But Dhamon shook his head and jiggled a small pouch on his belt.

The finger dropped and the growling stopped, but the eyes narrowed even further. The ogre cocked his head and glanced at the rear wall, from which hung all manner of long-hafted weapons-all too unwieldy for Dhamon.

"I want a bow," Dhamon began, jingling the pouch again.

The ogre shook his head and shrugged a misshapen shoulder.

Dhamon let out a deep breath. "So I'd better learn a bit more ogre-speak if I traipse around these mountains any longer or ever come back to this cesspool," he muttered. He drew his lips into a thin line, met the ogre's stare, and pretended to draw a bow and nock an arrow as he said a few words in broken ogre.

Minutes later, Dhamon was continuing down the winding, narrow street, a long bow and a quiver filled with arrows strapped across his back. Following the incident with the dwarves in the valley, he'd resolved to acquire a distance weapon.

Another stop, and he purchased three skins of the strongest liquor available in the city. Two dangled from his belt. And the third was in his hand. He took a long pull from it before he clipped it onto the belt.

The several ogres he passed gave him a wide berth. It was clear they had no respect for humans, as they spat at the ground when he neared, snarling, and wrinkling their warty, hooked noses. But there was something about Dhamon's bearing and expression that kept them from accosting him. He dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword, and they moved to the other side of the street, not daring to look over their shoulders until they were several yards behind him.

His next stop was where the street dead-ended at a large building. There was no roof, only walls of stone and wood, and a double-wide rotting door that rested slightly open.

Dhamon poked his head inside, then instantly pulled it back out. There was a whoosh and a thud as a great two-handed battleaxe descended in the space where his neck had been a moment before. Mud and water flew when the blade struck the ground, spattering Dhamon's tunic and causing him to curse loudly.

He kicked the door open and drew his sword in the same motion, darted inside and braced himself to meet an impressively large ogre. The creature was easily ten feet tall with broad shoulders and a considerable paunch that swelled over a thick leather belt. The ogre hefted his axe again, a yellowed, crooked smile spreading across his pudgy face, his drab green eyes gleaming.

Dhamon stepped back, into a deep puddle. With no roof, it was raining as steadily inside the building as it was outside. "Maldred!" Dhamon shouted, oblivious to the muck. "I am with Maldred!"

The ogre paused a moment, smile disappearing. His shaggy brow furrowed. His hands still clenched the axe, but the menace had lessened in his eyes.

"Maldred," Dhamon repeated, when the large brute took a step forward with a threatening snarl. In broken ogre-speak, he added, "Our wagon. Maldred asked you watch. You have. I have come to claim our wagon."

The ogre looked to the back of the building-the glance was enough to let Dhamon know he understood clearly. The wagon was cloaked by the shadows. Dhamon walked toward it, careful to keep an eye on the ogre and to keep his sword at the ready. Only one horse was tethered nearby. Dhamon worked quickly to harness it to the wagon while he scanned the area for the other horse.

"Damn," he swore softly when he spotted blood against the back wall. There was a hank of mane, and from beneath a pile of wet, moldy straw, a hoofed leg protruded. "Got hungry, didn't you?" He didn't expect the ogre to understand or answer. "Picked out the biggest one to eat."

The creature padded closer, sloshing through the mud. He still held the axe in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth.

Dhamon busied himself checking beneath the sodden tarp, keeping an eye on the brute. "Got greedy too, didn't you? Or at the very least, curious." He noticed the sacks had been rearranged in the wagon bed, and though he couldn't be sure if there was anything missing, he decided to play a hunch. He pointed the sword at the ogre. "Give back. Sacks you took. Give back."

"Thwuk! Thwuk!" The ogre snarled as he closed in, bringing the axe up over his head in a great threatening show. "Thwuk not take from Maldred!" But Dhamon wasn't in the mood to be intimidated. He darted in and swept his sword across the creature's belly, then leapt back as a film of dark blood sprayed out. The ogre howled, and the axe slipped from his fingers, which were now furiously clutching his stomach. Blood spilled out over the brute's hands as he dropped to his knees, a mix of anger and surprise on his ugly face.

He growled deeply at Dhamon, red spittle trailing over his bulbous lip. Then he cried out once more as Dhamon stepped in again and slashed the blade across his throat. The ogre pitched forward dead.

"Hope you weren't too good of a friend to Maldred," Dhamon mused, as he wiped his sword on the brute's clothes and sheathed it. He quickly tossed the straw over the dead ogre, avoiding the insects that swarmed over the horse haunch.

Then he used the rain to wash his hands and take a good look around. There were tall plants growing along the northern half of the building. They appeared well tended, and their tops nearly reached to where the roof had been. There was a huge hammock strung between what had served as the roof's support beams, and beneath it was quite a collection of small barrels and satchels, likely the ogre's possessions.

Dhamon tugged off his newly purchased tunic, sprayed with blood and mud, and tossed it behind a row of plants. Searching around in the wagon beneath a sack of gemstones, he recovered the fine shirt he had saved from the merchant haul and was quick to don it. Black, it complemented his baggy trousers and deerskin vest. He admired his dark reflection in a puddle near the ogre's hammock.

Dhamon searched through the ogre's possessions, finding only a small sack of gemstones-which the ogre might have stolen or more likely had been given in payment for watching the wagon. Dhamon tossed it in the wagon and continued to pick through the dead creature's worldly goods, finding a pouch heavy with steel pieces, an ivory pommeled dagger, and bits of dried foodstuffs, which Dhamon sniffed unenthusiastically. There were a few other odds and ends, a small broken jade mermaid, and a bronze bracelet, thick with mud, which he sloshed about in the water that had filled the hammock.

Deciding there was little of value, Dhamon led the horse and wagon from the barn and propped the door shut.

"One final stop," he told himself. "The most important one."

An hour later, he found his way back to Grim Kedar's.

Rig was across the street, leaning against an abandoned stone building and watching the entrance to Grim Kedar's. His eyes appeared sunken, the circles beneath them dark, proving he'd slept little the previous night. A disheveled-looking human was cowering next to him, nodding and shaking his head as Rig grilled him with questions. The mariner had not spied a single human who was not shabbily dressed or who appeared remotely happy.

Fiona motioned for Rig to join them, but the mariner shook his head and continued talking to the stranger. She shrugged and turned her attention to the kobold.

"An unusual name," she said, bending over until her face met his.

"Not my real name," Fetch returned. "I'd guess you'd call it a…" He scrunched his features and tapped on his nose ring.

"Nickname?" Fiona risked.

He nodded. "My real name's Ilbreth. I'm just called Fetch ‘cause…"

"Fetch!" Rikali was standing on the sagging walk and crooking her manicured fingers at the kobold. "Bring my satchel and get inside. Hurry up!"

"… I fetch things," he finished, scampering to do her bidding.