Wavebreaker_Book II of the Stone War Chronicles_Part 1_Trickle

by A. J. Norfield

  Trista turned away and joined her little brother and the baby at the bottom of the dune.

  “Has she eaten anything?” said Trista.

  “Just two bites.”

  Trista looked at the child as they unwrapped and cleaned her as best as possible. The little girl had been losing weight ever since they found her at the wagon. The water was keeping her alive, but did nothing for nutrition. Without proper food, the little one would surely not last much longer. The knot in Trista’s stomach tightened as her fingers traced the girl's tiny ribs.

  Trista bit her cracked lip. She felt the weight of her companions’ lives rest on her shoulders, but was helpless to provide them with what they needed. Silently, she wondered what else they would need to sacrifice to survive. She shuddered as a horrible thought crossed her mind.

  Would I feed the baby to Dalkeira? Or Decan?

  Thankfully, Dalkeira was too busy eating to pick up on the disturbing thought, and Trista quickly pushed the question out of her head.

  “You alright?” said Decan.

  Trista forced a smile, feeling a quick nip of pain as the skin of her lips split again.

  “I’m fine. Just very tired.”

  She looked behind her to see Dalkeira feasting on the horse’s carcass. Trista could feel the dragon gaining strength with every bite she took.

  “I’d better see if there are any parts we can eat ourselves. And we should drink the blood; it will give us some much-needed liquid. And maybe we can dry some of the meat in the sun while we rest and wait for the night.”

  “You don’t want to keep going?” said Decan.

  “I don’t think I can. My legs need rest. Besides, if I know Dalkeira at all, she’ll probably fall asleep with a full stomach. We’ll need to keep her in the shade. Perhaps you should get some sleep as well? We’ll continue when the sun is lower and the temperature drops.”

  Trista forced herself to stand and walk over to Dalkeira, trying to breathe away the knot in her stomach and the dizziness in her head.

  If the vultures in the sky could speak, their talk would surely be filled with the strange group crossing the sea of sand below. A woman, a boy and a baby—and one of the strangest creatures they had ever seen. It had the ability to fly, but seemed unwilling to do so. It looked blue, like the water that was always so hard to find, while the color of sand showed in spots on the bottom of those strange, featherless wings. It did not look like any bird they knew, but then again, they did not presume to know everything—nor did it matter. The only thing that mattered was when they stopped moving. When would one of them drop and not get up anymore?

  As their eyes followed the weary wanderers, the vultures soared the thermals high above the ground, patiently waiting for their next meal. By the looks of it, they would not have to wait much longer.

  Trista had been right about Dalkeira. After her meal, she quickly fell into a deep, exhausted slumber. Trista waited until the sun was low in the sky before waking her to continue their journey.

  They had cut some raw meat from the horse, which they had then dried in the scorching sun as best they could. It did not taste great, but their hungry stomachs thankfully accepted it nonetheless. Trista and Decan even drank some of the blood, but Trista had quickly gotten nauseous.

  Thanks to the horse's sacrifice, they had the strength to travel a few more miles. Dalkeira especially seemed to enjoy the boost in energy. Although her thirst was not completely quelled, the blood had provided her with much-needed fluid to counter her dehydration. She took to the air that evening, climbing as high as possible on one of the last remaining thermals of the day. But all she reported seeing was sand, as far as her eyes could see, and some strange black birds that effortlessly sailed on the wind.

  They continued their way, covering as much distance as possible every day and night. Once, they found a few rocks which they used to create some shade with help of the canvas. Since the horse was now gone, they made the decision to avoid travelling during the hottest part of the day, using that time to rest beneath the canvas whenever possible. Walking during the night was easier and kept them warm as the temperature dropped to a near-freezing low.

  As quickly as Dalkeira had recovered, she crashed again after only two days of walking. This time, dehydration set in much faster than before. Trista, Decan and the baby were not in a much better position. Their food was all but gone, and they only had a few sips remaining in their last water bag.

