The Raging Fires (15 page)

A sudden rush of pity filled me. What vision of terror, I wondered, had driven this young hatchling from its egg and into hiding in this hollow? My skin tingled as I recalled the movement of the great body against my back, movement that was probably its final stirring of life. An inexplicable instinct made me guess that this dragon had been female. If so, she would never have the chance to lay any eggs of her own.

Reaching up, I pulled out several handfuls of the grass that hung over the entrance. More crimson light filtered into the cavern. Probing with my second sight, I spied a pair of sharp claws, flecked with purple, protruding from the mud. Not far from the place where I had momentarily rested, a tail with two hooked barbs lay coiled. Turning back to the head, I smiled sadly at the irrepressible ear. Nothing, not even death, could make it lie down.

I wondered about the dragon’s wounds. Had she starved to death? Bled from some fatal gashes I could not see? Or, like any abandoned child, simply suffered from sorrow and fear—until she finally died?

At that moment, another deep moan, weaker than before, rose within the cavern. Still alive! The dragon’s immense bulk shuddered, shaking the earthen floor. Clumps of mud dropped from above, splattering my head and shoulders. Her eye opened barely a sliver, fluttered, then closed once again, but not before I caught its look of anguish.

Biting my lip, I hesitated. Then . . . slowly, very slowly, I crawled closer. Gingerly, I lay my open hand over the eye, stroking its delicate lashes. It did not open again. Ever so gently, I moved my hand down the lavender scales of the nose, stopping at the immense nostrils. My whole hand barely covered them. A faint flutter of air warmed my fingers—reminding me of that horse from my childhood, whose name I could no longer recall, but whose misty breath I had never forgotten. But the breath of this creature, I could tell, was rapidly fading.

Yet what if a tiny spark of life still remained? Maybe I could . . . But no! I had no more magic. My jaw clenched, as I cursed Urnalda’s treachery. Had she not stolen my gifts, I might have been able to call upon the sky above and the soil below—sources of the power of Binding, which could knit together the threads of the cosmos, and heal even the deepest wound.

Limply, my hand slid from the dragon’s nose. I could not call upon that power—or any others. Nor could I do anything for this wretched beast. Helpless! I sighed, feeling more than ever that aching emptiness within my chest.

Something tugged against my hand. One of the dragon’s scales had caught on the vine bracelet that Rhia had given to me as we parted. Even in the dying light, the bracelet shone with lustrous green. What had she said as she tied it on my wrist?
This will remind you of all the life around you, and the life within yourself I
closed my eyes, hearing her voice again.
The life within yourself

Yet . . . what use was that to anyone else?

Almost out of habit, I reached into my leather satchel and pulled out a handful of herbs. Rubbing my palms together, I crushed them as best I could. Instantly, scents of rowan bark, beech root, and silver balm enriched the rancid air of the cavern. Then, with effort, I pulled off one of my boots. Using it as a makeshift bowl, I dropped in the herbs, gathering them at the heel. I squeezed some water from my soaked tunic into the boot, mixed the soup thoroughly with my finger, and leaned closer to the dragon. Since her head lay tilted in the mud, I was able to pour a few green, glistening drops into her partly open mouth.

As the drops struck her tongue, I waited for a swallow. But none came.

Once again, I poured some of the potion out of my boot. And I waited, hoping for some sign—any sign—of life. Yet she did not swallow. Or stir. Or moan.

“Swallow!” I commanded, my voice echoing dully in the dark walls. I poured another few drops, which slid off her tongue and fell to the floor.

Long after the last rays of twilight disappeared, and through the unforgiving night, I continued to try. My back ached, my bootless foot throbbed with cold, and my head swam from lack of sleep. Yet I refused to stop, hardly daring to hope that the eyelid might again flutter, that its orange glow might again illuminate the cavern. Or that the dragon might actually swallow something. But my hopes came to nothing.

When my herbal potion finally ran out, I tried rubbing the dragon’s neck in slow circles, as my mother had once done for me—long ago, when I had thrashed from fever. It didn’t help. Apart from the rare, halting breaths, which grew more frail by the hour, she showed no life at all.

When the first tentative rays of dawn drifted into the cavern, I knew that all my efforts had failed. I studied the motionless form, appreciating the subtle beauty of the scales, the savage curl of the claws. The hatchling lay utterly still, utterly silent.

