"Not a Solamnic," he said, as he watched the fish flop about.

"And I'm not jealous," Rikali cooed as she moved closer to him, spinning him around to face her. The half-elf's finger snaked out to rub a spot of dirt off his nose. "Have I a reason to be?"

Dhamon said nothing, but he pulled her close.

It was early afternoon when Dhamon woke. He gently lifted Rikali's arm off his chest. He rolled away and reached for his trousers. Before he could finish dressing, a wave of pain struck him and he grabbed for the scale on his leg, digging his heels into the earth. It felt like nails were being driven into his flesh. He bit his lip to keep from crying out and weathered the pain for several minutes. His skin grew feverishly hot and his muscles cramped tight.

He convinced himself it wasn't so bad. Roughly two years ago a dying Knight of Takhisis had removed the scale from his own chest and bestowed it on Dhamon.

Dhamon fought to stay conscious as his mind propelled him back to the forested glade in Solamnia. He was kneeling over the mortally wounded Dark Knight, holding the man's hand and trying to offer what comfort he could in the last moments of life. The man beckoned him closer, loosed the armor from his chest and showed Dhamon a large scale embedded in the flesh beneath. With fumbling fingers, the Knight managed to pry the scale free, and before Dhamon realized what was happening, the Knight had placed it against Dhamon's thigh.

The scale adhered, molding itself around his thigh and feeling like a brand thrust against his unprotected skin. It was the most painful sensation Dhamon had experienced in his life. The scale was the color of freshly drawn blood then, and Malys, the red dragon overlord from whom it came, used it to possess and control people. Months later a mysterious shadow dragon, along with a silver dragon who called herself Silvara, worked ancient magic to break the overlord's control. The scale turned black in the process. And shortly thereafter it had begun to ache periodically. At first, the pain was infrequent and fleeting.

Dhamon figured pain was preferable to being controlled by a dragon. But lately the spasms had been getting worse and lasting longer. He noticed Maldred watching him, the big man's expression asking if Dhamon was all right.

Dhamon returned the stare, but his unblinking eyes were indifferent and implacable, hiding his attitudes, feelings, keeping everything a mystery. Then he blinked, the pain finally passing. He reached for the skin Maldred had given him, took a deep pull, his throat working hard, and replaced the cork.

"Bad?" the big man asked.

"Sometimes. Lately," Dhamon answered, gingerly rising to his feet. The scratches on his chest and arms were healing. He was clean-shaven, his hair had been combed and tied at the nape of his neck with a black leather thong-compliments of the half-elf. His face looked youthful with all his hair pulled away from it.

Maldred, however, refused to abandon his troubled expression. "Maybe we can find a healer who…"

"A healer can't do anything. You know that." Dhamon changed the subject, pointing to the backpack and leather sack and the small pile of coin purses he'd brought out of his trousers, and the sacks filled with coins from his companions' heists. "An excellent haul," he pronounced. "A small fortune."

Maldred nodded.

"Gold jewelry studded with gems, plenty of coins, pearls. Enough, hopefully, to purchase that…"

"Not enough," Maldred interrupted flatly. "Not close, Dhamon. I know him."

"Then the hospital… the risk… was wasted time."

The big man shook his head. "We didn't know how little or how much would be locked away. You did very well."

"Not enough," Dhamon parroted.

"Ah, but it might be just enough to purchase an audience with him."

Dhamon frowned.

Maldred gestured at the haul, then opened his backpack and stuffed the smaller pouches into it, keeping one of the larger coin purses out and tossing it to Dhamon. After a moment, he reached back inside and selected a second pouch. "Better give these to Rikali and Fetch for their trouble." He nodded toward the pair, both sleeping soundly a few yards away, close to each other. "Otherwise we'll never hear the end of it."

Dhamon gazed at Rikali for a moment, saw her eyelids fluttering in a dream, then he stretched and turned back to Maldred. "How long should we let them sleep? I know Riki's not worried about any dwarves coming after us, but I'm not so unconcerned. Especially regarding those Legion of Steel Knights. They won't let this go unavenged."

Maldred glanced back the way they had come. Away from the stream the land looked as dry and inhospitable as any desert. "Ah, my friend, this is a most pleasing spot. I could stay beneath that great tree for a few days. It is cooler here, a more restful a place than I've known for a while." His face looked serene, almost gentle, as he glanced at the stream and followed the progress of a floating leaf. It quickly clouded over as he said with a frown, "But don't worry, my friend, such idling is not to be. We can't afford to stay in any one spot too long. Not people like us. Not here. Because of those Knights and others we've crossed. And-most importantly-because we've quite a bit of work ahead of us."

Dhamon cocked his head. "You've a plan?"

The big man nodded. "Oh, yes."

Dhamon's dark eyes glimmered. "Whatever it is, we'll need to move quickly."

"Aye."

The half-elf made a sound, rolling onto her back as her thin arms moved like the wings of a butterfly.

"So this plan…" Dhamon prompted, when he was certain Rikali was still asleep.

"Will bring us great wealth. Gems, my friend. Some as big as my fist." Maldred grinned, showing a wide mouth filled with pearly, even teeth. "We're not terribly far from a valley in Thoradin, to the north and west, cradled by the high spires."

"A mine?"

"So to speak. It will take us a week to reach it. Less, perhaps, as these horses are fine ones. We'll take that trail." His finger indicated a line that ribboned through the hills. He arranged the skins on his belt and adjusted the two-handed sword on his back. "We'll get enough to purchase what you want, and we'll likely have a good bit left over."

"That's a merchant road up there," Dhamon observed.

"Where hopefully we'll find a merchant wagon," the big man added, a gleam in his hazel eyes. "We're going to need something to haul all of our riches in."

"I'd prefer not to kill you." Maldred stood in the center of a well-beaten trail that cut through the heart of the Kalkhist Mountains. He was bare-chested, with his deerskin shirt tied about his waist. The midday sun was baking his already-tanned skin and had brought out beads of sweat that slowly ran down his chest and gathered at the waistband of his trousers. The steady breeze that teased his short ginger hair spun the dirt around his boots into dust devils. He gripped his two-handed sword in damp hands, wielding it as if it were no heavier than a twig and pointing it in the direction of a stoop-shouldered grizzled man who sat on the driver's platform of a bulging covered wagon. "Your death would not profit me, old one."

The man sputtered but said nothing, gripped the reins even tighter and stared in disbelief at Maldred. He blinked rapidly, as if doing so might make the big man go away.

"Now," Maldred warned.

"By all the vanished gods, no," the man said-not in response to Maldred's command, but to the unthinkable and very real situation he found himself in. "This cannot be real."

"It's as real as this damnable, rainless summer. Get down off the wagon. Now. Before I lose my patience."