  Trista focused on what little food they had left, rationing it as best she could. She carried a few empty water bags around her neck, tied together with strings of canvas, refusing to abandon them in case they ran into a waterhole. She flinched as the bags touched her exposed skin with every step she took. Her arms were numb and heavy from carrying the baby; her shoulders hurt from the makeshift sling in which the girl hung on her chest.

  The sand crunched beneath her feet. She looked at them; strange, distant things. Her vision spun from dizziness. A new sound from behind made her look back.

  “Dalkeira,” she croaked.

  The dragon had slumped onto her side and could not get up anymore. Trista and Decan made a futile attempt to get her back on her feet, but it was no use. The dragon was barely conscious.

  “Let’s roll her onto the canvas,” suggested Decan.

  It was the best idea given the circumstances. Trista knew she would not be able to carry the dragon, especially with the child slung around her shoulders as well.

  Dalkeira’s growth had slowed whilst in the desert, probably because of the lack of food and water, but she already surpassed Decan in length. Trista expected the dragon’s weight to be too much, but when she and her brother grabbed hold of the canvas and started pulling, they were surprised at how light Dalkeira was. Yet even the lightest feather becomes a heavy burden under the worst of circumstances and after another two days and nights of walking, Trista had nearly reached her limit.

  As far as Trista could tell, Dalkeira was only vaguely aware of the constant scraping across the ground. Her three pupils swirled whenever she was able to force her eyes open, the small, sparkling vortexes less bright than usual. At intervals, Dalkeira would gain a moment of clarity before slumping back into a near comatose state. All Trista and Decan could do now was try their best to safely drag the dragon across the dunes. They only covered a few miles per day now, every dune looking more impassable than the last.

  The next time Dalkeira came round, it was night. She tried to lift her head, but only succeeded in turning it. She watched Decan pull with all his might, trying to get to the top of the next sandy hill.

  Trista looked back as the whispered thoughts of the dragon seeped into her mind. Why is he working so hard for me? He does not want me around…so why does he help her to the point of his own exhaustion?

  Trista looked at her brother as her winged companion’s confused thoughts spiraled on and on. Whispers—like evil spirits—that the boy had no obligations toward the dragon, nor did he want her around, claiming his sister’s attention. But there he was, helping Trista drag this dead dragon weight with them. Her weight. And with it, most certainly dooming themselves in the progress.

  Forcing her gaze forward again, Trista tried her best to push the whispering thoughts aside, lest she succumb to their doubt and simply give up. But behind her, the dragon gathered all her energy, pushed off and unexpectedly rolled herself from the canvas.

  Both siblings stumbled forward at the sudden absence of weight. Behind them, Dalkeira slid back down the slope before coming to a halt.

  “What in the goddess’ name are you doing?” Decan called, spitting out another mouthful of sand—a situation he was really started to dislike.

  “You go on without me,” said Dalkeira in Trista’s head. “If you keep dragging me around, you will have no chance of making it out alive. Just leave me. I am as good as dead.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re not going to abandon you here and leave you for the vultures,” said Tr
ista sternly.

  Startled by the fall and Trista’s loud voice, the baby started crying. Her voice did not seem to have much energy left either.

  “Shh, shh. There, there. It’s alright. It’s okay. Dalkeira just isn’t thinking clearly,” said Trista, trying to calm her.

  Decan walked back down with the canvas and spread it next to Dalkeira.

  “Come on. On you go,” he said.

  “No.”

  An answer the boy did not hear.

  “What has gotten into you, Dalkeira?” said Trista.

  “Fine. Be like that,” said Decan. “But if you think we’ll just leave you here, you’re wrong.”

  He crouched beside her and pushed her onto the canvas, but Dalkeira rolled herself off the other side.

  “You stubborn, ignorant, spoiled lizard! Do you think it’s all about you in this world? That you get to decide how things go in life? Well, it’s not!” Decan screamed.

