Balanced on the Blade's Edge (Dragon Blood, Book 1)

by Lindsay Buroker

  Chapter 7

  “Sir?” came a distant call.

  Ridge left Sardelle—he had been smashing her anyway—and returned to the front of the cave, grunting as his foot caught on rock. Their shelter lacked a flat floor. “We’re fine, Rav,” he called back. “Everyone there make it?”

  “We’re all in, but, uhm, the owl… it’s sitting out there waiting in a tree branch.”

  “With luck, it’ll get bored of waiting and leave.”

  The soldier’s “Yes, sir” sounded encouraged, but the follow-up of, “What if it doesn’t?” was a little more plaintive.

  “We’ll figure it out in the morning,” Ridge called. Dropping his voice, he asked, “Owls are nocturnal, right?”

  “Regular owls, yes,” Sardelle said. “I’m less certain about magical ones.”

  Ridge digested that. “So it is magical. I didn’t think it could be natural, but… I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

  After a pause, Sardelle asked, “It wasn’t in the operations manual?”

  “No.”

  “I’m guessing it belonged to… someone on that ship.”

  “A ship that is now free to go back and harass the fort without me there.” Ridge slapped the wall with his hand. Damned fool’s errand, that’s what this had been. He had lost a man, and now the fort might be in danger again.

  “I’m sorry,” Sardelle said softly.

  “Not your fault.” Ridge hadn’t figured out yet why she had come out here—or how in all the levels of all the hells she had managed to sneak out past his men—but she hadn’t been a burden. She had pushed herself to keep up and hadn’t complained about the pace. She had even been right about the cave. He snorted. Brackenforth Fissures. He would have to look that up when he got back to the fort—if there was a fort to return to. He growled at himself. All this because he had wanted the airship. What had he thought would happen? That the crew would all be dead, and he could simply salvage it for himself? At the least, he had hoped they wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight. But that ship had been well manned, and it was uncanny how quickly the Cofah had repaired it. He wondered…

  “So if someone on that ship has a giant magical owl, does that then mean that said person has magical powers of his own?” Ridge didn’t know when he had started to think of Sardelle as his guide to all things arcane, but she had read at least one book on the topic, and that was one more book than he had read.

  “His or her own, yes,” Sardelle said. “It would take someone with… an alarming amount of power to command such a beast.” Concern laced her words. Thus far, she had faced everything with a calm demeanor. This was the first time she had sounded worried.

  And that worried him. What he had assumed was a simple Cofah scouting mission looked like it was much more. A well-equipped ship that had apparently come with the mission to bury the fort—and the mining operation—beneath snow and rock.

  Frigid wind whistled through the canyon. It was going to be a stormy night. He hoped the owl got cold. And knocked off its branch by a gust.

  Clothing rubbed against rock as Sardelle shifted positions. She patted around, grunting a couple of times as she hit rocks, and settled on the ground between the entrance and the back wall. It was the widest spot in their little prison. “I don’t seem to have picked out a very comfortable cave.”

  “I’m not sure any cave would be comfortable on a night like tonight.” Ridge waved toward the snow—it was falling sideways now, driven by the wind. “The temperature’s going to drop. Too bad the owl wasn’t considerate enough to let us gather some firewood on the way in.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard magical owls are very rude.”

  “That’s in that book you were quoting, eh?”

  “Actually… no. I was joking. I know very little about magical owls, I’m afraid.”

  “Hm.” Ridge debated between sitting down beside her and standing there, keeping watch. What he was keeping watch over, he didn’t know—with the increased snowfall, he couldn’t see the owl, or much of anything. He just felt like he should be vigilant. He had already… done enough wrong tonight. His chest ached though, reminding him of the scratches—as if the icy air creeping through the torn parka and shirt weren’t enough of a reminder. He ought to dig out bandages. And antiseptic. For all he knew, magical owl claws could give a man rabies.

  “How’s your injury?” Sardelle asked. “Do you want me to bandage it?”

  Odd, it was almost as if she knew what he had been thinking. Maybe she had simply seen him touch his chest, though he didn’t remember doing so. “It does sting a little. I was debating whether one could get an infection from magical critters.”

  “If its talons were dirty, well, dirt’s dirt. Better on the outside than in your cuts.” Sardelle shifted about, opening her pack probably. “I grabbed one of the first-aid kits from the room that had the snowshoes. Do you want to sit down?”

  “Not only did you sneak out of my fort, but you fully supplied yourself for the road before doing so. I’m definitely going to have a talk with my men when we get back.” Though he felt a little disgruntled at this failing—every failing of a soldier was a reflection of his commanding officer, after all—he patted his way over to her and sat down. It did feel good to slump against the wall, to rest.

  “It’s not their fault,” Sardelle said.

  “No? You’re just so amazingly talented in the art of stealth that they can’t be blamed?”

