“Give the female food,” the large tharuk barked at Scar Snout.
Scar Snout passed her flatbread and the waterskin. “Eat, drink.”
Thankfully, they’d brought her rucksack. She’d use Hans’ calling stone as soon as they were gone.
The large tharuk grunted. “She won’t go anywhere. She’s too weak.”
They left her ankles and hands bound and retreated.
Marlies lay down where they’d dropped her, biding her time. She was in no shape to walk far.
Maybe she could heal herself with the supplies in her pouch and talk to Hans.
Just as she was about to sit up, there was scuffling outside the cave. Marlies pretended to be asleep, her eyes thin slits.
Scar Snout slunk inside, toward her rucksack. The brute ferreted among her things, then, glancing at her, it hefted her bag over its shoulder and crept out.
No! Marlies wanted to scream. Clumsily, she rose to her feet and shuffled forward, the ropes biting her ankles. At the cave mouth, she peered around the rock and saw Scar Snout hiding her rucksack in a crack in the hillside. Dizzy and faint, Marlies slumped to the ground.
§
Behind a latrine, 316 turned the pretty stone over in its hands. Although the prisoner’s rucksack now belonged to Zens, surely he wouldn’t miss one little trinket? Checking that 555 wasn’t around the corner, 316 absently rubbed the scar on its snout. It didn’t need more scars from 555.
It rubbed the lovely stone. Swirling patterns formed on the surface. Fascinated, 316 polished it. The pattern eddied, forming a picture: a dragon of many colors.
The stone got hot. 316 bounced it from hand to hand, but its fur got singed. A roar pounded inside its head. Flame shot from the dragon’s mouth into 316’s face and the stone disintegrated, leaving its hands burned and charred.
The fur on its chin was smoldering. 316 batted at it, hoping it wasn’t too noticeable. Someone was coming, so 316 ducked into the latrine.
When 316 came out, 555 was waiting. “There you are,” its boss-tracker said. “I’ve been searching. You found oaf’s cart. Zens is pleased. He reward you. Come.”
316 nodded, his chin in his hand to conceal his burnt fur.
“Zens wants the prisoner’s rucksack.” 555 glared at 316.
Zens probably hadn’t even asked for the rucksack. It was just 555 trying to get the treasure. 316 replied, “I don’t know where the prisoner’s bag is. Did you take it to Zens?”
555 smiled, tusks gleaming. “Come and get your reward.”
Something in 555’s smile made 316 shudder.
Dragons’ Hold
Liesar flipped her wings, craning her neck backward to get a glimpse of the girl in the saddlebag. Pale face, eyes closed, breathing ragged. She couldn’t see much else. The girl was probably unconscious. She’d tried rousing her by roaring, but Lovina hadn’t responded. If Handel was flying with her, she could have asked him to fly close and monitor her health. But he wasn’t. He was on his way to Death Valley with Tomaaz and Hans.
A cold ache filled Liesar’s belly at the thought of Marlies dying. No, she couldn’t die, not after all the years she’d waited to see her rider again. Not after her ferrying Marlies and Hans away to Lush Valley after the royal dragonet had died, so they could hide until Zaarusha’s wrath grew cold and reason set in. Zaarusha had finally come around, thank the dragon gods, after a few miserable years.
Liesar battled a fierce headwind from Dragons’ Hold, then flew higher, seeking a gentler current. Tomaaz liked Lovina. His affection ran deep. Lovina was precious cargo. Frail. Hopefully, not dying.
Liesar craned her neck again. She wasn’t so sure.
Hours later, she alighted on a ledge at Dragons’ Hold.
§
Standing in a corner of an empty training cavern, Adelina stared at Kierion. “Are you sure this’ll work?”
“How many pranks have I pulled off since you’ve known me?” he asked.
True, he was good; that’s why she’d sought him out. “We can’t risk this going wrong. A girl’s life is at stake.”
Kierion’s usually-merry eyes were somber. “That’s why it has to look real. If I take my rumble weed, I’ll be barfing so much that Fleur won’t notice what you’re up to.”
“You mean you’d willingly vomit to help?” Not what she’d had in mind when she’d asked him.
Kierion’s mouth set in a grim line. “I’m not letting Zens kill our people, and your brother’s right: we can’t trust Fleur.”
