“What are you talking about?” Frank said. “Your stupid dog is dead, just let him go.”
Ben whirled, rage and pain flooding into him as he lashed out at Frank, hitting him squarely on the nose, blood spraying across his face. Frank stumbled backward, stunned by the blow, then fell on his butt. Caught up in his rage and loss, Ben was moving toward his brother when Hound intervened, stepping past Frank and stopping Ben with a raised hand and a stern look.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Frank sputtered.
“If you ever talk about my dog like that again, I’ll break every bone in your goddamned face.”
“He’s just a dog,” Frank said, as he tenderly felt his bleeding nose.
“He’s a better person than you’ll ever be,” Ben said, turning on his heel and heading toward the trees.
“Ben, wait,” Cyril said.
Chapter 10
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was being unfair and reckless but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All that mattered was Homer. He walked briskly, scanning the landscape for a safe way down. Once he reached the forested slope at the edge of the scree field, the ground became more solid and stable. He was just about to go over the edge when Cyril grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.
“Don’t hit your brother,” he said, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Tell him to stop insulting Homer.”
“An insult does not warrant an assault.”
“Sometimes maybe it should.”
Cyril took a deep breath and looked down. “You’re afraid and you’re letting your fear cloud your judgment. You have to learn to master your fear.”
“What I have to do is get to Homer.”
Just then the rest of his family and friends reached them, Frank glaring at him past a swollen and possibly broken nose.
“I understand that,” Cyril said. “But you have to be smart about it. There’s a stalker down there somewhere. You can’t face it alone.”
“Oh God,” Ben said, new fear flooding into his belly. “Homer’s helpless against that thing.”
“And so are you,” Cyril said. “Do you think Homer would want you to die trying to save him?”
“No, but that won’t stop me from trying,” Ben said, turning away and sliding down the hill to a tree twenty feet below.
“Damn it, Ben,” Cyril said, “slow down and wait for the rest of us!”
Ben ignored him.
“I’ll wait here,” Frank said.
“You’ll be waiting a long time,” Hound said. “Once we’re down there, we won’t be climbing back up here.”
Frank’s frown deepened. “Stupid dog,” he muttered under his breath.
Cyril looked to John. He nodded and went over the edge. Ben was already two trees ahead of him and looking for another to arrest his descent. The calm voice of reason tugged at him, urging him to be careful, to pay attention to his surroundings, to think. He ignored that too.
It didn’t take long to reach relatively level ground. Once there, he turned and started trotting through the forest. The trees were sparse enough to move through quickly, though he found that he needed to choose his path carefully because the ground was layered with uneven stones concealed by pine needles and forest debris.
He reached the mound of newly fallen rock and began to scramble up the side, sliding back a step for every two he took but finally reaching the top. He stopped short when he saw Homer, still and silent. After a torturous moment of indecision, his need to know doing battle with his fear of knowing, he raced to Homer’s side. He was beaten up and bloody, but he was breathing.
Relief washed over Ben like a cool breeze on a hot day, taking his fear with it. He dropped to his knees and gently, tentatively pet Homer’s head.
“Can you hear me?” he said. There was no response.
He carefully began to probe for injuries, first across the dog’s head, then his body and finally his legs. He realized only after he’d finished that he’d been holding his breath to the point where his lungs were burning. With a gasp, his composure broke and he laid his head on the ground and wept.
“Please wake up,” he whispered.
“Look out!” John shouted.
Ben’s head snapped up.
The stalker was slowly and quietly slinking toward him across the debris field, his sword still driven to the hilt into its eye and out the back of its head. Suddenly, it snarled and leapt into a sprint.
The fear returned, though this time it was mixed with a sense of righteous anger. Ben scrambled to his feet, bringing a grapefruit-sized rock with him. No sooner had he set his stance than the stalker was on him, leaping toward his throat with a frenzied need to kill.
Ben brought the rock up and jammed it into the stalker’s open mouth, wedging it between its teeth even as the thing crashed into him and knocked him onto his back. The uneven, rocky ground gouged him in a dozen places, but his attention was firmly fixed on the unnatural creature trying to end his life.
When the beast tried to pull back and dislodge the rock, Ben wrapped his free arm around its head right below the blade of his sword, holding it close so he could keep the rock in place. The stalker flailed against him, scratching and kicking, clawing into his flesh in a frantic effort to free itself from his grip, but he held on.
John was there a moment later, taking hold of the sword hilt and pulling the blade sideways with a heave, slicing through the creature’s head and stilling its desperate struggle to kill Ben. As it went limp, the darkness that seemed to accompany it faded like smoke on a breeze.
The top half of the beast’s head had been nearly severed. Black blood and slimy brain matter poured out of the gaping wound.
Ben rolled the thing off him, scrambling away from it, his heart pounding in his chest.
A moment later, the foul taste of the stalker’s blood, rotten and fetid, flooded into his senses, and he vomited the contents of his stomach onto the rock. He rolled over onto his side and curled into a ball, waves of nausea and revulsion coursing through him. He heaved again, but his belly was empty.
