at that distance, even through tiny gaps in the dense foliage, and so he continued to stare. A large, scaly green hand shifted the branch. He made out the olive-hued torso of a lizard creature, a spear held in one of its clawed hands. A lizardman?
No, he thought after more scrutiny. Too large, its scales were more pronounced. He couldn’t see all of the beast, only tantalizing parts, but after a moment he was able to figure out just what it was.
“Abakali,” he growled low. “A stinking bakali.”
Bakali were an ancient race and at one time were thought extinct. Better for all concerned if all the bakali were dead, Dhamon thought. Though cunning, bakali were not especially bright, though they were strong and brutal, and they tended to serve whatever master offered the best rewards. There were small, scattered tribes of them in the Black’s land, and Dhamon knew from encountering a hunting party a few years ago that at least some of them worked for Sable. This bakali was by itself, probably looking for something to eat. The way it was slinking, it was stalking something.
“Not my concern.” He started poling the raft again, a little more slowly, watching the creature out of curiosity. Then he saw that it wasn’t alone after all. There were at least three more bakali—a small force, nothing that could deter him. His heart skipped a beat a few moments later when his extraordinary vision revealed just what they were stalking.
“Ragh,” Dhamon spoke softly, though he knew the bakali were unaware of the three of them on the raft, and certainly couldn’t hear them at this distance. “There’s Fiona.”
This time Ragh’s surprised reaction almost upset the raft. “The Solamnic? She’s not dead?”
“Not yet,” Dhamon commented dryly, “but it looks like some big, ugly bakali are trying to change that.” Although Dhamon, equally surprised to see the Knight, was glad Fiona was alive, he also felt resentful that she had reappeared now to delay his trip. “Damn it all.” He was determined to keep her from ending up in the bakali’s stomachs, however.
Had she managed to find their tracks and was following them for some reason? He hurriedly poled the raft toward the shore, indicating with a finger to his lips that the draconian and Maldred should keep quiet. He gestured toward the bakali, though he had lost sight of Fiona. He concentrated, trying to pick through the sounds of the swamp.
The sounds intensified. The ruckus from the birds and other unseen creatures grew eerily louder, though the animals apparently weren’t coming closer. All of the sounds were becoming annoyingly indistinguishable to Dhamon’s super-sensitive ears.
“Ragh, stay here and watch the ogre. Keep your eyes open for trouble.”
Ragh and Maldred obviously hadn’t noticed a change in the sounds of the swamp. Ragh… Dhamon could hear the draconian’s raspy breathing a little too clearly could hear Ragh’s heart beat, hear Maldred’s too—it beat slower and louder than his own or Ragh’s.
“You’ll need help.” The draconian spoke softly, Dhamon knew, but it sounded like a shout to his ears.
Dhamon shook his head. “Small stuff. I certainly can handle four bakali by myself.” Even his own words sounded booming in his ears. “Watch the ogre, I say. We can’t afford to let him get away and warn the shadow dragon.” He tugged a corner of the raft onto the shore to anchor it, then, shouldering the glaive, he headed inland.
Matters swiftly grew worse as he disappeared through the trees and out of sight of the raft. The sounds of the morass quickly became overwhelming, practically deafening. The drone of the insects and chatter of the birds was almost vicious, the rustling of the leaves resounding. Dhamon staggered and dropped the glaive to throw his hands over his ears. It didn’t help. A big cat snarled, the sound like a mighty roar. The river rolled by, sloshing thunderously against the bank wells. He slammed his teeth together and threw his head back. How could he help Fiona when he couldn’t help himself? What by the names of all the vanished gods was happening to him now?
“Ragh,” he gasped, wanting to tell the draconian to go after Fiona in his stead. Was he speaking loud enough?
Could the draconian hear him? He shouted the draconian’s name now, the single word like a dagger thrust into his ears. Parrots screeched overhead, adding to the agony. The chitter of the insects swelled impossibly, slender branches rubbed against each other and echoed brutally in his head.
He heard his heart pounding, thought he heard the blood rushing through his veins in rhythm with the river. His breath sounded like powerful gusts of wind.
“Quiet,” he prayed. “Fiona. I have to help Fiona. Everything needs to be quiet.” Amazingly, in the next breath the cacophony lessened, startling him. Although still loud, it was no longer earsplitting, and he could think. Quiet. Please, please, make it quiet. Centering his thoughts on that one idea, he discovered that he could diminish some of the individual sounds—though it took some effort. He concentrated more intensely until all the noises lessened and became bearable.
His hearing restored, he retrieved the glaive and plodded forward. With each step he felt better. He listened for the hisses and growls of the bakali. He was able to pinpoint these noises, bringing them to the fore, then he heard something else—the hiss of steel, a sword being drawn, a feminine intake of breath.