Adelina swallowed. Fleur’s evil lies had led to the council banishing her brother Roberto to the Wastelands.
Kierion squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, Ezaara and Erob will find Roberto.” His cheeks pinked and he dropped her fingers. “Let’s go. Gret will be wondering what’s taking you so long.”
Adelina retrieved some bread from the kitchens, then waited outside the boy’s quarters while Kierion nipped in to retrieve his rumble weed.
“I’ve taken it,” he said. “As soon as I eat, I’ll be hurling.”
She handed him the bread. “We’d better get to the infirmary quickly then.”
He chewed it as they walked. By the time they got to the infirmary door, Kierion was clutching his stomach. Shards, his rumble weed was good. Adelina pushed the door open and brought him in. He doubled over, right in the doorway, groaning.
“Master Fleur,” she called, “Kierion’s sick.”
“Basin,” grunted Kierion.
“Here,” called Fleur, snatching up a basin and running toward him. Once he had the basin in hand, Fleur led Kierion over to a chair. “Come and sit over here.”
The moment he sat, Kierion deposited the contents of his stomach into the basin.
There were only two other patients in the infirmary, neither paying attention to Adelina, so she drifted to the back of the room, ducking behind a curtain into Fleur’s secret alcove. She bent, searching through shelves full of pots of Fleur’s stinking salve. Somewhere here, she and Ezaara had seen some vials nestled in sheep wool, in a little box. Ah, there was the box, at the back. She lifted Fleur’s pots, careful not to let them clink against one another, and hid the slim box under her jerkin. She had to hurry. Lovina could be getting worse by the heartbeat.
“Hold on, I’ll get you some soothing tea.”
That was Fleur’s voice, coming toward her!
“Master Fleur,” Kierion called. “You should really look at this rash, in case it’s not a simple belly gripe.”
“Good idea,” Fleur replied, her voice moving away. “How long have you had the rash?”
“Oh, let me think …”
Adelina peeked out from the curtain. Fleur’s back was to her again, watching Kierion undo his jerkin so she could look at his torso. When Kierion started vomiting again, Adelina sneaked out of the infirmary. Now, to get the remedy to Lovina.
§
Lovina cracked her eyes open.
A young girl’s face appeared above her, a girl with dark hair and black eyes—Naobian, from the look of her. Her forehead was lined with worry, but she had an overly-bright smile. “You’re awake. Welcome to Dragons’ Hold. I’m Adelina.”
This was better than the boot in the ribs she usually got from Bill.
“How are you feeling?”
“Uh …” How was she feeling? She’d been drowsy for days. In the darkest moments, when her hands were cramped into painful claws, she’d despaired of ever drawing again. But now?
Lovina flexed the fingers on her good hand, the ones Bill hadn’t broken. “They work,” she murmured.
“Yes, they do,” said Adelina. “What about the rest?”
“I can move my toes, too.” Lovina straightened her legs and the arm that wasn’t broken. There were no spasms. “Everything’s a bit sore, but at least they’re not cramping.”
“That’s good news,” Adelina replied. “Liesar said you’re from Lush Valley.”
“My old master, Bill, was a traveling merchant, but yes, our
last stop was Lush Valley.”
Adelina’s gaze was sharp. “Master?”
Lovina bit her lip, twisting the sheet in her fingers. “I—I was his slave.”
Instead of scorning her, Adelina hugged her. “My brother was once a slave, too,” she whispered. “We’ll take care of you here. Do you know Ezaara, the Queen’s Rider? She’s from Lush Valley.”
She was Tomaaz’s sister, the pretty one, who could use a sword. Lovina nodded. “A little.” Did she actually know anyone apart from Tomaaz? She’d been hidden behind a fog of numlock for too long.
Adelina raised her hand.
Lovina flinched.
“I’m sorry,” said Adelina, “I was just going to tuck your quilt in.”
“Sorry,” Lovina mumbled. Her reactions to Bill were embedded, whether she was numlocked or not. She heard his voice all over again: “You’re useless. A good-for-nothing bag of skin and bones. The dung that a horse drops is worth more than you.”
Adelina placed a palm on Lovina’s good arm. “Like I said, we’re here to help you. Rest now, while I get you some broth.”
Lovina nodded, drifting back to sleep.
