by Robert Beers
“Wha ... what's that?” Shealauch raised his head at the sight of the bottle. “It's beautiful.”
“Something to help you feel better.” Niamh gently pushed the young Dragon's head back onto the grass, and then opened the bottle. A scent of citrus rose mixed with an indefinable bitter sweetness billowed out of the bottle. Those closest to Niamh and her work breathed in the scent, and felt immediately lighter in heart. She pushed Shealauch's head back down once more with her left hand, and poured three drops of the glistening fluid into each wound where the arrow shafts rose out of the Dragon's hide.
“Oooooooo, that feels good.” Shealauch moaned with relief as the fluid washed the pain away.
“That's nice, dear.” Niamh tested the level of pain by wiggling the arrows. Her patient didn't react, so things were good, so far.
She used the thumbs and fingers of her left hand to stretch the hide on either side of the wound in Shealauch's foot. Using her right hand, she gripped the shaft firmly. “Hold very still now, Shealauch. Try that relaxation exercise now. You mustn't move a muscle.”
“Ok.”
Niamh focused her eyes until the arrow's point of entry filled her field of vision. She had to pull back the arrow exactly along the path it entered. The barbed head already had done enough damage; there was no need to compound it.
For a human arrow, it was uncommonly large. Niamh had seen others before. To her Dragon size, they had appeared to be more like a knitting needle. This, to a human, would be a small spear with fletchings.
“Is it out yet?” Shealauch asked, as he hummed the relaxation mantra.
“Almost. Be patient, and be still.” She eased the broad head out of the wound and purplish-red blood flowed after it.
A concerted gasp came out of the crowd of dragons as the barbed broadhead came out of Shealauch's foot. The gasp cut off with Niamh's raised hand.
“Be silent! There is still another to deal with.” She moved sideways until the young Dragon's abused tail lay before her. She repeated the slight wiggle on the arrow's shaft to be certain the fluid's pain killing properties continued to work. Shealauch still gave no indication she'd done anything. “Good. Now to remove the ugly thing.”
Niamh spread the flesh on either side of the wound as before and began backing the arrow out. Because of the differences between foot and tail this one was in deeper than the other and took a little longer to remove,also, this time, there was a lot more blood.
“Unnnnhh! Sorry,” Shealauch moaned quietly.
“Don't apologize.” Niamh held up the offending arrow and discarded it next to the other. “The Lortis is wearing off, it's not your fault.”
“Freniagh. Give me the small green bottle with the blue stopper,” she said, as she poured a drop of the Lortis into each wound.
“Thank you.” Shealauch sighed with the relief.
Freniagh dug out the requested bottle and handed it to Niamh, its glaze an opaque bilious green. “Not near as pretty as the first one, surgeon,” he said, as she took it out of his hand.
She nodded. “The beauty's not in the bottle's looks, but what it contains.”
“Like some people.” Freniagh nodded back.
“Exactly.” Niamh unstopped the bottle and tapped one oily drop into each of the two wounds. “This should feel a bit chill.”
Shealauch shuddered as the drops were applied. “Chill!?” It feels as if I'm being doused in ice.”
Niamh smiled, along with several of the other Dragons gathered around her patient. “Good. That means the Comfret is doing its job.”
“What does it do?” Shealauch tried to watch without raising his head.
“In your case, it has two tasks. The first, and most important, is to counteract any poison or infection that may have been born upon the arrowhead.”
“Poison!?” The young Dragon raised his head in alarm.
This time Niamh did not push him back down. “No need to be alarmed. That part of it is only a precaution. If there had indeed been poison, you would not have been able to fly back to here. No, infection is more of a worry than poison. How does it feel now?”
Shealauch's eyes showed he was looking inward. “Warmer, a bit.”
Niamh looked at the wounds. The flow of blood had stopped, and they were beginning to close, as expected. “Well, it looks as if my patient is going to survive.”
Murmurs of appreciation came from the crowd.
