by Lisa Daniels
With a cry, Quentin dove in front of her just as the next set of shots rang off. The bullets peppered Quentin's side, and he lowered his wing, trying to signal her to clamber on.
Mauro, human form. Get on me—we'll escape.
The prince, freed of his attackers thanks to Mia, lurched towards Quentin, shrinking.
“You really think I'll let you pathetic fools get away?” The Star Rose caster raised her liver-spotted hands. An older woman, with a cruel twist of her lips. Quentin saw the gem glow and saw his life flash before his eyes with a spike of terror and exhaustion.
Never got to finish what he did with Helga. Never got to kill his brother—now snapping from behind the humans. Never freed himself from his family's grasp.
Never had the right to gift children to the world.
His world erupted in a smear of white and blue. He waited for the end—but it never came. Dimly, he realized the bleeding, wounded Mia had crawled forward, webbing a domed barrier over them, a barrier that constantly shattered and remade itself, shrinking and shrinking under the awesome assault.
“Not bad,” the woman said in a cold, flat voice. “I salute your skills.”
Mia shivered, and tried to lift herself up. Her short, blonde hair clung damply to her head. “M—mother...”
The woman hesitated, staring at Mia for a moment. Then she began to laugh.
“So, you didn't die in the slums after all!” No tenderness or warmth in that voice. It hardened further. “But you've chosen the wrong side. There will be war. And you will die.”
“I don't understand,” Mia said, face drained with pain. “Didn't you... want to return to the country?”
Again, a chuckle. “No, silly. I said that to get rid of you. I liked you enough not to kill you outright. Even tried the mother thing—but it's not for me.”
Quentin winced. The words seemed to hit Mia like physical blows.
She held her hands in front of the Star Rose. The gem shone. More gunshots, more splashes of pain on Quentin. Four more bolts, and Mia somehow dredged energy, perhaps from the depths of the underworld itself to repel them. Wasting no more time, Quentin risked lashing forward, even as Mauro clung limply to his back, and seized Mia in his teeth.
Flying, flying, not stopping, tearing into the night, Quentin flew as if the flames of death licked at his feet. He briefly glimpsed the Star Rose woman launching herself forward, only to slam into the same wall Mia had erected earlier—she'd kept it up, permanently expending her magic to prevent take-off.
The coppery drip of blood entered Quentin's mouth, and he panicked. The iceblood in his jaws fell limp, and her breaths became feeble. With a wounded prince on his back, and a critically injured iceblood in his jaws, he frantically fled for the city. His muscles screamed, his wings creaked and sprained, needing rest, but he didn't dare stop. Mia's staff rested in an awkward place under his tongue now, and his jaws drooled from being whipped by the wind.
But he never stopped.
Chapter Ten – Helga
Helga clasped her hands together, examining Servalan's slumbering form. The stoneblood had insisted on not being taken to hospital, but she didn't look good. She was pallid, and taking short, wheezy breaths. One of those shards must have punctured something that hindered her breathing. A lung? A rib? Helga didn't know the first thing about first aid other than: the red stuff's supposed to stay inside.
The constables had already helped to shift away the bodies, and Helga had even managed to get one of the policemen to help her board up the front door window, with a promise of his glazier friend dropping over tomorrow, by offering him one of Servalan's little prismatic gems as payment. She'd left him to do the job as she went to fetch help for Servalan.
The stubborn woman didn't want help being escorted to hospital. If anything, she seemed to exhibit intense paranoia at the notion of going to the hospital, so instead slowly seeped blood into the sofa.
Now that the stoneblood slept, Helga sprang to action. She scribbled another note, explaining what had happened and where she was going, before propping it up on the table.
Shouldn't be attacked again. We dealt with the threat. Gathering coin, Helga went to the dark street and hailed down a carriage driver.
“Star Rose Hospital, please.”
Less than five minutes later, they arrived. Helga jumped out, pushing through the entrance to stumble upon a rather sleepy receptionist. “Hey,” Helga said, and he straightened, coughing into a thin hand.
