DragonFire

by Donita K. Paul

The kimens complied.

  One grawlig stumbled through the opening. He pulled in air through his nose and gave a roar. The other two ogres lurched into the trap. The door swung shut as the kimens drew bead on the milling monsters. Less than a minute after they had delivered the scented arrows, the grawligs turned on one another.

  Bardon sank to the floor, his back against the lookout’s wall. “We should set this sort of trap up in other parts of Trese.”

  “You’re sick.” Izz place her hand on his forehead. She turned to speak to one of her comrades.

  Bardon heard what sounded like birds chirping to one another. Birds wouldn’t be singing in the middle of the night. They certainly wouldn’t be this close to a grawlig brawl.

  “Drink this,” a voice commanded.

  Bardon sipped.

  “Lie down.”

  He allowed his body to collapse. Something squirmed beside him.

  “Not on me.”

  Another voice drifted through the fog of his mind. “What do you think is wrong with him?”

  “I think he has stakes.”

  “That’s a childhood disease.”

  “Not if you get it as an adult.”

  “He’s pretty sick, isn’t he?”

  “He’s deathly ill.”

  Bardon tried to open his mouth. I’ll be fine. Just let me sleep.

  38

  CAUGHT

  Kale reached farther into the darkness, trying to locate the dragons. Her hand touched nothing, no blankets, no cushion, no ground below. From a distance, Sir Kemry’s voice echoed. “Take my hand.”

  She sat up. “Father?”

  “Take my hand.”

  She stretched her arms in circles around her and encountered nothing. “I can’t find you.”

  “Concentrate on my voice.” He sang a melody she knew from her brief time at The Hall. This hymn announced the morning vespers and had been sung by a baritone from one of the towers each dawn.

  Was she moving, or was the gloom around her moving? Something swirled against her cheeks, but it did not feel like air.

  Metta’s clear tones joined her father’s song.

  Kale attempted to stand. She had nothing to push against. She seemed to be hanging in mid air. She rolled onto her stomach and tried to “swim” toward the sound of her father’s voice. Again, she could not push or pull with her hands or feet.

  Terror shivered her spine. Mordakleeps! Am I inside a mordakleep? “Father?”

  Metta kept singing as her father answered. “No, not a mordakleep, but a Burner Stox replication of one. While mordakleeps live and breathe, I detect no organic form in this abominable abyss.”

  “So we can’t whack off its tail and escape?”

  “I’m afraid not. Keep following my voice.” He joined Metta, harmonizing with her alto.

  Kale kicked and thrashed her arms about. Since she couldn’t see anything, she didn’t know if she had moved past anything. Since she couldn’t feel anything, she couldn’t tell if her body traveled any distance due to her maneuvering. As far as she could tell, she moved not one inch.

  Kale sighed, crossed her arms, and rested her forehead on them. The song ceased.

  “Kale,” Sir Kemry called.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Metta found me. She says the singing linked us so that we could come together. Sing, Kale!”

  Metta and Sir Kemry now crooned a reverent ode to Wulder. Kale lifted her head and her voice. The atmosphere around her changed—warm and damp. Kale sang louder. The air altered back to the stagnant, lifeless state. Kale concentrated on blending her voice with the others, so that she harmonized with each note. Metta helped her with the words and tones. Again the heavy darkness ebbed and flowed in a pleasant, moist current.

  Now she felt as though she was floating. The other singing voices became more distinct. Air brushed against her like a warm breath. Her father’s voice drew nearer. She reached toward the song. In the dark, Metta landed awkwardly on Kale’s back. She gave a trill of joy and flew off. A moment later, Kale heard the same trill from a short distance away. Metta returned, still singing. Her cry of joy burst from her throat as soon as her feet touched Kale.

  Both Dragon Keepers understood that the other had reached the same conclusion. Metta was flying between them and calling out each time she connected. Each trip between father and daughter shortened until the singing dragon hopped from Sir Kemry’s shoulder to the top of Kale’s head. Her father pulled her into his arms. The song broke off as they laughed and embraced.

