A grunt woke him.
Tharuks?
He fumbled for the shovel. There, near the hole in the wall. Tomaaz lurched over and grabbed it, then faced the cave entrance.
Another grunt—behind him.
He spun. It wasn’t a tharuk, just the beast, watching him again. “Hungry?” Tomaaz’s voice cracked. “I don’t have any food, but here you go, have these.” He passed the beast some clear-mind. He didn’t have many berries left, but who cared? Maybe it would be better to be numlocked than stay alert in this hell, with death lurking in every shadow.
He tried the calling stone again. No luck. He was on his own. Putting the stone back in his pocket, Tomaaz caught a glimpse of his pink fingernails. He took a pinch of dragon’s scale and went back over to Ma in the corner.
How had she died? He touched the blood-encrusted gash on her head. Wait. Her skin was still warm.
His breath hitched. Impossible.
Tentatively, Tomaaz touched her neck, then slid his hand under her jerkin to touch her shoulder. Definitely warm. But then why were her lips and fingertips blue, her eyes glassy, and face as white as goat’s cheese?
He splayed one hand by her mouth and nose, the other on her torso, waiting. Was that a faint tickle on his hand? There, a minuscule movement in her chest? Hard to tell. He held his own breath, waiting. Again, the softest whisper of breath on his hand, the barest movement of her torso.
His fingers moved to her neck. He cocked his head, concentrating. Please. There, a slight tremor against his fingers … it seemed like forever until he felt it again.
Shards! Ma was alive.
She was existing on a few shallow breaths and a faint heartbeat, but barely. He had to act fast or he’d lose her.
Tomaaz lifted her jerkin and found her healer’s pouch at her waist. Pulling out her remedies, he piled them on the floor, looking for something that might help. Clear-mind berries wrapped in brown paper, dragon’s scale, owl-wort, warm weed, dragon’s breath, healing salve and … what were these? He held up a stem with two dried blue berries on it, and nubs where other berries had been plucked.
Piaua berries—they looked different, dried and shriveled, but they had to be piaua. He’d never seen another plant with blue oval berries with pointed ends. Right at the bottom of Ma’s pouch, he found a slim vial of clear light-green fluid—piaua juice. A memory flashed through his head.
Ma was crouched near the base of the piaua, her hands on the trunk, whispering solemn words. A sudden strange breeze stirred only the piaua’s leaves. A rushing sound, like a thousand waters, whooshed around the clearing. There was silence as the tree’s leaves stilled. Ma spoke again. Again, the piaua’s leaves moved and the rushing resumed.
Even though they were only littlings, Ezaara had been the first to realize what was happening. “Ma’s talking to the tree,” she said. “The piaua is answering.”
Tomaaz and Ezaara watched Ma harvest piaua juice from the tree’s leaves.
“I’m hungry. Can I eat those blue berries, Ma?” Tomaaz asked, pointing at the pretty oval berries with poky ends.
“Tomaaz,” Ma said, taking his face in her hands, “you must never eat those berries. They’re dangerous. Promise me, both of you, that you’ll never touch them.”
They nodded.
“Can I feed them to tharuks?” Ezaara asked. “Will the berries kill them?”
That made Ma laugh. “And have them in comas? Yes, you can.”
He hadn’t understood what comas meant, but he was still hungry. “What about the juice? Can I drink that?” Tomaaz asked.
Ma knelt in the grass with them, among the wildflowers. “Piaua juice can heal anything except poison, but there is a cost. Every time we use the juice, it steals life force from the piaua trees. If we guzzle down piaua juice, then the mighty piauas scattered across Dragons’ Realm will fail, and we will have no healing remedies for our people. That’s why the juice is sacred, and only a tree speaker can harvest it.”
“I’m going to be a tree speaker when I grow up,” Ezaara declared.
“Me too,” Tomaaz said.
The berries caused comas. Is this what had happened to Ma? Did a coma slow your body down until your breathing and heartbeat were barely there? If piaua berries had caused this state, then perhaps the juice could cure it. It was worth trying, as piaua was a strong remedy for many things.
He had to try.
