The dragon groaned. His talons were curling in on themselves. His legs spasmed and twitched, and his tail thrashed.
Pa clambered off Handel and pulled the boy into his arms. The lad was bleeding. Probably an arrow.
“Tomaaz,” Pa said, “Ma’s getting Maazini some limplock remedy. I’ll take the boy to the infirmary, just in here. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Tomaaz said. In the face of starvation and whippings, names hadn’t been relevant in Death Valley.
Tomaaz rubbed Maazini’s neck. “Hold on, Maazini. Hold on, we’re home.” His throat was tight. Maazini was slumped on the ground, his eyes glassy. His scales were losing their bright orange hue. Tomaaz sat near Maazini’s head, rubbing his snout. Instead of being warm, Maazini’s scales were cool. No! His dragon had turned himself inside-out to save his family. To save him. To help the boy. Tomaaz had endangered Maazini by finding Ma, by bringing the boy with them, by trying to help too many people at once.
“Never …”
It was just one word, and Tomaaz heard it. “Hang on. Ma’s a healer, she’ll know how to help you.” No answer. “Hold on, Maazini. I can’t lose you, not now when I’ve found you.”
Ma stepped up beside him. “Tomaaz,” she said, her voice taut. “Push his lip onto his tooth to open his jaw.”
Tomaaz snapped to his senses. He could help. Tomaaz pushed Maazini’s soft flesh onto his bottom fangs—hard.
Maazini’s jaw dropped.
“Now, feed him this.” Ma uncorked a vial and shoved it into Tomaaz’s free hand. He upended the contents into Maazini’s mouth.
“Not so fast.”
“Ma, your arm. You’re bleeding!”
She gave Tomaaz a grim smile and shook some fine yellow granules onto her own tongue, then passed him the vial. “Give him the rest of these.” She passed him the vial and two more. Then she used her knife to free the arrows from Maazini’s hide, wiping the poison from his wounds with a cloth.
“It’s too late for that, isn’t it, Ma? Most of it is in his bloodstream.”
Before Ma could answer, Pa rushed out of the cavern. “Marlies, go inside and let Ezaara tend to you. You’re in bad shape.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Ma squeezed Tomaaz’s arm. “Give him the other vials, a little bit at a time. Mind-meld with him. We don’t want to lose him.” Pa led her inside. Handel settled on the far side of Maazini, pushing against his side to hold his thrashing limbs still.
Tomaaz cast out his mind. “Maazini, come on, talk to me.”
Nothing. He swiped a tear from his cheek. Then another. “Maazini, we haven’t escaped Zens and Death Valley to let you die. You’re home, here with friends now. Your ordeal is over.” A sob broke from him. “You’re safe. Safe at Dragons’ Hold, Maazini … Maazini!”
Silence. Except for the hammering of his own heart.
Tomaaz tipped another vial, a bit at a time, onto the dragon’s tongue.
“Maazini, I can’t face it, not without you.”
A huge dragon landed, its scales shimmering with many colors. It nudged his arm with its snout. He placed his hand upon its head.
“Thank you for bringing my son home.” This must be Queen Zaarusha. “I am indebted to you, Tomaaz of Lush Valley. I’m calling more dragons and their riders to form a healing circle.”
“A healing circle?” Tomaaz croaked.
“It’s the best chance he has, along with that remedy for limplock.” Warmth and comfort flooded him as she spoke. “Keep feeding him that, Tomaaz, and meld with him. Hold him here. If he can hear you, he won’t want to leave his new rider. Help him stay strong.”
Maazini was anything but strong. Rubbing Maazini’s eye ridges, Tomaaz reached out with his mind again. Opposite Handel, Zaarusha nestled up to Maazini, holding his rear limbs still, although his tail still thrashed. She draped her wing over Maazini’s back, the tip touching Handel.
Pa returned, sucking in his breath when his eyes grazed Maazini’s pale gray scales.
Liesar landed. A tall man with dark hair and black eyes strode out onto the ledge. Moments later, a midnight blue dragon dropped to the ledge. The man nodded. “Tomaaz, I’m Roberto, and this is Erob.” He gestured at the blue dragon. “We’ve come to join the healing circle. Keep one hand on his snout and the other on my shoulder.”