Nightmares plagued her. Death Valley again, except this time it wasn’t her but Tomaaz being whipped, his back laid raw under the lash.
A Risky Approach
After three nights in a cave, Pa had pronounced Handel fit for flight. Now, snowy peaks towered above Tomaaz, mist clinging to their tips. They were at the edge of Spanglewood Forest. Pa had said these woods were the seat of ancient wizard magic, whatever that was. It seemed Lush Valley had hidden more than dragons from its inhabitants. Handel shot down, making Tomaaz’s stomach lurch. He clamped his eyes shut.
“Last stop before the Terramites,” Pa’s voice rumbled through his back.
Tomaaz cracked his eyes open. The ground was still rushing up to hit him, so he squeezed them shut again, waiting for the inevitable thud that meant his torture was over.
He was out of the saddle in moments. It was good to get down and stretch his legs again. He shivered. Zens was on the other side of that mountain range.
Pa passed him some dark thin leaves. “Freshweed—it’ll mask our scent while we’re sneaking into Death Valley. We won’t need it once we’re among the slaves.”
“So, we’re only half an hour away?” Too close—but then, everything was closer when you traveled by dragon.
Pa shot him a sharp look. “How did you know freshweed takes half an hour to get into your blood?”
Feeling sheepish, Tomaaz shrugged. “Um, Lofty liked to use it when we hunted.”
“Typical Lofty,” Pa chuckled. “This is deadlier than hunting rabbits. We’ll creep along at the foot of the Terramites and approach from the north, way past Devil’s Gate—the entrance that tharuk raiding parties usually use. Once we’re in the valley, we’ll mingle with the slaves, hopefully unnoticed.”
“Sounds like a plan.” They got back into the saddle.
Handel crept above the edge of the forest, hugging the steep sides of the Terramites, taking advantage of overhangs and rocky outcrops that would block him from view, gradually increasing in altitude until they were near the top.
“Nearly there,” Pa said, glancing over his shoulder at Tomaaz. “Nock your bow.”
They readied their bows. Tomaaz clung to the saddle with his knees, trying to stop his head from swimming. Focus—he had to focus.
They popped over the top of a ridge. There was a flash of snow, rock and sky, then they rapidly dropped back down.
“Shards,” whispered Pa, “there’s a new watchtower.”
What had Pa expected after eighteen years?
“Only one tharuk guard,” said Pa.
“Do you think it saw us?” Tomaaz asked.
“If it did, it’ll be expecting a dragon,” Pa replied, “so we’ll take our chances on foot.”
Handel landed and they dismounted. Pa patted the dragon’s flank. “Handel says he’ll wait nearby. I’ll meld with him when we have Marlies. It may take a few days to find her.”
Handel nuzzled Pa’s shoulder, then with a whoosh of air from his wings, flew down to the Great Spanglewood Forest.
They crept up the barren rocky mountainside. Although the peaks to the north and south were higher and clad in snow, this ridge was dressed in only smatterings of white.
“Keep off the snowy patches, so you don’t leave tracks,” Pa warned.
They edged their way up. At the crest, beyond a rubble pile as wide as a meadow, was a crude watchtower, built of the same jagged bits of rubble. The tower had an open viewing platform with a wooden roof. A lone tharuk patrolled the platform, gazing down at Death Valley, its back toward them.
“There must be some way through all this rock to the valley,” Tomaaz whispered. “Otherwise, why would they have a guard?”
Pa shrugged. “We might have to risk it and sneak past the guard. The tharuk’s still not looking. See that gap in the rocks over there, by the tower? I’ll find out where it leads.” Before Tomaaz could protest, Pa ducked low, running along behind the rubble, toward the tower.
This was crazy! Tomaaz had thought they could sneak over the pile at night, or go around it, not head straight for their enemy’s fortress. Bow in hand and keeping low, he followed Pa.
Pa reached the end of the rubble and stuck his head around the corner, then took a step into the gap. “Ugh!” He fell backward, thudding to the ground behind the rubble, his hands clutching his chest. An arrow protruded between his fingers.
He’d been hit! Tomaaz rushed over.
“Kill the shrotty beast,” Pa gasped.
Peeking between some rocks at the watchtower, Tomaaz aimed an arrow, sighting the tharuk on the platform, and released.