Resting Ma’s head and shoulders on his knees, Tomaaz uncorked the vial and parted her lips, dribbling piaua juice onto her tongue. Nothing happened. He dripped more juice into her mouth, careful not to spill any. Piaua was best a few drips at a time, but usually it worked faster than this. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough. Tomaaz dribbled a little more, counting his heartbeats to stop himself going mad with frustration. Maybe nothing would heal her.
Please, please. Tears rolled down his cheeks. She had to make it. He couldn’t bear it if she didn’t. He’d already lost her once, yesterday. He kept at it. The vial was now only half full. He gave her more.
Her lips. Something had changed. Tomaaz inspected them. He couldn’t be sure, but was the blue fading? Two more drips. He checked her hands. Yes, her fingernails had lost some of their bluish tinge. He let out a slow breath. The piaua was working, but did he have enough?
Soon the vial was empty. Ma’s pulse was stronger, but still not normal. A tinge of color crept into her cheeks. Tomaaz sat, cradling her head, his knees numb, waiting. There was nothing more he could do except wait and hope.
§
A snort at the hole in the wall made Tomaaz jerk awake. His legs were dead under the weight of Ma’s head and shoulders, and he was fighting to stop his head from drooping again, but he didn’t want to move and disturb Ma. Sometime while he’d dozed, her breathing had deepened. Her chest was now rising and falling regularly, thank the Egg.
Another snort. He turned, rubbing his stiff neck. The beast was watching him again. The gray film over its eyes had thinned, showing a glimmer of startling green. Tomaaz tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
Gods, he hadn’t eaten or drunk for hours.
Ma’s hand twitched. Then her foot. A gusty sigh shuddered through her, then another. Her eyes fluttered, then flew wide, alarm shooting across her face.
“Ma,” Tomaaz croaked. “It’s me, Tomaaz.”
“Tomaaz?” Her voice was fragile.
“Yes, Ma, I’m here to take you home.” How, he had no idea.
“Ezaara?”
“I haven’t seen her.” What had happened to Ezaara? “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s get you better.” Shards, he had nothing to feed her, no water. Nothing to keep her warm, not even a blanket.
Her eyes drifted shut again. He shook her gently. “Ma, I’m going to find you water and food. I’ll be back. You’ll be safe here.” Nodding, she curled up and went back to sleep. Tomaaz hovered, unsure about leaving her.
There was another snort at the wall.
“Keep an eye on her,” Tomaaz said to the beast.
The large green eye winked.
Tomaaz nearly jumped out of his skin. Snatching up his shovel, he rushed down the valley.
§
The noon sun broke through the mists, beating down on Tomaaz. Panting, he paused at the junction to the main valley. He was much weaker than he’d realized. He had to eat—soon—and source some food for Ma. Oh, and feed the beast. With Ma hiding next to the beast’s cave, the last thing they needed was a roaring ruckus to bring tharuks running. Whips cracked to the south, near the latrine pit. Tomaaz headed north toward the eating area. If he was caught out of place, he’d be whipped, but he’d also be punished if he collapsed from exhaustion in the latrine ditches.
To Tomaaz’s surprise, the area was full of milling slaves. He’d never been feed here at noon, but by the look of their pickaxes and grubbers, these were the crews that worked in the mountainside. Tomaaz casually deposited his shovel and lined up with them. These slaves were covered in grime and fine yellow
powder. They smelled of the mist that leaked from the crevasses.
Many of them had fingers, ears or hands missing. One had his nose cut off, leaving a gaping scar in his face. Coughing and wheezing punctuated their sluggish movements. The little girl in front of him hacked, spitting up dark globules of phlegm. Those in line shuffled forward, hands out, to grab chunks of hard bread from the numlocked serving slaves. As the girl took her bread, she coughed and fell, her crust flying into the dust at Tomaaz’s feet. She lay on the ground hacking. Then she stilled, eyes rolling back in her head.
Tomaaz took his bread from the server, then picked up her piece, slipping it into his pocket. Gods, stealing bread from the dead to feed Ma. What would he stoop to next?
The slaves ground to a halt, waiting for the tharuks to act.
A huge tharuk flicked its whip, striking a man, who yelped. Still gnawing their hard crusts, the crowd parted to let the beast through. The tharuk booted her in the neck. Her body slid, rasping against the dry dirt, her head lolling at an odd angle.
