Fire-heart (Tales of Alterra, the World that Is)

by C S Marks

  Both captains Broca and Habib had fallen, and this had thrown the remaining archers into disarray. Nelwyn was hard put to rally them until a tall, grey-haired man suddenly appeared on the south end of the wall with Estle beside him. The man began ordering the archers, gathering them under his command. Nelwyn would now need to concern herself only with those on the north end.

  Who was this man? Nelwyn was certainly thankful for his presence on the battlements, but it did not occur to her that Visili did not know that the Scourge rider upon the bright bay horse was not an enemy. Visili was a fine archer himself, and he drew his bow upon Gaelen, his arrow finding its mark as she rode beneath him. She had seen Rogond’s fall and was riding to aid him, calling out his name.

  Gaelen was struck from behind just inward of her left arm. It was a killing shot, and she fell hard, hitting the stone as Rogond had done. Nelwyn’s arrow fell from her hands as she saw the downfall of her cousin, and she gave a terrible cry of grief. Hallagond and Azori also witnessed Gaelen’s fall, and Hallagond turned as if to aid her.

  “No good, my friend. She’s gone,” yelled Azori. “You can’t afford such a distraction…fight on!”

  Hallagond shook his head. It was a great pity.

  Rogond had somehow managed to escape trampling as he slowly regained his senses, although at first he had no notion of where he was or why he was in such pain. Then, the roar of the dragon reminded him as he struggled to his feet. Realizing that his right arm would no longer serve, he gripped the spear in his left, preparing to stand as he could against the dragon. It was then that he saw Gaelen lying with an arrow in her back, as brave Finan stood over her body, his head lowered, ears flattened, defending her to the last.

  The Scourge was not faring as well as expected. Apparently someone in the City had figured out how to direct the catapults, and they were striking with much greater accuracy. Though the dragon was holding its own, it was tiring—the fiery blasts were losing some of their power. The Scourge’s commanders kept sending riders and foot soldiers into the fray, only to have them taken by the Citadel’s archers.

  Now there was a new terror to be faced. The captains heard this clamor long before they saw it, for the ranks of men behind them had been thrown into a panic—something about an army of huge, armored creatures winnowing their forces like wheat.

  In the rear of the ranks, Gorgon Elfhunter had caught the Scourge unaware. He roared, surprising them as he charged forward, a bright sword in his right hand and a long, curved blade strapped to his left arm. Immense, dark, and powerful, he swung the blades with deadly precision, cutting his enemies down with practiced skill. Their blades and darts would not pierce his armor; they were not designed for such things. He could cut them down as he wished, displaying a disconcerting tendency to take their heads, which was the form of death they dreaded the most.

  Except for Lokai, Gorgon was no doubt the most terrifying sight they had seen, and they were soon completely unnerved and disorganized. Gorgon roared again, displaying long, sharp teeth that had never belonged to any two-legged creature of their acquaintance. What little courage they had deserted them, and they turned and fled back toward the safety of the hills.

  Rogond knelt beside Gaelen, sorrowing at the sight of the feathered barb that had surely killed her. He made as if to withdraw it, expecting a struggle, for it appeared to have gone deep. To his surprise, it came away easily through the red and black outer garments, at least four bright folds of the fire-cloak clinging to the point. The last and deepest fold had not been penetrated! He turned her over gently with his one good hand as she took a painful, shuddering breath. She was alive, but she had taken damage from both the arrow and the fall, and would not awaken.

  Rogond tried to drag her away as Finan flung his head in the air and screamed in challenge; the stone floor trembled as Lokai made his way toward them. Rogond’s one arm was useless and he had to lay Gaelen down, clinging grimly to his spear, knowing that his left arm did not have the skill of his right. Yet if Gaelen would die now, he would die with her. It would seem the stars were wrong…

  Hallagond rode to the aid of his brother, leaping from his horse as the dragon drew nigh them. He knew what needed to be done; he just prayed that he would have the courage to do it. “I am here to aid you, my brother. Do not hinder me,” he said. He drew a blade, cut through Gaelen’s disguise, and removed her fire-cloak. Then he turned to Rogond, who did not as yet grasp what he was about to do. “Give me your spear; you are not as adept with your left arm, and I am at full strength,” said Hallagond. “I must face this thing now, or it has all been for nothing. Take care of your beloved.”