  “I can feel the floor beneath my feet,” said Kale.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Her father tightened his hug. “And I can feel the material of your cape.” He touched the crown of her head and brought his hands down to cover her ears, then rest on her neck. “And your hair. It’s fallen down again, just like your mother’s. She can’t keep up a bun for the life of her.”

  Kale giggled. She might not have the stately beauty of her mother, but they shared unruly hair.

  “How are we going to get out of here?” asked Kale. “And where are the other dragons?”

  Metta answered. The other dragons had been snagged by Burner Stox and trapped in Greenbright Valley. Metta and the others had searched. She saw the black dungeon and heard Sir Kemry’s voice.

  “You deliberately flew into this horrible darkness?” asked Kale.

  Metta assured her she had. How else would she have found her o’rant wizards?

  “Father, can we follow Metta out the same way she came in?”

  “I don’t believe it is that simple. Metta’s as stuck in here as we are.”

  Kale felt the little dragon slide down her hair and perch on her shoulder. Metta rubbed her head under Kale’s chin.

  “Then what do you suggest, Father?”

  “We are fighting darkness, and you are the light wizard. I think this one is up to you.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Try something small first.”

  Kale held out her hand, and a tiny glimmer illuminated her palm. “That’s not much.”

  “Don’t talk,” said Sir Kemry. “Concentrate.”

  Kale intensified the glow enough to shine on the faces of the three standing there.

  “You are untidy,” remarked her father.

  Kale frowned at him. “I was sleeping.”

  He scowled in mock disapproval, and then their faces broke into grins.

  Metta chirruped.

  Kale turned her head. “Look, there’s a small light coming our way. Ardeo!”

  Sir Kemry barked a laugh. “Ha! A second minor dragon gives up his freedom—well, relative freedom—to come to your aid.”

  “Your aid too,” insisted Kale. “And, I think possibly, Metta. Metta is his favorite sister.”

  Ardeo perched on Kale’s other shoulder. She laughed at his assurance that now that both he and Metta were here, they would soon be free.

  “I’m sure that will be so,” she commented and then gazed at the flickering light in her hand. “But this small offering is not enough to dent this massive shadow.”

  Metta flew to Sir Kemry’s head. “We’ll sing,” he said.

  Ardeo scampered down her arm to sit next to the insignificant light. It instantly brightened.

  With the song as a backdrop, Kale imagined a tendril coming out from the orb. In her palm, the sphere bulged on one side and popped out a feeler as a vine would reach out with new growth. This branch shot out, burst, and produced more tendrils. Another bulge formed on the orb and let out a long string of radiance. The light plant glowed through the stem, branches, and tiny leaves. Light streams stretched into the darkness and pushed back the gloom. The branches grew until the plant filled the dark dungeon and continued to grow.

  “Look,” said Kale and nodded toward the farthest limb.

  A crack shone in the solid black, allowing a stream of sunshine to pierce the inside. Another crack appeared and another. Soon the outer shell of the abyss shatter
ed and crumbled, exposing a beautiful countryside with mountains all around.

  Sir Kemry cheered, and the dragons chirruped their delight.

  “Well done, daughter.” He surveyed the land beyond the dense vines of the light-shining plant encasing them. “I believe we’re in Greenbright Valley. I see several dragons, major and riding dragons. Are those minor dragons in that tree? It seems to be a whole flock of them.” He clapped his hands together. “Good, good. Now let’s explore and see what we are up against.”

  “The vine should wither in a day or two,” said Kale.

  Sir Kemry gave her a sharp look. “What are you saying? Now we are trapped inside this twisted light vegetation?”

  Kale shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” Sir Kemry barked. “What kind of a sentence is that?”

  Kale shrugged again and bent her head to hide the grin that tickled the corners of her mouth. The relief of being out of the clinging darkness made her lightheaded. Surely, it wouldn’t be that hard to get through a jungle of vines made of light.

  39

  MORDAKLEEPS IN YOUR DREAMS

  Bardon lay on wrinkled, sweat-soaked sheets in a cool room with the sound of gentle waves lapping at the pier. The hostel where Lady Allerion had deposited him sat half on land and half on the wooden wharf. He couldn’t recall when he came, how he came, or how much time had passed since he came.

