"Wait a minute." The words flew angrily from the mariner's mouth. "She's your woman. You're not going to leave her here."

"Riki'd understand," Dhamon replied. "I've got to pick up an important package from Chieftain Donnag and sell some valuable news to him. The sooner he learns about the rain, the more it'll be worth. And I've got to find Mal-dred. He'll want to know about the rain, too. Riki'll catch up with us. She's more resourceful than you think."

Rig stared incredulously. "First Fetch, now Riki…"

Dhamon's face was impassive. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his lips were a thin line. And his eyes were cold.

That image of Dhamon would remain etched in the mariner's mind for the rest of his days, showing him how callous a person was capable of being. Might as well be stone beads-they held no hint of compassion. There was only calculating purpose. Rig saw that. Dhamon's eyes showed cunning and selfishness. There was no trace of the man he'd known in the past, they were not the eyes of the former Dark Knight who'd answered Goldmoon's cry for a champion and who'd intrepidly led them to the Window to the Stars; no shadow of the hero who dared to stand up to the dragon overlords and who, though not gaining Rig's friendship, had most certainly gained his respect.

"Get used to it Rig," said Dhamon, reading his thoughts. "I'm not the man you knew."

Had Dhamon just said those words? the mariner wondered, or was he remembering what Dhamon had said one night in the Kalkhist Mountains? It didn't matter. They were true. Rig was staring at a stranger. The mariner had known thieves in his younger days, and had proudly kept company with pirates-whom he considered a few notches above common thieves. None of them had been like this Dhamon, a Dhamon he really didn't know.

"You're not human," Rig said softly.

Dhamon laughed. Then, without a further word or a gesture, he turned and started climbing the trail again, going a little slower and holding onto rocks so he wouldn't take a spill like the half-elf.

The mariner reached up to his shoulder with one hand and yanked until one of his sleeves came loose. He wrapped it around the half-elf's head, trying to stop the bleeding. The mariner gazed up at the watery trail, then at the half-elf, scooped his arms under her knees and shoulders and picked her up. "Awww… by the blessed memory of Habbakuk!" He saw her left arm hung crookedly, and there was an ugly knob where a bone was trying to break through her skin. "It's broken, I'd guess." He laid her back down, started looking around. "I'll need some wood," he said to himself. "Never set any broken bones before, and I'm not going to start now. Might cause more harm than good. But at least I can keep it from flopping around."

He sloshed over to the partially submerged remains of what appeared to be a house and pulled a board free. "Yeah, something like this will do." Then he took off his shirt and started ripping it into strips to fashion a crude splint. "Damn Dhamon Grimwulf to the bottom layer of the Abyss," he growled.

Rikali moaned softly. Her face contorted in obvious discomfort as she fought her way back to consciousness. The fingers of her good hand fluttered down to touch her stomach. "The babe," she whispered. "Please let my baby be all right."

Rig stared in shock. "You're with child? Does Dhamon know?"

She shook her head. "And you won't tell him." Then she drifted away into unconsciousness again.

The mariner worked to juggle all of his possessions. All his daggers were strapped across his chest, the long sword dangled at his side, the glaive he strapped to his back again. He had to move things around a bit to get comfortable. It was difficult for him to carry everything, and the half-elf too, but somehow he would manage.

Rikali groaned as he shifted her weight in his arms. Rig looked up the mountain. "Guess we'll have to try this trail," he decided. "But we'll take it slow."

Fiona stood rigidly in her Solamnic plate, which she had polished to a mirror finish upon her return from the dwar-ven catacombs. The job had given her something to do while she waited for Rig and Dhamon, and while Maldred was secreted away in his meeting with Chieftain Donnag.

Her hair was tied uncharacteristically in twin tight braids at the back of her neck. The gash on her cheek had been healed by the ogre shaman-at Maldred's insistence and expense. Her limbs still ached a little from the arduous adventure up the mountain and into the dwarven ruins and then back to Bloten. But her appearance didn't give any hint of her real fatigue.

She squared her corners as she paced in the mud in front of the men Donnag had provided as escort for her ransom. It was just as he'd promised. They were hardy ogres, forty of them, the shortest towering above her at nine feet. All wore bits of armor, mostly boiled leather plates with metal studs scattered in random patterns. Perhaps the designs signified something in the ogre language. A few had chain shirts and leather greaves, and some of the armor pieces looked almost new. Nearly all wore some kind of helmet, and a few sported long cloaks of a thin, dark fabric-made darker by the continuing rain. They stood at attention, shoulders straight and with an impressive posture unlike the stooped appearance exhibited by most of Bloten's residents.

Though she suspected they resented her because she was a human-a female-and above all a Solamnic Knight-she was certain she had their loyalty, as Chieftain Donnag had instructed them to follow her every order unto death if need be. She also suspected they were being paid handsomely, though she did not know if Donnag or Maldred had handled the costs, and she did not care to know.

Only a few of them could speak her tongue, and those who spoke it haltingly also mispronounced half the words. Maldred said all of the men were well-trained fighters who had skirmished with the dwarves of Tho-radin, hobgoblins and goblins of Neraka, and the spawn and abominations that encroached into Donnag's foothills from the swamp. Their muscular appearance and thick scars hinted at numerous previous battles.

They were certainly a homely bunch. Most had warts and boils dotting their exposed skin, the rain plastering their scraggly hair to the sides of their heads. Others had teeth protruding upward or downward from their lips. A few were missing pieces of ears. One had an almost cadaverous nose. Their skin ranged from a light tan, the color of sand, to a dark brown, the shade of a walnut tree's bark. There was one trio of brothers, who had skin that was tinged green, which Fiona thought made them look perpetually ill. And there was one whose skin was nearly as white as parchment. Maldred had explained this individual was a burgeoning shaman, schooled a little in the healing arts, and that his presence might be a boon-depending on what swamp denizens crossed their path.

Some of the ogres carried only one weapon, this being a large curved sword that she'd learned was forged here in Bloten and given to those who'd found favor with Donnag. Others were practically as weighted down as Rig-axes strapped to their backs, crossbows meant for human hands hanging from their belts, long knives in sheaths strapped to their legs, spiked clubs clutched in their fists. They'd need all these weapons and more, Fiona thought. They'd need luck and the blessing of the absent gods.

And what did she need? Fiona mused. A good dose of common sense? What was she doing here? Committing one impropriety after another, she admonished herself. Consorting with thieves, who were also likely considered murderers, making a deal with a despicable ogre chieftain, commanding a squad of ogres. She was certain the Solam-nic Knighthood wouldn't approve. Deep down, she didn't either. Perhaps they would release her from the Knighthood if they discovered all that she'd done. And her brother? What would Aven think of the lengths she pushed herself to in her effort to ransom him?