Masters & Slayers (Tales of Starlight)

by Bryan Davis

  Taking Marcelle’s hand, Adrian marched as fast as he could, but Marcelle lagged, walking with a pronounced limp.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She grimaced but tried to keep pace. “Something stung my ankle. I don’t know what it was, but it had a tentacle-like appendage.”

  He looked at her ankle, but her trouser leg covered it. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “Yes, but I can handle it.”

  “If you broke your leg, would you use a crutch?”

  “If a crutch was available, I’d use it now.”

  “It’s available.” He swept his arms under her and lifted her into a cradle.

  She tried to jerk away, but he tightened his grip. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “I’m not an invalid. I can—”

  “Shush!” He stepped into a lively march, trying to ignore the pain in his own leg. “You heard what Starmeer said about Zerath. We have to hurry or risk getting scorched.”

  With his back turned to the dragons, he imagined a barrage of flames blasting across his body. The thought made his skin crawl. When he finally put a hundred paces between himself and Starmeer, he let out a long breath.

  “Tired?” Marcelle asked, a coy smile dressing her wet face. “You make a handsome crutch, but the ones I’ve used never breathed that hard.”

  Adrian gazed at her. With her hair slicked back, her face looked different. Maybe it was her forehead, usually veiled somewhat by her hair. Fully exposed, her uplifted brow animated her usually stoic expression. This new aspect was hard to read, less serious than her usual appearance. She seemed younger, perhaps even playful, almost like the little Marcelle he used to roam the woods with so long ago.

  “Yes, I’m tired,” he finally said.

  “That took long enough to decide.” Two lines dug into her brow. “What’s wrong?”

  He tried to shrug, but her weight kept his shoulders in place. It was definitely warmer here, causing him to break a sweat. “This is a strange world. I slept on a river raft last night, at least for a while, so I shouldn’t be too tired. I think so many shots of adrenaline have taken their toll.”

  Part of him wanted to mention Cassabrie and her indwelling presence, but that would be like admitting to insanity.

  Shifting herself higher, she extended her arm farther around his neck and smiled. “You should be tired. We had quite a battle back home and another one here. And you even killed that dragon. I’m impressed.”

  He nodded. “I took a big chance.” As he walked close to the river, the trees thickened to his left. He related the story—signaling the dragon with the fire hoping to gain easy entry, getting flown to the wall where two other dragons patrolled, and attacking one dragon after they decided to kill him. Of course, he left out Cassabrie’s involvement, including her ability to interpret the dragon language. Fortunately, the language question never came up.

  When he finished, he looked back. The dragon and the wall were now out of sight, hidden by the forest. He stopped and lowered her to the ground, helping her sit. She rolled up her pant leg, revealing circular marks, red and swollen, from her ankle to her knee.

  “That looks painful.”

  She nodded. “Something grabbed me in a pool.”

  “A bastra,” Cassabrie said. “We have to neutralize the poison.”

  Adrian cleared his throat. “It looks like some kind of poison.”

  “I agree,” Marcelle said. “I think it’s spreading.”

  “Then we have to find something to neutralize it.”

  She looked up at him. “Strange poison in a strange world, Adrian. Nothing we know will help.”

  “Bastra poisoning is easily cured,” Cassabrie said. “There is an herb that grows practically everywhere near the river. This time of year it has a yellow flower and black nodules around its base. You need the fluid in the stem. Put it on the wounds, and her skin will soak it in.”

  Adrian searched the area. Yellow flowers abounded in the ground cover. He stooped and plucked several, noting the black beads falling to the ground as he pulled. “Let’s try these,” he said as he broke open a stem.

  She squinted at him. “A stab in the dark?”

  “Just trust me.” He poured sticky green liquid from the stem and rubbed it into one of the red marks.

  “Ouch!” Marcelle jerked her leg back. “It burns!”

