In front of them, the two youngsters turned the final corner and disappeared for a moment.
Galen did not say a word, but Raylan was not too bothered by that. It had been more of a rhetorical question anyway. Their heavy hitter mostly conversed only with Richard, who was born in the same region of Aeterra.
When they turned the corner, the two boys came into view again. Both stood silently with their backs toward them. They blocked the small game trail that led back to the forest clearing where their camp was. Something in their posture struck Raylan as odd. As he approached them, their camp came into view. Kevhin, Rohan and Xi’Lao sat near the fire. Richard and Ca’lek stood silently behind them. Their faces had an urgent look about them. Raylan was about to ask why everyone was acting so strangely when the rest of camp became visible and an unfamiliar voice greeted them.
“Gentlemen, welcome. Why don’t y'all take a seat?”
The stranger casually pointed his sword to a rock, assigning them each a place to sit. Marek and Peadar obediently obeyed. But both Raylan and Galen stood unmoved. Raylan scanned the camp as his hand checked for his sword, but found only his knife.
“Looking for these?” said the man, gesturing to the pile of weapons beside him. “Yah can throw those knives here as well.”
Rustling leaves alerted Raylan to the two men who emerged behind him, both carrying swords, and that was not all; he saw at least half a dozen men and women scattered among the trees. Plenty of drawn bows pointed their way. Reluctantly, he and Galen both pulled out their knives, tossed them on the ground, and sat down.
“Well done. Now, is that everyone in your tiny group? I’d hate to be surprised again. I mean, I nearly shot y’all when you came walking up just now.”
Raylan looked at him. The man had clearly not bathed in a very long time. A rugged beard that rivaled Harwin’s hung from a strong chin. Raylan observed the others. Their clothes were mostly made of pelts.
Rabbits. Perhaps a badger or two.
“What do you want?” asked Raylan.
“Isn’t it obvious, Raylan? They’re bandits,” put in Richard from behind the others.
“Bandits?” bellowed the leader, who burst out laughing. His entire group laughed with him. “Oh, dear lord, no. We’re not bandits. We’re businessmen. See, these forests have dangerous roads to travel, and we like to keep people safe. In return, we merely ask a voluntary contribution. After all, keeping y'all safe ain’t cheap.”
Raylan met Xi’Lao’s eyes. The Tiankong woman briefly shot her gaze up to the sky and down again. Raylan shook his head slightly. Galirras had left right after they made camp to look for a suitable area to hunt. The dragon knew to stay away from any farms, so it usually took a while before he got back depending on their surroundings.
“We’ve got little to give,” said Raylan.
The man laughed again.
“‘Little to give’, he says,” called the man over his shoulder toward the others. “D’you really expect me to believe a man with such fine clothes doesn’t have anything to share? Gilly, go check our friend, will you?”
Raylan looked down at his outfit. He had forgotten he was wearing the clothes made back in Azurna; they turned out to be comfortable and durable.
Two strong hands dragged him to his feet. The bandit woman in front of him smiled a gap-toothed smile. Her hands ran down his back, across his ass and thighs, all the way to his boots. Raylan looked down as the woman put her hands around his boots and squeezed. His shins protested from the pressure.
“Strong, isn’t she?” Raylan heard the leader say.
The woman looked up at him with a grin.
“No other weapons, Jorak,” she said to the leader. She ran her fingers back up the inside of his leg and took a firm grip of his crotch. “But he’s certainly packing something.”
More laughter rose between the trees.
“You can call yourself a lucky man. I think she likes you.”
The female bandit took a step back, but not before one of her hands slipped along Raylan’s waist and removed his pouch. She shook it and tossed it back to Jorak. She blew a kiss toward Raylan, then walked off and took her place amongst the others again.
“See? I told you we’d find something to share on you,” said Jorak as another man tied Raylan’s arms behind his back. “Search the others as well.”
Raylan cursed internally. Without their money, he would not be able to buy Galirras any food if needed. He knew they could probably arrange things with the official outposts, and the dragon knew how to take care of himself, but it provided a certain safety to be able to decide at random where and when they purchased food for Galirras. Besides, sometimes Raylan just felt like spoiling him a bit.
In the meantime, he saw the others squirm uneasily as each of them was searched from head to toe. Raylan tried to twist his hands free, but found them too tightly bound. And even if he could free himself, he was not sure what to do. They were outnumbered two to one—at least—and none of his own had any weapons.
At that moment, he felt a shiver as Galirras entered his mind. Instantly, a smile formed on his face. This changed everything.
Raylan stood up and took a deliberate step forward. Jorak looked at him in disbelief.
“What d’you think you’re doing? Got a death wish?”
“Not at all, but I just remembered I did not answer your question,” said Raylan.
“My question?”
“You asked if there was anyone else. Out there. Well, you see, there is. But he’s not one to just walk up to people. Nor does he carry any weapons—that you can remove, that is.”
“What’re you on about? Sit back down before I let Gilly gut you like a fish.”
“No, see, I don’t think you understand. It’s not that he’s afraid to meet new people. He just doesn’t like to walk. He’s more one to just, you know. Drop in.”
