“Damn them… This… this is their pain, not mine,” she muttered. “This was never meant for me…”
She turned her eyes back to the stone that had formerly held Lain’s sword. There were a thousand things she should be doing, but in that moment she knew that she could not leave without setting what had come to be a memorial to Lain’s memory back to its proper place. The sword needed to be set back into the stone. His final act should be honored. Her eyes closed and she probed the place, but it was awash with the chaotic energies of the portals. Picking out the location of the sword was impossible. It would have to be found… if it still remained here at all.
Shifting to air would be the simplest, but the churning, rolling pieces of stone were adrift on a stormy sea of magic. As air, she was frail. In her present impaired state of mind, it was too dangerous. Fire would be better, intense enough to overcome the mystic currents, but it would require her to search this place inch by inch. That would take time and energy. But she would see it through. This place was her sanctuary, her cathedral. She would not allow this desecration to stand…
Chapter 6
Travel by dragon was normally an exhilarating experience, but in the day since they’d sensed the opening and closing of the portals, the journey had been a tense and silent one. The lush green fields of Tressor’s farms now lay mostly behind them. Save for ribbons of green that traced along the banks of rivers, most of the land below had shifted to rolling dunes and windswept plains. It was a landscape every bit as forbidding as the icy wastes of the Northern Alliance, but with its own unique dangers. Cold nights were a concern, but the greatest danger came during the day, when a few hours of sun could easily bake an unprepared traveler to a crisp. The group had touched down to drink their fill at a stream and refill their canteens not an hour prior, but already the dry, constant wind buffeting them had begun to crack their lips and redden their eyes. It was uncomfortable for the riders, which made Myranda doubly worried for Myn.
“If you get thirsty or tired, don’t push yourself, Myn,” Myranda said.
The dragon didn’t seem to notice.
“Myn?” Myranda repeated.
Now her friend shook her head slightly and glanced back, as if snatched out of deep thought. Myranda smiled.
“Just be sure to take it easy. It won’t do us any good if you let yourself dry out,” she said.
Myn rumbled a reply in the affirmative, then faced front again. It was nothing new for her to be distracted. The young dragon reveled in flight. Even with two passengers, she was more than willing to ride drafts and bob in breezes. She would even sneak in a twirl, loop, or roll from time to time. With so tight a schedule and so tense a climate, there was no room for such. That wouldn’t typically matter, for even when flying in a more subdued manner, Myn always seemed endlessly interested in the lines of rivers and the points of towns as the ground crawled by below. But in the desert, such matters of interest were few and far between. That left just one thing to hold her attention, and it held it well.
Right on schedule, Myn’s eyes flitted to their escort. Somehow, Myranda suspected even if they had permission to lilt like a leaf on the breeze or fly over a tapestry of different landscapes, Garr would still have been the thing that captured the dragon’s attentions. The wizard felt a twinge of regret that the two dragons had met under such trying circumstances. Myn hadn’t had many opportunities to meet her own kind, and her fascination with Garr was a sure sign that it was a piece of her life she’d been missing, even if she didn’t know it. Rare was the minute that went by without Myn casting a curious look in his direction. She drew in a long, lingering whiff of the breeze to catch his scent, flicking her tongue briefly to taste it for good measure. The dragon may as well have been trying to memorize her counterpart’s features for future reference.
Curiously, despite all of the obvious interest in her companion for the journey, Myn hadn’t “spoken” with Garr. Beyond a rumbled warning when circumstances threatened to pit them against one another and the lecture about eating the meal Garr had offered, they were silent in one another’s presence. Myranda almost giggled at the thought that Myn might actually be shy around her own kind.
