by Kay Murky
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Occasionally Dani, whose name Marteen had now gathered from the conversations with those bringing the wounded to him, would speak to one of the medics, obviously from a different country than himself, in Trade. So it was with some misgivings that Marteen thought he should try and speak to the dragon, mind to mind and using the words of the Trade language, about his need for water.
As the woman and the green dragon approached, he saw through Dani’s eyes how those around reacted. The fist on the chest was obviously their own people’s way of saluting, but the more familiar hand in the air was used by the Valtern forces. So she was someone of Rank. Now that he thought of it, the big brown dragon Dani had spoken to earlier had received the same reaction. Did that mean that dragons held rank among these people as well? Strange concept.
When the woman took the waterskin off her shoulder, he tensed. Could it be that the dragon had felt his need?
Suddenly the covering wing lifted, not much, but just enough for the yellow head to peer in underneath. The dragon tilted his head slightly and one large emerald green eye studied him intently, the slitted black pupil slightly expanding. Then the upper lip lifted, showing a row of sharp, vicious looking teeth, including two fangs longer and thicker than his forearms. But the emotion emanating from the draconic mind was of tired humour, not bloodlust.
For the first time Marteen tried to communicate directly to this being whom he had not yet decided was captor or saviour. He thought hard, forming the words clearly in his mind in the Trade language these people used among the different nations. {: My name is Marteen, you are called Dani. I thirst and hunger. Please. :}
The dragon Dani huffed softly, his breath like an oven door being opened, the metallic smell tickling Marteen’s nostrils and throat, still sensitive from the smoke inhalation of the night before. {: I hear you, warrior. :}
Abruptly the yellow head withdrew and Marteen heard the rumbling as the dragon spoke softly to those with him, then the wing lifted a bit more and the head reappeared, this time joined by the tall woman the dragon had been speaking to. She was dressed in what looked like soft green leather trousers and a green sleeveless jerkin that laced up in the front. Her long dark brown hair was gathered in a single braid that hung down her back, and her features were fine-boned and aristocratic. Above the green eyes lay a metal headband with green, purple, silver and red lacquer inlay and a V point that dipped between her eyebrows towards her nose.
“You Trade speak?” Her voice was soft, but held the tone of someone who was used to being in command.
“Yes.” The word came out in a croak. It was only then that Marteen realised how raw his throat actually was.
“Arms you can move?”
He tried, and as he lifted his right arm she unstopped the waterskin and handed it to him. She had to support his head with one hand and guide the waterskin with the other, as he was too weak to raise himself much. That was strange, as he did not feel that weak. Experience with being wounded before had also taught him not to drink too much, so after a few careful sips and painful swallows, he pushed the skin away.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome you are, Warrior of Tears.” The woman smiled slightly, transforming her face for a moment from austerity to beauty.
Marteen was taken aback by her words. “Why do you call me that?”
She looked surprised. “That not your name is?”
“My name is Marteen.”
“Yes. Mar tan Teen. Warrior of tears that is, in Onlash.” This time the smile turned into a grin. “Well, Mar Teen. Lucky you were. Nearly on hill died. Songhmar you hear, call us for you to look. Daninackin you also hear, you find. Wound deep was. Healed now.” She spoke as she deftly removed the bandage from his side. “Very weak you still will feel. Lot of blood lost. Small cuts and bruises also not healed. No energy for minor wounds to deep heal can waste. Too many wounded. Not enough healers.” Her smile had disappeared. “You understand?”
“Yes.” He did. That some healer mage of at least master level, probably herself, had expended the magical energy needed to deep heal an enemy soldier’s life threatening wound was to him almost incomprehensible. It was something his own people might have done, but not those of the Empire. That with a battle looming then, and now in the aftermath of a battle, there was no energy to spare among the healers to do the same with minor wounds was also totally understandable. Something else she had said caught his attention though.
“Song… the grey dragon? Is she alright?”
“She is healing.” The yellow dragon’s vocal voice was deeper than his mental tone, more of a rumble, and Marteen had to listen closely to hear the individual words, though the dragon’s Trade was better than that of the woman. “It will be a long time before she flies again.”
“Good. I felt bad that I could not help her.” Marteen swallowed, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again, and frowned. “My men?”
“Only surviving Imperial warrior you are.” The woman’s face and voice was expressionless. “Tunlati warriors sure make all Imperial ones dead are. Think you dead too, they did. Tunlati not Imperial warriors like much.”
Marteen had no answer to that, and closed his eyes again. Most of those men were in similar situations as he himself; forced into the military at a young age, without any choice in the matter, and no way to get out alive. Some of them had even been friends. He felt the tears form behind his eyelids and turned his face towards the dragon’s side, away from the woman who was now checking his minor wounds. He ignored her as she muttered something to the dragon, who just hummed.
When she had finished she gripped his shoulder once, and then withdrew. Her voice was expressionless as she spoke while she straightened up. “Food will send later, when someone makes. Just .. uhmm.. meat and vegetable water?”
“Broth or soup.” The dragon supplied the words she was looking for.
“That, yes.”
Marteen nodded, but did not turn his head. He felt more than saw the dragon dropping the wing over him again.
All those men, dead. For what? A greedy emperor, a vindictive mage, and an insane barbarian king’s follies. What was going to happen to him now? There was no way he could return to the Empire, having lost all his men, and live. He would definitely be executed. As the prisoner of these people, what was his future? Would they be tending his wounds like this, only to execute him later?
Marteen sighed, having forgotten that he had that link with the dragon, and worried about what they were going to do with him. He did not even know if these people kept slaves. Nothing he could do about it, though.
He felt so tired.
{: Sleep. Rest. Sleep is good. Do not worry. :} The thought was so faint, just a whisper, that in his tired state he just accepted it as part of his own thought processes.