“What's your prognosis?”
“Uh... actually... I was wondering if, uh, Yarrow is working here?”
The man's eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Helga took out two of the five prismatic gems in her pocket, and the man's eyes almost popped out of his skull. “I'll be blunt. I have a stupid friend who doesn't want to go to the hospital, and I think she really needs help. Yarrow was nice to me last time I was here. I'd like her to come with me if it's not a problem.”
The man continued to stare at the expensive prismatic gems, the lump in his throat bobbing nervously. “Yarrow's here. I can... I can go ask.”
“Excellent.” Helga grinned. She waited by the reception as he hurried off, his thin frame snaking through the counter gap. A moment later, he returned with a rather confused Yarrow. Her hair was still as wonderfully frizzy as ever, fanning out from her head like a mane.
“Helga!” Yarrow exclaimed, after a couple of seconds searching through her memory. “Daven was just saying you had a friend who needed help—is this true?”
“Yeah.” Helga tossed a prismatic gem to each of them after signalling her intent, and they caught the precious stones with surprise and delight. “I promise not to keep you long. It's five minutes by carriage. She doesn't want to come into the hospital...”
Yarrow nodded. “It's a slow night anyway. I'll come.” No additional questions asked. No fears of being abducted. She'd agreed, just like that. Daven held his gem in worshipful awe. Yarrow followed Helga out of the hospital, and into the carriage.
“Is it serious?” Yarrow folded her arms under a rather substantial chest. The carriage rocked along. Helga shrugged, trying not to think how Servalan's blood leaked over the walls and floor.
“I don't know. It seemed serious. She's a stoneblood, my friend. We... had an altercation with some icebloods. Survived, but she insists on bleeding out on the sofa.” Best not to mention how worried Helga felt, or how she could barely grasp the events that had taken place. “I...” she stopped, and the baby dragon poked its head out of her bodice to stare at Yarrow.
The greenblood let out a surprised gasp, her glass-green eyes wide. Her attention was fixed on the fluffy white head.
“Oh! Um...” Helga grinned sheepishly. “About this... uh... it's a dragon. Long story. A baby. Seems to think I'm its mother.”
To Helga's utter astonishment, Yarrow's eyes began to water in an almost violent way. “Can... can I touch it?”
Bewildered by the greenblood's reaction, Helga nodded, and Yarrow reached out for the dragon, slowly teasing it out of Helga's top. No fear from her at all. More like reverence. Bubbling emotion. Helga’s initial impulse to stop Yarrow taking the dragon died out. Yarrow's fingers gently brushed under the wings, and the dragon let out a meep.
“I thought...” Yarrow swallowed hard, “I thought they were all dead.”
“You—you've seen this type of dragon before?”
Yarrow nodded, the tears now sliding down her face, embarrassing Helga with the intensity of her reaction. She raised the dragon to be level with her face. “These... my people used to worship them. Live with them. We took care of them and they took care of us.” Her hands shook, overwhelmed by the unexpected surge of emotion. “You're raising it?” Yarrow's voice cracked, and Helga felt a strange lump in her throat. Yarrow had more or less confessed to coming from the Hinterlands. Living with these dragons.
The same dragons that Quentin's clan had killed off.
“Of course. I don't know much
about it yet. We're giving it gorsemilk, and it always wants to cuddle, so I carry it around with me all the time.”
Yarrow sniffled, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then tucked the dragon back into Helga's bodice, now blushing. “I'm sorry. That was probably weird for you. It's just... I never expected to see another one of them again.”
“Don't worry about it.” Helga felt glad for the baby dragon snuggled against her, toasty warm and arranging itself into a more comfortable position.
“Sounds like you're doing good with them. They get cold easily when they're young, so they like to be near warm things. Gorsemilk's the best milk for them, but if you run out, you can try goat's milk as an alternative. Cow's milk messes up their digestive systems.”
Helga smiled, and Yarrow stuttered to a stop, blushing brighter if that was possible. “So, anyway. Aside from the dragon, you also associate with icebloods and stonebloods?”