Surprise flashed across the beast’s face, then Tomaaz’s arrow went through its eye into its skull. The tharuk toppled over the low wall and its body bounced down the slope.
“I’ve told Handel I’m hurt,” Pa moaned between labored breaths.
Down the mountainside, Handel’s bronze wings appeared.
Tomaaz dragged Pa further behind the rubble pile. The arrow was lodged in Pa’s chest, above his heart. If it had been any closer …
Handel landed out of sight below the rubble heap. Tomaaz raced down, grabbed healing supplies from Handel’s saddlebag and returned.
He gripped the arrow and snapped it off. Giving Pa the shaft to bite on, he dug out the tip with his knife. A fleshy sucking sound tore from Pa’s chest as he wrenched the arrowhead free.
Pa pointed at the arrowhead, smeared with blood and green grunge. “Poison.” He grunted. “Clean the wound.”
Poison! Tomaaz stared at Pa’s wound. Green slime coated the hole left by the arrow. Familiar slime—the same stuff that had been in the knife wound on Lovina’s cheek. “What does it do?” Panic edged his words. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, and rubbed at the slime. “It’s in deep.”
“I know.” Pa grimaced. “It’s limplock. Dissolves in the bloodstream. Fever, nausea and gradual paralysis over five days. Try water.”
Paralysis? Lovina! Her curled fingers and aching limbs. His head reeled.
By the time Tomaaz had snatched the waterskin, the stuff had mixed with Pa’s blood, turning it muddy brown. He splashed water over the wound, then tried to staunch the bleeding with a wad of torn shirt.
“Son.” Pa stayed his hand. “The antidote’s in Ana’s pouch.” Breath short, he fumbled with his pocket. “Vial. Yellow.”
Cries rose from the other side of the tower. Killing the tharuk had been a dumb move. More of them were snarling over the ridge.
Tomaaz tugged the pouch out of Pa’s pocket and yanked it open, picking out a vial of yellow granules. “It’s a quarter full. How much do you need?”
“One vial would cure me. This might get me back to Dragons’ Hold.”
“Y-you’re going?”
Pa gave a shaky smile. “Save your mother.” He squeezed Tomaaz’s hand. “T
he vision wasn’t of me helping Marlies. Only you. Now I … know why.”
Tomaaz tipped the yellow granules into Pa’s mouth, then he wadded a strip of his shirt over the wound and tied another strip across Pa’s chest. He helped Pa onto Handel, strapping him into the saddle.
Guttural roars ripped through the air. Much closer. Tharuks!
Tomaaz slapped Handel’s rump. “Go, Handel. Fly!” He dashed to the rubble heap, squeezing into a gap under some large boulders, and watched Pa and Handel winging high into the sky.
A tharuk yelled nearby, making Tomaaz flinch. “Over here. An arrow and rags.”
“Got away on stinking dragon,” replied another. “Filthy thing.”
Through a crack between the rocks, Tomaaz watched the tharuks pick up the cloth, sniffing it. “Lots of limplock! Good. Another dead rider. 515 mixes limplock strong.”
The other tharuk grabbed the arrow. “He be dead in two days. Rutting rider.”
“Where’s 515?”
“Dead as stone. Fell down the cliff. Stupid worm. Got shot by dragon scum.” They guffawed.
“I have his bed.”
“I take his slaves.”
“No. Last time—”
Tomaaz shut out their crude bickering. Pa had said five days, but he was wrong. He’d be dead in two. Pa had no chance of getting to Dragons’ Hold. No chance of more antidote. And what about Lovina? They hadn’t realized she’d been poisoned. Had she found someone to treat her? Or had she died on the way? His mouth was coated in fine dust, making it hard to swallow.
He shoved his dark thoughts away. He had to believe Pa could get help. Had to believe Lovina was still alive. Ma was relying on him. He was the only one who could help her now.
§
Tomaaz didn’t dare sleep for fear of tharuks finding him in the rubble pile. Thank the Egg, he had Pa’s freshweed to save him from being caught. Under the cover of darkness, he left his bow and quiver in the rubble pile, and ate a clear-mind berry and some dragon’s scale. Then he made his way down the barren hillsides, hiding behind boulders and traveling along ravines. No wonder they called this place Death Valley—nothing grew here except the odd scraggly bush. In the predawn gray, the whole place was bleak, not that the sun would make it look much better.
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