Glumly, I turned away. The feeling of this hollow now revolted me. Like the devastation across the river, it stank of untimely death. Heedless of whatever danger lay outside, I rolled through the curtain of wet grasses.

18:
V
EIL OF
M
IST

Rolling down the slick bank, I slid across the mud, finally stopping at the edge of the river. The surging water pounded in my ears. Cold spray drenched my face. Once again thick bands of mist twined themselves around me.

Cautiously, I scanned the opposite bank for any sign of Valdearg. Or of my companions. I found nothing but the remains of the eggs—broken shells, clotted innards, and hacked pieces of rotting flesh. The twirling columns of mist, and the river itself, were all that moved.

Full of regret, I glanced back at the cavern that held the last of the hatchlings. The last of Valdearg’s offspring. Had whoever slaughtered these creatures intended to rouse the sleeping dragon of the Lost Lands, as well as his anger? And had the killer also intended that a man—whether myself or someone else—would be blamed? There was no way to tell. Perhaps simply murdering Valdearg’s offspring was enough to serve the killer’s purposes.

But what could those purposes be? To eliminate the hatchlings? Or to awaken Wings of Fire and send him on a deadly rampage? Yet that made no sense. Unless . . . perhaps the killer was an enemy of the dwarves, someone who hoped that Valdearg would show them the brunt of his wrath. Or an enemy of my father’s race, the men and women of Fincayra. And there were many such enemies, I knew too well. Such a scar on this island, Stangmar’s time on the throne! A scar that refused to heal.

I kneeled by the water’s edge. Cupping my hands, I dipped them into the chill torrent, then washed my mud-splattered face. Finally, I dug the mud out of my scabbard. After several thick clumps worked loose, the sword at last came free.

I ran my finger over the silver hilt, shining in the spray. Maybe the killer was not just an enemy of dwarves, nor even of men and women, but of all life on Fincayra. Someone who might actually benefit from Valdearg’s terror. Someone like . . . Rhita Gawr.

Wiping my face on my sleeve, I frowned. No, no, that couldn’t be it. As Rhia herself had chided me, there was no point in creating new enemies. I had enough trouble right now. And yet . . . who else, besides Rhita Gawr, might be cunning enough to find the dragon eggs and ruthless enough to destroy them at birth?

Something soared over my head, darkening the mist. Valdearg! He had returned!

At that instant, a high, piercing shriek sliced through the moist air. It was not, I knew at once, the sound of a dragon. For this sound had assaulted me once before. I could not mistake it.

It was the cry of a kreelix.

I turned skyward just as the bat-like wings appeared out of the mist. The kreelix dove straight at me, its deadly fangs exposed. My hand reached for the hilt of my sword—then froze.

What good was my blade? I could not forget the last time I had faced those fangs, under the Cobblers’ Rowan. The shock. The sheer pain. Though I had none of my own magic left, I still had the fear.

Plunging downward, the kreelix opened its bloodred mouth. Three deadly fangs arched toward me. Another shriek tore through the swirling mist. The claws raised to slice me to shreds.

Suddenly a dark form bolted out of the fog across the river. Eremon! Clearing the waterway in a great bound, the stag leaped right into the path of the kreelix. With a colossal thud, they met in midair. I jumped out of the way as they came crashing down into the bank. Mud sprayed in all directions.

The two of them tumbled into the river. Eremon gained his legs first and lowered his rack to charge. But the kreelix, shrieking vengefully, lashed out with its claws, ripping the stag’s flank. Even so, Eremon plowed straight into the beast, impaling one of its wings. Blood, both red and purple, swirled in the churning waters.

I drew my sword—just as a flash of scarlet light erupted. Above the distant ringing of my blade, I heard Eremon’s sharp cry as the kreelix struck again. The great stag faltered, slumping in the middle of the river. I leaped into the spray, swinging my sword as I ran through the waves.

The kreelix whirled around. Like an enormous bat, fangs bared, it swiped at me with its uninjured wing. I dodged—but a bony edge gouged my cheek. As I jabbed my blade at its chest, a river stone slipped under my foot, sending me careening backward. The sword flew out of my hand. Icy water rushed over me.

