How far can a hero fall? Far enough to lose his soul? Dhamon Grimwulf, once a Hero of the Heart, has sunk into a bitter life of crime and squalor. Now, as the great dragon overlords of the Fifth Age coldly plot to strengthen their rule and to destroy their enemies, he must somehow find the will to redeem himself. But perhaps it is too late.
A dragon chew on you for a while and spit you out?" Rig Mer-Krel asked as he leaned against the doorframe, eyeing a patient who was almost completely sheathed in bandages.
The mariner scowled-not from the lack of an answer or at the patient's sorry appearance, though the latter was more than a little disconcerting-but from the smell that permeated the small room and clung to his nostrils. Rig swallowed and nearly gagged, a nasty taste settling in his mouth that he attributed to the odd odor.
The heat made things worse, he decided. He was certainly miserable from it, his clothes drenched with sweat. This was the middle of an exceptionally hot summer, a month called the Dry-Heat by the area's residents, and the air in this place felt brutally heavy and close. The narrow gap beneath the drawn shutters allowed only the suggestion of a breeze. Rig considered opening the shutters wide to get the air circulating. But he didn't intend to stay long, and he had no desire to make the patient more comfortable.
"This being such a big hospital, it's a wonder they couldn't have found you a longer bed. And somehow a room that didn't…" Rig sniffed hesitantly, trying futilely to identify the scent,"… stink quite so much. But maybe the folks who run this place don't especially like you, either."
Only the man's head and feet weren't bandaged, and the latter hung well over the end of the bed frame. A pair of scuffed boots rested beneath his heels on a violet rug. The mariner edged farther into the room and studied the man's sweat-slicked face. His cheekbones were high and hollow, his skin tanned, and his overall appearance was slightly gaunt, as if the patient hadn't been eating properly for some time. A thin, crescent-shaped scar Rig didn't remember ran from just below the man's right eye and disappeared into the start of an ill-trimmed beard as night-black as the tangled mass of hair splaying out like spilled ink over the small pillow. The man twitched fitfully in his sleep, eyes moving beneath closed lids, jaw working, and long fingers alternately clutching.
Rig found himself nearly overwhelmed by the smell. He retreated a few steps and coughed, a useless attempt to clear his lungs. "You hardly fit on that," the mariner told him, though he understood now the man wasn't listening-hadn't been listening to a single word.
The mariner shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to speak for his own benefit. "Well, what do you expect? Ironspike's a dwarven town, so I guess all the furniture's dwarf-size." He tilted his head toward a stunted chair, where an attempt had been made to neatly fold the shredded remains of the patient's clothes. "Man in the hall said something clawed you up pretty bad."
"A big mountain cat, most likely." This from behind the mariner.
Rig whirled to see a thickset dwarf dressed in gray, framed by the doorway. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her ruddy face, and the wrinkles of several decades fanned out from her narrowed eyes to add to her unpleasant countenance. She tapped her foot and glared at the dark-skinned man. "You shouldn't be here," she lectured, adding a finger wag to emphasize her point.
"How is he?" Rig asked, offering his best congenial smile.
Her expression didn't soften. "Your friend's wounds aren't at all deep, but they are numerous. He was delirious when they found him at the edge of town early this morning, and he hasn't regained consciousness since his cuts were dressed."
The mariner let out a low whistle and crossed his arms. "When will he…"
"Regain consciousness?" It was her turn to shrug. "A day, two. It's hard to say." Her voice reminded Rig of gravel bumping around in the bottom of a bucket-coarse and unappealing. "If he does wake up, we'll probably keep him for a day or two longer-to make sure he hasn't caught something foul from whatever clawed him. It was quite lucky for him we had this vacant room."
"He doesn't look so lucky," Rig muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, "Must be a dozen rooms in this…"
"Hospital." The eyes eased wider a bit. "On this floor. Two dozen rooms all together, and all of them filled. We're the largest hospital east of the Kalkhists."
"You get lots of folks clawed up these days?"
She shook her head and huffed, the air escaping from her lungs like a kettle left too long on the fire. "I wish animal attacks were all we had to treat. A couple'a days ago some Legion of Steel Knights fought an army of goblins a few miles outside of town. The wounded are being tended to here. A couple'a the wards upstairs have as many as a dozen patients each in them."
Rig turned his back on the woman and regarded the patient again.