“You okay?” John asked, still sitting on the ground, staring at the stalker’s corpse.
Ben tried to speak, but succumbed to another round of dry heaves, his whole body wracked by convulsions.
Cyril scrambled to his side, rolling his grandson toward him and searching for injuries. When he saw Ben’s face, he snatched the canteen from his bag and washed away the unclean, black blood.
Ben sputtered, his latest attempt to vomit transforming into a fit of coughing. He couldn’t imagine feeling any more miserable—until Homer whined. He violently shoved his own discomfort aside and rolled to his hands and knees, crawling to his dog.
Homer whimpered again as his eyes came open. When he saw Ben, he said, “You smell bad.”
Ben curled up next to him. “Deal with it.”
Homer laid his chin on Ben’s hand.
“Are you hurt?” Cyril asked, kneeling next to Ben.
“No,” he croaked, “but I feel sick.”
“My feet hurt,” Homer said.
“I’ll bet,” Ben replied without opening his eyes.
The others finally arrived, coming up around them, Hound scanning for any further danger, Imogen going to Ben’s side, and Frank sitting down on a rock, shaking his head.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Imogen said. “Sit up and take off that shirt … it smells awful.”
He reluctantly obeyed, slowly sitting up and stripping off his shirt. He felt much better once the stench of the stalker’s blood was off of him. Cyril handed him a wet towel and Ben went to work cleaning himself, taking extra care with the scratches left by the stalker’s claws all across his chest. Most were superficial but a few oozed blood. Imogen carefully bandaged the wounds.
Once he was clean and wearing his spare shirt, he gently picked Homer up and carried him away from the carnage, sliding down the side of the debris field and scanning the forest.
“We need to find a place to camp,” he said.
“We still have hours of light left,” Frank said. “We should get the hell away from here in case the Dragon Guard come back.”
Ben shook his head. “Homer isn’t ready to travel yet.”
Frank clenched his jaw.
Cyril looked at Ben and sighed, inspecting one of Homer’s paws and nodding to himself. Then he turned to John and said, “Any suggestions?”
“Should be a stream not too far from here.”
“Lead the way.”
Homer grew heavier as they walked and the energy flowing through Ben from the fight began to ebb, but he didn’t complain.
They reached the stream, burbling and rippling over its rocky course on its way to the Lake of the Woods. Ben gently laid Homer down. Then he went to the stream and washed his face and head again, this time far more thoroughly. Satisfied that all of the stalker’s blood was gone, he dug Homer’s bowl out of his pack and filled it with water.
Homer gratefully drank his fill and then rolled over on his side, closing his eyes again. Ben went to work inspecting his wounds and cleaning them with a wet cloth. Given all that Homer had been though, it was a wonder that he’d fared as well as he had. He was bruised from head to paw, and he had a number of superficial lacerations that elicited a whine when Ben gently probed them, but no bones were broken.
After he’d finished tending to Homer, Ben lay back in the mossy grass and looked at the sky, so blue and calm.
“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Cyril asked, sitting nearby.
Ben sat up, nodding to his grandfather.
“You were reckless. If John hadn’t been there, that stalker would have killed you.”
“And if I hadn’t gotten there as quickly as I did, it would have killed Homer.”
“Perhaps,” Cyril said, falling silent for a moment as he watched the water flow past them. “Our enemy is dangerous and determined. None of us can stand against them alone—not you, not me. To survive, we need to be able to rely on each other.”
Ben looked at the grass, pulling a few blades up and letting them fall away in the breeze. Now that he’d had a moment to think about it, without the cloud of intense emotion obscuring his reason, he saw his many mistakes.
“I know. Truth is, Homer’s hurt because of me. The rock slide was my idea. I put him in this situation.” He stared off into the forest, a dozen “what-ifs” parading through his mind.
“What’s done is done,” Cyril said. “No sense beating yourself up over it. Also, I’m not sure the outcome would’ve been better if we’d tried a different strategy.”
Ben nodded to himself, scanning the faces of his friends and family. When he settled on Frank, a pang of guilt tugged at his conscience—his brother’s nose was swollen and red. Ben winced and said, “I’m sorry I hit you. I let my emotions get the better of me and I shouldn’t have.”
Frank nodded, muttering something under his breath. Ben ignored it. He hadn’t expected Frank to accept his apology graciously.
“At least we got your sword back,” John said, handing over the blade, now slightly etched by the blood of the stalker.
Ben took it, performing a cursory inspection before returning it to his scabbard.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“Anytime,” John said.
“As I understand it, stalkers are territorial,” Hound said. “Hopefully, that means there aren’t any more nearby.”
Everyone nodded agreement.
Ben lay down next to Homer and closed his eyes, quickly drifting off to sleep as the excitement of the day took its toll.
He woke some time later with a wave of nausea and prickly heat washing over him. He rolled onto his side and tried to vomit again, then broke out in a cold sweat.
Cyril came to his side, laying a hand on his forehead.
“You have a fever,” he said, worry creasing his face.
“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not feeling all that great either,” Hound said, his face pale and glistening with sweat.
“Are the stalkers poisonous?” Imogen asked.