  He looked at the thick juice in his palm. It stung quite a bit, probably worse on her raw skin, but not enough to rattle a warrior. “I never expected you to be squeamish.”

  “Squeamish? Adrian, I’ve stitched up my own wounds with a sewing needle. I’m not scared of a little burn, but I have to know it’s not going to make things worse.”

  “It won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Adrian sharpened his voice. “If there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  She stared at him. For several seconds, neither said a word. Finally, Cassabrie broke the silence in Adrian’s mind. “Tell her it’s called milk balm. It binds with the poison and neutralizes the toxin.”

  Adrian reached for her leg. “It’s called milk balm. It will bind with the poison and neutralize the toxin.”

  “Oh.” Giving him a look of surrender, she pushed her leg closer. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew what it was?”

  As he rubbed the tacky syrup on her wounds, heat radiated into his fingers. She grimaced tightly but said nothing.

  Cassabrie whispered, “Aren’t you going to answer her?”

  Adrian shook his head. When he finished applying the balm, he wiped his fingers on his tunic.

  “How long will it take to work?” Marcelle asked through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know.” He rolled her pant leg down. “I hope we can afford to wait.”

  Cassabrie laughed gently. “It works quickly. She will be back on her feet in a few minutes.”

  Adrian looked into Marcelle’s hopeful eyes. She wanted reassurance, but if he told her more about the balm’s properties, her interrogation might be too pointed to avoid.

  “Adrian?” Cassabrie said. “Aren’t you going to tell her?”

  He coughed. “Can you feel any difference?”

  “I do.” She pulled up her pant leg again and looked at her skin. The wounds had already faded to pink. “That balm is amazing.”

  “Adrian, why aren’t you talking to me anymore?” Cassabrie asked.

  He rose to his feet and helped Marcelle to hers. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” She pressed her weight on the stricken leg. “It feels much better.”

  Cassabrie’s voice spiked. “Adrian?”

  Still holding Marcelle’s hand, he looked at the river. “Now I have to ask our guide where to go next.”

  “Our guide?” Marcelle asked.

  He nodded. “I don’t know how to tell you this. You’ll think I’m really strange.”

  She laughed gently. “Adrian, I have thought you strange ever since you were five years old and you beat up Saul Berryman for sticking his tongue out at me. Nothing’s going to change that now.”

  Heat flowed into his cheeks. “Well, this is a lot stranger than a punch in a bully’s nose. You see …” He looked at their hands, still touching in a loose clasp. “I don’t know how to say this. I respect you too much to expect you to believe what I need to tell you.”

  “Go ahead,” Marcelle whispered, a tear now glistening in her eye. “I’ll believe anything you tell me.”

  Cassabrie’s tone softened. “I now understand your dilemma, Adrian, and I apologize for my impatience. Maybe you can tell her that ever since you arrived, you have heard an inner voice that has been completely accurate about everything.”

  Adrian heaved a sigh. “Marcelle, like you said, this is a strange world, and ever since I’ve been here …” He pointed at his head. “I hear a voice, and it tells me what to do, including how to get milk balm for the poisoning. In fact, I e
ven know what kind of creature stung you. The voice said it’s called a bastra.”

  She blinked at him. “A voice? Like an audible voice? Like me talking to you?”

  “Not exactly. It’s audible, but it feels like it comes from inside my body.”

  “What does it sound like? A man? A woman?”

  Adrian closed his eyes and concentrated on Cassabrie’s presence. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”

  “Do what you think best, Adrian,” Cassabrie said. “I am your—”

  “I know. I know. You’re my guide, not my mistress.”

  “Adrian,” Marcelle said. “What are you talking about?”

  He opened his eyes again. “Marcelle, it’s Cassabrie.”

  She cocked her head, her brow furrowing. “What?”

  “Cassabrie is inside me.” He laid a hand over his chest. “In here. She is a spirit, a disembodied soul, and she’s dwelling inside me. She guided me from the Northlands, she suggested the idea of signaling the dragons, and she told me about the bastra and milk balm. She’s my guide.”