  Trista saw her brother’s frustration grow, but this time she had not the energy nor the will to stop him from yelling at the dragon.

  Decan crouched a second time, but instead of pushing her, he picked up Dalkeira’s head and front leg. He moved under her and shifted her across his back. It was a strange sight: a small boy with a larger dragon slung on his back. As Decan began to move up the dune, Dalkeira’s tail dragged behind them like a snake slithering across the sand.

  “You have no idea how much you mean to my sister, do you? Always too busy thinking about yourself. Stilling your own hunger first, going to places where you want to go. And then, when we’ve given you all of it and things go bad, you just decide to give up. Well, I won’t let you. You owe us, you owe Trista—and you owe me!” ranted Decan, as if the words powered his steps. “You owe me a goat!”

  Trista snatched up the canvas and followed them. She was impressed by the amount of energy Decan still had, but expected it would not last long. She silently followed, waiting for the inevitable.

  Decan’s ranting lasted for several dunes before he quieted down. He needed every leftover piece of energy to make sure his feet kept moving. And they did.

  Dalkeira was even more confused by the boy’s gesture. Did he not hate her? Why would he go through all the trouble to save her if he wanted her gone?

  I do not understand.

  “Because we’re family now, and family sticks together,” said Trista, who had picked up on the dragon’s thoughts for once, instead of the other way around.

  Against Trista’s expectations, they were still walking by the time morning came around. Perhaps the dragon’s stubbornness had rubbed off on Decan, because he refused to sit down and rest. Trista had to admit his walking speed had decreased dramatically, but nevertheless, he kept moving his feet one step after another. Sometime during the night, Dalkeira had slipped back into unconsciousness, reluctantly accepting the fact she had no control over the situation in spite of her own stubborn resolve.

  “Decan,” said Trista, finally breaking the silence of their difficult walk.

  “Hmmm,” grunted her little brother as he took another step.

  “I just want to say that I’m proud of you. You’re growing into quite the man. You know, I haven’t been able to keep track of the days as much, but I think you turned fourteen a while ago.”

  Decan did not say anything for a while. He finally broke his silence as they reached the top of another dune.

  “I would’ve been at sea with father. And you know, Triss, I’d give anything to be there right now, smelly fish and all.”

  “Me too.”

  She listened to Decan’s heavy breathing. The sky slowly turned away from the dark of night as the unseen sun crawled toward the horizon. Then it happened. Decan’s feet dragged just a little bit more than he expected. Out of balance, he slumped to his knees and struggled to keep Dalkeira on his back. The unconscious dragon slid off and started tumbling down the slope. Trista did not even have the strength to shout. Dalkeira rolled, slid and came to a halt halfway down the hill, sand covering her wing and tail.

  “At least it wasn’t the slope we just climbed,” said Decan, panting. He took a moment before getting back to his feet.

  Unexpectedly, a tremor shifted the land. It was not as strong as they had experienced back home, but they both recognized the feeling without question. The ground waved beneath them. Trista, looking around, saw the ripple carry along the landscape. In the distance, a small avalanche of sand slid down a dune in response.

  “Do you hear that?” said Trista, staring at her brother, uncertain of what her ears told her.

  Decan lifted his head. He clearly heard it too; the familiar sound of rushing water, which seemed so very conflicting with their current dry surroundings.

  He gasped.

  “The sand. Look at the sand.”

  At the foot of the dune, sand slowly started to move, picking up speed as it went. It gravitated toward the lowest point between two dunes.

  Before Trista knew it, half the hill on which they stood started to slide down an unseen hole beneath the surface.

  “It’s a maelstrom of sand,” called Trista, who had seen a similar thing happen off the coast during winter storms. “Dalkeira!”

  The flow of sand now reached the spot where the dragon lay half buried. As more of the tiny grains started to slip away, Dalkeira slowly slid down with them.

  Decan grunted as he pushed himself forward. He staggered down the hill and fell to his knees next to Dalkeira.

  “Come on, you overgrown lizard. Wake up.”