“Dead,” the tharuk pronounced, its red eyes scanning the slaves.
Although Tomaaz’s belly grumbled, he suddenly had no appetite.
The tharuk pointed a stubby finger at him, its claw a whip’s breadth from his face. “You! To the flesh pile. Take this human scum.”
Tomaaz bent to retrieve the girl. Shards, he could hardly lift her. Last night, he’d carried Ma without a problem, but now he was too weak.
“Move it.” The tharuk glared at him, whip poised.
Slinging her over his shoulder, Tomaaz staggered off. A tharuk hovering over a crude bench holding waterskins motioned Tomaaz over. “Slave, drink. Water makes you healthy.”
Healthy? Hardly. Tomaaz put the girl down and drank the numlock-tainted water, not stopping until the waterskin was nearly empty. The tharuk turned its back to give water to other hapless slaves. As Tomaaz picked up the girl, he slipped the mostly-deflated waterskin up the back of her shirt, and tucked her shirttail into her breeches. There, that should hold it. Now he had food and water for Ma. He lifted the girl and trekked off to the flesh pile. The water had eased his dizziness, even if he still had no idea how to get out of this gray hell.
Tomaaz laid the girl near Half Hand, at the mercy of the crows and rats. He slipped the waterskin out of her shirt and under his jerkin, waving flies off the girl’s face. Yesterday he’d been horrified at the flesh pile, but now, seeing and smelling death felt normal.
It scared him. He was losing himself.
The tharuk at the rat pile laughed when Tomaaz turned up. “Dumb human. No shovel. Forget to feed the beast? It will be hungry. Might eat you.”
Hands full of rats, Tomaaz traipsed back along the valley to see Ma.
The beast was deep in shadow and ignored the rats he threw at the cave mouth. Tomaaz shrugged and went to Ma, wiping his hands on his filthy breeches. The eye was watching at the hole in the wall. Once again, it winked, then the beast’s chain rattled and it moved away.
Had it really stood guard over Ma the whole time he’d been gone? He must be going crazy.
He managed to rouse Ma, sitting her against the cavern wall. Softening the bread with water, he fed it to her and gave Ma clear-mind to counteract the tainted water. Then he ate his own bread.
“How are you feeling?”
“A bit better, but still tired. Thank you, Tomaaz.” Ma’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve failed Zaarusha. I never found her son.”
§
Standing near Tomaaz above the ditch, a littling was scraping loose dirt into a pail with her tiny hands. Her efforts were pathetic—she dropped more than she filled—but if she stopped work, she’d feel the lash. Slack-jawed, a woman with one ear watched the littling. Her mother? It was hard to tell when everyone’s faces were grimy and their eyes gray.
Tomaaz swung his pickax, hitting the dark dirt of the latrine pit. Sewage gushed into the ditch. His gut roiled. He was never going to get the stench out of his throat.
Suddenly, the littling was hanging over the sewage ditch. Her fingers scrabbling, she slipped lower. Tomaaz lunged for her arms, but the littling slithered through his hands, plunging into the sewage. The muck closed over her head, suffocating her. With a wail, the woman shoved past him and threw herself in, choking as she submerged. Tomaaz reached out, but a whip cracked, biting into his shoulder.
568 towered over him, whip poised for another strike, as the sludge-covered bodies were swept toward the pit.
Tomaaz wanted to snatch the whip off 568 and thrash every tharuk in sight, but Lovina’s family story flashed to mind: her father had died retaliating against tharuks.
If he died now, no one could rescue Ma. He slumped to the ground, forcing himself to let the tension drain from his body. Numb with shock, Tomaaz sat staring until tharuk 568 cracked the lash overhead, driving their crew over to dig the next ditch.
§
Tomaaz thought he was used to death, but the revolting images played over and over in his mind all day—first the littling, then the mother. He should’ve been faster. Should’ve lunged further. Or jumped in. Now they were dead. Gods, he hated this place.
