Downfall

The Legion of Steel sentries had just made another pass down the hall, which meant they'd be patrolling the grounds within a moment or two. Three predictably monotonous and slow circles the Knights always made, vigilantly guarding their injured brethren. Dhamon had been «listening» to the hospital since he arrived shortly after dawn and had the Knights' dull routine memorized. He knew he would have a little more than a half-hour to work undiscovered.

More than enough time.

Dhamon padded to the window and opened wide one of the shutters, breathing deep the warm fresh air that offered him some respite from the pungent salve they'd smeared all over his body. He wondered how even an unhealthy man could bear the stuff, the cure seeming worse than the malady. Craning his neck this way and that, he spotted no one out on the street. Only indistinct sounds reached him, muted music and off-key singing coming from a tavern down the block. He began to unwrap the bandages, the moonlight revealing his lean, athletic body glistening with a sheen of sweat. His chest was well defined, his stomach taut, his legs muscular. On the center of his right thigh sat a dragon scale, glossy black and shot through with a line of shimmering silver. Around the scale and all over the rest of his tall form were dozens of crisscrossing claw marks. Only his face had been spared the assault, and it was angular and handsome-despite the unkempt hair crowning it.

Dhamon blotted some of the foul mixture off his chest and arms with the ends of the bandages and took one more glance up and down the street. The grounds weren't empty any longer. His dark eyes flashed as he studied a stubby form walking awkwardly on the dried grass that made up the narrow lawn of the hospital. He continued to watch until he was certain it was a drunk dwarf trying to find his way home. When the dwarf finally stumbled onto the street and out of sight, and after he watched the Legion of Steel sentries begin to make their first pass, Dhamon reached for his clothes. They were in bad shape. Even his leather vest bore the crisscrossing cuts. Beyond that, they were worn, the color faded so badly and the fabrics so thin they should have been discarded long ago.

He retrieved the leather pouch from his boots and left them sitting on the carpet at the end of the bed. No use putting them on and clomping through the halls, he thought. His bare feet would be more silent. He carefully closed the shutters and returned to the doorway, again listening for sounds beyond. Still nothing. Good, he mouthed, as he slipped into the hall and padded by a string of lanterns, hung evenly along the wall. Only one was lit, however. As the night got older, all the others had been extinguished and the only one that remained burning had its wick turned down to a soft glow.

Dhamon glanced in two open doorways as he went, picking through the shadows to spy Knights in thick bandages, some softly moaning even in their sleep. A few were missing legs and arms. Then he passed by a door marked "Caregivers Office," where soft light seeped out along the floor. With a little effort, he could make out the muffled conversation of two dwarves. They were discussing the status of a patient. Not his concern. Dhamon moved on.

Heartbeats later he reached the end of the hall, where a wide curving stairway stretched into blackness. Like a cat, Dhamon silently glided up the steps and soon found himself on the top floor, where another lone lantern provided ghostly light. He started toward the opposite end of the hall-he knew from eavesdropping on the caregivers that this was where he needed to go. Then suddenly he stopped and pressed himself against a wall as a young dwarf carrying a bucket filled with soiled bandages emerged rather noisily from a room and nearly brushed against him. The dwarf didn't see Dhamon; his wide, glum face was fixed on the bucket, and he was grumbling to himself in his native tongue. The dwarf didn't smell Dhamon either-an even worse odor was coming from the room he'd just vacated.

When the dwarf disappeared down the stairs, Dhamon poked his head inside the room to make sure nothing there would upset his plans. There were a dozen men stretched out on beds, in various states of injury and all being treated with one reeking balm or another-the redolent mix competed with the repugnant smells of gangrenous flesh and blood, fresh and dried. The form on the nearest bed was not breathing and gave off the almost-sweet odor of death. Dhamon had been on enough battlefields to recognize this scent. Deciding this fatality was perhaps what the dwarf was so glum about, and none of his concern, he edged toward his goal.

The hallway was eerie, still and hot. Wheezing, moans, coughs, and snores echoed hauntingly, raising the hairs on the back of Dhamon's neck. Each step he took was a cautious one, for in places the tiles were slick, with perhaps blood or sweat, or from something the dwarves had used earlier for cleaning.