  His mother-in-law entered his quarters with two people behind her, a chambermaid and a leecent.

  The young woman carrying sheets scooted behind Lady Lyll, keeping out of Bardon’s sight. “Is he going to die, m’lady?”

  “No, he’s passed the dangerous days, but he’ll be uncomfortable for a good while longer.”

  The leecent spoke up. “That’s why I’ve been assigned to him as personal batman.”

  The maid giggled. “Sounds like you belong in a cave or an old barn.”

  “It means personal servant to one of high rank.”

  “La-de-dah. Sounds like a chambermaid position to me.”

  Lady Lyll tsked at them. “You two hush and get busy. We’ve a lot to do, and if he wakes, we don’t want to tire him by bustling around the room.”

  “I’m awake,” Bardon croaked.

  “Oh, good. You’ll be worn out when we’re through, but you’ll feel fresher and more alive.”

  The gleam of her teeth in a wide smile told Bardon that he was not going to like her plans. “Time to clean up, drink some broth, and get a little exercise.”

  Bardon groaned and turned to the wall.

  “I know you’re weak. Leecent Voet will lift you out of the bed, and he and Mistress Traysian will help you walk to the chair.”

  With a monumental effort, Bardon turned over and sat up on the side of the bed. No batman was going to pick him up like a baby. He couldn’t get his legs to cooperate and had to accept help to his feet and then to the chair.

  “Fine,” said Lady Lyll, signaling Traysian to fetch the tray. “You must eat and drink.”

  Leecent Voet dragged a table close, and Traysian put the tray down in front of Bardon. His dinner consisted of hot chicken broth and cold cider. He tried to protest that there was not even a crust of bread, but he was too weak to make the effort of a jest. He moved his hand to pick up the spoon and nearly fell over. Leecent Voet rescued him.

  “Aren’t you…,” began Bardon.

  “What, sir?”

  “Afraid of…”

  “Of catching the stakes? No sir. I had ’em as a baby.” He tucked a napkin under Bardon’s chin and lifted the spoon to feed him.

  “I can…”

  The batman deftly tipped the broth into Bardon’s mouth while he protested. He leaned forward and whispered, “Come on, Sir Bardon, eat this up. I’ve seen the brew Lady Allerion wants you to drink after, and believe me, this is much more tasty. If you take enough of this, we can say you’re full-up for the time being.”

  Bardon submitted to the humiliation of being fed. While Leecent Voet poked the spoon in his mouth and held the glass to his lips, his mother-in-law and Traysian changed the sheets. Bardon concentrated on cooperating with Voet. In his head, he knew the nourishment would be beneficial, but his body wanted to burrow into the covers and be left alone. Under Lady Lyll’s direction, the chambermaid opened the windows to air out the room and brought in something spicy-sweet smelling that stewed in a ceramic bowl over a short candle.

  “Potpourri,” Traysian told Voet when he asked.

  Bardon knew he should be grateful for the food and the care, but the activity in the room annoyed him. Halfway through the broth and cider, he could no longer hold his head up. His chin rested on his chest, and his neck muscles refused to lift such a heavy burden as his big head.

  Lady Allerion came and placed a hand on the nape of his neck. “No fever at present. We’ll just leave you men to do the rest.”

  She and Traysian bustled out and closed the door behind them.

  “Rest?” Bardon croaked.

  “A bath, sir.”

  “No.” He tried to shake his head but couldn’t.

  “You see, sir, it’s this ‘chain of command,’ sir.” The batman crouched beside the chair so he could look Sir Bardon in the eye. “Now strictly speaking, Lady Allerion is not in the position to command me or to override one of your commands to me.”

  Bardon felt a moment of relief. No bath.

  “But I took my orders from Sir Dar, and his orders were that I was to do what Lady Allerion told me to do.”

  Traysian came back in with a large earthenware bowl of water. She put it down on the table, then pulled a bar of soap and a washrag out of her apron pocket. She turned without a word and left.

