“Look at it! It’s broken! Your dragon brought us to a broken wagon in the middle of nowhere—”
“Decan!” Trista snapped before Dalkeira had a chance to react.
“Sorry,” he said.
Trista approached the broken wheel and ran her hand along the shattered wood.
“There’s scratches on the side of the wagon,” said Trista.
The carcass of a dead ox, or what was left of it, lay in front of the wagon. One of its rear legs was broken.
“I think it got stuck in that large crack over there. See? There’s still a piece of the wheel in the ground. The poor animal must have panicked and pulled the wagon over, snapping its leg and the wheel,” said Trista.
Dalkeira sniffed the bones.
“There’s no meat left at all,” said the dragon, who had clearly hoped for a quick bite to eat.
“Vultures must have gotten to it. They can clean the meat off a carcass in half a day,” said Trista.
Dalkeira joined Decan in the small strip of shade next to the wagon. Trista looked around. She did not see the hills behind them anymore. She looked in the direction the wagon had been traveling in. It was difficult to see, but it looked like there were hills or perhaps even mountains in that direction as well. She saw a vague, darker outline on the horizon, but there was no way to be certain. And mountains did not necessarily mean water, plants or food.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I think we need to go back and try something else,” said Trista to Dalkeira. The dragon lay down her head.
Decan took another gulp of his water.
“Small sips, Decan. You’re going to need the rest of that water.”
“But I’m so thirsty,” said Decan. He suppressed a yawn. “And tired. I think I’ll close my eyes. Just for a bit.”
Her little brother lay down beside Dalkeira, for once not making a peep about how close she was.
“Can you keep an eye on him? I’ll check out the inside of the wagon and see if there’s anything left that we can use,” Trista said privately to Dalkeira.
The dragon rumbled in return, almost sleeping herself. Trista looked at the little steps on the side of the wagon, then pushed the thin canvas of the canopy to the side and carefully stuck her head inside.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, only to see the wagon was a complete mess. The wood creaked as she stepped into the gloomy interior. A few rays of sunlight came in through the holes of the canvas, making an intriguing spectacle of light. There were boxes and crates with clothes littered throughout the entire space. It was cooler than Trista expected. Often the back of a wagon felt like an oven if it was directly in the hot sun. But it seemed the holes in the canopy, and the fact that the canvas was not secured properly in some places, allowed the slightest of breezes to cool down the inside of it.
At the back, a large barrel lay on its side, its bottom all busted up.
Perhaps their water supply? If the wagon tipped over and broke a wheel, their water would have spilled, and they would have no choice but to continue on foot.
She turned the other way. A strange pile of clothes drew her attention. Tiptoeing through the mess, Trista carefully moved over and pinched a dark piece of cloth between her fingers to pull it back. The still face of a woman slowly revealed itself. Her skin, dark as night, had a slight white haze over it and looked rough from dehydration. The lips were white, with cracks running all over them. The dead woman sat uncomfortably slumped against one of the large crates, an empty wooden bowl in her hand.
Poor woman. Rest easy now, and may the goddess shower you with water to quench your thirst.
Trista had already turned around to go back outside when the faintest rustle reached her ears. She turned around, uncertain if she had actually heard it. For a moment, nothing but the sound of her own breath filled the air.
Then Trista heard a soft murmur and the movement of fabric. Something was in here with her. She saw the clothes of the woman move slightly.
She’s still alive?
Trista dropped to her knees and softly shook the woman’s shoulder.
“Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
But the woman did not reply. Instead, a soft mutter rose from her lap. Trista’s hands trembled as she pulled the dark veil to the side. Two small, dark hands shot out from under it. Trista stared at the baby in surprise as the infant wrapped its little hands around her fingers, its lips showing the same signs of dehydration as the mother. Trista looked at the empty bowl.
She gave the last of her water to her child. Water…water! It needs water!
