Downfall

"This is so unlike you, your spirit dampened. You give in to me far too easily," he said, perhaps regretting the spell he had cast over the Solamnic. He took her by the arm and led her to the main shaft. Soon they were lowering themselves down the ropes.

Dhamon was running toward the smaller mine. He waved his sword to get Rig's attention. The mariner had just vanquished a spawn, his skin was a mass of boils from the acid, his shirt shredded from the creature's claws. Coupled with the snake bites on his face and hands, he looked like he shouldn't be standing. But his shoulders were square, his eyes clear, and he was watching Fiona and Maldred climb down the ropes. "Fiona!" he called. "Don't go with him!"

Dhamon shook his head and pointed to the smaller mine entrance behind Rig. "There are ten spawn inside there. Maybe more," he told him as he entered the shaft.

"We've got to take them before we can get the rest of the slaves out."

Rig stood indecisively for a moment, then, shaking his head, he followed Dhamon, thrusting his aches and pains to the back of his mind and telling himself when they were done here, he and Fiona would be on their way and all of this would be a bad memory. They would never have to look at Dhamon Grimwulf again.

The smaller mine had narrow tunnels that were barely six feet tall. It was being worked by human and dwarf slaves, diligently mining the thick veins of silver. Rig and Dhamon found their way through the winding shafts, guided by guttering torchlight and the sound of whips and snarls.

They came upon two spawn who were unaware of what was transpiring above. The sounds of picks against the rock was loud enough to drown out the battle overhead. Dhamon killed one before it could react, slamming his eyes shut when the cloud of acid came. Then he bowled into the second, ramming the sword into its chest. It clawed him deeply as it went down, then melted into acid and a stringent cloud.

"So the spawns' dragon-acid cannot harm me," Dhamon muttered. "Thanks entirely to you." He glanced at Wyrmsbane. "But the creatures' claws are another matter." He wiped at a line of blood running from a slice across his chest.

Rig didn't pause to see how Dhamon was faring. "I don't want to be here," he hissed, admitting to himself, however, that freeing these people was far from a bad idea. He bolted down the tunnel, shouting to the humans and dwarves to drop their picks. Then he was pulling on their chains, which were weak and rusting from the moisture of the Black's swamp. His muscles bunched, and he tugged free link after link, shutting out the grateful voices.

"If I had nay glaive, I'd be cutting through this metal like it was parchment."

Hands touched him in thanks. "Shrentak," he mumbled as he picked up other chains and tugged them apart and told those freed to head for the surface. "I should be doing this in Shrentak."

After they freed more than a dozen slaves, Dhamon and Rig worked their way down another corridor, crouching and readying their weapons when they spotted the dull yellow gleam of spawn eyes.

* * * * * * *

In the main tunnel, Maldred and Fiona were busy freeing ogres. They'd found one too weak to move, starving and beaten. Maldred killed him quickly, speaking softly in the ogre tongue and closing the dead slave's eyes. "A righteous enough cause for you, Lady Knight? Even though these are ogres?" he asked. He frowned when he saw Fiona's blank expression. Had he spent too much effort on his last charming spell, and was she too far under his influence? "Have I put out all of your fire, Lady Knight?" he asked. "I must see later about giving at least some of it back."

She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she headed toward a hissing sound coming from a shadowed alcove. A draconian stepped into the torchlight, and from a few yards away it cautiously regarded her.

The creature was a bozak, birthed from a corrupted bronze dragon egg a long time ago when Takhisis walked the face of Krynn and she used these creatures as commanders during the War of the Lance. His bronze-hued scales glimmered in the light of the torch, making him appear almost regal. The scales were the size of coins across most of his frame, smaller along his face and hands where they were flat and smooth like the scales of a fish. His wings were short, too stunted to allow him to fly. But were he not in such tight confines, he could use them to glide short distances.

The bozak was not much taller than Fiona, and was not as muscular as Maldred. But he looked powerful. Battle-tested and old. He wore a gold collar about his neck. It was studded with bronze spikes, and at irregular intervals chunks of onyx, sapphires, and garnets were scattered. It was a singular piece of jewelry, and some part of Fiona's mind recognized it. Recognized that and the deep crisscrossing scars across its chest.