  Leecent Voet slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Right, then. Let’s get this over with, sir, and I’d appreciate it, if you ever find me under your command again, that you either forgive me for this indignity, or forget my face altogether. My name, too.”

  Bardon alternately stewed over the process of getting sponge bathed or slipping into an uneasy sleep, sitting up in the hard chair. The warm water relaxed him, and Leecent Voet sang under his breath in a very decent tenor as he worked.

  Lying back down on the clean sheets felt like a soft bed after a hard campaign. And Leecent Voet got him tucked in before Lady Allerion came back with her medicinal tea.

  Bardon kept his eyes closed when he heard her enter, and if he’d been able, he would have cheered for the batman when he said, “I wouldn’t wake him now, m’lady. He’s exhausted and needs to sleep. Leave that tea here, and we can reheat it later when he wakes.”

  The door closed. The table scraped across the floor. “Sir, I’m putting this glass of water and this cup of tea right next to you. When I come back tomorrow, if you haven’t drunk it, I’m going to have to heat the tea up again. That is, unless you knock it over during the night. So be careful when you reach out.” Leecent Voet paused. “Sir, did you need anything else before I go?”

  Bardon winced and opened his lips enough to get the word out. “No.”

  “I’d stay, sir, but we’re short of men, and I’m pulling double duty.”

  Bardon wanted to ask why they were suddenly short of men, what kind of duty Voet would be going to, and why they had billeted him in town instead of at the camp. Instead, he drifted off to sleep.

  Bardon woke up chilled. He glanced at one of the windows, but someone had closed it. He turned his head to see the other window and caught sight of a dark shadow moving across the wall. He reached for his sword, but his hand closed only on rumpled sheets.

  He looked again, but no shadow loomed against the wooden panels. He sighed, reached for the glass of water, and managed to drink it all, spilling less on his pillow than went into his mouth. He lay back and stared at the ceiling. His weighted eyelids hung open by a sliver.

  The shadow passed above him. Bardon’s eyes popped open. What was that batman’s name? No matter. He was gone somewhere.

  Bardon shifted to
his side. The empty room mocked him. He let his head collapse against the bedding.

  Fever. I have a fever again. I must be better, though. They got me up. They left me alone. I’m better. Where’s my sword? Where’s my dagger? What kind of people leave a man unattended and unarmed?

  Slowly and deliberately, he examined the room, every shadow, every nook, every piece of furniture. The danger stirred only in his mind. His chambers held no threat. He closed his eyes.

  A shout from below woke him. His eyes focused on red glowing orbs set deep in a black bulk.

  “Here!” came the frantic voice from beneath the hostel. “Here’s another one!”

  The tramping of many feet on wooden planks resounded through the walls, shaking the pillars and causing a cold sweat to break out on Bardon’s brow.

  The creature hovering over his bed breathed deeply. It smelled of stagnant water and rotting vegetation. He and Kale had cleared The Bogs of these monsters.

  The mordakleep sagged toward him. He couldn’t see the gray shades of the room. He couldn’t smell the potpourri Lady Lyll had left. His sheets were gone. The bed was gone. Darkness.

  Wulder!

  “I see the tail, but no monster!” One voice from the other world penetrated the gloom enveloping Bardon. “It must be inside. Cut it! Cut it!”

  Bardon breathed in. Fresh, cool air penetrated his lungs. He tightened both hands into fists, holding the sheets, feeling the texture. He opened his eyes and saw the room lightened by the pale peach hues of sunrise. He pulled air in through his nose and sighed over the heavy smell of spices.

  Rolling onto his side was again a painstaking adventure. He propped himself up on his elbow. Dizziness washed over him. Eventually, he reached for the tea and drank.

  I must get well, Wulder. Amara needs me to fight Your foes. He took another sip and made a face. He put the cup down and leaned back into the bedding. Did you save my life last night? Was it a dream of Your saving my life? Either way, I know my life is spared for the purpose of being Your servant. Strengthen me. Use me.

  He sighed, and his eyelids fluttered shut. He opened them again, fighting lethargy. The room brightened. The streams of pinkish sunshine turned golden.