Dhamon looked down at a tow-headed kender, the one whom he’d seen earlier whispering to the female dwarf.
“Did the other knights kick you out or something? If they did, you shouldn’t be wearing that nasty black armor. Silver would look much better on you. Or none at all—armor, that is.” The kender wrinkled his little nose in disgust. “Did you do something wrong? Is that why you’re out here all alone? You can tell me all about it. I’m a terrific listener, and I’ve nothing to do today except listen to people.”
Dhamon ignored the persistent kender.
“Hey, that’s a nice-looking weapon. Mind if I look at it?”
Malys forced Dhamon to speak. “No, you cannot look at my glaive.”
“How about your helmet? Let me see it! Bet it would fit me better!”
Dhamon frowned. Malystryx had no patience with the small man. She was considering having Dhamon kill him.
“Where are you going all grumpy anyway?”
Dhamon looked down at him balefully.
“There’s nothing in that old place. I should know. I’ve been inside. There’re many more interesting things around Brukt. I could show you.”
The dragon allowed Dhamon to stop. He let out a slow breath.
“I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I do not deserve any friends.” Dhamon was surprised the dragon had let that comment escape his lips. “My friends have a tendency to die.”
The kender backed up a step. “Gee, I don’t really and truly want to be friends with you,” he said with a hint of huffiness in his voice. Then he raised his voice, practically to a shout. “Most of the people around here have got plenty of their own friends already.”
“What?”
“Well, you’re a Knight of Takhisis,” the kender said more loudly, as he wrinkled his little nose again. “People don’t really care for Knights of Takhisis, do they?”
“Stand back,” Dhamon advised, as he felt the dragon shift the glaive to one hand. He was right outside the door now, and he reached out for the handle. “You’ve already done enough, trying to warn those inside of my approach.”
“Is that what you think I was doing?” the kender said, sounding genuinely surprised. He fidgeted with something at the small of his back. “You really thought I was trying to warn someone?”
The dragon muttered a soft curse in Dhamon’s voice. The door was locked.. Dhamon saw through cracks in the wood that it was reinforced by bars. The dragon flexed the muscles in Dhamon’s arm, and he yanked. The door fell off its hinges, and with minimal effort Dhamon tossed it aside.
“Well, I guess you’d be right if you thought that I was trying to warn someone!” the kender continued. He pulled a small, curved blade from a sheath at his waist and jabbed it into the back of Dhamon’s leg. “Company!” the kender announced.
The pain in his leg competed with the burning in his hands. The dragon forced Dhamon to ignore both. He quickly noted the occupants—eight armed men—then whirled on the kender. Dhamon fought to get another warning out. “Get out of here!” he cursed through clenched teeth. “The dragon’ll make me kill you!”
“I don’t see a dragon!” the kender shouted. “I only see a lousy Knight of Takhisis!” The kender, not budging, slashed at him again with the knife.
Dhamon balled his fist and brought it down on the kender’s head, hard enough at the very least to knock him out, possibly to kill him. The kender crumpled, and the dragon inside Dhamon seemed satisfied.
“The Dark Knight bastard killed little Tousletop!” cried one of the men inside, wielding a spear. “Get him!”
The eight surged forward. Four were armed with crude spears, four with swords. Of the latter, two looked different. Dhamon’s mind registered their appearance. They were dressed like the others, he realized It was their eyes that were unusuaclass="underline" strangely unafraid and fixed on him.
He sensed the dragon lock onto his thoughts, felt her raise his lips in the approximation of a smile.
“You’re badly outnumbered, Takhisis bastard. Surrender!” the tallest of the two men barked, as he tried to get the others to stay their weapons.
Chivalrous, Dhamon thought from the secret place in the back of his mind. Don’t make me kill them! Let them kill me! Let me drop this cursed weapon! It was a prayer to the departed gods. He met the man’s stare.
“Surrender to you?” Dhamon heard himself ask. The dragon brought the glaive up. At the same time, Dhamon kicked out, landing a solid blow against one of the Solamnics. The man fell, his spear clattering away, and Dhamon swung the glaive at another man holding a spear. The blade smashed the spear and knocked away another being thrust at him. Dhamon sensed that Malys was enjoying the situation.
“Gods!” one of the villagers cried. “The blade cuts metal like butter!”
“As it will cut you,” the dragon spat in Dhamon’s voice. Reflexes honed in countless fights made him duck, avoiding a thrown spear. He swiveled to the right, avoiding another sword thrust. Let me drop this glaive!
One of the warriors charged forward, darting beneath the glaive and stabbing with his broadsword. Dhamon brought the glaive down, slicing through the offending weapon. The Solamnic sympathizer leapt back. Dhamon’s opponents were no match for him—he and the dragon knew that. Despite their superior numbers, they could not hope to bring him down.
“Run from me!” Dhamon cried, wresting a small measure of control from Malys. “Run before I kill you!” He watched with some satisfaction as four of the men turned and raced for the back of the building. The others did likewise when he took a few menacing steps toward them.
With his dragon-enhanced eyesight, he watched the men claw at a few loose boards, create an opening at the back. They began squeezing through it. One warrior who still held his sword protected their retreat. Dhamon studied the man’s eyes—they spoke defiantly, telling him the man was ready to die to keep the others safe.
“Run!” Dhamon barked at him. He glanced from the Solamnic to his own fingers, knuckle-white and on fire. Let me drop the glaive! He put all his efforts behind that thought. Drop the...
The warrior crouched and moved forward, drawing his sword back and swinging it at Dhamon. In one fluid motion, Dhamon brought the glaive down, slicing through sinew and bone and cutting off the man’s sword arm. The man grabbed his stump, refusing to scream, dropped to his knees. Dhamon backed away several steps to avoid the spray of blood.
Outside, from behind him, Dhamon heard murmurs, the voices of curious townsfolk gathering. He picked out General Jalan’s stern words.
“Foul Knight of Darkness!” the wounded warrior shouted. “Finish me!”
“You heard him,” Commander Jalan said. She was standing only a few feet behind. “Finish him.”
6
Dismal Futures
“You want to kill him, don’t you?”
Rig shrugged his shoulders. “Fiona, sometimes that’s all I think about. Part of me holds him responsible for Shaon’s death. The dragon who killed her... well, the dragon and Dhamon used to be a team. And Goldmoon. How can I not want revenge?”
The young Solamnic knight peered into Rig’s dark eyes. “What does the other part of you want?”
The pair kept their voices down as they sat on the willow log and watched over their sleeping companions. The mariner had refused the dwarf’s offer to take a turn at watch—he wanted Jasper to get as much rest as possible. And after Groller’s tale of Feril and the snake, Rig didn’t trust the Kagonesti alone. She might wander off and make a home for herself in the swamp. Or she might mistake a hungry alligator for a friendly one, what with the smile and all. Groller and his wolf would take the watch just before dawn, a few hours away. That left Fiona, who had decided to keep the mariner company.