  “Something like that. Hm, what I did not bring is a candle or a match. I don’t suppose you have something in your pack? This would be easier with light.”

  Ridge dragged his gear over. He took off his mittens to unbuckle the straps and dipped into an outer pouch to fish out a small travel lantern and his box of fire-starters.

  “I can do that.” Sardelle found the equipment in his hands. She had taken off her gloves as well, and the touch of her skin against his was… nice. “You can relax and be the patient.”

  “Careful. If you demonstrate a good bedside manner, I’ll let the medic put you to work in the infirmary.”

  “That would actually be a suitable position for me.” Yes, she had mentioned training to be a doctor once, hadn’t she?

  “You wouldn’t miss folding towels in the laundry room?”

  “Not particularly.” Flint rasped, and sparks fluttered down to land on the soft fuzz from the fire-starting kit. The soft orange light revealed her face, none-the-worse for the afternoon’s activities. She blew on the sparks, producing a flame, and lit the lantern. “This cave is small enough that this flame and our body heat might keep us warm for the night.”

  “Our body heat, huh?”

  She smiled at him. “Yes. Now take your shirt off, please.”

  “Uhh.” Ridge could feel the coldness of the rock wall behind him even through his parka. “How about I just lift it up a little? When you’re ready to get started.” And not a second before. It probably wasn’t manly to complain about the weather, but now that he had stopped running and climbing and leaping onto the backs of giant birds, he was cooling down, his sweat chilling his skin.

  “You’re not shy, are you?” Sardelle opened a dark bottle of the bromine concoction that came with the kit and gave it a dubious sniff.

  “In tropical climates, not at all. Even in temperate climates, I might wander about shirtless, but here… I haven’t quite acclimated to the icicles dangling from my nostrils in the mornings yet.” Ridge pushed back the parka, unfastened his uniform jacket, and went so far as to tug his shirt out of his trousers, but he wasn’t exposing any flesh until she was hovering over him with a swab of antiseptic in one hand and bandages in the other. Already, cold whispered up his back from having his shirt loosened.

  “I suppose that means I needn’t worry about you wishing to engage in… convivial activities with me tonight then, activities that might require the shedding of clothing.” Sardelle shifted toward him, her rag now doused. “Shirt up, please.”
>
  “No, you needn’t worry about that.” Ridge supposed her comment proved that his earlier thought was unlikely. She wasn’t there to seduce him for information. He probably shouldn’t feel disappointed by that. “Although, for the record, men don’t need to expose a whole lot of skin to get convivial.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Shirt up,” she repeated.

  Ridge reached for the hem, but hesitated, nibbling thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.

  “Problem?” Sardelle asked.

  “Just wondering if I need to rub my dragon before enduring this.”

  “Uhm, pardon?”

  “You know, my little charm.” Ridge eyed her doused rag. “Or maybe you should rub my dragon.”

  “Perhaps later,” she murmured.

  He was probably safe so long as she didn’t dig needles and suture thread out. Ridge tugged up the shirt, grimacing where the blood had dried, and the wool stuck to his skin.

  “These don’t look like they need stitches,” Sardelle said, “but you’ll have scars.”

  Ridge thought to grunt that it wouldn’t be the first time, but he actually didn’t have that many war wounds. The only time he had crashed, it had been in the ocean, and he had come out unbloodied. “I’ll survive, so long as that owl is gone in the morning.”

  “I hope it does prove nocturnal, or that it at least misses its master and feels compelled to go find him. Her. Whomever.”

  “Me too.”

  Sardelle’s left hand rested on his chest while she gently wiped his wounds with the rag in her right. Ridge could feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, in contrast to the coolness of the damp cloth. He hadn’t been thinking of… convivial activities until she had mentioned it, but now that she had—and that she was bent low and touching his chest—he had a hard time pushing his mind away from the topic. The wind was shrieking outside, with a half inch of snow already crusted on the ledge. It seemed the perfect time to cuddle with a woman. All right, cuddling wasn’t quite what he had in mind. Anything more—and even that—would still be inappropriate. For all that she had helped them, helped him, he didn’t truly know if she was friend or foe. Still, he noticed that she had been touching his chest for a while and had brushed over the same wounds more than once. Was it possible she was enjoying the ministrations? He had stopped feeling any sting. In fact, he was feeling that if she didn’t stop soon, he would wrap his arm around her and pull her against his chest, kiss her—

  “Where did you get the scar on your chin?” Sardelle leaned back, set the rag down, and screwed the cap back on the bottle.

  Ridge had to clear his throat before he found his voice. “It’s an old one—got it as a kid. I’m surprised it still shows.”

  She raised her brows.

  “It was a gift from a street tough, one twice my size. He was always picking on me. I was terrified of him, but finally got tired of getting pushed around. I offered him a pie if he would teach me how to fight.”

