"Honor's a hollow s'word, Rig."

The mariner's next words were slow and deliberate and drawn out. "You owe me an explanation."

Dhamon tipped his head back and stared at the night sky. A growing number of clouds hid most of the stars, but a few twinkled through. He thought he saw a tongue of lightning and the flash, real or imagined, made him recall Gale, the blue dragon he once rode when he served with the Knights of Takhisis. "I owe no one. And you trailed me s'here for nothing. Your horses are gone. And you'll get nothing out of me for them." He felt some of the alcohol's effects fading away, his head starting to throb, and he wished the jug were within arm's reach so he could make himself thoroughly numb again. He glanced over at Mal-dred-the jug was at his feet. Not that terribly far away.

Rig slapped his thigh, pulling Dhamon's attention back. "Wish we hadn't found this camp. Wish Fiona and me…"

"I wish you weren't here either."

"Damn fate."

"What, Rig? You blame it on fate that you happen to be in the same stretch of mountain? Coincidence?" There was another flash in the sky, this one real. Dhamon's eyes sparkled at the possibility of rain. He shook his head. "I don't believe such a faerie story. I believe you were looking for us."

Rig snorted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You think you're so important," he mumbled. The mariner closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them. "We took the first decent trail we could find through the Kalkhists and we met up with some merchants-offered them protection in exchange for a ride. They were quick to take our offer, seems the folks who still have to travel these passes are skittish with all the recent robberies and are taking on sellswords. Seems there's a thieving band that's been raiding wagons up and down this range-a giant of a man, a black-maned brigand, a painted woman, and a… creature."

"Guilty," Dhamon cut in, squaring his shoulders as if in pride.

"The merchants took us to the next town and we bought a couple of old draft horses there," he said, pointing toward the south, where Dhamon squinted to make out two big mares. Even in the darkness it was obvious they weren't as well bred as the pair Rig and Fiona had in Iron-spike. "And then we continued on this trail. Saw your fire when we intended to stop for the night and thought we'd take a look. Thought you might be the merchants we befriended. But it was purely a coincidence we crossed paths."

"Pity we weren't the merchants."

Rig stared at him for several minutes, his brow furrowing with a dozen thoughts. Then his eyes trailed away to watch Fiona.

The Solamnic was sitting on a log near Maldred, occasionally glancing Rig's way and steepling her fingers-a gesture she practiced when she was uncomfortable. The half-elf was standing at Fiona's shoulder, alternating between inspecting the Knight and casting flirtatious looks at Dhamon. She strolled the length of the wagon, hips undulating and shoulders swaying. The kobold was sitting cross-legged at the big man's side, his glowing red eyes focused solely on the mariner.

"You're welcome to share our camp tonight, Rig." Dhamon finally broke the silence. His mouth felt dry. Another glance at the jug. "This is ogre country, and you're safer with us than on your own, especially this late at night. In the morning, we'll go our separate ways. You should head back into Khur-if you're smart."

Rig's eyes cut into Dhamon. "You owe me an explanation," he repeated with more force. "Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?"

Dhamon sighed. "And then I suppose you'll let me get some sleep?"

The mariner said nothing, continuing to stare.

"All right," Dhamon relented. "For old time's sake." He settled himself into a more comfortable position, but grimaced when he heard the scrabble of small feet.

"Dhamon's gonna tell a story," Fetch said with glee, revealing that he'd been using his acute hearing to eavesdrop on their conversation. The kobold picked a spot near Dhamon, just outside the reach of Rig's glaive, then he waggled his bony fingers to get Rikali's attention. He pulled out the ‘old man/ already filled with tobacco, hummed at his finger and thrust it into the bowl, lighting it. Then the kobold puffed away, blowing smoke rings in the mariner's direction.

The half-elf glided over, kneeling behind Dhamon, and languidly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She nuzzled his neck and winked slyly at Rig.

The mariner looked across the camp to Fiona, who nodded as if to say, "I will stay here and keep an eye on Maldred." She turned her attention back to the big man, intending to learn something about this band of thieves.

"You've questions, Lady Knight," Maldred began, his expression gentle and his good hand relaxed on his knee. He let the silence settle between them before continuing. "I can tell it from your face. It's a beautiful face, one that is most easy on my weary eyes. But you've some unbecoming worry wrinkles here. All those questions surfacing." He reached up and tenderly touched her forehead, where her brow was creased in thought. "Your mind is working far too hard. Relax and enjoy the evening, it's finally cooling a bit."

Her stiff posture proved she wasn't yet willing to do that. She steepled her fingers again and sucked her lower lip under her teeth.

"We'll not hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said almost angrily. They were the first words she had spoken to the stranger.

He raised an eyebrow. "I can see that," he continued, his deep voice soothing and melodic, almost hypnotic. Fiona found herself enjoying listening to it, and that disturbed her more than a little. "Though perhaps, Lady Knight, you should be afraid of us. Some call our small band cutthroats, and many decent folks around here fear us. Still, I'll not raise a weapon against you, at least not unless your rash friend over there…"

"Rig," she said.

"Rig. That's right. An Ergothian, correct? Dhamon mentioned him several times before. He's a long way from home. Unless Rig starts something." He traced her steepled fingers, his eyes still capturing hers.

"You've already hurt enough people," she said. She shook her head when he offered her a drink from the jug of spirits, and she brushed a stubborn, sweat-soaked curl from her forehead. "In Ironspike, you killed several dwarves. Knights. And many buildings were burned." She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, clasped and unclasped her hands, as if her fingers needed to be doing something.

"Lady Knight," again the sonorous, musical voice. She relaxed just a little, opened her eyes, and found herself looking straight at him. His face seemed kind, yet rugged, and his nose was long and narrow like the beak of a hawk. "Lady Knight, I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it-or who didn't ask for it by raising a weapon against me and our friends. All life is precious. And though I readily admit I am a thief, life is the one thing I am loath to steal." He edged closer and smiled when her expression calmed. He stretched his good hand up and brushed away another damp curl. "Lady Knight, I won't lie to you and say I'm an upright man. But I'm a loyal one." He gestured to Dhamon and Rikali. "I stand by my friends and by my principles. To the death, if need be."

"Ironspike. Justice would demand…" She was having trouble getting all the necessary words out and was getting lost in his eyes. She blinked and focused instead on his strong chin.

Maldred nodded. "Ah, yes, justice." He laughed softly, melodically.

Her eyes narrowed, and the big man frowned and shook his head. "You've spirit. Your hair like flames, your eyes filled with fire. Spirit and beauty-and I'll wager skill with a sword, else you wouldn't have that armor. But don't mar your face so with troubled thoughts." Then his eyes caught hers again and held them unwavering. "Life is far too short for that, Lady Knight. Fill your mind with pleasant ideas instead."