  The fear in his eyes was evident, but there was also resolve, and Rogond did not try to stay him as he took the spear. Hallagond stood now behind Gaelen’s valiant little horse, wrapping himself in the fire-cloak, determined to pass the test this time. Finan charged forward, defying the dragon, rearing onto his hind legs, but alas, he met with a blast of flame and was knocked aside as Eros had been. Rogond was thankful that Gaelen had not seen it.

  Hallagond now stood alone, gleaming in the bright metallic folds of the cloak, praying that it would protect him, as Lokai prepared to assail him. The dragon opened its mouth, sending forth a torrent of flame that engulfed Hallagond. Rogond cried in despair, for his brother fell to his knees, surely burned to death.

  The dragon closed its mouth as, against all hope, Hallagond struggled to his feet. His right arm was burned, but the fire-cloak had passed the test—it had turned even dragon-fire. Lokai blinked twice in dull disbelief and drew a deep, hissing breath, intending to send forth another blast. But as the fearsome mouth opened wide, Hallagond hurled the now-flaming spear straight into the dark purple folds of the vulnerable spot. With a screaming roar, the dragon threw itself backward, toppled sideways, and crashed to the ground, thrashing briefly before lying still and dead. The Great Worm’s long life of killing and devouring had come to an end.

  The Scourge’s stunned captains witnessed the death of Lokai, knowing that they now held no hope of taking the City. They truly had thought the dragon could not be defeated. Now they were in disarray, with only about half their original force remaining. Without their terrible and revered guardian they had lost their unified purpose, and were only a collection of poorly organized savages armed with swords and light bows. Lokai had given them their power, and they knew it. And now, there was a new threat—some dark, unknown creatures attacking from the rear of the ranks.

  Gorgon was beginning to tire as the Scourge finally sounded the retreat; he had taken over a hundred of the enemy, and since they were now in full rout he was no longer needed. He still managed to kill about six more as they passed before turning to make his way back to his sanctuary in the hills. There was fresh water, and a dark place where he could rest until the furor subsided. He stopped beside the headless body of a freshly-killed warrior and slung it across his shoulder to feast upon later. The flesh of men was not his favored source of nourishment, but it would serve, and at least this one would not stare back at him. As an afterthought, he also took the man’s bread ration. He would be lying in wait for a while. He knew Gaelen was still alive…he could feel it. He could also tell that she was unconscious, which was so much the better for him. The battle had taken all of her attention, and he expected the aftermath would, as well. She would never see him coming.

  The Scourge had been defeated, and the City secured. The Great Wall would remain as both a monument to the battle and as a defense in case an enemy army ever threatened the Silver City again. But now, there was much of sorrow to mar this victory, as some in the Company were only just discovering. Many of the losses had yet to be measured.

  Azori had been wounded unto death, as had Ali. Both were taken to the healers at once, but there was no remedy for either of them. Hallagond had suffered burns, especially to his right arm, for he had needed to expose it to hurl the spear. He was in great pain as they led him away. Eros, though badly bruised and
shaken, had taken no lasting damage; his sturdiness had served him well. Rogond’s shoulder was broken and battered, and he would lose the use of his right arm for a time, but he would heal. All were exhausted; even Nelwyn and Galador found that much of their strength had left them. Gaelen’s body would heal, for the fire-cloak had saved her life, but the same could not be said of her heart.

  She found Finan where he had fallen. He had been burned, and some of his bones were broken such that he would never get up again. Gaelen knew this as she drew nigh him, just as surely as she knew that he had fallen defending her.

  He was breathing hard and fast, for he was in great pain. She laid a soft hand over his large eye, and he closed it as she spoke to him in a gentle voice. “Rest well, my brave Finan. You have saved my life, even as I saved yours. You have earned your place among the valiant. Never was there a finer friend.” Finan shuddered with pain, and groaned as he tried to rise—it would not do for him to lie helpless upon the ground when there was a battle to fight. “No, my friend,” said Gaelen quietly, soothing him with her wonderful touch. “The battle is over, and you have won it. Be at peace, my beloved.” She looked into his left eye and read the pain within; it wrenched her heart and she began to weep.