Shoulder still sore, he slurped his evening gruel, spitting out a weevil, and managed to surreptitiously snag another crust of bread for Ma from the mining crew’s lunch barrel. There was a chill in the air tonight. He had to get her a blanket. But how? No one was near the sleeping sheds, so he couldn’t just wander in and get one. And with trackers about, he didn’t like his chances of sneaking out tonight. He gazed up at the gray sky. Was it actually gray? Or was it just that stinking mist coloring the air?
Shambling to his feet, Tomaaz collected his shovel and went to feed the beast.
When he reached the caverns, the beast was at the hole in the wall again, watching over Ma. It gave him the creeps. Was it protecting her or observing prey? Whatever it was, it was intelligent. After eating the clear-mind berries off his spade, it retreated.
He woke Ma. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She gave him a weary smile.
He passed her the bread and sat quietly as she ate and sipped from the waterskin.
“Bad day?”
He nodded. “The carnage here makes me sick.”
“Zens has gotten worse.”
He nodded. “I have a calling stone. Pa will expect me to talk to him near sunset.” Soon. What if Pa was dead? He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. “What happened to your head?”
“Zens.” She shrugged. “I knew if I didn’t do something he’d torture me to find your identities and kill everyone I loved.”
“So, you took piaua berries?”
“That way I still had a chance of being found.” She squeezed his hand.
“And your arm?”
“I hurt that on the way here.” She winced. “Sometimes, we can’t fix everything, Tomaaz.”
“I know. I wish—” Clenching a fist, he punched the wall. The ache in his fingers felt good. It should hurt, being here day after day, watching people die. “Everything in this forsaken valley is gray. The people, the food, the air, their faces, their corpses … and the way I feel inside.”
Ma chewed on her lump of bread.
“If only I could do something to get out of here.”
“You can,” she said. “Speak to Pa, then I’ll tell you where they hid my rucksack.”
Ezaara
Ezaara and Roberto sped across the orchard on Zaarusha and Erob. They’d just been kissing in the orchard. Forbidden kisses. Still officially her dragon master, Roberto could be banished to the Robandi Wastelands for kissing her.
He’d been banished before, and captured by the Robandi assassins in the Wastelands. She’d gone to save him. They’d come back to Dragons’ Hold last night to find Zaarusha poisoned and two dragon masters dead. The queen was straining. She wasn’t strong yet. Not after being poisoned with dragon’s bane. Thank the Egg, they’d found the remedy.
But now, it was life or d
eath again—not Ezaara’s or her dragon’s, but her father’s.
“What did Handel say?” Roberto mind-melded.
They left the orchard behind, speeding over the fields toward the granite crags of Dragon’s Teeth—the vicious peaks surrounding the basin of Dragons’ Hold.
“He said my father was dying. That I should prepare.” Ezaara clenched her hands around Zaarusha’s spinal ridge. “Which doesn’t help, if I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
An image of Pa’s tanned face shot through her head, curly dark hair, green eyes gleaming as he shared a joke. He was so full of life. She’d learned many of her combat skills from him. A pang of loss hit her. This was the first she’d heard of her family since imprinting with Zaarusha and leaving Lush Valley on dragonback.
“Zaarusha, I didn’t even say goodbye.” A lump constricted her throat. Shards, what if she never saw him again? Or Ma and Tomaaz?
“Imprinting is like that. It changes lives.” Zaarusha, the dragon queen, sent a wave of warmth through her.
“I know, but if he’s dead—”
“I can’t see them,” Roberto melded, turning his head to scan the ranges to the west.
“Handel will be here soon enough,” Zaarusha replied. “Then we’ll know.”
Erob flipped his midnight-blue wings, Roberto leaning into his neck as he shot up the cliff. “Where to?” Erob asked. “The infirmary or Zaarusha’s den?”
“Infirmary,” Ezaara replied.
“If Fleur left anything of worth.” The venom in Zaarusha’s tone hit home.
Yes, what if Fleur, the traitorous master healer, had destroyed the remedy her father needed?
“May the rust vipers of the Robandi Wastelands destroy her and her family,” Roberto snapped.
There was a loud crack and a bronze dragon appeared above the ledge to the infirmary, a rider slumped over his back.
“Pa!” Ezaara’s voice echoed off the mountainside. How in the Egg’s name had Handel appeared in midair like that?
Dragon Hero: Riders of Fire, Book Two - A Dragons' Realm novel Page 24