“No.”
“You’re older than the elf.”
“I don’t know how old Feril is.”
“She’s got some age to her. I can see it around her eyes. Women are better with age, Ragh. Wiser in all ways, more patient. Should be that way with all the gods’ children, I think. Gonna tell me how you fell in with a dragon and an elf?”
“First I fell in with a human…” Ragh began. He proceeded to entertain Grannaluured with the long story of Dhamon and the scale while he sorted through the baubles in his satchel, making certain nothing had broken during the quake. He left out parts, embroidered others, and considered that he had done a good job of telling the story—judging by Grannaluured’s rapt expression.
“So now you want to make your friend human again.” Grannaluured put her skillet back in her pack. “Odd company I’ve embraced, indeed.” She tugged a small pillow out of the pack and laid her head on it as she stretched out on the ground. She smiled at Ragh then, and within minutes she was softly snoring.
The sivak lay down and closed his eyes too, but he didn’t go to sleep right away. He was thinking about the reflections Feril and Obelia had conjured up in the mountain stream. He remembered spying a large black scale next to a totem of bones in the swamp. He shuddered—the totem was a collection of dragon skulls, prizes Sable had earned during the fabled dragonpurge. The dread totem was a source of magical power for her, but the draconian had no desire to visit it.
The reflections had shown another scale, at the edge of a pool of quicksand in a small glade ringed by old, moss-covered trees. Ragh thought the glade looked somewhat familiar, and now he decided he should talk them into going there first. The scrying spell had shown others—several more scales, all broken or cracked at the edge of a marshy tributary. Two more were near a stand of strange, ancient stones that Ragh was certain he’d seen before. The stand of stones might be even closer than the glade. The last scale he remembered seeing had been set atop a carved wooden statue and was painted with strange symbols. Maybe it marked bakali lands, because he knew some of the tribes worshiped beings with cryptic names, or the statue could belong to lizard-men, weaker cousins to the bakali.
The last image the sivak recalled was near Dhamon’s cavern lair deep in the swamp, with the hoary shaggy-bark nearby, and the king snake that was often wrapped around the base of a thin cypress. That was Dhamon’s favorite stretch of water, filled with giant alligators and gar, the one most recently visited by Sable’s minions. Not far from it were fetid, stagnant pools and endless swarms of insects.
“Damnable swamp,” he muttered, before finally drifting off to sleep.
21
This time they flew. Grannaluured sat between Feril and Ragh, thick arms wrapped around one of Dhamon’s back spines. The dwarf’s stubby legs were clamped as tight as she could, her eyes fixed intensely on Feril’s back.
Ragh allowed himself to be slightly cheerful. He’d never fancied the company of dwarves before—though he’d taken the shapes of the dozens of dwarves he’d killed to infiltrate various communities and gain information for Sable. This dwarf was different than most, however. She was thoroughly pragmatic, good-natured and amusing, certainly daring, and above all of that, an excellent cook. He decided he’d get to know her better when they landed.
He felt the air streaking past his ears, the whistling wondrous music that coaxed a few tears down his cheeks. Squeezing his legs to make sure he had a solid perch, he raised his arms to his sides and spread his fingers wide. He dreamed he was flying. He looked down after several minutes. They were well beyond the Kharolis foothills and just south of the ruin of Skullcap, flying low and fast over a stretch of plains that were still green. They passed a farm, and Ragh made out three large wagons being filled with the last of the harvest. He thought he could smell the cut grain, though smelling anything other than the sharp scent of the dwarf and the ghastly odor of Dhamon was likely his imagination. By the Dark Queen’s heads, the female dwarf needed a bath and Dhamon needed…needed…to be a human again!
Hours passed. The sun was straight overhead. Its warmth bathed his shoulders and cut any bite of the wind. The sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue that reminded him of…what? The color of Nalis Aren, he decided. He shook the memory of the lake from his mind and continued to daydream as the land slipped by below.
He noticed a herd of what at first glance he thought were horses, but as Dhamon dipped lower, Ragh made them out as centaurs, perhaps a nomad band from the Plains of Dust in search of more hospitable territory and better hunting grounds. Miles later he spotted a smattering of small farms, a village, and a herd of sheep that moved like a wave of white across a pasture when Dhamon flew too close and frightened them.
Hours later, he caught a glimpse of another blue to the north, the shore of the New Sea. As the sun was starting to set, the edge of the swamp came into view. Ragh’s heart began to sink.
“Home,” Ragh thought he heard the dragon murmur.
The draconian shuddered.
Dhamon dived toward the marsh that marked the outer perimeter of Sable’s realm. He wasn’t a bit tired; he relished the sensation of flying. Years past, when he was a young Dark Knight, he had blond hair and smooth skin not yet scarred by battles. He had been determined and persistent, climbing fast in the ranks and distinguishing himself first as a battlefield medic, then as a commander of men. He was decorated with medals and ribbons, then he was given a far greater honor—he was partnered with a blue dragon. He and the dragon, whose name was Gale, had formed a fast bond and led various campaigns into Solamnic lands.
Yes, he had long blond hair then, he thought, clearly remembering his youthful face and blue eyes. He nearly had died during one campaign, when he was trapped on foot and some distance from Gale. He would have died, too, had not an aging Solamnic Knight taken him in and nursed him back to health, all the while turning his mind away from the precepts of the Dark Knights. Then he met Goldmoon; she had convinced him of right and goodness, and for a time he became her champion. Once again a leader of men, he had guided Feril, Rig, Fiona, and the others against the dragon overlords, and he still had his blond hair.
A scale changed all that; one of Malys’s puppets had branded him with it, attaching it to his thigh. At first unbeknownst to him, the scale had controlled him, though it gave him pain and he raged against it. Had it not been for a silver dragon named Silvara and the shadow dragon that cursed him, he likely would have remained under Malys’s control until one of them died. Lying in the cave of the shadow dragon, lying in a pool of its black blood, Dhamon’s hair had turned black, his eyes also black. His soul started to blacken, too, thanks to the insidious magic the shadow dragon secretly had worked upon him.
The dragons that had manipulated him were responsible for much of the bad fortune that swept across Krynn. Did he really want to be human again and risk running afoul of the dragons? Human, he was powerless against them…he knew that truth from his stint as Goldmoon’s champion. Oh, you could have minor victories against dragons, but nothing that made a real difference in the world.
Did Dhamon really want to give up all his strength and power? He clenched and unclenched his talons, feeling his leg muscles ripple. He spread his wings and glided down toward the marsh, enjoying the rush of air. He wondered if his passengers, the three riding on his back, were enjoying the flight. Puny as they were, compared to his great size and power, he could barely feel them back there.
Had Gale been able to feel him?
He landed on the soft earth, his clawed feet sinking into the ooze of the marsh. Dhamon stretched his front legs. His tail twitched as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. Myriad scents struck him—the loamy soil, the broad blooms clinging to vines, stagnant water all around. Nothing was truly unpleasant; the complex mix was heady and somehow comforting because it smelled of home.