She couldn’t beat a dragon demigod. It was impossible. Even armed with a pair of demon blades, she would surely die, her sowen shredded, her body pulverized by a single stomp of its feet, her companions frozen or eaten or crushed alongside if they tried to fight.
It had taken armies of demons, spread across multiple battles, to wound the blue and white dragons and force them back to their mountain lakes. Only intense fire, heated in the molten depths, had been enough.
What remained wasn’t one of the two lesser demigods, either, but the Great Drake. She wasn’t sure she could stand in front of it without collapsing in terror, let alone swing her puny little swords at its armored hide.
Surely there was some other way to stop this war that didn’t involve her certain death.
A bark from up the road caught her ears. She stretched out her sowen and was surprised to feel Skinny Lad bounding toward her, leaping with his long legs through the snow. In the dog’s aura was a single-minded attempt to find her, but he was growing tired, and he stopped to pant for air, buried nearly to his chest. Narina’s sowen had partially recovered, and she sent some ahead to strengthen his efforts.
The dog found them a few moments later, and she couldn’t help but laugh as she held him down from jumping all over her. The light moment quickly passed, though, when she searched through the dog’s scattered thoughts and found the knot of worry that had driven him down the road from the temple. Something was wrong, and as she dug deeper, she sensed Skinny Lad’s fear not for one of his fellow dogs or for his master, but for Ruven. The boy was injured, possibly even dying.
“Something happened at the temple,” she said. “We’ve got to get back.”
#
It was after dark when Narina staggered onto the temple grounds, and colder than she could remember since a cold snap in the depths of the previous winter. It was technically still autumn, and this time of year they’d normally be harvesting squash, making beer, and packing in rice stores for winter, while gathering as much hay as possible from the meadows to set aside for the animals until spring.
She arrived alone, some distance ahead of her companions, who’d been struggling to keep up, with the cold and wet hampering them, as did the thick layer of snow covering the road. Kozmer had used his sowen to keep his tired bones from succumbing to the chill, and the other two weren’t healing from their injuries as quickly as Narina had. She’d eventually abandoned them to reach the temple faster. She’d ordered Skinny Lad to stay with the others, as even the dog hadn’t been able to keep up with her. It was safer for him not to chase after her.
The forge and mill were quiet, but she found people gathered at the shrines. When they saw her, they directed her to the baths. There she found several people soaking in the the stone-lined baths, while fraters worked the furnaces and ran water down the channels. Rising steam obscured the identity of the bathers, but their cries and moans confirmed that this was not a simple communal bath.
Drazul and Bartal stood to one side by themselves, conversing in low tones. Firelight from the furnaces beneath the baths reflected off their faces, giving them a strange air that reminded Narina of the demons she’d so recently fought. They looked up as she approached, and hope touched their expressions at the sight of her.
“They were hit by dragon feathers, weren’t they?” Narina asked.
Tension drew Drazul’s brows together. “You, too?”
“We were attacked, yes. The dragon hit us on the post road. It left green shards of ice on the snow, but none of us were hit.”
The firewalker elder let out his breath. “I wish we’d been so lucky.”
“How many?”
“Two fraters and a warbrand elder,” Drazul said. He paused. “And the boy. The ratter’s son.”
Narina was still in the light clothes she’d worn while fighting the demons in the hot canyon. They hadn’t dried from the surprise snowfall, and the sleeves had turned stiff with ice. Burns across her torso and limbs had further exposed her to the elements. Her feet and the tips of her fingers were so numb she could scarcely feel them. But when she heard about Ruven, a deeper shiver worked through her body, colder than anything she’d suffered from the elements.
“Where is Andras?” she asked.
Bartal glanced at the elder and gave his own sort of grimace. “I thought it best to send him away with the dogs. His son was crying, the dogs were howling uncomfortably, and Andras wouldn’t stop pacing. Poor fellow—he knows it’s grim.”
She nodded, confident the frater had made the right decision, then turned back to Drazul. “And you’re trying to burn it out of them like you did my sister?”
“That would kill them,” Drazul said. “The boy especially, but the others aren’t strong enough, either. It was a close thing with Katalinka, as it was.” Now the firewalker elder looked uncertain. “But the fraters are turning already. The warbrand elder, too.”
Narina licked her cold lips. “Turning? You mean cursed? What about Ruven?”
“Not the boy. He’s dying of cold. The shard is still in him,” the elder continued, “and it’s colder than any earthly thing.”
“You couldn’t pull it out?”
“We tried, Master,” Bartal said. “The feather is sticking right out of his arm—it shouldn’t have been too hard. Andras tried first, then Drazul rounded up what elders he could find, and they used their sowen. No luck.”
Drazul nodded in confirmation. “We’d have had to take off his arm to get it loose. And I don’t know, maybe that would have been the kinder thing. Take a sword and a brand from the forge, cut off the arm, and scorch the wound. Would have given the boy a chance. By the time it occurred to me, it was too late. The cold had radiated down his arm and toward his heart.”
“Do you think . . .” Bartal began, then swallowed hard. “Do you think it would still be worth trying?”
The thought of cutting off Ruven’s arm was horrifying. There had to be some other way.