She grabbed the child as quickly and carefully as possible. As she exited the canopy, she nearly slammed into Dalkeira.
“What’s going on?” said the dragon, who had felt Trista’s astonishment. “Did you feel it too?”
“A baby. There was a baby inside the wagon! I need water. Where’s my water bag?” was all Trista could stammer.
“What’s going on?” Decan asked sleepily, stirring awake.
Trista rushed over to her water bag. It still felt heavy with her supply. She thanked the goddess she had been saving her water as much as possible. She held the baby’s head up and wet its lips, then opened the blanket the baby was wrapped in to give it chance to cool down.
A little girl.
The water on the infant’s lips seemed to spur the child’s thirst. Carefully, Trista dripped more water into the baby’s mouth, making sure the child had time to swallow it properly. She appeared to be well fed. The dark skin looked a bit dry, but she was a plump-looking child if Trista had ever seen one. The mother must have only just passed away.
Trista was familiar with the dangers of dehydration. Travels at sea could be unforgiving for those who did not watch their water intake. She had heard stories of infants found at sea, the nearest island days away, and how anyone wishing to help would probably provide plenty to drink to quench the child’s thirst. But the biggest mistake one could make was to suddenly drink a large amount of water. Dehydrated sailors who did so got heavy stomach cramps, and some had been known to die.
Trista carefully let a few more drops trickle into the baby’s mouth, who now held the water bag with both hands. Dalkeira’s head came over Trista’s shoulder to look at the small human she held.
“She is so tiny. And why is her skin so dark?” said Dalkeira.
Decan also came over to see what was happening. He stared at the baby in disbelief for a moment. Then he looked around.
“Is she—is she like us?”
“What do you mean?” said Trista, trying to concentrate on the child and water.
“I mean…did her mother die?” he asked.
Trista slowly nodded. The baby seemed to have exhausted her energy, and Trista felt the child relax as she slipped into sleep. Trista gestured with her head at the wagon.
“Her mother’s inside.” I hope we can keep her daughter alive.
“How can a tiny person like that make the ground rumble so loud? Is she that hungry?” Dalkeira said in Trista’s head.
“What are you talking about?” said Trista.
“Just before you came out, the ground began to rumble.”
Trista frowned; that made no sense. Perhaps Dalkeira's sleepiness had made her confused.
“Decan? Dalkeira says she heard the ground rumble. Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”
“No. Sounds silly to me,” said Decan, shrugging. Still, the boy dropped to his knees and laid his ear against the ground. Trista saw his expression change from faint mockery to confusion.
“That’s weird. The ground is rumbling,” said Decan.
“I told you,” said Dalkeira in Trista’s head.
“What?” said Trista.
She carefully laid the baby down and put her own ear to the ground. At first, she could not hear anything beside her own heartbeat, still racing from the adrenaline. But then her ears picked up a faint rumbling, like the swell of the sea. As the primal part of her brain re
cognized the strangely familiar sound, her eyes registered something completely different on the western horizon. It looked like the hills to the west had grown bigger—much bigger.
As her brain continued to work on this puzzling sight, the primal part of her that recognized the sound suddenly clicked.
Hooves!
The sound of horse hooves made the hard ground rumble like distant thunder. Trista jumped up and scanned the horizon. Were those shapes in the east coming toward them?
“Dalkeira! Tell me those aren’t riders in the east!”
Right away, the dragon’s hind legs launched Dalkeira upward. Something in Trista’s voice had made it abundantly clear it was no time for discussions. She frantically beat her wings to gain altitude and checked out their surroundings.
“Six—no, seven riders. They are headed straight for us!” The words echoed inside Trista’s head while Dalkeira trumpeted loudly.
As the dragon nervously circled in the air, Trista grabbed the child off the ground and looked around for anything that could provide them with a hiding place.