They made a circle of dragons and riders, touching hand to wingtip around Maazini. The only sounds were the slap of Maazini’s tail on stone, and the hiss of dragons breathing.
“Stay melded with your dragon,” Roberto whispered to Tomaaz. He cleared his throat. “Let’s begin.”
Tomaaz searched for Maazini’s thoughts. Nothing.
There was a faint hum in his mind. Pa and Roberto had their eyes closed, deep in concentration. The dragons’ eyes were slitted and their focus was on Maazini’s head. For many heartbeats, they stood, silently touching one another.
Tomaaz’s fingertips tingled, then buzzed.
Then energy flowed up his arms, across his chest and through his fingers into Maazini. The waves grew stronger, pulsing through him to the wounded dragon. “Maazini, we’re here. Maazini, stay with us … Maazini, can you hear me?”
Suddenly, Tomaaz’s veins were burning, fire coursing through him, like when he’d imprinted with Maazini. He was no longer tired, exhausted, beaten down or in pain.
Roberto spoke. “Pass your energy to Maazini. Feed him. He needs this life force.”
Tomaaz pushed the energy out of him, imagining a huge torrent like a river of fire flowing through his hands into his dying dragon. “Maazini, stay. Maazini, I want to fly with you, to go back to Death Valley and rescue those slaves. Maazini, I can’t do it without you.”
A faint peach tinge crept across Maazini’s scales. It was working. A strangled sound broke from Tomaaz’s chest; half sob, half laugh. Tomaaz fed more life force into his dragon. “Maazini?”
“To … maaz.” It was faint, but he was there.
Tears rolled down Tomaaz’s face. “Shards, I thought I was going to lose you. Hold on. We’ll get you out of this yet.”
§
Ma was sleeping and so was the boy.
“They should be fine for a little while,” Ezaara said to Adelina, glancing at the ledge outside the infirmary. Roberto had melded, letting Ezaara know they were using a healing circle for Zaarusha’s son. “Do you mind if I—”
“Go,” Adelina said. “I’ll keep an eye on them. It’s your brother, Ezaara.” She gave a tired smile, shooing her out.
Ezaara stepped softly to the cavern mouth. What she saw stole her breath: a ring of dragons and riders, joined at hand and wingtip around a pale-orange wounded dragon. But it wasn’t that.
It was the sathir dancing from wingtip to hand, coursing along the bodies of the riders and dragons into Zaarusha’s wounded son.
Multi-colored light streamed from Zaarusha’s wings, combining with Handel’s bronze and Erob’s midnight blue light on one side and Liesar’s silver on the other. The strands of sathir wove in a river of color, flowing through riders and dragons until it reached Tomaaz, brilliant orange light pouring from him into his dragon. Grateful for the gift of seeing sathir, or life energy, Ezaara mentally thanked Ithsar, the desert assassin, for teaching her.
The dragon’s scales grew brighter until he was glowing a healthy orange.
§
“Safe.”
The word shot through Tomaaz with such power that he broke the healing circle and crumpled to his knees, flinging his arms around Maazini’s neck.
Maazini lifted his head and nuzzled Tomaaz’s ribs. Soon his dragon was asleep.
Pa hugged him.
Roberto extended his hand. “Well done.” His dark eyes shone with approval. “There’s someone here who’d like to see you.” He gestured toward the cavern mouth.
“Ezaara!” Tomaaz bounded over to her and wrapped her in his arms.
She was crying and laughing all at on
ce. “Thank the Egg, you’re home.”
“Home?” he said. “I guess it is now.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Phew! What’s that smell?”
Tomaaz let go of her. “It’s the stink of Death Valley.”
She slugged him. “Whatever it is, get rid of it.” Ezaara wasn’t laughing any more. A tear on her cheek, she hooked her arm through his, leading him into the infirmary where the boy and Ma were sleeping.
He needed to bathe. He couldn’t risk carrying the stench of slavery and death to Lovina.
§
“I told her to wait in the mess cavern for you.” Ezaara pushed Tomaaz toward a huge archway.
Tomaaz hung back.
Everything was strange here, all caverns and tunnels. And what if Lovina didn’t feel the same anymore? It was one thing to kiss someone when they’d rescued you and you were stranded in a cave alone, but Lovina had been at Dragons’ Hold for two weeks. What if she liked someone else?