  But as he tried to pull Dalkeira onto his back again, his own footing fell away, the sand shifting beneath him. He tried to claw his way up the dune, but merely succeeded in pushing more sand down toward the whirlpool. His own legs were already half buried.

  Against her better judgment, Trista put the small child down on the sand and jumped down the side of the dune herself. The maelstrom was several yards wide now, pulling in more and more sand from its surroundings. The sound morphed into the noise of a thousand tiny insects scurrying away.

  Both Decan and Dalkeira now sank toward the hole. If Trista moved any further she would just end up in the same position. Desperately trying to think of something to help, she saw Decan tiring from the struggle. The boy was exhausted.

  “Grab hold,” yelled Trista as she threw one end of the canvas to Decan.

  Decan wrapped his hand around the fabric and pulled. Trista dug her heels in the sand. She forced all her remaining strength into her arms and followed her little brother’s example. Briefly, it seemed to help; Decan pulled one of his buried legs free, but then Trista’s own footing broke. Before she knew it, her feet sank away and she was on her back sliding after Decan and the dragon. The desert was intent on sucking them under.

  Behind her, the cries of the forsaken child called for her. But Trista could not escape the flow of sand. She saw Decan desperately pull on the piece of cloth, Dalkeira sagging from his shoulders with every move he made. The dragon’s tail was already swallowed up by the center of the maelstrom. Trista spread her arms and legs; anything to try and slow their descent.

  “Triss, help!”

  But the boy knew there was little his sister could do at this point.

  Trista saw Decan’s leg disappear into the maelstrom now. Dalkeira was already half submerged in the sand, though her long neck meant that Decan would be the one to go under first.

  Trista screamed in frustration. She jumped forward with her knees on the canvas and grabbed Decan with both hands. She yanked on his arm and still they sank. With one hand behind his back to hold Dalkeira and his legs already gone, Decan had nothing left to give.

  “Triss,” was the only thing he had left to say.

  His eyes were wide as the sand reached his shoulders.

  “No!” Trista screamed, unwilling to let go. Then everything stopped.

  It took a moment for Trista to notice. Apart from his arm still clutched in her hands, Decan was up to his neck in san
d. Dalkeira’s neck and head dangled to the side, sand crusted on the edge of the dragon’s nostrils as her weary breath rasped in and out.

  “It stopped?” said Decan warily.

  “I think so,” said Trista.

  With caution, she slid closer. She forced her hands to let go of her brother, hesitating for a moment to make sure he would not disappear, then started to dig. First carefully with one hand, then two. She freed Decan’s other arm as quickly as possible so he could help. It was not easy, but she used the canvas to prevent the loose sand from sliding back. After a while, Decan’s chest was freed, allowing him to breathe more easily again.

  From the angle of his body, Trista was glad to see her brother’s legs were not as deep as she feared. Yet freeing him was anything but easy. She let out a breath of relief when she finally pulled him out of the sand. Together, they continued to dig out Dalkeira. With both their efforts, it was not long before she too was freed from the hungry desert.

  A new cry made Trista look up the dune. The child had been quiet for so long, Trista shamefully realized she had forgotten about her. Three large vultures hopped around the wailing child, plucking at the baby’s fabric.

  “Get away. Go on, skid. Ha!” clamored the siblings together, as Trista crawled back toward the top.

  The birds flew off under loud protest.

  “Is she alright?” called Decan from below.

  “Yes. I think so,” said Trista, unwilling to tell him the child looked severely dehydrated.

  “Good. Can you help me get Dalkeira up there?”

  A short while later, all three collapsed next to the small infant bundle. They all lay flat on the sand, catching their breath.

  Trista felt all her muscles protest. She could not imagine how Decan must feel. And to make matters worse, Dalkeira remained unresponsive.

  “Triss, is that a tower?” she heard Decan say out of the blue.

  She opened her eyes, only to find herself facing the wrong way. Her head felt heavy; it took great effort to roll it to the other side.