Dalkeira did not like this at all. Trista and her brother had nowhere to go, and now there was a baby, too. If she knew Trista even a little bit by now, she knew her linked human would never leave the child behind to perish. But what could Dalkeira do? She still lacked the strength and size to carry anyone, let alone two and a baby.
Dalkeira saw Decan scramble to his feet and run toward Trista, asking her what they should do. The dragon wondered if she should attack the riders herself—but no, that would be suicide. They surely had swords and spears; nearly all the soldiers they had spotted—and avoided—had them. Perhaps even bows and arrows, which meant she would not be much safer in the air.
A cloud of dust trailed the riders as the horses ran at full speed toward the tilted wagon. A lookout must have spotted the three of them while they journeyed across the flat plains. Her flying in the air like a great blue beacon had probably not helped, either. Dalkeira scolded herself for being so careless. For a moment, she thought of leaving the siblings to their fate, but immediately regretted the idea. She had chosen Trista for a reason, and although she did not know precisely why, she would not feel complete on her odyssey into the west without her. Which meant she was stuck with Decan as well.
Her journey to the west. The thought lingered in her mind for a moment, until she noticed an increased airflow pushing into her back. She banked around to face the direction she had longed to go toward ever since hatching from her egg.
“Trista, something is wrong,” said Dalkeira.
“Don’t you think I know that? Why don’t you help us find a place to hide?” said Trista in her head, half panicked.
“No, I mean something else. In the west. Look.”
Trista turned and looked beyond the wagon to the west. She could not believe what she saw. The dark shape on the western horizon had already increased in size dramatically.
“It is like a moving wall,” observed Dalkeira.
“Not a wall—a sandstorm!” screamed Trista.
A massive sandstorm raced toward them. Trista had seen the autumn storms on the island reshape dunes in a matter of days, but this was something else. A cloud of dust rushed across the land for as far as her eyes could see. The wall of sand already reached higher than Dalkeira had ever flown. Without warning, daylight turned to dusk as the cloud of sand swallowed the western sun. Trista now heard the roar of wind rolling toward them. She felt like a cornered animal.
Her brain kicked into survival mode.
Run!
It was what they had done since day one, and she was not about to quit now. Soldiers would mean certain death, while the sandstorm announcing the end of the world at least gave them a chance. She pushed the baby girl into her brother’s arms.
“Hold her, and don’t you dare drop her,” said Trista, locking eyes with Decan.
She did not wait for his nod but jumped back onto the wagon, pulling out her hunting knife. She stabbed the canvas and started to cut it as fast as possible. In the meantime, Dalkeira glided down.
“What are you doing?” asked the dragon.
“We’re going to need something to protect us from the sand,” said Trista.
She threw a large piece of canvas to Decan.
“Grab some clothes from the wagon and put them over your nose and mouth. Then put the canvas around your shoulders,” yelled Trista.
“Then what?” said Decan, grabbing the first shirt he saw.
“Start running toward it!”
“Are you crazy?” yelled Decan. “We can’t go in there.”
The knife went in a second time, this time cutting out a much larger part of the thin but sturdy fabric.
“We have to! The sand will make it nearly impossible for them to find us. Now, go! You too, Dalkeira—and keep close to Decan!”
Hesitantly, her little brother and the dragon turned toward the closing cloud of dust and started moving toward it. Trista checked the distance of the riders. It would not take them much longer to reach the wagon; every yard they could put between themselves and the soldiers could be the difference between escape or capture—or worse.
As she cut the last corner, Trista jumped to the ground and ran without looking back. She bound a wide strip of canvas over her nose and mouth. The larger piece she used as an over-sized cape. It did not take long for her to catch up with the others. She urged them to pick up the pace.
Dalkeira took to the air to move more swiftly. Trista took back the baby, who was now crying her lungs out. Behind them, the riders spurred their horses, bringing them closer. The soldiers had noticed the sandstorm moving toward them, but had no intention of letting their quarry reach it and get away.