This thought was still fresh in her mind when Grustim subtly waved his arm and then indicated a point on the ground below. Barely visible, a cluster of wood and sandstone structures blended well against the dunes. But it didn’t take more than a second glance once it had been spotted to be certain that something had gone terribly wrong there. The wall surrounding the stronghold was intact, but it was perhaps the only part of the prison that was not damaged or recently repaired. With each second, they drifted nearer and were able to discern more details of the carnage. Large pieces of stone, in some cases whole blocks, were scattered about the courtyard between the largest of the buildings and the wall. What had at first looked like a pile of debris was in fact the remains of a squat tower that had entirely collapsed. By the time they were circling for a landing, they could see that even a short stretch of sandy earth and rough cobblestones had collapsed downward. Most concerning, just outside the eastern wall were five freshly mounded graves…
At the sight of a pair of dragons, a dozen guards moved out into the courtyard, first to assess any danger, then to frantically flag them down for aid when they were able to determine it was indeed a Dragon Rider. At an unheard order by Grustim, Garr swept his wings back and dropped from the air, landing hard in the center of the courtyard. Grustim continued the momentum of the landing into a leap from the dragon’s back and a roll to his feet. When the green dragon shuffled aside enough to make room, Myn touched down as well. Myranda and Deacon climbed from her back, staff and gem in hand. The ground practically sizzled beneath their boots, and the whole of the courtyard felt like an oven. Wavy lines of heat distorted anything more than a few feet away, and the glare of sun against the tan stone was just short of blinding.
Now with a firsthand view of the damage, it was a wonder any of the buildings were still standing. Fractures wove up along the stone walls, branching up from the ground. Roofs had fallen inward. Walls had toppled aside. Even now some low-level soldiers were hard at work, having been pressed into repair detail. They troweled a loose slurry of mortar into what cracks they could reach in the handful of walls that might be salvageable, and scavenged bricks from those that were too badly damaged to save in order to rebuild those that had been utterly destroyed.
The prison fort was of a simple design. When it was whole, it had been composed of one large sandstone keep, five stories tall at its highest central spire and three stories tall elsewhere. Built large enough to house a large squad of troops, from the looks of the interior where the walls had given way, it dug at least as far into the ground as it stood above it. Five towers, built sparingly of wood, stood just tall enough to overlook the fifteen-foot wall that formed a pentagon around the courtyard, a tower at each point. One such tower had been reduced to splinters by flying debris. The others were intact but unmanned. The only other sizable structure was a large stable near the southern point of the five-sided wall. A few cases and crates, something akin to half-sized storage shacks, were nestled in out-of-the-way areas, and what was likely a well stood prominently to one side of the stronghold.
“What happened here? Is there still danger?” Grustim asked, speaking in his native language and thus sounding a good deal more precise and confident than in his exchanges with Myranda and Deacon.
“Does anyone need help?” Myranda added, dusting off her own knowledge of Tresson.
“We are both skilled healers,” Deacon added, his mastery of the language easily a match for Grustim’s.
The guards, lightly armored in off-white cloth padding, barked warnings and raised their weapons. The light skin of a Northerner was never a welcome sight in a Tresson military base, even accompanied as they were by one of the most revered units in all of Tressor. Myn planted her claws and spread her wings, curling her tail protectively around her humans and making h
er intentions remarkably clear regarding what would happen if anyone tried to lay a finger on them.
“Myn, that’s enough for now. They are just on edge, and understandably so,” Myranda said, offering a calming hand on the dragon’s leg.
“Lower your weapons. These are representatives of a diplomatic delegation,” Grustim instructed. “Tell me what happened here.”
“Belay that order. Weapons high and prepare to take these aggressors prisoner!” growled a hoarse voice.
The command came from a form tottering out of the one side of the keep’s main doors that was still able to swing on its hinges. He was a man, dressed as much in bandages as in clothes. Wrapped tightly in blood-stained linens, he had his right arm and leg both bound to splints. A crutch tucked under his left arm kept him upright, though just barely. Even his face was largely obscured by three loops of bandage across its right side.
Grustim stepped forward to greet the approaching man, who by sheer force of personality could only be the commanding officer.
“Commander,” Grustim said, tapping his fist to his chest in a formal greeting.