She turned her head to find Timidi. “He'll be fine, now. You should feed him to help him restore his strength. The Comfret uses the body's resources to speed the healing.”
Timidi gathered her son into her arms and helped him to his feet. “Thank you, Niamh. Thank you.”
Chabaad spoke up from where he stood in the crowd. “You mentioned Winglauch, Winglord. Is one being called? This ... action against one of our own demands some form of action on our part.”
Mashglach gazed back at Chabaad levelly. “I did indeed say the Winglauch should be convened. You heard well.” He raised his voice. “We will meet in the great hall as soon as possible. Spread the word. This is a matter for all dragons. Young and old.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
McCabe pushed on the door at the top of the dungeon stairs. The palace proper lay on the other side, but the door wouldn't budge. He extended his perception into the door and the space around it. A bar with heavy chains secured it from being opened, so he did to them what was done to the shackles holding him to the slab. The life of the metal had a bitter salty taste to it, and was unsatisfying but, the door opened. He stepped across the small pile of corrosion into the palace itself. Now, where would his Excellency the Duke be?
He walked down the hallway, his senses tasting the ether for signs of life. A couple of chambermaids came out of a room pushing a cart of cleaning equipment and linens before them. The younger one glanced his way and screamed. She gathered her skirts about her and ran, but the other one stayed, brandishing a mop as if it would serve as a weapon.
“You get back. I'm warning you, whoever you are. I've thrashed bigger ones than you.” She was a husky woman, and of middle age.
McCabe thought she would have been intriguing to toy with, but he had other things on his mind.
He continued to walk towards her, the lazy smile on his face appearing as an evil leer because of his untrimmed beard.
The maid yelled. “Stay back, I tell you. Back!” She raised the mop and swung it sideways in a roundhouse blow. It connected with the side of McCabe's head full on the temple. An ordinary man would have died from the blow. It knocked him against the corridor wall by the force of it, and he stayed there for a moment, relishing the waves of pain that radiated from the healing bones of his crushed skull.
He looked at the maid and smiled broadly. “That was nice. Shall we do it again?”
She stared at him with bulging eyes. He noticed they were a cool light blue in color, then pushed himself away from the wall, and continued to move toward her. She hefted the mop as if to use it again, and then threw it at him, using the distraction to get away. She didn't scream, but saved her breath for running.
McCabe batted the mop aside and watched the woman run. He let her go, not feeling a need to feed just now. His senses reached out and tasted the palace grounds. “Where are you Duke? Ah, there. The tower room. No, he's coming down the steps.”
He passed a floor to ceiling hall mirror and glanced at it. The apparition looking back at him explained why the maids had run. His hair hung in twisted mats past his shoulders, and his eyes looked out from a face hidden in a tangled bush of dead black beard. What exposed skin there was showed smears of dirt and sweat that looked like some horrible disease. Though he didn't feel hungry, he looked thin enough to be a walking corpse. The ruined black silk of his former clothes hung on him like he was a hall tree instead of a man. He began to chuckle. Of course, he wasn't a man, not any more.
He fingered the beard as he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd have to do something about
his appearance before he left the palace.
Several maids and a few liveried servants got the fright of their lives as he moved through the living areas of the palace, looking for something to wear that suited him. He found chests and armoires full of clothing, but either the color was wrong or it was the fabric. What he wanted was another outfit of black silk and polished black leather as he had before.
Finally, a closet filled with footwear yielded a pair of boots twin to the ones he'd worn prior to being brought back to the dungeon.
A trio of guards confronted him as he stamped the last boot on. “C'mon, you. Back to the cells, an’ no one gets hurt.”
McCabe let a giggle escape his throat. “No one gets hurt? They didn't know who they were talking to, did they?”
He stamped his feet one more time, checking the fit of the boots. He was a bit disappointed. They didn't pinch at all.
“You deaf as well as ugly? Back to the cells. Now!” The guard ordering him carried a truncheon with a metal ball on the end. The other two had halberds held at the ready.
