Downfall

"We have guards," Do

"Not down here," Dhamon cut in. "I noticed that you left them all upstairs. Don't trust them down here, do you? Afraid they'll take a bit of your horde? Your fear has made you vulnerable. Your treasure is your weakness, your lordship. Well, you won't have to worry about your precious collection any longer. Dead men can't spend steel. And since you haven't got any heirs, Maldred and I might as well help ourselves to whatever we can carry. Then we will let the guards down here for their turn. Rig and Fiona can take whatever they want, too. And your whole country be damned."

"Wait!" For the first time there was real terror in Do

"No." Dhamon waved the blade closer. "Where is it?"

"In… it's in that steel box." Do

"Watch him!" Dhamon said to Maldred. Then he was kneeling in front of the box, ramming the tip of the broadsword into the lock-snapping the sword and breaking the lock. Sweaty hands threw back the lid, which clanged loudly against the stone floor.

The sword that lay inside was not held in velvet or resting in a sheath, as befitting a weapon of its status and history. Rather, it was at the bottom of the box, amid silver pieces, leather thongs from which dangled rough gems, small pouches, and other knickknacks.

Dhamon carefully moved the coins aside and lifted the blade, an eager gleam in his eyes. It was a long sword, the edge etched in an elvish script he couldn't read. Its cross-piece bore the likeness of a falcon's beak. It was not nearly as ornate as any of the other weapons hanging on the dungeon wall, and its workmanship was not as fine as the sword the ogre had tried to pass off to Dhamon. Still, there was something remarkable about it. He held his breath as he stood and slowly swung the weapon in front of him.

"Wyrmsbane," he whispered. Dhamon raised the blade parallel to his face, his dark eyes reflected in the polished steel. Was it his imagination, or did the metal give off a faint light of its own? Perhaps it was the elvish script, a written spell that caused the soft glow.

"Dhamon?" Maldred was at his shoulder.

Dhamon's attention snapped back to Do

"It's all right," Maldred said. "He'll do nothing against us now." As an afterthought, and much softer, he said,"And I am watching him… very closely." The big man nodded to the sword. "Wyrmsbane, you said?"

"One of the names the sword was given."

"And you're sure this is the fabled weapon?" Maldred's eyes darted to the wall of swords, then back to Do

Dhamon nodded. "It fits the description the sage gave me."

"The sword of Tanis Half-Erven."

"It's had many owners through the decades. Many names. Most know it as Wyrmsbane, sister sword to Wyrmslayer."

"Wyrmslayer? The blade the elven hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the second Dragon War?"

Another nod. "Wyrmsbane was said to be not as powerful, though it was forged by the same Silvanesti weaponsmiths during that Dragon War. Legend says this blade was given to the kingdom of Thorbardin. And from there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven's hands. It was said to be buried with him."

"The thief claimed to have robbed Tanis's grave," Do

Dhamon glanced into the steel box and idly wondered if some of the other trinkets also once belonged to the famed hero of Kry

Do

"A test first," Dhamon told Maldred. "Just to be absolutely certain. And just make sure, Maldred, you keep your eyes on Do

"‘Tis a very old blade, this one ye be askin' me about." This from a slight man so bent with age he looked like a crab folded in a shell. Wispy hair, like a spiderweb, clung to the sides of his head, and a thin beard extended from the tip of his chin down to the folds of a drab weatherworn robe. He was hunkered over a table in a dingy tavern in the rough section of Kortal, a town east of the northern Kalkhist Mountains in the territory of the red dragon overlord.

"I'm interested in old weapons, Caladar," Dhamon said as he reached and grabbed the old man's tankard, brought it toward him, and from a jug he'd purchased-the second of the night-refilled it. The old man's hands closed greedily around the tankard and he drank deep, his eyes bobbing shut in pleasure.

"I've not tasted anything quite so sweet in quite a few years," Caladar mused. He carefully set the tankard on the table, his fingers feeling clumsily thick after imbibing so much alcohol. "I haven't been able to afford it."

Dhamon reached beneath the table and glanced around the room. It was very late, and only a few other tables had patrons, who were engrossed in their own drinks and tales. He tugged free a brown leather bag and pushed this across the table toward the old man.

Caladar's right hand shot forward. The speed of his acquisitive gesture surprised Dhamon. "Ye think that by plyin' me with drink and coin I'll tell ye more?"

Dhamon didn't answer. His dark eyes locked onto the old man's pale gray ones.

"Ye'd be right." The sack disappeared in the folds of the robe. "Ye wouldn't've been a decade ago, when I had me more money and more respect, and I had some righteousness about me, too, and a good dose of morals. But I figure now I haven't got me that many more years left, and so I could use the means to enjoy them." He raised the tankard to Dhamon in a toast.

"The sword…" Dhamon prompted.

"It be called Redeemer. Be ye lookin' for it ‘cause ye need to be redeemed?"

Dhamon shook his head, his eyes never leaving the old man's face.

"It was laid to rest with Tanis Half-Elven-after he was brutally slain. Skewered in the back, according to the story I heard, an ignoble way for a noble man to die. Buried with him, hands placed around the pommel. The story says." Caladar shuddered. "If the gods hadn't abandoned Kry

"Shhhh!" Dhamon drew a finger over his lips, as the old man's voice had been rising.

Caladar wrapped both hands around the tankard and shakily raised it to his thin lips. He took several big gulps, then carefully set it back on the table and wiped his lips on his shoulder.

"Old man…"

"Caladar," he corrected. "Caladar, Sage of Kortal."

"Aye, Caladar. This sword…"

"Ye should have known me in my younger days. Hah! Even as recent as a decade ago, I was truly a great sage. A wise man people came to see for miles and miles around, askin' advice, hearin' the old tales, learnin' of Kry

Caladar edged the tankard toward the center of the table, and Dhamon refilled it, scowling slightly to note that this second jug was now empty. He motioned for a serving girl and plunked two steel pieces in her palm. Another, he motioned. How could that old man drink so much and still stay alert? Dhamon himself had finished only two tankards of his own, and felt a little sluggish because of it.