  “A pie?” The corners of her lips lifted into a smile. Even her smiles seemed serene. He wondered if she ever lost that equanimity. Such as… in the throes of passion.

  Ridge cleared his throat again. Down, boy. “I was about nine at the time. I didn’t have any money or anything valuable, but Mom always baked to distract herself when Dad was out of town. At the time, there were three pies cooling in the window.”

  “And this bully agreed to your price?”

  “He did. Lesson One was on how to take pain.” Ridge touched the old scar, still vividly remembering that board with the nails on it hammering him in the face. “I think this tough enjoyed the lessons even more than he had enjoyed picking on me. I did get better at defending myself, even if I didn’t learn how to bring down others until my army training. Even though I’d been accepted into the officer academy and flight school already, they make you go through the same first year of training that every grunt endures. Guess they want you to be able to fight your way home if you get shot down in enemy territory.”

  He realized he had wandered off topic. By now, Sardelle was holding the roll of bandage, probably waiting for him to stop yammering so she could continue her work. She merely smiled again and said, “You fight well, Colonel.”

  “Thanks.” Ridge lifted a shoulder. He hadn’t been hoping for compliments. “You might as well call me Ridge. For good or ill, I’ve given up on thinking of you as a prisoner.”

  A hint of wariness entered her eyes, and she lowered them to study the bandage roll. She picked at it, pulling out the end. He thought she might ask what he did think of her as, but her next question was, “Ridge… walker, isn’t it? I had wondered… ”

  “Who gave me such a kooky name?” Ridge smirked. He got that a lot.

  “Cocky was actually the descriptor that came to mind when I first heard it.”

  His smirk widened. He got that a lot too. “Either way, I have my dad to thank for it. He was—still is—a world explorer and spent a lot of time in the Dresdark Mountains, mapping the jungles and looking for… oh, I don’t know. He told Mom he would come home with piles of gold someday. He never did. Didn’t seem to bother him. He was delighted to show off his new maps. He made a bit of money selling them to universities and real treasure hunters. Anyway, he doesn’t do it much anymore, but he always took his gear for climbing mountains. He’s been up some of the highest ones. He thought I would follow in his footsteps.”

  Ridge knew he was telling her anything and everything about himself. He probably shouldn’t be, though he doubted anything bad could come of sharing his distant past. If she were asking about military secrets, he would be much more wary. He ought to ask her a few things about herself, but he suspected he would only get lies. Again. Strange how he could come to care about a woman in two days, especially one who he should probably be considering an enemy. Or maybe it wasn’t that strange. She had been trying to help all along. He smirked, remembering her charging up to make sure he didn’t use the cannons for fear of burying the fort. And she had been responsible for recovering him and his men from the real avalanche. Amazingly, nobody had died in that event. Some of the buried men would have died, would have run out of air, if they had been waiting for the digging soldiers to randomly chance across them. However she had done it, her assistance had saved the lives of men he was responsible for.

  “Do you want to sit up so I can wrap this around you?” Sardelle lifted the bandages.

  Bandages, right. He had almost forgotten.

  Ridge pushed himself up, which brought them closer together. He noticed the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He especially found himself noticing her lips, which pursed with concentration as she leaned close to encircle him with the bandage. He held his shirt up for her, wondering if she was admiring the view at all, or if this was simply one of thousands of chests she had seen as a healer. He liked to think his more nicely muscled and appealing than most, but he was doubtlessly biased. Whatever her background with chests, she seemed to be deep in thought as she wrapped his. She didn’t notice when her black hair brushed his skin, creating the most delightful sensation. He wagered it would be soft to run his hands through. Too bad she was busy debating… who knew what? Maybe whether or not she should spill her secrets to him tonight. He wondered if he would have any luck seducing her. And wheedling out those secrets? Honestly, he would rather just have sex. Except he had promised her he wouldn’t make any advances on her. Damn, what had he been thinking? And why was his mind running sprints from ear to ear? Searching for a justification to slip his hand behind her head and kiss her?

  Sardelle tucked the bandage in and looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. He struggled to smooth his face into something attentive, or at least not lustful. Though the way her face was tilted toward him, her hand lingering on his waist… was it possible she was thinking of more than first aid?

  “Will I live, Doc?” Ridge asked.

  “For the night at least. I can’t make any promises as
to the morning.”

  She had clearly meant it as a light comment, but it struck him to the core, instantly bringing an old quotation to mind. “The gods promise tomorrow to no man,” he murmured.

  “Barisky,” she said.

  Ridge chuckled. Of course she would know the author. Had it only been that morning she was summarizing the classics for him?

  He didn’t know how she would react, but he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles against her hair. Despite enduring snow and killer owls, it was as soft as he had imagined. He leaned forward, watching her face for signs of rejection. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Her lips parted, and that was all the invitation he needed.