McCabe scratched his left side with his right hand. “I heard you. No thanks, it's boring down there.” He took a step in the guard's direction. “I'd rather play with you.”
“He's gone right round the bend.” One of the halberd bearers shifted the long-handled weapon in his hands.
“Totally starkers,” agreed the other. “Bein’ in the pits'll do that. Lookit his beard, e's been down there a summer's worth, at least.”
“Drop the chatter, you two, and take him. He's only one fellow and a skinny runt, at that,” the one with the truncheon commanded.
“You!” He pointed the weapon at McCabe. “On the floor, now!”
“On the floor, now. On the floor, now.” McCabe mimicked the guard's command, as he continued to advance upon them. “Your problem is that you have no imagination.” He reached out and brushed the back of the hand that held the truncheon. The guard dropped lifeless to the parquet floor. “You're only good for a light snack.”
“D'ju see that?” One of the halberd bearers ejaculated, taking a step backwards.
“I ain't blind,” the other one said. He dropped his halberd and ran. The other guard followed close on his heels.
McCabe didn't bother to watch them go, but walked out of the room and into the one across the hall in search of shirt, belt and trousers to go with his new boots.
He could sense the Duke getting closer. His partner in murder was only two floors above him now. He searched through the drawers and closets in the room with frantic haste, tossing the rejects to the side or over his shoulder. He didn't want to meet the Duke dressed in rags.
The third closet produced a suitable black silk shirt, and the fourth chest of drawers yielded a pair of pants. He sensed the Duke entering the hall that this set of rooms was on, as he fit the last frog into its loop. Good. Just in time for the reunion. A hair cut and beard trim would have to be taken care of later.
He opened the door leading to the hallway and stepped out of the room. A silhouette stood at the far end of the hall, outlined by the light coming from the skylights in the foyer beyond. The girth of the belly portion told him the outline belonged to the Duke.
“You!” The Duke's shout was slurred and thick with the sound of one long gone to the bottle. “Get back to the cells, damn you!”
“I own you,” he hissed. “And I'll be damned if I'll let you leave.” The sound of the Duke's saber leaving the scabbard was like silk tearing. “Back to the cells, now, or I'll gut you like a trout.”
McCabe and the Duke advanced on each other until the point of the Duke's saber pressed into the black silk of McCabe's new shirt.
McCabe looked down at the sword point. It pressed into his new shirt at a point about two inches below his sternum. The voices gave him an idea.
Duke Bilardi snarled. “This is your last chance, animal. I don't know who let you loose, but you're going back to where you belong. Chained to a slab in my dungeon.”
“No, I don't think so.” McCabe looked into the Duke's eyes and walked forward, impaling himself upon the blade.
“No! You can't! You ... can't be doing this.” Bilardi saw waves of ecstasy pass through McCabe's expression as he pushed himself onto the sword, forcing his body along its length until the hilt touched the silk of his shirt.
The former thief gasped through the wonderful feel of the agony he was experiencing. “Oh ... yes ... I... can.”
Bilardi let go of the sword hilt and backed away. His mouth worked like a gold fish out of its bowl. When McCabe grasped the hilt and began pulling the blade from his body, the Duke turned and ran screaming from the hallway.
McCabe pulled the sword from his middle and examined the blade. Interesting, there was no blood. There should have been blood. He tested the edge and found it to be razor sharp. It would do for cutting his hair and beard.
He held a matted lock away from his head and sawed at it with the sword. The lock fell away and he started on another. It took him nearly half and hour to cut the mess back to the length he preferred. The beard took less time and still looked a bit ragged when finished. He walked back to the large mirror and examined the results. Satisfactory, for now, he would have to find someone to finish it with style, later.
Smiling at the thought, he passed through the foyer and into the mid-morning sun.
* * * *
The press gang closed in on Adam. The one who called to the others was slightly in front and to the side. “Ok, me boyo. Drop yer fancy pigsticker an’ come quietly. Ain't no one good'nuf ta face down six blades by hisself.”