  She noticed a tall shadow that fell across Finan’s body as Galador appeared, deep sorrow in his eyes. He drew his blade. “Let me take him from his pain,” he said. “He is beyond recovery.”

  Gaelen looked up at him with bright eyes. “Know that I appreciate your offer of aid, Galador, but do not mistake my tears for weakness. This is my task, and I alone must do it.” She drew forth the silver flask of dark essence that she had brought all the way from her home in the Greatwood. It was her last defense against Gorgon’s power; without it, if she had to take her own life, she would end painfully. Yet Finan was in pain right now, as he lay before her. He had stood over her, and shielded her. There was no other choice. She worked her arm beneath Finan’s head and lifted his muzzle from the ground, poured the entire contents of the flask into his mouth, and stroked him gently as it took effect. She looked up at Galador.

  “He will drift away from pain…into a realm where all visions are happy ones,” she said. “And then, he will die.”

  Finan stood in grass up to his knees, even as Gaelen had promised. There was water, and cool shade or warm sun on his withers as he desired, but no flies came to bother him, not in this place. He heard her singing as she approached, his black head-collar in her hand, calling to him. He ran toward her, his tail raised high, and no pain assailed his limbs, for it was as if they had never been damaged. She haltered him, and they rode for hours over the soft grass, until at last they came to another place that was familiar, and he heard another voice that he had not heard in many, many years.

  Rama! Rama, my favorite mount, my handsome friend, how I have missed you. Come, now, to me. Finan halted and turned toward the voice, as Gaelen slid down from his back. She led him toward the glowing figure of a young man dressed in royal hunting-garb, and Finan knew him at once. He had found his Prince at last!

  Take care of him, said Gaelen, for he is my friend. With that she handed him to the Prince, who bowed before her. As his beloved Gaelen began to fade, only one thing would mar Finan’s ultimate joy…she was crying.

  Finan drew his last breath peacefully and without a struggle, and now lay still upon the stone. Gaelen stroked his neck one last time, her eyes full of pain. “Finan, oh, Finan...who now shall I tell my troubles to?” She grew pale and swayed slightly, for she was hurt, and Galador grew alarmed.

  “Come, little one. I will bear you to a place of healing. You can rest with Rogond there.” He felt her shudder with pain as he lifted her, but she did not resist. He bore her to the healing halls, which were filled with the casualties of battle. The healers had never been faced with so many, and they were overwhelmed.

  Both Ali and Azori had been laid low by the dragon—Azori by the venom and Ali by fire. He had been burned so badly that he had no sensation in much of his body, which was a mercy. If some of his men had not seen him fall, they would have known him only from the design of his boots. His beautiful mare had fallen beside him. He lay in a private chamber swathed in silken bandages, awaiting the end. Though he suffered terrible thirst, and was in some pain, he was still in his right mind. It was perhaps a gentler fate than Azori would endure.

  Hallagond had been given herbs to lessen the pain of his burned arm, which had been treated with ointments and wrapped, but was still most unpleasant. He sat now with Estle beside Azori, who writhed upon his bed, froth bubbling from his mouth, his eyes wide but unseeing as the effects of the deadly venom tormented him. There was no healing to be done.

  Estle was nearly beside herself, and Hallagond could not blame her. “He is my brother…I should take away his pain, but I can’t…Lord of Light help me, I can’t just kill him,” she said. It was not easy to see a hard, strong man like Azori in the grip of such a bad death.

  Hallagond looked over at Gaelen, who sat in the shadows, her face a mask of sorrow. “Gaelen…can you give him your elixir? At least then his pain will end.”

  “I’m sorry. I have no more dark essence…it is gone. I’m sorry,” she replied, so miserable that no one said any more of the matter.