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Maazini, you’re supposed to be resting.”
“And you’re supposed to be seeing Lovina. Handel told me all about her.”
“Well?” Ezaara folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Cold feet? Or worried that your bath didn’t purge the stink?” She grinned.
Oh, shards! First his dragon, then his sister! Tomaaz strode inside without another word to either of them.
The place was deserted. She wasn’t here, after all. He sighed. All that worry for nothing.
Then he saw her: back hunched over a table in a far corner. Two bowls of soup were before her and a pile of bread rolls in a basket. Two bowls—one for him. She did want to see him.
She turned. “Tomaaz?” Her voice was tentative. Her face lit up, like moonlight in a forest, full of wonder and soft secrets.
Rushing toward her, Tomaaz couldn’t help grinning.
She held a hand up, stopping him, before he could hug her. “I—I—” she stammered.
“What is it?” He took her hand, enclosing it in both of his. “Lovina, what is it?”
She burst into tears. “No one else has ever come back.”
§
Tomaaz had come back to her. He was here. And he still liked her. Bill was wrong. She wasn’t a heap of horse dung.
Tomaaz wrapped his arms around her. “You have me, Lovina. You’ll never have to be alone again.”
She leaned into his chest, enveloped in his arms, and cried.
He brushed his lips against her hair, murmuring, “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”
She wasn’t just safe, she was happy. And that made her cry even more.
Until his stomach rumbled.
She laughed and tugged him over to the table. Tomaaz stood there, staring at the food, nostrils flaring.
“I know.” She smiled. “There’s nothing like the smell of real food after Death Valley, is there?”
“So good,” he moaned, sinking into the chair opposite her.
She pushed a bowl of soup toward him. “I don’t know if it’s still warm.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, picking up a spoonful of soup and tasting it. “Oh,” he groaned, “this is delicious.”
“I would’ve said that about dishwater after Death Valley.” Even Bill’s food had been a jump up from Death Valley. Lovina passed him the bread rolls.
His hand closed over hers. “This is paradise, being here with you.” His green eyes searched hers.
She ducked her head. “I’m just not used to—”
He nodded, waiting. “Not used to someone loving you?” he asked, finally, stroking her hand with his thumb.
She nodded. Yes, that was definitely going to take some getting used to.
§
The ceiling swam in and out of focus. Marlies rubbed her eyes. Her arms still ached, despite the limplock remedy. She’d never imagined feeling so tired. Was this what the wasting sickness was like? Those patients had complained of bone-weary exhaustion.
“Zaarusha would like to see you,” Liesar melded.
It had been wonderful to see her dragon again, her silver scales gleaming as they’d first greeted one another. Now it was as if they’d never been apart.
“I’ll bring her,” Hans replied, wrapping a warm robe around her and lending her an arm to help her out of bed.
Marlies smiled. He was enjoying mind-melding with Liesar and Handel again. Save some masters on the council, few here would remember that the four of them could meld. She leaned on Hans as they made their way to the ledge outside the infirmary.
Zaarusha furled her wings and strode toward her. Marlies held up her hand and the queen lowered her head so they could touch. “Ah, Marlies. I’m so happy you’re back with us.”
“It’s good to be back,” Marlies replied. Zaarusha’s scales were warm under her hand. Or was she just cold?
“Thank you for returning my son. This journey has taken a toll on you. You’ve sacrificed much. I’m sorry you’ve suffered.” The queen sent a gentle wave of peace through her.
“But now I can stand tall before my people and the council once again,” Marlies said.
“You can indeed.”
Marlies bowed her head to hide her tears.
Giant John
Giant John lay still in the underbrush, his blood pulsing at his temples. Hopefully, he’d crawled far enough into the thicket not to be seen.
“Big one in here,” a guttural voice yelled. “Search.”
There was a crash to his right, then another. He forced himself not to move. Nearby, a branch hit a bush, trapped in its springy foliage. Then a log landed on another bush, crushing it. These hardy bushes could only withstand so much.