“I’m not sure that poison is the right word for it,” Cyril said, his hand on his chin, his brow furrowed.
“Then what is the right word?” Hound asked.
“Infection,” Cyril said. “The stalkers are unclean in more ways than one. I suspect that wounds caused by them are tainted with the same darkness that animates them.”
“So what are we going to do?” Imogen asked.
“All we can do is keep their wounds clean and let them rest,” Cyril said.
“What if that’s not enough?” she whispered, looking at Ben with worry.
“Hopefully, Chen will be able to help,” Cyril muttered.
“Master Chen?” Imogen asked, with a hint of confusion.
Cyril nodded.
“He was around a lot when I was a kid,” she said. “Why does he live way up in the forest now?”
“Isolation. After …” Cyril’s voice trailed off, a look of profound sadness coming over his face. He snapped back to himself a moment later. “He wanted to be left alone to meditate.”
“Are you sure he’s even still alive?” Imogen asked. “He was pretty old.”
“I certainly hope he’s still alive. But if he isn’t, his cabin will still be there. We’ll be safe there, for a while at least.”
“How can you be so sure?” Frank asked.
“It’s well hidden. I doubt the Dragon Guard could find it even if they knew where it was.”
“What about a stalker?” Frank asked.
Cyril shrugged, shaking his head.
“Great,” Frank muttered.
Ben was listening through the floating detachment of near sleep. He remembered the name, but he couldn’t put a face to it. His grandfather had spoken of Chen on a few occasions, always with respect and affection. He wondered if the man could actually help. The thought evaporated as he slipped into sleep.
He woke suddenly, sitting up with a gasp, his heart hammering in his chest. The forest was dark and shrouded in mist, moonlight illuminating it with an eerie silver light—not enough to see by, but just enough to cast a thousand threatening shadows. He looked around, surreal panic welling up in his gut.
He was alone.
He struggled to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t work.
One of the shadows began to move, red eyes in the night fixed on him. He looked around frantically. There was no stream, no mountain, nothing but trees and the pair of eyes coming for him. His heart swelled in his throat, each thunderous beat threatening to burst within his chest.
Terror and panic shoved aside all reason. The eyes were getting closer. They moved through the wispy fog, not quickly but inexorably, as if the thing looking at him knew there was no escape, knew that Ben was paralyzed, held to that spot by his own fear.
Helplessness filled him, and the eyes seemed to laugh with malice, savoring his plight. Then it bolted toward him, a shadow without form.
He woke screaming, sweat beading on his forehead, his heart slamming in his chest. It took him a few moments to realize that it had been a dream. The warm sun on his face helped bring him back to reality.
Cyril and Imogen were at his side a moment later.
“It’s okay, just breathe,” Cyril said.
“It was just a bad dream,” Imogen added.
He shook his head, unable to form words, still struggling to calm his heart and slow his breathing.
Homer whined sympathetically.
It took nearly a minute before he had collected his wits enough to process what had just happened.
“I’ve never had a dream like that before,” he said, still trembling. “It was so dark and so real.”
Cyril pursed his lips and glanced down at the bandages tied around his chest.
Ben closed his eyes and lay back on the thick grass. “It’s the stalker’s magic, isn’t it?” he asked without opening his
eyes.
Hound came awake a moment later, scrambling to his feet and whipping Bertha out in one fluid, unconscious movement. His head darted back and forth, searching for a target. He blinked and swallowed hard, trembling just as violently as Ben had in the moments after he woke.
“You too?” Cyril asked.
Hound took a deep breath and sat down, nodding.
“I don’t have nightmares,” he said. “Even with all the shit I’ve done, I usually sleep like a baby.”
“What did you see?” Ben asked, sitting up, a tremor in his voice.
“Eyes in the night.”
Ben felt a chill race over his entire body, every hair standing on end.
“Is that what you saw too?” Cyril asked.
He nodded, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
“Lie back down,” Cyril said. “Let me take a look at those scratches.”
Ben did as instructed, closing his eyes and trying to banish the pair of eyes he could still see on the insides of his eyelids. His mind was distracted by a sharp stab of pain when Cyril lifted the bandage up.
“Oh God,” Imogen whispered, her hand going to her mouth.
Ben looked down at his chest. The scratches were black and festering, angry red swelling surrounding each of the deeper gouges. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
“We need to clean and disinfect these wounds,” Cyril said. “Hound, lie down and let me take a look.”
Rufus sighed, nodding in resignation. He winced when Cyril pulled back the bandage, revealing the same unnatural infection.
“That’s gonna leave a mark,” he said.
“Another battle scar is the least of your worries,” Cyril said. “John, do you think you can find a beehive nearby?”
“If there’s one to be found,” he said.
“I need honey,” Cyril said. “It’s a natural antibiotic. With any luck, it’ll slow the infection, or at least the natural part of it.”
“And what about the unnatural part?” Hound asked.
“We have to get to Chen. He’ll be able to help.”
“How can you be sure?” Ben asked.
“Because he’s our only hope.”
The Dragon's Egg (Dragonfall Book 1) Page 10