Dhamon struggled to his feet, fighting to keep his balance. His hand fumbled for the sword at his waist, his fingers were thick from the alcohol. He favored his right side, and reached for a cane Fetch had fashioned from a tree branch. Maldred was a little slower to rise, hefting the battle-axe in his good hand.

"Did you hear it? Dhamon? Mai? It's Fetch. He's…"

There was a crashing in the dry brush, the sound of cursing, and the shrill voice of the kobold. A moment later a disheveled-looking black man tramped into the clearing, the kobold clinging to his leg. The man was soaked with sweat. In addition to a knapsack that hung from his back and several skins of water that dangled from it, he had a large sword strapped to his waist, and more than a dozen daggers in sheaths crisscrossing his chest. He was swinging a great two-handed polearm at Fetch while at the same time trying to shake the snarling creature off. But the polearm was much too long and unwieldy, and the kobold would not be dislodged. More crashing followed, the clang of metal and the hiss of a sword being drawn.

"Rig!" Dhamon shouted, his tongue feeling swollen from the distilled spirits. "Leave him be!"

The black man growled and kicked out with his leg, trying again to remove the kobold who bit down through the fabric and found his calf. Rig howled as Fiona charged into the clearing. She was quick to lower her weapon the moment she spotted Dhamon, though she didn't sheathe her blade, and she kept her shoulders squared, ready for trouble.

"Call the little mutt off," Fiona told Dhamon, glowering at him as her fingers tightened on the pommel of her sword. "Call him off now, or I'll cut him off and toss him on your fire." She raised the tip of the sword for emphasis, and her eyes narrowed and locked onto Dhamon's like a vise.

"Fetch," Dhamon said almost gently, "Let the man go."

"Trespasser. Spy," the kobold grumbled as he released Rig, swatted him for spite, and scurried to Dhamon's side. The kobold puffed out his chest and bared his yellowed teeth, hissing. "Good thing I was patrolling, Dhamon.. Otherwise them two defenders of justice would've snuck up on us and stole all of our…"

"So good to finally meet some of Dhamon's old friends!" Rikali cut in, cracking a forced smile and stretching out her hand. She glided toward the Solamnic Knight. "You must be Fee-ohn-a," she said, her tone almost polite. "Dhamon has told me so very much about you. And you're…"

"Very angry," Rig stated. He ground the tip of the glaive into the dry earth. His eyes, like daggers, were aimed straight at Dhamon.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't haul your loathsome carcass back to Ironspike and let them hang you. One reason! Hell, I ought to supply the rope and pick out the tree. Robbing a hospital-from injured Knights no less. Knights, Dhamon! Big-as-you-please Legion of Steel ones." Rig sat heavily on the ground. Dhamon glanced over his shoulder at the jug of spirits, contemplated hollering for Fetch to bring it to him.

The mariner rested the glaive on his knees and glared at the Legion of Steel ring on Dhamon's hand. "One damn reason! And don't you even think about saying ‘for old time's sake'."

Dhamon looked away toward the dying campfire, where Maldred, Rikali, and Fetch were attempting to entertain a furiously pacing Fiona.

"Maldred wouldn't let you s'haul me anywhere," Dhamon finally said. His words were slurred a little. He nodded toward the big man. "Tha's Maldred."

Rig snorted. "Right. Maldred. You've told me his name three times now-whoever in the deep levels of the Abyss Maldred is. He's worse off than you are, arm all bandaged like that. You're limping-and dead drunk. A fine pair of cripples you are. An' that elf…»

"Rikali's a half-elf."

"She's hurt, too. An' the clothes she's wearing, the paint on her face, all that jewelry."

"Leave her outta it."

"The whole lot of you stink worse than three-day-old fish."

Dhamon shrugged, his face unreadable.

"Where's Feril?"

No answer.

"And that… creature?"

"Fetch," Dhamon said, blinking and trying to bring Rig completely into focus.

"He's a… kobold." The word sounded like the mariner was spitting out a bad piece of meat. "A two-legged rat. A damnable, stinking little monster the likes of which me and Shaon fought more than once in the Blood Sea Isles and…"

"Aye, that he is. A s'kobold. But he works for Maldred, and he's harmless enough."

"Harmless. Ha! You're all a wretched bunch of thieves as far as me and Fiona're concerned." Rig shook his head in disgust, the sweat flying off his face. "Stealing from the hospital. Burning down a stable and taking half the town with it. Did you know that? Half the town burnt to cinders. Do you care? And stealing horses. Where are our horses? The ones we rode into Ironspike. You were riding mine out of town last I saw. Your elf… half-elf… had Fiona's. Our horses! All I can see are what you're using to pull that old wagon."

"Sold those horses some days ago to a camp s'of bandits."

"You stranded us in that dwarven town!" The mariner tightly gripped the haft of the glaive and narrowed his eyes. "Wouldn't have even been there if Fiona hadn't heard you were in the area, heard what you'd been up to. Probably had it in her pretty head that she could redeem you. Ha!" The veins in his neck bulged like thick cords, and he let out a deep breath between his clenched teeth. "Those were damn good horses, Dhamon. Expensive. What we're riding now're…"

"If I recall, we got quite a s'few steel pieces for your horses."

"Why, I ought to…"

"Kill me?" Dhamon's expression lightened and he laughed, rocking back on his haunches and almost losing his balance.

"That'd be too good for you," came Rig's clipped reply. Another breath of steam. "Too easy. I ought to drag your sorry self off to prison and let you rot there for the rest of your miserable life. No Palin Majere or Goldmoon nearby to save you. And neither you nor that man you call Mai-dred would have a hope of stopping me."

"Me? Stop you? Not at the moment s'anyway."

Rig growled from deep in his throat and ground his heels into the dirt. "I don't understand, Dhamon. What's happened to you?"

Dhamon's fingers unconsciously worried at a thread hanging from his shirt. His fingers felt thick and clumsy from the alcohol. "The Dhamon Grimwulf you knew is dead. I'm a different person, Rig. You have to accept that."

Rig was silent for several moments, probing Dhamon's face and waiting for him to continue. He'd seen Dhamon Grimwulf ragged before, wearing the dirt of a hard-traveled trail. But this was different-far worse, his hair tangled, face covered with stubble, fingernails cracked and caked. Rig shuddered.

When it was clear Dhamon wasn't going to volunteer any explanation, the mariner pressed him on a different matter. "So you're with that woman over there. I can tell by the way she watches you. Interesting looking company. But where's Feril? She know what's going on with you?"

At this repeated mention of the Kagonesti Dhamon once claimed to love, his dark eyes flashed with anger, then he dropped his gaze to study the tip of his worn boot.

The mariner made a clicking sound, shook his head, and finally relaxed his grip on the glaive. "You know that Fiona'll demand you go back to that town and stand trial for what you did. It'd be only right. Me, I think they'd hang you. And I think maybe I'd help."

"No, you wouldn't." Dhamon lifted his head to stare at Rig. "Besides, I'm not going back s'there."

Rig closed his eyes and tried to calm his temper, counted three breaths, then opened them again and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. But only because I've got too many other things to worry about right now than carting a dirty drunk back down through the mountains. You're just not worth it. But it'd be the right thing to do. The honorable thing. Remember that word, Dhamon? Honor? You used to say it often enough. ‘Live by honor. And you got me to believe in it."