“Let me see him.”
They had Ruven in a small bath by himself, where he’d submerged to his chin. Because it was dark on the hillside, she might not have even known he was there if she hadn’t felt his aura. It was gray, not so different from the auras of the villagers she’d left dying that awful night when Radolf set a trap for her.
“Ruven?”
“Narina?” he asked, his voice thin. “I’m so cold.”
She squatted at the edge of the basin and put a hand on his wet head. It was cold, so she dipped her fingers into the water, thinking perhaps it hadn’t yet heated sufficiently, but it was scalding, as hot as the boy would be able to stand.
“Where’s my da?”
“He’s taking care of the dogs,” she told him. “They thought it best he stay away. He might have tried to get you out, and that’s not what we need right now.”
“He sent Skinny Lad to find you. Is the dog all right?”
“Don’t worry about Skinny Lad. Kozmer is with him and will keep him safe.”
It was touching that the boy was concerned about his father and his dogs. The other three who’d been struck by the dragon feathers—adults and trained temple warriors all—were moaning in pain from the adjacent basins, their sowens self-focused, almost oblivious to their surroundings. But she supposed they were fighting something other than cold, a curse that was twisting their very souls against their training, their temple, their most deeply held beliefs.
Ruven’s dragon feather was merely killing him.
“Show it to me.”
He lifted his arm. “Don’t touch it, please. It hurts.”
“I’m just going to look,” she said as she took his wrist. “No, that’s not true. I don’t want to lie to you. I’m going to try to get it out to save your life. You must be brave.”
He let out a little whimper, and in response, she tried to calm him with her sowen. It had limited effect.
“Ruven, your arm is so cold, it’s killing you. Please hold still.”
T
he feather was jutting halfway out, almost black in the dim light, with a glint where it caught the reflection of the fires they were stoking below the basins. She hesitated, a doubt entering her mind that just touching the blasted thing might renew her curse. No, that was foolish.
It was so cold against her fingers that it felt as though they were burning. She refused to let go and instead clenched her teeth, gathered her sowen, and pushed back. The cold faded, and she probed inside the wound to where the feather seemed to have bound itself to the flesh. Grown into it, almost.
Well, if that’s all it was, she’d use her sowen to sever the connection. It would hurt; the boy would surely bleed some. But he’d be free of the cursed thing. Maybe the same thing would even work for the fraters and the elder, assuming the feathers didn’t burrow toward their hearts like what had happened to Miklos.
She gave it a pull while simultaneously using her sowen to tear at the edges where it entered the flesh. She used more of her sowen to press down on the boy’s mind, whispering soothing, even somnolent thoughts at him. His eyes closed, and he only moaned a little as she twisted and tugged to get the feather free, half-lifting him out of the water in the process.
The feather started to move a little, but as it did, the effort ripped at the boy’s aura. A blackness touched the edges and encroached on the gray, and the harder she pulled, the more the blackness spread. She could pull the feather out, but it would tear apart his aura. He might live, but she’d destroy his mind in the process.
She let go and eased the boy back into the water, rocked back on her heels, and dug her fingernails into her palms in frustration.
Ruven opened his eyes. “I’m still cold.”
“I couldn’t get it out. I’m sorry.”
“Am I going to die?”
“You’re not going to die. I’ll figure this out.”
“Narina,” a voice said from the darkness behind her. She turned, expecting to see Drazul. It was Kozmer’s bent form, leaning on his staff.
She withdrew to join him and put a hand on his wrist. “You’re cold, friend,” she told him. “You should be in the baths yourself. Did the others make it?”
“Katalinka and Miklos are at the shrine, trying to puzzle things out. There’s a warbrand elder with some scrolls. Lore from their temple. It might have answers.” She sensed rather than saw his shrug. “Or not.”
“Did Drazul tell you about the boy?” she asked in a low voice. “What can I do?”
“What you shouldn’t do is give him false hopes. He is going to die.”
She tightened her grip on his wrist. “I can’t let that happen.”
“I felt you working. I saw what was happening to his aura. The dragon feather is stuck in him, and tearing it out will kill him. Leaving it will kill him, too.”
“Kozmer.”
“We’ll do what we can to delay matters—sowen will help, as will the baths—but it’s only a question of time.”
His words left her almost sick, especially because she knew they were true. “How long does he have?”
“A few days maybe,” he said. “But it’s impossible to say for sure. It seems to strike some faster than others, and depends on how much help they have.”
She thought about her battles and her growing power as she’d killed one rival after another. She’d crossed a lake with a single jump and killed the demon lord, ending all its plans to cover the land in ash and lava. Her sowen should be sufficient for something relatively minor like plucking out a frozen shard that was killing a child.
Narina remembered when she’d fought the demon lord, and how it had fought on even after she’d blinded it. When the monster finally died, its minions had died, too. The overseers and their slaves had hardened and crumbled to dust. The giant scorpion collapsed on itself. The two-headed crocodile demons withered away. The volcano itself had cooled. In one moment, the entire demonic onslaught had vanished.
Those memories stirred other thoughts, other possibilities.
