Downfall

Green became their world-vines, leaves, moss, ferns, even the green scum resting on the pools of water. The huge trees formed a vast canopy, and on the rare days when the sun poked through the clouds in the afternoon, only diffuse rays made their way down to the boggy forest floor. Sometimes the ogre mercenaries resorted to torches, as the swamp was so close and dark it seemed perpetually night. Dhamon wondered how anything managed to grow here. Dragon magic, he decided.

Lizards darted out from under their feet. Something in the brush moved to the side of the ogre column, unseen but obviously paralleling their course. A great black cat lounged on a low-hanging branch, yellow eyes trained on them, giving a yawn. There were noises that hinted at other watchers. The chitter of monkeys, the snarl and snap of an alligator, the mournful cry of an unfamiliar creature that sounded uncomfortably close. There were a few tracks of massive creatures with webbed feet. The ogres talked about hunting giant crocodiles come evening, wanting to supplement the rations Donnag had provided with fresh meat.

A mist hung above the ground everywhere. This, too, was green and was birthed by the summer's heat evaporating some of the swamp's moisture. It put Dhamon on his guard, as he suspected it could hide all manner of things. The swamp took on an almost haunted appearance, the mist a chorus of pale green ghosts they had to walk through.

Dhamon spent the first few days trailing behind the ogres, who were forging their path through the foliage. He queried the sword each day, asking it again about a cure. Sometimes he received nothing. And sometimes he gained more visions of the swamp, mirror images of what he first pictured in that Bloten alley.

Fiona was at the head of the column. She was paying far more attention to Maldred than to Rig, who sometimes drifted back to walk with Dhamon, though they did not speak. Often Rig stayed toward the center of the column, where he could keep an eye on the Solamnic Knight, and take occasional glances over his shoulder to watch Dhamon.

Dhamon mused that the mariner had become practically invisible-or forgotten, as no one paid him any heed. Dhamon was pleased Rig was leaving him alone. He preferred to keep to himself, talking only when Fiona or Mal-dred wandered back to check on him, or when one of the ogres tried to engage him in a game of chance.

The morning of the fifth day brought them to a river. The insects were thick around the water, which at its deepest point was up to Dhamon's armpits. But the insects didn't seem to bother the ogres-or the alligators and crocodiles that lounged in profusion along the banks. Dhamon suspected it was only the number in their entourage, and the size of the ogres, that kept the swamp denizens from making a meal of them.

Later that morning, Rig drifted back to walk with Dhamon again. The two men didn't acknowledge each other, though they slogged over the marshy ground practically shoulder to shoulder. When the shadows became so thick they knew the sun had set, the column slowed, and the ogres began to set up their camp. Rig moved forward to find Fiona. The Solamnic Knight was deep in conversation with Maldred, so the mariner drifted away, becoming invisible again.

Dhamon distanced himself from the camp, careful to keep it in sight, however. Stabbing the end of his torch into the ground, he crouched in front of a stagnant pool, drew Wyrmsbane, and stirred the water with the sword's tip. "A cure," he whispered. "A remedy for this scale."

He was concentrating fiercely, hunkered in front of the pool until his leg muscles stung from being forced into this position for so long. There was no tingling from the sword, no image, no chilling pommel. Nothing. "A cure," he repeated.

Dhamon recalled that the old Sage of Kortal said the sword did not function all the time, that it had a will of its own. And indeed it hadn't responded to him every day. So Dhamon refused to give up hope of finding what he wanted. He held his position a few minutes longer and focused all of his thoughts on the sword and the scale on his thigh. "A cure."

Nothing.

He let out a deep breath, the air whistling out softly between clenched teeth. He would try again in the morning, before they were on the move again. He would return to Maldred and… the pommel grew cool in his hands. It was a welcome sensation, cutting the heat of the swamp and causing his heart to leap. He stirred the water and again focused all of his thoughts on the scale on his leg and on finding relief from it. A moment later he saw an image in the pool.