Hastily, Helga attempted to explain about the situation, aware of Yarrow's attempts to calm herself down, though she kept glancing towards Helga's front, and a joyful smile would play across her lips as she did so.
Joy. She's feeling joy. For this little dragon.
Eventually, Yarrow gathered enough of her wits together to say, “You seem to know a lot of magicians, Helga.” Her eyebrows twitched when the carriage drew to a halt, and Helga patted her to follow. Yarrow stumbled out of the carriage to face the boarded-up mansion. “You live here?”
“That's another long story,” Helga said, slightly enjoying the way Yarrow goggled at the whole thing. The police carriages had gone, and so had the sounds of nails being hammered into wood. She felt acutely aware of the baby dragon, somehow sensing Yarrow's sadness and joy wrapped around it.
Inside the mansion, Servalan lay as still as death, and Helga froze in panic.
She's not—she isn't...? Yarrow wasted no time—in the moment upon eyeing her patient, she strode into action.
“Take her staff,” Helga managed to croak, pale with nerves, now keeping her crossgun close at hand.
Yarrow paused, obviously feeling the potent energy the staff could channel, before taking the prismatic weapon in her hands.
“I'm still in the process of making one of these for you,” Helga said, now checking over the unconscious, drained Servalan.
“I don't need this information—tell me how she was injured. Where.” Her eyes took on a stern expression. Every inch the doctor.
“Um, uh—here.” Helga jabbed at Servalan's shoulder, behind her, and the top of Servalan's thigh. “She was hit by ice bolts.”
“That explains why the flesh is this color...” Yarrow frowned, holding the staff near the thigh injury. “Interesting. The blood vessel seems to be contracted from cold. You were wise to bring me. Her femoral's cut. A clean puncture, though,” she said, using her now gloved hands to check the wound, “so she might be able to heal it by herself... but the exsanguination may be fatal since once the vessels thaw out, the bleeding will increase...”
Helga had absolutely no idea what Yarrow was talking about, but watched silently as the greenblood's staff shimmered, and the wound started sealing.
“Amazing... I'm hardly using any energy at all...” Yarrow stuck out a part of her tongue as she concentrated. Helga hovered, thinking how glad she was to be treated by this greenblood. If she hadn't been working...
Best not to think about that.
“She's stupid, right, not wanting to go to the hospital?”
The wound sealed up, and Yarrow nodded in satisfaction. “It's not unusual. People do have a fear of going into one. Some don't like the idea of being cut up. She's lucky, though. The ice magic I think actually saved her in the nature of their injuries. Now, let’s check the shoulder... wait, this is a bullet wound.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“That'd explain most of the blood...” Again, Yarrow furrowed her brow, and focused on teasing the bullet out, fingers touching the red-painted skin. The injury closed over, and the greenblood sighed, envious of the staff. “I've been doing it wrong all these years...”
“Thank you!” Helga grinned, and Yarrow helped her settle Servalan into a more comfortable position on another sofa she hadn't bled out into.
Digging for something to give the greenblood, Helga asked, “I kind of want to know—why don't you want anyone to know openly about your powers? You've got something amazing there.”
The greenblood shook her frizzy hair, giving a pained expression. “It's easier and safer for me if people don't know. Or have you not learned what happens when people know you have something valuable?”
“Ah.” Helga smacked her lips. “Good point.”
“I've never heard about stonebloods,” Yarrow said, folding her arms in a matronly manner, studying Servalan's exhausted features. Compared to Servalan, Yarrow's face was smoother, streamlined, but with more pronounced cheekbones.
Heart-shaped, Helga thought, before considering Quentin. Gods, he'd likely be scared and mad to see the boarded-up window, the blood on the sofa. Would he even be back tonight, or in the morning, after that meeting? Maybe this time next month, they'd have dragons flying freely over the city, no longer needing to hide their forms. She could fly on Quentin's back then, get to explore the city from an aerial perspective. The dragon squirmed in her chest, trying to make itself more comfortable. Probably needed feeding soon. She gently patted the lump, touching where she figured its wing to be. Yarrow flicked another one of those fond smiles.