With a deep thump, Galirras landed heavily on all fours. The campfire sent a puff of burning ash into the air. The dragon extended his wings as far as the clearing would let him and shot off a windblast at the nearest archers. They tumbled through the air and landed in the low ferns that made up the forest floor. Galirras sent a thunderous roar between the trees. He added a little bit extra to the waves of sound with his wind power, increasing its volume. It was enough to make a few of the bandits grab their ears in pain.
Shouts of terror rose from Jorak and his group. Men and women alike scrambled away through the trees, the bandit leader right behind them. He dropped his sword and Raylan’s money pouch, chasing and screaming after his subordinates.
“Wait for me, you cowards, or I’ll have all your hides, damn it!”
In no time at all, the strangers were gone from the clearing. Galirras fluttered his wings and folded them up. Peadar, who had not yet been tied up, jumped up to release the others.
“Perfect timing, little one,” said Raylan privately. He smiled.
“Do you want me to chase them to the next valley?”
“Nah, it’s not worth it.”
“Alright, everyone. Let’s pick up our things and go,” said Richard as soon as Peadar freed him.
“Go?” said Raylan. “What about food and rest?”
“Food? Rest? Did you not just see that group of bandits nearly take all our stuff?” said Richard, perplexed.
“They’re long gone now. I’m sure they learned their lesson—”
“Or they’ll return with even bigger numbers,” interrupted Richard. “I knew it was a mistake to stop early today. We’ll ride through the night and rest in the morning. It’s about time we picked up the pace, anyway.”
Raylan heard one or two groans escape people’s throats. He let out a sigh of his own.
“Did you at least have a good hunt?” he asked Galirras in his mind.
“It was most pleasant indeed,” answered the dragon, eyes swirling excitedly at the memory.
Chapter 18
Ruins
High above them, the sun
burned unrelentingly. The horse let out short snorts. It had stopped foaming around the mouth days ago; it was simply too dehydrated to produce any saliva. This was the fifth day crossing the burning seas of sand. At first, Trista had tried to give the poor animal water from the bags they had found, but it quickly became clear that even if she gave it all at once it would not be enough for the suffering animal. So, with a heavy heart, she stopped.
The steed stumbled. Decan, who had been half asleep on its back, suddenly found himself face downward on the ground with a mouthful of sand. Freed from his weight, the horse regained its balance and kept going.
“Are you alright?” said Trista, rushing up to her brother. Thankfully, she had been the one carrying the baby.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Decan, sounding surly.
They had ridden together on the first few nights, when it was cool enough for the animal to carry them all. But during the day they took turns, giving the person on horseback time to rest while the other led it by the reins, or later simply followed it as the horse found its own course. The trained animal had seemed to grasp their westerly direction and had simply continued on the path with minimal corrections, choosing the easiest routes around or across the dunes they encountered. It had allowed them to travel almost constantly, with minimal time spent sleeping. Once, they had come across another sandstorm, but it had only lasted half a morning before dissipating again. Trista did not know how many miles they had traveled, but she guessed they had crossed quite a distance. She just hoped they were not running around in circles as she tried to set their course using the sun.
Trista pulled Decan to his feet. Her skin was severe sunburned. They tried their best with the canvas and clothes from the wagon, but were simply unable to cover their skin the entire time. She drew in a sharp breath as Decan accidentally grabbed one of the blisters on her arm. He swiftly pulled back his hand, leaving sand stuck in the wound.
“Sorry.”
She felt her lip crack for what felt like the hundredth time as she tried to give her brother a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay. I don’t feel it much,” she lied. “I’m more worried about Dalkeira. She’s looking worse every day. Her scales have completely dulled. That can’t just be the sand, like she says. She needs to drink.”
Dalkeira had quickly recognized that she, like the horse, would not have enough to drink even if she took all of it—so she stopped drinking completely, ensuring Trista, Decan and the baby drank enough every day to keep going. Trista had tried to convince her otherwise, but the dragon had simply refused to listen. Trista could not figure out if Dalkeira was being stubborn, trying to prove something, or just worried she would lose her frail human companions and be stuck out here alone.
After they found the horse, Dalkeira took to the air a few times at night; the sun exhausted her, not to mention made her thirsty. During those first nights, when she still had the energy to fly, Dalkeira scouted their surroundings, only to find that the sand stretched on for miles in all directions.
Perhaps if a dragon flew from waterhole to waterhole it would have made good time crossing this unforgiving landscape. But following the siblings at such a slow pace used up too much of Dalkeira’s energy, and by the time she realized her ‘mistake’ exhaustion had set in and it was too late. They were all in this together.
Dalkeira stopped taking to the air entirely, especially during the day. The dark blue color of her wings' surface quickly absorbed the heat of the sun, causing further dehydration and ultimately heatstroke. Walking was not much easier—and a great deal slower—but at least a fall on the ground would not result in her breaking her neck, which was a real danger when crashing from the sky. She tried to make the best of it, holding her wings slightly spread as she walked, allowing the flow of air to cool her as it passed over her chest and wings. Trista had draped a piece of lighter colored clothing across her dark blue back as well, though doubted if it did anything to help.