  Marcelle stared at him for a long moment. She then dipped her head, averting her eyes as she pulled her hand back. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” He tried to catch her gaze, but she turned away. “Is that all?” he said. “Just okay?”

  She swung back around, fire now blazing in her eyes. “I told you I would believe you. What else do you want from me?”

  He held up his hands and backed away a step. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and turned toward the river. “Let’s just get going. We have slaves to rescue.”

  Adrian lifted a hand. Should he touch her shoulder? Give her assurance? If so, assurance of what? He let his arm droop at his side. “You’re right again. We have to go, but I have no idea where.”

  Keeping her back turned toward him, she pulled a hair band from her pocket and looped it around her hair in the back. “Then ask your spiritual guide what to do next.”

  He nodded. What else could he do but press on? “Cassabrie? What now?”

  “We will follow the river upstream. I will take you to the closest slave operation, at least the closest one I remember. We have to stay in the forest to the east of the river. We need to avoid all dragons from this point forward.”

  “Understood.” Adrian looked to the east where a deeply forested area grew just beyond an alluvial plain, rising up like a green wall at the edge of the river’s flood zone. Dark and foreboding, it offered both protection and potential danger. Yet, if Cassabrie said it was safer than the alternative, then they would have to take their chances with the unknown mysteries therein, rather than the certainty of fire from above.

  FIFTEEN

  DREXEL stood with Cassandra near the mesa’s exit and looked out at the gathering of dragons. The beast the slaves had called Ghisto lay at the clawed feet of two others that were much bigger and more rugged looking. With the other children safely huddled deeper in the tunnel, he would be able to assess the situation without risking harm to the precious ones he had come to rescue. Yet, keeping Cassandra close made sense. She could provide information about this strange world without asking too many questions.

  The biggest dragon looked up at the sky. The column of smoke rising above the mesa had blown toward him. Although the fire had died out, the men’s bodies and some of the equipment still smoked. The extane continued to build, so any spark could ignite another eruption. Time would tell.

  One of the two bigger dragons ambled closer to the mesa’s entry. Drexel grabbed Cassandra and ducked with her behind an outcropping in the wall. He peeked around the edge. If they saw him and realized there were survivors, all would be lost.

  A dragon’s head slid into view. With pulsing red eyes, thick scales, and smoking nostrils, it was a sight to behold. No wonder Orlan seemed so worried. If this dragon was half as powerful as it appeared, even a photo gun likely wouldn’t faze it.

  The dragon called out. “Are there any survivors?”

  Its rumbling voice echoed once and died away.

  Holding Cassandra close, Drexel tightened his crouch. Would the other children heed his warnings to stay quiet? So far, so good.

  The dragon’s head withdrew. Two draconic voices drifted in, but they spoke in odd roars and rumbles.

  “There is no one near the entrance,” Cassandra whispered, “but it is difficult to see farther in. Shall I light up the passage?”

  “Is that what the dragon said?” Drexel asked.

  She nodded. “And the other one just said, ‘No. We do not want to risk another explosion.’“

  “Keep translating, but very quietly.”

  After each sentence the dragons uttered, Cassandra breathed the human equivalent.

  “We could send a slave.”

  “I will see if we can spare one from the other mine. In the meantime, post a guard. Ghisto’s death means that something evil is afoot. Someone has a sharp weapon.”

  “Perhaps the murderer died in the explosion.”

  “Perhaps. If we cannot spare a scout and no one emerges by evening, we will set a trap at the exit and check it in the morning.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The sound of shuffling dragons drifted slowly away.

  Rising from his hiding place and holding Cassandra’s hand, Drexel peered at the exit. No sign of a dragon. “Come,” he whispered.

  Holding his sword against his leg with one hand and clutching Cassandra’s hand with the other, he hurried back to the pit. The children had gathered near the surrounding wall, out of view of any dragon that might fly over the extane exhaust hole above. Orlan stood while the other three sat in a huddle near a small pile of shavings that resembled manna bark.

