What you seek.

Dhamon's eyes flew open and the pommel grew chill in his hands. There, in the puddle, was an image, clouded and indistinct because of the shadows and the overcast sky. He leaned closer, seeing a little clearer. Leaves, tightly packed, the green color intense and so dark it looked almost black.

There was no physical tugging, as there'd been in Donnag's treasure room when he sought out the most valuable trinket. Just leaves and branches, and a colorful parrot nearly hidden by a clump of vines. There was a lizard, too, but it skittered out of his mind's eye, and also insects, as thick as the clouds overhead. He thought he glimpsed a shadow among the leaves, the size and shape of it impossible to discern. Perhaps merely the breeze rustling a limb. The shadow passed by again.

"The swamp. Something in the swamp."

The pommel tingled slightly, perhaps telling him yes, perhaps arguing with him. He wondered briefly if he was hallucinating, so desperately did he want to be free of the scale's pain. But the pommel grew colder still, and the vision persisted for several moments longer.

Afterward, Dhamon sat still, listening to the rain and feeling his heart pound inside his chest. It was beating excitedly, his breath coming raggedly. A cure, he told himself. One exists. The sword said so, said there was a way to get rid of this damnable scale or to make it stop hurting.

He laid Wyrmsbane across his legs and bent over it, smoothing the water away from the blade and keeping more from falling on the elvish script. He traced the foreign words with a fingertip, and for a moment he wished Feril was with him-she would be able to read this. But Feril was far away and Rikali couldn't read either the elf or common language. The half-elf wouldn't even recognize her written name.

One more look at the blade, and then he sat straight, back set firmly against the wall. He decided to wait here until the sky darkened to announce sunset. "Then a scabbard and clothes," he repeated to himself. "After that, I'll see if Riki is awake."

And then, he thought, he'd do something about investigating the cure.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. But it quickly vanished and his fingers twitched about the sword as the scale on his leg started to throb again. Gently at first, so gently he tried to deny the sensation. Then within the passing of a few heartbeats, the pain grew intense and his body feverish. Dhamon's hand hurt terribly, and he realized that he had unintentionally squeezed the blade of his sword and sliced through his skin.

He pulled his left hand back and stared at the cut flesh, blood pouring out over his palm and pantsleg. He cupped the hand to his stomach and rocked back and forth, as the scale began to send waves of agony through his body. His right hand still gripped the pommel, refusing to release the legendary sword, and his mind focused on the weapon in an effort to lessen the pain.

He gulped in the damp air as the tremors started, then he pitched forward into the puddle, his legs jerking and kicking, his head turning this way and that. Water filled his nose and mouth; he was face-first in the puddle now, gagging-

"I'll not die here!" he managed to gasp. Through a curtain of pain, he summoned all of his strength and rolled onto his back, coughing up the rainwater, still clutching Wyrmsbane. Then the shadows of the alley seemed to reach out and engulf him.

Dhamon awoke hours later, lying on his back nearly submerged in the puddle, which had grown bigger because of the persistent storm. It was dark, well past sunset. He forced himself to his feet-awkwardly, then stumbled to a wall and leaned against it. His head was pounding, perhaps the aftermath of the episode, certainly in part because he was so hungry. His stomach growled.

He would eat after he saw to a scabbard, he told himself. And clothes. He would eat his fill, and then he would visit Grim Kedar's again-to tend to his swollen, wounded hand and to see Riki. He would have to be exceedingly careful at the healer's, as Grim would have been summoned to the manse to mend Donnag's broken cheek and jaw. He would have to trust Grim.

"A scabbard," he repeated, noting that the pommel tingled pleasantly in his uninjured palm, as if agreeing that was a good idea. He had more than enough wealth in his pockets to coax the ogre proprietors into opening their doors to him this late in the evening. "The finest scabbard available."

At dawn the ogre mercenaries gathered outside Donnag's palace, standing at attention in the drizzle. The chieftain was with them and impressing upon them their mission, which was to follow the Solamnic Knight to the ruins of Takar. There she would deliver the ransom, and there they were to help her regain her brother or her brother's body, if it came to that.

"Guard her and the baubles as if you were guarding us," Donnag intoned.

Passersby gawked at the assemblage, some murmuring how unusual it was to see Bloten's ruler out at this early hour, others wondering why the ogre force was gathered and why a Solamnic Knight was walking around so freely and why she seemed to claim the chieftain's favor.

Donnag was regally dressed. A long, dark red cloak trimmed with gems and gold brocade dragged in the mud behind him. His posture was stiff and imperious, his stride purposeful. He'd spent the past two days inside his bed chambers, recovering from the injuries Dhamon had inflicted upon him, and he felt good. Grim's magic was strong, making him as healthy as he was prior to the incident, perhaps even healthier. But the old healer's magic was not good enough to regrow the few teeth he'd lost in the brawl or to soothe his ire over being bested by a human.

"I'm surprised Donnag lived up to his word, Fiona," the mariner whispered. He nodded toward a wooden chest filled with gems and coins. Donnag had paused in front of the chest. He was eyeing its contents and dropping a few more bits of jewelry inside. The ogre chieftain motioned for the lid to be closed. Two thick leather straps were wrapped around it, and it was fastened to the back of the largest ogre.

"The world gives us surprises," she answered the mariner.

"Maybe. But, you still can't be serious about this." Rig raised his voice slightly, after Donnag was pacing again and was now a good distance away. "I told you I watched your brother die. One week ago to this day. Inside that… that… mountain. Fetch used this eye-shaped pool left behind by the Black Robes, and he conjured up an image of Shrentak's dungeons." The mariner had spent most of the evening telling the Solamnic about their trip to the ruins and along the underground river, and about the visions Fetch had called forth. "I watched Aven die, Fiona." And then I watched Fetch die too, the mariner added silently to himself.

She met his gaze, her eyes bright with determination, though rimmed with the tears she fought to keep in check. "Rig, you don't know that for certain," she said stubbornly, repeating the words she told him last night. "It was a vision. You weren't actually there in Shrentak. He might still be alive."

The mariner shut his eyes and took a deep breath, opened them and noticed that her lip trembled almost imperceptibly. "It was real enough, Fiona. How many times do I have to describe it?"

"And even if it was real," she said, "I want his body back. If he is dead, he deserves a proper Solamnic burial. I'll not have him rotting in the Black's lair. I'll use the ransom to rescue his body."

She drew her shoulders back, thrust out her chin, and forced her tears back. "A very proper burial." She made a move to walk away from Rig. But his hand reached out and gently closed around her arm, and he gently turned her to face him.