  Nelwyn, who liked Estle and Hallagond both very much and would do anything to aid them, sat helplessly as Azori’s life ended slowly and unspeakably. Were it not for his great strength he would have died already.

  Then Nelwyn remembered a story Fima had told long ago, about a dragon and Fesok the Iron-beard. That dragon had venomous tail-spines, and when Fesok had been poisoned and was certain to die, he took the blood of the dragon, which cured him. Nelwyn had been taught that dragon’s blood was deadly poison, yet Fima had assured her that it had cured Fesok of the venom. Could it be that this would actually work?

  She looked back at Gaelen, whose expression had become thoughtful. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Go now, Nelwyn, go at once!” said Gaelen. “We have no time.”

  Nelwyn ran out of the chamber on her desperately important errand, pausing to grab a glass flask in which she could collect the dragon’s blood. She made her way back to the battlefield and the huge, dead bulk of Lokai, wrinkling her nose against the stench of him. Kneeling beside his enormous pink belly, she worked her blade between the thick, glass-like scales until a quantity of thick, dark red blood oozed forth. She caught the flow in the flask, praying that it would be sufficient, and hurried back to the healing-chambers.

  Meanwhile, Fima had been summoned. Gaelen had told him of Nelwyn’s errand as soon as he had appeared, but rather than encouraging her, he had paled. Dragon-blood is normally quite a deadly poison, and because of a tale he had told, they were on the verge of poisoning Azori with it.

  He looked into Gaelen’s eyes, reading the openness and trust in them. She would believe nearly anything he told her. “It will work, won’t it, Fima?” she asked.

  “What are you on about?” said Estle. “Dragon’s blood is poison. You can’t give such a thing to Azori…you’ll kill him!”

  “He’s dead already, with or without it,” said Hallagond quietly. “Tell us, Lore-master, does this idea have any merit?”

  Fima looked at Gaelen again. He could not dash her hopes, not after all the trial she and her friends had endured, but neither could he lie to her. “Gaelen…have you ever heard of artistic license?” Her brow furrowed and she shook her head. He had to allow her some hope, even if it was false. “Gaelen, remember that ordinary folk are not like the Iron-beard. Even if the tale I told you was true…”

  “Yes, if it was true,” put in Hallagond. He had borne witness to several of Fima’s tall tales, and his hopes had already fallen into his shoes.

  “… even if it was true,” Fima continued, “Azori is not Fesok. And much time has passed; the venom has had time to act. What we are attempting may not work. Do you understand?”

  At that moment, Nelwy
n appeared with the flask of dark blood in her hand. “You must save Azori, Fima. He does not deserve this terrible fate. Many have fallen today undeserved...we must not let Azori add his death to theirs. We know the cure may not work, but you must try.” A strangled cry from Azori decided them all. Fima’s remedy might well kill Azori, but at least he would suffer no more pain.

  Fima’s hands trembled as he carefully poured a small amount of the thick blood into a cup. “But, I don’t know how much to give him...I know nothing of ministering healing to a man. How would I know such things? What if I give him too much, or not enough?”

  Gaelen noticed the tiny muscle over his left eye—it twitched uncontrollably when he was very distressed. “There is no time to be certain, anyway,” she said. “No one will blame you. Don’t kill him with your fear of failure…do what you must!”

  “Just be guided by your wisdom, Fima,” said Nelwyn gently. “It’s the best we have.”

  As it happened, Fima’s remedy worked. Azori would not die on that day, though he might have preferred to. The cure was most unpleasant, first sending him into a hard, shaking fit. Then it locked all his muscles up as though he were a marble statue. His hands clenched so hard that Fima feared he would break his own fingers, and he could make no sound except a thin, reedy whistle as he struggled to breathe. At last he collapsed into a limp, exhausted heap, and they all thought he had left them, but his heart was still beating.

  Estle wept again when the pain finally left Azori’s face the next morning. Her half-brother was a thief and a rogue, but he had fought like a lion and she loved him. Fima was so relieved that he did not even boast about it, at least not immediately. The healers were quite impressed, adding the remedy to their writings. Gaelen insisted on naming it “Fima’s dragon-cure.”