If he crept forward, the tharuks would see the bushes move. If he broke out, they’d surround him. For now, it’d be best to sit tight and hope they didn’t hit him. There were a few more crashes, then nothing. Giant John strained to listen, but everything had gone quiet. Too quiet. No bird calls. No rustling of animals. Everyone was hiding from those stinking predators. He caught a waft of tharuk stench, carried on the breeze. Giant John waited, his pulse hammering.
Behind him something crackled. The tang of smoke caught in his nose. They were burning him out!
Elbows striking sharp stones, he dragged himself along on his belly. With a whoosh, the bushes behind him caught alight, smoke billowing overhead. Good, that might disguise his movements. With stinging eyes, Giant John raised himself on his hands and knees and crawled faster. The fire was building, a wave of heat at his back. Soon it would engulf the whole thicket.
His knees ached and his palms were scratched and torn. Rasping, John pushed on. Not far to go now. Behind him the fire roared. Sweat dripped off his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, but the smoke was too thick. Oh gods, he was going to cough. Or burn. Too late for stealth now. Under the cover of heavy smoke, Giant John rose to his feet and bashed his way through the chest-high undergrowth.
Over the roaring of the fire, tharuks yelled.
They’d spotted him, but they wouldn’t take him alive. Giant John broke from the bush, his feet pummeling the stony clearing. Yells rang out behind him. Through tearing eyes, he saw a tharuk charging at him. Giant John swerved, the beast’s claws raking his side. Despite the pain, he raced on, the tharuk snarling at his back. He took a giant’s leap onto an enormous boulder at the edge of a chasm.
Far below, a river raged. He risked a backward glance at the tharuks swarming after him, fire crackling at their heels.
Giant John sprang high into the air and dived toward the black churning water. The rocky walls of the chasm blurred as he sped downward. Then he hit the water, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. His body went numb with cold, and he was swept under.
Blackness surrounded him. His lungs burning, Giant John kicked upward, breaking the surface for a gasp of air, only to be sucked under again, dragged by the swift current toward Tooka Falls.
Giant John battled
the current. Grabbing hold of a log, he clung on, panting. The roar of the falls filled his ears. If he could get on top of the log, it could help him ride the falls, otherwise he’d be shredded on the sharp rocks at the falls’ entrance. He grasped at a branch protruding from the top of the log, and tried to pull himself up, but the log kept spinning, dumping him underwater. He gave up, wedging himself between the log and one of its branches.
Above the falls, tharuks were running along the cliff top. Giant John ducked. An arrow thunked into the log where his chin had just been. He grabbed a quick breath before the current swept him past the rocks, over the edge of the falls. Amid a torrent of water, he lost hold of the log and plummeted toward the churning white mass below.
Pounded by water, he hit the surface, smacking his ribs on the log, the force of the falls driving him underwater into darkness. His body was buffeted, swept along in the murk. Giant John couldn’t tell up from down. He’d heard terrible tales of people being swept below Tooka Falls, then popping out again, downriver. Those who fought usually drowned.
Holding air in his screaming lungs, he forced his body to go limp. Eventually, he’d find his way to the surface—unless he got snagged on tree roots.
There was a dark shape on the water. The log. He’d ride it downstream. Suddenly, the surface was pebbled with splashes, tharuk arrow shafts cutting through the water. With burning lungs, Giant John popped up for a breath and dived before the next spray of arrows.
He’d been teased for his large stature as a littling—a largeling, they’d called him—but his strong limbs and lungs made him a powerful swimmer. The river swept him downstream.
It took forever to get to Horseshoe Bend.
It was nearly dusk when he arrived.
Giant John was shivering as he clambered from the water, stepping on tendrils of willow leaves to avoid leaving boot prints in the mud. Growls and cries rang out from the opposite bank. Tharuks were attacking villagers at Spanglewood Settlement, but he couldn’t stop to help. He had an important message to get to Dragons’ Hold. The fate of the whole realm lay in that message. He’d let Giddi know about Spanglewood, so he could send aid.
His widowed mother was at Horseshoe Bend village, only moments away, but Giant John couldn’t stop for anyone. He had to get his message through. He vaulted the fence and ran through the trees. Shards, his sodden clothing and waterlogged boots weighed more than an ox, making it hard going, but he smiled, feeling the magic of the Great Spanglewood Forest around him.
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