Further down the dune, the horse stumbled again and sank to the ground. Heavy, raspy wheezes rose from its throat as it lay exhausted in the sand. The steed made no attempt to get back to its feet. Its head swayed gently, its eyes unfocused.
“I think it’s time,” said Trista.
Dalkeira, walking some ways behind them and struggling with every step much like the horse, lifted her head to see what was going on.
“It cannot carry you anymore?” the dragon asked with an exhausted tone inside Trista’s head.
“No, I don’t think so. It can’t stand up anymore,” Trista replied, her throat dry from sadness and thirst.
“Then do it.”
Trista handed the baby to Decan. She approached the fallen horse and sat beside its head, gently stroking the animal’s neck and nose. The horse rolled onto its side, unable to keep itself upright any longer. Trista slipped around it and unfastened the saddle and bags, freeing up the animal’s belly and allowing it to breathe more easily.
“Decan, do you want to say goodbye?”
Decan swallowed and nodded softly. He moved closer with uncertain steps and lay the baby carefully on the horse’s belly. He put his own arms around it; resting on the steed’s flank, his head rose and fell with its irregular breathing.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The baby made a soft noise, as if to thank the horse in her own way, after which Decan picked the child up again and moved away. Trista watched him go as he dragged the saddle bags after him. Farther down the dune, he sat using the canvas for shadow and checked the bags to see what there was left to eat. Not much remained after five days of travel, Trista knew. They still had about half their water, conserving it as much as possible. But both siblings were in a constant state of dizziness and thanked the goddess when the sun god finally left the sky to pursue the water goddess for her favors.
Trista softly stroked the horse’s head, whispering soothing words to it.
“Thank you so much for taking us this far, my brave, brave animal. Thank you for your strength. Thank you for your loyalty to us strangers.”
The horse attempted to whinny, its eyes wide as it tried to get up.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. You can rest now. Your job is done.”
Carefully, Trista moved her right hand behind her back, grabbing the knife she had taken from the dead soldier’s body. It was a lot sharper than her own hunting knife. Bigger, too. Slowly, she stroked the horse’s face as she moved the knife under the exhausted animal’s throat. She made sure the scared and confused animal did not see it, although she doubted if the horse was still clear enough in the head to recognize it.
“Shh. There you go. Just lay down your head and close your eyes. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”
A few days earlier, Dalkeira had brought up the topic of eating the horse. Trista had wanted to use the horse for transportation as long as possible, but it was like a walking buffet for the dragon, and as the horse’s condition deteriorated, so too did Dalkeira’s own. The dragon insisted the meat and especially the blood would help sustain her in their travels. Reluctantly, Trista had agreed to it, but only if the animal—or Dalkeira—could not go on anymore.
She knew Dalkeira had done her best to hold out as long as she could. But if the horse had not fallen by the end of the day, Trista would have taken its life herself to allow Dalkeira to feed. The dragon was beginning to look awfully skinny and dull.
Instead of Dalkeira killing the horse, Trista had decided to do it herself. For starters, she did not want Decan to be reminded of Rudley the goat more than necessary. Second, the horse had served them well, so she intended to make its end as painless and quick as possible. It did not deserve to suffer. Dalkeira did not yet have the size or the strength to take the steed’s life swiftly enough. And if the horse hurt Dalkeira in a frightened spasm, Trista would never forgive herself.
Still, she dreaded the moment. She understood the stakes and necessity, but that did not make it feel right. With so much death around, Trista would
rather sustain as much life as possible, but it was a truth of life one must eat in order to survive.
This conflict had been on her mind since she agreed to let Dalkeira feed on the horse. At first, it had made her angry, but her will to protect and take care of Dalkeira was stronger. The link often involuntarily shared their emotions and needs, which meant she had been fighting the increasing hunger and thirst oozing from the dragon these past few days—despite the small meals she was eating herself.
“Do you want me to do it?” said Dalkeira, feeling Trista’s reluctance.
“No. I’ll do it. It deserves a quick, clean kill, don’t you think?”
“I can make it quick.”
“When you’re bigger, certainly. But clean? Not so much,” Trista said in a jokey attempt to lighten the mood and make what she was about to do easier. It did not help.
She stroked the horse a few more times and lifted its head into her lap. Her fist tightened around the knife, knuckles whitening. Then in one fluid motion she cut the animal's throat, deep, like she had seen the clan people do when slaughtering a pig. As she severed its major arteries, hot blood rushed out instantly. Despite her mental preparation, the sensation of it flooding over her leg caught her off guard. She stared down, her eyes as wide as the horse's.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she repeated over and over as she stroked the dying animal’s mane and nose. It kicked its hindlegs back and forth in a desperate struggle to hold on to life. Then a final gurgle escaped the steed’s throat before its muscles settled and went completely still. Trista let out a sob. Down the slope, the baby started crying in Decan’s arms.
Trista felt sick to her stomach. She stood up to avoid what blood had not spilled onto her yet while Dalkeira moved in, trying not to get too much sand on her dinner. The dragon quickly started drinking the flowing blood, clearly not wanting to waste any of it.
Wavebreaker (Book II of the Stone War Chronicles): Part 1 - Trickle Page 35