Before I could right myself, something heavy fell on top of me, pushing me deeper underwater. My ribs collapsed. I gagged, swallowing water, struggling to escape from the mass of fur that crushed my face and chest. My lungs screamed, my mind darkened.

All at once, a strong hand grabbed my arm and pulled me free. Air filled my lungs at last, though I coughed uncontrollably, spewing water like a fountain. Finally, the spasms quieted enough that I could make out Hallia, in her human form, dragging me from the river. She dropped me, sputtering, at the water’s edge, then left immediately.

After a moment, I raised myself on my elbow. Just downriver lay the half-submerged body of the kreelix, the broken shard of an antler lodged in its back. Then a realization colder than the frigid waves washed over me. On the other side of the kreelix lay another body, sprawled on the muddy bank. The body of Eremon.

I rose and stumbled to his side. Hallia, sitting in the mud, was cradling the stag’s head upon her lap. Her long face creased in sorrow, she seemed oblivious to the blood seeping into her robe from the puncture in his neck. Wordlessly, she stroked his forehead and his shattered antler, all the while looking into his deep brown eyes.

“My brother,” she said softly. “You mustn’t die, oh no. You mustn’t leave me.”

Eremon’s chest shuddered as he tried to draw a breath. “I may be dying, my Eo-Lahallia. But leave you? That . . . I will never do.”

Her own immense eyes peered into his. “We have so much yet to do, you and I! We still haven’t run through the Collwyn Hills in the flower of spring.”

His face tightened, and his hoof nudged her thigh. “You know how much I long to run by your side as a deer. And to stand by your side as a man. Yet now . . . I lack even the strength to change back into man form.”

“Oh, Eremon! This is worse, far worse, than my dream.”

“Here,” I offered, starting to rise. “I could make you a poultice that might help.”

Eremon’s hoof knocked into me. His gaze, stern but kind, seemed to swallow me whole. “No, young hawk. It’s too late for such things. Or even for your powers, if you still had them.”

I bit my lip. “Whatever powers I once had are just a torment now.”

“The kreelix . . .” he began, before taking a halting breath. “It was a kreelix, wasn’t it? A magic eater? I thought they had all been destroyed. Long ago.”

“So did my tutor, Cairpré.”

Eremon blinked. “The bard Cairpré is your tutor? You are blessed indeed.”

My brow knitted. “The only blessing I seek is to do something to help you. Now, Eremon.”

Ignoring my comment, he asked, “But where . . . did the kreelix come from? Why did it attack you?”

“I don’t know. Cairpré thinks someone is raising them, training them to kill.”

With difficulty, he swallowed. “The kreelix—it thought you still possessed magic. Or else it wouldn’t have attacked you.”

I shook my head. “The only magic I possess is what you gave me. It must have sensed that.”

Eremon winced. He turned toward his sister. “Forgive me.

Blinking back her tears, she answered bitterly, “I will try.”

A wave of spray lifted off the water and settled on the stag with the softness of a candle’s glow, caressing his bloodstained body. Another wave of spray came, then another. Almost as if the river itself were grieving, no less than Hallia and myself. Then I noticed that the air around us had begun to quiver, to shimmer, like the veil of mist that separated this world from the Otherworld. In that moment, I sensed somehow that another presence, more elusive than the mist itself, had joined us.

Hallia cocked her head, first in doubt, then in surprise, as she felt something change in her brother’s body. His glistening muscles relaxed. His face, newly becalmed, tilted slightly, as if he were listening to someone’s whispered words. When at last he spoke, grief still tinged his voice. Yet the old resonance had returned, along with a touch of something else, something I could not quite name.

“My sister, the spirits have come—to take me, to guide me on the Long Journey. Yet before I go, you must know that I, too, have had a dream. A dream . . . about a time when you shall overflow with joy, as the river in spring overflows with water.”

Hallia’s head fell lower, almost touching his own. “I cannot imagine such a time without you.”

His breathing slowed, and he spoke with more effort. “That time . . . will come to you, Eo-Lahallia. And in the days before then, in your moments of fear and in your moments of repose . . . I myself will come to you.”

Shutting her eyes, she turned away.

Eremon’s hoof quivered, brushing my hand. “Be . . . brave, young hawk. Find the Galator. You have more power . . . than you know.”