Adam crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, allowing the spirit in the blade to move his hand. He felt his grip shift slightly as he gave over to its feel.
One of the press gang tried a feint. The King's sword dipped and slapped it aside without apparent effort.
“E's got a wrist. ‘E ‘as.” The guard remarked to the others.
“Let's whut ‘e can do agin’ three o’ us at oncet,” grinned a whippet-thin fellow with blonde hair pulled back into a tail. He held his blade steady and then began scribing a series of figure eights and cycles with its tip.
“Don't talk much, do he?” the one with the bristling chin chortled. “Wassa matter, lad? Cat got'cher tongue? No worries, yer don't need to be a talker, just a dyer.” He stretched forward in a lightning lunge intended to disembowel his opponent.
As fast as the guard's lunge was, Adam's wrist moved even faster. His sword shot forward in a blurred riposte, corkscrewing around the other's, and tearing it out of his hand. He side-stepped to the left, repeated the move with the guard on that side, and then spun around in time to parry an overhand slash from the one on the right. The return blow whistled through empty space as he ducked beneath it, and buried the tip of the sword into the guard's armpit.
“Adam! To your left!” Milward called out while he drove the breath out of a guard that had less than neighborly intentions coming in from the street behind them.
He raised his staff at another who was following. “Six on one is more than enough odds. You can enjoy the show from there, or you can be a newt. Your choice. You do know a Wizard when you see one, don't you?”
The guard looked Milward up and down, and refocused on the ornately carved staff. His eyes bulged, and he gulped before bringing his gaze back to the Wizard's stern face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milord Wizard. I, I din't know. Iffn ye'll be excusin’ me, I ... I'll be goin’ now, Milord.” He ducked a bow, and tugged a forelock as he backed away.
Milward harumphed and turned back to see how Adam was faring.
One of the guards in the press gang was holding his wrist like it was broken. Two others lay on the cobblestones, one in a spreading pool of red. The guard who'd originally started the fracas was being hard pressed to defend himself under a whirlwind attack, and he called out frantically to the remaining two press gang members. “Don't just stand there gapin', help me!”
T
he remaining two pushed in and attempted to stab past Adam's guard, but they soon found themselves in the same fix as their compatriot.
The one on the right missed the repeat in his pattern first, and got a pink in the nerve running up his bicep for his trouble, that temporarily paralyzed his hand. The saber dropped from his lifeless fingers and clattered onto the cobblestones. He backed out too fast for his feet, and landed onto the street, scrabbling away like a crab.
The one on the left continued the fight for another few passes, then he too backed out. “Sorry, Giff.”
Giff threw him a black look and redoubled his effort. At least a half dozen spots on his blouse showed red where Adam's point had gotten through.
“You don't have to do this, you know.” Milward leaned against the brick wall of one of the shops, as he stuffed his pipe. A tiny spark appeared above the bowl and lit the Bac. “Don't you think it would be much healthier,” he paused to puff out a smoke ring that formed into a passable sculpture of a foaming tankard. “to find the nearest pub, and conscript a pint or two? You can take your friends there,” He pointed to the other press gang members still living, with his pipe. “With you. Right after you unlock the cage, of course.”
“I can't.” The guard panted. “The Duke'll ‘ave me head.” Another spot of red bloomed on his blouse.
“I won't tell if you won't.” Adam's sword whipped past Giff's guard and sliced through the belt holding his scabbard. The fellow had to do some fancy dancing to avoid tripping over the belt as it fell to the street.
Another blur of metal, and a portion of an earlobe was sliced away.
“The boy's more than a match for you. We all know it, you included. Dying for this...” Milward shook his head in disgust. “It's stupid, at best.”
Giff ran through a couple of more passes, but it was obvious the Wizard's words had had an effect. His heart just wasn't in it anymore. “Awright. Awright! You win, blast you. The kid's a demon wif a blade, anyway.” He threw his saber away and slid to a sitting position against the wall where Milward was leaning.