“Brustuum,” replied the commander, painfully mirroring the gesture. “Rider.”
“Grustim.”
“Welcome to what remains of my stronghold, Rider Grustim.”
“It is my duty to offer any aid that is within my power to give, Commander Brustuum. Tell me, please, what happened here?”
“It was an attack, Rider. An agent of the north has broken the false peace that they dangled before us and assaulted a Tresson stronghold.”
“A Northerner. You are certain?”
“Her flesh was lily white, and her accent was unmistakable. She even admitted to it. Shortly before unleashing her treacherous magic and taking the lives of fifteen prisoners and five of my best men. Two more are at death’s door.”
“If people are badly injured, you must let us tend to them,” Myranda said, stepping forward.
“Stay back, Northerner. We’ve had enough of your aid. Now place your staff on the ground and prepare to be escorted to a cell. That goes for both of you.”
The courtyard began to rattle with the ominous growl of a dragon testing the limits of her patience. Myn’s jaws hung just slightly parted, a flicker of orange flame licking from between her teeth with each slow, hissing breath. Stalwart though the Tresson soldiers were, a furious dragon barely restraining itself from a rampage was the sort of sight that would give any creature pause. They held their ground, which was evidence enough of their bravery.
Commander Brustuum gazed up at the creature, who glared down at him in much the same way an eagle would glare at a rabbit.
“Is this creature not under your charge?” Brustuum said warily. Addressing Grustim.
“The beast is the personal mount of Duchess Myranda and Duke Deacon of Kenvard,” Grustim explained.
“Nobility? Ah. So this is the ‘diplomatic mission.’ Curious how it found its way so readily to the site of the attack…”
Brustuum and Grustim continued their discussion, but Myranda couldn’t keep her mind on it. Out of a hard-earned instinct to find and end suffering, on the battlefield or elsewhere, she’d begun to sweep around her, probing with her will. In the months since her final battle, Myranda hadn’t needed to put her mystic abilities to use very much. Though they were unquestionably an asset, considering the circumstances that had made them necessary in the past, she would have been quite pleased never to use them again. As soon as the threat of another death at the hands of the D’Karon presented itself, however, her carefully trained will was ready and eager to leap into action. It took mere moments for the sharp sting of suffering to burn at her mind. She turned to her right and spied a hastily erected tent in the shadow of the wall. The injured men were certainly inside. She glanced at Deacon and found his attentions locked on the tent as well. When he turned back to her, it was with an expression that confirmed what Myranda feared. Without help, one of the men wouldn’t see the next day. The other wouldn’t see the next hour.
Without another thought for herself or the consequences her next action might have, Myranda paced steadily toward the tent. Her motions caused a ripple of activity around her. First, Deacon fell into step beside her, his fist gripping his gem tight and his will already weaving at least half a dozen spells of defense and recovery. A half-second later Myn followed, unfurling her wings and curling them low about either side of the wizards. Voices began to call out, soldiers demanding she hold still. Grustim called out to her, then grunted an order to Garr.
Two bounding steps from the green dragon brought it thundering in front of Myranda and the others, but Myn was ready, lowering her head and thrusting it forward, butting hard against Garr’s own head as it lowered. The blow was a minor one, by dragon standards. It may have produced an ear-splitting clank of scale on helmet and horn on horn, but it caused little pain and no damage, more a test of strength than anything else. Myranda stepped aside, continuing around Garr as though he was little more than a simple obstacle. The male dragon tried to shuffle sideways and block Myranda, but Myn shoved harder, keeping her horns locked with his and just barely muscling him firmly enough to keep him in place.
