Downfall

"Your share in all of this," Dhamon told him. He hefted the long sword. "I have what I was looking for, and I've some shiny knickknacks to amuse Riki. We will meet up again, my good friend. Perhaps in a few months. After you've run Donnag's errand to the mines. And after you've finished playing with the Solamnic."

Maldred nodded. "I'll stay here a bit longer-with Donnag."

Dhamon smiled knowingly. "Thank you, Mai." Then he was taking the rusted stairs two at a time, wanting to quickly put some distance between himself and a very angry Donnag.

The chieftain's ogre guards, who seemed to be aware of much that transpired in town, revealed that Rikali was at Grim Kedar's. He stopped by there briefly and discovered she was sleeping.

Dhamon told Grim not to wake the half-elf, and left a leather pouch for her. It was filled with small baubles from Donnag's treasure room-something shiny to help speed her recovery and to ease any ire she might have because he left her wounded in Rig's company. Of course, he also tossed a valuable trinket Grim's way to pay for Rikali's care. Then Dhamon was moving again.

He found a dead-end alley far from the manse, dark because of the dense clouds that filled the sky and because of the closeness of the decaying walls that rose on three sides. He stripped and let the pouring rain wash him, cleansing the stink from his skin while at the same time invigorating him. For the better part of an hour he relished the sensation, unseen by the few ogres who shuffled past on the far end of the street. Then he scrubbed his clothes against a wall, beating out the blood and dirt and sweat that had clung to them.

When he was finished, he dressed and stood still for quite some time, concentrating on the rain, breathing deep of the air that smelled much sweeter than the musty atmosphere of Donnag's treasure chamber. Next he tended to his hair, cutting the matted ends with Wyrms-bane. He used a dagger to shave, careful not to cut himself and wanting, for some reason, to look more presentable than he had in some time.

"A scabbard," he remembered, as he peered out of the alley. "Should've looked around at Donnag's, was going to. But I wanted to get out of there too badly." Still, he suspected he could get a scabbard from the weaponsmith he had visited here before his Knollsbank trek. He'd trade his broadsword for it. "And something else suitable to wear." He considered returning to the ogre seamstress, where he had earlier acquired his trousers and boots. Perhaps she had something else that would fit him. But he would wait until the sun was starting to set and he couldn't be so easily spotted. Donnag might seek a little revenge for Dhamon's stunt in the treasure room. Certainly the ruler had eyes and ears throughout the city, and Dhamon intended to be very careful until he could slip out under cover of darkness.

Come to think of it, there was another matter to address-the one that had brought him to Bloten in pursuit of this very sword. He'd been putting it off, dallying in the rain, fearing the consequences.

Dhamon padded to the back of the alley, finding a crate to sit upon. Gripping the pommel of Wyrmsbane with both hands, and extending the sword forward until its tip rested in a puddle, he closed his eyes and considered how to phrase this unusual request.

"A cure," he stated simply after several minutes had passed. "A solution. An end." Not to the rain, which was still drumming down steadily. "Redeemer, where is the cure for this damnable scale?"

He waited several minutes more, listening to the incessant patter of the rain, feeling the water pelt him, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, simply constant-as if it had been raining forever.

"Nothing." He sighed and swirled the tip of the sword in the puddle, watching as the blade cut through his dark reflection. "What did I expect anyway? The perfect woman. Happiness. Intangibles. A way to escape this hellish curse." He chuckled softly and closed his eyes. "No escape."

What you seek.

Dhamon's eyes flew open and the pommel grew chill in his hands. There, in the puddle, was an image, clouded and indistinct because of the shadows and the overcast sky. He leaned closer, seeing a little clearer. Leaves, tightly packed, the green color intense and so dark it looked almost black.

There was no physical tugging, as there'd been in Donnag's treasure room when he sought out the most valuable trinket. Just leaves and branches, and a colorful parrot nearly hidden by a clump of vines. There was a lizard, too, but it skittered out of his mind's eye, and also insects, as thick as the clouds overhead. He thought he glimpsed a shadow among the leaves, the size and shape of it impossible to discern. Perhaps merely the breeze rustling a limb. The shadow passed by again.

"The swamp. Something in the swamp."