Maybe Helga should hand the dragon to her. Clearly the baby meant far more to the greenblood than Helga would ever comprehend.
Crash.
Helga jerked up, crossgun instantly aimed towards the door, and Yarrow gaped, frozen for a second. Through the hazy glass of the door, Helga caught a shape like a thin, outstretched canvas, and with a gasp, ran to the door. “I think Quentin's back!”
Maybe. Yarrow followed behind, still holding Servalan's weapon—not that Helga expected a healer to do much damage—and she opened the door to see Quentin swaying like a drunk, eyes rolling in his head. Something fell out of his mouth, and an unknown human slid off his back, before Quentin shrank into human form and collapsed into a dark huddle onto the grass.
Yarrow stood like a statue in the doorway, eyes wide with horror at the arrival of Quentin.
Oh no, Helga thought. “He's good, he's good. I swear. He helped save the dragon that's stuffed down my top now. He's good, Yarrow. He's good!” She was babbling, but the greenblood appeared seconds from running away. Some kind of darkness slid over Yarrow's eyes, before she took a deep, trembling breath.
“Okay.”
Before she made it towards Quentin, the man who had been on his back yelled, “What are you? Who are you?” He attempted to stand in front of the other two, bristling with suspicion. He only seemed to have one functioning arm, however. The other dangled as if severed of connection.
“A healer!” Yarrow said. “Greenblood,” after a tiny hesitation.
The man's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Something about his jaw structure reminded Helga of Zaine. “Get the girl first. Get her first!” He jabbed at the small, shriveled figure on the ground, and with an awful lurch, Helga identified Mia. Though her impulse was to dash to Quentin, something in the stranger's voice sent Helga to her friend instead.
By the light of the staff, Yarrow revealed a rather slimy staff with a better prismatic gem, and without hesitating, picked that one up instead. Mia looked so pale, and she wasn't breathing...
Helga couldn't register it. Didn't dare think about it. The baby dragon popped its head out, drawn by the commotion. The night tightened around them, lengthening shadows. Silence cloaked the living, and Yarrow didn't bother asking questions, just sealing up anything she could spot. A horrific blush of blood on Mia's chest, more splashing her side, leaving little untouched by her spilling wounds. The stranger continued to dance, his amber eyes burning with rage and fear, taking in the wrecked door of Helga's workshop, the caved-in
roof, the boarded-up windows of the mansion.
Beads of sweat welled on Yarrow's head. Helga highly suspected that for Yarrow, it wasn't as easy as pointing the staff at the wound and watching it heal. She likely needed to reverse the injury—meaning she needed knowledge of what to fix. She kept feeling along Mia's still chest, mapping out a route of her injuries.
The wound sealed, and Yarrow moved to the next one. “She's in the clear now. That was close.” Yarrow appeared shaky at the prospect of losing a patient—even one as quickly assigned to her as Mia. “She was knocking at death's door. Her body was close to shutting down without adequate blood pressure.”
Finally, Yarrow finished her work, and with a nod from the broken-armed man, she set to task on Quentin.
“Mia will be okay?”
“Yes.” Yarrow frowned, tired from the use of her magic.
“He wasn't listening to me,” the man said, now sitting down in a huff of breath. “Nothing but gibberish coming from his thoughts. Seemed to fixate on making it here.”
“Who are you? What happened? Is Zaine okay?”
The man regarded her for a moment. “You're the blacksmith, aren't you? My brother told me about you. Helen or something?”
“Helga.” The baby dragon meeped, and the man adopted a bewildered expression, now staring at the tiny creature.
“A greenblood and a Hinterlands dragon in the city... miracles happen.” He paused, chewing on more words. “I'm Mauro. Brood-sibling of Zaine. And our meeting was ambushed. Trads were killed. Humans got away on Zaine, and Mia...” he examined her then, and there was an odd, fierce pride in his eyes, “she saved us.”