Downfall

The sword that lay inside was not held in velvet or resting in a sheath, as befitting a weapon of its status and history. Rather, it was at the bottom of the box, amid silver pieces, leather thongs from which dangled rough gems, small pouches, and other knickknacks.

Dhamon carefully moved the coins aside and lifted the blade, an eager gleam in his eyes. It was a long sword, the edge etched in an elvish script he couldn't read. Its cross-piece bore the likeness of a falcon's beak. It was not nearly as ornate as any of the other weapons hanging on the dungeon wall, and its workmanship was not as fine as the sword the ogre had tried to pass off to Dhamon. Still, there was something remarkable about it. He held his breath as he stood and slowly swung the weapon in front of him.

"Wyrmsbane," he whispered. Dhamon raised the blade parallel to his face, his dark eyes reflected in the polished steel. Was it his imagination, or did the metal give off a faint light of its own? Perhaps it was the elvish script, a written spell that caused the soft glow.

"Dhamon?" Maldred was at his shoulder.

Dhamon's attention snapped back to Donnag, who was standing against a pillar, the great leader of Blode nervously watching them. "I asked you to watch him."

"It's all right," Maldred said. "He'll do nothing against us now." As an afterthought, and much softer, he said,"And I am watching him… very closely." The big man nodded to the sword. "Wyrmsbane, you said?"

"One of the names the sword was given."

"And you're sure this is the fabled weapon?" Maldred's eyes darted to the wall of swords, then back to Donnag, who hadn't moved an inch.

Dhamon nodded. "It fits the description the sage gave me."

"The sword of Tanis Half-Erven."

"It's had many owners through the decades. Many names. Most know it as Wyrmsbane, sister sword to Wyrmslayer."

"Wyrmslayer? The blade the elven hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the second Dragon War?"

Another nod. "Wyrmsbane was said to be not as powerful, though it was forged by the same Silvanesti weaponsmiths during that Dragon War. Legend says this blade was given to the kingdom of Thorbardin. And from there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven's hands. It was said to be buried with him."

"The thief claimed to have robbed Tanis's grave," Donnag croaked.

Dhamon glanced into the steel box and idly wondered if some of the other trinkets also once belonged to the famed hero of Krynn's past. "Redeemer, it was also called," he continued. "What Tanis called it, I believe. Because it was forged to redeem the world from the clutches of dragonkind."

Donnag cleared his throat. "You have what you want. Now leave, the both of you." There was no power behind the words. It was as if the chieftain was pleading with Dhamon rather than ordering him.

"A test first," Dhamon told Maldred. "Just to be absolutely certain. And just make sure, Maldred, you keep your eyes on Donnag." He went over to what he believed was the very center of the old dungeon and slowly turned to take it all in, though in truth that was impossible, as he could not see into the reaches of all the cells that extended from the chamber. Then he gripped the pommel with both hands and closed his eyes. The other two watched him intently.

* * * * * * *

"‘Tis a very old blade, this one ye be askin' me about." This from a slight man so bent with age he looked like a crab folded in a shell. Wispy hair, like a spiderweb, clung to the sides of his head, and a thin beard extended from the tip of his chin down to the folds of a drab weatherworn robe. He was hunkered over a table in a dingy tavern in the rough section of Kortal, a town east of the northern Kalkhist Mountains in the territory of the red dragon overlord.

"I'm interested in old weapons, Caladar," Dhamon said as he reached and grabbed the old man's tankard, brought it toward him, and from a jug he'd purchased-the second of the night-refilled it. The old man's hands closed greedily around the tankard and he drank deep, his eyes bobbing shut in pleasure.

"I've not tasted anything quite so sweet in quite a few years," Caladar mused. He carefully set the tankard on the table, his fingers feeling clumsily thick after imbibing so much alcohol. "I haven't been able to afford it."

Dhamon reached beneath the table and glanced around the room. It was very late, and only a few other tables had patrons, who were engrossed in their own drinks and tales. He tugged free a brown leather bag and pushed this across the table toward the old man.

Caladar's right hand shot forward. The speed of his acquisitive gesture surprised Dhamon. "Ye think that by plyin' me with drink and coin I'll tell ye more?"

Dhamon didn't answer. His dark eyes locked onto the old man's pale gray ones.