The birds were plump and healthy from the abundance of fruit and insects. Gauderic pointed out several types of parrots that would normally be found in tropical lands. Small game thrived and skittered out of the path of the men. Rabbits and other animals had multiplied in staggering numbers. There were a few trails, made by the Qualinesti who traveled from village to village or who hunted along the Windsrun River. But the magic of the forest kept the trails from becoming well worn. Moss and vines grew across them almost as quickly as they were tramped down by booted feet. Each trail Dhamon found looked like it had been newly forged.
Dhamon recalled that Feril had talked about this forest, which she had ventured into with Palin and the dwarf Jasper Fireforge. The Kagonesti considered it intoxicating. He could almost picture her face in the whorls of a great oak. His eyes took on a softness when he thought of her, and his fingers reached up to touch the patch of bark he envisioned as her cheek.
"Sir! I've found tracks! Over here!" The excitement was high in the human scout's voice. He was one of four who had fanned out from the main trail. "Look, they're difficult to make out, sir, and I almost missed them. But here's an impression. And here's part of another one."
Dhamon shook off his musings, knelt, and traced the impression of a print. He was a skilled tracker, schooled by the Knights of Takhisis when he joined their ranks as a youth, taught more nuances by an aging Solamnic Knight who befriended him and lured him away from the dark order. His time with the Kagonesti Feril had further improved his mastery. Feril, he thought again.
The young man waited for Dhamon to say something.
"Aye, they are dragon tracks," Dhamon confirmed, his voice even but hesitant. "Hard to tell how old they are."
"And our course follows these tracks!" The young man beamed. He was saying something else, but Dhamon wasn't listening. He was studying the flowering ground cover that had been pressed into the earth. The tracks belonged to a larger dragon than the one that apparently destroyed Windkeep, and already the forest was recovering from the weight of the dragon's tread. Moss had sprung up, small broken branches were mending.
Dhamon felt the scale on his leg tingle uncomfortably. "Nerves," he whispered. He rose and scanned the brush for more prints, noting that the young tracker was doing the same. The man gestured to the west, toward what looked like a tamped-down patch of fern grass, and the pair started for it. But they stopped in a heartbeat when a strangled cry cut through the air behind them.
Birds shot from the trees in a great cloud of squawking color, and small animals that had been hidden by the undergrowth burst away in a wave. There was a thrashing to the south, larger animals also running, and there was the pounding of boots across the ground-the mercenaries were also fleeing.
Dhamon whirled and sped back toward the trail, mindless of the branches that whipped at his face and tugged at his cloak. The young tracker did his best to follow.
"Run!" Gauderic was hollering to the men. "Spread out and run!"
"Fool elf!" Dhamon cried as he rushed toward the river bank. He hurried past a thick clump of willow birches, leaping over a large rock and sidestepping a stagnant puddle. The green of the forest was a blur as he raced toward his men.
"Charge the dragon!" he bellowed. "That's an order, Gauderic! Charge and fan out! Come at the beast from several directions! Don't you dare turn tail!" It took him only a few moments to corral the men and force them forward.
And it took another few minutes for half of his men to die.
Those charging well ahead of Dhamon were caught in a cloud of foul chlorine. They fell screaming, twitching, clawing at their faces and clothes, sobbing uncontrollably. A few thought quickly to roll into the river, where the chill water helped to wash away the horrible film of the green dragon's breath. But most just gave up in the face of all the pain and succumbed.
Dhamon raced toward the front of the line, nimbly avoiding the fallen mercenaries. Bubbles spread across their chins and foreheads like those he'd seen on the elven villagers. Those at the very front had fared even worse, as they had shouldered the brunt of the dragon's breath. The chlorine gas was deep in their lungs, the chemical so caustic it was eating away at them inside and out.
"Murderer!" Dhamon cried to the dragon.
The great beast cast a long shadow across the trail. It was half-in, half-out of the river, had probably lain in wait for them, rising to surprise them with its cloud of deadly gas. It was indeed much larger than the rogue dragon they were hunting-roughly a hundred feet from nose to tail tip.