Next the soldiers acted, heeding a bellowed order to subdue Myranda and Deacon. Without thinking, Myranda raised her hand to her side and sharply lowered it. The weapons in the soldiers’ hands followed the motion, dropping suddenly to the ground as though they’d increased in weight tenfold. Some men attempted to raise their swords and pikes from the ground. Most peeled off and attempted to interpose themselves between the wizards and the tent, even if it meant defending unarmed. Deacon released his gem, leaving it to float beside him, and spread the fingers on his hand. The half-dozen soldiers stumbled and shuffled aside, pushed by a gentle but firm force. Try as they might, they couldn’t push their way past the unseen wall that held them at bay. Finally there was no one left to stop them, and Myranda and Deacon stepped into the tent.
“I fear this was not the most diplomatic action we could have taken,” Deacon said, casting an uncertain glance at the door before warding it with a simple but potent spell to prevent them from being bothered.
“Perhaps not, but it was the most human one,” Myranda said.
The inside of the tent smelled strongly of stale blood and long suffering. Seven cots had been arrayed along the floor of the long tent. Five were vacant. Upon the one farthest from the door, a man slept fitfully. Given the commotion still going on just outside the canvas of the tent, it was fairer to say that he was no longer strong enough to awaken. The cot nearest the door was occupied by a man who was coughing weakly. A sickening gurgle punctuated his breathing, and fresh blood seemed to be moistening a mound of bandages upon the man’s chest. Two clerics tended the man, but it was clear from their expressions that they knew he was beyond their skills. They turned to the unannounced newcomers, eyes flashing with confusion and concern.
“Who are—” one cleric began to ask.
“I’m here to help. What happened to this man?” Myranda said.
For the moment, the promise of help from a woman who seemed confident she could provide it was enough to push aside any other concerns.
“There was an attack. He was pinned beneath a collapsed ceiling,” the first cleric said.
“He seemed to be recovering, but an hour ago he started bleeding again,” the second added.
Myranda crouched beside the injured man and shut her eyes, probing his body with her mind to learn the depths of the injury. She felt Deacon’s will brush hers as he did the same.
“His ribs are broken. They’ve pierced his lung,” Deacon said, confirming what Myranda had sensed. He turned to the first cleric. “Why didn’t you have your healer mend his wound?”
“This is our healer,” said the second cleric. “We had two, but the first was killed in the attack.”
“And the other man?” Deacon asked. “How is he faring?”
“He is sleeping, but h
e is getting weaker each day,” the second cleric said.
“I’ll see to him,” Deacon said, stepping quickly to the sleeping man’s side.
Myranda looked at the clerics. “I need to set the bones. It will be painful for him, but it is better that it be done quickly. Then I will close the wounds and put him in a healing sleep.”
“Whatever you must do, but please hurry,” said the first cleric.
She shut her eyes again and focused, reaching out with her will and allowing it to curl about the damaged ribs. A less experienced healer would be tempted to move the bones slowly, gently. Myranda knew better. She’d mended her own cracked ribs too many times, and had learned after the first attempt that there was no way to do it that wasn’t agonizing. Better to do it quickly than draw out the suffering. In total there were three ribs broken. Two on the left side, thankfully not driven into the lungs or heart, and one on the right, the one responsible for the most dire of the damage. When her mind was wrapped tightly about the bones, she drew in a deep breath.
“Hold him,” she said.
When the clerics obliged, pinning the suffering soldier by the arms, Myranda snapped the ribs back into place. The man would have screamed if he’d been able. Instead he released a strangled, gurgling sound and descended into violent coughing. She reached deep beneath the pain and coaxed the fractures into knitting. If she devoted enough time and effort to it, she could heal the bones completely, but for now she just needed them strong enough to stay in place while the rest of the job was done.
The man was coughing harder, but Myranda pushed the sound from her mind. There was no use leaving the ribs to stand on their own. The way he was struggling he would very nearly break a healthy set of bones. She resolved to hold them with her mind while carefully weaving the next stage of the spell, pulling together the ragged ends of where his lung had been gashed. It took a terrific effort, but slowly she could feel the opening seal. Unlike the bones, this must be done in its entirety through magic alone. If his own healing was left to complete even the tail end of the job, one solid cough would undo all she’d done.
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 27