“Get my sister. Miklos and Drazul, too. We’ll meet at the forge.” In response to the elder’s raised eyebrow, she added, “I might have an idea.”
Chapter Sixteen
Narina found Katalinka sitting cross-legged atop one of the standing stones at the training grounds with her swords across her lap. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing regular. Lanterns hung around the covered walkway, casting overlapping cones of light across the sand.
As Narina approached, one of Katalinka’s eyes opened. “I’ll always feel you, sister, no matter how well you hide from others.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide.”
“Maybe not intentionally.” Katalinka stood, stretched, and sheathed her swords. She leaped down from the stone in a fluid, cat-like motion and landed in front of Narina. She’d taken the opportunity to change her clothes, something Narina envied.
“Are you saying I’m hiding myself without intending to? How would that work?”
Katalinka shrugged. “I only know what I see and feel. Wherever you go, the auras bend themselves around you. The earth itself is your shield. I wonder what other protections it would offer.”
Narina frowned at this. “It didn’t offer any particular protections when I was fighting the demon king.”
“Is that what you think?” Her sister laughed. “The beast was swinging at you with four flaming maces and trying to tear you apart with beak and claw at the same time. Somehow, it never found its mark.” Her tone became serious. “If only we weren’t confronted with a demigod, you might have something to say about how all this turns out.”
“I might have something to say anyway. Come with me to the forge.”
“The forge? You want to make another sword?”
“Not exactly, no. Drazul and Kozmer and Miklos will be there, too. Come. I’ll explain.”
As they walked down the hillside toward the forge, Narina explained what had happened to Ruven and the others who’d been struck by the bombardment of dragon feathers.
“We might be able to burn it out of the temple warriors,” Katalinka said, her tone grim, “but what about Ruven?”
“Kozmer says he’s going to die.”
“The poor boy. And his father? How will Andras take it?”
“Very badly, I would imagine. Which is why we’re not going to let it happen.”
They arrived at the blacksmith shed. Miklos, Drazul, and Kozmer stood in front of the closed door, with the two elders conversing in low tones and the taller warbrand sohn standing apart. Miklos wasn’t wearing his sword, one of the first times Narina could remember seeing him unarmed. There was an uncharacteristic slump in his shoulders.
“So we’re defeated,” the man said. “There is no winning.”
Narina shook her head. “We’re not giving up yet.” To her sister, she said, “Open the doors and stoke the coals. Let’s get a little light and heat.”
“There are three of us left who can fight,” Miklos insisted as Katalinka obeyed. “The firewalkers are as good as extinct. I’m the last of my kind, and even the bladedancers are not what they once were. And now the Great Drake is calling us back to the battle.”
“We don’t have to answer the call,” Narina said. “Not if we protect ourselves.”
“Three are cursed already, not counting the boy. The dragon will return. Again and again. Soon the other two dragons will be healed enough to bring the fight to us, and this time with no demons to stop them. Imagine three dragons over the shrine, hitting us with snow and ice. We’ll be buried alive.”
A light glowed in the shed as Katalinka stirred the hot coals to give them air. She was pumping the bellows, heaping fresh charcoal, and pushing aside ash and sweeping it into a bucket. These were usually the actions of a student or frater, not a sohn, but Narina had sometimes found that it concentrated the mind to go through the entire process, and it seemed to be doing the same for her sister.
Narina turned back to Miklos. “Yes, if we sit here passively, doing nothing. But
I don’t intend to do that.”
She led the others inside, where they enjoyed a respite from the bite in the air. Soon, Narina’s clothes were steaming and smelling of sulfur and charred linen. She desperately wanted to peel them off, bathe, and change, but she remembered Ruven suffering as a shard of dragon ice chilled his blood. There was no time for it, not until plans had been made.
Kozmer cleared his throat. “What’s this all about, Narina?”
“In another moment, the forge will be hot enough, and I’ll show you. Keep pumping,” she told Katalinka. Her sister obeyed, but not without a side glance and a raised eyebrow.
Kozmer turned to Drazul. “Narina will make a good elder sohn someday, when she’s shriveled up and bent. Students love it when their elders avoid giving direct answers. It’s one of the hallmarks of a good teacher.”
This brought a wry smile from Drazul that quickly died, replaced by a frown. The man was no doubt thinking through the lost firewalkers, terminating with Sarika’s death, which Kozmer must have shared on their way down, based on Drazul’s glum expression when Narina and Katalinka arrived.
How much had Kozmer shared about the specifics of her death? It had been a grisly end to the last of the firewalker sohns, her body torn in two between beak and claw. Drazul must wonder if the outcome might have changed had he left the temple with the others. He could rest his conscience on that score; another elder wouldn’t have made any difference in the battle against the king of the demons.
“I’m not trying to be mysterious,” Narina said, “only to organize my thoughts before I blurt them out. This has to be well considered. After all, we’re talking about fighting a dragon. The dragon, the strongest of the three by far. The Great Drake appears to have flown to Manet Tuzzia, and the battle will begin there.”
There was a long moment of silence at this, and finally Kozmer said, “You want us to go back to the volcano? Only this time to attack the Great Drake?”
Bladedancer (The Sword Saint Series Book 4) Page 15
