Rikali had silently padded up behind him. "Solam-nics!" she gasped. Their plate mail was gone, but a few had tabards identifying themselves as members of the Order of the Rose. There was no trace of Knightly pride in their suffering frames, and no hint of defiance on their gaunt faces. They were thoroughly broken. Some had no eyes, just vacant scarred sockets, a few were missing limbs. Nearly all of them were terribly maimed, testaments to burns and torture.

The mariner's body shook with pity and revulsion, and his fists clenched in anger. "Horrible," Rikali whispered. Then she edged away from Rig and closed her eyes.

Rig continued to scan the faces, swallowing hard when he thought he recognized one. "Aven," he stated. Scraps of what was once a Solamnic tabard clung to the man's scrawny frame. His skin was as gray as the stone walls and was laced with boils and thick recent scars. The red hair was long and matted and dotted with the husks of insects, and his heart-shaped face, once full and flawless, was gaunt with hunger. He could have passed for Fiona's twin at one time. Now he was barely identifiable. "Aven," Rig stated louder.

With considerable effort, the man lifted his head and appeared to meet Rig's stare. There was a flicker of recognition in the sad eyes. "Fiona's brother, Aven," the mariner told Rikali. "Fiona and me, we set our wedding on her birthday so Aven would be there. He was supposed to have leave from the Order then."

The Knight looked like a corpse and moved sluggishly. He stared at them, but even that simple act seemed to take all of his strength and cause unbearable pain.

"Aven, he can see me somehow. Aven…"

All of a sudden, the Solamnic tried to rise, pushing against the floor with his skeletal arms while his feet slipped on the slime-covered stones. Finally, he stood, swaying on scabrous feet and shuffling toward Rig. His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something, but only a rasping wheeze came out.

The mariner took a step forward. "No!" he shouted as the Solamnic fell to his knees, eyes still fixed on Rig.

"Aven, we'll get you out of there," Rig said. He tried to reach for the man, but his hand passed through the apparition. "Hold on and…"

Aven coughed dryly and clutched his chest. He seemed to watch Rig for a moment more, then he fell back and crumpled to the floor. A sigh escaped his lips, and then he stopped breathing.

"By all the vanished gods," Rig said in a hushed voice. He stared at the body for a few minutes. "Aven's dead." Then he pulled back from the door to look at the half-elf. She was peering into another cell, whispering about humans, elves, and kender. Something about a smattering of dwarves.

"I think there's a gnome in there, too," she said to herself. "A little man with a really big nose." Then she stepped back and glanced at Rig and then down the hall, which was an illusion but more than an illusion. Her eyes asked if they should continue their exploration.

Curiosity had gotten the better of Dhamon, and he had entered the corridor, too. He was at the far end, peering into a cell and then moving on, rounding a corner. He was impressed by the magic, able to smell the foulness of this place rather than the mustiness of the cavern he knew he was inside. But everything here seemed so disturbingly… palpable.

There was a door, narrower than the others, with a tiny window in the center of it. Dhamon crouched and looked through the opening, coughing because of the strong smell. He didn't notice the man inside, not immediately. There was a jumble of other things competing for Dhamon's attention-wooden bins and chipped crockery stacked high on shelves, alongside metal and bone implements, the use of which he cared not to contemplate. It was obvious this place was used for storage. There were chains hanging on the far wall. Most of them were rusted because of age and all the moisture, but a few were newly forged. From the ceiling more chains hung, along with ropes and barbed whips.

It was when he craned his neck, and discovered his face could pass through the wood, that he saw the man. The man was naked, back to Dhamon, skin covered with massive sores and tangled hair fanned out around his shoulders like a lion's mane. He was sitting upright, almost proudly so, and his bones stood out in appalling clearness, reminding Dhamon of the cadavers the priests in the Knights of Takhisis demonstrated battlefield surgery techniques on. There was a copper bowl filled with scummy water sitting next to him, and a few moldy crusts of bread near it.

Dhamon wondered why the man hadn't used some of the implements in this room to escape. There were certainly sharp enough objects on the shelves to worry at the wood of the door. But when the man turned, Dhamon had his answer.

There was an iron collar about his neck, and it was fastened with a short length of chain to the wall, so short as not to permit the man to stand. He could not reach any of the objects that might help to gain him his freedom. The man was young, Dhamon could tell from the smoothness of his gaunt face and the dark blue of his eyes. And he was important.

There was a tattoo on his arm just below his shoulder, artfully rendered and colorful, depicting the claw of a blue dragon holding a red banner. Dhamon wasn't about to go close enough to read the writing on the banner. He didn't need to; he'd seen he symbol before. It belonged to a particular Taman Busuk wealthy military family that had allied themselves with the Dark Knights. So the prisoner was from money and was from Neraka, was likely connected to the Dark Knights there, if not one of the Order. Perhaps Sable was ransoming him, and perhaps there was some merit to Fiona's belief that the dragon would take treasure in exchange for her prisoners-some of them, anyway.

The man's eyes widened and he opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak to his visitor. Dhamon pulled back from the cell and continued on, not wanting to hear what the apparition had to say. This vision alone was disturbing enough, no need to add to the gloom with words.

He rounded another corner, still more cells. How many people did the dragon keep locked up in her dungeons? From his quick glances he could tell most were human, and by their conditions it looked like they'd been here anywhere from a few hours to several months.

Dhamon had been in dungeons before, when the Knights of Takhisis kept prisoners for political reasons. He'd ushered his share of prisoners into cells. But never had he been in a prison so deplorable as this vision indicated. The suffering was even almost too much for Dhamon to bear.

"Enough of this," Dhamon said finally, when he spotted a cell where no living prisoners remained. Corpses had been stacked like cord wood along one wall. "It's past time to leave this hellish place." He shook his head, as if to clear it, then strode away from the image and toward the river, which he was certain had risen further.

"No," Rig objected. The mariner had been following Dhamon, staying a few yards back and watching his reaction to the scene. "I want to see more," Rig continued. "Fetch, show me all of Shrentak. I want to know how to get into that damnable dungeon!"

The kobold sighed, his shoulders drooping. He looked to Rikali for support. But for once, she said nothing. She was glancing down the ghostly corridor and toward the river, where Dhamon was standing.

"More, Fetch! Show us a way in!"

"No!" Dhamon spun, returning from the river's edge. He walked back through the prison corridors, which were growing more transparent, striding resolutely up the dais's steps. His face retained its stoic mask, but his eyes had lost their hardness, and his lips twitched. He'd caught a glimpse inside several more cells along the way, and the sight bothered him. However, he wouldn't admit that, even to himself. "The river's rising," he said evenly.