  Cassandra joined the trio, grabbed a pinch of shavings, and began chewing as she whispered excitedly with the other children.

  Drexel swiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “The dragons have withdrawn for now.”

  “I’m thirsty,” the youngest boy said, looking up at him with a glistening face. “It’s so hot in here.”

  Drexel let out a low “Shhh.” He touched Orlan’s back. The dirty shirt he had put on felt hot and sweaty. “Where do you get water while you’re working?”

  “The miners take flasks down into the pit. We drink from the stream.”

  “Then we’ll just have to endure.” He looked at the children. They were slaves. They were accustomed to suffering.

  He crouched next to the thirsty boy and pushed back his wet hair. “Take courage, young man. Soon you will have all the food and water you could ever hope for. You will splash happily in water flowing from springs in which you will never lift a finger in labor. You will laugh with the other children and forget the harsh labors of this nightmare of a world.”

  “No dragons?” he asked.

  “No dragons, not ever again.”

  “No whips?”

  “If anyone ever raises a whip against you, I will personally shove it …” He glanced at all the wide eyes staring at him and cleared his throat. “I will personally shove it up his nose.”

  Cassandra covered her mouth and stifled a giggle.

  “Now,” Drexel continued in a whisper, “I know it’s early, but it would be best if you try to go to sleep. It will help you forget your thirst, and you will need your energy for tonight’s journey.”

  The four younger children reclined on the stone floor, curling their bodies into comfortable positions. A cooling breeze swept in from the tunnel, caressing their sweaty bodies and carrying the rising smoke more swiftly through the hole in the ceiling.

  After they all appeared to be dozing off, Drexel grasped Orlan’s arm. “The dragons will either send in a human to investigate or set a trap so no one can leave.”

  “That makes sense,” Orlan said, chewing a piece of bark he held between his finger and thumb.

  “Do you know what kind of trap they would use?”

  Orlan withdrew the bark f
rom his mouth. “They bury ropes in the grit just outside and place a thin mesh over the opening. The mesh is invisible in the dark, so if you don’t know it’s there, it’s impossible to avoid. When you walk through, the mesh triggers the snare. Loops in the ropes grab your ankles, and barbs in the loops inject poison that can put you to sleep or kill you, depending on whether the dragons want you to live or die.”

  “A cruel device, to be sure.” Drexel looked up at the hole in the ceiling. Gray and black smoke partially shielded the view. “Do you think they will set a trap up there?”

  “Not likely. Who would try to go out that way if they think it’s safe to walk out the exit?”

  “Of course.” Drexel imagined himself trying to jump up and grab the lip of the hole above. Since it was only eight feet or so from the floor, a good leap would span the gap. In his vision, he managed to grasp it for a moment before slipping and falling into the pit. There had to be an easier way. “I assume the ladders will go that high, won’t they?”

  “If they haven’t burned up.”

  Drexel looked at the miners’ hole. The top rung of the ladder no longer protruded beyond the rim. “Yes, that might be a problem, but we will have to wait for the approach of night to investigate. We can’t risk being seen.”

  Orlan sat and leaned his head against the wall.

  “Are you going to sleep?” Drexel asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He pointed his bark fragment at Drexel. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

  Drexel pulled off his sword belt and sat down next to him, crossing his legs as he set the sword and scabbard on his lap. “You are wise not to trust a stranger, young man, especially under these circumstances, but it seems that you don’t have much choice.”

  Orlan stared at the sword. “I still have a choice.”

  “Is that so?” Drexel fingered the embossed design on the scabbard, an eagle with its wings outstretched in full flight. “What choice might that be?”

  “Since you’re a stranger here, you need my help, and as long as you need my help, I have choices.” He let his eyelids droop but left one open a crack. “I suppose that means I can go to sleep.”