“Shh. Shh,” Trista soothed the baby between her heavy panting.
While running, she tucked the baby inside her clothes as much as possible, to keep her safe and hopefully protect her from the oncoming onslaught of sand. The wind was getting stronger. The wall of sand was now so high above them she could not see the top anymore. It filled Trista’s entire vision, like a mountain moving toward them. Having no sky as a reference made it hard to estimate the speed with which it was approaching.
Trista looked behind them. The riders were about to pass the wagon. She saw one of the men stop his horse and quickly duck under the canvas to see if anyone was hiding in there. The others continued their pursuit. It would not take the soldiers long to cover the few hundred yards Trista, Decan and Dalkeira had put between themselves and the wagon.
When she turned her head forward again, the roaring wall of sand was almost upon them. Startled, Trista looked up at Dalkeira.
“Get down here, now! Or you’ll lose us in there!” she yelled.
The dragon had just come to the same conclusion, and plummeted toward them. Dalkeira was about to fold her wings and land when the wall hit. The force of the sandstorm instantly pushed Dalkeira’s half-open wings back, like a sail. The dragon disappeared from Trista’s sight as their world transformed into a raging whirlpool of sand. Trista stumbled, while Decan gasped and coughed beside her.
“Dalkeira!”
Chapter 17
Thirst
“Dalkeira!”
There was no answer, just the thunderous roar of the sand blasting against them. Trista reached out once more with her mind.
“Dalkeira, where are you?”
“Be calm. I am here. I am grounded, but I cannot see you anymore.”
Trista sighed in relief. She grabbed her little brother, who was having trouble staying on his feet. Visibility was limited to only a few feet around them as the sand gushed past. She held the baby as close as possible and pulled Decan to her side. The horsemen could be upon them at any moment. They needed to move. Lose them in the storm.
“We’ve got to find shelter,” she shouted to Decan.
The sand seeped in through the gaps in her clothes. The sensation on her skin was unpleasant to say the least. The sand scra
ped away layer by layer the longer they stayed exposed. Trista pushed her head down inside her shirt and listened to the baby underneath it. The child had gone strangely quiet when they were swallowed by the clouds of sand, but she was still moving at least.
“We’re veering off. Going south…I hope,” said Trista.
“I can still see the sun slightly. I should be able to move toward you.”
Shielding her eyes, Trista tried to look around, but the sand made it hard to see anything at all.
A good distance away, Dalkeira’s multiple eyelids allowed her to look around—she simply kept her innermost protective membranes closed—but there was nothing to see except a turmoil of sand. Once, the dragon thought she saw a shadow move, but before she could react, it had moved away again. She chose not to chase it; the shadow had been big, and was likely one of the horsemen.
“I’m sorry. We can’t go on any further, Dalkeira. We’ll have to wait this out and hope we’re still around when it quiets down.”
Dalkeira considered this for a moment. Her scales did not seem to have any trouble withstanding the constant spray of sand, but it would be difficult to find anything within the storm. Wandering around aimlessly would only waste her much-needed energy.
“I will stay put as well. We can hear one another without problems, so clearly you are close, but I agree it is best to stay put and wait this out.” Dalkeira checked her surroundings a final time before she circled on the spot and lay down, tucking her head under her wing.
A small distance away, Trista and Decan took to the ground as well. The piece of canvas Trista had dragged with her was big enough to cover them completely. The color of the canvas faded into the stormy background, making them nearly invisible. Using their hands and feet to secure the fabric against the ground, the siblings created a shelter against the wind.
With hardly any sand forcing its way under the canvas, it was easier for them to breathe. Trista carefully moved the baby out of her shirt. Using her side to hold the canvas down, she fed the child some more water. She was happy to see—or rather hear and feel, as the lack of light in the storm made it difficult to see anything—the child responding again to the offered liquid.
Wavebreaker_Book II of the Stone War Chronicles_Part 1_Trickle Page 33
