“The other part?” Rig softly chuckled. “The other part just wants to wring Dhamon’s neck—after he tells us why he attacked us and killed Goldmoon. Maybe Palin was right, the scale was responsible. But Palin could be wrong, too. Sorcerers aren’t always right. You know, I halfway liked Dhamon once. Sometimes I even admired him. And I guess... maybe... a small part of me wants him to turn out innocent.”
The Master had contacted them shortly after sunset, magically appearing like a ghost in the center of their camp, announcing that Dhamon Grimwulf and his glaive had been located. Dhamon was on his way to an ogre ruin called Brukt. Gilthanas and Silvara had struck out after him, but considering all the ground the pair had to cover, Rig and the others could get there before the silver dragon without much of a detour to their original course.
Just beyond Brukt stretched the mountains of Blöde, and the ogre ruin was near the Pashin Gap. After dealing with Dhamon—one way or another—they could pass through the mountains to Khur, rent a ship somewhere along the coast, and set sail for Dimernesti. The Master said he was working on finding the exact location of the underwater realm of the elves. “Just so you’ve it found by the time we get to Khur,” Rig had told him. “I don’t want this trip through the swamp to be for nothing.”
“We’ll have a long time of it tomorrow,” Fiona said. “And the next day. And the next.” She brushed at mud on her breastplate. “We’ll have to cover more ground than we’ve been doing, if there’s a chance of catching him. Do you think Master Fireforge is up to it?”
“Jasper’s tough. He’ll make it. But you... you ought to consider leaving that armor behind,” Rig advised. He pointed to the canvas sack that carried the rest of her suit of plate. “It’s heavy, and lugging that around for a couple added hours a day will only wear you out faster. We can’t afford to be slowed for a few hunks of shiny metal.”
“I’ve managed so far. A few more hours a day won’t matter.”
“If you say so.”
“Besides, the armor is part of who I am. The most important part.”
Rig started to say something else, but a muted noise to the south cut him off. It sounded a bit like the snort of a big horse, and whatever made it was coming closer. He put a finger to his lips, unsheathed his sword, and motioned for Fiona to stay put. He disappeared into the foliage without noticing that she had followed him.
The canopy was so dense they could barely see more than a few feet before them, yet the noise became more distinct with every yard they covered. The mariner moved slowly, testing the ground ahead with his feet.
They were only a hundred or so yards distant from the camp when they spotted a clearing ahead. Krynn’s single pale moon shone down on a small moss-covered pond, ringed by a half-dozen grotesqueries.
“Spawn,” Rig whispered to Fiona. “Black ones.”
The young Solamnic stared with wide eyes. She’d heard of them when she listened to Rig’s and Feril’s accounts of battling the spawn they had inadvertently stumbled upon in Khellendros’s lair months ago in the Northern Wastes. But their descriptions didn’t do the creatures justice. Krynn’s moon revealed them in all their freakish horror.
Half of the creatures were vaguely man-shaped with sweeping batlike wings, the tips of which grazed the top of the leather ferns. Their snouts were equine but covered in tiny black scales. The scales were larger elsewhere on their bodies, sparkling darkly in the moonlight. Their eyes were dull yellow, as were their fangs, their talons long, curled, and sharp. A thin ridge of scales started at the back of their heads and ended at the bases of thin, snakelike tails.
The light was too dim to see if the others matched these three. Their noises had no pattern to hint at a language. They seemed reminiscent of pigs snorting.
As the others came into the moonlight, Rig and Fiona could see that these three differed from their companions. One had wings, but they were short, scalloped and uneven, extending from the creature’s shoulder blades to just above its waist. Its head was more manlike than equine, and long horns grew upward from the base of its jaw. Its arms were short, ending in misshapen claws where its elbows should be, and its tail was forked and thick.
The remaining two were the largest, easily eight feet tall. Their skin looked leathery, with no trace of scales or wings, though there were malformed nubs on their shoulder blades. They were a dull black, with nothing shiny about them. Their heads were overly large for their bodies, long snouts filled with crooked teeth of vastly uneven lengths that prevented their mouths from shutting entirely. A ribbon of drool ran from the one with the longest snout and disappeared into the ferns with a sizzle. Acid, Rig decided. Their arms were longer than suited their bodies. They reminded the mariner of baboons he’d seen in his youth on the Misty Isle.
“Yesss, drink,” the lead spawn hissed. “Drink, but hurry. We have important work this night.”
The two apelike spawn moved into the shallow water, and Rig’s eyes widened. Their arms didn’t end in claws at all. Their arms looked like snakes tipped with fanged heads that eagerly lapped at the stagnant water.
Rig’s fingers closed about the pommel of his sword. The beasts looked evil, had to be evil, like the blue spawn he had fought. They should be attacked and slain, he knew, to prevent them from inflicting horrors on anyone. They should... He released his grip and motioned to Fiona to retrace her steps.
From a safer distance, they watched the three spawn and the three grotesques drink their fill and then move toward the west.
“We might have been able to take them by surprise,” she whispered when she was certain the creatures were far enough away. “Horrid creatures.”
“Maybe we could have,” Rig quietly answered. Maybe we should have, he said to himself. He spoke aloud. “But there’s three other people back there in the clearing. I’m responsible for them. And we’ve other priorities: Dhamon, his glaive, the Dimernesti crown. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing our mission.” Inwardly he added, Rig Mer-Krel, you’ve changed. And I’m not sure it’s for the better.
It was late the following afternoon when the hair on Fury’s back rose. The wolf’s ears lay flat, his lips curled. He pawed nervously at the ground.
Groller was the first to notice his animal companion’s unease. He motioned to Rig, pointed at the wolf. The half-ogre cupped his hand and scooped at the air, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.
“The wolf smells something,” Rig said.
“I smell something, too,” Feril whispered. “Something smells wrong”
“I never thought anything about this place smelled right,” Jasper said.
Fiona drew her blade and moved to Rig’s side. He’d been leading the small band in the direction toward where the Master said they’d find the ogre ruin. The ruin should be at least another day away.
“I’m going to scout ahead,” Rig said, his voice low.
“You’re welcome to join me if you leave that sack of armor behind.”
She dropped it on the driest spot of ground she could find.
“I’ll go too,” Feril offered.
Rig scowled. “Next time,” he said.
Groller looked at Rig, brought both hands to his mouth, fingertips touching and covering his lips, then dropped them to his sides, as if he were discarding something.
The mariner nodded. Don’t worry, he signed by shaking his head and rotating his hands in front of his forehead. I’ll be very quiet. Rig drew his cutlass, motioned for Fiona to follow, and quickly disappeared.
“Think it’s Dhamon?” Jasper asked so quietly that Feril had to bend over to hear him.
“We’re not close enough to the ruin,” she answered.
“Yeah, but...”
“Okay, let’s all find out.” She took the trail Rig and Fiona had left.
Jasper started after her, but Groller’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. The half-ogre whirled his fingers, indicating himself and the dwarf, then pointing to the ground.